"It'll be just for a few days." And jess wants to scream. She wants to scream and scream and scream because she knows. Dammit, she knows. She's known for a long, long while, ever since he "accidentally" knocked a saltshaker over her hand the day they met. She knows. She knows she knows she knows. And he still won't tell her himself.

She was raised in this life. Pretending. Keeping watch. Acting normal, staying in one place, but keeping everyone safe with what they do. Her parents were careful. They were good. The bookstore in San Fran was a hunters' plaza. One of many that served as a middleman for cases. Jess had told Sam it was a bookstore, and it was. He had told Jess his dad was hunting, and he was.

But they were both waiting. Sam hadn't figured her out, hadn't found her backstock of lore in the broken, seal-locked cabinet, or the backstock of salt in the hollow wall, or even the rosary in the water filter. (which also contained a blessing that kept all of their water distinctly holy.) But Jess had found the gun in his bookbag, and the knife in his dresser, and the rock salt in the other hollow wall. (they did seem to have a lot of those in Palo Alto, didn't they?) Jess knew. Sam didn't.

She recognises Dean, knows he doesn't recognise her. Their parents had met years ago, talked for what had seemed like ages. Jess had seen him shredding pages of a copy of Tom Sawyer. She didn't blame him. It was a crappy book. She had had to sweep it up afterward, and she does blame him for that, however childish it seems.

Sam leaves anyway, despite her protests, and she knows. She knows they're on a hunt, on a case, and she hopes, prays, begs for them both to come back because god, if she doesn't owe Dean for the hour of sweeping and crawling she had to do after he left.

She bakes cookies and for once they don't burn.

She does.