"Driver picks the music..."

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

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

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

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“New cowboy?” he asks.

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

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

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

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

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

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

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

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

Stubborn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

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

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

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

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

Well, formerly red flannel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

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

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

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

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

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

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

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

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

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

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

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

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

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

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

“You lived.”

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

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

Next Time:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

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

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

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“New cowboy?” he asks.

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

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

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

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

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

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

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

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

Stubborn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

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

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

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

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

Well, formerly red flannel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

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

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

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

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

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

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

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

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

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

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

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

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

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

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

“You lived.”

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

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

Next Time:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

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

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

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“New cowboy?” he asks.

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

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

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

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

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

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

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

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

Stubborn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

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

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

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

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

Well, formerly red flannel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

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

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

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

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

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

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

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

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

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

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

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

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

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

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

“You lived.”

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

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

Next Time:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

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

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

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“New cowboy?” he asks.

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

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

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello? Yes, sir, just got here a few hours ago.” Brady’s brows raise in surprise as he listens. “Oh really?”

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Okay, but we’re meant to be at the Winchester Ranch tomorrow—”

Brady pauses, cut off by the clipped voice on the line. You can’t hear very well, but you don’t have to. You heart begins to sink.

By the time Brady hangs up, looking at you with more sincere apology, you already know what’s coming.

“Dick arranged for some contractors to come out to the new development tomorrow,” he says. “I need to be there to oversee operations.”

“They can’t come out the day after tomorrow? Today’s Wednesday,” you say.

“The builder has other appointments on Friday,” Brady says. “Tomorrow’s all they have open, and we’re scoping out the entire plot of land.”

“Watch out for bears,” you say wryly. But the longer the sting of this settles inside you, the more hurt you feel. “So you’re really not coming with me to my father’s funeral?”

Brady steps in closer and grasps your arms, trying to placate you with comfort you’re too upset to accept.

“I’m sorry. You fucking know how Dick is, and my dad’s letting him test me with this job. This is the first time they’ve let me take point on a build. This needs to go well,” he reminds you, as if he hasn’t been telling you the same thing for the past few months. “And that means we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to break ground next month.”

“Fine,” you say, but you both know it’s anything but when you shrug out of his hold.

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

Jack Kline pulls his old pick-up truck to the ranch at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Dean’s already coming out of the barn after helping Cas and Benny feed and water the horses.

Dean sees Jack coming and directs him where to park, then shows him to the bunkhouse—a small building with faded white paint that’s chipping near the gutter, but the W brand is bolted to the east side facing the rising sun, the black wrought iron shining. The men make their way to on the gravel path that cuts through the grass.

“If the main house is up the hill, then who lives there?” Jack asks, pointing at the cabin just west of the approaching bunkhouse.

“The Foreman. He wrangles the men after I tell them what to wrangle,” Dean says. “Most of the guys are already out feeding the animals, but today’s, uh, a bit different. We have a funeral today out here on the ranch.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who passed away?”

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

He doesn’t give the kid any more information as he opens the door to the bunkhouse. He briefly points out the kitchen and shallow closet where the guys always keep the next case of beer handy, plus the living room area with a couch big enough for the narrow space, and a TV mounted on the wall. A six-seater round table separates the two rooms, but there’s also a small pool table in the far corner. Beyond that is the next room, where the bunks are.

Jack half expected literal bunk beds, but these are more like dorm room beds pushed against the wall, with space underneath and in between for storage. 

Only Walt and Kevin are still inside the bunkhouse, finishing up in the communal bathroom. The rest of the ranch hands have finished breakfast and are trying to get through the morning duties quickly, so they can clean up and help get things ready for all the guests coming to the ranch by 11:00 a.m.

When Dean introduces Jack, Kevin is the one who shakes the young man’s hand.

“All right, guys, you know what you need to do. Help Jack get situated too,” Dean says.

Walt gives him a nod. After the door swings shut behind Dean, Jack brings his duffel over to the bunks. He goes over to the closest one that looks free and sets his bag on it. After unzipping it, the first thing he takes out is his hat.

Walt grabs his Stetson off the wall and glances at the brown felt in Jack’s hands.

“What kinda fucking hat is that supposed to be?” Walt asks. He’s taller and broader than Jack, tanned and toned from long days under the sun.

Jack glances down at the flat, rounded hat his mom got him for his high school play in A Streetcar Named Desire.

“Um, it’s the only one I had,” he says.

Walt snorts. “Looks like a fucking fedora. Gonna give the cows a tap dance before you tickle their teats?”

He walks out of the bunkhouse, leaving Jack embarrassed and confused. 

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

Kevin grins in amusement. “Dude, anything would be better than that.”

Over in the main house, Sam has a year’s worth of data reports and financial documents splayed out across the head of the large dining table of polished rosewood. The spread lies between his father’s coffee mug and a small ashtray for the bud of last night’s cigar, but John has very little interest in what all those pages mean.

He sits leaning on one elbow, his hand half covering his salt and pepper beard as his younger son continues to prove his point.

“Just 30%,” Sam says. “After the rough winter we had last year, and the dry as hell summer we’re going through now, selling off 30% percent of the ranch will help make sure we actually survive next year, let alone make a profit.”

“We’ll find another way, son,” John says.

Stubborn.

“There is no other way. I’ve been telling you for three years,” Sam says. His frustration bleeds into not only his tone, but the curl of his fist on the table. “Back then, we actually had a good offer on the table. We could’ve leased out Pastures 3 and 4 to the Baileys. You do realize that property taxes have raised by 13%, not including the $55,000 tax exemption that expired two years ago.”

John doesn’t offer a rebuttal. He senses there’s more to this little tirade.

“That’s beside the fact that our operating costs have only increased. Dean’s cut as many corners as he can, but we’re barely breaking even, Dad,” Sam says.

“I’m sorry, son, I’m not selling,” John says. He glances out the window to the very land his father, grandfather, and grand uncles worked and cared for over damn near a century and half. “Your grandfather told me. Not an inch, son. Don’t let them take even an inch. Because once you start carving up the bird, everyone wants a piece of that bitch.”

Sam breathes a tense sigh. He’s heard that line his whole damn life.

“What other solutions do we have?” John asks.

Sam shakes his head as he runs through the spreadsheet on his laptop.

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

Sam rubs his chin in thought, knowing Dean won’t like what he’s about to suggest. He can already hear the gravelly bitching.

The job’s fucking hard enough without being even more short-handed.

But something’s gotta give. Sam knows. He’s known for years. Being the ranch’s accountant as well as its lawyer isn’t for the weak, and neither his father nor his brother makes it any easier.

“Well, keep Jack. He’s young and his salary is cheap, but we may have to let go of Walt and Carter…maybe even Benny.” 

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “Those are seasoned guys. As it is, we’re up to our balls wading in the work.”

The older man taps his fingers on the table. To his credit, his days on the ranch are almost as long and hard as Dean’s are, even though John gave him the managerial reins a few years ago.

“You’re thinking like a businessman and a lawyer,” John says, “but you also need to understand this place as a rancher too.”

“I do understand. But it’s a good thing for you that I’m not a rancher, because I see the fact that we’re not adapting. We’re failing. Ranches and farms all over the country are failing,” Sam says. “Hell, Grandpa Samuel sold the Campbell Ranch and moved to North Carolina! Already the land developers are coming in. They’re putting up banners all around the land. It’s a build site now.”

“A fucking shame,” John says. His voice is laden with regret that he couldn’t afford to help his in-laws. “Your mother must be turning in her grave.”

The mention of Mary Winchester always strikes a solemn note in the room. Today is no exception.

