Title: Girl, Don't Fall for a Handsome Man
Pairing: Sam/Jess, Sam/Dean
Descriptions/Warnings: Bad words, implied incest. Stanford-era.
Disclaimer: The characters and ideas are the CW's and Kripke's. I own nothing.
Thank you so much to my beta FallenPride, who made this story a whole lot better, and Anne, who listened to my (w)incestuous babbling for hours upon hours. (Even though this is so not her cup of tea.) Please R&R :D
The first time Jessica sees Sam Winchester is in a bar just outside of campus. Well, no, that's not true. She'd seen him in English class a few times, sitting front and center, looking hot, and maybe a little geeky. What, with the glasses, and laptop, and the perpetually raised hand. She'd asked around about him, heard he was there by way of scholarship, because, yeah, he was that damn smart. She'd decided he wasn't worth the trouble. Besides, she was pretty sure her self-esteem would take a hit, dating a boy that pretty.
Anyway, back to the bar. The first time she really saw Sam Winchester, was down in that grungy little bar, nursing a drink lit pink under a neon sign. Jessica watched him through the bottom of her glass. He looked miserable, with his mouth set in a way she saw when her baby sister didn't want to cry. She stood up and pushed her way through the crowd toward him. It was worth a shot.
"Well, hello Jailbait." She smiles, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm Jessica, your pervert for the evening."
"Uh—I'm not—" Sam cracks his knuckles nervously, "I'm Sam," he says.
"Sam, huh?" Jessica asks, grinning at him. "Well, Sammy, I—"
"Er, just Sam, please," he says.
Jessica nods at him, lips pursed slightly. "Okay, Sam it is."
"It's not about you, really. It's just, you know, I prefer Sam. Sorry."
"Okay, Sam." She winks and leans against the wooden bar, crossing her arms, "How about you buy me a drink?"
Sam calls Jessica the next day. He sounds so eager and excited, because, you see, he's got these awesome tickets to some show Jessica's never heard of.
He says he completely understands if she doesn't want to go, and he laughs, self-conscious and worried. She could swear his voice went up a couple notches, like this is the first time he's asked a girl out. Then he says please, southern accent spread heavy over it. Says something along the lines of being honored by her company, that she has a beautiful smile, and right then, she knows she loves him.
Just a little.
Of course, she still has to say no.
He eventually coaxes her into being his movie buddy.
"You know, poor country boy like me, it's hard to find friends who appreciate my southern ways."
Jessica's face burns. Sam just couldn't let go of her calling him old-fashioned. She may have said something about quaint accents.
"You are so full of bullshit."
"C'mon darlin', don't be like that." She can hear his smile over the phone, and tries to sound a little put out when she accepts.
It's usually a horror movie, and she thinks it's adorable, the way he keeps scoffing at the monsters.
"Don't worry; I won't think you're less of a man," she says.
On the nights afterward, when Sam clings to her like she's the last warm thing around; she smirks a little under the blanket.
He wakes her up sometimes, in the middle of the night, tracing the curve of her back.
"Sam, what're you doing?" She whispers as his hand continues to rub over a particular spot. He stops breathing for a second before dropping his hand.
"Sorry, Jess. It used to help me get to sleep, that's all. My brother—it's the scars. Sorry."
Jessica isn't sure she understands, isn't sure she wants to. She doesn't remember that Sam's favorite scent is leather, or when he once told her dreams filled with gunfire angels. There aren't the dots to connect in between, anyway. So she sleeps, ocean-deep and peaceful. In the morning, she asks him about his brother and gets a little shrug.
"What can I say? He's my brother."
Jessica wonders why it feels like a lie.
Most of the time, Jessica thinks Sam and her are meant to be. She's wild, irresponsible, he's quiet and careful. He takes her out to dinners she knows he can't afford, and always keeps Friday nights reserved for her.
And she loves him, spun-sugar love, all light and sweet. Sometimes, when they're stretched out on the paisley sofa in her apartment, she thinks about marrying Sam. She's built up a life for them in her head. At first, they would rent out an apartment on the good side of town. They'd have a boy and a girl, Lucas and Sarah. Sarah would have her daddy's eyes, but Lucas would have his smile. He'd be a heartbreaker.
They'd move, become hugely successful, and retire happy, set for the rest of their lives. She sees the back porch, bathed in sunlight, as Sam finally lets her hear stories from his childhood. She gets the feeling they'll make her cry.
Most of the time, Jessica thinks Sam and her are meant to be—but sometimes.
One day, she asks him about the future, some way-off horizon when his skin's been etched with wrinkles.
"You know? Whenever I imagine it, I just see me and my brother." He says it exactly as it's always been in his head. Jessica knows he isn't being cruel, just honest. Sam pushes his hand through his hair, smiling shyly. "Don't laugh."
Jessica feels more like dying.
