Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jessica Moore was never just the girl Sam was shacking up with.

She was raised by hunters, trained in the family business, and the night her apartment went up in flames? That was just the beginning — not the end. Now Jess and Sam find themselves tangled in something deeper, darker, and more intoxicating than either of them expected.

Reunited by fate and unfinished business, they're brought back into hunting things that go bump in the night, while trying not to lose themselves in the heat of everything they've been through. Now they're on the open road, traveling cross-country with Sam's older brother, Dean.

One car, a loving couple, and an annoying brother who listens to the same five songs over and over. What could go wrong?

...

cast

jessica lee moore
his menace

"You wanna play psycho killer? Can I be the poor, helpless victim? Please don't hurt me, Mr. Killer. I wanna make it to the sequel."

"Sam, are you blushing? You are! You're so cute!"

"Bitch, you better be joking!"

"I want you to remember this moment later when I slap the taste out your damn mouth."

Sam Winchester
her golden retriever

"Babe, I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"Don't test her, Dean, she will do it. Told you."

"I am not blushing!"

"Watch how you talk to my wife! I don't care if you are my father, if you can't be respectful and treat her with the kindness she deserves, then leave. We don't need you."

...

sam and jess
james joint

Chapter Text

chapter one
sam, marry that girl

———

The apartment smells like cinnamon and fresh paint.

Jess is barefoot on the hardwood floor, one hand smudged with acrylic, the other curled around a wine glass — her grip elegant, careless, like she doesn't give a damn if the red stains her lips or the rim of the glass. Her pixie cut is tousled, a little messy from where she's run her fingers through it, short enough to show off her earrings and sharp enough to match her attitude. There's a splatter of dark green across the curve of her jaw. She's not bothered.

The canvas behind her is half-finished — a swirl of green and onyx like something feral trapped in stormlight, messy and alive. She hums under her breath, low and bluesy, swaying slightly as she works. The cropped hem of her silk cami rises every time she leans, exposing soft skin and the curve of her spine.

From the kitchen, Sam's laugh bubbles out — warm, golden, easy. That kind of soft men don't usually get to be unless they're safe. Unless they're loved.

"Hey, babe, you want another glass?" he calls, the clink of bottles and fridge magnets rattling in the background.

"Only if you bring it shirtless," she purrs, eyes still on the canvas.

He huffs out a laugh, amused by her endless teasing. "Sure about that?"

"Always."

He chuckles — deep and sweet like caramel. She can hear the smile in his voice.

A moment later, Sam appears in the doorway, shirt ditched, two glasses in hand. His hair's a mess, a little damp from the post-shower air, and his jeans hang just low enough on his hips to be distracting. Jess turns and gives him a slow once-over, eyes dragging with approval.

"Mmm. Much better," she says, taking the offered glass and letting her fingers linger around his wrist.

"You know, I'm starting to think you don't love me for my mind," he teases, stepping close enough for her to loop an arm around his waist.

"Oh, baby," she murmurs, voice thick with mischief, "if I didn't love your mind, I wouldn't have put a ring on your finger."

He flushes — actually flushes — ducking his head with a bashful grin. The silver band on his hand catches the low light.

Sam Winchester is six-foot-four of pure, rugged muscle. He can recite Latin backwards, hack into government databases in under a minute, and once took down a vengeful spirit with nothing but a crowbar and righteous fury — but Jess still makes him nervous in the best way. Because she knows him. Inside and out. Where it hurts and where it heals.

They settle on the couch a few minutes later — Jess straddling his lap, still sipping wine, smearing paint on his skin just to hear him gasp. She talks about her latest gallery idea, about color theory, about that woman she met in studio who might want to buy two of her pieces. Sam listens with the rapt attention of a man who thinks the world hangs on every word she says — because for him, it does.

He brushes his fingers across her lower back, reverent, lazy. "You think you'll want to keep painting once we finish school?"

Jess looks at him like he's asked whether she wants to keep breathing.

"Of course I will. I want a gallery. Something small. Clean walls, messy passion. I want people to feel something when they walk in." She pauses, then smirks. "And I want a back office where I can bend you over the desk if I get bored during showings."

Sam chokes a little on his wine.

"Jess."

"What? You said you support my dreams."

He laughs, bright and full, head tilted back against the cushion, utterly undone by her.