After a moment, Sam considers the email in his inbox from just last night. There’s a voicemail waiting for him on his cell too.

“We got a similar offer,” Sam says. “From the developer, Roman & Weiss Group. Pastures 3 through 6 border their land on the west, by the river. If we sell even just that piece, they’re willing to pay double what it’s worth. If we sell the entire ranch, they’ll cover the closing costs.” 

John quirks a humorless smile and finally pushes away from the table. 

“I’m burying my old friend today,” he says. “So, you can tell that developer where they can stick their fucking offer.”

Every mile of hot asphalt and wheat grass that tears by is an increasing increment of nostalgia. Every mile away from Salida brings you closer to distant mountains, as well as the Winchester Ranch.

You drive yourself there in a rental car. Within a half hour, you’re pulling up under the shade of Gambel oaks and aspen trees on the paved driveway. Wide, gray stones form a path up to the front door, not easy to navigate in your heels. Once you make it to the porch, you take a steadying breath, adjust the skirt of your dress and your hair, and take off your sunglasses before you knock.

Sam answers the door. He smiles gently at you, giving you a hug that feels like home. You hug him back, fighting the sting of tears in your eyes. He looks good in a black suit and thin pinstripe tie.

“God, you’re not that skinny kid anymore,” you laugh as you blink past that sting. “And you’re almost as tall as the door! Jesus.”

Sam just laughs. “Yeah, well, you grew up too. You look great.”

You smile, though you bite your lip when he gestures at the ring on your left hand with a surprised, raised brow.

“Somehow you forgot to mention that,” he says, with a quirking grin. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “It’s um…new. He asked me last month.”

“Good guy?” Sam asks, as he welcomes you inside the house.

You’re still shouldering some upset over last night, and the fact that your fiancé couldn’t be here to brace you through this day, in this place. Even so, you manage to smile at the question.

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” you admit.

But the thought dies as you take in the familiar walls of the Winchester family home. Wood panels meet tasteful crème and earthy, rustic accents. Your gaze follows the wind of the staircase, up to the second floor where you take in the sight of a new rod iron chandelier casting a warm glow down to the ground floor.

What draws your eye next is the family picture hanging in the living room. Mary was still alive there, beautiful and smiling with baby Sam in her arms. Dean was only four, standing beside her with John’s hand on his shoulder. If you remember right, the break-in happened just a few months after that picture was taken.

John’s voice almost startles you when he comes in from down the hall. You remember that his office is back there, across from the kitchen. He also wears a black suit with his scuffed cowboy boots, a little less refined than Sam, but bringing an undeniable presence into the room.

You tense on instinct, more guarded with the Winchester patriarch.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, giving you a nod.

“It has,” you agree, though the pleasantries end there.

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

“Thank you for doing all the arrangements for my father, even the cremation,” you say to both men, as you begin to take out your phone from where it’s lodged in your clutch purse. “What do I owe you?”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. We take care of our own.”

Your mouth opens, but it closes shortly after. You think he meant it to be kind, but you can’t help but think there’s something back-handed underneath.

The rough budge of a back door disrupts not only your thoughts, but remakes the tension in the room, like holding an inevitable breath. Heavy boots clomp into the living room and soon reveal a man in red flannel and jeans.

Well, formerly red flannel.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks, his brows furrowed as he leans away from the rancid funk his brother just brought in.

Dean stops short when he notices you standing between his father and brother like the fox that got caught in the hen house. A fox who smells like French perfume and grew into her curves.

Meanwhile, Dean wipes at the mud on his cheek, inspects his fingers with a grimace, then wipes them on his already soiled jeans.

“A goddamn heifer kindly dragged me through her own shit for trying to untangle her from a fence,” he says.

You cover your nose with a look of disgust. “Definitely smells like it.”

Dean shoots you a wry glance, but he allows himself to take a longer look at you then—from your high heels, black dress, and that little purse under your arm, to your red lipstick, and lastly, the fat, shining ring on your finger. 

“Congratulations,” he says placidly, gesturing at your hand. 

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

You want to take satisfaction in his reaction, but you can’t really tell what the hell he’s thinking. You’re struggling to reconcile the fact that this is really Dean Winchester. Last time you saw him, you were just 18 years old. He was barely 20, clean shaven and only slightly less wiry than his younger brother.

Of course, 12 years is a long time. He’s taller, broader, the cut of his jaw dusted with roguish stubble, his voice steeped in bourbon and molasses. His hair is a little darker too, but that could also be the…mud. 

Dean stabs a thumb toward the driveway. “That your man’s Mercedes out front?” 

“It’s a rental,” you say. Though you can’t help but add, “Brady drives a Lexus.” 

“Brady, huh?” Dean nods in amusement. “And what does Mr. Lexus do?” 

“He’s a lawyer,” you say, trying to rein in your annoyance. 

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snip.

Even Sam gets slightly offended at that. He shoots his brother a warning look, one that Dean ignores.

“I just think it’s interesting that the guy’s not here with you at your dad’s funeral,” he remarks. Then he shrugs. “Then again, you wouldn’t even know about what happened to Bobby if it weren’t for Sam ringing you up. You know what, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have interrupted your life. Clearly you’ve got more important things going on, since I doubt you’ve spoken to the man in…what, a few years? Ten? Stop me when I hit the number.”

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

John gives his eldest a firm look, especially as he sees you bubbling with outrage. But unlike Dean, you have some fucking decorum. You try to remind yourself that you’re a guest here, even if one of the residents is still a Grade A: Asshole.

“You know what, maybe I’d take that little zinger more seriously if you weren’t covered in literal shit, cowboy,” you retort. 

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, at least this is all natural. You stink like L.A.” 

He actually savors that wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on your face as he heads upstairs to his room, tracking mud and wet grass all the while. His first stop is the shower. 

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sam says to you.

“On a day like today, he should know better,” John adds.

Your lips press into a hard line, otherwise you’re not sure what might escape. 

“You want something to drink before we head down to the field?” Sam asks. 

He’s the only man in his family who knows how to be a good host, it seems.

“A glass of wine would be good,” you say tightly. 

“Ah…” Sam pauses, sharing a look with his father.

“We’ve got beer and hard liquor, sweetheart. That’s about it,” John says.

You nearly roll your eyes. You anticipated this—the little digs, their silent judgement, maybe even their laughter. Because driving a nice car and asking for a glass of wine is so damn laughable around here.

“Water then, please,” you snap. “Sparkling if you have it, or a bottle. Not the tap water these cowboys wash their asses with.”

You can’t stand this house, or this town. You resolve to at least break free of this room. Your heels clack loudly all the way back to the front door.

Dean hears the slam all the way from his room upstairs.

Sam steels himself before he follows you outside. He finds you on the porch, with an agitated set to your frame as you pace back and forth with your hands on your hips. You pause when you notice him, but you don’t even know what to say to him. You’ve never smoked in your life, and yet, you suddenly crave a cigarette. You blame the whole seeing your ex bit.

“Somehow, that’s better than I saw it going,” Sam remarks.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter.

“I’m glad you did,” Sam says. He hangs out with you against the porch railing, allowing the brief summer breeze to wash a little peace over him. It washes over you too, quelling some of your temper as you stare out to the ranch, the trees, the mountains beyond.

“It even smells the same,” you say, taking in a deeper breath. “Clear. Like earth and rain, even though it’s dry.”

The longer you stand still, the more than Dean’s acidic words corrode through the protective walls you erected in your mind in preparation for this day. Guilt seeps in through the cracks as you glance over at Sam.

“I am sorry we lost touch, you and me. It should’ve been easier when you got to Cali,” you say.

