It was the silence that held her attention over everything else.

For the past few days, she had padded around the apartment in the knit woolen socks her grandmother had sent her, though hardly doing much to keep the chill out of her bones, hyperaware of the branches of the oak near the kitchen scraping against the vinyl siding. The hum of the refrigerator and the dull flick of a lightswitch nearly made her stomach turn over, and she herself hadn't said a word for fear of all that silence to come crashing down, oppressive and heavy in her chest.

All she wanted to hear was the sound of the front door opening. The gentle creak of the hinges, never oiled no matter how many times she had insisted it to be done, light from the outside spilling in through the doorway, a tall shadow filling in the space left behind.

Jess was not the kind of girl who panicked easily. She had always commended herself on her being levelheaded, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly before quickly, quietly taking action. Her fingernails would beg to differ, however, and during midterm and finals weeks Sam would make fun of her nubby fingertips before noisily placing a kiss on each of the ten.

The whole of the past six days, she hadn't bit a one.

Six days, it seemed, had the ability to stretch out into what felt like years. Jess had hardly slept, hadn't even touched the coffee maker, so she felt dead on her feet, though nothing would get her to shut down now. Her eyes felt gritty and oversensitive, her head pounded in time with her heartbeat, and she had an overwhelming sensation that felt as if someone had cut off one of her senses.

Sam was missing.

Six days ago Sam had left, saying he would be back later, but didn't say where he was going. Jess, engrossed in her latest bit of assigned literature on Seurat, had mumbled a fond farewell, but it killed her that she couldn't remember if "love you" had accompanied it. Not that it mattered; the thought was always there, whether unspoken or not, but all the same, the word closure popped up in her mind like some kind of melodramatic storm cloud hanging over her head.

It was the weekend, and even though leaving for such an extended period of time was so uncharacteristically Sam, she let it slide, perfectly aware that even he need some time alone to sort through… whatever it was Sam needed this time. It happened, however rarely, and though Jess was loathe to do it, she stepped back and let him go wherever he needed to go, do whatever he needed to do despite how unbearably empty she'd felt before he'd come back. And come back he did, always seemingly wanting to keep himself grounded through her - running fingers through her hair, rough fingertips trailing down the length of her thigh, curling a leg around hers while they slept - as if her physical touch gave him a reassurance he wouldn't have found anywhere elsewhere.

Sam was loud, boyish laughter and slightly off-key resonance of singing in the shower just to make her laugh; he was genuine smiles and smartass comments, and on the rare occasion, he let himself go and danced with her to the absolute shit that played on the radio. He filled in the spaces, and even if he didn't quite know it himself, he made his presence known with every subtle movement or sound.

And it made the silence all the more deafening.

On the morning of the third day, Jess felt a kind of frantic weight settle on her, suddenly finding their bed too big for comfort. She tried his cellphone numerous times but always hung up quickly before Sam's recorded voice flooded the line. It was fine, she told herself. He just needed some time away. News around campus spread like fire, so if Sam had gotten into an accident or was hurt in some way, Sam and her own friends would make sure she knew. Still. Just because Jess knew how to keep her panic at bay didn't stop the ever-growing paranoia from taking hold in her gut.

The thing was… the thing was that each time she picked up the phone to call campus security, or, hell, 911 directly, she found that she couldn't, despite her wildly racing heart and sweaty palms. Sam was just as much of adult as she was, and if he wanted to take off for a few days without telling her, well, fine. She'd make sure he'd at least regret not telling her where he went off to well enough when he got back. Why didn't exactly matter; she'd known him long enough to acknowledge his bouts of stoic silence with a bit of privacy, and maybe even quick but gentle kiss on the forehead. It was the least she could do.

So, as the days went by, the tight bundle of anxiety in her chest grew until her fingertips tingled and sleep became something of a distant memory, and silence and soft echoes on linoleum and waiting became a constant.

And then – a snap in her mind, like someone whipping a photograph out of nowhere, a memory that suddenly fit into place.

When they had first moved in together, Jess knew that Sam had a tendency to be more than a little messy with his things, looking at Jess like she had sprouted a second head when, once, at his old dorm, she starting folding jeans and smoothing out shirts that had lain haphazard on the floor. Jess herself wasn't exactly a shoe-in for the Tidiest Person Ever award, but she had a habit of getting a little frantic whenever things became too messy. So when it came time to unpack their bedroom, Jess sent Sam to it while she unpacked their meager union of cutlery and dishes, sneaking not-so-furtive glances in the bedroom, and laughing madly whenever Sam put his hands on his hips and said, truly perplexed, "What?!"

