SPN FIC - 33 1/3
In honor of Dean's 33rd birthday, and for the real Jamie - let's fast-forward a little ways, to next spring. When things might be better; or they might be a little worse. Either way, there's hope. And the memory of Oktoberfest.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Jamie (from Monster Movie)
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
33 1/3
By Carol Davis
Some things you remember.
Some things you never forget.
A little after one in the morning on a Thursday at the end of May, Jamie Cole remembers a man who said he was a Fed.
Remembers that later on he said he wasn't. Said in answer to her question, "Not so much."
She remembers the sound of his laughter and the mischief in his eyes. Remembers a touch that was both sensitive and assured; both strong, and gentle. Remembers that he was both childlike and joyous, and incredibly aged and weary.
She's been a waitress, a barmaid, for more than ten years. She's met a lot of people. Of all of them, he was the most complicated.
And the easiest to figure out.
He doesn't look up when she approaches the booth he's tucked himself into. He's slumped in the seat like he walked some enormous distance to get here - although "here" is probably just somewhere with a roof, and cold beer on tap. She's almost certain he didn't expect to meet anyone he knows, and that he didn't come in here intending to flirt, to enjoy himself, the way he did the first time she met him. During Oktoberfest.
She waits for a moment, to see if he'll lift his head. When he doesn't, she says softly, "What can I get you?"
He murmurs something she can't make out.
It's been almost four years since that first time. A lot of things have changed since then.
And a lot of things haven't.
What he asked for, she has no idea, and that first time, he was only around for a couple of days, which anyone would tell you isn't anywhere near long enough to get to know someone. Certainly, not long enough to know him - understand him - the way she did Alex, the man she left behind in Pennsylvania, when she came west, to Arizona. And yet…she does know him. She knows this man, so she returns to the bar, leans in toward the barback, and asks for what she knows will help.
When she sets it on the table in front of the man who once told her he was a Fed, she leans in again, just a little, and says quietly, "'Tis a pleasure to see you again, good sir."
His shoulders tense.
Then, at last, his head tilts back and his gaze meets hers.
"Hello, Dean," she says.
"I -" he says, then: "Jamie."
"It's been a long time."
The corner of his mouth twists, quirks. "A lot longer than you think."
A glance around the room tells her that no one's looking for her; no one's getting testy from lack of attention. The few people who are left in the bar have settled in to endure this last little stretch of time until closing. No one's eating. No one's talking, except for Frank, perched insecurely on his usual stool near the doorway that leads to the washrooms, babbling away at nothing, at no one.
"Are you still -?" she asks. "Is your brother -?"
"Didn't want to come. He's sleeping. Says he's sleeping, anyway. Back at the motel."
"So you're okay. Everything's okay."
His face shifts into a smile, but there's no amusement behind it. It's more like the smile you give a child, to tell them there's nothing to worry about, while you battle all the demons inside your head. "No movie monsters here," he says on a sigh. "Nothing going on here that I know about."
"Then -"
"Got tired of driving."
"And of all the gin joints in the world, you walked into this one."
"Yeah," he says. "That's funny, isn't it."
"Is it?"
What she put in front of him was a bowl of chili, a roast beef sandwich and some fries. It's kind of late at night to be eating anything that heavy, but Dean Winchester's clock doesn't run the same as most people's. He told her that, back in Pennsylvania. So maybe he'll eat some of what she put together for him. Maybe it'll help.
"If you'd rather have whiskey -" she offers.
"No. This is - this is good."
"Are you sure?"
He looks at her for a long, silent while. Drinks her in, it seems like. Then he smiles again, and this time it's more genuine.
"All the gin joints in the world," he muses.
"I get off in" - she drops a glance to her watch - "forty minutes."
"You do."
"I do."
"And then what?"
"I usually go home. Go to bed."
"You don't snore. Am I remembering that right?"
"I think so."
"Sam," he says to the roast beef sandwich, "snores like a friggin' chain saw."
"So do you, as I remember."
"I do? Shit," he says.
Then he grins at her, and there's a flash of something in his eyes, a gleam that says he remembers Pennsylvania. Remembers Oktoberfest. Huge steins of beer and big pretzels. Short skirts and lederhosen. Gruesome deaths and a white silk gown and a shapeshifter who pretended to be a girl named Lucy.
