Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural" or the boys. If I did, there would be more hugging.

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the reviews. I'm thrilled to know the story is being enjoyed. Next chapter will be upwards of Friday, but before Monday! Depends how insane Thanksgiving gets. ; P

Massive thanks to Lembas7 who ever so sweetly points out when I've dropped complete plot points! Thank you, hun! Any remaining errors are all mine.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving! May you spend it just where and with who you want to be. : )


Once upon a time, he'd been in a car with Sam - it was the first time he'd been in a car with Sam in four years - and Jess had called his brother. He remembered how the vibrating sound had filled the silence of the car, until he'd finally asked if Sam's phone didn't have voicemail.

She hangs up before it goes to voicemail and redials, Sam'd said. And Dean had thought that was funny, thought it was kind of cute and that it said she was a pretty cool girl.

It was not cute or funny or cool.

It was goddamned annoying.

He'd just gotten out of the shower when it had started. His phone echoed in the small room, making a grinding noise on the little end table he'd left it on. He'd checked the caller ID as he tousled his hair dry, thankful there were no cuts or bruises to be careful with this time. It had been a basic salt and burn that had gone remarkably smooth.

He'd let it continue vibrating when he saw Sam's House flashing on the screen. It would be Jess in that case; she was the only one who called from the land line. The phone had vibrated for a full twelve minutes, before he'd switched it to no ringer and hid it under a pillow.

It should stop bothering him now. It really should. Except that he was pacing the floor in front of the bed of this tiny motel room because he knew she was still calling; that underneath that pillow the screen was flashing because she was still calling. He knew it. He could turn it off, could leave the room- forget about it. Except what if something was wrong? What if they needed him for something? What if Sam -

He couldn't stop the growl as he stalked over the bed and yanked the cell phone out. He dropped onto the bed hard as he pressed the phone to his ear, bare legs rubbing against the scratchy comforter.

"What?"

The line was quiet for a moment, then Jess's voice came through, cheerful and bright, "I win!"

He scowled even though she couldn't see him.

"You held out pretty long, though. So kudos."

He gritted his teeth. "What are you talking about?"

Her giggle was light. "Uh-huh. I'm sure you just noticed I was calling. 'Cause you wouldn't ever ignore me for fourteen minutes, right?"

"Jess."

She laughed now, "Okay, okay. I just wanted to make sure you knew to be here at as early as possible on Thursday."

He shifted on the bed, the setting sun sending streams of light in through the blinds and landing in his eyes. "What?"

"Yeah, I'd rather you get here really early so I don't have to stress about whether or not you're going to make it. Since I have enough to stress about, ya know?"

He blinked, Jess had a tendency to start conversation in her head and not fill in the people outside of her head, "Seriously. What are you talking about it?" he asked.

She released a put-upon sigh, "Thanksgiving, Dean. I'd like if you came early instead of joining Kerrie and Jake, and probably Doug this year, as last minute additions. And don't tell me they're not last minute additions if I know they're coming! I get enough of that from Sam! They're last minute because they don't show up until the last minute! And plus you could be absolutely anywhere and I'll be thinking that all day if you wait till the last minute to show up. Because, let's face it, after what happened with the wedding I just can never again be sure that you'll be on time. Ever. So for my peace of mind can you please get here early on Thanksgiving?"

Thanksgiving.

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Thanksgiving wasn't something he did, not anymore. When they'd been little kids Dad had sometimes tried on that day, but the efforts had tapered off by the time Dean was nine. After that Dean tried to scrape something together for Sammy whenever they weren't on the road. It was usually chicken, not turkey - hell, one year it had been macaroni and cheese that he'd tried to shape into a turkey. When Sam had started demanding more, he'd quit trying to pull it off altogether. When Sam had been gone, he'd barely noticed when the day came around - tried to barely notice, anyway.

"Dean? You still there?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Jess, I don't think - I'm not -"

"You're not what?"

A clattering noise followed the question and then he heard her hiss,ow, dammit.

"What happened? You okay?" He tensed.

