On White Fear & Creating Diverse Transformative Works
So whenever fandom tries to address the question “Why aren’t there more works featuring characters of color?” there are a myriad of (predictable) responses. One of which is appearing with increasing frequency: “Because we (usually: white creators of transformative works) are afraid of getting it wrong.”
And like. I’ve already addressed how ‘thinking you’ll get it wrong’ is a failure of both imagination and of craft/skill (and a symptom of the racial empathy gap, which I forgot had a proper name when I wrote that post). Meanwhile, @stitchmediamix absolutely accurately pointed out that the ‘fear’ being discussed is fear of being called racist, not necessarily fear of failure.
Now, we could go into the whole absurdity of white fragility here, but google is a thing and “white fragility” is discussed all over the place and I trust ya’ll to do the work if you actually give a shit about this subject… which I assume you do, if you’re reading this – but if you’re just here to find a way to dismiss the issue at hand, I’m gonna save you some time and recommend you scroll past.
Writers can also be fragile, especially in transformative works communities, where “if you don’t have anything nice to say, hit the back button and keep your mouth shut” is the primary expectation wrt feedback, and anything that deviates from that is considered a mortal insult (do you vageublog about my fic, sir?). But if we’re willing to deploy an array of tools to make our writing not-My-Immortal-bad, from spellcheck to wikipedia to in-depth historical research to betas and britpickers and so on, then we should be willing to employ equivalent tools to avoid writing racist stories.
Incidentally, writing stories that erase/ignore extant characters of color, especially if they’re prominent in the source text? is racist. So avoiding writing characters of color altogether is not the solution to making your writing not-racist.
And, okay. I feel it’s important to acknowledge here, as I have before, that the Fear of Fucking Up is a very real fear that genuinely does affect people’s enthusiasm for / likelihood to write, regardless of the validity or fairness of that Fear’s origins, and I’m going to be generous enough to assume that there are some people who are acting in good faith when they say “I want to, but I’m scared.”
So. This is for those who are acting in good faith, from the perspective of a white fan who has written fic about characters of color in several fandoms and never gotten pilloried for it, even when I know for a fact (in retrospect) that I’ve fucked up details.
(oh, side note: I know this is mostly tackling things from a writing perspective, but a lot of this can apply to creating transformative works overall with a few tweaks.)
First: realize that the likelihood of getting called out is actually pretty low. And fans of color aren’t as Mean and Angry and Unfairly Sensitive as some people want us to believe. (Do you vagueblog about That Dumpster Fire Meta, sir? / No, sir, I do not vagueblog about That Meta sir; but I do vagueblog, sir.)
This is not to say that there aren’t people out there who’re more than willing to make a (justified) stink about egregiously racist writing. But it’s actually very rare to get targeted, especially publicly by a large number of unhappy fans. Because you know what? most fans, including fans of color, want to just have fun in fandom as much as anyone else.
It’s just, y’know, a little harder for fans of color to ‘just have fun’ when us white fans are showing our asses with stories involving “Dragon Lady” Elektra or “Angry Black Woman” Sally Donovan or “Spicy Latin Lover” Poe Dameron. And sometimes us white fans only listen to what fans of color are saying when they make a Big Deal out of it.
That’s not a failure of their ability to stay calm. That’s our failure to listen before they get loud and organized. Because I’m willing to bet that people who get called out publicly? got a few polite, private messages about their screwup first, and they doubled down instead of listening.
Also: there is a thing where, no matter how politely they word their critique, fans of color, especially black fans, are more likely to be unjustly perceived as ‘mean’ and ‘angry’ by white fans. Again, that’s our failure, not theirs. Plus, even if they are angry, that doesn’t automatically mean they’re wrong (see: Tone Argument).
Step Two is: pay attention to discussions about racist tropes in fiction. Yes, even when it’s crit of our favorite shows/movies/characters/etc. If you understand the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope and why it’s harmful, or you understand the Bechdel-Wallace test, or you can have a meaningful discussion about Mary Sues, or you can (justifiably) rail about how Bury Your Gays sucks, then you can develop a similar appreciation for racial biases and stereotypes. And then you can find ways to avoid them.
No, no one’s expecting you to memorize bell hooks so you can write a drabble about Iris West, or demanding you write a dissertation on media stereotypes wrt the simultaneous fetishization and desexualization of Asian women (who aren’t a monolith, either, but Hollywood doesn’t seem to know that) before you’re ‘allowed’ to write Melinda May in a story, but like. Pay attention when people, especially fans of color, are talking about common tropes so that you don’t unthinkingly replicate or perpetuate them in your fic.
Yes, racist writing can involve more than just thoughtless parroting of harmful tropes, but my best guess is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, fanwork getting ‘called out’ in fandom involves those tropes. So avoiding them takes your chances of getting criticized from ‘low’ to ‘almost nonexistent.’ Less to fear, see?
Step Three is: more research – basically, at least as much as you’d be willing to invest in any equivalent white character. @writingwithcolor is a great blog, and has links to additional resources; . If you’re the type to get a beta or a britpicker, find a sensitivity reader or a beta of the appropriate background. Not all fans of color are willing to do this kind of unpaid labor, just as not all fans are willing to britpick/beta, but they’re out there. Approach them respectfully, and listen to them if they say that something in your story looks off.
It’s worth noting here that writing about characters of color doesn’t need to involve - and in fact, some advice recommends avoiding - telling Special Stories About Racism. Stories about characters of color don’t need to be about slavery or civil rights or the constant parade of microaggressions they have to deal with daily in order to be realistic or compelling (or angsty, for those who love writing angst, as I do). Research can turn up useful information that can inform our choices as writers, but if we don’t share the oppression our characters face, it’s not our job to tell stories specifically about that oppression.
Step Four is: before posting, anticipate the worst. What will you do if someone says you fucked up? If your answer is “argue with them and talk over their concerns,” stop. Remember that you’re not a victim of a ‘mean fan of color,’ but that you’ve probably written something that they consider harmful. Being told that you wrote something racist isn’t an attack on your moral fiber. You’re not an irredeemable monster if you fuck up, but your response to being told you fucked up is far more telling. Acknowledge their concerns, fix the issue if you can, learn from your mistake, and fail better next time.
You cannot improve if you don’t try in the first place. Failure to try is failure, so try your best, and improve incrementally – just as you already do as a writer with any story.
In conclusion: The 4 Steps to Getting Over Yourself as a White Fanfic Writer:
(1) recognize that the likelihood of getting called out is pretty low;
(2) educate yourself about the most common racist writing issues, so that likelihood will be even lower;
(3) do your due diligence when writing;
(4) in case of the worst: apologize, fix the issue, learn from the experience, fail better in the future.
(And again, google is your friend – there are a lot of people who’ve written about this subject, like Kayla Ancrum, Morgan Jenkins, the mods at Writing with Color, Thao Le, and Monica Zepeda, among many, many, others. I’m merely sharing my own perspective from what I’ve learned from listening to a lot of smart people, in case it might help some of you – if it doesn’t, keep looking, a ton of great resources are out there.)
like what do you mean you spend your time hating a character yet the second someone points out a flaw in the character you like that person is being difficult and should just take the heat lying down. Oh I'm fucking sorry I thought this was about having some sliver of joy not being assholes to anyone we don't immediately agree with. See this is why I don't really interact with fandom outside of fanfic, fanart, and some cool mutuals, it's a fucking cesspool. I feel like I'm going insane every fucking time I open tags, Hell I have most fandom tags blocked and will block pro character and anti character blogs on fucking sight you all sound insane and most of those blogs make up or exaggerate things to like and dislike about a character. I'm so tired of dealing with snobby people and people who spew outright bigotry if you dislike something they like. I once got an ask telling me to jump off a cliff because of this shit (I was 12). As someone who deals with suicidal thoughts on a daily basis I deactivated that account and only came back to tumblr recently. I'm just tired and fandom is outright hostile to people who don't conform to narrow expectations, ie. White, cis, able bodied, and queer enough to be cool but not enough to make someone uncomfortable. If you're not those things you're kicked out or harassed and bullied until you leave. I've seen racism, homophobia, ableism, transphobia and misogyny in fandoms I enjoy and it's gotten more bold and worse as the west tilts conservative. Idk what this is I'm just disheartened and am starting to not like going into fandom spaces I'm not tagging them because I don't want threats and I want to keep my sinking ship of a blog afloat
“I hate Sam” “I hate Dean” you are watching the Sam and Dean show. The toxic brother show. And you hate one of the toxic brothers. For being toxic. To the other brother.
honestly I liked Sam when I first started watching but then I’m like I don’t want to have to hate Dean just because I like Sam right? That’s so dumb that this is how the fandom works. I like both of them.
“I hate Sam” “I hate Dean” you are watching the Sam and Dean show. The toxic brother show. And you hate one of the toxic brothers. For being toxic. To the other brother.
sfw · mornings with early seasons!dean winchester . . .
word count — 495 (very short & sweet)
warnings — n/a !! pure fluff
as the first rays of sunlight peek in through the curtains, dean holds onto you, arms lazily wrapped around your midsection while you sleep on top of him, his head buried into your shoulder as he breathes you in.
he swears he could never get enough of these moments with you, when he finally gets a chance to relax, to let himself feel. he presses a soft peck to your bare shoulder, his lips barely even grazing you. he whispers sweet nothings against your skin, so quiet they're barely audible. just feelings spoken out loud, not intended to be heard.
eventually, you stir, sleep-drunkenly snuggling in closer to the man below you. you hum contentedly when his embrace tightens, his fingers tracing patterns into the small of your back.
"g'mornin." he mutters, words muffled against your skin as he peppers a few more kisses across your shoulder. you let out a breathless sigh, letting yourself melt into him.
"morning," you murmur back, voice rough from sleep. you smile against his skin as he presses more soft, playful kisses over your neck and jaw. "..you're clingy,"— it's not an insult. an observation.
