Author: Lauren.

Rating: Rated M.

Character/Pairing: Jessica Moore, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sam/Jess, Dean/Jess

Summary: Still in my heart this moment or it might burst.

Disclaimer: The storyline and AU scenario is mine. I claim nothing else.

Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to update, life gets in the way, ya know. But I've missed this story so I'll try to do better next time. As always, detailed reviews are much loved and to anyone who has commented, or favourited or whatevered, I heart you all because you keep me pushing on. (:


She was so cold. And so tired. Her hands ached like she'd been pricked with pins all over. Eggs and chocolate chips and sugar lay spread across the asphalt of the street. She'd fallen over. And been picked back up again.

People stepped back from her, afraid they'd get sucked in. She wasn't surprised. They were dead. All of them. Charred and empty. Charcoal shells of humans.

Jess. Sam.

Thank God you're okay. Was someone speaking? He squeezed warmth into her hands and she could have cried, but she had nothing left.

He carried her to the car because her normally strong legs apparently didn't work. Even if she could have walked, she wouldn't have done, she wanted to be held, wanted him to hold her. He stayed in the back with her even though Dean shot him looks that read of brotherly mocking. Stayed and held her against his chest. Nose pressed into his neck. So close she could feel his heart beat like a flush across her face.

Cookies would have been nice. But motel sheets were okay too, even though she'd rather be lying on Sam's skin. Dean talks to her in a low tone like she's slow and she tells him she isn't, to which he laughs. It's gruff and deep in his throat and she wonders if his Father laughs like that too. Because Sam doesn't.

He brings her water and it tastes like salt. Like tears. She asks him if he knows why her friends died. He looks away and she knows that whatever he says next will be a lie.

"It was a house fire."

"Sam doesn't know that I know about all of this," her voice is steady, even though she feels anything but inside "And I'd prefer it if we kept it that way." She looks up at him, her eyes pleading implicitly for his silence "For now."

A curt nod and a slammed door and she's alone again. And she wants to throw herself against the wall because feeling anything is better than feeling nothing.

Sam comes back from the vending machine and he's all cold on the outside but he's warm, oh so warm underneath his clothes.

They lie silent for what feels like years before he says he's sorry. She covers his mouth with both of her hands and he stares. And stares.

She wonders if Dean will tell him, when they're standing by his car (an Impala.) She wonders if Sam will be mad or upset or want to punch something.

She sleeps. But only because if she doesn't, she'll have to see their faces. It's worse when she's awake. When the fire is on her skin and the smoke is up her nose and her hair burns and curls and blackens. Crackling and bubbling and disappearing before her eyes. Flames always make Dean flinch and she wonders why, wonders if he lost someone too. Wonders if she could cut him and they'd bleed the same blood.

Apparently they haven't run far enough yet. In the diner a nearby couple are reading aloud from a newspaper. Terrible. All of those students, so promising. Only one survivor, she was out of the house…

Retching, she slams her back against the wall, crosses her arms and digs her nails into her arms. Crossing and cutting back. Sam stands away from her and she tells him the truth, all of it. Every last detail until she's empty.

And then she walks away, shoes grinding the gravel, curls up in the backseat and stares into the foot well.

Would I lie to you?