A/N: I did change one little thing: I had Sydney start taking riding lessons for a year in Part One and I've changed that in this chapter. Doesn't really effect the story but thought I'd let you know in case anyone caught that.

Her tights were too small. They pinched in at her belly button and rolled down in the back and sagged at the crotch no matter how many times she tried to pull them up. And they were itchy.

But since Sydney had refused to go with her aunt to the mall, she'd been brought back the wrong size and everyone was too busy to care if she was a little uncomfortable. To be honest, she didn't even care that she uncomfortable but it was easier to think about how the backs of her knees itched than it was to think about the fact her dad was dead.

Dead.

As in never coming back.

It hadn't gotten any easier yet, every time she thought it. It still made her chest hurt as if she was the one with too much smoke in her lungs and sometimes she cried at random times like microwaving some food or brushing her teeth. She'd be staring at her reflection or the back of her hand or the kitchen table and just start crying.

She never cried before her dad died.

It's been a whole week since the fire, five days since Dean Winchester the Hunter died a heroic but awful death in a hospital bed hooked up to a million machines with his brother and wife sitting next to him, each holding a hand. He was unconscious and didn't know that both of them were crying or that his daughter was at home staring at her ceiling when she was supposed to be sleeping. And he didn't know that when he breathed in at 3:48 on the morning of November 10th that it would be the last time.

Her mom had told her. She and Uncle Sam had both come home before the sun was even up and crept into her room where she was half asleep and half not.

"Sydney?" Her mom's voice sounded much louder than a whisper and the girl had tried in vain to cover her ears with her hands, burrowing herself underneath the thick comforter to block out the words. "Sydney, sweetie, come here." Her mother pulled her into her arms even though eleven year olds weren't supposed to fit on their mom's lap. As her mother crushed Sydney to her chest, she saw Uncle Sam standing at the doorway, just a shadow against the hallway light. And finally she buried her head in her mother's long hair and cried.

Now it was the funeral and so she was sitting in the kitchen with her itchy tights and a black dress she'd never seen before and the shoes she had gotten a couple weeks ago for the big Christmas party at school next month. When she and her mom picked them up a couple weeks ago, she'd loved them. They had a sparkly strap that went across her ankle and a tiny heel that made her feel much older. She'd danced around the house in them while her dad complained she was too young for such fancy shoes and she'd laughed at him before running to her room.

She hated the stupid shoes now.

A lot of people were in the house: her mom and Uncle Sam as usual but also her grandparents and her aunt and uncle and her three cousins who had been told to stay out of her way. Chief Tony was there too for some reason but she didn't mind because he actually didn't say a lot, just like her dad. He just kind of stood off to the corner of the living room with his hands in his pockets while everyone else rushed around putting on scarves and lipstick and tying ties. Her dad had known how to tie a tie. But for some reason her uncle didn't know how and that bothered her. He was older than her dad had been anyway. Maybe the person who didn't know how to tie a tie should have died.

"Sydney, are you ready?" Her mom was coming down the hallway from her bedroom in a dress that she recognized from somewhere.

"You can't wear that," Sydney said. Melissa Winchester glanced down at the modest black dress she'd found in the far left side of her closet. They were supposed to be at the church in ten minutes.

"Why not?"

"Because," Sydney said, staring at the dress without blinking. There was a strong possibility she was going to start crying again. Her hands curled into fists so that her nails bit into her palms; that helped a little bit. "That's the dress you wore to the fire station Christmas party last year." Her mother continued to stare blankly. "With dad," Sydney finished when her mother didn't get the hint. Melissa blinked, looked down at the dress again, then up at her pale-faced daughter.

"I – I don't have anything else," she said. "You look pretty though."

"My tights are itchy," Sydney mumbled but her mother didn't hear because Uncle Sam had come up to them and whispered in her mom's ear, his hand reaching out to pat Sydney on the shoulder. Uncle Sam also knew how to tie his own tie.

