Hi there! Welcome to my little corner of the internet!
About Me: Call me Taylor (She/Her | Over 21+) || Dreamer, writer, lover.
Fandoms I’m writing in:
- Supernatural/Dean Winchester (Familiar Ground - ongoing; One Day - completed)
- Dawson’s Creek/CJ Braxton (Crossroads of the Heart - ongoing)
- Big Sky (Second Chances: Forever - ongoing; Second Chances - completed)
- Supernatural/One-Shots
Posting Schedule (as of 1/28/2026):
Familiar Ground - Mondays
Second Chances: Forever - Tuesdays
Crossroads of the Heart - Every other Wednesday
Supernatural One-Shots - Whenever there's a holiday or event to post about
Stories I wrote:
- Supernatural/Dean Winchester (One Day)
Stories on hiatus:
- The Rookie/Tim Bradford (Breaking The Wall)
I will not take requests at this time. This may change in the future.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Any content that has 18+ content will be labeled on the story itself, as well as any dark themes or trigger warnings. I’d advise minors (under 18) to not read those stories.
Note: I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or published to any third-party sites, apps, or AI generators/readers.
If you come across one of my works posted elsewhere, please let me know.
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 4,486
Tags/Warnings: Discussion of 18+ issues, parenthood
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Seven: She's Growing Up
The weeks that followed settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not because Y/N had found her answer.
Because she had stopped demanding one from herself.
The college catalog remained on the coffee table, migrating occasionally to the kitchen table, the bedroom, or whichever room she happened to be occupying while the children played nearby. She found herself opening it in odd moments—during Ella's naps, while waiting for pasta water to boil, after the house had gone quiet for the evening. Some days she lingered over education programs. Other days communications caught her eye. There were moments when social work seemed appealing, and others when entirely different paths tugged at her imagination.
The frustrating thing was that none of the possibilities felt wrong.
They all felt appealing for different reasons.
And so she continued to think.
To wonder.
To imagine.
Meanwhile, life refused to pause for self-discovery.
Eliza remained a one-child creative industry.
Every day seemed to bring a new chapter in the increasingly complicated saga of wolves and ducks. One afternoon, Y/N overheard an impassioned explanation involving duck ambassadors, wolf council elections, and a disputed pond border. Another day, Eliza spent nearly an hour constructing an elaborate village from blocks and couch cushions, assigning each structure a specific purpose in the ongoing alliance.
The stories became more sophisticated as she approached six.
More detailed.
More ambitious.
More hilariously serious.
Beau claimed it was proof she would either become a novelist or run for public office someday.
Emily privately suggested both.
Caleb, meanwhile, remained Caleb.
At nearly two years old, he approached every day as though it were an adventure specifically designed for him. Fear simply did not seem to exist in his vocabulary. He climbed first and considered consequences second—if he considered them at all.
Y/N once found him standing triumphantly atop the coffee table.
Another time he somehow managed to move a dining room chair across the kitchen in pursuit of cookies.
When questioned, he merely smiled.
The smile was entirely Beau's.
And therefore impossible to stay angry at.
Then there was Ella.
At nine months old, she seemed determined to make up for lost time.
Crawling had arrived with shocking speed. One week she was rocking uncertainly on hands and knees. The next, she was moving through the house with alarming efficiency. No room remained safe. No object remained unexamined.
Her favorite activity became following people.
Especially Beau.
If Beau entered a room, Ella immediately attempted pursuit. If he left again, she expressed her displeasure loudly.
"Daddy's girl," Emily observed one afternoon as Ella crawled after Beau's retreating boots with remarkable determination.
"Traitor," Y/N replied.
Ella had also begun pulling herself upright against furniture. The coffee table. The couch. Beau's legs. Anything stable became an opportunity. She would stand there proudly, wobbling slightly, looking utterly delighted with herself.
The babbling had increased too.
"Dada" remained her favorite word.
Much to Y/N's annoyance.
"Mama" appeared occasionally, usually when she was upset or wanted something.
"Dada" was used for joy, excitement, curiosity, and apparently most household objects.
Beau found this deeply entertaining.
Y/N found it suspicious.
One evening, she caught him teaching Ella that his badge was "Dada's badge."
The baby immediately began pointing at it and chanting "Dada."
Y/N was still debating whether this counted as cheating.
Despite all of it—the diapers, the school drop-offs, the endless laundry, the toddler negotiations, the baby-proofing that somehow never stayed effective—she found herself feeling lighter.
The restlessness had transformed.
It no longer felt like a warning.
It felt like anticipation.
Sometimes she would be folding laundry while Ella crawled circles around her and suddenly find herself imagining a classroom. A future coworker. A different routine. Not instead of this life.
In addition to it.
That distinction mattered.
One evening, while helping Eliza color wolf insignias for an important council meeting, Y/N realized something that made her smile.
A few months ago, she had been afraid that wanting something beyond motherhood somehow diminished her love for it.
Now she understood the truth.
She loved this life completely.
She loved being Beau's wife.
Loved being Eliza's mother, Caleb's mother, Ella's mother.
Loved the noise and the chaos and the impossible fullness of it all.
But loving one chapter didn't mean she couldn't be curious about the next.
Across the room, Beau sat on the floor helping Caleb build a tower while Emily lounged on the couch, studying for class and occasionally contributing to Eliza's wolf government. Ella crawled determinedly toward the tower with obvious destructive intentions.
The structure collapsed moments later.
Caleb laughed.
Ella laughed.
Beau groaned dramatically.
And Y/N found herself smiling.
The future could wait a little longer.
For now, she was content to wonder.
The sheriff's department was many things.
Quiet was rarely one of them.
Beau sat behind his desk mid-morning, reviewing reports from the previous evening when dispatch transferred a call directly to him. He picked up expecting something serious.
Instead, he got Earl Patterson.
Which should have been his first warning. "Earl."
"Sheriff."
Beau leaned back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"
Earl took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a theft."
That got Beau's attention. "A theft?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was stolen?"
A pause.
"My prize rooster's dignity."
Beau closed his eyes.
Across the room, Doris immediately looked up from her desk. The woman had an almost supernatural ability to detect nonsense.
"Earl," Beau said carefully, "explain."
Apparently Earl's prized rooster, General Sherman, had engaged in a territorial dispute with another rooster belonging to his neighbor. The confrontation had occurred in full view of several ranch hands.
General Sherman had lost. Badly. The rooster had fled. The ranch hands had laughed. And Earl was convinced this constituted emotional damages.
Beau listened for nearly ten minutes while Earl described the incident in exhaustive detail. By the end of it, Beau knew more about rooster psychology than he'd ever wanted.
When the call finally ended, he slowly lowered the receiver and stared at the wall. The silence lasted approximately three seconds. Then Doris burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-bodied, shoulders-shaking cackle.
"Oh my God."
Beau rubbed his forehead. "Doris."
"Did a chicken lose a fistfight?"
"It was a rooster."
That only made her laugh harder.
Jenny chose that moment to walk into the bullpen carrying a file. She took one look at Doris nearly bent over her desk and Beau's exhausted expression. "What happened?"
Jenny stopped. Blinked. Then looked at Beau. "Please tell me that's not what I think it means."
"It means exactly what you think it means."
Jenny closed her eyes. For a moment she looked like she was silently reevaluating every life choice that had brought her here. Then she laughed too. "Oh, that's fantastic."
"It's not fantastic."
"It absolutely is."
Beau leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at both women. "One day," he said, "there's gonna be an actual emergency."
"Sure."
"And y'all are gonna regret mockin' me."
"Absolutely."
"You're both impossible."
Doris wiped tears from her eyes. "You know what the worst part is?"
"I don't want to know."
"The worst part is that I know exactly which rooster he's talking about."
Jenny groaned. "No."
"Oh yes."
"You've seen the rooster?"
"I've seen the rooster."
"Why?"
"Because this is Big Sky."
Neither Beau nor Jenny had a counterargument to that.
A few hours later another call came in regarding a cow that had somehow gotten itself onto the roof of a shed.
Nobody ever satisfactorily explained how.
By lunch, Beau had mediated a dispute involving a fence, a goat, and what appeared to be a decades-old grudge between two ranchers.
When he finally emerged from his office with a cup of coffee, Doris looked up from her desk. "How's your day, Sheriff?"
Beau considered. "My wife is looking at college classes."
Doris smiled immediately. "That's nice."
"My oldest daughter's in love."
"Also nice."
"My youngest daughter is learning to crawl."
"Awww."
"My son is probably committing property crimes at daycare."
"Almost certainly."
"And I've spent my morning discussing traumatized poultry."
Jenny laughed so hard she nearly dropped her file.
Beau took a long sip of coffee. Then, despite himself, he smiled.
Because somewhere between the rooster, the cow, the fence dispute, and the goat incident, his phone had buzzed. A picture from Y/N. Ella standing proudly while holding onto the coffee table. Nine months old and looking very pleased with herself.
Below the picture was a simple message: Look what your daughter did today.
Beau smiled again.
Doris caught it immediately. "Oh no."
"What?"
"The smile."
Jenny looked up. "The smile?"
Doris pointed. "That's Sheriff Shiny."
Beau groaned.
Jenny laughed.
And the sheriff's department returned to business as usual.
The afternoon had been relatively peaceful.
Which, in the Arlen household, usually meant disaster was quietly gathering momentum somewhere.
Y/N was in the living room trying to convince Caleb that climbing onto the back of the couch was not, in fact, an Olympic sport. Caleb disagreed vehemently and had already made three attempts.
Meanwhile, nine-month-old Ella sat nearby, proudly pulling herself upright against the coffee table. Every few seconds she would let go with one hand and beam at herself as though she'd personally conquered Mount Everest.
"Good job, baby girl," Y/N said.
Ella grinned.
Then promptly sat down on her diaper with a surprised expression.
The front door burst open.
Emily came flying inside.
"Mom!"
Y/N's heart immediately dropped.
She straightened so quickly Caleb nearly toppled over.
"What happened?"
Emily froze.
For one brief second she looked like someone who had just sprinted a mile.
Then the words exploded out of her.
"Peter wants to take the relationship to the next step."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
Emily paced. "Oh?" she repeated. "That's all you've got? Oh?"
"Emily—"
"And I don't know what to do because I really like him and he's wonderful and he's sweet and he wasn't pressuring me and he was actually really respectful about it but what if I'm not ready and what if I wait too long and that ruins everything and what if I do it and that ruins everything and what if I'm terrible at it and—"
"Emily."
"What if—"
"Emily."
The young woman stopped pacing.
Y/N pointed toward the couch. "Sit."
Emily sat. Immediately. Years of maternal authority still had power.
Y/N settled beside her while Caleb drove a toy truck into a chair and Ella resumed her attempts to stand.
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Y/N simply let Emily breathe.
Finally, Emily groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Oh God."
"You done?"
"No."
"Close?"
"Maybe."
Y/N smiled. "Good enough."
Emily peeked through her fingers.
Y/N's expression was gentle. Not shocked. Not disappointed. Not worried. Just listening.
"Okay," Y/N said. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Emily took a breath. Then another. "He brought it up this morning."
"How?"
"He said he loved where our relationship was going. That he cared about me. That eventually he'd like us to be intimate."
Y/N nodded. "And?"
"And he said there wasn't a timeline. No pressure. No expectations."
"That's good."
"I know."
Emily groaned again. "That's the problem."
Y/N laughed softly. "Because it'd be easier if he were a jerk?"
"Exactly."
"Unfortunately, Peter appears to be a decent human being."
Emily slumped. "I know."
Y/N reached over and squeezed her hand. "Emily."
Her daughter looked up. "You do not owe anyone sex."
Immediately Emily relaxed a fraction.
"Not Peter. Not a boyfriend. Not someone you're in love with."
Emily nodded slowly.
"You don't do it because you're afraid someone will leave."
The nod became firmer.
"You don't do it because you think it'll save a relationship."
Another nod.
"And you definitely don't do it because you're worried you'll lose him if you don't."
Emily was quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, "What if I wait and he gets tired of waiting?"
Y/N considered that. "If Peter truly cares about you, he'll respect your answer."
Emily stared at her. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then he wasn't the right man for you."
The answer came easily. Certainly. Because Y/N believed it.
Emily looked down at her hands. "I just don't know if I'm ready."
Y/N smiled softly. "Then you're not."
Emily blinked. "What?"
"Sweetheart, the fact that you're saying those words means something."
Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Emily's ear. "When you're ready, it shouldn't feel like you're trying to convince yourself."
The younger woman absorbed that quietly.
Around them, life continued. Caleb had apparently declared war on a pillow. Ella had managed to stand again and was applauding herself. The normalcy of it all seemed to help.
After a while Emily sighed. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if I make the wrong choice?"
Y/N smiled. "Then you'll survive it."
Emily looked skeptical. "That's not very comforting."
"It should be."
Y/N squeezed her hand again. "Because you're stronger than you think."
The room fell quiet.
Emily leaned into her shoulder the way she occasionally still did when life felt overwhelming.
For a few moments, they simply sat together. Mother and daughter. No judgment. No pressure. Just trust.
Finally, Emily laughed weakly. "I really thought this conversation was going to be worse."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Worse?"
"I don't know."
"Did you forget who raised you?"
Emily smiled. "A little."
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's because it's what you want."
Not Peter.
Not fear.
Not expectation.
Her.
And for the first time since bursting through the front door, Emily looked calmer. Not because she had an answer. But because she understood something important.
She was allowed to take her time.
Emily was quiet for a long moment after that.
The living room had settled into a gentler rhythm. Caleb had finally exhausted himself and was now focused on pushing a truck across the rug while making determined engine noises. Ella sat nearby, happily chewing on a teething toy and periodically attempting to crawl toward trouble.
Emily stared at her hands. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "What was it like?"
Y/N tilted her head. "What was what like?"
Emily looked embarrassed immediately. "Your first time with Dad."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
"That's probably way too personal."
"It is a little," Y/N admitted with a laugh.
Emily groaned. "I knew it."
"But that doesn't mean I can't answer."
Emily looked relieved.
Y/N settled deeper into the couch cushions, considering the question. It wasn't one she'd ever expected Emily to ask, though perhaps she should have. Emily wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, love, and all the uncertainty that came with both.
"It wasn't perfect," Y/N said finally.
Emily looked surprised. "Really?"
"Sweetheart, almost nobody's first time is perfect."
That earned a small smile.
Y/N glanced toward Ella, then back to Emily. "When your dad and I got together, we'd already spent a lot of time getting to know each other. We'd talked. We'd dated. We'd built trust first." She smiled softly at the memory. "Your father was absurdly patient."
Emily snorted. "That sounds like him."
"It does, doesn't it?"
Y/N's expression softened further. "The thing I remember most isn't the physical part."
Emily listened carefully.
"I remember feeling safe."
The answer seemed to surprise her. "Safe?"
Y/N nodded. "Your dad spent the entire evening making sure I was comfortable. Making sure I knew I could change my mind. Making sure I never felt pressured." She smiled faintly. "Honestly, I was probably more nervous than he was."
Emily laughed. "Hard to imagine."
"Oh, trust me."
Y/N shook her head. "I was worried about a hundred different things. Whether I looked okay. Whether I was making the right decision. Whether everything would somehow become awkward afterward."
"And?"
"And none of those things happened."
She smiled. "Because the relationship wasn't built on that moment. The relationship already existed."
Emily absorbed that quietly.
Y/N continued, "The next morning, your dad was exactly the same man he'd been the day before. Kind. Patient. Ridiculously attentive. He made breakfast. He checked on me. He checked on Eliza." Her voice softened. "Nothing changed except that we were a little closer."
The memory warmed her even now. Beau had been so careful with her heart back then. So determined to earn trust rather than demand it.
Emily stared at the floor. "I think that's part of what scares me."
"What does?"
"The idea that everything could change."
Y/N nodded. "That's a normal fear."
Emily looked up. "So how did you know?"
Y/N smiled gently. "I didn't know everything."
"That isn't very reassuring."
"No," Y/N admitted. "But it's true."
She reached over and squeezed Emily's hand. "I knew I loved him. I knew I trusted him. I knew I felt safe with him. Beyond that, there were no guarantees."
Emily was quiet.
"The truth is, sweetheart, sex doesn't create a healthy relationship. It doesn't save one either."
She glanced toward the kitchen where Caleb had somehow acquired a wooden spoon.
"A healthy relationship is built by everything that comes before and after. Trust. Respect. Communication. Kindness."
"And if I'm not ready?"
"Then you're not ready."
The answer came easily. Firmly. Without hesitation.
Y/N smiled. "And if you decide six months from now that you're ready, that's okay too."
Emily leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly. "I really hate being an adult sometimes."
Y/N laughed. "Join the club."
That finally earned a genuine smile from Emily.
For a few moments they sat together, watching Caleb drive his truck into a table leg and Ella applaud herself for no apparent reason.
Then Emily rested her head briefly against Y/N's shoulder. "Thanks, Mom."
The word still touched Y/N every time. Not because she'd earned it through years of raising Emily from childhood. But because Emily had chosen it. Chosen her.
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Anytime, sweetheart."
And for the first time since she'd burst through the front door in a panic, Emily looked like she could breathe again.
The house was asleep.
The kind of deep, complete sleep that only came after a full day of children, work, school, errands, and the thousand little moments that filled an Arlen day. Somewhere down the hall, Eliza was undoubtedly dreaming about wolves. Caleb had finally exhausted himself. Ella, after protesting bedtime on principle, had surrendered to sleep as well.
The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
Y/N rested comfortably against Beau's chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. One of his arms was draped around her waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against her skin while the quiet settled around them.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Y/N said, "Emily had a bit of a panic attack today."
Beau's hand immediately stilled. "What happened?"
There was an instant alertness in his voice that made Y/N smile. "Nothing bad."
He relaxed slightly. "Define bad."
"Peter brought up eventually taking their relationship to the next level."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Profound.
Y/N lifted her head slightly.
Beau was staring at the ceiling.
Blinking.
Slowly.
"No."
She laughed. "Beau."
"Nope."
"Beau."
"Absolutely not."
A groan escaped him as he dropped his free arm over his eyes. "She's twelve."
"She's twenty."
"In my defense, I reject that information."
Y/N's laughter filled the room.
Beau shook his head. "No. See, this is ridiculous. Emily's supposed to be this sweet little girl."
"You mean the college student?"
"The little girl."
"The young woman with a boyfriend?"
"The little girl."
"The adult who can vote?"
"The little girl."
Y/N kissed his shoulder. "You're impossible."
He sighed dramatically. "I remember teachin' her how to ride a bike."
"And now?"
"And now apparently we're discussin' sex." His tone suggested this was a personal attack.
Y/N couldn't stop smiling.
For another moment Beau lay there quietly. Then the humor faded and something softer took its place. Because the truth was... he knew. Emily wasn't a child anymore. He'd seen it himself.
The confidence she'd gained at college. The way she talked about her future. The maturity she'd shown with Peter. The woman she was becoming.
He just wasn't always ready to acknowledge it. A long breath escaped him. "God."
"Yeah."
"She's really growin' up."
Y/N threaded her fingers through his. "She is."
Beau turned his head, looking down at her. "So what'd you tell her?"
The question was genuine. Curious. Trusting.
Y/N settled back against him. "I told her she didn't owe anyone sex."
His expression immediately softened. "Good."
"I told her she shouldn't do it because she's afraid of losing him. Or because she thinks it'll save a relationship."
Beau nodded slowly. "Also good."
"I told her if she's saying she doesn't know whether she's ready, then she's probably not ready."
A hint of relief crossed his face. "Thank you."
Y/N smiled. "I also told her that when she is ready, the decision should be hers."
Beau was quiet. Thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Yeah."
Not because he liked the idea. Because he respected it. Emily deserved that respect. The same respect he would want any man to show her. The same respect he hoped Peter would continue showing her.
After a moment, Beau asked quietly, "Did she seem okay afterward?"
"Much better."
He smiled faintly. "Good."
Y/N studied him. "You're handling this surprisingly well."
"No, I'm not."
She laughed. "No?"
"Inside, I'm considering arresting Peter."
"Beau."
"I'm just sayin'."
"On what charge?"
He thought about it. "Existin'."
That made her laugh so hard she buried her face in his chest.
Beau grinned, pleased with himself. Then his expression softened once more. "Truth is," he admitted quietly, "I'm glad she came to you."
Y/N looked up.
He brushed a hand through her hair. "She trusts you."
The words carried weight. Because they both knew the journey that had brought them here. Y/N hadn't raised Emily from childhood. She hadn't been there for scraped knees or elementary school plays. She'd entered Emily's life later.
And yet. Somewhere along the way, a relationship had grown. Built not by obligation, but by choice. Emily choosing to trust her. Y/N choosing to love her.
Beau's heart swelled just thinking about it.
"So am I," Y/N whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Then pulled her closer.
And together they lay there in the quiet darkness, thinking about daughters growing up, sons growing wild, babies learning to stand, and all the beautiful, complicated ways a family changed over time.
The next morning began exactly the way most Arlen mornings did.
With noise.
Eliza was explaining to anyone who would listen why ducks should not be allowed to vote in wolf elections. Caleb was attempting to wear one of Beau's boots despite the fact it was nearly half his size. Nine-month-old Ella sat in her highchair enthusiastically demolishing a banana while simultaneously decorating herself with it.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
The coffee was working overtime.
And somehow everyone was talking at once.
Beau stood at the counter nursing his mug while Y/N packed lunches. Emily was helping Eliza find a missing mitten that somehow turned out to be in the refrigerator.
Nobody questioned this.
After all, it was Eliza.
Eventually, though, the chaos shifted.
Y/N disappeared briefly to clean Ella's face.
Caleb became fascinated by a toy truck.
Eliza ran off to retrieve an important wolf document.
For one brief moment, Emily found herself alone near the coffee pot.
Beau seized the opportunity. "Hey, kiddo."
Emily glanced up. Something in his voice immediately caught her attention. "Yeah?"
Beau rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment he looked strangely uncomfortable. Which was alarming. Because Beau Arlen rarely looked uncomfortable.
"Oh God," Emily said immediately. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That's not reassuring."
He exhaled. "No, it ain't."
Emily stared.
Beau stared back. Then finally sighed. "Your mom told me about your conversation."
Emily immediately groaned. "Oh my God."
"Now hold on."
"Dad."
"Just hear me out."
Emily covered her face.
Beau couldn't help smiling.
She looked exactly like she had when she was sixteen and embarrassed. Except now she was a college student. Which was still a fact he was struggling with.
A lot.
Finally Emily peeked through her fingers. "What?"
Beau leaned against the counter. "I know this is awkward."
"The worst."
"The absolute worst."
"Glad we're on the same page."
That earned a laugh from both of them. The tension eased. A little.
Beau became serious again. "I just wanted you to know somethin'."
Emily straightened slightly.
His voice had changed. This wasn't teasing anymore. This was father territory. "I'm proud of you."
The words surprised her. "What?"
"I'm proud of you." Beau shrugged one shoulder. "You didn't panic and make a decision because somebody expected one."
Emily blinked.
"You thought about it."
She nodded.
"You asked questions."
Another nod.
"You took your time."
A third.
"That's maturity, Em."
Her eyes softened.
Beau took a slow breath. "Your whole life, I've wanted you to know that you never have to earn my love."
The kitchen seemed quieter suddenly. Not silent. Just smaller. More focused.
"Whatever you decide," Beau continued, "that's your decision."
Emily swallowed.
"If you decide you're not ready, that's fine." He paused. "If you decide someday that you are, that's fine too."
His expression was steady. Certain. "All I care about is that you're safe. That you're respected. That you're making choices because they're yours."
Emily felt emotion rising unexpectedly in her chest.
Beau reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "And if anything ever goes wrong..."
She looked up.
His green eyes held hers. "If you get scared." His voice softened. "If you make a mistake."
Softer still. "If you regret somethin'."
Emily's throat tightened.
"If you get pregnant."
There it was. The thing most fathers danced around. Beau didn't. "You call me."
The words landed with absolute certainty. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Not conditions. Just certainty.
"You hear me?"
Emily nodded. "No matter what?"
"No matter what."
His answer came instantly. No hesitation. No qualifiers. "Nothing changes that you're my daughter."
The emotion she'd been fighting finally broke through. "Dad..."
"You call me." His voice was firm now. "You don't hide. You don't panic. You don't try to carry it alone."
Emily's eyes shimmered. "I won't."
"Good."
Beau pulled her into a hug then. A real one. The kind he gave when words weren't quite enough.
Emily hugged him back immediately. For a moment she was twenty years old. For a moment she was ten. For a moment she was both.
"I love you," Beau murmured.
"I love you too."
Behind them, Eliza burst back into the kitchen.
"WOLF EMERGENCY."
The moment shattered instantly.
Beau sighed.
Emily laughed.
And life resumed.
But the warmth of that conversation stayed with her long after the morning chaos swept everyone away.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 4,486
Tags/Warnings: Discussion of 18+ issues, parenthood
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Seven: She's Growing Up
The weeks that followed settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not because Y/N had found her answer.
Because she had stopped demanding one from herself.
The college catalog remained on the coffee table, migrating occasionally to the kitchen table, the bedroom, or whichever room she happened to be occupying while the children played nearby. She found herself opening it in odd moments—during Ella's naps, while waiting for pasta water to boil, after the house had gone quiet for the evening. Some days she lingered over education programs. Other days communications caught her eye. There were moments when social work seemed appealing, and others when entirely different paths tugged at her imagination.
The frustrating thing was that none of the possibilities felt wrong.
They all felt appealing for different reasons.
And so she continued to think.
To wonder.
To imagine.
Meanwhile, life refused to pause for self-discovery.
Eliza remained a one-child creative industry.
Every day seemed to bring a new chapter in the increasingly complicated saga of wolves and ducks. One afternoon, Y/N overheard an impassioned explanation involving duck ambassadors, wolf council elections, and a disputed pond border. Another day, Eliza spent nearly an hour constructing an elaborate village from blocks and couch cushions, assigning each structure a specific purpose in the ongoing alliance.
The stories became more sophisticated as she approached six.
More detailed.
More ambitious.
More hilariously serious.
Beau claimed it was proof she would either become a novelist or run for public office someday.
Emily privately suggested both.
Caleb, meanwhile, remained Caleb.
At nearly two years old, he approached every day as though it were an adventure specifically designed for him. Fear simply did not seem to exist in his vocabulary. He climbed first and considered consequences second—if he considered them at all.
Y/N once found him standing triumphantly atop the coffee table.
Another time he somehow managed to move a dining room chair across the kitchen in pursuit of cookies.
When questioned, he merely smiled.
The smile was entirely Beau's.
And therefore impossible to stay angry at.
Then there was Ella.
At nine months old, she seemed determined to make up for lost time.
Crawling had arrived with shocking speed. One week she was rocking uncertainly on hands and knees. The next, she was moving through the house with alarming efficiency. No room remained safe. No object remained unexamined.
Her favorite activity became following people.
Especially Beau.
If Beau entered a room, Ella immediately attempted pursuit. If he left again, she expressed her displeasure loudly.
"Daddy's girl," Emily observed one afternoon as Ella crawled after Beau's retreating boots with remarkable determination.
"Traitor," Y/N replied.
Ella had also begun pulling herself upright against furniture. The coffee table. The couch. Beau's legs. Anything stable became an opportunity. She would stand there proudly, wobbling slightly, looking utterly delighted with herself.
The babbling had increased too.
"Dada" remained her favorite word.
Much to Y/N's annoyance.
"Mama" appeared occasionally, usually when she was upset or wanted something.
"Dada" was used for joy, excitement, curiosity, and apparently most household objects.
Beau found this deeply entertaining.
Y/N found it suspicious.
One evening, she caught him teaching Ella that his badge was "Dada's badge."
The baby immediately began pointing at it and chanting "Dada."
Y/N was still debating whether this counted as cheating.
Despite all of it—the diapers, the school drop-offs, the endless laundry, the toddler negotiations, the baby-proofing that somehow never stayed effective—she found herself feeling lighter.
The restlessness had transformed.
It no longer felt like a warning.
It felt like anticipation.
Sometimes she would be folding laundry while Ella crawled circles around her and suddenly find herself imagining a classroom. A future coworker. A different routine. Not instead of this life.
In addition to it.
That distinction mattered.
One evening, while helping Eliza color wolf insignias for an important council meeting, Y/N realized something that made her smile.
A few months ago, she had been afraid that wanting something beyond motherhood somehow diminished her love for it.
Now she understood the truth.
She loved this life completely.
She loved being Beau's wife.
Loved being Eliza's mother, Caleb's mother, Ella's mother.
Loved the noise and the chaos and the impossible fullness of it all.
But loving one chapter didn't mean she couldn't be curious about the next.
Across the room, Beau sat on the floor helping Caleb build a tower while Emily lounged on the couch, studying for class and occasionally contributing to Eliza's wolf government. Ella crawled determinedly toward the tower with obvious destructive intentions.
The structure collapsed moments later.
Caleb laughed.
Ella laughed.
Beau groaned dramatically.
And Y/N found herself smiling.
The future could wait a little longer.
For now, she was content to wonder.
The sheriff's department was many things.
Quiet was rarely one of them.
Beau sat behind his desk mid-morning, reviewing reports from the previous evening when dispatch transferred a call directly to him. He picked up expecting something serious.
Instead, he got Earl Patterson.
Which should have been his first warning. "Earl."
"Sheriff."
Beau leaned back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"
Earl took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a theft."
That got Beau's attention. "A theft?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was stolen?"
A pause.
"My prize rooster's dignity."
Beau closed his eyes.
Across the room, Doris immediately looked up from her desk. The woman had an almost supernatural ability to detect nonsense.
"Earl," Beau said carefully, "explain."
Apparently Earl's prized rooster, General Sherman, had engaged in a territorial dispute with another rooster belonging to his neighbor. The confrontation had occurred in full view of several ranch hands.
General Sherman had lost. Badly. The rooster had fled. The ranch hands had laughed. And Earl was convinced this constituted emotional damages.
Beau listened for nearly ten minutes while Earl described the incident in exhaustive detail. By the end of it, Beau knew more about rooster psychology than he'd ever wanted.
When the call finally ended, he slowly lowered the receiver and stared at the wall. The silence lasted approximately three seconds. Then Doris burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-bodied, shoulders-shaking cackle.
"Oh my God."
Beau rubbed his forehead. "Doris."
"Did a chicken lose a fistfight?"
"It was a rooster."
That only made her laugh harder.
Jenny chose that moment to walk into the bullpen carrying a file. She took one look at Doris nearly bent over her desk and Beau's exhausted expression. "What happened?"
Jenny stopped. Blinked. Then looked at Beau. "Please tell me that's not what I think it means."
"It means exactly what you think it means."
Jenny closed her eyes. For a moment she looked like she was silently reevaluating every life choice that had brought her here. Then she laughed too. "Oh, that's fantastic."
"It's not fantastic."
"It absolutely is."
Beau leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at both women. "One day," he said, "there's gonna be an actual emergency."
"Sure."
"And y'all are gonna regret mockin' me."
"Absolutely."
"You're both impossible."
Doris wiped tears from her eyes. "You know what the worst part is?"
"I don't want to know."
"The worst part is that I know exactly which rooster he's talking about."
Jenny groaned. "No."
"Oh yes."
"You've seen the rooster?"
"I've seen the rooster."
"Why?"
"Because this is Big Sky."
Neither Beau nor Jenny had a counterargument to that.
A few hours later another call came in regarding a cow that had somehow gotten itself onto the roof of a shed.
Nobody ever satisfactorily explained how.
By lunch, Beau had mediated a dispute involving a fence, a goat, and what appeared to be a decades-old grudge between two ranchers.
When he finally emerged from his office with a cup of coffee, Doris looked up from her desk. "How's your day, Sheriff?"
Beau considered. "My wife is looking at college classes."
Doris smiled immediately. "That's nice."
"My oldest daughter's in love."
"Also nice."
"My youngest daughter is learning to crawl."
"Awww."
"My son is probably committing property crimes at daycare."
"Almost certainly."
"And I've spent my morning discussing traumatized poultry."
Jenny laughed so hard she nearly dropped her file.
Beau took a long sip of coffee. Then, despite himself, he smiled.
Because somewhere between the rooster, the cow, the fence dispute, and the goat incident, his phone had buzzed. A picture from Y/N. Ella standing proudly while holding onto the coffee table. Nine months old and looking very pleased with herself.
Below the picture was a simple message: Look what your daughter did today.
Beau smiled again.
Doris caught it immediately. "Oh no."
"What?"
"The smile."
Jenny looked up. "The smile?"
Doris pointed. "That's Sheriff Shiny."
Beau groaned.
Jenny laughed.
And the sheriff's department returned to business as usual.
The afternoon had been relatively peaceful.
Which, in the Arlen household, usually meant disaster was quietly gathering momentum somewhere.
Y/N was in the living room trying to convince Caleb that climbing onto the back of the couch was not, in fact, an Olympic sport. Caleb disagreed vehemently and had already made three attempts.
Meanwhile, nine-month-old Ella sat nearby, proudly pulling herself upright against the coffee table. Every few seconds she would let go with one hand and beam at herself as though she'd personally conquered Mount Everest.
"Good job, baby girl," Y/N said.
Ella grinned.
Then promptly sat down on her diaper with a surprised expression.
The front door burst open.
Emily came flying inside.
"Mom!"
Y/N's heart immediately dropped.
She straightened so quickly Caleb nearly toppled over.
"What happened?"
Emily froze.
For one brief second she looked like someone who had just sprinted a mile.
Then the words exploded out of her.
"Peter wants to take the relationship to the next step."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
Emily paced. "Oh?" she repeated. "That's all you've got? Oh?"
"Emily—"
"And I don't know what to do because I really like him and he's wonderful and he's sweet and he wasn't pressuring me and he was actually really respectful about it but what if I'm not ready and what if I wait too long and that ruins everything and what if I do it and that ruins everything and what if I'm terrible at it and—"
"Emily."
"What if—"
"Emily."
The young woman stopped pacing.
Y/N pointed toward the couch. "Sit."
Emily sat. Immediately. Years of maternal authority still had power.
Y/N settled beside her while Caleb drove a toy truck into a chair and Ella resumed her attempts to stand.
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Y/N simply let Emily breathe.
Finally, Emily groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Oh God."
"You done?"
"No."
"Close?"
"Maybe."
Y/N smiled. "Good enough."
Emily peeked through her fingers.
Y/N's expression was gentle. Not shocked. Not disappointed. Not worried. Just listening.
"Okay," Y/N said. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Emily took a breath. Then another. "He brought it up this morning."
"How?"
"He said he loved where our relationship was going. That he cared about me. That eventually he'd like us to be intimate."
Y/N nodded. "And?"
"And he said there wasn't a timeline. No pressure. No expectations."
"That's good."
"I know."
Emily groaned again. "That's the problem."
Y/N laughed softly. "Because it'd be easier if he were a jerk?"
"Exactly."
"Unfortunately, Peter appears to be a decent human being."
Emily slumped. "I know."
Y/N reached over and squeezed her hand. "Emily."
Her daughter looked up. "You do not owe anyone sex."
Immediately Emily relaxed a fraction.
"Not Peter. Not a boyfriend. Not someone you're in love with."
Emily nodded slowly.
"You don't do it because you're afraid someone will leave."
The nod became firmer.
"You don't do it because you think it'll save a relationship."
Another nod.
"And you definitely don't do it because you're worried you'll lose him if you don't."
Emily was quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, "What if I wait and he gets tired of waiting?"
Y/N considered that. "If Peter truly cares about you, he'll respect your answer."
Emily stared at her. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then he wasn't the right man for you."
The answer came easily. Certainly. Because Y/N believed it.
Emily looked down at her hands. "I just don't know if I'm ready."
Y/N smiled softly. "Then you're not."
Emily blinked. "What?"
"Sweetheart, the fact that you're saying those words means something."
Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Emily's ear. "When you're ready, it shouldn't feel like you're trying to convince yourself."
The younger woman absorbed that quietly.
Around them, life continued. Caleb had apparently declared war on a pillow. Ella had managed to stand again and was applauding herself. The normalcy of it all seemed to help.
After a while Emily sighed. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if I make the wrong choice?"
Y/N smiled. "Then you'll survive it."
Emily looked skeptical. "That's not very comforting."
"It should be."
Y/N squeezed her hand again. "Because you're stronger than you think."
The room fell quiet.
Emily leaned into her shoulder the way she occasionally still did when life felt overwhelming.
For a few moments, they simply sat together. Mother and daughter. No judgment. No pressure. Just trust.
Finally, Emily laughed weakly. "I really thought this conversation was going to be worse."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Worse?"
"I don't know."
"Did you forget who raised you?"
Emily smiled. "A little."
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's because it's what you want."
Not Peter.
Not fear.
Not expectation.
Her.
And for the first time since bursting through the front door, Emily looked calmer. Not because she had an answer. But because she understood something important.
She was allowed to take her time.
Emily was quiet for a long moment after that.
The living room had settled into a gentler rhythm. Caleb had finally exhausted himself and was now focused on pushing a truck across the rug while making determined engine noises. Ella sat nearby, happily chewing on a teething toy and periodically attempting to crawl toward trouble.
Emily stared at her hands. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "What was it like?"
Y/N tilted her head. "What was what like?"
Emily looked embarrassed immediately. "Your first time with Dad."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
"That's probably way too personal."
"It is a little," Y/N admitted with a laugh.
Emily groaned. "I knew it."
"But that doesn't mean I can't answer."
Emily looked relieved.
Y/N settled deeper into the couch cushions, considering the question. It wasn't one she'd ever expected Emily to ask, though perhaps she should have. Emily wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, love, and all the uncertainty that came with both.
