"Driver picks the music..."

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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ᯓ✍🏽 Part 3 coming to Tumblr: August 16

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 @spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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I just knew the second these two went off alone (just like Sam pegged it), the kissing and all that comes after would start. Like they shouldn't have but...there's still history there and on a day like that, a parent's funeral, who does and doesn't show up reveals a lot about a person. They really are kindred spirits and surprisingly forgiving in some moments but there's so much history there too, too much shared pain.

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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I just knew the second these two went off alone (just like Sam pegged it), the kissing and all that comes after would start. Like they shouldn't have but...there's still history there and on a day like that, a parent's funeral, who does and doesn't show up reveals a lot about a person. They really are kindred spirits and surprisingly forgiving in some moments but there's so much history there too, too much shared pain.

Sam definitely clocked where this was going the second he saw Dean following her to the barn. There's just too much "unfinished business" here, and like you said, emotional tensions running high, alcohol, memories, grief, and the fact that Dean and reader have known each other basically their whole lives. Even with the 12 years in between, there's no erasing that history (of which you'll learn more about as we go along).

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. 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.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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“Son of a bitch…” 

Obviously, the empty seat doesn’t answer. It hasn’t all day. The only thing occupying Sam’s side of Baby right now is a growing pile of gas station receipts, empty coffee cups, and Dean’s steadily worsening mood. Every few minutes, his green eyes still flick toward it, however, as if he’s expecting six-foot-four worth of aggravating little brother to suddenly reappear.

But Sam’s not answering. Not his phone. Not messages. Not anything. 

At this point, Dean’s called enough times that he’s starting to memorize the exact length of his brother’s voicemail greeting. At first, he’d been annoyed, of course. Then frustrated. But now he’s just fucking worried, which somehow manages to piss him off even more.

“Come on, Sammy.” The words leave his mouth for what feels like the hundredth time as he drives one-handed down another stretch of highway, washed golden orange under the late afternoon sun.

His jaw clenches so goddamn hard it aches. Baby devours mile after mile beneath him, the engine humming steadily as classic rock crackles through the stereo. Usually, the sound calms him, but today it’s just fucking noise.

Truthfully, this whole damn thing is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It never should’ve happened.

Barely a few days ago, they’d been trapped in godforsaken River Grove, Oregon, while a demon virus turned an entire town into a living, breathing nightmare. People killing each other. Families and neighbors turning on one another. Possessions. Blood. Chaos. The whole nine yards. 

And then there was Sam – infected, untouched, immune. 

Dean had spent months trying not to think too hard about the visions, the nightmares, the headaches, and all the impossible crap Sam could do. Months pretending they could keep hunting while ignoring the giant supernatural elephant sitting between them.

If you can’t save him, you’ll have to kill him.

Dean swallows thickly at his father’s words, still ringing all wrong in his head. It’s the secret he’d been carrying around ever since their dad died – the thing John Winchester had dropped into his lap like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled before taking the rest of the explanation to the grave.

Needless to say, the conversation hadn’t gone well when Dean finally told Sam the truth. Hell, “hadn’t gone well” is probably the understatement of the century.

And sure, Sam has never been particularly good at talking about his feelings. Shocking, considering who raised him. Funnily enough, between John and Dean, Sam’s the one who’s probably even the most in tune with his feelings. And usually, the kid sticks around long enough to argue first. That’s how they work. That’s how they’ve always worked. 

They fight. They yell. They say things they regret. Then they pretend none of it happened and go get burgers and beers. Simple, really. 

But this? This is fucking different.

Dean winces and reaches for another coffee that’s long since gone cold, but the bitterness does nothing to wake him up. Nothing has so far, honestly. Sleep’s been mostly optional since Sam disappeared. Because every time Dean closes his eyes, he sees that look on his brother’s face.

Not anger. Not even shock. Hurt.

And Dean? God, he would’ve preferred angry. Angry, he knows how to handle. Angry sticks around goddamn long enough to yell. But hurt? Hurt just sits there till it fucking leaves.

And now Sam’s gone. Maybe temporarily. Maybe permanently. Dean doesn’t know, and that damn uncertainty is what keeps digging stubbornly under his skin.

Because now, Sam knows. Knows their father thought something was wrong with him. Knows his entire family has been keeping it from him. Knows Dean spent months wondering if one day he’d have to pull the trigger on his little brother. 

Awesome conversation starter. 

Suddenly, his phone buzzes on the seat, and Dean snatches it up so fast he nearly swerves off the road. But his pulse drops again when he recognizes Bobby’s name lighting up the screen instead of Sam’s.

“You heard from him yet?” The older hunter doesn’t even bother with hello.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Nope.”

“Alright, I’ve made some calls. Nobody’s seen him.” Bobby sighs. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on?”

Dean stares through the windshield and chews on his lower lip. “Also nope.”

“Figured. You sure the kid’s in trouble?” Bobby asks then. “Look, Dean, maybe he just needed some time to cool off.”

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Because logically? Sam’s twenty-three, capable, and dangerously intelligent. He sure as hell can disappear whenever he feels like it, and no one can stop him, not even Dean. 

But emotionally speaking? Dean wants to drag the kid home by his stupid mop of hair and handcuff him to the next radiator.

“I don’t know, Bobby,” he admits at last, and it tastes awful on his tongue. 

Even Bobby must’ve heard it. “Alright, son, you hear anything, you call.”

“Yeah,” is all Dean says before the line clicks dead, and he tosses the phone aside again. 

However, only a few minutes later, he’s calling somebody else. Then somebody else. Then another hunter. Then another. He tries Ellen, Ash, and even Jo. And still nothing. Nobody’s seen Sam. Nobody knows where he went – or if they do, they won’t tell him. 

By the time the sun starts sinking toward the horizon, Dean is officially out of options. He’s exhausted every contact he has. His nerves are shot, and his stomach is hollow. 

But there are still numbers left in his contacts. Well, admittedly, not that many. Just one, really.

His eyes drift toward it on the screen and immediately jerk away again.

Nope. Absolutely not.

A minute passes where he just drives and drums his fingers against the wheel before his eyes fall back on it again. It’s still there – the same number Sam’s been calling for weeks now. The same number Dean somehow never calls.

Truly, everything about this is ridiculous, including his hesitancy. It’s not like he doesn’t know you, right? Unfortunately, he knows you pretty damn well at this point. More than he’d like, which means he knows exactly how this conversation’s going to go.

He’s damn desperate. And you? Oh, you’ll enjoy that, won’t you?

Dean groans and drops his forehead against the steering wheel for a second. This is humiliating. Then again, so is spending an entire day searching for his missing brother and getting ghosted like a chick after a one-night stand. At this point, what’s one more indignity, right?

And that’s when he finally grabs the phone and presses call before he can change his mind.

It rings a few times – enough for him to consider hanging up again before the line picks up and your voice floats through the speaker. 

“Sam?”

Dean instantly registers the uncertainty in your voice. Even though this clearly isn’t Sam’s number, you still expected his little brother. You probably hadn’t imagined it in your wildest dreams that Dean would ever call you without a gun pointed to his head. 

“Uh…” 

Your voice sounds warm and yet slightly distracted, and he suddenly realizes he actually didn’t plan this far ahead. He didn’t think you’d even pick up, and now he can’t think of a single word to say. God, where is he even supposed to start?

Awesome. Just awesome…

“Dean?”

Well, at least you sound surprised now, and he imagines those pinched brows again. They’re sort of cute. 

No, God, concentrate.

He clears his throat roughly. “Uh, yeah. It’s me. Dean… Winchester.”

“I know that.”

“Right, yeah…”

Ah, fuck. On a scale from one to ten, how idiotic does he sound right now? Honestly, he’s baffled you haven’t hung up yet. 

“Did Sam lose his phone? What’s going on?” you ask, clearly confused.  

Dean almost laughs but rubs a hand down his face instead. “Uh, no,” he replies. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”

That didn’t clear things up, did it? 

“What?”

Yup.

“What happened? Why are you calling me? Where’s Sam?” you press. 

Dean smacks his lips, head bobbing. Saying it out loud why Sam really left just makes it all too real, so he decides to leave out the why. 

“Sam took off, alright?”

“Took off?” you question. “As in voluntarily?”

He lets out a sigh. “Probably.”

“Oh.” A beat passes. “Well, good for him.”

“Good?” Dean wants to gasp in offense, but his brow only creases wildly in irritation. 

“He finally got tired of your helicopter parenting, huh?”

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenching. “Unbelievable. Knew you’d take his side.”

“I don’t even know what happened yet. But yes, statistically speaking, taking Sam’s side seems like the safer bet,” you say. “So, what’d you do?”

“Why d’you think I did something, huh?” he snaps. “Maybe Sam’s the problem. Ever thought about that?”

“Literally never,” you answer without missing a beat. 

Dean scoffs, running a hand down his face. This was clearly a mistake. He never should’ve called you. Of course you’d refuse to help him. Of course you’d side with Sam. 

But for some reason, the noise he made must’ve sounded desperate enough because he can suddenly detect a faint sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Alright, fine,” you relent. Maybe there’s even an eye roll involved, but he doesn’t care. “What d’you need?”

“I need to find him,” he says, still without elaborating on the why.

“Dean…” You exhale another sigh. “I don’t wanna get in the middle of this. If Sam needs some space, maybe you should just let him have it, you know?”

“Look, he might be in trouble, alright?”

“Why are you saying that?” Suspicion creeps back into your voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, okay? I just need to know where he is and if he’s okay, alright?” Dean says more firmly. “It’s complicated. I just–… He might’ve gone after the demon. I just need to make sure he’s alive and breathing, alright?”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, okay? ‘Cause he’s nuts,” Dean huffs in frustration. “Just–… Can you help me?” He lets out a small sigh before pressing out the next thing, which costs him way more effort than he’d like to ever admit. “Please.”

Apparently, that’s the magic word because you finally seem to cave with a final exhale of defeat. 

“Fine,” you say. “I guess I can try scrying.”

“Scrying?” Dean’s brow furrows. “You said this scrying thing only works on supernatural stuff.”

“Yup, it does,” you reply, and he hears a drawer opening and some paper rustling on your end. 

“But Sam’s–… Sam’s human,” he says and swallows harshly in the same breath because it feels like a giant lie. 

“Well, technically, from a magical standpoint, Sam wouldn’t fully register as human. He has psychic abilities, and his aura also indicates he’s gifted,” you explain.

God, he hates that. Not Sam, though. Just the uncertainty of it all. The not knowing. The constant feeling that something is moving beneath the surface while everyone else already has pieces of the puzzle except for him.

And what you said just proves everything Dean doesn’t want to believe about Sam. That his little brother’s not normal. That he’s some weird freak. That he might go – as Sam himself put it – dark side.

