A/N: So contrary to popular belief, I've not dropped off the edge of the planet. Sorry for the delay. Blame my boss for keep offering me money to work overtime. Herein is resolved the horrible cliffie. Not such a horrible cliffie this time. And hopefully it won't take me as long to update the next chapter.

Disclaimer: All previous disclaimers apply. If I owned it, I'd be selling "We're so screwed" t-shirts on eBay.

Chapter 3

One word screamed through Sam's head as he launched himself out of the passenger seat of Dean's still moving Chevy:

Jess.

Blood pounded in his ears as his eyes fixed on the thin column of black smoke issuing from the attic window of Grandma Nixon's house, and he could think of nothing but running into the hall and up the stairs, kicking open the attic door, only to find... To find what? Jess bleeding and on fire, pinned to the ceiling?

"No, no, no..." he muttered over and over, the images from his recurring nightmares assaulting his senses as brief panic overtook him, and for a second he didn't know what to do.

"Wait."

There was a strong hand on his arm and a calm voice in his ear and he turned, only to see Dean's eyes fixed on his own, the young man struggling to keep a hold on Sam while he fumbled to open the trunk of his car.

"Just wait," he repeated, gingerly releasing his grip on Sam, as if not entirely sure the younger man wouldn't bolt the second he was released. But he didn't. He just stood. Staring. Shaking. Even as Dean pulled a small emergency axe and miniature fire extinguisher from his trunk.

"You have an axe in your trunk," Sam observed dumbly.

Dean nodded. "Never hurts to be prepared," he said. "And I am a fireman. Believe me, there are worse things you could have found back there."

Sam stared at him blankly, mouth slightly open, for all the world looking as if he was waiting for Dean to tell him what to do next.

Dean frowned, slamming the trunk and elbowing Sam in the ribs. "Look alive, dude," he said, recognising shock when he saw it. "Fire, remember?"

Sam blinked, as if only just recalling what was happening, nodding as Dean turned to head through the gate and up the path towards Grandma's front door. He followed numbly, the whole scene strangely surreal, as if this was one of his nightmares and he'd wake up any minute to discover Jessica safe and warm in his arms and snoring softly against his shoulder.

A loud crack as Dean kicked open the front door soon shocked Sam back to reality, his single barely-functioning rational brain cell observing that Dad's car wasn't parked on the drive, and that the front door must have been locked or why else would Dean have had to kick it open? His heart clenched hopefully: maybe no-one was home and Jess was okay...

Which was when he heard the scream.

"Jess!"

Shoving all thoughts, doubts, and paralysing terror to one side almost as roughly as he shoved Dean against the door jamb, Sam barrelled past the older man, desperation and fear making him insensible to anything but the terrified cries piercing the air above him as his feet skidded on the rug running the length of the hallway's wooden floor and he began to bolt up the stairs four at a time, long legs making short work of the three flights leading up to the attic.

In the back of his addled brain, Sam dimly heard Dean curse as he charged up the stairs behind him, could feel his brother close on his heels as he leaped the last three stairs in one bound and skidded to a halt outside the attic, oddly surprised to discover his older brother right there next to him as he turned to shoulder in the door.

"Wait," Dean cautioned again, hand held against the wood, expertly feeling for telltale heat spots.

Sam held his breath for a second, waiting for Dean to signal the okay, and when it finally came they both turned and shoved the door in unison, the old wood bursting open with an ear-shattering crack.

And then it took Sam a little longer than a second to register what he was actually looking at.

And a second longer than that to recognise that the oddly unexpected noise in his ear was the sound of his brother. Laughing.

"Oh my god, Sam! Your Grandma's gonna kill me!"

Jessica was cowering in the far corner of the room, a look somewhere between misery and abject terror frozen on her soot-streaked face as she clutched a box of matches and a half-melted candle anxiously to her chest.

Dean had a grin the size of his Chevy plastered across his face as he crossed the room in two long strides, casually raising the fire extinguisher and easily puffing out the flames that were steadily consuming the hideous polyester curtains now hanging in blackened tatters at the window.

