An AU where Dean didn't come to retrieve Sam before Jessica's death. Will she still burn? Will Sam rejoin the family business? What will happen differently?
Sam jolted awake, his breath catching in his throat as he bolted upright, his shirt sticking to his body with sweat. Exhaling shakily, he looked to his left, relieved to see that Jessica was still asleep and not actually burning on their ceiling. He quietly got out of bed, slipping into the bathroom and quietly closing the door before turning the light on. He turned on the faucet, hunching over the sink as he splashed cold water on his face several times, trying his hardest to bury the panic that threatened to spill over as he vividly remembered his dream. He reached for the towel hanging on the back of the door to dry his face, then looked at himself in the mirror. He was exhausted, this was the fourth night in a row, and ninth night total, that he had experienced the same horrific nightmare and he was never really able to fall asleep afterwards. It felt so real; he could almost smell her burning flesh and feel the drops of blood falling to his face. Nightmares were something he had dealt with for his entire life, but these nightmares just didn't feel the same.
He knew he would never get back to sleep easily, so he quietly made his way from the bathroom to the living room, turning on a lamp and pulling out a textbook. The apartment was quiet and still, which he had grown to appreciate after years of living in motels and occasionally apartments, most of which had thin walls that did little to muffle the sounds of those around them. The quality and location of their accommodations usually meant their neighbors were loud and unruly, came in at all hours of the night slamming doors, or made indescribable noises that were more terrifying than the other two combined. To be able to think and read in silence was a gift he treasured, especially now as his grades played such a vital role in his future.
Unfortunately, the words only swam together on the page, making it hard for him to focus at all. He was tired, his head aching slightly from his nightmare, and just the simple act of reading was too much for 11:57 pm. Pushing the book aside, he stretched out on the sofa and turned on the television, searching for something else to return him to a sleepy state that may make it possible for him to return to bed successfully. He had only been asleep for an hour when the nightmare occurred and he needed more than just an hour of sleep, especially tonight, since he had a law school interview in the morning.
The interview was important, his entire future being determined in a series of questions and answers. Not only did he need the acceptance into the program, which he was pretty much guaranteed with his grades and LSAT scores, but he needed the scholarships and financing to make it happen. There were plenty of students at Stanford who came from money, who didn't have to worry about being able to afford books, rent, clothes or tuition. Then there were those like Sam, who were only there because the school was paying their way. It was hard, and his college years had been a real struggle for him, financially. Law school was expensive, so he was counting on pulling off a spectacular interview and hoping for the funding to fall into place. On any given year, only a handful of people were granted a complete scholarship that covered everything, so he had to show them that he was worth it, that he would be successful, that he was the best. If he showed up looking like a zombie, they'd laugh him out of the building.
Somewhere between the opening sequence and the 'big misunderstanding' scene of the rerun of "Three's Company" that he had let play, his eyes grew heavy and he was relaxed enough to think he may be able to fall back asleep. He rubbed his eyes, shutting off the television before trudging back to the bedroom. He smiled softly at Jess, who had shifted to a position where she was taking up most of the mattress, finding her inability to be still and stay in her own space endearing. It was one of the six billion things he loved about her, and as he gently moved her back to her pillow, he was sure that she'd only last five minutes until she was half-draped over him and trying to reclaim his spot on the bed. Despite his earlier hesitations about being able to go back to sleep, Sam found himself easily drifting off to sleep.
When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was that the room was still dark. He laid still and silent for a moment, his eyes closed and his breathing calm as he tried to figure out what it was that woke him up. He didn't hear any noises that might indicate a problem, he wasn't sweaty and breathless like he had been dreaming. If there was anything he hated more than nightmares, it was nerve-induced insomnia the night before a major event, and he found himself loathing his overactive brain.
He felt something drip onto his face and he brushed it away without much thought other than wishing his apartment wasn't so old; sometimes the vents leaked water when the a/c was running for awhile. Management had said it was a condensation issue but they had done nothing to fix the problem. He felt another drip, this time noticing it was warm and remembering that they didn't have a vent over their bed, it was further along the wall. With a feeling of dread, Sam took a deep breath and opened his, already knowing what to expect. He remembered this, this had been his dream. His dream was coming true.
