"Are you sure you don't want more?" Mrs. Moore asks, already digging the spoon into the casserole dish.
"No, thank you," Sam answers. "Seconds was plenty. It was delicious, though. Thank you again."
As she sets the spoon back down, she beams. "You're welcome. Glad you enjoyed it."
He stretches in his seat, muscles finally loosening up from the driving and lack of sleep over the past week. He's full and warm from his head to his toes for the first time in a while.
"So, it must be nice, having this chance to work with your brother, huh?" Mr. Moore asks.
"Yeah. I didn't see him much while I was away at school, so it's…nice," he says, though that's not the word he wants. He's not sure if that word exists.
"All that traveling must be hard on you, though, right? You look just about done in," Mrs. Moore says.
"Now honey, don't be too kind to the boy," Mr. Moore jokes, and Sam has to smile.
Mrs. Moore waves her hand in nonchalance. "You know what I mean. Between you looking so worn out and Dean being so sick, it seems like you two could use a break. Any chance you'll be heading home soon?"
At the mention of home, he clears his throat. "Yeah, I don't know. Maybe." In an attempt to send the conversation in a different direction, he pushes his chair back. "Let me help clean up."
"Oh, I'll get that," Mrs. Moore says, taking the plate and silverware from his hands. "Jerry, why don't you open that box for Sam. Then you can help me clean up in the kitchen."
Mr. Moore nods, patting Sam on the shoulder before leading him into the living room. "We donated a lot of her things," he says as he takes his keys out of his pocket to use as a makeshift knife. "Some of it seemed like it might be important to you, though, so we decided to hold on to it."
Sam feels nervous, like he did before ringing the doorbell when they arrived. Mr. Moore cuts through part of the tape and opens the rest with two satisfying snaps. He looks inside the box for a moment before smiling sadly up at Sam.
"I'll let you go through it. We'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." He claps Sam on the shoulder again and leaves him alone.
It takes a minute or two before Sam decides to move. With a shaky sigh, he sits stiffly on the leather couch, noticing a framed picture of Jess on the coffee table. It's from her high school graduation. The familiar smile that once made him feel complete now makes him feel broken. He's not sure he's ready for this, but he reaches into the box anyways.
The first thing he pulls out is a stack of pictures. He doesn't recognize the first few. There are flowers, candles, a few people he recognizes from school, a few he doesn't. He realizes that they must have had some kind of memorial on campus. He thinks he should have been there.
Underneath the memorial pictures are a few prints of Jess and Sam together. Jess loved taking pictures, posed and candid, serious and silly, and the photographs bring back memories that sting in both the best and worst kind of way.
He pauses when he uncovers his favorite picture of the two of them. He has another copy of it folded up in one corner of his wallet. That copy is faded almost white along the creases, but this one is perfect. The picture was taken by a friend of theirs at a party. He likes it because it's so obvious that they're in love; that was the night they told each other so.
After a few minutes, he notices his own smile in the picture and understands Mrs. Moore's comments and concern. It's not just the long hair or the weight he's lost. The guy with his arm around Jess looks relaxed, well-rested, and happy. Sam isn't that guy anymore. He hasn't been in a while.
Eventually, the picture starts to blur with unshed tears. He blinks them away hard and sets the picture next to him. The rest of the box contains small mementos from dates they went on, memories they shared, things that feel like they belong to someone else in another lifetime. He fingers a necklace he'd given her not too long before the fire. It catches a bit of sunlight as it twirls between his fingers, and he realizes it still smells like her. He clutches it in his fist like in some small way he's still holding on to her.
A few minutes later, the contents of the box are spread around him, and he feels empty, too.
"Sam?" a soft voice asks from behind him.
He turns to see Mrs. Moore standing just inside the doorway. He wipes at any trace of tears that might have formed.
"Is there anything else you'd like? Anything we missed?"
"No," he says, and has to stop to clear his throat. "No, this is perfect. Thank you."