But deep down, Dean already knows all of that. That whole Croatoan thing practically shoved that unbearable possibility right into his face. 

“Gifted?” Dean cocks a brow and wants to scoff at the term. It surely doesn’t feel like a fucking gift. “Is that really what we’re calling it?”

“Yeah, why?” Your question comes out almost absent-minded. Innocent. To you, there’s obviously nothing wrong about having abilities. 

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters and then just waits. 

And waits and waits and waits till–

“I got him, I think,” you say after a few minutes. 

“Where?” Dean straightens automatically in his seat and pushes harder down on the gas pedal, even though he doesn’t know the exact direction yet. 

“Lafayette, Indiana,” you reply. “You need me to narrow it down further? ‘Cause I can grab another map and–”

“No, uh, no,” he cuts you off gently. “I got it from here.”

Once Dean’s narrowed down the exact state and town, he’s pretty sure he can find his little brother on his own. Sam’s not as smart as he likes to think because Dean knows how Sam thinks. 

“You sure?” you check. “You want me to come? I could help.”

“No, uh, I’m good,” he says, swallowing lightly. “But… thanks.”

The word surprises both of you. He can tell by the silence that follows.

“You’re welcome,” you say softly after a heartbeat, and Dean swears he can almost hear a smile in your voice before the call ends.

Dean then lowers the phone and stares at the road ahead.

Lafayette, Indiana.

For the last twenty-four hours, finding Sam was the only thing that mattered. Every mile, every phone call, every increasingly desperate attempt at tracking him down had led to the same objective.

Find Sam.

Now, Dean finally has – or at least, he knows where to look, thanks to you. 

Unfortunately, locating his little brother turns out to be the easiest part. Actually talking to him? Yeah, that might require a goddamn miracle altogether.

Lafayette, Indiana

Sam’s alive and well. That’s probably the most important thing, right?

And still, Dean’s honestly not quite used to that fact yet. Because not even an hour ago, the only objective was to find Sam, and now that Dean’s succeeded in that mission, the kid somehow manages to make him annoyed about it. 

Why?

Oh, well, because for the better part of half an hour now, Dean’s been sitting behind the wheel of the Impala in some rundown motel parking lot in Lafayette, watching his little brother’s motel room through the windshield. And guess what?

Sam’s not just fine. Oh no. He’s with a chick. Yet fucking again. 

Honestly, if Dean ever made a bingo card about his little brother, sneaking around behind Dean’s back with strange women should take up several squares at this point. 

First, there was that demon bitch, Meg. Then came witchy little you. And now… well, whoever this brunette chick is. 

And sure, in the first ten seconds after finding Sam, Dean felt incredibly relieved. Genuinely fucking relieved. It was the kind that nearly buckled his damn knees when it finally arrived. Because for more than a day, Dean imagined every possible worst case scenario, convinced he was about to find a corpse, a demon trap, or some brand-new nightmare custom-built to specifically ruin his life in the most creative way.

But alas, none of that happened. 

No, instead, Sam’s sitting fucking comfortably at a table with a pretty brunette Dean’s never seen before, drinking coffee like his little brother didn’t just spend the last day taking fucking years off Dean’s already probably short lifespan. It feels like his hair turned grayer just within the last five minutes. 

Honestly, the audacity of it all is fucking impressive.

And sure, Sam can handle himself. Dean knows that. Hell, Sam probably knows it, too. But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things when every phone call goes straight to voicemail and every scenario one’s brain comes up with somehow ends in a body bag.

So yeah, finding Sam alive had helped. But finding him fucking flirting his ass off was another matter entirely.

Dean squints toward the motel room yet again. The girl laughs at something Sam says. Sam smiles in return. And just like that, Dean discovers a brand new emotion.

Offense.

Not because Sam’s smiling. God knows Dean would rather see that than whatever expression his brother wore after their fight in River Grove.

No, the offensive part is that Sam looks fine. Completely fucking fine.

Dean spent the last twenty-four hours preparing for tragedy only to discover his little brother apparently wandered into a meet-cute. And for a microsecond, Dean even was proud of Sammy. That pride faded quickly, though. 

Un-fucking-believable. Truly.

His gaze then drifts back toward the brunette again, studying her through the glass. Pretty. Definitely pretty. Not Jessica pretty. Nobody’s Jessica pretty. 

Well, one woman he can think of is Jessica pretty – a girl who also ironically met his brother behind Dean’s back, but he’s not ready for that admission yet. 

And yeah, sure, the brunette chick is still pretty enough that Dean can understand why Sam hasn’t exactly been prioritizing family communication. 

Still, people call Dean a womanizer, but at least he’s fucking honest about it and doing it out in the open in front of everyone, you know? 

That realization settles somewhere between amusement and irritation. Mostly irritation. A little amusement.

“You sneaky little bastard…”

The words leave before he can stop them. Across the parking lot, Sam remains blissfully unaware, though. Probably for the best.

Because, truthfully, Dean’s not entirely sure how he’d explain any of this – the relief, the anger, the stalking like a creep, and the overwhelming urge to drag Sam into the Impala and yell at him for approximately three hours straight at full volume.

And then there’s the equally overwhelming urge to leave Sam exactly where he is because he’s clearly alive, clearly safe, and apparently doing just fine without Dean hovering over his shoulder.

That last thought sits badly and probably hurts the fucking most. And Dean can’t even help but agree with that sentiment. 

Sam’s always been independent and more than capable of making his own decisions. He clearly doesn’t need his big brother. 

But Dean? He’s not so sure he can say the same thing about himself. 

Sure, he can handle himself alone perfectly fine. It’s just, most days, he really doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like it. Downright hates it, in fact. That probably makes him weaker than Sam. 

His green eyes then flick to the empty passenger seat before he can stop himself, and the sight punches harder than it should. Because the truth is, Sam leaving was never just about Sam leaving. 

Maybe you and Bobby were right. Maybe Sam just needed space. 

Is that what’s waiting for Dean down the line? An empty passenger seat?

Honestly, it would be so much easier if this were a hunt. Easier if there was a monster. Easier if somebody needed saving. Instead, he’s left staring at the possibility that Sam simply didn’t want to be around him.

And damn, if that one doesn’t fucking sting. Death by a thousand cuts or something like that…

Then, suddenly, the passenger door flies wide open, and Dean nearly jumps out of his fucking skin, already reaching for his gun under his jacket. 

“What the–”

And then, you, of all the damn people in this godforsaken world, slide casually into the seat next to him. “Hey,” you say and close the door behind you. 

Dean’s brows rise to his fucking hairline as he stares at you, wide-eyed beyond belief. “…Hey?!”

“Yeah, hey,” you repeat and scrunch your brow, like you’re suddenly talking to a complete moron. “I know you’re not used to a lot of normal people, but ‘hey’ is generally an internationally recognized greeting among humans.”

“You’re not human,” is all he says as his mind draws a complete blank. 

“Ouch, thanks,” you huff and roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Took you barely five seconds to make me regret coming here.”

Dean opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he can think of an appropriate response. “Why the hell are you here?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Gee, ever heard of a thank you?”

“No, I mean–…” Dean takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said,” you admit and then shoot him a raised look. “But honestly? You sounded desperate over the phone, my dude. And I know that tone. I worked at a suicide hotline in college. You sounded like you were this close to throwing yourself onto train tracks.”

“That’s not–” Dean wants to argue but stops, because yeah. He was admittedly kind of desperate. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Oh, I flew here on my broom,” you reply nonchalantly. There’s not a blink of an eye or even a smile when you say those words. 

“You, what?!” Dean’s mouth falls open, his brows knitting profusely. “Wait… Seriously?”

You give him a dry look. “No, you dumbass. I took a plane,” you huff, sounding almost offended. “I was joking. What’s wrong with you?”

Dean’s only baffled for another second before an amused smile sneaks onto his face. It’s the first time in a while he’s moved those muscles. And just like that, something inside the Impala finally settles. Even the smile lingers longer than it probably should. 

It doesn’t erase the last twenty-four hours, not completely, but it’s enough to make him forget why he’s here or what’s waiting for him across the parking lot, even if it is just for a heartbeat.

The crushing pressure behind his ribs eases ever so slightly, and it’s a goddamn strange realization, honestly. He hasn’t really expected that. 

Hasn’t expected you to come at all. 

Hell, he even specifically told you not to come. And yet, here you are, filling the passenger seat like you belong there. 

And there it is. Fuck. He’s screwed, isn’t he? He can’t have those thoughts, not about you or anyone for that matter, but especially about you. But the thought still catches him off-guard. 

Shit. 

It’s not even about the here and now. It’s about what all of this, you being right next to him, reminds him of – all the times you’ve been right next to him before. 

In dreams. In hallucinations. In memories. 

For weeks now, those dreams have been showing up whenever they damn well please. Strange fragments of a childhood he doesn't remember having, following him around like ghosts. Sometimes they’re vague. Sometimes they’re painfully clear. But one thing never changes.

You.

You’re always there. The tiny terror who followed him around like a shadow. The girl who somehow always knew when something was wrong. The girl who found him even when he deliberately tried not to be found.

Especially when he tried not to be found and just wanted the world to leave him alone.

And despite all fucking common sense, you came now as well. 

Not for Sam. For him. 

Dean still doesn’t understand what those dreams really are or what they even mean. At this point, he’s even stopped pretending he has answers. But sitting here right now, watching you casually settle into his passenger seat after crossing half the damn country because you thought he sounded upset, the line between dream and reality suddenly feels a lot thinner and blurrier than he’d like. 

Dream-you and actual-you aren’t supposed to overlap this much. Yet, somehow, they keep doing exactly that.

Dean catches himself looking at you, and apparently, it’s long enough to draw your attention.

“What?”

Dean blinks, swallowing as he tries to shrug his shoulders casually. “What what?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

Obviously, the only reasonable solution to salvage this whole awkward situation is to immediately avert his gaze and pretend it never happened.

“Wasn’t staring. Don’t flatter yourself, Sabrina,” he scoffs.

Do people call this gaslighting? He’s not sure. Probably. 

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t.” 

“Sure.”

Dean clears his throat and gestures toward the windshield in hopes it offers enough distraction. “You gonna help me stalk my brother now or what?”

At least, that earns a snort. Your eyes then finally follow his toward the motel room, and for a moment, you simply watch.

Sam laughs at something the brunette says. The brunette laughs right back. Your lips hike to an amused smile.

“Oh.” You grin slyly. “Well, good for him. Honestly, you made it sound like Sam was dying. Turns out he’s just hooking up.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “He’s not hooking up. Trust me.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance at him. “How do you know?”

“I know,” Dean replies simply, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

Sam doesn’t have enough game for that. One would think he does, considering he’s handsome, six-foot-four, and college-educated, but his little brother usually manages to wash that all down the drain by carrying too many textbooks. He might as well tattoo uber nerd across his forehead. 

