Chapter Text
What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you
What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you
No, I don't wanna fall in love
(this world is only gonna break your heart)
with you
Wicked Game - Chris Isaak
•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•
“Get the fuck outta here!”
Dean landed in the dirt, his right shoulder hitting the ground hard. He looked up at the saloon and saw the bartender who’d thrown him out standing on the porch, backlit from the warm glow inside, hands on his hips.
“Get lost!” the man yelled and stomped back into the saloon, the doors swaying shut behind him.
Dean pushed himself to his feet. “Fuck you!” he yelled at the swinging doors. He spat dirt and stooped to grab his hat where it lay in the street in a block of light from the saloon’s windows.
“Shit!” he swore, slapping dirt off his hat. Casting a disdainful look at the saloon and flipping off the people watching out the windows, he trudged to his horse, Dusty, at the saloon’s hitching post. And he’d been doing so well tonight, slowly amassing more money from poker games until he’d been accused—rightfully so—of cheating. Now he had nothing to show for a night of hustling people, except for a bruised shoulder and one more saloon to add to his list of, “not welcome here.”
Mounting, he guided Dusty out of the piss-poor excuse for a town—a saloon, boarding house, and general store in various states of disrepair. Onto the next town where, hopefully, he’d have more luck. He was flat-out broke. Seemed he was always wavering between being penniless and just well-off enough for a few drinks and a meal.
Rolling his bruised shoulder, he settled in the saddle. The hilly, dry ground was lit by a clear sky and a nearly full moon. He’d get a few miles distance from town, 'case anyone was looking for revenge, then settle down for a couple hours’ sleep. Or maybe he’d ride most of the night. He didn’t mind riding at this time—preferred it, really, to traveling in the heat of the day. And there was something about the coolness, the stillness, that calmed his head. ‘Course, it didn’t do much to distract him from his empty stomach. He had planned on using his winnings to get a room at the boarding house in town and a proper meal in the morning, but those plans were spoiled now.
To appease his stomach, he rummaged through his saddlebags, trying to find his flask. His fingers brushed worn leather and he pulled out a pouch that held too many pages, letters he’d received over the years. A dull ache settled in his chest at the thought of the sloping scripts and the tight, neat handwritings, and he hastily stuffed the pouch back into his pack.
Finding his flask, he weighed it in his hand. Worryingly light.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Always down on his luck.
The sky was lightening at the horizon, black expanse turned cloudy dark blue, when Dean finally roused himself from his thoughtless stupor and stopped to rest. He unsaddled Dusty, tied her to a tree, laid out his bedroll, and fell asleep in an instant.
He might’ve slept past high noon if he wasn’t woken with a start a short time later by Dusty’s neighing and the crunch of footsteps on dirt. Before he was even fully awake, he’d bolted up and pointed the Colt he always kept close in the direction of the footsteps.
"Who's there?" he yelled, blinking in the low rays of the sun. Someone was crouched by his saddlebags, dropped carelessly earlier when he’d bedded down. The intruder leapt to his feet, a hand going to his hip, and Dean fired.
His bullet found its mark and the man tumbled to the ground with a yell. Dean stumbled to his feet, but another gunshot caught him by surprise. A sharp sting across his arm made him realize the thief had also fired at him.
Sparing a look at his arm, Dean aimed at the thief. “I’ll shoot you again!”
“I’ll shoot you first,” the thief yelled from where he’d fallen on the ground. Blood stained his right pant leg and he lay on his back, aiming a gun at Dean.
Dean hesitated for half a second, then fired and ducked. His bullet struck dirt to the left of the thief as he’d planned, and the thief’s bullet whistled harmlessly over his head.
The echo of the gunshots still rang in the air as Dean tackled the man and wrenched his gun away, swearing at the scalding hot barrel. The thief grabbed at his shirt, but Dean scrambled to his feet before he could be dragged down.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, kicking aside the thief's gun and training his Colt on him again. He registered bright, sharp, blue eyes before the thief lunged forward, hitting his legs and sending him to the ground.
“Fuck!” Dean yelled as he grappled with the man. He caught an elbow to the nose and blinked against the stinging pain. Swinging his gun up, he hit the thief across the jaw.