"Let's get going," her mother said and she let Chief Tony walk her out the car while her daughter followed behind.

The funeral in the church wasn't so bad: Sydney just pretended she was somewhere else. It was harder when they were outside at the cemetery and the casket was right there in front of her. She half-hid behind Uncle Sam because honestly the thought of her father in that black coffin was really creepy and it was also cold outside and Sam was good at wrapping her in his long overcoat when a gust of wind blew by them.

They wanted her to throw a handful of dirt but when she shook her head and refused, no one pushed her. And when they started covering her dad up she started crying again and Uncle Sam walked her away from all the people while her mom stayed and talked a minute. Sydney figured that adults were way better at talking than kids because that's all they seemed to do. She missed her dad, who hadn't really talked all that much. He'd been a hugger and a tucker-in and sometimes he'd kiss the top of her head but he never talked more than he needed to. She wondered who would tuck her in now.

"It's pretty awful, isn't it?" Sam said, watching the scene over his shoulder while the girl in front of him shivered. She was wearing her winter coat but it was freezing even for a November morning and her dress only came down to her knees. Someone had curled her reddish-brown hair and stuck a black bow in it but most of it had been blown into knots by the wind and he smoothed it down with his hand. She nodded against his stomach, pressing her face into his suit jacket.

Sam was glad to lead her away from the too many people that were standing at the open mouth of Dean's grave. It wasn't right, Sam thought. Hunters were never buried in such luxurious ceremonies, in coffins with satin lining and brass handles. Not that Sam wasn't astounded by the number of people Dean had impacted in his life, but it was uncomfortable, as if he was wearing shoes a size too small.

He'd been there when they had withdrawn the ventilator and he was holding Dean's strong hand when his brother took his last breaths on his own and slipped from this world into the next without so much as a goodbye. Sam had temporarily moved in with his brother's family, knowing that needed something to do and also knowing Dean would want someone to take care of them after he was gone. Melissa was holding up as well as was to be expected with infrequent tears and just a lot of sighing and staring into space. Both of them had been kept busy by the funeral arrangements and he supposed it was going to get worse in the days following. But Sydney was the one who was worrying him. She barely talked anymore, barely ate anything at all even though the fridge was stocked with food from sympathetic friends and neighbors. She would sit at the kitchen table until someone suggested she move to the living room and she would sit there until it was time for bed and he didn't think she slept much at all because every time he passed her room, she was tossing and turning.

Sam hated Dean for leaving him behind but he hated him even more for leaving his own daughter. She was lost without him. Sam was an adult; he would find his way eventually, but this little girl with her eyes squeezed shut and her toes curled against the cold was suddenly without her anchor, tempted by the wind and sea to float away and never return.

xxx

Uncle and niece were separated when they got back to the house, where everyone in the world seemed to show up to eat food and talk about Dean and look at pictures of Dean and tell Sydney how much her father loved her.

"Duh," she wanted to say when they told her this. What a stupid thing to say. Of course he loved her. It's not like she was going to forgot now that he was…not here. Instead she bit her tongue and said, "I know" and watched them wander off to get more rolls or salad. That was the other thing. Everyone kept trying to feed her. Beyond the rolls and salad there was about four different kinds of pasta and potatoes and weird vegetables she had never seen before in her life She wanted to stand on one of the fancy dining room chairs and shout, "My dad didn't even like vegetables!"

The flock of people pressing in on her was so overwhelming that she fled to her room and shut the door, an obvious don't-come-in-or-I'll-kick-you sign to anyone who walked by. For a second she just stood there, feeling very much like sliding down the door until she was curled up on the carpet. This was her plan of procedure until a picture on her dresser caught her eye. She paused in her journey to the floor and hoisted herself back up, picking up the picture frame. She'd almost forgotten all about this one, her eyes just skipping over it every day when she went to grab her clothes. Because it was old and slightly out of focus and in one of those cheesy Disneyland frames from when she was six, and also because it had been in her room for that long.

