Chapter Text
With traffic on Embarcadero behind him, Dean calls the registrar's office and says he works for a law firm he picked out of the San Francisco phone book not five minutes before, says that a "Samuel Winchester's applied for a job and lists Stanford as his current enrollment. It's just procedure, background checks, you know how it goes," and the woman on the other end of the phone sighs in agreement. He can hear her clicking away at a computer, hears her make a noise that only ever accompanies frowns.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Winchester was a student here, but he resigned his scholarship and transferred out four semesters ago. If you give me just one second," she says, and now Dean's not breathing. "Yes, we sent a transcript to the City College of San Francisco at that time."
Dean exhales, flirts a bit more with the woman, and hangs up, muttering, "I am so going to kill you when I track you down."
In the end, it's not that hard.
--
Dean drives into San Francisco, finds a park, leaves the Impala in a lot, ends up sitting on the ground, back leaning against a tree, and taking a nap for a few hours. He’s got the props, leather jacket on the ground next to him, two books on electrical engineering, and when a shadow falls over his face and wakes him up, he’s looking at a little girl.
“Hey,” he says gently, and flips the page of the book open on his lap, something to do with zero cross circuits he think he learned about when he was eleven. “You lost or something?”
The girl tilts her head, then smiles at him, wide and open, and laughs before running away. Dean keeps an eye on her—there are creatures that would come out here in the darkening twilight, tempted by the promise of the kid’s innocence—but she runs to an older woman, hugs the woman’s legs, and the two walk off together, medium-sized dog romping at the end of a leash next to them.
Dean watches them go, swallows at the picture they make, and stands up, bones popping, joints protesting the movement. He checks his watch, sees he’s been here long enough to consider it a full night’s sleep, and saunters back to the Impala, seeing a few girls, as well as a handful of guys, check him out.
He decides he needs some money; looking for Sam can wait until tomorrow morning, especially since Dean has no idea where to begin, other than following the lead to City College. He remembers his father saying something about the Upper Haight, spoiled bohemian rich kids who don’t know a con when they see one, are all too eager to hand over their parents’ money, so Dean puts the books back in the car and crosses the street, heading for the corner of Haight and Ashbury, intent on finding a bar with a good crowd to hustle, play some pool, maybe some darts, and get a few hours of sleep before resuming the search for Sam.
It’s busy, a Thursday night, and Dean strolls down the street, looking at each bar and pub, trying to find one that looks as if it might have easy marks. He’s a couple blocks down when he sees a good one, lots of people going in and out, everyone smiling, having a good time, so Dean goes to the door. Two girls are on their way out, so he holds the door open for them, looking them over but being casual, easy, about it. The first girl, tiny little blonde with a gorgeous, if half-drunk, smile, thanks him and then giggles.
The second girl makes Dean do a double-take. She’s easily as tall as him, and it’s automatic to look and see how high her heels are; he raises an eyebrow when he sees she’s wearing sandals that rest flat on the ground. He smiles at her, another pretty blonde, wavy hair and open hazel eyes, eyes that remind Dean a little too much of Sam’s. She smiles back, opens her mouth to say thank you, he thinks, but she stops before she says anything, frowns and gives him a closer look.
The first girl tugs on her hand, says, “Jess, c’mon, who knows what the boys’ve been up to,” but the second girl, Jess, shakes her head and holds her ground.
“Becky, God, hold on,” she mutters, and as Dean’s trying to find a way to get past the two, Jess says, “Dean?” He stiffens, looks at her again, closer, trying to see if her face jogs any memories, anything that might tell him why and how this random chick in San Francisco knows his name.
“Oh, you’re kidding, right?” Becky says, low husky voice threaded through alcohol and laughter. “Dean? Now you’re seeing things like Sam, come on, let’s go.”
Dean tilts his head to one side, studies them both, and says, eyebrow raised, “Sam?” because this is just impossible.
Still, Jess smiles, grabs Dean’s hand, and pulls him along with her and Becky. “I’ll explain in the cab,” she says.
Dean digs his heels in, says, “I have a car; it’s not too far away. How ‘bout you explain now?” and pulls his hand out of Jess’.