You’d grown up on this ranch since you were seven years old. There was a time that the only friends you knew were the Winchester boys. Until his older brother broke your heart.

A memory pierces through you, a reminder. Thunder rolling overhead, rain soaking through gray flannel as you shut the door in his face…

Maybe you broke his heart too. But you still don’t think you deserve whatever the hell that was in the house.

“I know how hard it was for you, after what happened back then,” Sam says, only half succeeding at pulling you back into the present.

“No,” you say, with a wry tug of your lips. “You really don’t know.” 

He hesitates, but he concedes that with a short nod.

“Well, regardless, it’s good see you, even if this isn’t the only reason you’re here,” he says, eying you knowingly.

Your mouth parts in surprise, but really, you shouldn’t be. You’d had a feeling Brady was working from his phone at dinner last night.

“I got an email from a Brady Weiss. His father’s company wants to buy a portion of our ranch,” Sam says. “I’m assuming that’s your fiancé. I also looked up your LinkedIn. You work for them too.” 

You bite the inside of your lip. Despite what Brady told you about what you should do to further the plan, you hadn’t wanted to bring this up here. However, this is just too perfect of an opportunity.

“Have you talked to John about the offer yet?” you ask.

“He’s never gonna go for it. You know that,” Sam replies, with a sigh of frustration. “No matter what I tell him, he’s stubborn. But he’d definitely never sell to a developer like Roman & Weiss.”

“All we’re aiming to do here is build more homes,” you say. “You know how overcrowded Denver and Colorado Springs are, even Boulder and Breckenridge. Not to mention, the home shortage here is only getting worse.” 

“Roman & Weiss hasn’t made its money in developing affordable housing,” Sam counters. “It’s just another land-grabbing machine. They probably want to turn my grandfather’s century-old farm into luxury condos and hotels—or maybe even another ski resort, if they can get a cut of the national park. I’m frankly surprised you’re part of it. You majored in Environmental Studies.”

“And Business,” you correct. The University of San Diego wasn’t Stanford, but that double major had put you through your paces, and it hadn’t been cheap.

“This is a big opportunity for me, Sam,” you continue, your voice edged with defensiveness. “I want to help build something that will last, but obviously I don’t want people to keep being priced out of their own neighborhoods. That’s why I proposed affordable housing for this build, and they heard me out! They actually respected my proposal, and I’ve worked hard for that respect—not through Brady, but from my own merit. So, I don’t appreciate you or your brother for judging me.”

You wish you could just storm off in a new direction, like back to your car, and back to the hotel. Hell, you’d like to get on a plane and go back to California, where your life and your decisions aren’t being picked apart from all angles.

Instead, you head back inside the house in search of whatever decent refreshment you can find in this place.

Within the hour, John drives you, Sam, and a freshly showered Dean in an ATV all the way to the funeral site. Sam provides the buffer by sitting in between you and Dean, but the ride is silent with tension.

Already there are several cars lined up on the other side of the fence that borders the west side of the ranch. A crowd is congregated among the rows of foldout chairs, near the river that cuts straight through the land. You know it well.

Your sunglasses are in back place, so you’re able to keep your head raised and ignore the stares of faces you recognize, faces you don’t know, and the ones who seem to know who you are, just by whatever gossip has probably been running the rumor mill already. Your parents’ divorce had been the talk of the town in the weeks before you left it. Even though people probably forgot about you while you were gone, they sure remember you now.

You pause when you reach a small plastic table with a framed picture of your father beside his urn.

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

You linger there for a moment, even when you sense Dean pass behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him choose to sit on the edge of the aisle next to his father. You eventually take a seat on the opposite end of the row, next to Sam and the beautiful blonde he introduces to you as his girlfriend, Jess. She offers you a comforting squeeze of your shoulder as well as her condolences.

“You probably don’t remember me, but I was in Sam’s class back in high school,” she says.

That’s when it hits you—a bolt of recognition that makes you smile.

“Jessica Moore! I do remember,” you say, giving her a hug. “We’ll have to catch up later.”

She agrees, then takes her seat on Sam’s other side. You lean toward him and flash a discreet thumbs up.

“Good for you, Sammy,” you tease in a whisper. “I guess the nerd sometimes does get the cheerleader in real life.”

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

You smirk. Payback is fun. “Dude, I saw you run naked into that river on a dare when you were nine. You’ll always be Sammy to me.”

He rolls his eyes, but it ends on a smile.

However, you’re reminded of the gravity of this moment when John stands and moves to the front of the crowd, asking everyone to be seated. He doesn’t need a microphone. His voice travels across the field, somber and deep like the base of Mount Antero framing him from behind.

“I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings or christenings,” John says. He glances at the urn, and at the framed picture beside him. “Never did I think I’d be here, speaking at yours.”

He looks out toward the crowd. “I count these faces, and I know them all. Just like the man we’re here to speak on was known to all of us. To some of you, he was just the town drunk. To many of you, he was the man who’d tow your truck or put on your spare, even while he was chastising you for getting yourself in the ditch to begin with.”

Laughter bubbles in the crowd. You had frowned at the town drunk part, but some people laughed at that too, like it was the truth. You don’t have any memory of your dad being drunk—not in the house, and not when he and the other guys in the bunkhouse went out to the bar. Maybe that part hadn’t started until after you and your mom left Salida.

You’ve never felt like more of an outsider than you do right now.

“To me, he was a friend,” John continues. “A man I could trust. A man I counted on to help me work this land and care for the animals, so we could feed this town and other ones like it. He helped me raise horses, birth breach calves, and do cattle runs across state lines. Bobby Singer was a work horse who did what he did until the day he died, and that kind of end is all that men like us can hope for. We don’t often get the Hallmark ending or the Hollywood blaze of glory. This is what cowboying is today, and what most of America never sees.”

He sighs. “That said, I think he’d appreciate his daughter saying a few words.”

You raise your head at that, surprised and a bit alarmed. You didn’t know you’d be asked to speak. You haven’t prepared anything.

But you know you can’t say no when a hundred pairs of eyes are staring at you and watching your reaction, even Sam. He gives you an encouraging nod and a gentle hand on your back. Your insides tremble with nerves, but you force yourself to stand. Slowly you make your way to the front, where John waits for you. It’s difficult in your heels as they tend to sink into the earth with every step, but he gives you a nod before he reclaims his seat beside Dean.

You clear your throat, trying to find your words. You stare out at all these dusty cowboys, John’s ranch hands, and people from town. You could try to get through this with something brief and a goodbye, Dad, but you have a feeling they'll see right through you.

What's more, you don't really know how you feel until you start talking.

“Many of you know I haven’t been back here in a while,” you say. “My parents divorced when I was eighteen, right before I left for college. My mom…she died four years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. That was the last time I spoke to my dad.”

Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. Your hand comes up to cover your trembling lips, but it can’t stop the overflow. Despite your best efforts, what escapes is the truth.

“I resented him, probably for things that weren’t all his fault. I let that dig a little too deep, I think. He may not have been a perfect man, but he was a good man,” you say, sniffling. Your gaze falls to your folded hands in front of you. “I mean, you all know that, or else all of you wouldn’t be here. But standing here now, there are things I regret. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I regret the time we wasted in between, even though it’s too late to change that. Nothing I say can ever change that, but…I hope he can forgive me.”

When you allow yourself to look up, the only face you see is Dean’s. His gaze locks with yours, and he nods, as if in support.

You don’t know if that's really what it means, but somehow, you’re able to move the rest of your body again. You break from that intense, unknowable forest within his irises, and you try to make it back to your seat. Your hands shake with so much more than nerves.