It was a picture of her and her Dad writing a carousel when she was little. That summer he had grudgingly agreed to take her to Disneyland despite absolutely hating the humidity and oppressive heat of Florida. It also went against one of her Dad's main rules of 'no crowds'. She'd never thought about that last rule much, she had always assumed he just didn't like people which was okay. She didn't either. But he had agreed and they'd flown down to Florida on spring break where Melissa had promptly gotten food poisoning and had to stay in the hotel for three whole days.

Dean had taken his daughter on all the rides she could gain entry to, had given in to every absurd request for cotton candy or a henna tattoo or facepainting. They had sat first row at the dolphin show and gotten soaked and then went and laid on a park bench to get dry again. She could still remember laying across his stomach with his arms wrapped loosely around her. The best part had been the carousel though, which they had ridden every day at least five times, sometimes in a row. Her mother had stayed off the circling ride and snapped the pictures but her father had accompanied her every time, standing protectively at the head of the ceramic horse to make sure the wild steed didn't run away with his daughter, just like they did in Mary Poppins. Sydney couldn't remember much else from that vacation but those trips around the carousel had always stuck with her. It was, after all, where her love for horses at first blossomed. She'd come home and demanded to start riding lessons and after a few months of protestations, Dean had finally given in, although he still viewed the sport as too dangerous. It was true that they were supposed to go shopping for her first horse the next summer when he had time off work and she wasn't in school. Now…

She didn't want a horse if her dad couldn't pick it out with her.

Sydney took the picture out of the bulky frame and crossed the room to her bed where she just sat and stared at it, holding it as if it were made out of precious diamonds, afraid to smudge it with fingerprints. She pressed it to her chest when there was a knock on the door followed by it's opening. She had expected to see her mom, perhaps coming to scold her for hiding but instead Uncle Sam made his way into her room, followed by two other men she didn't know.

"Hey," he said softly, squatting down in front of her. "Didn't feel like talking?" She shook her head and gripped the picture tighter. "Can I introduce you to a couple of your Dad's friends? They wanted to meet you." She glanced at them overtop of Sam's long hair: they were both short but one was super weird looking with a big nose and small mouth and the other was slim and dark-haired. However funny they looked, they were both watching her with kind eyes, softer than most people's. She nodded.

"This is Garth," Sam said, turning on one heel and pointing to the really odd looking guy. He smiled and waved one hand.

"Hey, Sydney. Nice to meet ya." He spoke as funny as he looked, as if his tongue was bouncing up and down when he talked and she was tempted to smile at the funny accent.

"And that's Kevin." The other guy, who she could tell was younger than Uncle Sam, smiled at her. "They just wanted to say hi."

"They were friends?" she asked Sam and he nodded. A whole slew of Hunters had showed up briefly for the funeral but only a few had stuck around for the gathering afterward. Neither Garth nor Kevin had ever met Sydney on Dean's terms that she was to know as little about the Hunting world as possible, but it seemed appropriate now to introduce the kid to a couple of her father's closest friends.

"I lived with your dad for a while," Kevin offered. "You know what my favorite part about him was?" She shook her head, still holding the picture. "When he used to tell jokes." Sydney couldn't help it, she cracked a smile.

"He used to tell me a lot too," she said. "But they were pretty bad." Sam, Kevin, and Garth all chuckled.

"They were," Sam said, patting her on the knee and swinging up to sit next to her on the bed.

"One time your Daddy and I were out eatin' and he ate himself a whole pie. Just sat there and ate the thing with a fork, bless his heart."

"A whole pie?" Sydney asked, eyes wide. "Was it cherry 'cause that was his favorite kind?"

"You know," Garth said, scratching his head. "I'm darn sure it was cherry. I just now remembered that."