Coughing slightly as he wafted away the smoke with his axe, Dean shot a disapproving glance in Jess's direction before shaking his head and muttering, "God save us from women and candles. I swear, if I had a dollar for every time I had to pull some damsel in distress with a sandalwood fixation out of a burning building..."

Jess just stared at him for a second, as if trying to work out how a complete stranger with an axe in his hand came to be standing in her bedroom spraying foam on her curtains. "Actually," she mumbled defensively, "it was vanilla."

The rest of her protestations were choked off by Sam suddenly grabbing hold of her and pulling her into a hug so ferocious she was pretty sure the candle was now little more than a smear of wax down the front of her t-shirt.

She looked up at him uncertainly, a little thrown by his over-protective overreaction. "Well, hey handsome," she said tentatively. "I missed you too, but don't you think –" She stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing there were tears on Sam's cheeks. "Sam?" she said, fear suddenly creeping into her voice even as she tried to downplay the situation. "You okay? It was only a candle. I'll pay for the curtains, I swear! Your grandma won't even know I tried to set fire to her house while she was out shopping –"

Sam wasn't entirely sure whether he was laughing or crying, his lungs suddenly full of something that wasn't smoke but seemed equally as adept at choking up his airway.

"Sam –?" Jess was starting to sound a little alarmed by Sam's excessive show of emotion as a mangled sob escaped his lips. "It was just a candle..."

"You're okay!" Sam was suddenly muttering against her hair, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, almost pulling her off her feet. "You're okay..."

"Sam? Honey, I'm fine. Just a slight wick versus curtain versus sudden gust of wind situation. It's not a huge deal, I swear!"

Sam was laughing now; kissing Jess's forehead and laughing. "You're such a dork," he told her through a mixture of her hair and his own relieved tears.

Jess snorted, kissing Sam playfully before suddenly remembering the axe guy was still standing by the smouldering curtains. Then she remembered where she'd last seen him. "Oh!" she burst out. "You're the fireman!"

Relieved to be back in the conversation, Dean casually twirled the axe like a cheerleader's baton while practicing his best ladykiller smile. "Yeah, most chicks don't recognise me with my clothes on," he told her.

Sam, finally returning to himself and remembering Dean was there, coughed apologetically. "Er. Yeah. Jess? You remember Dean? Kinda my brother, I guess."

Dean frowned. "Only 'kinda'?" he asked, before tipping an imaginary Stetson in Jessica's direction and realigning his grin. "Nice to meet you properly, little lady," he drawled. "Hopefully there won't be a fire every time we bump into each other."

Jess just looked at him as if sizing him up, before smiling faintly. "Yeah, I can see how that could get awkward," she agreed. Then, suddenly looking back up at Sam and without any preamble she asked, "So why the ceiling?"

Sam's face paled as if she'd slapped him. "W-what?" he stammered, eyes skittering from Jess to Dean, who's face had turned a similar shade of pale.

"When you guys made your oh-so-dramatic entrance?" Jess continued. "The first thing both of you looked at when you opened the door was the ceiling. What were you expecting to see up there?"

Sam fought the urge to look up, instead stealing another uncertain glance in Dean's direction, who was pointedly staring at the carpet, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

"Sam?" Jess prodded.

Sam took a deep breath, glanced at the ruined curtains and the soot on Jess's cheeks, before muttering, "Maybe we should get this mess cleared up..."

"Sam?" Jessica's tone was a little more insistent. She rubbed a knuckle against his chest. "The ceiling?"

Sam actually did look up that time, anxiously blinking back the image of Jess burning to ash that lurked behind his eyelids every waking minute.

Dean was watching him, a wide-eyed look of nervous puzzlement on his face, as if he was waiting for Sam to tell him something he really didn't want to hear.

"It was –" Sam faltered, finally meeting Jess's upturned gaze as he ran a gentle thumb across her cheek, smearing the soot still further. "Bad dream," he managed to choke out, eyes sliding back to the blackened curtains as he shook his head dismissively, a fake smile tugging unconvincingly at the corners of his mouth. "That's all."