To Sam's credit, Jess presently thought with an amazed shake of her head, Sam knew exactly what he was doing, especially when she caught him, back turned, looking at a mere scrap of paper scribbled with what looked like a phone number for several long moments before sliding it under his clothes in his top right dresser drawer. He had turned, eyes widening slightly at seeing her in the doorway, and cleared his throat before giving her a beaming smile. "Well?" he said, arms spread, gesturing around. "Everything meet your criteria? Suitable enough to live in?"

"Hey, you could have had just the bed done and I would have called it 'suitable'," she replied with a smirk, deliberately hiding any concern that she felt. Later, she had decided, she'd ask what that was about. But later, it seemed, became never. Until now it had lain forgotten, and as Jess sprinted to the bedroom, she hoped, prayed not only that it was still there, but that the faint idea it led to wouldn't be wrong.

She had to dial three times just to get the number right, and when she finally brought the phone up to her ear, the tinny ring sounded abnormally loud and shrill. One ring. Two rings. Three. She clenched her jaw to keep from shaking. Abruptly, the middle of the fourth ring cut short.

A loud thunk reverberated through the phone, and, "fuck, dammit," was all of a muffled response she could make out at first. And then, "Sam. Sam?"

The voice on the other end was breathless, not asking but demanding, and Jess suddenly felt ridiculously out of place.

"N-no, it's um, it's Jess, Sam's girlfriend?" she started. "I'm sorry. Is this Sam's brother? I need—I really need to talk to you."

The silence on the other end made her own that she had endured the past couple days seem like sunshine and daisies. Her stomach turned over and all her mind could process was badideabadideareallybadidea—

"Oh," was all he said.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked quietly, meekly.

He didn't answer right away. Jess heard him shifting around, moving the cellphone from one position to another. He cleared his throat.

"Well, sweetheart, it is two in the morning."

She gave a start, breath hitching in her throat as she looked around for a clock. Oh, fantastic. Real good first impression. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I haven't been paying any attention—"

"Hey, it's okay," he said lightly. "But right now all I'm really concerned about is why Sam's girlfriend is calling me when Sam himself is perfectly capable of doing so."

"I—" she stopped, swallowed. "Sam's—Sam's missing. Six days ago he left, and I tried his cellphone but he's not picking up, but I haven't heard any news, I mean, I would know if anything bad happened around town, but he's not, he hasn't….." she put a hand to stinging eyes. "Come home."

That seemed to jump-start him, and she helplessly listened to a string of muffled curses, his phone shifting all the more.

"Listen," he said in gruff, clipped tones. "I'm on my way. Don't go out looking for him if you haven't already, okay? Just wait 'til I get there."

"You're coming?" she asked, surprised, though not really knowing why. "Are you already in—"

"Palo Alto? No. Just about two hours out. Just… wait, okay? I'll be there soon."

"Okay," she replied, and then all she heard was the faint click of being disconnected. A whirlwind, and then, nothing. He didn't even ask how she had gotten the number. She didn't even know his name.

Jess set down the phone and braced the dresser for a few long moments. The chill in the October air only seemed to worsen as the night went on, and she dazedly rummaged through their closet until she found one of Sam's sweatshirts and pulled it over her head. The silence slipped back into place as she stared out the window, watching the trees sway in the wind.

She waited.

----------

An hour and a half, actually, by her own clock. When she heard the deep rumble of an engine she poked her head between the curtains to see an old classic car pulling up on the curb.

A shadow of a man eased open a creaking door, and Jess reached far back in her memory, trying to think if Sam had ever mentioned his brother's name. But… nothing. Every now and again he made off-hand remarks about his family, and Jess didn't press: she knew his mother was dead and only that he had a father and brother, and that they had traveled around a lot when they were little. Jess was left to sketch in the unsaid details herself.

A glance at a mirror in the living room showed just how much she had neglected her own upkeep, though she had shoved that to the bottom of the list at this point. She tucked her fly-aways behind her ears and rubbed her eyes and waited for Sam's brother to reach the door.

She had expected to see some sort of duplicate of Sam, lanky and boyish, dimples and a hint of a grin hidden beneath a calm demeanor. But when she opened the door, the voice she had heard on the phone should have been all the indication she needed that that was most definitely not the case. The rough tone reflected in every aspect of him, a week's worth of stubble on his face, making the intensity of his glare all the more convincing. He was hunched in a leather coat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and if Jess didn't know any better, she'd say he was nervous himself.

"Hi," she said, the quaver in her voice unintended. He forced a quick grin.

"Hey. Mind if I, uh…" he gestured inside.

"Oh, no, yeah, sorry," she said, pulling the door open wider. He stepped in, taking in the surroundings as if he'd never seen the inside of an apartment before.

"So," he said. "This is you and Sam's place." She nodded. "How long have you had it?"

Not the kind of question she would have expected him to ask, or, at least, not right off the bat, but she obliged. "A year, or thereabouts."

