Author: Lauren.
Rating: Rated T.
Character/Pairing: Jessica Moore, Jess/Sam
Summary: Sam/Jess. AU. 'She misses a lot of things. Light and sound and breath. And Sam. Sam most of all.'
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine but the alternative universe sure is.
Author's Note: Oh Jess, we barely knew you. Because this is the way the Pilot should have ended, with Jess alive and not so well, but alive. If you're interested for more, review, if not, then don't. Love you kids.
For a long time it was all just white.
She could breathe, chest rising and falling, she could hear, but everything was a swirl. Like she was listening underwater and the words were all muffled and bubbles.
Not that they really speak to her. They speak around her, to each other, into space, but never really to her. Because who really speaks to a coma patient, apart from in the movies.
She doesn't understand. Where is she or why she's there. And the last thing she remembers⦠Sam's face. And flames. So hot and too close and ouch.
But Sam's face. He's below her and she tries to whisper but the words scratch and stick and refuse to come out. And all she's trying to say is his name.
She can still smell cookies. It's one of the better things that the night recalls. Brady? Brady. She's glad to see him even though she's left the shower on, rather she never got into it because the doorbell distracted her.
But Brady isn't Brady and she wonders how long he hasn't been. Brady, Brady what are you doing? Brady, Brady please, stop.
She misses a lot of things. Light and sound and breath. And Sam. Sam most of all.
Time is fluid, fluid like the blood that pumps sluggishly though her. How long has she been asleep for? She's Alice, falling endlessly through the rabbit hole, a dot in space, a light year away already and she's still going, going, going. Gone.
Jessica Moore was rich and Jessica Moore was pretty and Jessica Moore never got to play soccer but she lined her dolls up in rows until their petticoats were all matching.
Sometimes, she thinks she feels. Something physically and stinging and is that an injection because I hate those. Hate them. There was this one timeā¦
When my Daddy had to hold my hand and I tensed so tight that the nurse hit the muscle and it ached for hours after. Hours and hours. Hours and hours.
You learn a lot when you exist only inside your own head. Sort of puts things into perspective. Like how you hate when your boyfriend never opens up? Doesn't really matter anymore. And how your parents always disapproved of you going to college instead of getting married? A blip on the horizon.
She wore blue to her debutante ball. It's a tradition, her Mom kept saying over and over until Jess could have repeated the speech in her sleep. You're upholding our reputation as a family, it introduces you to society. As if society didn't know Jessica Moore already, but she nods and keeps her golden head upright and smiles and poses and lets her date squeeze her a little too tightly to keep him sweet but damn straight she'll slap him silly when they're out of the cameras eye.
Colours form in the white. Shapes and forms and is that a person? A real live person and can she see? She can see. She can breathe. Maybe she'll make it through after all.
Jess has never fallen before. Not like she does for Sam and she hides it behind her hair and her hands but it's the truth and it's beautiful and so is he. With his too big plaid shirts and his lopsided grin and he'd love to be a lawyer someday but he'd never admit that, just like she'll never say how much she loves him. But she does, oh so she does. Jess loves Sam Winchester and one day she says it and it all makes sense.
Her fingers tingle and she wonders if she's imagining it but no, they're moving. Really moving. She hears stifled crying and wonders who it is. Sam? She can only hope.
Everything is less vague now, less hollow now. More open and she feels like maybe she's making her way back from the mist. Achievements include toes and fingers moving, recognising voices and almost speaking. The first time she tried she was alone and it came out as a croak. But a noise nonetheless.
Thoughts dig in the back of her skull like fingernails and maybe they'll drive her mad before she can express them.
The paint presses against her skin and she squirms and tears leak from her eyes and down her face. Her nightdress gathers as she moves up the wall, up the wall? Up the wall and she's on the ceiling and tearing, ripping, blood. Brady why, Brady please, Brady no. No this isn't, no.
She wakes up. Finally. And the date. The date is.
May 2nd 2006 and it's exactly six months.
She's alive.
