"Driver picks the music..."

Alex (She/Her, 30) Hopeless Romantic || Dean Girl || Latina ☕︎ ᯽ MASTERLIST ᯽ Requests Only on PATREON My Writer's Room (Fic Library) (Fic Recs) My Reading Room Ao3 Stories

[zepskies]

᯽ Alex (she/her | 30) | writer | Dean Girl ~ EST 2014 | Latina 🇨🇺🇵🇷🇩🇴

☕️ Fandoms I currently write for:

Supernatural ⟡ The Boys ⟡ Countdown ⟡ Big Sky ⟡ Tracker ⟡ My Bloody Valentine ⟡ Dark Angel ⟡ Smallville ⟡ 10 Inch Hero ⟡ Dawson's Creek ⟡ The Last of Us ⟡ Narcos ⟡ Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit

᯽ Main Masterlist (My Writing)

᯽ Join My Patreon -> For as low as $3 per month, you can get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

᯽ Tag Lists -> Choose which characters you'd like to be tagged on!

᯽ You can also follow my Writer's Room (Fic Library blog) with notifications on so you never miss a new story. Follow my Reading Room for Fic Recs.

💌 Inbox: Ask Me Stuff!

Requests are CLOSED. I am only fulfilling requests on Patreon, but feel free to hit me up in my inbox with questions or comments about my work, about fandom and characters, writing, etc.! ❤️

᯽ Podfics

Some of my stories have been narrated into podcast episodes by Sandra Kyle, one of the lovely hosts of the Idling in the Impala podcast. Go here to check out the full YouTube playlist of podfics.

(Podcast interviews, Bingo Masterlists, fic recs, and questions answered about writing and Jackles characters below the cut):

▲ Birthday moodboard created by lovely friend @the-potato-is-lonely ❤️

᯽Podcast Interviews

⟡ "Y/N & Let Y/N: Fanfic Author Interview" - (September 24, 2024)

Sandra and Kasey, the lovely hosts of @idlingintheimpalapodcast — the podcast for all things SPN and fanfiction — invited me on the pod for an interview…

We chatted about Dean Winchester and Jensen Ackles’ early roles, the best and worst seasons of SPN, the joys and pains of writing Soldier Boy, and much, much more.

For all the timestamps of key moments, fic recs, and SPN writer shoutouts, see this post (you'll find the link to the video there too).

⟡ “Words have power.” Minority and Cultural Representation in FanFiction - (June 3, 2025)

Sandra and Kasey invited me back on the pod for an interview on a topic that's very close to my heart…

We talked about the fun moments and challenges about reading and writing fanfiction that represents specific racial and ethnic cultures, being bicultural/multicultural, the immigrant experience, and much more.

I offered my own experience as a Latina POC writing in the fandom space, specifically Supernatural and The Boys (and adjacent Jackles fandoms).

For all the timestamps of key moments and fic recs, see this post (you'll find the link to the video there too).

⋆˙⟡ 5K Follower Celebration

"Celebrating" this milestone of over 5K followers is really just me saying THANK YOU to everyone who's supported me by reading, commenting, and reblogging my work, helping me brainstorm, giving me inspiration, or just simply being my friend! ❤️

🔆 Summer Writing Challenge Masterlist -> Read the amazing fics that everyone contributed to the 5K Challenge!

᯽ Bingo Masterlists

⟡ Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

᯽ About Writing

My thoughts on creative writing and fanfiction, the writing process, tips I've learned or been given, and questions people ask me.

⟡ My Writing Process in 5 Basic Steps

Question: How do you get your concept from the outline, to writing the actual story?

⟡ There Are Two Kinds of Writers: Architects & Adventurers

⟡ How to Build a Tumblr Following (In My Experience) - 3 Tips

⟡ 6 (More) Tips for Building a Tumblr Following

⟡ What Does "Supporting Writers" Mean?

⟡ 5 Tips to Stay Motivated to Write

⟡ 5 Tips for Beating Writer's Block

⟡ Ways to Say I Love You

⟡ Writing a Good Kiss/Romantic Scene

⟡ Where Do I Get My Writing Ideas?

⟡ Asking the "What If" Question & Developing Plot Ideas

⟡ PSA on Tumblr Tags: Tag Lists & # Tags

⟡ 4 Ways to Create a Tag List

⟡ 5 Tips on Writing Bilingual Characters

᯽ Characters, Fandom & Fic Rec Lists

⟡ Why We Love The Boys: A Review of Supes Ain't Always Heroes

⟡ Tips on Writing Dean Winchester

⟡ 3 Tips for Writing Soldier Boy (Ben)

⟡ Writing Angst with Soldier Boy (Ben)

⟡ Supernatural Fic Rec List

⟡ Dean Winchester AU Fic Rec List

⟡ Beau Arlen Fic Rec List

⟡ Soldier Boy Fic Rec List

⟡ The Venn Diagram of Jackles: Similarities & differences between Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen & Soldier Boy (Ben)

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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

♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

🌹Now Playing: “When I'm Down” ⟢ Radio Company

℧ Series Masterlist

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.

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[menofletters-and-mayhem]

cowboy!Dean?! don’t mind if I do.

[zepskies]

Why thank you! I'm happy to oblige 😘🤠

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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.

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RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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.

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RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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!

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

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[zepskies]

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 2):

@impala-dreamer @star-yawnznn @bleuatlas @cookiechipdough @nancymcl

@kiddieclaws @writtenbyhollywood @flawlesslyspellbound @lori19 @insomnia2love

@milescrypt @lunaleah @disappearintofanfiction @alexxavicry @missyoudean

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@lupinslibraries @teamackles96 @ladykitana90 @ultimatecin73 @bloodyrevival

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@uniqueeamber @simpfordeanwinchester03 @beltzboys2015-blog @nekkiotine @dina-winchester

@lexeevee @spnaddict13 @deans-baby-momma @dazeddisillusion @legalmente-loca-blog

[zepskies]

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 3):

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @k-slla @nuoctis @enchantedtomeetcoffee @stars4birdie

@ehmslly @cranberrysauce666 @1800-fight-me @menofletters-and-mayhem @thewinchesterwench

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@kayleighmeister @insomniactiefling @muhahaha303 @chelseyyouraverageluigi @leuriss

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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.

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[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.

When you return to Salida 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: Ready for some more Cowboy!Dean? 🤠❤️ Imagine Yellowstone meets Sweet Home Alabama, set in the Colorado mountains!

Supporting Cast: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Jessica Moore (Jess), Castiel (Cas), Benny Lafitte, Brady (Weiss), Jack Kline, Kevin Tran, Dick Roman, and more character cameos as well as new OCs along the way

Series Tags & Warnings: 18+ || Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, exes to lovers, smut, angst and messy drama (reader and Dean aren't perfect), jealousy, violence and death, family secrets, and more chapter-specific tags || background Sam x Jess and other pairings

🎬 Series Playlist Poster

♬ YouTube Playlist | Spotify Playlist

"How far will you go? You should know, you'll be on my mind..."

℧🌹 Chapters:

1: Sweet Home, Colorado ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 2

2: Too Close to the Heat 🌹 Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 9

3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 16

4: My Diamond is Too Rough 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 7 || Tumblr: August 23

5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass

6: Word Gets Out When You Get Around

7: Every Moment's a Crime

8: What We Said and What We Meant

9: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine

10: Wait for the River to Roll

11: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won

12: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns

13: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood

l4: The Roots Through Southern Ground

15: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone

16: Sunshine on the Water

ᯓ✍🏽 Series coming soon in August!

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[zepskies]

Get ready, Sam and Dean are riding in soon in Part 1! 😘🤠

⟢ And Parts 1-3 are now available to read ahead on Patreon!

[spnwoman]

This series is soooooo good everyone!! Have already read a few chapters on her Patreon and I’m already hooked!! 🤠🤠

[zepskies]

Aw thank you, love!! I so appreciate you, and very happy you're enjoying the ride so far! 😘❤️🧡

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.

When you return to Salida 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: Ready for some more Cowboy!Dean? 🤠❤️ Imagine Yellowstone meets Sweet Home Alabama, set in the Colorado mountains!

Supporting Cast: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Jessica Moore (Jess), Castiel (Cas), Benny Lafitte, Brady (Weiss), Jack Kline, Kevin Tran, Dick Roman, and more character cameos as well as new OCs along the way

Series Tags & Warnings: 18+ || Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, exes to lovers, smut, angst and messy drama (reader and Dean aren't perfect), jealousy, violence and death, family secrets, and more chapter-specific tags || background Sam x Jess and other pairings

🎬 Series Playlist Poster

♬ YouTube Playlist | Spotify Playlist

"How far will you go? You should know, you'll be on my mind..."