"What did you dream about?" Jess and Dean glanced briefly at one another as the question issued simultaneously from both of their mouths.

Sam laughed mirthlessly, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn't matter.

"Sam...?" Dean said the word with such quiet authority that Sam actually straightened as he turned to meet his older brother's inquisitive gaze.

And it was then that Dean saw it in Sam's eyes, and his knees almost buckled right out from under him.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can," Dad had said, handing his eldest son the warm, writhing bundle of blankets that was baby Sammy.

And it was in that split second Dean had seen something in his father's eyes that he had hoped to never see again: Despair. Terror. The crushing realisation of impending failure.

That was Dean's abiding memory of his father.

When he had turned away from him for the last time in that smoke-filled hallway, there had been no determination, no fight, no desperate hope of miraculous salvation on his face.

Dean could see only dull acceptance; a father's acceptance of his own failure to protect his family.

And the light draining right out of his dark eyes.

Dad had given in. Given in and accepted it. Just accepted it.

And Dean could see it reflected in Sam's eyes right now: He was teetering on that very knife edge between determination and acceptance, between hope and despair. Did he just give in to Fate? To Destiny? No matter what he did, would the future always be irrevocably set in stone just because he dreamed it that way?

"Sam. What did you see?"

And Dean barely dared ask the question.

Still less did he truly want to know the answer.

Sam glanced from his brother back to Jessica, expression softening as he gently took the matches and the squashed candle from her hands and guided her to the edge of the bed, where she sat, trepidation obvious on her face.

"Sam?"

Sam perched next to her, taking hold of her hands and squeezing them tightly, almost as if he was too terrified to let her go.

He took a deep breath.

"For a few weeks now," he began slowly, eyes steadily locked on those of the girl in front of him, "I've been having this recurring nightmare."

"I've noticed," Jess muttered softly.

"And – and it was a nightmare about you, Jess," Sam was squeezing her hands even tighter, gazing into her eyes as if he could somehow hold her there forever as long as he didn't look away. "And you were – you were –" He swallowed hard, taking another deep breath. "You were on the – on the ceiling. Pinned up there. Bleeding. On fire."

The involuntary whimper of shock Sam heard next didn't come from Jessica, who was staring up at him as if he'd just told her he was an alien.

No. The sound had come from Dean.

He tried to cover it up with a cough, as if the barely-smouldering remnants of the curtains could really be enough to irritate his respiratory system.

Sam twisted towards him, still gripping Jessica's hands but completely focussed on his brother. "You looked at the ceiling too," he said quietly, eyes pinning Dean in an almost accusatory stare. "Why? Did – did you have the dream too?"

Dean fidgeted, unable to hold Sam's gaze, fingers twirling the axe almost unconsciously.

"Dean." Sam's tone was every bit as commanding as his brother's had been earlier.

Dean took a breath. "It wasn't a dream," he said at length, suddenly acutely aware that Sam and Jessica were essentially strangers to him, and that the only other person he'd ever trusted with this had been Marilyn. "Although at first I tried to convince myself it was a nightmare." He ran a hand through his hair. "But – but the more I dreamed it, the more I realised it wasn't just a dream." He met Sam's gaze uncertainly. "It was a memory."

Sam shifted. "A memory?" he echoed. "Of – of what?"

Dean bit his lip. "Mom."

Sam rose to his feet very, very slowly. "What – Dean? What happened to her?"

Dean peered up at him hesitantly, and Sam took a step towards him when he didn't answer.

"Dean? This – I think this might be important." There was a slight tremor of desperation in his voice as he glanced back at Jessica. "I think maybe this is the reason why –"

"No," Dean said flatly, shaking his head. "It's a memory. Not a dream. You're not dreaming the future, Sam –"

"Dean, what happened to Mom?" Sam cut him off. "What do you remember?"

Sam's hand was on Dean's shoulder, not gripping him hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his presence acutely felt.

Dean's fingers tightened convulsively around the axe. "You know I told you she died in a house fire, right?"

Sam nodded. "You said she was trapped in my nursery."

