Same Song, Different Verse
Title: Same Song, Different Verse
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 396
Pairing: Sam/Jess
Summary: 5x3 SPOILERS. He tries not to think of those early days at Stanford, but he remembers everything. Most vividly, he remembers Jess.
A/N: Written for my spn_30snapshots table. Part of the San Andreas verse, sort of a sequel to the dizzy height of a jet set life.
The sign on the window says "Bus Boy Wanted." Sam opens the door on instinct, asks to speak with the owner and says he's interested in the position. The man eyes him from head to toe, reaches behind the counter and tosses him an apron, doesn't even ask for his name. "Work starts at 3. You'll work 'til close most nights. Hope that's all right."
The bar is subdued, mostly groups of twos and threes, couples just passing through, locals stopping in after work. Sam listens to the cracks of the pool table, the easy conversations spoken over friendly games of darts. No one's hustling here.
Lindsey's lips quirk, following his distracted gaze to the two women standing near the jukebox, laughing a little too loudly, falling all over each other. "You ever work in a bar before?"
Sam smiles, aware that the expression is tainted with sadness. "Yeah. Once." He picks up the bucket of glasses, walks into the kitchen before she can pepper him with questions.
He tries not to think of those early days at Stanford, when pocket-cash was a hard-earned miracle, and sleep was not a known word in his vocabulary, but he remembers everything, students lined up at the bar, demanding beer and shots swallowed one after another, the tables scattered so close together, when the bar was crowded, he could barely breathe.
Most vividly, he remembers Jess, leaning against the bar, arms crossed, "Told your boss you were my boyfriend," asking for a kiss and "Not tonight, Winchester," lips quirked up into a smile, blonde hair falling into her eyes.
He thinks of "Who knows what lurks in the dark," her laughter floating across the bar, as if the thought that anything could harm her was hilarious because she was invincible, and he was there to keep her safe.
In the end, he couldn't save her from the dark; it swallowed her whole, bright flames and burning embers, drops of blood across his forehead.
She's an apparition in white, lying against his pillows, and he wonders if he wished her into being.
"There is reason for hope," he whispers, trying desperately to convince himself as well as her. She runs her fingers through his hair, rests her hand on his neck, and he closes his eyes, waiting for her to disappear.
"No, Sam. There isn't."
Same song, different verse.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 396
Pairing: Sam/Jess
Summary: 5x3 SPOILERS. He tries not to think of those early days at Stanford, but he remembers everything. Most vividly, he remembers Jess.
A/N: Written for my spn_30snapshots table. Part of the San Andreas verse, sort of a sequel to the dizzy height of a jet set life.
The sign on the window says "Bus Boy Wanted." Sam opens the door on instinct, asks to speak with the owner and says he's interested in the position. The man eyes him from head to toe, reaches behind the counter and tosses him an apron, doesn't even ask for his name. "Work starts at 3. You'll work 'til close most nights. Hope that's all right."
The bar is subdued, mostly groups of twos and threes, couples just passing through, locals stopping in after work. Sam listens to the cracks of the pool table, the easy conversations spoken over friendly games of darts. No one's hustling here.
Lindsey's lips quirk, following his distracted gaze to the two women standing near the jukebox, laughing a little too loudly, falling all over each other. "You ever work in a bar before?"
Sam smiles, aware that the expression is tainted with sadness. "Yeah. Once." He picks up the bucket of glasses, walks into the kitchen before she can pepper him with questions.
He tries not to think of those early days at Stanford, when pocket-cash was a hard-earned miracle, and sleep was not a known word in his vocabulary, but he remembers everything, students lined up at the bar, demanding beer and shots swallowed one after another, the tables scattered so close together, when the bar was crowded, he could barely breathe.
Most vividly, he remembers Jess, leaning against the bar, arms crossed, "Told your boss you were my boyfriend," asking for a kiss and "Not tonight, Winchester," lips quirked up into a smile, blonde hair falling into her eyes.
He thinks of "Who knows what lurks in the dark," her laughter floating across the bar, as if the thought that anything could harm her was hilarious because she was invincible, and he was there to keep her safe.
In the end, he couldn't save her from the dark; it swallowed her whole, bright flames and burning embers, drops of blood across his forehead.
She's an apparition in white, lying against his pillows, and he wonders if he wished her into being.
"There is reason for hope," he whispers, trying desperately to convince himself as well as her. She runs her fingers through his hair, rests her hand on his neck, and he closes his eyes, waiting for her to disappear.
"No, Sam. There isn't."
Same song, different verse.