Jess still has paint on her fingers and a smirk playing at her lips, wine glass dangling carelessly in one hand as she traces lazy patterns across his chest with the other.

Sam's fingers rest at her waist, warm and reverent. He looks at her like she's a dream he somehow got to keep.

She leans forward, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You taste like peanut butter."

"That's because I was making you toast," he murmurs, nose brushing hers.

"And that," she says, with a soft kiss to his jaw, "is why I'm marrying you."

He blushes — actually blushes — and it makes her heart stutter a little, like it always does.

But just as Sam starts trailing kisses down the slope of her shoulder, Jess suddenly gasps.

"Shit! Wait right here."

She hops off his lap in a flash of bare legs and silk, paint-slick fingers waving in the air as she disappears down the hallway. Sam's left blinking, still breathless, and more than a little dizzy from the whiplash of being adored, teased, kissed, and abandoned all in under ten seconds.

He calls after her, "Did I do something or...?"

"No!" she shouts from the bedroom. "Just forgot something. Don't move!"

He doesn't. He couldn't, really, even if he wanted to.

A minute later, she returns, holding something in her hands like it's precious. It's a thick sheet of art paper, edges curled slightly from handling, the image rendered in deep, smoky pastels.

She hands it to him gently, biting her lip like she's trying to play it cool but failing.

"I made this for you," she says softly. "Thought it could be something you... I don't know. Keep."

Sam looks down — and stills.

It's him and Dean. Younger. Sitting on the hood of the Impala, legs swinging, sharing a drink, heads tilted in laughter. Sam remembers the exact moment. It was the last time he saw his brother before leaving for Stanford. Dean had driven him as far as the California line, said something snarky about tree-hugging liberals, and clapped him on the back like it didn't hurt to say goodbye.

Jess had only seen the photo once. Faded. Torn in one corner. But she remembered.

Sam stares at it like it might disappear. "Jess..."

She shrugs, but her voice is soft. "You never talk about him unless I ask. But I know you miss him. You don't have to say it. I just... I thought maybe if you ever wanted to reach out, or if you didn't, at least you'd have this. Something real."

His throat tightens. He sets the picture down carefully and pulls her back into his lap, arms winding around her like a prayer.

"I don't deserve you," he says into her shoulder.

Jess scoffs gently. "You really don't. But I'm here anyway."

She kisses him slow. Paint-smudged fingers on his jaw, her other hand curling into his hair. It's soft, quiet. And when he exhales, he feels lighter — like maybe he's not just carrying guilt and unfinished business anymore.

Maybe he's got a home. And she's sitting right in his lap.

———

The bedroom is warm and dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of Jess's bedside lamp. Sam lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across her waist. Jess is curled beside him, legs tangled with his, her head on his chest — wine-drunk and happy.

They're talking in the hush of lovers who've done this a thousand times. About nothing and everything. About how good the bed smells. About whether she should paint over that one weird patch on the hallway wall. About how maybe, after this semester, they'll take a weekend trip somewhere.

Just them. No ghosts. No nightmares.

"Did I tell you my professor thinks the series I'm working on is too aggressive?" she murmurs, fingers drawing idle shapes on Sam's ribs. "Said there's too much tension in the color palette."

Sam chuckles, sleepy. "You? Aggressive?"

"Mmm." She lifts her head to meet his gaze. "You tell me."

Before he can answer — before he can lean in for another kiss — there's a sound.

A thump.

Not from the neighbors. Not the heater. Something wrong.

Sam freezes.

Jess goes still.

Then, like a switch has flipped, they move.

Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed, already reaching under the nightstand for the knife he always keeps stashed there. Jess is quieter — careful, smooth — her fingers sliding around the matte black handle of the pistol hidden in the closet shoe cubby.

She doesn't bother with shoes. Doesn't need to.

She's still in her burgundy silk pajama set — cami top, low-waisted bottoms, curls cropped close, face bare but alert. There's something eerily beautiful about the sight of her with a gun in her hand and sleep still clinging to her lashes.

Sam glances at her from the doorway. "Stay here," he whispers.

She raises a brow. "Try again."

He gives her that look — exasperated and full of love — and nods before slipping into the hall.

Jess waits. Listens.

Then hears it again: the creak of the front door.

Seconds stretch.

"Jess," Sam calls, voice low but firm. "You should come see this."

She doesn't hesitate.

