A long, winding trail brought them here. Sam can't really remember when the westward shift started, but they've been on that course ever since. A poltergeist in Denver. A demon somewhere near the four corners. A haunting in Nevada that ended up being a bust. It all brought them here to California, where they're hoping this case will work out better than the last.
It's strange being back in the place that he once called home. It's like being back in Kansas, only different at the same time. The highways leading to the coast looked familiar for a while, but once they veered towards San Francisco instead of Palo Alto, the road could have been any stretch of pavement in almost any state.
It still wasn't enough to keep him from dreaming about Jess that night.
He shot straight up in bed with the image of her burned in the back of his retinas like he'd stared at a lit-up picture of her for too long. He tossed and turned even after the dream had faded away and the adrenaline had left his body. Dean had been sniffling and sneezing for the past four or five states, blaming it on allergies even when they were driving through the middle of desert where there wasn't anything alive to be allergic to. That night the cough started, so Sam lay awake listening to Dean's interrupted sleep and trying not to think about anything at all.
The next few nights hadn't been much better. They'd done their research each day but ended up grasping at straws. Their leads fell apart, leaving them nowhere besides the hotel room with the geometric water stain on the ceiling where Dean coughed and Sam dreamed only when he couldn't keep his eyes open a second longer.
Today, Sam is itching for a change. The car is headed toward the police station for another interview with an officer who might have some answers this time around. With the luck they've been having, Sam suspects that he won't. Dean's asleep in the passenger seat, lips parted, a thick string of drool running down his cheek. He doesn't even stir when Sam turns the car around and starts heading south.
Though it's been a while, Sam doesn't need to pull out a map. He takes 280, between the bay and the ocean, surrounded by sun and water and palm trees and all the other things they don't normally see in their Midwestern hunts. Only now he's not thinking about the hunt. He exits towards Emerald Lake Hills, knowing that the name is a perfect description for the town. He's not positive he remembers which roads to take, so he goes by instinct and landmarks. A few minutes later, he's pulling into the driveway that he's been looking for. The Moore's house. Jessica's house.
He slides the car into park and takes his foot off the brake. Next to him, Dean coughs and stirs. Before his eyes are even open, he's wiping the drool from his face. Sam turns the car off but leaves the keys in the ignition.
"Where're we?" Dean mumbles, looking around. His voice is hoarse.
"Quick detour," he answers in lieu of an explanation. The "I want to visit my dead girlfriend's parents" truth doesn't quite roll off the tongue. "You can stay in the car. I won't be long."
It's a testament to just how tired Dean must be that he doesn't complain, just shifts a little and finds a comfortable spot to rest his head. He coughs some more. "Okay." His eyes close. "M'here if you need me."
Sam is out of the car, up the driveway, and ringing the doorbell before he can lose his nerve. With all the things he's seen and fought in his life, this shouldn't be scary at all, but somehow it still is. The curtain covering the window near the door is pulled aside and Sam tries to smile in that direction. Suddenly, he's not sure what to do with his hands. He thinks that he should have something. Flowers, a bottle of wine, something, but it's too late for that now.
The door opens and Sam feels a little off balance when he sees Mrs. Moore at the door. Jessica had her eyes.
"Sam?" Mrs. Moore asks, hesitant, and Sam realizes that he must look different. It's been a while since his last haircut.
"Hello, Mrs. Moore."
"Oh my goodness, Sam," she says, all hesitation gone. She reaches up and pulls him into a tight hug, patting his back and murmuring something that he can't hear because she's saying it directly into his shoulder. "Come in, come in." She takes his hand and pulls him inside, closing the door behind him like he might escape at any moment. "Jerry," she calls, "you better come see who's here."
"Sorry to just drop in like this, but I was in the neighborhood…"
She interrupts before he can finish his explanation. "Nonsense. I'm so happy to see you. How have you been? You look well. Are you doing well?" Mr. Moore walks into the entryway. "Jerry, look who it is. It's Sam."
"Well, I'll be. It is. Hello, Sam. How've you been?" He extends his hand for a firm shake and one-armed hug.
"I'm doing well. How about you two?"
"Oh, we're getting along," Mrs. Moore says. "We've been visiting family near LA. Just got back a few days ago."
Sam nods. "I'm glad I caught you. I've been meaning to call for a while, but I didn't have your number."
"We've been trying to track you down, too," Mr. Moore says. "We have a box for you. We finally got around to going through Jessica's things," he stops to swallow like the words hurt, "and there were some things we thought you might like to have."
"I'd love that," Sam says, touched by the thought that they saved anything for him even though they didn't know if they'd ever see him again. "I'd love to see anything you have."
"What did we do with that box?" Mr. Moore asks his wife as he walks across the hall. "Did we put it in the closet?"
"I can't remember. Maybe the closet. Maybe the attic. I know it's around here somewhere."
Mr. Moore waves them off. "I'll go look for it. You get that boy a drink."
Patting his hand, Mrs. Moore leads him into the kitchen. "It's so good to see you," she repeats. "What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Water? Brunch is in the oven and will be ready soon." She checks the timer over her shoulder as she pours a mug of steaming coffee without waiting for his answer. "There's more than enough food to go around. We'd love it if you joined us."