“Fine,” she says with a shrug, and grabs her friend as Becky lurches, starts laughing at something no one else can see. “You’re Dean. I mean, you have to be, you look just like the picture Sam’s always carrying around, and he thought you’d be coming, wouldn’t tell me why, but he’s like that sometimes, y’know? Oh, and I’m Jess, Jessica, and this is Rebecca, and Sam’s my fiancé. He’s at home watching the game with Zach, Becky’s brother.” She pauses, then says, eyes narrowed, “You are Dean Winchester, right?”
Dean looks down, sees a ring on the right finger, looks back up and has to convince his mouth to close. “Yeah,” Dean says, shocked and suspicious and hurt and thankful at all once, because this is far better than having to track Sam down, but this chick, this Jess, Sam’s marrying her and no one knew?
“All right, then,” Jess says, and the frown’s gone, the smile’s back. “Where’s this car of yours? Sam said you have a classic?”
--
Jess directs him to a small building down a couple blocks from Haight Street and over a few from Ashbury; Dean hates one-way streets but it’s not so bad with Jess sitting in the passenger seat and stroking the leather, Becky in the back, both of the girls talking over one another to tell him the fastest way to get there.
“Look for the smoke,” Becky suggests, managing to sound serious for all of five seconds before descending into a fit of giggles.
“Park up there,” Jess orders, and when they do, Jess leads him, with Becky trailing behind them, to the alley next to a bookstore, one with gold letters painted on the window and a small discreet alarm system that Dean recognises as a pretty damn good one. She jiggles a key in the back door lock and disables the alarm when the door opens. Dean hears laughter and yelling coming from up a narrow staircase. Some of the noise is new, coming from a person Dean’s never met before, but the rest of it, the quieter shouting, if such a thing is possible, makes Dean’s stomach swirl, makes his throat clench.
He takes the steps two at a time, leaves Jess to reset the alarm and haul Becky in and up by herself, and when he gets to the top of the staircase, turns around the corner of the landing, Sam is right there, sitting on a couch, legs spread and leaning forward, throwing pieces of popcorn at a television.
“Fucking shit, Winchester, I don’t know how the fuck you do it!” Dean’s eyes shift, quickly take in a guy sitting on a recliner, one hand over his eyes as the other’s passing a twenty dollar bill in Sam’s direction.
Sam takes it, drops it on the coffee table quickly, as if it’s burnt him, and shakes his head. He recovers from whatever that was, says, “And thank you, Zachary Warren, for never learning,” laughs, and stands, doing a miniature impromptu victory dance. He looks ridiculous, but as he turns, he stops, seeing Dean just standing there, frozen. Sam blinks, hovers, as if he doesn’t know whether to stand there or go over and wrap Dean in his arms.
Jess comes up behind them, pushes Becky ahead of her and around Dean, and elbows Dean out of the way so she can follow. “Look who I found,” she says, standing in front of Sam, and while Dean’s looking, watching, she reaches up, curls her hands around Sam’s neck and pulls his head down, kisses him.
One of Sam’s giant hands cups Jess’ cheeks, and it’s a long, painful moment before Dean hears Jess ask, “You two have a good night?”
Zach snorts, picks up a handful of popcorn and throws it at them, says, “Enjoy dinner on me. Sam’s ripped me off. Again. Who’s that? The puppy wasn’t bad enough, Jess, now you’re bringing home waifs? What’s your man think about all this?” and Zach doesn’t even look at Sam, just tilts himself back in his chair.
“Wait, a puppy?” Dean can’t help himself, because seeing Sam, like this, with a fiancée, living above a bookstore and apparently owning a puppy, is so surreal his mind can’t process it.
“Aeschylus,” Jess says proudly. “My parents took him off our hands for a while,” and Becky falls on top of Zach, giving him a hug, Dean apparently forgotten by both of them. Jess looks up at Sam, must share some secret couple-y communication, because a moment later, Sam smiles and nods, looks at Dean, gestures behind the couch.
“Want a beer?” Sam asks.
As Jess flutters around the brother and sister, Dean shrugs, says, “What the hell,” and follows his brother into a kitchen.
--
Sam flicks the light on with his elbow and Dean gets a better idea of the place, can see more now than he could when the only light came from the glow of a television screen and some plain white Christmas lights strung up around the landing. The kitchen’s small, seems dwarfed by Sam, who grabs a pair of gloves from one end of the counter, takes a beer out of the fridge, pops the top and hands it to Dean, before filling up a kettle and turning on one of the stove burners.
Sam putters around with mugs and some jar of green herbs, so Dean looks around, sees a row of plants on the windowsill above the sink, recognises the smell of sage and lavender permeating everything, sees a row of bells strung near the curtains and a small bowl of salt and a crust of bread on the counter.
