♫ || please, please, please, let me get what i want ► the smiths
palo alto, california
october 30, 2005 // late evening
𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑 than he'd been in a long, long time. And why shouldn't he be? He was seven months away from graduating from one of the most prestigious universities in the country; three days away from a chance at the law school of his dreams; and four weeks away from calling up Kay's and asking them about their best engagement ring. Not to purchase, because he couldn't afford it yet, but to put it on layaway until he could buy it. With real money. Real, legal tender. Because things were perfect.
Everything was perfect. Jess was perfect, and he'd known it for more than a year now. How lucky he'd been to meet a girl like her: intelligent, well-humored, compassionate, and drop-dead gorgeous. And most importantly... unswervingly accepting of who he was. Not even a hint of disappointment when he said he wouldn't be dressing up for Halloween. Only a smile of sympathy, a scarlet kiss on the cheek, and a promise to help him raid the 7-11 down the block for their own pool of candy. That was Jess. She didn't even know why he resented the holiday, but she respected what he wanted and never loved him any less. Always.
It was something his blood family had never been able to do. They'd always known, deep down, that he was different. But Dean and Dad couldn't manage to swallow that bitter pill, to acknowledge that Sam didn't want the life they were so dead-set on living. He wanted this life: gym in the mornings, class during the day, study groups in the afternoons, parties and dates and football games in the evening, and kissing his girlfriend goodnight. Over and over and over again until he forgot where he came from and only knew where he was going.
In his best dreams, he and Jess got married. Small and quiet and private, because that's what he wanted. And then they'd buy a house off the coast in San Diego, where she'd been raised. They'd have two kids — a boy and a girl, because that's what she wanted — and Sam would teach them how to make muffins instead of molotovs. He'd take his boy fishing. They'd play catch and they'd wade in the ocean water, or whatever Normal Dads did with their Normal Sons. And he'd take his girl to all the daddy-daughter balls that she wanted. He'd show up to her games and recitals and talent shows. He'd give her first boyfriend a stern talking to, instead of trying to scare him off with a shotgun. Normal Dad, Normal Daughter. And eventually he'd only see salt as seasoning, and silver as the best kind of cutlery. In his best dreams, his family was built to love and built to last.
And in his worst nightmares... none of that happened. Jessica was pinned to the ceiling of their pitch apartment bedroom, her skin cadaverous in the moonlight dripping through the wind-blown curtains. Limbs mangled and askew, eyes glossy with tears and her mouth contorted into an unending shriek. Her abdomen would slice itself open and pour crimson like wine. And then she'd ignite. Wreathed in flame, she'd stare at him with those vacant blue eyes, like she was seeing who he really was for the first time, and she was dying for it.
Most times he'd jolt awake, drenched in sweat as he reached out and held her tight until she managed to warm him up. But sometimes the nightmare would continue. She'd burn, and he'd scramble to his feet as smoke and flesh peeled from her form. He'd run, and there would be a woman in the doorway. Silhouetted, catching moonlight on her wavy hair and firelight in her dark eyes. Her face was carved from shadow, undefined and nebulous. And yet as he ran to her, he didn't feel fear.
He felt guilt. Guilt like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole and pervading his lungs. Guilt like nothing he'd ever felt before; frigid and unforgiving and ruthless as a knife twisting in his heart.
But they were just dreams. They were just nightmares.
Because Jess was here with him. Alive, well, and currently only half-decent. They sat on the bed they shared, dim light from her favorite lamp turning her hair and skin gold. Her blonde locks, Midas-touched, were pulled over her shoulders as Sam helped unbutton her "sexy nurse" get-up. As he worked his way down, he pressed tender kisses to her shoulder blades and spine, on the small raised moles that marked a trail for him to follow.
"The party was good, right?" She said, turning back to face him as she shrugged off the shirt. Sam looked up at her, his lips on the base of her spine. "I know Halloween's tough for you, but... it's our last Stanford Spook-tacular together." The thick sarcasm in her voice earned a laugh from Sam.
"We can always be super-seniors," Sam said, rubbing her upper arms and resting his chin on her bare shoulder. Being close to her made him helplessly giddy, schoolboy-crush style. Teen-romance-style. Love-of-your-life style. "Crash the parties, get hammered, and ruin our pristine reputations."