Gun in hand, she moves down the hallway like a shadow. Quiet. Controlled. Silk robe whispering against her thighs. Every line of her body is coiled and ready.

She rounds the corner into the living room and sees—

A man. Inside their apartment.

Wearing a leather jacket. Duffel bag on the floor. Eyes wide, playful, and vaguely annoyed, like he's the one who's been inconvenienced.

Jess doesn't lower her weapon.

"Sam?" she says, voice flat, gun aimed steady at the intruder's chest. "Who the hell is this?"

Jess just steps closer to Sam, still holding the gun loosely at her side, unbothered in burgundy silk and armed like a professional.

Sam shifts slightly in front of her, shoulders tense. "Jess... this is Dean."

The man in the doorway lifts his hands in mock surrender, eyes flicking between them. "Older brother. Don't shoot."

Jess narrows her gaze, not moving. "You break into my home again, and we'll see if you still get to keep that title."

Dean blinks. Then lets out a low whistle. "You didn't tell me she was terrifying."

"She's not terrifying," Sam mutters.

Jess smiles, slow and sharp. "Tell him what happened to the last guy who called me that."

Dean chuckles, eyes lighting up. "Okay, wow I like her."

Sam groans under his breath, already regretting this.

Dean closes the door behind him and tosses a glance around the room, taking in the cluttered coziness — books stacked in odd places, Jess's artwork lining the walls, the faint smell of cinnamon and acrylic still lingering in the air. His duffel hits the ground with a heavy thud.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he says, more serious now. "Didn't know you had company."

Jess finally lowers the pistol all the way, flicking the safety on before setting it neatly on the entryway console.

"I live here, genius."

Dean blinks again. "Wait. Live live?"

Sam clears his throat. "We're engaged."

Dean looks at Sam. Then Jess. Then Sam again. His expression folds into something unreadable for half a second before he masks it with a grin.

"Well damn, Sammy. Didn't just shack up — you got domesticated."

Jess raises an eyebrow. "Keep talking, Leather Jacket. Let's see where that goes."

Sam rubs a hand down his face. "Dean, why are you here?"

Dean's face shifts again, something darker flashing through the sarcasm. "Dad's missing. Took off on a hunting trip a few weeks back. Haven't heard from him since. No calls. No coordinates. Just... gone."

The silence that falls is instant and thick.

Sam's jaw clenches. Jess steps a little closer to him, watching the way his body reacts — not shocked. Just braced. Like this isn't new, just repeating.

She looks at Dean again, then back at Sam.

"I'll make coffee," she says quietly, already heading for the kitchen.

"Thanks," Sam murmurs.

Dean watches her walk away — hips swaying in burgundy silk, bare feet silent on the wood floor, gun still within reach. He shakes his head with a soft, impressed laugh.

"Okay, real talk," he says once she's out of earshot. "Where'd you find her and how'd you not mess it up?"

Sam just stares at him.

Dean grins. "Seriously. That girl is five-foot-nothing and could probably kill me with a spoon."

"She's five foot exactly."

"And terrifying."

"She's not terrifying."

"Dude, she aimed a pistol at me in pajamas and I still almost asked for her number."

"Dean!"

From the kitchen: "I can still hear you, you know."

"Sammy," Dean smirks. "Marry that girl."

Jess returns a minute later with two mugs in hand. She hands one to Sam with a kiss to the temple, then offers the other to Dean with a dry expression.

"Black, right?"

He takes it cautiously. "How'd you know?"

She shrugs. "You're a 'shower beer and backseat shotgun' kind of man. You take your coffee like you take your exits — fast and unannounced."

Dean blinks. Then snorts into his mug. "You're scary good at this."

Jess just smirks and curls herself into Sam's side on the couch, completely unbothered.

Dean leans on the armchair, watching how easily Sam melts with her touch. "So how long before she figures out you cry at The Iron Giant?"

Sam groans. Jess perks up. "Wait, what?"

"Nope," Sam stands, hands raised in surrender. "I'm not doing this."

"Too late," Dean grins.

Jess sips her coffee and watches them, head tilted, eyes glinting. "You know," she says slowly, "you're kind of like the twin version of Sam with impulse control issues and a god complex."

Dean beams. "Flattering and accurate."

Sam drops into his seat again, dragging a pillow over his face.

That's when it hits him:
He's got his brother back.
He's got the woman he loves.
And they're already teaming up against him.