"Thank you," Sam says, accepting the cup of coffee, letting the mug warm his hands. "Actually, I can't stay. My brother's in the car."
Mrs. Moore's face lights up. "Your brother? I'd love to meet him. Why don't you bring him in, too? There's so much food. I always cook too much."
Sam smiles. He remembers. "That's really very kind of you, but he's sort of under the weather. I don't think he should be around anyone."
Mrs. Moore's face changes to sympathetic and she clucks her tongue. "Poor thing. What's bothering him?"
"Just a cold, I think. He's been coughing and sneezing for a few days now. He'll be all right." Mrs. Moore offers him cream and sugar, but he declines. The strong, bitter yet smooth taste is exactly what he needs. "That's beautiful," he says, nodding to a painting on an easel near the back door. "Did you do that recently?"
She waves him off. "A couple of months ago. It's nothing special. I haven't even had enough free time to finish it."
"You should," Sam says, meaning it. Not that he's any expert, but Mrs. Moore's paintings are some of the best he's seen. He remembers the first time Jess showed her one that she did. He hadn't believed that her mom had created something so impressive until he'd gotten to see her in action. Jess said that if she ever had kids, they would definitely be artistic because it was obvious that the talent had skipped her generation. Sam winces when that memory stings a little bit.
Mrs. Moore takes two potholders out of a drawer and turns to look at the painting. She tips her head to the side a little bit. "I suppose I should. You're right, Sam." The timer on the oven goes off and she winks at him before turning around to silence it.
She pulls two pans out of the oven, and Sam's nose is immediately assaulted with the smell of home-cooking that he hasn't experienced in such a long time. In addition to being an amazing artist, Mrs. Moore is also an incredible cook. He'd put on a pound or two thanks to her when he and Jess were dating.
"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay for a while? I know how much you love a good meal." She pulls four plates out of the cupboard instead of two, followed by four sets of silverware, napkins, and glasses. "Besides, a hotel's no place to get good rest when you're sick. We've got a comfortable guest bedroom. Your brother can have a decent meal and get some decent sleep before you go. We really would like to have both of you."
Sam finds himself leaning a little more towards staying. Not only does the food look and smell delicious, but he thinks Mrs. Moore might just have a point about Dean getting some honest-to-goodness sleep. Sleeping sitting up in a car obviously isn't doing him much good. "All right," he says. "Let me go talk to Dean and see if I can get him to come in."
Mrs. Moore claps her hands together and smiles. "Perfect. Please try to get him to come in." She begins setting four places at the table, as if he's already said yes.
As Sam walks down the sidewalk, he hears her calling out to Mr. Moore, asking if he's found the box yet. He also hears Dean coughing before he even gets the car door open. He hopes his brother won't be stubborn.
There's always hope.
…
"Hey, man," Dean hears through layers of sleep. He feels a nudge to his shoulder.
"Y' okay?" Dean asks, looking dazedly around and finally focusing on Sam's face.
"Yeah, I'm good. Hey, listen, we're at Mr. and Mrs. Moore's house, and they want to know if we want to come in for some food."
Dean doesn't really understand where they are, but it doesn't matter. The thought of getting up and going anywhere is less than appealing. "You go 'head, Sammy," Dean says, wincing as he adjusts himself against the seat. "I'm tired."
"Mrs. Moore said you can go sleep for a little while in their guest bedroom. Wouldn't that be nice? A soft, warm bed? Probably a lot more comfortable than our shitty hotel, and definitely a lot more comfortable than the position you're in right now."
Dean rubs at his eyes, and something clicks in his mind. Moore. Jess. "Mrs. Moore?" he asks.
"Yeah. Jess's parents."
He nods slowly, still trying to fit puzzle pieces together. "What about the officers?"
Sam shrugs. "You and I both know we aren't going to get any more information today. I thought we could use a detour. What do you say? I'm telling you, Mrs. Moore is a great cook, and she really wants to meet you, sick or not."
While getting up is still sounding less than appealing, the idea of a bed is majorly alluring. Dean loves his car, but it is definitely not a good sick bed. Plus, he can tell Sam really wants this. Dean has a definite weak spot for his brother's "dead girlfriend" card, though he doesn't play it often. Never has. Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. Okay. For a little while."
Dean fumbles around and eventually gets the door open. Once he's vertical, he feels like he's standing in quicksand even though he's pretty sure there's cement under his feet.
"You all right?" Sam asks.
"Dizzy," Dean admits.
Sam wraps an arm around Dean's unsteady figure and Dean automatically drapes his own arm over Sam's shoulders. After a few seconds he lets go of the car door. Sam closes it and they start walking towards the front door. Dean desperately tries to pull himself together, knowing that leaning on his brother like a drunk will not make a very good impression. Eventually he's able to remove his arm and shrug out of Sam's grasp. It's a small accomplishment that he manages a few steps on his own, but he'll take it.