There’s a block of knives a little further down, and Dean pulls one out, raises an eyebrow when he tests the edge and finds his thumb bleeding a moment later. He nods, impressed, puts it back, and runs a finger along a curved row of words, painted on the sky-blue wall. Absit Omen in red, Veritas Omnia Vincit in green, Pax et Lux in yellow, Non Scholae Sed Vitae Discimus in black.
“What kinda life are you living here, Sammy?” Dean asks, not facing his brother.
Sam, behind him, filling up a jug with water, laughs, says, “Do you want the short answer or the long answer?”
“Short for now,” Dean replies, and turns, sees Sam leaning over the sink, reaching to open the window. Dean’s eyes trail the muscles in Sam’s arms, the curve of Sam’s back and hips, the patch of skin between shirt and jeans, and he coughs, looks away, when Sam finally unlatches the thing, checks to make sure there’s no one outside before he spills one small dash of water out of the window and then pours the rest over the plants.
“Jess’ parents run the store downstairs,” Sam says. He finishes watering the plants, sets the jug behind the sink and turns around, leans against the counter. “I work here, go to school part-time. Jess and I met about a week after I started and we’ve been together ever since.” It’s a cautious tone, giving breath to cautious words, and Sam shifts on his feet when he adds, “I proposed a few months ago. Thought about calling Dad, but didn’t.”
“Ever think about calling me?” Dean asks, and he’s gratified to see Sam’s cheeks redden as his brother looks away.
Sam swallows, says, “Dean, we can’t. I can’t. Not now,” but he’s not saying it to Dean’s face. “Jess and I, we’re good. We have a good thing. I love her.”
They fall into silence after that, and when it stretches to the point of discomfort, the kettle starts to whistle.
Dean watches as Sam pours two cups full of boiling water, switches the gas burner off, starts to stir. One of them smells pungent, the other thin, and when Sam drops the spoon into the sink, Jess walks in, face open, trusting. He wonders if she knows anything about Sam, then wonders if he does, this Sam who’s giving his fiancée a cup of weak-smelling tea, who looks at home here, in this small, normal kitchen.
Jess murmurs her thanks and reaches above the microwave, pulls down a wire holder filled with prescription bottles. Dean frowns, eyes narrowed and trying to read the names of the drugs, the name on the bottle, but Jess has opened one, is counting the pills inside, and she looks up with a sigh, pinning her eyes on Sam.
She’s got her back to Dean, he can’t see the look on her face, but Sam looks sheepish and stubborn at the same time, says, “I only took it a few hours early, Jess.”
“A few hours early? Sam,” Jess says, putting the top back on the bottle. She’s almost got it back in the box, but then Sam’s hand, still wearing that glove, both of them still covered, is resting on hers, and she shakes her head, says, “No, Sam. There’s ibuprofen, that’ll have to be good enough for now.”
“Jess,” Sam says, pleads, and Jess moves her hands, grasps the edges of the counter. Dean can see her knuckles turning white. “Jess, one more won’t.”
“Don’t,” Jess says, voice low and fierce. “Don’t, Sam.” She bangs the little orange container back in the box, shoves it into the cupboard, and takes a key off the top of the microwave, locks the cabinet and lets the key fall down her shirt, into the valley between her breasts.
Dean looks back and forth between the two of them, and says, “Should I know what’s going on here?”
--
Zach and Becky are bundled up in the guest bedroom, both of them snoring, cuddled up next to each other. Jess is standing in the doorway, watching, and Dean pauses on his way back from the bathroom, looks around her, wonders what it is she’s seeing to put that dopey smile on her face. His eyes flick to Jess, around the room, then back to the bed, and he must make a noise, move suddenly, or something, when he sees that Zach and Becky are twisted together, their legs twined, Becky’s hand on Zach’s arm, his on her ass, pressing them tighter, holding them together, because Jess turns to look at him, the smile leaving her face in favour of a hard-nosed look.
“They are related, right?” he murmurs. “I mean, they’re not married or dating, you said they’re brother and sister.”
Jess lifts her chin, stares Dean down, and says, “That shouldn’t be a problem for you, Dean.”
Maybe she does know Sam pretty well.
