Jess likes to sit on one end of the couch and watch Sam get himself off on the other. Sure, she doesn't get to do much in the way of participation, but it's pretty much one of the best things Jess has ever seen in her life.
Ever. God, she fucking loves watching Sam get himself off.
She's the one who taught him how to dirty talk. She almost didn't bother because those gaspy little happy noises Sam made were more than enough, but Jess likes to tease. Tease Sam, tease herself, doesn't matter, as long as there's a nice, long, healthy dose of anticipation before the big payoff.
The best is when Sam's lying in bed against the headboard with her sitting at the foot. Jess really likes making him touch himself while he tells her just what he's thinking about.
It was actually a pretty slow process because Sam gets embarrassed easily. After a month of stuttering and fumbled attempts, they—Jess, mostly—decided to institute a rule where anything said during sex doesn't count. Random exclamations of love or fantasies are all forgiven, especially if a fantasy or idle thought includes someone else they actually know.
This is in part because Jess has had at least one fantasy involving Sam and nearly every guy they know. It's not her fault, really. Sam is gorgeous and looks even better when he's getting fucked—moaning and gasping, grabbing at the sheets and whimpering like he just can't get enough.
What Jess really wants, in an ideal world with no diseases or jealousy or delusional guys who think they're straight, is for Sam to slut it up with just about every guy they've ever met. She really, really does. Girls, not so much. Guys, fuck, yes.
Becky, who never seems to be able to remember that she isn't actually a psych major, says it's because Jess feels competition with other women. She has all their parts, and blah, blah, blah. With guys it's different because she can't do everything they can.
This makes no sense at all to Jess, but she remembers it because Becky ended it with, "And it's reallyfucking hot. Really. My birthday's coming up; you should remember that that next time you have your digital camera out or something."
Dean's not stupid; he can read the signs. Dad's sending him off on more hunts on his own, finding more excuses to go see Caleb or Joshua or Pastor Jim by himself or otherwise be far, far away from Dean.
When they swing by Bobby's, and Dad picks up his truck—"Just makes sense; this way we can hit twice as many leads at once."—Dean knows they're as good as done.
Dad's had the truck since before Sam ran away like the little pussy he is, but he hasn't used it much yet. Until he decided to start splitting hunts with Dean, it mostly sat idle at Bobby's place.
They're still hunting together. but not for long. Dean can tell. He knows his dad.
Jess thinks it's tragic that there are hot boys in the world who she can't make have sex with Sam. She's said so in almost those exact words on several occasions, usually whenever she's at a bar and has had too many of those girly fruit-drinks she loves so much.
Jess has this thing where she keeps subtly bringing up the idea of Sam and Zach together. Sam tries to pretend that he isn't there next to her in the booth, and really, one day he's going to learn to stay home when he wants to instead of letting Jess drag him out.
Right now, they're in the middle of a bar, and Jess is just. Talking. Way, way, way too loudly. "He's great at sucking dick, really. It doesn't even have to be a real dick."
"Oh my god," Sam says, letting his head bounce right off the table so hard that it shakes everyone's drinks. He knows he should probably be proud of the sex stuff, but there's something about everyone within twenty feet of you knowing just how much you like sucking cock that's a little less than fun.
The only consolation is that he doesn't have to see the guys that Jess convinces to come home with them again—except when they accidentally pick up someone Sam never noticed in class before but suddenly can't ignore after that.
"You have no idea what you're missing, Zach. He's so good when he gets fucked, all moany and begging and loud. Makes me wish I had a real cock instead of just the strap-on. You really, really, need to stop pretending you like girls."
And that right there is way more than enough. Sam slides out of the booth, tugging Jess after him. "Okay, Jess, time to go home now."
"No, no!" She pulls away and whirls around, wobbling on her feet. "He needs to hear this!"
"No, he doesn't. Come on, Jessica." He stresses her name, using the full version in hopes that it might grab her attention. "Don't you wanna go home? Bed?"
"No," she whines. "It's your night off, so we're staying here and having fun, Sam." Jess pouts, making this adorable face and sticking her bottom lip out. "That's not fair; you don't have a long name. Ooh," she gasps with her eyes big and wide. "You're a Sammy! You're such a cute Sammy, Sammy."