"It wasn't perfect," Y/N said finally.
Emily looked surprised. "Really?"
"Sweetheart, almost nobody's first time is perfect."
That earned a small smile.
Y/N glanced toward Ella, then back to Emily. "When your dad and I got together, we'd already spent a lot of time getting to know each other. We'd talked. We'd dated. We'd built trust first." She smiled softly at the memory. "Your father was absurdly patient."
Emily snorted. "That sounds like him."
"It does, doesn't it?"
Y/N's expression softened further. "The thing I remember most isn't the physical part."
Emily listened carefully.
"I remember feeling safe."
The answer seemed to surprise her. "Safe?"
Y/N nodded. "Your dad spent the entire evening making sure I was comfortable. Making sure I knew I could change my mind. Making sure I never felt pressured." She smiled faintly. "Honestly, I was probably more nervous than he was."
Emily laughed. "Hard to imagine."
"Oh, trust me."
Y/N shook her head. "I was worried about a hundred different things. Whether I looked okay. Whether I was making the right decision. Whether everything would somehow become awkward afterward."
"And?"
"And none of those things happened."
She smiled. "Because the relationship wasn't built on that moment. The relationship already existed."
Emily absorbed that quietly.
Y/N continued, "The next morning, your dad was exactly the same man he'd been the day before. Kind. Patient. Ridiculously attentive. He made breakfast. He checked on me. He checked on Eliza." Her voice softened. "Nothing changed except that we were a little closer."
The memory warmed her even now. Beau had been so careful with her heart back then. So determined to earn trust rather than demand it.
Emily stared at the floor. "I think that's part of what scares me."
"What does?"
"The idea that everything could change."
Y/N nodded. "That's a normal fear."
Emily looked up. "So how did you know?"
Y/N smiled gently. "I didn't know everything."
"That isn't very reassuring."
"No," Y/N admitted. "But it's true."
She reached over and squeezed Emily's hand. "I knew I loved him. I knew I trusted him. I knew I felt safe with him. Beyond that, there were no guarantees."
Emily was quiet.
"The truth is, sweetheart, sex doesn't create a healthy relationship. It doesn't save one either."
She glanced toward the kitchen where Caleb had somehow acquired a wooden spoon.
"A healthy relationship is built by everything that comes before and after. Trust. Respect. Communication. Kindness."
"And if I'm not ready?"
"Then you're not ready."
The answer came easily. Firmly. Without hesitation.
Y/N smiled. "And if you decide six months from now that you're ready, that's okay too."
Emily leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly. "I really hate being an adult sometimes."
Y/N laughed. "Join the club."
That finally earned a genuine smile from Emily.
For a few moments they sat together, watching Caleb drive his truck into a table leg and Ella applaud herself for no apparent reason.
Then Emily rested her head briefly against Y/N's shoulder. "Thanks, Mom."
The word still touched Y/N every time. Not because she'd earned it through years of raising Emily from childhood. But because Emily had chosen it. Chosen her.
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Anytime, sweetheart."
And for the first time since she'd burst through the front door in a panic, Emily looked like she could breathe again.
The house was asleep.
The kind of deep, complete sleep that only came after a full day of children, work, school, errands, and the thousand little moments that filled an Arlen day. Somewhere down the hall, Eliza was undoubtedly dreaming about wolves. Caleb had finally exhausted himself. Ella, after protesting bedtime on principle, had surrendered to sleep as well.
The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
Y/N rested comfortably against Beau's chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. One of his arms was draped around her waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against her skin while the quiet settled around them.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Y/N said, "Emily had a bit of a panic attack today."
Beau's hand immediately stilled. "What happened?"
There was an instant alertness in his voice that made Y/N smile. "Nothing bad."
He relaxed slightly. "Define bad."
"Peter brought up eventually taking their relationship to the next level."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Profound.
Y/N lifted her head slightly.
Beau was staring at the ceiling.
Blinking.
Slowly.
"No."
She laughed. "Beau."
"Nope."
"Beau."
"Absolutely not."
A groan escaped him as he dropped his free arm over his eyes. "She's twelve."
"She's twenty."
"In my defense, I reject that information."
Y/N's laughter filled the room.
Beau shook his head. "No. See, this is ridiculous. Emily's supposed to be this sweet little girl."
"You mean the college student?"
"The little girl."
"The young woman with a boyfriend?"
"The little girl."
"The adult who can vote?"
"The little girl."
Y/N kissed his shoulder. "You're impossible."
He sighed dramatically. "I remember teachin' her how to ride a bike."
"And now?"
"And now apparently we're discussin' sex." His tone suggested this was a personal attack.
Y/N couldn't stop smiling.
For another moment Beau lay there quietly. Then the humor faded and something softer took its place. Because the truth was... he knew. Emily wasn't a child anymore. He'd seen it himself.
The confidence she'd gained at college. The way she talked about her future. The maturity she'd shown with Peter. The woman she was becoming.
He just wasn't always ready to acknowledge it. A long breath escaped him. "God."
"Yeah."
"She's really growin' up."
Y/N threaded her fingers through his. "She is."
Beau turned his head, looking down at her. "So what'd you tell her?"
The question was genuine. Curious. Trusting.
Y/N settled back against him. "I told her she didn't owe anyone sex."
His expression immediately softened. "Good."
"I told her she shouldn't do it because she's afraid of losing him. Or because she thinks it'll save a relationship."
Beau nodded slowly. "Also good."
"I told her if she's saying she doesn't know whether she's ready, then she's probably not ready."
A hint of relief crossed his face. "Thank you."
Y/N smiled. "I also told her that when she is ready, the decision should be hers."
Beau was quiet. Thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Yeah."
Not because he liked the idea. Because he respected it. Emily deserved that respect. The same respect he would want any man to show her. The same respect he hoped Peter would continue showing her.
After a moment, Beau asked quietly, "Did she seem okay afterward?"
"Much better."
He smiled faintly. "Good."
Y/N studied him. "You're handling this surprisingly well."
"No, I'm not."
She laughed. "No?"
"Inside, I'm considering arresting Peter."
"Beau."
"I'm just sayin'."
"On what charge?"
He thought about it. "Existin'."
That made her laugh so hard she buried her face in his chest.
Beau grinned, pleased with himself. Then his expression softened once more. "Truth is," he admitted quietly, "I'm glad she came to you."
Y/N looked up.
He brushed a hand through her hair. "She trusts you."
The words carried weight. Because they both knew the journey that had brought them here. Y/N hadn't raised Emily from childhood. She hadn't been there for scraped knees or elementary school plays. She'd entered Emily's life later.
And yet. Somewhere along the way, a relationship had grown. Built not by obligation, but by choice. Emily choosing to trust her. Y/N choosing to love her.
Beau's heart swelled just thinking about it.
"So am I," Y/N whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Then pulled her closer.
And together they lay there in the quiet darkness, thinking about daughters growing up, sons growing wild, babies learning to stand, and all the beautiful, complicated ways a family changed over time.
The next morning began exactly the way most Arlen mornings did.
With noise.
Eliza was explaining to anyone who would listen why ducks should not be allowed to vote in wolf elections. Caleb was attempting to wear one of Beau's boots despite the fact it was nearly half his size. Nine-month-old Ella sat in her highchair enthusiastically demolishing a banana while simultaneously decorating herself with it.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
The coffee was working overtime.
And somehow everyone was talking at once.
Beau stood at the counter nursing his mug while Y/N packed lunches. Emily was helping Eliza find a missing mitten that somehow turned out to be in the refrigerator.
Nobody questioned this.
After all, it was Eliza.
Eventually, though, the chaos shifted.
Y/N disappeared briefly to clean Ella's face.
Caleb became fascinated by a toy truck.
Eliza ran off to retrieve an important wolf document.
For one brief moment, Emily found herself alone near the coffee pot.
Beau seized the opportunity. "Hey, kiddo."
Emily glanced up. Something in his voice immediately caught her attention. "Yeah?"
Beau rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment he looked strangely uncomfortable. Which was alarming. Because Beau Arlen rarely looked uncomfortable.
"Oh God," Emily said immediately. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That's not reassuring."
He exhaled. "No, it ain't."
Emily stared.
Beau stared back. Then finally sighed. "Your mom told me about your conversation."
Emily immediately groaned. "Oh my God."
"Now hold on."
"Dad."
"Just hear me out."
Emily covered her face.
Beau couldn't help smiling.
She looked exactly like she had when she was sixteen and embarrassed. Except now she was a college student. Which was still a fact he was struggling with.
A lot.
Finally Emily peeked through her fingers. "What?"
Beau leaned against the counter. "I know this is awkward."
"The worst."
"The absolute worst."
"Glad we're on the same page."
That earned a laugh from both of them. The tension eased. A little.
Beau became serious again. "I just wanted you to know somethin'."
Emily straightened slightly.
His voice had changed. This wasn't teasing anymore. This was father territory. "I'm proud of you."
The words surprised her. "What?"
"I'm proud of you." Beau shrugged one shoulder. "You didn't panic and make a decision because somebody expected one."
Emily blinked.
"You thought about it."
She nodded.
"You asked questions."
Another nod.
"You took your time."
A third.
"That's maturity, Em."
Her eyes softened.
Beau took a slow breath. "Your whole life, I've wanted you to know that you never have to earn my love."
The kitchen seemed quieter suddenly. Not silent. Just smaller. More focused.
"Whatever you decide," Beau continued, "that's your decision."
Emily swallowed.
"If you decide you're not ready, that's fine." He paused. "If you decide someday that you are, that's fine too."
His expression was steady. Certain. "All I care about is that you're safe. That you're respected. That you're making choices because they're yours."
Emily felt emotion rising unexpectedly in her chest.
Beau reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "And if anything ever goes wrong..."
She looked up.
His green eyes held hers. "If you get scared." His voice softened. "If you make a mistake."
Softer still. "If you regret somethin'."
Emily's throat tightened.
"If you get pregnant."
There it was. The thing most fathers danced around. Beau didn't. "You call me."
The words landed with absolute certainty. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Not conditions. Just certainty.
"You hear me?"
Emily nodded. "No matter what?"
"No matter what."
His answer came instantly. No hesitation. No qualifiers. "Nothing changes that you're my daughter."
The emotion she'd been fighting finally broke through. "Dad..."
"You call me." His voice was firm now. "You don't hide. You don't panic. You don't try to carry it alone."
Emily's eyes shimmered. "I won't."
"Good."
Beau pulled her into a hug then. A real one. The kind he gave when words weren't quite enough.
Emily hugged him back immediately. For a moment she was twenty years old. For a moment she was ten. For a moment she was both.
"I love you," Beau murmured.
"I love you too."
Behind them, Eliza burst back into the kitchen.
"WOLF EMERGENCY."
The moment shattered instantly.
Beau sighed.
Emily laughed.
And life resumed.
But the warmth of that conversation stayed with her long after the morning chaos swept everyone away.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 4,362
Tags/Warnings: demons, bargains, discussions of 18+ topics
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Nine: The Morning After
Dean looked down at her and felt his heart do something strange. Not race. Not leap. Simply... settle. Natalie was here. In his arms. In his room. In his bed.
The thought still felt improbable, like something he'd imagined too many times over the years and therefore could never quite believe when it became real. Yet there she was, hair a tangled mess from sleep, wearing his oversized Metallica shirt, looking at him with sleepy affection and quiet wonder.
Dean smiled. It was small at first. Then softer. Warmer.
Natalie saw it and felt her chest ache. Because she knew Dean's smiles. Knew the cocky grin he wore when hustling pool, the mischievous smirk that preceded bad decisions, the crooked half-smile he used to hide pain.
This one was different. This was joy. Uncomplicated. And that, more than anything, convinced her they were really doing this.
Dean lifted a hand to her face, brushing his thumb lightly along her cheek. He did it slowly, almost reverently, like he was still learning the contours of this new reality.
Natalie leaned into the touch instinctively.
Dean's expression softened even more. "Hey," he murmured.
"Hey."
The word was barely a breath between them. Then Dean leaned down and kissed her. Gently. Slowly. There was no urgency in it. No desperation. Just affection.
A quiet happiness that had nowhere else to go.
Natalie's eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him back, her hand coming to rest lightly against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm—steady and warm—and the simple reality of that nearly undid her.
Dean. Real. Alive. Choosing her. The kiss lingered. Not because either of them demanded more. But because neither of them was in a hurry to let the moment pass.
When they finally drew apart, they remained close, foreheads brushing lightly.
Dean smiled again.
Natalie laughed softly.
"What?" he asked.
"You look smug."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Dean pretended to consider this. "Okay, maybe a little."
Natalie rolled her eyes fondly.
He grinned.
God.
She loved him. The thought came easily now. Not frightening. Not hidden. Just true. And judging from the look on Dean's face as he tucked her a little closer against him, she suspected he was thinking something very similar.
Neither of them said it. Not because they were afraid. Because there was no need to rush. They had years of friendship behind them. Hopefully years ahead.
There would be time. For bigger declarations. For harder conversations. For figuring out what loving each other looked like in a world filled with monsters and uncertainty.
This morning wasn't for that. This morning was for discovering that intimacy could be as simple as sunlight through curtains. As simple as shared laughter. As simple as waking up beside someone and realizing you didn't want to be anywhere else.
Dean rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
Natalie curled a little closer.
Outside, Bobby's truck started with a protesting roar.
A second later, his voice bellowed from downstairs. "If you two lovebirds are awake, coffee's on!"
Dean closed his eyes.
Natalie immediately started laughing.
"I hate him," Dean groaned.
"No you don't."
"No, I really do."
From downstairs: "And put some damn pants on, Dean!"
Dean's face dropped into the pillow.
Natalie laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
The sound filled the room.
And Dean, despite himself, found himself laughing too.
Natalie laughed until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Dean, meanwhile, had buried his face in the pillow. "I am twenty-six years old," he announced to the mattress.
"And Bobby is determined to remind you of that every day."
"He is a menace."
"You love him."
"I love him in the same way people love natural disasters."
Natalie laughed again.
Dean rolled over dramatically, glaring up at the ceiling.
From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of Bobby moving pans around with entirely too much force.
The old man was making a point.
Dean groaned. "He is absolutely smirking right now."
"Oh, definitely."
"And Sam knows."
Natalie nodded solemnly. "Sam absolutely knows."
Dean closed his eyes. "This is the worst morning of my life."
Natalie looked around the room pointedly. "Interesting."
Dean cracked one eye open. "You know what I mean."
"I don't think I do."
He pointed at her. "You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Traitor."
Natalie's smile softened. Because the truth was, she was enjoying this. Not Bobby's teasing.
Well.
Maybe a little.
But mostly this strange, ordinary morning. The easy banter. The sunlight filling the room. The fact that she'd fallen asleep in Dean's arms and woken up there too.
It felt absurdly precious.
Dean sat up finally, scrubbing a hand over his face. "All right."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "We gotta face them eventually."
Natalie groaned. "Do we?"
"Unfortunately."
He stood and stretched, shirt riding up slightly as he did.
Natalie very deliberately looked at the ceiling.
Dean caught it. His ears immediately turned pink. "Oh, come on."
"What?"
"You looked away!"
"I was being respectful."
"You were not."
"I absolutely was."
Dean laughed.
Natalie grinned.
The easy embarrassment of it surprised both of them. Because this was new. Not attraction. That had been simmering beneath the surface for years. But allowing themselves to notice it.
Allowing themselves to be shy. To flirt badly. To discover all the little awkwardnesses that came with changing the shape of a relationship.
Natalie climbed out of bed. The Metallica shirt fell nearly to her knees.
Dean looked at her. Looked away. Looked back.
Natalie immediately caught him. "Oh my God."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I was not!"
"You absolutely were."
Dean groaned and pointed toward his dresser. "Get dressed."
Natalie burst out laughing. "You're blushing!"
"I hate this."
"No you don't."
Dean muttered something unintelligible while digging through his clothes.
Natalie found her jeans folded neatly over the chair she'd abandoned them on the night before.
The sight stopped her for a moment. There they were. Her clothes. In Dean's room. Because she'd slept here. Because they'd finally stopped pretending. The realization sent a warm little flutter through her chest.
Dean glanced over just in time to catch the expression on her face. His own softened immediately. Neither said anything. They didn't have to.
Natalie finished dressing and handed Dean back his shirt.
He took it. Then paused. "You can keep it."
She blinked. "The shirt?"
Dean shrugged, suddenly very interested in putting on his socks. "If you want."
Natalie's smile widened. "It's hideous."
"It is not."
"It absolutely is."
"It's classic."
"It's older than I am."
Dean gasped. "Rude."
Natalie laughed and folded the shirt carefully anyway.
Dean noticed. His smile was small. Private. Happy.
A moment later they stood by the bedroom door together. Neither reaching for the knob. Because downstairs waited Bobby. And Sam. And explanations. And whatever came next.
Dean glanced at Natalie. "You ready?"
She thought about it. About the Master. About Leandro. About the fear she'd carried for years. Then she looked at Dean. At the shy smile he was trying to hide. At the fact that he'd spent the night holding her. At the quiet certainty growing between them.
And she realized something.
For the first time in a very long time: she was.
Natalie smiled. "Yeah."
Dean smiled back. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he reached for her hand. And together, still chuckling about Bobby's disastrous timing and inevitable teasing, they headed downstairs to face the morning.
The disaster began the instant Dean and Natalie appeared at the top of the stairs.
Not because they'd done anything scandalous.
But because Bobby Singer looked up from the stove, saw Dean descend first with Natalie a step behind him, and immediately smirked so hard his mustache nearly disappeared into his beard.
Sam, seated at the table with a mug of coffee and an open lore book he clearly hadn't been reading, followed Bobby's gaze.
He blinked once.
Then slowly closed the book.
"Oh no," Dean said, stopping halfway down the stairs.
"Oh yes," Sam replied.
"We didn't—"
"Nope," Bobby interrupted. "Don't wanna hear it."
Dean looked offended. "You don't even know what I was gonna say!"
"I know exactly what you were gonna say."
Natalie, who had been feeling brave approximately thirty seconds ago, suddenly wished to return upstairs and perhaps out a window.
Dean pointed accusingly at both of them as he reached the bottom step. "We slept."
Bobby barked out a laugh. "That's what they all say."
"We did!"
"Sure."
Natalie threw up her hands. "Why is that so unbelievable?"
Bobby stared at her. Then at Dean. Then back at her. "You expect me to believe that after twenty years of pine-scented longin' and unresolved feelings, the two of you shared a bed and just slept?"
Dean sputtered.
"Natalie," Bobby continued, as though Dean hadn't spoken, "this boy kissed you stupid in my backyard last night."
Dean nearly choked. "I did not!"
"You absolutely did," Bobby said.
Natalie's face went scarlet.
Sam looked delighted.
Dean swung toward him. "You're not helping."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You closed your book!"
Sam lifted his coffee innocently. "I was preparing."
"For what?"
"For this."
Dean groaned.
Natalie covered her face.
Bobby pointed his spatula at them both. "Listen. I ain't judging."
"You are absolutely judging," Dean said.
"I'm judging your terrible lyin'."
"We're not lying!"
Bobby squinted at them.
Natalie dropped her hands. "It's true!"
Sam looked at Dean thoughtfully.
Dean didn't like that look.
"You know," Sam said slowly, "the fact that you're both so defensive makes me think—"
"Sam!"
"What?"
"You know what!"
Sam shrugged. "I just think it's interesting."
"It is not interesting!"
"It's a little interesting."
Dean groaned again and dropped into a chair.
Natalie sat beside him.
Which turned out to be a mistake.
Because Bobby noticed immediately. He pointed. "Look at that."
Natalie blinked. "What?"
"You sat next to him."
"I've sat next to him my whole life!"
"Not while blushin'."
"I am not blushing."
"You are."
"I'm not!"
Dean looked at her.
Natalie pointed at him. "Don't you dare."
Dean, the traitor, started laughing. "Oh my God," he wheezed. "You are blushing."
Natalie stared at him in betrayal. "You said we were in this together!"
"I lied."
"Dean Winchester!"
Sam looked like Christmas had come early.
Bobby abandoned all pretense of cooking and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So."
"No," Dean said immediately.
"What'd you talk about?"
"No."
"How awkward was it?"
"Bobby."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Bobby!"
Natalie buried her face in her coffee mug.
This was somehow worse than fighting monsters. Much worse. Because at least monsters had weaknesses.
Bobby and Sam were feeding off each other.
Sam tilted his head. "Actually..."
Dean pointed. "No."
"You slept holding hands, didn't you?"
Dean froze.
Natalie froze.
Sam gasped. "Oh my God, you did."
"We did not!"
"You hesitated!"
"I did not hesitate!"
"You absolutely hesitated."
Dean looked to Bobby for support.
Bobby was crying. Not emotionally. From laughing too hard. "You two are killin' me."
"This is abuse."
"This is family."
"It's the same thing!"
Bobby wiped his eyes. "No, seriously."
Dean slumped lower in his chair.
Bobby's expression softened just slightly. Not much. But enough. "You happy, boy?"
The question came out gruff. Unexpectedly sincere.
Dean looked up. The teasing had vanished from Bobby's face. Just for a moment. Dean glanced at Natalie.
She was smiling at him. Not embarrassed anymore. Just... happy. The kind of happy that had frightened both of them for years. And now sat comfortably in his kitchen at Bobby's house, drinking coffee while being relentlessly bullied.
Dean smiled back. "Yeah," he admitted quietly.
Bobby nodded once.
Sam smiled too.
The moment lasted exactly two seconds. Then Bobby grinned. "Still don't believe you didn't fool around."
Dean dropped his forehead onto the table.
Natalie burst out laughing.
And Sam, ever the helpful younger brother, helpfully added: "Honestly, I'm with Bobby on this one."
Dean's muffled scream echoed through the house.
Dean lifted his head from the table just enough to glare at everyone present. "I hate this family."
Bobby snorted into his coffee. "No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "He betrayed me."
"I asked one question."
"You interrogated me!"
"I asked if you held hands."
"You made it weird!"
Sam blinked innocently. "I wasn't aware holding hands was weird."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Because somehow, impossibly, holding hands had become weird. Not bad weird.
Just new weird.
Natalie was sitting beside him, nursing her coffee with both hands, trying valiantly to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed. Spectacularly. Because every time she glanced at Dean, she remembered waking up in his arms.
And then she'd smile. And Bobby would see. And then Bobby would smirk. Which was exactly what happened now.
"There she goes again."
Natalie froze. "There who goes what?"
"That smile."
"What smile?"
"The one where you look at Dean like he's hung the moon."
Dean nearly inhaled his coffee.
Natalie stared at Bobby in abject horror. "I do not!"
"You do."
"I absolutely do not!"
Dean, traitor that he was, had the audacity to look pleased.
Natalie pointed at him. "You stop that."
"What?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The smug one."
Dean grinned wider.
Sam looked delighted. "Oh, this is fascinating."
Natalie dropped her head into her hands. "Why did I come back to Sioux Falls?"
"Because you missed me," Bobby replied immediately.
"Not you."
"Liar."
Natalie laughed helplessly. God. She'd missed this. The noise. The teasing.
Bobby's kitchen smelling like coffee and bacon and slightly burned toast because Bobby refused to admit he couldn't multitask.
It struck her suddenly, painfully, how much she'd missed all of it. Three years. Three years she'd spent in Nova Scotia chasing ghosts and rumors and monsters wearing other monsters as masks. Three years she'd spent convincing herself she was alone.
And now—Dean was beside her. Sam across from her. Bobby bustling around the kitchen, pretending not to hover.
The realization hit hard enough that she quieted.
Bobby noticed first.
Of course he did.
The old hunter had always possessed an uncanny ability to sense shifts in mood, even if he pretended otherwise.
He set down his coffee. "Natalie."
She looked up.
"You okay?"
The teasing vanished instantly. Sam's smile softened. Dean turned fully toward her. The concern on his face was immediate.
Natalie swallowed. And smiled. "Yeah."
This time, she meant it. Not now. Not the fragile distinction she'd made the night before. Just... Yeah.
Bobby studied her for a moment. Then nodded. Satisfied. Mostly.
Dean wasn't satisfied. Dean was watching her closely now. Not suspiciously. Just... attentively. Like he was still adjusting to this new reality where he could worry openly.
Natalie noticed. And because she was apparently incapable of resisting him anymore, she reached beneath the table and nudged his knee with hers.
Dean looked over.
She smiled. A small smile. Just for him.
His expression softened instantly.
Sam saw the entire exchange. "Oh my God."
Dean groaned. "What now?"
"You guys are disgusting."
Natalie gasped. "Betrayal!"
"I'm serious!"
Sam pointed between them. "That."
"What?"
"The smiling."
"We've always smiled."
"Not like that."
Dean frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Sam waved vaguely. "You know."
"No."
"You know!"
Dean looked at Natalie.
Natalie looked at Dean.
Neither of them knew.
Sam groaned. "You have heart eyes."
Dean recoiled. "I have what?"
Bobby laughed so hard coffee nearly came out his nose.
Natalie looked scandalized. "Excuse me?"
"Heart eyes," Sam repeated.
"We do not!"
"You absolutely do."
Dean looked horrified.
Natalie looked equally horrified.
Bobby looked ecstatic. "I've waited twenty years for this."
"It has not been twenty years!"
"Feels like it."
Dean slumped.
Natalie laughed.
And somewhere in the middle of the chaos—in Bobby's triumphant gloating, Sam's relentless teasing, Dean's wounded dignity, and her own helpless amusement—Natalie realized something.
This. This was what she'd nearly died without ever having. Not just Dean. Though, God, him too. But this whole ridiculous, loud, loving family she'd stumbled into because Bobby Singer couldn't live with himself after Leandro died.
The Master had taken so much from her. Taken years. Taken certainty. Taken peace. But sitting here now, Dean's knee pressed lightly against hers beneath the table while Bobby argued with Sam over the proper way to cook bacon—Natalie found herself thinking: You're not taking this.
Not Bobby.
Not Sam.
Not Dean.
Not this happiness.
Whatever came next. Whatever the Master was. Whatever secrets still waited in Nova Scotia. She wouldn't face them alone. And for the first time since Missouri Moseley had shaken her head and told her Leandro wasn't at peace, Natalie Guimet felt hope.
Natalie was still smiling when the thought settled into place. Not all at once. Not like lightning. More like dawn. A slow certainty spreading through her chest, pushing back years of fear.
The Master had taken so much already.
It had taken certainty from her father. It had taken peace from her mother. It had taken three years of her life and nearly taken the rest of it on that cold floor in Nova Scotia.
But sitting here now, surrounded by Bobby's grumbling, Sam's teasing, and Dean's increasingly wounded protests about his alleged "heart eyes," Natalie suddenly realized something profound.
She was done letting fear dictate her choices.
Before she could overthink it, she reached across the small distance between their chairs and took Dean's hand. Not beneath the table. Not hidden.
Openly.
Dean blinked.
The kitchen was noisy one moment and strangely quiet the next.
Natalie's fingers laced through his. She squeezed gently.
Dean stared at their joined hands for half a heartbeat before looking up at her. He wasn't embarrassed exactly. Just surprised.
Because Natalie had always been affectionate in private. A shoulder bump. A hug after a hunt. Leaning against him while watching a movie. But this? In front of Bobby and Sam? Especially after twenty straight minutes of merciless teasing?
That was new.
Dean's expression softened immediately. "You okay?" he asked quietly.
The teasing in the room evaporated. Because she did seem different. Lighter. Not carefree. Natalie would never be carefree again after Nova Scotia. But something had shifted.
Natalie looked at him. Then at Bobby. At Sam. At this kitchen she'd grown up in. At the family she'd nearly convinced herself she didn't deserve anymore. And she smiled. "Yeah," she said softly.
Dean waited.
Natalie drew in a breath. "Because..." She looked down at their joined hands. Then back up. "The Master isn't taking this from me."
The words fell into the room and stayed there. Bobby stopped moving. Sam's smile faded. Dean went utterly still.
Natalie swallowed. Her voice wavered at first, then steadied. "I spent three years afraid."
Nobody interrupted.
"I was afraid of what happened to my dad. Afraid of what happened to my mom after she lost him. Afraid of loving someone and losing them." Her fingers tightened around Dean's. "I was afraid of you."
Dean's brows knit together.
"Not you," she corrected softly. "What loving you meant."
Dean's face softened.
Natalie looked down at the table. "I let that fear send me chasing answers." A humorless smile touched her lips. "And maybe I would've done that anyway."
Bobby grunted softly. "Maybe."
"But..." Natalie looked up again. "I came home."
The words carried more meaning than geography. She'd come home to Bobby. To Sam. To Dean. To herself. "And for the first time in years," she said, "I woke up this morning happy."
Dean swallowed hard.
Natalie smiled at him. "A little scared."
He huffed softly. "Same."
"A lot in love."
Dean blinked.
Sam's eyes widened.
Bobby immediately looked at the ceiling. "Oh, hell."
Natalie laughed softly. But she didn't take it back. "A lot in love," she repeated.
Dean looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Because she'd never said it. Not outright. Not until now. Not in Bobby's kitchen over coffee and bacon while Sam tried very hard to become invisible.
Dean stared at her. Then his mouth curved slowly. Wonderingly. Like he couldn't believe he'd heard right.
Natalie squeezed his hand again. "The Master doesn't get this," she said. Her voice was stronger now.
"It doesn't get Bobby." Bobby looked away.
"It doesn't get Sam." Sam ducked his head.
"And it doesn't get you." Dean's eyes never left hers. "It took enough."
The room was silent. Not awkward. Reverent. Because suddenly this wasn't just a conversation about monsters anymore. It was a declaration. A line in the sand.
Bobby cleared his throat roughly. Twice. Then he stood and turned back toward the stove. "Well," he grumbled. His voice was suspiciously thick. "If we're declaring war against extradimensional soul thieves over breakfast..." He flipped bacon a little harder than necessary. "...I'm making more coffee."
Sam smiled.
Dean laughed softly.
And Natalie—Natalie felt something inside her settle. The Master was powerful. Ancient. Patient. It stood outside Heaven and Hell. But it had made one terrible mistake.
It had let her go.
And in doing so, it had given Natalie Guimet the chance to come home.
This time, she intended to fight for it.
Bobby busied himself with the coffee pot for a moment longer than necessary.
It gave him time.
Time to recover from Natalie's declaration. Time to pretend the suspicious tightness in his chest was heartburn and not emotion. Time to reassemble himself into the gruff, practical hunter he preferred to be.
Behind him, Dean and Natalie were still holding hands. Openly. At his kitchen table. Bobby grimaced. The kids were growing up. It was offensive. He poured himself another cup of coffee.
Then, without turning around, he asked, "All right." The room quieted. "You've drawn your line in the sand."
Natalie smiled faintly.
Bobby pointed his mug vaguely in her direction. "So how do you propose we get more information on this thing?"
Natalie blinked. The shift in topic was abrupt enough to catch her off guard.
Bobby finally turned around. No teasing now. No jokes. Just the question. Because if Natalie was serious—and Bobby knew she was—then they needed to start thinking like hunters.
Natalie sat back in her chair. For a moment, she looked younger. Not physically. Just thoughtful. Thinking out loud. "We start with our sources."
Sam nodded immediately. "Missouri."
Natalie nodded. "Definitely Missouri."
Bobby grunted. "If she'll talk."
"She'll talk to me."
The confidence in Natalie's voice surprised him. Then again... Missouri had tried to protect her. That counted for something.
Sam leaned forward. "What about lore?"
"We hit everything," Natalie said. "Bobby's library. University archives if we have to. Every hunter journal we can get our hands on."
Dean looked skeptical. "You think anybody's written about something outside Heaven and Hell?"
"No," Natalie admitted. Then she smiled faintly. "But I think somebody's stumbled into it."
Bobby nodded slowly. That was hunter logic. No one discovered anything entirely new. Some poor idiot always got there first. Usually died horribly. But sometimes left notes.
Sam was already thinking ahead. "Other hunters."
"Maybe." Bobby looked unconvinced. "Most hunters would think we're nuts."
Dean shrugged. "We are nuts."
"Fair."
Natalie absently traced circles across the back of Dean's hand as she thought. Then she said quietly: "And then..." She hesitated.
The room stilled.
Bobby immediately became suspicious. "You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says I'm about to hate what comes outta your mouth."
Natalie sighed. "We branch out."
Dean frowned. "To who?"
Natalie looked at each of them in turn. "Supernatural sources."
The kitchen went silent.
Bobby closed his eyes. "Goddammit."
Dean sat upright. "You mean psychics?"
"Among others."
Sam looked intrigued.
Bobby looked ready to throw something. "No."
Natalie blinked. "What?"
"No."
"Bobby—"
"No."
"You don't even know who I mean!"
"I don't care."
Dean was grinning now. This was familiar territory. Bobby versus Natalie. The eternal struggle.
Natalie crossed her arms. "You taught me to follow evidence."
"I taught you not to be stupid."
"This isn't stupid."
"This is exactly stupid."
Sam, meanwhile, was looking thoughtful. "Actually..."
Bobby pointed at him. "You shut up."
Sam ignored him. "If this thing exists outside the normal cosmology..."
Bobby groaned.
"...then conventional hunter knowledge may not be enough."
Bobby groaned louder.
Dean snickered.
Natalie pointed triumphantly at Sam. "Thank you."
"I hate both of you."
Dean looked offended. "Only both?"
"Today."
Natalie laughed.
But Bobby wasn't entirely joking. He sat down heavily, coffee mug cradled in both hands. "Who are you thinking?" he asked reluctantly.
Natalie sobered. "Missouri."
"Fine."
"Maybe other psychics."
Bobby grimaced. "Ugh."
"People who deal with spirits."
"Less ugh."
She hesitated. Then: "Demons."
The silence was immediate. Absolute.
Dean's smile vanished.
Sam stared.
Bobby looked like she'd suggested summoning a hurricane into the living room. "Absolutely not."
Natalie raised both hands. "I know."
"No."
"I'm just saying—"
"No!"
"Bobby—"
"You are not making deals."
"I didn't say deals!"
"You said demons!"
Dean finally found his voice. "Nat..." His tone carried genuine concern.
Natalie looked at him. "I don't want to." The admission came quietly. "I really don't."
Dean relaxed a fraction.
"But," she continued, "the Master exists outside the normal rules." Her fingers tightened around his. "What if the things we hunt are scared of it too?"
That landed.
Sam sat back.
Bobby frowned.
Because... that was an interesting question.
Dean hated that it was an interesting question.
Natalie looked around the table. "We don't know who knows something." Her voice softened. "But I know one thing."
Everyone looked at her.
"I am not spending another three years chasing this alone."
Dean squeezed her hand. "You won't."
Bobby nodded. "Damn right."
Sam smiled.
And just like that, the mood in the kitchen changed. Not lighter. But purposeful. The Master was no longer a ghost story Natalie carried alone. It had become a hunt. And if there was one thing the Singer-Winchester family knew how to do: it was hunt monsters.
Even the impossible ones.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 4,486
Tags/Warnings: Discussion of 18+ issues, parenthood
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Seven: She's Growing Up
The weeks that followed settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not because Y/N had found her answer.
Because she had stopped demanding one from herself.
The college catalog remained on the coffee table, migrating occasionally to the kitchen table, the bedroom, or whichever room she happened to be occupying while the children played nearby. She found herself opening it in odd moments—during Ella's naps, while waiting for pasta water to boil, after the house had gone quiet for the evening. Some days she lingered over education programs. Other days communications caught her eye. There were moments when social work seemed appealing, and others when entirely different paths tugged at her imagination.
The frustrating thing was that none of the possibilities felt wrong.
They all felt appealing for different reasons.
And so she continued to think.
To wonder.
To imagine.
Meanwhile, life refused to pause for self-discovery.
Eliza remained a one-child creative industry.
Every day seemed to bring a new chapter in the increasingly complicated saga of wolves and ducks. One afternoon, Y/N overheard an impassioned explanation involving duck ambassadors, wolf council elections, and a disputed pond border. Another day, Eliza spent nearly an hour constructing an elaborate village from blocks and couch cushions, assigning each structure a specific purpose in the ongoing alliance.
The stories became more sophisticated as she approached six.
More detailed.
More ambitious.
More hilariously serious.
Beau claimed it was proof she would either become a novelist or run for public office someday.
Emily privately suggested both.
Caleb, meanwhile, remained Caleb.
At nearly two years old, he approached every day as though it were an adventure specifically designed for him. Fear simply did not seem to exist in his vocabulary. He climbed first and considered consequences second—if he considered them at all.
Y/N once found him standing triumphantly atop the coffee table.
Another time he somehow managed to move a dining room chair across the kitchen in pursuit of cookies.
When questioned, he merely smiled.
The smile was entirely Beau's.
And therefore impossible to stay angry at.
Then there was Ella.
At nine months old, she seemed determined to make up for lost time.
Crawling had arrived with shocking speed. One week she was rocking uncertainly on hands and knees. The next, she was moving through the house with alarming efficiency. No room remained safe. No object remained unexamined.
Her favorite activity became following people.
Especially Beau.
If Beau entered a room, Ella immediately attempted pursuit. If he left again, she expressed her displeasure loudly.
"Daddy's girl," Emily observed one afternoon as Ella crawled after Beau's retreating boots with remarkable determination.
"Traitor," Y/N replied.
Ella had also begun pulling herself upright against furniture. The coffee table. The couch. Beau's legs. Anything stable became an opportunity. She would stand there proudly, wobbling slightly, looking utterly delighted with herself.
The babbling had increased too.
"Dada" remained her favorite word.
Much to Y/N's annoyance.
"Mama" appeared occasionally, usually when she was upset or wanted something.
"Dada" was used for joy, excitement, curiosity, and apparently most household objects.
Beau found this deeply entertaining.
