Winchester Legacy - It's You
Disclaimer: SPN isn't mine, but these characters are.
Characters/Pairings: Cassidy Winchester/Colt Jensen (OCs)
Warnings: het, future!fic, alarming lack of canon characters
Rating: PG-13-ish
Word Count: 1,143
Author's Notes: The protagonist in this story is the daughter of Sam Winchester and Rhea Morgan from the Songs That Know Me anthology and the younger sister of Clara and Cate Winchester from Down, Down, Down. For more background, check out Preface and The End of an Era. This can, however, be understood (and enjoyed, I hope) on its own. If I were filming this, I'd cast Summer Glau as Cassidy and Cory Monteith as Colt, although I've taken some liberties with eye color.
Summary: She takes a seat beside him and waits for him to open his eyes. He does. They’re warm and honest and exactly the color of maple syrup, just as she’d expected.
It’s You
Winchester Legacy - Cassidy/Colt
September 4, 2042
Cassidy Winchester awakens with a start, alone and naked and gasping for air. She glances at the clock; it’s just after four in the morning. Her first class at Watson Arts is in six hours. She knows she should go back to sleep -- Watson has been her dream school since she was eight, and she wants to be fresh for her first day -- but her brain won’t let her rest. She needs to paint, or she won’t be able to think straight, let alone sleep peacefully.
It’s not easy to translate her dreams onto the canvas, but she’s practiced at it. She sets a medium-sized canvas on her easel, prepares her palette and brushes, and begins to paint. Sunny yellows and blues evolve into a bright morning sky spreading over the top half of the canvas. Underneath that, a pair of brown eyes, warm and honest and maple sweet, are soon staring back at her, framed by thick lashes, a straight nose, and sharp cheekbones. The neck of a classical guitar spans one vertical edge of the canvas, nylon strings gleaming silver, and all remaining empty space is soon filled with bits of stained glass that glow with early light.
The painting is complete, and Cassidy is at peace again. She leaves it on the easel to dry and looks at the clock. It’s six thirty. She can still grab a couple hours sleep before class.
She’s in the shower by eight forty-five, scrubbing unsuccessfully at a smear of maple brown paint six inches above her knee. She should have thrown her apron on before she started painting, but she’d been groggy and headachy, and she hadn’t thought about it.
At nine fifteen, the local weatherman is promising a scorcher -- not surprising for early September in Austin -- so Cassidy selects a breezy calico sundress and belts it at the waist with a thick brown leather braid. Necklace, sandals, a little lip balm, and she’s ready to go. She picks up her heavy canvas bag, slings it over her shoulder, and begins the ten-minute walk from her loft to the Watson campus.
***********
Colt Jensen has twenty minutes to kill before his first class, so he finds a bench in the shade and pulls his guitar from its case. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers move absentmindedly over the nylon strings, bringing forth a gentle, meandering tune. His mind drifts for a while, returning only when he feels the wooden slats of the bench shift slightly. He opens his eyes, blinks twice to make sure this vision is real.
A pretty little slip of a girl in a cotton dress, with long dark hair and golden skin. A leather cord around her neck displays an odd assortment of charms and pendants, and a bit of ink peeks out from the neckline of her dress, dancing with her heartbeat. The flame of a candle, maybe? He’s not going to stare long enough to find out. He takes in her delicate hands and wrists and the smudge of paint decorating her thigh before drawing his eyes up to hers. They’re a dark, woodsy hazel and almost too big for her face. When he meets her gaze, she smiles and says, softly and utterly inexplicably, “It’s you.”
***********
Cassidy’s not entirely surprised to have happened upon the guy with the guitar. Nylon strings. Sharp cheekbones. She takes a seat beside him and waits for him to open his eyes. He does. They’re warm and honest and exactly the color of maple syrup, just as she’d expected.
“It’s you.”
“It’s me?” He grins at her. Charming, disarming, a pleasingly asymmetrical smile that reaches up to those brown eyes and crinkles them at the corners.
“Yes, it is. Who are you?”
“Colt Jensen.” Why did that sound familiar?
“Hello, Colt Jensen. I’m Cassidy.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cassidy.”
“Likewise.” She glances down at the clock on her phone and stands up, hauling her bag back up onto her shoulder. “I’ve gotta go now. Class at ten. See you around, Colt Jensen.” She turns to go.
“Wait!” He zips his guitar into its case and stands up beside her, running a hand through his short but unruly brown hair. He’s tall, probably a foot taller than she is, and clad sensibly in cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a navy Watson Arts t-shirt. “What class do you have?”
“Freshman Painting Workshop with St. James.”
He grins at her again. “Me too. I’ll walk you.”
They make pleasant conversation on the way to class. Typical college small talk -- majors, class schedules, hometowns. (He grew up outside of Fort Worth; she’s from Sioux Falls.) They claim a pair of easels in the back row of the classroom so Colt can lean his guitar safely against the wall. Professor St. James, a petite woman with big blue eyes and a soft voice, gives a brief introduction to the class and then calls attendance, beginning with “Ashlynn, Alexa?” and ending with “Winchester, Cassidy?”
“Present.”
Colt spins around to face her, surprise etched across his brow. “Winchester? From Sioux Falls? Are you one of Sam and Rhea’s girls?”
Cassidy’s apprehensive at this. If he knows who her parents are, then he knows what they do. Which means he might know what she can do.
***********
She’s staring at him now, eyes dark and round as saucers. His question was whispered, but there must be shock written all over his face, because he’s clearly scared her.
Damn, he thinks, and does his best to school his features. Skittish little thing. If she’s one of Sam Winchester’s daughters, then he could have an ally here. Damage control, Colt. Fix it.
“I’m sorry,” he tries, touching a hand to her bare shoulder for just an instant in a protective gesture. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
That does the trick. Those wild hazel eyes lose their deer-in-the-headlights look. She takes a deep breath, and the tattoo over her heart rises and falls, distracting him more than he cares to admit. “H-how do you know my parents?”
“Your dad and your uncles saved my folks’ lives once, before I was born. Nest of vampires was causing all kinds of trouble in my hometown, but your mom saw it coming, so Sam and Dean and Castiel rode into town and swept ‘em all outta there. You know, my mom and dad started hunting after that. Taught me to hunt, too. Even named me after that gun of Dean’s, the one that can take down vampires.”
There’s recognition in those big eyes now. “Oh, of course. Your parents are Terran and Annie Jensen... from Roanoke, right? My family will be happy to know you’re here.” She smiles up at him. “I’m happy you’re here, too.”