"Trapped. Yeah." The ironic laugh that issued from Dean's mouth signalled he found this anything but amusing. "That's not exactly – accurate." He coughed, averting his eyes, looking to the bright blue sky beyond the open window. His vision drifted reluctantly back to Sam, who was still squeezing his shoulder. "So Dad came running out of the nursery, right?" he ploughed on quickly, as if the faster he said it, the less painful it would be. "And he was carrying you and he put you in my arms and told me to take you outside. He told me not to look back, but – but I did. I looked back. And Mom – I swear, Sam, Mom was on the ceiling. On the ceiling, Sam! And she was on fire. Bleeding. Just like – like –" He glanced at Jessica, who paled slightly.

Sam was beyond pale. "Where was she – where was she bleeding from?" he asked, barely controlling the tremble in his voice.

Dean's brow knitted in confusion. "Why does that –?"

"Humour me," Sam cut him off, deliberately not looking at Jessica. So deliberately in fact that Dean suddenly understood why it was so important his brother know the answer to his question.

"Here," he said, indicating the region across his abdomen.

Sam suddenly let go of him then, sinking back down onto the edge of the bed as if a lead weight had inexplicably landed on his shoulders.

Dean took a step towards him. "Your dream –?"

Sam looked up at him and nodded.

Dean took a breath. "Dreams don't tell the future, Sam," he reiterated slowly.

"I dreamed of you, didn't I?" Sam returned bitterly. "And here you are."

"That doesn't mean –"

"Sam." Jess's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, gentle, reassuring. "I'm not going to die." She smiled, trying to brave, Sam could tell. "You won't let me, right?"

Sam just looked at her for a second, trying to comprehend how one human being could trust another so completely and wishing he had experienced that before he met her.

When Sam made no answer, just continued to stare at Jessica with shining eyes and a lump lodged in his throat, Dean did the only thing he deemed appropriate in the situation: He got his kid brother's back.

"'Course he's not," he promised, uncertain whether he was offering the reassurance to Jessica or to Sam. He put a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. "And now he has a fireman for a brother, no way any fire's getting near either of you again." He plastered on a grin that only partially papered over the cracks left by the thing that was currently whizzing around in his head screaming at him. "That's always supposing you stay away from the sandalwood, sweetheart."

Jess cocked an eyebrow at him, fingers curling around Sam's reassuringly. "It was vanilla."


"So you just got here and already you're trying to burn down my house?" Grandma Nixon squinted at Dean through her bottle bottom glasses, eyes magnified so big Dean felt like Little Red Riding Hood.

"Actually," Jessica interceded sheepishly. "He put the fire out."

Despite the fact that Grandma Nixon looked like she might eat him alive if he made any sudden moves, Dean grinned Grand Canyon big, holding up the fire extinguisher he'd brought from his car, just for emphasis. "Firefighter," he said, inclining his emergency axe towards his chest before pointing it in Jessica's direction. "Pyromaniac."

Grandma Nixon squinted at him again. "Honey, you should put that little thing down before you cut yourself," she advised him dismissively, turning her attention to the ruined curtains that Jess was holding out for inspection before muttering under her breath, "Well I can see Sam got all the brains in that family."

Jess did her best not to laugh, shooting a strangled smile in Dean's direction over the top of Grandma's head. "Maybe you should put those back in your car," she offered.

Dean grimaced briefly before nodding his agreement. "Yeah," he said, scowling down at Grandma while she wasn't looking at him. "Before someone gets hurt."

He huffed as he passed Sam in the hallway, long arms full of grocery bags. "You didn't tell me your granny was Eva Braun, dude," he groused, heading out towards his Chevy.

Sam grinned, the first smile Dean had seen there since his little revelation upstairs. "She's okay once you get used to her," he assured his brother.

"Just don't go setting fire to her curtains," Fran added, puffing up the front steps with her own arms full of brown grocery bags. "That might upset her."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hello? Firefighter!" he reminded them, passing Fran and heading for his car. "I'm the guy who put the fire out!"

