SPN FanFic Pond

“God, I hope not,” you murmured. In the fiasco that had been the night before, you hadn’t forgotten about Jamie and Danny. Two days were too short a time to want to visit them again, but you couldn’t help the longing. Sam had assured you that he would take you to see them again as soon as he could, but he was very wary of the scrutiny, even if he didn’t know where it came from. You knew, but couldn’t disclose. Maybe you should. The kids were safe, you were safe, but a primal fear barely let you speak. 

“You’re always so lost these days, Miss,” said Abby, subdued. “I don’t know what it is. Mr Winchester says you have a lot on your mind and that I should let you be. But you know nosy ol’ me. I have to remind you that you can talk to me.”

“Mr Winchester said that? To you?” Since when did Sam tell Abby anything? What was happening?

Abby blushed. “This morning. Martha’s son is visiting, and she’s showing him the countryside. I found Mr Winchester in the kitchen frying your eggs. Guess we both had the same idea.”

He’d been up and gone before you awoke. The blanket you’d laid on top of him had rested over you, and a thermos of steaming coffee, along with a plate of fried eggs and toast, had waited for you on the side table.

“Sam’s kindness shouldn’t surprise me,” you murmured. “But it still does.”

Abby snored. “I don’t think it’s kindness, Miss.”

Love. 

A jolt went up your spine at the memory of his confession. Oh, why couldn’t you have woken up on time?

“Did Sam say when he’d be back?” You changed the topic.

She nodded. “He’ll be back for dinner.”

“Did he seem…upset?”

Abby frowned. “Upset? No, Miss. He seemed… deep in thought. Cheered right up when he saw me. Asked me about Kristy’s fees.”

“Kristy’s fee?” You were starting to sound more and more clueless with every word you uttered. What was happening? Why didn’t you know any of this? Were you so lost, shut in your ivory tower, that the world outside, the world around Sam and Abby and everyone else you cared for had shifted, and you hadn’t noticed? A pattern repeating too many times. You should apologise, but words without actions were hollow. Abby was an important part of your life, your first friend here, your fiercest confidant. She deserved action, not just words. 

“Do you know if Castiel is here?” You asked. “I need to go out… and I don’t drive well.” At seventeen, when your dad passed, aunt Ethel had sold his rusting pick-up for alcohol money. No one had taught you how to drive until Carmen had forced you to take a few classes at the campus in her car. 

Abby bit into her lip as she frowned, “I think he’s with Mr Winchester. Where do you want to go?”

You shook your head. “We are going out of town. You are coming with me.”

“Oh, I can’t, Miss. I have so much dusting to do.”

“Oh, screw the dusting. The dust will be there when we get back. We can do it together.”

“But where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there. We just need to figure out how first.” You could call a cab service, but that might not be safe. Could Abby drive one of Sam’s fancy cars? Probably not. She had grown up with even fewer resources than you– on a farm of all places– surrounded by sexist uncles. So, how?

“Miss, when do you have to get there?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Can you wait a couple of hours?”

You blinked at her. “Why?”

“I think I might be able to find someone to drive us up there.”

It was just after noon when you made your way down to the garage, Abby confidently leading the way. Any time that you’d had to travel out of the house, Sam or Castiel brought the car around to the bottom of the entrance steps. You had, in fact, never seen the garage. 

Just as you stepped inside the shuttered doors, two hands wrapped themselves around your eyes. Only one person ever did that. You simply turned and opened your arms wide to embrace him, and Jack’s old textbook scent hit you in the face. “Where had you been?” You croaked through a thick throat.

“Here,” said Jack simply. “The real question is, “Where have you been?”

He’d been teasing on the evening of the gallery opening, a night that seemed ages ago now. Then again, you remembered the beige jacket outside your door in your days of self-imposed exile.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “I am here now, and we are all going for a ride.”

“Where?” He asked, puzzled.

“You get in the car, I’ll lead the way.”

Abby spent the ride chewing on her knuckles and tapping her feet in the backseat, while you directed from the shotgun. More than a few times, you caught Jack sneaking a look at her in the front-view mirror.

“Dean would have my head on a platter if he found out I took out his Impala,” whined Jack as you directed him onto the off-road that became the long driveway to your destination. “Please don’t tell him. Ever.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” you grinned, unable to contain your excitement. The puzzlement on both their faces deepened as they parked the cars, and you led them into the small courtyard where you had waited not two days ago. The kids were delighted to see you, but Jamie, at least, was surprised at how soon you’d returned. They took their turns hugging you, and only then realised the two people standing behind were with you.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you married two more people.”

You had to smack him lightly on his head.

“I mean, the last person who got out of that car was your husband.” He whistled, and you smacked his head again.

You beckoned Jack and Abby, and after exchanging one short, confused look, they came forward.

“Abby,” you smiled, “These are my John and Kristy. James and Danielle.”

She started, taking in the kids. “I never knew…”

“Of course, you didn’t. I never told anyone, except–”

“–Sam,” Jack finished, his tawny eyes slightly narrowed as he studied the kids.

“Who’s this guy?” Jamie jerked a thumb towards Jack, while Danny stared at Abby and her uniform with round eyes.

“These are my friends, Jack and Abby.”

“Are they married to each other?” Danny asked, and both of them turned a bright shade of pink.

“What’s up with all the marriage talk?” You rounded on the two.

Danny shuffled from one foot to another. “Jamie told me you and Sam are married.” She craned her neck towards the car. “Where’s Sam? He didn’t come with you?”

“Sam’s at work. And yes, we are married.” In name, anyway. Not that Sam was getting anything out of it. “But more than anything, we are also the best of friends, yeah? So that part is entirely true. Come, now. I’ve spoken with your warden for permission to take you out to lunch. Change out of your school clothes, and we can all go for a ride.” The kids scrambled to the dorms, racing to get there first, laughter trailing in their wake.

Jack got it out first. “You have a brother and a sister? The hell, Y/N? You never thought to tell us this?”

In a lowered voice, you quickly explained everything to them. The kidnapping, the kids as collateral and what you were made to do in captivity. It felt like narrating someone else's story, and as long as you didn’t meet Abby’s tear-stained eyes, you were able to get most of it out.

“Sam… Well, he found them in a boarding school in Colorado from the uniform in the pictures. He drove them here. I wanted Abby to meet them,” you confessed. “She’s been my support system for so long, and you, too, Jack. I wanted you to know, to see the truth of me.”

They’d always known parts of it, Jack more than Abby, but even so, you had to come clean with everyone now. And if you couldn’t immediately find Sam and tell him all about Nick, you would start with Jack and Abby. There was a lot of truth to be told. By the time Jamie and Danny were back after ditching their bags and school clothes, Abby had wiped her eyes, and Jack even managed a smile. You ultimately chose the same diner you had been to with Sam, and the kids basically repeated their orders. 

“I think she turns into a vampire at night and looks down our windows,” Danny declared about her math teacher, as she shoved fries in her mouth. “Jamie thinks she’s a werewolf.”

James sighed. “You can’t be out and about in the day if you are a vampire! We’ve been through this a hundred times, Dee.”

