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square one (stanford blues).

summary: after years on the road with sam and dean, you finally make it in a circle, back to the beginning: stanford, california. grief is a funny thing.

pairing: sam winchester x gn!reader

word count: 7.9k

tags: fluff and angst, grief, hurt/comfort, past!sam/jess, post-stanford era, mutual pining, friends to lovers, slight jealousy, implied insecure!reader, canon-typical violence, typical supernatural-type plot, eventually resolved romantic tension, spoiler: they kiss, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

It’s the dead of night—nothing but the obscured silhouettes of greenery passing in the dark and the rattling sound of exhaust keeping you conscious. You’re thirty minutes into this hissing, on its last legs Eagles cassette when Dean’s burner starts ringing off; he cranks the volume knob down before answering. The garbled noise that streams out sounds a hell of a lot like Bobby—and for that, you’re thankful. After being on the road for a day and a half with no leads, you’re willing to take up anything you can get.

You’re pleased enough with what you can piece together, something like “bloodbath” and “ninety-mile trip,” until the line goes dead quiet. Dean pulls the screen display away from his ear, just far enough to see that the call’s duration timer is still ticking along. Bobby hasn’t hung up—just… hesitant to continue briefing any further. The next intelligible word, in the quick-strung sentence that tumbles out of the speaker: “Stanford.”

At that, the entire car goes dead quiet and the air goes stale. Stanford is a bad word, because Stanford means yelling matches; Sam at eighteen, beelining out the parking lot of the one-thousandth dingy motel—a team of one, duffel slung over his back, trampling on gravel to the nearest bus station; leaving and choosing to stay gone.

You can’t see much. Sam is still—probably chewing on the inside of his cheek and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dean eyes him warily, before giving a hesitant thanks, hitting the end call button, and tossing it on the vinyl cushion like a bottle cap off a beer. You know generally where the next thirty minutes is going to go: a formulaic argument, where the two of them are competitively nonverbal, until one of them is fed up enough to make the jump and start ragging on the other.

You’re thrown for a loop when Dean swerves the Impala onto the shoulder of the highway and you’re subject to what feels like whiplash as your body jerks right and grounds you against the door. With the wind nearly knocked out of your lungs, you manage to gasp out a punchy expletive to try and scold Dean. He merely snatches the keys out the ignition.

Sam peeks from over his shoulder at you with an inspectionary check up-and-down, before redirecting his gaze towards his brother. “Dean, what are you doing?” he questions. It’s a simply framed question, but out of Sam’s mouth, it sounds like the startup of a lengthy chastising.

Dean raises his hands off the wheel. “No one’s gonna see you any different if you tap out, Sammy. We can drop you off and loop back around when we’re done—no problem.”

“It’s gonna be like any other case. You don’t need to bench me just because it’s Stanford,” Sam spews. Dean hangs his head.

“Don’t start,” he warns, “You and I know it’s not just Stanford.” Because Stanford, even after all this time, also means her. It would always trace itself back to Jess—Sam’s Jess.

It isn’t difficult to pick up the furtive effect she has on Sam. She’s there when he adds three and a half sugar packets to his black coffee instead of straight creamer, when he latches his Rolex onto his left wrist before he steps out the door, when he avoids any offers of a haircut—because she’d always insisted on doing his hair. No matter how many nights he’d have to spend scrubbing blood out the edges of his fingernails and off the sleeves of his flannels, she was always with him in one way or another.

“Dean kind of has a point,” you sigh, scooting out of your corner of the backseat, “You haven’t been back since you left. It’s an open wound and it makes you… vulnerable.”

“Kid’s right. Last thing we need is you getting soft and ending up on the receiving end of some teeth-to-neck action,” Dean grumbles obstinately.

“I appreciate the concern. I do. But, I’m not made of glass—” Sam’s defense falls off the second your palm brushes against his back. You clasp your hand around his left shoulder and squeeze the plush cotton of his flannel. You can see his Adam's apple bob in the slightest.

“We know that,” you tread lightly, “But, it’s just…you know how this goes, Sam. No room for distractions. Distractions get people hurt…”

“...and worse, killed, I know.” Sam angles his head and you retreat your hand to a more comfortable position finnicking with the zipper on your jacket. In the unlit shell of the car, you make out the traces of a grimace on his face—namely, the poor attempt Sam makes at trying not to clench his jaw and frown.

He was supposed to be a pallbearer. He should have been—but Sam at twenty-two was too naive and too hellbent on vengeance to give himself time to grieve. You know he regrets it; you can see it in his eyes, right beside the pleading attempt at getting you on his side.

“Fine! Fine. Just… let us do most of the heavy lifting,” you cave. Now, it’s Dean’s turn to whip around, brows furrowed. He tosses a short-lived scowl in your direction before pivoting himself back to face the windshield.