Dean Winchester's daughter beamed.

xxx

"Sydney, it's time to go to the barn!"

Uncle Sam's voice carried through the house a lot more than her mom's did, Sydney thought as she jammed a pillow over her head. He wasn't loud most of the time but when he yelled, the china cabinet shuddered. She waited another minute and then the door opened, just like she knew it would.

"You aren't dressed."

"I don't want to go." Her mother would usually sigh at this point but there was silence from Sam as he considered the prone figure splayed out on the bed. It was two in the afternoon and she was still dressed in her pajamas. In fact, if Sydney wasn't in school, she was usually in her pajamas.

"You've missed four weeks," he said gently, coming inside the room. She peeked out from under the pillow and found him staring at a picture of Dean she kept on the bedside. She had a lot of them in her room now, most of her and him together, but this one was of just him, taken only a few months ago. He'd been raking leaves and someone had taken the picture just as he turned to laugh at the camera.

"I know," she said. "But I don't feel like it."

"I drove past yesterday and they had the barn all dressed up for Christmas. Wreaths and ribbons on the outside."

"I don't want to go," she repeated, stuffing her head back under the pillow. Sam didn't say anything but he did pull at her blankets, trying to untangle them and therefore finding the unfamiliar swath of cloth wrapped up in the sheets.

"What's this?" he said and Sydney looked.

"Don't touch it!" she shrieked, pulling the material out of his hands and stuffing it under her, curling herself up around it.

"What is that?" Sam asked, completely taken aback by the outburst. The child had retreated further into her quiet shell in the month since Dean's death and had certainly never screamed at him like that before.

"Nothing," she said, pressing her cheek into the blanket or whatever it was.

"Syd," he said, suspicion starting to sneak in. He'd seen that dark blue and green pattern before. "Syd, is that your dad's bathrobe?" She didn't answer, just pulled her knees up to her chin and clutched the robe tighter to her face. Sam sighed. He had no idea how to handle her; it was Dean who had been the one able to get his daughter to unfurl her emotions, not him. He was no father.

"It smells like him," came a muffled whisper and Sam's heart was a lead weight dropping to his stomach. "It still smells like him," she said and he pulled gentle fingers through her hair, rubbing her back. "I don't want Mom to wash it so I hide it."

"Okay," Sam said. "It's okay, no one's going to take it from you."

"I don't want to go my lesson," she said, and he nodded and let it go.

xxx

A week later and Sam was once again on babysitting duty. Another Saturday afternoon spent at his dead brother's house, a little more than a week until Christmas. A tree had been erected in the living room and he'd spent an evening putting lights on it with Sydney watching TV next to him. Presents were scattered beneath it, most addressed to Sydney but some addressed to Melissa and Sam, an effort to reconnect the broken family. The pink tie she'd bought her father for Christmas was still in Sydney's closet because she couldn't decide if she wanted to keep it, throw it out, or give it to Uncle Sam.

"Syd, time to go!" he said, remembering the disaster of last week and how she had started crying when he made scrambled eggs and pancakes for dinner.

"I'm not going!"

"Yes, you are," Sam said. "Let's go." She looked over in surprise; Uncle Sam hardly every made her do anything these days and her TV show had just started.

"No."

"Yes." He reached over and turned off the TV. "You don't have to ride but you do have to go visit the barn. And if you want to stop riding, you have to tell your teacher yourself."

"Can't you or Mom do it?"

"Nope. That's part of being twelve." She scowled but stomped away to put her boots and jacket on. She hated being reminded that she was twelve. She hadn't wanted to celebrate her birthday at all – there had been no party – but her Mom and Uncle Sam insisted on buying a cake and singing Happy Birthday. All she could think about though was the fact her dad wasn't there.

The drive to the barn was short thankfully, because being cooped up in Uncle Sam's truck with the heat going was like suffocating. The radio was playing Christmas music no matter what stationed they switched it to so they ended up riding in silence most of the way.