The thief fell back heavily with a grunt, and Dean pushed him off to get to his feet. “Don’t you dare fuckin move,” he panted, once again aiming at him. He took a step back in case the motherfucker decided to pull another stunt like tackling him again.
The thief blinked up at him, a dazed look in his eyes. He dropped his head back on the ground, and Dean saw the stain of blood covering his pant leg had widened.
“You tryin to steal from me?” he asked.
The blue-eyed thief remained silent, staring up at the sky. His dark hair was mussed and dusty, and a thin cut from where Dean had struck him ran across his cheek through the dark stubble covering his jaw.
Dean wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand and glanced at Dusty. She was still tied to the tree, the dirt kicked up under her hooves from when she’d startled at the commotion. Another horse stood by her, presumably the thief’s. No saddle, only a folded blanket, frayed reins, and a bridle.
“You must be mighty desperate,” Dean said, keeping an eye on Blue Eyes as he grabbed a coil of rope tied to his saddle on the ground. He stroked Dusty’s flank to calm her before walking back over to the man. “Well, jokes on you, buddy. I'm stone broke.” He motioned with his gun. “Sit up.”
The thief raised his head slightly and glared at Dean, but didn’t move. Dean grabbed his collar and pulled him up to sit. “Who are you?” he asked, tying the man’s hands behind his back. “Were you following me?” He didn’t recognize Blue Eyes from the saloon last night, and Dean didn’t think he would’ve forgotten his face.
Blue Eyes didn’t answer and Dean rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t catch a break, could he? He wiped more blood from his nose and unbuckled the thief’s gun belt, tossing it aside. Blue Eyes let out a noise of protest but didn’t speak as Dean searched him brusquely for more weapons.
“Can’t let you keep this,” Dean said, holding up a bowie knife tucked in one of the man’s boots. He studied the handle and blade and clicked his tongue. “Pretty nice blade, think I’ll keep this.”
“Fuck you,” Blue Eyes spat, the first words he’d spoken since their fight.
“Oh, finally, he speaks." Standing, Dean spotted a threadbare gunny sack tied to the man’s horse and grabbed it. “Here we go,” he said, rummaging through it and finding a small, clinking pouch with a few coins.
He counted them in his hand. Four bits. “Better than nothin, I suppose,” he said, glancing at the thief. Blue Eyes glared at him, his faded gingham shirt gaping at the collar and blood staining the dirt under his wounded leg.
Dean threw the coin pouch into his own saddlebags and looked up at the sky. A couple hours still before noon. The next town couldn’t be more than two, three hours away. He eyed the thief. “You wanted ‘round these parts? There a reward for your capture?”
The scowl still hadn’t left Blue Eyes’ face. “I’m not telling you anything.”
Dean shrugged. “Fine. I’ll take you into town and find out for myself.”
He saddled Dusty and untied her from the tree. His adrenaline fading, the burning sensation on his upper arm now became more prominent. He looked at his arm to see his sleeve now had a frayed hole below his shoulder. A small line of blood trickled down to his wrist from where Blue Eyes’ bullet had grazed him.
“Fuck you," he swore, "this is my favorite shirt.” A grin twitched the corner of Blue Eyes’ mouth. “Think that’s funny, do you? You won’t be laughin when I haul your ass to the sheriff.”
He went to Blue Eyes to drag him to his feet, then remembered he’d shot him in the leg. Sighing, he crouched down to look at the wound.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Blue Eyes snapped.
Dean threw up his hands. “Fine, have it your way. Bleed out.” He tied the reins of Blue Eyes' horse to his saddle and led the horses to where Blue Eyes sat.
“I'm not going anywhere with you,” the man said, sitting up straighter, his eyes fierce.
“What, you gonna run away?” Dean picked up Blue Eyes’ hat from the ground and shoved it on his head, making him flinch. “Get on your fuckin horse.”
Grabbing his arm, he hauled Blue Eyes to his feet. The thief let out a hiss of pain before setting his jaw. He mounted his horse clumsily with Dean’s help, a grimace flashing across his face, then Dean tied a rope from the his bound hands to the bridle.
“You try anythin, I'll shoot you again.” After putting the thief’s gun and possessions in his own saddlebags, he mounted Dusty. With a look back at the thief, he started riding.
Please be a famous outlaw, he silently begged. He could use a good-sized handout right about now.