Dean’s not sure what sort of look he gets on his face after that, but whatever it is, it makes Jess’ expression soften, makes her take Dean by the arm and pull him away from the guest bedroom. She closes the door, leaving Zach and Becky to sleep off the alcohol, and leads Dean back to the kitchen.
Sam’s sitting at the table and there’s a bottle of ibuprofen on the counter, a mug of something that smells repugnant cradled in Sam’s gloved hands. Jess rifles through the fridge, pulls out a bottle of beer and a bottle of water, hands the first one to Dean and tells him to sit down, get comfortable, keeps the water for herself and straddles a chair on one side of Sam. Dean sits down, pops open the beer, and looks back and forth between Sam and Jess, waiting.
No one says anything, Jess seems content to wait and Sam’s sitting there, staring down at the contents of his mug, so Dean finally has a swallow of his beer and asks, “Why’d you transfer out?” Sam jumps at the noise, and when Jess reaches over to rub Sam’s knee, Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember Sam being this twitchy, this jumpy, this quiet, and he’d like to know what happened to make that change.
“I was sick,” Sam says after a moment, and Dean watches as Jess moves her chair closer to Sam, leans in to him as if giving him strength. “About a month into classes, I ended up in the hospital. Meningitis. My fever topped out at 105, I had the headaches, the delirium, everything. It,” he pauses, searches for words, eventually says, “It wasn’t pretty. I ended up missing too much time to think about catching up, and I couldn’t take an extension because of the scholarship, so I decided to work a little, enrol part-time here in the city.”
“You never called us,” Dean says. “Sam.”
Sam shakes his head, bites his lower lip, and finally looks at Dean, and says, “I know. I just. I couldn’t.” Sam’s eyes are a maelstrom of emotion, too much for Dean to puzzle out before Sam drops his gaze again and goes on. “Jess’ parents were hiring someone to go through their older books here and do some research on what prices they might get at auctions or from other booksellers.”
“It’s a small shop,” Jess interrupts. “But we’ve got a good collection. My parents are fascinated by old things and they needed someone who could read more than just English. I pretty much don’t,” she adds with a smile, one Sam mirrors as he looks at her.
“When they realised I could read Latin, especially, they hired me on the spot. I started working here, ended up doing some classes at City, take some from New College, teach a t’ai chi class a couple times a week at the community centre.” Sam takes a sip of his tea, Dean thinks, judging by the smell, and shrugs. “It’s not, y’know, big or anything, but it’s good. It’s a good life.”
Dean expects to hear challenge in Sam’s voice, or even bitterness, because as much as Sam says this is a good life, it was never his idea of one, doesn’t have anything to do with the law or big corporate America. He doesn’t hear either of those tones to Sam’s voice, which relaxes him a little, but Dean does hear some sadness, some longing still there, not completely exorcised by Sam’s running away from their family, and he wonders about it, where it comes from and what it means.
“Sam’s a good person,” Jess says, and before Dean can agree, can say he wasn’t thinking anything against that, she goes on, says, “My parents love him, his students adore him, and he’s only a few classes away from a degree now,” and Dean’s beginning to think she’s trying just a little too hard.
“Hey, I’m not gonna disagree,” Dean says, eyes flicking between the two of them, between them and this kitchen, all of the little things that, separately, fade into the background of what looks like a pretty peaceful, somewhat bohemian life, but together, they start to add up, paint a different picture. “Just, what aren’t you telling me? Because there’s obviously something,” and he raises an eyebrow, looks pointedly at the gloves that Sam’s still wearing.
Jess stands, moves behind Sam to the sink, refills her water bottle and sticks it in the fridge, grabs a different one, and rubs Sam’s shoulders before she sits down again.
“When I was sick,” Sam says, slowly, hesitantly. “When I had the fever, it did something to me. I didn’t notice until a few weeks after I was out, when I was working downstairs. I touched one of the books and, and saw this flash. Jess’ dad was behind the counter, he found me in the back room, passed out cold on the floor. It started happening more and more, though I never passed out again. The flashes, they came together, started making sense as images. About a year later, when I thought I could handle it well enough, I started getting sound as well, then smell, and then feeling.”
Dean holds up a hand, frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head and looks at Sam, eyes narrowed, and tries again. “You’re saying you got a fever, and now you see things when you touch books?”
Jess takes one of Sam’s hands, threads her fingers between Sam’s covered ones, and says, “It’s not just books, Dean.” Jess looks at Sam, who nods, traces the curve of the table with his other hand, and then she looks at Dean, who recognises the set of her jaw as stubbornness, the curve of her lips as honesty.