Sam and Jessica move in together after four months of dating. They have a house-warming party, where the only present they get is a six-pack of beer, and an ugly carpet they keep rolled up in the closet. Afterwards, Sam stretches out on the leather sofa in an otherwise empty apartment. The sun hits the right side of his face, and damn, does he look gorgeous.
"So, I'm thinking we can use my old kitchen stuff, and your mattress and chairs. What do you think?"
He looks so happy, smile bright and clear, and that dark something in his eyes is nearly all gone. He loves her, she knows it, but she finds herself wondering. There are times when he looks at her like he doesn't know who she is. Sometimes, she thinks he's expecting someone else.
"Jess?" Sam's behind her, draping himself over her. He smells like soap and the girly shampoo he borrowed that morning.
"Get off me Gigantor, you're breaking my back," she says.
"Sorry! Sorry!" he exclaims, leaning back. He's always treated her like she's fragile, afraid that she might shatter and blow away.
"Are you going to kiss it better?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. Sam grins and pulls her towards the couch.
He makes her breakfast every morning, eggs, bacon and pancakes.
"Trying to fatten me up?" she asks, stuffing more food into her mouth. Sam watches her with a satisfied look, before picking up his cup of coffee.
"I like having someone to take care of," he says. It's almost too quiet for Jessica to hear, and for a second, she thinks she might throw the feminism speech his way, but she knows him, mostly. She knows that's not how he meant it. She watches him as he drifts off into a place he's never let her in, and sighs. She'd let it go, just this once.
" Ug, I can't believe you drink that stuff black," she says.
Sam snaps back quicker than anything, looking back at his cup.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"It's like, toxic. Emphasis on the ick."
Sam takes a big gulp and licks the black off his top lip.
"Mmm. You see that? That was manly."
"Sure, babe. Now come eat your smiley face pancakes," Jessica says.
Sam's face crinkles up grouchily. "That's for good cheer."
"The whipped cream, too, I guess."
"Shut up," Sam says, taking another swig of coffee, pointedly ignoring the powdered sugar.
Sam doesn't usually stay out late, so when he does, Jessica gets nervous.
It was at least three in the morning when he finally stumbled back in, smelling like beer, and struggling to keep upright. There's a dark purple bruise marking his chin and Jessica wants to scream at him.
Sam drank sometimes, sure, but he didn't fight. He'd been like this all day, stomping around, throwing tantrums over the tiniest things. He'd tried to call his brother, which was weird, but hung up as soon as it rang.
She goes over to where he leans against the counter, pulling him towards her. "Sam, baby. What happened?"
He looks up from his hands, and his face is a train wreck of misery and tears. She's never seen him cry, and her heart aches from it.
"Dean." He says the name like a prayer, so full of love and longing, Jessica feels herself crumble.
She jerks back, trying to rationalize.
It's not what you think, he's drunk and has no idea what he's saying, it could be anyone, Sam loves you, loves you, loves —"Who the fuck is Dean?" she asks. Her voice is flat, calmer than she thought she could manage.
Sam stares at her with red eyes, reaching out a hand to cup her cheek.
"God, Jess, please don't make me do this, I didn't even mean to."
He sways pathetically, quivering like a tattered piece of plastic thrown to the wind. But he says 'Jess' like he says 'sky,' and Jessica can't help the anger swelling under her ribs. She knocks his hand off her cheek.
"What the fuck, Sam? Dean?" She's speaking high and screechy, and she hates it, but right now, it's the only thing she can do to keep from crying.
"Jess, Dean isn't anybody. He doesn't mean anything." Sam flinches as he says it, and it's one of those rare moments she can tell he's lying. She can tell he's hurting, and he's hurting worse than her. She takes a tiny step toward him.
Sam whole body trembles, "I love him so much." He says it like a confession. Jessica takes a shuddering breath.
"It's—it's fine, Sam. I'm not mad at you, whatever happened. Just, who is he?"
Sam takes a jagged breath. "He's my brother."
Oh.
Jessica's eyes widen, as she cradles Sam's lumbering body in match stick arms. She feels guilt wash over her, feels horrible for assuming Sam was that kind of guy. God, for all she knew—for all she knew, his brother could be dead.
"Aww, Sam, baby, it's alright. It's alright." She nestles her face into his neck, letting him cry. He vomits all over her favorite sweats.
"Okay, Sam, let's get you to bed, okay? Everything will be better in the morning, you'll see."
"It just keeps getting worse," Sam snorts. Still, he lets her guide him by the hand to the bedroom. He collapses into the mattress, stretching out to take up the entire bed. Jessica touches his lips, his eyelids, pushes sweaty bangs off his forehead.
"Sweet dreams, baby."
She takes a long, hot shower, and spends the night on the sofa.
Jessica laughs loudly, as she steals another Snickers from Sam's collection.
"You didn't earn them, anyway!" she says, stuffing it in her mouth before Sam can grab it back.