“You forget your backbone in Nevada?” he probes sarcastically. You flick the back of his head in retaliation and he yelps, flinching at the contact and rubbing his scalp gingerly. Sam holds back a snort.

“Don’t be an asshole, Dean,” you utter, before slinking yourself back into your corner of the backseat.

“Fine. If things go sideways, don’t say I didn’t tell you so,” he mutters, before sliding the keys back into the ignition, placing his right hand at twelve o’clock, and cruising the Impala back onto the road. Sam hauls his arm over the backrest of the front seats to pull your hand into his as a silent thanks. His grip is warm and you can feel the calluses on his palms brush your knuckles. Dean sneaks him a sideways glance as he reaches to crank the volume up. The Eagles blast and Sam’s hand is taken away as soon as it’s given.

—

Your fingertips brush against the hilt of the knife under your pillow as soon as you feel a soft nudge to your side. You’re just about ready to make a sizable gash into whatever miserable vermin that’s descending itself upon you—until you crack your left eye open and take in the blurry visage of Sam, knelt-down with his left index finger pushed to his lips. His hair is damp, hanging in nibs over his forehead, and his everyday woodsy cologne comes in strong to your senses. You hand inches away from your stashed blade.

“Just me,” he murmurs, before pointing behind you, where Dean is sprawled out, stomach-down—tangled in sheets and hanging half off the pullout couch in the corner of the motel room. Then, he brandishes the Impala keys hanging off his right index finger with a gentle chime. “C’mon. Let’s get a bite to eat.”

The morning air in Stanford is frigid and fresh as the two of you slink out the door of the motel room and into the Impala. You aren’t surprised by the “refined” state of it all; it’s exactly what you’d expect from a university town—especially, from a private university town: excessively clean and meticulously maintained. Even the motel is nicer than what the three of you are used to; there isn’t a trace of peeling, thirty-year old wallpaper, murky tap water, or stale air. You can rest there reveling in the acute feeling that no part of the room will push your development of a terminal lung disease. It’s a dream.

As you settle into the shotgun, Sam tosses something light onto your lap. “Pocketed it from the lobby,” he says, sliding the keys into the ignition. The Impala’s motor purrs to life.

You look down at a tacky, cheaply-printed local newspaper. It’s got something you think reads “The Stanford Gazette” strung along the top in an insufferable serif. The headliner on the front page, above the fold, reads: BODIES FOUND IN STANFORD MAUSOLEUM IDENTIFIED. “Two freshmen, one sophomore, all male and all found dead on site after being missing for a week straight,” Sam recalls.

“Sounds like hazing gone wrong,” you counter, tossing the paper on the dash as the Impala pulls out of the lot.

“That’s what I thought at first too, but get this: each victim was disemboweled.” It rolls off the tongue simple and easy—nothing new.

“Occult—coven, maybe,” you start, “...or Baby Frankenstein.”

“Funny.” Sam gives you the ghost of a smirk without taking his focus off the road. You like it when he drives—nervous about making even a millimeter-long scratch on the paint, but acting like he’s never the wiser. He continues, “It should have been virtually impossible for them to get in. It isn’t like a regular cemetery where you can just come in with bolt cutters. They’ve got it monitored. Guards, cameras… they’re careful,”

“Gotta love old money,” you roll your eyes.

“Lucky for us, they’ve put the whole place under lockdown now and they’re restricting access to the whole area,” Sam professes, “Something tells me they’re not gonna buy the FBI shtick. We’re gonna have to go old school and sneak in after hours.”

“Seems simple enough. Tonight, we’ll go in, vet the place, and get out.”

Pinned to the passenger seat’s window, you’re feening for a decent—no, affordable—bite to eat; the thought of a nine-dollar latte makes you want to hurl, and it’s been the only option for the five blocks of restaurants and cafes Sam has driven you past. At the sight of blue and red neon, you perk up. On the corner, two blocks ahead, lies a classic American diner that looks far more like what you’re used to—a beautifully trashy beacon of comfort. “That looks good,” you point expectantly.

“Huh.” The flatness of his tone makes you tilt your head. In your peripherals, you see Sam’s eyes glaze over with something wistful. He looks at you like you’ve just run his dog over and you have to fight to hold back a flighty, nervous chuckle.

“Not in the mood for diner food?” The Impala comes to a grinding halt at the next stop sign. Sam’s hands are gripping tight onto the wheel, but it isn’t enough to fight the tremor running through them. You wait for him to catch back up to you and stumble out of a response. “No—it’s, uh, where I took Jess on our first date.” There it was.

You bite your lip—cursing your luck and regretting not having gone for an overpriced meal two blocks back. You’re just about ready to shoot out an apology before Sam pulls up next to the nearest vacant meter and shifts the Impala into park. Then, he sets his right hand on your knee. “Don’t sweat it. There’s no way you could’ve known.” He gives you a reassuring smile, and you give him one back. Apology accepted.