“There’s an easy test,” said Abby. “You can test them with silver. Werewolves get burned by silver.”

“They’re kids!” Jack threw his arms up. “Where are they gonna find silver? Garlic, on the other hand...”

“Vampires have to eat the garlic, Jack! What do you want them to do? Shove it down her throat?”

“Mrs Heston is quite tall,” Danny added helpfully, apparently switching sides. “I can’t reach her face to feed her garlic.”

“Fine,” Jack crossed his arms. “Have it your way. Keep your curtains drawn at night, Abby. Maybe Mrs Heston will visit you instead.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow at you, and you grinned in collusion. Jack and Abby really were too obvious.

You hugged them both very tightly as you said your goodbyes. Maybe impulsively coming to see them had been a reckless idea, but an unnamed feeling in your gut hadn’t let you rest. Sam might disapprove, but you would talk him out of it. 

“Sam still has my daisy?” Danielle inquired as she hugged you. “Don’t forget to bring him next time.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” you promised, and then pecked them both on their cheeks. You watched them disappear into the building before climbing into the car.

Jack started the engine. “Don’t think Sam will be too pleased about your trip,” he said, worry colouring his tone. “He’s concerned enough about this whole affair to not have confided in even me. You’ve flouted every last security measure, Y/N, since day one. That poor guy looks like he’s ready to drop. Don’t keep doing this to him.”

Yes, Sam most definitely looked ill. You had considered calling the doctor on him for a while now, and maybe you would. But you also knew that what Sam would appreciate the most now was the truth. 

Jack dropped you off at the entrance of the manor. Abby remained in the car, with a fumbling excuse of accompanying Jack from the garage, and you got out hurriedly to give them some time alone. Maybe the whole ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ worked for them.

When you rounded into the entrance hall corner, Nick found you at the base of the stairs, lounging against the balustrade, exactly where you had been the last time he had found you. 

“Honeybun!” He exclaimed in mocking glee, and then slowly uncurled himself from the step. “Long time, no see?”

Somehow, you had expected the bastard. Deep down, a low dread had been building up ever since you had found out about his relationship to Sam and the manor, refusing to leave. Nick had lived in your head for all these years–a reminder of the hurt, pain and betrayal. He’d come to you on long days as you lay on the cot, wishing for a miracle; whisper horrible words in your ears as you were forced to satisfy another man. The Winchester Manor had become your safe space, and now he’d ruined that, too, lurking in the corners.

“Get out of my way,” you spat, wishing you had talons long enough to plunge into his chest.

He simply spread out his arm to cover the staircase. 

“What if I don’t?”

“Your wish. It’s not as if you’ll be around for long.” You crossed your arms.

A sudden coldness came over his face. “You think you can tell him now, don’t you? Now that you have those kids back.”

A cold shiver went down your spine, but you kept your teeth from chattering. How did he know? “I’m not scared of you.”

“Maybe not,” he shrugged and pouted. “But I know you’re scared of him– the boss. Aren’t you?”

“Sam will protect the kids.”

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he said, slowly circling you. “You’re missing the point here, babe. It never was about the kids. It was about you, and to what extent you would go to protect what you love.”

The same instinct that had made you rush to the academy to see the kids made you desperately hope for Sam. As if you had to see him now, and if you didn’t, you never might. Something felt terribly wrong. 

Maybe the universe was listening to you because a tap of footsteps echoed in the foyer, and you backed two steps as Sam rounded the corner in the entrance hall.

He took the scene before him in mild disgust.

“How many times do I have to stop you from harassing my wife?” Sam said, “That, too, in my own home?”

“We were only chatting, Samuel,” Nick grinned. “It is difficult to find her anywhere but here, isn’t it? One would think you keep her shackled to the bed.” 

You flinched. 

So did Sam.

“If I recall, Y/N quite likes being restrained. Probably hasn’t changed much. Still likes it rough, does she?”

A crack like a whip split the air, and the next second Nick was on the ground, hand nursing his face.

“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” seethed Sam. “Get lost before I have you thrown out.” Sam didn’t say another word. He grabbed your hand and pulled you up the stairs with him. At the top, you turned to see Nick smiling at you through bloody teeth, right until you rounded the bend.

In your room, Sam flung his briefcase and let out an expletive, loudly–a rare thing for Sam, then dropped into the sofa and put his face in his hands. Blood dripped from the knuckles. Slowly, you moved to the mantle and retrieved the first aid box from there, then sank to the floor in front of Sam. You retrieved his hand from his face and blew on the bloody knuckles. 

“Why do you let him get to you?” The whispered question made Sam look up. You poured some antiseptic on a ball of cotton and gently dabbed it on the abraded skin. “You know what he’s like.”

“I’m not a jealous person, Y/N,” said Sam. “Envy does not come naturally to me, but the mere thought of him touching you feels like fire in my veins.”

“Because you haven’t?”

Sam looked up sharply, eyes wide. “No!” He breathed. “Never. I meant every word of what I said yesterday.” He twisted his wrist so that your hand tending to his was now encased in his fingers. He glanced at your entwined hand with such tenderness that tears sprang in your eyes. “This,” he said, raising your joined hands, “Is enough for me. You–just as you are–are enough for me, Y/N.”

The anger returned. “But he doesn’t even deserve breathing the same air as you, let alone touching you.”

A serrating pain sliced through your insides at the thought of telling Sam the whole truth. You were scared he might just kill Nick if he knew what he had done– the extent of it. But Sam had to know. The first night after meeting the children, you had passed out from all the crying, and last night… well, this was as good a moment as you were going to get.

“Sam, I–”

Abby came in with Sam’s evening coffee and your toast. She still looked pink in the cheek.

“Martha is back from her trip, Mr Winchester,” she said, placing the mug in front of Sam. “She says your coffee jar is nearly empty and has threatened to quit if you replace it with more Bali imported herbal coffee.”

Sam rolled his eyes and reached for the mug, winching as the skin over his knuckle split, and you were once more reminded of the injury. Abby’s eyes narrowed when she took in the blood-soaked cotton. 

“What did you do?” She rounded on Sam.

“Hit an asshole.”

She narrowed her eyes further, paused to assess his severe expression, then said, “Let me get some turmeric powder for that. My Maa says it’s better than your antiseptic. Good ol’ Indian remedy.”

You watched her leave and turned to gaze at Sam.

“Come here,” he beckoned, and you went to him, kneeling on the floor between his legs, and suddenly the tears wouldn’t stop. A sob escaped, and then another until you were a blubbering mess in his hands. Sam gently kissed the top of your hair.

“Shhh…” he murmured into your hair. “I’m here. Always.”

You hugged his knee, resting your face against the grey fabric, tears staining the material. “It kills me, Sam, that I can’t be the girl I used to be. If that girl from USC had met you, she might have touched you the way she wanted to. She might have let you touch her the way you want to. And don’t– just don’t say you get to touch me and that it’s enough. Maybe it is for you. But what about me? How do I stop feeling this way? I want you. God, I want you so much it hurts. But I don’t understand how to fix myself. How to get out of my head and not remember all those awful things.”