“Is that why you haven’t gone in yet?” Your brow then furrows a little more as you tilt your head at Dean, suspicion growing. “Wait… how long have you been sitting here and watching them?”

Dean twitches his shoulders casually but avoids looking at you. “Not that long. Thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Dude,” you gasp, mouth falling open. “You’ve been watching your brother flirt through a window for half an hour? Who the hell does that?”

“I was making sure he’s okay, alright?” he defends. “Nothing more to it.”

“Whatever you say, perv,” you mutter, unconvinced. “God, please tell me you would’ve left before they’d gotten naked.” 

“What?!” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again because he doesn’t actually have a defense prepared for that one. 

“I mean, ew.” You visibly cringe. “What the hell is wrong with you, huh?”

“With me?”

“Yes, with you,” you insist. “You’re conducting surveillance on your brother’s love life. You told me he ran away.”

“He did run away, and it’s not surveillance,” Dean argues.

“You’ve literally been parked here for half an hour. Do you even realize how weird that is?”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that Sam disappeared for twenty-four hours and still managed to have a more productive social life than you,” you counter. 

Dean furrows his brow. “What d’you know about my social life, huh?”

“I can tell that you barely have one,” you quip. “I mean, you practically freaked out when I said hey.”

“That’s not why I freaked out! You just jumped into my car, alright?” 

You snort, amused. “Whatever you say.” 

Dean shoots you a sour look. He wants to argue. Really, really wants to argue. Unfortunately, however, every argument he comes up with somehow makes him sound only creepier. You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression shifts from horror to full amusement, your grin growing wider. 

“Wow.” You whistle lowly, chuckling. “I haven’t known you for that long, but I think this is a new low for you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean huffs and rolls his eyes back. “You’re probably just jealous.”

You turn your head slowly toward him, raising a brow. “Of what exactly?”

Dean silently nods toward the motel room, where Sam’s still vividly chatting with the brunette chick. 

You snort a loud laugh. “I’m sorry… You honestly think I’m jealous of the girl Sam’s with?”

“Just sayin’…” Dean shrugs. “You and Sam have gotten pretty close. Gotta sting he’s replacing you like that.”

Your mouth opens and closes before finding a response. He’d almost call your speechlessness a win. Almost.

“Did they drop you on your head a lot when you were a kid by any chance?” you shoot back, staring at him in disbelief. “Trust me. I have zero interest in Sam. Have you forgotten I have a boyfriend? You actually met him a few weeks ago. Remember that?”

Oh, how could Dean ever forget tall, confident, and handsome military man? He’s painfully aware of that guy because Cameron looked like the kind of dude who actually belongs in someone’s future. The kind of man women are supposed to end up with.

You specifically. 

He’s not a hunter. Not somebody carrying enough baggage around to sink a damn cruise ship. He’s just… normal. Sorta like you. 

Across the parking lot, Sam smiles again as the brunette touches his arm. And for one stupid heartbeat, Dean’s brain supplies the obvious comparison.

Sam’s smart and stable and just the right amount of caring. Unlike Dean, his little brother can easily pass as normal. Ordinary. He’s proven that time and time again. And honestly, if somebody had to pick between the Winchester brothers, Dean’s not entirely sure why they’d ever choose him.

“Speaking of your boyfriend,” Dean says, clearing the lump in his throat subtly. But he’ll be damned if he looks at you now. “Where’s Army guy? Surprised he’s letting you come here alone.”

You cock an eyebrow in slight amusement. “Letting me?”

“You know what I mean,” Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He did threaten me.”

“Yeah, and you deserved it,” you counter. “You keep forgetting the part where you tried to shoot me.”

“You ever gonna get over that?”

“Attempted murder?” You raise a brow, then shake your head with a dry smile. “Probably not.”

“Great,” Dean huffs and sinks deeper into his seat. 

“Cameron left again,” you share after a beat then, finding Dean’s eyes. “Got deployed.”

Dean bobs his head quietly. “You know where?”

“Not really.” You shake your head, shrugging. “Paige left as well. Her boss threatened to fire her if she didn’t come back soon. House got kinda empty,” you admit. “Maybe that’s why I came, too. You were admittedly kinda a nice distraction.”

Dean nods, swallowing. He refrains from saying that he likes being a distraction for you. 

Man, maybe you’re right. There clearly is something wrong with him, isn’t there?

You then find his eyes and look at him, offering him a soft smile. Softer than he’s ever seen before. “You finally wanna tell me what’s going on between you and Sam now?” 

Dean shrugs it off, staring out through the windshield again. “What makes you think something’s going on?”

“I know Sam didn’t just run away without any reason,” you point out, but it’s not an accusation. It’s gentle, like you’re touching him with kid gloves for once or handling a wounded animal instead of arguing with him. 

God, it’s almost weird.

For a moment, he considers lying. It’s his first instinct, honestly – crack a joke, deflect, pretend nothing happened.

Business as usual, right?

Except he’s fucking exhausted. Not physically. Not even emotionally. Just tired. So, so goddamn tired. Tired in that deep, aching way where carrying something around for too long starts feeling heavier than simply setting it down.

“My dad told me something before he died.”

The words just leave his mouth before Dean even fully decides to say them. And beside him, you go completely still at that, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the motel room.

“He made me promise something.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “What kind of something?”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh, rubbing the tension out of his jaw. “Eh. The kind that screws up your entire life, you know.”

That seems to get your full attention now. He can feel it without even looking.

“My dad thought there was something wrong with Sam,” he continues slowly, chewing on each syllable like it’s made out of glass. 

“What d’you mean… wrong?” you ask carefully.

Dean drags a hand down his face and exhales harshly. "The visions. The psychic stuff. All of it.”

“What does that mean?” You shake your head in confusion. “I don’t understand.” 

“I think he thought it had to do with the demon, you know?” Dean finally looks at you, even if only briefly. His voice sounds flatter and more distant, like he’s reciting somebody else’s nightmare instead of his own. “I mean the demon said as much. It said it had plans for all those kids. Kids like Sam.”

You pinch your brows together, clearly digesting each word. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean–”

“Yeah, it does,” Dean cuts you off and looks at you. “Dad said if I can’t save Sam–… if I can’t save him, then…”

“Then, what?” you ask, leaning forward. “Dean… then, what?”

“Then I might have to kill him,” he finally manages to push the words out. One would think it would get easier the more often he has to say it, but it feels like the contrary and it’s just getting harder and harder. 

You blink faster than a humming bird fluttering its wings, your mouth agape as you stare at him in sheer disbelief, like he just confessed to burying bodies in the backyard.

“Whoa.”

Dean huffs a noise that almost sounds like a laugh if he didn’t know better.

Because, yeah, whoa pretty much sums it up.

“Your dad told you you’d have to kill Sam?” you check for good measure like you aren’t sure if you’ve heard him right the first time around. 

Unfortunately, you did, though. 

Dean nods. “Yup. That’s the short version.” 

"And you told Sam this?”

Dean grimaces, nodding again. “Yesterday, yeah.”

You stare at him for another second. “Yesterday?” You lift an eyebrow. “I thought your dad died months ago.”

“He did,” Dean confirms. “But I promised him I wouldn’t tell Sam, alright? Not that I could’ve if I wanted to. Physically wanted to puke my guts out every time I thought about it.”

You bite down on your lips. “Starting to see why Sam left,” you mutter under your breath. 

Dean’s head snaps toward you, shooting you a look. “See, that’s not really helpful.”

“Not trying to be,” you huff and meet his eyes. “But Dean, seriously, what reaction were you expecting, huh?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. 

“‘Cause if somebody sat me down and said, ‘Hey, by the way, our dead father thinks I might have to murder you someday,’ I probably wouldn’t stick around either,” you point out bluntly. 

“Yeah, I get it.” Dean groans. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying–”

“I know,” Dean snaps, exhales a deep breath, and then looks at you, his gaze softening slightly. “I know, alright?”

His frustration came out sharper than intended, but his regret was also immediate. You seem to notice that because you don’t argue back. You simply watch him and wait patiently. 

Arguably, your boundless understanding feels a lot worse than any lecture. 

Dean lets out a long breath, gathering his thoughts. “I wasn’t gonna do it, you know?”

You tilt your head. “Dean–”

“No, I’m serious, alright?” he tells you. “I wasn’t.” A small, humorless laugh escapes him as he rubs his mouth. “Not sure I ever could, you know?”

For some reason, his voice seems to carry enough sincerity and conviction that you actually stop talking and arguing with him for once. It’s like you know that part is true and he means it with every broken fiber of his being.

Dean never planned on following through. Never even considered it.

At least, not really. Not consciously. The problem is that his dad’s voice has been living in the back of his head ever since. It’s a splinter he can’t pull out. A question he can’t stop asking.

What if?

What if Dad was right? What if the demon really does have plans? What if Sam really is different? What if–

“Dean.” Your voice cuts cleanly through the spiral. 

He blinks out of it and looks at you. “What?” 

“I believe you.” You shrug your shoulders the slightest bit and offer him a small smile. “We’ll figure it out, alright?”

Dean nods and swallows thickly but has to avert his gaze. It just all takes him back to River Grove again, to Salem, to Duane Tanner, to you. 

Every time he’s pointed a gun at someone in his life or raised a weapon at a monster, he’s told himself there was a damn reason for it. Hell, he firmly believed it with every cell in his body. 

He saves people. He doesn’t hurt them. That’s the job. That’s always been the job. Nothing more, nothing less. 

But lately, things stopped being as simple. It’s not straight-forward anymore. It’s not easily distinguishable. 

He would’ve shot Duane. He would’ve shot you. And he would’ve told himself it was the right thing to do, that there was a damn reason for all of it, till he was probably blue in the face. 

And Sam, his smart and kind-hearted little brother, stopped him and told him to think twice. To really fucking look. And Dean did. So how can Sam ever be evil? Sammy’s the good one. That’s how it’s supposed to be. 

“Huh.”

Upon your utterance, Dean’s focus snaps back to you in the passenger seat. He raises a brow, curious. “What?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” you brush it off, but your brows are pinched again, so he knows you’re putting together puzzle pieces. 

“You were thinking about something,” he presses, but it’s not demanding. If anything, he’s aiming for encouraging. You’re smart. Probably as smart as Sam. Dean could use a dose of that right now. “Just tell me.”

You lick your lips hesitantly but relent. “I was just thinking about Sam’s aura,” you note carefully. “I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to it before. At least not what the color means exactly.”

Dean’s brow creases slightly. “What d’you mean? You said it was purple, right?”

“Among other things, yes,” you confirm. “But it’s not just the color itself, you know? It’s the shade that matters. What it’s mixed with. There’s a lot of nuance to it.”

