A/N: I've been wanting to write this one for a while. It took a few different turns than originally planned, but I quite like it. Hope you do too!
Review? :-)
She's told him it was OK to go. "I'll be fine, babe. Take the weekend."
Hadn't told him, "Take a break. From school, from work, hell, even from me. You've been so down lately."
Jess waves and smiles when he pulls out, still with that stupidly adorable little questioning frown on his forehead (and if he wasn't already driving away, she'd run after him and kiss it away).
She sniffles when he's out of sight, goes inside, wonders if it's her. He's been so—silent lately, but not the comfortable, companionable silence that they share when they're both reading, studying, whatever. No, this silence is heavy with memory.
So maybe it's not her. But it's still something she can't help.
She stands on the stoop for a while, shivers in the chill November wind. Goes inside, wraps herself in his Stanford sweatshirt (it's so big). Curls up on the couch. Watches The Notebook and almost laughs at how silly that is. (She'll never tell anyone).
She falls asleep on the couch and wakes up hungry. There's half a quiche in the fridge, and she cuts herself a slice. On top of everything, Sam's a darn good cook.
She hopes he's OK.
Hopes it's not her fault.
Hopes she can figure out how to help.
It's half past ten when the pounding comes. She jolts up—hadn't realized she was sleeping—and wishes to hell that Sam was here.
Unless it's him—unless he's hurt—or something—
She runs to the door, tugging his sweatshirt around her shoulders. Jerks the door open without thinking.
"Sam!" They say it at the same time, and then—"Not Sam," also at the same time, which she supposes afterwards would probably have been kind of funny to witness.
It's not, at the moment. "I'm sorry, who the hell are you?" She wishes she hadn't opened the door now.
He's not Sam, that's for sure. Tall—not as tall as Sam, though, but then, who is?—lean, broad-shouldered. Torn jeans and a battered leather jacket. Defined features, dusted with freckles across the sharp cheekbones. His eyes are green. She thinks they might be able to be piercing, sometimes, but right now they're bleary. Unfocused.
He's clearly drunk. Really drunk.
"Is Sam here?" he slurs, ignoring her previous question.
"Who are you?"
His eyebrows flick up, like answering takes effort. Maybe it does. "Dean, of course."
She can't believe that she's letting a drunk man make her feel like an idiot. A drunk man showing up at her door in the night, no less. "Um…oh. Oh. Dean." The realization dawns on her. "You're Sam's brother."
He flashes her a grin that's almost too lopsided to be really charming. Almost. "Spot-on, sweetheart. Is Sam here?"
"No."
His face falls. "Damn."
"Yeah, well, I'm sorry. You should have called first."
He looks at her like that's a profoundly stupid idea. "Uh…can I come in?"
She's about to tell him, "No," pretty coldly, because he's not making much of a case for Sam's deadbeat family…and sure, yeah, she's prejudiced, but also—since when is showing up drunk on your brother's doorstep admissible behavior?
Not in Jessica Moore's book. And that's whose book they're playing by, because Sam's not here.
Oh, God, why couldn't Sam be here?
She's about to tell him, "No," and not feel bad about it, call the cops even. But she sees he's got one hand pressed against his side, tight and stiff, like it hurts, and she wonders if there's more behind this visit than alcohol.
"I guess you can come in."
He murmurs his thanks and stumbles past her, almost falling, catching himself on the corner of the couch (their couch).
Tips his head back, props his boots on the coffee table (their coffee table).
"What are you doing here?" She's let him in; it seems a reasonable question.
His hand's still at his side.
She repeats herself. This is clearly going to be a long night (still not too late to call the police).
"You're Jessica," he announces. "Sammy's girlfriend." His eyes rake up and down her, focusing a bit more. Figures. "Got to hand it to my baby bro. For a geek, he's got good taste."
"Really?" She demands, letting the ice slip into her tone. He doesn't seem dangerous; just obnoxious. Still, that doesn't mean she has to put up with crap.
He shakes his head. "Don' worry. Not that kind of guy…you're his. Gottt it."
She doesn't sit down. Thinks that his boots may leave a mark. "Why are you here?"