His fingers found your hair, gently carding through them.

“Sam?” Your voice was small. “There’s something you need to know.”

The softest “Yeah?”

You looked up into his watery eyes and saw every ounce of love he spoke of yesterday, and then some more. You couldn’t help but crane your neck and steal a kiss. One small kiss. At least, it was supposed to be small. However, the moment your lips touched his, you couldn’t help but give in to that urgent need to consume him and be consumed by him.

The kiss deepened, and his fingers found your arms as Sam helped you to your knees, adjusting you to his height as he straightened up, never breaking contact. You could taste the faint mint on his tongue and warmth and… the stinging iron of blood.

Confused, you pushed back just as Sam’s fingers went slack on your arms to see his eyes roll back into his head.

“Sam!” 

He fell off the Sofa, his entire body seizing, coughing blood on the floor. You must be screaming garbled words, his name, something, trying to hold him down with your body, until another set of hands joined yours.

“Doctor. Call the doctor,” you whispered to Abby. Under your hands, Sam went still. Thoughtlessly, you laid your head on his chest, holding him to you as Abby spoke frantically on the phone. His beating heart was suddenly the most important sound in the entire universe.

*************

A/N 2: *Hides face* So sorry about the cliffhanger, but I have one white flag to offer: The next chapter is nearly ready. I'll put it out as soon as I can. Love you guys <3

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You just finish the last toe when a soft knock sounds at your door. You look up, confused, then sigh and hobble awkwardly over to peer out the peephole, trying not to mess up your freshly painted nails. You freeze for a second when you see who’s standing there.

Dean.

The very reason you had come up with this brilliant getaway in the first place. What the hell is he doing here? You take a breath, blowing it out slowly and trying to control your body’s reactions to his proximity before opening the door.

“Dean?” You look at him, your eyebrows raised in question.

“Yeah, hi. I know, I’m not supposed to be here.”

Your expression shifts to concern. “Are you okay? Did something…”

He was shaking his head, looking down at the ground, scuffing at the concrete with his boot. “Nooo, no, world’s not blowing up or anything.” He looks up at you again, clearly out of his comfort zone. “Look, I didn’t plan to…” He stops and starts over. “I just came into town to have a few beers, and… I really didn’t mean to bust up your whole,” his hands gesture aimlessly, “girl-time, whatever.”

You recover yourself enough to take a step back and even manage a weak smile. “Come in, tell me what’s going on.”

Bottom lip in the grip of his teeth, he shuffles his way in, and you close the door behind him. You duck-walk your way over to the bed, and plop down, looking up as he smothers a laugh. “What? I just painted my toes, they’re not dry yet,” you protest, unable not to smile.

“Sorry, it was just cute. Couldn’t help it.”

“Well, make yourself useful and grab us a beer, there’s some in the mini-fridge.” He raises his eyebrows in approval and grabs two long necks, opening one and handing it to you. “Thanks. So maybe you should sit down and tell me what’s going on?”

He pulls a chair out and turns it to face you, then sits and takes a long pull from his bottle. He holds it up afterwards, nodding, “Thanks,” setting it on the table and then slowly exhaling before looking at you once again. “Just be honest with me. Did I do something? Did I piss you off? Or say something that hurt you?”

You stare at him in surprise. “Dean, no! Of course not. I told you and Sam, I just needed a little time alone. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He picks up his beer again and takes a swallow, then leans forward, arms on his knees, picking at the label as he goes on, stumbling a little as he searches for words. “It just feels like – not just today when you left, but all the time lately… We used to be so easy around each other, you know, and it seems like you’re not anymore. Comfortable, I mean. With me. Like you’re kind of trying to keep your distance or something, I don’t know. And maybe I’m just being stupid, but it felt like this whole time-to-yourself thing… like it was because of me.”

You’re beginning to feel trapped, and you’re doing everything you can to pretend things are normal – drinking your beer, pulling the foam spacers from between your toes, looking everywhere but at those candid moss-green eyes that are focused intently on you. You tuck one leg beneath you and glance his way, beginning to follow Dean’s example and destroy the label on your bottle.

He speaks again, and the quiet urgency in his voice sends a twinge of guilt through you. “Talk to me.”

You take a shaky breath and answer him softly. “Some things I just can’t talk to you about, Dean.” Your eyes are glued to the floor, and you close your eyes as he rises from his chair and comes to sit next to you on the edge of the mattress.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”

There’s a hard lump forming in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to make it disappear. “Maybe I’ll just go lock myself in the bathroom until you go away,” you try to joke, but it falls flat.

“Like I can’t pick a lock?” You steal a sidelong glance at him, just in time to see the little smirk that curves his lips for a moment.

You attempt a smile, but it’s weak and short-lived, your eyes filling with tears. “Damn it, Dean. You can’t just let me crawl into a hole and hide in peace, can you?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p,’ and he raises his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “C’mon, Nug, tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You close your eyes, shaking your head with a little smile at his nickname for you (Nugget because you’re smaller than him and Sam, like 90% of the population of the world) and blink some of those tears away before you look at him. He can see you were about to cry, he never misses anything, and his brows furrow a little, concern in his eyes. “Damn it, I can’t look at you,” you say, turning away a little, hugging your arms around yourself as if that could protect you. If you tell him how you feel, things will never be the same. Permanently never the same. He’ll never think of you the same way, treat you the same way. But he’s right, things haven’t been the same anyway. You have been avoiding him. You haven’t been comfortable around him. Because you’re in love with the jerk and he doesn’t have a clue.

“Okay, I’m gonna talk, but you have to listen and just – listen. Okay?”

He’s silent for a moment, then answers you softly. “Okay.” There’s hesitation there, and a little apprehension, like he’s not going to like what you have to say. He has no idea.

“So, I guess I have been kind of avoiding you a little. Okay, a lot. I can’t relax around you because I’m too busy tryingn to hide how my heart starts beating faster, and I can’t breathe like a normal person, and my brain goes all numb and I’m afraid I’ll make an ass of myself. My stupid body has a mind of its own when I’m around you.” There are tears in your voice as you continue, fighting to stay in control, but the dam has burst and words come pouring out of you in a torrent. “I tried really hard not to, but I’ve got feelings for you, Dean. Major, earth-moving kind of feelings that I can barely keep under control, and all I wanted was a couple of days away from you to try and get a handle on what’s happening with me. Because I never – never – want to mess up the relationship we have. And now you had to go and make me tell you and it’ll be awkward and awful and I’ll never be able to just be with you like we always used to. I miss cuddling up to you while we watch a movie, or having you lay with your head on my lap, or having you rub my shoulders or play with my hair. I can’t do any of that any more because it just makes me want more, makes me want everything, and that can’t happen so I’m just miserable and I was scared to let you see the effect you have on me, so I just run and hide and cringe away when you come near me.”

You finally take a breath after the endless rant, and swallow a sob that’s fighting to escape your throat. “So now you know, and you can go home and figure out how you can disappear on a hunting trip for like, the next year or so to avoid dealing with me.” You’re literally shaking now, your teeth clamped together so hard they ache to try and hold back tears. “So go, Dean! You made me tell you, now go away!”