"m'not," he grumbles, though there's no real bite behind it. he kisses your cheek and hums against your skin, letting his head fall into the crook between your shoulder and neck. "jus' love you."
"i love you too," you say with a lovesick grin, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. you press a kiss to the bridge of his nose, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. it's sickeningly sweet, and he loves every minute of it. he wishes he could spend eternity in this bed with you, the warm sunlight basking over you two.
"yr'so perfect," he muses, staring at you with those big green eyes you love so much. "so glad yr'mine." he continues, a genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips.
you let out a breathless little giggle, one of your hands coming up to caress his cheek. he melts into your touch, leaning his face into your palm, admiring you with wide, lovestruck eyes.
"wanna sleep more," you murmur, your eyes struggling to stay open for longer than a few seconds. he notices and hums, one of his hands moving to play with your hair.
"okay, sweetheart," he continues to mindlessly comb through your hair with his fingers. "go back t'sleep then. ill be here when y'wake up."
you manage to give him a lazy nod before burying your head in the crook of his neck, hands wrapped under his shoulders. you feel yourself drifting off quickly, the feeling of his hands in your hair like melatonin.
once you fall asleep, he presses one more achingly soft kiss to the top of your head, sighing against your hair. then, he lets himself drift off too, sleepy bodies tangled together— just the two of you and the light of the early morning sun.
› dean winchester × eldest daughter hunter ! reader
caution ! this package contains · heavy themes & angst. minors do not interact.
♫ ࣪ ˖‧₊˚. ı ꕀ 1 , 291 words ı masterlist
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
THE FIRST TIME YOU MEET DEAN WINCHESTER, YOU WANT TO KILL HIM.
you want to shoot the stupid smug smirk off his face, want to crack his jaw that moves with every pass of shameless flirting with anything that he seems to come across.
because he’s an idiot. a manchild that can’t take his one goddamn job-that’s-not-a-job seriously—but somehow, is able to wow everyone with his rugged charm. it’s infuriating, knowing how hard you worked to get to this point—yet dean has skated by this entire time on pure luck alone.
if that wasn’t the worst part, he’s so fucking arrogant in everything he does. he thinks he’s always right, and never lets anyone else have a say. not you, not even his own brother. you’d known your entire life that men like him are dangerous, and being around someone like that only puts you in harms way. yet, you still helped him and sam on a case, because bobby asked you to.
and dean knows you want to kill him. because he feels the same way about you, with your self-righteous crap. he’s supposed to be the one making decisions, keeping everybody safe—and you just had to come in with your own ideas. even if they were better than his, dean wasn’t having it. you’re too uptight, too complicated for him. he doesn’t want to figure you out—because figuring you out would unlock something he would figure out about himself, too.
but you’re as stubborn as he is, so it’s impossible to try and reach a resolution. you are an unstoppable force, he is an immovable object. you clash together like oil and water sometimes, yet are the perfect blend under certain circumstances. most of the time though, you keep your distance.
but you don’t know.
you don’t know how terrified dean is of loving someone. how overwhelmed it makes him to think about love. honestly, he’s unsure if he ever has loved someone—but he still wants to experience it, despite the fear he feels so deep in his bones.
and it seems like you’re taking him under, regardless. something about you pulls him in—something about the way you seem to know everything, the way you’re able to make quick, controlled, and logical decisions, ones that despite giving you the short end of the stick seem to be the best option.
he notices, obviously: your tendency to shove your own needs down into a little ball for the greater good. he notices, because dean himself does it too. how everything and everyone is put before your own feelings. he recognizes it, and feels like he knows you on such a deeper level because of it.
and though you won’t ever admit it, he does know you.
yet, apple pie life, the girl, the white picket fence—it’s not in the cards for him. he’s tried and failed. it’s like the universe, or god, or whoever is pulling the strings to puppeteer his and sam’s life wants him to be miserable and alone. dean has begged for help from someone, anyone—and yet was met with nothing. he is only helped when it benefits the greater good.
and dean is not the greater good.
but dean doesn’t know.
dean doesn’t know he’s taken up so much of your mind. your usual defenses are useless against him—because they’re the same as dean’s. you are less tough in certain areas where he is, and vice versa. like a devastating puzzle piece. it should make you want to hit the road and never speak to him again, how you barely seem to get along. but it doesn’t.
because you have grown to… ugh. care about him.
even sam’s noticed, the way you two look at each other. you both never look while the other is watching—like you’d both be smited on the spot for stealing a glance, for wanting the other. for wanting something that only benefitted yourself instead of someone else, instead of the greater good.
but you do. and dean’s been feeling it, too. it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t like him, so you just stop pretending, after a while. you don’t linger on how it feels like you’re being simultaneously corrupted and fixed in the same breath, whenever you’re around dean. you are rougher where dean is softer, and softer where dean is rougher. it’s strange, almost like you’re puzzle pieces.
and it scares the hell out of both of you.
for dean, it’s the feeling of not being in control. dean has to be in control, otherwise, he might die. but you come into the picture, and suddenly, he’s a lot more okay with you taking up his every thought. he’s willing to let things slide, because something about you ceases his defenses.
for you, it’s feeling like you’re being cheated, as your feelings grow. that some day, dean will be the same as the men you’ve heard horror stories about. the same as the men who will eat you up and spit you back out, leaving you to die. dean hasn’t done that yet. it feels like you’re waiting for the ball to drop, but it never comes.
it all comes to a head one night.
it always felt like you were being stretched too thin, but tonight was especially the worst. you felt less than present, in your own body. of course, you told no one about these trepidations that you had. that wasn’t how you grew up, and you sure as hell weren’t about to start doing it now. you gave up on sleep after tossing around your bed for an hour, deciding to brave the kitchen to see what you could distract yourself with.
you open your door, and almost walk right into dean. he’s just… standing there, in the doorway. you wonder how long he’s been standing there, or if he just got here. either way, you’re shocked to see him this late at night. it’s not like you haven’t been noticing the bags under his eyes. he has them all the time now, including as he stands in front of you.
and you know what he’s here for. he feels comfortable enough with you to even be here—and you don’t take that for granted.
so you step aside, and let him in.
dean doesn’t say anything. neither do you. and you’re not even sure what you’d say, anyway. there’s no words you could possibly comfort him with, because you know better than anyone how he feels. so you don’t bother.
you lay back down in bed, midnight snack forgotten as dean sinks into your sheets. he faces you, but looks embarrassed. like he’s corrupted himself by coming here. like he’s corrupted you. and yet, he’s still laying next to you. still looking at you, despite the urge to run away.
and you’re looking back at him, too, despite your gut’s reaction to hide away. it’s a different reaction than usual—like you know the outcome, but you don’t care, or don’t think it’ll happen with dean here instead of someone else.
it’s a weird thought, and you don’t know how to process it right now. it’s like you’re not who you used to be, but instead, it’s who you’ve been all along. the parts of you that used to just peek out once in a while are now on full display. and you can’t seem to care.
you hold dean to your chest, his face pressed between your breasts. you’re sure he would’ve made a joke about that, but he didn’t. he just breathes you in, his arms you always used to stare at when he wasn’t looking wrapping around you tighter. he needs you, you realize.
── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: Dean Winchester can have any woman he wants. So why is he losing his damn mind over the one woman who keeps saying no? He's tried everything: flirting, lingering touches, shameless pickup lines and enough longing stares to make anyone cave. Unfortunately for him, you have one rule: never mix work and pleasure. But it's hard to not lose control when Dean Winchester is kneeling before you.
── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ tags: dean winchesterXfemale!reader, smut, shameless smut, femdom, bottom dean winchester, first time, porn with feelings, porn with plot, reader is a hunter, dean winchester on his knees, self control, gentle femdom, yearning, begging, begging dean winchester, praise kink, dry humping, jealousy, dean fights for you, fluff and smut, good boy dean winchester, obedient dean winchester, consent is sexy, teeth, underwear kink, light dom/sub.
── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 4,6k
It hasn’t been too long since you met the Winchester brothers. Probably six weeks, eight at most.
You could not know everything about them, but one thing was certain – the older of the pair, Dean, was crazy for you.
He was the type of man who could get any girl he wanted with just a few words here and a cocky smile there. Guess that, when you pretended not to care for him, it threw him off. You became a challenge, a prize for him to conquer. But your rules were clear – no mixing work and love, even if by love you only meant sex.
In the short period in which you came to know Dean he tried everything: from the funny flirtations, to the accidental touches, or holding your arm for longer than necessary. It’s not that the long stares from his pretty green eyes had no effect on you; in fact, you had to gather every bit of energy you had to keep it contained. You were pretty sure that one day he would notice the goosebumps that broke out when he got too near, or the acceleration in your breath when you could smell him. Maybe you were desperate for him to notice these small details.
But with time, he became more and more eager for you. It was fun to watch, and you began making up situations to test how much longer he would last: pretending not to be able to reach the ammo in the trunk, bending over the Chevy Impala the brothers owned, and then catching him stuttering when getting it for you; walking in your underwear and a loose T-Shirt when you were by yourselves in the motels and just waiting for the tent in his jeans to grow, having fun with his embarrassment; but what appeared to be the last straw for his self-restraint came to be in the way you least expected it.
You, Dean, and the youngest Winchester, Sam, were working a case together on something none of you had encountered before, something that was migrating from town to town nonstop. The only thing in common within all of the occurrences was that it was attacking young attractive couples in bars. So, while Sam got to studying every bit of lore he could, you and Dean got into the practicality of the study: role-playing as a couple.
“Darling, c’mon! Time to go, we still gotta figure out which bar to…” Dean said, banging non-stop on the bathroom door. Once you opened it, he froze, losing all the cockiness from the past weeks.