“So…?” Dean tries to follow along. He really does, but admittedly, a lot of that stuff still sounds whack to him. He knows you’re still usually right about it, though. You’ve always been right about him. 

“So, Sam’s purple is darker than most psychics I’ve met before,” you explain, and Dean instantly doesn’t like where this is going. “His aura’s more mulberry. Mine, on the other hand, is–”

“Lupine, I know,” Dean shoots like a pistol and finishes your sentence before he can stop himself. The answer comes so automatically that Dean doesn’t even realize he’s said it till your head snaps toward him.

And for a full damn second, you simply stare. “You actually remember that?”

Shit.

Dean averts his eyes out the windshield again, playing it cool. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Kind of hard not to…” you mutter with a slightly teasing tone in your voice. 

“Well, try.”

Your lips twitch the tiniest bit before you bite back the smile. Then your attention drifts back toward Sam.

“My point is that Lupine has more white in it,” you explain. “You understand what I’m saying?” 

Dean nods slowly, following along as best as he can. Black stands for bad. White means good. That’s what you’re going for, right?

“You’re saying Sam’s evil,” he deduces. 

“What? No.” Your brow scrunches. “It’s literally not as black and white. It just means… something darker seems to be pulling at Sam, specifically his psychic abilities. It doesn’t mean his abilities are bad or that Sam is. It just means before you told me all of this, I never had a reason to think about it. Does that make sense now?”

Admittedly, Dean doesn’t understand it entirely. None of it still sounds good in any way, shape, or form. But weirdly, he trusts you. 

“I have to tell you something else,” you say then, drawing his attention to you once more. As he watches you, you’re almost chewing your damn lip bloody. “Promise you won’t shoot me if I tell you or harm me in any other way?”

Dean rolls his eyes slightly. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Figured you’d know that by now.”

“Oh, how reassuring,” you reply wryly and then clear your throat with some awkwardness. “Don’t freak out, but I kind of did a tarot reading on you guys back in Sleepy Hollow.”

But Dean? Oh, he doesn’t freak out like you expect him to. No, instead, he snorts a chuckle, clearly amused, and throws you a sideways glance. “Sweetheart, you really think I didn’t know that?”

“Wait…” You frown. “You know?”

“You weren’t as sneaky as you’d like to think, Miss Cleo,” he quips. “So, what fortunes did you tell for us, huh?”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not fortune telling,” you note, to which Dean only raises his hands in surrender, clearly placating you. “I pulled three cards for Sam.”

Dean leans back in his seat, and, against all common sense, he’s even listening. Usually, he’s completely tuning out when it comes to this crap. 

“The Magician, the Ace of Cups, and the Devil,” you add. 

And that last one? Yeah, needless to say, but that one immediately lands wrong in his stomach. Probably because it’s literally called The Devil. Seriously, what good can come of that, right? If he’s ever heard of a bad omen before, this would be it. 

“Comforting,” he mutters wryly. 

“It’s not what you think,” you try to explain. “The Devil doesn’t necessarily mean evil.”

Dean scoffs at that. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that, Sabrina,” he says. “Except maybe Satanists. You ever seen Paradise Lost?”

Your brow knits slightly. “Seen? Isn’t that a poem by John Milton?”

“It’s a documentary about the trials of the West Memphis Three,” he explains. “You know, those teenagers who got accused of doing satanic rituals back in the 90s. Had a lot of Metallica songs in it.”

“What’s that got to do w–”

“I’m just sayin’, most people would look at that as a bad omen, you know?”

You let out a little sigh. “Thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”

Dean smirks coolly. “You’re welcome, Sabrina.”

For once, you don’t rise to the bait, however. Instead, your expression turns thoughtful again.

“The first time I interpreted it, I thought it represented obsession,” you share. “As in, being chained to something. Back then, I thought it meant revenge, purpose, control…” Your brow pinches the tiniest bit again. 

“And now?” Dean finds himself asking.

You exhale slowly through your nose. “Now, I’m wondering if maybe I underestimated what exactly he’s chained to."

And just like that, Dean feels the ground shift beneath his boots again.

“How the hell is that supposed to be better?”

You shrug your shoulders defenselessly. “I didn’t say it would be. Just said it doesn’t mean evil-evil. It’s just darkness.”

And there it is again – another drop of proof that Sam isn’t as normal as Dean wishes he’d be. 

That’s the real goddamn problem, though, isn’t it? 

It’s not about Sam. It’s about him. Everything keeps circling back to the same thing. John didn’t hand Sam a burden when he died. He handed it to Dean. 

Next to him, you seem to realize the conversation has drifted into more dangerous territory. The teasing vanished a while ago, as did the jokes. You’re quiet now, your fingers absently tracing the seam of the passenger seat while you think. Dean almost wishes you’d start arguing again. Anything would be easier than this. 

“I know you don’t actually think Sam’s evil,” you break the silence softly. 

And his answer?

“No.”

It’s instant and instinctive. Because despite everything, despite the visions and the demon prophecies and his dad’s warning and every nightmare that’s followed Dean since he died, that answer has never ever changed.

Sure, Sam is goddamn stubborn and annoying in that little brother way and so freaking arrogant sometimes. On top of that, he’s also way too willing to sacrifice himself. But evil?

Nope, never. The certainty of it almost fucking hurts.

You study him carefully. “Then what’s the problem?”

Dean gives a short, humorless laugh. Because how the hell is he supposed to explain this? How does he explain a fear that doesn’t  even fully make sense inside his own damn head?

“It’s not about what Sammy’s now,” he says slowly and finds your eyes. “It’s about… what if. You know, my dad spent my whole life teaching me how to pull a trigger.” He rubs a hand across his jaw. 

You don’t interrupt him, rush him, or even attempt to fill the silence. You just wait for him to finish, and somehow that’s a lot worse. He doesn’t deserve that kindness – especially from you. Not after what he’d done. 

“Every hunt. Every monster. Every decision,” he continues. “I trusted him.”

And honestly? That might be the fucking hardest part of it all – the goddamn trust. Because John Winchester wasn’t just his father; he was the blueprint. The rulebook. The thing Dean measured every damn decision he ever made in his life against. And now? That same blueprint suddenly has a crack running straight through the middle.

What’s he supposed to do with that? 

“What if Dad was right, you know? I mean, what then?” The question slips out before Dean can stop it. 

It’s the thought he’s been choking on since the stupid hospital. He doesn’t believe Sam’s evil or dangerous or any other thing people may want to claim. But what if his dad knew something Dean doesn’t? And if John did know something, what happens when Dean finds out what it is?

Would he pull the trigger? Like he wanted to do with Duane or you or any other thing he came across and convinced himself was evil?

If Dean points a gun at someone, there must be a reason. That’s how hunters survive. That’s how Dean survives. He always believes completely, absolutely, and without question. The same way he believed pointing a gun at you was the right thing. The same way he believed every order his father ever gave him.

Reason, duty, necessity – a hunter’s favorite excuses.

Now, however, that logic has another face – Sam’s. And suddenly, it becomes clearer why his little brother left. Because if Dean ever starts looking for answers, real answers, what happens if he finally finds one? What happens if the trail eventually points somewhere Dean doesn’t even want it to? Somewhere his dad already thought it would? 

Because answers have consequences. Answers become decisions. Decisions become actions. And Dean is suddenly horrifyingly aware of where that road might end eventually.

“You know, I never signed up for this. Any of this,” he says with a dark scoff. “I can hunt monsters, sure. I know how to do that. Vampires, demons, ghosts… You name it, and I can kill it. Things with claws and fangs and glowing eyes. Those are simple. They give you a reason. They make the decision for you, y’know? But this?” He shakes his head, swallowing harshly. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this. Dad did. He made the choice. And now somehow it’s mine.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks then, but the silence isn’t awkward. It isn’t uncomfortable or even strange. It’s simply there, present and steady.

You don’t argue. Don’t tell him he’s right or wrong. Don’t offer some neat little solution that magically fixes everything. You just sit beside him, listening and understanding. And Dean realizes he can’t fucking remember the last time somebody let him do this.

Just this. 

Be exhausted. Be scared. Be angry. At least not without asking him to carry somebody else’s weight, too.

Dean stares out the windshield again. Across the parking lot, Sam’s still there. Still alive. Still chasing answers. Still doing exactly what he's been doing since all of this started.

And maybe that’s the fucking problem in the end.

Dean understands why Sam wants to know. He really does. Hell, Dean would probably want to know, too. If it were happening to him. If he were the one having visions. If he were the one the demon wanted. If he were the one carrying whatever the hell this thing is.

But he’s not, is he?

Instead, he’s the guy standing next to it, watching it happen and waiting for the next shoe to drop. Waiting for the next terrible thing. Waiting for some answers that somehow always manage to make everything even worse.

“I just wanted him to stop. For one goddamn minute, I wanted him to stop looking. Stop finding answers,” he admits at last, licking his chapped lips. “I know that sounds selfish.”

Surprisingly, you shake your head, though. “It doesn’t. I get it,” you say and huff a small laugh that’s lacking any humor. “Trust me. More than you know.”

“Yeah, maybe you do,” Dean agrees. After all, Sam managed to drag you into it as well. That’s truly the only reason you’re here. “He keeps acting like if he finds enough answers, it’ll all make sense.”

You look at him, tilting your head slightly. “And you don’t think it will?”

Dean lets out a hollow laugh. “Dad spent twenty-two years looking for answers,” he replies. “He found the demon. He found out about the other kids. He found out about whatever the hell’s happening to Sam. Look where that got him.” He runs a hand down his face. “I just wanted him to slow down, you know? One minute where we weren’t chasing something. He couldn’t. That’s why he left.”

You follow his gaze to Sam and the girl in the motel room and lean back in your seat. “I don’t think you were asking for that much,” you say quietly. 

Dean slowly glances over at you, his brows raising in sheer disbelief. 

You snort at his expression. “I’m serious.” You shrug, amused. “I mean, dude, you found out your dad basically handed you the worst responsibility imaginable and then died. And now Sam wants answers immediately, which I get as well. But… I don’t know. Maybe taking five minutes to process your entire life imploding isn’t actually that unreasonable, you know?”

A small laugh escapes Dean. Granted, you were the last person he ever expected to agree with him. 

“Five minutes, huh?” He teasingly cocks a brow. 

You roll your eyes, but it lacks the usual annoyance. “If we’re being generous,” you quip, giving him a small smile. “Besides,” you add, offering him another shrug, “we’ll figure it out.”

Dean looks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching the slightest bit. “That’s your pep talk? Pretty weak.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckles and feels the knot in his chest loosen enough to breathe again for the first time all day.

