sequatchie valley


A/n: thank you, my wonderful followers, for sticking with me in recent weeks. I’ve been having a difficult time in my real life, but that’s not my story to tell. This one is. I actually wrote a Dean x reader. I hope you like it.

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: Reader meets Dean at an early age and never forgets him.

Warnings: some angst, Patsy Cline, drunk me writing


My senior year in high school I drove a 1997 Dodge Ram extended cab pickup truck. V8 engine. Towed my four horse trailer, fully loaded, no problem. Had a horse that liked to chew the forest green paint offa the tailgate. Big bald spot there. I painted over it with nail polish that was kinda almost the same color.

The extended cab part meant that you could fit three up front and approximately two hundred and ninety seven in the back. Which my friends all took advantage of when we went drag racing on the strip. Now, if you know about cars and drag racing, you might say, ‘Well, that’s silly. Everybody knows you can’t drag race a truck. It’s too light in the back end. It’ll just spin out if you hit the accelerator.’ And I would say you’re damn straight. Which is why my grandpa took me up to the quarry one day and we picked out a nice half-ton chunk of limestone and chunked it in the bed. Worked like a dream.

And that’s how I pissed off the best looking man I ever saw.

Damn, if I wasn’t a little spit fire back in my day. Too hot for most of the dudes in my one-red-light town to handle. Didn’t really have much time for that shit anyways. The only one who had ever really caught my eye had four hooves and a tail. And then I met Dean Fucking Winchester.

There was probably just a dozen or so of us tailgating in the parking lot of the Tractor Supply. As kids in a small town with nothing going on tend to do on a Friday night. The kids from Livingston usually showed up around nine and we’d race from the light at Kroger’s down to the turn-around at the 7-11. That fucking Impala showed up before they did, though, and when the driver got out, I knew I was in trouble.

He got out of the car, hinges squealing, and walked up to us, all bow legs and white teeth. Started asking the guys questions, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything but his biceps stretching out his grey henley. With all the stupidity of youth and the bravado of a person who had never experienced rejection, I challenged him to a race. If he won, I’d answer his questions. If I won, I got to ride in that sweet car. He eyed my truck and laughed. Told me he didn’t have to beat me to take me for a ride. I didn’t have enough experience with men back then to catch the innuendo. Or to run like hell, as I should’ve. So. It was on.

I had him the minute the light turned green. He was expecting me to peel out and waste a few seconds, but he didn’t know about my grandpa’s secret weapon. I hit the gas and my Dodge leapt over the line and hauled ass. Don’t get me wrong, he put up a good fight. Almost passed me at the crest of the hill in front of The Boot Factory. It was knowledge that gave me the edge because the police cruiser parked there in the lot was empty. I knew that Sheriff Cravens and his sidekick, Officer Roy were down at the Waffle House this time of the night. Drinking coffee and flirting with the waitresses, no doubt.

Anyways, he hesitated and I didn’t. Beat him by a good three lengths. He was hopping mad when we got to the 7-11. All the kids who were waiting there were whoopin’ and hollerin’ for the home team. Back then I didn’t understand about hurting a man’s pride. Didn’t learn that lesson until later in life. And Dean’s not the one who taught me.

Nope, he was a perfect gentleman. Congratulated me. Asked what the fuck was under the hood. That’s when I laughed and flopped down the nail-polish-covered tailgate. ‘My secret weapon,’ I said. He took it in stride and laughed. Even signed the damn thing with a sharpie I had in the cab. I tried to get all the folks I beat to sign it. I don’t know, it was a thing. He drew a little impala next to his name. The animal, not the car, and gave me a dangerous wink. Reckoned he owed me a ride, after all.

He held the door open for me and I got in. Asked me, ‘Where to?’ My mind had totally spazzed at this point. Where the fuck could we go in this town? So, I thought Bee Rock. A beautiful place for a beautiful man. About 2,000 feet above sea level, it was once called The Little Grand Canyon. I figured it was pretty much the best we had to offer. So we drove up the winding mountain road as far as we could and then got out and hiked the remaining half mile.

We made small talk and he told me that he and his dad were in town on business. I didn’t ask what business. I didn’t care. Eighteen-year-old me was captivated by the easy way he moved, the way he stopped and held out his hand for me when there was a rock to scramble down. The way he just felt good to be with. Safe.

When the overlook finally came into view, he stopped. Was quiet for a while. We sat down on an outcropping, shoulder to shoulder, and stared over the canopy of fog-laced silver leaves far below us to the moon-crest over the mountains on the other side of the valley. There was a simple peace between us.

The quiet of the mountain seemed to take him to an unguarded place in his mind. He started telling me about his life. About his brother, who he had raised and who had left him. About his mother who he had lost early in his life and, finally, about his father who he obeyed.

I listened, quietly. Put my arm around his shoulders when I felt the confession becoming difficult for him. Teared up when he did. Even in my naive-kid bones, I knew that he needed this. Sometimes the mountains and the forest and the rocks and ancient trees give you what you need if you open yourself up to it. And I gave him something too. I gave that man my heart.