"Yeah, ow! It's just a little hot. The cookie sheet slipped. I'm making turkey shaped cookies we can have with coffee after dinner - and after the pie. Oh! And I was going to make an apple pie for you, is that good? Or do you want another kind? Sam wants peach and Jilly likes blueberry, but my Mom is bringing that one and pumpkin, Mom makes the best pumpkin. So is that good?"

He swallowed hard, "I'm actually - not sure that I -"

"You don't want apple? Okay. I'll make you anything you want, Dean."

He closed his eyes, blocking out the floral wallpaper of the room, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "It's not a good time."

She didn't touch his excuse instead barreled forward. "Anything you want; you just have to come."

The shift in tone, in meaning, was smooth - worthy of her new Winchester name.

He ducked his head a little. Had Sam told her to call? Or worse, did Sam not even know? He should just say no. He should just say no; wasn't exactly sure why he didn't - except that he'd never had Jess's apple pie and it was probably really good.

Except that he couldn't remember that last Thanksgiving he'd even tried pulling together, that he'd stopped because Dad and Sam just didn'tget it. No time for it, according to Dad, no point to it. Not good enough, according to Sam, not normal enough.

"Did you ask Sam?" The question slipped out, betraying so much more than he was willing to think about.

"Did I ask-? Wha- I'm sorry, what?" She sounded genuinely confused by his question.

He drew in a deep breath, "Does Sam know that-"

"You're asking me if Sam knows that I don't want you to show up last minute for dinner? Is that it?" She cut in, the confusion gone; her voice quietly lined with steel. "Of course he knows. Sam wants you to come early too."

He sighed. "Jess, you know that Sam and I aren't really talki-"

"Thanksgiving, Dean. A day to give thanks for what we have."

His breath caught. To give thanks for what we have. It was there again, the lump in his throat. Jess said it so simply, he'd always thought it was that simple too.

"Apple is good."

He practically felt her smile over the phone. "Okie-dokey. See ya on Thursday, then - we eat at 7. Be on time and keep in touch . . . as in call - often. All the freakin' time even, sort of like every time you pass a rest stop. And try not to show with any bruises and don't bring any weapons up, not even that knife you always have . . . oh! And there was one more thing I was going to tell you . . . what was it? It was right on the tip of my - oh, right! Talk to your brother."

On that note, she hung up.

A smirk pulled at his lips. That sounded more like her. She'd been channeling Sam in that conversation, it had taken him off guard. Probably exactly as she'd planned it. His smirk widened into a bigger smile as he traced the conversation in his head. She'd played him, he'd bet money there was no hot cookie sheet - just her sensing what he'd been about to say and distracting him. He put the phone down on the night stand again, switching it back to vibrate, and stretched out on the bed, turning the TV on.

It had been a strained few weeks. Too many unasked and unanswered questions over the phone line, neither brother giving up anything. It was hard, he'd forgotten what it felt like to not communicate with Sam - it wasn't a feeling he liked. It was a constant lump in his stomach, a weight that tainted everything around him in shadows.

He was good at banishing shadows though, had a lot of practice - and Saturday Night Live reruns helped too.


She had outdone herself - and he was out here alone with a drink.

The scotch burned when he took too big a gulp. He stopped just a finger short of the bottom, swirling the liquid in glass.

She wasn't a great cook, she had acceptable skill in the area; sometimes a tad less than acceptable. So it had been decided that the turkey would be provided by her Mom. Jess would do all the baking, save the pumpkin and blueberry pies because Jill had pitched a fit over that,they had to be Mom's, she'd demanded, and as always, gotten her way.

Jess had insisted she make the side dishes.

She'd told Sam she was going to make the best damn side dishes they'd ever had for Thanksgiving, because this was her Thanksgiving and it was going to be fantastic.

What this consisted of, Sam would later find out, was making enough food to feed the entire campus of Stanford Law.

She'd been cooking since Tuesday, following recipes to the letter, making him taste and compare, adding things in and substituting ingredients. She'd immersed herself in this with the same tenacity she used to ace every final exam.

He was pretty sure he'd gained a few pounds, but Sam liked it; liked going into the kitchen and finding it full of warmth and food, liked finding it messy with Jess at the stove calling him over to taste something. The smile on her face when he told her it was delicious.