"And he's not, you know, crocheting sweaters and selling them to pay the bills, is he?" Jess shrugged, feeling a little impatient.

"His scholarships pays for more than just tuition. And even if it didn't, he and I can hold our own just fine."

"Right," he said, and gave an amused huff. "Scholarship. Of course." He walked into the kitchen without preamble, rummaging through cupboards. "So, does he still drink cappumochamundos or whatever, or is there actual coffee around?"

"Listen—" she started and then stopped short. "Oh, uh… Sam never mentioned your name…."

He froze, hand reaching for one of the upper cabinets, and turned to face her, giving her a look she couldn't quite decipher.

"Dean," he said finally. "Winchester. Though I hope you figured that one out yourself."

"Well, listen, Dean," Jess replied, ignoring his last remark. "I appreciate that you drove all the way here, I really do, but it's been six days and Sam—"

"Is missing," Dean interrupted, turning back to the cabinets. "I know. But right now there's not a thing I can do until a little investigative research gets done. And in order to do that—" he opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator, a triumphant grin on his face. He pulled out the bag and gave it a little shake. "Coffee."

----------

A short time later a large pot of coffee had been brewed, and Jess breathed deep the aroma in the air, feeling slightly more at ease than she had been before. Dean was hunched over Sam's laptop, mug in hand, and still hadn't given Jess any indication to what he was searching for. Though, to be fair, she hadn't asked; she just figured Dean would have been kind enough to fill her in.

She cleared her throat softly.

He looked up, briefly, his face lit from the soft glow of the screen.

"So," he said. "I'm assuming you didn't call the authorities." Statement, not a question.

"No." When she didn't divulge any further, Dean looked up again.

"Can I ask why?"

"I just—I don't know. I thought maybe he just wanted…" she gestured helplessly. "God, how could I have been so stupid? He could be hurt somewhere and I'm just sitting back here thinking, oh, wouldn't it be a shame if I called the police and it was some false alarm. God." She nearly felt herself crumple inwards, all the combined stress of past few days toppling upon her like a barrel of bricks, and she wanted so much more than to just let go and cry, she wanted Sam, wanted to rest her head on the hollow of his shoulder and hold on for dear life. Never mind the fact that his brother would probably go all awkward and stiff at the sight of her having a breakdown, so Jess gripped the table for all it was worth, sucking in a deep breath and holding it, letting a few tears fall in the process.

Dean watched warily, and when he saw that she was at least trying to pull herself together, he awkwardly reached around and put a hand on her wrist.

"Hey, listen to me," he said, "he's gonna be okay. Sammy's, well… under the Martha Stewart guise, he's tougher than you might think. We'll find him, I promise."

Jess rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and then moved on to her temples, making slow circles. "How do you know?" she mumbled. "What are you looking for?"

He didn't answer right away, and instead chewed on a thumbnail, eyebrows drawn into a line as he stared at the laptop. And then, hesitant: "I need you to trust me."

"Trust you," she replied hollowly. "What, are you a part of the secret service, or something?" Again Dean paused, looking lost in thought as he tapped his finger lightly on the table.

"How much did Sam tell you about his family?" he asked quietly. He was like a dog on a leash, pulling the conversation in random directions, and Jess stumbling forward to keep up.

"Next to nothing. I just assumed you weren't close. No big."

"We hunt. Things," he said, strained.

"You hunt."

"Yeah."

Jess heard a faraway chime, signaling the four o'clock hour.

"It's not…" she said, trying as hard as she could to rise above her own confusion. "I'm not, like, a vegetarian or anything…." She trailed off at the look Dean was giving her. He gave a startling shout of laughter, throwing his head back and rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Right. No. Yeah. Aw, fuck," he sighed. "We hunt… things—"

"So you said," she interrupted, feeling an irrational panic start to rise again.

"And… and he didn't want to anymore, you know? That's why he came out here. To go to school."

"Dean," she said, her voice shaking. "I just want to know what's going on."

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "But from the look of things—" he tapped the screen of the laptop, "Sam isn't the first to have gone missing lately. Around cemeteries, of all places." He gave a long-suffering sigh and sat back in the chair. "Sam, he's… a little bit better at all this research stuff than I am."

She knew she shouldn't ask, knew that this wasn't the kind of guy you wanted to rush and not get your head chewed off in the process, but— "How long will this take?" she asked, at least trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. Dean shrugged, his eyes already back on the screen.

"Can't say. I'll let you know if I find anything."

Right. She flopped down on the couch, biting back a groan of misery.

Almost an hour later and the unrelenting buzzing in her head was all that was keeping her awake. Dean was still intent at the computer, occasionally scribbling down notes, chewing on the pen cap.

Her head dipped forward….

And jerked awake suddenly as Dean slammed his palm down on the table.

