Chapter Text
The thunder and lightning have mostly passed, but rain still falls steadily, filling every uneven patch in the sidewalk and every crack in between.
Sam tilts his face toward the sky, and squints against the glare of the streetlights, soaking up the December cold and wet like a balm on the scar of the most recent long, dry summer.
“Feeling any better?” Jess asks, squeezing Sam’s hand gently and pulling him back down to the quiet tree lined street from the buzzing stratosphere of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Sam says absently, squeezing Jess’s hand back. Her fingers are warm and strong in his, palm rough with callouses.
Jess tugs him around the corner, ducking a low-hanging branch ripe with water droplets. “Watch your head.”
Sam follows easily, letting the cold air soothe his flushed face. “I never really felt bad, you know. Just uneasy.”
Jess shrugs, navigating the potholes and divots behind their apartment building that band together to pass for an alley carefully in her dress shoes. “Bad enough to leave the reception early.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jess half jumps over a particularly long puddle. “I’d had about enough anyway. Dr. Fairfield got me cornered, and there’s not enough money in my checking account to qualify me for a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
Sam pushes his sopping hair off his forehead with a snort and follows Jess up the fire escape stairs. “That was terrible. Dr. Fairfield's not that bad.”
Jess throws a faux angry look back at him over her shoulder, eyebrows drawn together to the point of comedy. “You love my jokes Sam Winchester. Don’t lie to me.”
“I tolerate the good ones,” Sam grins up at her, swiping more rainwater off his face with an open palm.
Jess shakes her head at him, wet snakes of hair clinging to her bare shoulders. “Liar.”
She turns her back to him with an exaggerated huff and Sam can’t stop the smile that sneaks up on his face. “Your favorite liar.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not your favorite liar? You have a favorite liar who’s not me?” Sam fakes a gasp.
Jess pauses at the landing to turn back and look at him again. “You don’t even make the top five, bucko.”
“What do you mean?” Sam places a hand over his heart in mock horror, fighting to keep his smirk from answering the one Jess is wearing.
“Maybe not even the top ten,” Jess twirls away from him, purple tulle of her skirt trailing behind her, and dashes up the next flight of stairs.
Sam chases after her laughing, footsteps loud and ringing against the wrought iron. “Who is it? ”
Jess leans against the chipped paint of their apartment door and holds her hand out to Sam for the key. “Who’s who?”
Sam fishes around the pockets of his suit pants - wallet, pocket dictionary, knife - there they are. “Your favorite liar,” Sam presses the keys into Jess’s hand, leaning in close to nuzzle her hair.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jess taunts him, tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she fusses with the stiff lock.
“I would,” Sam presses a kiss to Jess’s hairline as she swings open the door and they tumble into the warmth of their living room together dripping wet and giggling.
Sam’s stomach curdles as he steps onto the rug, laughter shriveling into dust on his tongue, the unease that’s been nibbling at him all evening rising into dread. He bites his lip as he toes off his dress shoes.
“How do you feel about a movie?” Jess turns back to him from tucking her shoes away in the coat closet. “What’s wrong?”
Sam purses his lips, “I just have this feeling all of the sudden.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Her voice is calm, serious. Sam feels his face flush, glad Jess isn’t shrugging this off even though he’s almost sure that’s how they should handle it. He clenches and unclenches a fist. “I don’t know. I was uneasy at dinner, but this is worse.”
Jess’s eyes search his, waiting for more.
“Something’s wrong.”
Jess nods once, firmly, “I’m gonna go get changed and then we’ll figure this out.”
“Sorry,” Sam wrinkles his nose sheepishly.
“Don’t be,” Jess is already on her way to the bedroom. “I trust your gut.”
“It’s been wrong before,” Sam calls after her, keeping his voice light, but his stomach twists and the words fall flat as they leave his mouth.
Jess doesn’t answer but the problem-solving voice in his head picks up the slack. Take a breath, follow your gut, figure it out. It sounds suspiciously like Dean.
Sam shakes his head to clear it, a little annoyed that his brother isn’t even here, hasn’t ever been here, not once in two years and a handful of months, but is still bossing him around.
Great balls of fire, Sammy. It was just a suggestion. Sam can practically see Dean’s fake petulant look, mouth twisted down but eyes sparking with private laughter.
He sighs dramatically, then takes a deep breath. The breath brings his shoulders down, slows the hum of worry behind his eyes. Unfortunately, Dean’s advice has always been maddingly sound. Usually.
Sam gives himself a second to stand still, listening to the wobbly pull of his gut. Trust your instincts. He takes a second deep breath, then crosses the room with long strides to stand in front of the kitchen window, leaning forward, arms braced on either side of the sink.
Drawers open and close in the bedroom behind him as Jess moves around.
Sam lets his eyes roam down and over the parking lot outside the window. Close to the building, cars huddle together in their assigned parking spots, while farther out the cars of people who sacrificed convenience for a cheaper parking pass squat haphazardly. There’s a shadow in the farthest corner of the lot, in visitor parking, under the ancient blue oak trees that draws Sam’s gaze back like a magnet whenever he looks away.
Sam’s gut rumbles, there’s a twinge behind his eyes. His eyebrows draw together, and he stares at the shadow until the slippery liquid ink that makes up the dark night collects into a familiar shape.
Sam is halfway to the Impala before he knows he’s moving.
“Sam!” Jess yells from behind him, and Sam’s pumping legs stutter to a stop. His brain catches up with the rest of him enough to register the discomfort of standing in an oily parking lot puddle in his socks.
“That’s my brother’s car,” he shouts back to Jess, screw anyone who complains about the noise they’re making.
“Wait up!” Jess insists. “Let me get a flashlight real quick.”
Sam tries to wait for her, he truly does, but his gut feeling has grown into more of a command, drawing him across the parking lot to the Impala like a homing beacon.
His heart pounds, rattling Dean’s name around his chest. The ache behind his eyes crests to a white hot stab strong enough to blur his vision. His legs move on their own, long strides cutting across wet asphalt. Sam couldn’t stop now if he wanted to.
He trails a gentle hand across the driver’s door.“Hey, Baby,” he whispers under his breath, peering in the window.
Sam squints until his eyes adjust and the familiar bench seat rises up out of the gloom. It’s empty, aside from a raggedy flannel shirt abandoned against the passenger door and Sam’s not exactly sure what he expected.
The rolling in his gut is stronger now, tugging him forward. He steps up to the back door and his hand shoots out on its own accord.
The door comes open with a jerk, and there’s a misshapen lump filling the backseat, an awkward huddle of dirty jackets and pale skin that almost shimmers in the distant glow of the dusk-to-dawn light standing guard across the street.
“Hiya Sammy,” Dean says, grinning up at him from a shining puddle of dark red blood.
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