#jessmoorechesters

Day 0.

We’ve got work to do, Sam mutters, but the fire’s drawn the attention of the entire damn neighborhood, and there’s no slipping away to start hunting down the thing that killed Jessica. Not tonight. The police question them for what feels like hours, then the firemen, then the police again. Dean only realizes what they’re doing when he glances over Sam’s shoulder and sees the paramedics wheeling out the body bag behind him. The cops let them go not long after that.

At the motel, Sam won’t so much as move on his own until Dean unscrews a bottle of Jack and hands it to him. Then he knocks back half the bottle and promptly passes out. Dean makes sure he’s lying on his side, trash can on the floor next to his head in case he needs to puke. He double-checks the salt lines, then lays down another circle around Sam’s bed before sneaking out of the room and back to ground zero.

The apartment looks more or less intact except for the bedroom; it was the same when the demon got Mom, he remembers. The firemen had let Dad go back inside a couple days afterwards to get some of their stuff, provided it wasn’t too heavily damaged by the smoke and ash, but Dean had to stay behind with Mrs. Ellison from across the street to look after baby Sammy. Now he stands next to a half-burnt plate of chocolate chip cookies in what used to be Sam and Jess’ living room and tries not to think about the life that they had been building together until he inadvertently brought Yellow Eyes right to their doorstep.

It’s still unnaturally warm, aftertaste from the inferno that had engulfed the bedroom. Smoke lingers in the air, cloying Dean’s nostrils and making him sneeze, but the sulfur-stench that had been there just a few hours ago is already gone.

Dean rummages through the kitchen for extra garbage bags, gathers up everything Jess may or may not have touched, and brings it all to the nearby beach. Scatters it with more salt and lighter fluid than he realistically needs. Just in case.

The flames jump and dance, consuming the last of Jessica Moore. Dean covers his nose and mouth with the spare bandana he always carries his pocket, convinces himself that the stinging in his eyes is just from the smoke. Watches the sand beneath the blaze melt into glass.

---

Day 1.

I don’t blame you, you know, is the first and only thing Sam says when Dean returns to the motel the next morning with coffees and breakfast. Sam’s voice is all screwed up, raspy like he’s been sobbing for hours, but Dean knows his little brother hasn’t made a sound since they checked in to the room late last night, and somehow that makes it even worse.

Dean can’t think of anything to say, anyway, so he shoves both bacon sandwiches in Sam’s direction. They spend the rest of the morning tracking weather patterns and crop failures in the surrounding area, and Dean silently curses the freakish California climate for making their job that much harder. You just can’t accurately track weather patterns when it’s mid-sixties and drought season three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

At some point Sam takes a bite of one of the bacon sandwiches and promptly excuses himself to the bathroom. He turns on the faucets for both the sink and the bathtub to stifle the noise, but Dean can hear him retching all the same, and feels like the biggest asshole in the universe. He tosses both sandwiches into the bin by the ice machine outside their room.

Sam leaves a little later to see Mr. and Mrs. Moore, who have driven from Menlo Park to bury their only daughter. Dean offers to go with him, moral support long overdue after all these years of radio silence, but Sam shakes his head.

It’s not your fault, he says again before he leaves, but Dean can’t accept that. Even if he hadn’t actually led the demon straight to Sam, he still dragged Sam with him on his wild-goose chase trying to find a father who didn’t want to be found. Still left Jess behind, alone and defenseless.

In another life, Sam would have aced his Stanford Law interview today. Would be taking Jess out to celebrate by now, senior year classes be damned.

The wallpaper on Sam’s laptop is a group photo of him and Jess and a smattering of other friends from a life that Sam will never have again, all huddled around a bonfire on a beach and grinning without a care in the world. Jess is wearing Sam’s brown hoodie, long blonde curls tumbling over one shoulder. Her smile is gorgeous. The fire’s glow reflects in her pupils, and Dean opens a new browser window so he won’t have to look into her eyes.

I’m sorry, he whispers, but no one who matters can hear him.

Sam comes back hours later, dry-eyed but stinking of booze, and pukes into the toilet, and collapses into his unmade bed without a word.

---

Day 2.

Sam eats half a muffin and washes it down with coffee that Dean knows for a fact is booze-free, so Dean forces himself to count it as a win. Sam talks enough to let Dean know that the funeral is in three days, that he’s withdrawn from Stanford indefinitely to help him and Dad hunt down the demon for good. Dean feels a chill go down his spine at the flatness in Sam’s voice, and even though he wants nothing more than to carve up two-lane asphalt with his brother by his side, griping about outdated eight-tracks and researching local haunts like the nerd he is, he also knows that Sam will probably be safest if he just stays put, here in sunny Palo Alto where he still has friends and a future.

But there’s no arguing with Sam once he’s got his heart set on something; he learned that the hard way, the night Sam walked out, and he can tell it still holds true now.

