"Driver picks the music..."

He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

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

You sigh. “I don’t.”

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

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

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

You sigh. “I don’t.”

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

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

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

You sigh. “I don’t.”

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

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

—᯽ Dean definitely picks up phrases the longer he's with you, especially after you two retire from hunting to get married and have kids (Cari and Robbie, featured in In Bad Weather and One More Day).

—᯽ You're determined to have them retain your half of their culture by speaking Spanish to them at home, so much so that you get Dean to play along. He tends to speak caveman Spanglish, even with your help and patience lol, but sometimes he just says to them:

"What she said. Andale," jerking his thumb in your general direction.

(even if it's not a mom command - which you mostly find amusing when you have to correct him lol)

—᯽ The kids will eventually be bilingual, so when they're little, sometimes they think they can pull one over on Dad by whispering to each other in Spanish before they try to mess with him or get away with something, like kids do.

—᯽ But Dean's hunter instincts don't quit that easy. Their little "hush hush" sibling communion always makes him suspicious, especially if they mention Papá.

—᯽ That one always perks his attention. So even if he just catches the gist of what they said when they thought he couldn't hear or understand them, he's gonna catch Robbie in the act of trying to sneak that third slice of pie.

(a little sweet tooth, like his old man)

—᯽ Or Cari when she tries to prank dear old Dad with a swab of peanut butter on his headphones.

(she's the devious one he too often has to watch out for)

—᯽ Truth be told, sometimes Dean does feel left out when he sees you chatting with the kids about their day at the dinner table in Spanish, but you either try to include him:

"Entendiste, mi amor? Robbie said he got an A- on his math test. Here, show your dad."

Or, you intentionally give Dean the cliff notes of what you just said:

"Ten cuidao con esa actitud, Caridad. Cambia esa cara también," you tell your daughter.

To your husband, you remark, "This one's giving attitude. See that face she just gave me?"

—᯽ That said, you and Dean make a great team. After 10+ years of marriage and several years together before that, living through the literal end of the world (more than once), you two are usually good at talking about things like whose turn it is to figure out what the family's going to eat for dinner and who did the dishes last.

—᯽ Dean actually utilizes his most favorite lines he's learned from you when you two get your alone time — usually in the bedroom lol ❤️‍🔥

He's all about picking up new phrases to add to his arsenal, whatever makes your skin flush and your body shiver at the sound of his voice alone. It's always a good preview of the rest he can do with his mouth.

—᯽ Family life after hunting is not always perfect though. It can be loud and hella messy, especially between mother-daughter drama and sibling warfare.

—᯽ Except when Dean gets a rare nap on the couch. He also makes the mistake of leaving himself open for attack. Seeing another perfect opportunity, older sister and little brother draw a temporary alliance for a truly diabolical team up — by plugging some mini marshmallows up Dad's nose.

(Yes, Dean wakes like a bear. The kind that gives big, bracing bear hugs until his children admit defeat — with lots of shrieks and giggles to go with it.)

@wvffles This is probably more than you asked for, but I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved contemplating your sweet question, love 😂💜

Tagging the Espresso-verse tag list because this kind of turned into a full series-specific HC! lol

Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

WV @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

—᯽ Dean definitely picks up phrases the longer he's with you, especially after you two retire from hunting to get married and have kids (Cari and Robbie, featured in In Bad Weather and One More Day).

—᯽ You're determined to have them retain your half of their culture by speaking Spanish to them at home, so much so that you get Dean to play along. He tends to speak caveman Spanglish, even with your help and patience lol, but sometimes he just says to them:

"What she said. Andale," jerking his thumb in your general direction.

(even if it's not a mom command - which you mostly find amusing when you have to correct him lol)

—᯽ The kids will eventually be bilingual, so when they're little, sometimes they think they can pull one over on Dad by whispering to each other in Spanish before they try to mess with him or get away with something, like kids do.

—᯽ But Dean's hunter instincts don't quit that easy. Their little "hush hush" sibling communion always makes him suspicious, especially if they mention Papá.

—᯽ That one always perks his attention. So even if he just catches the gist of what they said when they thought he couldn't hear or understand them, he's gonna catch Robbie in the act of trying to sneak that third slice of pie.

(a little sweet tooth, like his old man)

—᯽ Or Cari when she tries to prank dear old Dad with a swab of peanut butter on his headphones.