Y/N found it suspicious.
One evening, she caught him teaching Ella that his badge was "Dada's badge."
The baby immediately began pointing at it and chanting "Dada."
Y/N was still debating whether this counted as cheating.
Despite all of it—the diapers, the school drop-offs, the endless laundry, the toddler negotiations, the baby-proofing that somehow never stayed effective—she found herself feeling lighter.
The restlessness had transformed.
It no longer felt like a warning.
It felt like anticipation.
Sometimes she would be folding laundry while Ella crawled circles around her and suddenly find herself imagining a classroom. A future coworker. A different routine. Not instead of this life.
In addition to it.
That distinction mattered.
One evening, while helping Eliza color wolf insignias for an important council meeting, Y/N realized something that made her smile.
A few months ago, she had been afraid that wanting something beyond motherhood somehow diminished her love for it.
Now she understood the truth.
She loved this life completely.
She loved being Beau's wife.
Loved being Eliza's mother, Caleb's mother, Ella's mother.
Loved the noise and the chaos and the impossible fullness of it all.
But loving one chapter didn't mean she couldn't be curious about the next.
Across the room, Beau sat on the floor helping Caleb build a tower while Emily lounged on the couch, studying for class and occasionally contributing to Eliza's wolf government. Ella crawled determinedly toward the tower with obvious destructive intentions.
The structure collapsed moments later.
Caleb laughed.
Ella laughed.
Beau groaned dramatically.
And Y/N found herself smiling.
The future could wait a little longer.
For now, she was content to wonder.
The sheriff's department was many things.
Quiet was rarely one of them.
Beau sat behind his desk mid-morning, reviewing reports from the previous evening when dispatch transferred a call directly to him. He picked up expecting something serious.
Instead, he got Earl Patterson.
Which should have been his first warning. "Earl."
"Sheriff."
Beau leaned back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"
Earl took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a theft."
That got Beau's attention. "A theft?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was stolen?"
A pause.
"My prize rooster's dignity."
Beau closed his eyes.
Across the room, Doris immediately looked up from her desk. The woman had an almost supernatural ability to detect nonsense.
"Earl," Beau said carefully, "explain."
Apparently Earl's prized rooster, General Sherman, had engaged in a territorial dispute with another rooster belonging to his neighbor. The confrontation had occurred in full view of several ranch hands.
General Sherman had lost. Badly. The rooster had fled. The ranch hands had laughed. And Earl was convinced this constituted emotional damages.
Beau listened for nearly ten minutes while Earl described the incident in exhaustive detail. By the end of it, Beau knew more about rooster psychology than he'd ever wanted.
When the call finally ended, he slowly lowered the receiver and stared at the wall. The silence lasted approximately three seconds. Then Doris burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-bodied, shoulders-shaking cackle.
"Oh my God."
Beau rubbed his forehead. "Doris."
"Did a chicken lose a fistfight?"
"It was a rooster."
That only made her laugh harder.
Jenny chose that moment to walk into the bullpen carrying a file. She took one look at Doris nearly bent over her desk and Beau's exhausted expression. "What happened?"
Jenny stopped. Blinked. Then looked at Beau. "Please tell me that's not what I think it means."
"It means exactly what you think it means."
Jenny closed her eyes. For a moment she looked like she was silently reevaluating every life choice that had brought her here. Then she laughed too. "Oh, that's fantastic."
"It's not fantastic."
"It absolutely is."
Beau leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at both women. "One day," he said, "there's gonna be an actual emergency."
"Sure."
"And y'all are gonna regret mockin' me."
"Absolutely."
"You're both impossible."
Doris wiped tears from her eyes. "You know what the worst part is?"
"I don't want to know."
"The worst part is that I know exactly which rooster he's talking about."
Jenny groaned. "No."
"Oh yes."
"You've seen the rooster?"
"I've seen the rooster."
"Why?"
"Because this is Big Sky."
Neither Beau nor Jenny had a counterargument to that.
A few hours later another call came in regarding a cow that had somehow gotten itself onto the roof of a shed.
Nobody ever satisfactorily explained how.
By lunch, Beau had mediated a dispute involving a fence, a goat, and what appeared to be a decades-old grudge between two ranchers.
When he finally emerged from his office with a cup of coffee, Doris looked up from her desk. "How's your day, Sheriff?"
Beau considered. "My wife is looking at college classes."
Doris smiled immediately. "That's nice."
"My oldest daughter's in love."
"Also nice."
"My youngest daughter is learning to crawl."
"Awww."
"My son is probably committing property crimes at daycare."
"Almost certainly."
"And I've spent my morning discussing traumatized poultry."
Jenny laughed so hard she nearly dropped her file.
Beau took a long sip of coffee. Then, despite himself, he smiled.
Because somewhere between the rooster, the cow, the fence dispute, and the goat incident, his phone had buzzed. A picture from Y/N. Ella standing proudly while holding onto the coffee table. Nine months old and looking very pleased with herself.
Below the picture was a simple message: Look what your daughter did today.
Beau smiled again.
Doris caught it immediately. "Oh no."
"What?"
"The smile."
Jenny looked up. "The smile?"
Doris pointed. "That's Sheriff Shiny."
Beau groaned.
Jenny laughed.
And the sheriff's department returned to business as usual.
The afternoon had been relatively peaceful.
Which, in the Arlen household, usually meant disaster was quietly gathering momentum somewhere.
Y/N was in the living room trying to convince Caleb that climbing onto the back of the couch was not, in fact, an Olympic sport. Caleb disagreed vehemently and had already made three attempts.
Meanwhile, nine-month-old Ella sat nearby, proudly pulling herself upright against the coffee table. Every few seconds she would let go with one hand and beam at herself as though she'd personally conquered Mount Everest.
"Good job, baby girl," Y/N said.
Ella grinned.
Then promptly sat down on her diaper with a surprised expression.
The front door burst open.
Emily came flying inside.
"Mom!"
Y/N's heart immediately dropped.
She straightened so quickly Caleb nearly toppled over.
"What happened?"
Emily froze.
For one brief second she looked like someone who had just sprinted a mile.
Then the words exploded out of her.
"Peter wants to take the relationship to the next step."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
Emily paced. "Oh?" she repeated. "That's all you've got? Oh?"
"Emily—"
"And I don't know what to do because I really like him and he's wonderful and he's sweet and he wasn't pressuring me and he was actually really respectful about it but what if I'm not ready and what if I wait too long and that ruins everything and what if I do it and that ruins everything and what if I'm terrible at it and—"
"Emily."
"What if—"
"Emily."
The young woman stopped pacing.
Y/N pointed toward the couch. "Sit."
Emily sat. Immediately. Years of maternal authority still had power.
Y/N settled beside her while Caleb drove a toy truck into a chair and Ella resumed her attempts to stand.
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Y/N simply let Emily breathe.
Finally, Emily groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Oh God."
"You done?"
"No."
"Close?"
"Maybe."
Y/N smiled. "Good enough."
Emily peeked through her fingers.
Y/N's expression was gentle. Not shocked. Not disappointed. Not worried. Just listening.
"Okay," Y/N said. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Emily took a breath. Then another. "He brought it up this morning."
"How?"
"He said he loved where our relationship was going. That he cared about me. That eventually he'd like us to be intimate."
Y/N nodded. "And?"
"And he said there wasn't a timeline. No pressure. No expectations."
"That's good."
"I know."
Emily groaned again. "That's the problem."
Y/N laughed softly. "Because it'd be easier if he were a jerk?"
"Exactly."
"Unfortunately, Peter appears to be a decent human being."
Emily slumped. "I know."
Y/N reached over and squeezed her hand. "Emily."
Her daughter looked up. "You do not owe anyone sex."
Immediately Emily relaxed a fraction.
"Not Peter. Not a boyfriend. Not someone you're in love with."
Emily nodded slowly.
"You don't do it because you're afraid someone will leave."
The nod became firmer.
"You don't do it because you think it'll save a relationship."
Another nod.
"And you definitely don't do it because you're worried you'll lose him if you don't."
Emily was quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, "What if I wait and he gets tired of waiting?"
Y/N considered that. "If Peter truly cares about you, he'll respect your answer."
Emily stared at her. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then he wasn't the right man for you."
The answer came easily. Certainly. Because Y/N believed it.
Emily looked down at her hands. "I just don't know if I'm ready."
Y/N smiled softly. "Then you're not."
Emily blinked. "What?"
"Sweetheart, the fact that you're saying those words means something."
Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Emily's ear. "When you're ready, it shouldn't feel like you're trying to convince yourself."
The younger woman absorbed that quietly.
Around them, life continued. Caleb had apparently declared war on a pillow. Ella had managed to stand again and was applauding herself. The normalcy of it all seemed to help.
After a while Emily sighed. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if I make the wrong choice?"
Y/N smiled. "Then you'll survive it."
Emily looked skeptical. "That's not very comforting."
"It should be."
Y/N squeezed her hand again. "Because you're stronger than you think."
The room fell quiet.
Emily leaned into her shoulder the way she occasionally still did when life felt overwhelming.
For a few moments, they simply sat together. Mother and daughter. No judgment. No pressure. Just trust.
Finally, Emily laughed weakly. "I really thought this conversation was going to be worse."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Worse?"
"I don't know."
"Did you forget who raised you?"
Emily smiled. "A little."
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's because it's what you want."
Not Peter.
Not fear.
Not expectation.
Her.
And for the first time since bursting through the front door, Emily looked calmer. Not because she had an answer. But because she understood something important.
She was allowed to take her time.
Emily was quiet for a long moment after that.
The living room had settled into a gentler rhythm. Caleb had finally exhausted himself and was now focused on pushing a truck across the rug while making determined engine noises. Ella sat nearby, happily chewing on a teething toy and periodically attempting to crawl toward trouble.
Emily stared at her hands. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "What was it like?"
Y/N tilted her head. "What was what like?"
Emily looked embarrassed immediately. "Your first time with Dad."
Y/N blinked. "Oh."
"That's probably way too personal."
"It is a little," Y/N admitted with a laugh.
Emily groaned. "I knew it."
"But that doesn't mean I can't answer."
Emily looked relieved.
Y/N settled deeper into the couch cushions, considering the question. It wasn't one she'd ever expected Emily to ask, though perhaps she should have. Emily wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, love, and all the uncertainty that came with both.
"It wasn't perfect," Y/N said finally.
Emily looked surprised. "Really?"
"Sweetheart, almost nobody's first time is perfect."
That earned a small smile.
Y/N glanced toward Ella, then back to Emily. "When your dad and I got together, we'd already spent a lot of time getting to know each other. We'd talked. We'd dated. We'd built trust first." She smiled softly at the memory. "Your father was absurdly patient."
Emily snorted. "That sounds like him."
"It does, doesn't it?"
Y/N's expression softened further. "The thing I remember most isn't the physical part."
Emily listened carefully.
"I remember feeling safe."
The answer seemed to surprise her. "Safe?"
Y/N nodded. "Your dad spent the entire evening making sure I was comfortable. Making sure I knew I could change my mind. Making sure I never felt pressured." She smiled faintly. "Honestly, I was probably more nervous than he was."
Emily laughed. "Hard to imagine."
"Oh, trust me."
Y/N shook her head. "I was worried about a hundred different things. Whether I looked okay. Whether I was making the right decision. Whether everything would somehow become awkward afterward."
"And?"
"And none of those things happened."
She smiled. "Because the relationship wasn't built on that moment. The relationship already existed."
Emily absorbed that quietly.
Y/N continued, "The next morning, your dad was exactly the same man he'd been the day before. Kind. Patient. Ridiculously attentive. He made breakfast. He checked on me. He checked on Eliza." Her voice softened. "Nothing changed except that we were a little closer."
The memory warmed her even now. Beau had been so careful with her heart back then. So determined to earn trust rather than demand it.
Emily stared at the floor. "I think that's part of what scares me."
"What does?"
"The idea that everything could change."
Y/N nodded. "That's a normal fear."
Emily looked up. "So how did you know?"
Y/N smiled gently. "I didn't know everything."
"That isn't very reassuring."
"No," Y/N admitted. "But it's true."
She reached over and squeezed Emily's hand. "I knew I loved him. I knew I trusted him. I knew I felt safe with him. Beyond that, there were no guarantees."
Emily was quiet.
"The truth is, sweetheart, sex doesn't create a healthy relationship. It doesn't save one either."
She glanced toward the kitchen where Caleb had somehow acquired a wooden spoon.
"A healthy relationship is built by everything that comes before and after. Trust. Respect. Communication. Kindness."
"And if I'm not ready?"
"Then you're not ready."
The answer came easily. Firmly. Without hesitation.
Y/N smiled. "And if you decide six months from now that you're ready, that's okay too."
Emily leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly. "I really hate being an adult sometimes."
Y/N laughed. "Join the club."
That finally earned a genuine smile from Emily.
For a few moments they sat together, watching Caleb drive his truck into a table leg and Ella applaud herself for no apparent reason.
Then Emily rested her head briefly against Y/N's shoulder. "Thanks, Mom."
The word still touched Y/N every time. Not because she'd earned it through years of raising Emily from childhood. But because Emily had chosen it. Chosen her.
Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Anytime, sweetheart."
And for the first time since she'd burst through the front door in a panic, Emily looked like she could breathe again.
The house was asleep.
The kind of deep, complete sleep that only came after a full day of children, work, school, errands, and the thousand little moments that filled an Arlen day. Somewhere down the hall, Eliza was undoubtedly dreaming about wolves. Caleb had finally exhausted himself. Ella, after protesting bedtime on principle, had surrendered to sleep as well.
The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
Y/N rested comfortably against Beau's chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. One of his arms was draped around her waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against her skin while the quiet settled around them.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Y/N said, "Emily had a bit of a panic attack today."
Beau's hand immediately stilled. "What happened?"
There was an instant alertness in his voice that made Y/N smile. "Nothing bad."
He relaxed slightly. "Define bad."
"Peter brought up eventually taking their relationship to the next level."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Profound.
Y/N lifted her head slightly.
Beau was staring at the ceiling.
Blinking.
Slowly.
"No."
She laughed. "Beau."
"Nope."
"Beau."
"Absolutely not."
A groan escaped him as he dropped his free arm over his eyes. "She's twelve."
"She's twenty."
"In my defense, I reject that information."
Y/N's laughter filled the room.
Beau shook his head. "No. See, this is ridiculous. Emily's supposed to be this sweet little girl."
"You mean the college student?"
"The little girl."
"The young woman with a boyfriend?"
"The little girl."
"The adult who can vote?"
"The little girl."
Y/N kissed his shoulder. "You're impossible."
He sighed dramatically. "I remember teachin' her how to ride a bike."
"And now?"
"And now apparently we're discussin' sex." His tone suggested this was a personal attack.
Y/N couldn't stop smiling.
For another moment Beau lay there quietly. Then the humor faded and something softer took its place. Because the truth was... he knew. Emily wasn't a child anymore. He'd seen it himself.
The confidence she'd gained at college. The way she talked about her future. The maturity she'd shown with Peter. The woman she was becoming.
He just wasn't always ready to acknowledge it. A long breath escaped him. "God."
"Yeah."
"She's really growin' up."
Y/N threaded her fingers through his. "She is."
Beau turned his head, looking down at her. "So what'd you tell her?"
The question was genuine. Curious. Trusting.
Y/N settled back against him. "I told her she didn't owe anyone sex."
His expression immediately softened. "Good."
"I told her she shouldn't do it because she's afraid of losing him. Or because she thinks it'll save a relationship."
Beau nodded slowly. "Also good."
"I told her if she's saying she doesn't know whether she's ready, then she's probably not ready."
A hint of relief crossed his face. "Thank you."
Y/N smiled. "I also told her that when she is ready, the decision should be hers."
Beau was quiet. Thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Yeah."
Not because he liked the idea. Because he respected it. Emily deserved that respect. The same respect he would want any man to show her. The same respect he hoped Peter would continue showing her.
After a moment, Beau asked quietly, "Did she seem okay afterward?"
"Much better."
He smiled faintly. "Good."
Y/N studied him. "You're handling this surprisingly well."
"No, I'm not."
She laughed. "No?"
"Inside, I'm considering arresting Peter."
"Beau."
"I'm just sayin'."
"On what charge?"
He thought about it. "Existin'."
That made her laugh so hard she buried her face in his chest.
Beau grinned, pleased with himself. Then his expression softened once more. "Truth is," he admitted quietly, "I'm glad she came to you."
Y/N looked up.
He brushed a hand through her hair. "She trusts you."
The words carried weight. Because they both knew the journey that had brought them here. Y/N hadn't raised Emily from childhood. She hadn't been there for scraped knees or elementary school plays. She'd entered Emily's life later.
And yet. Somewhere along the way, a relationship had grown. Built not by obligation, but by choice. Emily choosing to trust her. Y/N choosing to love her.
Beau's heart swelled just thinking about it.
"So am I," Y/N whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Then pulled her closer.
And together they lay there in the quiet darkness, thinking about daughters growing up, sons growing wild, babies learning to stand, and all the beautiful, complicated ways a family changed over time.
The next morning began exactly the way most Arlen mornings did.
With noise.
Eliza was explaining to anyone who would listen why ducks should not be allowed to vote in wolf elections. Caleb was attempting to wear one of Beau's boots despite the fact it was nearly half his size. Nine-month-old Ella sat in her highchair enthusiastically demolishing a banana while simultaneously decorating herself with it.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
The coffee was working overtime.
And somehow everyone was talking at once.
Beau stood at the counter nursing his mug while Y/N packed lunches. Emily was helping Eliza find a missing mitten that somehow turned out to be in the refrigerator.
Nobody questioned this.
After all, it was Eliza.
Eventually, though, the chaos shifted.
Y/N disappeared briefly to clean Ella's face.
Caleb became fascinated by a toy truck.
Eliza ran off to retrieve an important wolf document.
For one brief moment, Emily found herself alone near the coffee pot.
Beau seized the opportunity. "Hey, kiddo."
Emily glanced up. Something in his voice immediately caught her attention. "Yeah?"
Beau rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment he looked strangely uncomfortable. Which was alarming. Because Beau Arlen rarely looked uncomfortable.
"Oh God," Emily said immediately. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That's not reassuring."
He exhaled. "No, it ain't."
Emily stared.
Beau stared back. Then finally sighed. "Your mom told me about your conversation."
Emily immediately groaned. "Oh my God."
"Now hold on."
"Dad."
"Just hear me out."
Emily covered her face.
Beau couldn't help smiling.
She looked exactly like she had when she was sixteen and embarrassed. Except now she was a college student. Which was still a fact he was struggling with.
A lot.
Finally Emily peeked through her fingers. "What?"
Beau leaned against the counter. "I know this is awkward."
"The worst."
"The absolute worst."
"Glad we're on the same page."
That earned a laugh from both of them. The tension eased. A little.
Beau became serious again. "I just wanted you to know somethin'."
Emily straightened slightly.
His voice had changed. This wasn't teasing anymore. This was father territory. "I'm proud of you."
The words surprised her. "What?"
"I'm proud of you." Beau shrugged one shoulder. "You didn't panic and make a decision because somebody expected one."
Emily blinked.
"You thought about it."
She nodded.
"You asked questions."
Another nod.
"You took your time."
A third.
"That's maturity, Em."
Her eyes softened.
Beau took a slow breath. "Your whole life, I've wanted you to know that you never have to earn my love."
The kitchen seemed quieter suddenly. Not silent. Just smaller. More focused.
"Whatever you decide," Beau continued, "that's your decision."
Emily swallowed.
"If you decide you're not ready, that's fine." He paused. "If you decide someday that you are, that's fine too."
His expression was steady. Certain. "All I care about is that you're safe. That you're respected. That you're making choices because they're yours."
Emily felt emotion rising unexpectedly in her chest.
Beau reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "And if anything ever goes wrong..."
She looked up.
His green eyes held hers. "If you get scared." His voice softened. "If you make a mistake."
Softer still. "If you regret somethin'."
Emily's throat tightened.
"If you get pregnant."
There it was. The thing most fathers danced around. Beau didn't. "You call me."
The words landed with absolute certainty. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Not conditions. Just certainty.
"You hear me?"
Emily nodded. "No matter what?"
"No matter what."
His answer came instantly. No hesitation. No qualifiers. "Nothing changes that you're my daughter."
The emotion she'd been fighting finally broke through. "Dad..."
"You call me." His voice was firm now. "You don't hide. You don't panic. You don't try to carry it alone."
Emily's eyes shimmered. "I won't."
"Good."
Beau pulled her into a hug then. A real one. The kind he gave when words weren't quite enough.
Emily hugged him back immediately. For a moment she was twenty years old. For a moment she was ten. For a moment she was both.
"I love you," Beau murmured.
"I love you too."
Behind them, Eliza burst back into the kitchen.
"WOLF EMERGENCY."
The moment shattered instantly.
Beau sighed.
Emily laughed.
And life resumed.
But the warmth of that conversation stayed with her long after the morning chaos swept everyone away.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 4,362
Tags/Warnings: demons, bargains, discussions of 18+ topics
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Nine: The Morning After
Dean looked down at her and felt his heart do something strange. Not race. Not leap. Simply... settle. Natalie was here. In his arms. In his room. In his bed.
The thought still felt improbable, like something he'd imagined too many times over the years and therefore could never quite believe when it became real. Yet there she was, hair a tangled mess from sleep, wearing his oversized Metallica shirt, looking at him with sleepy affection and quiet wonder.
Dean smiled. It was small at first. Then softer. Warmer.
Natalie saw it and felt her chest ache. Because she knew Dean's smiles. Knew the cocky grin he wore when hustling pool, the mischievous smirk that preceded bad decisions, the crooked half-smile he used to hide pain.
This one was different. This was joy. Uncomplicated. And that, more than anything, convinced her they were really doing this.
Dean lifted a hand to her face, brushing his thumb lightly along her cheek. He did it slowly, almost reverently, like he was still learning the contours of this new reality.
Natalie leaned into the touch instinctively.
Dean's expression softened even more. "Hey," he murmured.
"Hey."
The word was barely a breath between them. Then Dean leaned down and kissed her. Gently. Slowly. There was no urgency in it. No desperation. Just affection.
A quiet happiness that had nowhere else to go.
Natalie's eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him back, her hand coming to rest lightly against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm—steady and warm—and the simple reality of that nearly undid her.
Dean. Real. Alive. Choosing her. The kiss lingered. Not because either of them demanded more. But because neither of them was in a hurry to let the moment pass.
When they finally drew apart, they remained close, foreheads brushing lightly.
Dean smiled again.
Natalie laughed softly.
"What?" he asked.
"You look smug."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Dean pretended to consider this. "Okay, maybe a little."
Natalie rolled her eyes fondly.
He grinned.
God.
She loved him. The thought came easily now. Not frightening. Not hidden. Just true. And judging from the look on Dean's face as he tucked her a little closer against him, she suspected he was thinking something very similar.
Neither of them said it. Not because they were afraid. Because there was no need to rush. They had years of friendship behind them. Hopefully years ahead.
There would be time. For bigger declarations. For harder conversations. For figuring out what loving each other looked like in a world filled with monsters and uncertainty.
This morning wasn't for that. This morning was for discovering that intimacy could be as simple as sunlight through curtains. As simple as shared laughter. As simple as waking up beside someone and realizing you didn't want to be anywhere else.
Dean rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
Natalie curled a little closer.
Outside, Bobby's truck started with a protesting roar.
A second later, his voice bellowed from downstairs. "If you two lovebirds are awake, coffee's on!"
Dean closed his eyes.
Natalie immediately started laughing.
"I hate him," Dean groaned.
"No you don't."
"No, I really do."
From downstairs: "And put some damn pants on, Dean!"
Dean's face dropped into the pillow.
Natalie laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
The sound filled the room.
And Dean, despite himself, found himself laughing too.
Natalie laughed until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Dean, meanwhile, had buried his face in the pillow. "I am twenty-six years old," he announced to the mattress.
"And Bobby is determined to remind you of that every day."
"He is a menace."
"You love him."
"I love him in the same way people love natural disasters."
Natalie laughed again.
Dean rolled over dramatically, glaring up at the ceiling.
From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of Bobby moving pans around with entirely too much force.
The old man was making a point.
Dean groaned. "He is absolutely smirking right now."
"Oh, definitely."
"And Sam knows."
Natalie nodded solemnly. "Sam absolutely knows."
Dean closed his eyes. "This is the worst morning of my life."
Natalie looked around the room pointedly. "Interesting."
Dean cracked one eye open. "You know what I mean."
"I don't think I do."
He pointed at her. "You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Traitor."
Natalie's smile softened. Because the truth was, she was enjoying this. Not Bobby's teasing.
Well.
Maybe a little.
But mostly this strange, ordinary morning. The easy banter. The sunlight filling the room. The fact that she'd fallen asleep in Dean's arms and woken up there too.
It felt absurdly precious.
Dean sat up finally, scrubbing a hand over his face. "All right."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "We gotta face them eventually."
Natalie groaned. "Do we?"
"Unfortunately."
He stood and stretched, shirt riding up slightly as he did.
Natalie very deliberately looked at the ceiling.
Dean caught it. His ears immediately turned pink. "Oh, come on."
"What?"
"You looked away!"
"I was being respectful."
"You were not."
"I absolutely was."
Dean laughed.
Natalie grinned.
The easy embarrassment of it surprised both of them. Because this was new. Not attraction. That had been simmering beneath the surface for years. But allowing themselves to notice it.
Allowing themselves to be shy. To flirt badly. To discover all the little awkwardnesses that came with changing the shape of a relationship.
Natalie climbed out of bed. The Metallica shirt fell nearly to her knees.
Dean looked at her. Looked away. Looked back.
Natalie immediately caught him. "Oh my God."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I was not!"
"You absolutely were."
Dean groaned and pointed toward his dresser. "Get dressed."
Natalie burst out laughing. "You're blushing!"
"I hate this."
"No you don't."
Dean muttered something unintelligible while digging through his clothes.
Natalie found her jeans folded neatly over the chair she'd abandoned them on the night before.
The sight stopped her for a moment. There they were. Her clothes. In Dean's room. Because she'd slept here. Because they'd finally stopped pretending. The realization sent a warm little flutter through her chest.
Dean glanced over just in time to catch the expression on her face. His own softened immediately. Neither said anything. They didn't have to.
Natalie finished dressing and handed Dean back his shirt.
He took it. Then paused. "You can keep it."
She blinked. "The shirt?"
Dean shrugged, suddenly very interested in putting on his socks. "If you want."
Natalie's smile widened. "It's hideous."
"It is not."
"It absolutely is."
"It's classic."
"It's older than I am."
Dean gasped. "Rude."
Natalie laughed and folded the shirt carefully anyway.
Dean noticed. His smile was small. Private. Happy.
A moment later they stood by the bedroom door together. Neither reaching for the knob. Because downstairs waited Bobby. And Sam. And explanations. And whatever came next.
Dean glanced at Natalie. "You ready?"
She thought about it. About the Master. About Leandro. About the fear she'd carried for years. Then she looked at Dean. At the shy smile he was trying to hide. At the fact that he'd spent the night holding her. At the quiet certainty growing between them.
And she realized something.
For the first time in a very long time: she was.
Natalie smiled. "Yeah."
Dean smiled back. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he reached for her hand. And together, still chuckling about Bobby's disastrous timing and inevitable teasing, they headed downstairs to face the morning.
The disaster began the instant Dean and Natalie appeared at the top of the stairs.
Not because they'd done anything scandalous.
But because Bobby Singer looked up from the stove, saw Dean descend first with Natalie a step behind him, and immediately smirked so hard his mustache nearly disappeared into his beard.
Sam, seated at the table with a mug of coffee and an open lore book he clearly hadn't been reading, followed Bobby's gaze.
He blinked once.
Then slowly closed the book.
"Oh no," Dean said, stopping halfway down the stairs.
"Oh yes," Sam replied.
"We didn't—"
"Nope," Bobby interrupted. "Don't wanna hear it."
Dean looked offended. "You don't even know what I was gonna say!"
"I know exactly what you were gonna say."
Natalie, who had been feeling brave approximately thirty seconds ago, suddenly wished to return upstairs and perhaps out a window.
Dean pointed accusingly at both of them as he reached the bottom step. "We slept."
Bobby barked out a laugh. "That's what they all say."
"We did!"
"Sure."
Natalie threw up her hands. "Why is that so unbelievable?"
Bobby stared at her. Then at Dean. Then back at her. "You expect me to believe that after twenty years of pine-scented longin' and unresolved feelings, the two of you shared a bed and just slept?"
Dean sputtered.
"Natalie," Bobby continued, as though Dean hadn't spoken, "this boy kissed you stupid in my backyard last night."
Dean nearly choked. "I did not!"
"You absolutely did," Bobby said.
Natalie's face went scarlet.
Sam looked delighted.
Dean swung toward him. "You're not helping."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You closed your book!"
Sam lifted his coffee innocently. "I was preparing."
"For what?"
"For this."
Dean groaned.
Natalie covered her face.
Bobby pointed his spatula at them both. "Listen. I ain't judging."
"You are absolutely judging," Dean said.
"I'm judging your terrible lyin'."
"We're not lying!"
Bobby squinted at them.
Natalie dropped her hands. "It's true!"
Sam looked at Dean thoughtfully.
Dean didn't like that look.
"You know," Sam said slowly, "the fact that you're both so defensive makes me think—"
"Sam!"
"What?"
"You know what!"
Sam shrugged. "I just think it's interesting."
"It is not interesting!"
"It's a little interesting."
Dean groaned again and dropped into a chair.
Natalie sat beside him.
Which turned out to be a mistake.
Because Bobby noticed immediately. He pointed. "Look at that."
Natalie blinked. "What?"
"You sat next to him."
"I've sat next to him my whole life!"
"Not while blushin'."
"I am not blushing."
"You are."
"I'm not!"
Dean looked at her.
Natalie pointed at him. "Don't you dare."
Dean, the traitor, started laughing. "Oh my God," he wheezed. "You are blushing."
Natalie stared at him in betrayal. "You said we were in this together!"
"I lied."
"Dean Winchester!"
Sam looked like Christmas had come early.
Bobby abandoned all pretense of cooking and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So."
"No," Dean said immediately.
"What'd you talk about?"
"No."
"How awkward was it?"
"Bobby."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Bobby!"
Natalie buried her face in her coffee mug.
This was somehow worse than fighting monsters. Much worse. Because at least monsters had weaknesses.
Bobby and Sam were feeding off each other.
Sam tilted his head. "Actually..."
Dean pointed. "No."
"You slept holding hands, didn't you?"
Dean froze.
Natalie froze.
Sam gasped. "Oh my God, you did."
"We did not!"
"You hesitated!"
"I did not hesitate!"
"You absolutely hesitated."
Dean looked to Bobby for support.
Bobby was crying. Not emotionally. From laughing too hard. "You two are killin' me."
"This is abuse."
"This is family."
"It's the same thing!"
Bobby wiped his eyes. "No, seriously."
Dean slumped lower in his chair.
Bobby's expression softened just slightly. Not much. But enough. "You happy, boy?"
The question came out gruff. Unexpectedly sincere.
Dean looked up. The teasing had vanished from Bobby's face. Just for a moment. Dean glanced at Natalie.
She was smiling at him. Not embarrassed anymore. Just... happy. The kind of happy that had frightened both of them for years. And now sat comfortably in his kitchen at Bobby's house, drinking coffee while being relentlessly bullied.
Dean smiled back. "Yeah," he admitted quietly.
Bobby nodded once.
Sam smiled too.
The moment lasted exactly two seconds. Then Bobby grinned. "Still don't believe you didn't fool around."
Dean dropped his forehead onto the table.
Natalie burst out laughing.
And Sam, ever the helpful younger brother, helpfully added: "Honestly, I'm with Bobby on this one."
Dean's muffled scream echoed through the house.
Dean lifted his head from the table just enough to glare at everyone present. "I hate this family."
Bobby snorted into his coffee. "No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "He betrayed me."
"I asked one question."
"You interrogated me!"
"I asked if you held hands."
"You made it weird!"
Sam blinked innocently. "I wasn't aware holding hands was weird."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Because somehow, impossibly, holding hands had become weird. Not bad weird.
Just new weird.
Natalie was sitting beside him, nursing her coffee with both hands, trying valiantly to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed. Spectacularly. Because every time she glanced at Dean, she remembered waking up in his arms.
And then she'd smile. And Bobby would see. And then Bobby would smirk. Which was exactly what happened now.
"There she goes again."
Natalie froze. "There who goes what?"
"That smile."
"What smile?"
"The one where you look at Dean like he's hung the moon."
Dean nearly inhaled his coffee.
Natalie stared at Bobby in abject horror. "I do not!"
"You do."
"I absolutely do not!"
Dean, traitor that he was, had the audacity to look pleased.
Natalie pointed at him. "You stop that."
"What?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The smug one."
Dean grinned wider.
Sam looked delighted. "Oh, this is fascinating."
Natalie dropped her head into her hands. "Why did I come back to Sioux Falls?"
"Because you missed me," Bobby replied immediately.
"Not you."
"Liar."
Natalie laughed helplessly. God. She'd missed this. The noise. The teasing.
Bobby's kitchen smelling like coffee and bacon and slightly burned toast because Bobby refused to admit he couldn't multitask.
It struck her suddenly, painfully, how much she'd missed all of it. Three years. Three years she'd spent in Nova Scotia chasing ghosts and rumors and monsters wearing other monsters as masks. Three years she'd spent convincing herself she was alone.
And now—Dean was beside her. Sam across from her. Bobby bustling around the kitchen, pretending not to hover.
The realization hit hard enough that she quieted.
Bobby noticed first.
Of course he did.
The old hunter had always possessed an uncanny ability to sense shifts in mood, even if he pretended otherwise.
He set down his coffee. "Natalie."
She looked up.
"You okay?"
The teasing vanished instantly. Sam's smile softened. Dean turned fully toward her. The concern on his face was immediate.
Natalie swallowed. And smiled. "Yeah."
This time, she meant it. Not now. Not the fragile distinction she'd made the night before. Just... Yeah.
Bobby studied her for a moment. Then nodded. Satisfied. Mostly.
Dean wasn't satisfied. Dean was watching her closely now. Not suspiciously. Just... attentively. Like he was still adjusting to this new reality where he could worry openly.
Natalie noticed. And because she was apparently incapable of resisting him anymore, she reached beneath the table and nudged his knee with hers.
Dean looked over.
She smiled. A small smile. Just for him.
His expression softened instantly.
Sam saw the entire exchange. "Oh my God."
Dean groaned. "What now?"
"You guys are disgusting."
Natalie gasped. "Betrayal!"
"I'm serious!"
Sam pointed between them. "That."
"What?"
"The smiling."
"We've always smiled."
"Not like that."
Dean frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Sam waved vaguely. "You know."
"No."
"You know!"
Dean looked at Natalie.
Natalie looked at Dean.
Neither of them knew.
Sam groaned. "You have heart eyes."
Dean recoiled. "I have what?"
Bobby laughed so hard coffee nearly came out his nose.
Natalie looked scandalized. "Excuse me?"
"Heart eyes," Sam repeated.
"We do not!"
"You absolutely do."
Dean looked horrified.
Natalie looked equally horrified.
Bobby looked ecstatic. "I've waited twenty years for this."
"It has not been twenty years!"
"Feels like it."
Dean slumped.
Natalie laughed.
And somewhere in the middle of the chaos—in Bobby's triumphant gloating, Sam's relentless teasing, Dean's wounded dignity, and her own helpless amusement—Natalie realized something.
This. This was what she'd nearly died without ever having. Not just Dean. Though, God, him too. But this whole ridiculous, loud, loving family she'd stumbled into because Bobby Singer couldn't live with himself after Leandro died.
The Master had taken so much from her. Taken years. Taken certainty. Taken peace. But sitting here now, Dean's knee pressed lightly against hers beneath the table while Bobby argued with Sam over the proper way to cook bacon—Natalie found herself thinking: You're not taking this.
Not Bobby.
Not Sam.
Not Dean.
Not this happiness.
Whatever came next. Whatever the Master was. Whatever secrets still waited in Nova Scotia. She wouldn't face them alone. And for the first time since Missouri Moseley had shaken her head and told her Leandro wasn't at peace, Natalie Guimet felt hope.
Natalie was still smiling when the thought settled into place. Not all at once. Not like lightning. More like dawn. A slow certainty spreading through her chest, pushing back years of fear.
The Master had taken so much already.
It had taken certainty from her father. It had taken peace from her mother. It had taken three years of her life and nearly taken the rest of it on that cold floor in Nova Scotia.
But sitting here now, surrounded by Bobby's grumbling, Sam's teasing, and Dean's increasingly wounded protests about his alleged "heart eyes," Natalie suddenly realized something profound.
She was done letting fear dictate her choices.
Before she could overthink it, she reached across the small distance between their chairs and took Dean's hand. Not beneath the table. Not hidden.
Openly.
Dean blinked.
The kitchen was noisy one moment and strangely quiet the next.
Natalie's fingers laced through his. She squeezed gently.
Dean stared at their joined hands for half a heartbeat before looking up at her. He wasn't embarrassed exactly. Just surprised.
Because Natalie had always been affectionate in private. A shoulder bump. A hug after a hunt. Leaning against him while watching a movie. But this? In front of Bobby and Sam? Especially after twenty straight minutes of merciless teasing?
That was new.
Dean's expression softened immediately. "You okay?" he asked quietly.
The teasing in the room evaporated. Because she did seem different. Lighter. Not carefree. Natalie would never be carefree again after Nova Scotia. But something had shifted.
Natalie looked at him. Then at Bobby. At Sam. At this kitchen she'd grown up in. At the family she'd nearly convinced herself she didn't deserve anymore. And she smiled. "Yeah," she said softly.