He's so unbelievably screwed.

———

Dean leans back in the chair, half-empty mug in hand, and looks like he's finally starting to feel the weight of the road settle across his shoulders.

"You drove straight through, didn't you?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. "Didn't wanna waste time."

Jess watches the tired set of his jaw and nudges Sam with her foot.

"You should stay the night," Sam says, glancing over. "Get some sleep. We can leave at sunrise."

Dean's brows lift. "You sure?"

"It's not a question," Jess says, already rising. "Come on. I'll show you to the guest room before you start nesting on the couch."

Dean snorts and follows, still fully dressed — jacket zipped, boots heavy against the floor like he doesn't know how to be in a place that isn't temporary. Jess pads ahead barefoot, a throw blanket folded over one arm, a toothbrush and fresh towel balanced in the other.

The hallway is quiet. Sam's already out, sprawled across their bed like the oversized golden retriever he is, snoring softly into their pillow.

Jess pushes open the door at the end of the hall with her hip. "This one. It gets the best morning light, but there are blackout curtains if you need to pretend the sun doesn't exist."

Dean steps into the room, taking it in slowly. It's modest but warm — cool-toned artwork, a tidy bookshelf, extra pillows stacked with casual care. A little potted snake plant sits on the sill like it belongs.

"You're really leaning into the cozy thing, huh?" Dean says.

Jess shrugs. "Sam brings the gentle giant vibes. I bring the structure."

She sets the blanket at the foot of the bed and flicks on the lamp. "Clean sheets. Sam's banned from here after runs — sacred space and all."

Dean leans in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "This whole place... it's nice. It's real."

Jess tilts her head. "Not what you expected?"

"Not gonna lie, I figured Sam's girl would be... quieter. More librarian, less pistol-in-a-silk-cami."

Jess smirks. "I can read, too. But I shoot better."

Dean chuckles. "Yeah. I believe it."

There's a pause — not awkward, just thoughtful. Dean glances around again like he's trying to memorize the feeling of the place. Jess watches him carefully.

"You're not what I expected either," she says finally.

Dean raises a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"I figured you'd be more of an ass." She grins. "Like, full-time."

Dean laughs — a real one this time. "That tracks."

"But you're alright," she continues, softer now. "You're loyal. You're smart. And you love Sam like hell. That makes you cool in my book."

He looks at her then, blinking like he didn't quite hear that right. "...You serious?"

Jess nods. "Dead. You're cool. Don't let it go to your head, though. You still eat like a frat boy and break into people's homes."

Dean smirks, but something shifts behind his eyes — like the compliment hit somewhere he didn't expect to feel it.

"You're not bad yourself," he says. "Scary, in a hot way. I can see why Sam's stupid about you."

Jess snorts. "He's not stupid. Just loyal."

She walks over and presses the towel and toothbrush into his hands. "Left drawer if you wanna unpack. Bathroom's across the hall."

Dean doesn't move for a second. Then, voice quieter: "You really love him?"

Jess's face softens. "More than anything."

Dean exhales through his nose, like it settles something in him. "Then I'm glad he's with you."

For a beat, the hallway is still. Then Jess rises up on her toes and kisses his cheek — not flirtatious, not formal. Just family.

"Goodnight, big brother," she murmurs.

Dean swallows, the words catching a little on the way out. "G'night, Jess."

She disappears back down the hall, feet soft against the wood.

Dean stands in the guest room a while longer, toothbrush in one hand, towel in the other — staring at the bed like it might vanish. Like it's too much.

Like no one's ever handed him kindness without expecting him to pay for it in blood.

———

Dean wakes to the smell of coffee.

It takes a second to remember where he is. For a beat, he thinks he's back at a motel, but there are no gunmetal-gray walls or scratchy sheets. No old blood stains under flickering lights.

Instead: sunlight pushing past blackout curtains. Soft sheets. Art on the wall that isn't crooked or mass-printed. A real fucking plant on the windowsill.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, stretches, and pads barefoot into the hallway. The smell grows stronger — rich, nutty, expensive. Definitely not a gas station brew.

When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he stops short.

Sam's there, hair tousled and sticking up in five directions, wearing gray sweats and one of Jess's oversized pastel pink tops — "BABYGIRL" printed across the chest in glittery font. Dean gapes.