(she's the devious one he too often has to watch out for)

—᯽ Truth be told, sometimes Dean does feel left out when he sees you chatting with the kids about their day at the dinner table in Spanish, but you either try to include him:

"Entendiste, mi amor? Robbie said he got an A- on his math test. Here, show your dad."

Or, you intentionally give Dean the cliff notes of what you just said:

"Ten cuidao con esa actitud, Caridad. Cambia esa cara también," you tell your daughter.

To your husband, you remark, "This one's giving attitude. See that face she just gave me?"

—᯽ That said, you and Dean make a great team. After 10+ years of marriage and several years together before that, living through the literal end of the world (more than once), you two are usually good at talking about things like whose turn it is to figure out what the family's going to eat for dinner and who did the dishes last.

—᯽ Dean actually utilizes his most favorite lines he's learned from you when you two get your alone time — usually in the bedroom lol ❤️‍🔥

He's all about picking up new phrases to add to his arsenal, whatever makes your skin flush and your body shiver at the sound of his voice alone. It's always a good preview of the rest he can do with his mouth.

—᯽ Family life after hunting is not always perfect though. It can be loud and hella messy, especially between mother-daughter drama and sibling warfare.

—᯽ Except when Dean gets a rare nap on the couch. He also makes the mistake of leaving himself open for attack. Seeing another perfect opportunity, older sister and little brother draw a temporary alliance for a truly diabolical team up — by plugging some mini marshmallows up Dad's nose.

(Yes, Dean wakes like a bear. The kind that gives big, bracing bear hugs until his children admit defeat — with lots of shrieks and giggles to go with it.)

@wvffles This is probably more than you asked for, but I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved contemplating your sweet question, love 😂💜

Tagging the Espresso-verse tag list because this kind of turned into a full series-specific HC! lol

Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

WV @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

—᯽ Dean definitely picks up phrases the longer he's with you, especially after you two retire from hunting to get married and have kids (Cari and Robbie, featured in In Bad Weather and One More Day).

—᯽ You're determined to have them retain your half of their culture by speaking Spanish to them at home, so much so that you get Dean to play along. He tends to speak caveman Spanglish, even with your help and patience lol, but sometimes he just says to them:

"What she said. Andale," jerking his thumb in your general direction.

(even if it's not a mom command - which you mostly find amusing when you have to correct him lol)

—᯽ The kids will eventually be bilingual, so when they're little, sometimes they think they can pull one over on Dad by whispering to each other in Spanish before they try to mess with him or get away with something, like kids do.

—᯽ But Dean's hunter instincts don't quit that easy. Their little "hush hush" sibling communion always makes him suspicious, especially if they mention Papá.

—᯽ That one always perks his attention. So even if he just catches the gist of what they said when they thought he couldn't hear or understand them, he's gonna catch Robbie in the act of trying to sneak that third slice of pie.

(a little sweet tooth, like his old man)

—᯽ Or Cari when she tries to prank dear old Dad with a swab of peanut butter on his headphones.

(she's the devious one he too often has to watch out for)

—᯽ Truth be told, sometimes Dean does feel left out when he sees you chatting with the kids about their day at the dinner table in Spanish, but you either try to include him:

"Entendiste, mi amor? Robbie said he got an A- on his math test. Here, show your dad."

Or, you intentionally give Dean the cliff notes of what you just said:

"Ten cuidao con esa actitud, Caridad. Cambia esa cara también," you tell your daughter.

To your husband, you remark, "This one's giving attitude. See that face she just gave me?"

—᯽ That said, you and Dean make a great team. After 10+ years of marriage and several years together before that, living through the literal end of the world (more than once), you two are usually good at talking about things like whose turn it is to figure out what the family's going to eat for dinner and who did the dishes last.

—᯽ Dean actually utilizes his most favorite lines he's learned from you when you two get your alone time — usually in the bedroom lol ❤️‍🔥

He's all about picking up new phrases to add to his arsenal, whatever makes your skin flush and your body shiver at the sound of his voice alone. It's always a good preview of the rest he can do with his mouth.

—᯽ Family life after hunting is not always perfect though. It can be loud and hella messy, especially between mother-daughter drama and sibling warfare.

