Chapter Text
Dean sat at the top of the rise on Chempala, the black stallion with the silver blaze that the old man had given him when he turned eighteen. He sat here today as everyday checking the herd, watching the stock roam, looking for any signs of weakness. It was sometimes easier to see a lame animal from a distance rather than up close as they knocked into each other in close quarters and could limp around a bit until they ‘walked it off’. When the old man had done this duty, there was a complicated series of whistles that the hands knew; each had their own call and whistles to direct them to where they needed to be. Dean was secure enough to admit that he wasn’t anywhere near that sophisticated and just used walkies.
“Lucky,” He called for the young ginger riding loosely around the south west quadrant. “We got one on your corner. The big girl that just had her calf.”
“Ya ever think it’s because she just had a calf boss?” Lucky joked.
“Which is why I’m up here and you’re down there.” Dean tried for reprimand, but knew that all of the men would hear the smile in his voice. If it weren’t for his easy manner with the men, it might have been hard for Dean to be foreman over guys who were as old and older than him who had been doing the same work as long or longer, but he respected their opinions and suggestions and they respected him. It was a lot of the reason that the old man had given him the job when the son went away to school.
The old man hadn’t been too happy when his son had said he wanted to go to business school, but when he had been accepted at Harvard who could argue with the kid’s brain. He had promised that he would come back to run the ranch once he had graduated and as the only child, the old man had never been able to refuse him much. His mother had never really recovered from his birth, she had hemorrhaged and there were complications and the possibility of a doctor’s error, but in the end, she had died six months to the day from his birth. He had never known her. The old man had not ever blamed his son, no way he could have prevented it, but there was a sadness in him every time he looked at the boy, which made him grow up a bit maudlin.
Every hand on the ranch dreaded having to deal with Samuel Winchester. He was sullen and all business and didn’t tolerate much in the way of discussion. If an animal was lame it was no good and needed to be sent on. No matter that you raised it by hand for the last seven years or whatever your silly story was, black is black and lame beef on the hoof is profit.
So it was always more tense when the son was home, when it was Sam who would ride out and check the stock. The old man knew that he had hired all the right people and had them in the right places, but Sam, the heir never had much faith in his father or ‘his people’. His financial genius seemed to make him think that he was smarter about running a ranch than the old man, but what the younger man didn’t understand is that a ranch is about the horses and the cattle and the people who could make those things work well together. Sam had never really tried to make many friends, and strangely growing up on a ranch, he had never really bonded with animals either. No one but Dean.
Dean Singer’s father had been a magical man with livestock. When the vet said ‘the calf won’t turn’ you called Bobby Singer and the calf would be turned and fine and momma would be right as rain the next day. Old Man Winchester had come to rely on him so heavily that when the Singer house burned down so soon after his wife’s death, he offered the foreman’s cottage to Singer and his son. Even then, the boy, not even five, had a gift with animals, but unlike many animal people, he related just as well with people and folks just immediately took to him. Even the ill tempered little Sam.
Dean somehow knew that it should be his job to take care of the little boy and somehow little Sam knew that he should listen to Dean. When Sam would give orders to the staff, Dean would admonish him with “That’s not how you talk to people Sammy” and the little boy would apologize. But without Dean’s say so, it was all orders and sass.
And so the years passed; Dean led with his easy smile and Sam carried on behind, if not happily then with his nose pressed in a book and blessedly quiet. Then Bobby Singer died.