And sure, nothing’s truly fixed. His dad is still dead. Sam is still looking for answers. The demon is still out there somewhere. But somehow the weight doesn’t feel quite as crushing with somebody else carrying a tiny corner of it.

That realization is dangerous and uncomfortable enough that Dean naturally decides to ruin the moment.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat subtly. “You said you read both our cards.”

Your eyes narrow instantly, already shaking your head. “Oh no, forget it. We’re not doing that.”

“C’mon, you told me Sam’s,” he argues, chuckling. “What about mine, huh?”

“I’m taking yours to my grave,” you quip. 

Dean snorts. “That bad, huh?”

You only smirk in return. “Oh, I think you’re safer not knowing.”

“Huh.” He leans back in his seat and smacks his lips. “Honestly? I weirdly believe you.”

You giggle in response. And for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Your smile still lingers when the first gunshot slams through the motel window across the parking lot.

Dean’s head snaps toward the sound in an instant just in time to see Sam dive out of his chair. Every muscle in Dean’s body locks as the moment shatters within a second.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters as he already tears open the car door. “Stay here.”

“Dean, wait–”

But he’s already on the move before he can hear you finish that sentence. 

One minute, you’re listening to Dean Winchester, of all people, emotionally vomit in the driver’s seat of his precious car. The next, some maniac tries to shoot his little brother through a motel window in broad daylight.

Honestly, you should probably stop expecting normal things to happen around the Winchester family at this point.

The gunshot rings across the parking lot so loudly and suddenly that your brain barely has time to register it. Glass explodes from Sam’s motel room before the shouting starts.

“Son of a bitch.”

Beside you, Dean is already moving. Of course he is. Apparently, emotional vulnerability only lasts approximately three and a half seconds before the universe decides that’s enough character development for one day.

“Dean–”

“Stay here.” The order arrives over his shoulder as he throws open the driver’s door.

Then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stare after him for exactly half a second. Truthfully, at this point, you’re starting to think Dean just keeps giving you instructions exclusively so you can ignore them again.

Because seriously? The guy spends the last hour confessing his deepest fears, admits he’s hanging together by what appears to be a single fraying thread, tells you all he wants is one goddamn minute to breathe, and then immediately sprints toward an active shooter.

Amazing. Truly. No notes from you, except maybe some advice to seek out therapy.

Obviously, you’re not staying here and listening to him, stepping right out into the bright afternoon sun.

Across the parking lot, movement then catches your eye. Sam and the brunette are both on the floor now beneath the shattered motel window, scrambling through broken glass and overturned furniture. They’re alive and unharmed – at least for the moment. 

You briefly hesitate because, technically, there are two Winchesters in danger right now. You’re supposed to be their guardian witch or something like that, right? It’s your job to protect them, but you can’t split yourself in two or clone yourself either. Honestly, the decent thing for them to do would be to stay together at all times and make your life easier, but you also can’t see that happening anytime soon. 

You glance back at the motel and then at the direction Dean disappeared. Sam is being shot at. Dean is chasing the person doing the shooting. One of those situations concerns you significantly more.

It ain’t Sam, by the way. Not because you care about Dean more. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous. Moreover, you know they’re both equally capable and even equally smart. They can handle themselves. The difference is that Sam seems generally more level-headed. He never makes decisions that significantly shorten his life expectancy. The younger one simply possesses something the older one clearly lacks:

Self-preservation.

Sam thinks things through. Dean launches himself at problems like a martyr – a completely moronic one at that. He’s even currently demonstrating it at high speed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter and run right after the stupid knight before he manages to stab himself with his uber-righteous sword. 

As you round the corner of the building, the motel disappears behind before you look up. Jesus, why do shooters always have to hide on rooftops? How did Dean even get up there so fast? You always hated PE in high school. 

With a sigh, you grab the railing and start climbing the fire escape. It’s still your least favorite form of cardio. By the time you reach the rooftop, your lungs are already protesting, your hair is sticking to the back of your neck from the humid Indiana afternoon, and the bright daylight feels almost offensive. 

Situations like this should happen at night. At least, darkness has the decency to look dramatic, but instead, the sky is goddamn azure-blue and the sun is smiling down. Meanwhile, Dean Winchester is getting his ass kicked.

So far, it honestly all tracks, considering your past experiences with the Winchesters. 

You heave yourself onto the rooftop just in time to see Dean hit the concrete hard enough that the impact causes you to wince. A second later, the man standing over him drives a fist into Dean’s jaw. 

Ouch.

You then remember your own training, thanks to Mia. SRA-C. Which stands for sex, race, age, and clothing. You don’t expect to give that description to the next cop, considering both Winchesters have an extensive criminal record themselves, but for sake of describing the perp, it’s still quite handy. 

In this case, the stranger is male, Black, and in his late twenties to early thirties, wearing a dark blue flannel over a gray henley and a pair of jeans. He’s broad-shouldered and solidly built, but not monster-broad. Not supernatural broad. Just the sort of broad that suggests he could comfortably throw another human being through a wall if sufficiently motivated. 

At this exact moment, he seems very motivated.

Dean tries to push himself up, but the stranger immediately plants a boot in his chest and sends him crashing back down.

Welp, this is less than ideal.

“Dean!” It escapes you in a panic before you instantly cover your mouth. 

And just like that, the stranger notices you before Dean does. Like a hound lifting its head at the scent of a fox in the forest, his eyes snap up and lock onto you. 

To be fair, you’re a CSI. You’re never actively involved during an ongoing crime. Your job is to come in after. This isn’t exactly your field of expertise. 

“Well, well, who’s your pretty friend, Dean?” The stranger shoots you an eerie grin, which automatically causes a lump to form in your throat. 

“Dammit. I told you to stay in the car,” Dean grunts through gritted teeth, clearly not happy with you. 

“I’m trying to help you,” you hiss defensively. 

“Well done so far,” he shoots back. 

Seriously, sarcasm? That’s what you get for trying to save him? Honestly, next time, you’re gonna pick Sam. 

The stranger’s grin then widens ever so slightly as his attention settles fully on you now. Not Dean. You. 

Apparently, you’ve just become the more interesting problem. The realization sends a cold shiver down your spine.

Dean seems to notice that little fact as well, but you’re currently a lot less concerned with whatever creepy vibe this guy has going on than you are with the fact that he’s actively winning, which means your brain immediately defaults to the most obvious solution:

Magic.

Of course. Magic is always the solution.

Locked door? Magic.

Lost keys? Magic.

Ancient curse? More magic.

Large angry stranger beating Dean Winchester into the concrete? Definitely magic.

Your fingers curl instinctively, but not enough to cast anything yet. It’s just enough that you can already feel the current stirring beneath your skin – the familiar pull, that quiet pressure, the thing that’s always there waiting for you to reach for it.

You need to think this through, though. Judging by the guy’s aura, although very angry and slightly unhinged, he’s clearly human and not some supernatural being, which means restraint is slightly in order. You’re pretty sure you’re in the business of slaying demons and not humans.

Luckily, you’ve recently discovered you’re fairly good at improvising. So the true question is:

What would Buffy Summers do?

There are no plants or vines nearby, but technically, you assume you could probably conjure up a tree or something like it up from somewhere. Seems a little elaborate, though. 

What else?

Fire. You could probably set the guy on fire like a candle. After burning that demon trap into the floor of your lab a few weeks ago, you’ve learned you can do that. Surely, if you can do it to cheap linoleum, you can do it to a human being as well. 

But again, that seems over the top and you’re not in the business of killing people, including the evil ones. Moreover, if Dean sees you set a man on fire, he might classify you as incredibly dangerous and kill you right after, even if you saved his life.

You’ve just spent an hour with this man, telling you how he’s thinking about killing his own brother if he ever turns evil, and you know he loves Sam. Dean doesn’t even like you all that much, so naturally, his inhibitions about killing you would be even lower. You know the guy still has trouble with thinking in shades of gray. Better not risk it and find out how much progress he’s truly made in that way. 

Then there’s wind. You admittedly like that idea. You’ve never used wind all that much. Why would you? It’s kind of boring, and what would you even use it for in every day life? Blowing out birthday candles? Fanning yourself? 

But a gust of wind that blows the stranger off the roof would be neat right now. Maybe you could even create a mini tornado. It’s the Midwest, after all. No one would bat an eyelash here, right?

The stranger obviously doesn’t notice your silent scheming, but Dean somehow does. His green eyes flick toward your clenched fists for barely half a second and then back to your face.

When you meet his gaze, he shakes his head – small and subtle and almost invisible. 

No.

He’s telling you not to do it. Why the hell would he do that? What does he mean? The gesture catches you completely off guard.

You’re currently watching a man beat the absolute hell out of Dean. This seems like a pretty reasonable time for magical intervention. 

But Dean’s jaw only locks tightly before another tiny shake of his head follows.

No, don’t.

You don’t understand it, but for some weird reason – after everything that happened in the Impala, after the last hour, after Dean trusted you with things he clearly hasn’t told anybody else – you stop and let magic retreat again.

For one brief second, you recognize relief flashing across Dean’s freckled face, visibly exhaling the tension in his body.

The stranger’s gaze then moves between you and Dean, studying and calculating, like he’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Come here,” he orders you with a nod. 

You don’t move, however, only raising a brow. “No offense, dude, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how kidnapping works.” 

The stranger’s smile disappears fast after that. The gun appears even faster. 

You almost think he’s going to aim it at you because somehow that’s what always happens these days when you meet strange men. But instead, he’s pointing it directly at Dean’s head, and you admittedly like that option even less. 

Everything inside you goes rigidly cold. Even Dean freezes in place.

“Last chance,” the stranger says calmly. “Either you come with me voluntarily, or your boyfriend here catches a bullet. I promise I don’t wanna hurt either of you. This is just about Sammy.”

Your brow furrows briefly, your eyes landing back on Dean. 

Sam?

Right. That maniac shot at the youngest Winchester. But why? 

Judging by the look in Dean’s forest green eyes, he seems to have an idea. He also seems rather annoyed about it. You can tell he’s twitching for an eye roll. 

Dean doesn’t look at the gun, however. Doesn’t even look at the stranger. He just keeps looking at you.

There’s no panic in his eyes, though. There isn’t fear. It’s just that same quiet warning as before.

Don’t. Don’t try anything. Don’t do anything stupid.

The irony of Dean Winchester silently telling someone else not to be stupid would almost be funny under different circumstances.

But alas, you exhale slowly and then take a step forward.

The stranger nods once, satisfied. “There we go.”

Before either of you can react, however, the gun vanishes from Dean’s head and a sharp crack echoes across the rooftop in the same breath.

Dean’s body goes limp, collapsing against the concrete.

“Dean!”

“Psst.”

The first thing Dean becomes aware of is the throbbing pain of a headache. It feels a little like Gordon looked at his skull and rearranged a few things for fun in there. It makes him wonder if the psycho hit him with a tire iron instead of the end of a rifle. 

Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past the dude.

“Psst.”

Something then bumps his knee.

“Psst, Dean.”

Another nudge follows.

Dean groans before he even opens his eyes and instantly regrets it. The movement sends a fresh spike of pain through his head, making his stomach roll unpleasantly.

“Finally,” you hiss beside him. “I’ve been trying to wake you for half an hour now.”

Dean forces one eye open, and the first thing he sees is you. You’re tied to a chair right next to his, close enough that your knees are touching. Dust clings to your jeans, and a strand of hair has escaped and fallen across your face. You look annoyed, worried, exhausted, and somewhat offended by the entire situation, which, considering recent events, feels appropriate.

More importantly, though, you’re awake, you’re talking, and you’re alive.

He feels the relief surge through his veins at the realization. He was hoping you wouldn’t do something magically stupid that could possibly get you killed. If you ever thought Dean was too black and white in his thinking, you clearly haven’t met Gordon Walker yet. 

Dean then takes stock of their surroundings. The place looks like every abandoned building he’s ever been trapped inside. It’s small, not bigger than a cabin or some shed, made entirely out of rotting wood and dust motes. The windows are broken and partially boarded-up, while the walls carry more cracks than a dry desert ground. The ropes bite into his wrists where they’re tied behind the chair as the smell of mildew reaches his nose.

Awesome. Just lovely, really. 

Then he hears metal clattering in the adjoining room and notices Gordon’s nowhere near, but he seems to be certainly close by.

God, the guy’s nuts. Dean’s only cursing himself because he should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. 

You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression tightens. “Please tell me you know what’s going on. Who the hell is this guy?”

Dean lets out a slow breath. Where exactly is he even supposed to start?

“Gordon Walker,” Dean replies then. “He’s a fellow hunter.”

“If he’s a fellow hunter, why did he kidnap us and tie us to a chair?” you ask – rightfully so. “Not to mention the murder attempt on Sam.”

Dean purses his lips, clicking his tongue. “Well, last time we ran into him, we kinda pissed him off. Guessin’ this is revenge.”

You scowl deeply. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, hey, it’s not technically our fault, okay?” Dean defends. 

You, however, only roll your eyes at that. “Hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists. “Actually, I think you’re gonna like this story.”

“We’ll see about that,” you mutter, unconvinced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Most people like you probably assume hunters are one big happy family. Truth is, they aren’t. Most of them can’t even stand each other. Some of them are barely housebroken.

And still, somehow, Gordon manages to be the worst of them all.

“A few months ago, me and Sam hunted a vamps’ nest in Montana. Ran into Gordon there and decided to work together,” Dean shares. “Turned out those vamps weren’t hurting anybody, though. They drank animal blood. Slaughtered a few cows, but that’s it.”

Your brow furrows in surprise. “Seriously? I didn’t know vampires could do that.”

“Makes two of us,” Dean scoffs softly. “Anyways, Gordon didn’t really care, though. Still wanted to kill them.”

That earns him a raised look, your lips twitching slightly. “Wow.”

Dean’s eyes flick to you, brow knitting. “What?”

“You let a monster live?” you ask, but Dean instantly recognizes the teasing tone in your voice. 

Dean smacks his lips and gives a small shrug. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Was mostly Sam pushing for it.”

“Yeah, I can see that one more,” you quip, grinning a little. “Still, you actually saved vampires. That’s huge for you. Kinda like getting a junkie away from heroin.”

Dean rolls his eyes back. “Alright, shut up.”

“Guessing Gordon out there didn’t see it that way, though, huh?”

“Nope,” he confirms, popping the p. He sure as hell didn’t. 

To Gordon, a monster is a monster. End of discussion. No exceptions. No gray area.

Dean then watches the realization slowly dawn on you and spread across your face.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes slightly widening. “That’s why you didn’t want me to use magic.”

Dean clicks his tongue in confirmation. “Yup.”

“Aww.” The sound surprises Dean, and God, he hates that stupid smile rising on your lips now. “Were you actually worried about me?”

Damn it.

“No,” he huffs quickly, brushing the insane implication off. “Just–… keep quiet about the whole thing, alright? Don’t mention the M-word or the W-word or anything relating to it. Got it, Sabrina?”

You nod, but you also bite your lips to keep the grin from growing, which only irritates him more. 

“Look, Gordon’s not gonna care if you’re helping people," Dean continues quietly, his gaze flicking to Gordon still busy and occupied in the next room. “He doesn’t care if you’re good. Doesn’t care who you save. If he finds out what you are, he’s gonna kill you. Understood?”

The warning lands heavily between the two of you. He watches you swallow harshly. For the first time since waking up, you don’t immediately argue or even make a joke.

Good. 

Meanwhile, Dean finds himself thinking something considerably less comfortable. A few months ago, he might’ve agreed with Gordon. Hell, he even sort of did. 

Maybe it wasn’t enough to pull the trigger for good, but it was enough to point a gun at you, enough to assume the worst, and enough to see the witch before the human.

The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth now. Because now? Now, Gordon looking at you and seeing a target just pisses him off.

When the dingy floor creaks, both of you immediately look up as Gordon appears in the doorway carrying a toolbox. The smile on his face makes Dean want to punch something.

“Well,” Gordon says pleasantly, his gaze landing on Dean. “Look who’s awake.”

Dean leans back in the chair and tries to play it cool. “Gordy.”

The crazy hunter’s smile then widens. “Dean.”

Over the next several minutes of conversation that levels up in insanity, Dean slowly discovers that Gordon has become even crazier since the last time they ran into each other.

Initially, he’d assumed this whole thing was about sweet revenge. Honestly, it would’ve made sense. After all, Sam and Dean left him tied to a chair for three days, soaking in his own piss and God knows what else.

Gordon seems exactly petty enough to hold a grudge about something like that. But, as it turns out, the truth is so much worse.

Because Gordon isn’t here over vampires or settling a score. Apparently, he’s here solely because of Sam. 

Because of the visions. Because of the psychic kids. Because of the demon.

Because Gordon has somehow convinced himself that Sam Winchester is already halfway to becoming a monster. No evidence required. No trial necessary. Just a conclusion Gordon apparently reached and never bothered revisiting after some low-level demon spilled its damn guts.

Dean argues. Obviously, he argues.

Sam’s a good person. Sam saves people. Sam has more conscience than most hunters Dean’s ever met.

Hell, much like you, Sam probably feels guilty fucking jaywalking.

However, none of it matters. Of course it doesn’t. Hunters are a stubborn breed, and Gordon clearly has already made up his damn mind.

The conversation goes nowhere. Dean knows it. Gordon knows it. Even you seem to realize it by the panicked looks you’re throwing Dean every once in a while. Mostly because every new thing Gordon reveals somehow sounds more insane than the last.

At least, you’re clearly starting to fully understand why Dean wants you to keep the witch thing quiet at all costs. There’s no reasoning with crazy. 

Eventually, Gordon falls silent and ends the discussion about Sam. Then his attention drifts past Dean and right toward you.

Shit.

Dean knows what that means and instantly hates it. He’s seen that look before on other hunters. On himself.

Curiosity. Assessment. Evaluation.

The way hunters look at something unusual. Something useful. Something maybe even potentially dangerous. Something that isn’t entirely human in their eyes.

He can’t possibly know, though, right? Gordon’s smart, but he ain’t psychic. He’d probably off himself if he were. 

“So, Dean,” Gordon says casually then. “Who’s your girlfriend here?”

You immediately open your mouth, and Dean already knows what wants to spill out. You want to correct Gordon.

“Actually–” 

“Yup, girlfriend,” Dean quickly cuts you off. Honestly, Gordon provided him with a great cover there. Random girl is harder to explain than girlfriend. The former would probably draw suspicion, and you’re not nearly equipped enough in hunter lore to pass some hunter test. “Still fresh. Showing her the ropes a little. Just killed her first ghost back in Sleepy Hollow. Was a real head scratcher.”

You narrow your eyes and shoot him a rather bewildered look but luckily don’t argue against it. Dean assumes you’re smart enough to figure out what he’s doing. 

Gordon smirks at that and seems to buy it for now.

“You jealous, Gordy?”

But Gordon barely even acknowledges that and decides to ignore him, focusing back on you. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Dean sees the hesitation in your eyes. You’re probably trying to figure out if going by a fake name is smarter than giving him your real one.

C’mon, you know this one. Fake name. Always go with fake.

“Uh… Sabrina,” you answer with a tiny swallow, which could be chalked off to nerves and not necessarily lying. 

Good girl. 

Dean’s satisfied with that answer, and Gordon seems to accept it as well. 

The crazy hunter nods thoughtfully. “Sabrina,” he repeats and then gifts you an all-too harmless smile. “Does that come with a last name?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly because he can already guess where your mind’s wandering.

Please don’t say Spellman. Please. For the love of fucking God…

Dean can see it in your eyes – the tiny bit of panic, the scrambling. But then you seem to catch yourself and pivot. 

“Uhm, Milano.”

Dean exhales a little breath of relief, although he’s noting to have a conversation with you later about that one, where you’re probably going to point out again that he uses rock band names himself. He’s going to tell you it’s a different context, though. Gordon’s smarter than most run-of-the-mill cops. 

It’s good enough for now, however.

But then, you keep talking, which is less good, and Dean can tell your nerves are completely shot.

“Yeah, uh, my dad’s Italian,” you add. “From Sicily, actually.”

Jesus fucking Christ, stop talking. 

Dean already doesn’t like where this is going.

“He’s got ties to the Cosa Nostra, too,” you continue. “So, you know, you better let me and my boyfriend here go unless you wanna wake up with a bloody horse head in your bed.”

Silence follows. Long silence.

Dean stares at the floor and wants to blow a raspberry. Admittedly, he can’t fault you for trying, but he definitely needs to have a chat with you about that if the two of you ever get out of this one alive. He probably should even train you.

Yeah, he definitely needs to train you. 

Gordon is studying you, but mostly because he honestly seems to try to decide whether that was the worst lie he’s ever heard in his life.

The real worrying part about this whole thing, though, is that you seem proud of it.

Luckily, Gordon eventually snorts and finds it more amusing than anything else.

His eyes find Dean’s. “Oh, I can see why you like her,” he says, chuckling. But then the smile changes, ringing every alarm bell in Dean’s head. “I’m sure she’ll be a great comfort to you once Sammy’s gone. Gonna make things easier.”

And there it is – the thing Dean hates most about Gordon.

Not the violence. Not the obsession. Not even the insanity.

It’s the way Gordon reduces people and turns them into categories.

Weapons. Threats. Collateral damage.

Dean’s little brother becomes a monster before he’s done anything wrong. You become a replacement. A consolation prize.