You took advantage of the situation to keep teasing him, wearing the best tight tiny dress you owned, doc martens and dark tights. Finishing putting on your earrings, you broke your silence, smiling: “What? I’ve been ready for like... 20 minutes?”
He smelled of deodorant and toothpaste, with the usual smell of leather from the Impala. Sam, by the table, lost his focus on the open computer: “Whoa, really taking the job seriously this time, huh?”
You laughed, still not breaking eye contact with the paralyzed Dean in front of you: “I always do.”
You kept waiting for him to joke about it, keep up the playful banter between you, but this time you could almost swear he blushed. Finally reacting, he moved just so you could leave the bathroom, and his eyes followed as you went to the messy bed to get your purse and your gun. You could feel his stare on you so intensely that you got chills, wondering if it was time to stop this before things got too real.
Dean woke up at last: “U-uh, Sam… so, keep us updated... if anything happens, we’ll text you for backup”
You walked in front of him towards the car, saying goodbye to Sam silently. You could swear that before Dean closed the door him and his brother were communicating, but there weren’t any words said. It wasn’t the first time you felt like they could read each other’s thoughts.
He opened the door for you, now more confident to start looking in your eyes properly. You rolled your own: “You know you don’t have to do this. It’s just a case.”
“I know that.” He said. “It’s still your first date.” He winked at you, and you couldn’t help but nibble on the inside of your cheek, holding a smile.
The drive to the city’s downtown was quiet apart from occasionally pointing out the busiest clubs and discussing what were “young people bars” and “old people bars”. When you finally decided upon one that fit the profile of the previous attacks, Dean opened the bar door for you, letting you enter first.
You chose the tall table that had the best view for the entire place, ordering a drink as soon as you could to regain your confidence. Dean ordered his usual beer.
“Now we just have to wait for a bar fight…” you said once you were alone again.
“Probably not too uncommon around here.” he was avoiding your look.
“Have you been in many…”
“Fights? Oh, you don’t really wanna know…”
“I actually do! C’mon, if we are going to treat this as an actual date we’ll have to deepen the chat. What about some back and forth?”
He actually seemed interested. “We could do that. And yes, I would get in fights every other weekend when I was younger. Especially when someone wouldn’t accept that they lost at pool again.Your turn — what about us? Is it ever gonna happen?”
The mood shifted. He addressed the elephant in the room immediately, getting you startled. “I’m not answering that. You play pool?” You tried to change the subject.
“If I play pool? I’m the master at pool. My turn: why do you avoid talking about us?”
You broke eye contact, pretending to look for suspicious activity.
“These drinks are taking so long…”
He held your hand: “I asked you something, darling.”
You couldn’t ignore him calling you that, so you just looked at him, your heart beating so fast you were worrying he might hear it.
He brought your hand to his mouth, kissing it so dearly, desperate for your touch. Finally having his lips touching you was enough to fluster you. He closed his eyes like a puppy who never received affection and you failed to speak when he brought the back of your hand to his cheek. “I–... Dean, I..”
Your moment was interrupted by the waitress bringing your drink at the most inopportune time. Along with it was a note written:
“Drop the douchebag. Let me show ya some good time, sexy :)”
The waitress, noticing that you were a couple, got nervous: “I-I’m sorry, he paid a good amount of money and I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t..”
“It’s okay” you released your hand from his to touch her arm. “We don’t mind” you tried to put what had just happened past you by focusing on the actual case.
The waitress left and you looked at Dean, terrified: “What now?”
“Maybe this is it. Targeting couples, trying to break them apart…”
“Should I ignore him? Should I buy into it?”
“Well, most couples would probably pick a fight. Hell, most guys would pick fights. If this wasn’t for the case, I’d already be at his throat..” He genuinely looked mad.
Something clicked for you.
“Dean, do you trust me?”
He seemed to not understand.
You got up, looking at him one last time: “Wait for my command.”
Looking even more confused, he watched as you bit your lower lip, hips shaking while walking to the weird big guy in the bomber jacket.
“I got your message, handsome…” you said in your sexiest voice, running your fingers slowly along his table, feeling his eyes on you.
On the other side of the bar, you took a quick look at Dean, who was basically gripping himself to the tall chair, fingers and knuckles turning white, on the verge of breaking the cheap wood. He couldn’t hear what you were saying, just watch as you got closer to him, resting your elbows on the table. In reality, you were just doing some flirtatious small talk, trying to get him off guard by not having the couple get in a fight instantly and getting as much information out of him as possible while doing so.
You glanced at Dean from the corner of your eye, seeing that he had already finished his beer, almost getting up and giving in to the fight. You signaled for him to calm down and stay there, but you realized it was over when the guy placed his hand on your waist, squeezing slightly. It didn’t take three seconds for Dean to appear by your side, roughly shoving his hand away from your waist.
“That’s enough, dude.” he said aggressively, wrapping his hand tight around your wrist.
Sarcastically, the guy tilted his head: “Look who decided to show up…Relax, sweetheart, I’m just borrowing her for a minute.” he said, looking at you with a smirk.
“You done flirting with my girl? Or are you trying to lose all your teeth tonight?” Dean got closer to him, pushing you to his back.
The man raised an eyebrow: “Your girl?”
Dean stood quietly, unsure if he could call you that. Looking at you, his grip loosened slightly.
The man continued: “ ‘Cause she seemed pretty into me a second ago, what makes you think she’ll just run back to your bad date?”
Dean released the grip on you, using both of his hands to grab the guy by his shirt: “Oh, someone really wants to get his face rearranged…”
You were unsure of what to do, starting to sense some movement on the other corner of the bar.
“Dean…”
He kept the grip while the guy laughed at him, too drunk to realise the consequences: “Not now, darling…”
“No Dean, seriously…” You weren’t looking at him anymore, rather at some kind of commotion by the pool table.
He finally heard you, seeming pissed still. But it was too late. Soon, the lights were blinking, people were screaming in panic, and there was smoke everywhere. You got the wrong guy. By the time you got close to the confusion, the lights were back on, and a young couple just about your age was on the floor, all life sucked out of them. You looked at Dean, who seemed too mad at himself for losing it and ruining the only lead you had. Now you had to start it all over again.
─── ─── ─── ───
Walking to the car, Dean was finishing the phone call with Sam. Being present at the scene, you couldn’t just throw on your suits and pretend to be FBI, so Sam was on duty. Dean seemed different. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was mad at you.
When he hung up, he rubbed his knuckles against his forehead, closing his eyes, the sound of police sirens growing louder in the background.
“Dean? It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine..” you chuckled “I got us involved with the wrong guy..”
He finally looked at you. “No — what? Stop that right now.” He looked away again, embarrassed: “It’s my fault. If… if I hadn’t screwed everything up like I always do, If I had just listened to you…” He was angry, turning his back to you and clenching his phone in his hand.
You frowned, following him: “We thought it was how it was supposed to go. We thought, Dean.” You walked in front of him, holding his face with one hand. He closed his eyes, almost melting at your touch. Your heart broke a little, having never seen him so vulnerable. He opened his eyes to say something, but no words came out. You decided to help him out without making things harder: “Let’s go to the motel. Sam is waiting for the car, we can talk more about it there.”
He just nodded, and you delicately removed your hand from him. When his face felt the absence of your touch, he seemed to gasp for air, finally opening his eyes. You silently walked to the car.
The drive back to the motel was quiet, but it was visible by how fast Dean was accelerating that he was still mad at himself. You looked at him for the entire way, for once allowing your heart to race whenever he looked back at you.
You didn’t drift your gaze away from his face for one moment, and if it weren't for the driving, you could swear he wouldn’t as well.
Your lips parted slightly, breath quickening. His as well.
You hadn’t even realized you’d arrived at the motel, still staring at each other.
You both woke up out of the trance by hearing Sam knocking on the Impala. Still holding your gaze, Dean slowly left the car. While you regained your composure, you could hear them talking. But when you left the car, the only thing you could say to a very worried Sam was:
“It 's okay. I’ll try and talk to him.”
─── ─── ─── ───
The door was almost closing when you entered the room, following Dean. The first thing you saw was his back, his hands gripping the motel table tightly.
You got closer to his body, reaching for him with your left hand when he suddenly turned. Dean grabbed your face, hair and part of your neck, eyes closed in restless desire, restraining himself from kissing you. When he felt you slightly shiver against his touch he closed his eyes, meeting his forehead with your own. He tried to form something of a sentence:
“I-I… I can’t stand this anymore…”
You pitied him, scrunching the middle of your eyebrows because you also felt the same as him. Your hands held his wrists as your instinct tried to fight back:
“We can’t, Dean, I don’t wanna…”
He fell to his knees, holding both your hands next to his face as if in desperate need to be touched by you. Kneeling before you, he still couldn’t get himself to open his eyes. You felt like all of your blood was drained to your feet as you tried to finish your thoughts:
“... ruin…what we have..”
He finally looked at you, begging with his eyes:
“I’ll do anything. Just let me– please, darling, I need you…”
He began kissing every inch of your hands, palms and wrists. Your hands grew firmer against him, cupping his chin. He was desperate for something certain, desperate for one win for the night, one reminder that he wasn’t all bad.
“Allow me, please…” he pleaded “let me touch you. I’m barely holding it together. Every second by your side without knowing your touch, I–..”
Your breath kept getting heavier, and at this point he probably noticed that as well. He looked deep in your eyes, begging one last time. You sank down to be on his level, holding his face safely in your palms. You couldn’t help it any longer, finally brushing your lips against his, making him instantly melt in your touch. You finally nodded softly, giving him permission.
The change in his manner was so sudden that you didn’t even comprehend how you got on his lap. All you know is that you were kissing. Desperate, starving, panting, holding each other as close as you could. You removed his jacket eagerly, hands shaking. He held tightly to your thighs, making you both stand, you still wrapped around his hips. Feeling how hard he already was against you drew an instinctive moan from your lips, every inch of your body burning for him. That was enough incentive for him to run with you to the bed, dropping you onto it with urgency. Once again you moaned, and you could swear his eyes darkened as you did.