You’re inclined to feel grateful for Sam’s empathy, but you’re preoccupied in your attempt to calm the profusely flustering heat radiating itself out of your cheeks—because his hand is still clasped over your kneecap and he’s still looking over you like he’s searching for a reason to stay there. When he doesn’t find it, he reels back. “They make great breakfast. Let’s go.”

During the walk from the Impala to the diner, you keep a foot’s distance away from Sam—like getting too close will cause some type of unprecedented calamity. He doesn’t try to close the gap.

—

“I wanted to take her somewhere nice. Like, some upscale Italian place where the waiter would come up with the towel, pop the cork… and we’d drink and eat like a normal couple on a normal first date.”

“And you ended up…here?” The diner is…traditional. On your left, a framed photograph from the seventies of a woman, sitting on the shoreline with nothing but a scantily see-through swimsuit cover-up hangs on the wall. On your right, the pass-through window into the kitchen gives you the peek of five-pan pile-up and grease-ladened stovetops. Between, there’s Sam, who gives you a sheepish look before fixating determinedly on the flimsy menu on the table in front of him. “Classy, Sammy.”

“It was on a whim—her choice. She practically had to drag me through the doors to get me to go in,” he justifies quickly.

“That afraid of all-American burgers?”

“It wasn’t really the food.” He tosses the menu down. “It was just… Stanford was supposed to be different. No motel-jumping, no vamp-hunting…”

“…no twenty-four hour diners.” Sam gives you a tight-lipped nod; you’re right on the money. “But Jess didn’t want to spend all the money on a posh one-and-done; she kept on insisting that we should choose a place we’d actually wanna come back to.”

“That’s sweet, Sam,” you mumble quietly.

“We would always sit in that corner booth in the back. We were supposed to go there again on our anniversary, before…” he trails off. He fidgets at the worn-out plastic corner of his menu. “I spent three months prepping a down payment for an engagement ring.” The admission comes out foreign and reluctant. He was going to marry her.

It’s inappropriate, this mental image you have of Sam in a Lacoste polo and slacks, wedding band glinting as he sautés fresh vegetables. It’s all in a nonstick frying pan, one of those fancy, cast-iron kinds that comes in a set of five—the kind of kitchenware that’s unnecessary when all you eat is takeout. He’s making bed-in-breakfast for someone, and he’s happy—not in the fleeting, temporary way that Sam gets happy when things go right on a case or when Dean says stupid shit when he’s drunk. He’s content. And you feel guilty, because the pit in your stomach you have isn’t grief for Sam and what he lost. It’s envy.

You view yourself a little bit more lowly in that moment because of how selfish it is to even feel that way, but it’s true: you don’t have the capacity to provide the type of normal Sam wants—or, needs. Surrounded by the laminate booth seating and the chrome-plated tables, you feel embarrassed by the state of yourself—because it all feels so homely. Being tainted by the hunter’s lifestyle isn’t something you can change; it turns gore into work and bars into spas. It’s not something you can just wash off. Deep down, you know Sam is just as lost. But, it doesn’t change the fact that he tried. He left once. You’re sure he can leave again.

“It’s good to still want that, Sam. You shouldn’t give up on it because of how things turned out.” You dance around the word marriage like you’re incapable of saying it out loud. “I bet you’ll end up with a med student doing her residency in the middle of some hospital center in… Oregon or something. Maybe she’ll even teach Dean to suture better.” You reach under the strap of your tank top to feel the stitching on your right shoulder—compliments of a rugaru in Phoenix two weeks prior.

“Maybe she will,” Sam agrees, mustering up a strained grin. You believe what you’re telling him, and you think he might too, and maybe that’s why you’re unsettled by the thought of it actually happening. He points his index finger up at you, “Is it healing okay?”

Dean’s good at a lot of things and being light-handed isn’t one of them; it’s a given that the gash is still sore to the touch. “He’s done a worse job before,” you consider, tilting your head, “Better to end up patchwork than dead, right?”

“Let me do the next one,” Sam blurts. His offer hangs in the air. It’s hard to say no to him, especially when you know it’ll heal faster and look less like a five-year-old’s chicken scratch. “You really don’t have to,” you insist.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t want to deal with it. I mean, it’s a mess with the blood, and I get squeamish,” you list, grasping at straws. It’s all white lies; Sam does Dean’s stitches and he’s patient enough not to mind the fussing. What bothers you the most is the hour-long span of time where he’d have to be all too close to you and your bare skin.

“I’ve seen way worse,” he reminds you, “And, there isn’t gonna be a med student anytime soon. Just me.” You wish anytime soon had meant ever, but you’ve already come to terms with the fact that Sam will inevitably fall in love with another sweet girl. It might be better to take whatever you can get while you still can.