Jess is behind him at the stove, robe open just enough to hint at yesterday's sleep set, humming to whatever's playing low on the speaker. She flips pancakes with one hand and holds her phone in the other, replying to something with a casual swipe of her thumb.

Sam slides up behind her like a damn magnet, arms wrapping around her waist. She leans into it automatically, smiling.

"You're clingy in the morning," she murmurs, not missing a beat.

"You love it," Sam replies, voice raspy from sleep.

"Do I?" she teases, tilting her head back. "Or are you just a six-foot-four heater with pretty eyes?"

"You called me your emotional support golden retriever last night."

Dean can't help it — he laughs.

They both look up, startled.

Jess grins. "Morning, Dean-O."

Sam raises a hand lazily. "Coffee's fresh. There's bacon too."

Dean walks over, trying to act normal, but there's something tight in his chest. Not jealousy — not quite. Just... ache. For what they have. For how easy it looks.

Jess slides a mug toward him without asking how he takes it. It's perfect.

"I'm still processing the shirt, by the way," Dean mutters, nodding at Sam's outfit.

Jess winks. "He lost a bet. He secretly loves it."

"I do not," Sam mumbles into her neck.

"You do," she sings, kissing his jaw.

Dean sips the coffee and leans against the counter. "You guys are disgustingly functional."

Jess raises a brow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No," Dean says after a pause. "It's not."

There's silence for a moment — just the sizzle of bacon, the quiet rustle of domestic life — before Jess nudges a plate toward him.

"Eat up. You've got a demon-hunting road trip ahead. I want you alive to tell me if Sam eats gas station sushi."

Sam scoffs, smiling. "Don't listen to her, Dean."

Dean smirks. "Nah, I like her too much."

Jess shoots him a small, warm smile — the kind that says I see you. You're safe here.

For just a moment, Dean lets himself believe it.

———

Jess is already waiting by the front door, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a Tupperware container in the other.

"Before you go full 'men with duffel bags and tragic pasts' on me," she says dryly, "take this."

Dean blinks. "What's all this?"

"Breakfast sandwiches for the road," she says, handing off the warm paper bag. "Egg, bacon, a little hot sauce. You'll cry. Sam's is plain because he's soft."

"I'm right here," Sam mutters, reaching for his bag.

Jess ignores him and thrusts the second container into Dean's hands. "And that's for when you stop pretending gas station jerky is a meal. There's pie."

Dean actually stops walking.

"Pie?" he says reverently.

"Cherry bourbon. I made it last night."

Dean opens the lid just to peek, then lets out a low whistle. "Okay. Yeah. I love you."

Jess winks. "I know."

Sam groans. "Do not encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging. I'm feeding. It's a love language."

Dean, already halfway out the door, calls over his shoulder, "You picked a good one, Sammy. You mess this up, I'm stealing her."

Jess grins. "I'd like to see you try."

The door clicks shut behind Dean.

Jess is already in the doorway of their bedroom, arms crossed, leaning against the frame in that robe again — the one that drives Sam a little bit insane because she always wears it like an afterthought, like she doesn't know how good she looks in it. But she knows. Of course she does.

"You leaving without kissing me goodbye now?" she asks, voice low, teasing but not entirely playful.

Sam freezes mid-step, backpack slung over one shoulder, house keys dangling from his fingers.

He drops them on the dresser without a word and crosses the room in three long strides.

Jess is in his arms before she can breathe again. His hands are at her waist, firm but reverent, and hers slide into his hair, tugging gently as she kisses him like she's trying to memorize the shape of his mouth.

It starts soft.

It always starts soft with Sam — warm lips, deep sighs, the kind of kiss that blooms slowly, like a sunrise. But it turns quick, needy. Jess makes a small, greedy noise in the back of her throat, and Sam responds with a groan that curls heat between them.

Her fingers find the hem of his shirt. "You've got ten minutes," she murmurs.

"Five," he breathes, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Dean's waiting."

"He'll live."

Sam kisses down her neck, finds that spot just below her jaw, and lingers there. Jess tilts her head to give him more.

"I hate this part," she admits softly.

"Leaving?"

"No. Watching you walk away all tall and sexy with your duffel bag like some doomed hero in a bad action movie."

Sam huffs a laugh. "You always make me sound way cooler than I am."

She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and certain. "You're mine, Sam Winchester. That's always been cool."

He kisses her again, slower this time, like a promise.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and flushed, he rests his forehead against hers.