He ran down your chest, stomach, thighs and knees with his cheek, rubbing himself on you as to feel you in every way possible. He was not human, but an aching creature that lived only for you.
Lowering himself to your boots, he kept his tight touch on the sides of your body. And just as you felt it could not get any more arousing than that, Dean began slowly undoing your shoelaces with his teeth.
You threw your head back, letting out a gasp. You were already so wet for him, and any touch instantly felt overwhelming.
His hand drifted closer to the inside of your thigh before running down your legs to get to your boots. He used his hands to help undo the tight knot, and you almost thought about telling him to calm down. But you didn’t want him to do so. You wanted him as consumed by desire just as he was.
After removing your shoes, he quickly ran back up to remove your pantyhose. You stopped him by grasping onto his hair with force, making him moan and bend his back slightly back. He needed to know you were still in charge.
“No, no, no, baby… who said you could?”
He closed his eyes and let out a whimper. You realized how much your questioning aroused him, and you tilted your head to the side.
“Do you wish to touch me, Dean Winchester?”
He let out another soft groan, eyes still closed as he nodded, frantic for your approval.
“Will you do anything for me, Dean?”
Rubbing his cheek on your thigh he cried out, nodding again. He was so turned on by your dominance, something you never expected out of him.
Your grip tightened on his hair:
“Say it.”
Immediately, you heard his cries: “Yes, yes… yes… anything… I’ll do anything”
You smiled: “That’s my boy.” Thinking for a moment about what to do to him next, your tongue brushed your lips, loosening the hold on his hair. “Remove your belt.”
He got up, looking intensely at you. Chin up, he slowly removed his belt.
You used your elbows to stand a bit on the bed. “Good boy. Hold it behind your back.”
He did as you asked.
“Now you may continue.”
He knelt on the bed, looking at you hungrily as ever. He began nudging the hem of your dress higher with his nose, and with his knees he got your legs further apart. When the waistband of your pantyhose were visible, he bit the side part slowly, and your breath quickened thinking about what Dean Winchester was about to do to you. He struggled to pull the first side off, moving on to the other side. When it kept slipping from his mouth, he huffed, impatient.
“Darling, may I use my teeth to rip this and make it easier?” He smirked at you.
You laughed, remembering he was still the same cocky guy who got your heart.
“Oh, and why would I let you do that?”
He ran the tip of his nose on the seam, briefly meeting your covered slit.
“‘Cause… I’ll be a very good boy to you.”
You threw your head back, nodding and humming yes. He ripped your pantyhose so quickly and with so much force that you looked at him startled. He widened the opening until it was large enough for him to work. When his face got near your cunt and you could feel his breath, he was good and asked again:
“My love, may I?”
At this point you were so desperate for him you could see your chest rising and lowering along your quick breath. You bit your lower lip and nodded yes one more time.
Once again he used his teeth to pull the fabric, this time only pushing the lace to the side. You felt like you could cum just from the anticipation. With your slit still closed, he ran his relaxed tongue on it, making you instantly moan. He slightly humped on the mattress after hearing your answer, and began kissing your lips wetly until they parted for him.
“God, you're so wet.”
He brushed his closed lips on your entrance and your legs shivered. You felt his smile and chuckling, and you used your knee to kick him softly. His tongue entered you when you least expected it, and he alternated the penetrating with small licks, making you whimper. He rose to your clit, sucking it with his lips with delicacy. The minimalism of his touch was infuriating, but at the same time so much more intense than if he went with force. Your breath grew uneven, and you felt your orgasm coming.
“Stop.” You ordered.
He looked at you, confused, worried something was wrong.
“Come up here.”
Without using his arms, he struggled to rise, but he managed to get his face close to you, catching his breath.
You whispered “I want to come with you inside me. So, stop.”
He rolled his eyes, and you could feel his cock twitching near your leg as he heard you. Your hands ran to his fly, struggling to open his jeans. He kept looking at your face, smiling softly. You struggled, struggled and struggled.
“Care to help?!” you asked angrily. He held a laugh and stood kneeling on the bed, releasing the belt behind him. Moving your hands from his zipper to his sides, he opened it slowly. His black boxer was almost exploding, and you started realising just how big he was. Your hands moved back to his clothes, and you calmly pushed his pants and boxers down. His cock jumped out of it, and your lips slightly parted from the sight.
“Remove your shirt. Now.” You panted the words.
He did as you demanded, and you stared at his almost naked figure.
Slowly, you removed the rest of your dress, keeping only the ruined pantyhose and your black lingerie. His eyes briefly closed at the side, breath deepening. You removed your legs from near his, and turned onto your stomach.
“Help me remove it. No hands.”
He used his arms for support, one for each side of your body. He started to play with the clasp, struggling to open it. While doing so, you could feel his length along your back. You arched your back, intensifying the touch of your cheeks with his hip. He slowed on the opening of the bra, getting distracted by the rubbing. When it was almost there, he took his sweet time just so he could hump on you, moaning in a low voice. You brought your hands to your clit, stimulating it. He kissed the back of your neck, rubbed his nose, cheek and his whole face on the top of your back, desperate for more. When he finally finished setting your bra free, he cried near your ear:
“Darling, please… let me fuck you…”
His words made you even more consumed by desire, and you rolled onto your back, still under him. Your centers finally met, and the await was becoming too hard to maintain. He quickly removed your bra, taking a moment to enjoy the view of your breasts. The sight of you made him act more and more like an animal, rising your legs to your chest. Your tights ripped more, and he pulled your underwear to the side once more, pushing one finger inside you. You gasped, moaning louder than ever.
“Feel that? It would be so much better if it was my cock. You just gotta tell me you want it. Give me permission.”
His words made you moan and pant, trying to form a sentence as he moved his fingers up and down instead of back and forth, reaching right on your sensitive spot.
“Dean… oh, Dean… more.. more” Your eyes closed, only being able to focus on the sensation.
He removed his hand from you and quickly returned it to your insides, now with two fingers. You became more full, moaning more and more, feeling your so delayed orgasm coming once again. Now, he began to thrust and thrust his hand against you.
“Please..” he whispered close to your ear. His voice, his breath on you, his body on top of yours, his fingers, his pants, it all became too much.
“Oh Dean, fuck me. Just fuck me please. I’m so close, I’m…”
He wasted no time and entered you with care. His tip was enough to make your orgasm start, and when he finished entering you your whole body was shaking, your walls contracting.
“Holy f…”
He entered deeply and extra slowly, but his access was still so limited. He used his hands to rip the rest of the already ruined fabric, and your orgasm didn’t seem to end.
“Dean, faster, please. Be a good boy for me.”
Your soft words became an order to him, and he increased the depth of his movement while gradually quickening it. You almost screamed when he got to your limit, but his hand went to your mouth, touching it briefly.
“I think I’m going to… again... u-uh..”
You tried to warn him against his mouth, but he kept going faster and stronger, making you cum again, unexpectedly. He began moaning, not being able to control his voice any longer. When your orgasm eased, it was your turn to beg:
“Let me sit on you… let me fuck you…”
He groaned, and his cock left you slowly and with difficulty.
“Anything for you. God, you feel so good.. You won’t stop coming on me…” He kept rubbing his length on your slit, twitching.
You pushed him, making him lay on the bed. Still messed up from your apex, you removed all the remaining clothing, throwing them on the pillow.
“Wait..” he gasped, watching you. “Can you… can I…” He seemed unsure.
As you got up on top of him, you held his chin, which made him melt just like before.
“Dean, I’ll do anything for you as well. Tell me…”
He spat out the words in an adrenaline rush:
“I want it near me.” He looked at your panties, and the nasty thought of what he meant made your stomach drop. You held the lingerie once more:
“You want this, Dean?”
He nodded, opening his mouth. With your free hand, you positioned him right at your entrance.
“You deserve it... you’ve been so obedient..”
You let the fabric softly brush along his face, and his cock twitched under you. With your two middle fingers covered by fabric, you entered his mouth. He left a low moan out of him.
“Good boy.”
You spat inside his mouth and sank your whole pussy around his cock, getting him on edge. You knew it wouldn’t take too long for him to climax. Your panties were half inside his mouth, alongside your fingers. You began rolling your hips, rubbing your clit on him. Throwing your head back, you felt his entire length pressing hard on your limit. His breath grew faster with each thrust, and you took them as orders for your speed.
When he finally started to mumble, you went as fast as you could, eyes locked with his. He tried to warn you about his apex, but you didn’t care. You fucked and fucked him until he filled you whole with his cum.
When he got sensitive, you went slower, watching him flinch from the hypersensitivity. Slowly, you dragged your fingers and the lacy fabric out of his mouth, letting him catch his breath back. He swallowed, trying to rehydrate his mouth.
You got out of him with care, laying by his side.
“That… that was the best sex of my life..” He still looked to the ceiling, unbelieving.
You just met your forehead with his shoulder, recovering your breath as well. It was your turn to rub your face on him,
“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” He said while looking at you, and you answered with your look back.
“Maybe because watching you lose your mind over me was far too entertaining. Maybe because I knew that once we started, there'd be no going back.”
── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ heyy so, English is not my first language, so i really hope there are no errors on this. thank you for reading!