℧🌹 Chapters:

1: Sweet Home, Colorado ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 2

2: Too Close to the Heat 🌹 Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 9

3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 16

4: My Diamond is Too Rough 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 7 || Tumblr: August 23

5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass

6: Word Gets Out When You Get Around

7: Every Moment's a Crime

8: What We Said and What We Meant

9: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine

10: Wait for the River to Roll

11: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won

12: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns

13: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood

l4: The Roots Through Southern Ground

15: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone

16: Sunshine on the Water

ᯓ✍🏽 Series coming soon in August!

Tag List Form ⟢ Sign up to get tagged!

Fic Library Blog ⟢ Follow + turn on notifications for all new stories.

Join My Patreon ⟢ Get early access to new chapters, stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester AU Stories

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[zepskies]

Get ready, Sam and Dean are riding in soon in Part 1! 😘🤠

⟢ And Parts 1-3 are now available to read ahead on Patreon!

[waynes-multiverse]

🌖 Wolf Like Me || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x Omega Thief!Reader

Series Summary: You’ve spent years slipping through museum shadows and ancient ruins, lifting artifacts from people who won’t miss them till one night you run into Dean Winchester on a routine score. The moment your paths cross, the mate bond locks into place like a loaded round in the chamber. He’s all alpha instinct and guarded heart; you’re all sharp edges and escape routes. Loving him might cost you your freedom. Leaving him might cost you both something worse.

Warnings: +18 language & smut (ABO dynamics, heat/rut, true mates, forced/accidental claim), major angst, hurt/comfort, heists/artifacts/thievery, fluff

A/N: My first ever try at an Omegaverse story! Figured it was about damn time after all these years that I dip my toe into this pool as well. Reader comes with some serious Robin Hood/Indiana Jones vibes. Hope you enjoy, friends! 🤓

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 1: The Killing Moon 🌖 tumblr: Oct 2 || Patreon: Aug 16

Chapter 2: Unbelievers 🌖 tumblr: Oct 9 || Patreon: Aug 23

Chapter 3: I Will Follow You Into the Dark 🌖 tumblr: Oct 16 || Patreon: Aug 30

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @samslvrgirl

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn

@spnaquakindgdom @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2

@kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned @jassackles @periandernyx

[zepskies]

AHHHHH I'm so damn excited!!! 😍😍

We're getting closer and I'm so sat, ready to see what your brilliant mind came up with for this omegaverse mini series. I just know you're gonna kill it on this one 🐺💕

And again, I love the aesthetics and color scheme 💛✨

[zepskies]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-size (Latina)!Reader

Summary: After Mary leaves the bunker, you finally move in permanently. You know staying with Dean was the right decision, but that means you’re locked in—with him, Sam, the British Men of Letters, and whatever the hell’s going on with Mary Winchester.

AN: We're back in the Espresso-verse with a sequel to Stay With Me. Just know that Devour Me (Parts 1 & 2) falls in between. Also, the opener to this one is highly indulgent lmao, but still based on Dean's penchant for dipping into Sam's self-care products. 😂

Word Count: 8K

Posted on Patreon: Feb. 13, 2026

Tags & Warnings: [Spans 12x05–12x22] Fluff, flirty teasing and suggestiveness, Dean tries (steals) moisturizer, POC!reader, canon-compliant, Mother Mary, Cuban coffee, angst, hurt/comfort, and romantic feels

▶️ Now Playing: “Deep End” – Xavier Omär & Sango

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

DEPEND ON ME

Dean steps out of the steaming shower, blinking condensation from his lashes. He wraps a towel around his hips after drying off.

Unlike in the bunker, this bathroom actually connects to a bedroom—one of Jody’s guest rooms.

You must still be downstairs talking to her. She was pretty shaken up after getting the call about her friend’s death.

Dean has heard of Asa Fox in passing, but he didn’t know the guy personally. Still, Dean’s more than willing to drive you all up to the wake himself, even if it is across the Canadian border. Jody was pretty broken up about the news, and after all the times she’s had their back, it’s not often that he and Sam can do something to help her for a change.

Dean pushes the bathroom door open, letting the humidity spill out so the mirrors defog. He glances at himself there and thinks he can work in a quick shave before it’s time to leave.

Dean pads into the empty bedroom on bare feet over the hardwood, finding his duffel bag next to yours on the bed. He grabs his shaving kit, but he hesitates, an idea sparking to life in his mind. He sneaks a hand into your bag. It closes in on a smaller, familiar beige toiletry bag, filled with your favorite girly shit—lotions, hair products, serums, and God knows what else.

You’re very touchy about this little mystery trove, but he’s looking for something specific. He opens up a little jar of “body butter,” and he sniffs it.

Hmm, coconutty.

That’s the one. He grabs a dollop with two fingers and rubs it on his elbows.

Curiosity gets the best of him though. He rifles a little more and finds a little spray bottle with purple liquid sloshing inside.

Face toner. What the hell? Why does she need to tone her face? Isn’t she tan enough?

He sprays the air experimentally, sniffs the violet mist, and nods. It’s nice.

This is probably why you always smell like the beach; sun-bronzed skin, cocoa butter, and this flowery purple shit.

The bedroom door slides open, but he hears it just a bit too late.

“What are you doing?”

Dean is surprised to see you there in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Your mouth falls open and you point at him in amused disbelief.

“Oh, I knew it was you!”

Dean’s lips flicker at a smile. “What? I was just trying to find my razor.”

He puts back the spray bottle and grabs his shaving kit on the way back to the bathroom.

“In my bag?” you retort. And you follow him, snatching up your toiletries along the way.

You’ve been noticing how your expensive creams are being drained way quicker than usual. You swiftly sidle up beside him, doling out a smack of his ass in recompense.

“Ey!” he laughs.

“My skincare is sacred,” you say, while leveling a pointed finger at him.

Dean huffs, adjusting his towel tighter around his waist. He drags his gaze purposefully from your face, down your cleavage.

“Don’t start something we don’t got time to finish,” he teases.

Your lips twitch, annoyed and amused in equal measure. You continue rifling through your bag, examining each little bottle to see what he’s touched. You realize it’s only fair though, considering how often you’ve gone through all of his things in the past few weeks. But in your defense, you had a lot of stuff to organize when you moved in. Sue you if you had to upset the delicate balance of his gun collection to fit your books.

When you determine he hasn’t done much damage to your collection of self-care, you grab your face moisturizer and show him the little white jar.

“Here’s the one you should be using,” you say, opening the cap and scooping out a bit of cream on your fingers. “Come ‘ere.”

He leans away from your grabby hands and raises his own to fend you off.

“Whoa, hey. I don’t need anything on my face. I haven’t even shaved yet.”

You pause. With a contemplative hum, you raise a hand to caress his cheek, a soft prickle against your palm and fingers.

“I don’t think you need to shave today,” you say.

His smile grows. “What, you like the extra scruff?”

“Yeah,” you reply honestly. Your thumb brushes his chin, then his jawline, still sharp as hell beneath the quarter-beard. “But you still need to take care of your skin, babe.”

He raises a brow. That’s kind of what he was aiming for with the scaley patches on his elbows, but you just gestured vaguely at all of him, head to toe.

“You saying I’m ashy or something?”

“Put it this way,” you say, smirking, “if I didn’t moisturize, we’d literally light the bed on fire.”

He scoffs, crossed between a laugh and denial. But his face slackens when you take the cream you still have in your other hand and smear it across both his cheeks. His surprised, disgruntled brows settle over his eyes as he watches you. Smiling hard in triumph, you blend the moisturizer over his nose and forehead.

“Look up,” you say.

Breathing out through his nose in resignation, he obliges you. You take a little more cream and dab it gently under his eyes, smoothing it into his skin.

“You’re gonna get me smelling like a damn Bath & Body Works,” he gripes.

“Better than the post-hunt funk you and Sam had going on,” you remark. “Six goddamn hours in the backseat. My lungs almost gave out.”

“That’s a manly funk,” he tells you, his brows playfully stern.

You snort in response, but you’re busy grabbing a mysterious pink spray bottle.

“What the hell’s that?” he asks warily.

“Oh, now you’re playing the macho man card? You steal your brother’s French shampoo,” you retort. “Now close your eyes. You wanna be all up in people’s stuff? Well, here you go.”