—᯽ Except when Dean gets a rare nap on the couch. He also makes the mistake of leaving himself open for attack. Seeing another perfect opportunity, older sister and little brother draw a temporary alliance for a truly diabolical team up — by plugging some mini marshmallows up Dad's nose.

(Yes, Dean wakes like a bear. The kind that gives big, bracing bear hugs until his children admit defeat — with lots of shrieks and giggles to go with it.)

@wvffles This is probably more than you asked for, but I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved contemplating your sweet question, love 😂💜

Tagging the Espresso-verse tag list because this kind of turned into a full series-specific HC! lol

Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

WV @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

One more drink. One more game of pool. One more kiss that hooked you into the backseat of his Impala. One more night before you went home in the morning.

That one more thing slowly became a lingering hold on your hand, something deeper and almost fragile in his eyes while he sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, with words that neither of you were ready to say rolling underneath your skin. What actually came out was—

“You could stay, you know.”

Your slow smile, and, “You want me to?”

His smile had tugged at the corner of his mouth, pulling at the crow’s feet around his eyes.

You stayed. For the past six months, that had been working out for both of you. The reserved, knowing smiles Sam used to toss your way finally make sense. (You and Dean had a knack for spotting lies and reading a room of strangers, but apparently not each other as well as you thought.)

Now, Dean’s the one who needs to be cajoled into hitting the bar instead of driving right home. He sometimes claims he’s tired, doesn’t feel like drinking all night at a bar when he’s got plenty of booze back at the bunker. But you think it’s just because he’s gotten more used to saying, “Let’s go home.”

Well, tonight, Sam’s still the turn in early guy, opting to get dropped off at the bunker while you and Dean head to the bar to unwind. You know he’s just doing this for you, so you take advantage of being in the passenger seat to slip your hand into his, threading your fingers together. You earn his glance, a hint of his smile.

“Ramble On” continues crooning through 50-year-old speakers. He only lowers the volume when he pulls the car up to the front of the bar. The parking lot is crowded, and you can hear some country rock music playing inside, even through your window. 

“Looks busier than usual. Why don’t you get us started in there while I find somewhere to park,” Dean says. “I’m good with a beer, unless they’ve got Angel’s Envy back in stock.”

“What, are you in a rush?” you ask, a teasing edge. “Got a hot date with your other girlfriend?”

“Yeah, my mattress,” he retorts. “I drove us through three states in one day, sweetheart.”

You hum, brace a hand on his thigh, and lean in just shy of meeting your lips with his, hesitating long enough for his green-eyed gaze to dip down to your smirking mouth.

“You mean our mattress,” you say, patting his knee. “Guess that means we’re in a threesome.”

You pull away and climb out of the car. Dean blinks, then snorts and shakes his head. You’re fucking ridiculous, but that’s kind of what he likes about you.

More than likes, if he’s honest.

He watches the natural swing in your curvy hips as you walk up the steps to the bar in those dusty boots. He can’t help but stick around there for a second, with the Impala rumbling in idle. You’ve got a waist-to-ass ratio that could make a strong man stumble, and Dean’s knelt at your altar on more than one occasion—as often as you let him.

It reminds him of a song his dad had starred on the back of one of his most revered Zeppelin cassettes, Houses of the Holy. In the margin, John Winchester’s chicken scratch read: For Mary.

Dean has Page’s chords humming in his throat while he finally pulls forward to find a parking space away from the gravel.

“Ain't so hard to recognize, oh…these things are clear to all from time to time…”

Inside the bar, the lights are dim while Chris Stapleton plays loud in the overhead speakers. His soulful baritone competes with the football game on the corner TVs, where people are crowded around, shouting drunken obscenities when a player fumbles the ball.

You walk past weathered pool tables and manage to find a spot further away from the chaos, down near the end of the bar. You nod politely at the guy who’s already sitting in the last seat before you slide into yours, saving another stool to your right.

You flag the bartender, Greg. He recognizes you and holds up two fingers. Give me a minute. I’ve got you.

You nod in response, offering a short wave. Take your time.

You glance over to the man sitting to your left, only because he doesn’t seem like he actually wants to be here. He’s maybe early thirties, attractive, looking like a slightly disheveled tax accountant with his tie askew and his light blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’d remind you of Cas, actually, if not for the very human way he’s contemplating his bourbon while hedging a glance at you.

“Hey,” he says, trying his luck.

You almost smile. “Rough shift at Bank of America?”