The land became hillier and more densely populated with trees as they rode. Dean kept glancing back at the thief, but the fight seemed taken out of him. He sat slouched on his saddle blanket, head down so Dean couldn’t see his eyes under his hat brim.
“Hey, Blue Eyes,” Dean called, and the thief tilted his head up just enough to glower at him. “You got a name?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Alright, then,” Dean muttered.
After about an hour, he paused at a river to fill his canteen and take a drink. Blue Eyes shifted in his seat, and Dean could see his pant leg was wet with blood, deep red staining his boot now.
“You still wanna bleed out?” he asked. Blue Eyes looked at him and seemed ready to retort, but he didn’t speak. “Thought so.” Taking the only shirt from Blue Eyes’ bag, Dean proceeded to rip a strip from its hem.
“You couldn’t use one of your own shirts?” Blue Eyes griped.
“You shot a hole in mine, reckon it’s only fair.” Dean cut the man’s lower pant leg away to expose the wound on his shin, not bothering to be gentle as he pulled the red-stained fabric from the gash.
Blue Eyes flinched and Dean said, “It’s just a flesh wound, the bullet’s not in here. Only a little deeper than what you did to me.”
“I should’ve aimed for your heart.” Blue Eyes’ voice was low, gravelly, and as hostile as the look he aimed at Dean.
“Yeah, guess so.” Unscrewing his canteen, Dean poured water over the wound and Blue Eyes swore. “Grow a pair,” Dean said, glancing up at him. He could tell by the set of his jaw that Blue Eyes was gritting his teeth, but he didn’t flinch or speak again as Dean wound the makeshift bandaging around his leg.
“Alright, you’re set.” He started walking away to Dusty and Blue Eyes spoke up,
“We don’t need to get the law involved. We can settle this like two men.”
“Oh, really? Where was this code of conduct when you were robbin me blind as I slept?” Dean shook his head and mounted Dusty. “Nope, you picked the wrong day to mess with me, buddy. I’m not gonna let you go off with a warnin.”
“Then we’ll duel.”
Dean snorted and snapped his reins. Dusty started walking. “You ain’t in no position to bargain. You’re the one tied up, sittin pretty, so looks to me like you’ll have to do as I say.”
Blue Eyes swore at him and Dean shook his head, smiling a little. At least he could take satisfaction in the fact that, if he was having a shitty day, Blue Eyes’ was worse.
•◊•◊•◊•
“Whaddya mean you don’t want him?”
The sheriff of the town Dean and Blue Eyes had just reached jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the cells in the jail. “I got every cell filled with drunks and thieves and whores. I don’t got room for another petty thief.”
“You sure he’s a nobody?” Dean scanned the curling, yellow wanted posters behind the sheriff’s desk, keeping a tight grip on Blue Eyes’ collar. None of the sketches looked anything like the surly thief he’d captured.
“Sorry, sonny, but there’s thieves a million to one out here. I ain’t taking him. Best I can do is issue a fine and kick him out of town.”
And then he’ll chase me down, Dean thought. “Guess I’ll figure somethin else out then,” he said. “Lot of fuckin help you are.”
Pulling Blue Eyes out the door, he paused outside on the boardwalk, trying to decide what to do next. He could knock Blue Eyes out and dump him behind the jail, hightail it out of town and hope he didn’t catch up. He could always shoot him in the other leg. That would slow him down.
“So, where’s that big reward you were talking about?” Blue Eyes asked.
“Shuddup.” A stagecoach had parked in front of the post office next door and the driver was opening the passenger door.
“Leaving tomorrow at seven sharp,” he announced. A young, pretty blonde in fine clothing emerged and glanced at Dean. She smiled at him and he nodded in greeting. Behind her, a man with a grey-flecked beard and a bowler hat stepped out of the coach with a cane that gleamed in the sun.
“Special delivery,” a man said, coming out of the post office holding a small package wrapped in brown paper. The driver took it from him. “Needs to get there fast.”
“You gonna let me go now?” Blue Eyes asked, snapping Dean’s attention back to his current situation.
“No.” Dean hauled him down the porch steps, Blue Eyes letting out a string of curses in protest. “I’m gonna get a drink while I figure out what to do with you.” He couldn’t deal with this sober.