And suddenly, Dean finds himself angrier than he’s been all day. Both you and Sam deserve better than that, and Gordon will not hurt either of you if Dean’s still got something to say about it. 

Gordon then turns his back and returns to his work of rigging this place with traps and explosives from head to toe, and Dean recognizes the short window of opportunity. 

His eyes drop to the floor and to a cluster of vines growing through a crack in the rotting wood. Then they land on you. When you meet his gaze, he motions silently with his chin toward them, and you understand what he wants you to do in an instant.

Well, team work does make the dream work, huh? Guess the two of you do make a good team, after all. Who would’ve thought?

For the first time since the rooftop, Dean then gives you the slightest nod.

Go ahead. Now.

Dean then watches your shoulders go rigid beneath the ropes, watches your focus sharpen. To anyone else, it probably wouldn’t look like much – just a girl sitting in a chair.

Dean knows better by now, though, and he’s pretty sure the two of you are not getting a second chance at escape if this little plan fails.

The vines near the floorboards then tremble and stretch the tiniest bit, barely noticeable from afar. It’s easy to miss, and that’s exactly what Dean’s counting on. 

But then the crack running through the rotting wood widens another fraction of an inch. And another. And all of a sudden, the old floorboards let out a loud, splintering creak.

Gordon freezes, head turning slowly toward the two of you. 

Shit.

There’s no confusion on his face, only alert. Gordon’s like a predator who heard something move in the tall grass. Dean feels the opportunity slipping further and further away and starts to worry. If Gordon figures out it’s your doing–

Just in that moment, another creak causes Gordon’s eyes to drop to the floor, then to the vines, and then finally to you.

Everything happens very fast after that.

The realization arrives first. Then comes the creepy smile.

“Well now,” Gordon murmurs, causing Dean’s stomach to sink like a stone.

The hunter moves before either of you can react. One second, he’s standing near the workbench, and in the next, he’s crouched beside your chair. A flash of silver appears in his hand just as fast, and Dean barely registers the syringe before Gordon drives it into your neck.

“What the hell are you doing?!” The words tear out of Dean like a bullet, the chair lurching under him as he throws himself forward and fights tooth and nail against the ropes.

You gasp, the vines stop moving, and for one single heartbeat, confusion flashes across your face before your eyes unfocus and close, your body slumping against the chair and the restraints around.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Dean demands angrily, the only hope that you’re still somewhat alive being the ticking pulse he registers in your throat. It’s weak, though. 

Gordon simply pulls the empty syringe free. “Relax,” he assures Dean, but the latter only wants to connect his fist with Gordon’s jaw. “Just a little ketamine, Dean. She’ll be just fine. Promise. I have no intention of hurting her.”

Honestly, that slightly surprises Dean the most so far. 

His eyes drift to you again, watching your chest rise and fall. You still seem to be breathing. Thank God. Gordon better hopes it stays that way, or he won’t make it out of that cabin alive. 

But the relief of you still being alive only lasts a moment, because Gordon’s attention stubbornly remains fixed on you for some reason. The hunter begins to study you again with a look Dean already fucking hates.

Slowly, Gordon then reaches forward and moves the collar of your shirt aside a tiny inch, and Dean suddenly realizes what the hunter’s looking for. His entire body goes rigid. 

No. No, no, no…

Dean knows what’s there and what Gordon will surely find – the Berkano mark sits exposed against your skin, right above your collarbone.

Gordon smiles broadly. “Well, well…” He whistles lowly. “What do we have here?”

Fuck.

How the hell did Gordon even know it would be there? Who the hell told him that?

The hunter crouches lower, studying the mark with open fascination now. Dean wants to rip free from his confines and tear crazy Gordon’s throat out with his bare teeth. 

The look on Gordon’s face isn’t one of a man seeing another person. It’s the look of a collector finding something rare.

“Look at that.” Gordon’s smile widens. “A Berkano witch. Seems like you and Sammy got yourselves a witch as a pet, huh? Gotta be the last one, too. According to my research, they all went extinct in the mid nineties.”

Pet.

Dean’s jaw clenches fucking hard enough to hurt.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Gordon,” he growls. “She ain’t a witch, alright?”

Gordon glances toward the vines protruding through the floorboards, then back at Dean, cocking an eyebrow. “No? Again, how stupid do you think I am, Dean?”

Honestly? Pretty damn stupid, he wants to answer, but he wisely keeps that thought to himself for once.

Gordon continues studying the mark. “Don’t worry. Not gonna hurt her.”

Dean lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t exactly trust your bedside manner.”

“Oh no, heard a lot about them,” Gordon shares, shaking his head. “Been helping hunters for centuries. Millennia, even. She could be useful. Especially with a demon war on the horizon.”

There it is.

Useful.

It’s a word, which Dean has slowly come to hate the most.

To Gordon, you’re not a girl or a person or probably even human. You’re useful – like a knife, a trap, or a gun. 

Dean feels something nauseating twist inside his chest as a memory surfaces – a torn journal page and his father’s handwriting.

Asset.

At the time, Dean hadn’t thought much about it. Now, the memory makes him feel fucking sick to his stomach.

Because Gordon’s looking at you the exact same way his father once did to – as something, as potential, as a resource, as a goddamn solution to a problem.

A sacrifice. 

Dean’s eyes drift to your unconscious form. Toward the loose strand of hair stuck across your cheek. Toward the steady rise and fall of your breathing. Toward the girl who used to sit with him by the pond. Toward the woman who also spent an hour sitting beside him in the Impala while he practically fell apart.

And suddenly, the entire idea feels painfully fucking wrong.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Dean says and catches Gordon’s eyes. “She’s a rookie. Trust me. She’s not as powerful as you think she is.”

It’s mostly a lie, because Dean’s already seen what you can do – rookie or not. But Dean’s also willing to lie all damn day if it keeps Gordon away from you.

“Just let her go, alright?” 

“We’ll see,” Gordon says simply and straightens. “I’m sure there’s a way to unlock that potential. If demons can do it with kids like Sammy, why shouldn’t we? Level the playing field a little.”

Gordon doesn't see Sam. He sees a dangerous weapon pointed in the wrong direction. And apparently, he doesn’t see you either. You’re just another weapon as well – but one that’s pointed the right way.

That fact makes Dean more furious than he ever thought possible because Gordon’s fucking wrong – about both of you.

Maybe a few months ago, Dean would’ve understood it. Hell, maybe a few months ago, he would’ve agreed. Back when he’d pointed a gun at a terrified witch in Salem because it was easier than asking questions. Back when monsters were monsters, witches were witches, and everything fit neatly into categories.

Not anymore.

Now when Dean looks at you, he doesn’t see a weapon. Doesn’t see a threat. Doesn’t see a bloodline. Doesn’t see some magical answer to the demon problem.

He just sees you – just as stubborn as you’re smart. Super fucking annoying. Entirely too willing to follow him into danger. And most importantly, human.

It all then lands with a startling clarity. And once it does, Dean can’t imagine ever seeing you any other way again.

The rest then happens fast.

Luckily, Sam finally bursts through the door only a few minutes later. And honestly, Dean’s never been so damn happy to see his little brother’s giant forehead in his entire life (not that he’d ever admit that out loud).

Sam then navigates Gordon’s little set of death traps exactly the way Dean knew he would – careful, methodical, and thinking three steps ahead while Gordon’s busy congratulating himself on being the smartest guy in the room.

Turns out Sam Winchester is fucking smarter. Who would’ve guessed? Well, clearly not Gordon.

Take that, asshole.

The fight then doesn’t last nearly as long as Gordon probably imagined it would. The guy spends so much time obsessing over what Sam might become that he completely underestimates who Sam already is.

Big fucking mistake.

A few minutes later, Gordon is unconscious, the traps are disabled, and Dean is finally free of the ropes cutting into his wrists.

The first thing he does isn’t check himself, however. 

It’s you. Of course it is.

Dean crosses the room in three strides and drops beside your chair. “Hey.”

Nothing.

You remain exactly where Gordon left you, head slumped slightly to one side, still deep under whatever cocktail he shoved into your neck.

“What’d he give her?” Sam asks behind him. 

“Ketamine.”

“She seems okay, though, Dean,” Sam notes, and Dean nods. “Her breathing’s steady. I can carry her out.”

“No, uh–” Dean quickly shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

He then checks your pulse once again just to be sure before he scoops you into his arms and carries you out of that damn cabin, Sam following closely behind and checking over his shoulder if Gordon follows. The adrenaline starts bleeding out of Dean’s system after that, leaving behind something heavier – a mix of exhaustion and relief. 

It’s been one long, crazy fucking day. And yet, somehow, after all of it, Sam is still Sam. You’re still you. Neither of you are monsters. Neither of you are weapons. Neither of you are problems that need solving.

The two of you are just people – people Dean would very much like to keep alive.

Funny how simple that feels now.

His mind drifts back to Gordon. About that asshole insisting that the great John Winchester would’ve done what needed to be done, saying Dean wasn’t the man his father was.

And for the first fucking time in his life, the thought doesn’t sting. Not even a little. If being the man John Winchester was means looking at Sam and seeing a monster before a brother, if it means looking at you and seeing a weapon before a person, then maybe Dean’s perfectly happy not being that kind of man.

Maybe that’s one fucking thing he’s finally getting right.

When Gordon then runs out of the cabin screaming and shooting like a maniac, the sirens aren’t far behind, echoing through the quiet night – another one of his little brother’s genius plans.

The cops then arrive, Gordon gets hauled away, and Dean couldn’t care less.

Good riddance.

By the time the cops slam the cuffs on Gordon, Dean’s already carefully and safely placing you in Baby’s backseat. Nothing or no one can hurt you there. He even makes sure your head doesn’t bump the doorframe and skillfully ignores Sam’s little looks. 

The brothers then slide into the front, each taking their rightful place and exchange a quick look. No words needed.

Sam’s alive. You’re alive. Dean’s alive. And after today, that’s more than enough.

Peoria, Illinois

The drive to Illinois is quiet. It’s the sort of silence that settles after a storm finally runs out of things to destroy.

Dean spends most of it with one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other presses his phone against his ear, chewing Ellen’s head off at the end of the other line before she takes his own head off right back.

Apparently, Gordon really did have connections at the Roadhouse, but Dean believes Ellen when she tells him it wasn’t her, Ash, or even Jo, no matter how angry the young blonde currently is at the brothers or anything associated with the Winchester name – also courtesy of their father. 

Honestly, Dean can’t even blame her. He’s starting to realize John Winchester screwed up more than he ever thought possible. 

He’s heard phrases like don’t meet your heroes or parents are just people too before, but they kind of hit differently now that they apply to him, don’t they?