His head tilts in surprise, but glancing down at himself, he huffs a laugh.

“Okay, guess I really should’ve changed,” he remarks. “I’m a realtor, for the record.”

“Business must be slow,” you say. “I don’t think they’ve built a new house in this town since the ‘70s.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “On the whole, it’s more selling than buying. You in the market?”

Your lips twitch. “Sorry, dude. I live with my boyfriend. He owns his own place.”

“Ah,” he nods again, taking you in with a certain wry smile. “Should’ve known you were, uh, off the market.”

You almost roll your eyes, but you’re still kind of amused. The guy seems relatively harmless, in a white-collar kind of way. 

“And you’re…” you trail, glancing over to see if you spy a ring. You do notice a pale tan line on his left hand when he begrudgingly raises it up for you to see.

“Recently divorced,” he says. But he offers you his hand. “And clearly out of practice. I’m Brandon.”

You laugh lightly and shake his hand, giving him your name, at least.

“It’s okay, Brandon. You’ve got a good smile. Keep flashing it with those baby blues, and you’ll get a girl to make you an offer,” you say.

He laughs, showing off that boyish smile before he ducks his head, a little embarrassed.

“Thanks, I needed that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Welcome to what?”

You raise your head in slight surprise to find Dean just behind you, grabbing onto the back of your chair while he settles into the seat you saved for him. You smile.

“Just some friendly advice,” you say, slipping your hand over his thigh. “What took you so long?”

“Couldn’t find a place to park. Had to wait for somebody to pull out,” he says. His hand moves to the small of your back, but his eyes flick up to the Michael Scott-looking dude, who sits up a little straighter and offers up a hesitant hand in greeting.

“Hey. Brandon,” he introduces himself. “You must be the boyfriend.”

Dean’s brow arches. “Guilty as charged, Brandon.”

You give him a pointed look, trying not to smirk.

Be nice. 

Dean acknowledges that with half an eye roll. He’s tired, veering on grumpy. But he breathes in the smell of greasy bar food coming out of the kitchen and lets his thumb brush along your back, until he notices your lack of drink.

“Have you ordered?” he asks.

“Haven’t gotten a chance. Greg’s pretty busy tonight,” you say, but Dean’s already flagging the guy down with an impatient set to his jaw.

What he thought was going to be a chill night with you and a couple of drinks, turns out to be you, him, and Brandon chatting your ear off. The guy tells you about his divorce and the dog they’re still fighting over and the house he might have to sell to pay for his ex-wife’s legal expenses.

Meanwhile, Dean broods over his whiskey. He has two more glasses without offering more than a few remarks, not all of them that agreeable. He catches the look you shoot him every time.

Be nice, my ass.

“You want to head out?” you suggest eventually.

He thought you’d never fucking ask.

Your second beer is half full, but he doesn’t second guess you. He just pays for the bill and waits for you to say your goodbyes.

“It’s such a small town, I don’t know how we haven’t bumped into each other before. Maybe I’ll see you around,” Brandon says. He aims it at both you and Dean, but the way his gaze lingers on you is obvious. At least to Dean.

Don’t bet on it, douchebag.

What actually comes out of his mouth is hot air, because you beat him to it.

“Maybe. We don’t come here that often,” you say. “Good luck with everything.”

Dean raises a brow as you slip a hand around his arm and begin walking with him toward the door.

“You don’t have to lie to your new boy toy on my account,” he says.

It’s meant to be a joke. It just doesn’t come out like one.

You pause at the door, giving him a look that tells him one thing.

Pissed off.

You drop his arm and walk out without him.

Releasing a sigh through his nose, he rolls his shoulders and follows you. He slips his hands into his jeans at the cooler night air. He knows the drive home is about to be more frigid than this.

The dirty hum of the Impala’s motor is all that breaks the silence after he pulls away from the bar. Dean sees the gears turning on your face, that slow simmer of your thoughts beginning to bubble and burst with steam.

It doesn’t take long before you reach a boiling point, turning to him with crossed arms.

“You know, if you didn’t want to come out tonight, you could’ve just said so,” you say.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “What, and me miss tonight’s episode of The Bachelor? Featuring Brandon, the stand-up guy, with his charming smile and ‘baby blue’ eyes.”

He gives you a knowing look. Your mouth falls open incredulously.