You spray Dean’s face and neck a few times with the finishing toner. He flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. You waft air on his face until it dries. He blinks his eyes open and pats his own cheek, feeling it all soft and dewy.

“Feels like a baby seal,” he remarks. Minus the manly scruff.

“You see? Now you know why it takes me so long in here.” You gesture at your own face and body. “Beauty don’t come cheap or quick, baby.”

Dean smirks as his hands slide around your waist. “I beg to differ—”

“Oh, don’t even,” you laugh, covering his mouth with your fingers. He bows his head, bypassing your hand to kiss you. You giggle some more against his lips, feeling him smile.

Your beauty bag ends up in the sink, freeing up your arms wrap around his neck instead. You’d like nothing more than to yank his towel off and fog up these mirrors some more, but good sense leads you to pull away from his lips in a slow drag.

“All right, I have to shower quick. We gotta go soon,” you remind him. Never mind that his big hands are kneading your ass through your jeans, making you smile. “Seriously, babe. We don’t want to keep Jody waiting.”

Dean sighs. “Fine. If you gotta be all reasonable.”

You pat his bare chest fondly before you pull out of his arms, in search of a spare towel and the clothes you plan to change into.

“So you knew this Asa guy too?” Dean says. He ventures back into the bedroom, tosses his unused shaving kit back in his duffel, and begins to get dressed.

Meanwhile, you’re getting undressed. He watches the show out of the corner of his eye and tries not to get hard. There’s nothing he likes more after a good hunt than a good fuck.

But he knows what you’d say.

A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone.

“I worked with him once,” you say, managing to tie your mane of hair up into a scrunchie. “He was a good guy. Great hunter.”

Dean pauses. “You worked with him, huh?”

Just like you’d worked with your ex once, right before he talked himself into your bed.

You shoot your boyfriend a wry brow raise.

“Yes. Worked. It was a ghoul slurping the brains out of dead hookers in Colorado Springs.”

Dean cocks his head, zipping up his jeans.

“Sounds like a good weekend to me,” he says, trying to hide the thinly veiled note of jealousy. “Real, uh, scenic out there up in the mountains.”

You roll your eyes at him and slip into the shower. “Moron.”

“Sure you don’t want some company in there?”

“Go downstairs, Dean.”

Five hours later, Baby has crossed not only state lines, but the Canadian border. Dean parks in the driveway of an immense two-story house, Asa Fox’s “family home” in Manitoba.

Inside, the hunters are greeted by a wall of noise. “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains blares on Bluetooth speakers, and other hunters are laughing, telling stories, drinking to their fallen friend. Asa’s mother, Lorraine, is a piece of work in Prada shades. She may be all hugs for Jody, but you can tell she just sees the rest of you as three more loud-mouthed hunters come to raise a beer in vain to her dead son.

You understand why she’s bitter. Being a hunter is a thankless job, and it too often consumes every corner of their life, not leaving room for much else besides their gun, their ride, and the next hunt. After everything you’ve lost, before and after the Job, you know what you have with Dean is rare.

For their part, Sam and Dean don’t often come to hunter gatherings like this. You wouldn’t be here either if not for Jody, but after she peels off with Sam to greet some of the others, you and Dean veer off to the kitchen for a drink after even more long hours on the road.

“Dean Winchester. The Dean Winchester?” a man says, after opening a beer for him. Bucky Sims. The guy’s a redhead, sporting a scruffy beard, red plaid, and a bottle opener on a chain hanging from his neck.

“No freakin’ way,” says another guy (Randy Bull, you’ll soon find out). “Aren’t you dead, like four times?”

He’s sitting at the kitchen table with a few other hunters. All eyes are on you and Dean, but mostly him. You get it—the brothers Winchester have died and come back to life more often than you’ve straightened your hair.

“Yeah, uh, it didn’t take,” Dean replies. He seems uncomfortable with all the attention aimed his way. You give him a sly, amused look.

When another hunter asks if Sam is here too, he practically bolts from the table after you point him out in the other room. Looks like the Winchesters have a following.

“Didn’t realize I was dating a celebrity,” you later tease, after Dean’s had enough of the men’s probing questions for a while.

You two venture down a long hallway toward the living room, where it’s only marginally less crowded with potential fans.

Dean shakes his head and sips his beer. "Right."

For all his cockiness, he’s not all that comfortable with praise, let alone this kind of attention.

“To be fair, you guys have done some legendary stuff,” you say.

He begins to smirk. “Like killing Hitler.”

You laugh, wrapping your arm around his. “Yeah, like killing Hitler. Which for some reason you felt the need to describe to Jody in excruciating detail.”

Dean just grins. You know that in the grand scheme of everything he and his brother have done for the world, killing the reincarnation of Hitler somehow tops every diverted apocalypse in one.

The last person anyone expects to walk through the door of Asa’s home is Mary Winchester, least of all Sam and Dean.

Your shock is palpable too, but it quickly turns to quiet upset when you remember how she left the bunker. You were there for the rest of it, weeks gone by, and how often Dean was left on radio silence after sending his mom a text, just trying to check in with her.

Mary seems just as surprised to see her sons. She treats them more like distant nephews while she tells them where she’s been—all over the country, apparently. One highlight is her trip back to Lawrence, their family home.

Call you crazy, but that seems to be the kind of family bonding trip that could’ve mended a bit of the rift between Mary and her sons, if she wanted to, that is.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “This is just something I needed to do alone.”

Dean nods blandly at that. You glance at him in concern. Mary notices. She’s smart enough to know that Dean won’t let her off the hook as easily as Sam.

“Listen…most of the people I knew are dead,” she continues. “And then I remembered Asa. He was so young when I met him, I figured he must still be around. But I saw the news about his death in an article, so…”

She trails, sighing in soft disappointment.

“So you’ll text us once a week, maybe,” Dean says, “but you’ll drive all the way to Canada to see some dead guy?”

Mary’s mouth falls open, but she’s lost her words. Dean shrugs it all off in an act no one believes.

“Okay. That’s awesome,” he says. “I’m gonna get some air.”

“Dean,” she tries, but Sam gently rests a hand on her shoulder, with a look that asks her to leave his brother be. You and him both know that this is a short-fuse trigger for Dean. Better to keep things classy at another hunter’s wake.

Still, you can’t help but glance back at Mary, shaking your head before you follow after Dean. It takes you a minute to find him. His long bow-legged strides take him far and fast when he wants to achieve a hallmark Dean Storm Out, but you finally manage to find him at the front door of the house, having been stopped by Jody. He’s not doing much talking, which tells you that she’s trying to get through to him, to be there for him.

You’ve come to realize just how hard a task that can be. When Dean doesn’t want to be pried open, not even an oyster knife is going to cut it.

By the time you reach them, Dean is stepping out the door for that fresh air. You go to Jody with a knowing sigh, crossing your arms. 

“Wow. I just…I really can’t believe their mom is…you know, back,” Jody says.

Your lips quirk.

“Yeah. As you can tell, it hasn’t exactly been the Brady Bunch reunion,” you reply.

“What’s been going on?” Jody asks.

“Too much,” you breathe. “But the gist of it is, Mary’s overwhelmed. I think it’s…hard for her to see them as her sons. She literally told them that being with them was a reminder of everything she lost, all that time in between.”

“My God,” Jody says, her eyes softening.

Your fingers tap on your arm as you contemplate the door your boyfriend just walked out of.

“Dean’s taking it hard,” you add. Understandably.

You remember that day in the bunker so vividly, the undeniable hurt and betrayal in his and Sam’s eyes. You’ve had to watch Dean bury it under ten thousand pounds of proverbial concrete in his heart. But every now and then, like tonight, the cracks in the foundation give way, and the wound underneath is torn open, raw and bleeding. You have to wonder if it hurts the four-year-old kid deep inside him—the kid he was when he lost her the first time.

“I’ll talk to him,” you say at last, reaching for the doorknob. Jody stops you only briefly, with a supportive squeeze on your arm. You give her a brief smile in thanks, then you walk out into the colder Canadian air.

Dean hasn’t wandered that far from the house. He has his hands buried in his pockets.

His head perks up when he hears you coming, his firm brows relaxing only slightly.

“Hey,” you say.

He nods at you, reluctant to even speak. He doesn’t want to let his temper get the best of him again, and snap at you for something that has nothing to do with you. When your hand comes to rest on his back, he allows himself to let out a deeper breath. Unconsciously, his shoulders loosen a touch.