He'd blinked and it had been Thursday. Jess had been in high spirits all day. She had everything under control and her parents were due to arrive around two o'clock. Jill, suddenly sans boyfriend, would be getting in earlier to help with set-up.

Doug had stopped by around 10 to help him move the furniture around, promised he'd be back later - on time. They'd moved the sofas and armchairs to the edges of the living room, the coffee table and end tables into Sam's study and set up a dining room table and chairs in the center of the room.

Jess had changed curtains and hung a garland with leaves the colors of fall on it, she'd set up little pumpkins and squashes all over the room, she'd put out candles and bought fresh flowers to the set around the house. The living room had been converted into a pseudo dining room and it looked good.

Her mother had beamed when she'd walked in and Jess had glowed in return.

He threw back the last swallow of scotch, focusing on the burn as it made its way down.

They'd be sitting down to dinner soon, likely as soon as he reappeared.

He just needed a minute though, a minute and drink, to get over it.

Dean hadn't come.

He hadn't really expected him to, hadn't put much faith in Jess's assertion that his brother would be here; hadn't let himself give it much thought at all.

There was a drop of amber liquid lying at the bottom of his glass.

Jess had caught his eye when Jill had arrived, offered him a tiny, sad smile and then remained tactfully silent on the subject.

He turned back towards the apartment building, drawing in a deep breath and slipping back into his role. He played it less these days, but it was still there, an oddly familiar cloak, when he needed it. A bit tight around the edges, but still doable; still simple to be Sam Winchester: All-American-Ivy-Leaguer.

It had snapped into place as soon as Jess's parents looked at him. Jess, and even Jill, had given him odd looks; and that was before Doug and Kerrie had arrived, before Jake had slipped in. He was bound to get a few more double-takes, a couple more arched eyebrows. He hadn't realized how much of himself he'd shown them since Dean had come back into his life - the darkness of his temper, his macabre humor, his ache for approval; not necessarily good things, but true things.

He didn't want them to see true things tonight. True things might just ruin this night for Jess, their first Thanksgiving as a married couple, their first time hosting. It had to be perfect, it was what she wanted, and he would deliver. As long as he played the role, it would be fine.

And after all, it wasn't the first Thanksgiving he'd spent without his family.


"Dude, I was just coming out to get you!" Jake grinned. "I'm starving here!"

"You're always starving," Jess teased, setting down one of the bowls of mashed potatoes. There were three different kinds of mashed potatoes.

Sam smirked. "The turkey looks good."

"The turkey is good," Julia Moore emphasized, warm blue eyes as teasing as her daughters'. "If you had come to our house last year you'd remember."

"We wanted to do our own thing last year, Mom," Jess reminded her mother. She was wearing a silver blouse with a fitted black skirt and high-heeled shoes with more straps than Sam could count at one glance. Her earrings dangled and shimmered in the living room light and he remembered holding her hair to the side while she'd put them on. The long, blonde curls were set loose down her back and Sam had teased her about how the cook should wear a hair net.

"Boxed stuffing is awesome," Kerrie chimed in.

"Oh please tell me you weren't in on last year's debacle?"

Kerrie laughed, "I supplied the mashed potatoes."

"The kind you don't need potatoes to make!" Doug confirmed, leaning in on the sofa and pressing a kiss against Kerrie's jawline.

She made a squeaky noise, pushing him away, eyes darting to Mr. Moore who sat an armchair away. Dexter Moore grinned at them. "Didn't see a thing, dear."

"I saw it!" Jill offered, grinning. "They were kissing, Dad!" She was sitting next to her father; head on his shoulder, her hand intertwined with his, perfect epitome of Daddy's little girl.

"Don't tattle, Jill," Mrs. Moore admonished, standing back to admire the table.

"S'not tattling," Jill pouted, eyes gleaming, relishing her status as brat.

Jess turned to her. "Is too!" she taunted, for the heck of it, because Jill had learned bratty from her and sometime she liked to remind her little sister of that.

Mrs. Moore interrupted, "This looks beautiful, honey." The compliment was sincere and laced with pride.