Dean waited.
Natalie drew in a breath. "Because..." She looked down at their joined hands. Then back up. "The Master isn't taking this from me."
The words fell into the room and stayed there. Bobby stopped moving. Sam's smile faded. Dean went utterly still.
Natalie swallowed. Her voice wavered at first, then steadied. "I spent three years afraid."
Nobody interrupted.
"I was afraid of what happened to my dad. Afraid of what happened to my mom after she lost him. Afraid of loving someone and losing them." Her fingers tightened around Dean's. "I was afraid of you."
Dean's brows knit together.
"Not you," she corrected softly. "What loving you meant."
Dean's face softened.
Natalie looked down at the table. "I let that fear send me chasing answers." A humorless smile touched her lips. "And maybe I would've done that anyway."
Bobby grunted softly. "Maybe."
"But..." Natalie looked up again. "I came home."
The words carried more meaning than geography. She'd come home to Bobby. To Sam. To Dean. To herself. "And for the first time in years," she said, "I woke up this morning happy."
Dean swallowed hard.
Natalie smiled at him. "A little scared."
He huffed softly. "Same."
"A lot in love."
Dean blinked.
Sam's eyes widened.
Bobby immediately looked at the ceiling. "Oh, hell."
Natalie laughed softly. But she didn't take it back. "A lot in love," she repeated.
Dean looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Because she'd never said it. Not outright. Not until now. Not in Bobby's kitchen over coffee and bacon while Sam tried very hard to become invisible.
Dean stared at her. Then his mouth curved slowly. Wonderingly. Like he couldn't believe he'd heard right.
Natalie squeezed his hand again. "The Master doesn't get this," she said. Her voice was stronger now.
"It doesn't get Bobby." Bobby looked away.
"It doesn't get Sam." Sam ducked his head.
"And it doesn't get you." Dean's eyes never left hers. "It took enough."
The room was silent. Not awkward. Reverent. Because suddenly this wasn't just a conversation about monsters anymore. It was a declaration. A line in the sand.
Bobby cleared his throat roughly. Twice. Then he stood and turned back toward the stove. "Well," he grumbled. His voice was suspiciously thick. "If we're declaring war against extradimensional soul thieves over breakfast..." He flipped bacon a little harder than necessary. "...I'm making more coffee."
Sam smiled.
Dean laughed softly.
And Natalie—Natalie felt something inside her settle. The Master was powerful. Ancient. Patient. It stood outside Heaven and Hell. But it had made one terrible mistake.
It had let her go.
And in doing so, it had given Natalie Guimet the chance to come home.
This time, she intended to fight for it.
Bobby busied himself with the coffee pot for a moment longer than necessary.
It gave him time.
Time to recover from Natalie's declaration. Time to pretend the suspicious tightness in his chest was heartburn and not emotion. Time to reassemble himself into the gruff, practical hunter he preferred to be.
Behind him, Dean and Natalie were still holding hands. Openly. At his kitchen table. Bobby grimaced. The kids were growing up. It was offensive. He poured himself another cup of coffee.
Then, without turning around, he asked, "All right." The room quieted. "You've drawn your line in the sand."
Natalie smiled faintly.
Bobby pointed his mug vaguely in her direction. "So how do you propose we get more information on this thing?"
Natalie blinked. The shift in topic was abrupt enough to catch her off guard.
Bobby finally turned around. No teasing now. No jokes. Just the question. Because if Natalie was serious—and Bobby knew she was—then they needed to start thinking like hunters.
Natalie sat back in her chair. For a moment, she looked younger. Not physically. Just thoughtful. Thinking out loud. "We start with our sources."
Sam nodded immediately. "Missouri."
Natalie nodded. "Definitely Missouri."
Bobby grunted. "If she'll talk."
"She'll talk to me."
The confidence in Natalie's voice surprised him. Then again... Missouri had tried to protect her. That counted for something.
Sam leaned forward. "What about lore?"
"We hit everything," Natalie said. "Bobby's library. University archives if we have to. Every hunter journal we can get our hands on."
Dean looked skeptical. "You think anybody's written about something outside Heaven and Hell?"
"No," Natalie admitted. Then she smiled faintly. "But I think somebody's stumbled into it."
Bobby nodded slowly. That was hunter logic. No one discovered anything entirely new. Some poor idiot always got there first. Usually died horribly. But sometimes left notes.
Sam was already thinking ahead. "Other hunters."
"Maybe." Bobby looked unconvinced. "Most hunters would think we're nuts."
Dean shrugged. "We are nuts."
"Fair."
Natalie absently traced circles across the back of Dean's hand as she thought. Then she said quietly: "And then..." She hesitated.
The room stilled.
Bobby immediately became suspicious. "You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says I'm about to hate what comes outta your mouth."
Natalie sighed. "We branch out."
Dean frowned. "To who?"
Natalie looked at each of them in turn. "Supernatural sources."
The kitchen went silent.
Bobby closed his eyes. "Goddammit."
Dean sat upright. "You mean psychics?"
"Among others."
Sam looked intrigued.
Bobby looked ready to throw something. "No."
Natalie blinked. "What?"
"No."
"Bobby—"
"No."
"You don't even know who I mean!"
"I don't care."
Dean was grinning now. This was familiar territory. Bobby versus Natalie. The eternal struggle.
Natalie crossed her arms. "You taught me to follow evidence."
"I taught you not to be stupid."
"This isn't stupid."
"This is exactly stupid."
Sam, meanwhile, was looking thoughtful. "Actually..."
Bobby pointed at him. "You shut up."
Sam ignored him. "If this thing exists outside the normal cosmology..."
Bobby groaned.
"...then conventional hunter knowledge may not be enough."
Bobby groaned louder.
Dean snickered.
Natalie pointed triumphantly at Sam. "Thank you."
"I hate both of you."
Dean looked offended. "Only both?"
"Today."
Natalie laughed.
But Bobby wasn't entirely joking. He sat down heavily, coffee mug cradled in both hands. "Who are you thinking?" he asked reluctantly.
Natalie sobered. "Missouri."
"Fine."
"Maybe other psychics."
Bobby grimaced. "Ugh."
"People who deal with spirits."
"Less ugh."
She hesitated. Then: "Demons."
The silence was immediate. Absolute.
Dean's smile vanished.
Sam stared.
Bobby looked like she'd suggested summoning a hurricane into the living room. "Absolutely not."
Natalie raised both hands. "I know."
"No."
"I'm just saying—"
"No!"
"Bobby—"
"You are not making deals."
"I didn't say deals!"
"You said demons!"
Dean finally found his voice. "Nat..." His tone carried genuine concern.
Natalie looked at him. "I don't want to." The admission came quietly. "I really don't."
Dean relaxed a fraction.
"But," she continued, "the Master exists outside the normal rules." Her fingers tightened around his. "What if the things we hunt are scared of it too?"
That landed.
Sam sat back.
Bobby frowned.
Because... that was an interesting question.
Dean hated that it was an interesting question.
Natalie looked around the table. "We don't know who knows something." Her voice softened. "But I know one thing."
Everyone looked at her.
"I am not spending another three years chasing this alone."
Dean squeezed her hand. "You won't."
Bobby nodded. "Damn right."
Sam smiled.
And just like that, the mood in the kitchen changed. Not lighter. But purposeful. The Master was no longer a ghost story Natalie carried alone. It had become a hunt. And if there was one thing the Singer-Winchester family knew how to do: it was hunt monsters.
Even the impossible ones.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!
(Or: Dean Winchester Discovers a Holiday He Can Get Behind)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean discovers the Summer Solstice and decides to celebrate it, inevitably driving Sam crazy in the process. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural Valentine's Day.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, Valentine's Day, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate the Summer Solstice! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
Author’s Note: The exchange where Dean tells Castiel to say something factually incorrect to lure Sam out of his room is not my joke. I found it via a Twitter post by Sini Hyun, who shared a screenshot from the now-defunct Tumblr blog (? I can’t find it anyway) spnbettermakedes. I wasn’t able to locate the original creator, but I wanted to credit the fandom post that inspired this scene.
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
Eight days before the Summer Solstice, Dean Winchester made the discovery that would consume the next week of Sam Winchester's life.
The day itself had begun innocently enough.
Which, in Sam's experience, was always how the worst ideas started.
He was in the war room, halfway through researching a case file from Wichita, surrounded by books that had slowly multiplied across the table over the course of the morning. A legal pad sat at his elbow, covered in notes and crossed-out theories. The bunker was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page and the low, familiar hum of the ventilation system.
Peaceful.
Predictable.
Safe.
Then Dean came back from a supply run.
The first warning sign was that he didn't head for the kitchen. Dean always headed for the kitchen.
The second warning sign was that he walked directly into the war room carrying a grocery bag in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
The third warning sign was that he stopped in the middle of the room and simply stared at the newspaper.
Sam looked up from his book.
Dean was smiling. Not a normal smile. Not even a particularly big smile. It was worse than that. It was the smile Dean got when he'd become interested in something.
Sam immediately closed his book. "No."
Dean blinked. "I haven't said anything."
"You found something."
Dean's smile widened.
Sam sighed. There it was. That look.
The exact same look Dean had worn before the Christmas Mouse Incident. The same look he'd worn before deciding New Year's was an opportunity to reorganize seventy years of Men of Letters storage rooms. The same look he'd worn before declaring Valentine's Day "his holiday."
Every one of those situations had ended in disaster.
Dean dropped into a chair and spread the newspaper across the table. "Okay, first of all—"
"No."
"Sam."
"No."
"You don't even know what it is."
Sam folded his arms. "I know you."
Dean looked offended by that.
Which meant Sam was probably right.
Dean tapped the paper with one finger. "Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sam said carefully: "...And?"
Dean looked genuinely shocked by the question. "And?"
He tapped the paper again. "It's a Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam waited.
Dean waited.
Neither moved.
Finally Dean sat back in his chair. "You're telling me those words mean nothing to you?"
"Dean."
"The Summer Solstice."
"Dean."
"The longest day of the year."
Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "I know what the Summer Solstice is."
Dean pointed triumphantly. "Then you understand."
"I don't."
Dean looked disappointed.
It was the disappointment of a man who had expected his audience to appreciate greatness and discovered his audience was Sam.
"The longest day of the year," Dean repeated. "Bonfires. Food. Live music. Festival."
"Okay."
Dean leaned forward. "Bonfires, Sammy."
"There it is."
Dean ignored him. "There are going to be giant ceremonial bonfires."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Sam knew that look.
Dean had already decided this was important.
The problem was that Sam had absolutely no idea why. "You know," Sam said carefully, "most people don't get this excited about seasonal astronomy."
Dean immediately pointed at him. "See, that's exactly your problem."
"My problem."
"You make everything sound boring."
Sam blinked.
Dean gestured broadly. "'Seasonal astronomy.'"
"It is seasonal astronomy."
"It's the sun winning."
Sam stared at him for several seconds. Then: "What does that even mean?"
Dean opened his mouth. Paused. Thought about it. And then said with complete sincerity: "The sun's up longer. Therefore it wins."
Sam slowly leaned back in his chair. "Oh God."
Dean looked delighted. And somehow that made everything worse.
The trouble was that Dean didn't lose interest.
Normally, Dean discovered something, became fascinated for approximately six hours, and then moved on to the next thing.
Not this time.
This time the interest stuck.
The next morning Sam emerged from his room to find three printed pages sitting beside the coffee pot.
He immediately knew who was responsible.
The pages were titled: SUMMER SOLSTICE TRADITIONS THROUGHOUT HISTORY
Sam didn't even pick them up. He simply turned around and went back to his room.
That afternoon Dean cornered him in the library. "Did you know—"
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I don't care."
Dean continued anyway. "Ancient people used to build giant fires because they thought it strengthened the sun."
Sam closed his eyes. "Dean."
"That's awesome."
"Dean."
"Think about that."
"I don't want to."
Dean followed him down the aisle. "They were rooting for the sun."
Sam stopped. Turned. And found Dean genuinely excited about this concept. "You are emotionally invested in a star."
Dean pointed at him. "Finally. You're getting it."
Seven days before the festival, Dean somehow acquired a book.
Sam never learned where it came from.
One moment it didn't exist.
The next moment Dean was carrying around a hardcover text about midsummer celebrations and quoting passages during meals.
By dinner, Sam knew more about European solstice customs than he'd ever wanted to know.
By breakfast the next morning, Dean had started opening conversations with: "Fun fact."
There were no fun facts.
There was only suffering.
By the fourth day, Sam had begun taking alternate routes through the bunker. This wasn't cowardice. This was survival.
Unfortunately Dean adapted.
Sam discovered him waiting outside the library one afternoon. The man had somehow anticipated his movements. "Dean."
"Sam."
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You have a book."
Dean glanced down. Then back up. "...Fair."
By the fifth day, Sam was hiding.
Officially, he was conducting research.
Unofficially, he had barricaded himself inside his room because Dean Winchester had become a one-man Summer Solstice information campaign.
The worst part wasn't that Dean was annoying.
The worst part was that Dean was happy.
Genuinely, inexplicably happy.
And that made it much harder to tell him to shut up.
Especially because every time Sam tried, Dean somehow found another fact.
And there were still days until the festival. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
In reality, there was only two.
And Dean Winchester was just getting started.
The problem wasn't that Dean became interested in the Summer Solstice. The problem was that Dean became educational about the Summer Solstice. There were few things more dangerous than Dean Winchester deciding he had become an authority on a subject.
By the next morning, he had apparently appointed himself Lebanon's unofficial ambassador of midsummer celebrations. Sam discovered this when he wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee and found three handwritten notes taped to the refrigerator.
He stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then closed his eyes. "Dean."
Dean looked up from the table where he was eating cereal and reading yet another article. "Morning, Sammy."
"Why are there notes on the fridge?"
Dean followed his gaze. "Oh."
He sounded pleased. "I made a countdown."
Sam opened one eye. "A countdown."
"One week until the Summer Solstice."
Sam stared at the notes. They had numbers. They had little sun doodles. One of them appeared to have flames drawn around the border. "You made a calendar."
"It's festive."
"It's June."
Dean pointed his spoon at him. "That's solstice prejudice."
Sam turned around and walked back out of the kitchen.
Behind him, Dean called cheerfully: "Seven days!"
The bunker echoed with Sam's suffering.
Sam attempted avoidance. Avoidance had always been a reliable strategy.
When Dean became obsessed with rebuilding the Impala's carburetor, Sam had avoided the garage.
When Dean became fascinated by homemade jerky recipes, Sam had avoided the kitchen.
When Dean decided he was going to learn magic tricks from a motel gift shop book, Sam had avoided every room Dean occupied for nearly a month.
This should have worked.
Unfortunately, Dean was adapting.
Three days into his campaign, Sam entered the library to find a book waiting on his chair. Not a lore book. Not research material.
A brightly colored paperback about solstice traditions. Sam stared at it. Then he slowly looked around the room. "Dean."
Dean's voice immediately floated from somewhere behind a shelf. "Yeah?"
"You planted a book."
"No."
Sam picked it up.
There was a sticky note attached.
PAGE 43 IS AWESOME
Sam closed his eyes. "You planted a book."
Dean appeared around the end of the shelf looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I left educational material."
"You are becoming a pamphlet."
Dean looked delighted by this accusation.
The situation worsened when Dean discovered documentaries.
For two straight evenings, Sam emerged from research to find Dean sprawled across the bunker couch watching programs with titles like Ancient Celebrations of the Sun and Fire Festivals Through History.
The first night, Sam made the mistake of sitting down. Five minutes later Dean had paused the program.
Actually paused it.
"So apparently—"
Sam stood back up. "Nope."
"Sam."
"No."
"You sat down."
"I made a mistake."
Dean followed him with his eyes as he retreated from the room. "Did you know people used to roll flaming wheels down hills?"
Sam pointed at him without turning around. "You're exactly why they invented libraries."
Dean looked proud of that for some reason.
By the fourth day, even the bunker seemed aware something had gone wrong.
Dean had started leaving articles everywhere. On the kitchen counter. On the war room table. Tucked inside books.
Sam opened a lore journal and a folded newspaper clipping fell into his lap. He unfolded it automatically.
The headline read:
THE HISTORY OF MIDSUMMER FIRES
Sam stared at the paper. Then at the ceiling. Then at the paper again. "Dean."
The response came instantly. "Yeah?"
"Stop hiding solstice propaganda in my research."
Dean's voice carried from somewhere down the hallway. "It wasn't hidden."
"It was literally inside a book."
"You found it."
Sam briefly considered murder.
The truly alarming development came when Dean began inventing traditions.
Not historical traditions.
Dean traditions.
Sam should have recognized the warning signs immediately.
Dean had a tendency to encounter perfectly normal events and decide they required Winchester participation.
This was how Thanksgiving had ended with experimental cooking.
It was how New Year's had become a bunker-wide cleaning catastrophe.
Now it was happening again.
Dean walked into breakfast one morning carrying a notebook. That notebook alone was enough to make Sam nervous. Dean sat down. Opened it.
And announced: "I've got ideas."
Sam lowered his coffee. "No."
Dean ignored him. "We need a solstice menu."
"A what."
"A menu."
Sam stared.
Dean continued. "Obviously burgers."
"Obviously."
"Pie."
"Of course."
"Maybe corn on the cob."
Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Dean."
Dean was writing now. Actually taking notes. "What."
"This is not our holiday."
Dean looked up. His expression suggested Sam had just insulted the Constitution. "It can be."
"You found it four days ago."
Dean pointed his pen dramatically. "That's how traditions start."
By the sixth day, Sam had reached the bargaining stage of grief. He attempted logic. This was a mistake.
"Dean," he said carefully one evening. "You know you're acting like this festival is a once-in-a-lifetime event."
Dean looked up from his laptop. "It is."
"They do it every year."
"This year is only happening once."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Neither blinked.
Finally, Sam pointed at him. "That made sense in your head."
"It made perfect sense."
"No."
"You're just being negative."
Sam stood up and left the room.
There was no defense against reasoning like that.
By the evening before the festival, Sam had become a hunted man. Not by monsters. Not by ghosts. Not even by Dean.
By facts.
Every corner of the bunker had become a potential ambush. Every room carried risk. The kitchen was compromised. The library was compromised. The war room was completely lost.
Twice Dean had managed to corner him near the archives and begin sentences with the words: "Quick question."
There was never a quick question.
There was only a solstice fact delivered in the shape of a question.
By the time June twenty-first finally arrived, Sam had retreated into his room with a stack of books and every intention of staying there until departure.
It wasn't that he hated the festival. Truthfully, the bonfire sounded kind of nice. The music sounded nice. The food sounded nice.
The problem was that Dean had spent an entire week behaving like he'd personally invented the sun. And Sam needed a few hours of peace before facing the actual event.
Unfortunately for him, Dean Winchester was not done celebrating.
Not even close.
And soon Castiel would arrive, unknowingly becoming the final weapon in Dean's increasingly elaborate campaign to drag his brother into Summer Solstice enthusiasm whether he liked it or not.
By the morning of June twenty-first, Sam had officially surrendered.
Not to Dean.
Not exactly.
To the inevitability of Dean.
There was a difference.
The Summer Solstice Festival was finally happening that evening, which should have been a relief. For eight straight days Dean had treated the approaching event with the excitement of a child waiting for Christmas morning, except Christmas morning generally arrived after a reasonable amount of anticipation. Dean had somehow stretched an ordinary local festival into a week-long campaign of education, recruitment, and what Sam could only describe as aggressive enthusiasm.
The bunker had become impossible to navigate. Every room carried risk. Every hallway might contain Dean and another newly acquired fact about ancient midsummer celebrations. Sam had learned more about solstice traditions in the last week than he'd learned during four years at Stanford.
Enough was enough.
So after breakfast—which had somehow included a discussion about ceremonial bonfires in northern Europe—Sam retreated to his room with a stack of lore books under one arm and a laptop under the other. He shut the door, locked it for good measure, and settled onto the bed with the firm intention of remaining there until Dean either left for the festival or combusted from excitement.
Whichever happened first.
Outside, the bunker settled into its familiar quiet hum. Sam opened a book, determined to spend the next few hours researching literally anything that wasn't related to the sun.
Unfortunately, Castiel arrived.
Dean looked up from the newspaper spread across the war room table when the angel appeared. The festival schedule occupied nearly half the surface, surrounded by notes Dean had made throughout the week. At some point he'd circled the words BONFIRE LIGHTING CEREMONY three separate times.
"Hey, Cas."
"Hello, Dean."
Castiel glanced around the room before frowning slightly. "Sam will not come out of his room."
Dean didn't even look surprised. "Nope."
"I knocked three times."
"Sounds right."
"I informed him breakfast was ready."
Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Also sounds right."
Castiel tilted his head. "He appears to be hiding."
"He is hiding."
The angel considered that. "Why?"
Dean folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair. "Because I've been talking about the solstice."
For a moment Castiel simply stared at him. Then, after what appeared to be genuine consideration, he nodded. "That is understandable."
Dean pointed accusingly. "Wow."
"I'm not criticizing you."
"You kind of are."
Castiel ignored this entirely. His attention drifted toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "Would you like me to attempt again?"
Dean considered the question. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. It was not a reassuring grin. It was, in fact, the exact sort of grin that had historically preceded terrible ideas.
Castiel had spent enough time with the Winchesters to recognize this. "Dean."
"What?"
"That expression concerns me."
Dean's grin only widened. "Yeah, go get him."
Castiel waited.
Dean pointed vaguely toward the hallway. "Just tell him I said something."
The angel frowned. "What?"
"Anything factually incorrect."
Castiel blinked. For a moment, he looked genuinely lost. "I do not understand."
Dean looked delighted. "Trust me."
"Dean."
"It'll work."
Castiel continued staring. "What should I say?"
Dean tapped his fingers against the table, considering his options with the seriousness of a man planning military strategy. Then inspiration struck. "The sun is a planet."
Castiel immediately frowned. "That is not true."
"I know."
"You want me to lie."
Dean waved a hand. "I want you to summon Sam."
Apparently, in Dean's mind, those were entirely separate concepts.
Castiel seemed unconvinced. "The two appear related."
"Cas."
"The sun is a star."
"I know."
"It has always been a star."
"I know that too."
Castiel looked at him for another long moment.
Then, with the weary resignation of someone who had spent far too much time around Winchesters, he turned and headed down the hallway.
Dean watched him go. Then leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The bunker fell quiet.
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Dean took a sip of coffee.
Right on schedule, a door slammed open somewhere down the corridor.
The sound echoed through the bunker.
Rapid footsteps followed.
Dean lowered his mug.
The grin returned.
A moment later Sam appeared in the war room doorway.
His hair was disheveled from repeatedly running his hands through it. A notebook was still clutched beneath one arm. His expression was one of pure academic outrage.
"Did you just say the sun is a fucking planet?"
Dean nearly inhaled his coffee. The laughter hit him so hard he doubled over, coughing and wheezing simultaneously as he tried and failed to recover.
Across the room, Castiel looked mildly surprised by the intensity of the reaction. "The strategy was successful."
Sam pointed at both of them. "No. No, absolutely not. You weaponized astronomy."
Dean was laughing too hard to defend himself. "You came out!"
"Because you said something stupid!"
"I knew you would!"
"That doesn't make it better!"
"It kind of does!"
Sam looked from Dean to Castiel and back again, clearly trying to determine which one deserved the blame.
Unfortunately, Castiel had the decency to look confused.
Dean looked victorious.
Which made the answer obvious.
"You're unbelievable."
Dean finally managed to catch his breath enough to sit upright. "Eight days, Sammy."
"It was seven."
"Felt like eight."
"You've been counting?"
Dean pointed triumphantly. "You've been listening."
Sam stared at him.
Dean stared back.
For one brief moment neither moved.
Then Sam realized exactly what had happened.
Dean had gotten him out of his room.
Again.
With complete accuracy.
And judging by the deeply satisfied look on Dean's face, he considered this one of his finest accomplishments.
Castiel, meanwhile, appeared to be studying the exchange with genuine curiosity. "I find it interesting," he said thoughtfully, "that factual inaccuracy causes a stronger response than repeated requests."
Sam closed his eyes.
Dean pointed at the angel. "See? He gets it."
"No," Sam said. "He really doesn't."
And somewhere beneath the exasperation, despite a week of suffering through solstice facts and countdowns and increasingly ridiculous enthusiasm, Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Because Dean looked happy.
Not defensive. Not forcing it.
Just happy.
The kind of uncomplicated excitement that had become increasingly rare over the years.
Dean caught the expression immediately. "There it is."
"Don't."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You totally are."
Sam groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.
Outside the bunker, the longest day of the year stretched toward evening.
And if Dean Winchester had his way—which, judging by the last week, he absolutely would—they were only getting started.
Sam was resigned. Not convinced. Not enthusiastic. Certainly not converted. But resigned.
There came a point in every Dean Winchester obsession where resistance stopped being productive. Arguing hadn't worked. Avoidance hadn't worked. Hiding in his room had lasted less than an hour before Dean weaponized Castiel and basic astronomy. At some point, a man had to recognize when he'd lost.
Sam recognized it now.
The realization settled over him as he stood in the war room doorway watching Dean gather car keys, wallet, sunglasses, and enough excitement to power a small city.
Dean was still pleased with himself over the "sun is a planet" incident.
That alone should have been illegal.
"You know," Sam said as he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, "most people would simply knock on a door."
Dean looked offended. "I did knock on your door."
"You sent Castiel."
"I outsourced."
"That's not better."
Dean shrugged. "It was effective."
Castiel nodded thoughtfully from where he stood near the map table. "It was remarkably effective."
Sam pointed at him. "You are encouraging him."
"I stated an observation."
Dean grinned. "See?"
"No."
"See."
Sam sighed. There was no winning this argument. There never had been.
The worst part was that Dean had spent the entire week acting like a man planning the event of the century, only for the actual festival to consist of exactly what the newspaper had advertised eight days ago: food vendors, music, and a bonfire.
That was it. No secret rituals. No hidden mystery. No supernatural conspiracy. Just a community festival.
Yet somehow Dean had transformed it into a personal mission. "Are you ready?" Dean asked.
The question carried the enthusiasm of a man about to depart on an expedition.
Sam stared at him. "Dean."
"What?"
"It's a festival."
Dean looked genuinely baffled by this statement. "Yeah."
"You act like we're storming Normandy."
Dean considered that. Then pointed. "See, that's exactly why you're not getting the full experience."
"The full experience."
"You're approaching this with the wrong attitude."
Sam rubbed his forehead.
Across the room, Castiel looked between them. "What is the correct attitude?"
Dean immediately brightened. "Excitement."
Sam laughed despite himself. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous. Because Dean was standing in the middle of the bunker at nearly forty years old acting like a kid waiting to go to a county fair.
And because for the first time in a long while, the excitement wasn't forced. It wasn't covering grief. It wasn't distraction. It wasn't a desperate attempt to hold something together.
Dean just genuinely wanted to go.
The realization softened something in Sam. Just a little. Enough that when Dean headed toward the garage, Sam followed without complaint.
The bunker corridors echoed with their footsteps. Dean walked ahead of him, moving faster than usual, carrying enough energy that he seemed incapable of standing still. Sam watched him disappear around a corner and found himself smiling despite every effort not to.
Because this was ridiculous.
Objectively ridiculous.
Dean had spent a week researching solstice traditions, ambushing him with historical facts, and creating what Sam strongly suspected was an entirely fictional holiday menu.
And yet.
There were worse things. There had been years when Dean wouldn't have cared about a festival. Years when he'd been too angry. Too tired. Too burdened by everything they carried.
Sam remembered those years. Remembered Dean treating every day as something to survive rather than enjoy.
So if the result of all those battles and losses and near-apocalypses was Dean becoming absurdly invested in a community bonfire?
Sam could live with that.
The garage door opened.
Warm June sunlight spilled across the concrete floor.
The Impala sat waiting, black paint gleaming softly beneath the lights.
Dean stopped beside the driver's door and looked back. The grin was already there. "Longest day of the year, Sammy."
Sam groaned. "Oh my God."
Dean laughed. "You knew that one was coming."
"I really did."
For a moment they simply stood there. Brothers. Hunters. Survivors. About to spend an evening doing something astonishingly normal.
No case.
No monster.
No emergency waiting on the other end of a phone call.
Just a festival.
Just music.
Just people gathering together to celebrate the arrival of summer.
Dean slid behind the wheel.
Sam climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine rumbled to life beneath them.
And as the bunker door slowly rolled open, revealing the bright green Kansas countryside beyond, Dean rested his hands on the steering wheel and smiled toward the road ahead.
For once, Sam didn't roll his eyes. For once, he didn't argue. Instead, he settled back in his seat and let the moment be what it was.
Dean was happy.
And tonight, that was reason enough to go.
The thing that immediately threw Sam off was that Dean had not exaggerated.
Not once.
For eight days, Sam had listened to increasingly enthusiastic descriptions of the Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival. By the end of the week, he'd become convinced reality could not possibly live up to the picture Dean had painted. The man had discussed the event with the sort of reverence usually reserved for classic rock albums, pie, and the Impala.
Naturally, Sam had assumed disappointment was inevitable.
Instead, as they pulled into town, he found himself staring out the window.
Lebanon wasn't transformed beyond recognition. It was still Lebanon. Still the same small Kansas town they knew better than most places on earth. But there was an energy to it that felt different. The sidewalks were crowded. Strings of lights hung between storefronts. Food trucks lined sections of the square. Music drifted through the warm evening air, carried on a light breeze that smelled faintly of barbecue and cut grass.
People were everywhere. Families. Teenagers. Older couples. Children racing each other through the crowd with the reckless confidence of kids who knew summer vacation had finally arrived.
Dean parked the Impala and shut off the engine. For a moment, neither of them got out. They simply sat there listening. A guitar somewhere. Laughter. The distant sound of a crowd enjoying itself.
Dean looked absurdly pleased. "You hear that?"
Sam already knew better than to ask. Nevertheless, he did. "Hear what?"
Dean gestured broadly through the windshield. "Nobody screaming."
Sam snorted. "Your standards are very specific."
"Years of experience."
That, unfortunately, was true.
They climbed out of the car and joined the flow of people moving toward the center of town. The sun was still high enough to cast everything in warm gold. Long shadows stretched across the streets, but daylight lingered stubbornly.
The longest day of the year.
Dean had mentioned that approximately three hundred times already.
Sam expected mention number three hundred and one at any moment.
Instead, Dean simply looked around.
The enthusiasm was still there, but it had changed. All week it had been loud and restless and impossible to escape. Here, surrounded by actual people and actual festivities, it seemed to settle into something quieter.
More genuine. Like he wasn't anticipating the event anymore. He was experiencing it.
The distinction mattered.
They wandered through vendor stalls for nearly an hour. Dean sampled enough free food to qualify as a public nuisance. At one booth he acquired a basket of fresh kettle corn. Twenty minutes later he somehow also had a funnel cake.
Sam never actually witnessed the purchase.
The funnel cake simply appeared.
"You don't even like sweets that much."
Dean looked offended. "It's festival food."
"That's not an answer."
"It doesn't need to be."
By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the crowd had started drifting toward the edge of a large field beyond town.
The bonfire waited there.
And suddenly Sam understood.
The structure towered above everything around it. Whoever had built it had spent days preparing. Massive logs formed the base, stacked with deliberate care. Smaller branches and timber rose above them until the entire thing stood taller than a two-story house.
Around it, people gathered in widening circles. Waiting. Anticipating. The atmosphere shifted. Not solemn. Not religious. Something older than that.
Communal.
The sort of gathering human beings had probably been holding for thousands of years.
Dean fell silent beside him. That, more than anything, caught Sam's attention. Dean wasn't usually silent. Not when he was excited. Not when he'd spent a week talking.
Yet now he simply stood with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching as people settled into place around the field.
The lowering sun painted everything gold.
Children sat on blankets beside their parents. Friends clustered together. Couples leaned against each other.
For once, Dean wasn't talking about the history of solstice celebrations. He was just looking.
A horn sounded somewhere near the front of the crowd. Conversations softened. People turned their attention toward the towering stack of wood. And for a brief moment, the field grew quiet.
The first flame appeared almost unnoticed. A tiny spark near the base. Then another. Then another. The fire spread carefully at first, finding its path through the wood.
The crowd watched. The flames climbed higher. Orange turned to gold. Gold turned brilliant white at the center. Heat rolled outward in waves.
Someone cheered. Then others joined in. Applause swept through the field. The bonfire came alive.
Sam felt it in his chest.
The sheer scale of it. The power. The light.
For years, fire had meant something else. A hunter learned that quickly. Fire was a tool. Fire was a weapon. Fire was how you burned bones. How you destroyed remains. How you ended things that refused to stay dead.
So many of Sam's memories involved standing beside flames and mourning someone.
Jessica.
Madison.
Ellen.
Jo.
Bobby.
Countless unnamed victims and hunters whose stories ended in smoke and ash. Fire had always carried grief.
Beside him, Dean shifted slightly.
Sam looked over.
The flames reflected in Dean's eyes. And suddenly he knew his brother was thinking something similar. Maybe not the same memories. But the same association. Because Dean had built more pyres than anyone should. Burned more bodies. Watched more endings.
The fire roared higher.
The crowd cheered again.
And for once—for once—the fire wasn't about loss.
Nobody was grieving. Nobody was saying goodbye. Nobody was standing vigil over the dead.
This fire existed for no reason other than celebration. For warmth. For community. For joy.
Dean let out a slow breath. "You know," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the flames, "I think that's why I liked this."
Sam glanced at him. "The festival?"
Dean nodded. For a long moment he seemed to search for the right words. Then he shrugged. "We spend our whole lives around fires."
The simplicity of it landed harder than any speech could have.
Because they did.
God, they did.
Dean's gaze remained fixed on the towering blaze. "But this one isn't because something died."
The words settled between them.
Simple.
Honest.
True.
Sam looked back toward the bonfire.
People laughed around them. Music played somewhere behind the crowd. The summer night had finally begun to settle over Lebanon, but the fire pushed back the darkness, turning faces gold and amber wherever its light reached.
Dean smiled faintly.
Not a big smile. Not one of his performative grins. Just something small and real.
And for the first time all week, Sam understood the obsession.
It had never really been about the solstice. Not the history. Not the traditions. Not even the bonfire itself. It was about finding a celebration that wasn't attached to pain.
A gathering that wasn't followed by loss. A fire that didn't mean goodbye.
Standing there beside his brother, surrounded by strangers enjoying the longest day of the year, Sam found himself smiling too.
Maybe Dean had been ridiculous. Maybe he'd been unbearable. Maybe he'd spent eight days turning the bunker into a one-man Summer Solstice information center.
But as the bonfire burned against the Kansas night and laughter drifted through the crowd around them, Sam couldn't honestly say Dean had been wrong.
Some fires were meant for mourning. Some were meant for monsters.
And every now and then—if you were lucky—a fire could simply mean that you had survived long enough to stand beside it.
(Or: Dean Winchester Discovers a Holiday He Can Get Behind)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean discovers the Summer Solstice and decides to celebrate it, inevitably driving Sam crazy in the process. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural Valentine's Day.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, Valentine's Day, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate the Summer Solstice! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
Author’s Note: The exchange where Dean tells Castiel to say something factually incorrect to lure Sam out of his room is not my joke. I found it via a Twitter post by Sini Hyun, who shared a screenshot from the now-defunct Tumblr blog (? I can’t find it anyway) spnbettermakedes. I wasn’t able to locate the original creator, but I wanted to credit the fandom post that inspired this scene.
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
Eight days before the Summer Solstice, Dean Winchester made the discovery that would consume the next week of Sam Winchester's life.
The day itself had begun innocently enough.
Which, in Sam's experience, was always how the worst ideas started.
He was in the war room, halfway through researching a case file from Wichita, surrounded by books that had slowly multiplied across the table over the course of the morning. A legal pad sat at his elbow, covered in notes and crossed-out theories. The bunker was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page and the low, familiar hum of the ventilation system.
Peaceful.
Predictable.
Safe.
Then Dean came back from a supply run.
The first warning sign was that he didn't head for the kitchen. Dean always headed for the kitchen.
The second warning sign was that he walked directly into the war room carrying a grocery bag in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
The third warning sign was that he stopped in the middle of the room and simply stared at the newspaper.
Sam looked up from his book.
Dean was smiling. Not a normal smile. Not even a particularly big smile. It was worse than that. It was the smile Dean got when he'd become interested in something.
Sam immediately closed his book. "No."
Dean blinked. "I haven't said anything."
"You found something."
Dean's smile widened.
Sam sighed. There it was. That look.
The exact same look Dean had worn before the Christmas Mouse Incident. The same look he'd worn before deciding New Year's was an opportunity to reorganize seventy years of Men of Letters storage rooms. The same look he'd worn before declaring Valentine's Day "his holiday."
Every one of those situations had ended in disaster.
Dean dropped into a chair and spread the newspaper across the table. "Okay, first of all—"
"No."
"Sam."
"No."
"You don't even know what it is."
Sam folded his arms. "I know you."
Dean looked offended by that.
Which meant Sam was probably right.
Dean tapped the paper with one finger. "Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sam said carefully: "...And?"
Dean looked genuinely shocked by the question. "And?"
He tapped the paper again. "It's a Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam waited.
Dean waited.
Neither moved.
Finally Dean sat back in his chair. "You're telling me those words mean nothing to you?"
"Dean."
"The Summer Solstice."
"Dean."
"The longest day of the year."
Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "I know what the Summer Solstice is."
Dean pointed triumphantly. "Then you understand."
"I don't."
Dean looked disappointed.
It was the disappointment of a man who had expected his audience to appreciate greatness and discovered his audience was Sam.