"I'll be back."

"You better," she says, brushing his lips one last time. "Or I'm coming to drag you home myself."

Sam picks up his keys again, shoulders the bag, and lets himself look at her one more time before he heads out the door — standing barefoot in their bedroom, robe askew, mouth kiss-bitten and smiling.

That image stays with him for miles.

———

Dean's already leaning against the hood of the Impala, sipping from a to-go mug Jess shoved into his hand on the way out. The early morning air is cool, the sky soft with that pre-sunrise silver.

When Sam steps outside, Dean looks up — and immediately barks a laugh.

"Well damn," he says, pushing off the hood. "You look like a man who just got thoroughly kissed goodbye."

Sam rolls his eyes, yanking the passenger door open. "Shut up."

"Oh no, no, no. We're not brushing past that freshly wrecked look, Samuel." Dean gestures dramatically. "Hair's still messy. Mouth's a little red. I know post-makeout when I see it."

"I said shut up."

Dean follows him into the car with a wide grin, slamming the door behind him. "Jess leave you speechless, huh? Use up all your words? You need a juice box and a moment to recover?"

Sam glares at him. "Do you want me to drive?"

Dean pauses, then backs down — barely.

"Fine. Keep your secrets. But for the record? She's good for you. I mean, terrifying, but... good."

Sam's shoulders soften a little. "Yeah," he murmurs. "She is."

Dean nods, quietly pleased. Then his face twists into mock horror. "Wait, is that glitter on your shirt?"

Sam glances down. Damn. A faint shimmer across the fabric.

"She said it would wash out," he mutters.

Dean howls with laughter as he starts the engine. "Oh, you're so whipped."

Sam doesn't bother arguing. He just settles into the seat, watching the apartment grow smaller in the rearview mirror, already counting the hours until he's back.

And somewhere in his hoodie pocket, tucked there without a word, is the tiny charm Jess slipped into his hand — obsidian wrapped in copper wire, protection and love braided into a shape small enough to carry.

He rubs it between his fingers once before closing his eyes.

———

The motel room smells like mildew and fried onions.

Sam stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the mess their dad left behind. The bed is stripped. The drawers pulled out and dumped. The wallpaper curls near the vent where Dean's EMF reader clicked like a Geiger counter earlier.

The air hums with static and old ghosts.

Dean's outside grabbing burgers.

Sam's fingers twitch toward his phone like muscle memory. A second later, he gives in, scrolling to the name that always sits at the top of his favorites.

JESS

He presses the green call button and lifts it to his ear.

She answers on the second ring, voice smooth as velvet and sweet like a secret.

"Miss me already, Winchester?"

Sam smiles immediately, his whole body relaxing like a spring let loose. "Always."

A soft hum of satisfaction on the other end. "How's Jericho? Haunted, moldy, full of bad decisions?"

"Two out of three," he says, letting himself sink onto the edge of the bed. "We found Dad's room. It's... definitely been worked over. But he left his journal, which means he was trying to cover his tracks."

"You okay?"

Sam exhales. "Yeah. Just—tense. Haven't done this in a long time."

Jess makes a thoughtful noise. "You sound hot when you say tense."

He chuckles, low and surprised. "Do I now?"

"Mhm. Got that quiet storm thing going. I like it. Makes me want to peel off this shirt real slow and tell you how warm my legs are under this blanket."

Sam groans softly, dragging a hand down his face, then glancing toward the window like someone might overhear. "You're evil."

"I'm motivating," she corrects, smug. "You said you'd be back soon. Just trying to give you a reason to hurry."

"You're the only reason," he says, voice lower now, roughened by how much he means it.

A pause. Jess's voice softens.

"Be safe, Sam."

"I will."

Before he can say more, movement outside the window catches his eye.

Sam stands instantly, phone still pressed to his ear. "Wait—hold on."

Down in the parking lot, Dean is being slammed against the hood of the Impala by two cops. One's already snapping cuffs around his wrists. The other's yanking his wallet out of his back pocket.

Sam's lips part in disbelief.

He lets out a short, stunned laugh. "Jess... Dean just got arrested."

"What?" she says, startled but amused. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He's already moving, sweeping his jacket over his shoulder and stuffing the journal into his backpack.

"Babe," he says quickly, ducking toward the back exit. "I gotta go. I'll be home soon."

"Try not to get arrested with him."