"Hey, Sydney!" Her riding instructor, Mrs. Beverly was waiting for her out front. The lady was old – almost grandmother old – but she could move faster than most of the kids around the place. Right now she was bouncing on her toes trying to stay warm, a giant red scarf wrapped around her neck.

"Hi," Sydney said, allowing herself to be pulled into a hug that smelled largely of horse.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"Sydney," Sam said, getting out of the truck. "We have a surprise for you."

"What?" Mrs. Beverly was smiling and so was Uncle Sam and then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"Don't open it yet," he said and they started leading her into the barn. She barely followed, numb feet stumbling because the writing on the front of the envelope was so familiar. All caps, a fast scrawl, a weird curl to the second 'y'.

It was her dad's handwriting.

Every part of her was shaking as they made their way inside; all she wanted to do was rip open the envelope. It was freaking her out, knowing her father had touched this very piece of paper that she was holding now.

"Here," Mrs. Beverly said, stopping the other two in front of a stall. It took a minute to adjust to the darkness that was beyond the bars but after a few seconds, Sydney could make out a horse.

A very, very ugly horse.

He was dirt brown with absolutely no markings and his mane was scraggly and had hay sticking out of it. Dirt caked his skinny legs and stomach and he had a scar across his chest. A backbone led into two hipbones that stuck out painfully. She had never seen a sorrier looking animal.

"So?" she said, not meaning to sound so harsh. The animal turned at the sound of her voice and she found herself looking into eyes the color of melted milk chocolate with lashes as long as a supermodel's. "Who is he?" she asked, softer this time.

"You can open the letter now," Sam said, also watching the creature. The animal took a tentative step toward them, stretching out his nose in interest. Mrs. Beverly fed him a carrot out of her pocket and Sydney was aware of the loud crunching as she fumbled with the envelope. It was indeed a letter and it was – her heart ached – written in her father's handwriting. She had to pause before reading. She glanced up at the horse who seemed to be watching her, waiting for something. Then she read.

Hey Sydney girl,

I'm writing this letter just in case I have to work on your birthday. I hope I don't but if I do, here's this for now and I'll be home for cake and ice cream later. I know we talked about getting a horse for you this summer but then this guy stumbled across my path, sort of just dropped in out of nowhere you could say.

I know he's not very pretty and he probably won't ever be the blue ribbon horse that you wanted but he does need one thing you can give him. Love. You are so good at loving, Sydney, and I know you'll give this guy a fair chance. He deserves it. I am so proud of you and the wonderful young woman you have become and I can't wait to see what you do with the rest of your life. You amaze me every day.

Anyway, I named him Bobby, I hope you don't mind. Someday, I'll tell you more about the real-life Bobby who raised me and Uncle Sam but for now, just know that he was one of the greatest guys I ever knew, even if he was a little worn down and rough around the edges. Just like the Bobby in front of you.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart, and remember, I love you.

Love, Dad

Sydney was crying when she looked up but she brushed the tears away, not wanting to get the letter wet.

"He did this?" she asked the two adults. They were misty-eyed as well and nodded at her.

"He came out here a couple times a week to check on this guy," Mrs. Beverly said. "Your dad always wanted to feed him and pet him and make sure he was going to be the right kind of horse for you. And he is. He's gentle but he's going to need some work. But your dad picked a good one." Sydney nodded and stuck a hand through the bars of the stall. Bobby ambled up to her and snorted a warm breath into her waiting fingers. She smiled and then her eyes widened.

Bobby wasn't just an ugly all-brown horse after all. On his back were two dark patches, starting at his spine and fanning outward along his flanks. They were curious looking and oddly placed and it took her a minute to realize what they reminded her of.

They looked almost like wings.

Almost like an angel.

A/N: Please let me know if you liked - or didn't - this little piece. It is a bit different than my usual stuff, I know, so I'd love some feedback. Thanks for reading.