Jess moved closer to her mother, admiring the sight from her mother's view. It wasn't perfect. She'd burned the sausage for the stuffing a little bit and there were bits of bacon in one of the potato dishes that were practically charred. The gravy was a little lumpy and her green beans weren't as crisp as they ought to be; but the presentation was flawless, the biscuits were golden, the yams smelled sweetly and most importantly she'd done it herself, it was her Thanksgiving.

"So we're about ready, then?" Jess offered after a beat; tucking a strand behind her ear, her mother's smile bringing a slight blush to her cheeks. A moment later her gaze met Sam's steadily, leaving the decision entirely up to him.

He pulled up a smile for her, tightening the reigns on his role. "Awesome. Because I'm about starved too," he deflected easily, earning himself a light frown.

She wasn't pushing though, hadn't pushed all day. Once he'd caught her looking from her watch to the telephone, otherwise, she hadn't brought up Dean's absence.

"Let's get this show on the road, then!" Jake agreed, jumping up, and heading for a chair.

"Are you sure, Sam?" Kerrie wondered, standing slowly, her eyes concerned as they settled on his face, unvoiced question echoing in her tone. None of Sam's friends had mentioned Dean by name in the three weeks since they'd witnessed the fight in park. It wasn't because they'd forgotten, weren't wondering, didn't care - no, it wasn't that at all. It was that no one dared.

Veiled questions had been lobbed frequently, but none of them flat-out asked where Dean was. They were all remembering - Sam's family wasn't the Brady Bunch.

"I'm sure," he answered.

The room was silent for a beat, then Jake's chair made a scraping noise when he pulled it out and Jess flipped.

"Would you watch it!"

"Sorry!"

"I'll make you wax if -"

"I'm sure it's fine, sweetie, he didn't mean to."

"Yeah! Thanks, Mrs. M!" Jake said gratefully.

The older woman winked at him, "Let's take our seats."

"Yeah. Still starvin'."

Jess scowled at Jake, "Shut-up."

Jill chuckled. "Now, now, sis. You know what the Thanksgiving rule #2 is - say nice things, even if it kills you."

Mr. Moore chuckled too, "Amen."

A smile tugged at Jess's mouth. Sam remembered the story - the sisters at each others' throats one Thanksgiving, no dinner until they could compliment each other three times, Jess's my head's going to explode if I have to, and then, say nice things, even if it kills you.

"Sam, Jess, you two take the heads of the table. It's your Thanksgiving," Mr. Moore pointed out.

Jess started shaking her head, "Dad -"

"Come on Jessy," he prodded.

Jess didn't move, no one did.

Then Jill sighed, dramatically, "I'm sorry. Is this ceremonial or something? Should I have brought the video camera?"

Sam's eyes widened, the role slipped, "You're such a brat."

She grinned.

"No, Jill it isn't ceremonial. It is quite special though. Now sit down and be quiet or no desert."

Jill's eyes actually widened in surprise as everyone else snickered. "Mom -"

"Behave like a child, get treated like one," the older woman teased gently.

Sam watched Mr. Moore hold a chair out and his wife slid into it, both their smiles amused. Everyone started sitting down. It was time for dinner. He swallowed hard and pulled out his own chair; sat down and gazed at the table, the people. Jess across from him, holding his gaze with understanding in her eyes; sad, wry amusement glimmering in them. You were right, her expression said, he didn't come. Sam drew in a slow, shuddering breath, the buzzing of others talk slipping out of focus into the background as his eyes remained on Jess; he shrugged a little, a tiny smile touching his lips, thank you for trying, his expression said.

And then the buzzing stopped abruptly, the talking halted. There hadn't been a knock or a scrape to the door or the jiggle in the lock; the door slid open as if it had been open all along.

He turned around. Dean was standing in the doorway, leather jacket gone, collared shirt tucked into dark gray pants secured with a black belt; one hand behind him, the other hooked into a pocket.

He smirked when Sam met his gaze. "Guess I'm running a little late, huh?"


Yeah, I know, sorta mean, but you'll thank me for it later. Better interrupted here, than there... ; )