"I'll do my best," he says, grinning despite the chaos. "Love you."

"Love you more."

Sam ends the call just as he slips out the back, leaving nothing behind but motel air and the sound of distant sirens.

———

The Impala hums low beneath them, tires eating up mile after mile of highway. The case in Jericho is wrapped — the woman in white laid to rest, the spirit gone — but the victory feels hollow. Their father is still missing. The journal offered more questions than answers. Sam's fingers haven't left the small obsidian charm Jess gave him since they got back in the car.

It's smooth and cool in his palm, the copper wire warmed by the heat of his skin. He turns it over and over like a worry stone, eyes fixed on the horizon, but his mind is somewhere else.

Something's wrong.

He can't explain it — not fully. But the feeling starts as a pressure behind his ribs, tight and sharp like something pushing against his lungs. His heart beats too fast. His breathing feels off. The charm vibrates faintly in his hand, or maybe that's just his nerves.

Dean's driving one-handed, the other resting on the wheel, fingers tapping a loose rhythm against the leather. He glances at Sam. "You good?"

Sam doesn't answer right away. His jaw flexes. The air in the car feels colder than it should.

"Sam?"

Sam straightens in his seat. "Something's wrong."

Dean raises a brow. "Wrong how?"

"I don't know. Just—" Sam shakes his head. "Jess. I don't know why, but I think something's happened."

Dean looks at him again, this time more alert. "You serious?"

Sam grips the charm tighter. "Yeah."

Dean doesn't hesitate. He downshifts, slams his foot on the gas, and the Impala roars to life like it knows they're racing something they can't see.

"Hold on," Dean mutters, eyes narrowing at the road ahead.

Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees, still turning the charm in his hands like it'll somehow light up and tell him exactly what's wrong.

But it doesn't.

It just stays there — heavy and quiet — as the sky darkens behind them.

———

The apartment building is wrong.

Sam knows it the second they pull up. There's a strange stillness, like the air itself is waiting for something to explode. His heart pounds as he sprints up the stairs two at a time, Dean right behind him.

When Sam slams open the door to their apartment, time splinters.

The lights strobe violently. The air ripples with heat.

The smell hits first: sulfur. gas. blood.

And Jess — Jess — is in the center of the chaos, crouched low, one leg slick with blood from a deep gash down her thigh. Her eyes blaze with furious focus, dual kindjal blades in her hands, her stance wide and balanced.

Above her, the ceiling ward glows — a complex sigil they'd carved into the plaster weeks ago, burning hot and golden, keeping the demon pinned to the ceiling like a moth to flame. It thrashes, twitching against the hold, smoke pouring from its mouth as it screeches.

The demon is trying to break free.

Jess is holding it there — barely.

Her robe is half-burned, her skin streaked in soot and charcoal — smeared but still glowing faintly from where she marked the floors before battle. Her pixie cut is damp with sweat, her bottom lip split. She's breathing hard. But she hasn't broken.

When she sees Sam, her voice cuts through the chaos like a blade:

"SAM!" she shouts when she sees him. "Get down!"

He freezes — stunned by the sight of her, bloodied and burning and alive — but then the demon lurches, snapping downward. Jess spins and hurls one of the blades. It catches the demon square in the chest, just as she pulls a salt bomb from her hip and tosses it with her free hand.
It detonates in a hiss of light.

The demon howls, but barely falters.

Jess doesn't stop moving. She lunges across the floor with her remaining blade, slicing a blood ward into the wood, buying herself another few seconds.

Sam rushes toward her, but she grabs the front of his shirt and shoves him back toward the door.

"The gas line!" she gasps. "It cut it — it wants the whole place to go up!"

"Jess—" His voice breaks. "You're—Jesus, you're alive—"

"I'm busy staying alive, Sam! MOVE!"

She pushes him again, limping toward the door, eyes never leaving the demon as it writhes harder against the ceiling. Sparks crackle from a busted light fixture. The gas hisses louder now, choking the air.

The hallway lights shatter just as Dean barrels up the stairs, catching Sam by the arm.

Jess doesn't wait.

She slams the door shut behind them, presses her bloodied palm to the carved ward in the frame—

—and then the apartment explodes.

Flames blast outward, the windows shatter, the walls groan, but the wards she carved holds — just long enough to keep the hallway from going with it.

Sam is on the floor, gasping. Dean stares like he's seen a ghost.

