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Love and Duty	By : rae_roberts Category: Supernatural > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 3443 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and make no profit from this story. Just borrowing Papa Winchester and his boys for fun.

Chapter List
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“I swear I never saw two more stubborn, bull-headed men than you Winchesters,” Ellen Harvelle huffed as she cleared the breakfast dishes from the dining-room table where John lingered, reading the weekly newspaper from Lawrence and drinking chicory coffee.
“How so?” John asked mildly, lowering his paper.
“You, insisting on this sham of a marriage, and Dean, moping and sulking around under his own personal thundercloud ever since you launched the damned scheme.”
“He’ll get over it, once he’s in bed with the boy,”   John chuckled.
Ellen gave him a look, clearly not amused. “Sex is one thing, but marriage should be about love. How would you have liked it, I wonder, if your father had married you off to a total stranger without so much as a by your leave?”
“That’d be a moot point, Ellen, seeing as my old man ran out on my mother and me when I was just a little kid,” John said dryly.
“You’re missing my point, John Winchester.”   Dishes clattered loudly as she stacked them on a tray.
His eyebrows arched. Ellen was just about the only person in the entire Kansas Territory who could get away with talking to him with that tone of voice. “You had a point?”
“You didn’t get married to your wife—rest her soul—because somebody told you it was your duty. You married for love, just like me and my Bill. Don’t you think Dean deserves the same?”
“Times were different then,” John said wearily.
“Not that different.” Ellen bustled around the table with more energy than was strictly necessary for the chore, taking out her aggravation on the cutlery. She reached for his mug, still half-full.
“Sit down for a minute,” he ordered, and clasped a big, calloused hand over her slender wrist before she could snatch the mug away.
Ellen’s eyebrows arched and John pulled his hand back as if it had been scalded by the brief contact. A decade after Bill Harvelle’s death, his still-grieving widow was strictly off limits, no matter how much John might wish otherwise. He covered his discomfort with a scowl that she ignored, settling gracefully into the chair next to his.
“What’s on your mind now?”
“This boy I purchased for Dean. His name’s Sam.” John hesitated, feeling a rare moment of uncertainty. “Samuel Harvelle. He’d be a couple years older than Jo,” he went on when Ellen didn’t react.
“Well, that’s a funny coincidence,” she said lightly.
“No relation, then?”
“Maybe some distant cousin of Bill’s, but no, not that I know of,” Ellen shrugged.   She stood, flashing John a smile as she collected her tray. “Sweet of you to be concerned for my feelings.”
He scoffed. “Didn’t want you to have hysterics if the breeder turned out to be some long-lost relative. You know how a lot of them get taken when they’re scarcely more than babies.”
“Joanna Beth is my only child, John. Always counted myself lucky to have had even just the one.”
All the talk of love and their long-dead spouses had left John under his own personal cloud of guilt and regret. He barricaded himself behind his newspaper, blocking Ellen from view, but that didn’t stop him from imagining the sway of her hips as she left the room, carrying the dishes back to the kitchen.
…
Two weeks later Dean, John, and Bobby rode into Lawrence to collect Sam Harvelle from the train station, accompanied by several armed men and women, members of what amounted to the Winchester estate’s own private army. The show of force was intended as a deterrent to anyone who might be tempted to try and prevent John Winchester from bringing home the young breeder he’d purchased. Child-bearing males were a very expensive commodity.
Sam was immediately recognizable among the passengers just disembarking from the coaches, surrounded as he was by an escort of his own. Dean stole glances at him as John talked with the old geezer who'd apparently served as Sam's chaperone on the trip out from St. Louis, burning with curiosity in spite of himself.   The boy was wearing a suit and tie in stark contrast to the jeans and plain work shirt Dean had on.   Dean gave a mental shrug at the thought that he might be under-dressed for this first meeting; he’d wear a suit to the damned wedding.   He caught Sam sneaking a peek of his own and started to smile, but he’d already looked away, eyes sliding on past as if Dean wasn’t even there.
Finally whatever final details John had been concerned about were hashed out and Bobby and the guards began to load Sam’s luggage onto the single pack horse they’d brought along for the job.    Someone in Sam’s escort urged him forward just as John gave Dean a none-too-subtle push.
“Dean Winchester,” he introduced himself, offering a handshake. The smile he gave his fiance was forced and felt more like a grimace of pain, but at least he’d resisted the urge to turn and glare at his father.
“Sam Harvelle.”
Sam didn’t smile.    His handshake was firm but the skin of his palm was soft and uncalloused. A city boy’s hand, Dean thought, and wondered fleetingly just what a virgin breeder did to pass the hours while waiting to be betrothed.
“What the hell is in all these trunks, boy? Rocks?” Bobby demanded, and Dean was grateful for the interruption.
“Books, sir.”
“Should’ve brought another damned pack horse,” the foreman grunted to John.
There was a short delay as the last of Sam’s luggage was tied on behind the saddles of two of the guards while another lengthened the stirrups on the horse they’d brought along for the boy to ride back to the estate.   Dean rolled his eyes. His fiance was only sixteen and already a good two inches taller than Dean. At least he wasn’t gawky…
...Until he was mounted on his horse.   Sam rode with all the panache and grace of a sack of potatoes, making Dean feel sorry   the gentle, good-natured gelding Bobby had picked out for him to ride.   If nothing else, Sam’s discomfort spared Dean the effort of trying to make conversation. It was all the boy could do to stay in the saddle.
...
“This’ll be your room,” Dean told him, waiting until the guards had piled Sam’s suitcases and trunks haphazardly around the modest room before leading Sam up the stairs. The bedroom had been Dean’s own, until a day ago when John had directed his son to move into the master suite. John himself hadn't set foot in the suite since the death of his wife, Mary, sixteen years before.
“It’s a nice room,” Sam said politely. They stood awkwardly, Sam just inside the room, Dean half in, half out of the doorway.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Dean said, eager to put an end to the uncomfortable interaction. “Ellen should have dinner ready soon. Just come on down when you hear her yelling at Bobby to wash his hands.”
“I’m not really hungry. Long day,” Sam said, still in that polite, carefully neutral tone. “I’d just as soon stay here until you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” Dean felt his face heat up as Sam’s hazel eyes flicked toward the bed. “Uh, no!” he blurted, mortified. “That’s not happening.”
“Oh.” Sam’s expression was unreadable.
“Look, I don’t care what you do. Come down for dinner or stay up here and read your books,” Dean said, voice brusque to try and cover his embarrassment. “Nobody here is going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”
“Right." The polite, neutral facade cracked. Sam's eyes flashed. "Except be married to you."
Dean bristled. "Trust me, I don't like it any better than you do." Cheeks still burning, he turned on his heel and left his fiance standing there.
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Love and Duty