Chapter Text
Y/N had always considered airports to be one of the more ingenious forms of organized misery.
They were too crowded to be peaceful, too loud to be relaxing, and somehow every person within fifty feet of a departure gate seemed determined to have the loudest possible conversation.
She sat in one of the chairs near her gate, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, a leather satchel beside her and her phone pressed to her ear.
On the table in front of her sat a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
She had forgotten about it.
Again.
"How's the north field?" she asked.
There was a pause on the other end.
"Fine."
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
"Fine isn't an answer."
"It is when you've been doing this longer than you've been alive."
She smiled faintly.
The voice belonged to Rufus Davis, the American foreman who had worked for her family for decades.
He had been a friend of her father's long before Y/N had been born and had been one of the people who kept the American vineyard functioning when she was too young to understand what a vineyard actually was.
He had also developed a particular talent for telling her to stop worrying.
It rarely worked.
"How are the new vines?"
"Growing."
"Any problems?"
"Nothing that requires you to fly back across the Atlantic."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
Y/N sighed.
"Rufus."
"Y/N."
She leaned back in her chair.
"You're impossible."
"And you're twenty-six years old and trying to run three businesses on three different schedules from three different countries while hunting things that most people don't believe exist."
"I don't hunt things."
Rufus snorted.
"You hunt things."
"I investigate."
"With a shotgun."
"Sometimes."
"That makes it hunting."
Y/N looked around the airport.
Nobody was paying attention to her.
Good.
She lowered her voice anyway.
"The south field?"
"Handled."
"The shipment?"
"Handled."
"The new irrigation system?"
"Handled."
"The employee who was having trouble with—"
"Handled."
She stopped.
There was another pause.
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Good."
Y/N glanced at the clock.
She had another forty minutes before boarding.
"You're sure?"
"Kid."
She smiled at the old-fashioned name.
"I've been doing this longer than you were born. Your father trusted me. You trust me. Let me do my job."
"I do trust you."
"I know."
"And you're sure—"
"Go to England."
Y/N frowned.
"You're ordering me around now?"
"Yes."
"I own the vineyard."
"And I run it."
"Technically—"
"Go to England."
She laughed quietly.
"Fine."
"Good."
Rufus paused.
"And Y/N?"
"Yes?"
"Stop checking the weather every six hours."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I check it twice a day."
"That's worse."
Y/N smiled.
"Goodbye, Rufus."
"Have a safe flight."
The call ended.
She lowered the phone and looked at the screen for a moment.
Rufus had been with her family for as long as she could remember.
He had known her father.
He had known her grandfather.
He had known her when she was a child who barely understood why adults were constantly talking about harvests, barrels, invoices, taxes, shipments, and contracts.
Now he was the person she trusted to keep the American operation running when she wasn't there.
And he was right.
The vineyard was fine.
The American operation was fine.
Everything was fine.
That was why she was going to England.
For once, she could actually leave the United States without worrying that something was going to catch fire.
Literally or otherwise.
Her family business was spread across three countries.
The American property contained the family's main headquarters and vineyard.
France contained the infamous orchard and another major part of the family's agricultural operation.
England contained the oldest property.
Her grandfather's distillery.
Her English home.
Rye.
She had been traveling between the three since she had become legally old enough to take responsibility for the estate herself.
Three months in France.
Three months in Britain.
Six months in America.
It was a schedule that looked ridiculous on paper.
It was worse in practice.
But it worked.
Mostly.
She spent the longest period in America because that was where the headquarters of the family business was located.
It was also, conveniently, where the majority of her hunting work occurred.
America had monsters.
America had demons.
America had enough supernatural problems to keep her occupied for years.
Britain, by comparison, was quiet.
Painfully quiet.
She had occasionally joked that the English portion of the year was less a business trip and more an extended vacation.
Her employees in England appreciated that she actually showed up, though.
Y/N was not an absentee owner.
When she was at the properties, she worked.
When she wasn't there, she expected the same standard.
She was firm.
Sometimes excessively so.
But she wasn't cruel.
Her employees knew where they stood with her.
If someone made a mistake, she wanted it fixed.
If someone needed help, she helped.
If someone did good work, she told them.
She expected people to do their jobs well, but she also understood that people were not machines.
That philosophy had made the businesses run surprisingly smoothly.
Rufus handled America.
Monsieur Jacques Larmount handled France.
William Herald handled England.
Three men she trusted.
Three men who had, at various points, probably considered resigning because of her habit of calling with questions at inconvenient hours.
Her phone rang again.
This time, the screen displayed:
**DEAN**
Y/N stared at it.
Then answered.
"Hello, nuisance."
"Wow."
Dean's voice came through immediately.
"No hello? No 'Dean, beloved friend and greatest hunter of our generation'?"
"No."
"You're getting worse."
"I've always been like this."
"True."