Sam shoves back every feeling he equates with that name and forces his face as blank as he can get it. "Come on, babe, I need to get you home before you start puking." He tugs at her hand again, sliding the other one to the small of her back for more leverage. She pulls away again, intent on not leaving.
Any other time, Sam would play along, maybe even stay despite the mortification. Right now, though, what he really wants to do is get her home, sober her up, and explain to her why he wants her to never, ever call him that again.
Using the hand on her back to throw off her balance is a cheap move, but Sam can't really be assed to care right now. He lets her grab his arm for support and sweeps her off her feet, an arm under her knees and the other one supporting her back. Jess whacks him in the face with her purse—possibly on purpose, possibly on accident—when she goes to grab at his neck, and he very valiantly doesn't drop her, even though that bag has corners that fucking hurt.
He smiles tightly and manages to nod goodbye to Zach and their other friends without looking at any of them before making his way outside and trying to find a cab.
Dean's pretty sure there actually aren't words yet that describe the feeling that goes through the pit of his stomach when he finally gets a call from his dad.
It's part relief—because every time he drops off the grid, that nagging voice in the back of Dean's head starts to yell—and part… fear? He's not sure exactly how to describe it. It's not the mind-numbing terror he gets when Sammy's hurt or the low, comfortable kind of fear he associates with hunts. It's that weird, unnamed feeling he gets sometimes, the one that makes him go left instead of right at the light or chase the hunt way over in Denver instead of right next door in Queens.
Then the message starts cutting in and out, and Dean hears the unmistakable sound of EVP in the breaks. Dean hangs up and then curses himself because that was fucking amateur, and he knows better. His voicemail could've fucking erased the message.
Fucking Katrina, damn it. New Orleans is the only place in the whole fucking country where he can't get fucking cell reception. It's been three weeks since anyone's heard from him, and the first fucking call he gets, he misses. Dean knows it's useless, but he tries calling him anyway.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He kicks a hole in the cheap plaster wall of his motel room. He can do this. He just needs to breathe deep and ignore the fear and anger so he can pretend this is just some random case and figure out what he has to do next.
Except it's his dad.
He can't just go chasing after him alone; he doesn't even know what happened. Except that he could, Dad made sure of that—and holy fuck, Dad made sure he could do this alone—and he can probably guess what happened, too.
Dean knows what to do. He throws his shit in his bag, heads straight out to his girl, and beelines west towards Sammy.
It's sometime in the afternoon before he even thinks about Jess and the gigantic fucking shit bomb of a mess that could be. Even then, it's only because she fucking calls him. He's eight hours into the trip, gassing up in San Antonio, when her ringtone trills out of his phone.
He almost doesn't pick up. He's not panicking anymore, but fucking shit, man. In his semi-psychotic hurry this morning, he'd completely fucking forgotten about her. He opens the phone and hopes he doesn't sound like he just pounded a Red Bull, Monster, and Mountain Dew breakfast. "Yeah?"
"Why does Sam hate Halloween so much?"
Dean rubs his forehead and breathes. He can do this. Just pretend he's driving up to Washington or something. "Mid-October to January were always bad times. Lots of anniversaries."
"What's so bad about an anniversary?"
Dean feels the laughter bubble up in him and can't quite tamp it down. It's not just borderline hysterical; it sounds one hundred percent insane, but it's not like Jess can blame him. Well, could, if she knew. Which she probably will soon because Dean's life has pulled a Twilight Zone on him and turned into a fucking soap opera when he wasn't looking.
Dean can hear Jess calling him by the fake name he gave her because he was too much of a fucking idiot to just hang up and change his number when she asked him.
"Nathan, please, you're scaring me. Answer! Say something."
Dean bounces his head off the steering wheel, hard enough that he can pull himself together a little more. "I've been awake since… Sunday. Saturday? It's Wednesday, right?"
"Thursday. So I've been up since Saturday, and I think all the sugar and caffeine is finally hitting me." That part isn't a lie, not completely. Adrenaline's been a big part of it, too. "I should probably get some sleep. I'll call you later." There's the lie. Not the sleep—he needs to find a truck stop or something and grab a couple of hours. He's not going to call her, though, not for a while and maybe not ever again.
"Yeah, you should definitely get some sleep. Call me when you wake up, okay?"
He doesn't want to lie to her. Fuck, he's so screwed. Dean makes some nonsense noise into the phone and hangs up.