꒰ 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ꒱⠀choking, unprotected sex, manhandling, gagging with fingers in mouth, drooling, small dirty talk, ben cums on reader’s ass + back.⠀⠀⠀wc,⠀873%.
ben’s gloved hand wrapped around your throat tightly, the leather creaking as his grip flexed. your legs were locked backwards around his form, standing tall and broad behind you with his pelvis outstretched ahead. he was pulling you down onto his cock with one hand, his other palm cradling one of your thighs that sat against his hip, gripping the plush flesh to keep you upright and in position.
your moans were strained and breathing almost entirely restricted. you desperately grabbed at his wrist with your hands, both trying to pull him away to breathe, and attempting to press him closer to your throat, craving more of his control.
your legs soon began to fall as he picked up the pace, your lower body falling limp from how fast he was slamming you down, and how good he was splitting you open. your arousal gushed around him and down your legs—which were dangling in the air. you tried to wiggle your toes, but it felt like your bones were jelly just from the sheer pleasure and force of him repeatedly plunging inside you.
ben let out a low grumble, hooking your legs back up with his other arm, “fuckin’ stay,”, his grip on your throat tightened impossibly, making your breathing stutter and halt. black spots slowly began to creep in, blurring the corners of your vision from the lack of oxygen.
a whimper fell out in the midst of your stunted moans, feeling the brute force of his hands dig into you, surely to leave both faintly seen, and terribly visible bruises on your skin later.
the position you were in shouldn’t have been possible. but the super human strength he held made it so.
your legs began to slip once more, his grip faltering. he got fed up quickly, spewing about how it “shouldn’t be this hard” to keep your legs up, and that you just “haven’t been fucked the right way yet” to learn how. a strong whine pushed past your lips as he pulled out with a wet schlick!, the mix of previous orgasms spilled out of you like wine overflowing without the cork. he then walked over to the dining table in the next room, plopping you down on the surface as gently as he could muster.
he forcefully propped your backside up with your knees on the hard wood, grumbling as he had to hold you up when you began to slip. he grabbed ahold of your hips, pulling you back as he slammed back inside your warmth, tearing a sharp and rumbled gasp from you. it had begun to feel cold with your wet folds out in the open air, but with ben back inside, you felt your insides begin to melt around him again, wet muscle shifting into the shape of his pumping cock.
he held a firm grip on your ass with one large hand splayed over your cheeks, bringing his other up to your mouth, prodding his fat fingers down your throat. you gagged as the thrust of his hips pushed you forward, making his fingers surge farther.
“yeah, that’s it, take my fuckin’ dick, baby,” his gravelly voice sent shivers down your body, the messy plops of his skin meeting yours amplifying it all. “best pussy i’ve had in a while, so wet ‘n tight, bet you’ve never been fucked this good, huh?” he cooed, drilling deeper as he adjusted the angle. all you could make out was slobbered hums and yeah’s, the rest being gargled moans as your spit drooled out around his fingers, drenching his glove and making a nasty pool on the table beneath your head.
ben’s fingers moved to the side of your cheek, stretching it and warping the shape of your mouth as he lifted your head up, straining your neck while your eyes rolled back. the rough skin of his fingers dragged over the smooth molars and canines of your teeth.
“shit, shit—fuck!” he moaned, letting go of the insides of your mouth, your head lolling back down onto the table as he wrapped his spit covered hand around his shaft, having pulled out again. he gave himself a few fistings before cumming all over your ass and back, letting out powerful jets of his semen.
you mewled lowly as he gazed at the sight in front of him. his pearlescent arousal dripped down the curve of you, making its way down your spine, all while it glistened in the light, coating the redness of where his coarse pubic hair burned against your skin from his snapping hips. it was oddly beautiful, seeing you so ruined like this. watching old cum make its way out of your now gaping, sopping hole, and down towards the hard wood table from the path your quivering legs made.
a smirk made its way to his bearded face, palm still stuck to his fat, softening cock. but he was slowly hardening again at the view of your labored breathing, at how your gentle and frail fingers danced over the bruises on your throat, feeling the sting when you applied any sort of pressure.
ben couldn’t help himself, his mouth moving before his mind could form the thought first, “wanna go again?”
Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.
AN: Here we go! Finally, I’m very excited to bring you the first chapter of Return to Me—and another healthy serving of Cowboy!Dean. 🤠 This will be rooted in the romance of course, but there will be plenty of family drama (and secrets) in store. 😘
Tags & Warnings: Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers (eventually), angst, jealousy; background Sam x Jess
ᝰ.Word Count: 7k || Posted on Patreon: July 19, 2026
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Part 1: Sweet Home, Colorado
The Winchester Ranch spans over 100,000 acres of Colorado state land.
It’s firmly wedged between a 2,900 square-foot ski resort in Breckenridge and the overcrowded, skyrocketing cost of living in Colorado Springs. A few dusty roads from those cities wind into grasslands and veiny rivers—into national forests and mountains, with thinner air leading into the clouds.
This is the flyover land that tourists and coastal city transplants almost never see. This is the land that investment companies and development firms rake with their greedy eyes and their clients’ venture capital, but don’t actually want to know what it takes to survive in it.
Jack Kline is going to learn that lesson soon.
At 19 years old, all he has is a high school diploma and his mother’s medical bills. He sits in what he thinks is the drawing room, on the edge of an old chair that’s lost its cushion. He teeters on its unsteady back leg, not knowing that the wood he sits on is 50 years old. And that’s 80 years shy of how old this two-story ranch house is—built by John Winchester’s grandfather and his family.
John’s eldest son and Ranch Manager, Dean, sits on the brown leather couch across from his candidate for a new ranch hand. He glosses over Jack’s résumé with a skeptical eye, rubbing his chin that audibly prickles with stubble.
“I know I don’t really have much experience with farming,” Jack says, scratching the back of his head nervously.
“Cattle ranching,” Dean corrects. “And no, looks like you don’t have any. A part-time shift at the local McD’s doesn’t exactly have transferrable skills for this job. Unless you count slinging McFlurries and shoveling horseshit as the same thing.”
He glances on the back of the résumé, but the page is blank. There’s not much to the front of it either.
“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.
Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”
Dean’s expression flattens. “On a fucking ranch, what do you think? A horse.”
“Oh! Um…I rode a pony for my birthday when I was five,” Jack says.
Dean’s eye nearly twitches.
“But I mean, I’ll learn fast! And I’ll work hard,” Jack promises, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ll see! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just…I need a steady job. Full-time.”
Dean hears the thread of desperation underneath the earnestness. He sees it in the kid’s eyes.
“I take it there’s a story there,” he says.
Jack nods, his gaze falling to his hands as they curl anxiously against his jean-clad thighs.
“My mom. She’s um, not doing well,” he says.
Dean’s brows furrow, just slightly. “She’s sick?”
“Multiple sclerosis. MS," Jack replies. "She’s had it my whole life, but it started getting worse a few months ago and…she can’t work anymore.”
Dean nods, heaving another sigh. His father told him to find a new ranch hand to replace Bobby—someone young and strong who doesn’t mind getting paid on the lean side.
Jack Kline is desperate enough, but what he has is a fresh face, soft hands, and no business being on a ranch. He’s no Bobby Singer, not by a fucking long shot. But it’s hard to turn down the kid with the sick mom. It’s been even harder to find someone willing to work these days. Dean has come up empty for a week.
“Well,” he drawls, bringing himself to his feet. Jack follows suit. “I can give you full-time and steady, but just know that what we do here isn’t easy or glamorous. It’s long hours and hard fucking work.”
Jack brightens. “Does that mean I got the job?”
“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”
Dean offers the younger man his hand. Jack shakes it all too enthusiastically.
“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Winchester—”
“Just call me Dean. When I introduce you to the guys tomorrow, it’s sir,” Dean says. “We start early, so there’s a spot for you in the bunkhouse. Bring what you can fit in a duffel, and make sure that includes a hat.”
Jack easily agrees, all too fucking excited to muck out stalls, fix fences, and live in a glorified cabin with six other men. Dean shakes his head in amusement to watch him go. His younger brother Sam enters the house just as Jack is leaving, and they briefly acknowledge each other on the pass.
Sam raises a brow at his brother as he shuts the door, then takes off his suit blazer. He works for a law firm in town—the only law firm in town.
“New cowboy?” he asks.
“Not really, but we’ll make him one,” Dean says, tossing the résumé on a nearby coffee table. “You’re home early.”
“I need to follow up on some things for the funeral,” Sam says. He follows his brother into the kitchen and watches him open the fridge, looking for the iced tea. “I called her, by the way. She’s coming tomorrow.”
Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.
He hadn’t taken it all that well when Sam mentioned that they should reach out to you, but in his brother’s words, it was only right. Even if you and Bobby had been estranged after your parents’ divorce, he was still your father. You deserved to know that he died.
“Well, at least she shows up for his fucking funeral,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Classy.”
Sam watches him reach for a beer instead of the iced tea.
“People leave town and make a life, Dean. Doesn’t make her a bad person,” Sam reasons. “Did Bobby try to stay in touch with her?”
Dean shrugs. “Couple times, I think. It’s hard to compete with shiny beaches, bullshit traffic, and oat milk lattes.”
Sam shakes his head in amusement. “It’s been a long time. She’s probably changed. So have you, you know. You think you can let go of the past and be an adult about this?”
Dean shoots him some side-eye as he cracks his beer open.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, taking a swig. “California probably ruined her.”
Sam’s lips press together. Bitch face: Activated.
“I went to California too, if you remember,” he says. He went to Stanford University on a full ride. You went to the University of San Diego, two years before him. In some ways, you gave him the courage to live the life he wanted too.
“But you came back,” Dean says, tipping his beer toward him. “And it didn’t take you twelve years to do it.”
“There’s probably more than one good reason she didn’t,” Sam says, just as pointedly.
Dean’s jaw clenches, but rather than dig deeper into the shades and shadows of the past, he just leaves his brother and heads out back toward the barn. Like their dad always says, the work never fucking fails on a ranch.
A loud thwack startles you into a flinch. You’ve already claimed the left side of the hotel bed, trying to unpack your suitcase. You frown and crane your neck over your shoulder.
“Babe, what’re you doing?”
“Another fucking spider,” Brady grouses from the bathroom. “This Holiday Inn lacks basic hygiene, let alone amenities.”