“You want some company, or some air?” you ask. Either way, you’ll respect what he needs. You’ve started to figure this part out with him too.

Dean contemplates the offer, but eventually he settles on being alone for a while.

“I just need a minute,” he says.

You hesitate, biting your lip. But you nod. “Okay.”

You rub his back a little, hoping he knows you really do understand, even if you wish he’d let himself open up. You just know you don’t want to push him.

So you step away, back toward the house.

Dean’s voice stops you, rumbling your name. You turn to him questioningly. He gives into temptation and reaches for you, cupping the back of your neck, letting his fingers tangle in your hair. He comes in for a slow kiss. A silent thank you.

You smooth a hand down the front of his jacket to close it a little more.

“You should come inside soon. It’s cold out here,” you say.

He nods in agreement and presses another kiss to your forehead.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, then you leave him out on the porch. Dean watches you go. It’s times like these he feels grateful, but also that he doesn’t deserve you. Your kindness, or your understanding.

The thought settles high in his throat, almost painful. Somehow he swallows it down and stubbornly blinks back the sting in his eyes. He lets out a breath that he can see on the cooler evening air.

What a difference twenty minutes makes.

Five minutes after you leave Dean marks the time it takes for Sam to discover Randy, a new dead body besides Asa’s.

Ten minutes is all it takes for the entire house to shudder under a supernatural lockdown.

Fifteen minutes, and Dean is trying to break down the door from the outside. Billy the Reaper tips him off to the soul she’s just collected, if in her usual prickly way. Worry has his stomach twisting. Frustration burns in his blood.

For the power to get inside—to get to Sam, to his mom and Jody, to you—Billy gives Dean an offer he can’t refuse. She gives him a one-way ticket inside. (What she wants in exchange, he’ll deal with later.)

Twenty minutes, and Dean is able to grab your arm in a reassuring touch, more for him than for you, if he’s honest. His demon-killing blade is second nature in his right hand. But the demon who didn’t kill Asa Fox doesn’t die by it. That mouthy bitch gets exorcised back to Hell.

Bucky Sims, Asa’s best friend, will have to live with the infamy of causing his best friend’s death, and worse, trying to make it look like an accident. No hunter here will ever forget.

You don’t know what Jody tells Mary when Asa’s pyre collects his ashes on the front yard, but you’re still too sour to even look at her. She almost killed Jody when she was being possessed by the demon.

But, at least Mary was able to talk her way out of Dean’s debt to the reaper, for lending him her power. You could write a Hunger Games trilogy out of how many reckless deals this man has made, but you also can’t be too mad. Every time he does it, it’s to save his family. 

Billie’s a purist though. In her view, what’s dead should stay dead. Today, she had her sights on Mary.

“Fine,” Mary had said. “But you’re just going to have to wait.”

After the Reaper leaves (all but rolling her eyes), you can finally breathe again. You sigh and rub your eyes.

“You okay?” Dean checks, resting a familiar hand on the small of your back. You nod.

“Yeah,” you reply. The morning sun reminds you that you haven’t slept or eaten. You stay quiet, though, when Sam and Dean invite Mary to have breakfast with you all. She’s their mother, and if Dean can put away his grudges right now, so should you.

You just can’t help the feeling that Mary is still keeping a mask in place, along with careful distance between her and the men she doesn’t seem to want to call her sons.

You know it’s going to be bad when the demon tosses you over the porch railing.

It’s a long way down, and your shrill scream echoes through the clear air of a lakeside cottage when you hit the ground.

Snap, crackle—pop goes your arm.

As you lie there stunned and dizzy with pain, the demon jumps over the rail to follow you down. Sam’s head snaps toward you in alarm.

Dean heard you too, but another black-eyed bitch has him pinned against the side of the house. Wally, Mary’s hunter friend who brought them this case, is also struggling. He’s never encountered a demon before tonight. He admitted himself that he was way out of his depth with this, but still willing to do his part.

Dean can’t care about that as his panicked gaze flicks from you to his brother.

“Sam!”

Sam is already moving. He knows he can’t help you and Wally at the same time. He has to choose you.

He jumps down and tackles the demon before he can finish strangling you. Wally gets his own knife in his chest.

Dean uses the demon-killing blade to kill the guy pinning him, and Wally’s killer too. The real threat is the yellow-eyed demon following his mom and Cas down the street toward a nearby barn, but first, Dean goes to you and Sam, who’s helping you sit up.

“Slow, slow,” Sam says. “Breathe through it, okay?”

“Goddamn it.” You try to stifle your pained whimpers, but the involuntary tears in your eyes give you away.

Dean comes over on your other side, taking you in with a clenched jaw and concern written deeply in his eyes. He partly blames himself; he should’ve looked out for you better. Should’ve protected you. If he only knew what they were walking into tonight, maybe he could have.

“A damn prince of Hell,” Dean grouses on the drive back home. “How did we miss that?”

The rest of the car is quiet, especially Mary. She looks guilty beyond belief, not just for the way her friend died, but for being partially responsible for bringing this case to you all. Castiel almost died, thanks to the demon’s magical lance of Michael. But after the lance was broken, its magic was too. Castiel was healed, and in turn he was able to heal your broken arm.

But still, tonight sucked ass.

Weeks later, the truth finally spills out. Every gut feeling you have about Mary does too.

“There’s no way to say this, so I’m just gonna say it,” she begins. She’s brought burgers and fries to the bunker. What seems like a nice mom gesture is actually just a calculated strategy, to soften the blow. “I’ve sort of…been working with the British Men of Letters.”

You, Dean, Sam—all your faces fall incredulously. Sam is just the one who recovers enough to say what you’re all thinking.

“You, um…you what?”

Dean shakes his head, throws down the fries. You haven’t even unwrapped your burger yet.

“Mom, we have a, um, history with them,” Sam says meaningfully.

Kidnapping, drugging, and attempted murder come to mind.

“I know, Sam, and it was a hard decision. But they’re doing good work,” she says, stunning you even more. “I’ve helped them save people. A lot of people. We can learn from them.”

You’ve tried to hold your tongue for Sam and Dean’s sake, but this is just too much.

“They tossed you a few 007 gadgets and you’re willing to work with them?” you say. “They almost killed Sam. They almost killed all of us.”

Mary doesn’t refute that, but she doesn’t have a good answer for you either.

“Mom, we have our own tool kit, and it works just fine,” Sam says. “And for obvious reasons, like broken ribs, and burnt feet...we don't trust the Brits.”

Dean’s face tells you exactly what he’s thinking too. This is enough.

“So where does that leave us?” he says.

“Same as always. Family,” Mary says.

Sam and Dean share a telling look, one you know well. They’re finally in agreement. The sting of betrayal is too much to feel like family.

The more she tries to explain, the worse it is. When she admits she’s been working for the British Men of Letters since before the lake house, that she was the one who was given that case by the Brits, it’s the final nail in whatever this is.

By the end of it, Dean is literally and metaphorically walking away from the table. He’s done.

Sam is too. He tells Mary in gentler terms what Dean’s already said in harsher ones.

There’s the door.

“You should go,” Sam says. His eyes are red and a little glassy.

Mary is at a loss. She looks over at you for a moment, but all she finds is your calm stare. Sam walks away first, after sharing a final look with you.

“I’m sorry, I…” Mary says, struggling. She eventually meets your gaze. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You sigh. “In the beginning, I thought I understood. You didn’t ask to be brought back here. But ever since you left, every choice you’ve made has hurt them, no matter how good your intentions might be.”

“I’m doing this for them,” Mary insists. “You haven’t seen what the British Men of Letters can do. What we can do with them. We could wipe out every monster in America, like they’ve done on their turf.”

You huff, almost amused as you shake your head.

“There will always be monsters, Mary. You’ve just opted to work with the human kind.”

Again, Mary doesn’t know what to say to you.

You don’t have anything left to say to her either, so you leave her behind in the War Room. You want to check on Sam too, but first, your heart compels you to go to Dean.

“I'm doing this for you,” Mary says, a note of desperation in her voice. “I'm playing three decades of catch up here.”

“And we're not?” Dean snaps. Everything he’s wanted to say for weeks finally spills out of his mouth. “How do you think this has been for us? We're your sons, and you've been gone. Our whole lives, you've been gone. You said that you needed time. No, you said you need space. So we gave you your space.”

He shakes his head at her. “But you didn't need just space. No, you needed space from us.”