As soon as his eyes were open, fear and panic eradicated every last rational thought. Jessica was on the ceiling, blood dripping from her stomach and a horrified expression on her face. Before his mind had a chance to process this information, she erupted in flames, the fire quickly engulfing the entire ceiling and moving to the walls. Sam laid frozen for a few moments, his thoughts racing at a mile per minute, his brain not having much luck making sense of any of this. He knew he had to move, the room was on firebut he felt glued to the bed, shock and despair making it hard to breathe, blink, focus or move a single muscle. The fire continued to spread, heat radiating down on his face, and finally he was able to snap out of the fog long enough to roll off the bed, desperately bolting for the door, stopping only long enough to scoop up his cell phone and wallet from the table next to the door. He wasn't even wearing shoes as he stumbled out of his apartment into the crisp November night, though he didn't really notice or care until much later.
Chaos was taking place all around him, firefighters had shown up, the entire apartment complex was being evacuated, the police were on the scene and the sound of sirens filled the air, piercing through the normally safe and quiet air. Sam stumbled down the stairs, pullings away from paramedics who were asking if he was okay, if it had been his apartment. He could form no words and didn't want to try. He pulled away, nearly tripping over his own feet and legs several times as he sprinted across the parking lot and to the street. He doubled over, his hands on his knees as he coughed violently for a few seconds, clearing out the smoke that seemed to stick to his mouth, throat and skin. It didn't take long before the coughing fit passed and he straightened up, needing to distance himself from this situation, from the nightmare he was now living in. He made it to the edge of the apartment complex before sitting heavily on the curb, his long legs making the position awkward and slightly painful though it paled in comparison to the emotional pain he was feeling.
It took nearly forty minutes before he was in the right frame of mind to realize he needed to call someone for help. He flipped open his phone, staring at his contact list in confusion. He should call his friends, they'd be worried. But they'd also be devastated and he didn't know if he could be around that right now, he just wanted to forget. Remembering was too hard and it hurt just to think her name. That left little else other than his family, which made him feel equally as uneasy and apprehensive. It had been years since he had spoken to his father or brother and he didn't think they'd appreciate hearing from him now, especially since their father's parting words were "If you walk out that door, don't come back". But who else could he call? What else could he do?
With shaking hands, he dialed a number he could never forget, no matter how much time had passed.
"Sammy? What's wrong?" Dean asked as soon as he answered, not wasting time with pleasantries. Sam could hear his father asking the same question in the background, and he could no longer fight the tears that were threatening to fall. Even after all of this time, they cared that he was in trouble and sounded like they were going to help him.
"Sammy? Where are you?" Sam could hear movement and the sound of keys through his sobs, and his brother's voice sounded more than a bit panicked as he asked, "Are you still at school? I'm on my way. What's going on?"
"Dean…" Sam moaned between sobs, his chest literally aching with grief, "I need you."
"What's going on, Sam?" Dean asked softly, concern in his voice so heavy that it made Sam feel like they were kids again and his big brother was going to make everything better. He wanted so badly for Dean to make everything better. Sam could hear the engine of the Impala starting and the sound alone was comforting, reminding him of safety and home.
"There was a fire." Sam said after taking a few moments to pull himself together enough to speak, "My girlfriend, Jess…" his voice shook as he continued, "She...she's...one minute she was sleeping next to me in bed and the next thing I know, she's...b-b-burning on the ceiling. I...I don't know what to do."
"Fuck." Dean breathed out, speechless as he processed his brother's words. He was silent for a few minutes, then he hit the steering wheel, shouting, "Fuck! Sam, it's not safe for you to be there. Do you have somewhere you can go?"
"I'm fine. There wasn't anyone there, it was just me and her. No one followed me out of the building or anything, either."
"Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there." Dean said sharply, "You know better than to think that, Sam." Dean sighed, then continued, "Dad and I are in California, we were on our way to a case. I'm going to come and get you and he's going to start on the job without me. We're going to figure this out, you're going to be okay."
"Jess is gone. I'm never going to be okay again." Sam murmured, pulling the phone away from his mouth as he coughed, "She was really special."
Dean was silent, not having anything to say that would make his brother feel better. He hated being around emotional people, but was willing to put up with it because it was Sam and Sam was always the exception to the rule. Still, had little practice in soothing someone distraught and he preferred to deal with these sort of emotions using alcohol and half-naked ladies, not having heart to hearts. After a few minutes, he said quietly, "I'm only about an hour out from you. Just wait for me and stay safe, okay?"
"Yeah." Sam replied before snapping his phone closed to end the call. He crossed his arms over his knees, resting his head against them as he tried to keep his emotions at bay. Crying meant he was grieving, grieving meant that this was all actually happening and not some horrible extension of his nightmare. If he acknowledged this was actually happening, he was afraid the pain of it would actually kill him. If he started crying again, he may never stop.
He hadn't moved from his spot when Dean arrived, the car announcing his presence though Sam didn't look up until he felt Dean's hands pressed roughly against his shoulders.
"You're a mess."
"Thanks."
"It looks like they've just about got the fire out. Want me to ask about salvaging any of your stuff? I can find whoever's in charge, and-"
"No." Sam interrupted quietly, his voice flat and cold, "It'll all smell like smoke, anyway. I don't think there was much to salvage, it spread pretty quickly. The most important thing in there can't be saved."
Dean winced at the tone of his brother's voice, unaccustomed to the lack of emotion and not expecting this deadened version of his brother, "I'm sorry, Sammy."
"I couldn't save her."
"There was no way you could have. Whatever did it, it's got to be the same thing that killed Mom. Same method of death, same date...it has to be connected. There was no way to save her from that."
"I should have tried!" Sam shouted, pushing Dean away with shaking hands, then whispering quietly, "I should have tried."
Dean had no response, knowing nothing he said would make Sam feel better and not even knowing where to begin. He'd learned from their father that no words could take that guilt away, that pain had to start to fade on its own. He gripped Sam by the arm, tugging as he said in the most calming voice he could manage, "Come on, you need to get up. We need to get out of here, Sammy."
"She's gone." Sam whispered, his voice shaking and his expression vacant, as if he was barely registering his brother was there, "Gone."
"Up you get, Sammy." Dean urged, tugging on his brother once more, "We'll find a place to hunker down and figure this thing out together."
"But she's gone." Sam repeated, sounding so much younger than twenty-two and looking at Dean with an expression that made the older boy's heart break into a million pieces, "Dean, what am I going to do?"
The sheer anguish in the question gave Dean the strength he needed to haul his brother to his feet and wrap one arm around the boy he had practically raised, squeezing him firmly, "You're going to come with me to the car, we're going to get a room, get mind-blowing drunk and in the morning we're going to try to get some intel on this son of a bitch."
Sam nodded, allowing Dean to lead him to the car. He wasn't sure where they had gone or how long it took them to arrive, but the next thing he was aware of was Dean pulling into the parking lot of a seedy motel and telling him to sit tight while he grabbed them a room. It was as if he was trying to see and hear through a thick haze, knowing someone was there and talking to him but not really making the connections needed to understand and converse. Lights and sounds flashed around him in a sickening, bright manner, not making much sense over the roaring in his ears and the panic that was sending all of his senses into mass confusion and dysfunction. He blinked, and Dean was back. He blinked again, and they were inside a motel room and Dean was pushing him down on a torn and stained bedspread. Without even realizing he had zoned out, he found himself struggling against Dean as his big brother tried to remove his filthy, rancid clothing and force him into a clean black t-shirt. Another blink and he was completely changed, somehow wearing his brother's sweats and t-shirt that were slightly too small, but comforting like home. Dean's mouth was moving, but Sam was far beyond recognizing words and too tired to try. He sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying, with little success, not to picture Jessica burning to death above him. He felt dizzy and disoriented, his chest tight with emotion and sadness so intense that he couldn't remember having ever felt like this before. Perhaps it was possible to literally die from a broken heart; if it was, he didn't think he'd make it to sunrise.