"You're more than welcome." She doesn't leave, and he doesn't move to put anything back in the box. "She really loved you, you know."
He nods and swallows against the lump that's forming in his throat. "Yeah. I know. I really loved her, too." He hesitates. Against his will, his eyes fill with tears. "I'm…I'm so sorry…about…"
"Oh, Sam," Mrs. Moore says, crossing the room and moving a few pictures aside to sit next to him. "There's nothing to be sorry about. It's not your fault. It was an accident."
He knows she doesn't mean for those words to sting, but they do. He can't stop the tears any longer, so they fall with a broken sob.
"It's okay," she whispers, pulling him in to a hug.
Even with his towering frame, he feels small in her arms, and he's overwhelmed by the feeling of not needing to be strong. He mumbles apologies, she whispers condolences and they cry together.
"I'm so sorry," he chokes out again, lulled by the way she's rocking him back and forth. "If I had been there…"
"It might not have made any difference," she interrupts. "Or you might have been injured, too. Don't you fret about that."
The next part of the apology, the part that he's kept locked up inside but so desperately needs to get out, is on his lips before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry because it's my fault. If I hadn't met her…if we hadn't been… she'd still be alive."
The rocking stops and Mrs. Moore holds him out at arm's length. "Is that what you think?" she asks, disbelief clear on her face and in her voice, and he has to look away. "Oh, Sam, that's just nonsense. It's not your fault. It was an accident. No wonder you look so worn out. That's too much guilt for any one person to carry around." She tips his chin up with one finger. "The only thing you're responsible for is making my daughter happier than she'd been in a long time. That's all. So you take credit for that and don't worry about the rest, okay? You let that other nonsense go."
It's not nonsense, but she won't understand that, so for just a few minutes he chooses to let himself believe that what she says is the truth. His tears slow and come to a stop. His head hurts and his eyes feel puffy, but it's a little easier to breathe without that weight pressing on his chest.
Without a word, Sam starts placing items back in the box, and she helps him.
"I should go check on Dean again. It's time for more medicine." She stands and smoothes out the wrinkles in her pants. "There are towels in the washroom if you want to splash some cold water on your face. Then, Jerry's probably in the den watching some football game that he's all excited about. I'm sure he'd love to have company to watch it with, if you'd like."
Sam forces a half-smile. "Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Sam."
She runs her fingers through his hair, cups her hand around his neck, and he remembers how Jess used to do exactly the same thing.
…
Dean wakes and tries to swallow around the pound of mucus that seems to have come loose while he was sleeping, but just ends up coughing. Someone is standing over him, and in the soft light she looks like an angel. She helps him sit up and holds a glass to his lips. The cool liquid soothes his throat and quiets the cough for now.
"How are you feeling?" the angel asks gently as she produces a tissue out of nowhere.
His first instinct is just to sniffle, to suck some of that snot back where it came from, but the angel is still holding the tissue in front of his face. "It's soft," he mumbles. His own voice sounds far away.
"What's soft?"
"Tissue."
"Well, of course it is." She takes the used tissue and hands him another one. "What have you been using? Sandpaper?"
There's a witty remark somewhere along the fuzzy edges of his brain, but he doesn't reach for it.
The angel throws away a couple more tissues before peeking inside one. "Clear," she pronounces like she's jump-starting someone's heart. "That's good. That means your sinuses aren't infected."
He wants to tell her that she's crazy for looking at his snot, and she's also wrong because every cell in his body feels infected, but she smoothes her hand over his forehead before he can say a word. It makes him shiver just a little bit, and he closes his eyes, welcoming the soothing temperature change against the ache. There must be someone else in the room, because he hears a feeble moan that can't possibly have come from his lips.
"Open up, honey. Let's see how that fever's doing." He ends up coughing so much that she has to take his temperature a second time. "It's just as high as it was before," she says, running her fingers through his short hair. "You must feel awful." He almost whimpers. Almost, but not quite.
With a wave of dizziness, she helps him into an upright position. "I made you some tea," she says as she places a mug in his hands.