Your nails are digging into your palms as you sit there, every part of you tense and rigid, waiting for him to leave so you can lose control in private. Instead, he just sits there, and you finally hear him take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before he speaks. “Did you ever think that maybe you should just talk to me about it? That maybe I was feeling the same way?”

You turn your head, staring at him with tear-filled eyes, in shock at his words. He’s staring at the floor, his palm rubbing up and down his thigh, something he always does when he’s nervous. He finally raises his eyes, and the naked vulnerability there makes your heart lurch in your chest.

“I have feelings for you, too, but I – I just kept hoping you’d find somebody. Somebody who could give you a regular life - a normal life, and a normal family, somebody who’s not so twisted up and damaged that they can’t treat you like you deserve.”

“What makes you think I want normal?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended, and you take a beat to calm yourself, continuing in a more gentle tone. “If I wanted normal, I could have left a long time ago. I want you. I want you and I’ll take everything that goes along with that.” You feel a tear escape and run down your cheek, and you swipe it away impatiently. “Dean – if you’re not here to tell me I can have that, then I just need you to leave.”

The muscle in his jaw is twitching, his teeth clenched as he stares down at the floor again. “I wish I was strong enough to tell you what I should. But I’m not.” He looks into your eyes again, and his expression quickens your pulse, makes time seem to stop for a moment. His hand comes up to sweep your hair back, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone, and his gaze lingers on your parted lips before he leans in. He brushes his mouth across yours, sharing your breath, then seals his lips over yours in a kiss so filled with the longing you both feel that it makes your chest ache.

When you finally part, he looks at you, watching you, his hand still on your face. You lean into his touch, your eyes finally fluttering open as you meet his. “For the record, you have always treated me better than anyone in my life ever has. What you’ve been through has made you the most caring man I have ever known. I could never – never – find anyone better.”

His eyes are glistening, and he blinks hard a couple of times, gnawing at his lip a little before he speaks, his hand dropping down to take hold of yours. “So – if we’re gonna do this, maybe we should take it kinda slow, do you think?” His thumb is brushing over your hand, and you give his fingers a gentle squeeze as you nod.

“Yeah, I think so. We need to get used to us this way. And I think we’re worth the wait.” He smiles, a touch of something akin to shyness in his eyes as he glances down for a moment.

“So I guess I should leave then. Let you finish your little girly getaway.”

“Or…” You giggle as he looks up hopefully. “Or you could stay, we could order some pizza and you could suffer through a chick flick with me.”

He scoffs, then softens it with a smile. “I happen to love chick flicks. Well, some of ‘em.”

A little while later, you settle in with your backs propped up by pillows, legs stretched out on the bed with pizza and beer in hand, the opening credits of Overboard on the screen.

“I love Kurt Russell,” you say, your mouth full of pizza, and Dean smirks at you.

“Yeah? Well, I love Goldie Hawn,” he fires back, bumping you with his shoulder. You laugh, and then you’re both quiet as the movie gets started. Once the pizza is gone, he puts an arm around you and you settle onto his shoulder with a contented sigh. He leans closer and says softly, “Sorry I ruined your alone time.”

You look up at him, your heart shining in your eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything. Being alone with you is way better.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You snuggle closer. “Definitely.”

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At 19 years old, all he has is a high school diploma and his mother’s medical bills. He sits in what he thinks is the drawing room, on the edge of an old chair that’s lost its cushion. He teeters on its unsteady back leg, not knowing that the wood he sits on is 50 years old. And that’s 80 years shy of how old this two-story ranch house is—built by John Winchester’s grandfather and his family.

John’s eldest son and Ranch Manager, Dean, sits on the brown leather couch across from his candidate for a new ranch hand. He glosses over Jack’s résumé with a skeptical eye, rubbing his chin that audibly prickles with stubble.

“I know I don’t really have much experience with farming,” Jack says, scratching the back of his head nervously.

“Cattle ranching,” Dean corrects. “And no, looks like you don’t have any. A part-time shift at the local McD’s doesn’t exactly have transferrable skills for this job. Unless you count slinging McFlurries and shoveling horseshit as the same thing.”

He glances on the back of the résumé, but the page is blank. There’s not much to the front of it either.

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

Dean’s expression flattens. “On a fucking ranch, what do you think? A horse.”

“Oh! Um…I rode a pony for my birthday when I was five,” Jack says.

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

“But I mean, I’ll learn fast! And I’ll work hard,” Jack promises, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ll see! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just…I need a steady job. Full-time.”

Dean hears the thread of desperation underneath the earnestness. He sees it in the kid’s eyes.

“I take it there’s a story there,” he says.

Jack nods, his gaze falling to his hands as they curl anxiously against his jean-clad thighs.

“My mom. She’s um, not doing well,” he says.

Dean’s brows furrow, just slightly. “She’s sick?”

“Multiple sclerosis. MS," Jack replies. "She’s had it my whole life, but it started getting worse a few months ago and…she can’t work anymore.”

Dean nods, heaving another sigh. His father told him to find a new ranch hand to replace Bobby—someone young and strong who doesn’t mind getting paid on the lean side.

Jack Kline is desperate enough, but what he has is a fresh face, soft hands, and no business being on a ranch. He’s no Bobby Singer, not by a fucking long shot. But it’s hard to turn down the kid with the sick mom. It’s been even harder to find someone willing to work these days. Dean has come up empty for a week.

“Well,” he drawls, bringing himself to his feet. Jack follows suit. “I can give you full-time and steady, but just know that what we do here isn’t easy or glamorous. It’s long hours and hard fucking work.”

Jack brightens. “Does that mean I got the job?”

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

Dean offers the younger man his hand. Jack shakes it all too enthusiastically.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Winchester—”

“Just call me Dean. When I introduce you to the guys tomorrow, it’s sir,” Dean says. “We start early, so there’s a spot for you in the bunkhouse. Bring what you can fit in a duffel, and make sure that includes a hat.”

Jack easily agrees, all too fucking excited to muck out stalls, fix fences, and live in a glorified cabin with six other men. Dean shakes his head in amusement to watch him go. His younger brother Sam enters the house just as Jack is leaving, and they briefly acknowledge each other on the pass.

Sam raises a brow at his brother as he shuts the door, then takes off his suit blazer. He works for a law firm in town—the only law firm in town.

“New cowboy?” he asks.

“Not really, but we’ll make him one,” Dean says, tossing the résumé on a nearby coffee table. “You’re home early.”

“I need to follow up on some things for the funeral,” Sam says. He follows his brother into the kitchen and watches him open the fridge, looking for the iced tea. “I called her, by the way. She’s coming tomorrow.”

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

He hadn’t taken it all that well when Sam mentioned that they should reach out to you, but in his brother’s words, it was only right. Even if you and Bobby had been estranged after your parents’ divorce, he was still your father. You deserved to know that he died.

“Well, at least she shows up for his fucking funeral,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Classy.”

Sam watches him reach for a beer instead of the iced tea.