“I’ll think about it, Sam,” you negotiate. He’s satisfied enough with the half-answer to leave it be. Just in time, the waitress comes to serve your orders on a tray balanced atop her palm. You’re grateful for the reprieve—letting free a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

—

You’re a step in through the motel door, your key and to-go bag bunched up in one hand, when you notice the pullout couch is folded back up and Dean—wide-awake and dressed—is sitting right on it, pulling his boot up onto his right foot. You feel Sam nearly tumble onto you; his large frame presses against the back of you before hastily pulling himself away from you and mumbling out an apology. The motel room feels ten times warmer.

Dean beams, looking warily between you and Sam, “Well, aren’t you just two peas in a pod?”

“Way to ruin the surprise,” you scoff, passing through the doorway and swinging the takeout onto the coffee table. You clamber onto the plush couch like a teenager caught sneaking out and sink down beside Dean; Sam keeps himself tethered to the nearest bed, tossing his pack on the duvet.

“Please,” Dean raises his hands out ahead of him, offended, “Heard you take off an hour and a half ago. Took you two long enough.” He goes to fiddle with the knot you’ve wound tightly to bind the takeout—until he gives up and flat out tears the plastic. The styrofoam container he pries open reveals a crisp burger and fries; customarily, Dean goes to town.

“Do you even enjoy your food, Dean?” Sam narrows his eyes. Dean swipes at the ketchup in the corner of his mouth with his thumb like it’ll make him look any less messy than he actually is. Mouth full, he slurs, “This is me enjoying it.”

“It’s like I’m watching a coyote chow down on a dead deer,” you mutter, passing him a napkin. He takes it with a low hum, fusses with it for a second, and then discards it on the table haphazardly. “Poor, poor Bambi,” you click your tongue.

“At least I’m not nibbling away at grass,” Dean shoots back, pointing his half-eaten burger in his brother’s direction. Now, Sam raises an eyebrow in offense, somewhat unimpressed, and Dean is otherwise unaffected. “Let a man eat.”

It takes about another minute for him to choke down the rest of his food, before he takes to the napkin again and achieves a more decent attempt at cleaning himself up. “A little birdie told me you put in requests for a couple of autopsy reports.” Bobby, of course. “Worth our while?” Dean inquires, gathering his mess into the ripped to-go bag and stuffing it into the empty trash can in the corner. He brushes his hands together.

“Definitely our kinda gig,” you confirm, “We should ask around. School like this? Everybody knows everybody; figure someone’s bound to know something.”

—

You take it back. Interrogations are a bust, because all you’re getting is hearsay.

First, the three dead students are, like you assumed, pledges forced to camp out overnight. Then, they’re environmental science students trying to get an analysis of cemetery soil contamination. The closest you get to something even hunt-worthy is Leland Stanford—the school’s founder—rising from the dead and ripping the three boys to shreds for disturbing the resting place of his wife and son. It’s a working theory Sam shuts down before it can run very far; students carry events every year at the mausoleum for Halloween, meaning if the rumor had any weight, deaths would’ve started far earlier.

To top it all off, you’ve just about had it with Dean—who’s manning an ambitious, one-man mission to screw a metaphysical philosophy T.A. She’s a tried-and-true office siren—slim lenses and pressed pinstripes. Dean parrots back “Kant” to her in a poor play off words, and she minds it minimally, because he’s biting his bottom lip and eyeing her…well, everywhere. As soon as she bats her lashes after fifteen whole minutes of banter, Dean is crossing his fingers behind his back and twirling them in a circle: a signal for you to get the hell out of Dodge.

You and Sam ditch him in a heartbeat, chirping out short and cordial goodbyes to the professor before making a beeline down the hall. Out of earshot, Sam jeers, “That’s one way to kill time.” He’s right. In a way, Dean is smart to find something to occupy the next couple of hours, till sundown comes and the three of you can step onto the mausoleum grounds. Better that than sitting on your ass with nothing to do.

You pull at Sam’s sleeve and point to a pair of double doors opening and closing intermittently with the bustling of students exiting an afternoon lecture. “You ever have a class in that one?”

“Close, actually. I had a gen-ed art history class in…” Sam trails off, picking up the pace to an identical set of doors three down and facing across from your original guess. “This one, I think.” You get on your tiptoes to peer through the gridded windows and see nothing but vacancy—enough empty chairs for two-hundred or so students.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s gonna be in anytime soon,” you say, before gripping onto the handle and swinging the left door open. Sam tilts his head in intrigue and you direct your hand for him to enter in.

Side-by-side, the two of you amble up the stairs and sidle into the back row. The hinges on the cushions creak in resistance as you unfold them open and cross your legs over the backseats ahead of you. It’s calm here—no traces of imminent danger, just silence.

“I used to sit closer to the middle,” Sam discloses, “over… there-ish.” “Halfway point between blending in and actually paying attention. Good pick,” you reply, nudging the tip of your boot into his sneakers. He nudges right back. “Do you miss school, Sam?”

He leans his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Like hell. You?”