“Sam’s a clairvoyant, one of the strongest I’ve ever met. He can’t see the future, but he sees the past and present, doesn’t just see it, but lives it, and he extrapolates patterns from it, as best we can guess. I don’t know what the fever did, whether it unlocked something that Sam already had or gave him completely new abilities, but it’s something we’ve learned to live with, something we’ve learned to use.”
“Outside of the bar, you said Sam thought I’d be coming,” Dean says, leaning back now, bowled over. Jess nods, so Dean looks at Sam and asks, “How’d you know?”
Sam smiles, it’s tight and drawn and doesn’t reach his eyes. “The other day, Jeanette, Jess’ mom, brought in a book that Dad flipped through once. When I touched the pages, I saw the two of you talking, heard my name mentioned a few times. It didn’t sound casual.”
Dean thinks that over, nods, and looks back at Sam’s girl, says, “You believe in this. You said Sam’s the strongest clairvoyant you’ve met. How’s a girl like you get mixed up with psychics?”
Jess laughs, and the sound seems to break some of tension in the room, tension Dean hadn’t realised it was there until it left. He’s not sure who it came from, or why, but he breathes a little easier now, takes a long swallow of his beer, and notices out of the corner of his eyes, pinned on Jess, that Sam’s watching him, watching Dean’s throat works as he tips the bottle back.
She speaks, and Sam’s eyes flick away, guilty, and the rhythm of his leg, bouncing under the table, stutters.
“My mom was born here, grew up here in the Haight,” she says, and Sam smiles, seems to settle, as if he’s heard this story before, loves it. “She was nine when the summer of love hit, and the hippies never really left. When she was growing up, she fell in with a group down the street, dropped some acid, started getting interested in tarot, crystals, palm reading, things like that. My dad came here instead of college in the seventies, dodged the draft and went off the radar.”
Jess laughs at the phrase, mumbles something about how absurd it sounds, though Sam doesn’t share her amusement, and neither does Dean.
“He loved books,” she goes on, “came for City Lights and ended up meeting my mom at a Winterland Ballroom concert. They’re both hippies, still,” she says, shaking her head, “and they raised me to have an open mind. I started getting interested in Wicca when I was younger, ended up joining a local coven when I was seventeen.”
Strangely enough, that relaxes Dean even more. It explains the herbs around the kitchen, the plants everywhere, the colours and little superstitious things, and yeah, he might not be so keen on the idea of this girl marrying his brother, but at least Sam had the good sense to find a chick that doesn’t balk at salt lines and stuffing herbs in the walls. He’s never met a Wiccan he didn’t like, met a few witches, but there’s a difference and Dean knows it well.
He breathes deeply, inhales and exhales a few times, looking at his beer, thumb tracing the curve in the bottle. Sam’s psychic. Sam’s getting married.
“This might be a little personal,” Dean says, and he hears Sam mutter something, hears the tone, not the words, and grins, big and wide, as he looks at his brother. “Tell me to fuck off if you want, but, dude. Do you have to keep the gloves on when you two have sex?”
Sam purses his lips, and Dean’s smile fades a little at the warning look in Sam’s eyes; he knows enough to realise that Sam’s telling him to back off, but not enough to know why, or about what.
“Jess is the only person I can touch without getting feedback,” Sam says, and the tone’s curiously blank, at odds with the look in Sam’s eyes. “I don’t know why, I’ve never met anyone else like that.”
“So the answer’s no, then,” Dean asks, pushing, though he doesn’t know why, exactly, he wants to, why he is.
Jess leans over, wraps one arm around Sam’s shoulders, rests her head on his arm, and looks at Dean. Under that liquid gaze, the action that smacks of possession, Dean shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly feeling as if he doesn’t belong here, as if this is one more part of the country he’s not welcome in. It hurts.
“Sam doesn’t have to, no,” Jess murmurs. “Not with me.”
Dean gives her a forced smile, raises his bottle in acknowledgement and congratulations both, and drains the rest of the beer before kicking his chair back, standing up. “I’ll leave you two to it, then,” he says.
As he’s putting the bottle in the sink, Jess stands first, followed by Sam.
“Stay tonight,” Jess says, reaching out and resting a hand on Dean’s arm. “You haven’t told us why you came, and I don’t think we’re ready for more soul-sharing. The couch is comfy, I promise. No lumps.”