"See this yumminess?" she asks, opening her mouth wide to show the candy. "I could've been yours, if you'd just worn a stupid costume."
Sam scrunches up his face, covering his eyes. "Um, ew, who taught you to be ladylike?"
"Your mom!" And Jessica's laughing all over again, nearly falling off the stool before Sam catches her.
"Alright, someone's had one too many shots."
"Psssh! That's ridiculous, I've had…" Jessica stops for a second to count, giggling while she does.
"Maybe, three? Four? Oh, no, wait! I had that one from Derek." She pulls Sam closer, licking his bottom lip. "Hey, Sam, you want to fuck in the bathroom?"
Sam chokes a little bit. "Time to go," he says. "I'm never letting you forget this."
Jessica follows Sam back to the apartment, singing bits and pieces from Disney songs.
"I think my favorite would be, probably, Arian! She's a mermaid and shit, and she's got such a pretty song, about like, us. Humans."
"Ariel?" Sam asks, sliding the key into the lock.
"Yeah! That one!"
Sam helps her into her PJs and pulls the covers over her. He gets her two asprin, and a cup of water, then puts them on the bedside table.
"Take these when you wake up with the hangover from hell," he says, as he slides into bed next to her.
Jessica shimmies herself to his side of the bed, and lays her forehead on his back.
"Night, Sammy. I love you."
"I love you, too," Sam says, but he sounds a little sad.
She knows from the moment she meets Dean, he's trouble. He's got a smile about him, a way he smiles and talks. A way he looks at Sam.
She doesn't trust him. He's standing too close to his brother, and Sam's acting angry, yeah, but he isn't really. It's the false sort of anger he always used when Jessica took the last donut, or kept him up late. He's leaning into Dean, away from her, and she just doesn't like the looks of this.
She kind of thinks Dean's an asshole, when he starts with the sweet-talking, some sort of macho big brother trying to bully Sam. But the moment he turns around, she's been forgotten, his eyes fixed firmly back on his brother. It's kind of scary, the way he watches him. Sam isn't much better.
It's expected, really, when Sam says he's got to go. He won't even tell her where.
She goes to the railing to watch Dean and Sam leave, and feels a little sick to her stomach. Sam's laughing, a true, deep laughter she's not sure she's ever heard out of him before.
"Good to see you again, man," she hears Dean says, sounding a little embarrassed.
"You too, Dean—I—" Sam cuts himself off, voice breaking a little bit, and Jessica's about to go drag him back to bed, because he should never, ever sound like that.
"Aww, c'mon, Sammy, don't get all teary-eyed on me." She hears a push and another little chuckle out of Sam.
"Just—" Dean suddenly sounds like he's eight years old, and she knows he's got the same sadness as Sam, "How about you, you know, don't ever do this again? The whole college, no calls, no contacting thing?"
Jessica knows Sam's tired, that he gets complacent before waking up all the way. Almost anything said before then doesn't mean a thing. She knows this is probably just out of them being apart for so long, but he sure sounds convincing.
"I won't, Dean. I promise."
He looks back, and sees her. His face is sorry, so, so sorry, but his body is relaxed, comfortable, content. The heavy look has left him, and she knows, some horrified part of her knows, Dean was always the one Sam needed, wanted, was meant to be with.
Jessica chokes back a sob, holding her knees to her chest. She only goes inside when she can't stand one more second of the freezing wind.
Jess makes herself a cup of tea, and watches infomercials for the rest of the night. She makes the bed for the first time ever, and finds a knife under Sam's pillow. She almost convinces herself it makes sense. She pulls out the cookie dough from the fridge, and bakes them, leaves some out on a plate for Sam. When she finally falls asleep, it's sprawled across the sofa, just as sunshine started to warm the bitter air.
She dreams of Dean, and a boy she refuses to remember, licking through each other's skin, tracing the veins that led to the heart. They're bruised and cut, and so tangled up in each other they don't notice as the blood stains their skin. They both have guns.
When she wakes up, she hears Sam rustling around the bedroom, and laughs in relief.
"Sam?" she asks, peering at the shadowy figure standing near the dresser. She realizes, as the man turns, he isn't Sam. He's much shorter, his hair is cut too close. His eyes are glowing yellow.
"Shh," the man says, sitting on her side of the bed. "Why don't you and I have a little chat, Jess?"
Jessica turns on the lights.
Dying isn't as bad as she thought it'd be. It hardly even hurts at first.
She thinks the worst part is seeing Sam's face. She'd hollow out her skull and store the blood there, if she could keep it inside, but she can't. She thinks there can't be anything more painful than Sam's voice scratching out her name—because finally, finally 'Jess' sounds like someone he loves. She knows she's felt the worst of it when she sees Dean, sees the way Sam just stops struggling after a while, and leans into his brother.
She knows there can't be any worse pain then heartbreak. She knows it, and she thinks dying doesn't hurt too much. That is, until the fire starts licking at her bones.