It's warm and heavy, and the liquid inside tastes good. Like blackberries, he thinks, though he's pretty sure he's never had a blackberry before. She gives him another dose of medicine, which he swallows with more tea. It warms him from his belly out, chasing some of his shivers away. A coughing fit takes over, and the mug is replaced with a tissue and reassuring pats on the back.
"There, there," she says. "You're all right. Just breathe, sugar."
The fit passes, and she props him up against a few pillows. His eyelids are just about to slip closed when he feels the covers pulled down and his shirt tugged off over his head. His sluggish limbs cooperate against his will. He wants his shirt on and the blankets tucked back around him, but he's just too tired to make any of that happen.
"This is gonna be a little cold," the angel says.
He coughs in response, and sure enough, there's something cold being rubbed in to his chest. It spreads from his sternum out along his ribs and up his throat. It smells like a grandma, though he's not sure why. It feels so good that he doesn't care. He's breathing easier and his cough doesn't feel so demanding.
"Does that feel good?" she asks.
"Yeah," he murmurs through shivers and teeth that are almost chattering.
"Good. Now we just gotta get that fever to break. Gotta get rid of those chills."
When she's finished, she helps him put his shirt back on; sticking his arms through the correct holes just like he used to do for Sammy. His chest and throat continue to tingle as he lies back down. The angel tucks the covers tight around his shoulders.
"I'll be right back," she says, and he closes his eyes for just a second.
When she returns, he sees through blurry vision that she has something in her hands. She lifts the covers and places it next to him. It's warm and soft, so he instinctively pulls it closer. A hot water bottle, he realizes. It stops his shivering and convinces him that he might be warm again sometime in the future.
"Better?" she asks. He means to answer her with words, but all he manages is an affirmative moan. He's about to drift off to sleep when something cold is placed across his forehead. It's a soft cloth soaked in cool water, and he feels like a girl when he wants to weep because of it.
There's a knock at the door. "How's he doing?"
Sam's voice sounds strange for some reason, but everything's so messed up right now that Dean's not sure why that particular fact registers.
"Oh, he'll be all right," Mrs. Moore responds. "He'll feel a lot better once this fever breaks. I just gave him another dose of medicine with tea, some vapor rub, and a hot water bottle. He should be able to get some more rest now." She turns her voice in Dean's direction and adjusts the washcloth on his head. "Dean, can I get you anything else?"
As much as he doesn't want to, he forces his eyes open. "No. Thank you," he says, meaning those last two words possibly more than anything else he's ever said in his life.
"You're welcome, sweetheart. I'll let you talk to Sam for a minute, but then you get some rest, okay? I bet you'll be feeling a lot better when you wake up."
"Okay," Dean whispers, fighting to keep his eyes open. He blinks a little bit too long, and suddenly Sam is next to him, giving him a once-over. In a rare moment of clarity, he realizes that he must look 27 different types of pathetic. "One word…I will kill you," he warns, though there's no threat whatsoever in his tone.
Sam chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of it, dude. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," he manages. Before his eyes close again, he notices that not only does Sam's voice sound strange, but his eyes also look bloodshot and puffy, like he's been crying. "You?"
Sam sighs long and heavy. "Yeah. I'm fine. I'm gonna go watch the game with Mr. Moore, though. You get some sleep, okay?" Sam re-folds the washcloth and places it cool side down on Dean's forehead.
"M'kay," Dean mumbles. Then he says, "Sammy?"
"Yeah."
"Mrs. Moore…I think she's a witch, or an angel, or…something."
Dean feels a gentle pat on his leg. "Don't worry, Dean. There's nothing for you to hunt here. This is just what it's like to have a family."
The room falls quiet, but Dean knows Sam hasn't left yet. "You miss Jess, huh?"
It takes a minute before a response comes. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Dean coughs. "I miss mom, too." He lets his eyes slip closed and yawns. He thinks he hears Sam say something, but maybe that's just part of his dream.