“Sometimes. But, it’s easy to make up for it in our line of work, isn’t it? All the archival work, and the lore, and the symbols, and the spells. We never stop learning with this stuff.”

“We never stop fighting, either,” he says, bringing his head back up. You don’t deny it; you have enough healed wounds, on top of the fresh ones, to corroborate his claim.

“There’s always a trade-off.”

At that, Sam looks wearier. He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “I’d do it all over again, you know. Even if I knew how things were going to end, I’d choose Stanford every time. I had a good life and a great girlfriend.” Almost fiancé, you remind yourself. “I’d have passed the bar by now… but things happen the way they’re supposed to.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“It’s like… every time I try to get out, something pulls me back in, right? Maybe Stanford was a fluke—something I was never meant to have.” You don’t enjoy it when he talks like this. It’s cruel and coated with self-blame the way he blurs what he thinks he deserves with what he’s “meant to have.” Sam persists, “It’s always either someone else’s blood on my hands or my blood on someone else’s. Most people just nick themselves from paper cuts and we—“

“We don’t,” you affirm. He’s eyeing the bandage on your shoulder. You remember the searing heat that had buried itself into your flesh when the rugaru plunged its nails into you and kept on pulling. You knew you’d be okay because it didn’t feel quite like dying, and Sam was clinging to your side as soon as Dean had lit the sucker on fire. You blotched his flannel red; he had to scrub it out in the motel sink the next morning.

“I meant what I said, Sam. Even after all is said and done, it’s still good to want good things.”

“Do you?” Sam mutters.

You don’t know how to give him a straight answer. Hesitantly, you settle on: “All the time.”

It’s subjective. Sam wants white picket fences, but you? You’re satisfied enough with the smaller stuff… long drives and berry pie, bar crawls and pool hustling. Moments when you’re able to slow down and take it easy are like batteries to keep you running.

Out of all the good things worth considering, Sam takes first place. It’s Sam, when it’s late into the night and he’s pouring you a cup of hot coffee to keep you awake for research. It’s Sam, when he invites you to lay on top of his bed and channel surf on shitty CRT cable television. It’s Sam, when he insists on letting you toss on his Carhartt when your jacket gets soiled.

Or, like now: when you’re crammed into tight lecture hall seats with your shoulders brushing against each other, and he’s scanning over your face like he’s trying to get a read on you. As soon as you turn your head to face him, he seems apprehensive. His breath catches in his chest like he knows. He’s too observant. It might be the one thing about Sam you actually spite. Maybe, the longing in your face is clear, and your refusal to admit anything is even clearer. You don’t want to start something that, for his sake, you just can’t finish. It makes you wonder if it was easy for Sam to love Jess, not because she was normal, but because she was uncomplicated.

The thought is enough to make you ignore the warmth pooling in your stomach and whip your phone out of your back pocket and tap away with shaky hands. “We should find—”

“—Dean, yeah,” Sam cuts you off, angling his face out to avoid your gaze. His shoulders tense as he crams his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

—

Dean’s in a chipper mood—enough to whistle the entirety of the way from the motel after packing the trunk and back towards Stanford. You’re sure if you were back on the highway, he’d be blasting the speakers loud enough to crack them straight down the middle; you thank God he’s opting for the stealthier choice of the two. The radio silence between you and Sam must be getting to Dean’s head too, because he’s fishing desperately for a conversation starter.

“Awfully quiet,” Dean remarks. His head tilts up to look at you through the rearview mirror, even though he can only see your still silhouette.

You can only sigh out, “You learn a lot about Descartes while you were gone, Dean?”

“Her first name is actually Nora,” he replies matter-of-factly, “and she has a P.h.D.” Sam scoffs. It’s the first real reaction you’ve heard him have in the past hour.

“That’s not what I… never mind,” you concede, “Did you get her number or not?”

Dean raises his right hand off the steering wheel, waving it toward you. You turn on your phone and set it to the highest brightness; sure enough, her number is scrawled across his skin in black marker. He chortles, “Score.”

Dean continues to drum his fingers on the wheel as he rolls the Impala into a lot beneath a brush of overhanging trees; the mausoleum is a ways away, a stark white Greek-like structure erected out of the cement and blocked off by bright yellow police tape. You identify two beaming lights swinging around the perimeter as security makes their rounds down the walking paths.

As soon as Dean snatches his keys out the ignition, Sam begins reaching for the handle of the car door and is quickly interrupted by a loud click. The chromium nail at the corner of his window is down; the door’s locked. His hand draws back, and from the backseat, you can see him shoot out a huff of annoyance. He pulls up on the nail and—click—it goes down. Dean locks it again. “Slow your roll, dude.”

“Dean.” Sam says his name like a warning shot. He pulls up on the lock. Click. Dean locks it again. Sam is slack-jawed. “What are you, five?”

“Three’s a crowd and someone needs to keep watch,” Dean says, tongue in cheek. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll crack the window open for you.” With that, he swings his door open and shuts it softly.