Your heel wobbles in a patch of wet grass, but someone steadies a hand on your back and grabs your arm before you fall over. A gasp falls from your lips at Dean’s proximity, and the gentle strength of his hold.

His gaze meets yours again. In that brief pause, there’s an entire world suspended. The sun spins its rays through his hair and lashes, and you find flecks of gold in the green of his eyes, along with a gentler look on his face.

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

Later, after others finish speaking, Dean included, John gives you the honor of sprinkling Bobby’s ashes into the river. It’s the same one that you, Sam, and Dean used to play in when you were kids.

“Dad taught us how to swim here,” you say softly. It earns both Sam and Dean’s attention.

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

You glance over at him, finding another hint of his smile. It’s teasing, not mocking.

You relax a bit and manage to find a smile too.

“You lived.”

AN: Aaand we're off! I'm sorry that Bobby's been killed off at the start here, but already the pieces are in play with our three childhood friends, reader, Sam, and Dean. You can expect quite a few flashbacks in the future. 😉❤️

What did you think about the setup of our main conflicts here—Brady's engagement to reader, and his little sales offer for John? We've got a fair bit of drama and a big twist coming soon in Part 2...

Next Time:

You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

🌹 Read Part 2 now on Patreon!

ᯓ✍🏽 Coming to Tumblr: August 9

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1: Sweet Home, Colorado

2: Too Close to the Heat 🌹 Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 9

3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 16

4: My Diamond is Too Rough 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 7 || Tumblr: August 23

5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass ℧ Read on Patreon: August 14 || Tumblr: August 30

6: Word Gets Out When You Get Around 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 21 || Tumblr: September 6

7: Every Moment's a Crime ℧ Read on Patreon: August 28 || Tumblr: September 20

8: What We Said and What We Meant

9: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine

10: Wait for the River to Roll

11: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won

12: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns

13: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood

l4: The Roots Through Southern Ground

15: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone

16: Sunshine on the Water

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At 19 years old, all he has is a high school diploma and his mother’s medical bills. He sits in what he thinks is the drawing room, on the edge of an old chair that’s lost its cushion. He teeters on its unsteady back leg, not knowing that the wood he sits on is 50 years old. And that’s 80 years shy of how old this two-story ranch house is—built by John Winchester’s grandfather and his family.

John’s eldest son and Ranch Manager, Dean, sits on the brown leather couch across from his candidate for a new ranch hand. He glosses over Jack’s résumé with a skeptical eye, rubbing his chin that audibly prickles with stubble.

“I know I don’t really have much experience with farming,” Jack says, scratching the back of his head nervously.

“Cattle ranching,” Dean corrects. “And no, looks like you don’t have any. A part-time shift at the local McD’s doesn’t exactly have transferrable skills for this job. Unless you count slinging McFlurries and shoveling horseshit as the same thing.”

He glances on the back of the résumé, but the page is blank. There’s not much to the front of it either.

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

Dean’s expression flattens. “On a fucking ranch, what do you think? A horse.”

“Oh! Um…I rode a pony for my birthday when I was five,” Jack says.

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

“But I mean, I’ll learn fast! And I’ll work hard,” Jack promises, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ll see! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just…I need a steady job. Full-time.”

Dean hears the thread of desperation underneath the earnestness. He sees it in the kid’s eyes.

“I take it there’s a story there,” he says.

Jack nods, his gaze falling to his hands as they curl anxiously against his jean-clad thighs.

“My mom. She’s um, not doing well,” he says.

Dean’s brows furrow, just slightly. “She’s sick?”

“Multiple sclerosis. MS," Jack replies. "She’s had it my whole life, but it started getting worse a few months ago and…she can’t work anymore.”

Dean nods, heaving another sigh. His father told him to find a new ranch hand to replace Bobby—someone young and strong who doesn’t mind getting paid on the lean side.

Jack Kline is desperate enough, but what he has is a fresh face, soft hands, and no business being on a ranch. He’s no Bobby Singer, not by a fucking long shot. But it’s hard to turn down the kid with the sick mom. It’s been even harder to find someone willing to work these days. Dean has come up empty for a week.

“Well,” he drawls, bringing himself to his feet. Jack follows suit. “I can give you full-time and steady, but just know that what we do here isn’t easy or glamorous. It’s long hours and hard fucking work.”

Jack brightens. “Does that mean I got the job?”

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

Dean offers the younger man his hand. Jack shakes it all too enthusiastically.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Winchester—”

“Just call me Dean. When I introduce you to the guys tomorrow, it’s sir,” Dean says. “We start early, so there’s a spot for you in the bunkhouse. Bring what you can fit in a duffel, and make sure that includes a hat.”

Jack easily agrees, all too fucking excited to muck out stalls, fix fences, and live in a glorified cabin with six other men. Dean shakes his head in amusement to watch him go. His younger brother Sam enters the house just as Jack is leaving, and they briefly acknowledge each other on the pass.

Sam raises a brow at his brother as he shuts the door, then takes off his suit blazer. He works for a law firm in town—the only law firm in town.

“New cowboy?” he asks.

“Not really, but we’ll make him one,” Dean says, tossing the résumé on a nearby coffee table. “You’re home early.”

“I need to follow up on some things for the funeral,” Sam says. He follows his brother into the kitchen and watches him open the fridge, looking for the iced tea. “I called her, by the way. She’s coming tomorrow.”

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

He hadn’t taken it all that well when Sam mentioned that they should reach out to you, but in his brother’s words, it was only right. Even if you and Bobby had been estranged after your parents’ divorce, he was still your father. You deserved to know that he died.

“Well, at least she shows up for his fucking funeral,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Classy.”

Sam watches him reach for a beer instead of the iced tea.

“People leave town and make a life, Dean. Doesn’t make her a bad person,” Sam reasons. “Did Bobby try to stay in touch with her?”

Dean shrugs. “Couple times, I think. It’s hard to compete with shiny beaches, bullshit traffic, and oat milk lattes.”

Sam shakes his head in amusement. “It’s been a long time. She’s probably changed. So have you, you know. You think you can let go of the past and be an adult about this?”

Dean shoots him some side-eye as he cracks his beer open.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, taking a swig. “California probably ruined her.”

Sam’s lips press together. Bitch face: Activated.

“I went to California too, if you remember,” he says. He went to Stanford University on a full ride. You went to the University of San Diego, two years before him. In some ways, you gave him the courage to live the life he wanted too.

“But you came back,” Dean says, tipping his beer toward him. “And it didn’t take you twelve years to do it.” 

“There’s probably more than one good reason she didn’t,” Sam says, just as pointedly. 

Dean’s jaw clenches, but rather than dig deeper into the shades and shadows of the past, he just leaves his brother and heads out back toward the barn. Like their dad always says, the work never fucking fails on a ranch.

A loud thwack startles you into a flinch. You’ve already claimed the left side of the hotel bed, trying to unpack your suitcase. You frown and crane your neck over your shoulder.

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

“Another fucking spider,” Brady grouses from the bathroom. “This Holiday Inn lacks basic hygiene, let alone amenities.”

He comes out a bit overdressed for dinner in his pressed slacks and black buttoned-down shirt. His hair is well coiffed with a bit of mousse. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the most upscale restaurant around here serves previously frozen seafood and chili on spaghetti. Even your blouse and pants will stick out in a sea of flannel and cowboy hats.

This isn’t Denver, with its industrious hipster vibes, or Breckenridge with its luxurious ski resorts. This is Salida, a tiny town in the middle of south-central Colorado.   

“Welcome to the Mountain West,” you tease, then focus back on sorting through your toiletries to make sure you didn’t miss anything while packing.