Mary has tears welling in her eyes.

“That's not true,” she says, even though she feels the sting. “Dean, I'm trying—”

“How about for once, you just try to be a mom?” he retorts.

“I am your mother, but I am not ‘just a mom,’” she says. “And you are not a child.”

“I never was. So between us and them—”

“It's not like that.”

“Yeah, Mary, it is. And you made your choice. So there's the door.”

You find him in the room you now share together. He’s sitting hunched on the edge of the bed. He claimed the side closest to the door, just in case. Because even several feet below ground in the world’s safest magic bunker, that’s the kind of man he is.

He glances up at you when you come through the door, watching you close it behind you with a soft click.

“Thought you were gonna bring those burgers,” he tries to joke.

You smile a little, tilting your head. Even at a time like this, the man stays thinking with his stomach. You go to him, stepping between his widespread legs. He sighs as his hands find familiar purchase on your hips.

You take his face in your hands, caress his stubbly cheeks, and let your fingers drift into his hair. Your nails give his scalp a little scratch, making him groan softly. You lower yourself down and take a seat on one of his strong thighs. He wraps his arm around your waist to steady you, and he meets your gaze.

You brush two fingers across his chin, luring him into a kiss.

“I love you,” you remind him.

The words come easier now. After a vamp hunt went wrong for you a couple of months ago, where both your tempers got the best of you (again), it made you realize that there was only one thing that Dean was truly afraid of: losing the people he loved.

“I know,” he says, slightly teasing. He takes any chance he gets to channel Harrison Ford. But it evens out into somber sincerity. “God knows you’re more than I fucking deserve.”

You frown, grabbing his chin this time. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

He raises a brow. “What, tell the truth? I thought that’s what you’ve been angling for all this time.”

You roll your eyes in amusement. Idiot. But at least the cliché is true; he’s your idiot.

You press another kiss to his lips, knowing what he really means.

Fucking vampires.

You really do hate them. You’re reminded of that fact while you clean the sticky remnants of thick, dark blood off your knife. You made it out unscathed this time, but even now, months later, you can feel the sharp, phantom ache of Andy’s cold teeth in your neck.

You wipe the blade until you can see your own silhouette in it. You can only imagine what it was like for Sam, staring into the undead eyes of the Alpha Vampire, seeing whatever light there was in him snuffed out. You hoped the Colt’s bullet burned like hellfire when it ripped through his skull.

If it weren’t for the British Men of Letters and their satellite missions targeting the vamps’ nests, the Alpha wouldn’t have been lured out of hiding.

But if it weren’t for their meddling, the Brits’ base (and everyone in it) wouldn’t have been targeted to begin with. It’s a catch-22 you’re having a hard time reconciling, but what’s even harder for you to understand is how Sam and Dean have just patched things up with Mary after cutting contact with her for weeks.

“Ready to hit the road?” Dean asks, keys jangling in hand. “Sam’s gonna meet us back at the bunker with Mom.”

You raise a brow, sheathing your weapon. “She’s coming back with us?”

Dean nods, smiling slightly. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t give you much more than that. You glance back at Ketch, who’s got the aftermath of this mess handled with Mick Davies. You suppose Mick’s all right. He at least seems to have some kind of moral core. But you still don’t trust that other sadistic fucking psycho, even if he does have good taste in scotch.

Dean later eyes you as Baby tears down the interstate while Prince’s “Purple Rain” rips its iconic guitar riff through the old speakers. You’re quieter than usual, even if it is pretty late. By now you’d at least be playing air guitar in the passenger seat.

Dean lowers the music a little, letting his hand fall on your thigh. You turn to him. Your lips flicker, but don’t quite reach a smile. You just sigh and cover your hand with his.

“You okay?” he checks.

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Mmm,” Dean nods. “Wanna try that again?”

You arch a brow at him.

“We’ve got four hours on the road, sweetheart,” he points out. "And I know your thinking face when I see it."

“I’m fine…just tired,” you say. The glance he tosses your way says he rightly doesn’t believe you.

He heaves a sigh. “Look, Ketch nearly reeled me in, I’ll admit. I’m not proud of it. I still can’t believe Mom was working with those ass clowns.”

You scoff. Well, if he wants to hash this out now, then you will.

“Was?” you retort. “She still is. And she’s gonna keep working with them, even after what happened tonight.”

Dean stares hard at the road ahead. “I know.”

“And you let her off the hook for it,” you say.

He looks over at you again, and he sees the truth of how you feel about that written all over your face.

“Look, what do you expect me to do?” he says. “Like I said to her, she makes her own decisions, no matter how I feel about ‘em.”

“Yeah, I heard the spiel,” you say, shaking your head.

“When I thought something might've happened to you, nothing else mattered,” he says.

Mary smiles a little. Her eyes shine with regret though.

“Dean, the things I said—”

“No, Mom, you were… It's not your job to make my lunch and kiss me good night,” he says. “We're adults. You're gonna make your own choices, even if I don't like 'em. Even if I really, really don't like 'em. That's just something I'm gonna have to get used to. Okay, Mom?”

Her smile slowly becomes more genuine.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

You understand why he and Sam let it go—their anger and their resentment—but you’re not ready to do the same.

“You’re right. She can make her own choices, but there are some things that just aren’t right, Dean,” you say. “Leaving the bunker is one thing, but working for the same people who nearly killed your brother, Cas, me… Not to mention how goddamn arrogant they are. Like what happened tonight? Looks like fancy tools can’t take the place of belly to the ground, good old-fashioned common sense.”

Dean’s hand rubs over your thigh. He nods, acknowledging where you’re coming from. But that look on his face tells you he’s just as tired as you, trying to decide what grudges are worth dying with. 

“I know,” he says again. “But she’s my mom.”

“Ow, fuck,” you flinch away from his dabbing hand. “Gently, dude.”

“I am being gentle. You needa stop moving,” he says. His brows are furrowed in that classic Dean frown, reflecting annoyance as well as concern. “Did you just call me dude?”

You snort a laugh, even though it makes your bruised ribs sting sharply. You suck in a measured breath and grab onto Dean’s thigh where you lay on the couch. The bunker is a shambles after exploded walls, brainwashing equipment, and the dead bodies of Arthur Ketch and Toni Bevell have been cleared from the War Room.

Dean sighs through his nose. His free hand is framing your cheek to keep you steady while he works to clear the blood from your hairline. You have a knot the size of Mount Everest from the butt of Ketch’s gun, but Dean’s hand does soften against your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“For the record, I never trust a guy who tries to bribe me with scotch,” you say.

Dean’s mouth quirks ruefully. “Yeah.”

While nobody had trusted Ketch or his attempts at recruitment, you had felt more than uneasy going along with Sam and Dean in working with the British Men of Letters. Ridding the world of monsters on a grander scale sounded great and all. You just hadn’t trusted their motives.

To be fair, you’ve all worked with worse people before. But that justification evaporated when you all discovered their plan to eliminate American hunters who didn’t agree with their methods, one by one. And the ones too valuable to kill, like Mary, got a thorough brainwashing.

With Bevell’s help, Dean was able to reach the real Mary underneath the psychological torture, but not before Ketch nearly slit your throat along with his former girlfriend. Mary got to have the final word (or bullet) on that one.

She comes back into the room from the kitchen with an ice pack for you and a bottle of painkillers for everyone. You’re sure that even her head is still ringing.

“Thanks,” you say to her, sincerely. She gives you a small smile, if tinged with guilt.

“Sam just texted. He’s on his way back,” Dean says. Sam and the other hunters took the fight to the Brits themselves, and won. You had no doubts about them with Sam at the helm.

Mary nods. “I’ll just, um…there’s a bit more to clean up over there.”

Dean watches her go, and you watch him. You don’t know what he saw in her mind while Bevell put them both under a trance-like state, but whatever he did, it brought Mary out of the mind-control.

Your fingers trace down to his calf, knowing there are layers of bandages underneath. His entire shin was flayed by a piece of concrete, courtesy of the aforementioned exploding wall. It was the only way to escape the bunker after Ketch tried to trap you, Sam, Dean, and Bevell down here yesterday.

You’re worried that Dean’s bled through his bandages again after all this. The additional nicks and bruises across his cheek and down his arms match the way you feel—like a walking welt.

“How’s the leg?” you ask.

“It’ll live,” he remarks, just as he applies a butterfly bandage above your brow. He grasps your shoulder. “Can you sit up?”

“I can, but I don’t really want to,” you admit, your lips threatening either a smile or a pout. “Why don’t you go check on your mom?”