Holding onto Blue Eyes’ arm, he led him across the street to the saloon. When he pushed their way through the swinging doors, however, he was immediately met with a rebuke.
“Nope, get the hell out of here!” The bartender walked forward, motioning at them, and Dean paused, trying to remember if this was one of the saloons on his not-welcome list. He didn’t remember ever being here before. Then he realized the bartender was glaring at Blue Eyes.
“You know this fucker?” he asked the bartender.
“Know him? I told him and the gang he was riding with to get lost the last time they were here. Started a fight and nearly tore up my whole damn establishment.”
“Gang?” Dean glanced at Blue Eyes. “And here I thought you were just a petty thief.” He looked back at the bartender. “This bastard tried to rob me earlier. I brought him to the sheriff and he wouldn’t take him.”
The bartender snorted. “Figures.” Dean took a hesitant step forward and the bartender sighed and nodded. “Fine. Long as he stays tied up.”
“He ain’t goin anywhere.” Dean shoved Blue Eyes towards the bar and dug into the pouch he’d pilfered from him. “One whiskey. Drink’s on him.” He grinned at Blue Eyes, but the thief was looking around the room as if plotting his escape. Dean tapped his Colt in his gun belt as a warning. Blue Eyes glared at him but didn’t move from the bar.
The bartender set a glass down in front of Dean and filled it. “So, you’re still alive,” he said to Blue Eyes. “Shame.”
“What’s this about a gang?” Dean asked, draining the glass and motioning for the bartender to fill it back up. God, he’d needed a drink. On the ride into town, he’d emptied his flask—something he’d have to remedy quickly.
The bartender pointed at Blue Eyes. “Few months ago, he and a few others passed through. Stayed a few days. Just a bunch of ragtag no-gooders. I heard they all got caught and hung last month after robbing some bank, but guess not.” He glared at Blue Eyes.
“I never seen you a day before in my life,” Blue Eyes said, matching the glare.
Refilling Dean's glass, the bartender shrugged. “Likely story. I’m just glad to see you finally got caught. It’s what you deserve anyway.”
“You wanna take him off my hands?” Dean asked.
The bartender laughed. “No way in hell.” He started to move down the bar and Dean asked,
“What’s the bastard’s name?” He glanced at Blue Eyes. “He won’t tell me.”
“Castiel.”
The bartender went to grab another patron’s order, and Dean studied Castiel, unable to help a grin. “Well, well, well. Castiel. Strange name, no wonder you didn’t want to share it. That true, about the gang, the robbery?”
Castiel turned his scowl from the bartender to Dean. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. You can’t prove shit.”
“How’d you get out of hangin?”
Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Castiel looked away. Dean shook his head. So, Castiel was more than just a lousy thief. Still wasn’t notorious enough to warrant his own wanted poster, though, so that didn’t do Dean any good.
He looked in Castiel’s pouch again, confirming that there were only two bits left. That wasn’t going to buy him much. He was tempted to keep drinking, but he needed food. In all the activity of the morning, he’d nearly forgotten his hunger. Now the pangs in his stomach were rivaling the ache in his shoulder from last night’s scuffle and the burn from Castiel’s bullet.
He noticed the way Castiel was leaning on the bar, favoring his right leg, but chose to ignore it. He scanned the room. It was mostly empty—two men sitting at a table talking low, another standing at the far end of the bar. One empty green-felted table in the back. No chance of hustling anybody today. Besides, he still had to figure out what to do with this fuming outlaw he had on his hands. He could almost feel Castiel’s anger radiating off him.
An idea was forming in his mind. A desperate one for sure, but an idea all the same.
Stepping away from the bar, he grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Let’s talk.”
He led Castiel out of the bar and into the adjacent alleyway. “Seems like you need money,” he said, letting go of Castiel’s arm. “So do I. I think we’re in a position to help each other.”
Castiel scoffed. “Tell you what. You let me go and I won’t kill you. How’s that for helping each other out?” He smiled a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Dean shrugged. “Sure, but then what? You go off and try to rob someone else? You’re a pretty shitty thief.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Course, seems like you’ve been fairly lucky at not gettin caught until now. And maybe if you had the right help…” He glanced at the street to make sure no one could hear what he was going to say next. “That coach that’s leavin tomorrow, you help me rob it and we’ll call it even. We split what we steal 60/40—because you owe me—and then we go our separate ways.”