"The longest day of the year," Dean repeated. "Bonfires. Food. Live music. Festival."
"Okay."
Dean leaned forward. "Bonfires, Sammy."
"There it is."
Dean ignored him. "There are going to be giant ceremonial bonfires."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Sam knew that look.
Dean had already decided this was important.
The problem was that Sam had absolutely no idea why. "You know," Sam said carefully, "most people don't get this excited about seasonal astronomy."
Dean immediately pointed at him. "See, that's exactly your problem."
"My problem."
"You make everything sound boring."
Sam blinked.
Dean gestured broadly. "'Seasonal astronomy.'"
"It is seasonal astronomy."
"It's the sun winning."
Sam stared at him for several seconds. Then: "What does that even mean?"
Dean opened his mouth. Paused. Thought about it. And then said with complete sincerity: "The sun's up longer. Therefore it wins."
Sam slowly leaned back in his chair. "Oh God."
Dean looked delighted. And somehow that made everything worse.
The trouble was that Dean didn't lose interest.
Normally, Dean discovered something, became fascinated for approximately six hours, and then moved on to the next thing.
Not this time.
This time the interest stuck.
The next morning Sam emerged from his room to find three printed pages sitting beside the coffee pot.
He immediately knew who was responsible.
The pages were titled: SUMMER SOLSTICE TRADITIONS THROUGHOUT HISTORY
Sam didn't even pick them up. He simply turned around and went back to his room.
That afternoon Dean cornered him in the library. "Did you know—"
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I don't care."
Dean continued anyway. "Ancient people used to build giant fires because they thought it strengthened the sun."
Sam closed his eyes. "Dean."
"That's awesome."
"Dean."
"Think about that."
"I don't want to."
Dean followed him down the aisle. "They were rooting for the sun."
Sam stopped. Turned. And found Dean genuinely excited about this concept. "You are emotionally invested in a star."
Dean pointed at him. "Finally. You're getting it."
Seven days before the festival, Dean somehow acquired a book.
Sam never learned where it came from.
One moment it didn't exist.
The next moment Dean was carrying around a hardcover text about midsummer celebrations and quoting passages during meals.
By dinner, Sam knew more about European solstice customs than he'd ever wanted to know.
By breakfast the next morning, Dean had started opening conversations with: "Fun fact."
There were no fun facts.
There was only suffering.
By the fourth day, Sam had begun taking alternate routes through the bunker. This wasn't cowardice. This was survival.
Unfortunately Dean adapted.
Sam discovered him waiting outside the library one afternoon. The man had somehow anticipated his movements. "Dean."
"Sam."
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You have a book."
Dean glanced down. Then back up. "...Fair."
By the fifth day, Sam was hiding.
Officially, he was conducting research.
Unofficially, he had barricaded himself inside his room because Dean Winchester had become a one-man Summer Solstice information campaign.
The worst part wasn't that Dean was annoying.
The worst part was that Dean was happy.
Genuinely, inexplicably happy.
And that made it much harder to tell him to shut up.
Especially because every time Sam tried, Dean somehow found another fact.
And there were still days until the festival. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
In reality, there was only two.
And Dean Winchester was just getting started.
The problem wasn't that Dean became interested in the Summer Solstice. The problem was that Dean became educational about the Summer Solstice. There were few things more dangerous than Dean Winchester deciding he had become an authority on a subject.
By the next morning, he had apparently appointed himself Lebanon's unofficial ambassador of midsummer celebrations. Sam discovered this when he wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee and found three handwritten notes taped to the refrigerator.
He stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then closed his eyes. "Dean."
Dean looked up from the table where he was eating cereal and reading yet another article. "Morning, Sammy."
"Why are there notes on the fridge?"
Dean followed his gaze. "Oh."
He sounded pleased. "I made a countdown."
Sam opened one eye. "A countdown."
"One week until the Summer Solstice."
Sam stared at the notes. They had numbers. They had little sun doodles. One of them appeared to have flames drawn around the border. "You made a calendar."
"It's festive."
"It's June."
Dean pointed his spoon at him. "That's solstice prejudice."
Sam turned around and walked back out of the kitchen.
Behind him, Dean called cheerfully: "Seven days!"
The bunker echoed with Sam's suffering.
Sam attempted avoidance. Avoidance had always been a reliable strategy.
When Dean became obsessed with rebuilding the Impala's carburetor, Sam had avoided the garage.
When Dean became fascinated by homemade jerky recipes, Sam had avoided the kitchen.
When Dean decided he was going to learn magic tricks from a motel gift shop book, Sam had avoided every room Dean occupied for nearly a month.
This should have worked.
Unfortunately, Dean was adapting.
Three days into his campaign, Sam entered the library to find a book waiting on his chair. Not a lore book. Not research material.
A brightly colored paperback about solstice traditions. Sam stared at it. Then he slowly looked around the room. "Dean."
Dean's voice immediately floated from somewhere behind a shelf. "Yeah?"
"You planted a book."
"No."
Sam picked it up.
There was a sticky note attached.
PAGE 43 IS AWESOME
Sam closed his eyes. "You planted a book."
Dean appeared around the end of the shelf looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I left educational material."
"You are becoming a pamphlet."
Dean looked delighted by this accusation.
The situation worsened when Dean discovered documentaries.
For two straight evenings, Sam emerged from research to find Dean sprawled across the bunker couch watching programs with titles like Ancient Celebrations of the Sun and Fire Festivals Through History.
The first night, Sam made the mistake of sitting down. Five minutes later Dean had paused the program.
Actually paused it.
"So apparently—"
Sam stood back up. "Nope."
"Sam."
"No."
"You sat down."
"I made a mistake."
Dean followed him with his eyes as he retreated from the room. "Did you know people used to roll flaming wheels down hills?"
Sam pointed at him without turning around. "You're exactly why they invented libraries."
Dean looked proud of that for some reason.
By the fourth day, even the bunker seemed aware something had gone wrong.
Dean had started leaving articles everywhere. On the kitchen counter. On the war room table. Tucked inside books.
Sam opened a lore journal and a folded newspaper clipping fell into his lap. He unfolded it automatically.
The headline read:
THE HISTORY OF MIDSUMMER FIRES
Sam stared at the paper. Then at the ceiling. Then at the paper again. "Dean."
The response came instantly. "Yeah?"
"Stop hiding solstice propaganda in my research."
Dean's voice carried from somewhere down the hallway. "It wasn't hidden."
"It was literally inside a book."
"You found it."
Sam briefly considered murder.
The truly alarming development came when Dean began inventing traditions.
Not historical traditions.
Dean traditions.
Sam should have recognized the warning signs immediately.
Dean had a tendency to encounter perfectly normal events and decide they required Winchester participation.
This was how Thanksgiving had ended with experimental cooking.
It was how New Year's had become a bunker-wide cleaning catastrophe.
Now it was happening again.
Dean walked into breakfast one morning carrying a notebook. That notebook alone was enough to make Sam nervous. Dean sat down. Opened it.
And announced: "I've got ideas."
Sam lowered his coffee. "No."
Dean ignored him. "We need a solstice menu."
"A what."
"A menu."
Sam stared.
Dean continued. "Obviously burgers."
"Obviously."
"Pie."
"Of course."
"Maybe corn on the cob."
Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Dean."
Dean was writing now. Actually taking notes. "What."
"This is not our holiday."
Dean looked up. His expression suggested Sam had just insulted the Constitution. "It can be."
"You found it four days ago."
Dean pointed his pen dramatically. "That's how traditions start."
By the sixth day, Sam had reached the bargaining stage of grief. He attempted logic. This was a mistake.
"Dean," he said carefully one evening. "You know you're acting like this festival is a once-in-a-lifetime event."
Dean looked up from his laptop. "It is."
"They do it every year."
"This year is only happening once."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Neither blinked.
Finally, Sam pointed at him. "That made sense in your head."
"It made perfect sense."
"No."
"You're just being negative."
Sam stood up and left the room.
There was no defense against reasoning like that.
By the evening before the festival, Sam had become a hunted man. Not by monsters. Not by ghosts. Not even by Dean.
By facts.
Every corner of the bunker had become a potential ambush. Every room carried risk. The kitchen was compromised. The library was compromised. The war room was completely lost.
Twice Dean had managed to corner him near the archives and begin sentences with the words: "Quick question."
There was never a quick question.
There was only a solstice fact delivered in the shape of a question.
By the time June twenty-first finally arrived, Sam had retreated into his room with a stack of books and every intention of staying there until departure.
It wasn't that he hated the festival. Truthfully, the bonfire sounded kind of nice. The music sounded nice. The food sounded nice.
The problem was that Dean had spent an entire week behaving like he'd personally invented the sun. And Sam needed a few hours of peace before facing the actual event.
Unfortunately for him, Dean Winchester was not done celebrating.
Not even close.
And soon Castiel would arrive, unknowingly becoming the final weapon in Dean's increasingly elaborate campaign to drag his brother into Summer Solstice enthusiasm whether he liked it or not.
By the morning of June twenty-first, Sam had officially surrendered.
Not to Dean.
Not exactly.
To the inevitability of Dean.
There was a difference.
The Summer Solstice Festival was finally happening that evening, which should have been a relief. For eight straight days Dean had treated the approaching event with the excitement of a child waiting for Christmas morning, except Christmas morning generally arrived after a reasonable amount of anticipation. Dean had somehow stretched an ordinary local festival into a week-long campaign of education, recruitment, and what Sam could only describe as aggressive enthusiasm.
The bunker had become impossible to navigate. Every room carried risk. Every hallway might contain Dean and another newly acquired fact about ancient midsummer celebrations. Sam had learned more about solstice traditions in the last week than he'd learned during four years at Stanford.
Enough was enough.
So after breakfast—which had somehow included a discussion about ceremonial bonfires in northern Europe—Sam retreated to his room with a stack of lore books under one arm and a laptop under the other. He shut the door, locked it for good measure, and settled onto the bed with the firm intention of remaining there until Dean either left for the festival or combusted from excitement.
Whichever happened first.
Outside, the bunker settled into its familiar quiet hum. Sam opened a book, determined to spend the next few hours researching literally anything that wasn't related to the sun.
Unfortunately, Castiel arrived.
Dean looked up from the newspaper spread across the war room table when the angel appeared. The festival schedule occupied nearly half the surface, surrounded by notes Dean had made throughout the week. At some point he'd circled the words BONFIRE LIGHTING CEREMONY three separate times.
"Hey, Cas."
"Hello, Dean."
Castiel glanced around the room before frowning slightly. "Sam will not come out of his room."
Dean didn't even look surprised. "Nope."
"I knocked three times."
"Sounds right."
"I informed him breakfast was ready."
Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Also sounds right."
Castiel tilted his head. "He appears to be hiding."
"He is hiding."
The angel considered that. "Why?"
Dean folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair. "Because I've been talking about the solstice."
For a moment Castiel simply stared at him. Then, after what appeared to be genuine consideration, he nodded. "That is understandable."
Dean pointed accusingly. "Wow."
"I'm not criticizing you."
"You kind of are."
Castiel ignored this entirely. His attention drifted toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "Would you like me to attempt again?"
Dean considered the question. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. It was not a reassuring grin. It was, in fact, the exact sort of grin that had historically preceded terrible ideas.
Castiel had spent enough time with the Winchesters to recognize this. "Dean."
"What?"
"That expression concerns me."
Dean's grin only widened. "Yeah, go get him."
Castiel waited.
Dean pointed vaguely toward the hallway. "Just tell him I said something."
The angel frowned. "What?"
"Anything factually incorrect."
Castiel blinked. For a moment, he looked genuinely lost. "I do not understand."
Dean looked delighted. "Trust me."
"Dean."
"It'll work."
Castiel continued staring. "What should I say?"
Dean tapped his fingers against the table, considering his options with the seriousness of a man planning military strategy. Then inspiration struck. "The sun is a planet."
Castiel immediately frowned. "That is not true."
"I know."
"You want me to lie."
Dean waved a hand. "I want you to summon Sam."
Apparently, in Dean's mind, those were entirely separate concepts.
Castiel seemed unconvinced. "The two appear related."
"Cas."
"The sun is a star."
"I know."
"It has always been a star."
"I know that too."
Castiel looked at him for another long moment.
Then, with the weary resignation of someone who had spent far too much time around Winchesters, he turned and headed down the hallway.
Dean watched him go. Then leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The bunker fell quiet.
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Dean took a sip of coffee.
Right on schedule, a door slammed open somewhere down the corridor.
The sound echoed through the bunker.
Rapid footsteps followed.
Dean lowered his mug.
The grin returned.
A moment later Sam appeared in the war room doorway.
His hair was disheveled from repeatedly running his hands through it. A notebook was still clutched beneath one arm. His expression was one of pure academic outrage.
"Did you just say the sun is a fucking planet?"
Dean nearly inhaled his coffee. The laughter hit him so hard he doubled over, coughing and wheezing simultaneously as he tried and failed to recover.
Across the room, Castiel looked mildly surprised by the intensity of the reaction. "The strategy was successful."
Sam pointed at both of them. "No. No, absolutely not. You weaponized astronomy."
Dean was laughing too hard to defend himself. "You came out!"
"Because you said something stupid!"
"I knew you would!"
"That doesn't make it better!"
"It kind of does!"
Sam looked from Dean to Castiel and back again, clearly trying to determine which one deserved the blame.
Unfortunately, Castiel had the decency to look confused.
Dean looked victorious.
Which made the answer obvious.
"You're unbelievable."
Dean finally managed to catch his breath enough to sit upright. "Eight days, Sammy."
"It was seven."
"Felt like eight."
"You've been counting?"
Dean pointed triumphantly. "You've been listening."
Sam stared at him.
Dean stared back.
For one brief moment neither moved.
Then Sam realized exactly what had happened.
Dean had gotten him out of his room.
Again.
With complete accuracy.
And judging by the deeply satisfied look on Dean's face, he considered this one of his finest accomplishments.
Castiel, meanwhile, appeared to be studying the exchange with genuine curiosity. "I find it interesting," he said thoughtfully, "that factual inaccuracy causes a stronger response than repeated requests."
Sam closed his eyes.
Dean pointed at the angel. "See? He gets it."
"No," Sam said. "He really doesn't."
And somewhere beneath the exasperation, despite a week of suffering through solstice facts and countdowns and increasingly ridiculous enthusiasm, Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Because Dean looked happy.
Not defensive. Not forcing it.
Just happy.
The kind of uncomplicated excitement that had become increasingly rare over the years.
Dean caught the expression immediately. "There it is."
"Don't."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You totally are."
Sam groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.
Outside the bunker, the longest day of the year stretched toward evening.
And if Dean Winchester had his way—which, judging by the last week, he absolutely would—they were only getting started.
Sam was resigned. Not convinced. Not enthusiastic. Certainly not converted. But resigned.
There came a point in every Dean Winchester obsession where resistance stopped being productive. Arguing hadn't worked. Avoidance hadn't worked. Hiding in his room had lasted less than an hour before Dean weaponized Castiel and basic astronomy. At some point, a man had to recognize when he'd lost.
Sam recognized it now.
The realization settled over him as he stood in the war room doorway watching Dean gather car keys, wallet, sunglasses, and enough excitement to power a small city.
Dean was still pleased with himself over the "sun is a planet" incident.
That alone should have been illegal.
"You know," Sam said as he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, "most people would simply knock on a door."
Dean looked offended. "I did knock on your door."
"You sent Castiel."
"I outsourced."
"That's not better."
Dean shrugged. "It was effective."
Castiel nodded thoughtfully from where he stood near the map table. "It was remarkably effective."
Sam pointed at him. "You are encouraging him."
"I stated an observation."
Dean grinned. "See?"
"No."
"See."
Sam sighed. There was no winning this argument. There never had been.
The worst part was that Dean had spent the entire week acting like a man planning the event of the century, only for the actual festival to consist of exactly what the newspaper had advertised eight days ago: food vendors, music, and a bonfire.
That was it. No secret rituals. No hidden mystery. No supernatural conspiracy. Just a community festival.
Yet somehow Dean had transformed it into a personal mission. "Are you ready?" Dean asked.
The question carried the enthusiasm of a man about to depart on an expedition.
Sam stared at him. "Dean."
"What?"
"It's a festival."
Dean looked genuinely baffled by this statement. "Yeah."
"You act like we're storming Normandy."
Dean considered that. Then pointed. "See, that's exactly why you're not getting the full experience."
"The full experience."
"You're approaching this with the wrong attitude."
Sam rubbed his forehead.
Across the room, Castiel looked between them. "What is the correct attitude?"
Dean immediately brightened. "Excitement."
Sam laughed despite himself. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous. Because Dean was standing in the middle of the bunker at nearly forty years old acting like a kid waiting to go to a county fair.
And because for the first time in a long while, the excitement wasn't forced. It wasn't covering grief. It wasn't distraction. It wasn't a desperate attempt to hold something together.
Dean just genuinely wanted to go.
The realization softened something in Sam. Just a little. Enough that when Dean headed toward the garage, Sam followed without complaint.
The bunker corridors echoed with their footsteps. Dean walked ahead of him, moving faster than usual, carrying enough energy that he seemed incapable of standing still. Sam watched him disappear around a corner and found himself smiling despite every effort not to.
Because this was ridiculous.
Objectively ridiculous.
Dean had spent a week researching solstice traditions, ambushing him with historical facts, and creating what Sam strongly suspected was an entirely fictional holiday menu.
And yet.
There were worse things. There had been years when Dean wouldn't have cared about a festival. Years when he'd been too angry. Too tired. Too burdened by everything they carried.
Sam remembered those years. Remembered Dean treating every day as something to survive rather than enjoy.
So if the result of all those battles and losses and near-apocalypses was Dean becoming absurdly invested in a community bonfire?
Sam could live with that.
The garage door opened.
Warm June sunlight spilled across the concrete floor.
The Impala sat waiting, black paint gleaming softly beneath the lights.
Dean stopped beside the driver's door and looked back. The grin was already there. "Longest day of the year, Sammy."
Sam groaned. "Oh my God."
Dean laughed. "You knew that one was coming."
"I really did."
For a moment they simply stood there. Brothers. Hunters. Survivors. About to spend an evening doing something astonishingly normal.
No case.
No monster.
No emergency waiting on the other end of a phone call.
Just a festival.
Just music.
Just people gathering together to celebrate the arrival of summer.
Dean slid behind the wheel.
Sam climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine rumbled to life beneath them.
And as the bunker door slowly rolled open, revealing the bright green Kansas countryside beyond, Dean rested his hands on the steering wheel and smiled toward the road ahead.
For once, Sam didn't roll his eyes. For once, he didn't argue. Instead, he settled back in his seat and let the moment be what it was.
Dean was happy.
And tonight, that was reason enough to go.
The thing that immediately threw Sam off was that Dean had not exaggerated.
Not once.
For eight days, Sam had listened to increasingly enthusiastic descriptions of the Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival. By the end of the week, he'd become convinced reality could not possibly live up to the picture Dean had painted. The man had discussed the event with the sort of reverence usually reserved for classic rock albums, pie, and the Impala.
Naturally, Sam had assumed disappointment was inevitable.
Instead, as they pulled into town, he found himself staring out the window.
Lebanon wasn't transformed beyond recognition. It was still Lebanon. Still the same small Kansas town they knew better than most places on earth. But there was an energy to it that felt different. The sidewalks were crowded. Strings of lights hung between storefronts. Food trucks lined sections of the square. Music drifted through the warm evening air, carried on a light breeze that smelled faintly of barbecue and cut grass.
People were everywhere. Families. Teenagers. Older couples. Children racing each other through the crowd with the reckless confidence of kids who knew summer vacation had finally arrived.
Dean parked the Impala and shut off the engine. For a moment, neither of them got out. They simply sat there listening. A guitar somewhere. Laughter. The distant sound of a crowd enjoying itself.
Dean looked absurdly pleased. "You hear that?"
Sam already knew better than to ask. Nevertheless, he did. "Hear what?"
Dean gestured broadly through the windshield. "Nobody screaming."
Sam snorted. "Your standards are very specific."
"Years of experience."
That, unfortunately, was true.
They climbed out of the car and joined the flow of people moving toward the center of town. The sun was still high enough to cast everything in warm gold. Long shadows stretched across the streets, but daylight lingered stubbornly.
The longest day of the year.
Dean had mentioned that approximately three hundred times already.
Sam expected mention number three hundred and one at any moment.
Instead, Dean simply looked around.
The enthusiasm was still there, but it had changed. All week it had been loud and restless and impossible to escape. Here, surrounded by actual people and actual festivities, it seemed to settle into something quieter.
More genuine. Like he wasn't anticipating the event anymore. He was experiencing it.
The distinction mattered.
They wandered through vendor stalls for nearly an hour. Dean sampled enough free food to qualify as a public nuisance. At one booth he acquired a basket of fresh kettle corn. Twenty minutes later he somehow also had a funnel cake.
Sam never actually witnessed the purchase.
The funnel cake simply appeared.
"You don't even like sweets that much."
Dean looked offended. "It's festival food."
"That's not an answer."
"It doesn't need to be."
By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the crowd had started drifting toward the edge of a large field beyond town.
The bonfire waited there.
And suddenly Sam understood.
The structure towered above everything around it. Whoever had built it had spent days preparing. Massive logs formed the base, stacked with deliberate care. Smaller branches and timber rose above them until the entire thing stood taller than a two-story house.
Around it, people gathered in widening circles. Waiting. Anticipating. The atmosphere shifted. Not solemn. Not religious. Something older than that.
Communal.
The sort of gathering human beings had probably been holding for thousands of years.
Dean fell silent beside him. That, more than anything, caught Sam's attention. Dean wasn't usually silent. Not when he was excited. Not when he'd spent a week talking.
Yet now he simply stood with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching as people settled into place around the field.
The lowering sun painted everything gold.
Children sat on blankets beside their parents. Friends clustered together. Couples leaned against each other.
For once, Dean wasn't talking about the history of solstice celebrations. He was just looking.
A horn sounded somewhere near the front of the crowd. Conversations softened. People turned their attention toward the towering stack of wood. And for a brief moment, the field grew quiet.
The first flame appeared almost unnoticed. A tiny spark near the base. Then another. Then another. The fire spread carefully at first, finding its path through the wood.
The crowd watched. The flames climbed higher. Orange turned to gold. Gold turned brilliant white at the center. Heat rolled outward in waves.
Someone cheered. Then others joined in. Applause swept through the field. The bonfire came alive.
Sam felt it in his chest.
The sheer scale of it. The power. The light.
For years, fire had meant something else. A hunter learned that quickly. Fire was a tool. Fire was a weapon. Fire was how you burned bones. How you destroyed remains. How you ended things that refused to stay dead.
So many of Sam's memories involved standing beside flames and mourning someone.
Jessica.
Madison.
Ellen.
Jo.
Bobby.
Countless unnamed victims and hunters whose stories ended in smoke and ash. Fire had always carried grief.
Beside him, Dean shifted slightly.
Sam looked over.
The flames reflected in Dean's eyes. And suddenly he knew his brother was thinking something similar. Maybe not the same memories. But the same association. Because Dean had built more pyres than anyone should. Burned more bodies. Watched more endings.
The fire roared higher.
The crowd cheered again.
And for once—for once—the fire wasn't about loss.
Nobody was grieving. Nobody was saying goodbye. Nobody was standing vigil over the dead.
This fire existed for no reason other than celebration. For warmth. For community. For joy.
Dean let out a slow breath. "You know," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the flames, "I think that's why I liked this."
Sam glanced at him. "The festival?"
Dean nodded. For a long moment he seemed to search for the right words. Then he shrugged. "We spend our whole lives around fires."
The simplicity of it landed harder than any speech could have.
Because they did.
God, they did.
Dean's gaze remained fixed on the towering blaze. "But this one isn't because something died."
The words settled between them.
Simple.
Honest.
True.
Sam looked back toward the bonfire.
People laughed around them. Music played somewhere behind the crowd. The summer night had finally begun to settle over Lebanon, but the fire pushed back the darkness, turning faces gold and amber wherever its light reached.
Dean smiled faintly.
Not a big smile. Not one of his performative grins. Just something small and real.
And for the first time all week, Sam understood the obsession.
It had never really been about the solstice. Not the history. Not the traditions. Not even the bonfire itself. It was about finding a celebration that wasn't attached to pain.
A gathering that wasn't followed by loss. A fire that didn't mean goodbye.
Standing there beside his brother, surrounded by strangers enjoying the longest day of the year, Sam found himself smiling too.
Maybe Dean had been ridiculous. Maybe he'd been unbearable. Maybe he'd spent eight days turning the bunker into a one-man Summer Solstice information center.
But as the bonfire burned against the Kansas night and laughter drifted through the crowd around them, Sam couldn't honestly say Dean had been wrong.
Some fires were meant for mourning. Some were meant for monsters.
And every now and then—if you were lucky—a fire could simply mean that you had survived long enough to stand beside it.
Sam and Dean's banter can be so much fun to write, haha. I can't wait to write Fourth of July (another US holiday).
And yes, Dean is such a state when he's like this, haha. Poor Sam! But yes... the ending is such difference for the brothers. For once... fire was a comfort.❤️
(Or: Dean Winchester Discovers a Holiday He Can Get Behind)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean discovers the Summer Solstice and decides to celebrate it, inevitably driving Sam crazy in the process. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural Valentine's Day.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, Valentine's Day, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate the Summer Solstice! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
Author’s Note: The exchange where Dean tells Castiel to say something factually incorrect to lure Sam out of his room is not my joke. I found it via a Twitter post by Sini Hyun, who shared a screenshot from the now-defunct Tumblr blog (? I can’t find it anyway) spnbettermakedes. I wasn’t able to locate the original creator, but I wanted to credit the fandom post that inspired this scene.
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
Eight days before the Summer Solstice, Dean Winchester made the discovery that would consume the next week of Sam Winchester's life.
The day itself had begun innocently enough.
Which, in Sam's experience, was always how the worst ideas started.
He was in the war room, halfway through researching a case file from Wichita, surrounded by books that had slowly multiplied across the table over the course of the morning. A legal pad sat at his elbow, covered in notes and crossed-out theories. The bunker was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page and the low, familiar hum of the ventilation system.
Peaceful.
Predictable.
Safe.
Then Dean came back from a supply run.
The first warning sign was that he didn't head for the kitchen. Dean always headed for the kitchen.
The second warning sign was that he walked directly into the war room carrying a grocery bag in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
The third warning sign was that he stopped in the middle of the room and simply stared at the newspaper.
Sam looked up from his book.
Dean was smiling. Not a normal smile. Not even a particularly big smile. It was worse than that. It was the smile Dean got when he'd become interested in something.
Sam immediately closed his book. "No."
Dean blinked. "I haven't said anything."
"You found something."
Dean's smile widened.
Sam sighed. There it was. That look.
The exact same look Dean had worn before the Christmas Mouse Incident. The same look he'd worn before deciding New Year's was an opportunity to reorganize seventy years of Men of Letters storage rooms. The same look he'd worn before declaring Valentine's Day "his holiday."
Every one of those situations had ended in disaster.
Dean dropped into a chair and spread the newspaper across the table. "Okay, first of all—"
"No."
"Sam."
"No."
"You don't even know what it is."
Sam folded his arms. "I know you."
Dean looked offended by that.
Which meant Sam was probably right.
Dean tapped the paper with one finger. "Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sam said carefully: "...And?"
Dean looked genuinely shocked by the question. "And?"
He tapped the paper again. "It's a Summer Solstice Festival."
Sam waited.
Dean waited.
Neither moved.
Finally Dean sat back in his chair. "You're telling me those words mean nothing to you?"
"Dean."
"The Summer Solstice."
"Dean."
"The longest day of the year."
Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "I know what the Summer Solstice is."
Dean pointed triumphantly. "Then you understand."
"I don't."
Dean looked disappointed.
It was the disappointment of a man who had expected his audience to appreciate greatness and discovered his audience was Sam.
"The longest day of the year," Dean repeated. "Bonfires. Food. Live music. Festival."
"Okay."
Dean leaned forward. "Bonfires, Sammy."
"There it is."
Dean ignored him. "There are going to be giant ceremonial bonfires."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Sam knew that look.
Dean had already decided this was important.
The problem was that Sam had absolutely no idea why. "You know," Sam said carefully, "most people don't get this excited about seasonal astronomy."
Dean immediately pointed at him. "See, that's exactly your problem."
"My problem."
"You make everything sound boring."
Sam blinked.
Dean gestured broadly. "'Seasonal astronomy.'"
"It is seasonal astronomy."
"It's the sun winning."
Sam stared at him for several seconds. Then: "What does that even mean?"
Dean opened his mouth. Paused. Thought about it. And then said with complete sincerity: "The sun's up longer. Therefore it wins."
Sam slowly leaned back in his chair. "Oh God."
Dean looked delighted. And somehow that made everything worse.
The trouble was that Dean didn't lose interest.
Normally, Dean discovered something, became fascinated for approximately six hours, and then moved on to the next thing.
Not this time.
This time the interest stuck.
The next morning Sam emerged from his room to find three printed pages sitting beside the coffee pot.
He immediately knew who was responsible.
The pages were titled: SUMMER SOLSTICE TRADITIONS THROUGHOUT HISTORY
Sam didn't even pick them up. He simply turned around and went back to his room.
That afternoon Dean cornered him in the library. "Did you know—"
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I don't care."
Dean continued anyway. "Ancient people used to build giant fires because they thought it strengthened the sun."
Sam closed his eyes. "Dean."
"That's awesome."
"Dean."
"Think about that."
"I don't want to."
Dean followed him down the aisle. "They were rooting for the sun."
Sam stopped. Turned. And found Dean genuinely excited about this concept. "You are emotionally invested in a star."
Dean pointed at him. "Finally. You're getting it."
Seven days before the festival, Dean somehow acquired a book.
Sam never learned where it came from.
One moment it didn't exist.
The next moment Dean was carrying around a hardcover text about midsummer celebrations and quoting passages during meals.
By dinner, Sam knew more about European solstice customs than he'd ever wanted to know.
By breakfast the next morning, Dean had started opening conversations with: "Fun fact."
There were no fun facts.
There was only suffering.
By the fourth day, Sam had begun taking alternate routes through the bunker. This wasn't cowardice. This was survival.
Unfortunately Dean adapted.
Sam discovered him waiting outside the library one afternoon. The man had somehow anticipated his movements. "Dean."
"Sam."
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You have a book."
Dean glanced down. Then back up. "...Fair."
By the fifth day, Sam was hiding.
Officially, he was conducting research.
Unofficially, he had barricaded himself inside his room because Dean Winchester had become a one-man Summer Solstice information campaign.
The worst part wasn't that Dean was annoying.
The worst part was that Dean was happy.
Genuinely, inexplicably happy.
And that made it much harder to tell him to shut up.
Especially because every time Sam tried, Dean somehow found another fact.
And there were still days until the festival. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
In reality, there was only two.
And Dean Winchester was just getting started.
The problem wasn't that Dean became interested in the Summer Solstice. The problem was that Dean became educational about the Summer Solstice. There were few things more dangerous than Dean Winchester deciding he had become an authority on a subject.
By the next morning, he had apparently appointed himself Lebanon's unofficial ambassador of midsummer celebrations. Sam discovered this when he wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee and found three handwritten notes taped to the refrigerator.
He stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then closed his eyes. "Dean."
Dean looked up from the table where he was eating cereal and reading yet another article. "Morning, Sammy."
"Why are there notes on the fridge?"
Dean followed his gaze. "Oh."
He sounded pleased. "I made a countdown."
Sam opened one eye. "A countdown."
"One week until the Summer Solstice."
Sam stared at the notes. They had numbers. They had little sun doodles. One of them appeared to have flames drawn around the border. "You made a calendar."
"It's festive."
"It's June."
Dean pointed his spoon at him. "That's solstice prejudice."
Sam turned around and walked back out of the kitchen.
Behind him, Dean called cheerfully: "Seven days!"
The bunker echoed with Sam's suffering.
Sam attempted avoidance. Avoidance had always been a reliable strategy.
When Dean became obsessed with rebuilding the Impala's carburetor, Sam had avoided the garage.
When Dean became fascinated by homemade jerky recipes, Sam had avoided the kitchen.
When Dean decided he was going to learn magic tricks from a motel gift shop book, Sam had avoided every room Dean occupied for nearly a month.
This should have worked.
Unfortunately, Dean was adapting.
Three days into his campaign, Sam entered the library to find a book waiting on his chair. Not a lore book. Not research material.
A brightly colored paperback about solstice traditions. Sam stared at it. Then he slowly looked around the room. "Dean."
Dean's voice immediately floated from somewhere behind a shelf. "Yeah?"
"You planted a book."
"No."
Sam picked it up.
There was a sticky note attached.
PAGE 43 IS AWESOME
Sam closed his eyes. "You planted a book."
Dean appeared around the end of the shelf looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I left educational material."
"You are becoming a pamphlet."
Dean looked delighted by this accusation.
The situation worsened when Dean discovered documentaries.
For two straight evenings, Sam emerged from research to find Dean sprawled across the bunker couch watching programs with titles like Ancient Celebrations of the Sun and Fire Festivals Through History.
The first night, Sam made the mistake of sitting down. Five minutes later Dean had paused the program.
Actually paused it.
"So apparently—"
Sam stood back up. "Nope."
"Sam."
"No."
"You sat down."
"I made a mistake."
Dean followed him with his eyes as he retreated from the room. "Did you know people used to roll flaming wheels down hills?"
Sam pointed at him without turning around. "You're exactly why they invented libraries."
Dean looked proud of that for some reason.
By the fourth day, even the bunker seemed aware something had gone wrong.
Dean had started leaving articles everywhere. On the kitchen counter. On the war room table. Tucked inside books.
Sam opened a lore journal and a folded newspaper clipping fell into his lap. He unfolded it automatically.
The headline read:
THE HISTORY OF MIDSUMMER FIRES
Sam stared at the paper. Then at the ceiling. Then at the paper again. "Dean."
The response came instantly. "Yeah?"
"Stop hiding solstice propaganda in my research."
Dean's voice carried from somewhere down the hallway. "It wasn't hidden."
"It was literally inside a book."
"You found it."
Sam briefly considered murder.
The truly alarming development came when Dean began inventing traditions.
Not historical traditions.
Dean traditions.
Sam should have recognized the warning signs immediately.
Dean had a tendency to encounter perfectly normal events and decide they required Winchester participation.
This was how Thanksgiving had ended with experimental cooking.
It was how New Year's had become a bunker-wide cleaning catastrophe.
Now it was happening again.
Dean walked into breakfast one morning carrying a notebook. That notebook alone was enough to make Sam nervous. Dean sat down. Opened it.
And announced: "I've got ideas."
Sam lowered his coffee. "No."
Dean ignored him. "We need a solstice menu."
"A what."
"A menu."
Sam stared.
Dean continued. "Obviously burgers."
"Obviously."
"Pie."
"Of course."
"Maybe corn on the cob."
Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Dean."
Dean was writing now. Actually taking notes. "What."
"This is not our holiday."
Dean looked up. His expression suggested Sam had just insulted the Constitution. "It can be."
"You found it four days ago."
Dean pointed his pen dramatically. "That's how traditions start."
By the sixth day, Sam had reached the bargaining stage of grief. He attempted logic. This was a mistake.
"Dean," he said carefully one evening. "You know you're acting like this festival is a once-in-a-lifetime event."
Dean looked up from his laptop. "It is."
"They do it every year."
"This year is only happening once."
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
Neither blinked.
Finally, Sam pointed at him. "That made sense in your head."
"It made perfect sense."
"No."
"You're just being negative."
Sam stood up and left the room.
There was no defense against reasoning like that.
By the evening before the festival, Sam had become a hunted man. Not by monsters. Not by ghosts. Not even by Dean.
By facts.
Every corner of the bunker had become a potential ambush. Every room carried risk. The kitchen was compromised. The library was compromised. The war room was completely lost.
Twice Dean had managed to corner him near the archives and begin sentences with the words: "Quick question."
There was never a quick question.
There was only a solstice fact delivered in the shape of a question.
By the time June twenty-first finally arrived, Sam had retreated into his room with a stack of books and every intention of staying there until departure.
It wasn't that he hated the festival. Truthfully, the bonfire sounded kind of nice. The music sounded nice. The food sounded nice.
The problem was that Dean had spent an entire week behaving like he'd personally invented the sun. And Sam needed a few hours of peace before facing the actual event.
Unfortunately for him, Dean Winchester was not done celebrating.
Not even close.
And soon Castiel would arrive, unknowingly becoming the final weapon in Dean's increasingly elaborate campaign to drag his brother into Summer Solstice enthusiasm whether he liked it or not.
By the morning of June twenty-first, Sam had officially surrendered.
Not to Dean.
Not exactly.
To the inevitability of Dean.
There was a difference.
The Summer Solstice Festival was finally happening that evening, which should have been a relief. For eight straight days Dean had treated the approaching event with the excitement of a child waiting for Christmas morning, except Christmas morning generally arrived after a reasonable amount of anticipation. Dean had somehow stretched an ordinary local festival into a week-long campaign of education, recruitment, and what Sam could only describe as aggressive enthusiasm.
The bunker had become impossible to navigate. Every room carried risk. Every hallway might contain Dean and another newly acquired fact about ancient midsummer celebrations. Sam had learned more about solstice traditions in the last week than he'd learned during four years at Stanford.
Enough was enough.
So after breakfast—which had somehow included a discussion about ceremonial bonfires in northern Europe—Sam retreated to his room with a stack of lore books under one arm and a laptop under the other. He shut the door, locked it for good measure, and settled onto the bed with the firm intention of remaining there until Dean either left for the festival or combusted from excitement.