Toothbrush, floss, birth control—remember to start the new pack tonight. Moisturizer, cleanser, makeup remover wipes…

“We should’ve stayed up at my dad’s spot in Breckenridge,” Brady says. He slips in behind you, settling his hands on your hips as he punctuates his point with a kiss along your neck.

You smile and lean back into him. His arms wind around your waist, and his hand wraps around yours, toying with the shining ring on your left hand. You usually prefer silver, but he’d talked you into gold, as well as the weight of that diamond.

You’d been properly breathless when he first gave it to you, last month, but you did try to tell him it was too much. He knows you didn’t grow up like he did, where the seven grand he spent could’ve helped your parents put a downpayment on a house—one that they could've owned, rather than an old cabin on someone else’s ranch.

But Brady can be very convincing, even on whether a 1.75 carat engagement ring belongs on your finger.

“Consider it my promise that I’ll always give you the world,” he’d said. “I’ll give you everything you never had.”

It’s hard to argue with that, especially as a girl from a dusty-ass mountain town like Salida, who never imagined a man like Brady Weiss would offer her any part of the world.

“It wouldn’t make sense to stay up in Breckenridge when the ranch is only half an hour away from town,” you remind him.

Brady hums against your neck. You both stare out the window of your hotel room. Beyond the old Denny’s sign, there are miles and miles of grasslands that stretch ahead of the parallel roads. Your eyes trace over the violet shadows of mountain ranges in the distance. It’s familiar to you, an echo of memory that used to wrap around you like white noise. Like home. Now, you feel like the tourists your father used to make fun of.

“Salida,” Brady snorts. “You know that’s Spanish for exit, right?”

“Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here,” you say, with a sigh. “In some ways, being back here makes my skin crawl, but…it is quieter.”

“That’s called the death of civilization, honey.”

You snort in amusement. “It’s not that bad. Think of what this place could look like with just a little more infrastructure and a few coats of new paint.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand. “That’s kind of why we’re here.”

“…Well, after the funeral tomorrow,” you say, as your amusement fades.

Anxiety and grief crawl from your stomach to your throat whenever you think about it. You’re grateful that Sam called you. You’re even looking forward to seeing him, but you also know what else is waiting for you at that godforsaken ranch.

“Yeah. The timing on that really is incredible,” Brady remarks. 

You stiffen in his arms. You turn to give him an incredulous look over your shoulder.

“You mean my dad’s death?” you say, extricating yourself from his arms. 

“Not like that,” he contritely replies. He follows you to the window, where you cross your arms at him. “I just mean…all right, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying, we’ll have an opportunity to speak to John Winchester face to face, tell him he has a new neighbor.”

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brady. It’s not the time—”

“It’s the perfect time. He won’t be as guarded,” he insists. “But we’ll be discreet about it, wait until the reception. I’ll just find a moment to pull him aside and float the offer. People around here appreciate the personal touch, don’t they?”

“Listen, I grew up around his family. I know him, okay?” you say. “He’s not going to appreciate having a new neighbor, and he’s not interested in any kind of offer from us, so we’ll have to play it very strategically.”

Brady quirks a grin. “Well, that’s my specialty, babe.”

You’re still not convinced. Before you can tell him that, his cell phone rings in his pocket. Seeing the caller ID, he quickly answers.

“Hello? Yes, sir, just got here a few hours ago.” Brady’s brows raise in surprise as he listens. “Oh really?”

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Okay, but we’re meant to be at the Winchester Ranch tomorrow—”

Brady pauses, cut off by the clipped voice on the line. You can’t hear very well, but you don’t have to. You heart begins to sink.

By the time Brady hangs up, looking at you with more sincere apology, you already know what’s coming.

“Dick arranged for some contractors to come out to the new development tomorrow,” he says. “I need to be there to oversee operations.”

“They can’t come out the day after tomorrow? Today’s Wednesday,” you say.

“The builder has other appointments on Friday,” Brady says. “Tomorrow’s all they have open, and we’re scoping out the entire plot of land.”

“Watch out for bears,” you say wryly. But the longer the sting of this settles inside you, the more hurt you feel. “So you’re really not coming with me to my father’s funeral?”

Brady steps in closer and grasps your arms, trying to placate you with comfort you’re too upset to accept.

“I’m sorry. You fucking know how Dick is, and my dad’s letting him test me with this job. This is the first time they’ve let me take point on a build. This needs to go well,” he reminds you, as if he hasn’t been telling you the same thing for the past few months. “And that means we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to break ground next month.”

“Fine,” you say, but you both know it’s anything but when you shrug out of his hold.

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

Jack Kline pulls his old pick-up truck to the ranch at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Dean’s already coming out of the barn after helping Cas and Benny feed and water the horses.

Dean sees Jack coming and directs him where to park, then shows him to the bunkhouse—a small building with faded white paint that’s chipping near the gutter, but the W brand is bolted to the east side facing the rising sun, the black wrought iron shining. The men make their way to on the gravel path that cuts through the grass.

“If the main house is up the hill, then who lives there?” Jack asks, pointing at the cabin just west of the approaching bunkhouse.

“The Foreman. He wrangles the men after I tell them what to wrangle,” Dean says. “Most of the guys are already out feeding the animals, but today’s, uh, a bit different. We have a funeral today out here on the ranch.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who passed away?”

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

He doesn’t give the kid any more information as he opens the door to the bunkhouse. He briefly points out the kitchen and shallow closet where the guys always keep the next case of beer handy, plus the living room area with a couch big enough for the narrow space, and a TV mounted on the wall. A six-seater round table separates the two rooms, but there’s also a small pool table in the far corner. Beyond that is the next room, where the bunks are.

Jack half expected literal bunk beds, but these are more like dorm room beds pushed against the wall, with space underneath and in between for storage. 

Only Walt and Kevin are still inside the bunkhouse, finishing up in the communal bathroom. The rest of the ranch hands have finished breakfast and are trying to get through the morning duties quickly, so they can clean up and help get things ready for all the guests coming to the ranch by 11:00 a.m.

When Dean introduces Jack, Kevin is the one who shakes the young man’s hand.

“All right, guys, you know what you need to do. Help Jack get situated too,” Dean says.

Walt gives him a nod. After the door swings shut behind Dean, Jack brings his duffel over to the bunks. He goes over to the closest one that looks free and sets his bag on it. After unzipping it, the first thing he takes out is his hat.

Walt grabs his Stetson off the wall and glances at the brown felt in Jack’s hands.

“What kinda fucking hat is that supposed to be?” Walt asks. He’s taller and broader than Jack, tanned and toned from long days under the sun.

Jack glances down at the flat, rounded hat his mom got him for his high school play in A Streetcar Named Desire.

“Um, it’s the only one I had,” he says.

Walt snorts. “Looks like a fucking fedora. Gonna give the cows a tap dance before you tickle their teats?”

He walks out of the bunkhouse, leaving Jack embarrassed and confused. 

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

Kevin grins in amusement. “Dude, anything would be better than that.”

Over in the main house, Sam has a year’s worth of data reports and financial documents splayed out across the head of the large dining table of polished rosewood. The spread lies between his father’s coffee mug and a small ashtray for the bud of last night’s cigar, but John has very little interest in what all those pages mean.

He sits leaning on one elbow, his hand half covering his salt and pepper beard as his younger son continues to prove his point.

“Just 30%,” Sam says. “After the rough winter we had last year, and the dry as hell summer we’re going through now, selling off 30% percent of the ranch will help make sure we actually survive next year, let alone make a profit.”

“We’ll find another way, son,” John says.