Castiel stared him down. “You wanna rob a coach,” he said flatly.
“I want enough money for a meal, a bed, and a whore. You don’t wanna help, fine. But I don’t trust you. I’m gonna shoot you in the knee and make sure you can’t come after me.”
“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice, then.”
“That’s the spirit.” Dean grabbed Castiel’s arm and tugged him to the street. “Now you’re gonna pay for my meal.”
•◊•◊•◊•
No surprise, Dean didn’t have enough money left over to afford a meal from the second-rate restaurant in town. He begrudgingly settled on buying a can of beans and a pack of hardtack at the general store, and haggling to fill his flask at the saloon. A few casual questions to the general store owner revealed where the coach was headed the next day and on what trail.
After riding a few miles out of town, he and Castiel set up camp. Well, Dean tied the horses and started a fire while Castiel just sat there with his hands still bound together, tracking Dean's movements with glowering eyes.
The sun had begun to dip behind the hills by the time the beans began to simmer in their pot. Stirring the thick sludge, Dean glanced at Castiel sitting moodily across from the fire. He was starting to think that frown was a permanent feature on the outlaw’s face.
He tried to convince himself that choosing to keep around a thief who’d threatened to kill him wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had. It said a lot about him, he reckoned, that though it was indeed a horrible idea, it certainly didn’t take first place.
Castiel had been silent, besides the occasional swearing, since agreeing to Dean’s plan. The cloth around his wounded leg had a red blossom in the middle of it, and his shirt stuck to his broad chest in a way that kept drawing Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t deny this outlaw was an attractive man—whether that had influenced his decision to keep Castiel around, he wouldn’t say.
“You gonna untie me?” Castiel asked, looking up at Dean and catching him staring. Even in the dusky light, his eyes were still striking—cold blue and steady so Dean didn’t doubt he’d meant what he said about wishing he’d shot Dean through the heart. What about that threatening gaze was attractive, Dean didn’t know, but he felt drawn in anyway.
“You know what,” he said, pushing those thoughts away, “you’ve been behavin real well since I trussed you up so I think I’ll keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” He lifted the pot lid again and stirred the dark, mushy beans inside. His stomach grumbled at the smell. It was, what? Two days since he’d last eaten? Much too long.
“You gonna unbuckle my pants so I can take a piss then?” Castiel asked. Dean met his eyes. As tempting as that offer was, he grabbed his knife and stood.
“We have an agreement, right?” he asked, approaching Castiel. “Neither of us has to get hurt—well, more hurt—if we help each other.”
“Fine,” Castiel said, meeting his eyes. Dean didn’t know whether to take his unflinching gaze as a threat or agreement, but he’d gotten himself into this mess. No backing out now.
He cut the ropes, and Castiel rolled his shoulders and rubbed the angry red burns on his wrists. He stood gingerly, keeping his right leg light off the ground. When he started walking away, Dean cautioned, “Not too far.”
Castiel turned on him and Dean took a step back, raising his knife in warning. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Castiel snapped. “I’m not your little bitch. I may be helping you rob a coach tomorrow but only because I want to, because your sorry ass didn’t have anything worth stealing.”
“Alright,” Dean said. “Whatever you tell yourself.” Shooting him a look, Castiel limped off.
Sitting back down by the fire, Dean watched him disappear behind a few trees, trying to reassure himself that Castiel couldn’t get very far on his injured leg anyway.
Sure enough, Castiel returned a few minutes later and sat back down. Another glance in the pot told Dean the beans weren’t ready and he swore under his breath, sitting back. He dug the point of his knife into the dirt, the only noises the crackling of the fire and the shuffling of the horses.
“One thing I can’t figure out,” he said. “If you robbed that bank and didn’t hang, what happened to the money? Why’re you as broke as I am?” He looked up at Castiel, who was staring into the fire.
“Spent it all on booze and whores.” His eyes flitted up to Dean’s, challenging him to ask any more questions.
Whether his reply was a lie or not, Dean wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to press the topic. He shrugged. “Reckon there’s worse ways to spend it.”