"Sam?" Dean asked worriedly, sitting next to his brother and shaking Sam's shoulder gently, "Sammy? Come on, man, answer me."
Dean ran his hand over his face, trying to decide what he should do. His brother was not doing well, and he didn't know how to handle this. Sam had been coherent during the initial phone call; upset, but coherent. When he had arrive, Sam had been distant and slightly less coherent. Now, his brother was practically unresponsive, looking confused and lost, depressed and pained all at once. He could handle Sam screaming and enraged. He could handle Sam moody and bitchy, or even sad and weepy. But despondent and silent? He had never encountered this version of his brother and it was downright terrifying. How could he help if he wasn't even sure his brother was hearing him?
He had gotten them a room, helped Sam in since Sam didn't seem capable of getting out of the car on his own; he wasn't even sure if Sam realized they had stopped somewhere due to Sam's complete lack of reaction. He had tried to get his brother cleaned up, but Sam had freaked out when he started pulling off his soot-covered shirt and punched him in the face. Eventually, he settled on just getting Sam's clothes changed and not worrying about a shower; the smoke smell was the worst on the clothing, though he could still smell it on Sam's skin and hair. Quite frankly, he was worried that if he put Sam in a tub or shower, Sam would drown without even realizing it.
The kid had no clothes, no socks, no shoes. Nearly all of his possessions were in the apartment when it burned, and he didn't blame his brother for not wanting to try and salvage anything. In the same position, he would have made the exact same decision. Dean sighed heavily; he needed to run to the store, his brother needed even the most basic of necessities such as underwear and socks, but he didn't want to leave Sam unattended, his brother was in no way capable of defending himself at the moment if he found himself facing unexpected trouble. He didn't mind sharing his own clothing, it was the least he could offer, but Sam had several inches on him in height and his clothes fit his younger brother in the same manner that Sam's pajamas fit when he was a kid and insisted on wearing his Batman pajamas even after he had grown two sizes.
"Try to get some sleep, Sam. After you get some rest, we'll get to work on this, okay?"
Of course, Sam didn't answer, didn't even show the tiniest of signs that he had heard his brother speaking, and Dean desperately wanted to punch something just to relieve some of the building frustration and anger. He wasn't mad at his little brother, just the situation, and didn't want to freak out Sam by going postal and pounding a hole through the thin motel drywall; of course, if he did, Sam probably wouldn't notice anyway.
"I'm worried about you, Sammy." Dean said quietly, not expecting a response. Sam was staring at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts and pain, and it was killing his older brother to see him this way, to know he was hurting and not be able to fix it.
Dean was about to stand when Sam started to cough again. He had been coughing off and on since Dean had arrived, which the older Winchester had attributed as a side effect of the fire and smoke. The coughing continued for a few seconds, then Sam sat up, swaying alarmingly until Dean reached out and steadied him. Sam continued to cough, despite his change in position, and used his elbow to cover his mouth, not that Dean was worried about germs. Dean patted Sam on the back when the coughing fit seemed to not want to end, and reached over to the table to grab the bottle of water he had placed there. He held it out to his younger brother, who finally seemed to notice he wasn't alone and took the bottle being offered to him, though he was unable to sip from it for another thirty seconds or so until the coughing fit stopped.
"You okay, dude?" Dean asked, his concern heightened by the greyish tinted mucus he spotted in the crook of Sam's arm. "Hold tight, I'll get you a tissue or something."
Dean returned, pleased to see Sam didn't look as withdrawn as he had before, though this was clearly still the shell of his brother. He waited until Sam had cleaned the gunk from his arm and finished the water before taking both and putting them on the table, "That's a pretty intense cough. Did you get checked out by the paramedics?"
"No." Sam replied, his voice sounding hoarse, "I'm fine. My throat was just dry. I'm pretty tired, I think I'm going to try to sleep."