Whichever happened first.
Outside, the bunker settled into its familiar quiet hum. Sam opened a book, determined to spend the next few hours researching literally anything that wasn't related to the sun.
Unfortunately, Castiel arrived.
Dean looked up from the newspaper spread across the war room table when the angel appeared. The festival schedule occupied nearly half the surface, surrounded by notes Dean had made throughout the week. At some point he'd circled the words BONFIRE LIGHTING CEREMONY three separate times.
"Hey, Cas."
"Hello, Dean."
Castiel glanced around the room before frowning slightly. "Sam will not come out of his room."
Dean didn't even look surprised. "Nope."
"I knocked three times."
"Sounds right."
"I informed him breakfast was ready."
Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Also sounds right."
Castiel tilted his head. "He appears to be hiding."
"He is hiding."
The angel considered that. "Why?"
Dean folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair. "Because I've been talking about the solstice."
For a moment Castiel simply stared at him. Then, after what appeared to be genuine consideration, he nodded. "That is understandable."
Dean pointed accusingly. "Wow."
"I'm not criticizing you."
"You kind of are."
Castiel ignored this entirely. His attention drifted toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "Would you like me to attempt again?"
Dean considered the question. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. It was not a reassuring grin. It was, in fact, the exact sort of grin that had historically preceded terrible ideas.
Castiel had spent enough time with the Winchesters to recognize this. "Dean."
"What?"
"That expression concerns me."
Dean's grin only widened. "Yeah, go get him."
Castiel waited.
Dean pointed vaguely toward the hallway. "Just tell him I said something."
The angel frowned. "What?"
"Anything factually incorrect."
Castiel blinked. For a moment, he looked genuinely lost. "I do not understand."
Dean looked delighted. "Trust me."
"Dean."
"It'll work."
Castiel continued staring. "What should I say?"
Dean tapped his fingers against the table, considering his options with the seriousness of a man planning military strategy. Then inspiration struck. "The sun is a planet."
Castiel immediately frowned. "That is not true."
"I know."
"You want me to lie."
Dean waved a hand. "I want you to summon Sam."
Apparently, in Dean's mind, those were entirely separate concepts.
Castiel seemed unconvinced. "The two appear related."
"Cas."
"The sun is a star."
"I know."
"It has always been a star."
"I know that too."
Castiel looked at him for another long moment.
Then, with the weary resignation of someone who had spent far too much time around Winchesters, he turned and headed down the hallway.
Dean watched him go. Then leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The bunker fell quiet.
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Dean took a sip of coffee.
Right on schedule, a door slammed open somewhere down the corridor.
The sound echoed through the bunker.
Rapid footsteps followed.
Dean lowered his mug.
The grin returned.
A moment later Sam appeared in the war room doorway.
His hair was disheveled from repeatedly running his hands through it. A notebook was still clutched beneath one arm. His expression was one of pure academic outrage.
"Did you just say the sun is a fucking planet?"
Dean nearly inhaled his coffee. The laughter hit him so hard he doubled over, coughing and wheezing simultaneously as he tried and failed to recover.
Across the room, Castiel looked mildly surprised by the intensity of the reaction. "The strategy was successful."
Sam pointed at both of them. "No. No, absolutely not. You weaponized astronomy."
Dean was laughing too hard to defend himself. "You came out!"
"Because you said something stupid!"
"I knew you would!"
"That doesn't make it better!"
"It kind of does!"
Sam looked from Dean to Castiel and back again, clearly trying to determine which one deserved the blame.
Unfortunately, Castiel had the decency to look confused.
Dean looked victorious.
Which made the answer obvious.
"You're unbelievable."
Dean finally managed to catch his breath enough to sit upright. "Eight days, Sammy."
"It was seven."
"Felt like eight."
"You've been counting?"
Dean pointed triumphantly. "You've been listening."
Sam stared at him.
Dean stared back.
For one brief moment neither moved.
Then Sam realized exactly what had happened.
Dean had gotten him out of his room.
Again.
With complete accuracy.
And judging by the deeply satisfied look on Dean's face, he considered this one of his finest accomplishments.
Castiel, meanwhile, appeared to be studying the exchange with genuine curiosity. "I find it interesting," he said thoughtfully, "that factual inaccuracy causes a stronger response than repeated requests."
Sam closed his eyes.
Dean pointed at the angel. "See? He gets it."
"No," Sam said. "He really doesn't."
And somewhere beneath the exasperation, despite a week of suffering through solstice facts and countdowns and increasingly ridiculous enthusiasm, Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Because Dean looked happy.
Not defensive. Not forcing it.
Just happy.
The kind of uncomplicated excitement that had become increasingly rare over the years.
Dean caught the expression immediately. "There it is."
"Don't."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You totally are."
Sam groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.
Outside the bunker, the longest day of the year stretched toward evening.
And if Dean Winchester had his way—which, judging by the last week, he absolutely would—they were only getting started.
Sam was resigned. Not convinced. Not enthusiastic. Certainly not converted. But resigned.
There came a point in every Dean Winchester obsession where resistance stopped being productive. Arguing hadn't worked. Avoidance hadn't worked. Hiding in his room had lasted less than an hour before Dean weaponized Castiel and basic astronomy. At some point, a man had to recognize when he'd lost.
Sam recognized it now.
The realization settled over him as he stood in the war room doorway watching Dean gather car keys, wallet, sunglasses, and enough excitement to power a small city.
Dean was still pleased with himself over the "sun is a planet" incident.
That alone should have been illegal.
"You know," Sam said as he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, "most people would simply knock on a door."
Dean looked offended. "I did knock on your door."
"You sent Castiel."
"I outsourced."
"That's not better."
Dean shrugged. "It was effective."
Castiel nodded thoughtfully from where he stood near the map table. "It was remarkably effective."
Sam pointed at him. "You are encouraging him."
"I stated an observation."
Dean grinned. "See?"
"No."
"See."
Sam sighed. There was no winning this argument. There never had been.
The worst part was that Dean had spent the entire week acting like a man planning the event of the century, only for the actual festival to consist of exactly what the newspaper had advertised eight days ago: food vendors, music, and a bonfire.
That was it. No secret rituals. No hidden mystery. No supernatural conspiracy. Just a community festival.
Yet somehow Dean had transformed it into a personal mission. "Are you ready?" Dean asked.
The question carried the enthusiasm of a man about to depart on an expedition.
Sam stared at him. "Dean."
"What?"
"It's a festival."
Dean looked genuinely baffled by this statement. "Yeah."
"You act like we're storming Normandy."
Dean considered that. Then pointed. "See, that's exactly why you're not getting the full experience."
"The full experience."
"You're approaching this with the wrong attitude."
Sam rubbed his forehead.
Across the room, Castiel looked between them. "What is the correct attitude?"
Dean immediately brightened. "Excitement."
Sam laughed despite himself. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous. Because Dean was standing in the middle of the bunker at nearly forty years old acting like a kid waiting to go to a county fair.
And because for the first time in a long while, the excitement wasn't forced. It wasn't covering grief. It wasn't distraction. It wasn't a desperate attempt to hold something together.
Dean just genuinely wanted to go.
The realization softened something in Sam. Just a little. Enough that when Dean headed toward the garage, Sam followed without complaint.
The bunker corridors echoed with their footsteps. Dean walked ahead of him, moving faster than usual, carrying enough energy that he seemed incapable of standing still. Sam watched him disappear around a corner and found himself smiling despite every effort not to.
Because this was ridiculous.
Objectively ridiculous.
Dean had spent a week researching solstice traditions, ambushing him with historical facts, and creating what Sam strongly suspected was an entirely fictional holiday menu.
And yet.
There were worse things. There had been years when Dean wouldn't have cared about a festival. Years when he'd been too angry. Too tired. Too burdened by everything they carried.
Sam remembered those years. Remembered Dean treating every day as something to survive rather than enjoy.
So if the result of all those battles and losses and near-apocalypses was Dean becoming absurdly invested in a community bonfire?
Sam could live with that.
The garage door opened.
Warm June sunlight spilled across the concrete floor.
The Impala sat waiting, black paint gleaming softly beneath the lights.
Dean stopped beside the driver's door and looked back. The grin was already there. "Longest day of the year, Sammy."
Sam groaned. "Oh my God."
Dean laughed. "You knew that one was coming."
"I really did."
For a moment they simply stood there. Brothers. Hunters. Survivors. About to spend an evening doing something astonishingly normal.
No case.
No monster.
No emergency waiting on the other end of a phone call.
Just a festival.
Just music.
Just people gathering together to celebrate the arrival of summer.
Dean slid behind the wheel.
Sam climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine rumbled to life beneath them.
And as the bunker door slowly rolled open, revealing the bright green Kansas countryside beyond, Dean rested his hands on the steering wheel and smiled toward the road ahead.
For once, Sam didn't roll his eyes. For once, he didn't argue. Instead, he settled back in his seat and let the moment be what it was.
Dean was happy.
And tonight, that was reason enough to go.
The thing that immediately threw Sam off was that Dean had not exaggerated.
Not once.
For eight days, Sam had listened to increasingly enthusiastic descriptions of the Lebanon Summer Solstice Festival. By the end of the week, he'd become convinced reality could not possibly live up to the picture Dean had painted. The man had discussed the event with the sort of reverence usually reserved for classic rock albums, pie, and the Impala.
Naturally, Sam had assumed disappointment was inevitable.
Instead, as they pulled into town, he found himself staring out the window.
Lebanon wasn't transformed beyond recognition. It was still Lebanon. Still the same small Kansas town they knew better than most places on earth. But there was an energy to it that felt different. The sidewalks were crowded. Strings of lights hung between storefronts. Food trucks lined sections of the square. Music drifted through the warm evening air, carried on a light breeze that smelled faintly of barbecue and cut grass.
People were everywhere. Families. Teenagers. Older couples. Children racing each other through the crowd with the reckless confidence of kids who knew summer vacation had finally arrived.
Dean parked the Impala and shut off the engine. For a moment, neither of them got out. They simply sat there listening. A guitar somewhere. Laughter. The distant sound of a crowd enjoying itself.
Dean looked absurdly pleased. "You hear that?"
Sam already knew better than to ask. Nevertheless, he did. "Hear what?"
Dean gestured broadly through the windshield. "Nobody screaming."
Sam snorted. "Your standards are very specific."
"Years of experience."
That, unfortunately, was true.
They climbed out of the car and joined the flow of people moving toward the center of town. The sun was still high enough to cast everything in warm gold. Long shadows stretched across the streets, but daylight lingered stubbornly.
The longest day of the year.
Dean had mentioned that approximately three hundred times already.
Sam expected mention number three hundred and one at any moment.
Instead, Dean simply looked around.
The enthusiasm was still there, but it had changed. All week it had been loud and restless and impossible to escape. Here, surrounded by actual people and actual festivities, it seemed to settle into something quieter.
More genuine. Like he wasn't anticipating the event anymore. He was experiencing it.
The distinction mattered.
They wandered through vendor stalls for nearly an hour. Dean sampled enough free food to qualify as a public nuisance. At one booth he acquired a basket of fresh kettle corn. Twenty minutes later he somehow also had a funnel cake.
Sam never actually witnessed the purchase.
The funnel cake simply appeared.
"You don't even like sweets that much."
Dean looked offended. "It's festival food."
"That's not an answer."
"It doesn't need to be."
By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the crowd had started drifting toward the edge of a large field beyond town.
The bonfire waited there.
And suddenly Sam understood.
The structure towered above everything around it. Whoever had built it had spent days preparing. Massive logs formed the base, stacked with deliberate care. Smaller branches and timber rose above them until the entire thing stood taller than a two-story house.
Around it, people gathered in widening circles. Waiting. Anticipating. The atmosphere shifted. Not solemn. Not religious. Something older than that.
Communal.
The sort of gathering human beings had probably been holding for thousands of years.
Dean fell silent beside him. That, more than anything, caught Sam's attention. Dean wasn't usually silent. Not when he was excited. Not when he'd spent a week talking.
Yet now he simply stood with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching as people settled into place around the field.
The lowering sun painted everything gold.
Children sat on blankets beside their parents. Friends clustered together. Couples leaned against each other.
For once, Dean wasn't talking about the history of solstice celebrations. He was just looking.
A horn sounded somewhere near the front of the crowd. Conversations softened. People turned their attention toward the towering stack of wood. And for a brief moment, the field grew quiet.
The first flame appeared almost unnoticed. A tiny spark near the base. Then another. Then another. The fire spread carefully at first, finding its path through the wood.
The crowd watched. The flames climbed higher. Orange turned to gold. Gold turned brilliant white at the center. Heat rolled outward in waves.
Someone cheered. Then others joined in. Applause swept through the field. The bonfire came alive.
Sam felt it in his chest.
The sheer scale of it. The power. The light.
For years, fire had meant something else. A hunter learned that quickly. Fire was a tool. Fire was a weapon. Fire was how you burned bones. How you destroyed remains. How you ended things that refused to stay dead.
So many of Sam's memories involved standing beside flames and mourning someone.
Jessica.
Madison.
Ellen.
Jo.
Bobby.
Countless unnamed victims and hunters whose stories ended in smoke and ash. Fire had always carried grief.
Beside him, Dean shifted slightly.
Sam looked over.
The flames reflected in Dean's eyes. And suddenly he knew his brother was thinking something similar. Maybe not the same memories. But the same association. Because Dean had built more pyres than anyone should. Burned more bodies. Watched more endings.
The fire roared higher.
The crowd cheered again.
And for once—for once—the fire wasn't about loss.
Nobody was grieving. Nobody was saying goodbye. Nobody was standing vigil over the dead.
This fire existed for no reason other than celebration. For warmth. For community. For joy.
Dean let out a slow breath. "You know," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the flames, "I think that's why I liked this."
Sam glanced at him. "The festival?"
Dean nodded. For a long moment he seemed to search for the right words. Then he shrugged. "We spend our whole lives around fires."
The simplicity of it landed harder than any speech could have.
Because they did.
God, they did.
Dean's gaze remained fixed on the towering blaze. "But this one isn't because something died."
The words settled between them.
Simple.
Honest.
True.
Sam looked back toward the bonfire.
People laughed around them. Music played somewhere behind the crowd. The summer night had finally begun to settle over Lebanon, but the fire pushed back the darkness, turning faces gold and amber wherever its light reached.
Dean smiled faintly.
Not a big smile. Not one of his performative grins. Just something small and real.
And for the first time all week, Sam understood the obsession.
It had never really been about the solstice. Not the history. Not the traditions. Not even the bonfire itself. It was about finding a celebration that wasn't attached to pain.
A gathering that wasn't followed by loss. A fire that didn't mean goodbye.
Standing there beside his brother, surrounded by strangers enjoying the longest day of the year, Sam found himself smiling too.
Maybe Dean had been ridiculous. Maybe he'd been unbearable. Maybe he'd spent eight days turning the bunker into a one-man Summer Solstice information center.
But as the bonfire burned against the Kansas night and laughter drifted through the crowd around them, Sam couldn't honestly say Dean had been wrong.
Some fires were meant for mourning. Some were meant for monsters.
And every now and then—if you were lucky—a fire could simply mean that you had survived long enough to stand beside it.
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 4,183
Tags/Warnings: Discussion of 18+, mention of loss and grief
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Note: Sorry this is a day late! Ran into some Real Life issues that caused a delay! Hilariously, had to replace a dying refrigerator that required removing the front door and had some other issues as well! 😅 Ow. My body’s sore now. Anyway, enjoy!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Eight: So...
Sam attacked the dishes with the grim determination of a man trying very hard not to be invested in whatever was happening three feet behind him.
He rinsed plates. Stacked them. Scrubbed a pan that wasn't particularly dirty. At one point he found himself washing the same fork twice and realized, with a flicker of horror, that he was listening for whispers behind him.
He immediately turned the faucet on harder. Not his business. Absolutely not his business.
Behind him, Dean and Natalie sat in companionable silence, their hands still loosely linked across the table. The house had settled into its nighttime rhythms. Pipes creaked softly in the walls. Bobby's television murmured faintly from behind his bedroom door before finally clicking off.
Dean glanced toward the hallway. Then at Natalie. He tipped his head slightly toward the stairs. The gesture was so small Sam almost missed it.
Natalie didn't. She looked at him for a second, understanding dawning instantly, then nodded.
Dean rose first.
Sam kept his eyes firmly on the sink. Didn't see a thing. Didn't hear a thing. Would absolutely deny all knowledge later.
"Night, Sammy," Dean said casually.
Sam snorted. "Sure."
Dean shot him a look.
Sam kept scrubbing.
Natalie bit back a smile as she stood. "Good night, Sam."
"Night."
He still didn't turn around. He heard their footsteps retreat instead, crossing the living room and climbing the narrow staircase to the second floor.
Only when the bedroom door closed softly did Sam finally look up. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then shook his head, smiling to himself. "About damn time," he murmured.
Upstairs, neither Dean nor Natalie spoke. The silence wasn't awkward exactly. Just... fragile. New.
Dean walked a step ahead of her down the hallway, shoulders slightly tense. At his door he paused, hand resting on the knob for half a heartbeat before pushing it open.
He stepped aside.
Natalie entered first.
Dean's room at Bobby's wasn't really a room. It was a place he'd occupied on and off for years. Temporary made permanent through repetition.
The duffel bag sat open at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling haphazardly from one side. A stack of rock CDs occupied the dresser. A battered paperback rested face-down beside the lamp. There were shotgun shells in a ceramic bowl Bobby had once insisted was decorative and Dean had promptly repurposed.
His jacket hung over the back of a chair.
A knife gleamed dully atop a pile of lore books.
There was no question whose room this was. It was Dean in miniature. Messy. Practical. Comfortable.
Natalie smiled softly. "I forgot you leave your clothes everywhere."
Dean snorted behind her. "I don't."
She pointed at the duffel. "You absolutely do."
"That's organized."
"That's a pile."
"It's an intentional pile."
Natalie laughed quietly. The sound loosened something in the room. But only a little. Because when she turned around, Dean was standing by the door looking... nervous.
The realization stopped her cold.
Dean Winchester. Nervous. Not uneasy before a hunt. Not angry. Not restless. Actually nervous. His hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders slightly hunched. Eyes flicking away for half a second before returning to her.
Natalie stared.
Then, slowly, she smiled. "Oh my God."
Dean groaned immediately. "Don't."
"You're nervous."
"I'm not."
"You are!"
He pointed at her accusingly. "This is your fault."
That only made her laugh harder.
Dean rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. "I have literally fought vampires."
Natalie crossed her arms, grinning now. "And?"
"And this is worse."
That surprised her enough to quiet her laughter.
Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair "I don't know," he admitted. The words came slowly. "This is different."
Natalie's smile softened.
Dean glanced around the room like maybe the answer was hidden among his belongings. "I know how to be your friend."
The confession was so honest it hurt.
"I know how to call you at three in the morning because Sam's annoying me. I know how to argue with you. I know how to make fun of your terrible taste in movies."
"My taste is excellent."
"It's not."
She smiled.
Dean looked back at her then. More serious now. "But this?" He gestured vaguely between them. "I don't know how to do this."
Natalie's heart squeezed. Because she did know. This was the Dean she'd glimpsed all those years ago after their first kiss. The part of him he showed almost nobody. The boy who loved deeply and feared losing it.
She stepped closer.
Dean immediately stopped talking.
"I don't know either," she admitted softly.
That made him blink. "You don't?"
"No."
She smiled gently. "I've spent years imagining this."
Dean's ears went slightly pink.
Natalie pretended not to notice. "But imagining something and actually having it..." She shrugged. "Turns out those are different things."
Dean huffed a laugh. "Great."
"I know."
The room grew quiet again. But it wasn't frightening anymore. Because for the first time in years, neither of them had to pretend.
Natalie reached for him first. Not dramatic. Just resting her hand lightly against his chest. Dean looked down at it. Then up at her. And some of the nervousness melted from his face.
Because maybe they didn't know exactly what came next. But they had spent almost two decades learning each other. That seemed like a pretty good place to start.
Were they ready to do this?
The question hung between them, unspoken at first, but so present that it might as well have been another person in the room.
Dean leaned back against the dresser, arms folding loosely across his chest, though Natalie could tell it was more to occupy his hands than anything else. She remained where she was beside the bed, one hand trailing absently over the quilt Bobby had bought years ago from some church rummage sale. The lamp cast a soft amber glow across the room, leaving the corners in shadow. Outside, the junkyard stretched quiet beneath the stars.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Because this wasn't a first date. This wasn't strangers discovering attraction. This was twenty years of history suddenly rearranging itself.
Natalie looked at Dean and thought of all the versions of him she'd known. The nine-year-old boy with a split lip pretending he didn't hurt. The fourteen-year-old who had told her about his mother in a voice so quiet she'd barely heard him. The fifteen-year-old who had kissed her and then spent years pretending it hadn't mattered. The seventeen-year-old who had driven like a maniac to comfort her after prom. The twenty-four-year-old who had called her because he'd fallen in love with another woman and needed someone to tell him he wasn't stupid.
And the man standing before her now. Older. More scarred. Still carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Still Dean.
Natalie had wondered about this for years.
Wondered what it would be like if they'd been brave enough back then. Dreamed about it sometimes, usually late at night when she was on the road and loneliness made her reckless with her imagination. She'd pictured holding his hand in diners, stealing kisses before hunts, falling asleep beside him in motel rooms.
Then she'd shove the thoughts away. Because wanting something wasn't the same as being allowed to have it. Especially not in their world.
Dean had done much the same, though his fantasies had been less elaborate and far more aggressively ignored. Every time he found himself lingering too long on the memory of that kiss, or wondering what Natalie was doing in Nova Scotia, or catching himself smiling at one of her voicemails, he'd shove it into a mental vault and lock the door.
Friends. That was safe. Friends lasted. Friends couldn't be ruined by bad timing or grief or fear. Except the vault hadn't held. Not really. Not when Cassie left. Not when Natalie disappeared north.
Certainly not tonight.
Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and laughed softly to himself. "You know what's stupid?"
Natalie smiled faintly. "There's a lot to choose from."
"Funny."
"It's one of my many gifts."
He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened. "I spent years trying not to think about you like this."
Natalie's heart squeezed. "Me too."
Dean looked genuinely surprised. "You did?"
She laughed softly. "Dean Winchester, I spent three years in Nova Scotia trying not to think about you."
"How'd that go?"
She gave him a look. "Terribly."
That earned a grin.
The grin faded slowly, replaced by something gentler.
"I used to wonder," Dean admitted, his voice quieter now, "if bringing up that kiss would screw everything up."
Natalie's breath caught.
"Because what if you didn't remember it the same way I did?" he continued. "Or what if you did and regretted it? I didn't wanna lose..." He trailed off, searching for the words.
"Us?" Natalie supplied softly.
Dean nodded. "Yeah."
The simplicity of it hit her harder than any grand declaration could have.
Not you.
Us.
The friendship. The years. Everything they'd built.
Natalie sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her hands for a moment. "I was afraid too."
Dean moved from the dresser then, crossing the room to sit beside her. Not touching yet.
Just close.
"What were you afraid of?" he asked.
She smiled sadly. "That loving you would ruin me."
The honesty of it startled even her.
Dean didn't laugh. Didn't tell her she was being dramatic. Because he understood.
Hunters loved with one eye on the grave.
Mary and John.
Jessica and Sam.
Ellen and Bill.
Bobby and Karen.
Loss was woven into the fabric of their lives.
Natalie looked up at him. "I saw what happened to my mother after my father died."
Dean nodded slowly. "I know."
"I don't know if I'm brave enough for that."
Dean was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and took her hand. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just steady. "I don't know if I am either," he admitted.
Natalie blinked. "You don't?"
He huffed a laugh. "Nat, I've spent my whole life losing people."
The words came out matter-of-factly.
Too matter-of-factly.
"And yeah, that scares me."
His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles. "But I think..."
He stopped.
Started again. "I think I'd regret not trying more."
Natalie stared at him.
Because that was it, wasn't it? Not certainty. Not guarantees. Just a choice. To love anyway. To be afraid and move forward regardless.
Dean squeezed her hand gently. "We don't have to figure out everything tonight."
Natalie smiled faintly. "Good."
"Yeah."
Another quiet moment settled between them. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just new.
Outside, the wind stirred softly through the junkyard. Downstairs, Bobby's bedroom floorboards creaked once and went still. Somewhere in the house Sam coughed in his sleep.
Life.
Ordinary, stubborn life.
And here they were. Not friends. Not yet entirely lovers. But standing on the threshold of something they'd both secretly wanted for years.
Together.
Which, Natalie thought as Dean's shoulder brushed hers and neither of them moved away, might just be enough for tonight.
They sat there for a long while after that.
Not speaking.
Not because there was nothing left to say, but because the evening had been so full already. Confessions layered atop revelations. The Master. Leandro. Fear. Love. The terrifying joy of discovering that the person you'd quietly loved for years had been carrying the same secret.
At some point, Dean became acutely aware of the fact that it was after midnight.
At some point, Natalie yawned.
And at some point after that, both of them glanced toward the bed. Then immediately looked away. Then looked back.
Dean cleared his throat. "So..."
Natalie bit back a smile. "So?"
Dean stared resolutely at the opposite wall.
"What if..." He stopped.
Natalie waited.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "What if we just..." He gestured vaguely toward the bed. "Share it?"
Natalie's eyebrows rose.
Dean rushed on immediately. "No sex."
The words came out so fast she almost laughed.
Dean looked horrified at himself. "Not that I think—I mean, obviously I think—"
"Oh my God."
"But I wasn't suggesting—"
Natalie was laughing now.
Dean dropped his face into his hands. "Kill me."
"I just told you I'm afraid of that."
A muffled groan escaped him.
Natalie laughed harder.
When Dean finally looked up, his ears were red. "I mean," he said stubbornly, "literally just sleep."
Her smile softened. Because beneath the awkwardness was something incredibly sweet.
Dean wasn't trying to rush them. Wasn't assuming. Wasn't trying to capitalize on years of unresolved feelings. He simply... wanted her near.
Natalie looked at the bed. Then back at him. And realized she wanted the exact same thing. Actually, more than that.
The thought of sleeping beside Dean—of hearing his breathing in the dark, of waking up and finding him still there—struck her as profoundly intimate.
More intimate, in some ways, than sex. Sex could be impulsive. Could be passion. This? This was trust. Vulnerability. The quiet promise of presence.
Natalie smiled. "I think that's an excellent idea."
Dean blinked. "Really?"
"Really."
The relief that washed over his face was so immediate she nearly laughed again.
"You know," she said softly, "I think sharing a bed can be more intimate."
Dean tilted his head. "How?"
Natalie thought about it. "Because there's nowhere to hide."
The words surprised both of them.
She shrugged lightly. "You fall asleep beside someone. You wake up beside them. They see you with bedhead and morning breath and drooling on the pillow."
"I do not drool."
"You absolutely drool."
"I don't."
"You snore."
"I do not!"
Natalie grinned.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You are making slanderous accusations."
"I've heard you."
"You have not."
"I have."
"When?"
Natalie paused.
Dean immediately became suspicious. "When?"
She laughed. "You fell asleep during a movie at Bobby's when you were sixteen."
Dean groaned. "Oh no."
"You absolutely snored."
"I was exhausted."
"You drooled too."
"I hate you."
Natalie smiled warmly. "No you don't."
Dean stared at her. Then, slowly, he smiled too.
No.
He really, really didn't.
The practicalities of sharing the bed turned out to be hilariously awkward.
Dean found an old t-shirt for Natalie to sleep in, which she promptly held up.
"This is enormous."
"It's a normal-sized shirt."
"It's a tent."
"It's rock and roll."
"It says Metallica."
"It says class."
"It says you haven't done laundry in three weeks."
Dean gasped in mock offense.
Natalie laughed and disappeared into the tiny bathroom anyway.
Dean sat on the edge of the bed afterward, suddenly nervous all over again. Which was ridiculous. They'd kissed. They'd confessed feelings. They'd faced down soul-eating extradimensional entities. And somehow this was making him anxious.
The bathroom door opened.
Dean looked up.
Natalie stepped back into the room wearing his shirt, sleeves swallowing half her arms.
And Dean's brain promptly stopped. Not because it was sexy. Though she was beautiful.
No.
It was because she looked comfortable. Safe. Like she belonged here.
The realization hit him so hard he had to look away.
Natalie noticed immediately. "You okay?"
Dean coughed. "Yep."
"You look weird."
"Rude."
She smiled softly.
Together, awkwardly, shyly, they climbed beneath the blankets. The bed was smaller than Dean remembered. Or maybe he was just more aware of Natalie lying beside him.
There was a careful distance between them at first. A gulf of maybe eight inches. Both of them staring at the ceiling. Both of them very aware of the other.
Dean cleared his throat. "This is weird."
Natalie smiled into the darkness. "A little."
A pause.
Then: "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you pushed me."
He turned his head.
Moonlight from the window painted soft silver across her face.
"You are?"
"I was scared."
"I know."
"I still am."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted slightly, slowly enough that she could move away if she wanted. She didn't. His hand found hers beneath the blankets. Fingers lacing together. Simple. Steady.
Natalie squeezed back.
Neither said anything else.
Outside, the junkyard slept beneath the South Dakota stars. Somewhere down the hall Bobby snored loud enough to shake the walls. Sam was probably awake downstairs reading lore and pretending he wasn't smiling about tonight.
And in the darkness of Dean's room, two people who had spent years afraid of losing one another finally let themselves be still. Together. Not rushing. Not hiding.
Just learning, one quiet moment at a time, what it meant to finally come home to each other.
The room settled around them.
The lamp had been switched off some time ago, leaving only moonlight filtering through the curtains and painting pale silver bars across the floor. The junkyard outside had gone quiet. Even Bobby’s snores down the hall had softened into the familiar rhythm of a house asleep.
Dean lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling he could barely see.
Natalie lay beside him, equally awake.
The distance between them wasn’t much. A few inches. A few inches that felt impossibly large.
Neither of them wanted to rush.
That had been understood from the start. Tonight wasn’t about proving anything or crossing some invisible finish line. If anything, it was the opposite. After years of circling one another, of wanting and wondering and worrying, they wanted to savor this fragile, miraculous thing they’d finally uncovered.
Dean felt Natalie’s hand tighten around his. He squeezed back. The gesture was small. But in the darkness, it felt enormous.
He could feel her warmth beside him. Hear the soft cadence of her breathing. Every so often, he caught the faint scent of her shampoo mingled with the detergent on his t-shirt.
Natalie stared into the dark, her heart feeling strangely too big for her chest.
This was Dean. Dean, who had snored his way through movies at Bobby’s house as a teenager.
Dean, who’d driven across Sioux Falls in a suit to rescue her from heartbreak.
Dean, who had listened to her story tonight and, instead of telling her she was reckless or foolish, had simply promised he would help carry the burden.
Dean, who loved fiercely. And who loved her. The thought still felt unreal.
Her fingers tightened around his again. This time, Dean turned toward her.
She felt the mattress shift. For a second she froze—not from fear, but from wonder. Then she turned too.
Their eyes met in the darkness. Neither of them was entirely sure who moved first. Maybe they both did.
The distance disappeared gradually. Not in a rush. Not with urgency. Just the slow, instinctive movement of two people who had spent years wanting closeness and finally allowing themselves to reach for it.
Natalie’s hand slid up to rest lightly against Dean’s chest. Dean lifted an arm, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then settled it gently around her waist. She moved closer. He held her.
The simplicity of it nearly undid her. No grand declarations. No fireworks. Just warmth. Steady and real.
Natalie tucked her head beneath his chin, listening to the strong, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. Dean lowered his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes.
This. This was what she’d been afraid of. And somehow… it wasn’t frightening.
Scary, yes. Because love always carried risk. Because the Master still waited somewhere beyond the edges of their understanding. Because hunters rarely got guarantees. But the fear wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore. The loudest thing was peace.
Dean felt her arm drape across his chest, trusting and unguarded. He tightened his hold on her just slightly. Not possessive. Protective. Grateful.
Natalie let out a soft breath. “Hey, Dean?”
His voice rumbled softly above her. “Yeah?”
“I’m still scared.”
He smiled into her hair. “So am I.”
The admission should have unsettled her. Instead, it comforted her. Because he wasn’t promising impossible things. He wasn’t promising forever. He was simply here. Beside her. Choosing her. Tonight. Tomorrow. For as long as they were given.
Natalie smiled faintly in the darkness.
Outside, the wind stirred through Bobby’s junkyard, rattling old metal and whispering through rusted frames that had stood witness to years of laughter and grief and growing up.
Inside, two childhood friends who had spent years pretending not to love each other finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.
And for the first time in a very long time, both of them slept deeply.
Morning came slowly.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains in warm, golden stripes that crept steadily across the floorboards and up the side of the bed. Outside, Bobby’s junkyard was already awake. Somewhere a crow cawed. Metal clanged faintly as the wind nudged an old truck door. Downstairs, Dean could just barely make out the sounds of life beginning—the scrape of a chair, the murmur of a radio, Bobby grumbling at something that had probably existed peacefully until he decided it offended him.
And yet, neither Dean nor Natalie moved.
Dean surfaced from sleep gradually, his first coherent thought not being where am I? but rather warm.
Very warm.
He blinked blearily.
Natalie was still tucked against him.
At some point in the night, she’d curled even closer. Her head rested beneath his chin, her hair spread across his shoulder. One arm remained draped over his chest, and his own arm was securely wrapped around her waist as though even asleep he’d been reluctant to let her go.
Dean lay there for a moment, simply taking it in.
The sunlight.
The quiet.
The weight of her against him.
And the startling realization that he’d slept.
Really slept. No nightmares. No waking up every two hours. No instinctive reach for a weapon.
Just… sleep.
Deep and dreamless.
Dean couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
Carefully, not wanting to disturb her, he tipped his head down.
Natalie was still asleep.
Or mostly asleep.
Her brow furrowed faintly as sunlight drifted across her face.
Dean smiled. It was small. Private. The kind of smile he’d deny under torture.
“Morning,” he murmured.
Natalie made an incoherent noise. Then burrowed closer.
Dean huffed a laugh.
A moment later, a muffled voice emerged from somewhere near his collarbone.
“Five more minutes.”
Dean grinned. “You are absolutely not a morning person.”
That earned an indignant sound.
Natalie cracked open one eye. “Excuse you.”
“You heard me.”
“I am,” she informed him with all the dignity someone half-asleep in an oversized Metallica shirt could muster, “an excellent morning person.”
Dean looked around theatrically. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Natalie closed her eyes again. “I’m awake.”
“You are literally trying to negotiate more sleep.”
“No,” she corrected sleepily. “I just don’t want to leave the bed.”
The words slipped out easily.
Honestly.
Dean’s teasing smile faded. Because he knew exactly what she meant.
It wasn’t the mattress. Or the room. Or even the fact that she was warm and comfortable.
It was this. The safety of his arms around her. The absence of fear. The miracle of waking up beside someone you’d spent years afraid to lose.
Dean tightened his hold on her ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
Natalie opened her eyes.
Their gazes met. And suddenly neither of them was talking about the bed anymore.
Dean swallowed. Because he didn’t want to let her go either. Not yet. Maybe not for a long while.
Natalie’s expression softened as she realized he’d understood immediately.
No explanation necessary.
That had always been the thing between them. Even as kids. Dean had understood the things she couldn’t say. And she understood the things he buried.
She smiled sleepily. “So…”
Dean groaned immediately. “What?”
“We have to face Bobby eventually.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “I was having a nice morning.”
Natalie laughed softly. “He’s going to be unbearable.”
“He already is.”
“He knows.”
“He definitely knows.”
Dean cracked one eye open. “You think Sam told him?”
Natalie gave him a look. “You think Bobby Singer needs Sam Winchester to tell him anything?”
Dean sighed. “No.”
Because Bobby had probably taken one look at them downstairs and mentally planned their wedding. The thought horrified him.
Natalie seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion because she groaned softly and buried her face against his chest.
Dean laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised both of them.
Natalie tilted her head to look up at him. There it was again. That lighter version of him she’d glimpsed last night.
Not carefree. Dean Winchester would never be carefree. But happy. Tentatively. Hopefully. The sight of it made something warm bloom in her chest.
Neither of them rushed to get up. Outside, the world could wait another few minutes. The Master could wait. Questions about Leandro and border souls and impossible things could wait.
For now, there was only this quiet morning in Sioux Falls, sunlight warming the bed, and the strange, wonderful realization that after years of wondering whether they could be more than friends—they had woken up together.
And neither one regretted it for a second.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 3,238
Tags/Warnings: Family life, slice of life, college classes, children
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Six: Discovery
The restlessness left gradually.
Not all at once. Not in some dramatic revelation that changed everything overnight.
Instead, it eased like winter giving way to spring—slowly, almost imperceptibly, until one day Y/N realized she wasn't carrying that weight in her chest anymore.
Knowing the source of it had helped. More than that, knowing she wasn't trapped by it.
For weeks she had unconsciously treated her future like a closed door. Motherhood had consumed her life in the most beautiful ways possible, but somewhere along the way she'd stopped seeing beyond it. Not because Beau demanded it. Not because anyone else did. Simply because life had happened so quickly. Pregnancy. Marriage. Children. A home. A family.
Now she understood something important.
Being a mother wasn't the end of her story.
It was one chapter.
A beloved chapter.
But not the last one.
The knowledge settled deep inside her and transformed something fundamental. She no longer felt caught between gratitude and longing. She could love her life exactly as it was and still wonder what came next.
The two things weren't opposites.
They were companions.
As a result, she began to glow again.
Beau noticed first.
One morning she caught him watching her across the kitchen while she packed Eliza's lunch and bounced Ella on her hip simultaneously. The look on his face was warm and knowing.