"I am not fucking drunk enough for this shit," Dean mumbles. He loves his girl, but he deserves a fucking bed after this. Besides, he needs a clear head if he's gonna try and figure out how to corner Sammy without running into Jess.
"—The hell are you doing here?"
A laugh—chuckle, really. "Well, I was looking for a beer."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Okay, all right. We gotta talk."
She can't make much of anything out. It's dark, and her eyes have yet to adjust properly.
"Uh, the phone?"
"If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?"
She flicks on the light and sees Sam, standing there in their living room with some guy. He's smaller than Sam with a slightly thinner build, and he looks kind of like he hasn't showered in a while, with messy hair, bags under his eyes, and what looks like dirt on his face. She has no idea who he is. "Sam?"
Sam glances at her. "Jess. Hey," he says, and then his eyes are right back on the stranger. "Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica." She's probably imagining the emphasis on "girlfriend."
Or. Wait. "Wait, your brother, Dean?" She can't stop the smile that splits her face; he's alive. There's finally something concrete about Sam that she knows. So Sam probably did stress the "girlfriend" role; she remembers that Dean's not big on commitment or sleeping with people more than twice. Their dad didn't like attachments, didn't let them date—standard, stupid, idiot movie crap.
Huh. Guess he was telling the truth about that, too.
The guy—Dean, Sam's brother—leers at her. It's quick, but it's enough to make her remember that she's got on bootie shorts and her ancient Smurfs shirt.
"I love the Smurfs," he tells her with a sleazy grin, waving at her chest. There's something about that grin that itches at the back of her head. It's probably just because she's seen it on Sam before, only infinitely less borderline creepy. "You know, I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother's league."
Jess barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes at him. It's kind of cute how completely unsmooth he is, like a thirteen-year-old who just realized he has a dick. "Just let me put something on."
"No, no, no, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously." He pauses, moving back towards Sam. "Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but, uh, nice meeting you." He points at her—points—and it's the dorkiest thing ever. It's adorable, and she wants to smile because all of Sam's random little quirks make a lot more sense now.
She doesn't, though, because she's not stupid, let alone blind or deaf. The tension in the air is thick, and the way Sam's staring at his brother isn't anything like she expected. She would've thought he'd be happy to see Dean.
"No," Sam cuts in. And it's like he suddenly remembered that she was in the room, because he crosses the gap between them and places himself next to her, throwing a possessive arm around her waist. She glances at him sideways and wonders what is going on in that freakish head of his. There's no way he can think she won't tear him a new one for this macho He-Man shit later. "No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her."
"Okay." Dean shifts his whole body, moving so that he's full-on in front of them—of Sam. Face-to-face again, giving Sam his total, undivided attention. She may as well be a wall plant for all he notices her. "Um, Dad hasn't been home in a few days." Maybe it's not the smile because that itch in the back of her head is getting worse. She's not so sure that it's Sam, either, because that just doesn't feel right.
Sam's hand tightens on her back, his fingers digging in lightly before relaxing again. Despite this, he's flippant when he speaks. "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."
Dean nods once, dropping his head for a moment. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days." There's something about that that sends chills down her spine, not just what he's saying but how. His mouth tilts a little—not a smile, really, but something close enough to it to be creepy. And his eyes. His eyes don't leave Sam's, not for a second. They just bore right into him, anchored.
Sam freezes. She's never really understood that saying before, 'he stood frozen to his spot' or whatever, but she gets it now. Sam doesn't twitch a finger, doesn't breathe, doesn't swallow—nothing. She's pretty sure he hasn't even blinked. "Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."
"I'm fine." He's walking away already, headed towards the bedroom. He's quick, but she still spends an awkward moment stuck with Dean, who seems to have completely dismissed her after the pass he made earlier. Sam's got a hoodie pulled on and his feet stuffed into sneakers when he comes back.
"I'll be right back."
Jess scoffs. She speaks Sam; she knows what that means. "I'm not going back to sleep."
The door is barely closed before Sam starts talking again. "I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."
Dean's loud, but not as loud, and they're further down the stairs if the echo is anything to go by. "You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing."
"Holy shit," she gasps. Sammy. He called him Sammy. That's it, that's why—"Holy fucking shit." That's why he seemed so familiar—not because he's Sam's brother, but because she's been talking to him for the last year.