"Jess," he said urgently, standing up and throwing on his jacket. "Is there a cemetery around here on the edge of a forest or hill or anything like that?"

"Um… well…" her fogged mind raced frantically as she shakily stood up herself. "There's… there's… one down in Alta Mesa about five miles from here, I think."

"Okay," he was already at the door. "You stay here. I'll find him, I promise."

"No! You tell me what's going on. Even if you don't, I'm still coming with you."

"You're just gonna have to trust me—"

"For Christ's sake, Dean! Just tell me—" The agitation he had been keeping at bay since he had arrived was finally starting to seep through as he advanced forward, scowling.

"Jessica. I'm serious. Stay here. Sam… he'll…."

"It's Jess," she nearly spat back. "And I don't care what you or Sam have to think. I'm going with you."

Whatever she had said shut him up for a few long moments, until he mumbled, "Jesus. It's like you and Sam are freakin' made for each other."

"Please," she whispered. His jaw clenched in resignation.

"Fine. Hell. But we're setting a few ground rules, understand me?"

----------

"Ground rules," as it were, basically consisted of Dean repeating variations of "do what I say." Not that Jess had a choice in the matter; she still had no idea what the hell was going on.

Dean gunned the engine despite the speed limit's protests and sharp corners.

"I don't understand," she said through clenched teeth, gripping the seat as they barreled through another turn. "A cemetery?"

Dean spared her a quick glance, and then replied, tight-lipped, "Yep."

"You think he's at a cemetery."

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"Vetala."

Jess paused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Vetala. Only heard of them once, a while back. Nasty sonsabitches."

She slumped further into her seat, the combination of the lack of sleep and the throbbing panic of findSam and sudden rush of adrenaline making her dizzy and frantic. "I don't even know anymore. I really don't," she said shakily.

"It's Hindu in origin, but as for the lore, you're gonna have to live without it—that's all Sammy, and since he isn't here right now…." Dean shrugged, continuing as if she hadn't spoken. "They're a kind of ghoul that hangs around cemeteries, picking people off to bring them back to their lair, and nasty sonsabitches because they like to reanimate the freshly dead. Sometimes deadly, sometimes just annoying as hell, depends on the spirit. But nothing a good salt-and-burn can't handle. Those suckers are fast, though, and cunning, definitely not like a freakin' zombie or anything, so even though you're gonna stick right close to me, I want you to watch your back. Understand?"

Jess stared.

Dean sighed, and turned to give her as much attention as he could without driving off the road. "Jess, this is important, okay? I know it sounds crazy, I know you think I'm crazy, but this is what's going down. If you're going to be with me, then I need your help, and I need you focused. Okay? Do you understand me?"

His sincerity was both frightening and a comfort, and she figured that since she was at the end of her rope, reaching out to Sam's own brother with the same trust that she had given Sam was the best she could do. Was all she could do.

"Yeah," Jess finally breathed. "Yeah, okay."

----------

He asked her to wait in the car a moment when they pulled on to the curb next to the gated cemetery, going around back to the trunk. She peered up through the windshield as she waited. The sun was rising, but the morning was cold and gloomy, heavy clouds shrouding any possibility of sunlight. She was glad for the sweatshirt, at least.

Dean came back around, holding two short shotguns, looking more nonchalant than she thought appropriate.

"Know how to fire a gun?" he asked, holding out one of them to her. No, was her resounding reply, and she would really rather not, thanks, but the look he gave her stopped her cold. Patiently, he gave her a crash course on how to handle the weapon, even down to the point if she had to swing it like a bat.

A short time later and he swung himself up and over the gate, picking the heavy-duty lock without trouble, and together they advanced inside. The shotgun was heavy and cold, and Jess kept it face-down, just as Dean had told her to do when it wasn't in use.

"So," she whispered, trying to keep Dean's logic above her own skepticism, "you said it had a lair? Could Sam be there?"

"We don't even know if this is the right cemetery," Dean replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. "But it likes to hang out near forests or hills. And this," he gestured around to the great amount of growth beyond the large cemetery, "looks like a pretty damn good hiding place to me."

They took to the perimeter, walking gingerly over crunching dead leaves. Dean's brows were furrowed, his head tilting this way and that, listening intently. Jess, too, tried to keep her eyes peeled, wanting to actually help instead of being the burden to Dean she thought she was. But having no previous experience in… hunting, or whatever, wasn't helping in the slightest, as she had no idea what to look for. She didn't even know what this thing looked like. Which was probably a good thing, she figured.

Jess had never really been creeped out by cemeteries, strangely enough finding them peaceful, but as a light fog started to roll in, she shivered unconsciously. Never mind the fact that something was out there, that that something had taken her boyfriend, and that that something had opened up a frightening world of possibilities that her imagination could only begin to depict. First monsters, then what? Ghosts?

