Chapter Text
Dean came to. Somewhere behind a bush at the side of the road. In the middle of the night. He was cold. It was wet. His head throbbed and the world cleared only slowly. Streetlights cast yellow light on the damp ground. The air smelled of rain and wet leaves.
Memory returned in fragments. Bar. Beer. A beautiful woman. A dumb conversation about horsepower. Then outside. Alone.
His gaze caught the Impala at the far end of the lot. Her wet metal gleamed in the light.
Dean pushed himself up and wavered for a moment. He shook his head and tried to get rid of the dizziness. He staggered towards his baby. Every step felt wrong and far too loud on the asphalt.
Driving back to the motel wasn’t an option. He would simply lie down in the car and forget for a few hours that the world existed. At least he would have a roof over his head while sobering up.
Dean reached out for the driver door. He meant to dodge the door and slide in, but the handle broke off and hit the ground with a clatter. The door stayed shut and Dean’s chest bumped against the car.
He steadied himself and tried to pick up the broken handle. When he looked down he froze.
'What the hell?'
He saw hooves scraping the asphalt. Dean searched for a horse beside him and spun around. His upper body swayed, his legs lost their balance and his rear bumped against the back of the car.
Dean grunted in surprise and the sound came out like a snort.
But there was no horse.
His eyes shifted to the shiny window. A huge white horse head stared back. Pale like a ghost.
He shook his head in disbelief and stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
For a moment he stood still and stared at his reflection in confusion. The eyes locked straight on his. The ears stood alert. The nostrils flared. The mane looked strangely shaggy.
He tried to push the image away, but the horse face mirrored back in every window he looked at.
"Crap."
He meant to shout it but the only sound that came out was a sharp whinny.
"Dammit."
Another whinny. He struck the ground with his hooves in anger.
'Fuck.' He just thought it.
Reality hit him like a punch.
He was the horse.
He lowered his head and the mane slipped into his face. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool metal of his car while he tried to sort his thoughts.
How? The woman. It had to be connected to her. Maybe a witch. What was he supposed to do now? Somehow he needed a plan.
There was only one option. Sam.
Back to the motel. He had to get there without being seen and explain to Sam that he had four hooves now. At least for the moment.
The thought of his brother’s reaction sent a mix of dread and embarrassment through him.
Sam would probably laugh hard. Then try to keep a straight face and say "Dean, why the long face" and burst out laughing.
No. That was something he himself would say.
Sam would laugh and shake his head a little and try to handle the problem with calm logic. He would think it through. He would analyze it. He would still care about him even if he was a damn horse now.
So he had to get back to the motel. Somehow.
Dean looked at the broken handle and the scratches in the paint that he had left with his hoof. Carefully he moved one hoof and nudged the broken handle closer to the car.
He let his head sink against the cool metal again. A soft snort escaped him.
"Sorry. I'll fix it. Promise."
Dean stepped back a few hooves and gave her a short "See you later" before he forced himself to move towards the motel.
His hooves clattered across the asphalt when three men burst out of the dark. Cowboy hats on their heads. Holsters and ropes in their hands.
One was tall and heavy. His leather jacket stretched over his shoulders. Beside him moved a small wiry man with a crooked smile, a pink neckerchief and fluttering fringe jacket. The third had a scar across his chin, broad shoulders and wore a denim jacket. His eyes twitched with a nervous rhythm.
The pink neckerchief pointed at him. "Come here, pony!" the small Rod shouted with a grin.
'Great. Just what I needed.'
Dean backed up and almost lost his balance. Moving four legs at once and backward in this new body was still a mess. An annoyed whinny at his own clumsiness slipped out.
The men swung their lassos and tried to circle him.
Dean snorted and whinnied. His hooves scraped across the asphalt. He ducked and one rope missed him narrowly. He kept his head so low that his nose almost touched the ground. The other loops slipped off, catching only his mane and neck.
He wanted to gain some distance and jumped to the side. He stumbled and almost slammed into an old Chevrolet Silverado. A rope grazed past and caught on his ear for a moment. He gathered his hooves and stomped forward and struck the ground in anger.
'Oh man, I'm too old for this crap.'
Normally he would have thrown punches. But now?
It was strange to feel the power in this new form. But a peculiar thrill ran through him. He wasn't helpless or at the mercy of anyone. He was really pissed. He could dodge, strike, test how far his reach extended.