Now Dean was sure that something was going on; Sam had been plagued by nightmares for his entire life and he would assume that tonight, of all nights, his brother would be fighting the pull of drowsiness and resisting unconsciousness at all costs. He didn't have a chance to call Sam out on his suspicious behavior before Sam started to cough yet again, this time holding a hand against his chest as he wheezed between fits.
"Dean?" Sam asked hastily between painful coughs that ripped through him, "I...uh…" he coughed again, this time gagging slightly as more mucus clogged his throat during the painful spasms, "I...uh...thanks."
"For what?" Dean asked, distracted by the nasty colored junk Sam was spitting into a tissue. He took the tissue from his brother and deposited it on the table alongside the first, then put the box next to his brother, feeling more than just a bit concerned by the dark phlegm that Sam was hacking up every time he coughed. He really wished Sam had been looked over; smoke inhalation wasn't something to play with. He pulled back as Sam coughed again, this time missing the tissue completely and shooting a glob of grey secretions onto Dean's shirt, making a disgusted face, "Dude, tissue! I'm not a handkerchief."
Sam hastily grabbed a tissue and continued to cough into it, his face turning red as he struggled to cough up the glob of mucus coating his throat. He gagged a few times, his body reacting to the intense coughing, and Dean stood, taking a step back and asking, "Are you going to hurl? You've got to tell me if you are, we'll move this party somewhere better equipped for it."
"No." Sam wheezed out, fumbling for the water bottle and having little luck until Dean pressed it into his hands, "I'm good, don't worry."
Dean was going to argue, but decided it wasn't worth it. If Sam had gotten too much smoke, they would have known before, he would have been coughing this bad at the scene and he would have sought out medical care. This was likely just a reaction from the fire and sitting outside in the chilly November air. No reason for concern. He took the water from Sam once his brother had finished drinking, and put it back on the table, "You were zoning out on me earlier, are you feeling more like yourself now?"
Sam nodded, but didn't answer, his eyes drifting up towards the ceiling and then quickly back at his brother. He looked like he was desperately trying not to cough again, and Dean couldn't blame him; with the intensity of the last few episodes, the kid's throat and chest had to be getting sore. He put his left arm over his eyes, confessing, "I've just got a killer headache." He thought back to the disorienting noises, swirling colors, and hazy mind, and added, "Might be a migraine."
"Icing on the cake, man." Dean retorted, flicking off the lap with a push of a button. If anything could make the night any worse, it would be a migraine on top of the fire and Jessica, "Need meds?"
Sam's answer was mumbled, his arm still obscuring his eyes even though the lights were off, "Jacket pocket, inside. Prescription stuff."
"You didn't have a jacket." Dean pointed out, "You didn't even have shoes, Sammy. I wouldn't be surprised if you caught pneumonia or something being outside without a jacket and shoes."
"Fire, dude. No time." Sam mumbled, "Ibuprofen?"
"That, I can do." Dean replied, moving to his bag for the medical kit, "Need anything else?"
Sam mumbled something incoherently and Dean didn't bother trying to decipher it since he knew it was likely irrelevant. He knew what Sam would want and need, and that was a quiet, dark room, water and medication. Those bases were covered, so all he had to do now was settle in and wait for it to pass.
Somewhere over the next few hours, both boys had fallen asleep. Sam had rolled over to his stomach and had pulled a second pillow to cover part of his head to block out any unnecessary light and noise while Dean had dozed off in the opposite bed, sitting against the headboard where he had been watching his brother for signs of distress.
Dean was awoken by an unfamiliar noise, something that was out of place and instantly put him on alert. His eyes snapped open, his hand already reaching for his gun before his mind had a chance to catch up. He tried to place the noise, confident they weren't under attack but not really knowing what had gotten his attention. Finally, his eyes landed on Sam and realized it was his brother. He had expected nightmares, he had expected crying, he had expected talking. What he did not expect was the whistling and wheezing with every breath his brother took. Dean moved closer, putting his hand on Sam's back to wake him for a quick health check, surprised to feel the rattling in Sam's chest through his skin and clothes.