Jess, covered with soot and bleeding from the temple, wipes her mouth and says, "You owe me so many pancakes for this."

Then she collapses in Sam's arms.

———

The motel room smells like antiseptic, smoke, and motel soap — like survival, bitter and clinging. The tiny first-aid kit sits open on the bed between them, gauze unspooled like a lazy spiral. Jess sits on the edge in nothing but one of Sam's old college tees and a pair of gym shorts, blood drying down her thigh, leg propped on a towel.

Sam's on the floor in front of her, knees bent, fingers tangled in his own hair. He's been pacing, ranting, panicking since she got cleaned up, circling her like he's scared she might vanish if he blinks.

She can't even blame him.

"I didn't get there in time," he says, voice cracking again. "I—I didn't get there in time, Jess. I walked into the room, and it was already happening, and you were—God, you were bleeding—"

"Sam—"

"And I couldn't—fuck, I just froze. I saw the smoke and the demon, and it was Mom all over again, and I couldn't move, and if you hadn't—if you hadn't pulled me out—"

Jess puts a hand gently on the back of his neck.

He falls to his knees in front of her.

"I almost lost you," he whispers. His voice is wrecked. "I can't—I can't go through that again, Jess. I can't lose you too."

Her expression softens, brow pulling tight. She threads her fingers through his hair, pulling him close until his forehead presses against her bare thigh — the uninjured one — and he just stays there, breathing uneven and hot against her skin.

"I want a life with you," he mumbles, voice thick with tears. "I want to say I do. I want you in a dress and me in some dumb-ass suit and cake in your hair, and I want to wake up next to you every single morning. I want holidays and lazy Sundays and—fuck, Jess, I want a future."

She closes her eyes, swallowing back her own tears, her hand never leaving his hair.

"I know," she says quietly. "Me too."

He looks up at her, eyes shining. "You were almost gone."

She cups his face. "But I'm not."

Sam's jaw trembles.

"There is no way in hell," Jess continues, voice firm now, "that I am dying before I marry you. Not happening. I'm walking down that aisle. You're crying—don't lie, you will be. And I'm giving you a wedding night so good you forget your own name."

Despite the weight of everything, he laughs — broken and hoarse, but real. He leans into her hand, breathing like it hurts.

"You're a menace," he murmurs.

"Damn right," she whispers back. "And I love you."

He kisses her then, desperately — not like it's new, but like it's fragile, like something that could shatter if he doesn't hold it right. She kisses him back with both hands in his hair, pressing their foreheads together after like it's a prayer.

Eventually, his body gives out. Jess pulls him into bed, guides him under the blanket, and holds him while he finally sleeps — heavy, tear-streaked, and exhausted.

Only when his breathing evens out does she shift away, quiet and slow, biting down a hiss as she props her leg back up and cleans the wound again.

She's halfway through stitching it — needle between her fingers, sweat on her brow — when there's a knock at the door.

Three quiet taps.

Jess doesn't jump. Just calls, "Come in."

Dean enters silently, a six-pack of beer in one hand, his expression unreadable at first.

His eyes move from the sleeping shape of Sam curled on the bed, to the blood-soaked towel beneath Jess's leg, to the half-finished sutures she's working on without a wince.

She doesn't look up, just threads the needle and says, "Don't just stand there. You're making it weird."

Dean steps inside and shuts the door gently behind him. The quiet click echoes through the room like a confession.

He sets the beer on the nightstand.

"I brought these to, I don't know... talk. Or distract you. But uh..." He watches her loop another stitch. "You're already handling it."

Jess finally glances at him. Her eyes are bloodshot, but steady.

"You thought I'd be what? Crying into Sam's chest? Too shaken to do this?"

Dean doesn't answer right away.

"I thought you might be human," he says quietly. "But I forgot. You're a hunter."

Jess ties off the stitch, smooth and practiced. "I'm both."

Dean nods, looking down. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

He reaches for a clean roll of gauze and tosses it gently toward her.

She catches it one-handed. "Thanks."

They sit in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that hums with respect.

Dean finally says, "He's lucky."

Jess doesn't stop working. "So am I."

And in the dim motel room, with the smell of blood and smoke still clinging to her skin, Jess finishes suturing her own leg with clean hands and a steel spine — the woman who survived the fire, saved the hunter, and still plans on marrying him.