"I hate the super-seniors," Jess whispered, looking at the lamp. "But that's not what I'm talking about, Sam. This is kind of the end of the cheesy college romance we've got going on. You'll be in law school soon. I'll be taking the lonely commute down to the ARC, studying the stars while you study tax law. And we'll end up like everyone else: bored out of our minds and not loving the way we should."
"Jess, that's never going to happen," Sam murmured, his voice vibrating against her neck.
Jess lolled her head back onto his shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. "You're right. I guess I just... I don't want to miss a moment with you." Her hand found his cheek, her red-painted fingers lovingly tracing his jawline.
Sam smiled into her neck in spite of the stress burning holes in his stomach lining. Jess always said he worried too much, that he'd get an ulcer before he turned twenty-five. But everything was perfect. Perfect and all too good. And nothing went all too good for Sam Winchester. It was one of the facts of life: like how the sky was blue, and how waffles were superior to pancakes. Sam Winchester was a child of woe. And something was bound to happen to a guy like him. Any day now —
A sharp three-time knock resounded through their apartment, yanking him from his downward spiral. Jessica glanced down at her bra, and then at him.
"I'll get it," Sam said, giving her neck one last kiss before getting to his feet and lumbering towards the front door. He ran through a list of people who knew where he lived, then filtered through how many would want to drop by at eleven in the evening. He couldn't think of anyone. Not even Luis. He had a football game tomorrow, which meant he was in bed by nine, at the latest.
So his hand found the dresser by the door, silently opening the drawer. His hand fit perfectly over the polished grip of his .45. His hand held it chest-level, muzzle on the door as he looked through the peephole. Only then did he realize that his hand was moving without the directive of his mind, and he cursed himself for it.
It was a woman he'd never seen before. Unruly, chest-length, hickory-brown hair fell over her white and grey striped flannel, grey undershirt, and strap of her duffel bag. He could see just a glimpse of her army-green cargo pants, cuffed above her well-worn Chuck Taylors, but his eyes were drawn to the bright flash of silver on her hip, opposite her duffel bag. Sam's hand tightened on his gun, thumbing the hammer back with a click.
She glanced up at the peephole, one eye squinting quizzically, her face now illuminated. She was probably older than him — Dean's age, came the unbidden thought. Fair skin, dark brows, and a gaunt quality to her face that accentuated her eyebags and made her look like she hadn't slept in days. But her body language stood contrary to her washed-out appearance as she rolled her eyes, sighed emphatically, and stepped away from the peephole.
She pulled out a phone, and the movement shifted her flannel. Sam managed to identify the shining thing on her hip — a decorative chain with a Ghostbusters! charm on it. Not a gun. Not a knife. A keychain.
He huffed, half-relief and half-self-reprimand, and pushed the hammer forward. Clearly, his hunter's paranoia hadn't been stamped out yet. He hastily put the gun away and opened the door just enough to get a look at her without a fish-eye distortion.
She stared at him for a moment, drinking him in. Then, she pulled a crumpled note out of her pocket, opened it up, read it in silence, and looked back up at him again. "Fuck."
He couldn't help the way his face scrunched in confusion; he wasn't sure he'd ever been greeted like that. "I'm sorry?"
"Yeah, me too," she said, stuffing the note back into her pants pocket. "Is Jessica home?"
"Yes."
She leaned to the left like she might be able to see inside, but Sam's towering figure kept her from it. She then looked up at him, expecting him to do something. When he made no motion to, she spoke again. "Well, could you get her for me?"
Her voice was naturally low, with a slight rasp and drawl. Her words came fast, but not hurriedly, broken up with slight halts like her mouth was lagging behind a brain in constant overdrive.
Sam cocked his head and turned back inside, calling down the hall. "Jess?" His voice was hesitant. "Someone's here for you."
Jess peeked out from the end of the hallway, now dressed in a Smurf's crop-top and pink-striped boxers. She hurried down the hall, her cerulean eyes inquisitive. "Who is it?"