When the food was adequately cooked, they ate in silence. Castiel ate fast, shoveling his food down, and Dean thought, there’s two of us that were starving.
Stars were lighting the sky by the time they scraped the plot clean. Dean rolled out his bedding and glanced at Castiel. “I’m gonna have to tie you up again."
“Like hell you are,” Castiel said, taking a drink of the coffee that Dean had made. The irony that Dean was sharing his food with someone who’d tried to rob him earlier wasn’t lost on him. “What happened to our agreement?”
“I don’t trust you—”
“Don’t see how I’m gonna help you rob a coach if you don’t trust me.”
Dean grabbed the rope. “Sit at that tree.” Castiel didn’t budge and Dean nudged his leg with his boot. “You don’t trust me either. You’d do the same in my shoes.”
“Fuck you,” Castiel said, getting to his feet. “You son of a whore, fuck your bitch mother—”
Dean smacked him hard on the back of his head with the coil of rope and Castiel turned on him, surprisingly quick for pivoting on his wounded leg. Just as fast, Dean brought his hand to his gun. “Don’t try it,” he warned.
Castiel stared him down, then sat at the base of the slender tree, keeping up a steady stream of curses as Dean yanked his arms back around the tree, securing him in place more tightly than he needed to.
“Sweet dreams,” Dean said, avoiding the kick Castiel aimed at him with his good leg.
Settling down on his bedroll, he made a show of placing his gun in its familiar spot under the coat he’d rolled up as a pillow. The fire glowed in the dark, illuminating Castiel’s face enough to show he was still shooting a deathly glare at Dean.
I’ve changed my mind, Dean thought. This is my worst idea yet. He took a long pull from his flask, then laid down and tried to sleep to no avail, tossing and turning as the night grew longer. He heard Castiel shift and tensed—waiting for what, he didn’t know, since he’d made sure Castiel was tied securely and didn’t have any weapons on him.
When it grew silent again, Dean relaxed, but only slightly. He wasn’t getting much sleep tonight, that was for sure. Even the fact Castiel was tied to a tree right now didn’t reassure him after seeing the murderous look in the man’s eyes.
He felt for his gun and touched the cool metal, then rolled over onto his back and stared at the starry sky.
Though it felt as if he’d only blinked, he must have dozed off sometime in the night because suddenly he opened his eyes to a dark blue sky, stars fading as their backdrop lightened.
Well, I’m not dead yet, was his first thought. Sitting up, he saw Castiel still tied to the tree, his head hanging down over his chest.
Kicking on his boots, Dean stood. He grabbed the coffee pot and purposefully set the lid down hard with a clang. Castiel startled, then slowly raised his head. He moved his arms, or tried to, and swore.
“Mornin sunshine,” Dean greeted him. “How’d you sleep? I slept wonderfully.”
“Fuck you.” Castiel shifted his legs and grimaced. His hair was even more mussed now, sweaty strands pressed to his forehead. He looked up, catching Dean watching him, and his blue eyes narrowed. “You gonna untie me or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean walked over and freed him. Castiel rubbed the feeling back into his wrists, and Dean asked, “Your leg gonna be alright?” It looked like the bleeding had stopped—'least the shirt he’d tied around Castiel’s leg wasn’t any bloodier than the night before.
“Like you give a shit.” Castiel stood, bracing himself on the tree, and looked up at the sky. “We gonna rob that coach or not?”
So, Castiel was invested in this robbery. He was more desperate than Dean had thought.
“Yes, we are,” Dean said. “Let’s get moving.”
They rode out along the trail that the coach would travel on in a few hours. The horizon was tinged orange as they crested a hill and entered a patch of trees that grew more densely packed the longer they rode.
Castiel pulled up at a bend in the trail where the ground sloped leisurely downwards. “We can wait here for the coach.”
Dean looked around. “Right, we’ll meet the coach when it comes ‘round the bend. I’ll guard the driver while you rob the passengers.” He dug into his saddlebags and pulled out Castiel’s gun belt. “Don’t make me regret this," he cautioned before handing it over.
"And my knife?" Castiel pressed, buckling the belt over his hips.
Dean rolled his eyes, but retrieved Castiel's knife from his bag and handed it over.
