Introductions

Supernatural

Sam/Jessica

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural.

This is AU, with Jessica having not died at the beginning of Season 1, nor having met him at all during college. Dean is mentioned as being overseas, which you can take as "hell" or simply on a hunt, him and Sam having parted ways.

Please review!

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When he knocks on the door, I am so sure it is going to be a complaint about Lucy. Unlike the rest of the block, the young man doesn't know my cat is basically insane. There will be a serious expression, carefully worded questions regarding abuse, and offers of "taking her off your hands." But he doesn't know, can't possibly know, that my long-haired black beastie is just really loud in her late night sonnets to the moon. At the very least, he will ask me, very politely, if she might be boarded in the evenings.

Samuel Eustace has only lived in the 1940s Tutor-style cottage that rests next to my property for two weeks. He's kept to himself, and so far managed to evade the block's gossip, which is cheerily exchanged under the drylines as our retiree community folds their sheets. He has successfully navigated the barbecues, the birthday parties, garage sales, neighborhood watch meetings, etc. As he has no children, he doesn't attend PTA, isn't seen at the park, nor does he frequent any of the drive-thrus. Yes, Mr Eustace has kept out the spotlight quite nicely.

Which, for his age, doesn't make sense. He looks scarcely older than me, still young enough to be kicking back shots with his frat brothers and writing term papers. So, why is he here in suburbia, living on lite beer and, if the delivery boxes are any indication, takeout? He shouldn't be here, not with these old farts.

To be fair, when I first received notice of his arrival, I was so sure this Samuel Eustace would indeed be one of those old farts, bringing our young-to-old ratio to 8:15. I mean, what kind of name is Eustace? It sounds ancient—and it is. Having a degree in History and Museum Science, the research to find the meaning behind the weird name didn't take long. Eustace was a Roman general, a martyr who saw a vision in a stag's antlers while out hunting. In the end, he was burned for not worshipping the right gods. Talk about a tough crowd.

Two weeks in, and I have seen my neighbor at total of five times. Three in the evening, catching him coming back from a late run. A classic silver Ipod is always strapped to his bicep. He wears some variation of a sleeveless shirt designed for vigorous motion, and loose shorts. Though the fabric is baggy, I can still make out a nicely contoured ass. Each time he passes, he waves or throws up his chin. Once, I spotted him under the hood of his car, a very classy black Impala. Ben, the 20-something across the street, did manage to strike up a conversation about the car when he stopped by with some special St. Louis draft of beer. Sam-as Ben calls him now-is holding the car for his older brother, who is indisposed at the moment.

"Indisposed how?"

"Well," Ben had said, embarrassed. "Those weren't his exact words, but the general idea was that he—the brother-is overseas."

"Oh."

It is a sweet ride. Even I, who knows nothing of cars, can see that it is in a moderately good condition and has been greatly loved. Like a toddler's teddy bear; worn around the ears, but still soft and stitched up tight.

Mr. Eustace—Sam- stands on my porch, hand still raised in the motion of knocking, when I throw back the door. The serious expression I had predicted was there, but the topic of conversation feel short of my expectations.

"Do you have any salt?"

No introduction. No "Hello, I'm Samuel. You might not've noticed, but I moved in next door about…two weeks ago? Sorry I didn't introduce myself before, I've been so distracted packing. You know how it is." Just "salt."

"Um…" I begin, completely failing to sound competent and witty, as I had planned. Instead, my aim fell short, landing closer on brain dead and dull. "Yes."

"Good. Do think I could borrow it?"

I led him to the kitchen to riffle through the pantry for the yellow canister. All the while I can hear fingers strumming anxious on the granite of my countertop, keeping a fervent rhythm. When I return his eyebrows raise up, then fall as he accepts the seasoning.

"Thank you! Sorry to barge it, got a bit of an emergency over—" He points rather aimlessly in the general direction of his home, backing toward the front door. I followed. "-so I've got to-"

"What, have an under-seasoned steak or something waiting for you?" I ask.

For a moment, I'm sure he's going to just walk out. Then he pauses, laughing gently. "Not-not quite. A little more serious. And…I might need all of this." He shakes the container. It's then that I notice he has giant hands to go along with those toned biceps. "But I'll bring you more, swear."

"Whatever." I don't mean to sound so careless. "I mean, it's just salt. Keep it."

He beams, and I realize suddenly that my new neighbor isn't just a collection of good-looking features, but he is altogether quite attractive. Even despite the longer hair and largeness, things that are usually huge turn-offs for me.

Sam leaves. Over the next hour, I keep careful watch over his driveway, waiting for some revelation regarding his odd behavior. But nothing comes, aside from the occasional crash from the Tutor house. The next morning, as I leave for the gallery, I see that his pavement is streaked with rust-coloured liquid. In the dawn light, it glistens copper. When I get home, it has been washed off. Did he slaughter a cow, or something, and salt the meat?

Two days later, I find him again on my doorstep, holding a new canister of salt, along with a bouquet of delicate orchids and daffodils. The daffodils I recognize from his walkway, which they line every spring. The thought of this hulking fellow scooping up flowers for me instantly redeems his lack of an introduction. I bury my face in the blooms as let him in. When he enters, Lucy jumps off the couch, glowers in our general directly, and stalks off to the bedroom, undoubtedly to hide under my bed. He scans the living/dining room with one quick gaze, then turns back to me.

"I asked Ben which were your favourites," He says sheepishly. "I hope you don't mind. He seemed like a good friend, so I thought…anyways, I just wanted to say sorry about barging in like that, demanding salt. Maybe, to make up for it, if you wanted…we could grab dinner, some night?"

I gape.

"But if you wouldn't want to, I totally understand. I mean, I wouldn't want to go out with some salt-stealing, crazy neighbor who doesn't even tell you their name….which is Sam, by the way." Nervous, he scratches the back of his hair. The hand is suddenly extracted to be thrust in my direction. "Samuel Eustace."

"Are you free tonight?" I blurt out.

Nervousness slips in a grin. My hand finds his as Sam says confidently, "Sure."

I go back the flowers, inhaling them to hide my blush. He's still smiling widely, immensely pleased with our plans. I don't usually accept people on the fly like this, but Sam has some subtle charisma that makes even thinking of saying no difficult.

"And, um…I'm Jessica, by the way."

"I already knew that," He admits. "But I suppose real introductions couldn't hurt."

"No," I agree. "They probably couldn't."