“People leave town and make a life, Dean. Doesn’t make her a bad person,” Sam reasons. “Did Bobby try to stay in touch with her?”

Dean shrugs. “Couple times, I think. It’s hard to compete with shiny beaches, bullshit traffic, and oat milk lattes.”

Sam shakes his head in amusement. “It’s been a long time. She’s probably changed. So have you, you know. You think you can let go of the past and be an adult about this?”

Dean shoots him some side-eye as he cracks his beer open.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, taking a swig. “California probably ruined her.”

Sam’s lips press together. Bitch face: Activated.

“I went to California too, if you remember,” he says. He went to Stanford University on a full ride. You went to the University of San Diego, two years before him. In some ways, you gave him the courage to live the life he wanted too.

“But you came back,” Dean says, tipping his beer toward him. “And it didn’t take you twelve years to do it.” 

“There’s probably more than one good reason she didn’t,” Sam says, just as pointedly. 

Dean’s jaw clenches, but rather than dig deeper into the shades and shadows of the past, he just leaves his brother and heads out back toward the barn. Like their dad always says, the work never fucking fails on a ranch.

A loud thwack startles you into a flinch. You’ve already claimed the left side of the hotel bed, trying to unpack your suitcase. You frown and crane your neck over your shoulder.

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

“Another fucking spider,” Brady grouses from the bathroom. “This Holiday Inn lacks basic hygiene, let alone amenities.”

He comes out a bit overdressed for dinner in his pressed slacks and black buttoned-down shirt. His hair is well coiffed with a bit of mousse. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the most upscale restaurant around here serves previously frozen seafood and chili on spaghetti. Even your blouse and pants will stick out in a sea of flannel and cowboy hats.

This isn’t Denver, with its industrious hipster vibes, or Breckenridge with its luxurious ski resorts. This is Salida, a tiny town in the middle of south-central Colorado.   

“Welcome to the Mountain West,” you tease, then focus back on sorting through your toiletries to make sure you didn’t miss anything while packing.

Toothbrush, floss, birth control—remember to start the new pack tonight. Moisturizer, cleanser, makeup remover wipes…

“We should’ve stayed up at my dad’s spot in Breckenridge,” Brady says. He slips in behind you, settling his hands on your hips as he punctuates his point with a kiss along your neck.

You smile and lean back into him. His arms wind around your waist, and his hand wraps around yours, toying with the shining ring on your left hand. You usually prefer silver, but he’d talked you into gold, as well as the weight of that diamond.

You’d been properly breathless when he first gave it to you, last month, but you did try to tell him it was too much. He knows you didn’t grow up like he did, where the seven grand he spent could’ve helped your parents put a downpayment on a house—one that they could've owned, rather than an old cabin on someone else’s ranch.

But Brady can be very convincing, even on whether a 1.75 carat engagement ring belongs on your finger.

“Consider it my promise that I’ll always give you the world,” he’d said. “I’ll give you everything you never had.”

It’s hard to argue with that, especially as a girl from a dusty-ass mountain town like Salida, who never imagined a man like Brady Weiss would offer her any part of the world.

“It wouldn’t make sense to stay up in Breckenridge when the ranch is only half an hour away from town,” you remind him.

Brady hums against your neck. You both stare out the window of your hotel room. Beyond the old Denny’s sign, there are miles and miles of grasslands that stretch ahead of the parallel roads. Your eyes trace over the violet shadows of mountain ranges in the distance. It’s familiar to you, an echo of memory that used to wrap around you like white noise. Like home. Now, you feel like the tourists your father used to make fun of.

“Salida,” Brady snorts. “You know that’s Spanish for exit, right?”

“Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here,” you say, with a sigh. “In some ways, being back here makes my skin crawl, but…it is quieter.”

“That’s called the death of civilization, honey.”

You snort in amusement. “It’s not that bad. Think of what this place could look like with just a little more infrastructure and a few coats of new paint.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand. “That’s kind of why we’re here.”

“…Well, after the funeral tomorrow,” you say, as your amusement fades.

Anxiety and grief crawl from your stomach to your throat whenever you think about it. You’re grateful that Sam called you. You’re even looking forward to seeing him, but you also know what else is waiting for you at that godforsaken ranch.

“Yeah. The timing on that really is incredible,” Brady remarks. 

You stiffen in his arms. You turn to give him an incredulous look over your shoulder.

“You mean my dad’s death?” you say, extricating yourself from his arms. 

“Not like that,” he contritely replies. He follows you to the window, where you cross your arms at him. “I just mean…all right, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying, we’ll have an opportunity to speak to John Winchester face to face, tell him he has a new neighbor.”

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brady. It’s not the time—”

“It’s the perfect time. He won’t be as guarded,” he insists. “But we’ll be discreet about it, wait until the reception. I’ll just find a moment to pull him aside and float the offer. People around here appreciate the personal touch, don’t they?”

“Listen, I grew up around his family. I know him, okay?” you say. “He’s not going to appreciate having a new neighbor, and he’s not interested in any kind of offer from us, so we’ll have to play it very strategically.”

Brady quirks a grin. “Well, that’s my specialty, babe.”

You’re still not convinced. Before you can tell him that, his cell phone rings in his pocket. Seeing the caller ID, he quickly answers.

“Hello? Yes, sir, just got here a few hours ago.” Brady’s brows raise in surprise as he listens. “Oh really?”

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Okay, but we’re meant to be at the Winchester Ranch tomorrow—”

Brady pauses, cut off by the clipped voice on the line. You can’t hear very well, but you don’t have to. You heart begins to sink.

By the time Brady hangs up, looking at you with more sincere apology, you already know what’s coming.

“Dick arranged for some contractors to come out to the new development tomorrow,” he says. “I need to be there to oversee operations.”

“They can’t come out the day after tomorrow? Today’s Wednesday,” you say.

“The builder has other appointments on Friday,” Brady says. “Tomorrow’s all they have open, and we’re scoping out the entire plot of land.”

“Watch out for bears,” you say wryly. But the longer the sting of this settles inside you, the more hurt you feel. “So you’re really not coming with me to my father’s funeral?”

Brady steps in closer and grasps your arms, trying to placate you with comfort you’re too upset to accept.

“I’m sorry. You fucking know how Dick is, and my dad’s letting him test me with this job. This is the first time they’ve let me take point on a build. This needs to go well,” he reminds you, as if he hasn’t been telling you the same thing for the past few months. “And that means we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to break ground next month.”

“Fine,” you say, but you both know it’s anything but when you shrug out of his hold.

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

Jack Kline pulls his old pick-up truck to the ranch at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Dean’s already coming out of the barn after helping Cas and Benny feed and water the horses.

Dean sees Jack coming and directs him where to park, then shows him to the bunkhouse—a small building with faded white paint that’s chipping near the gutter, but the W brand is bolted to the east side facing the rising sun, the black wrought iron shining. The men make their way to on the gravel path that cuts through the grass.

“If the main house is up the hill, then who lives there?” Jack asks, pointing at the cabin just west of the approaching bunkhouse.