"What?" she asked.
His smile widened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
"I just like seein' you smile again, darlin'."
The simple honesty of it made her laugh.
And she was smiling more these days.
Not because life had suddenly become easier.
God knew it hadn't.
Life with a kindergartener, a toddler, and a seven-month-old baby could hardly be described as peaceful.
Eliza remained a force of nature.
Every afternoon brought new reports from kindergarten, elaborate wolf-and-duck diplomatic incidents, and increasingly complicated imaginary adventures that somehow required the participation of every family member. Beau had recently been appointed Wolf General. Emily had been named Ambassador to the Ducks. Caleb had been promoted to "Tiny Chaos Monster," though Eliza insisted that was a respected title.
Caleb, for his part, seemed determined to experience every moment of existence at maximum speed.
The boy ran instead of walked. Climbed instead of sat. Explored instead of rested. He approached life with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of consequences.
Y/N spent a shocking amount of her day preventing him from launching himself off furniture.
Then there was Ella.
Sweet, observant, increasingly mobile Ella.
The baby who had once remained happily wherever she was placed had developed opinions.
Strong opinions.
She wanted to be where the people were.
Wanted to watch her siblings.
Wanted to investigate absolutely everything.
She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she was trying with impressive determination, which meant Y/N spent much of her time discovering that Ella had somehow migrated across rooms through sheer stubbornness.
Thankfully, she wasn't alone.
Emily remained a blessing.
Between college classes and her growing relationship with Peter, she still found time to help whenever she could. She picked up Caleb from daycare on days Beau ran late. She entertained Eliza with movie discussions that inevitably devolved into wolf politics. She cuddled Ella while Y/N showered or folded laundry or simply sat down for ten uninterrupted minutes.
Watching Emily with her younger siblings filled Y/N with quiet affection.
The young woman was thriving.
College suited her. Peter suited her. Confidence suited her.
And she carried all of it with a grace that made Y/N proud.
Then there was Beau.
Always Beau.
The steady center of everything.
The sheriff's department kept him busy. There were storms and budgets and mayors and emergencies. There were long days and occasional late nights and enough paperwork to make any reasonable man question his life choices.
Yet somehow he still came home and immediately threw himself into family life.
He helped with homework.
Read bedtime stories.
Built blanket forts.
Changed diapers.
Made dinner when Y/N was exhausted.
Loved all of them with a wholehearted devotion that never seemed performative or forced.
One evening, Y/N stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and simply watched.
Beau sat on the floor with Caleb climbing over him like a mountain. Eliza was explaining some critical wolf legislation. Emily was laughing at something Peter had texted her. Ella sat in Beau's lap, fascinated by his watch.
The room glowed with lamplight and laughter.
It wasn't perfect.
There were toys everywhere.
Someone had spilled juice.
The dishwasher needed unloading.
But standing there, Y/N felt something settle peacefully inside her.
The future no longer frightened her.
Work.
School.
Something entirely different.
Whatever came next would come.
And when it did, she wouldn't face it alone.
Because that was the true gift Beau had given her.
Not permission.
Freedom.
The freedom to imagine a future while knowing she already had a home.
Eight months brought changes to Ella almost weekly.
Not dramatic changes. Not the sort that announced themselves with fanfare.
Instead, Beau and Y/N kept finding themselves stopping mid-conversation and saying, "When did she start doing that?"
At eight months old, Ella had become mobile—or at least determinedly mobile.
She wasn't quite crawling properly yet, but she had mastered a highly effective combination of scooting, rolling, and dragging herself forward that allowed her to appear in places no one expected. She could sit independently now, reaching for toys without toppling over, and she had developed a fascination with dropping things from her highchair solely to observe whether adults would retrieve them.
The answer, unfortunately, was yes.
Every time.
Her babbling had become more elaborate too.
"Mama."
"Dada."
"Baba."
Whether she understood the words was debatable.
Whether she enjoyed the reaction they produced was not.
This morning she sat proudly in her highchair wearing approximately half her breakfast.
The other half was distributed across her tray, bib, cheeks, hair, and somehow one eyebrow.
Ella seemed pleased with this arrangement.
Across the table, Emily was eating toast while simultaneously helping Y/N manage the morning chaos.
Eliza was explaining why wolves absolutely required library cards.
And from upstairs came Beau's voice. "Buddy!"
Y/N closed her eyes briefly.
"What happened?" she called.
"Your son committed a crime."
"Our son."
There was a pause.
"Our son committed a crime."
Emily laughed into her coffee.
A moment later Beau appeared at the top of the stairs holding a juice-stained shirt.
Apparently Caleb had decided that drinking juice was less entertaining than launching it directly onto his father.
Beau disappeared again to change.
Meanwhile, Y/N wiped applesauce off Ella's chin.
Ella immediately smeared more onto her own face.
"Helpful," Y/N murmured.
Ella grinned.
The baby had recently discovered that smiling could get her out of almost anything.
It was proving alarmingly effective.
Emily reached over to rescue a banana slice before it hit the floor. "She's getting sneakier."
"She's learning from Eliza," Y/N said.
"I heard that!" Eliza announced.
"Good."
Eliza nodded, satisfied.
Y/N laughed softly and turned back to Ella, who was now enthusiastically squishing scrambled eggs between her fingers.
Then a thought struck her. Not sudden exactly. More like a seed finally breaking the surface. She looked over at Emily. "Hey."
Emily glanced up. "Yeah?"
Y/N hesitated for just a second. Then asked, "Could you get me a copy of the college catalog?"
Emily blinked. "The catalog?"
"Yeah."
Y/N reached for a napkin, wiping Ella's hands before the baby could decorate herself further. "I thought maybe I'd like to look through it. See what classes they offer."
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Not uncomfortable.
Just surprised.
Emily lowered her toast. "You mean... for you?"
A faint smile tugged at Y/N's lips. "Maybe."
The answer was simple, but it sent a spark through the room.
Emily's eyes widened. Then slowly, beautifully, she smiled. The kind of smile that came from witnessing someone open a door they hadn't realized was still there.
"Yeah," Emily said warmly. "I can do that."
Across the room, Eliza looked up. "Is Mama going to kindergarten too?"
Y/N laughed. "Something like that."
At that exact moment, Beau returned in a fresh shirt, Caleb on his hip. "What'd I miss?"
Emily looked positively delighted. "Mom might be thinking about college."
Beau stopped.
Then smiled.
A slow, proud smile.
The kind Y/N had come to recognize.
The kind that said there she is.
And for the first time in a long time, thinking about the future felt exciting.
Lunch was quieter than breakfast.
Not silent—there was still an eight-month-old involved—but quieter.
The house had settled into its midday rhythm. Eliza was at kindergarten, undoubtedly negotiating treaties and organizing wolf affairs. Caleb was spending his half-day at daycare, likely charming teachers while simultaneously testing every boundary available to him.
For the first time all morning, the house belonged mostly to Y/N and Ella.
Ella sat on the living room floor surrounded by toys, happily entertaining herself by repeatedly dropping a stacking ring and then looking offended that gravity continued to exist.
Y/N had just settled onto the couch with a sandwich when the front door opened.
Emily stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Y/N replied.
Emily grinned and held up a thick book. The college catalog. "I come bearing knowledge."
Y/N laughed. "That was fast."
"I had an hour between classes."
Emily kicked off her boots and crossed the room before dropping onto the couch beside her.
The catalog landed heavily in Y/N's lap. For a moment, neither of them opened it. The weight of it felt oddly significant. Not because it was a catalog. Because of what it represented. Possibility.
Emily glanced over. "So."
Y/N looked up. "So?"
"What are you thinking of studying?"
Y/N laughed softly. "That's the problem. I have absolutely no idea."
Emily smiled. "That's fair."
She reached over and opened the catalog between them. Page after page of possibilities greeted them.
Business.
Education.
Communications.
Psychology.
Accounting.
History.
English.
Criminal Justice.
Social Work.
Healthcare.
Art.
Y/N stared. The sheer number of options was overwhelming.
"How does anyone pick?" she asked.
Emily laughed. "They panic first."
"Good. Glad to know that's normal."
"It is."
Ella chose that moment to successfully move herself three feet across the floor through determination alone.
Both women stared.
"Was she over there?" Emily asked.
"I thought she was."
Ella looked delighted with herself.
Y/N shook her head and got up to retrieve her before she reached the coffee table.
When she sat back down, Emily was still flipping through the catalog.
"You know," Emily said thoughtfully, "you're really good with people."
Y/N adjusted Ella on her lap. "So are a lot of people."
"Yeah, but you genuinely like helping them."
The observation made Y/N pause. She thought about the years before Beau. The jobs she'd held. The people she'd met.
The satisfaction she'd always found in helping someone solve a problem. "I don't know," she admitted.
Emily nudged the catalog toward her. "You don't have to know today."
Y/N looked down at the pages. That was true. Nobody was demanding a decision. Not Beau. Not Emily. Not herself. This wasn't about having answers. It was about allowing herself to ask questions.
Her finger traced over a few program descriptions. She paused over one. Then another. Emily watched quietly, wisely resisting the urge to push.
Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows.
Inside, Ella babbled happily from Y/N's lap. And for the first time, Y/N wasn't looking at a future she feared. She was looking at one she might actually get to choose.
The front door opened a little after five-thirty.
Immediately, Beau knew two things.
First, he was home.
Second, absolute chaos was underway.
"Caleb, we do not climb the furniture!"
That was Y/N.
"Ducks don't follow rules!"
That was Eliza.
A crash followed.
Then Emily's voice. "Nobody move. I think we're still okay."
Beau grinned before he even got his jacket off.
The Arlen household.
Never boring.
He stepped into the living room to find Caleb halfway up the couch cushions, Eliza sprawled on the floor conducting what appeared to be an emergency wolf council, and Emily attempting to save a tower of blocks from imminent destruction.
The only calm person in the room was Ella.
And that was because she was sitting in the middle of the carpet happily chewing on a toy giraffe.
"Daddy!"
Eliza launched herself at him.
Beau caught her automatically. "Status report."
"The ducks are causing problems."
"Again?"
"They never learn."
"Understandable."
Caleb immediately abandoned his climbing expedition and attached himself to Beau's leg. "Da!"
"Hey there, tornado."
Y/N emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetables and a look that said she had survived another day.
Barely.
Beau crossed the room and kissed her. "How was your day?"
"Productive."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It probably is."
He laughed. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. A thick book sat there. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned.
And suddenly his entire face lit up. "The catalog."
Y/N smiled despite herself. "The catalog."
Beau carefully extracted himself from Eliza and Caleb and picked up the book. The excitement that crossed his face was immediate and genuine. Not polite support. Not forced enthusiasm. Actual excitement.
He flipped it over in his hands. "You got it."
Emily looked up from where she was helping Ella investigate a stuffed rabbit. "I brought it home after class."
Beau sat down on the couch, catalog in hand, looking absurdly pleased. "Have you found anything interesting?"
Y/N laughed softly. "I've barely started."
"That's okay."
He patted the couch beside him.
"Come here."
She rolled her eyes but sat anyway.
Beau wrapped an arm around her shoulders and opened the catalog between them.
Eliza immediately climbed onto the opposite side. "What're we reading?"
"College classes."
Eliza gasped.
"Mama's going to kindergarten."
Emily burst out laughing. "Basically."
Beau's shoulders shook with amusement.
Y/N covered her face. "Oh Lord."
"I think Mama should take wolf classes," Eliza informed them.
"Do they offer those?" Beau asked solemnly.
"Probably."
The conversation dissolved from there.
Eliza insisted on reviewing the catalog despite being unable to read most of it.
Caleb attempted to turn pages at random.
Ella eventually managed to grab one corner and tried to eat higher education.
Through it all, Beau remained impossibly enthusiastic.
Every few minutes he'd point something out.
"What's this one?"
"That sounds interestin'."
"Didn't you always like that kinda thing?"
There was no pressure behind it.
Just curiosity.
Support.
Excitement at seeing Y/N excited.
At one point she caught him watching her instead of the catalog. "What?"
His smile softened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
His hand found hers beneath the catalog. "I just like seein' you dream again, darlin'."
The words hit her harder than they should have.
Around them, the children continued their usual brand of cheerful mayhem.
Emily laughed at something Eliza said.
Caleb climbed into Beau's lap.
Ella squealed triumphantly after successfully stealing a page corner.
The house was loud.
Crowded.
Alive.
And sitting there in the middle of it all, surrounded by the family she'd built and the future she was beginning to imagine, Y/N found herself smiling.
Not because she had a plan.
Not because she had answers.
But because she finally believed she was allowed to have both a present she loved and a future she could still shape.
And judging by the look on Beau's face, her husband was ready to cheer her on every step of the way.
The house settled slowly that night.
Eliza required one final discussion about wolf patrol routes before agreeing to sleep. Caleb fought bedtime with the determined stubbornness of a child convinced he was missing something important. Ella, exhausted from a day of scooting across floors and terrorizing educational materials, finally surrendered after a bottle and a lengthy cuddle.
By the time the last bedroom door clicked shut, silence felt almost startling.
Not complete silence.
The familiar kind.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of the heater. The small sounds of a house breathing around them.
Beau found Y/N in the living room.
The college catalog still rested on the coffee table, now adorned with a few bent page corners courtesy of Ella and several sticky notes courtesy of Eliza, who had apparently marked programs she believed involved wolves.
Beau smiled when he saw it.
He sat beside Y/N on the couch and immediately reached for her, pulling her into his side until she fit comfortably against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, his hand rubbing absent circles along her arm.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The catalog sat open on her lap.
Pages dog-eared.
Possibilities highlighted.
Dreams still unnamed.
Eventually Beau tilted his head toward it. "So."
Y/N smiled. "So."
He chuckled. "You got any idea what you wanna do?"
She looked down at the pages.
There were so many options.
So many lives she could imagine herself living. "I don't know yet."
The answer surprised her with how much peace it contained.
A few weeks ago that uncertainty would have frightened her.
Now it felt exciting.
"I really don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks about going back to work. Part of me wonders about school. Sometimes I look at these programs and think, maybe. Then I turn the page and think maybe something else."
Beau listened quietly. No judgment. No expectations. Just listening.
Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that probably sounds ridiculous."
"It sounds normal."
She laughed softly. "I just..." She searched for the right words. "I feel excited."
The confession made her smile. Because it was true. Not anxious. Not trapped.
Excited.
The future no longer felt like something happening to her. It felt like something she could help shape. Beau's entire face softened. God, he loved hearing that.
He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm happy for you, darlin'."
The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. "I mean it," he continued. "You spent years puttin' everybody else first. If you're excited about somethin', I wanna hear about it."
Y/N looked up at him. "Even if I don't know what it is yet?"
He laughed. "Especially then."
His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. "You know what I see?"
She shook her head. "What?"
"I see a woman who finally realized she's allowed to dream again."
The words hit harder than he intended.
Her throat tightened.
Because that was exactly it.
Not that she hadn't been happy.
She had.
Not that she regretted a single choice.
She didn't.
But somewhere between pregnancies and diapers and school pickups and sleepless nights, she'd quietly stopped imagining anything beyond the next day.
Now she was imagining again.
And Beau looked positively delighted by it.
"I love you," she whispered.
His smile deepened. "I know."
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an invitation to quote Star Wars."
"It wasn't?"
"No."
"Missed opportunity."
Y/N laughed despite herself.
Beau grinned and pulled her closer until she was practically curled against him. "Whatever you decide," he murmured, kissing her temple, "we'll figure it out."
We.
Not you.
Not me.
We.
The word settled warmly between them.
Y/N closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.
The catalog remained open.
The future remained unwritten.
And for the first time in a very long time, that felt wonderful.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 3,238
Tags/Warnings: Family life, slice of life, college classes, children
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Six: Discovery
The restlessness left gradually.
Not all at once. Not in some dramatic revelation that changed everything overnight.
Instead, it eased like winter giving way to spring—slowly, almost imperceptibly, until one day Y/N realized she wasn't carrying that weight in her chest anymore.
Knowing the source of it had helped. More than that, knowing she wasn't trapped by it.
For weeks she had unconsciously treated her future like a closed door. Motherhood had consumed her life in the most beautiful ways possible, but somewhere along the way she'd stopped seeing beyond it. Not because Beau demanded it. Not because anyone else did. Simply because life had happened so quickly. Pregnancy. Marriage. Children. A home. A family.
Now she understood something important.
Being a mother wasn't the end of her story.
It was one chapter.
A beloved chapter.
But not the last one.
The knowledge settled deep inside her and transformed something fundamental. She no longer felt caught between gratitude and longing. She could love her life exactly as it was and still wonder what came next.
The two things weren't opposites.
They were companions.
As a result, she began to glow again.
Beau noticed first.
One morning she caught him watching her across the kitchen while she packed Eliza's lunch and bounced Ella on her hip simultaneously. The look on his face was warm and knowing.
"What?" she asked.
His smile widened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
"I just like seein' you smile again, darlin'."
The simple honesty of it made her laugh.
And she was smiling more these days.
Not because life had suddenly become easier.
God knew it hadn't.
Life with a kindergartener, a toddler, and a seven-month-old baby could hardly be described as peaceful.
Eliza remained a force of nature.
Every afternoon brought new reports from kindergarten, elaborate wolf-and-duck diplomatic incidents, and increasingly complicated imaginary adventures that somehow required the participation of every family member. Beau had recently been appointed Wolf General. Emily had been named Ambassador to the Ducks. Caleb had been promoted to "Tiny Chaos Monster," though Eliza insisted that was a respected title.
Caleb, for his part, seemed determined to experience every moment of existence at maximum speed.
The boy ran instead of walked. Climbed instead of sat. Explored instead of rested. He approached life with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of consequences.
Y/N spent a shocking amount of her day preventing him from launching himself off furniture.
Then there was Ella.
Sweet, observant, increasingly mobile Ella.
The baby who had once remained happily wherever she was placed had developed opinions.
Strong opinions.
She wanted to be where the people were.
Wanted to watch her siblings.
Wanted to investigate absolutely everything.
She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she was trying with impressive determination, which meant Y/N spent much of her time discovering that Ella had somehow migrated across rooms through sheer stubbornness.
Thankfully, she wasn't alone.
Emily remained a blessing.
Between college classes and her growing relationship with Peter, she still found time to help whenever she could. She picked up Caleb from daycare on days Beau ran late. She entertained Eliza with movie discussions that inevitably devolved into wolf politics. She cuddled Ella while Y/N showered or folded laundry or simply sat down for ten uninterrupted minutes.
Watching Emily with her younger siblings filled Y/N with quiet affection.
The young woman was thriving.
College suited her. Peter suited her. Confidence suited her.
And she carried all of it with a grace that made Y/N proud.
Then there was Beau.
Always Beau.
The steady center of everything.
The sheriff's department kept him busy. There were storms and budgets and mayors and emergencies. There were long days and occasional late nights and enough paperwork to make any reasonable man question his life choices.
Yet somehow he still came home and immediately threw himself into family life.
He helped with homework.
Read bedtime stories.
Built blanket forts.
Changed diapers.
Made dinner when Y/N was exhausted.
Loved all of them with a wholehearted devotion that never seemed performative or forced.
One evening, Y/N stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and simply watched.
Beau sat on the floor with Caleb climbing over him like a mountain. Eliza was explaining some critical wolf legislation. Emily was laughing at something Peter had texted her. Ella sat in Beau's lap, fascinated by his watch.
The room glowed with lamplight and laughter.
It wasn't perfect.
There were toys everywhere.
Someone had spilled juice.
The dishwasher needed unloading.
But standing there, Y/N felt something settle peacefully inside her.
The future no longer frightened her.
Work.
School.
Something entirely different.
Whatever came next would come.
And when it did, she wouldn't face it alone.
Because that was the true gift Beau had given her.
Not permission.
Freedom.
The freedom to imagine a future while knowing she already had a home.
Eight months brought changes to Ella almost weekly.
Not dramatic changes. Not the sort that announced themselves with fanfare.
Instead, Beau and Y/N kept finding themselves stopping mid-conversation and saying, "When did she start doing that?"
At eight months old, Ella had become mobile—or at least determinedly mobile.
She wasn't quite crawling properly yet, but she had mastered a highly effective combination of scooting, rolling, and dragging herself forward that allowed her to appear in places no one expected. She could sit independently now, reaching for toys without toppling over, and she had developed a fascination with dropping things from her highchair solely to observe whether adults would retrieve them.
The answer, unfortunately, was yes.
Every time.
Her babbling had become more elaborate too.
"Mama."
"Dada."
"Baba."
Whether she understood the words was debatable.
Whether she enjoyed the reaction they produced was not.
This morning she sat proudly in her highchair wearing approximately half her breakfast.
The other half was distributed across her tray, bib, cheeks, hair, and somehow one eyebrow.
Ella seemed pleased with this arrangement.
Across the table, Emily was eating toast while simultaneously helping Y/N manage the morning chaos.
Eliza was explaining why wolves absolutely required library cards.
And from upstairs came Beau's voice. "Buddy!"
Y/N closed her eyes briefly.
"What happened?" she called.
"Your son committed a crime."
"Our son."
There was a pause.
"Our son committed a crime."
Emily laughed into her coffee.
A moment later Beau appeared at the top of the stairs holding a juice-stained shirt.
Apparently Caleb had decided that drinking juice was less entertaining than launching it directly onto his father.
Beau disappeared again to change.
Meanwhile, Y/N wiped applesauce off Ella's chin.
Ella immediately smeared more onto her own face.
"Helpful," Y/N murmured.
Ella grinned.
The baby had recently discovered that smiling could get her out of almost anything.
It was proving alarmingly effective.
Emily reached over to rescue a banana slice before it hit the floor. "She's getting sneakier."
"She's learning from Eliza," Y/N said.
"I heard that!" Eliza announced.
"Good."
Eliza nodded, satisfied.
Y/N laughed softly and turned back to Ella, who was now enthusiastically squishing scrambled eggs between her fingers.
Then a thought struck her. Not sudden exactly. More like a seed finally breaking the surface. She looked over at Emily. "Hey."
Emily glanced up. "Yeah?"
Y/N hesitated for just a second. Then asked, "Could you get me a copy of the college catalog?"
Emily blinked. "The catalog?"
"Yeah."
Y/N reached for a napkin, wiping Ella's hands before the baby could decorate herself further. "I thought maybe I'd like to look through it. See what classes they offer."
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Not uncomfortable.
Just surprised.
Emily lowered her toast. "You mean... for you?"
A faint smile tugged at Y/N's lips. "Maybe."
The answer was simple, but it sent a spark through the room.
Emily's eyes widened. Then slowly, beautifully, she smiled. The kind of smile that came from witnessing someone open a door they hadn't realized was still there.
"Yeah," Emily said warmly. "I can do that."
Across the room, Eliza looked up. "Is Mama going to kindergarten too?"
Y/N laughed. "Something like that."
At that exact moment, Beau returned in a fresh shirt, Caleb on his hip. "What'd I miss?"
Emily looked positively delighted. "Mom might be thinking about college."
Beau stopped.
Then smiled.
A slow, proud smile.
The kind Y/N had come to recognize.
The kind that said there she is.
And for the first time in a long time, thinking about the future felt exciting.
Lunch was quieter than breakfast.
Not silent—there was still an eight-month-old involved—but quieter.
The house had settled into its midday rhythm. Eliza was at kindergarten, undoubtedly negotiating treaties and organizing wolf affairs. Caleb was spending his half-day at daycare, likely charming teachers while simultaneously testing every boundary available to him.
For the first time all morning, the house belonged mostly to Y/N and Ella.
Ella sat on the living room floor surrounded by toys, happily entertaining herself by repeatedly dropping a stacking ring and then looking offended that gravity continued to exist.
Y/N had just settled onto the couch with a sandwich when the front door opened.
Emily stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Y/N replied.
Emily grinned and held up a thick book. The college catalog. "I come bearing knowledge."
Y/N laughed. "That was fast."
"I had an hour between classes."
Emily kicked off her boots and crossed the room before dropping onto the couch beside her.
The catalog landed heavily in Y/N's lap. For a moment, neither of them opened it. The weight of it felt oddly significant. Not because it was a catalog. Because of what it represented. Possibility.
Emily glanced over. "So."
Y/N looked up. "So?"
"What are you thinking of studying?"
Y/N laughed softly. "That's the problem. I have absolutely no idea."
Emily smiled. "That's fair."
She reached over and opened the catalog between them. Page after page of possibilities greeted them.
Business.
Education.
Communications.
Psychology.
Accounting.
History.
English.
Criminal Justice.
Social Work.
Healthcare.
Art.
Y/N stared. The sheer number of options was overwhelming.
"How does anyone pick?" she asked.
Emily laughed. "They panic first."
"Good. Glad to know that's normal."
"It is."
Ella chose that moment to successfully move herself three feet across the floor through determination alone.
Both women stared.
"Was she over there?" Emily asked.
"I thought she was."
Ella looked delighted with herself.
Y/N shook her head and got up to retrieve her before she reached the coffee table.
When she sat back down, Emily was still flipping through the catalog.
"You know," Emily said thoughtfully, "you're really good with people."
Y/N adjusted Ella on her lap. "So are a lot of people."
"Yeah, but you genuinely like helping them."
The observation made Y/N pause. She thought about the years before Beau. The jobs she'd held. The people she'd met.
The satisfaction she'd always found in helping someone solve a problem. "I don't know," she admitted.
Emily nudged the catalog toward her. "You don't have to know today."
Y/N looked down at the pages. That was true. Nobody was demanding a decision. Not Beau. Not Emily. Not herself. This wasn't about having answers. It was about allowing herself to ask questions.
Her finger traced over a few program descriptions. She paused over one. Then another. Emily watched quietly, wisely resisting the urge to push.
Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows.
Inside, Ella babbled happily from Y/N's lap. And for the first time, Y/N wasn't looking at a future she feared. She was looking at one she might actually get to choose.
The front door opened a little after five-thirty.
Immediately, Beau knew two things.
First, he was home.
Second, absolute chaos was underway.
"Caleb, we do not climb the furniture!"
That was Y/N.
"Ducks don't follow rules!"
That was Eliza.
A crash followed.
Then Emily's voice. "Nobody move. I think we're still okay."
Beau grinned before he even got his jacket off.
The Arlen household.
Never boring.
He stepped into the living room to find Caleb halfway up the couch cushions, Eliza sprawled on the floor conducting what appeared to be an emergency wolf council, and Emily attempting to save a tower of blocks from imminent destruction.
The only calm person in the room was Ella.
And that was because she was sitting in the middle of the carpet happily chewing on a toy giraffe.
"Daddy!"
Eliza launched herself at him.
Beau caught her automatically. "Status report."
"The ducks are causing problems."
"Again?"
"They never learn."
"Understandable."
Caleb immediately abandoned his climbing expedition and attached himself to Beau's leg. "Da!"
"Hey there, tornado."
Y/N emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetables and a look that said she had survived another day.
Barely.
Beau crossed the room and kissed her. "How was your day?"
"Productive."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It probably is."
He laughed. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. A thick book sat there. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned.
And suddenly his entire face lit up. "The catalog."
Y/N smiled despite herself. "The catalog."
Beau carefully extracted himself from Eliza and Caleb and picked up the book. The excitement that crossed his face was immediate and genuine. Not polite support. Not forced enthusiasm. Actual excitement.
He flipped it over in his hands. "You got it."
Emily looked up from where she was helping Ella investigate a stuffed rabbit. "I brought it home after class."
Beau sat down on the couch, catalog in hand, looking absurdly pleased. "Have you found anything interesting?"
Y/N laughed softly. "I've barely started."
"That's okay."
He patted the couch beside him.
"Come here."
She rolled her eyes but sat anyway.
Beau wrapped an arm around her shoulders and opened the catalog between them.
Eliza immediately climbed onto the opposite side. "What're we reading?"
"College classes."
Eliza gasped.
"Mama's going to kindergarten."
Emily burst out laughing. "Basically."
Beau's shoulders shook with amusement.
Y/N covered her face. "Oh Lord."
"I think Mama should take wolf classes," Eliza informed them.
"Do they offer those?" Beau asked solemnly.
"Probably."
The conversation dissolved from there.
Eliza insisted on reviewing the catalog despite being unable to read most of it.
Caleb attempted to turn pages at random.
Ella eventually managed to grab one corner and tried to eat higher education.
Through it all, Beau remained impossibly enthusiastic.
Every few minutes he'd point something out.
"What's this one?"
"That sounds interestin'."
"Didn't you always like that kinda thing?"
There was no pressure behind it.
Just curiosity.
Support.
Excitement at seeing Y/N excited.
At one point she caught him watching her instead of the catalog. "What?"
His smile softened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
His hand found hers beneath the catalog. "I just like seein' you dream again, darlin'."
The words hit her harder than they should have.
Around them, the children continued their usual brand of cheerful mayhem.
Emily laughed at something Eliza said.
Caleb climbed into Beau's lap.
Ella squealed triumphantly after successfully stealing a page corner.
The house was loud.
Crowded.
Alive.
And sitting there in the middle of it all, surrounded by the family she'd built and the future she was beginning to imagine, Y/N found herself smiling.
Not because she had a plan.
Not because she had answers.
But because she finally believed she was allowed to have both a present she loved and a future she could still shape.
And judging by the look on Beau's face, her husband was ready to cheer her on every step of the way.
The house settled slowly that night.
Eliza required one final discussion about wolf patrol routes before agreeing to sleep. Caleb fought bedtime with the determined stubbornness of a child convinced he was missing something important. Ella, exhausted from a day of scooting across floors and terrorizing educational materials, finally surrendered after a bottle and a lengthy cuddle.
By the time the last bedroom door clicked shut, silence felt almost startling.
Not complete silence.
The familiar kind.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of the heater. The small sounds of a house breathing around them.
Beau found Y/N in the living room.
The college catalog still rested on the coffee table, now adorned with a few bent page corners courtesy of Ella and several sticky notes courtesy of Eliza, who had apparently marked programs she believed involved wolves.
Beau smiled when he saw it.
He sat beside Y/N on the couch and immediately reached for her, pulling her into his side until she fit comfortably against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, his hand rubbing absent circles along her arm.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The catalog sat open on her lap.
Pages dog-eared.
Possibilities highlighted.
Dreams still unnamed.
Eventually Beau tilted his head toward it. "So."
Y/N smiled. "So."
He chuckled. "You got any idea what you wanna do?"
She looked down at the pages.
There were so many options.
So many lives she could imagine herself living. "I don't know yet."
The answer surprised her with how much peace it contained.
A few weeks ago that uncertainty would have frightened her.
Now it felt exciting.
"I really don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks about going back to work. Part of me wonders about school. Sometimes I look at these programs and think, maybe. Then I turn the page and think maybe something else."
Beau listened quietly. No judgment. No expectations. Just listening.
Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that probably sounds ridiculous."
"It sounds normal."
She laughed softly. "I just..." She searched for the right words. "I feel excited."
The confession made her smile. Because it was true. Not anxious. Not trapped.
Excited.
The future no longer felt like something happening to her. It felt like something she could help shape. Beau's entire face softened. God, he loved hearing that.
He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm happy for you, darlin'."
The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. "I mean it," he continued. "You spent years puttin' everybody else first. If you're excited about somethin', I wanna hear about it."
Y/N looked up at him. "Even if I don't know what it is yet?"
He laughed. "Especially then."
His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. "You know what I see?"
She shook her head. "What?"
"I see a woman who finally realized she's allowed to dream again."
The words hit harder than he intended.
Her throat tightened.
Because that was exactly it.
Not that she hadn't been happy.
She had.
Not that she regretted a single choice.
She didn't.
But somewhere between pregnancies and diapers and school pickups and sleepless nights, she'd quietly stopped imagining anything beyond the next day.
Now she was imagining again.
And Beau looked positively delighted by it.
"I love you," she whispered.
His smile deepened. "I know."
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an invitation to quote Star Wars."
"It wasn't?"
"No."
"Missed opportunity."
Y/N laughed despite herself.
Beau grinned and pulled her closer until she was practically curled against him. "Whatever you decide," he murmured, kissing her temple, "we'll figure it out."
We.
Not you.
Not me.
We.
The word settled warmly between them.
Y/N closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.
The catalog remained open.
The future remained unwritten.
And for the first time in a very long time, that felt wonderful.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
As you could tell... I'm back! While I'm not yet back in full force—Crossroads of the Heart will take a bit of re-reading and re-familiarizing myself—Familiar Ground and Second Chances: Forever are definitely back! (Not to mention, I will be having a new Supernatural One-Shot coming out for the Summer Solstice too!)
The schedule date for them will be a bit wonky. I'm going to try to keep it consistent, but likely toward the middle of the week. Like hopefully, Familiar Ground will be Tuesdays, Second Chances: Forever will be Wednesdays, and once I'm back to it, Crossroads of the Heart will be Thursdays (though every other week?).
(More under the cut, because this is turning into a long post.)
And perhaps... some sad news.
I foresee an ending to Crossroads of the Heart. I do love writing CJ Braxton and his steady love for Y/N, with the chaos gremlin that is Gabby and her unusual love with Miles, but I feel the end has come for that storyline. I don't know when it'll end, only that it will. I promise it'll end well and happily though!
And I know I mentioned I'd be working on a novel! Well, it's definitely going to be worked on! I have a tentative title in place, and a general storyline already! 😄
General teaser of the novel, for those who wanted to know about it:
[Male main character/MMC] thought the best parts of his life were behind him.
[Female main character/FMC] spends every weekend singing at weddings and every Monday reminding herself not to believe in fairy tales.
When a mutual friend's wedding throws them together, neither expects more than a pleasant conversation. Instead, they find themselves drawn into an easy friendship built on sharp humor, honest conversations, and the kind of understanding that only comes along once in a lifetime.
As friendship slowly deepens into something more, [MMC] and [FMC] begin to wonder if maybe life isn't divided into winners and losers, first loves and lost chances.
Maybe there are second verses.
And maybe the most beautiful songs are the ones that continue after you thought they were over.
———
So yeah. I'm happily writing again. The FUBAR is, hopefully, seeing the end.
Oh, life will continue to, er, life—but that difficult situation? I got out. I'm safe. To borrow a phrase from a family member, I'm rebooting my life and it's getting better. Not great, but far better. I'm healthier. And outside of melting in the heat, the stress... is manageable. To the point where my muse is exploding with stories again.
So thank you all for being patient with the sudden silence, the lack of updates. I super appreciate it all. 💖
As you could tell... I'm back! While I'm not yet back in full force—Crossroads of the Heart will take a bit of re-reading and re-familiarizing myself—Familiar Ground and Second Chances: Forever are definitely back! (Not to mention, I will be having a new Supernatural One-Shot coming out for the Summer Solstice too!)
The schedule date for them will be a bit wonky. I'm going to try to keep it consistent, but likely toward the middle of the week. Like hopefully, Familiar Ground will be Tuesdays, Second Chances: Forever will be Wednesdays, and once I'm back to it, Crossroads of the Heart will be Thursdays (though every other week?).
(More under the cut, because this is turning into a long post.)
And perhaps... some sad news.
I foresee an ending to Crossroads of the Heart. I do love writing CJ Braxton and his steady love for Y/N, with the chaos gremlin that is Gabby and her unusual love with Miles, but I feel the end has come for that storyline. I don't know when it'll end, only that it will. I promise it'll end well and happily though!
And I know I mentioned I'd be working on a novel! Well, it's definitely going to be worked on! I have a tentative title in place, and a general storyline already! 😄
General teaser of the novel, for those who wanted to know about it:
[Male main character/MMC] thought the best parts of his life were behind him.
[Female main character/FMC] spends every weekend singing at weddings and every Monday reminding herself not to believe in fairy tales.
When a mutual friend's wedding throws them together, neither expects more than a pleasant conversation. Instead, they find themselves drawn into an easy friendship built on sharp humor, honest conversations, and the kind of understanding that only comes along once in a lifetime.
As friendship slowly deepens into something more, [MMC] and [FMC] begin to wonder if maybe life isn't divided into winners and losers, first loves and lost chances.
Maybe there are second verses.
And maybe the most beautiful songs are the ones that continue after you thought they were over.
———
So yeah. I'm happily writing again. The FUBAR is, hopefully, seeing the end.
Oh, life will continue to, er, life—but that difficult situation? I got out. I'm safe. To borrow a phrase from a family member, I'm rebooting my life and it's getting better. Not great, but far better. I'm healthier. And outside of melting in the heat, the stress... is manageable. To the point where my muse is exploding with stories again.
So thank you all for being patient with the sudden silence, the lack of updates. I super appreciate it all. 💖
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 4,477
Tags/Warnings: Mention of death, afterlife, mention of eating disorders, grief, hints of 18+ discussion, alcohol
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Note: I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. Life had kicked me back and I couldn't even do Familiar Ground for a time. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Seven: Arrangements
Bobby pointed his fork at all three of them before anyone could even think about reopening the conversation.
“No.”
Dean blinked. “We didn't even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were breathin' like you were about to.”
Sam immediately looked down at his plate to hide a smile.
Bobby ignored him.
“Food first,” he declared. “Apocalyptic soul-stealin' nightmare later.”
Natalie found herself smiling despite everything.
Bobby noticed and pointed at her next. “And you. Eat.”
“I am eating.”
“More.”
“Bobby—”
“More.”
Dean snorted into his beer.
Natalie shot him a look.
Traitor.
Bobby sat back, apparently satisfied that everyone had food in front of them, and for the first time all evening, the house settled into something almost normal.
Almost.
Conversation drifted in fits and starts. Sam made an observation about the water spirit. Bobby complained about hunters who never returned books where they found them. Dean argued that Bobby's filing system was incomprehensible.