He comes out a bit overdressed for dinner in his pressed slacks and black buttoned-down shirt. His hair is well coiffed with a bit of mousse. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the most upscale restaurant around here serves previously frozen seafood and chili on spaghetti. Even your blouse and pants will stick out in a sea of flannel and cowboy hats.
This isn’t Denver, with its industrious hipster vibes, or Breckenridge with its luxurious ski resorts. This is Salida, a tiny town in the middle of south-central Colorado.
“Welcome to the Mountain West,” you tease, then focus back on sorting through your toiletries to make sure you didn’t miss anything while packing.
Toothbrush, floss, birth control—remember to start the new pack tonight. Moisturizer, cleanser, makeup remover wipes…
“We should’ve stayed up at my dad’s spot in Breckenridge,” Brady says. He slips in behind you, settling his hands on your hips as he punctuates his point with a kiss along your neck.
You smile and lean back into him. His arms wind around your waist, and his hand wraps around yours, toying with the shining ring on your left hand. You usually prefer silver, but he’d talked you into gold, as well as the weight of that diamond.
You’d been properly breathless when he first gave it to you, last month, but you did try to tell him it was too much. He knows you didn’t grow up like he did, where the seven grand he spent could’ve helped your parents put a downpayment on a house—one that they could've owned, rather than an old cabin on someone else’s ranch.
But Brady can be very convincing, even on whether a 1.75 carat engagement ring belongs on your finger.
“Consider it my promise that I’ll always give you the world,” he’d said. “I’ll give you everything you never had.”
It’s hard to argue with that, especially as a girl from a dusty-ass mountain town like Salida, who never imagined a man like Brady Weiss would offer her any part of the world.
“It wouldn’t make sense to stay up in Breckenridge when the ranch is only half an hour away from town,” you remind him.
Brady hums against your neck. You both stare out the window of your hotel room. Beyond the old Denny’s sign, there are miles and miles of grasslands that stretch ahead of the parallel roads. Your eyes trace over the violet shadows of mountain ranges in the distance. It’s familiar to you, an echo of memory that used to wrap around you like white noise. Like home. Now, you feel like the tourists your father used to make fun of.
“Salida,” Brady snorts. “You know that’s Spanish for exit, right?”
“Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here,” you say, with a sigh. “In some ways, being back here makes my skin crawl, but…it is quieter.”
“That’s called the death of civilization, honey.”
You snort in amusement. “It’s not that bad. Think of what this place could look like with just a little more infrastructure and a few coats of new paint.”
“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand. “That’s kind of why we’re here.”
“…Well, after the funeral tomorrow,” you say, as your amusement fades.
Anxiety and grief crawl from your stomach to your throat whenever you think about it. You’re grateful that Sam called you. You’re even looking forward to seeing him, but you also know what else is waiting for you at that godforsaken ranch.
“Yeah. The timing on that really is incredible,” Brady remarks.
You stiffen in his arms. You turn to give him an incredulous look over your shoulder.
“You mean my dad’s death?” you say, extricating yourself from his arms.
“Not like that,” he contritely replies. He follows you to the window, where you cross your arms at him. “I just mean…all right, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying, we’ll have an opportunity to speak to John Winchester face to face, tell him he has a new neighbor.”
Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brady. It’s not the time—”
“It’s the perfect time. He won’t be as guarded,” he insists. “But we’ll be discreet about it, wait until the reception. I’ll just find a moment to pull him aside and float the offer. People around here appreciate the personal touch, don’t they?”
“Listen, I grew up around his family. I know him, okay?” you say. “He’s not going to appreciate having a new neighbor, and he’s not interested in any kind of offer from us, so we’ll have to play it very strategically.”
Brady quirks a grin. “Well, that’s my specialty, babe.”
You’re still not convinced. Before you can tell him that, his cell phone rings in his pocket. Seeing the caller ID, he quickly answers.
“Hello? Yes, sir, just got here a few hours ago.” Brady’s brows raise in surprise as he listens. “Oh really?”
You don’t have a good feeling about this.
“Okay, but we’re meant to be at the Winchester Ranch tomorrow—”
Brady pauses, cut off by the clipped voice on the line. You can’t hear very well, but you don’t have to. You heart begins to sink.
By the time Brady hangs up, looking at you with more sincere apology, you already know what’s coming.
“Dick arranged for some contractors to come out to the new development tomorrow,” he says. “I need to be there to oversee operations.”
“They can’t come out the day after tomorrow? Today’s Wednesday,” you say.
“The builder has other appointments on Friday,” Brady says. “Tomorrow’s all they have open, and we’re scoping out the entire plot of land.”
“Watch out for bears,” you say wryly. But the longer the sting of this settles inside you, the more hurt you feel. “So you’re really not coming with me to my father’s funeral?”
Brady steps in closer and grasps your arms, trying to placate you with comfort you’re too upset to accept.
“I’m sorry. You fucking know how Dick is, and my dad’s letting him test me with this job. This is the first time they’ve let me take point on a build. This needs to go well,” he reminds you, as if he hasn’t been telling you the same thing for the past few months. “And that means we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to break ground next month.”
“Fine,” you say, but you both know it’s anything but when you shrug out of his hold.
Brady stares after you with a sigh.
Jack Kline pulls his old pick-up truck to the ranch at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Dean’s already coming out of the barn after helping Cas and Benny feed and water the horses.
Dean sees Jack coming and directs him where to park, then shows him to the bunkhouse—a small building with faded white paint that’s chipping near the gutter, but the W brand is bolted to the east side facing the rising sun, the black wrought iron shining. The men make their way to on the gravel path that cuts through the grass.
“If the main house is up the hill, then who lives there?” Jack asks, pointing at the cabin just west of the approaching bunkhouse.
“The Foreman. He wrangles the men after I tell them what to wrangle,” Dean says. “Most of the guys are already out feeding the animals, but today’s, uh, a bit different. We have a funeral today out here on the ranch.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who passed away?”
“The Foreman,” Dean replies.
He doesn’t give the kid any more information as he opens the door to the bunkhouse. He briefly points out the kitchen and shallow closet where the guys always keep the next case of beer handy, plus the living room area with a couch big enough for the narrow space, and a TV mounted on the wall. A six-seater round table separates the two rooms, but there’s also a small pool table in the far corner. Beyond that is the next room, where the bunks are.
Jack half expected literal bunk beds, but these are more like dorm room beds pushed against the wall, with space underneath and in between for storage.
Only Walt and Kevin are still inside the bunkhouse, finishing up in the communal bathroom. The rest of the ranch hands have finished breakfast and are trying to get through the morning duties quickly, so they can clean up and help get things ready for all the guests coming to the ranch by 11:00 a.m.
When Dean introduces Jack, Kevin is the one who shakes the young man’s hand.
“All right, guys, you know what you need to do. Help Jack get situated too,” Dean says.
Walt gives him a nod. After the door swings shut behind Dean, Jack brings his duffel over to the bunks. He goes over to the closest one that looks free and sets his bag on it. After unzipping it, the first thing he takes out is his hat.
Walt grabs his Stetson off the wall and glances at the brown felt in Jack’s hands.
“What kinda fucking hat is that supposed to be?” Walt asks. He’s taller and broader than Jack, tanned and toned from long days under the sun.
Jack glances down at the flat, rounded hat his mom got him for his high school play in A Streetcar Named Desire.
“Um, it’s the only one I had,” he says.
Walt snorts. “Looks like a fucking fedora. Gonna give the cows a tap dance before you tickle their teats?”
He walks out of the bunkhouse, leaving Jack embarrassed and confused.
“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.
Kevin grins in amusement. “Dude, anything would be better than that.”
Over in the main house, Sam has a year’s worth of data reports and financial documents splayed out across the head of the large dining table of polished rosewood. The spread lies between his father’s coffee mug and a small ashtray for the bud of last night’s cigar, but John has very little interest in what all those pages mean.
He sits leaning on one elbow, his hand half covering his salt and pepper beard as his younger son continues to prove his point.
“Just 30%,” Sam says. “After the rough winter we had last year, and the dry as hell summer we’re going through now, selling off 30% percent of the ranch will help make sure we actually survive next year, let alone make a profit.”
“We’ll find another way, son,” John says.
Stubborn.
“There is no other way. I’ve been telling you for three years,” Sam says. His frustration bleeds into not only his tone, but the curl of his fist on the table. “Back then, we actually had a good offer on the table. We could’ve leased out Pastures 3 and 4 to the Baileys. You do realize that property taxes have raised by 13%, not including the $55,000 tax exemption that expired two years ago.”
John doesn’t offer a rebuttal. He senses there’s more to this little tirade.
“That’s beside the fact that our operating costs have only increased. Dean’s cut as many corners as he can, but we’re barely breaking even, Dad,” Sam says.
“I’m sorry, son, I’m not selling,” John says. He glances out the window to the very land his father, grandfather, and grand uncles worked and cared for over damn near a century and half. “Your grandfather told me. Not an inch, son. Don’t let them take even an inch. Because once you start carving up the bird, everyone wants a piece of that bitch.”
Sam breathes a tense sigh. He’s heard that line his whole damn life.
“What other solutions do we have?” John asks.
Sam shakes his head as he runs through the spreadsheet on his laptop.
“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.
John frowns. “How many?”
Sam rubs his chin in thought, knowing Dean won’t like what he’s about to suggest. He can already hear the gravelly bitching.
The job’s fucking hard enough without being even more short-handed.
But something’s gotta give. Sam knows. He’s known for years. Being the ranch’s accountant as well as its lawyer isn’t for the weak, and neither his father nor his brother makes it any easier.
“Well, keep Jack. He’s young and his salary is cheap, but we may have to let go of Walt and Carter…maybe even Benny.”
“No,” John says, shaking his head. “Those are seasoned guys. As it is, we’re up to our balls wading in the work.”