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s not how I meant that,” you say, with an aggravated huff. “Dean, the guy was like a kicked puppy. I was just trying to be nice. And maybe if you would’ve talked to me for half a second tonight, he wouldn’t have felt the need to fill in for you.”

At that, Dean hesitates.

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance at you again, seeing just how upset you are. His gut churns with a measure of guilt as he begins to second guess himself. He reels back the night in his mind, like he wasn’t the one who was being ignored.

But, he does start to remember the way you tried to spark a conversation with him a few times, asking if he’d found that specialty part for Baby yet, and if he wanted to grab lunch at the diner downtown tomorrow, just you and him. 

He remembers. He was just too annoyed at the time to give you more than a short, gruff answer here and there, sometimes no more than a syllable. Sure. Fine. Awesome.

He kind of feels like an ass.

His pride won’t let him tell you that though.

Dean’s a professional at holding it all in as he follows you inside the bunker, locking doors behind him and watching the tension in your wake. He blows out a sigh.

It looks like Sam is in his room, most likely asleep or reading for pleasure, like the nerd he is.

It means Dean really has no buffer when he makes it to his room, finding you already undressing for bed with your back turned to him. Dean hesitates in the doorway, his fingers tapping against his leg. But he decides that this is a stupid reason to go to bed angry, especially when he’s not even the angry one anymore. He shuts the door behind him and sheds his jacket.

After you pull one of his old shirts over your head, he approaches you from behind and rests his hands on your hips. He steps in until your back meets his chest, and his thumbs dip under your shirt to brush small circles against your skin, right above the hem of your panties.

“’M sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to be a dick.”

Just like that, your lips quirk, and your tension melts under his warm hands. With a sigh, you turn in his arms and grab onto the open edges of his flannel.

“Then what was the problem?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

You grasp his chin, earning his gaze.

“Yeah, you do,” you counter. “You’re a protective guy, Dean, but I’ve never seen you that snarky and jealous. Not even with other hunters. You don’t honestly believe a random guy I meet at a bar is gonna turn my head, do you?”

Dean’s mouth tugs at half a smile, but when he looks into your eyes, he can’t help but dislodge the truth; it was stuck to the base of his throat.

“Truth is, maybe a Brandon’s got more to offer you than I do,” he admits. “God fucking knows I can’t afford alimony. At least he has a real house, a real job, something stable and, uh…respectable.”

You give him a flat look for that one, but you shake your head and guide him back to sit on the edge of the bed. You climb into his lap and twine your arms around his neck. He helps settle you with his hands moving to your soft thighs.

“Dean, we have a home. We have jobs that matter. And you and me? That’s all the stability I need,” you say. Though he sees the threat of your cheeky grin. “And if I wanted respectable, I’d fuck a doctor, not a real estate agent.”

He laughs, shaking his head. His hands slide back up to squeeze your ass. His smile warms at the way you hold his face and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek, followed by his lips.

“I love you, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

It’s not the first time those heated words have left your lips, but it’s the first time you’ve said them without him being balls-deep inside you, earning every choked cry and sinful utterance with the way he touched you, kissed you, made love to you with everything but his words.

Even now, it’s difficult for him to hear them. His eyes fall closed, his brows knitting together. But the way he kisses you back is an answer in itself. It’s an all-consuming need. It’s reassurance and solace. It’s a bright, warm flicker in the bloody, violent world you both have been forced to choose.

Dean helps you wrench off the sleep shirt first, so he can trail his hand up your spine and elicit goosebumps in his wake. He grabs a fistful of your hair and kisses you deeper, a filthy meeting of tongues and grazing teeth.

You yank back his layers, down to his watch and undershirt, followed by boots and jeans and anything else that doesn’t mean skin on heated skin.

He picks you up and rolls you underneath him on the bed, and wastes no time in kissing down your body, squeezing your breasts, teasing your nipples with his tongue, the a hint of teeth. You writhe against his mouth, your fingers digging into his arms.

His hand drags down your body and cups your warm mound, making your thighs fall open on reflex. You cup his face in your hands and breathe his name with both reverence and need when his fingers slip through your folds, teasing your weeping hole. Two of his thick digits carry some of that wetness up to your clit and rub tight, relentless circles that make flashes of pleasure pulse inside you. Your body shudders.

You whimper and bury your face in his neck as he takes you higher. You hold him to you as your body coils tighter, tighter, tighter.