Fran smiled after him before turning her attention to Sam. "He came home with you," she observed, continuing to smile. "I'm glad." She inclined her head thoughtfully. "Not so glad about the fire, but –"

Sam's face, unlike Fran's, was deadly serious. "Good thing he was with me," he said, heading on into the kitchen, Fran following slightly behind. "I seemed to lose all capacity for rational thought as soon as I saw the smoke..." He trailed off as Jessica looked up at him from the kitchen table, where Grandma was still inspecting her wounded curtains.

Fran smiled just a little as she hefted the bags onto the counter, helping Sam unload his own burden before patting him on the arm. "I think God brought your brother here for a reason, Sam," she told him earnestly. "Maybe that was it."


Dean felt as if he was facing a firing squad.

He fidgeted slightly in the uncomfortable rose-patterned armchair, the Family Nixon lined up in front of him in the opposing seats like something out of a bad World War II movie; any minute now he expected Grandma to suddenly turn a spotlight on him while the others whipped their machine guns out from underneath the seat cushions.

Sam smiled at him encouragingly as his knuckles turned white from gripping Jessica's hand so hard.

Jess bit her lip and tried to smile too, but was still rather wary of Grandma Nixon, who was perched in the other armchair, eyes hawk bright and owl big as she glanced between the two cuckoos in her nest as if trying to decide which one to devour first.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure whether to be more afraid of Grandma or of Lucy, who was sitting cross-legged at his feet, gazing up at him as if he were the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

And then, of course, there was Danny, who had this sullen look of intense mistrust on his face, as if he wasn't sure how to handle the fact that his big brother suddenly had a big brother of his own and was a hell of a lot less than pleased about it.

Fran smiled wanly, straightening the hem of her skirt for the hundredth time, her knuckles almost as white as Sam's as she squeezed her husband's hand.

"So," Alan took that as he cue to speak, startling his house guest with the abruptness of his intercession. "Firefighter, huh?"

Dean just looked at him for a second, and Sam swore he saw the words, "Well duh!" hovering around the corners of his mouth. Instead he merely smiled that dazzling smile of his and confirmed, "Uh-huh," with a modicum of restraint that Sam actually found kind of impressive.

Alan nodded, wiping sweaty palm on the knees of his jeans. "And a good thing too," he said rather obviously. "Otherwise – well – last night –"

"You'd have been mighty surprised to find me in your son's bedroom," Dean finished for him with a completely innocent grin that was anything but.

Jess almost choked on the lemonade she'd been drinking, trying to hide behind Sam's shoulder as she fought to avoid spitting the fizzy beverage all over Grandma's upholstery.

Wow, she thought her first 'interview' with the Nixons had gone badly...

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Lucy asked suddenly, and Jess was pretty sure lemonade actually snorted out of her nose that time.

Sam squeezed her hand as she buried her face against him, muffled sniggers reverberating against his back and causing his lips to twitch despite his best efforts.

"Lucy –!" Fran scolded her daughter, grimacing sideways at Sam, who opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a stunned goldfish.

To his credit, Dean's expression never even faltered. "Why, are you offering?" he asked perfectly seriously, causing Lucy's cheeks to redden to the same colour as the roses on the sofa and she averted her eyes abruptly, mouth clamped tightly shut as she shook her head emphatically.

Take that, little girl, Dean thought with a self-satisfied little smirk. One down...

"So Sam," he continued, deciding right there and then that a good offence might be his only defence right now. "You haven't told me much about yourself so far. I'm sure you're fed up of hearing about me."

Oh, you go, big brother! Jess found herself cheering Dean on as the family's attention turned en masse back to Sam.

Sam looked mildly surprised by the abrupt conversational about-face. "What's to tell?" he asked with a self-deprecating shrug. "You've met my family..."

"Uh-huh," Dean agreed with another smile brighter than a nuclear explosion and almost as deadly. "And lovely as they are –" he glanced sideways at Grandma, who seemed to have decided that the fireman was more of a threat than the cheerleader, "– you haven't really told me much about you. What have you been up to in the last twenty-two years, Sammy?"