That night was my first time. Don’t know if he knew that or not. Probably not. Doesn’t matter anyway, I guess. I’ve never regretted it for a second. It was sweet and gentle and soul crushing in a way that it’s never been for me again. Something important happened that night. I don’t know how or why, in a universe as vast as ours, why such an insignificant thing should be important. But it was. Felt like all the gods and goddesses and moon and stars were smiling down on us in that instant. Like we were both whole.

Somebody told me they saw that big black shiny car leave town the next day. I never saw Dean Winchester again. He left a hole in me the size of the Sequatchie Valley. I didn’t know how to get over it, still don’t, really, but my solution, at the time, was to marry a local boy. Maybe once we got married I could fill that hole, ya know? He was so nice to me when we met. Loved my critters and I thought he loved me. He changed after we got married. Was sometimes cruel and made me into something different than I was that night with Dean. Something less. We had two kids and I tried to protect them from him as best I could. Left him and took the kids when I realized I couldn’t. Raised them to be an asset to this world. They’re both grown and happy now. Left their old mama to go out into the world and make it a better place. I’m so proud of them both.

Problem is, I’m not really sure what to do with myself these days. I still have my old four-hooved-paint-eater. We’re both a little slower than we used to be. Still enjoy the peace the mountains bring, though.

A couple months ago I was driving past ol’ Jerry’s salvage yard up in Monterey. Saw a familiar patch of missing green paint. Yep, you guessed it, my old Dodge. Just sitting there up on blocks. I parked and hollered at Jerry, told him I wanted her and how much was he askin’. Said he bought her for scrap. Had a big fucking rock in the back that nobody could get out. I walked out into the scrap yard, through the broken hulks that people had loved and then discarded. I pulled myself up into the bed of my old truck and, sure enough, there was that fucking piece of limestone that my long-passed grandpa had put there. And along with the faded signatures of my competitors was the image of an impala and the name of the one man that I would never forget. ‘What do you want for her, Jerry?’

So, I’ve spent the last couple months fixing her up. New goddamn everything. Except the half-eaten paint and the limestone, of course. I don’t know why, but it felt like just seeing his name, written in his own hand, gave me back some piece of myself. Who I used to be. Today is her maiden voyage. Kinda feels like we’re both starting a new, better chapter of our lives. So I went to the one place that I can still feel his presence. Bee Rock. It’s not night this time. Won’t even let you come up here at night anymore. Built some fancy bed and breakfast. It’s private property now. It doesn’t change the mountains, though. Still peaceful and beautiful and I allow my mind to wander back to that night in a way that I don’t often let it do. I let myself feel it all again, the perfect wholeness. It hurts and feels amazing all at the same time. The sun starts to set and something tells me that it’s time to leave, so I hike back to my truck.

On the way down the mountain I stop at a little roadside bar that wasn’t here when I was young. It’s a little dingy and there’s a few more Harleys parked out front than a place I would usually frequent but, holy fuck, I need a drink. It’s smoky and dark and perfect inside. I sit down on a bar stool and order a beer.

I wasn’t intending to get day drunk, but I’ve been lost in thought and by the time I’m on my third I’m feeling pretty buzzed, but ok, ya know? At peace with the world and how things turned out. Sort of in denial, if I’m honest. And that’s when some fuck head reject puts Patsy Cline on the goddamn juke box.

‘Crazy… I’m crazy for feeling so lonely
I’m crazy… crazy for feeling so blue
I knew… you’d love me as long as you wanted
And then someday, you’d leave me for somebody new
Worry… why do I let myself worry?
Wondering… what in the world did I do?
I’m crazy…for thinking that my love could hold you
And I’m crazy for trying, and crazy for crying
And I’m crazy for loving you’

You ever notice that when she sings that song she almost sounds like she is fucking crying? What sadistic bastard plays this shit in the middle of the day? Anyways, I’ll admit to crying in my beer. And then chugging the rest of it. Who the fuck cries over a goddamn one night stand nearly twenty five years after the fact? Maybe I’m starting menopause. I gotta get out of this bar, dude.

And then…

“Can I buy you another….”

That voice. It’s etched into my soul like the runes on the Rosetta Stone. It brings back memories of mist and trees and mountains and youth. This can’t be real.

I look up from my beer and there he fucking is. After all this time. Just bow legs and plaid and eye crinkles and something desperate in his expression that I can’t name, but that I know so well, ‘cause it’s in me too. And goddamn Patsy Cline crying in the background. All of the pieces of me that couldn’t ever find homes click into place.

“I’ve been looking for you. Saw the Dodge outside.”

And he’s smiling the way that I must be smiling. Tears and happiness and wholeness. I throw my arms around him the same time he puts his around me. We’re both home.

Sorry if I’m tagging you twice. Shit didn’t work out well the first time.

If you don’t wanna be tagged for my stuff, pleases let me know. I haven’t been a prolific poster lately.