He tilts his head, looks at her as straight as he can. "'S'not obvious? November second, dude." He pauses, chuckles. "Oops. You're not a dude."
"November second?" She's nonplussed. No holiday she knows of, in any religion.
"Yeah." He's making her feel stupid again. "Don't you know? Didn't he tell you?"
"Tell me what?" She knots her fingers in the ragged cuffs of the sweatshirt.
He whistles softly. "Wow, good going, Sammy. Cold fish." He sighs. "Better than I did."
She grinds her teeth, feeling oddly hysterical. "What are you talking about?"
"Our mom," he says flatly, and he's still very obviously drunk, but his eyes are suddenly very clear and bright. It hurts her just looking at them. She doesn't want to know how much it hurts him. When he continues, he pronounces the words carefully, like he doesn't want to screw this part up. "Our mom died today." He pauses, eyes flitting away and then back again. "Well, not today. But today, twenty-one years ago."
"Oh," she says, and the word sounds very small, because he's drunk and a stranger (practically) and he's obnoxious and he's just made her feel like a fool in her own house. Because this is why Sam's down, and this is what he hasn't told her, and this is why his brother has staggered through her door.
"Handled it every year, but I guess it jus'…got away from me…had to see 'im…" he's almost mumbling, lets his head tip into his hands.
She doesn't say anything.
"How is he?"
The question is almost sharp, certainly lucid, and she realizes she's not quite sure how drunk he is.
"He's…fine."
His eyes fix on hers, mesmerizing her. "You—don't let him go. Take care of him."
She's trying hard not to like him, not to be OK with his boots on their coffee table and him here at all, but she's kind of interested…if not yet compelled or sympathetic. "I do. And he takes care of me."
He breathes, relieved. "Yeah. He does that."
She kind of smiles. "Yeah. He does."
He tries to stand up and fails, sinks back down on the couch. Boots off the coffee table this time, though. "He used—usedta crawl out of his goddamn crib. I had to pin him down some nights. Kid just wanted to hit the floor. Thought he'd break his head." He grins. "Kind of wished he did, when he got to be about thirteen."
"Why are you here, Dean?" She feels the need to intervene; intriguing as accounts of Sam's mysterious childhood are, she needs to figure out what to do with this guy and his drunken revelations. She's resigning herself to the idea that the figuring out is going to be done on her couch.
She sits down, on a chair across from him. Doesn't bother asking the question again, this time.
"He happy here?"
"Yeah," she says softly. "Yeah, I think he is."
His lips twist as though he's in pain, but he just says, "Good. That's good," and she hears something like sacrifice underlying the whiskey-laden drawl, wonders how she knows that's what it is.
"He misses you," she tells him, because she thinks he needs to hear it and because she's pretty sure it's true.
She was wrong, though, if she'd thought it would comfort him. His eyes are locked on hers again. "Does he need me?"
"No," she whispers, because she's pretty sure it's true. May not always be, but is now. "I don't think so." It's only when she sees him flinch, like she's stabbed him (she thinks he might rather she really had) that she adds, "I'm sorry."
He doesn't say anything for a while after that, just stares at their carpet. At the pictures on the wall. At her.
Finally, he asks, abruptly, "He still have nightmares?"
She lies about that, without quite knowing why. "No."
He closes his eyes, blows out his breath. "Good." Shifts a little, groans.
She thinks his ribs are hurt, or something.
"Dean, do you want me to—"
"You love him, right?"
She starts at the directness of the inquiry. It's not hard to answer, though. "Yes."
"You plannin' on breaking his heart?"
She's kind of appalled, by that. "No. God, no."
"Glad to hear it." He passes a hand over his face, then it's a stare-down again. "I'd have to kill you if you did."
She really doesn't have anything to say to that. She kind of thinks he would. But it doesn't matter. She'll never break Sam's heart. She'll die first.
There's another beat of silence. Then—
He laughs. Even drunk, he's got a nice laugh. "Does it bother you?"
This whole situation? Um, a bit. "Does what bother me?"
"That he's so freakin' tall."
She laughs too, at the unexpectedness of it. "No. No, it really doesn't."