Danny scowled openly at that. "How come he gets to call you 'Sammy'?" he demanded, inclining his head in Dean's direction.

"He's still worried I might turn out to be an axe murderer," Dean replied smoothly, turning a wicked grin on the younger Nixon boy. "After all, I do have an axe in the trunk of my car..."

Danny blinked at him.

"You call that an axe?" Grandma put it. "My William – God rest his soul – used a blade bigger than that one to cut his toe nails."

As much as he would have liked to get into a staring contest with Grandma Nixon right then, Dean fought the urge. "So what do you do, Sam?" he asked instead, never taking his eyes off his brother. "You know. For a life."

Sam scratched his head and frowned at his brother's phrasing of the question. "Well, Jess and I just graduated Stanford," he replied a little sheepishly.

"Smart one of the family," Grandma muttered under her breath.

"And next year I go to Law School." Sam thought Dean looked like his eyes might pop right out of his head.

"Huh," he said, nodding thoughtfully and trying not to look too fazed. "Lawyer huh? Can't be that smart then..."

It took Sam a second to realise Dean was kidding. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely sure the rest of his family picked up on that. "Well, I really wanted to be an astronaut –" he said with a grin.

Dean laughed at that. "You used to have a mobile of the Solar System above your crib," he blurted, stopping abruptly when he noticed the almost physical constriction of air around him, as if the Nixons had all gasped collectively, leaving him wondering what the hell had made him say that.

But Sam's eyes were sparkling. "You remember that?"

And when Dean met his brother's gaze, it was suddenly as if they were the only two people in the room. "I helped Dad put rings around Saturn for you."

Sam continued to grin at him, a look of total wonder on his face, even as inexplicable moisture gathered in his eyes. "What was he like? Dad?"

Sam didn't notice Alan shift in his seat or Fran squeeze his knee. But Dean did.

"Smelled like motor oil," Dean replied as neutrally as he could. "Worked in a garage. Don't know what he'd have made of his son being a lawyer."

"What did he look like? Do you look like him?"

Dean tried to remember. "No," he said softly. "But you do."

Sam digested that piece of information. "Handsome then."

Dean laughed a little sadly. "If you say so."

"And what about Mom?"

The light dulled in Dean's eyes for a second. "Smelled like cinnamon," he managed eventually. "Lousy cook though. You wouldn't risk one of her cookies if you valued your stomach lining."

"She made cookies?"

"On Fridays when Dad didn't work late."

"What was her favourite song?"

"Mm, don't know. Probably something sappy by the Carpenters."

"And Dad?"

"Led Zeppelin."

"Led Zeppelin?"

"God's honest truth."

"What about you?"

"Metallica."

"Dude –!"

"Don't mess with my music, man. You tell me you're into Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson and I know we're not related."

"Dave Matthews."

"Yeah, okay. I guess I can let that one slide."

"Favourite movie?"

"C'mon. You seriously need to ask? No-one will ever equal George Lucas's masterwork."

"Star Wars? Really?"

"True classic of American science-fiction. The original, though. None of this Episode I crap. Your turn."

"The Godfather."

"Oh, nice choice, Sammy. Maybe there is some Winchester blood in those veins."

"TV."

"X-Files."

"I'm sensing a pattern here. You're not a Trekkie are you?"

"That's Trekker. Watch your mouth, heathen. Okay, lemme guess. Cagney and Lacey."

"Starsky and Hutch. Way cooler car."

"Not as cool as mine."

"You could fit a dead body in that trunk."

"I told ya, an axe is the least I coulda had in there –"

"Uh, you guys wanna get a room or something?" Jess's voice suddenly broke through the almost tangible barrier that had inexplicably erected itself around the brothers for the last several minutes.

Sam blinked, looking away from Dean and remembering there were other people in the room. Jess was rubbing his arm and leaning against his shoulder.

Kinda possessive there, sweetheart, Dean thought to himself, vaguely aware that Grandma was drilling her laser eyes into him again and Danny looked like he'd quite happily suffocate him with one of the sofa cushions. Lucy, on the other hand, was back to staring at him dreamily.