Stubborn.

“There is no other way. I’ve been telling you for three years,” Sam says. His frustration bleeds into not only his tone, but the curl of his fist on the table. “Back then, we actually had a good offer on the table. We could’ve leased out Pastures 3 and 4 to the Baileys. You do realize that property taxes have raised by 13%, not including the $55,000 tax exemption that expired two years ago.”

John doesn’t offer a rebuttal. He senses there’s more to this little tirade.

“That’s beside the fact that our operating costs have only increased. Dean’s cut as many corners as he can, but we’re barely breaking even, Dad,” Sam says.

“I’m sorry, son, I’m not selling,” John says. He glances out the window to the very land his father, grandfather, and grand uncles worked and cared for over damn near a century and half. “Your grandfather told me. Not an inch, son. Don’t let them take even an inch. Because once you start carving up the bird, everyone wants a piece of that bitch.”

Sam breathes a tense sigh. He’s heard that line his whole damn life.

“What other solutions do we have?” John asks.

Sam shakes his head as he runs through the spreadsheet on his laptop.

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

Sam rubs his chin in thought, knowing Dean won’t like what he’s about to suggest. He can already hear the gravelly bitching.

The job’s fucking hard enough without being even more short-handed.

But something’s gotta give. Sam knows. He’s known for years. Being the ranch’s accountant as well as its lawyer isn’t for the weak, and neither his father nor his brother makes it any easier.

“Well, keep Jack. He’s young and his salary is cheap, but we may have to let go of Walt and Carter…maybe even Benny.” 

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “Those are seasoned guys. As it is, we’re up to our balls wading in the work.”

The older man taps his fingers on the table. To his credit, his days on the ranch are almost as long and hard as Dean’s are, even though John gave him the managerial reins a few years ago.

“You’re thinking like a businessman and a lawyer,” John says, “but you also need to understand this place as a rancher too.”

“I do understand. But it’s a good thing for you that I’m not a rancher, because I see the fact that we’re not adapting. We’re failing. Ranches and farms all over the country are failing,” Sam says. “Hell, Grandpa Samuel sold the Campbell Ranch and moved to North Carolina! Already the land developers are coming in. They’re putting up banners all around the land. It’s a build site now.”

“A fucking shame,” John says. His voice is laden with regret that he couldn’t afford to help his in-laws. “Your mother must be turning in her grave.”

The mention of Mary Winchester always strikes a solemn note in the room. Today is no exception.

After a moment, Sam considers the email in his inbox from just last night. There’s a voicemail waiting for him on his cell too.

“We got a similar offer,” Sam says. “From the developer, Roman & Weiss Group. Pastures 3 through 6 border their land on the west, by the river. If we sell even just that piece, they’re willing to pay double what it’s worth. If we sell the entire ranch, they’ll cover the closing costs.” 

John quirks a humorless smile and finally pushes away from the table. 

“I’m burying my old friend today,” he says. “So, you can tell that developer where they can stick their fucking offer.”

Every mile of hot asphalt and wheat grass that tears by is an increasing increment of nostalgia. Every mile away from Salida brings you closer to distant mountains, as well as the Winchester Ranch.

You drive yourself there in a rental car. Within a half hour, you’re pulling up under the shade of Gambel oaks and aspen trees on the paved driveway. Wide, gray stones form a path up to the front door, not easy to navigate in your heels. Once you make it to the porch, you take a steadying breath, adjust the skirt of your dress and your hair, and take off your sunglasses before you knock.

Sam answers the door. He smiles gently at you, giving you a hug that feels like home. You hug him back, fighting the sting of tears in your eyes. He looks good in a black suit and thin pinstripe tie.

“God, you’re not that skinny kid anymore,” you laugh as you blink past that sting. “And you’re almost as tall as the door! Jesus.”

Sam just laughs. “Yeah, well, you grew up too. You look great.”

You smile, though you bite your lip when he gestures at the ring on your left hand with a surprised, raised brow.

“Somehow you forgot to mention that,” he says, with a quirking grin. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “It’s um…new. He asked me last month.”

“Good guy?” Sam asks, as he welcomes you inside the house.

You’re still shouldering some upset over last night, and the fact that your fiancé couldn’t be here to brace you through this day, in this place. Even so, you manage to smile at the question.

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” you admit.

But the thought dies as you take in the familiar walls of the Winchester family home. Wood panels meet tasteful crème and earthy, rustic accents. Your gaze follows the wind of the staircase, up to the second floor where you take in the sight of a new rod iron chandelier casting a warm glow down to the ground floor.

What draws your eye next is the family picture hanging in the living room. Mary was still alive there, beautiful and smiling with baby Sam in her arms. Dean was only four, standing beside her with John’s hand on his shoulder. If you remember right, the break-in happened just a few months after that picture was taken.

John’s voice almost startles you when he comes in from down the hall. You remember that his office is back there, across from the kitchen. He also wears a black suit with his scuffed cowboy boots, a little less refined than Sam, but bringing an undeniable presence into the room.

You tense on instinct, more guarded with the Winchester patriarch.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, giving you a nod.

“It has,” you agree, though the pleasantries end there.

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

“Thank you for doing all the arrangements for my father, even the cremation,” you say to both men, as you begin to take out your phone from where it’s lodged in your clutch purse. “What do I owe you?”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. We take care of our own.”

Your mouth opens, but it closes shortly after. You think he meant it to be kind, but you can’t help but think there’s something back-handed underneath.

The rough budge of a back door disrupts not only your thoughts, but remakes the tension in the room, like holding an inevitable breath. Heavy boots clomp into the living room and soon reveal a man in red flannel and jeans.

Well, formerly red flannel.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks, his brows furrowed as he leans away from the rancid funk his brother just brought in.

Dean stops short when he notices you standing between his father and brother like the fox that got caught in the hen house. A fox who smells like French perfume and grew into her curves.

Meanwhile, Dean wipes at the mud on his cheek, inspects his fingers with a grimace, then wipes them on his already soiled jeans.

“A goddamn heifer kindly dragged me through her own shit for trying to untangle her from a fence,” he says.

You cover your nose with a look of disgust. “Definitely smells like it.”

Dean shoots you a wry glance, but he allows himself to take a longer look at you then—from your high heels, black dress, and that little purse under your arm, to your red lipstick, and lastly, the fat, shining ring on your finger. 

“Congratulations,” he says placidly, gesturing at your hand. 

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

You want to take satisfaction in his reaction, but you can’t really tell what the hell he’s thinking. You’re struggling to reconcile the fact that this is really Dean Winchester. Last time you saw him, you were just 18 years old. He was barely 20, clean shaven and only slightly less wiry than his younger brother.

Of course, 12 years is a long time. He’s taller, broader, the cut of his jaw dusted with roguish stubble, his voice steeped in bourbon and molasses. His hair is a little darker too, but that could also be the…mud. 

Dean stabs a thumb toward the driveway. “That your man’s Mercedes out front?” 

“It’s a rental,” you say. Though you can’t help but add, “Brady drives a Lexus.” 

“Brady, huh?” Dean nods in amusement. “And what does Mr. Lexus do?” 

“He’s a lawyer,” you say, trying to rein in your annoyance. 

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snip.

Even Sam gets slightly offended at that. He shoots his brother a warning look, one that Dean ignores.

“I just think it’s interesting that the guy’s not here with you at your dad’s funeral,” he remarks. Then he shrugs. “Then again, you wouldn’t even know about what happened to Bobby if it weren’t for Sam ringing you up. You know what, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have interrupted your life. Clearly you’ve got more important things going on, since I doubt you’ve spoken to the man in…what, a few years? Ten? Stop me when I hit the number.”