Sam's gaze catches on the drawer as he pulls the door open. He wasn't sure where to look — at Jess, to gauge her reaction, or towards the stranger, just to make sure she didn't pull out an actual concealed weapon. The more logical part of his brain told him that no one was going to try and kill Jess, but it didn't soothe his nerves in the slightest.
And it turned out he didn't even need to decide, because Jess had closed the distance within seconds, rocketing out the door and wrapping the girl in a bone-crushing hug.
"Surprise," the woman wheezed, awkwardly patting Jessica on the back and wincing as the embrace somehow got tighter. "Oh, Jess, you gotta ease up. Please!"
Jess eventually pulled back, holding the stranger at arm's length and looking her over. "You got taller, Fitz."
"Not tall enough, it seems," Fitz groused, not oblivious to how Jessica stood over her by a solid three inches. "But you look good, Jess. How's college been treating you?"
"It's been great," Jessica said. And right when Sam was convinced they'd forgotten he was there, Jess spun Fitz around. "This is Sam."
Fitz nodded slowly, her face drawn into a smile that looked more like a grimace. "How much are you paying for him?"
Jessica smacked Fitz's left shoulder, and the older woman did a full-face flinch. "My boyfriend, Sam. Not a call boy."
Fitz gave Sam a half-hearted once-over, her lips quirking to the left as she shook her head. "No offense, Sam: she's out of your league."
"Fitz," Jessica pleaded, looking at Sam apologetically. "Sam, this is Fitz. My older sister. I'm sorry she's being such a..."
"A dick?" Fitz turned to face Jess, her lips tugging upwards. "It's okay. You can say it."
"No, she's right," Sam said with a small smile. "You are out of my league."
And while Jessica looked at him, practically glowing at the compliment, he could see Fitz also turning to him, her dark eyes glinting with something he couldn't quite put a name to. Her nostrils flared briefly. "Well, at least you're tall." She smiled like his existence physically pained her. "Can I come in?"
Sam stepped out of the way, and Fitz led the way, patting Sam on his forearm. Her hand was bare, save for a dark metal ring which felt ice-cold on his skin. Jessica followed, mouthing another apology. Sam gave a final glance down the hallway and then shut the door.
He looked down at the dresser and pushed the drawer fully shut. He rubbed his forehead, not entirely sure what had just happened, and then walked over to the kitchen. He could hear the two women talking in hushed tones.
"Come on, Fitz. I thought you liked him."
"Yeah, when you were describing him over the phone last Christmas," Fitz replied quietly. "Now? Who knows. I'm catching a vibe I don't like."
"So you're saying you don't have any actual reason not to like him?" Jess sounded more irritated than he ever heard her. "We've been dating for a year and a half. Don't you think it's a little late for this elder-sister disapproval shtick?"
"He hasn't done anything weird, though, right? Like, Psycho weird?"
"Fitz!"
Sam rounded the corner, trying not to feel awkward. Fitz looked at him like she knew he'd been listening in, her feet resting on her duffel under the table. "I've got a few questions." Jessica buried her head in her hands, clearly accustomed to this routine. "What's your last name?"
Still in the doorway, Sam swallowed hard. "Why?"
"I wanna see if it sounds good with my sister's first one. She dates to marry, bless her heart." Fitz rested her head on her hand, drumming her fingers on her cheek. "And for your sake, I hope you do, too."
Sam looked to Jessica for approval, and she nodded, her shutting and her chin scrunching. "It's Winchester."
Fitz's fingers stopped drumming. "Well, that is a cool name. Like the shotgun, right? I've shot a few Winchesters before. Great guns. Better ammo."
That is one hell of a threat, Sam thought.
Then she turned to Jessica, not missing a beat. "You ever meet his family?"
Her words were like a noose, tightening around his neck. Miraculously, Jess came to his rescue. "They're not close, Fitz." A glance at Sam, asking for permission to continue; his turn to nod. "They kicked him out after he got into Stanford. They're downright crazy."
Sam expected Fitz to spit fire. Instead, her lips parted slightly and her eyebrows raised. As she looked at Sam, he recognized her expression as one of surprised satisfaction. Her eyes darted to the windowsill over the sink, then back to Sam. "Yeah, sounds like it."