Jess has no fucking clue why she's so freaked out. It's not like she didn't sometimes think Nate was Dean anyway, but damn, it's different to think it in theory when you're bored in class—it's another thing to meet him.
At least that explains why he ignored her so completely. There's no way in hell he's stupid enough to think that she didn't recognize him, and even though she didn't put it together until he was out of the apartment, she's sure she would've figured it out. Really, she would have.
It might've taken a while, though, until she tried to call Nate, and Dean's phone rang next to her or something else horribly rom-com like that. Not that he'd be the male lead or anything, because he wouldn't. That would be Sam, of course. Nate—Dean—whoever the hell he is would be, like, the gay best friend who keeps telling you to dump the jock and go for the nerd.
Or something. Stupid Zach.
Anyway, she would've figured it out at some point, and ten minutes is totally good timing. It took Lois Lane two movies to figure out Clark Kent was Superman, and all he did was take off his glasses and comb his hair different. Nate—Dean only ever called her, and people sound different on the phone than they do in person.
He's nothing like she thought he would be. His words sound all wrong, and he holds himself... awkward is the only way she can think of it. It's not awkward on him—she can tell he's comfortable—but it's not the right stance for that voice on the phone. It's too upright, too well-postured and stiff.
And he doesn't look anything like she thought he would, either as Nate or as Sam's brother. With Dean, she expected darker hair, and shorter, like that buzz that Sam had when she first met him. She thought he'd be bigger, too. Not that he's short or scrawny or anything, but the way Sam talked about him, she figured he was at least a good few inches taller than Sam, maybe a little meatier, too. Sam doesn't talk about him much, but when he does, it's like he's Superman and God all rolled into one.
Dean looks like their dad, which is weird because she always thought Sam looked like his dad in the one picture he has, but Sam and his brother don't look like each other.
But when she thought he was Nate the ex-boyfriend—
Jess is really a fantastically creepy person. Even though she didn't know he was Sam's brother, that's still some pretty creepy fantasizing she's done in the last few months. Okay, eleven months. Longer, if you want to get technical and count all those times she thought about Sam and some random ex.
She's seen Sam's ex-boyfriends, though, and Sam's definitely got a type. His boyfriends have been boxers, football players, rock climbers, a cop—lots of ass-kickers, the kind of guys who tend to be real comfortable in their closets. He likes the big guys, sometimes even bigger than him. Manly, too, which usually means they're assholes. Hot and really good in bed, but assholes.
Despite all that, she didn't have a clear image in her head of Nate, except for the random occasions when she pictured him as Nathan Fillion, which was all the Sci-Fi Channel's fault. She pictured him built kind of like a football player—quarterback or linebacker like Sam's usual—but with that Captain America blond hair and blue eyes. It never felt right, though. The personality was all off, didn't fit the frat-like picture in her head.
Fuck. Sam's brother, Dean. Who is Nate. Was. Is?
"Fuck," she mumbles to herself. "I need a fucking drink."
Sam's proud of how he manages to keep his hands from shaking, even though he feels like his whole fucking world is about to explode around him like he's in some Michael Bay movie. Jess is wandering back and forth in front of the door to their room as he packs, probably trying to figure out how to start the interrogation without tipping her hand. They live together; Sam's seen all her secret plans.
She still seems a little drunk from tonight, which is weird because he doesn't remember her drinking that much. His only hope is that she's still buzzed enough that she doesn't notice the claw blade he sneaks into his bag when she comes back in the room again. "Wait, you're taking off? Is this about your dad? Is he all right?"
Sam bites back a grimace and tries to smile and fake like it's nothing. It's not about Dad at all, not really. Sam's not that worried about him; this is Dad's pattern, vanish in the middle of hunting something big and bad that has Joshua shaking in his paramilitary boots and then show up a couple of weeks later, bruised and stitched but not much worse for the wear.
But Dean. Dean asked him. Dean never asks Sam for help with anything.
"Yeah. You know; just a little family drama." Just because he turns away and remembers he should get clothes from the dresser doesn't mean he's avoiding Jess.
"Your brother said he was on some kind of hunting trip." Sam's brain is screaming at him. It's a trap, it's a trap! Danger, Will Robinson!
"Oh, yeah, he's just deer hunting up at the cabin." Of course, Jess has planted herself right next to Sam's bag, unwilling to be ignored. "He's probably got Jim, Jack, and José along with him. I'm just going to go bring him back."