A terrible, selfish part of him is glad to have Sam back.

---

Day 3.

Approximately seventy-two hours after the fire, Sam breaks.

Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d gone back to the apartment to burn his dead girlfriend’s belongings and (ultimately fail to) get a head start on tracking down the demon. Figures Sam doesn’t need to deal with that on top of all the shit that’s already been thrown his way these past few days. Which evidently turned out to be another mistake; Sam’s been glued to his laptop all day, typing and clicking and typing some more with the same obsessive fervor that Dean has seen on Dad’s face one too many times. There’s nothing Dean can do now but help, even though Yellow Eyes’ trail dried up before they even began searching — he owes Sam at least that much.

So Dean’s dozing off on his lumpy motel bed, sprawled between printouts of crop reports and newspaper clippings of any and all oddities in the greater Silicon Valley area, when it happens. First he thinks it’s just a hiccup or a small cough, that the coffee that Sam’s been mainlining all day like his life depends on it has finally gone down the wrong pipe — but then it happens again and again and when Dean looks up Sam’s got his forehead resting on the edge of the rickety little table and his face is buried in his hands and he’s positively shaking with the effort it must be taking to keep quiet. For a moment all Dean can do is stare dumbly, heart hammering triple-speed against his ribcage because he has no idea what the fuck to do . Because Sammy’s all grown up now, been holding his own ground for the past four years despite all of Dad’s dire warnings; was well on his way to a law degree and a white picket fence, a happily ever after with a wife and kids and probably a couple dogs too, until Dean crash-landed into his life once again and brought it all crumbling to the ground.

He places a tentative hand on the small of Sam’s back, and Sam chokes on a sob and tries to shove him away. He’s all limbs now, tall and lanky like he’d never been before he left for college, but Dean doesn’t budge; instead he puts a hand on each of Sam’s shoulders and does his best to pull him up out of his chair, steer him towards the closest bed. He shoves papers out of the way to make room for Sam, lets them flutter to the ground one by one.

Sam curls up as soon as his ass hits the mattress, gathering his knees up off the floor and turning away, face still hidden as he sobs and sobs. He’s lying on top of about nine different storm reports that Dean has just finished organizing by rainfall and severity, and Dean can only sit there and rub his back like he used to do when they were kids, when Sam was still small enough to tuck himself comfortably under Dean’s arm. His apologies are empty at best but he keeps murmuring them anyway and hopes against hope that they’ll maybe make a difference.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but Sam eventually drifts off like that, curled pitifully on top of the covers, on top of research that had fizzled out days ago. Dean eases off his shoes, then drags the blankets over from the other bed and pulls them over Sam, who sniffles in his sleep like he’s all of five years old, and Dean feels his heart break all over again.

He goes to fill a glass of water to leave by the bedside for when Sam wakes up, and makes the mistake of glancing at the laptop screen on the way back. It’s still open to what Sam had been working on before he broke down, and only takes Dean a second to realize that it’s not research.

It’s a eulogy.

Dean closes the laptop, feeling sick to his stomach.

He sleeps next to Sam that night.

---

Day 4.

Sam doesn’t talk, just sits at the table typing away on his laptop, occasionally swiping fiercely at puffy, red-rimmed eyes. If he notices Dean coming and going throughout the day, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Dean spends most of the morning poking around the shops and bars on University Avenue, hoping someone will have seen something that could be of use. But in the end, he’s asking civilians about strange happenings in a college town over Halloween weekend, and I saw two dudes dressed as Fox Mulder and Eric Cartman making out behind that dumpster over there is not the kind of strange they’re looking for.

He stops by the motel around lunchtime to drop off food for Sam, who’s still sitting where Dean left him that morning. Dean sighs and shoves a container of salad and a plastic fork into his hands. You need to eat, he says, because Sam’s cheeks look like they’re about to cave in on themselves, and Sam opens the container and takes one bite before going back to his laptop.

At least he’s not puking it up this time, Dean figures. He leaves Sam to it.

---

Day 5.

Sam brushes him off when Dean offers to accompany him to the funeral, and Dean spends another day puttering around downtown Palo Alto, searching for leads that aren’t there. He calls each of Dad’s secret numbers for the umpteenth time that week; gets directed to voicemail just like every other time. He resists the urge to chuck his cell into the Bay and goes to pick up Sam at the cemetery.

She has the same birthday as you, Sam says as he watches buildings zoom by through the Impala’s windows.

Had, he corrects himself a moment later.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that.

Around three a.m., Sam wakes up screaming. Dean flicks on all the lights and helps untangle him from the bedsheets, makes him breathe into a brown paper bag and strokes his hair until he stops shaking. He fills a glass of water and coaxes Sam into taking small, slow sips from it until the glass is empty, and doesn’t say anything about hearing Jess’ name between the screams.