But the angle of his hand shifts. His palm still brushes your clit, but he’s fucking you deep inside with his long fingers.

“Gonna come, sweetheart?” he whispers roughly in your ear. “Come on, give me the first one. Come all over my fingers, before I fill you up for real.”

You can’t help but give him what he wants. A long moan spills from you as he draws out your release. It pulses from your center and rushes out warm over his fingers.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Good girl,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

You blush, fighting a smile at the praise. As a grown-ass woman, you think it’s a little silly, but coming out of his mouth, it can only sound almost as good as it feels when he’s inside you.

After licking your arousal off his fingers himself, Dean strokes your cheek and positions himself better between the perfect cradle of your thighs.

“Okay. Ready for me, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, with a sexy gleam in your eye that he knows well. "But are you ready for me?"

Hooking your thigh around his, you push him back, until you’re rolling yourself on top, sinking into his lap, and Dean is the one lying there panting, eyes bright with pleasure and a smirk across his lips.

Before he even has a chance to say something smartass, you lure him into a kiss and grind your bare pussy against his risen length. He almost chokes on a groan, his knees bending under your ass on reflex.

When you finally guide him inside you, his hands fly to your hips and ass, squeezing like he intends to brand your skin with his fingerprints.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His forehead presses against yours. “I love you too.”

A small gasp falls from your panting lips.

You pause, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He stiffens, still holding you, but realizing what he just allowed to escape.

A soft smile lightens your face. You run your fingers through his hair and kiss him a little more gently.

It’s almost too much for him. He doesn’t fucking deserve it, he thinks.

But he lets you do it anyway. If there’s one thing that he wants, more than anything, it’s this.

You rock on him slow to start with. He always fills you so snugly, you have to swivel your hips a little just to help you adjust and find the right angle—the one that makes the head of his cock brush just right against your G-spot.

Your body shudders. Your breaths deepen, and your eyes meet his in a deeper connection. They speak without a word, promising devotion. Promising summer through rain, and gentle hands on old wounds.

Your hair falls messily around your shoulders, and he brushes some of it back. He caresses your shoulders, your arms, the sides of your breasts and the plush of your hips with his strong hands—all while he silently marvels. While he falls deeper into the feeling of you.

This is the moment he accepts it; if he holds onto you, you won’t let go.

So, he does. He sits up and cages you in his arms, buries his face into your hair as you continue to ride him into sweet oblivion. You purposefully clench your pussy on his cock, earning his ragged groan.

Your hand slips in between your bodies just to stroke your clit, until it swells again with a tingling pleasure. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to come again so soon, but you want to try to get there with him. You already feel him throbbing a warning inside you. Your nails curl through his hair and graze his scalp at the base of his neck, and it makes him shiver, like a dog getting scratched just right.

He manages to stave off his own release, just long enough to feel your inner walls begin to flutter around his cock. He wraps an arm around your waist like an iron weight, not only holding you to him, but giving him the leverage he needs to meet you with a few ragged thrusts, fucking you through your own orgasm as well as his own.

He swallows your choked scream with a deeper kiss. Your hold on him is just as fervent and desperate as his is grounding and possessive. It’s hot, panting breaths in between. Sweat-slick skin and a purple haze.   

His eyes are dark with hunter green afterward, when they meet yours.

He’s not letting go.

AN: 😘 How’d you like some jelly, grumpy Dean? I think an occasional ILY and some good hot TLC between the monster slaying could heal him. 🧡

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So super surprised, happy and chuffed to see Dean getting all jealous of a real estate agent of all people lol. He’s just so gosh darn cute :D dare I say grumpy old man haha

*snorts* oh yes, he's definitely being a grumpy old man here, letting old insecurities crop up when reader's just trying to have a good time. But honestly yes, it does make him all the cuter as he gets older 😝😝

Naaaewwww. I saw this and was thinking, ooohhhh we’re gonna get a confession! Only to snort a little when I realised that according to Dean they often say it when he’s balls deep lol! The shoe totally fits 😁

lmaooo it "slips out," if you will 🤣 but this is the first time they say it outside the heat of the moment (😆)

Awwwww Dean. Not only jealous but now in his head that he’s not worthy ❤️🫂 You just wanna e the reader in these situations and give the man a bf squeeze!