Every so often, Dean’s eyes then drift to the backseat, where you’re still blissfully knocked out and sleeping off that little drug dose. Gordon’s definitely hit you good, and Dean can’t help but hope that someone’s hopefully repaying the favor when Gordon rots the next few years in jail. 

Meanwhile, Sam fills him in on everything he learned from Ava, the brunette chick and fellow psychic kid, before Gordon crashed the party. About Scott, another psychic Gordon apparently murdered. About Ava’s engagement Dean doesn’t take too seriously. About the warning vision she had that actually saved Sam’s life and Dean’s and yours in the process.

All in all, Ava seems like another psychic kid, desperately wanting to pretend life is painfully ordinary. Dean can only understand that all too well. 

Unfortunately, normal stopped being an option for any of them a long damn time ago.

A few hours later, the lights of Peoria then finally appear. After Sam couldn’t reach her, he wanted to check up on her, and Dean naturally obliged. 

The neighborhood surrounding Ava’s house is dark and quiet when Dean pulls Baby to the curb. The engine rumbles to a halt softly beneath them as Sam’s already reaching for the door.

“I’m gonna check inside,” his little brother says and jumps out of the car. 

Dean nods, not moving an inch, his gaze flicking to you in the backseat only once. It’s enough to make Sam understand he won’t leave you here alone. 

Then Sam is gone, the passenger door slams shut, and the sound echoes through the Impala loud enough to elicit a groggy groan from the backseat. 

Dean immediately straightens and turns halfway back to meet a set of very confused and weary eyes.

Well, look who’s back among the living.

“Morning, Sabrina.” 

He grins at you. You squint at him.

“It's night,” you astutely notice as you blink outside the windows and at the one glowing light in the front. 

“Details.” Dean shrugs and gives you a wink. 

You stare at him for another second before your eyes swerve around the interior, then drift out the windshield at the unfamiliar neighborhood. Then they land back on him.

“What the hell happened?” you ask, still clearly a little dazed. 

Dean can’t help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Depends.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Depends on what?”

“How much do you remember?”

You frown. “Rooftop.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kidnapping.”

“Yep.”

“Creepy hunter with a syringe.”

Dean clicks his tongue and gifts you a smile. “Bingo.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Dean watches you gather your bearings one painfully slow piece at a time. 

“What the hell was in that syringe?” you ask, rubbing your aching temples. 

“Little dose of ketamine. Knocked you out good for a while there.”

Your brows draw together above your nose, groaning. “Man, Special K feels nothing like Placebo advertised.”

Dean laughs before he can stop himself, a short bark of amusement escaping into the quiet night.

“Yeah, well, I think the fun dosage is a little lower than what Gordon gave you.”

“Noted,” you grunt, unamused. “What happened to the douche? You guys kill him? ‘Cause no judgment from me here.”

“Oh, really?” Dean teasingly lifts an eyebrow. “Just like that, huh?”

“Hey, you wake up with the worst hangover of your life and then we’ll talk,” you scoff bitterly.

“Fair enough.” Dean chuckles a little. “But no, we didn’t kill him, though, admittedly, both me and Sammy wanted to.”

“Man, the one time I need you to make use of that twitchy trigger finger, and you chicken out,” you mutter wryly. 

Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, forgive me.”

“So, what happened then? Where’s Gordon now? Florida? ‘Cause that’s the second worst place I can think of after death,” you quip. 

“Close enough,” Dean chuckles. “He’s in jail. Gonna be there for a while.”

“Huh,” you breathe, surprised, and then give a small shrug. “Good enough, I guess.”

“Glad you approve.”

As the peaceful quiet settles back in the car, Dean admittedly feels lighter again than he has all damn day. Maybe because you’re awake and well. Maybe because Gordon’s gone. Maybe because Sam’s alive.

But whatever the reason, his chest doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

“Where are we anyway?” you ask then, glancing out the windshield. “Where’s Sam? Please tell me he didn’t run away again.”

Dean snorts a little. “No, uh, Sam’s still here. Just checking in on the brunette chick,” he explains. “We’re actually in Peoria, Illinois.”

That earns him another confused look before Dean jerks his thumb toward Ava’s house.

“Turns out Sammy’s little date was another psychic kid,” he adds. “Gets visions, too. He couldn’t get a hold of her earlier, so Sam wanted to check up on her.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly and then fall quiet again.

For a moment, Dean thinks that’s the end of it, but your mouth opens again a few heartbeats later. 

“I heard some of it, you know?” you say, catching him by surprise. 

“Hm?” Dean looks back at you, not quite following.

Your gaze remains fixed on the dashboard when you respond. “Back at the cabin. With Gordon…” 

His stomach sinks slightly. Apparently, the ketamine didn’t knock you out as thoroughly as Gordon advertised. Dude can’t even do that right. 

“I was drifting in and out,” you share softly. “I heard Gordon talking… and you.” You pause for a moment, not meeting his eyes. “I heard you trying to convince him I wasn’t a witch.”

Ah, that.

Dean instantly looks away and turns back to face the windshield. He truthfully doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that information. But for some reason, you don’t force him to act on or even say anything.

“Thanks,” is all you say. 

Dean shrugs as casually as possible. “It’s nothing. Just wanted to make sure Gordon doesn’t get any damn ideas and come after you. Not a big deal.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply simply, but he can see the tiny knowing smile in the mirror. You clearly don't believe him even for a second.

Unfortunately, you are definitely correct about that assumption.

Before either of you can continue, however, the front door of Ava’s house bursts open again. Sam strolls though it, and one single look at his face immediately wipes the remaining humor out of the car.

Sam’s clearly distressed, and Dean’s stomach drops at the sight. Jesus Christ, what now? He really can’t catch a break, huh? The universe is clearly conspiring against him at this point. 

The passenger door then opens as well, and Sam swiftly slides inside.

“What happened?” Dean asks before Sam even manages to catch a breath. 

Sam stares at a glistening ring between his fingers. An engagement ring. 

Uh-oh. Not good. Definitely not good.

“Ava’s fiancé is dead,” Sam says. “It’s a damn blood bath in there.”

“What?!” You lean forward in shock, looking between them. 

Sam blinks at you for a second, noticing you’re suddenly awake but feeling too upset to comment on it. 

He just nods. “Ava’s gone, too. I think the demon took her, Dean. I found sulfur.”

“Crap,” Dean mutters, slumping back into the seat. 

They can never get a win, can they? Not for long, at least. 

Sam then shakes his head, swallowing, the frustration and anger rolling off him in tidal waves. “I need answers, Dean,” he announces, causing Dean already to wince internally. “We need to find out what the demon’s plans are. Once and for all.”

Dean wants to sigh. It’s same damn thing they’ve been circling all day. 

Answers. More answers. Always answers.

Dean feels exhaustion deep in his bones, but he knows Sam’s right. They finally need to get ahead of this. They can’t walk into the storm blindly. Still, Dean wishes he could get a few hours of rest without worrying. Maybe even a weekend. 

“I agree,” you chime in from the backseat, drawing both brothers’ attention to you. You bite your lip slightly when you meet Dean’s surprised look, but there’s something gleaming in your gaze that he can’t quite place. “The attic in Sugar Hill is full of lore stuff, mostly about demons, spells, everything you can possibly imagine… And I honestly only understand half of it. I could use some help going through it. Maybe we find some answers there. We still don’t even know what the ritual entails, and it’s our best lead so far to kill that demon.”

“You sure about this?” Sam checks carefully, but Dean can already see the eagerness shimmering in his hazel eyes. 

And he suddenly also realizes your plan – occupying his little brother enough to give him a break. Books are the kid’s kryptonite, after all. It’s a win-win for everyone. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you reply softly, but Dean registers a sly little glimmer in your gaze. “Why don’t you guys come with me? Got enough bedrooms. You can stay as long as you’d like. I really could use the help.”

“That’d be great. Thanks,” Sam says keenly and barely takes a breath between the words, already glancing at Dean with that familiar puppy look in his eyes. “You wanna go?”

Dean shrugs casually, trying to sell it properly. “Guess I don’t have a choice, huh? Gotta keep looking out for you.”

Sam grins happily. “No, I guess you don’t,” he replies and then gives you a determined nod. “Alright, count us in.”

“Great, thanks,” you say with a smile, but it’s not exactly aimed at Sam, and Dean can tell. 

It’s meant for him. 

Dean meets your eyes and holds your gaze, both of you recognizing the truth. 

This isn’t just for Sam. It’s a solution that gives his little brother answers to chase and Dean room to finally breathe.

You know it. He knows it. But neither of you says it because saying it out loud would ruin the whole damn thing.

Dean gratefully returns your smile for the briefest second before starting the engine, the next destination finally sounding better than he could’ve ever imagined – a place where he’d admittedly never been happier his entire life. 

The sad and truly unfortunate part is, though, that you don’t even have the faintest clue what that does to him.

▶️ Chapter 8: Lost in the Memory – August 21

Alrighty, you guys, how did you enjoy this little reimagining of a familiar episode and plot? Dean surely showed some growth and major character growth here, and I absolutely loved writing every second of it. Reader's pov also cracks me up 😂 As you can see, Dean's already catching some real feels and slowly realizes he can't outrun them anymore. As for reader, I think she's getting there as well. What do you think? 😉

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“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, clearing the annoying lump in his throat. “Pancakes are almost done. Eggs are scrambled. Hash browns are crisping. Don’t touch the bacon again. It’s still hot.”

You only hum appreciatively and lean in again, stealing one more piece anyway because ignoring his orders is apparently a newfound sport for you, your fingers brushing his as you pull back. The brief touch sends white-hot flames racing up his arm. 

Dean swallows harshly, snapping himself out of it. Get it together, idiot.

You, on the other hand, hop onto the counter beside the stove, swinging your bare legs, completely unaware of the war he’s waging in his own head. “You really went all out, huh? What’s the occasion? Trying to impress the resident witch? I didn’t even think you could cook like that.”

The teasing lilt in your voice does fucking dangerous things to him. He then can’t help but picture pulling you off that counter, tasting the salt of bacon on your lips, and tangling his fingers in your messy hair. He shuts the thought down even faster than it came, flipping a pancake with more force than necessary.

What the fuck happened to him? How did he get here? Why can’t he get all these weird images of you out of his goddamn head?

“Just figured we could use a decent meal for once,” Dean mutters in response. “Before Sammy buries himself alive in those books again. Kid forgets food exists when he’s on a roll. Still wondering how he survived college without starving.”

You laugh softly, and he annoyingly realizes he likes making you laugh. He likes the way you look at him when you do. He likes–

“Sam!” Dean calls suddenly, deep voice way louder than probably needed. He’s pretty sure the next neighbor several miles away heard him. Even you flinch at the volume. “Get your ass down here before it gets cold!”

You lift an eyebrow in amusement, licking your lips. “Desperate for backup already?”

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