Dean looks at Sam, unwilling to respond without knowing how his brother feels. It’s tense between them, probably always will be until they talk about everything that happened before Sam left, before they talk about the way Sam left, and even if Jess is picking up on it, there’s nothing Dean can do about it.
Sam’s looking at Jess, more of that silent communication Dean’s seen couple after couple, the kind deeply in love, possess, use, and he wants nothing more than to be able to read the words, hear the tones, flowing back and forth between them, wants nothing more than to have that same connection with his brother. It makes him ache in places he’d thought the hunt had cured him of, makes him prepare for Sam to say no.
Sam doesn’t. “Stay,” he says, low and soft and quiet, eyes shining, brimming with something Dean’s lost the ability to recognise after three years away. Dean blinks, it makes Sam laugh and say it again. “Stay, Dean.”
“Let me get some stuff out of my car,” he says after a moment, and Sam nods, shifts and pulls Jess tight against his hip, gives Dean the code to the alarm.
--
Dean gets outside, closes the door behind him and leans on it, breathing in the night air, listening to the sounds of traffic and people from near and far away. It’s just for a moment, to settle himself, to try and process everything he’s learned, but even five minutes later, of staring blindly into space, it’s not enough, so Dean walks around to the Impala, grabs his duffel, trades the gun he’s carrying for something a little smaller, and looks up at the window of his brother’s apartment, his and Jess’. He can see them, the outline of Sam’s neck and head above the row of plants, Jess’ arms winding around Sam, Sam leaning down to kiss her, one hand cupping the side of her face.
He knows he should stop, get back in the house, remind them they have company, but he’s frozen, watching them. They break apart, Sam bumps his forehead against Jess’, and it looks like he says something. She pulls back, shakes her head, and as she moves out of the picture, Sam follows, one hand raised as if pleading. Dean frowns, tilts his head to think about that, but sees Sam come back a moment later, look out of the window and put something in his mouth, swallow it dry.
--
The door clicks closed in near-silence when Dean gets back inside. All three locks on the door get turned, and he pauses for a moment after setting the alarm, looks down a narrow corridor that, he guesses, leads to the back of the bookstore, before treading up the steps. The light in the kitchen’s off when Dean turns on to the landing, and a few blankets and pillows are piled on the couch.
“Sam’s in bed,” Jess says, emerging from the hallway. “Headache. He said he was doing all right, but that twenty Zach gave him, it pushed it over the edge from annoyance to migraine. He’ll sleep for about six hours.”
“You know my brother pretty well,” Dean says, not thinking as he places the gun on the coffee table and slips his jacket off.
Jess leans against the wall, folds her arms over her chest, and Dean can’t help looking at the picture she makes, ready for bed, wearing a pair of cotton pajama pants and a spaghetti-strap top, hair loose and curling in waves over her shoulder. “I know who he is now,” she says, “but not so much about the person he was before I met him. He likes to talk about you, about your father, tells a lot of good stories, but not much about the way he grew up, anything about what your dad does apart from saying he’s sort of like a demon hunter.”
Dean nods, says, “We were trained not to talk about it. Not many people believe you when its career day at school and you say your dad’s too busy exorcising people to come and talk to the class.” She smiles at that, and its one more thing Dean sees, one more reason he can believe his brother fell in love with this girl. Hell, if Dean was the type to fall in love, he’d be tempted.
“Sleep well, Dean,” Jess says. “You know where the bathroom is. If you need anything, help yourself,” and she disappears back into the hallway.
Dean spreads out some blankets, props the pillows at one end and stuffs the gun underneath. He glides to the bathroom and changes, pisses, brushes his teeth with Sam’s toothbrush, and when he comes out again, he hears low murmurs coming from the one room he hasn’t seen yet. With quiet steps, Dean tiptoes to the closed door and listens, practically not breathing.
“…want to do?” Jess is saying, and then there’s a popping noise, like she’s just gotten into the bed and the wood or springs have shifted.
“Jess, I can’t.” Sam sounds pained, and a moment later Dean hears something that might be blankets, hears someone kiss someone else.
“Get some sleep, Sam. Once Dean tells us why he’s here, then you can think about it. Promise me you’ll try?”
A sigh, then, “I promise,” and Dean creeps back to the couch, tries to puzzle out what they were talking about as he lies down, but ends up falling asleep.