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

John gives his eldest a firm look, especially as he sees you bubbling with outrage. But unlike Dean, you have some fucking decorum. You try to remind yourself that you’re a guest here, even if one of the residents is still a Grade A: Asshole.

“You know what, maybe I’d take that little zinger more seriously if you weren’t covered in literal shit, cowboy,” you retort. 

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, at least this is all natural. You stink like L.A.” 

He actually savors that wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on your face as he heads upstairs to his room, tracking mud and wet grass all the while. His first stop is the shower. 

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sam says to you.

“On a day like today, he should know better,” John adds.

Your lips press into a hard line, otherwise you’re not sure what might escape. 

“You want something to drink before we head down to the field?” Sam asks. 

He’s the only man in his family who knows how to be a good host, it seems.

“A glass of wine would be good,” you say tightly. 

“Ah…” Sam pauses, sharing a look with his father.

“We’ve got beer and hard liquor, sweetheart. That’s about it,” John says.

You nearly roll your eyes. You anticipated this—the little digs, their silent judgement, maybe even their laughter. Because driving a nice car and asking for a glass of wine is so damn laughable around here.

“Water then, please,” you snap. “Sparkling if you have it, or a bottle. Not the tap water these cowboys wash their asses with.”

You can’t stand this house, or this town. You resolve to at least break free of this room. Your heels clack loudly all the way back to the front door.

Dean hears the slam all the way from his room upstairs.

Sam steels himself before he follows you outside. He finds you on the porch, with an agitated set to your frame as you pace back and forth with your hands on your hips. You pause when you notice him, but you don’t even know what to say to him. You’ve never smoked in your life, and yet, you suddenly crave a cigarette. You blame the whole seeing your ex bit.

“Somehow, that’s better than I saw it going,” Sam remarks.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter.

“I’m glad you did,” Sam says. He hangs out with you against the porch railing, allowing the brief summer breeze to wash a little peace over him. It washes over you too, quelling some of your temper as you stare out to the ranch, the trees, the mountains beyond.

“It even smells the same,” you say, taking in a deeper breath. “Clear. Like earth and rain, even though it’s dry.”

The longer you stand still, the more than Dean’s acidic words corrode through the protective walls you erected in your mind in preparation for this day. Guilt seeps in through the cracks as you glance over at Sam.

“I am sorry we lost touch, you and me. It should’ve been easier when you got to Cali,” you say.

You’d grown up on this ranch since you were seven years old. There was a time that the only friends you knew were the Winchester boys. Until his older brother broke your heart.

A memory pierces through you, a reminder. Thunder rolling overhead, rain soaking through gray flannel as you shut the door in his face…

Maybe you broke his heart too. But you still don’t think you deserve whatever the hell that was in the house.

“I know how hard it was for you, after what happened back then,” Sam says, only half succeeding at pulling you back into the present.

“No,” you say, with a wry tug of your lips. “You really don’t know.” 

He hesitates, but he concedes that with a short nod.

“Well, regardless, it’s good see you, even if this isn’t the only reason you’re here,” he says, eying you knowingly.

Your mouth parts in surprise, but really, you shouldn’t be. You’d had a feeling Brady was working from his phone at dinner last night.

“I got an email from a Brady Weiss. His father’s company wants to buy a portion of our ranch,” Sam says. “I’m assuming that’s your fiancé. I also looked up your LinkedIn. You work for them too.” 

You bite the inside of your lip. Despite what Brady told you about what you should do to further the plan, you hadn’t wanted to bring this up here. However, this is just too perfect of an opportunity.

“Have you talked to John about the offer yet?” you ask.

“He’s never gonna go for it. You know that,” Sam replies, with a sigh of frustration. “No matter what I tell him, he’s stubborn. But he’d definitely never sell to a developer like Roman & Weiss.”

“All we’re aiming to do here is build more homes,” you say. “You know how overcrowded Denver and Colorado Springs are, even Boulder and Breckenridge. Not to mention, the home shortage here is only getting worse.” 

“Roman & Weiss hasn’t made its money in developing affordable housing,” Sam counters. “It’s just another land-grabbing machine. They probably want to turn my grandfather’s century-old farm into luxury condos and hotels—or maybe even another ski resort, if they can get a cut of the national park. I’m frankly surprised you’re part of it. You majored in Environmental Studies.”

“And Business,” you correct. The University of San Diego wasn’t Stanford, but that double major had put you through your paces, and it hadn’t been cheap.

“This is a big opportunity for me, Sam,” you continue, your voice edged with defensiveness. “I want to help build something that will last, but obviously I don’t want people to keep being priced out of their own neighborhoods. That’s why I proposed affordable housing for this build, and they heard me out! They actually respected my proposal, and I’ve worked hard for that respect—not through Brady, but from my own merit. So, I don’t appreciate you or your brother for judging me.”

You wish you could just storm off in a new direction, like back to your car, and back to the hotel. Hell, you’d like to get on a plane and go back to California, where your life and your decisions aren’t being picked apart from all angles.

Instead, you head back inside the house in search of whatever decent refreshment you can find in this place.

Within the hour, John drives you, Sam, and a freshly showered Dean in an ATV all the way to the funeral site. Sam provides the buffer by sitting in between you and Dean, but the ride is silent with tension.

Already there are several cars lined up on the other side of the fence that borders the west side of the ranch. A crowd is congregated among the rows of foldout chairs, near the river that cuts straight through the land. You know it well.

Your sunglasses are in back place, so you’re able to keep your head raised and ignore the stares of faces you recognize, faces you don’t know, and the ones who seem to know who you are, just by whatever gossip has probably been running the rumor mill already. Your parents’ divorce had been the talk of the town in the weeks before you left it. Even though people probably forgot about you while you were gone, they sure remember you now.

You pause when you reach a small plastic table with a framed picture of your father beside his urn.

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

You linger there for a moment, even when you sense Dean pass behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him choose to sit on the edge of the aisle next to his father. You eventually take a seat on the opposite end of the row, next to Sam and the beautiful blonde he introduces to you as his girlfriend, Jess. She offers you a comforting squeeze of your shoulder as well as her condolences.

“You probably don’t remember me, but I was in Sam’s class back in high school,” she says.

That’s when it hits you—a bolt of recognition that makes you smile.

“Jessica Moore! I do remember,” you say, giving her a hug. “We’ll have to catch up later.”

She agrees, then takes her seat on Sam’s other side. You lean toward him and flash a discreet thumbs up.

“Good for you, Sammy,” you tease in a whisper. “I guess the nerd sometimes does get the cheerleader in real life.”

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

You smirk. Payback is fun. “Dude, I saw you run naked into that river on a dare when you were nine. You’ll always be Sammy to me.”

He rolls his eyes, but it ends on a smile.

However, you’re reminded of the gravity of this moment when John stands and moves to the front of the crowd, asking everyone to be seated. He doesn’t need a microphone. His voice travels across the field, somber and deep like the base of Mount Antero framing him from behind.

“I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings or christenings,” John says. He glances at the urn, and at the framed picture beside him. “Never did I think I’d be here, speaking at yours.”

He looks out toward the crowd. “I count these faces, and I know them all. Just like the man we’re here to speak on was known to all of us. To some of you, he was just the town drunk. To many of you, he was the man who’d tow your truck or put on your spare, even while he was chastising you for getting yourself in the ditch to begin with.”

Laughter bubbles in the crowd. You had frowned at the town drunk part, but some people laughed at that too, like it was the truth. You don’t have any memory of your dad being drunk—not in the house, and not when he and the other guys in the bunkhouse went out to the bar. Maybe that part hadn’t started until after you and your mom left Salida.