Dean flickers at a smile. He leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“’S that gentle enough?” he asks. You nod. A tired, but still playful smile curves your lips.

“Thank you, Doctor,” you say.

Dean smirks. You can already see him filing that away for the future. Oldie but goodie on the doctor roleplay.

He strokes your cheek one more time before he slowly gets up. Stiff and aching joints pop on the way there, but he manages to limp over into the other room. He doesn’t want Mary to clear away his own blood from the table.

“Mom, don’t do that,” he says. “It’s not your job.”

She looks around at splintered wood and ruined tables, blood splatter and the remnants of disruption and death.

“This…all of this is because of me,” she says.

Dean stares back at her for a moment. He remembers it all, every moment he was in her head, trying to get through to her.

I hate you, he’d said. And he meant it.

I hate you… And I love you. I can’t help it. You're my mom.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says.

Because what else can he say? He doesn’t want to fight anymore, and he knows she remembers too, just by the way she looks at him.

“It’s not okay,” Mary breathes.

She hesitantly draws closer to him, like she wants to reach out and touch him, maybe even hug him. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel she has the right.

“Since I've been back, I know…I've been distant. Cold, even,” she confesses. “Leaving you, working with them…I was trying to make things right. Just from a distance, because being here with you was too hard. Seeing what I'd done to you and to Sam, I…”

“Mom, what you did, making the deal with Azazel...everything that's happened since has made us who we are. And who we are? We kick ass. We save the world,” Dean says.

She smiles. She smiles because she knows, with tears in her eyes. She sees forgiveness in his, and doesn’t feel like she deserves it. She looks at him, and she remembers that dream—that phantom of a life she lost a long time ago. She remembers the boy Dean should’ve gotten to be, and the hardened man staring back at her. 

And I had to be more than just a brother. I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe. That wasn't fair. And I couldn't do it.

“And Sam?” Mary says. The claws of guilt only sink deeper when she thinks of Sammy. In her mind’s eye, she can see him how he was, an innocent baby.

They killed the girl that he loved. He got possessed by Lucifer. They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul. All because of you. All of it was because of you.

Mary raises a trembling hand to her mouth as she shrugs helplessly.

“I'm scared,” she says. “What…what if he can't forgive me?”

Neither of them realize it then, but even from the couch, you hear the echo of the bunker’s door swing shut. You know the sound of Sam’s heavy steps, and you smile when his voice answers her, right on time.

“Mom,” he says, “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

By the time you manage to sit up, venturing into the kitchen for a glass of water to swallow your expired Percocet with, you’re able to see what may just be the world’s first Winchester family group hug.

There’s still plenty of shit to deal with.

The British Men of Letters may be done, but Castiel is in the wind with Kelly Kline, a former political assistant who unknowingly conceived the spawn of Lucifer. But that’s the plight of tomorrow. Another episode entirely.

Tonight, you, Sam, Dean, and Mary finish cleaning up the bunker. After showering up and grabbing some takeout, you fight the urge to pass out on the couch like your snoring bear of a man while The Dark Knight Rises plays on the projector. Sam is more keyed into the movie than his brother for once.

Instead, you find yourself getting up to head back into the kitchen. You grab your cafetera coffee press from the cupboard and your stash of Café Bustelo, along with the sugar and evaporated milk. You don’t realize you have an audience until you turn around and see Mary pausing in the doorway. She raises an apologetic hand.

“Just looking for a snack,” she says, but she tilts her head looking at everything you have laid out on the counter, and the way you’re packing the base of the cafetera with coffee grounds.

“You’re making coffee at midnight?” she asks.

You have to laugh a little. Her reaction is very familiar. Like mother like son.

“Yeah, my grandma used to make me a cafecito after dinner. Sometimes I make it just to clear my head,” you explain.

Mary raises her brows. “You don’t get the jitters?”

You shake your head and shrug.

“For some reason it calms me down. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of home,” you say, with a smile. Then it’s your turn to hesitate. “You want to try some?”

Mary flickers at a smile too. She nods gamely. “Sure.”

The awkward part is standing there together in the kitchen for a few minutes while the espresso brews. You occupy yourself with prepping two little Cuban coffee cups with their matching saucers; you brought over your ceramic set when you moved in. You pour in a teaspoon of sugar in each cup, and when the cafetera starts whistling and bubbling, you know it’s just about ready.

You pour the coffee over the sugar and finish it off with some evaporated milk in each one.

“Café con leche,” you tell her, handing over her cup. “Buen provecho.”

“Thank you,” she nods. She blows on the steaming coffee before she takes a sip, but her eyes soon widen as she hums her enjoyment. “That’s good.”

“Thanks,” you say, tipping her your imaginary hat.

You both lean against the counter while occasionally sipping.

Mary is the one who breaks first, taking a steeling breath.

“Listen, I…” she sighs. She’s trying to find her words. You’re patient enough to wait.

“I know what I’ve put them through,” she says. Her gaze drifts to the distant sounds of the movie down the hall, to her sons. “I know what you must think of me, but what I said to Dean was true. Every decision I made, it’s because I was…scared. And ashamed.”

You take that in with a nod, and you let her say her piece.

“I know that doesn’t make it right,” she says, a half-smile quirking her lips. “If I could go back to three months ago…or even thirty years ago, I would do things differently.”

“But you can’t,” you reply.

She slowly nods. “But I can’t. So all I can do is try to do better by them, and by you.”

You blink at that. “You don’t owe me anything, Mary.”

“You’ve been there for them better than I have,” she says, glancing down at the cup between her hands. “Especially Dean.”

“That’s just because I know them better. And I’m here,” you say. Somehow, you find a bit of forgiveness in your heart too. You offer her a smile. “Maybe you should start there.”

Again, she nods, acknowledging and grateful. You two finish your coffee in a more genuine peace.

You wake Dean when the credits roll on the movie. Sam tries to help you brace him when he stands on his wounded leg, but Dean just waves him off, never one to be coddled. The most he allows is you threading your fingers loosely with his while you head down the hall.

Once you veer the corner and find the bedroom, Dean breaks off to stretch his arms high behind his head, yawning while his henley rides up. Something pops twice. You’re not sure if it’s his neck, his back, or his knees.

“Ooh, listen to that symphony of creaky joints,” you tease. You find one of his old Zeppelin shirts that he lent you to sleep in a long time ago. You’ve since claimed it as your own. “Gettin’ old, Winchester.”

“Old, huh?”

He sidles behind you, his big hands capturing your hips. His mouth bypasses your mane of hair to lay a kiss into your neck. He inhales the scent of coconut and shea butter. His thumbs smooth their appreciation under the hem of your (his) shirt.

“Not too old to bend you over my fuckin’ knee,” he counters, dragging your earlobe between his teeth. You flinch and laugh.

“Yeah, maybe not the one with the busted leg, Romeo,” you retort. You rub his arms when they come to wrap around you, gently, mindful of your tender ribs.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, as his voice takes on more serious depths.

You nod. “I’m fine. My head stopped throbbing an hour ago, so at least we know the Percocet still works.”

He snorts. Slowly he turns you around, letting his hands glide down your arms. His gaze travels down your body, like he still needs to make sure you’re not just Winchester Fine.

“Tomorrow we got a whole other shit storm to deal with,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” you agree. “Tonight, we get some fucking rest.”

He nods. “Amen to that.”

By now, getting into bed together has become second nature, especially with exhaustion pulling at both of you like gravity. You mentally say screw it to your nightly routine of brushing and moisturizing. No fires are starting in this bed tonight.

All you need is a comfortable position on your side, and Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist as you face him, guiding you to rest your head on his chest. Your arm winds around his middle while he reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp, casting the room into shadow. 

Goodnight is a silent, deep breath that moves both of you.

And tonight, it is.

AN: 😮‍💨 So it's not the smutty stuff this time, but a lot of feels in between the pain lol. If you like the Espresso-verse, I hope you enjoyed this S12 special! I've been wanting to fill in this gap in the series for a while now, exploring the Mary and Dean angst if he had a supportive partner to fall back on. ❤️ Did you have a favorite hurt/comfort scene this time?

And how'd you like reader and Mary sharing a midnight espresso moment? ☕

Want to keep reading?