The cemetery was tensely quiet as Dean searched and Jess followed. An hour passed, maybe two; the sun hadn't broken through the clouds and it seemed to be growing colder. Finally, Dean stopped short, crouching down to examine something in the ground.

"What is it?" Jess asked in hushed tones.

"Something.…" Dean muttered. He eased up, hands braced on knees. "Let's take a look, shall we?" He started off deeper into the forest. Jess took one last look at the curling fog smothering the granite headstones, and followed.

Darker still was the inside of the woods, and Jess kept closer to Dean than what was probably necessary, if he minded he didn't say anything.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" she asked.

"I'll let you know when we see it," he said. "I don't know for sure. Could be a hole in the ground, could be in a side of the hill. Hell, the bastard could be up in the trees, for all I know."

But it was none of those.

Quite suddenly they came upon a small clearing, and in the middle of it, a ramshackle, poor excuse for an old wooden house. The tin roof sat at a precarious position, and each of the windows were either missing or left as jagged remains, cloudy and opaque against the darkness inside. Curiously enough, no grass, flowers, or any other sort of flora grew in a wide circle surrounding the house. Jess opened her mouth to say so, but it instead came out as a cry of surprise as she heard a shrill, keening noise echo in the forest behind her. Dean whipped around, shotgun up to aim, and planted himself between her and the direction the noise had come from.

"Just stay quiet," Dean said, though she could hardly hear him herself. The minutes ticked by; Jess didn't dare move a muscle. The trees swayed overhead, boughs creaking, but she could hear nothing else besides the pounding of her heartbeat in her head.

"Okay," Dean said quietly. "Okay. Let's just… take it slow. I'm gonna check out the house, because that seems near perfect if you ask me. So stick close and shoot anything that moves. Unless, it's, you know, Sam."

A blur out of the corner of her eye, and then too suddenly she watched as Dean was sideswiped by a huge, grotesque thing.

She took a stumbling step backwards, unable to do anything as she saw it and Dean tumble awkwardly to the ground, Dean letting out a shout what sounded like annoyance instead of pain. Even with his back on the ground, Dean gave an almighty punch to the head of the thing, and the result was a sickening crack that echoed through the clearing. It reeled back, the jaw now hanging slack and seemingly unhinged, but that didn't deter it from wrapping long, gray fingers around Dean's neck and slamming his head into the ground. Dean's arms flailed and legs kicked as he tried to get out of the thing's grasp, but the gaunt, bony body somehow had the strength to keep Dean pinned.

Hearing the choked, strangled noises Dean was making hit Jess like an electric shock, and the adrenaline that coursed through her veins made everything here and now, like tunnel vision, though her senses had gone into overdrive instead of dimming. She lifted the shotgun and aimed, and hoped to God that when she missed, she wouldn't hurt Dean too bad, at least.

The recoil of the damn thing nearly sent her sprawling on her back and her ears rang loudly, but still she did not drop the gun. Jess looked up to see whatever damage she had inflicted, but found that she had, in fact, missed them both entirely. Both were stopped, heads turned to look at her, the things fingers still around Dean's neck and Dean hands tightly grasping it's wrists; it would have been comical if not for the fact that she had just made herself noticed.

It turned back to Dean, the latter giving a final attempt to break free before it lifted him fully off the ground by his neck and hurled him painfully into the ground.

Dean stayed limp, unmoving.

"Dean!" she screamed, almost feeling her vulnerability seeping into her skin. Slowly, terrifyingly, it advanced towards her.

Everything in her told her to run like hell, but she didn't. She couldn't. Jess was rooted to the spot, watching with horror as it dragged itself closer.

It looked like a person, or what should have been a person, but mangled in a way Jess couldn't even begin to fathom. The skin looked as though all the moisture had been sucked out of it, tinted an unnatural gray, rips and gashes marring the body, though no blood issued forth, and she could swear that she could see inside. It hung to the bones, making the figure look emaciated, caked with dirt and filth, and she gagged at the smell alone. Its wild eyes were dark and bloodshot, and it stared at Jess with a strange sort of intensity. Lips curved into a feral smile, and she saw that what teeth were left were rotted and full of holes.

It was dead. It was dead, and that thing was inside it, making it live, even though it was supposed to be deader than a damned doornail.

Oh God.

"Repent, repent," it wheezed slowly, the disturbing smile still stretched over decaying teeth. "For the end is nigh."

"What," Jess barely whispered, frozen, breathes coming in short gasps.

"Ashes and brimstone, smoke and unquenchable flame." Closer now it stood, the all-encompassing aura of death stinging her nostrils. "Such endings rarely spell beginnings… but you are not the first, no, no. And you will not be the last." A rotting hand lifted towards her face, fingers outstretched, bones moving, popping, muscles sagging, skin stretched too tight, its jaw still hanging slack, no blood, no air, no life, and Jess, feeling herself sinking in to the cold clutches of this perversion of existence, blinking rapidly in the fading light.