Sam found something about the situation very familiar to him. Fitz got to her feet and approached the fridge, and once she opened it and peered inside, Jess finally recovered her ability to speak. "Fitz, why are you here?"
Fitz pulled out the water filter, which was almost empty. "Is stopping by to check up on my baby sister not enough?"
As Fitz shut the fridge and walked to the sink, Sam took a seat beside Jessica and gave her leg a reassuring squeeze, urging her to continue. "No... it's not. You never just stop by."
The faucet turned on. Fitz craned her neck to look back at her. "You're right. I'm here for work."
"Oh." Disappointment darkened Jess' face; she'd been expecting Fitz to refute her statement. "...How long are you staying?"
"Six hours, maybe less," Fitz replied. "It's somewhat urgent. Louis's got a friend down in Jericho waiting for a pick-up. Needs me to deliver his personal effects to his kids — " She poured three glasses of water, one in each hand and another in the crook of her elbow. She set them down on the table. "Drink up."
Sam took the cup as Fitz walked back to the sink, took a sip, swallowed, and nodded thanks. "Fitz, what do you do?"
Fitz fixed him with an unreadable expression, and then smiled brightly. "I'm a pilot for Spirit Airlines, but I fly private on the side. Pays better." She drank from her own glass and leaned against the counter, facing the both of them with crossed legs. "And yes, I can fly you out to Tahiti. No, it can't be tonight."
Sam gave her a lopsided smile, and Jess leaned against him, still unsure. "Is everything alright?"
"Of course," Fitz affirmed, refilling her glass. "You're such a worrywart, Jess. You'll get an ulcer before you're twenty-five, at this rate." Sam looked over at Jessica, who flushed a bright pink. "I just need a place to stay the night. Is your couch open?"
At some point, her voice had lost its protective vitriol, replaced by a cheeky sort of humor that almost convinced Sam to crack a joke back.
Instead, Jessica spoke up. "Yeah, of course."
"Thank you," Fitz exhaled. "I'll be out before dawn."
"I can wake up early and make blueberry pancakes," Jess suggested, her voice gentle. "I think I cracked your secret recipe."
"One: you totally didn't, because I never had a recipe," Fitz said, raising a finger. "Two: I think NASA employees need to sleep at least ten hours a week, so don't waste a single one on me. Three: I've already got breakfast plans. There's this bistro down the road — Joanie's, I wanna say — and they've got some of the best Monte Cristo sandwiches known to man." She pinched her fingers together and kissed them like a chef tasting a perfect dish. "And right on the way to the airport, too."
"We can drive you up tomorrow, and stop by on the way," Sam said, looking over at Jess to see if Fitz's refusal had hurt her. "I've never been."
Jess didn't look too miffed, and neither did Fitz. She studied Sam for a moment, ascertaining his intent, before frowning mildly. "Sure. I'll pay." She slid off the counter, taking her cup and making for the door.
Jessica chewed on her lip. "Fitz... is it really just work? You seem stressed."
While that certainly wasn't the impression Sam had gotten thus far, Fitz's white-knuckled grip on her glass made him think differently. "You know, I am a little stressed." She turned back to Jess, and Sam could feel Jess' anticipation, almost chomping at the bit to help her sister. "Stressed about you getting an ulcer." She patted the doorframe. "The couch calls to me."
She left before Jess could respond, and Sam felt her slump against his arm. He looked down at her. "Well, she's something."
"Don't be mean," Jessica snapped, probably harsher than she'd intended. Sam's expression softened, and he took her hand in his lap. He could see a tendon in her neck straining as she looked down at it. "There's something wrong. Really wrong."
Sam used his free hand to tilt her face up. "Anything I can do to help?"
"You're already doing enough," Jess murmured, looking into his eyes. Hers were glossy. "I'm sorry. Fitz was being... she was being a dick." She got to her feet, and Sam stood with her, still clutching her cold hand in his warm fingers.
Jessica was right — there was clearly something serious going on. Sam wasn't sure what it was, but it certainly wasn't a new development. Jessica talked about Fitz the way Sam talked about his family — that is, she never really did it. When Sam met her parents for the first, second and third time, they'd never mentioned an elder child. There were no photos of her in their quaint little townhouse. No medals, trophies, certificates, art projects. The closest Sam got to seeing her was an old high school yearbook photo that Jess kept tucked in her wallet. Fitz was blonde in that photo, but her roots were already sprouting dark brown. Her hair was pleated in twin french braids, her smile dripping with barely-veiled agitation.