Sam tries to make himself forget that Jess knows they don't have any fucking cabins and does everything he can to avoid any prolonged eye contact. It's bad enough that he's lying to her face—again—without any trouble. He'd like to keep some small bit of honor.
"What about the interview?"
"I'll make the interview," Sam scoffs. At least there's one truth. That counts, right? "This is only for a couple days." He tries to make his exit quick before that nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach makes him do something stupid like stay or tell Jess the truth.
She follows him, not content to let him sneak away or take his shallow responses at face value. "Sam, I mean, please. Just stop for a second. You sure you're okay?"
Sam wants to pull her close, hug her to him, and tell her the truth. Tell her that his brother just all but begged for him to come hold his hand because he's scared. That his dad has vanished off the face of the fucking earth again and may have been killed by some fucking ghost, neither of which are new in any way. And that, oh, by the way, every other night, she dies a painful, vivid death in his dreams. "I'm fine."
"It's just... you won't even talk about your family." He scoffs again, rolling his eyes at her. He concludes from the lack of a smack, shove, or insult that she must be well past buzzed and into completely trashed. That, or she's actually talking from the heart, and he's being a jerk just so he can get away. And get back faster, of course. "And now you're taking off in the middle of the night to spend a weekend with them? And with Monday coming up, which is kind of a huge deal."
Fucking Dean. He really doesn't want to go, especially with those creepy dreams he's been having, but he hasn't seen Dean in years. Sam misses his big brother. "Hey," Sam starts out, letting every single ounce of earnest honesty show on his face. "Everything's going to be okay. I will be back in time, I promise."
He gives her a quick peck on the cheek and makes his escape away from that concerned, patient stare.
"At least tell me where you're going," Jess shouts after him. He's not sure if it was a request or an order. It doesn't matter either way; it's not like he even knows where they're going aside from the name of the town.
Sam's almost to the door when he catches a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and stops short. His heart practically cracks his ribs with how hard it's beating, and he doesn't want to turn and see that damn nightgown, but he has to see it.
It's not even white. It's the dress Jess was wearing today in Bruckner's class because he promised extra homework to anyone who showed up in costume—light pink top with baby blue and gold beaded flowers and a wrinkly, gauzy bottom to it, flowing out from below the chest and bleeding from the top's light pink to a darker pink towards the middle.
It's not that stupid fucking nightgown from his nightmares, but Sam can't seem to calm his heart back down.
This is how Dean knows his girl loves him—he grabbed his Foreigner tape out of the glove box, and instead of Hot Blooded belting out of his speakers, All Right Now came on instead. Because she knows him, and she can pick his soundtrack better than him.
So now he's rocking out in the car because he can, and it feels fucking good. He's got Sam back—for a weekend, at least—Jess didn't say anything about the letters or anything and might not have even realized, and he and Sam are gonna find Dad. Things're going good.
Dean's drumming out the guitar part on the steering wheel and only restraining himself from turning it up to eleven because it would suck major ass to get the cops called on him for this. He can just see it now, sitting in the jail cell, the other guys asking him what he did to get in there. "I blasted my music on a public street!"
Eh, it's fucking Stanford. He'd probably be the most badass one in there anyway, surrounded by a bunch of kids trashed on a beer and the head of some counterfeit pocket protector ring or something.
He's singing along with the song, completely out of tune and not giving half a damn. "Now don't you wait or hesitate, let's move before they raise the parking rate!" Dean's just about to break into the chorus, which he might just have to turn it up for, when the back passenger door swings open, and two oversized purse-looking things are thrown in the back seat, followed by a huge, fuzzy, purple thing.
"What the hell is that?"
"It's my body pillow," says a voice that definitely doesn't belong to Sam.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"She's coming with. Let's go."
"Are you out of your fucking mind? Hell, no, this is family business."
"She is my family, Dean. She comes with, or I get out with her; your choice."
Christ on a motherfucking pogo stick.
Dean says nothing. Neither does Sam, up front with his legs jammed half on the seat, or Jess, already half asleep in the back and curled around her fucking body pillow.
Dean jabs the tape off—motherfucker—and puts his car into drive, flipping a bitch and trying to remember which one-way street around here is gonna lead him to the interstate.
This is going to suck out loud.
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