Sam screamed and fought him the whole way down the stairs and Dean was petrified that Sam, in his panic and horror, was going to shake Dean free and charge into the fire. It took all of Dean's muscle to push him out of the car.
"Sam, stop," He said pushing him up against the Impala. "STOP."
"I have to help her," Sam yelled, his voice high and hysterical and not Sam. He tried to struggle free, but he was pinned completely between the car and Dean.
"Stop," Dean said, pushing him harder against the car. "It's done. She's gone, Sammy."
Sam struggled again, this time weaker, more to do something than to actually run into the fire.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said, his voice gentling. His brother let out a strangled sort of moan and pushed Dean off. This time Dean let him. Sirens wailed in the distance and Sam sank to the rain-soaked ground, his head in his hands.
Dean stood in front of him, unsure of what to do. Years ago, he would have sunken to the sodden concrete with Sam, but that was when he knew his presence was a comfort to his brother. Now, he was fairly certain he was only the source of more pain.
Instead, he turned around and dialed the fire trucks and the ambulance even though he knew they were already coming and that they couldn't do anything to help. He kept his distance from Sam, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he directed firefighters and answered police questions.
"We just got here," Dean told the police again and again, trying to shelter Sam from having to speak to any of them. He wasn't entirely successful and he watched from a few feet away as the cops asked Sam their questions and Sam answered, his floppy hair flapping as he nodded.
What now? Sam didn't have a home. Sam didn't have Jess. Sam didn't have anything but the clothes on his back and Dean and while Dean wanted his brother back more than anything, he never wanted this. Sam continues to linger by the car and Dean, no longer having anyone to talk to or anything to do, no longer had an excuse to avoid his brother.
He walked over slowly, wanting to give Sam time to prepare, to put up any walls he wanted to put up, to walk away if he wanted to. But Sam stood by the trunk, a shotgun in his hand. He stiffened slightly when Dean walked up then looked him, his eyes hard and jaw set. He nodded once and threw the gun into the trunk and slammed the lid.
They drove in silence to the nearest motel, both of them silent. Sam stared out the window, watching Stanford disappear and turn into Palo Alto proper.
A sign for TOO TIRED motel lay ahead of him. The pink walls and dirty pink railings looked just as tired and beat-up as they did, and Dean really was too tired. He pulled in wordlessly and got them a room, Sam following behind him, silent.
The room was as impressive as the exterior. Two queen beds with floral quilts, white walls with waterstains, the smell of stale beer and cheap soap. Dean dropped his bag on the bed closest to the door.
Sam's eyes swept the room as he entered with a tired resignation. It was exactly rooms like this he had worked so hard to escape. Almost instantly he wanted to cry, how had he lost it all so quickly? Jessica? His life? It had taken years of planning and effort and sacrifice to and then in one second, he was tossed back to a roadside motel.
He didn't have a bag to throw down. He didn't own anything, so he just walked aimlessly to the bathroom. The shower was cracked and the water-pressure abysmal, but Sam stood under the tepid water, hoping it would scrub off the smell of smoke and relieve some of his tension. He had only learned about the brilliance of hot showers after moving to Stanford. The hot water never ran out and Dean and John weren't impatiently waiting outside the door. Whenever he was stressed, or upset, or angry, he would stand under the boiling hot water until his muscles relaxed and his mind softened.
It didn't work this time. The shower only reminded him of Jessica and how she would tease him for his long showers, how she would pull back the curtain and join him. In the mornings she would shower first and he would shower after while she did her make-up in the bathroom, singing along to the radio or humming under her breath.
He couldn't take it anymore, he slammed the shower off and pulled back the curtain. A t-shirt and pair of sweatpants sat on the sink. Dean. Sam's throat ached and his eyes burned. He put the clothes on and when he went back into the main room, Dean was sitting against the headboard, reading Dad's journal. At least he was pretending to, Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him as he got into bed and turned off the lamp beside his bed.
No doubt deferring to Sam, Dean turned his light of too. The room was dark and silent and there was no way either of them were sleeping even though both were doing their best to pretend otherwise.
Dean did fall asleep at some point. He woke to an empty motel and for a moment, he thought Sam had left. He reached over to his phone to find a text from Sam.
Moores Called
Dean and rolled over in bed. He couldn't sleep any longer. He got dressed quickly and drove back to campus. He had only seen Stanford at night. Oddly, it was John who made the trips to campus. Dean had gone once and sat in the library while Sam laughed and drank coffee with a late night study group. He hated himself in that moment. He hated that he was watching Sam like some crazy stalker, the pain in his chest that the sight of his little brother caused. But most of all, he hated the fact that seeing Sam happy, fitting in, made him resentful and angry when he knew he should want Sam's happiness.