You’ve never felt like more of an outsider than you do right now.

“To me, he was a friend,” John continues. “A man I could trust. A man I counted on to help me work this land and care for the animals, so we could feed this town and other ones like it. He helped me raise horses, birth breach calves, and do cattle runs across state lines. Bobby Singer was a work horse who did what he did until the day he died, and that kind of end is all that men like us can hope for. We don’t often get the Hallmark ending or the Hollywood blaze of glory. This is what cowboying is today, and what most of America never sees.”

He sighs. “That said, I think he’d appreciate his daughter saying a few words.”

You raise your head at that, surprised and a bit alarmed. You didn’t know you’d be asked to speak. You haven’t prepared anything.

But you know you can’t say no when a hundred pairs of eyes are staring at you and watching your reaction, even Sam. He gives you an encouraging nod and a gentle hand on your back. Your insides tremble with nerves, but you force yourself to stand. Slowly you make your way to the front, where John waits for you. It’s difficult in your heels as they tend to sink into the earth with every step, but he gives you a nod before he reclaims his seat beside Dean.

You clear your throat, trying to find your words. You stare out at all these dusty cowboys, John’s ranch hands, and people from town. You could try to get through this with something brief and a goodbye, Dad, but you have a feeling they'll see right through you.

What's more, you don't really know how you feel until you start talking.

“Many of you know I haven’t been back here in a while,” you say. “My parents divorced when I was eighteen, right before I left for college. My mom…she died four years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. That was the last time I spoke to my dad.”

Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. Your hand comes up to cover your trembling lips, but it can’t stop the overflow. Despite your best efforts, what escapes is the truth.

“I resented him, probably for things that weren’t all his fault. I let that dig a little too deep, I think. He may not have been a perfect man, but he was a good man,” you say, sniffling. Your gaze falls to your folded hands in front of you. “I mean, you all know that, or else all of you wouldn’t be here. But standing here now, there are things I regret. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I regret the time we wasted in between, even though it’s too late to change that. Nothing I say can ever change that, but…I hope he can forgive me.”

When you allow yourself to look up, the only face you see is Dean’s. His gaze locks with yours, and he nods, as if in support.

You don’t know if that's really what it means, but somehow, you’re able to move the rest of your body again. You break from that intense, unknowable forest within his irises, and you try to make it back to your seat. Your hands shake with so much more than nerves.

Your heel wobbles in a patch of wet grass, but someone steadies a hand on your back and grabs your arm before you fall over. A gasp falls from your lips at Dean’s proximity, and the gentle strength of his hold.

His gaze meets yours again. In that brief pause, there’s an entire world suspended. The sun spins its rays through his hair and lashes, and you find flecks of gold in the green of his eyes, along with a gentler look on his face.

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

Later, after others finish speaking, Dean included, John gives you the honor of sprinkling Bobby’s ashes into the river. It’s the same one that you, Sam, and Dean used to play in when you were kids.

“Dad taught us how to swim here,” you say softly. It earns both Sam and Dean’s attention.

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

You glance over at him, finding another hint of his smile. It’s teasing, not mocking.

You relax a bit and manage to find a smile too.

“You lived.”

AN: Aaand we're off! I'm sorry that Bobby's been killed off at the start here, but already the pieces are in play with our three childhood friends, reader, Sam, and Dean. You can expect quite a few flashbacks in the future. 😉❤️

What did you think about the setup of our main conflicts here—Brady's engagement to reader, and his little sales offer for John? We've got a fair bit of drama and a big twist coming soon in Part 2...

Next Time:

You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

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At 19 years old, all he has is a high school diploma and his mother’s medical bills. He sits in what he thinks is the drawing room, on the edge of an old chair that’s lost its cushion. He teeters on its unsteady back leg, not knowing that the wood he sits on is 50 years old. And that’s 80 years shy of how old this two-story ranch house is—built by John Winchester’s grandfather and his family.

John’s eldest son and Ranch Manager, Dean, sits on the brown leather couch across from his candidate for a new ranch hand. He glosses over Jack’s résumé with a skeptical eye, rubbing his chin that audibly prickles with stubble.

“I know I don’t really have much experience with farming,” Jack says, scratching the back of his head nervously.

“Cattle ranching,” Dean corrects. “And no, looks like you don’t have any. A part-time shift at the local McD’s doesn’t exactly have transferrable skills for this job. Unless you count slinging McFlurries and shoveling horseshit as the same thing.”

He glances on the back of the résumé, but the page is blank. There’s not much to the front of it either.

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

Dean’s expression flattens. “On a fucking ranch, what do you think? A horse.”

“Oh! Um…I rode a pony for my birthday when I was five,” Jack says.

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

“But I mean, I’ll learn fast! And I’ll work hard,” Jack promises, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ll see! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just…I need a steady job. Full-time.”

Dean hears the thread of desperation underneath the earnestness. He sees it in the kid’s eyes.

“I take it there’s a story there,” he says.

Jack nods, his gaze falling to his hands as they curl anxiously against his jean-clad thighs.

“My mom. She’s um, not doing well,” he says.

Dean’s brows furrow, just slightly. “She’s sick?”

“Multiple sclerosis. MS," Jack replies. "She’s had it my whole life, but it started getting worse a few months ago and…she can’t work anymore.”

Dean nods, heaving another sigh. His father told him to find a new ranch hand to replace Bobby—someone young and strong who doesn’t mind getting paid on the lean side.

Jack Kline is desperate enough, but what he has is a fresh face, soft hands, and no business being on a ranch. He’s no Bobby Singer, not by a fucking long shot. But it’s hard to turn down the kid with the sick mom. It’s been even harder to find someone willing to work these days. Dean has come up empty for a week.

“Well,” he drawls, bringing himself to his feet. Jack follows suit. “I can give you full-time and steady, but just know that what we do here isn’t easy or glamorous. It’s long hours and hard fucking work.”

Jack brightens. “Does that mean I got the job?”

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

Dean offers the younger man his hand. Jack shakes it all too enthusiastically.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Winchester—”

“Just call me Dean. When I introduce you to the guys tomorrow, it’s sir,” Dean says. “We start early, so there’s a spot for you in the bunkhouse. Bring what you can fit in a duffel, and make sure that includes a hat.”

Jack easily agrees, all too fucking excited to muck out stalls, fix fences, and live in a glorified cabin with six other men. Dean shakes his head in amusement to watch him go. His younger brother Sam enters the house just as Jack is leaving, and they briefly acknowledge each other on the pass.

Sam raises a brow at his brother as he shuts the door, then takes off his suit blazer. He works for a law firm in town—the only law firm in town.

“New cowboy?” he asks.

“Not really, but we’ll make him one,” Dean says, tossing the résumé on a nearby coffee table. “You’re home early.”

“I need to follow up on some things for the funeral,” Sam says. He follows his brother into the kitchen and watches him open the fridge, looking for the iced tea. “I called her, by the way. She’s coming tomorrow.”

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

He hadn’t taken it all that well when Sam mentioned that they should reach out to you, but in his brother’s words, it was only right. Even if you and Bobby had been estranged after your parents’ divorce, he was still your father. You deserved to know that he died.

“Well, at least she shows up for his fucking funeral,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Classy.”

Sam watches him reach for a beer instead of the iced tea.

“People leave town and make a life, Dean. Doesn’t make her a bad person,” Sam reasons. “Did Bobby try to stay in touch with her?”

Dean shrugs. “Couple times, I think. It’s hard to compete with shiny beaches, bullshit traffic, and oat milk lattes.”