That's exactly why I write fics like this! So we can give him all the lovin' and comfort to pave over those moments for him 🥲💞

And another snort from me! 💯 if that’s the route you’re going, go big or go home? I need more jealous Dean in my life!

Ahaha thanks for highlighting that line! Not gonna lie, I was proud of that one 😂

And I'm so glad you enjoyed this, Beth! Thanks so much for reading 🙏🏽

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He remembers you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

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

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

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

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

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

“About eight months,” you reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell is this?

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

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

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s true.

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

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

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

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

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

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

Before I lose my nerve.

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

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

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

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

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

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

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

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

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

He just ends up waking alone.

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

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He remembers you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

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

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

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

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

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

“About eight months,” you reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell is this?

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

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

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s true.

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

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

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

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

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

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

Before I lose my nerve.

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

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

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

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

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

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

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

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

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

He just ends up waking alone.

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

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t.”

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

🌹 Read Parts 3-4 now on Patreon!

ᯓ✍🏽 Part 3 coming to Tumblr: August 16

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@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

Yeah, it can be unpleasant, especially when you're not used to it. I had some experience:) I mean it was more or less fine when I was a child, but I haven't been in a stable for years, so it'd probably made me gag too 😀

Oh really? That's cool! I've only seen horses a handful of times too since I've always lived in the city lol

The fact that Dean was her first love makes their story even more sentimental and hard to forget, I guess.

Absolutely. She and Dean have known each other since they were 7 and 9 years old, respectively, and he was her first love and first real boyfriend (you'll see more about that soon), so their breakup and the way it happened really affected her.

"A few minutes", my ass😂 Sam, won't you check on them?

lmfao exactly 😂 he's assuming reader and Dean will be mature adults about this, but he's proved wrong lol

I bet he was unbelievably cute back then:)

Can you imagine? With his little freckles 🥰

I just realised he's not afraid of women's tears. A good quality.

No, not when it comes to her 😉 but he certainly doesn't like to see them ❤️‍🩹

Our man, I love him. Obviously it's not his business but I love him for wanting to know. Maybe it's his jealousy, but I also want to believe he just cares.

It's a bit of both in this case loll. He would never admit to being jealous, especially because he doesn't really have a right to be, but he also obviously still cares 💕

Is he hiding something? 🤔

Love them:D you know, you always write some phrases that makes me fall in love even at the very beginning:)

Aww haha I love that, thank you!! Despite what they're doing is technically wrong, I hoped to create parts that made you swoon regardless 😝

🙁 Predictable, though. Now she's full of guilt. And the most difficult part of the story starts here 😂 Of course I'm curious about Dean's and reader past? Is there a person who can say "no" to this? Btw, I agree - technically it's cheating, but since they love each other and I'm not sure Brady loves her, don't know him enough, so it doesn't feel like betrayal to me. But the fact she feels ashamed is... human? It'd probably be worse if she didn't.

Yeeep, she's feeling mighty guilty, and all the complicated drama spins from here in this fun little triangle. 😂

hahaa fair enough! There's a lot of juicy parts of their past that will be unraveled as we go along. And you'll learn more about her and Brady's relationship along the way, of course, and what cracks might be lying in wait there. It's natural that she feels guilty, because she does care about Brady. She and Dean were caught up in a very vulnerable moment and feelings (with some alcohol to rid them of some inhibitions lol)

I like that she's barefoot:) Probably it's uncomfortable, but sounds good as an idea.

hahaaa it paints quite a visual!

Thank you! I feel like they're my second favourite to Subtext (at least if we talk about your recent stories, and I hope it won't offend. I love the ones I've read, all of them, but each story feels different).

1: Sweet Home, Colorado

2: Too Close to the Heat

3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 16

4: My Diamond is Too Rough 🌹 Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 23

5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass ℧ Read on Patreon: August 14 || Tumblr: August 30

6: Loose Ends & Torn Pages 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 21 || Tumblr: September 6

7: Word Gets Out When You Get Around ℧ Read on Patreon: August 28 || Tumblr: September 20

8: Every Moment's a Crime

9: What We Said and What We Meant

10: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine

11: Wait for the River to Roll

12: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won

13: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns

l4: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood

15: The Roots Through Southern Ground

16: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone

17: Sunshine on the Water

ᯓ✍🏽 Series in progress...

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He remembers you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

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

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

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

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