He had left that night and hadn't returned until last Friday when he dragged Sam to find John.
Dean could see why Sam liked Stanford. The campus was beautiful, leaves changing to gold, pretty young people in sweatshirts and ponytails. It was so wholesome. The exact opposite of their hunting life.
The impression was ruined by the burned apartment building and police tape just off campus. People had left.
It was what Dean expected: sulfer and a burned husk of a building, nothing else. They knew what did this, they just didn't know how to find it or catch it?
"Anything?"
Dean whipped around to see Sam standing in the charred doorframe. His eyes were red and heavy with grief as he examined the charred remains of his apartment, his life.
"What are you doing here?" Dean asked, Sam just kept looking blankly around the charred ruins.
"Come on, let's go," Dean said, he grabbed Sam roughly by the arm and walked him out of the apartment. "There's nothing here."
They spent two days in the motel not speaking then a terrible day at the funeral. The Moore's though they tried to be kind, were too wrapped up in their own grief to carry any of Sam's. His friends didn't know what to say, and while a few offered condolences, most simply looked away when he made eye contact.
Only Jill, Jess' best friend, came up to him and hugged him, hard. Jill had become one of Sam's best friends at Stanford too. She was scarily smart, tall, with a wry sense of humor, as tough as Jess was gentle.
She introduced herself to Dean and the two of them spoke in low tones. Vaguely, Sam remembered that when he first met Jill, he had found it hard to get talk to her, to get close to her, because she reminded him so much of Dean.
"It's time, Sam," Jill said and they buffeted him into the bland church.
Sam would never admit it, not himself and certainly not to Dean, but the feel of Dean's shoulder next to him was the only thing that made him feel remotely connected to the planet. He couldn't look at Jess' picture, so he spent the whole time watching the back of Ms. Moore's shoulders shake as she sobbed.
He had gone to their home for Christmas last year. It had been a real Christmas. They lived in Colorado and the house had been covered in snow like something out of a children's book. There was a huge tree and eggnog and a turkey. No one fought, which jokes people told about Christmas told him to expect, they just sat around and talked and ate while reruns of Full House went unwatched in the background.
They had made him feel so welcome. Ms. Moore – Nina she insisted – had asked him once if he had a big family and when Sam, clearly uncomfortable, had muttered something about his Dad travelling, she had smiled kindly, passed him a glass of eggnog and asked him about his studies instead.
This could be my family he remembered thinking. I could be a part of this.
Now, Jess was dead. He would never see the Moore's again.
They skipped the wake. Sam could tell Dean was eager to leave California, which he had never liked, and Palo Alto suddenly felt wrong and claustrophobic.
"You ready?" Dean asked. Sam looked around the campus. He remembered when he first arrived, he had been excited initially, giddy at the thought that he was free and on his own and then, terrified. Students spilled in to the dorms with their parents and speakers and mini-fridges and credit cards. Sam had a beat-up duffel bag, $50 bucks Dean had pressed into his hand, and a .45. He had never felt more like a freak. The normalcy he craved repelled him. He left the crying parents and anxious freshman and walked through campus.
He hadn't realized that he was intending to call Dean until he found himself in front of the payphones. He grabbed the receiver then stopped. What was he calling Dean for?
Was he hoping Dean would hop in the car, drive to California and pick him up? Was he hoping he would promise Sam, as he had so many times, that every would be OK? His brother would do either of those things or anything else Sam asked of him and he knew that wasn't fair.
Sam put the phone down, walked away and promised himself he would figure it out on his own.
And he had. He barely had, but he had. He made friends, came top or close to it in nearly every class. He learned about physics and chemistry and worked as a barista and met Jess and suddenly felt as if the world was made of more light than darkness. He had found himself here. It was home.
"You can stay," Dean said beside him. "I can find Dad myself. We'll hunt this bastard down, I promise you that."
Sam shook his head.
"If you stay, it won't mean that you didn't love her, Sammy," Dean persisted, looking out at the campus with Sam. All Dean ever wanted was Sam back on the road: helping people, hunting things, the family business, but now that it looked like he was getting his wish, he saw that he had been selfish, that Sam had a chance here to live a long, happy life.
Sam's face twisted a little and he shook his head again. He couldn't rebuild his life here.
Dean nodded. "Let's go then."
And Sam left.