"Sammy?"
Sam moaned, coughing into his pillow but not waking. Dean rubbed his face tiredly, shaking Sam gently and calling his name again. Still no answer, which was not helping Dean remain calm. The third time Dean tried, though, Sam blinked open his eyes and asked hoarsely, "What's going on?"
"You tell me. You're wheezing pretty bad." Dean said urgently, trying to decide if he should drag his brother to the nearest hospital or wait it out to see if the situation improved. They were no stranger to bronchitis or even walking pneumonia and had been brought up on how to handle most medical issues on their own, but they also knew when it was time to bite the bullet and head to a clinic, and Dean had never heard his brother's breathing sound this bad before. "I think it may be time to see a doctor."
"No." Sam protested before coughing loudly into his pillow again, wincing and bringing a hand to his chest when there was a surge of pain flaring up around his sternum, "I'll be okay, really."
"I don't like this, Sammy." Dean said with a frown, unsure if he was more disturbed by the breathing, the coughing or the apparent pain, but knowing that the three together wasn't a good sign, especially after being in a fire. Perhaps it was just the fact that it was a fire at all that was kicking his overprotective brother senses into high gear, "This really isn't something you should play around with."
"M'head hurts." Sam replied tiredly, "All I want to do is go to sleep and forget about all this for a little while. Please."
"If it gets any worse, I'm dragging your ass to a hospital."
Sam responded by burying his face further into the pillow, coughing slightly as he drifted back to sleep, where in his dreams none of this was actually happening. Dean watched his brother for a few minutes, still thinking that he should be doing something but not wanting to push. It had been a long time since he had worn his 'big brother' hat and he wasn't quite sure where to draw the line. Years ago, he would have felt completely justified to drag Sam to the doctor kicking and screaming, but now he wasn't sure if that was his place or not. Things had changed so much, theyhad changed so much.
Dean had just started to doze off when his cell phone rang, and he quickly answered so the noise wouldn't wake Sam, "Hello?"
"How's he doing?" John's voice asked gruffly, "Where are you guys holed up?"
"I honestly don't know." Dean answered the first question, "He was an incoherent mess when I picked him up, but now he's asleep. He sounds like he's having trouble breathing and he's coughing a lot, but doesn't think he needs a doctor. We're at the Sunrise a few miles out of town."
"I'll be be there in fifteen minutes." John replied, then the phone went silent.
Dean put his phone back on the table, surprised that their father had decided to join them. They had planned for John to go ahead to the hunt and that Dean would catch up later. He supposed their dad was just worried about Sam, or perhaps thought they may be able to get some intel on the demon, since it was to be assumed that whatever killed Jess also killed Mom, since the MO was the same.
True to his word, John lightly knocked on the door fifteen minutes later, and the first thing he did was glance in Sam's direction, hearing his wheezy, raspy breathing and throwing Dean a concerned look, "That doesn't sound good."
"No, it doesn't."
"I'm surprised he's sleeping so well. Sleep was the last thing I wanted to do after…"
Dean looked away as his father trailed off, knowing that today out of any day of the year was the worst for his father and not knowing how to respond helpfully. After 22 years of experience, he knew it was best to just not say anything. "He was a bit out of it, not really seeming to see or hear me for awhile and then he complained of a bad headache, I think he's sleeping that off."
"A headache too? How bad?"
"I didn't ask him to draw a picture." Dean retorted with a raised eyebrow, "He took some meds and zonked out. What's with the 20 questions?"
John was about to respond when Sam rolled from his side to his back and immediately started coughing again, quiet coughs quickly turning into violent, hacking coughs that caused him to sit up, looking dazed as he reached for a tissue, his mind still heavy with sleep. He spit out the glob of mucus that had been blocking his airway, grimacing at the taste. He dropped the tissue into his lap, rubbing at his tired and itchy eyes before looking around the room curiously, "Dad? Were you here before?"
