Summary: Sam broods like a hen. Because this is set in (very) early season 1. I'm afraid I can't do funny except in the summaries, though.

Warnings: Spoilers mainly just for the first quarter of the 1st season. Some speculation, some random throwaway characterizing details you're just as likely to miss as catch throughout all the episodes that have aired so far.
Sam/Jess fluff via reminiscing, 'cause I'm with Dean on drawing the line usually at necrophilia. ;)

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: To wild wolf free17 for agreeing to beta this beast. She did a wonderful job!
And Ephiny63? This happens when rabid bunnies are further encouraged.

Schattenfreund:
Saturnine
by Sade Lyrate

They trundled to a stop in another town, another state. He didn't really pay attention when or where they drew in for the night. It wasn't Palo Alto; it seemed just as likely as any other similar place for their father to pop up in. Ditto for whatever the thing that killed Jessica had been.

Dean checked them in a motel, casting the same glances at him like he had for the weeks since...he closed his eyes, but that only made it worse.
Jessica burned, angel clad in flames as Hell welcomed her, eyes alive enough to haunt him, disembodied voice filled with blame.
So he pushed the images away, rose out of the car, followed Dean with dry eyes.

Into the motel, into a bar, back to looking for any clues that might reveal the whereabouts of John Winchester, the identity of the thing that had shattered his dreams, left behind naught but nightmares.

The waitress patted his hand, threw out some semi-sympathetic comment, left with a wink and swaying hips. Dean watched her go, green eyes flicking back to him without a word. After a swig of his beer, proclamation like a plea, he rose and headed off to check out the pool table.

Quietly, ignoring the crowd, ears still perked to catch any sign of trouble, Sam drew up the laptop, logged in.
The night wore on, the waitress (red hair, brown eyes, Shelley) stopped by him once or twice, smiling, bending, chattering, not getting the hint. He was too tired, too worn, too hurt to be polite, to do anything but sit there, pretend the world away. And eventually, she stopped.

"It'll get better," she whispered, slipping her slender fingers into his for a broken beat before hurrying off.

Without a glance, he crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, let it drop into the ashtray. Dean was lining up his shots, seizing up the Joes and Bobs, letting a couple of balls go astray as Shelley walked past, extra roll to her behind.

He felt numb.
He should have felt a lot of things, sharp and strong and strangling, not mere echoes fluttering at the edges of his consciousness.

Jess is gone.

And if not for the way his heart still beat, his lungs still demanded air, his body still required sustenance, he would have believed himself dead, too.

He swallowed the thoughts down, let his gaze travel, touch on his brother, return to the cold glow of the screen in front of him.

Dean played the guys with a glance here, another there, carefree, pitting beginner's luck against veteran's patience, hunter's senses against layman's pride.

Midnight meandered past, swept up the shadows in the corners.
Sam hid as best he could, kept half an eye on Dean, let his fingers dance over the keys of the laptop. Took his cue as Dean laid down his own, ready to leave the moment his brother brushed past him.

The night air filled his lungs with weariness; sleep stalked him all the way to the motel. Rest he would have welcomed, but all he could hope for was impotent rage.

"You okay?"

The dying engine almost drowned the quiet question.
Sam opened the eyes he didn't recall closing, met briefly the green gaze.

"Yeah," he answered, got out, the laptop heavy in its bag.

"That waitress seemed to take a liking to you."

He ignored that, making his way inside. Dean followed him as he shrugged out of his jacket, undressing unconsciously.

"Sam?"

"I'm just tired, Dean, okay? The sooner we sleep, the sooner there's tomorrow, the sooner we can continue looking for Dad."

Dean fiddled with the keys, the bullet identifier enough.

"I don't know... We could stay here a couple of days. You know, have some fun, stretch your legs-"

"There's nothing here, Dean."

The smirk spread like wildfire over the stubbled features.

"There's a pretty waitress with your name on her."

The glance he cast at Dean lacked the power he wanted. The frustrated feelings bubbled in his blood; he bit his tongue to keep from lashing out, grabbing his toiletries and making his way into the bathroom.

Dean kept on talking, though his words were blurred by the rush of water in the pipes, the blood in his veins as Jess burst in all her mocking glory behind his closed eyes.

Just pleasepleaseplease drop it, Dean.

Ignoring the blabbering had worked before.
But on the other hand, 'before' was four years ago.

And Dean had gotten more stubborn during those years, if nothing else.

"-seemed real friendly. And you can't tell me you missed-"

"Dean." That worked. "Enough. You like her, go act out your fantasies. Leave me out of them."

The other man rolled his eyes, rising to his feet as Sam drew back the covers on his bed.

"Come on, Sam...You hardly even glanced at her!"

"There's nothing here. I'm tired. All I want is for this to be over. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we'll find Dad."

A look skimmed over Dean's face at that. The same guarded expression he'd seen flash in his brother's eyes everytime he said or did anything even distantly hostile when it was just the two of them. It burned him, worse than the memory of the fire all around him.

"What?"

"Just...you could try and live a little, once in a while." It came out quietly, not really worried, hand scratching the back of Dean's neck.

"My life burned in Palo Alto."

That shut Dean up. For good. Sam turned his back, closed his eyes, willed himself to sleep. Stealthy steps paced into the bathroom and back, bedding rustled, bedsprings creaked time and again until breaths evened out.

"Good Night, Sammy."

He could have cried at the soft whisper.