Check out the Midnight Espresso Masterlist

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Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan @gabavaldman

[zepskies]

re: your tags — omg really? Is this one of your faves? 🥹 I love you for that, thanks sm, my friend 💓💓

[deanwinchesters]

🤠🤠🤠

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Series Music Playlist

Before Part 1 of this Cowboy!Dean au series drops on August 2, here's a little mixed tape of all the songs that fueled my writing on this series — rock, country, and alt pop. Standouts include Radio Company, Vaults, and a few songs used on the show Yellowstone. 🤠

🎵 YouTube || Spotify

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.

When you return to Salida 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.

⟢ Check out the Series Masterlist

℧ SNEAK PEEK:

🌹 Part 1 — Sweet Home, Colorado

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 still 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.

℧🌹 Read Parts 1-2 now on Patreon!

ᯓ✍🏽 Part 1 coming to Tumblr on August 2

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[foxyjwls007]

Looking forward to this 😀

[zepskies]

Thank you!! 💓💓

[zepskies]

Have you seen this? https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8tqS1SS/ and your welcome lol

Ooh "Professor Jensen," so agree loll. I saw that speech and it was such good advice, well-spoken too. ❤️ It's giving Subtext vibes 😝

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles as Soldier Boy THE BOYS (2022) | 3.04 – “Glorious Five Year Plan”

[rizlowwritessortof]

Alone Time

You plan a weekend at the motel in town, needing some time to get a handle on your feelings for a certain green-eyed hunter. But guess who shows up at your door?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2329

Warnings: None, just some angsty fluff

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

You’re sitting on the bed, watching the end of The Proposal, painting your toenails a lovely shade of burgundy. Mulberry Wine. Or Black Cherry Kiss. Or some kind of purple-ish color with a fruity name, it doesn’t really matter – you are actually painting your nails. You had treated yourself to an almost hour-long bubble bath, with candles you brought with you and soft, soothing music. You are pampering yourself, and it feels indulgent and glorious.

You stop for a moment, looking around at your motel room with a smile. Complete peace, total privacy, no bickering brothers in the background or complaining about your choice of movie. It was heaven. Well, almost. If you keep telling yourself that, you might start to believe it.

You clench your jaw and stare doggedly at the TV, determined to focus on the movie and the quiet and the luxury and definitely not the black hole of hopeless longing your mind tends to gravitate towards every time you don’t keep yourself occupied. You told Sam and Dean you just needed some alone time to do girly things, read and watch chick flicks, and just get out of the bunker for a couple of days. Sam had completely understood. Dean had said he understood - with his green eyes fixed on you, searching, reaching into your soul. At least, that’s what it felt like. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds for weeks now.

You just finish the last toe when a soft knock sounds at your door. You look up, confused, then sigh and hobble awkwardly over to peer out the peephole, trying not to mess up your freshly painted nails. You freeze for a second when you see who’s standing there.

Dean.

The very reason you had come up with this brilliant getaway in the first place. What the hell is he doing here? You take a breath, blowing it out slowly and trying to control your body’s reactions to his proximity before opening the door.

“Dean?” You look at him, your eyebrows raised in question.

“Yeah, hi. I know, I’m not supposed to be here.”

Your expression shifts to concern. “Are you okay? Did something…”

He was shaking his head, looking down at the ground, scuffing at the concrete with his boot. “Nooo, no, world’s not blowing up or anything.” He looks up at you again, clearly out of his comfort zone. “Look, I didn’t plan to…” He stops and starts over. “I just came into town to have a few beers, and… I really didn’t mean to bust up your whole,” his hands gesture aimlessly, “girl-time, whatever.”

You recover yourself enough to take a step back and even manage a weak smile. “Come in, tell me what’s going on.”

Bottom lip in the grip of his teeth, he shuffles his way in, and you close the door behind him. You duck-walk your way over to the bed, and plop down, looking up as he smothers a laugh. “What? I just painted my toes, they’re not dry yet,” you protest, unable not to smile.

“Sorry, it was just cute. Couldn’t help it.”

“Well, make yourself useful and grab us a beer, there’s some in the mini-fridge.” He raises his eyebrows in approval and grabs two long necks, opening one and handing it to you. “Thanks. So maybe you should sit down and tell me what’s going on?”

He pulls a chair out and turns it to face you, then sits and takes a long pull from his bottle. He holds it up afterwards, nodding, “Thanks,” setting it on the table and then slowly exhaling before looking at you once again. “Just be honest with me. Did I do something? Did I piss you off? Or say something that hurt you?”

You stare at him in surprise. “Dean, no! Of course not. I told you and Sam, I just needed a little time alone. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He picks up his beer again and takes a swallow, then leans forward, arms on his knees, picking at the label as he goes on, stumbling a little as he searches for words. “It just feels like – not just today when you left, but all the time lately… We used to be so easy around each other, you know, and it seems like you’re not anymore. Comfortable, I mean. With me. Like you’re kind of trying to keep your distance or something, I don’t know. And maybe I’m just being stupid, but it felt like this whole time-to-yourself thing… like it was because of me.”

You’re beginning to feel trapped, and you’re doing everything you can to pretend things are normal – drinking your beer, pulling the foam spacers from between your toes, looking everywhere but at those candid moss-green eyes that are focused intently on you. You tuck one leg beneath you and glance his way, beginning to follow Dean’s example and destroy the label on your bottle.

He speaks again, and the quiet urgency in his voice sends a twinge of guilt through you. “Talk to me.”

You take a shaky breath and answer him softly. “Some things I just can’t talk to you about, Dean.” Your eyes are glued to the floor, and you close your eyes as he rises from his chair and comes to sit next to you on the edge of the mattress.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”

There’s a hard lump forming in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to make it disappear. “Maybe I’ll just go lock myself in the bathroom until you go away,” you try to joke, but it falls flat.

“Like I can’t pick a lock?” You steal a sidelong glance at him, just in time to see the little smirk that curves his lips for a moment.

You attempt a smile, but it’s weak and short-lived, your eyes filling with tears. “Damn it, Dean. You can’t just let me crawl into a hole and hide in peace, can you?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p,’ and he raises his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “C’mon, Nug, tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You close your eyes, shaking your head with a little smile at his nickname for you (Nugget because you’re smaller than him and Sam, like 90% of the population of the world) and blink some of those tears away before you look at him. He can see you were about to cry, he never misses anything, and his brows furrow a little, concern in his eyes. “Damn it, I can’t look at you,” you say, turning away a little, hugging your arms around yourself as if that could protect you. If you tell him how you feel, things will never be the same. Permanently never the same. He’ll never think of you the same way, treat you the same way. But he’s right, things haven’t been the same anyway. You have been avoiding him. You haven’t been comfortable around him. Because you’re in love with the jerk and he doesn’t have a clue.

“Okay, I’m gonna talk, but you have to listen and just – listen. Okay?”

He’s silent for a moment, then answers you softly. “Okay.” There’s hesitation there, and a little apprehension, like he’s not going to like what you have to say. He has no idea.

“So, I guess I have been kind of avoiding you a little. Okay, a lot. I can’t relax around you because I’m too busy tryingn to hide how my heart starts beating faster, and I can’t breathe like a normal person, and my brain goes all numb and I’m afraid I’ll make an ass of myself. My stupid body has a mind of its own when I’m around you.” There are tears in your voice as you continue, fighting to stay in control, but the dam has burst and words come pouring out of you in a torrent. “I tried really hard not to, but I’ve got feelings for you, Dean. Major, earth-moving kind of feelings that I can barely keep under control, and all I wanted was a couple of days away from you to try and get a handle on what’s happening with me. Because I never – never – want to mess up the relationship we have. And now you had to go and make me tell you and it’ll be awkward and awful and I’ll never be able to just be with you like we always used to. I miss cuddling up to you while we watch a movie, or having you lay with your head on my lap, or having you rub my shoulders or play with my hair. I can’t do any of that any more because it just makes me want more, makes me want everything, and that can’t happen so I’m just miserable and I was scared to let you see the effect you have on me, so I just run and hide and cringe away when you come near me.”

You finally take a breath after the endless rant, and swallow a sob that’s fighting to escape your throat. “So now you know, and you can go home and figure out how you can disappear on a hunting trip for like, the next year or so to avoid dealing with me.” You’re literally shaking now, your teeth clamped together so hard they ache to try and hold back tears. “So go, Dean! You made me tell you, now go away!”

Your nails are digging into your palms as you sit there, every part of you tense and rigid, waiting for him to leave so you can lose control in private. Instead, he just sits there, and you finally hear him take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before he speaks. “Did you ever think that maybe you should just talk to me about it? That maybe I was feeling the same way?”