"He just got here." Dean filled in, looking at his brother in concern, "Your head still hurt?"
Sam nodded, rubbing his eyes again before replying, "Yeah, it's not as bad as before, but it's still throbbing." He began to cough again, another glob of phlegm flying from his mouth before he could get a tissue to it. He rubbed his chest tiredly, wishing this cough would go away, since every time his chest decided to force out more nasty goo it made the pain in his head flare with the movement.
John crossed the space from the door to his son, catching a glimpse of what Sam had coughed up as his son tried to use a tissue to wipe it off the covers, "That's not good, Sam."
"The coughing? It comes and goes." Sam said tiredly, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and lay back down, "No big deal, I'll be okay."
John grabbed his son's shoulder, holding him still to study the younger of his two boys. Sam was pale with red, bloodshot eyes. He had a few smudges of soot on his face and neck, and his wheezing was so loud that John could hear the crackle in Sam's lungs with every breath his son took. The tissues revealed that the mucus he was coughing up was still an ashy grey and painful, judging from the expression on Sam's tired face. He could see and feel Dean's concern, and for once he felt like maybe Dean wasn't overreacting to Sam's well-being. He clearly remembered the fire that had taken Mary and the aftermath that followed. Sam hadn't been in his nursery fire long, but had suffered from bronchitis afterwards as a result of smoke inhalation; they both had. If Sam had remained in this fire longer, it was a possibility that he could have damage to his lungs from smoke inhalation once again.
"Did you let someone look you over at the scene?" John asked, knowing that it was unlikely but wanting to be sure. It had been a long time since he had seen his son, even longer since he had any idea whatsoever of Sam's thought processes and behavior patterns.
Sam shook his head, "No. I just needed to get away."
John could understand that completely, he had been in that same position twenty-two years ago. Wanting to say so much, but not really knowing how, John awkwardly patted Sam's shoulder after releasing him and said, "Come on, we're going to get you looked over. Your lungs don't sound so great."
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it, knowing he wouldn't get his way and not in the mood to fight with his father, not after they had come through for him even after he had been all but exiled when he left for Stanford. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then said quietly, "I don't have any shoes."
"You don't need them." Dean soothed, "We'll pick you up some afterwards, alright? And maybe some clothes and some other necessities too, if you feel up to it."
Dean looked towards their father, hoping that he would do or say something helpful, since Dean felt like he had been a useless waste of space since he had arrived at Sam's apartment. There were only a small number of times in their lives where he hadn't been able to fix Sam's problems, and this was looking to be one of those times as well. Dad, though, Dad had been through this and knew what it was like to lose the woman you loved along with nearly everything you owned all in the span of a few short minutes. He should be saying the right things and making this better, because if anyone knew exactly how to do it, it was John Freaking Winchester.
Instead, John asked, "Where are your shoes?"
"In my apartment." Sam replied quietly, pushing himself to his feet despite the slight dizziness he felt at being vertical and pushing away Dean's hands when his brother reached out to help him, "I didn't think about grabbing them...not with Jess…" Sam sniffed, then looked away as he trudged to the door. He felt like he was being judged and he didn't like it. As if there was some 'what to do when your life is being ruined by a supernatural fire' guidebook that he just didn't read, one that held all the answers and procedures for dealing with something like this.
The three didn't speak again until they were at the hospital.
All in all, Dean was glad they had gone, since Sam was now resting in a room with an oxygen mask covering his face. They had done blood work and chest scans and while Dean didn't really know or understand the lingo, the smoke had done a number on Sam's lungs and caused some swelling and irritation internally. They were keeping him on oxygen and he would probably go home the following afternoon. John had seemed ansty and impatient, and finally Dean realized that the real reason he had wanted to come to Palo Alto wasn't to check on Sam as much as it was to investigate the thing that killed Mom and Jessica. He wanted to be angry or surprised, but he couldn't summon up the strength to feel either of those draining emotions; he had, on some level, expected as much. Their father was nothing if not focused and predictable. Dean had guilted him into going shopping for some clothes for Sam, but Dean didn't expect to see their father until sometime during the night, after the bars were closed and there was no more research to be done.