"Jess, move!" a voice boomed to her left, and whether from the weakness in her legs or the sudden command, she fell to the ground just as Dean's shotgun went off. The thing gave an inhumane shriek as salt met decaying flesh, turning even more shrill and unbearable as Dean reloaded and pumped in two more rounds. It crumpled into a crunching heap of bones on the earth. The sudden silence left her ears ringing.

"Hey," he said, not even sparing the thing a second glance as he hastily crouched beside her, "you all right? You hurt? Easy, now, okay, just sit tight for a moment." He eased her up slowly into a sitting position and she finally tore her gaze from the body just feet away.

"Not the last," she said tightly through chattering teeth. Dean gave her a puzzled look.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied, looking him in the eyes. "Nothing." For one brief second he gave her a look that was so distinctly Sam she felt her heart lurch.

"You sure you're all right?"

She rubbed a hand over her face. "Yeah. I think so."

As he helped her up she asked, "Is it dead?"

"Not quite," Dean said, bending down gingerly to retrieve his sawed-off. "Well. In a physical sense, yes. The spirit's kinda trapped in the body at this point, so it ain't going anywhere right now. We need to perform a… well, a kind of funerary rite to abolish it completely."

Jess knew well enough what "we" implied, but felt herself unable to match his optimism, and hated herself for it.

She noticed Dean sway slightly and then lean against the nearest tree, face quickly turning pale. "You okay?" she said, the panic in her tone unintended.

"Fine," he replied, tight-lipped. "Just need a sec." As much as she didn't want to, she let him be, pretending to be preoccupied with the rundown cabin, listening to his deep, measured breaths.

"Okay," he said a few minutes later, however still ashen, stepping up next to her. "Let's go find Sam."

----------

Though the immediate danger was now lying pathetically on the front lawn, they still made their way carefully through the rickety structure. Dean opened the front door, shotgun still raised, and gave Jess a short nod to ensure her that it was all right to follow. A few scattered remains of furniture and layers of dust was all that inhabited the large front room, though a strange path had been marked through the dust in to the adjacent room. Dragging, scuffling, fighting, maybe; she wondered if Dean had it already figured out.

The trail continued in through the second room, which was much smaller than the first, and then stopped suddenly at a poorly constructed door frame with no door. Jess could see a few rickety stairs that descended into darkness, and with one look to Dean she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. She moved to take a step forward and take the plunge when Dean's hand on her elbow stopped her.

His jaw worked furiously and his eyes didn't leave the unsettlingly silent abyss below them. "Jess," he said quietly.

"No, Dean, I—"

"I'm going down. You are staying up here until I say so. You understand me?"

"You can't just tell me—"

"You'd better be damn glad I even let you come along, sweetheart," he shot back testily. "I'm not fucking around."

Tears stung her eyes, but she stuck her chin out and replied, "Fine."

"Keep your gun up," he said a bit more gently before turning to descend down the stairs.

Screw the gun, she thought and edged as close as she could over the door frame without taking the first step down, shutting her eyes and straining her ears to hear anything at all.

The creaks and groans from the staircase made her skin crawl, and when Dean finally stepped off the last stair she sucked in a breath.

Dean's voice broke the silence, muffled and low.

"Hey, hey. Sammy. Sam. C'mon now, you with me? Sam, hey, it's okay. C'mon, kiddo, open your eyes and look at me."

Jess thought it well enough to be bent over double and let the slowing throb of blood rushing into her head right itself naturally instead of being sprawled out on the floor unconscious.

When the white spots left her eyes and when she gained control of tingling forearms and legs, she, too, took to the stairs.

Sam groaned and Jess paused, looking into the murky light of the basement. "I know, just for a second longer," Dean was saying softly, and then she heard a neat snick and what sounded like a chain being thrown on the ground. "Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, and Jess was close enough now to see that he was examining Sam's wrists.

"Dad," Sam gritted out, head falling back on the crumbling cement wall.

"No," Dean said somewhat forcefully. He cupped his hands on Sam's jaw. "No. It's Dean. C'mon, Sammy, keep your eyes open."

"Dean," Sam said, squinting up at his brother. "Dean?"

"Hiya, Sam," Dean grinned wanly.

"What'r you doin' here," Sam slurred.

"Saving your sorry ass, looks like."

"Yeah. Oh yeah. Oh, shit, Dean—" Sam suddenly snapped into almost-full awareness.

"All ready taken care of. You'll never guess. A Vetala."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

During the exchange Dean had been very slowly and very carefully helping Sam up, one arm around Sam's back and underarm, the other steadying them both as they rose carefully. Now standing at almost full height, Sam's head rolled up to find—

"Jess!" he choked. He swung his head to look at Dean, wide eyed. "Don't. Don't tell me you brought her along."