“Oh, thanks.” Sam grumbles something that sounds like ‘asshole’ under his breath. After pulling yourself out the backseat, you mouth an apology to him from the outside of the passenger's seat window. He gives you a short wave and you turn on your heels to catch up with Dean, who’s already a yard away on the grass.

—

The glow of lamp posts lining the nearby residential streets are getting dimmer and dimmer the further you and Dean trudge across the lawn. The soles of your boots are sinking down into the muddy grass in faint, unrelenting squelches.

“What’s goin’ on with you two?” Straight to the point. Dean has a parental, chiding edge to his voice—like you haven’t been carrying out your weekend chores.

“It’s nothing.” You’re lying through your teeth.

“Bull. One second, you’re all buddy-buddy. The next, you can’t even speak to each other,” he recounts, before stopping in his tracks. “Did you two screw?”

“No! We didn’t screw, Dean. Jesus.” You flatten your palm against his back and push him to keep moving.

“What, then?”

“…Did you know that he was going to propose to Jessica?”

“No.” He mulls it over, tugging on the leather cord around his neck. “I only met her the one time. Chick was, like, model-level gorgeous—way too good for him.”

You’ve seen a photo of Jess, printed on glossy photo paper and tucked into the front page of John’s hefty leather-bound journal, which doesn’t see the light of day unless Sam or Dean need to extract it out the trunk of the Impala for a push in the right direction.

She has a gray Stanford sweatshirt on—big red ‘S’ tucked behind a redwood tree across her chest. The fabric of the sleeves are pooling at her wrists as she grasps her fingers into either side of a crisply clean U-Haul box. It's practically a dress on her. It has to be Sam’s, even though you’ve never seen him wear it before—lost in the fire, maybe. Jess was gorgeous, like Dean says; in the picture Sam saves, she’s got blonde beach waves and a wide smile and she looks kind—like she would’ve understood if Sam had told her the whole truth. He just… couldn’t.

“If he wanted a way out, she was definitely it,” Dean avows. It was an opportunity that came and went faster than Sam could appreciate it.

Wordlessly, the two of you are near the backside of the mausoleum—where two female sphinxes carved delicately out of limestone are making a dominion out of their shared vigil. You scour the lawn around you to make sure there aren’t any unwanted guards, before ducking under the nylon tape barricading them off. Light on your feet, you hug to the nearest corner and scale the side; the mausoleum is identical from front to back, save for the engraved placard and the gated-off door that prevents you from simply strolling right in. You kneel down on one knee at the mausoleum’s double doors and pull a pair of tacky lock picks out of your back pocket to breach the gate.

“And here I thought Stanford was going to be a problem for Sam.” Dean probes further, “Now I’m traveling with two unhappy campers.” You glance up at him, before aiming your attention back towards the gate and sliding the picks into the lock ahead of you. The floral accents of the decorated metal press cold impressions into your forearms.

“I just… I told him he shouldn’t give up on it. Apple-pie life, I mean.”

“Now, why would you do that?” Now, Dean looks downright appalled. You expect it as soon as the words leave your mouth—because you know Dean’s version of a good thing is living on the road like you have been; Winchesters and Co. is all he thinks he’ll ever need. You can’t make out a good estimation of his features in the pitch black of night, but you’re sure he’s got a sour scowl on his face.

“He wants it, Dean. And, deserves it,” you whisper low, before jostling the pick in your right hand until you hear a click and a half.

“So, he’s still planning on moving on. And you’re wondering where that leaves you.”

“No, I know where it leaves me,” you deny. “With you. Until either one of us drops dead, obviously.” You’ve come to terms with how Sam will retire and the two of you will carry on without him. You don’t hate the thought of taking the shotgun seat and changing the cassettes when he tells you to.

“Is that what you want?”

The outer gate creaks open, leaving the doors unprotected for you to slip in quiet and shut them behind you. For a moment, you’re stalling just outside of them, because you just aren’t sure if it is what you want.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” Dean asserts, raising his hands out in front of him, “ I might be a simple guy, but I’m sure as hell not clueless. And you’re not subtle either, goo-goo eyes.” You’re itching to clench a fist and plunge it right at Dean’s left arm.

“Goo-goo is a stretch. Get in,” you dismiss him briskly. Dean shuffles in and you follow right behind him. It’s even harder to see inside the mausoleum and you can hear Dean fiddling around in his jean pocket.

“Hey, you could play pretend as long as you want. Little piece of advice? Sam’s a smart cookie. He’s probably just waiting for a sign…” Dean’s words die in his throat as he switches on his flashlight. He gulps. “It’s like the goddamn Red Sea washed through here.”

It’s an apt description. Every surface is saturated in coagulated guts. You wouldn’t be able to tell that any of it was meant to be white if it weren’t for the mausoleum’s exterior. Evidence flags are sprinkled evenly across the floor, and there isn’t a single sanitary inch of ground to tread upon. As Dean pans the light across the room, you think you see a cavity in the marble. You nudge his hand back and reach out to aim it between the tombs.