Through it all, however, something had changed.
Something small.
Something private.
Natalie sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. The first touch was accidental. At least, it could have been. Her hand shifted near her plate and her knuckles brushed his.
Neither of them pulled away.
A few moments later, Dean's thumb grazed lightly against the back of her hand. Natalie's breath caught. No one noticed.
Well.
No one except Sam. Sam noticed everything. Across the table, he wisely kept his mouth shut.
A little while later, Natalie reached for her beer at the same time Dean reached for his. Their fingers touched. This time Dean let his hand linger. Just for a second. Just enough to make sure she felt it.
Natalie's lips curved faintly.
Bobby was in the middle of complaining about rust demons—"which ain't a thing but probably should be"—when Dean's hand found hers again beneath the table.
Not holding. Not yet. Just resting close enough that his thumb could stroke lightly over her knuckles. The gesture was so small. So simple.
And somehow it felt more intimate than the kiss.
Because this was Dean. Dean, who rarely slowed down. Dean, who carried affection in actions more than words. Dean, who kept finding reasons to touch her simply because he could.
Natalie looked down at her plate to hide her smile.
Across from them, Sam saw it anyway. He glanced between the two of them. The subtle touches. The quiet happiness. The way Dean looked lighter than he had in years.
Sam smiled to himself and returned to his dinner.
At the head of the table, Bobby continued grumbling about food, hunters, and the state of the world. But beneath all that gruff irritation was relief.
For tonight, at least, everyone was home. Everyone was alive. And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.
Bobby sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he had personally suffered on behalf of every stubborn person in the room. His eyes drifted to Natalie's plate.
Natalie immediately caught him looking. And gave him a look. It was a very specific look. I am eating. Back off, old man.
Bobby's mouth twitched.
Dean saw the exchange and barked out a laugh.
Natalie shot him a betrayed glance.
Dean bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.
"I ate," she insisted.
Bobby grumped under his breath, eyeing the admittedly diminished contents of her plate.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine."
"Thank you."
"Don't get used to it."
Natalie rolled her eyes.
The moment settled something in the room. A little of the tension leaked away. The familiarity of it—the banter, the grumbling, Bobby monitoring everyone's food intake whether they liked it or not—felt strangely comforting after everything that had been revealed.
For a few moments, they simply ate.
Then Bobby set down his fork. The room quieted. He looked at Natalie. This time there was no irritation in his gaze. Just concern. "Tell us about the Master."
Natalie's smile faded.
Dean immediately felt her tense beside him. Without thinking, his hand brushed hers beneath the table. A silent reassurance.
She glanced at him briefly. Then took a breath. "I'm not sure how much of what it told me was true."
Sam leaned forward slightly. "Tell us anyway."
Natalie nodded. "It doesn't think the way we do." That was how she began.
The room went still.
"When I talked to it..." She paused, searching for words. "I got the impression that Heaven and Hell weren't enemies to it."
Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean it wasn't aligned with either side."
Bobby's expression darkened.
Natalie stared down at her beer bottle. "It spoke about both of them like they were neighboring countries."
The statement landed heavily.
Sam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It exists outside the system."
Natalie nodded. "As far as I could tell." She rubbed her thumb against the glass. "Outside Heaven. Outside Hell. Outside the usual universe entirely, maybe."
Dean's stomach tightened. The way she said it sounded less like theory and more like experience.
"It described Heaven and Hell as..." She hesitated. "Structures."
Bobby looked disgusted by the implication.
"Structures built around rules."
"And this thing isn't bound by those rules?" Sam asked.
"No." Natalie swallowed. "It lives in the spaces between them."
The room fell silent.
Dean remembered the scar. Remembered her saying it could have killed her. Remembered the fear in her voice when she'd admitted she wasn't strong enough. "What does it want?" he asked quietly.
Natalie looked at him.
For a moment, Dean saw the memory of Nova Scotia flash across her face.
Then she answered. "Power." A pause. "But not the way demons want power."
Sam frowned. "Then what kind?"
Natalie's gaze drifted toward the dark window over the sink. "The kind that comes from controlling what everyone else ignores."
Nobody spoke.
She continued softly. "The lost." Another pause. "The forgotten." Her voice dropped lower. "The souls that slip through the cracks."
The room grew very quiet indeed. Because every hunter at that table knew one terrible truth: There were always cracks.
The silence lingered after her last words. Dean could feel everyone thinking. Turning over possibilities. Trying to understand something that sat completely outside the lore they knew.
Natalie stared at the label on her beer bottle for a moment before speaking again. "The Master called them border souls."
Natalie looked up. The question seemed to pull her backward through time. "When I finally got her to talk..." she said softly, "she told me my father wasn't at peace."
The room went still. Dean remembered her saying as much earlier. But hearing it again somehow landed harder.
"She said Leandro hadn't crossed cleanly." Natalie swallowed. "That he wasn't suffering."
A flicker of relief crossed Bobby's face. Then vanished.
"But he wasn't free either."
The relief died completely.
Dean watched Bobby's expression close.
Natalie continued. "Missouri said that when my father died, he wasn't killed by the master."
"He was killed by the monster," Sam said, recalling the story.
Natalie nodded. "That's when she started talking about border souls." Her fingers tightened around the bottle. "She said sometimes a death creates... interference."
Dean frowned. "Interference how?"
"I don't know." The admission frustrated her. "I kept asking. She kept refusing to explain." A sad smile touched her lips. "She spent half the conversation trying to convince me to leave it alone."
Bobby snorted. "Smart woman."
Natalie shot him a look.
Dean almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew where this was going.
"She told me my father was one of them." The room quieted again. "A border soul." Natalie's voice softened. "Not in Heaven." A pause. "Not in Hell." Another. "Just... trapped."
Dean felt her pain then. Not the physical kind. The grief. The years of it. Because until that moment, Leandro had been dead. Gone. Mourned. Now he occupied a far crueler place. Not gone. Waiting.
Lost.
"And Missouri knew?" Sam asked.
Natalie nodded. "I think she knew more than she ever told me."
"Probably." Bobby's voice was rough.
Natalie looked toward him. "I think she was trying to protect me."
"She was." The certainty in Bobby's answer surprised everyone. He stared into his beer. "Missouri wasn't the kind to hide things unless there was a reason."
Dean watched him closely. Bobby looked older suddenly. Tired. Like he was remembering old conversations he'd hoped would stay buried.
Natalie noticed it too. "You knew something."
It wasn't an accusation. Just a realization.
Bobby was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I knew there were questions."
Dean immediately looked at him. "Bobby—"
"I never had answers." His voice carried genuine frustration. "I knew the hunt didn't sit right. Knew things about it never lined up." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But not enough to go chasin' ghosts."
Natalie looked down. "Well." Her laugh was small and humorless. "I did."
Nobody argued with that. Because the scar on her stomach was proof enough. Dean's hand found hers beneath the table again. This time he didn't bother pretending it was accidental.
Natalie looked over. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. A simple gesture. But the message was clear: You're not carrying this alone anymore.
For the first time since she'd started talking, some of the tension left her shoulders. And Bobby noticed. Of course he did. He watched them for a second. Then looked away.
Not because he disapproved. Quite the opposite. Because after everything Natalie had just told them, Bobby found himself grateful that when she finally decided to stop carrying the burden alone: Dean Winchester had been waiting to catch it with her.
Dean sat with his beer untouched, Natalie's hand still beneath his, his thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles as the conversation settled into an uneasy silence.
The house seemed smaller somehow.
Maybe because the thing they were discussing wasn't a ghost. Wasn't a vampire nest. Wasn't even a demon.
It was something that existed beyond the categories that had shaped Dean's entire life.
The old clock on Bobby's wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the South Dakota wind rattled loose sheet metal in the junkyard.
Finally, Dean broke the silence. "How do we kill it?"
The question landed with the weight of a dropped stone. Natalie closed her eyes briefly. Sam looked thoughtful. Bobby immediately looked irritated.
"That's your first question?" Bobby demanded.
Dean turned toward him. "It nearly killed her."
"That wasn't my question."
"It is now."
Bobby pushed his chair back slightly, the wood scraping against the floor. "You don't even know if it can be killed."
Dean's jaw tightened. "Everything can be killed."
Natalie made a small sound under her breath.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean—"
"No," Dean said, leaning forward. "We're talking about a thing that's collecting souls and using monsters as tools. So yeah. I want to know how we put it in the ground."
Bobby barked out a humorless laugh. "And then what?"
Dean frowned. "What do you mean, then what?"
"What happens to all those souls if this thing is holdin' them together?" Bobby shot back. "What happens if it's part of the structure?"
The room fell quiet again. That possibility hadn't occurred to Dean. It clearly had occurred to Bobby.
"You don't know that," Dean argued.
"No," Bobby agreed. "Neither do you."
The older hunter stood and began pacing again, his beer forgotten on the table. Dean could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see decades of experience trying to wrestle with something completely outside the normal rules.
"We're making assumptions," Bobby continued. "Big ones."
Natalie watched him carefully. "We know it's dangerous."
"Damn right it's dangerous."
"We know it's trapping souls."
"Maybe."
That made her blink. "Maybe?"
Bobby stopped pacing and pointed at her. "You know what it told you."
Natalie's expression hardened. "I saw the records."
"You saw what it wanted you to see."
The room went still. Dean felt something shift. Because Bobby had a point. A frustrating point. But a point.
The Master had controlled the battlefield from the beginning. It had expected Natalie. Expected her questions. Expected her grief. For all they knew, the entire encounter had been staged.
Sam sat forward, elbows on the table. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's the real problem."
Everyone looked at him.
"We don't know what's true."
Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sam spread his hands. "Think about it. Everything we know comes from three sources. Missouri. The Master. And assumptions."
Dean hated when Sam got that look. The one that meant he was right.
"Missouri said Leandro wasn't at rest," Sam continued. "The Master confirmed it. But neither one actually explained the mechanics."
Natalie's shoulders tensed. "You're saying my father might not be trapped."
"I'm saying we don't know."
The distinction mattered. Dean could see it hit her. Not relief. Not hope. Something more complicated. The possibility that she had spent three years chasing a story whose ending she still didn't understand.
"I met it," Natalie said quietly.
"No one is saying you didn't."
"It nearly killed me."
Dean's hand tightened around hers instinctively.
Sam nodded. "I know. But that's different than understanding what it actually is."
The silence stretched. Then Bobby sighed heavily and dropped back into his chair. "What I'm hearin'," he said, rubbing a hand through his beard, "is that everybody's already talkin' about killin' somethin' we don't understand."
Dean opened his mouth.
Bobby cut him off. "And before you start, boy, if this thing really exists outside Heaven and Hell..." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Then we are officially operating outside our pay grade."
That earned the smallest snort from Sam. Even Natalie smiled faintly. Dean did not. Because he kept returning to one image. Natalie bleeding out on a cold floor in Nova Scotia. The scar. The fear in her voice when she'd admitted she almost hadn't come home.
"You know what?" Dean said finally.
Everyone looked at him. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"I don't care."
Bobby groaned immediately. "Of course you don't."
Dean ignored him. "I don't care if it's part of the structure. I don't care if it exists outside Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oz, Narnia, wherever the hell."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Natalie actually laughed.
Dean pointed at her. "That thing hurt you." The room quieted instantly. His gaze didn't leave hers. "And maybe we don't know how to kill it."
A beat.
"Yet."
Something fierce settled across the table. Because Dean Winchester had never been particularly impressed by impossible.
Bobby stared at him for several long seconds before shaking his head. "God help me."
"No argument there," Sam muttered.
Bobby pointed at all three younger hunters. "You are not marchin' back to Nova Scotia tomorrow."
"We weren't—"
"You were thinkin' it."
Dean had, in fact, been thinking it.
Bobby's glare sharpened. "We do this right." The words carried the force of command. "We research. We investigate. We figure out what this thing actually is."
His gaze moved to Natalie. "Then." To Dean. "And only then." To Sam. "We decide whether killin' it is even the right answer."
No one immediately argued. Which, for this group, was as close to agreement as anyone was likely to get.
Dean sat back in his chair, but only physically. The rest of him remained wound tight as piano wire. The revelation that Natalie had nearly died, that she had spent three years chasing whispers across the continent, and that some impossible thing had marked her and let her live, had settled beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't remove. Every instinct he possessed kept returning to the same place: the scar across her stomach. He could still see it every time he closed his eyes.
The room itself felt deceptively normal. Dinner sat half-finished on plates. Bobby's old kitchen light cast a warm yellow glow across scarred wood and mismatched chairs. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. It should have felt like every other evening they'd spent at Bobby's over the years.
Instead, it felt like they were sitting around the edge of a cliff.
Dean finally broke the silence. "So how do we kill it?"
The question landed heavily in the room.
Natalie looked up from her plate. Sam's attention sharpened immediately. Bobby, however, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though Dean had just confirmed every frustration he'd ever had about raising Winchester boys.
"Of course that's where your mind goes," Bobby muttered.
Dean frowned. "Something trapping souls isn't exactly getting a free pass from me."
Bobby's chair creaked as he leaned back. "And what exactly makes you think killing it's the right answer?"
The challenge caught Dean off guard. Not because Bobby disagreed—Bobby disagreed with him all the time—but because the older hunter seemed genuinely troubled by the question itself.
Dean gestured toward Natalie. "It nearly killed her."
"It nearly killed her because she went after it."
"And?"
"And that's not the same thing."
Dean stared at him in disbelief.
Across the table, Sam folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful in the way Dean knew usually meant his brother was about to become annoyingly reasonable. "Bobby might have a point."
Dean let out a sharp breath. "You too?"
Sam didn't flinch. "Think about what we actually know."
The words hung in the air.
Natalie had gone very still. Dean could see her listening carefully, her fingers wrapped around her beer bottle, her expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.
"We know the Master exists," Sam continued. "We know it had records. We know it knew about Leandro. We know it injured Natalie and let her leave. But beyond that?"
He spread his hands. "We're taking a lot on faith."
Bobby nodded immediately. "Exactly."
Dean hated when they agreed.
"What, you think she's lying?" he asked sharply.
"No." Sam's answer came immediately. "I think she believes what she saw."
Natalie's gaze dropped to the table.
The distinction mattered.
Dean could tell from the way her shoulders tightened.
Bobby rose from his chair and began pacing again, unable to stay seated when he was worried. It was a habit Dean had watched for years. Whenever Bobby started wearing a path into the floorboards, it meant something had gotten under his skin.
"This thing knew exactly what buttons to push," Bobby said. "It knew about her father. Knew she'd come looking. Knew she'd keep digging."
The older hunter stopped near the sink and turned back toward them. "For all we know, the whole damn encounter was orchestrated."
Natalie looked up sharply. "You think it lied?"
"I think powerful things rarely tell the whole truth."
The room fell quiet again.
Dean found himself watching Natalie's face. He could practically see the argument playing out behind her eyes. The certainty she'd carried home from Nova Scotia was being challenged now, not because Bobby thought she was wrong, but because Bobby had spent decades surviving by questioning everything.
Even his own conclusions.
Especially his own conclusions.
Natalie finally leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. "When I was there," she said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it felt real."
Nobody interrupted her.
"The records were real. The souls were real. The fear was real." She swallowed. "And my father's name was there."
Something flickered across Bobby's expression then. Pain. Old pain. The kind that had never entirely healed.
Dean realized suddenly that Bobby wasn't just worried about Natalie. He was reliving Leandro's death all over again. Every new revelation peeled open another layer of guilt the older hunter had spent decades trying to bury.
Bobby lowered himself back into his chair, looking older than he had an hour ago.
"Kid," he said quietly, "I've spent twenty years wishing I'd had answers."
Natalie's eyes softened. "I know."
"No." Bobby shook his head. "I don't think you do."
His voice had lost all its irritation now. What remained was exhaustion and regret.
"When your father died, I tore that hunt apart. Every witness. Every scrap of lore. Every lead I could find. I wanted there to be a reason. I wanted there to be something I missed because that would've been easier than accepting what happened."
The room was utterly silent.
Dean glanced at Sam. Sam had gone still too.
"You know what I found?" Bobby continued.
Natalie slowly shook her head.
"Nothing."
The word landed heavily.
"Just a dead friend and a little girl who deserved her father."
Natalie's eyes glistened.
Dean felt her hand find his beneath the table. This time it wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. She simply reached for him.
He laced their fingers together immediately.
Neither of them commented on it.
Bobby noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
His gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands before moving away again. "Maybe this Master is exactly what you think it is," he said. "Maybe it really is holding souls. Maybe Leandro's one of them."
A pause followed.
"But if we're going after it, we're doing it because we know what we're dealing with."
Dean's jaw tightened. "And if we find out she's right?"
Bobby looked directly at him. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."
A reluctant smile tugged at Sam's mouth.
Natalie actually laughed softly.
Dean shook his head. "That's not the expression."
"It is now."
For the first time all evening, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Because everyone in the room knew the truth. The Master was still out there. Leandro's fate remained unresolved.
And somewhere beyond Heaven and Hell, something had noticed Natalie Guimet—and had allowed her to walk away alive.
The question hanging over all of them wasn't whether they would go after it.
The question was what they would discover when they finally did.
The conversation eventually ran out of steam. Not because they had reached any answers. If anything, they had accumulated more questions than when they started.
But there came a point where exhaustion settled over the room like a blanket. The beer bottles were mostly empty. The dinner plates sat abandoned. The clock on the wall had crawled steadily toward midnight, then beyond it.
Bobby was the first to surrender.
The older hunter pushed himself upright with a groan and reached for another beer from the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease and stood there for a moment, looking at the three younger hunters around his table.
His gaze settled on Natalie. Then Dean. Then back to Natalie.
The look alone was enough to make Dean suspicious. "What?"
Bobby sighed heavily. "Lord help me."
Dean frowned. "What?"
Bobby pointed vaguely between the two of them. "I don't wanna know."
Natalie blinked. "Don't wanna know what?"
"How the hell you two are gonna handle sleepin' arrangements tonight."
The silence that followed was immediate. Natalie's eyes widened. To Dean's absolute horror, he felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Across the table, Sam immediately buried his face behind his beer bottle.
Bobby looked vindicated. "Yep."
"Bobby!" Natalie exclaimed.
"What?"
"You cannot just—"
"I absolutely can."
Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Which somehow made everything worse. Natalie looked equally horrified. And embarrassed. And if Dean wasn't mistaken, actually blushing. That realization nearly finished him off.
Bobby took one look at both of them and barked out a laugh. "Oh, that's priceless."
"Bobby," Dean managed.
"Nope."
The older hunter pointed his beer at them. "Not hearin' it."
Then he pointed toward the hallway. "You two can figure out whatever awkward nonsense you're gonna figure out."
Dean wished the floor would open beneath him.
Natalie appeared to share the sentiment.
"I don't want details."
"Bobby!"
"I don't want explanations."
Dean groaned.
"I definitely don't want visual aids."
"Oh my God."
"Which means," Bobby concluded, taking a victorious swallow of beer, "you can both shut up, idjits."
With that, he turned and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there he paused. Without turning around, he added, "And if either one of you wakes me up, I'm changin' my will."
Then he disappeared. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoed through the house.
Silence followed.
Long.
Painful.
Silence.
Sam was the first to break. A slow grin spread across his face.
Dean pointed at him immediately. "Don't."
Sam lifted both hands. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Maybe."
Dean groaned.
Natalie dropped her face into her hands.
Sam's grin only widened. "You know," he said mildly, gathering plates, "I think I'll do the dishes."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
Dean muttered something rude under his breath.
Sam laughed quietly and carried the dishes toward the sink, giving them what privacy he could without actually leaving the room.
Which left Dean and Natalie sitting alone at the table.
Or at least as alone as two people could be while Sam Winchester deliberately made more noise than necessary with plates in the background.
For a few moments neither spoke. The enormity of the evening finally seemed to catch up with them. The confessions. The kiss. The Master. Leandro. Everything.
Dean found himself looking at Natalie. Natalie looked back. And suddenly the reality of it hit. They weren't wondering whether they had feelings anymore. That question had been answered. Decisively.
Instead they found themselves facing an entirely different uncertainty.
What happened now?
For years their friendship had been built on familiar ground. They knew how to be friends. Knew how to call each other in the middle of the night. Knew how to tease, argue, comfort, and trust one another.
But this?
This was new territory.
Natalie laughed softly, the sound carrying equal parts joy and nervousness. "This is weird."
Dean immediately nodded. "Yeah."
Another pause.
Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed. The tension loosened. Not entirely. But enough. Dean reached across the table and took her hand again. The gesture felt natural now. Easy. Natalie squeezed his fingers.
Outside, the junkyard settled beneath the South Dakota night. Inside, Bobby was pretending not to listen from his bedroom, Sam was washing dishes with entirely too much interest, and somewhere beyond the safety of the house waited questions neither of them could yet answer.
But for the moment, none of that mattered.
For the first time in years, Dean and Natalie simply sat together in the quiet, looking at one another and realizing that after all the waiting, all the fear, and all the years spent circling around what they felt—the story between them had finally begun.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.
Word Count: 3,238
Tags/Warnings: Family life, slice of life, college classes, children
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Note: I'm back! I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Six: Discovery
The restlessness left gradually.
Not all at once. Not in some dramatic revelation that changed everything overnight.
Instead, it eased like winter giving way to spring—slowly, almost imperceptibly, until one day Y/N realized she wasn't carrying that weight in her chest anymore.
Knowing the source of it had helped. More than that, knowing she wasn't trapped by it.
For weeks she had unconsciously treated her future like a closed door. Motherhood had consumed her life in the most beautiful ways possible, but somewhere along the way she'd stopped seeing beyond it. Not because Beau demanded it. Not because anyone else did. Simply because life had happened so quickly. Pregnancy. Marriage. Children. A home. A family.
Now she understood something important.
Being a mother wasn't the end of her story.
It was one chapter.
A beloved chapter.
But not the last one.
The knowledge settled deep inside her and transformed something fundamental. She no longer felt caught between gratitude and longing. She could love her life exactly as it was and still wonder what came next.
The two things weren't opposites.
They were companions.
As a result, she began to glow again.
Beau noticed first.
One morning she caught him watching her across the kitchen while she packed Eliza's lunch and bounced Ella on her hip simultaneously. The look on his face was warm and knowing.
"What?" she asked.
His smile widened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
"I just like seein' you smile again, darlin'."
The simple honesty of it made her laugh.
And she was smiling more these days.
Not because life had suddenly become easier.
God knew it hadn't.
Life with a kindergartener, a toddler, and a seven-month-old baby could hardly be described as peaceful.
Eliza remained a force of nature.
Every afternoon brought new reports from kindergarten, elaborate wolf-and-duck diplomatic incidents, and increasingly complicated imaginary adventures that somehow required the participation of every family member. Beau had recently been appointed Wolf General. Emily had been named Ambassador to the Ducks. Caleb had been promoted to "Tiny Chaos Monster," though Eliza insisted that was a respected title.
Caleb, for his part, seemed determined to experience every moment of existence at maximum speed.
The boy ran instead of walked. Climbed instead of sat. Explored instead of rested. He approached life with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of consequences.
Y/N spent a shocking amount of her day preventing him from launching himself off furniture.
Then there was Ella.
Sweet, observant, increasingly mobile Ella.
The baby who had once remained happily wherever she was placed had developed opinions.
Strong opinions.
She wanted to be where the people were.
Wanted to watch her siblings.
Wanted to investigate absolutely everything.
She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she was trying with impressive determination, which meant Y/N spent much of her time discovering that Ella had somehow migrated across rooms through sheer stubbornness.
Thankfully, she wasn't alone.
Emily remained a blessing.
Between college classes and her growing relationship with Peter, she still found time to help whenever she could. She picked up Caleb from daycare on days Beau ran late. She entertained Eliza with movie discussions that inevitably devolved into wolf politics. She cuddled Ella while Y/N showered or folded laundry or simply sat down for ten uninterrupted minutes.
Watching Emily with her younger siblings filled Y/N with quiet affection.
The young woman was thriving.
College suited her. Peter suited her. Confidence suited her.
And she carried all of it with a grace that made Y/N proud.
Then there was Beau.
Always Beau.
The steady center of everything.
The sheriff's department kept him busy. There were storms and budgets and mayors and emergencies. There were long days and occasional late nights and enough paperwork to make any reasonable man question his life choices.
Yet somehow he still came home and immediately threw himself into family life.
He helped with homework.
Read bedtime stories.
Built blanket forts.
Changed diapers.
Made dinner when Y/N was exhausted.
Loved all of them with a wholehearted devotion that never seemed performative or forced.
One evening, Y/N stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and simply watched.
Beau sat on the floor with Caleb climbing over him like a mountain. Eliza was explaining some critical wolf legislation. Emily was laughing at something Peter had texted her. Ella sat in Beau's lap, fascinated by his watch.
The room glowed with lamplight and laughter.
It wasn't perfect.
There were toys everywhere.
Someone had spilled juice.
The dishwasher needed unloading.
But standing there, Y/N felt something settle peacefully inside her.
The future no longer frightened her.
Work.
School.
Something entirely different.
Whatever came next would come.
And when it did, she wouldn't face it alone.
Because that was the true gift Beau had given her.
Not permission.
Freedom.
The freedom to imagine a future while knowing she already had a home.
Eight months brought changes to Ella almost weekly.
Not dramatic changes. Not the sort that announced themselves with fanfare.
Instead, Beau and Y/N kept finding themselves stopping mid-conversation and saying, "When did she start doing that?"
At eight months old, Ella had become mobile—or at least determinedly mobile.
She wasn't quite crawling properly yet, but she had mastered a highly effective combination of scooting, rolling, and dragging herself forward that allowed her to appear in places no one expected. She could sit independently now, reaching for toys without toppling over, and she had developed a fascination with dropping things from her highchair solely to observe whether adults would retrieve them.
The answer, unfortunately, was yes.
Every time.
Her babbling had become more elaborate too.
"Mama."
"Dada."
"Baba."
Whether she understood the words was debatable.
Whether she enjoyed the reaction they produced was not.
This morning she sat proudly in her highchair wearing approximately half her breakfast.
The other half was distributed across her tray, bib, cheeks, hair, and somehow one eyebrow.
Ella seemed pleased with this arrangement.
Across the table, Emily was eating toast while simultaneously helping Y/N manage the morning chaos.
Eliza was explaining why wolves absolutely required library cards.
And from upstairs came Beau's voice. "Buddy!"
Y/N closed her eyes briefly.
"What happened?" she called.
"Your son committed a crime."
"Our son."
There was a pause.
"Our son committed a crime."
Emily laughed into her coffee.
A moment later Beau appeared at the top of the stairs holding a juice-stained shirt.
Apparently Caleb had decided that drinking juice was less entertaining than launching it directly onto his father.
Beau disappeared again to change.
Meanwhile, Y/N wiped applesauce off Ella's chin.
Ella immediately smeared more onto her own face.
"Helpful," Y/N murmured.
Ella grinned.
The baby had recently discovered that smiling could get her out of almost anything.
It was proving alarmingly effective.
Emily reached over to rescue a banana slice before it hit the floor. "She's getting sneakier."
"She's learning from Eliza," Y/N said.
"I heard that!" Eliza announced.
"Good."
Eliza nodded, satisfied.
Y/N laughed softly and turned back to Ella, who was now enthusiastically squishing scrambled eggs between her fingers.
Then a thought struck her. Not sudden exactly. More like a seed finally breaking the surface. She looked over at Emily. "Hey."
Emily glanced up. "Yeah?"
Y/N hesitated for just a second. Then asked, "Could you get me a copy of the college catalog?"
Emily blinked. "The catalog?"
"Yeah."
Y/N reached for a napkin, wiping Ella's hands before the baby could decorate herself further. "I thought maybe I'd like to look through it. See what classes they offer."
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Not uncomfortable.
Just surprised.
Emily lowered her toast. "You mean... for you?"
A faint smile tugged at Y/N's lips. "Maybe."
The answer was simple, but it sent a spark through the room.
Emily's eyes widened. Then slowly, beautifully, she smiled. The kind of smile that came from witnessing someone open a door they hadn't realized was still there.
"Yeah," Emily said warmly. "I can do that."
Across the room, Eliza looked up. "Is Mama going to kindergarten too?"
Y/N laughed. "Something like that."
At that exact moment, Beau returned in a fresh shirt, Caleb on his hip. "What'd I miss?"
Emily looked positively delighted. "Mom might be thinking about college."
Beau stopped.
Then smiled.
A slow, proud smile.
The kind Y/N had come to recognize.
The kind that said there she is.
And for the first time in a long time, thinking about the future felt exciting.
Lunch was quieter than breakfast.
Not silent—there was still an eight-month-old involved—but quieter.
The house had settled into its midday rhythm. Eliza was at kindergarten, undoubtedly negotiating treaties and organizing wolf affairs. Caleb was spending his half-day at daycare, likely charming teachers while simultaneously testing every boundary available to him.
For the first time all morning, the house belonged mostly to Y/N and Ella.
Ella sat on the living room floor surrounded by toys, happily entertaining herself by repeatedly dropping a stacking ring and then looking offended that gravity continued to exist.
Y/N had just settled onto the couch with a sandwich when the front door opened.
Emily stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Y/N replied.
Emily grinned and held up a thick book. The college catalog. "I come bearing knowledge."
Y/N laughed. "That was fast."
"I had an hour between classes."
Emily kicked off her boots and crossed the room before dropping onto the couch beside her.
The catalog landed heavily in Y/N's lap. For a moment, neither of them opened it. The weight of it felt oddly significant. Not because it was a catalog. Because of what it represented. Possibility.
Emily glanced over. "So."
Y/N looked up. "So?"
"What are you thinking of studying?"
Y/N laughed softly. "That's the problem. I have absolutely no idea."
Emily smiled. "That's fair."
She reached over and opened the catalog between them. Page after page of possibilities greeted them.
Business.
Education.
Communications.
Psychology.
Accounting.
History.
English.
Criminal Justice.
Social Work.
Healthcare.
Art.
Y/N stared. The sheer number of options was overwhelming.
"How does anyone pick?" she asked.
Emily laughed. "They panic first."
"Good. Glad to know that's normal."
"It is."
Ella chose that moment to successfully move herself three feet across the floor through determination alone.
Both women stared.
"Was she over there?" Emily asked.
"I thought she was."
Ella looked delighted with herself.
Y/N shook her head and got up to retrieve her before she reached the coffee table.
When she sat back down, Emily was still flipping through the catalog.
"You know," Emily said thoughtfully, "you're really good with people."
Y/N adjusted Ella on her lap. "So are a lot of people."
"Yeah, but you genuinely like helping them."
The observation made Y/N pause. She thought about the years before Beau. The jobs she'd held. The people she'd met.
The satisfaction she'd always found in helping someone solve a problem. "I don't know," she admitted.
Emily nudged the catalog toward her. "You don't have to know today."
Y/N looked down at the pages. That was true. Nobody was demanding a decision. Not Beau. Not Emily. Not herself. This wasn't about having answers. It was about allowing herself to ask questions.
Her finger traced over a few program descriptions. She paused over one. Then another. Emily watched quietly, wisely resisting the urge to push.
Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows.
Inside, Ella babbled happily from Y/N's lap. And for the first time, Y/N wasn't looking at a future she feared. She was looking at one she might actually get to choose.
The front door opened a little after five-thirty.
Immediately, Beau knew two things.
First, he was home.
Second, absolute chaos was underway.
"Caleb, we do not climb the furniture!"
That was Y/N.
"Ducks don't follow rules!"
That was Eliza.
A crash followed.
Then Emily's voice. "Nobody move. I think we're still okay."
Beau grinned before he even got his jacket off.
The Arlen household.
Never boring.
He stepped into the living room to find Caleb halfway up the couch cushions, Eliza sprawled on the floor conducting what appeared to be an emergency wolf council, and Emily attempting to save a tower of blocks from imminent destruction.
The only calm person in the room was Ella.
And that was because she was sitting in the middle of the carpet happily chewing on a toy giraffe.
"Daddy!"
Eliza launched herself at him.
Beau caught her automatically. "Status report."
"The ducks are causing problems."
"Again?"
"They never learn."
"Understandable."
Caleb immediately abandoned his climbing expedition and attached himself to Beau's leg. "Da!"
"Hey there, tornado."
Y/N emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetables and a look that said she had survived another day.
Barely.
Beau crossed the room and kissed her. "How was your day?"
"Productive."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It probably is."
He laughed. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. A thick book sat there. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned.
And suddenly his entire face lit up. "The catalog."
Y/N smiled despite herself. "The catalog."
Beau carefully extracted himself from Eliza and Caleb and picked up the book. The excitement that crossed his face was immediate and genuine. Not polite support. Not forced enthusiasm. Actual excitement.
He flipped it over in his hands. "You got it."
Emily looked up from where she was helping Ella investigate a stuffed rabbit. "I brought it home after class."
Beau sat down on the couch, catalog in hand, looking absurdly pleased. "Have you found anything interesting?"
Y/N laughed softly. "I've barely started."
"That's okay."
He patted the couch beside him.
"Come here."
She rolled her eyes but sat anyway.
Beau wrapped an arm around her shoulders and opened the catalog between them.
Eliza immediately climbed onto the opposite side. "What're we reading?"
"College classes."
Eliza gasped.
"Mama's going to kindergarten."
Emily burst out laughing. "Basically."
Beau's shoulders shook with amusement.
Y/N covered her face. "Oh Lord."
"I think Mama should take wolf classes," Eliza informed them.
"Do they offer those?" Beau asked solemnly.
"Probably."
The conversation dissolved from there.
Eliza insisted on reviewing the catalog despite being unable to read most of it.
Caleb attempted to turn pages at random.
Ella eventually managed to grab one corner and tried to eat higher education.
Through it all, Beau remained impossibly enthusiastic.
Every few minutes he'd point something out.
"What's this one?"
"That sounds interestin'."
"Didn't you always like that kinda thing?"
There was no pressure behind it.
Just curiosity.
Support.
Excitement at seeing Y/N excited.
At one point she caught him watching her instead of the catalog. "What?"
His smile softened. "Nothin'."
She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."
His hand found hers beneath the catalog. "I just like seein' you dream again, darlin'."
The words hit her harder than they should have.
Around them, the children continued their usual brand of cheerful mayhem.
Emily laughed at something Eliza said.
Caleb climbed into Beau's lap.
Ella squealed triumphantly after successfully stealing a page corner.
The house was loud.
Crowded.
Alive.
And sitting there in the middle of it all, surrounded by the family she'd built and the future she was beginning to imagine, Y/N found herself smiling.
Not because she had a plan.
Not because she had answers.
But because she finally believed she was allowed to have both a present she loved and a future she could still shape.
And judging by the look on Beau's face, her husband was ready to cheer her on every step of the way.
The house settled slowly that night.
Eliza required one final discussion about wolf patrol routes before agreeing to sleep. Caleb fought bedtime with the determined stubbornness of a child convinced he was missing something important. Ella, exhausted from a day of scooting across floors and terrorizing educational materials, finally surrendered after a bottle and a lengthy cuddle.
By the time the last bedroom door clicked shut, silence felt almost startling.
Not complete silence.
The familiar kind.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of the heater. The small sounds of a house breathing around them.
Beau found Y/N in the living room.
The college catalog still rested on the coffee table, now adorned with a few bent page corners courtesy of Ella and several sticky notes courtesy of Eliza, who had apparently marked programs she believed involved wolves.
Beau smiled when he saw it.
He sat beside Y/N on the couch and immediately reached for her, pulling her into his side until she fit comfortably against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, his hand rubbing absent circles along her arm.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The catalog sat open on her lap.
Pages dog-eared.
Possibilities highlighted.
Dreams still unnamed.
Eventually Beau tilted his head toward it. "So."
Y/N smiled. "So."
He chuckled. "You got any idea what you wanna do?"
She looked down at the pages.
There were so many options.
So many lives she could imagine herself living. "I don't know yet."
The answer surprised her with how much peace it contained.
A few weeks ago that uncertainty would have frightened her.
Now it felt exciting.
"I really don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks about going back to work. Part of me wonders about school. Sometimes I look at these programs and think, maybe. Then I turn the page and think maybe something else."
Beau listened quietly. No judgment. No expectations. Just listening.
Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that probably sounds ridiculous."
"It sounds normal."
She laughed softly. "I just..." She searched for the right words. "I feel excited."
The confession made her smile. Because it was true. Not anxious. Not trapped.
Excited.
The future no longer felt like something happening to her. It felt like something she could help shape. Beau's entire face softened. God, he loved hearing that.
He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm happy for you, darlin'."
The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. "I mean it," he continued. "You spent years puttin' everybody else first. If you're excited about somethin', I wanna hear about it."
Y/N looked up at him. "Even if I don't know what it is yet?"
He laughed. "Especially then."
His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. "You know what I see?"
She shook her head. "What?"
"I see a woman who finally realized she's allowed to dream again."
The words hit harder than he intended.
Her throat tightened.
Because that was exactly it.
Not that she hadn't been happy.
She had.
Not that she regretted a single choice.
She didn't.
But somewhere between pregnancies and diapers and school pickups and sleepless nights, she'd quietly stopped imagining anything beyond the next day.
Now she was imagining again.
And Beau looked positively delighted by it.
"I love you," she whispered.
His smile deepened. "I know."
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an invitation to quote Star Wars."
"It wasn't?"
"No."
"Missed opportunity."
Y/N laughed despite herself.
Beau grinned and pulled her closer until she was practically curled against him. "Whatever you decide," he murmured, kissing her temple, "we'll figure it out."
We.
Not you.
Not me.
We.
The word settled warmly between them.
Y/N closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.
The catalog remained open.
The future remained unwritten.
And for the first time in a very long time, that felt wonderful.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
