Title: "Always Look on the Bright Side"
Fandom: Supernatural (and slightly FNL)
Rating/Classification: SAC for some dirty words, Sam/Jess, crossover, kind of wangsty, spoilers for the pilot only.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: 600 words. She had to chase him down.
When Sam tells his grandchildren about Jess --assuming he lives long enough to have some and their great uncle Dean hasn't put him down like a rabid dog-- he's going to have to admit that she did all the work. "That's right, Kids. The one who started it all, she had to chase me down." "Why, Granddad?" "Because I was a world class idiot."
In fact, he remembers making that call to Dean even though they weren't really supposed to be talking at the time --when did that ever stop them?-- and whispering to him like the blond girl from the science library could somehow hear him clear across campus. "Dean, there's this girl…" Dean had laughed, like he always does, cutting him off before he even got the story out. "Quit being such a douche and ask her out, Sammy."
Of course, he didn't. Instead, he spent weeks watching her walk towards him with that gorgeous sway in her hips, letting her lean over him and inhaling the fruity scent of shampoo that would end up lingering on his sheets for months. He memorized her smile and played it back a dozen times. He said dumb things like, "Jessica Moore, I'm sure seeing 'moore' of you," and, luckily, she kept coming back. She brought him coffee just the way he liked it and discussed Proust and Python and murmured against his ear that he was beautiful and he was hers.
And then suddenly there were first kisses and first nights together and tenth nights together, and they were moving in together. He breathed Jess because she was everything.
They're in Texas when he thinks he sees her in a window. He yells at Dean to pull over, his breath coming out in gasps and his head screaming with visions of Dave Matthews concerts and Italian restaurants and Jess claiming the small of his back in the name of France. "You're not French, Jess." "Oh, yeah? Wanna see me drop my rifle?"
Dean pulls into the Applebee's parking lot without so much as a "what are you, fucking crazy?" and doesn't say anything when Sam stumbles out and stalks the silhouette of a blond waitress along the glass until he hits the bricks at the end, hunches down, and loses his shit.
It's not her, of course. Too young. Maybe her baby sister playing Mel's Diner dress up and, God, Sam still hates Halloween. More now than ever before.
When he's slamming back into the Impala, six shades of pale, Dean's jangling his keys and setting a to-go cup of joe on the dash. Dean waits till they're back on the highway to tell him, "The girl's name was Tyra. Nice kid. Born and raised here. No relation."
Sam waits two more miles to tell him, "thank you."
"I was going to marry her," he'll tell the would-be grandkids. "I was going to get into law school and marry that girl when she asked me." (Because Lord knows, he wasn't going to get around to doing the asking.)
He still believes that. Even a year later when it's just the memory of Jess keeping him warm and the echo of her laughter ruffling the short hairs on the back of his neck. He still holds on tight to that white picket fence fantasy where he comes home to the smell of fresh-baked cookies and the beautiful wife and they make love all day and there's no such thing as demons and no one ever sticks to the ceiling and bursts into flames.
He's still a world class idiot.
March 25, 2007.