“The Foreman. He wrangles the men after I tell them what to wrangle,” Dean says. “Most of the guys are already out feeding the animals, but today’s, uh, a bit different. We have a funeral today out here on the ranch.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who passed away?”

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

He doesn’t give the kid any more information as he opens the door to the bunkhouse. He briefly points out the kitchen and shallow closet where the guys always keep the next case of beer handy, plus the living room area with a couch big enough for the narrow space, and a TV mounted on the wall. A six-seater round table separates the two rooms, but there’s also a small pool table in the far corner. Beyond that is the next room, where the bunks are.

Jack half expected literal bunk beds, but these are more like dorm room beds pushed against the wall, with space underneath and in between for storage. 

Only Walt and Kevin are still inside the bunkhouse, finishing up in the communal bathroom. The rest of the ranch hands have finished breakfast and are trying to get through the morning duties quickly, so they can clean up and help get things ready for all the guests coming to the ranch by 11:00 a.m.

When Dean introduces Jack, Kevin is the one who shakes the young man’s hand.

“All right, guys, you know what you need to do. Help Jack get situated too,” Dean says.

Walt gives him a nod. After the door swings shut behind Dean, Jack brings his duffel over to the bunks. He goes over to the closest one that looks free and sets his bag on it. After unzipping it, the first thing he takes out is his hat.

Walt grabs his Stetson off the wall and glances at the brown felt in Jack’s hands.

“What kinda fucking hat is that supposed to be?” Walt asks. He’s taller and broader than Jack, tanned and toned from long days under the sun.

Jack glances down at the flat, rounded hat his mom got him for his high school play in A Streetcar Named Desire.

“Um, it’s the only one I had,” he says.

Walt snorts. “Looks like a fucking fedora. Gonna give the cows a tap dance before you tickle their teats?”

He walks out of the bunkhouse, leaving Jack embarrassed and confused. 

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

Kevin grins in amusement. “Dude, anything would be better than that.”

Over in the main house, Sam has a year’s worth of data reports and financial documents splayed out across the head of the large dining table of polished rosewood. The spread lies between his father’s coffee mug and a small ashtray for the bud of last night’s cigar, but John has very little interest in what all those pages mean.

He sits leaning on one elbow, his hand half covering his salt and pepper beard as his younger son continues to prove his point.

“Just 30%,” Sam says. “After the rough winter we had last year, and the dry as hell summer we’re going through now, selling off 30% percent of the ranch will help make sure we actually survive next year, let alone make a profit.”

“We’ll find another way, son,” John says.

Stubborn.

“There is no other way. I’ve been telling you for three years,” Sam says. His frustration bleeds into not only his tone, but the curl of his fist on the table. “Back then, we actually had a good offer on the table. We could’ve leased out Pastures 3 and 4 to the Baileys. You do realize that property taxes have raised by 13%, not including the $55,000 tax exemption that expired two years ago.”

John doesn’t offer a rebuttal. He senses there’s more to this little tirade.

“That’s beside the fact that our operating costs have only increased. Dean’s cut as many corners as he can, but we’re barely breaking even, Dad,” Sam says.

“I’m sorry, son, I’m not selling,” John says. He glances out the window to the very land his father, grandfather, and grand uncles worked and cared for over damn near a century and half. “Your grandfather told me. Not an inch, son. Don’t let them take even an inch. Because once you start carving up the bird, everyone wants a piece of that bitch.”

Sam breathes a tense sigh. He’s heard that line his whole damn life.

“What other solutions do we have?” John asks.

Sam shakes his head as he runs through the spreadsheet on his laptop.

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

Sam rubs his chin in thought, knowing Dean won’t like what he’s about to suggest. He can already hear the gravelly bitching.

The job’s fucking hard enough without being even more short-handed.

But something’s gotta give. Sam knows. He’s known for years. Being the ranch’s accountant as well as its lawyer isn’t for the weak, and neither his father nor his brother makes it any easier.

“Well, keep Jack. He’s young and his salary is cheap, but we may have to let go of Walt and Carter…maybe even Benny.” 

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “Those are seasoned guys. As it is, we’re up to our balls wading in the work.”

The older man taps his fingers on the table. To his credit, his days on the ranch are almost as long and hard as Dean’s are, even though John gave him the managerial reins a few years ago.

“You’re thinking like a businessman and a lawyer,” John says, “but you also need to understand this place as a rancher too.”

“I do understand. But it’s a good thing for you that I’m not a rancher, because I see the fact that we’re not adapting. We’re failing. Ranches and farms all over the country are failing,” Sam says. “Hell, Grandpa Samuel sold the Campbell Ranch and moved to North Carolina! Already the land developers are coming in. They’re putting up banners all around the land. It’s a build site now.”

“A fucking shame,” John says. His voice is laden with regret that he couldn’t afford to help his in-laws. “Your mother must be turning in her grave.”

The mention of Mary Winchester always strikes a solemn note in the room. Today is no exception.

After a moment, Sam considers the email in his inbox from just last night. There’s a voicemail waiting for him on his cell too.

“We got a similar offer,” Sam says. “From the developer, Roman & Weiss Group. Pastures 3 through 6 border their land on the west, by the river. If we sell even just that piece, they’re willing to pay double what it’s worth. If we sell the entire ranch, they’ll cover the closing costs.” 

John quirks a humorless smile and finally pushes away from the table. 

“I’m burying my old friend today,” he says. “So, you can tell that developer where they can stick their fucking offer.”

Every mile of hot asphalt and wheat grass that tears by is an increasing increment of nostalgia. Every mile away from Salida brings you closer to distant mountains, as well as the Winchester Ranch.

You drive yourself there in a rental car. Within a half hour, you’re pulling up under the shade of Gambel oaks and aspen trees on the paved driveway. Wide, gray stones form a path up to the front door, not easy to navigate in your heels. Once you make it to the porch, you take a steadying breath, adjust the skirt of your dress and your hair, and take off your sunglasses before you knock.

Sam answers the door. He smiles gently at you, giving you a hug that feels like home. You hug him back, fighting the sting of tears in your eyes. He looks good in a black suit and thin pinstripe tie.

“God, you’re not that skinny kid anymore,” you laugh as you blink past that sting. “And you’re almost as tall as the door! Jesus.”

Sam just laughs. “Yeah, well, you grew up too. You look great.”

You smile, though you bite your lip when he gestures at the ring on your left hand with a surprised, raised brow.

“Somehow you forgot to mention that,” he says, with a quirking grin. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “It’s um…new. He asked me last month.”

“Good guy?” Sam asks, as he welcomes you inside the house.

You’re still shouldering some upset over last night, and the fact that your fiancé couldn’t be here to brace you through this day, in this place. Even so, you manage to smile at the question.

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” you admit.

But the thought dies as you take in the familiar walls of the Winchester family home. Wood panels meet tasteful crème and earthy, rustic accents. Your gaze follows the wind of the staircase, up to the second floor where you take in the sight of a new rod iron chandelier casting a warm glow down to the ground floor.

What draws your eye next is the family picture hanging in the living room. Mary was still alive there, beautiful and smiling with baby Sam in her arms. Dean was only four, standing beside her with John’s hand on his shoulder. If you remember right, the break-in happened just a few months after that picture was taken.