---

Day 6.

Dean stops trying to contact Dad, stops reading the same news articles over and over like he expects some new tidbit of information to present itself as useful in the time it takes to flip back to the beginning, and starts planning routes into Blackwater Ridge. Sam starts eating again in portions that might actually sustain a human being — even cracks a brittle smile over his half-eaten Caesar salad when Dean makes some shitty little joke about rabbit food. It’s gone again a moment later, but the fact that it had been there at all has to mean something.

Thanks, Dean, Sam says that that afternoon, catching Dean completely off guard. For just — for being here. For me. It means a lot.

Of course, Sammy.

You know it’s not your fault, right? Sam whispers in the dark later, as they’re settling in to sleep. Dean stops mapping out highways in his head and turns toward his brother, but Sam’s speaking to the wall. I don’t blame you one bit.

I know, sighs Dean, and can’t help but wonder if it would be easier if Sam did hold him accountable for it all.

---

Day 7.

Dean’s knuckles itch with the desire to hit something, to find the nearest monster and beat it to a bloody pulp. He can’t stand it anymore: the fruitless research, the dead ends, the stony silence of their little motel room as they waste away the days chasing false leads. The Moores have returned home to mourn in privacy; Sam’s withdrawal forms are fully processed and he’s free to leave Stanford whenever he chooses. The apartment’s empty now, boarded up for repairs, and anything salvageable that Sam or Jess’ family didn’t take is finding its way to the Salvation Army, the local V.A. There’s nothing left for them in Palo Alto; it’s like the entire town is somehow compensating for the demon’s attack by being as boring, normal, and utterly unhelpful as possible, and so Dean finally tells Sam what he’s been wanting to tell him for days.

I think we need to find Dad , he says. I mean, there’s gotta be a reason he left those coordinates for us in his journal, right?

You think he’s onto something? Sam asks. It’s more interest than he’s shown in anything all week.

Maybe, I don’t know. All I know is, this place is blown. Dean sighs, begins gathering all the loose papers and notes that have accumulated over the course of the week. We’ve turned over every stone we could, Sammy, three times over if not more. I don’t like it, but if we want to catch this thing we’ve gotta move on.

Sam is quiet, stares at his hands where they’re fiddling with his cell phone. He’s been listening to the same voice message on repeat all day, thinks Dean hasn’t noticed, doesn’t know who or when it’s from.

Yeah, he says softly. Okay.

I’m sorry, Sam, says Dean.

He gives Sam space to collect his things, drives to the nearest Gas ‘N’ Sip to refuel the Impala and stock up on snacks and gallon-jugs of water for the road. Sam’s all packed up outside their room when he returns, doesn’t say a word but helps Dean load their duffels into the trunk like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him, like he never left.

Like he’ll always be here from now on, Dean thinks with a pang.

They pay and check out of the motel, and Dean steers the Impala onto the interstate. Picks out a cassette at random and slips it into the tape deck.

You good? he asks as he floors the gas pedal. The engine rumbles to life and AC/DC blasts from the tinny speakers.

Yeah, Sam replies, and they both know it’s a lie. Dean knows better than to press the issue.

Sam rests his head against the window and watches Palo Alto disappear in the right wing mirror, eyes dry, a muscle working in his jaw. Dean wonders what he’s thinking. Four years, he muses, turning the number over and over in his head. Four long years they’ve spent apart and they’re not the scared little kids they used to be anymore, if they’d ever been kids at all. And now Sam’s back in the passenger seat of the life he worked so damn hard to escape, trailing ashes in his wake and nursing a grief that Dean will never fully understand. A part of Dean wants to grab Sam and run. Drive. Do whatever it takes to get them both far away from the demon, from all of this.

Take your brother outside as fast as you can—

They’re alone now, the two of them. Always have been, in a way, and maybe it’s not too late to say fuck it. Fuck the demon, fuck whatever twisted game it’s playing, and fuck this whole stupid crusade for vengeance.

Don’t look back—

Mom and Jess are gone forever. Dad doesn’t want to be found. But Sam is still here, against all odds and at a terrible cost, and maybe it’s time they cut their losses.

Now, Dean. Go!

Keep running.

Keep driving.

Hunt bad things. Save good people. Make a small difference for as long as they can, and hope that that’s enough.

Maybe we should—, Dean starts to say, but then Sam reaches into his backpack and pulls out a mess of papers that he’s crammed into a manila folder, starts spreading them out as best he can on the dash. Dad’s journal is lying open, too, balanced on one knee while Sam chews his lips and continues jotting down notes onto a yellow legal pad with cold intensity. The words die in Dean’s throat.

What? Sam asks without looking up. His voice is flat and expressionless again. Something twists in Dean’s gut. It’s gonna be okay, Sammy.