The door opens before they have to knock or ring the doorbell. Even through his slightly-clouded vision, Dean can see the resemblance between Jess and her mother. They have the same eyes. He wonders if Sam notices that, and knows that he probably does.
Mrs. Moore smiles in Dean's direction. "You must be Sam's brother. I'm Kathy Moore. It's so nice to meet you."
"Mrs. Moore, this is my brother, Dean," Sam says.
Dean extends his hand to shake hers and tries not to fall over when she pulls him in for a hug instead. "It's good to see you, Dean," she says. When she releases him from the hug, she immediately smoothes her cold hands over his forehead and cheeks like she's known him for five years or five months or a hell of a lot longer than the last five seconds. She makes a "tsk" sound and shakes her head. Dean coughs into his elbow. "That's some fever you're running, honey. Come on. Straight to bed with you. Sam, Mr. Moore's in the kitchen. I'll be there to serve breakfast in a minute."
Dean looks to Sam for help, but he's already on his way to the kitchen. Mrs. Moore takes his hand and leads him down a pristine hallway. Dean thinks he should have taken off his boots and tries to mumble something referring generally to that thought, but Mrs. Moore interrupts him.
"We'll get you some Tylenol for that fever. Maybe some tea. Do you like tea? That's best for a cold, you know. Rest and fluids." She leads him into a room on the left and turns on a soft lamp. Dean stands awkwardly off to the side while she pulls back the covers. When she's finished, she looks at him like she can't quite understand why he's not already tucked into bed. "Go ahead," she says. "We don't do 'shy' around here, honey. Not when you're Sam's brother, and definitely not when you're sick. Now, you get comfortable and I'll go get a few supplies."
Before Dean can even process what she's said, she's out of the room. He sits down, relieved to be done with the challenge of staying vertical. Now, he toes out of his boots. Feeling ever so awkward, he slips between the sheets. The awkward feeling stops there and is replaced by waves of overwhelming relief. The bed is the perfect degree of firmness, the sheets are soft and cool, and the pillow feels like it was made just for him. He quickly decides he's never moving ever again, which is a good thing because when he opens his eyes, the ceiling is spinning. Dean's never been a big fan of fevers.
Mrs. Moore reappears and sits on the edge of the bed so that she's resting against his arm. It takes all of his energy to clear the dizziness and not move away from her touch.
"Open up," she says, practically jabbing him with the thermometer before he can process the request and follow her directions. "Now then, what's bothering you besides the fever?" she asks even though he's clearly not able to answer at the moment. "Sniffling and sneezing? Your nose is awfully red, poor thing. What about your throat? Does that hurt?" Before Dean can shake his head, the thermometer beeps. She takes it out and reads it without breaking stride. "102.6. Poor thing. You must feel awful. Let's see your throat. Open up and say 'ah,'" she directs, using one gentle finger to tip his chin towards the light.
Dean suddenly wonders if she's some sort of witch or if he's possessed, because he obeys, albeit with a creaky, hoarse version of the sound. He's also acutely aware of the fact that he can't remember the last time he brushed his teeth, and his breath is probably on the sharp side of foul. Breathing through his mouth makes him cough, but he manages to turn away before doing that in her face.
Mrs. Moore makes another "tsk" sound. "Very red. Must be quite painful. And that cough. You must have some post-nasal drip irritating your lungs."
At that point, Dean wants to laugh but doesn't have the energy. A near-stranger is poking and prodding him and talking about his post-nasal drip. Ridiculous.
On the nightstand next to the bed are several bottles of medicine and a glass of water. He idly wonders how she made them all appear so fast. Witchcraft, probably. He needs to warn Sammy, but his eyes are heavy and falling shut.
"Honey, I know you're tired, but we need to get some medicine into you first," she says, lifting his head and sticking another pillow behind it before placing a glass of water in his hand.
He's not so sure he'll be able to hold the glass without spilling, but she seems confident enough in his abilities because she lets go. Miraculously, it stays put. He stares at it, feeling like his hand is not part of his body at all.
"This will help with your cough, stuffy nose, and sore throat." She holds a small plastic cup up to his lips, and before he can do anything, the thick cherry liquid is sliding down his throat. "Good. This will help with the fever." This time she puts a cup with three small pills up to his mouth, and sure enough, his hand must still be attached to his body because he manages to chase them down with a sip of water. He fights the grimace when he swallows, the pills like shards of broken glass.
"There now," she says, taking the glass and setting it on the nightstand. She adjusts the pillows so that he's comfortable and tucks the blankets up to his chin. Dean can't remember the last time someone did that for him, and it somehow hurts and is perfect all at the same time. "I'll put some water on to make tea. Can I get you anything else?"
Instead of processing the question, Dean says what he thinks he's been meaning to say since he saw her at the front door. In his creaky voice he says, "I'm sorry. Jess…"
Mrs. Moore gives him a sad smile and adjusts his blankets again. "Thank you, Dean, but there's nothing to be sorry about. You just rest and feel better, okay? And don't worry about your brother, either. We'll take care of Sam."
Witch or not, those are the magic words, and Dean lets himself drift off to sleep.