Every day for seven days after sending the telegram, Dean Winchester sat at the back corner table of the Lawrence saloon and waited for his brother.
He’d mosey into town in the early afternoon, when the sun shone down hot, and the dust rose easily into lazy mushroom clouds at every step, riding in on that big black mare inexplicably named Impala. He hitched her up to the post, loose and easy, so she could break free if the need came. He made sure the water was clean and that she had enough feed, and then drag his hands roughly through her shaggy mane, his deft fingers pulling apart the tangles. The men joked that he’d never love a woman as much as he loved his horse, but the women knew the truth of it. Any man who loved a horse like that was worth loving hopelessly, and many of them did.