Castiel tucked it into his bag and studied the trail. “I’ll stop the coach,” he said, like Dean hadn’t just laid out the plan. “You come up from the rear so we can surround it.”
“Hold on, you don’t have a say here—” Dean started.
Fierce, blue eyes turned on him. “And since when were you put in charge?”
“Since you tried to rob me.”
Castiel nudged his horse off the trail into the trees. “You asked for my help, remember? I make the calls.” He pointed over Dean’s shoulder. “You wait over there, in those trees.”
Dean started to protest, but Castiel was already riding away. Fuck you, he thought vehemently. He briefly considered threatening Castiel with violence, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t end well.
So, he rode to where Castiel had indicated. Dismounting, he looked up at the sky. Weak sunlight filtered through the trees. The coach would arrive soon. But for all he knew, Castiel had given him the slip—was riding off right now, laughing his ass off at Dean's expense.
“Fuck,” Dean muttered and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot.
Time passed slowly. Dean preoccupied himself with checking his gun, walking furrows into the grass, checking his gun again, listening for any sounds of the coach’s approach, and debating going back to where he’d left Castiel to see if the bastard had stuck around or not. He wasn’t sure he should risk robbing the coach alone; he wasn’t that desperate, not yet.
Finally, putting an end to his repetitive thoughts, he caught the faint sound of wheels crunching over dirt and horse hooves stamping the ground.
Rising from where he’d seated himself on a log, he looked out at the trail. The trees weren’t thick enough to hide him from view, but with luck, the driver would think he was just a traveler stopped to rest and wouldn’t suspect anything.
He waited until the coach passed, the driver staring straight ahead, the coach windows covered with dusty curtains. Then he untied his bandana from around his neck and retied it below his eyes, hopefully obscuring his identity, and swung himself onto Dusty.
The coach rounded the bend and Dean half expected to hear it continue unhindered, but then he heard Castiel call, “Stop right there,” and the coach ground to a halt.
So the fucker didn’t abandon me, Dean thought, riding up behind the coach. Ahead, Castiel sat on his horse in the middle of the road, aiming his gun at the driver. His eyes were hardly visible over the red bandana hiding his face, shadowed by the brim of his hat.
The driver had his hand on his hip and Dean called, “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”
The driver's neck could've snapped, he turned so fast. Scowling at the gun Dean was pointing at him, he raised his hands.
At a nod from Castiel, Dean dismounted and went to the coach. Opening the door elicited a shriek from the young woman inside, the blonde gal he’d seen in town. She was dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief while the older gentleman from town sat close to her, fumbling to close the fly on his pants.
Dean cocked an eyebrow and the young woman reddened. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said and motioned with his gun. “Hand over any money you’ve got.”
“Please don’t hurt us,” begged the older gentleman, reaching inside his pocket.
“Woah, woah, slow,” Dean warned and the man held his hands up, “You got any weapons on you?”
The man shook his head furiously, then slowly withdrew a purse from his coat and handed it over. “Your watch,” Dean said, spotting the chain running into his vest pocket.
The man started to stammer protests and Castiel called from outside, “Better do as he says.”
Startling, the man quickly pulled out the watch and gave it to Dean. Dean held it up to show Castiel who was still seated on his horse, guarding the driver.
Castiel nodded and Dean turned back to the blonde. “Ma’m?” Her face pale, she retrieved a small coin purse from a satchel at her feet.
“This can’t be all,” Dean said, taking it and weighing it in his hand. “Clothes like that, I’d think you’d be travelin with a little more.”
She shook her head, her blonde curls swaying about her face. “No sir, I don’t—” Her words cut off with a gasp as Dean aimed his gun at her head and cocked it.
“Would be a shame to have to ruin such a pretty face, but I’ll do it.”
Slowly, with shaking hands, the blonde unpinned a few bills from inside her skirt waistband. Dean took the warm bills with a grin. “Thank you kindly,” he said and slammed the coach door shut.
“Now, that package you got from the post office,” Castiel said to the driver as Dean walked over to the front of the coach.
“Don’t know what yer talkin ‘bout.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Dean said. “Special delivery, figure it’s gotta be somethin worth our time.”
Glaring, the driver reached under his seat and pulled out a burlap sack. He let it drop to the ground with a thud and Dean started for it.