He purses his lips. "Hmm. OK." Shakes his head. "Dude, gotta be honest here. It really bothers me. He's younger, y'know? S'posed to be shorter, or some crap—"
He never finishes the thought; slumps over sideways before he does. Out like a light, as her mom used to say.
He doesn't budge all night.
She kind of knows.
She kind of sits there all night through, thinking.
She's making herself another cup of coffee when he stirs with a groan at about seven in the morning.
"Morning," she says.
He blinks at her, seems to gain his mental footing. He does it rather impressively quickly, since he clearly has a splitting headache. "Darlin', I'm sorry…you'll have to refresh my memory…"
"I'm Jess," she says. Somehow, she's already getting the impression that this is a very different Dean. "Sam's girlfriend."
His face goes white. "God damn me to hell. I—did we—"
She smirks at his chagrin, lets him wallow in it for maybe a second longer than he needs to. Hey, it's been a long night. "No, we didn't."
He presses his face into his hands and swears fluently, briefly, gratefully.
"You seriously think I'm that kind of girl?" she asks, and he lifts a shoulder nonchalantly. He's recovered himself.
"Takes quite a woman to resist my charms."
"I'm sure," she says, dryly, and then, more hesitantly—"Do you remember anything about last night?"
He chews at his lip. "Uh…drove to Palo Alto…went to a bar…"
That's what she'd thought, but it's still kind of…sad? Frustrating? A relief? She's not sure.
"Oh."
He looks wary at his tone. "God, what did I say?"
"Lots."
He doesn't look comforted by this. "Well, at least we didn't…you know…"
"That wasn't going to happen," she informs him crisply.
He half-smiles. "Got to hand it to my baby bro. For a geek, he's got good taste."
She finds herself appreciating how he uses the same line differently this morning. "Do you want some coffee?"
"Thanks." He takes the cup, stands up. Stiff, but not shaky. "Uh…Jess…"
"Yes?" She sips her own cup. Tries to look disinterested.
He shifts from one foot to the other. "I—probably said a whole lotta crap last night. Just—forget it. As much as you can."
She nods. He smiles. They both know it's never going to happen.
He feels around in his pocket for his keys. "I should be going."
She feels a stab of guilt. "Um—you know, Sam's going to be home later today. He just went out for a night with a friend. You could…you could hang around. I've got work, but—"
He shakes his head, quick, determined. Resigned. "No. It's fine."
"Where are you going?"
"Anywhere." His grin is just short of cocky, landing somewhere in misery.
"OK."
He sets the cup carefully on the counter, like he's afraid he'll break it. "Thanks for the coffee. And for putting up with whatever the hell I did last night."
She tries to smile. The pain in his eyes makes it hard. "No problem. It was—good to finally meet you, Dean."
"I highly doubt that." His tone is wry.
She doesn't correct him, even though she meant what she said.
He heads for the door, and she calls after him, "I'll tell Sam you stopped by."
He wheels around. The pain in his eyes flares up towards agony. She can't look—she can't look away, and remembers how he flinched when she told him Sam didn't need him anymore.
"Please," he says, and the word seems foreign on his lips. She doubts he says it often (ever). "Please, don't tell him I came."
She can't refuse the plea of a man whom she believes to never beg. "I won't tell him," she promises, and his shoulders relax from the lines of anguish into the more familiar set of regret.
She watches him cross the street from out of the window, watches him get into a great beast of a black car, rev the sputtering engine and pull away. She wonders if he goes out and gets drunk again—smashed before noon—and she almost hopes he does, because she's afraid to think of what he'll do if he doesn't.
Almost a year later…
She comes into the kitchen and he's there, cocky grin and leather jacket and not drunk at all. She sees him before he sees her.
There's a moment where she wonders if somehow, some way he managed to tell Sam—to show that they've met before…even though she hasn't broken her promise.
But then he makes some flippant remark about how she's out of Sam's league, and it's then that she realizes they're still pretending. So she half-smiles and says nothing at all about how she knows him, or how she sat up all night watching him sleep on a bottle of whiskey and a broken heart.
Yet she's the one who feels guilty. She's the one who did wrong, and she knows it now, knows it looking at Sam, who's pissed as hell—knows that through everything, and for always, Sam needs his brother.
Almost as much as his brother needs him.