"So Dean," Fran put in a little hesitantly. "You were – were you adopted? Like Sam?"

Sam thought he detected a hopeful tone in his mother's voice, but Dean looked a little like she'd just slapped him.

"Uh –" he stammered, averting his eyes. "I – was – no." And that was all he had to say on the subject.

Fran sat forward a little, frowning sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

Dean looked up at her, and Sam half expected him to look away again, but he didn't. Instead he just shrugged, and it was as if a security shutter had just slammed down in front of his face. "Not your fault," he said thickly.

Fran picked at the hem of her skirt. "Still," she continued, obviously needing to get this off her chest no matter how uncomfortable it made them all feel. "If we could have taken you –"

Dean narrowly avoided glancing and Danny and Lucy, for some reason inexplicably annoyed with them.

Not so inexplicable really, he told himself. After all, they got to grow up with a brother like Sam. That should have been his deal in life. Not theirs.

"I know," he said quietly, expression purposefully blank.

"I don't want you to think –" Fran broke off as Alan placed a firm hand on hers.

"Dean doesn't think that, honey," he said authoritatively, raking a questioning gaze across Dean just to make sure.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, not entirely sure he believed what he was about to say. "I'm just grateful you gave Sammy a good home."

Sam's jaw clenched and Jess felt the muscles tighten across his back.

When the almost unbearable silence that followed threatened to stretch on forever, Dean got to his feet.

"Well," he said with a smile he didn't really feel. "I should go get a little shuteye before my next shift."

Sam stood quickly, the expression on his face almost betraying confused panic. "Don't –" he began, but thought better of it. "You'll be back, right?" he asked, reminding Dean of all the times he'd asked Dad that very question as he left for work in the morning.

He quirked an eyebrow. "You think you're gonna ditch me that easy?"

Sam's face smoothed out into a relieved smile. "Well. Good," he said, nodding, unsure what to say next as his family's suffocating presence suddenly felt like walls closing in on him.

"Thanks for – you know – saving me and all," Jess said with a grin that Dean returned with a genuine one of his own.

"No more playing with matches, young lady," he said in his best mock-authoritarian voice. He nodded at Sam's parents stiffly. "It was nice to meet you," he managed, trying to sound like he meant it.

"You're welcome here any time," Fran assured him, frowning at Grandma as she huffed audibly. "Maybe you could come over for lunch on Sunday?"

Dean looked like he'd just been asked to set fire to a litter of kittens. "That's – um – that's –"

Sam took pity on him, catching him by the elbow and leading him towards the door. "Don't worry. Her cooking's not that bad."

Dean glanced over his shoulder as Sam manoeuvred him into the hallway. "As long as Granny's not got me in mind as the main course," he said. "'Cause, you know, no way this face would look good on a barbecue." He looked at his feet for a second. "It's just – well, it's just I'm not really used to this 'family' stuff, Sammy."

Sam snorted. "I don't think my brother likes you calling me that."

Dean would have quite happily gouged out his own eyes as the words, "Yeah, well he ain't your brother," came tumbling out of his mouth unchecked.

Sam recoiled as if slapped.

"Aw crap," Dean cursed. "I so did not mean to say that, Sam," he said, grabbing hold of Sam's sleeve. "Seriously, dude. I'm an ass. I'm sorry."

Sam tried to shrug it off but couldn't manage it. "Maybe I'll call you tomorrow, huh?" he said stiffly, looking anywhere but at Dean as he reached out for the front door and tugged it open with a little more force than he'd meant.

"Sam –"

"You should go get some sleep."

"Sam –"

"Sam and Dean Winchester?"

Both boys turned at the sound of the shrill voice emanating from the doorstep, twin frowns appearing on their faces.

"Who wants to know?" Dean demanded at exactly the same time as Sam muttered, "It's Nixon, Sam Nixon."

They exchanged a sideways glance before Sam turned back to their visitor. "Do – do we know you?"

"No," the generously proportioned black lady on the doorstep told him curtly. "But I think you were supposed to."


Just remember, this is AU so I'm allowed to have Star Wars as Dean's favourite movie...