And her name wasn't Fitz on the caption. It was Erin. Erin Moore. Her senior quote was Believe in the impossible!, which Sam considered egregiously optimistic for someone who looked like they hit their mid-life crisis at twenty.
That was it. That was all of her. A formless shape in his mind, now given a face, a voice, an occupation, and a stingy sort of protectiveness and obstinate independence that reminded him all too much of his own brother.
Maybe it was an older sibling thing.
"Alright," Jessica said with a long, world-weary sigh. "I'm gonna head to bed." She lifted on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the lips. "You coming?"
Sam stole a glance under the table and saw Fitz's duffel bag. "Yeah. I'll be right there."
Jessica plodded away, leaving Sam to crouch under the table and slide the bag out. It was heavier than he'd expected, and when he lifted it, there were several metallic clanks and the sound of something grainy shifting about.
He frowned, setting it on the table. His hand found the zipper, and he realized that there was a small lock keeping the bag shut. It was a three-digit code, and the lock was old. Oddly secure for a pilot.
Sam shouldered the bag and headed for the living room, where he found Fitz viciously chopping one of their throw pillows with her right hand, trying to make it comfortable.
"You forgot this."
She stopped punching and turned to face him, her face barely illuminated in the hallway light. "Oh, thanks. Just... leave it there."
Sam carefully set it down by the hallway, and Fitz settled down on the sofa, being rather cautious with her left shoulder. "Jess is worried about you."
"I've noticed." Fitz was using one of their wool decorative blankets for warmth, and she tugged it up over her neck. "Did your family really kick you out for getting into Stanford?" Sam was taken aback by the topic switch. "Sorry if I'm being nosy, but that seems... absurd to me."
Sam leaned on the doorway, debating whether or not to have this conversation with her. It couldn't hurt, right? "Yeah. My dad... he's got some problems."
Fitz's brows bobbed in agreement. "Sounds like it." She shifted her weight to look at him, still bracing her shoulder. "My parents got pissed because I didn't go to Stanford."
Sam couldn't hide his surprise. "What major?"
"History." A grin flashed across her face in the near-darkness. "A little out of place for a pilot, I know. But I'm a buff." She flexed her right arm.
"Where'd you end up going?"
"Montana State."
"Why?" Sam didn't mean to sound so incredulous, but Fitz's amused nonchalance made him all the more curious.
She was looking at the ceiling now, quietly contemplative. "For the same reason you went to Stanford, I'd wager. I got sick of living the way my family wanted me to live. Tough luck for them, though. My life, not theirs."
"Are you... are you happier now?"
Fitz laughed softly, bitterly. "Not as happy as I thought I'd be. I feel guilty, actually, for leaving Jess all alone. But I can't go back." Her eyes found Sam's, a quick sigh escaping her. "I'm sorry I was rude to you earlier. But it's..." She licked her lips and winced. "She's my sister. She's the most important thing in my life. She better be the most important thing in yours."
Sam nodded without even an ounce of hesitation, and Fitz smiled for real this time. She looked relieved; it took years off her face in an instant. It made her look like she actually believed what her yearbook quote said.
"I like you, Sam," she murmured. "And Jess loves you to death, which stands for something because she's honestly really fucking choosy. She thinks you're the best thing that's ever happened to her. She feels safe with you. And that's all that matters to me."
A warmth blossomed in Sam's chest, unexpected but not unwanted. Her approval meant something to him, he realized. He wasn't all that sure why, but it felt good to know she was alright with this. With him.
"I don't want to keep you too long," she said finally, shifting under the blankets. "But I do have one last question." Sam urged her on with a nod. "Can you keep her safe?"
Sam's throat turned dry at her words, and that comforting warmth seemed to recoil. His dreams — his nightmares — said otherwise.
But they were just dreams. They were just nightmares.
"Yes."
⌖
a/n: if you ever happen to reread this chapter once the book is further along... you'll come to appreciate what i've done with it.
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