The older man taps his fingers on the table. To his credit, his days on the ranch are almost as long and hard as Dean’s are, even though John gave him the managerial reins a few years ago.
“You’re thinking like a businessman and a lawyer,” John says, “but you also need to understand this place as a rancher too.”
“I do understand. But it’s a good thing for you that I’m not a rancher, because I see the fact that we’re not adapting. We’re failing. Ranches and farms all over the country are failing,” Sam says. “Hell, Grandpa Samuel sold the Campbell Ranch and moved to North Carolina! Already the land developers are coming in. They’re putting up banners all around the land. It’s a build site now.”
“A fucking shame,” John says. His voice is laden with regret that he couldn’t afford to help his in-laws. “Your mother must be turning in her grave.”
The mention of Mary Winchester always strikes a solemn note in the room. Today is no exception.
After a moment, Sam considers the email in his inbox from just last night. There’s a voicemail waiting for him on his cell too.
“We got a similar offer,” Sam says. “From the developer, Roman & Weiss Group. Pastures 3 through 6 border their land on the west, by the river. If we sell even just that piece, they’re willing to pay double what it’s worth. If we sell the entire ranch, they’ll cover the closing costs.”
John quirks a humorless smile and finally pushes away from the table.
“I’m burying my old friend today,” he says. “So, you can tell that developer where they can stick their fucking offer.”
Every mile of hot asphalt and wheat grass that tears by is an increasing increment of nostalgia. Every mile away from Salida brings you closer to distant mountains, as well as the Winchester Ranch.
You drive yourself there in a rental car. Within a half hour, you’re pulling up under the shade of Gambel oaks and aspen trees on the paved driveway. Wide, gray stones form a path up to the front door, not easy to navigate in your heels. Once you make it to the porch, you take a steadying breath, adjust the skirt of your dress and your hair, and take off your sunglasses before you knock.
Sam answers the door. He smiles gently at you, giving you a hug that feels like home. You hug him back, fighting the sting of tears in your eyes. He looks good in a black suit and thin pinstripe tie.
“God, you’re not that skinny kid anymore,” you laugh as you blink past that sting. “And you’re almost as tall as the door! Jesus.”
Sam just laughs. “Yeah, well, you grew up too. You look great.”
You smile, though you bite your lip when he gestures at the ring on your left hand with a surprised, raised brow.
“Somehow you forgot to mention that,” he says, with a quirking grin. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “It’s um…new. He asked me last month.”
“Good guy?” Sam asks, as he welcomes you inside the house.
You’re still shouldering some upset over last night, and the fact that your fiancé couldn’t be here to brace you through this day, in this place. Even so, you manage to smile at the question.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” you admit.
But the thought dies as you take in the familiar walls of the Winchester family home. Wood panels meet tasteful crème and earthy, rustic accents. Your gaze follows the wind of the staircase, up to the second floor where you take in the sight of a new rod iron chandelier casting a warm glow down to the ground floor.
What draws your eye next is the family picture hanging in the living room. Mary was still alive there, beautiful and smiling with baby Sam in her arms. Dean was only four, standing beside her with John’s hand on his shoulder. If you remember right, the break-in happened just a few months after that picture was taken.
John’s voice almost startles you when he comes in from down the hall. You remember that his office is back there, across from the kitchen. He also wears a black suit with his scuffed cowboy boots, a little less refined than Sam, but bringing an undeniable presence into the room.
You tense on instinct, more guarded with the Winchester patriarch.
“It’s been a long time,” he says, giving you a nod.
“It has,” you agree, though the pleasantries end there.
Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.
“Thank you for doing all the arrangements for my father, even the cremation,” you say to both men, as you begin to take out your phone from where it’s lodged in your clutch purse. “What do I owe you?”
John waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. We take care of our own.”
Your mouth opens, but it closes shortly after. You think he meant it to be kind, but you can’t help but think there’s something back-handed underneath.
The rough budge of a back door disrupts not only your thoughts, but remakes the tension in the room, like holding an inevitable breath. Heavy boots clomp into the living room and soon reveal a man in red flannel and jeans.
Well, formerly red flannel.
“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks, his brows furrowed as he leans away from the rancid funk his brother just brought in.
Dean stops short when he notices you standing between his father and brother like the fox that got caught in the hen house. A fox who smells like French perfume and grew into her curves.
Meanwhile, Dean wipes at the mud on his cheek, inspects his fingers with a grimace, then wipes them on his already soiled jeans.
“A goddamn heifer kindly dragged me through her own shit for trying to untangle her from a fence,” he says.
You cover your nose with a look of disgust. “Definitely smells like it.”
Dean shoots you a wry glance, but he allows himself to take a longer look at you then—from your high heels, black dress, and that little purse under your arm, to your red lipstick, and lastly, the fat, shining ring on your finger.
“Congratulations,” he says placidly, gesturing at your hand.
You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”
You want to take satisfaction in his reaction, but you can’t really tell what the hell he’s thinking. You’re struggling to reconcile the fact that this is really Dean Winchester. Last time you saw him, you were just 18 years old. He was barely 20, clean shaven and only slightly less wiry than his younger brother.
Of course, 12 years is a long time. He’s taller, broader, the cut of his jaw dusted with roguish stubble, his voice steeped in bourbon and molasses. His hair is a little darker too, but that could also be the…mud.
Dean stabs a thumb toward the driveway. “That your man’s Mercedes out front?”
“It’s a rental,” you say. Though you can’t help but add, “Brady drives a Lexus.”
“Brady, huh?” Dean nods in amusement. “And what does Mr. Lexus do?”
“He’s a lawyer,” you say, trying to rein in your annoyance.
Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snip.
Even Sam gets slightly offended at that. He shoots his brother a warning look, one that Dean ignores.
“I just think it’s interesting that the guy’s not here with you at your dad’s funeral,” he remarks. Then he shrugs. “Then again, you wouldn’t even know about what happened to Bobby if it weren’t for Sam ringing you up. You know what, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have interrupted your life. Clearly you’ve got more important things going on, since I doubt you’ve spoken to the man in…what, a few years? Ten? Stop me when I hit the number.”
“Dean,” Sam intervenes.
John gives his eldest a firm look, especially as he sees you bubbling with outrage. But unlike Dean, you have some fucking decorum. You try to remind yourself that you’re a guest here, even if one of the residents is still a Grade A: Asshole.
“You know what, maybe I’d take that little zinger more seriously if you weren’t covered in literal shit, cowboy,” you retort.
Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, at least this is all natural. You stink like L.A.”
He actually savors that wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on your face as he heads upstairs to his room, tracking mud and wet grass all the while. His first stop is the shower.
Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.
“I’m sorry about that,” Sam says to you.
“On a day like today, he should know better,” John adds.
Your lips press into a hard line, otherwise you’re not sure what might escape.
“You want something to drink before we head down to the field?” Sam asks.
He’s the only man in his family who knows how to be a good host, it seems.
“A glass of wine would be good,” you say tightly.
“Ah…” Sam pauses, sharing a look with his father.
“We’ve got beer and hard liquor, sweetheart. That’s about it,” John says.
You nearly roll your eyes. You anticipated this—the little digs, their silent judgement, maybe even their laughter. Because driving a nice car and asking for a glass of wine is so damn laughable around here.
“Water then, please,” you snap. “Sparkling if you have it, or a bottle. Not the tap water these cowboys wash their asses with.”
You can’t stand this house, or this town. You resolve to at least break free of this room. Your heels clack loudly all the way back to the front door.
Dean hears the slam all the way from his room upstairs.
Sam steels himself before he follows you outside. He finds you on the porch, with an agitated set to your frame as you pace back and forth with your hands on your hips. You pause when you notice him, but you don’t even know what to say to him. You’ve never smoked in your life, and yet, you suddenly crave a cigarette. You blame the whole seeing your ex bit.
“Somehow, that’s better than I saw it going,” Sam remarks.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter.
“I’m glad you did,” Sam says. He hangs out with you against the porch railing, allowing the brief summer breeze to wash a little peace over him. It washes over you too, quelling some of your temper as you stare out to the ranch, the trees, the mountains beyond.
“It even smells the same,” you say, taking in a deeper breath. “Clear. Like earth and rain, even though it’s dry.”
The longer you stand still, the more than Dean’s acidic words corrode through the protective walls you erected in your mind in preparation for this day. Guilt seeps in through the cracks as you glance over at Sam.
“I am sorry we lost touch, you and me. It should’ve been easier when you got to Cali,” you say.
You’d grown up on this ranch since you were seven years old. There was a time that the only friends you knew were the Winchester boys. Until his older brother broke your heart.
A memory pierces through you, a reminder. Thunder rolling overhead, rain soaking through gray flannel as you shut the door in his face…
Maybe you broke his heart too. But you still don’t think you deserve whatever the hell that was in the house.
“I know how hard it was for you, after what happened back then,” Sam says, only half succeeding at pulling you back into the present.
“No,” you say, with a wry tug of your lips. “You really don’t know.”
He hesitates, but he concedes that with a short nod.
“Well, regardless, it’s good see you, even if this isn’t the only reason you’re here,” he says, eying you knowingly.
Your mouth parts in surprise, but really, you shouldn’t be. You’d had a feeling Brady was working from his phone at dinner last night.
“I got an email from a Brady Weiss. His father’s company wants to buy a portion of our ranch,” Sam says. “I’m assuming that’s your fiancé. I also looked up your LinkedIn. You work for them too.”
You bite the inside of your lip. Despite what Brady told you about what you should do to further the plan, you hadn’t wanted to bring this up here. However, this is just too perfect of an opportunity.
“Have you talked to John about the offer yet?” you ask.
“He’s never gonna go for it. You know that,” Sam replies, with a sigh of frustration. “No matter what I tell him, he’s stubborn. But he’d definitely never sell to a developer like Roman & Weiss.”