Much of the day was spent with Sam staring blankly at the TV, the oxygen having cleared up his headache and minor disorientation, which left the youngest Winchester feeling depressed and unable to sleep. He knew that once he did sleep, the nightmares would finally come, and he wasn't ready to face that yet. He wasn't ready to see more dreams that may or may not come true, to deal with the fact that he could have possibly done something to prevent Jessica from dying. Sam let his eyes trail to Dean for a split second, waiting for his brother to tire of sitting in a boring hospital room and ditch him to work the case, any case, just to have something to do. Dean had never been good at sitting around and twiddling his thumbs. Normally, if one of them were in the hospital, they'd make jokes or have long talks about nothing at all, at least, nothing of importance. Today, though, Sam didn't feel like pretending everything was okay and he wasn't in the mood to joke, laugh or even smile. The pain was so intense that Sam thought he might die from it, but Dean would never understand loving a girl this much, so much that he wanted to die right alongside her.
The day blurred into night, and then back to day and suddenly it was time to send Sam home. If he had a home. Sam had noticed Dean growing increasingly anxious throughout the day, and he was dreading the "sorry your girlfriend is dead, but I've got to get to work, have a good life." speech he felt was coming from his big brother. The ride back to the motel was silent, Sam feeling more than a little emotional about everything that had happened over the last few days and Dean feeling worried and awkward.
The pulled into the parking lot and Dean put the car in park, turning to Sam with a serious expression, "We need to talk."
"Yes?" Sam asked quietly, hoping against all hope that Dean wasn't going to drop him off and leave on the spot. He didn't feel like he was good company to keep at the moment, but he desperately didn't want to be alone.
Dean rubbed his face, sighing heavily, "I haven't seen Dad since he dropped those clothes off for you yesterday morning. He's not answering his phone, he didn't come back to the hotel last night, he's just gone. I drove by your apartment, there was no signs of him or any sign that he had been there. He's just MIA."
"At a bar?"
"Not this long. Something's going on. A little bit ago, I got a text from him." He held out his phone, showing a few numbers with no other message, "Coordinates."
"Coordinates?" Sam asked, his forehead wrinkling slightly as he tried to make sense of his father's actions, "Why would he send us coordinates?"
"I think he wants us to go there. I've tried calling, but he's not answering my calls...it's the only thing I can think of." Dean paused, asking hesitantly, "I, uh, I'd rather not go alone, if you know what I mean."
"Are you asking me to come with you?" Sam asked, contemplating what his brother was and wasn't saying. He was surprised to find the idea of going with his brother sounded more appealing than it would have in the past. Their father was tracking down what killed Mom (and now Jess, as well) and if he was leaving them coordinates, maybe it was relevant. Maybe he had gotten a lead and had bolted out of town and needed backup. If nothing else, maybe being out on the road would distract him from the gut-wrenching pain he felt every waking moment knowing he was alive and Jessica was not. He didn't know if he wanted to hunt again, but he did know that the idea of law school was unappealing now that Jess wasn't there to experience it with him.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
"Sure." Sam said, surprising his brother with his answer, but feeling even more certain after verbalizing it that he was making the right move, "I'll hit the road with you. It's got to be better than this, right?"
"You sure, man?"
Sam had no idea what the future held, though he knew that eventually it would end with him getting revenge on Jess's killer. He had nothing left to live for in Palo Alto, but he had a brother who was willing to let him be part of the family again. He had a broken heart and broken dreams, but he also had Dean, who had spent his entire life fixing Sam's life when it seemed to be falling apart. If he was going to get through this, the only way would be with the help of his big brother. As he watched the grin break through on Dean's face, Sam couldn't help but think that no matter how hard he had tried to be normal, to have an apple pie life in the suburbs with a white picket fence and 2.5 children; eventually, it all came back full circle and he couldn't escape the destiny that had been written 22 years ago, nearly to the day. So why bother fighting it anymore?
"Let's do it."