“Dean? Does it look like someone could fit through there?”

—

It’s a miracle you aren’t claustrophobic, because the brick-lined steam tunnel you’re traipsing through single-file is narrow and stuffy with mildew. By ear, you’re tailing the rattled, feeble groans of another college kid being ripped up and feasted upon. Sam is tired of scrunching his shoulders smaller and walking with his chin tucked down, and Dean isn’t doing much better.

“It just had to be Dig-Dug,” Dean gripes, “Friggin’ hate ghouls.”

“Let’s just focus on chopping the thing so we can get the hell out of here,” Sam derides from behind you. You wish you had jammed yourself in front of the pothole and down the ladder before Dean rather than after him; then, maybe, you wouldn’t have to silently handle the feeling of Sam boring two holes into the back of your head with his eyes.

Soon enough, the tunnel deposits into a maintenance room chock full of grime. There’s a sliver of moonlight pouring in from a grate above down below. Front-and-center, a twenty-something year old is crucified across a corrugated pipe with metal wire wrapping his wrists; he must be on death’s doorstep, because his face is ashen and his stomach is pouring with guts you think are supposed to stay inside. The ghoul is huddled at his feet. From the back, she doesn’t look like anything more than a girl—ginger and mousy—but you can hear her gnawing away at pulpy flesh like it’s her last meal.

“Yuck,” you whisper. Dean jabs you in the side with his elbow.

She turns slow. Blood sloshes off her palms and splatters onto her shoes. The tip of her nose down is coated rouge, and her smile seems rabid. Her left hand is full with kidney, so she opts for using her wrist to smear away the mess. It doesn’t help.

“I know you, pretty.” she perks up, taking a step towards Sam. You shoot out in front of him, unlatching the machete strapped onto your right leg. The ghoul gives you a giggle and stays put. “Yeah, yeah… Blondie’s boyfriend.” Sam’s eyes narrow. Jess.

“I picked her up at Holy Cross. Pretty charred, hard to swallow, but the face?” She whistles, “Came in handy. Boys—they're so easy.” You feel him lurch forward behind you, but you grasp tight onto the fabric of his hoodie. He puts up a little resistance but doesn’t try any further.

“If it makes you feel better, Sam, I left most of her.”

You push Sam back and swing your machete over your head; it slices down straight between the eyes, breaching her skull. It's a brash and bitter action you know won’t amount to much—but you’re infuriated for Sam and won’t let him do it himself.

The ghoul takes a step back, letting the kidney fall. The machete is still lodged into her head and she tugs the hilt from your hand with a jerk. Then, she plucks it out and tosses it aside like it’s a cheap butter knife. “Better luck next time.”

Dean charges next—pinning her against the closest wall. You take the time to swipe your machete up off the floor and use it to cut the half-dead kid loose. The wires across his wrists slink onto the floor. He nearly slumps to the ground, but you scoop him up and over your shoulder. “There ya go, bud. Come on.”

Sam is a deer in headlights glancing from you to Dean; when you realize he’s ready to choose the latter, you holler. “Take him.” You don’t wait for a response, grabbing Sam’s wrist and practically discarding the kid onto him. You walk lighter without having to bear his dead weight over your neck.

“No heavy lifting, Sam. Get him out of here.” Sam halts at your demands, reluctant and bewildered. He should be allowed to take the thing’s head off. You splay your hand across his chest and give him a soft, “Go.”

As soon as he’s traveling back down the tunnel where you came from, you turn around and find Dean on the floor; the ghoul has him on his back and she’s straddling him with his hands pinned over his head. “You’re the brother, right? Dean?” she spits venomously, “Little Jessie did not like you.”

“This would be hot under any other circumstance,” Dean coughs out. She looks pleased and reaches to pull a chunk out of him.

As soon as her fingertips are brushing his chest, you swipe up the discarded wiring on the floor and wrap them around your hands. “Not so fast, you sick freak.” You slip it around the ghoul’s neck and haul her backwards. She lets out a muffled retch and Dean slips from out under her.

The wire digs into your skin tighter and tighter as she struggles against you, breaking skin and slicing the meat of your palms. It smells like copper and only makes the ghoul thrash harder. With a quick maneuver, you cross your arms and yank hard.

Schlick. Her head tumbles onto the floor and comes to a rolling stop.

Dean brushes his hands against his jeans. “When’s the last time you got a tetanus shot?”

—

You’re careful to keep your hands away from the cushions while you’re propped up on the motel couch. Dean’s off in the shower and Sam is eyeing your hands with remorse as he lays the contents of his first aid kit across the table. They’re indented with too many lacerations to count.

“Least there’s nothing to stitch,” you offer.

