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The Winchesters walked up to the apartment landlord’s room, Dean taking the lead as he rapped repetitively on the wood; he wanted out of this place. Dean didn’t stop knocking on the door until he nearly punched an elderly man in the face, “Mr. Toll, it’s me, Sam, I used to live in these apartments? There was a fire…?” Sam spoke quickly, pushing past his brother to talk to the wrinkled man. Mr. Toll squinted at Sam, scoping out the young Winchester, “Ah, Winchester! Of course, how can I help you?” he chippered, taking Sam’s hand, shaking vigorously. Smiling tightly and with much strain, Sam continued. “I – um – I was wondering if there was anything… recovered from – from the fire.” He stuttered and looked desperately at the man. Toll nodded and held up a finger, “just a moment.”
A couple minutes passed and Sam started getting impatient, pacing to and from, and making Dean even more uncomfortable. Finally – finally meaning 5 minutes later – Mr. Toll reappeared holding a key, “Here you go, Mr. Winchester. Everything that was spared will be in the bedroom closet. Have a good day.” And with that Mr. Toll promptly shoved the key into Sam’s hand and shut the door. Both the brothers stood quietly for a moment, looking at the shiny little key, and finally Sam quietly turned on his heel and walked to the elevators. “Let’s go.”
Finally they reached the room and Sam grasped the cold door knob, taking a deep breath before entering the key and pushing the door open. Looking around, Sam caught a lump in his throat; his apartment – his home – was gone. The entire place was repainted and re floored, there were no pictures on the wall and the furniture was gone – probably junked. Running a hand through his hair, Sam exhaled and looked at Dean, “Wow. It’s all gone.” He choked on the last word, “Yeah…” Dean mumbled and looked at the ground, being in this place, the place he had ripped his brother from his normal civilian life, the place he had dragged his brother from his burning girlfriend. Dean blinked and pats his brother on the shoulder, “you ready… you know. For the, ahem, closet?” Sam nodded and walked the familiar path to his bedroom. Sam cracked the door open and glanced around, although he knew what to expect, his heart still crumbled at the empty bedroom. His first thought was that his bed was gone. He remembered the first day he had brought Jess to his room, the way the bed dipped as she sat on the edge looking at his posters and the law books littering the room, he remembered the night Jess had thrown her pillows onto his bed when she moved in, he remembered the way she giggled when Sam pinned her to the bed tickling her sides, he remembered the night she stood on her toes placing little glow in the dark stars on his – on their ceiling.
Sam shook his head and continued into the bedroom – if you could call it that – Dean close behind. Never in his life had Sam ever thought a closet door could be so intimidating, but as he stood there with his heart in his throat, he had never been so frightened. He took a deep breath and pulled the handle, and was greeted by a nearly empty closet. But, there sitting at the bottom of the darkly lit room was a dented cardboard box. Sam’s hands shook as he lifted the box; he glanced at Dean who was staring out of the window. “Hey, Dean, do you mind… if I could have a little privacy?” his voice has strained and Dean wasted no time rushing out of the room – emotional confrontation made him nervous.
Dean wandered around the empty kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets, giving a silent prayer when he found a beer bottle in the fridge; the constructors had probably left it here. The oldest brother slid down the wall of the kitchen and sat with his legs crossed on the tile floor sipping on the slightly stale beer. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose – this was a disaster. Sammy was going through emotional turmoil while he was awkwardly trailing him around and offering him pie and porn as condolences. ‘What a shit brother I am’, he thought, taking another swig of the ale. He began humming Metallica softly, and tapping out a rhythm onto his thighs.
The peace was broken when Dean heard a sob rip through the silent apartment; “Sammy?!” he jumped up, shattering the bottle. Dean entered the room cautiously, hands twitching at his side. What he saw was a sight that would haunt him – Sam face contorted into a look of agony, surrounded by singed photographs and books, a couple pieces of clothing were in a pile, and dean was disgruntled, what was going on? Then he noticed something – Sam was clutching something close to his chest, and a charred diary was lying face down on the other side of the room. “….Sam?” Dean began with caution, keeping a safe distance from his weeping brother.
Sam sniffled, and attempted to calm down, “She – “ he broke into sobs again, and before Dean could process Sam was standing and shoving something into his arms.
“She was pregnant.”
Dean watched, stunned, as Sam thundered out of the room, using his sleeve to wipe away his tears. Dean looked down at what was thrust at him. It was a little pair of blue baby shoes, they were unburnt and fleecy. Dean’s jaw hung open as a whole new wave of guilt washed over him. He dropped the shoes like they were acid, and backed away. Then he remembered the notebook; with wobbling legs Dean walked over to the book, and silently read the pages.
“Dear Sam,
I got this journal for you to fill with memories… of our new family. I don’t know the sex yet, but I know you love blue. I can’t wait to start a whole new life with you.
Love, Jess.”
Dean snapped the book closed, a cloud of ash puffing up. “She was fucking pregnant.”
Breathing harshly, Dean ran a hand over his face and collected the small shoes, making his heart ache. He tossed everything back into the box and ran out of the apartment. He must’ve pressed the elevator button at least a million times before it finally opened. He tapped his foot the entire way down and then sprinted to the Impala where Sam sat shot gun, head in his hands. Watching his brother carefully, Dean pulled the shoes out of the box and placed it into Sam’s lap. “She would want you to have these.” He said softly, and placed the box into the back seat. They sat in silence for a while before Sam sniffed, and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Dean.” And that was it; a thank you and Sam cradling the baby shoes.
The guilt was crippling, tearing Dean up internally. Finally, “I’m so sorry – so sorry Sam. It’s my fault.” The words were out before Dean could add them into the pit of emotions he had suppressed. “I ruined your damn life.” He kept going, “and I cannot sit back and have you thank me.” By the time he was finished, Dean was out of breath.
Sam nodded quietly, considering his next words, “Dean, I don’t blame you. Whatever killed mom, whatever killed – whatever killed Jess was coming regardless. I don’t blame you for inevitable.” His voice was surprisingly calm. Dean didn’t reply, but simply started the engine.
They never talked about the baby again, but Dean always noticed when Sam put them into the dresser of whatever godforsaken motel they were in, right atop the bible. And he always noticed the mumbled prayer Sam gave, and he always, always, saw the words “Jess” and “baby” slip into his prayer.