John’s voice almost startles you when he comes in from down the hall. You remember that his office is back there, across from the kitchen. He also wears a black suit with his scuffed cowboy boots, a little less refined than Sam, but bringing an undeniable presence into the room.

You tense on instinct, more guarded with the Winchester patriarch.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, giving you a nod.

“It has,” you agree, though the pleasantries end there.

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

“Thank you for doing all the arrangements for my father, even the cremation,” you say to both men, as you begin to take out your phone from where it’s lodged in your clutch purse. “What do I owe you?”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. We take care of our own.”

Your mouth opens, but it closes shortly after. You think he meant it to be kind, but you can’t help but think there’s something back-handed underneath.

The rough budge of a back door disrupts not only your thoughts, but remakes the tension in the room, like holding an inevitable breath. Heavy boots clomp into the living room and soon reveal a man in red flannel and jeans.

Well, formerly red flannel.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks, his brows furrowed as he leans away from the rancid funk his brother just brought in.

Dean stops short when he notices you standing between his father and brother like the fox that got caught in the hen house. A fox who smells like French perfume and grew into her curves.

Meanwhile, Dean wipes at the mud on his cheek, inspects his fingers with a grimace, then wipes them on his already soiled jeans.

“A goddamn heifer kindly dragged me through her own shit for trying to untangle her from a fence,” he says.

You cover your nose with a look of disgust. “Definitely smells like it.”

Dean shoots you a wry glance, but he allows himself to take a longer look at you then—from your high heels, black dress, and that little purse under your arm, to your red lipstick, and lastly, the fat, shining ring on your finger. 

“Congratulations,” he says placidly, gesturing at your hand. 

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

You want to take satisfaction in his reaction, but you can’t really tell what the hell he’s thinking. You’re struggling to reconcile the fact that this is really Dean Winchester. Last time you saw him, you were just 18 years old. He was barely 20, clean shaven and only slightly less wiry than his younger brother.

Of course, 12 years is a long time. He’s taller, broader, the cut of his jaw dusted with roguish stubble, his voice steeped in bourbon and molasses. His hair is a little darker too, but that could also be the…mud. 

Dean stabs a thumb toward the driveway. “That your man’s Mercedes out front?” 

“It’s a rental,” you say. Though you can’t help but add, “Brady drives a Lexus.” 

“Brady, huh?” Dean nods in amusement. “And what does Mr. Lexus do?” 

“He’s a lawyer,” you say, trying to rein in your annoyance. 

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snip.

Even Sam gets slightly offended at that. He shoots his brother a warning look, one that Dean ignores.

“I just think it’s interesting that the guy’s not here with you at your dad’s funeral,” he remarks. Then he shrugs. “Then again, you wouldn’t even know about what happened to Bobby if it weren’t for Sam ringing you up. You know what, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have interrupted your life. Clearly you’ve got more important things going on, since I doubt you’ve spoken to the man in…what, a few years? Ten? Stop me when I hit the number.”

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

John gives his eldest a firm look, especially as he sees you bubbling with outrage. But unlike Dean, you have some fucking decorum. You try to remind yourself that you’re a guest here, even if one of the residents is still a Grade A: Asshole.

“You know what, maybe I’d take that little zinger more seriously if you weren’t covered in literal shit, cowboy,” you retort. 

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, at least this is all natural. You stink like L.A.” 

He actually savors that wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on your face as he heads upstairs to his room, tracking mud and wet grass all the while. His first stop is the shower. 

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sam says to you.

“On a day like today, he should know better,” John adds.

Your lips press into a hard line, otherwise you’re not sure what might escape. 

“You want something to drink before we head down to the field?” Sam asks. 

He’s the only man in his family who knows how to be a good host, it seems.

“A glass of wine would be good,” you say tightly. 

“Ah…” Sam pauses, sharing a look with his father.

“We’ve got beer and hard liquor, sweetheart. That’s about it,” John says.

You nearly roll your eyes. You anticipated this—the little digs, their silent judgement, maybe even their laughter. Because driving a nice car and asking for a glass of wine is so damn laughable around here.

“Water then, please,” you snap. “Sparkling if you have it, or a bottle. Not the tap water these cowboys wash their asses with.”

You can’t stand this house, or this town. You resolve to at least break free of this room. Your heels clack loudly all the way back to the front door.

Dean hears the slam all the way from his room upstairs.

Sam steels himself before he follows you outside. He finds you on the porch, with an agitated set to your frame as you pace back and forth with your hands on your hips. You pause when you notice him, but you don’t even know what to say to him. You’ve never smoked in your life, and yet, you suddenly crave a cigarette. You blame the whole seeing your ex bit.

“Somehow, that’s better than I saw it going,” Sam remarks.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter.

“I’m glad you did,” Sam says. He hangs out with you against the porch railing, allowing the brief summer breeze to wash a little peace over him. It washes over you too, quelling some of your temper as you stare out to the ranch, the trees, the mountains beyond.

“It even smells the same,” you say, taking in a deeper breath. “Clear. Like earth and rain, even though it’s dry.”

The longer you stand still, the more than Dean’s acidic words corrode through the protective walls you erected in your mind in preparation for this day. Guilt seeps in through the cracks as you glance over at Sam.

“I am sorry we lost touch, you and me. It should’ve been easier when you got to Cali,” you say.

You’d grown up on this ranch since you were seven years old. There was a time that the only friends you knew were the Winchester boys. Until his older brother broke your heart.

A memory pierces through you, a reminder. Thunder rolling overhead, rain soaking through gray flannel as you shut the door in his face…

Maybe you broke his heart too. But you still don’t think you deserve whatever the hell that was in the house.

“I know how hard it was for you, after what happened back then,” Sam says, only half succeeding at pulling you back into the present.

“No,” you say, with a wry tug of your lips. “You really don’t know.” 

He hesitates, but he concedes that with a short nod.

“Well, regardless, it’s good see you, even if this isn’t the only reason you’re here,” he says, eying you knowingly.

Your mouth parts in surprise, but really, you shouldn’t be. You’d had a feeling Brady was working from his phone at dinner last night.

“I got an email from a Brady Weiss. His father’s company wants to buy a portion of our ranch,” Sam says. “I’m assuming that’s your fiancé. I also looked up your LinkedIn. You work for them too.” 

You bite the inside of your lip. Despite what Brady told you about what you should do to further the plan, you hadn’t wanted to bring this up here. However, this is just too perfect of an opportunity.

“Have you talked to John about the offer yet?” you ask.

“He’s never gonna go for it. You know that,” Sam replies, with a sigh of frustration. “No matter what I tell him, he’s stubborn. But he’d definitely never sell to a developer like Roman & Weiss.”

“All we’re aiming to do here is build more homes,” you say. “You know how overcrowded Denver and Colorado Springs are, even Boulder and Breckenridge. Not to mention, the home shortage here is only getting worse.” 