“No,” Castiel said. He motioned with his gun at the driver. “Get down here and open it up.”
“I ain’t—”
Castiel fired and Dean flinched. A shrill shriek sounded from inside the coach.
A bullet had lodged itself in the wooden bench seat a few inches from the driver’s shoulder, who now cowered. “Now,” Castiel ordered.
With a curse, the driver dropped down from his elevated seat and pulled a package out of the bag. He unwrapped the brown paper, revealing a small, wooden box with a glass-covered hole on one side and a screw on the top.
“The fuck is that?” Dean asked.
“Some newfangled camera, I suspect,” the driver said.
Dean swore under his breath. Looking at Castiel, he caught the glower in his eyes.
“Not what you scoundrels expected?” the driver asked, looking up at them with dark amusement.
In response, Castiel shot him. Dean startled at the report and the driver dropped to the ground, blood seeping out of a hole in his head.
“Let’s get out of here,” Castel said, holstering his gun.
“A fucking camera?” Dean asked, avoiding the puddle of blood from the driver’s head while grabbing the box. "No jewelry, no money, no nothin?" He stared at the camera, then threw it to the ground, swearing. “Didn’t know we were gonna kill anyone,” he added, glancing at the driver.
“You thought we were gonna let him go? Let him race back to town and report us?”
“Alright, alright."
Castiel dismounted and went to the coach’s horses. He began untethering them and Dean saw the blonde peek her head out the window, her eyes widening before she ducked back inside. “What about them?” he asked, nodding at the coach.
“I’m sure someone will come along eventually.” Castiel slapped one of the horse’s rumps, trying to send it away from the coach. “Or they can walk.” He fired his gun in the air and the horses startled and fled down the trail. “Let’s go.”
They raced away from the coach, riding until they were several miles away. Of course Castiel had killed the driver; Dean should’ve expected that. Not that he really minded. The driver had been an annoying sonuvabitch who was asking for it. He was just glad Castiel hadn’t tried killing the passengers since he didn't want three dead bodies on his hands, and they were innocent enough. Seemed Castiel had some moral compass, at least.
After gaining enough distance from the coach, they stopped at a trickling river to let their horses rest. Dean dismounted and deposited their spoils on the ground. “Let’s see what we got here."
Castiel sat heavily next to him, avoiding putting pressure on his leg, and together they counted the money. The blonde had been carrying the most money, and Dean whistled, counting the coins.
“Not bad,” Castiel remarked.
“Not bad?” Dean asked incredulously. “This is more than I’ve made all month.” He pushed some coins to Castiel. “That’s your share.”
“No, none of this 60/40 bullshit. We’re splitting it 50/50.”
“That wasn’t the deal—”
“Consider it insurance that I won’t kill you.” Castiel’s eyes raised to his in challenge.
Dean thought of the blood pooling under the driver’s head. “Fine,” he said bitterly and pushed the older gentleman's watch over to Castiel, figuring that made it about equal.
Castiel took his spoils with a sly smile. Dumping them into his bag, he stood and Dean watched him go to his horse. “You leavin?” he asked.
“I’m not sticking around for anyone to find that stranded coach.” Castiel mounted his horse and Dean stood.
“I can’t even buy you a drink?” He didn’t know why he was trying to get Castiel to stick around for a bit longer; he should be content to still be in one piece.
Castiel shook his head, the sly smile returning. “Adios, Dean Winchester.”
He had disappeared into the trees before Dean realized he’d dropped something before riding off. Stooping to pick it up, he also realized he’d never told Castiel his name. How did he know…? Then he realized what he was holding in his hands.
“Son of a bitch!” He tore into the leather pouch Castel had left behind. Sure enough, it was his own, the one that held his collection of letters. Pulling them out, he saw the twine he’d tied the pages with was gone.
“Son of a fucking whore,” he swore fiercely, thumbing through the letters. That morning, before setting out for the coach, he’d left Castiel alone for a moment while he went off to relieve himself. The bastard must’ve rooted through his shit then.
His letters were all still there, and he shoved them back into the pouch, cursing a blue streak. So that’s how Castiel had amused himself while they waited separately for the coach. He felt his face heat thinking of what Castiel might’ve read.
“Good fucking riddance,” he said aloud and Dusty’s ears pricked up from where she drank at the river.