You turn your head, staring at him with tear-filled eyes, in shock at his words. He’s staring at the floor, his palm rubbing up and down his thigh, something he always does when he’s nervous. He finally raises his eyes, and the naked vulnerability there makes your heart lurch in your chest.

“I have feelings for you, too, but I – I just kept hoping you’d find somebody. Somebody who could give you a regular life - a normal life, and a normal family, somebody who’s not so twisted up and damaged that they can’t treat you like you deserve.”

“What makes you think I want normal?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended, and you take a beat to calm yourself, continuing in a more gentle tone. “If I wanted normal, I could have left a long time ago. I want you. I want you and I’ll take everything that goes along with that.” You feel a tear escape and run down your cheek, and you swipe it away impatiently. “Dean – if you’re not here to tell me I can have that, then I just need you to leave.”

The muscle in his jaw is twitching, his teeth clenched as he stares down at the floor again. “I wish I was strong enough to tell you what I should. But I’m not.” He looks into your eyes again, and his expression quickens your pulse, makes time seem to stop for a moment. His hand comes up to sweep your hair back, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone, and his gaze lingers on your parted lips before he leans in. He brushes his mouth across yours, sharing your breath, then seals his lips over yours in a kiss so filled with the longing you both feel that it makes your chest ache.

When you finally part, he looks at you, watching you, his hand still on your face. You lean into his touch, your eyes finally fluttering open as you meet his. “For the record, you have always treated me better than anyone in my life ever has. What you’ve been through has made you the most caring man I have ever known. I could never – never – find anyone better.”

His eyes are glistening, and he blinks hard a couple of times, gnawing at his lip a little before he speaks, his hand dropping down to take hold of yours. “So – if we’re gonna do this, maybe we should take it kinda slow, do you think?” His thumb is brushing over your hand, and you give his fingers a gentle squeeze as you nod.

“Yeah, I think so. We need to get used to us this way. And I think we’re worth the wait.” He smiles, a touch of something akin to shyness in his eyes as he glances down for a moment.

“So I guess I should leave then. Let you finish your little girly getaway.”

“Or…” You giggle as he looks up hopefully. “Or you could stay, we could order some pizza and you could suffer through a chick flick with me.”

He scoffs, then softens it with a smile. “I happen to love chick flicks. Well, some of ‘em.”

A little while later, you settle in with your backs propped up by pillows, legs stretched out on the bed with pizza and beer in hand, the opening credits of Overboard on the screen.

“I love Kurt Russell,” you say, your mouth full of pizza, and Dean smirks at you.

“Yeah? Well, I love Goldie Hawn,” he fires back, bumping you with his shoulder. You laugh, and then you’re both quiet as the movie gets started. Once the pizza is gone, he puts an arm around you and you settle onto his shoulder with a contented sigh. He leans closer and says softly, “Sorry I ruined your alone time.”

You look up at him, your heart shining in your eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything. Being alone with you is way better.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You snuggle closer. “Definitely.”

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967         @deanslittleangel2y5  @deanwinchesterswitch

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma  

[rizlowwritessortof]

Tag List #2:

 @ioanashalala    @jencharlan    @deansthirstblog     @dorky-and-i-know-it    @mischief-maker1   

 @winchestersandwordprocessors    @percussiongirl2017    @bringmesomepie56   @akshi8278    @torn-and-frayed  

  @sandlee44   @wingedcatninja  @evansrogerskitten   @emoryhemsworth  @peaceinourtime82 

 @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior  @sarcasmqueen74   @maliburenee     @mrsjenniferwinchester   @yeehawbitchs  

 @emily-winchester  @hobby27    spnbaby-67   @zepskies  @ladysparkles78  

@alwaystiredandconfused   @just-another-busyfangirl    @muhahaha303    @deansimpalababy    @kr804573  

@suckitands33    @ej13928    @lmhf1 @globetrotter28

[zepskies]

Aww this is SO. Freakin. CUTE. 🥹

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Series Music Playlist

Before Part 1 of this Cowboy!Dean au series drops on August 2, here's a little mixed tape of all the songs that fueled my writing on this series — rock, country, and alt pop. Standouts include Radio Company, Vaults, and a few songs used on the show Yellowstone. 🤠

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.

When you return to Salida 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.

⟢ Check out the Series Masterlist

℧ SNEAK PEEK:

🌹 Part 1 — Sweet Home, Colorado

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 still 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.

℧🌹 Read Parts 1-2 now on Patreon!

ᯓ✍🏽 Part 1 coming to Tumblr on August 2

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

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

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

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

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

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

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

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

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[zepskies]

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 2):

@impala-dreamer @star-yawnznn @bleuatlas @cookiechipdough @nancymcl

@kiddieclaws @writtenbyhollywood @flawlesslyspellbound @lori19 @insomnia2love

@milescrypt @lunaleah @disappearintofanfiction @alexxavicry @missyoudean

@periandernyx @mistressofallthingsgeeky @condors-safety @kimxwinchester @magic-sprinkled-daydreams

@lupinslibraries @teamackles96 @ladykitana90 @ultimatecin73 @bloodyrevival

@sbwifey @missverse @1bucky-barnes-wife1 @hunter-or-the-hunted @smoothdogsgirl

@idjit-central @jtink27 @coffeejustcoffee @hereswhatimyellingabouttoday @soullessambs

@umijustwantedtoreturnthis @jessjad @a-lil-pr1ncess @just-levyy @westendgirlsworld

@uniqueeamber @simpfordeanwinchester03 @beltzboys2015-blog @nekkiotine @dina-winchester

@lexeevee @spnaddict13 @deans-baby-momma @dazeddisillusion @legalmente-loca-blog

[westendgirlsworld]

I took my time with the playlist, so the comment is longer than I planned 😀

The playlist has different vibes and I really like it! Summer, slow and romantic, unusual (Headed for a fall, The Humbling river, for example), country (Lainey Wilson has a song called Call a cowboy, maybe you need it, too, it's nice), cowboy-style, etc.

Btw, country makes me want to travel sometimes:D

The playlist made me more excited about the story and curious how you'll use the songs there as a soundtrack or its topics.

Also thank you for sharing every name separately, not just the links:)

See you on the 2nd!

P. S. I'm glad City Grown Willow is here, too! I was listening to it yesterday before I saw it in the playlist and wanted to see it there. Thought maybe the lyrics don't fit the story in your opinion, if it's not there.

Love lives long feels too romantic for Dean because of the singer's voice😀 But after the sneek peak it's obvious the lyrics are about them.

Added some of the songs to my playlist 😉

[zepskies]

Oh wow, this is so nice!! Thank you for listening to the whole playlist and sharing your thoughts here 🥰❤️🧡

The playlist has different vibes and I really like it! Summer, slow and romantic, unusual (Headed for a fall, The Humbling river, for example), country (Lainey Wilson has a song called Call a cowboy, maybe you need it, too, it's nice), cowboy-style, etc. Btw, country makes me want to travel sometimes:D

Thank you! Yeah "Headed for a Fall" is from the 80s, while "The Humbling River" is more modern and was featured on Yellowstone, a show that heavily influenced this series. So It's definitely a mix of old and modern, and genres like rock, country, and alternative. (I'll have to check out "Call a Cowboy"! Lainey was featured a lot on Yellowstone too since she starred in it 🌟)

The playlist made me more excited about the story and curious how you'll use the songs there as a soundtrack or its topics. Also thank you for sharing every name separately, not just the links:) See you on the 2nd!

Oh good! I'm so glad it's made you more excited! 😊 I have a lot of fun creating the playlist poster as well as putting the playlists together. I can only fit 20 songs on this template, so there's usually more fun songs in the playlist.

P. S. I'm glad City Grown Willow is here, too! I was listening to it yesterday before I saw it in the playlist and wanted to see it there. Thought maybe the lyrics don't fit the story in your opinion, if it's not there.

Oh yeah that's one of my favorite songs, and I thought the spirit of it was a nice fit for this series!

Love lives long feels too romantic for Dean because of the singer's voice😀 But after the sneek peak it's obvious the lyrics are about them. Added some of the songs to my playlist 😉

lol yeah that one's on the sappier side, but it's more of the spirit of the song ("what was I to you" and a true, soul-deep love "lives on" through the years, even when the person's not in your life for a while. That sneak peek just goes to show that they not only have history together, but potentially some things to work through in the present 😂

Aw I'm glad you liked some of these songs enough to add them to your personal playlist! Thanks again for listening 💓