"Sam," Dean said warningly.

"Son of a bitch," Sam said a little breathlessly. "She's not… Dean, this… this—"

The shock of finally seeing Sam alive and well was gradually waning, and was instead being replaced with overwhelming relief and love and maybe even a little pride, and Jess took a small step forward, wanting to touch him, know that he was here, and not just a figment of hope. She wanted him to tell her that it was all going to be all right, longed for those words to come out of his mouth. But it wasn't, and he wouldn't, and he was looking at her right then with such a mix of horror and shame and fear that she stepped forward and clasped his forearm none-to-gently, leaning up and kissing him hard, tasting blood on his lips, silencing the protest she didn't want to hear.

Dean had the good enough grace to say nothing, but when Sam started to stumble and slide forward, he gave a grunt and tried repositioning Sam's arm across his shoulders. Jess broke away, but when she tried to step back it was Sam who grasped her hand, squeezing it hard.

"Sam," she said, and in all her life she didn't think she ever meant anything as much as she did this. "It's okay. I promise."

Sam held her gaze until he couldn't.

"Listen," Dean finally broke in. "As much as I'm enjoying this, I think you're heavier than you were before, dude, and if you pass out I swear I'm gonna just drag your ass out to the car."

Stepping up and out of the nearly nonexistent light of the basement meant that each cut, gash, and bruise along Sam's exposed skin were revealed with harsh clarity. Dried blood was caked on the back of his neck and shoulders, a sickening lump on the back of his head the culprit. Gashes and scrapes were sprinkled across his face like some kind of grotesque set of freckles, and Jess made the mistake of putting a hand to his middle back and discovered multiple bruises, all blossoming a painful shade of purple and blue. By the time they were nearly to the car Sam was drawing deep, ragged breaths and struggling to stay conscious.

"Stay with me, Sammy. We're almost there." Dean was beginning to stumble himself, and he clumsily searched in his pockets until he produced the keys, his hands shaking.

"It's Sam," came the mumbled reply. Jess herself was staving off a surge of panic again, both of them seemingly unfit to care for the other, not to mention that the light grip she had around Sam's waist would ultimately mean that she'd be going down with the two of them if Sam decided to loose consciousness again.

"Hey," Dean said, an urgent tone clear in his voice as he fumbled to unlock the car doors . "The second you pass out I'm gonna tell Jess about the time you found that bottle of nail polish at that motel and decided that hot pink really was your color. I mean it." And even though Jess knew the purpose behind the remark, she laughed anyway, loud and strong.

"Oh come on," she said. "I'm sure he just didn't know any better. How old was he? Five? Six?"

"Eleven," Dean returned with a smirk.

"Oh God," Sam groaned as Dean eased him down lengthwise across the back seat of the car. "I hate you both." But Jess could see the small quirk of a smile on his face.

----------

Jess wasn't exactly sure that Dean should have been driving, but she kept her mouth shut and concentrated on not turning around every five seconds to check on Sam. His eyes were closed, and she didn't know if either Dean had given up trying to keep him awake or if Sam was out of whatever danger Dean thought he might be in. She winced for him at every jolt and bump the car made.

The apartment finally came into view. The sickening adrenaline rush that had its unrelenting grip on her for the past few days was finally dissolving away into pure and aching tiredness. One more minute in Dean's car and she knew she'd be sleeping where she sat.

Dean pulled up to the curb, killing the engine, and sat for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Sam.

"Dean?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's get him inside."

It wasn't exactly the easiest of tasks. Dean lightly smacked at Sam's face, trying to wake him, and when Sam came around to a somewhat-conscious state, they carefully pulled him from the back seat and positioned and arm over each of their shoulders.

Once inside, they lowered him on to the couch, and Dean straightened, saying, "Where does Sam keep the first aid box?" Jess almost asked how he knew Sam made sure to have a fully stocked first aid kit, but now the answer was so obvious it made her stomach turn, so she instead replied, "The cabinet to the left of the sink."

Kit now in hand, Dean made quick work of patching Sam up, who was still only just semi-conscious. That was, until Dean pulled a thread through the eye of a needle, frowning all the while, and bent over forward just a little to lean directly into Sam's glassy-eyed line of vision.

"Sam," was all he said, quietly, apologetically.

"Knock yourself out," Sam said, and then grinned lazily at the irony of his words.

Sam's whole body jerked when the needle entered the tender skin just above his eyebrow, but it was as if Dean had been expecting it, one hand steadily holding the needle and thread, the other on Sam's forehead, gently-but-firmly holding his brother in place.