“All we’re aiming to do here is build more homes,” you say. “You know how overcrowded Denver and Colorado Springs are, even Boulder and Breckenridge. Not to mention, the home shortage here is only getting worse.”
“Roman & Weiss hasn’t made its money in developing affordable housing,” Sam counters. “It’s just another land-grabbing machine. They probably want to turn my grandfather’s century-old farm into luxury condos and hotels—or maybe even another ski resort, if they can get a cut of the national park. I’m frankly surprised you’re part of it. You majored in Environmental Studies.”
“And Business,” you correct. The University of San Diego wasn’t Stanford, but that double major had put you through your paces, and it hadn’t been cheap.
“This is a big opportunity for me, Sam,” you continue, your voice edged with defensiveness. “I want to help build something that will last, but obviously I don’t want people to keep being priced out of their own neighborhoods. That’s why I proposed affordable housing for this build, and they heard me out! They actually respected my proposal, and I’ve worked hard for that respect—not through Brady, but from my own merit. So, I don’t appreciate you or your brother for judging me.”
You wish you could just storm off in a new direction, like back to your car, and back to the hotel. Hell, you’d like to get on a plane and go back to California, where your life and your decisions aren’t being picked apart from all angles.
Instead, you head back inside the house in search of whatever decent refreshment you can find in this place.
Within the hour, John drives you, Sam, and a freshly showered Dean in an ATV all the way to the funeral site. Sam provides the buffer by sitting in between you and Dean, but the ride is silent with tension.
Already there are several cars lined up on the other side of the fence that borders the west side of the ranch. A crowd is congregated among the rows of foldout chairs, near the river that cuts straight through the land. You know it well.
Your sunglasses are in back place, so you’re able to keep your head raised and ignore the stares of faces you recognize, faces you don’t know, and the ones who seem to know who you are, just by whatever gossip has probably been running the rumor mill already. Your parents’ divorce had been the talk of the town in the weeks before you left it. Even though people probably forgot about you while you were gone, they sure remember you now.
You pause when you reach a small plastic table with a framed picture of your father beside his urn.
Robert Singer
Husband, Father & Friend
You linger there for a moment, even when you sense Dean pass behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him choose to sit on the edge of the aisle next to his father. You eventually take a seat on the opposite end of the row, next to Sam and the beautiful blonde he introduces to you as his girlfriend, Jess. She offers you a comforting squeeze of your shoulder as well as her condolences.
“You probably don’t remember me, but I was in Sam’s class back in high school,” she says.
That’s when it hits you—a bolt of recognition that makes you smile.
“Jessica Moore! I do remember,” you say, giving her a hug. “We’ll have to catch up later.”
She agrees, then takes her seat on Sam’s other side. You lean toward him and flash a discreet thumbs up.
“Good for you, Sammy,” you tease in a whisper. “I guess the nerd sometimes does get the cheerleader in real life.”
He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”
You smirk. Payback is fun. “Dude, I saw you run naked into that river on a dare when you were nine. You’ll always be Sammy to me.”
He rolls his eyes, but it ends on a smile.
However, you’re reminded of the gravity of this moment when John stands and moves to the front of the crowd, asking everyone to be seated. He doesn’t need a microphone. His voice travels across the field, somber and deep like the base of Mount Antero framing him from behind.
“I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings or christenings,” John says. He glances at the urn, and at the framed picture beside him. “Never did I think I’d be here, speaking at yours.”
He looks out toward the crowd. “I count these faces, and I know them all. Just like the man we’re here to speak on was known to all of us. To some of you, he was just the town drunk. To many of you, he was the man who’d tow your truck or put on your spare, even while he was chastising you for getting yourself in the ditch to begin with.”
Laughter bubbles in the crowd. You had frowned at the town drunk part, but some people laughed at that too, like it was the truth. You don’t have any memory of your dad being drunk—not in the house, and not when he and the other guys in the bunkhouse went out to the bar. Maybe that part hadn’t started until after you and your mom left Salida.
You’ve never felt like more of an outsider than you do right now.
“To me, he was a friend,” John continues. “A man I could trust. A man I counted on to help me work this land and care for the animals, so we could feed this town and other ones like it. He helped me raise horses, birth breach calves, and do cattle runs across state lines. Bobby Singer was a work horse who did what he did until the day he died, and that kind of end is all that men like us can hope for. We don’t often get the Hallmark ending or the Hollywood blaze of glory. This is what cowboying is today, and what most of America never sees.”
He sighs. “That said, I think he’d appreciate his daughter saying a few words.”
You raise your head at that, surprised and a bit alarmed. You didn’t know you’d be asked to speak. You haven’t prepared anything.
But you know you can’t say no when a hundred pairs of eyes are staring at you and watching your reaction, even Sam. He gives you an encouraging nod and a gentle hand on your back. Your insides tremble with nerves, but you force yourself to stand. Slowly you make your way to the front, where John waits for you. It’s difficult in your heels as they tend to sink into the earth with every step, but he gives you a nod before he reclaims his seat beside Dean.
You clear your throat, trying to find your words. You stare out at all these dusty cowboys, John’s ranch hands, and people from town. You could try to get through this with something brief and a goodbye, Dad, but you have a feeling they'll see right through you.
What's more, you don't really know how you feel until you start talking.
“Many of you know I haven’t been back here in a while,” you say. “My parents divorced when I was eighteen, right before I left for college. My mom…she died four years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. That was the last time I spoke to my dad.”
Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. Your hand comes up to cover your trembling lips, but it can’t stop the overflow. Despite your best efforts, what escapes is the truth.
“I resented him, probably for things that weren’t all his fault. I let that dig a little too deep, I think. He may not have been a perfect man, but he was a good man,” you say, sniffling. Your gaze falls to your folded hands in front of you. “I mean, you all know that, or else all of you wouldn’t be here. But standing here now, there are things I regret. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I regret the time we wasted in between, even though it’s too late to change that. Nothing I say can ever change that, but…I hope he can forgive me.”
When you allow yourself to look up, the only face you see is Dean’s. His gaze locks with yours, and he nods, as if in support.
You don’t know if that's really what it means, but somehow, you’re able to move the rest of your body again. You break from that intense, unknowable forest within his irises, and you try to make it back to your seat. Your hands shake with so much more than nerves.
Your heel wobbles in a patch of wet grass, but someone steadies a hand on your back and grabs your arm before you fall over. A gasp falls from your lips at Dean’s proximity, and the gentle strength of his hold.
His gaze meets yours again. In that brief pause, there’s an entire world suspended. The sun spins its rays through his hair and lashes, and you find flecks of gold in the green of his eyes, along with a gentler look on his face.
You nod at him in a silent thank you.
He and Sam help you sit down.
Later, after others finish speaking, Dean included, John gives you the honor of sprinkling Bobby’s ashes into the river. It’s the same one that you, Sam, and Dean used to play in when you were kids.
“Dad taught us how to swim here,” you say softly. It earns both Sam and Dean’s attention.
“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.
You glance over at him, finding another hint of his smile. It’s teasing, not mocking.
You relax a bit and manage to find a smile too.
“You lived.”
AN: Aaand we're off! I'm sorry that Bobby's been killed off at the start here, but already the pieces are in play with our three childhood friends, reader, Sam, and Dean. You can expect quite a few flashbacks in the future. 😉❤️
What did you think about the setup of our main conflicts here—Brady's engagement to reader, and his little sales offer for John? We've got a fair bit of drama and a big twist coming soon in Part 2...
Next Time:
You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.
“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.
“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.
“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.
Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”
“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”
“You two work together?”
“Yeah, for his father’s company.”
“Doing what?”
You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.
🌹 Read Part 2 now on Patreon!
ᯓ✍🏽 Coming to Tumblr: August 9
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hello fellow non-Black tumblr users. welcome to my saw trap. if you'd like to leave, please name one (1) Black woman author who is not Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, or N.K. Jemisin. bonus points if she's published a book in the last five years.
For my own future reference, and for anyone else who wants it, a list of authors mentioned in the notes. (I cannot promise this is comprehensive, there are a lot of reblogs and I might have missed some.) I've included a link for each author, where possible I've tried to find one that leads you to their books, prioritising own websites/publishers, falling back on wikipedia otherwise.
If you find any mistakes in the links let me know and I'll edit. This post will be in two parts, because I literally broke tumblr with how many authors there were. I think it's about a hundred and fifty.
Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé - speculative fiction
Marguerite Abouet - graphic novels
Elizabeth Acevedo - fiction, poetry
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - fiction
Tomi Adeyemi - young adult fantasy
K Ancrum - speculative contemporary young adult
Lily Anderson - fiction
Ashley Antoinette - fiction
Ama Ata Aidoo - poetry, fiction, plays
Kemi Ashing Giwa - speculative fiction
Kalynn Bayron - young adult, fantasy
Malorie Blackman - childrens' books, young adult
Natasha Bowen - fantasy
Gwendolyn Brooks - poetry
Natasha Brown - fiction
NoViolet Bulawayo - fiction
Constance Burris - speculative fiction
CL Clark - fantasy, speculative fiction
Wahida Clark - urban fiction
Lucille Clifton - poetry, fiction
Alyssa Cole - romance, thrillers, graphic novels
Kamilah Cole - fiction
Claire Coleman - fiction, essays, poetry
Maryse Condé - fiction, non-fiction, plays
Emma Dabiri - non-fiction
Edwidge Danticat - fiction
Angela Davis - philosophy
Carolina Maria De Jesus - memoir
Hayley Dennings - fiction
Tracy Deonn - fiction
Nicky Drayden - speculative fiction
Tananarive Due - horror, comics
Camille Dungy - memoir, poetry
Esi Edugyan - fiction
Zetta Elliot - childrens' books, teen fiction, adult fiction
Petals Kalulé - fiction, poetry [Petals is noted as using she/they, I'm not 100% sure of their gender identity and past a certain point it feels weird to investigate too much]