He doesn’t decide to humor you—only tears the wrapper of a hydrogen peroxide wipe and slides the sheet out. “Don’t move. S’gonna sting.” You hiss as he dabs it on your skin. It seeps in searing and you’re fighting not to flinch away from him.

Sam does the bandages next. He holds your hands like glass as he wraps each four times clockwise, tears the linen, and smooths it down to make sure it sticks. You take his fixation on your palms as an invitation to look him over. His brows—nearly shielded by his bangs—are furrowed with concern and the corners of his mouth are downturned into a frown; it’s sickly sweet how careful he’s attending to you like this. You can’t help but utter a “sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks gently. Now, he’s looking at you with a softened expression that makes you feel even worse. “You didn’t do anything.”

“But, the ghoul…” It desecrated her; you don’t want to admit it out loud, because you think it’ll worsen the blow.

“There’s nothing we could’ve done. And, you killed the damn thing anyway. I should be thanking you,” Sam assures.

“Jessica—” you start.

“Jess is… gone. She’s gone, and it’s okay. I’m okay.” He scoots closer to you to massage his thumbs into your wrists. “But you…” Covertly, he’s feeling for your pulse: a reminder you’re still there.

There’s a lull in the conversation because you’re not saying a thing and he isn’t either. His eyes trail down to your lips. You whisper his name like a prayer under your breath.

He’s moving to say something, but he can only swallow down his words. Sam tries again—this time, by dragging his fingertips tenderly from the side of your jaw to your chin. It’s out of your control the way your body sways closer to meet him like a moth to a flame.

He gets in one awkward peck on your mouth before you push him away, flustered.

“You can’t, Sam,” you sustain, “Too much happened today. I don’t want you to kiss me just because you’re being rash.” It isn’t a decent enough reason, and he’s not taking it. He looks determined; he can tell there’s things you aren’t willing to tell him.

“I’m not. I’m kissing you ‘cause I want to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t kiss you? Or I shouldn’t want to?”

“Both.” You know it would delay his retirement, telling him the truth—saying you love being around him and you might even love him. You know Sam. He would want to stay by you just to figure out if anything’s there between you two. But, it’s cruel—keeping him where he isn’t meant to be. “You’re not gonna have a cookie cutter life with me, Sam.”

“That’s it?” He sounds amused. “You don’t want to kiss me because we aren’t gonna have a house and a dog?”

“Blood, Sam. It’s always the blood. It follows us everywhere and it doesn’t stop following us, and this—“ you motion briskly, “If it works out, then you’re stuck in it—because I can’t give up hunting. I don’t want to.”

“Then, let me be stuck.”

“It’s not fair to you.”

“It is,” Sam urges, “I want to be with you, blood and all.”

“You’ll regret it.” Your voice drops off before you can make the full sentence: You’ll regret it if I die.

“I’ve lost too much already to regret wanting this.” He lost Jess. He’s not willing to lose you before he can even have you in the first place. Sam’s right, like usual. Life is short—and even if you kick the bucket in a day, or a month, or a year, it won’t change the fact that it’s you and him, ‘till the end of the road.

“It’s good to still want good things,” Sam parrots. “This is a good thing. I’m not asking for perfection.”

This time, you kiss Sam first. His lips brush against yours and it’s like he’s trying to take his time with you—testing the waters like he isn’t sure about the best way to please you. It‘s trying your patience, and it makes you press more firmly into him. He must take the hint, because he starts pulling at the back of your leg to coax you onto his lap.

There, you’re sinking deep into him, melting against his touch. You’re keeping your balance using your forearms on either side of his head, and brushing your hands in mellow strokes through his hair. He keeps you steady, in return, by wrapping his hands around your waist. He hums into you, content. You feel hazy.

You split as soon as you hear the shower shut. You press your forehead to his for just a moment, feeling your chests rise against one another, before scrambling off of him. “Careful, your hands,” he mutters, letting out a breathy laugh.

Dean doesn’t have a need for the pullout couch that night, and he doesn’t complain a lick about it.

—

During your final stop before leaving Stanford, you find that Jessica Moore’s grave is loved. She is loved. The lillies lined atop her headstone in pink glass vases are new, and the water feeding them is clear. There’s candles, too, that look like they’re lit every so often—but never long enough to let the wax touch the surface. “She would’ve torn me a new one for not making that interview,” he admits.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all. She just rooted for me, hard.” When you look at Sam, his eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Sound familiar?”

You reach for his hand and he runs his palms against the stiff, scratchy fabric of your bandages. You nod, “Good to know we’re all on the same team.”

It doesn’t look like how Sam thought it would when he left in November. It’s polished granite—not brown, but a bluish, light gray. Jess’s picture is blown up bigger and there’s two angels flocking either side of her. He doesn’t have flowers for her. His Stanford sweatshirt is folded up and tucked under his shoulder. He places it down flush against her headstone. He kept it after all that time at the bottom of his duffel—never thinking it was ever really his.

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