Y/N smiled.
"What's up?"
"Sam's here."
"Congratulations."
"He's been saying you're going to miss us."
Y/N raised an eyebrow.
"I doubt that."
"She's on the phone," Sam said somewhere in the background.
"I know."
"Dean's being annoying again."
"Again?"
"Hey!"
Y/N laughed.
"Put me on speaker."
There was a rustle.
Then Sam's voice became clearer.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"How's the airport?"
"Crowded."
"Flight on time?"
"So far."
"Everything with Rufus okay?"
"Everything's fine."
Dean interrupted.
"See? That's what I keep telling you. You spend six months in America because you can't stand being away from us."
Y/N closed her eyes.
There it was.
Every time.
"You say that every year."
"Because it's true."
"I stay in America because the headquarters are there."
"Excuse."
"And because the vineyard is there."
"Excuse."
"And because there are significantly more monsters and demons."
"That's just another way of saying you don't want to leave us."
Y/N looked around.
A man nearby glanced at her.
She smiled politely.
Then turned away.
"Actually, Dean, the primary reason is that America has air conditioning."
There was silence.
Sam laughed.
Dean made an offended noise.
"That's cold."
"It's also accurate."
"England has air conditioning."
"Some buildings do."
"Your house does."
"Parts of it."
"Then turn it on."
"It doesn't work properly."
"Get it fixed."
"That's what William says."
"So?"
"So I told him to fix it."
"And?"
"He said it would cost money."
Dean laughed.
"You own a distillery."
"I know."
"You own a vineyard."
"I know."
"You own an orchard."
"I know."
"You're worried about an air conditioner repair bill?"
"I have principles."
Sam laughed again.
Dean groaned.
"You're impossible."
"I learned from the best."
"Me?"
"No."
Sam spoke up.
"Definitely not you."
"Hey!"
Y/N leaned back.
This was familiar.
Comfortable.
Almost ordinary.
That was probably why she liked these conversations.
The three of them could spend twenty minutes arguing about absolutely nothing and somehow feel better afterward.
"You two behaving yourselves while I'm gone?" she asked.
"No," Dean said.
"Dean."
"I'm always well behaved."
Sam laughed.
Y/N smiled.
"That's the most ridiculous thing you've said all day."
"Give me time."
"I won't."
"Rude."
"Accurate."
There was another announcement over the airport speakers.
Y/N glanced toward the gate.
Passengers began standing.
She looked at her boarding pass.
Her flight number appeared on the screen.
Boarding.
"That's me."
Dean's voice softened slightly.
"Already?"
"Apparently."
"Have a safe flight."
"Thanks."
Sam said goodbye.
"Call when you get there."
"I will."
Dean spoke again.
"And watch out for monsters."
Y/N smiled.
"In England?"
"Yeah."
"I think I'll survive."
"Fairies."
She snorted.
There was a brief silence.
Then Sam started laughing.
Dean's hatred of fairies was legendary.
Years earlier, he had encountered one.
The experience had not gone well.
Dean had never forgiven the species.
"You know," Y/N said, standing and picking up her satchel, "you might want to consider therapy."
"Fairies aren't funny."
"They're a little funny."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"Fairies."
"Stop saying it."
She laughed.
"Goodbye, Dean."
"Goodbye, fairy bait."
She rolled her eyes.
"Goodbye, Sam."
"Bye."
The call ended.
Y/N slipped the phone into her coat pocket.
She adjusted the strap of her satchel and joined the line.
England.
Three months.
Business.
The distillery.
Her house in Rye.
William Herald.
Paperwork.
Inventory.
A few meetings.
Probably some irritating government form she had forgotten existed.
Nothing particularly exciting.
That was the point.
She preferred it that way.
As she boarded the plane, she glanced once through the airport windows toward the sky.
England was supposed to be the easy part of the year.
America had the monsters.
France had the orchard.
England had the distillery.
England was quiet.
England was civilized.
England was, as she had once described it to Dean, "a vacation where everyone drinks tea and complains about the weather."
She settled into her seat and placed her satchel beneath the seat in front of her.
Then she pulled a book from her bag.
She had barely opened it when the plane began preparing for departure.
Y/N looked out the window.
Somewhere across the Atlantic waited her grandfather's old distillery, the stone house attached to it, and the small English town of Rye.
She smiled.
Three months.
She could manage three months.
She had no reason whatsoever to expect trouble.
No reason to suspect monsters.
No reason to suspect demons.
No reason to suspect fairies.
Certainly no reason to suspect a flying boy.
Or a pirate.
Or a family curse.
Or children disappearing through bedroom windows.
And she certainly had no reason to believe that a man who had been dead to her world for generations was about to walk into her life and complicate it considerably.
The plane lifted into the sky.
Y/N opened her book.
England awaited.
And, entirely unbeknownst to her, Neverland was waiting too.