“Roman & Weiss hasn’t made its money in developing affordable housing,” Sam counters. “It’s just another land-grabbing machine. They probably want to turn my grandfather’s century-old farm into luxury condos and hotels—or maybe even another ski resort, if they can get a cut of the national park. I’m frankly surprised you’re part of it. You majored in Environmental Studies.”

“And Business,” you correct. The University of San Diego wasn’t Stanford, but that double major had put you through your paces, and it hadn’t been cheap.

“This is a big opportunity for me, Sam,” you continue, your voice edged with defensiveness. “I want to help build something that will last, but obviously I don’t want people to keep being priced out of their own neighborhoods. That’s why I proposed affordable housing for this build, and they heard me out! They actually respected my proposal, and I’ve worked hard for that respect—not through Brady, but from my own merit. So, I don’t appreciate you or your brother for judging me.”

You wish you could just storm off in a new direction, like back to your car, and back to the hotel. Hell, you’d like to get on a plane and go back to California, where your life and your decisions aren’t being picked apart from all angles.

Instead, you head back inside the house in search of whatever decent refreshment you can find in this place.

Within the hour, John drives you, Sam, and a freshly showered Dean in an ATV all the way to the funeral site. Sam provides the buffer by sitting in between you and Dean, but the ride is silent with tension.

Already there are several cars lined up on the other side of the fence that borders the west side of the ranch. A crowd is congregated among the rows of foldout chairs, near the river that cuts straight through the land. You know it well.

Your sunglasses are in back place, so you’re able to keep your head raised and ignore the stares of faces you recognize, faces you don’t know, and the ones who seem to know who you are, just by whatever gossip has probably been running the rumor mill already. Your parents’ divorce had been the talk of the town in the weeks before you left it. Even though people probably forgot about you while you were gone, they sure remember you now.

You pause when you reach a small plastic table with a framed picture of your father beside his urn.

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

You linger there for a moment, even when you sense Dean pass behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him choose to sit on the edge of the aisle next to his father. You eventually take a seat on the opposite end of the row, next to Sam and the beautiful blonde he introduces to you as his girlfriend, Jess. She offers you a comforting squeeze of your shoulder as well as her condolences.

“You probably don’t remember me, but I was in Sam’s class back in high school,” she says.

That’s when it hits you—a bolt of recognition that makes you smile.

“Jessica Moore! I do remember,” you say, giving her a hug. “We’ll have to catch up later.”

She agrees, then takes her seat on Sam’s other side. You lean toward him and flash a discreet thumbs up.

“Good for you, Sammy,” you tease in a whisper. “I guess the nerd sometimes does get the cheerleader in real life.”

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

You smirk. Payback is fun. “Dude, I saw you run naked into that river on a dare when you were nine. You’ll always be Sammy to me.”

He rolls his eyes, but it ends on a smile.

However, you’re reminded of the gravity of this moment when John stands and moves to the front of the crowd, asking everyone to be seated. He doesn’t need a microphone. His voice travels across the field, somber and deep like the base of Mount Antero framing him from behind.

“I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings or christenings,” John says. He glances at the urn, and at the framed picture beside him. “Never did I think I’d be here, speaking at yours.”

He looks out toward the crowd. “I count these faces, and I know them all. Just like the man we’re here to speak on was known to all of us. To some of you, he was just the town drunk. To many of you, he was the man who’d tow your truck or put on your spare, even while he was chastising you for getting yourself in the ditch to begin with.”

Laughter bubbles in the crowd. You had frowned at the town drunk part, but some people laughed at that too, like it was the truth. You don’t have any memory of your dad being drunk—not in the house, and not when he and the other guys in the bunkhouse went out to the bar. Maybe that part hadn’t started until after you and your mom left Salida.

You’ve never felt like more of an outsider than you do right now.

“To me, he was a friend,” John continues. “A man I could trust. A man I counted on to help me work this land and care for the animals, so we could feed this town and other ones like it. He helped me raise horses, birth breach calves, and do cattle runs across state lines. Bobby Singer was a work horse who did what he did until the day he died, and that kind of end is all that men like us can hope for. We don’t often get the Hallmark ending or the Hollywood blaze of glory. This is what cowboying is today, and what most of America never sees.”

He sighs. “That said, I think he’d appreciate his daughter saying a few words.”

You raise your head at that, surprised and a bit alarmed. You didn’t know you’d be asked to speak. You haven’t prepared anything.

But you know you can’t say no when a hundred pairs of eyes are staring at you and watching your reaction, even Sam. He gives you an encouraging nod and a gentle hand on your back. Your insides tremble with nerves, but you force yourself to stand. Slowly you make your way to the front, where John waits for you. It’s difficult in your heels as they tend to sink into the earth with every step, but he gives you a nod before he reclaims his seat beside Dean.

You clear your throat, trying to find your words. You stare out at all these dusty cowboys, John’s ranch hands, and people from town. You could try to get through this with something brief and a goodbye, Dad, but you have a feeling they'll see right through you.

What's more, you don't really know how you feel until you start talking.

“Many of you know I haven’t been back here in a while,” you say. “My parents divorced when I was eighteen, right before I left for college. My mom…she died four years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. That was the last time I spoke to my dad.”

Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. Your hand comes up to cover your trembling lips, but it can’t stop the overflow. Despite your best efforts, what escapes is the truth.

“I resented him, probably for things that weren’t all his fault. I let that dig a little too deep, I think. He may not have been a perfect man, but he was a good man,” you say, sniffling. Your gaze falls to your folded hands in front of you. “I mean, you all know that, or else all of you wouldn’t be here. But standing here now, there are things I regret. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I regret the time we wasted in between, even though it’s too late to change that. Nothing I say can ever change that, but…I hope he can forgive me.”

When you allow yourself to look up, the only face you see is Dean’s. His gaze locks with yours, and he nods, as if in support.

You don’t know if that's really what it means, but somehow, you’re able to move the rest of your body again. You break from that intense, unknowable forest within his irises, and you try to make it back to your seat. Your hands shake with so much more than nerves.

Your heel wobbles in a patch of wet grass, but someone steadies a hand on your back and grabs your arm before you fall over. A gasp falls from your lips at Dean’s proximity, and the gentle strength of his hold.

His gaze meets yours again. In that brief pause, there’s an entire world suspended. The sun spins its rays through his hair and lashes, and you find flecks of gold in the green of his eyes, along with a gentler look on his face.

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

Later, after others finish speaking, Dean included, John gives you the honor of sprinkling Bobby’s ashes into the river. It’s the same one that you, Sam, and Dean used to play in when you were kids.

“Dad taught us how to swim here,” you say softly. It earns both Sam and Dean’s attention.

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

You glance over at him, finding another hint of his smile. It’s teasing, not mocking.

You relax a bit and manage to find a smile too.

“You lived.”

AN: Aaand we're off! I'm sorry that Bobby's been killed off at the start here, but already the pieces are in play with our three childhood friends, reader, Sam, and Dean. You can expect quite a few flashbacks in the future. 😉❤️

What did you think about the setup of our main conflicts here—Brady's engagement to reader, and his little sales offer for John? We've got a fair bit of drama and a big twist coming soon in Part 2...

Next Time:

You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

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