When Jess started to sway forward slightly and feel her face pale, she remembered how much she hated needles, and made her way shakily to the kitchen to put on another full pot of coffee.

She lingered behind the doorway out of the kitchen when she finished, listening, trying hard to understand how someone - a brother - could suddenly just reenter Sam's life without a reason, an explanation as to where the hell he was exactly in the first place. It wasn't that Dean rubbed her the wrong way, or anything - he didn't too much- but a sort of loyal protectiveness surged up within her; Sam, she felt, was owed an apology, or something close to it, and the fact that Sam had just accepted that Dean was here without protest…. It wasn't her business, she knew that, but all the same….

"Did it give you anything?" Dean was asking. Sam reflexively let out a hoarse cough.

"Little bit of water a couple times and… and something…." There was a frantic edge to Sam's voice, and she couldn't exactly decipher what happened next, only Dean's low and murmured voice punctuated by Sam's weak coughs. But then the movements stilled and she heard Dean rummaging lightly through the med kit.

"Didn't know you were here," she heard Sam mumble.

"Yeah, well," said Dean, "I got a phonecall."

Jess bit her lip, smiling, when she heard Sam's weak but amazed laugh.

She grabbed a bottle of lukewarm water from the kitchen and crossed the threshold, and came back into the room, Sam's eyes dazedly meeting hers. She sat on the edge of the couch and softly carded her fingers through his hair, making sure to stay away from the newly stitched gashes and other small cuts and bruises along his face. Sam took the bottle and lifted it to his lips, swallowing only a couple mouthfulls before grimacing and putting a hand to his stomach.

Dean was standing above them, arms crossed, weight shifting from one foot to the other and fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Sam looked up at him almost expectantly.

"So," he finally said, not looking at Sam. "That's pretty ironic, right, you just kinda… stumbling on to something."

"Dean—" Sam tried, but Dean continued on, unrelenting.

"I mean, it's just interesting, almost like maybe you were out looking for something to—"

"Dean," Sam grit out warningly, eyes flicking to Jess. Dean shrugged.

"Just sayin', dude."

"Yeah, well, don't," Sam said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and frowning.

"All right. Well. If you guys'll excuse me, I've got a corpse to burn, so." Dean moved to stand, but Sam reached out and grabbed his wrist, halting Dean's movements.

"Dean, wait, you—you don't look so good." Sam squinted up at him, trying to keep his eyes open. "Just—stay? Please?" Dean gave a small grin.

"Nah, I think your girlfriend here wants some time with you," he said, giving Sam's hand a quick pat before gently releasing his grip. "I'll be back soon, I promise." He straightened and looked at Jess. "The codeine'll knock him out for a while; I should be back before he wakes up. If any of the bandages get too saturated there's some more gauze and tape in the kit. And try not to do anything too damaging, though you probably know by now how fragile he is."

"I am not fragile," Sam grumbled, though his eyes were half closed.

As Dean moved towards the door, Jess thought she should say something, anything. She self-consciously cleared her throat.

"Hey, um… be careful, okay?"

Dean stared at her with a bemused look on his face and then snorted, shutting the door behind him.

The second Dean was gone Jess moved to lie next to Sam, mindful of his wounds, and pressed in to his lanky frame, burying her head into his shoulder. She gave a soft, shuddering sigh and Sam reached around as best he could to pull her in closer.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Don't," she interrupted desperately. "You have nothing to be sorry about, Sam."

"You must have been worried sick, and—and I didn't want this, you shouldn't have to know about everything, Jess, I'm so sorry—"

"Sam Winchester. You say another word and you really will have something to be sorry about." She propped herself up on her elbow slightly so she could look Sam in the eye. "Listen to me. You aren't pulling the guilt-trip crap with this, okay? Yeah, I might have been a little worried, but you're here now, and that's all that matters. And as for this whole hunting thing?" she shook her head, laughing slightly, and then leaned down to place a gentle kiss on the side of Sam's mouth when she felt him tense. "Very brave. Very sexy. You should have seen your brother with that gun, Sam, I was swooning." She had to purse her lips to keep from laughing at Sam's face. He pulled her in close again and growled as he kissed her hard.

"Remind me," he said when he caught his breath, "to never," a trail of kisses down her jaw, "let you guys play the rescue team," he tried to stifle a groan when Jess dug her hip into his, "again. Jess, I—I can't—"

"Sorry," she said softly. "I know." She shifted again, giving him a more comfortable position. "Try to get some rest, okay? I'll be right here."

"I know you will," he murmured, eyes already closed.

Only moments later, it seemed, the sounds of his soft snoring filled her ears, and Jess felt herself sink into a comforting daze, finally, finally feeling the tension leave her body, an irreplaceable calm moving, flowing, settling over her as she listened to Sam's deep breathing.

It had only been a few days, but, she realized, it was the sound she had missed the most.