Dean sprinted diagonally across the parking lot, making abrupt changes in direction and leaving the men gasping for air. He pivoted, kicked sideways, then backward again. He almost slipped but recovered, only to plant a hoof in the direction of one of the men.
A small kick grazed the man with the bandana, who gasped and stepped back.
„Damn, missed.“
"As wild as he is we will sell him to a rodeo" Rod gasped between breaths. "They'll pay a lot for a bucking horse that really throws the cowboys off."
Hank felt the heavy pull at the other end and braced. "Are you nuts? Breeders pay double for a horse like him. Think of the foals he could sire."
'Breeding stallion? What the...' Heat and cold hit Dean at the same time. His heartbeat raced, his muscles tensed.
The idea that they wanted to sell him like livestock made his anger burn hotter.
'You assholes... just wait. I'm not done yet.'
"Forget breeding. Rodeo money comes faster. No one stays on him for more than three seconds, I swear."
Dean charged and aimed his head for the solar plexus. His brow hit the chest of the man who was as tall as Sam maybe taller. The impact took the air right out of the guy and sent him stumbling.
"Did he crush your ribs, Hank?" the scarred one called, clearly tense.
Hank waved weakly and groaned. He leaned forward, clutching his chest, struggling for breath.
Dean turned and evaded the other ropes. He kicked out with his hind legs at the fringe jacket guy who came too close. He narrowly missed the shoulder.
The man stumbled back but lost his footing. He flailed his arms and collided with one of the trash bins at the edge of the parking lot.
The bin toppled with a clatter. The lid flew open, and a cascade of fast-food leftovers, paper bags, dented cans, and sticky trash poured over the fallen man.
"Shit!" Rod cursed, trying to get back on his feet while brushing the garbage off himself.
Dean spun around again, lunged forward, and snapped at the ankle. His teeth clamped onto the shaft of the leather cowboy boot. He shook his head and dragged the guy a little through the muck.
The man screamed sharply, kicking wildly. His hands clawed desperately for purchase among the countless plastic bags and rotting food. His free foot struck at Dean’s head in vain, only grazing it.
The guy in the denim jacket pulled out a short, rolled-up whip.
The first crack shredded the air over Dean’s back, but Dean didn’t flinch. The second strike hissed just past his muzzle. Just noise. No real hits.
A disgusting mix of dust, sweat, and foul trash coated Dean’s tongue, yet he didn’t let go. He growled, dragged Rod to the side, spinning him halfway around.
Only when the scumbag struck again and the whip landed squarely on Dean’s muzzle did he release. The impact burned on the sensitive skin, making Dean flinch briefly.
The fringed guy seized the moment, pulled his leg back, and crawled backward. Hands and feet slipped over the sticky mess. His face was chalk-white.
Dean whipped his head around. He saw the whip-wielder preparing another strike.
'No, if you do that again, I'll fucking kill you!' Then he charged straight at him.
Scarface didn’t even get his arm fully raised. His eyes went wide, fingers clenching the whip handle. Adrenaline and reflexes took over, and he leapt to the side.
Dean rushed past him. The man stumbled sideways, caught himself, and half-turned when Dean’s hind leg lashed out and struck.
The guy was flung around, screaming. His legs gave way, his body crashed against the Impala. He slid down her side and lay groaning on his side. The mirror shattered, breaking off. Shards scattered across the ground.
Dean stopped abruptly, turned his head, stared at the field of shards, and snorted, nostrils flaring.
"You son of a bitch!" he whinnied angrily.
The giant was back on his feet. The lasso in his hands, his gaze fixed on the wild horse. He took advantage of Dean's brief lapse in concentration. The rope wrapped tightly around the horse's neck.
Dean felt the rope too late. He reared up, threw himself against the rope, but Hank braced himself against it.
The fringed jacket had freed itself from the trash and was also back on his feet. He threw his own lasso over Dean.
“I got him!” cried Rod with a crooked smile in amazement.
'That will stop soon, you idiot.'
"Watch out, Rod!"
Dean jerked his head to the side. The sudden jolt yanked the small man off his feet and he crashed on the asphalt and yelled in pain.
"Hold him!" Rod shouted as he kicked with his feet against the ground. His grin vanished as Dean dragged him several feet.
Hank tightened his rope and braced himself against the horse's movements.
Dean reared up and whinnied. He shook his head, changed direction and charged past Rod straight at the giant.
"Rod, the streetlight!" Hank shouted and stepped aside with the rope slack in his hands. His eyes flicked to the trailer hitch of the old Silverado.
Rod scrambled up and stumbled towards the nearest pole. Before Dean could rip free again Rod threw the end of his rope around the lamp post and yanked it tight with a strained curse.
Dean felt the resistance and pulled hard. The rope held.
Hank wrapped his end of the rope around the hitch and tugged Dean in the other direction.
Dean snorted as the loops tightened around his neck. The ropes creaked, the lamp shuddered, the truck shook, but nothing gave way.
His muscles quivered, but Dean stood his ground. His breath came fast and hot vapor rose from his nostrils. He forced himself calm and saved strength for the next chance.
The men kept the ropes taut and watched him.
"Looks like he gave up," murmured the guy in the silly fringed jacket.
Hank nodded. Sweat still ran down his brow but a small smile slipped across his face. "Finally. I thought this outlaw would kill us."
'Keep laughing, soon you'll be crawling on the floor.'
"Stupid beast," the third man groaned. He still lay beside the Impala. He pushed himself up and pressed a hand to his side. Pain twisted his face. "Almost broke my damn rib." He limped closer with shallow breaths and stared at the rope on the ground.
"Mason, get the pickup," the big man groaned.
"I swear, I'll take care of him," the man muttered and limped away cursing.
Dean let his gaze sweep over his car. Over the shards on the ground. He thought of Sam waiting for him at the motel with no idea what had happened. He had to reach him. Somehow.
Mason brought a trailer onto the lot and lowered the ramp.
"Fuck you," Dean snorted. He was not stepping into that thing on his own.
"Get him in!" Mason shouted and threw his rope over Dean’s head as well.
The men eased their ropes and pulled and guided Dean in the direction of the trailer.
Dean pushed back against the pressure. Each movement came with sharp angry bursts, stamping and neighing, but the ropes kept him under control.
"Easy, slowly," Hank muttered while he adjusted the rope around the hitch.
"Mine is too short! The trailer is too far," Rod snapped in frustration. His face was red from the strain. He let the rope slide off the lantern and held the loose end tight.
'You think you've got me? Wait...' Dean seized the moment and threw his full weight into Fringe Jacket’s rope.
The sudden pull caught Rod off guard. The rope slid through his gloves and he had to step closer to keep his grip.
But Dean was too strong. Too wild. Too unpredictable. He rose on his hind legs and dragged the man closer and yanked on the ropes again and lashed out with his front hooves.
Mason judged the scene with growing nerves. "This isn't working," he muttered. He saw Dean rearing up, and even Hank was struggling to hold the stallion. Rod was barely holding on and his own body hurt.
"That's enough..."
He reached for his tranquilizer gun, aimed and fired.
The dart hit Dean’s neck. He flinched and snapped his head sideways. "Fuck." It came out as a rough whinny. He snorted and stamped hard, reared again.
"Did you hit him?" the big man asked.
"Yeah. Wait for it," the shooter said with satisfaction. “He will drop.”
But Dean wasn't down yet. He used the seconds he had left and yanked the ropes again. He swung his upper body to the side and nearly threw the small man crashing back to the ground again.
"Hold that beast!" Rod shouted. "He’s still fighting."
'Just wait until this wears off…'
Dean struck out one more time with fading strength. But he could already feel his legs getting heavier and his movements slower.
"See. It is working."
Dean let out a furious, weaker whinny. His muscles slackened. His head sank. The ground shifted under his hooves. He stumbled forward.
'Shit.'
The men slowly pushed him up the ramp, step by step.
"About time, "Mason murmured. "Get him inside."
The sounds dulled, voices blurred. His front legs gave in and he dropped to his knees. Rage flared once more, but his muscles no longer obeyed him.
"You sons of bitches," he wanted to say. Halfway up the ramp Dean collapsed. His eyes closed. A final, angrily snort left him.
"Hear that?" one of the men laughed. "Still fire in his blood."
They grinned, tightened the ropes and began to haul the sedated Dean into the trailer with a winch.
⛤