"I don't hold it against you," she says.
"No?"
"No."
"I could -"
It's there in his eyes: I could hold something against you.
The tension's gone out of his shoulders, out of the crease between his brows. Two days, she thinks - just two days, almost four years ago. She didn't get to know him then, but she learned enough.
Cared enough.
"Eat," she says quietly. "Build up your strength."
"I'm gonna need that?"
"Snoring burns a lot of calories. So I'm told."
"You're funny."
"We're all good at something."
"Jamie," the barback calls from the other end of the room. She turns, gestures to him, takes a half-step away from the booth. When she looks back at Dean Winchester, at the man who was never a Fed, he's still smiling.
"Yeah," he says, and there's a hundred years' worth of I know you written in it.
"Forty minutes," she tells him.
Then she goes back to work.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Jamie (from Monster Movie)
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
33 1/3
By Carol Davis
Some things you remember.
Some things you never forget.
A little after one in the morning on a Thursday at the end of May, Jamie Cole remembers a man who said he was a Fed.
Remembers that later on he said he wasn't. Said in answer to her question, "Not so much."
She remembers the sound of his laughter and the mischief in his eyes. Remembers a touch that was both sensitive and assured; both strong, and gentle. Remembers that he was both childlike and joyous, and incredibly aged and weary.
She's been a waitress, a barmaid, for more than ten years. She's met a lot of people. Of all of them, he was the most complicated.
And the easiest to figure out.
He doesn't look up when she approaches the booth he's tucked himself into. He's slumped in the seat like he walked some enormous distance to get here - although "here" is probably just somewhere with a roof, and cold beer on tap. She's almost certain he didn't expect to meet anyone he knows, and that he didn't come in here intending to flirt, to enjoy himself, the way he did the first time she met him. During Oktoberfest.
She waits for a moment, to see if he'll lift his head. When he doesn't, she says softly, "What can I get you?"
He murmurs something she can't make out.
It's been almost four years since that first time. A lot of things have changed since then.
And a lot of things haven't.
What he asked for, she has no idea, and that first time, he was only around for a couple of days, which anyone would tell you isn't anywhere near long enough to get to know someone. Certainly, not long enough to know him - understand him - the way she did Alex, the man she left behind in Pennsylvania, when she came west, to Arizona. And yet…she does know him. She knows this man, so she returns to the bar, leans in toward the barback, and asks for what she knows will help.
When she sets it on the table in front of the man who once told her he was a Fed, she leans in again, just a little, and says quietly, "'Tis a pleasure to see you again, good sir."
His shoulders tense.
Then, at last, his head tilts back and his gaze meets hers.
"Hello, Dean," she says.
"I -" he says, then: "Jamie."
"It's been a long time."
The corner of his mouth twists, quirks. "A lot longer than you think."
A glance around the room tells her that no one's looking for her; no one's getting testy from lack of attention. The few people who are left in the bar have settled in to endure this last little stretch of time until closing. No one's eating. No one's talking, except for Frank, perched insecurely on his usual stool near the doorway that leads to the washrooms, babbling away at nothing, at no one.
"Are you still -?" she asks. "Is your brother -?"
"Didn't want to come. He's sleeping. Says he's sleeping, anyway. Back at the motel."
"So you're okay. Everything's okay."
His face shifts into a smile, but there's no amusement behind it. It's more like the smile you give a child, to tell them there's nothing to worry about, while you battle all the demons inside your head. "No movie monsters here," he says on a sigh. "Nothing going on here that I know about."
"Then -"
"Got tired of driving."
"And of all the gin joints in the world, you walked into this one."
"Yeah," he says. "That's funny, isn't it."
"Is it?"
What she put in front of him was a bowl of chili, a roast beef sandwich and some fries. It's kind of late at night to be eating anything that heavy, but Dean Winchester's clock doesn't run the same as most people's. He told her that, back in Pennsylvania. So maybe he'll eat some of what she put together for him. Maybe it'll help.
"If you'd rather have whiskey -" she offers.
"No. This is - this is good."
"Are you sure?"
He looks at her for a long, silent while. Drinks her in, it seems like. Then he smiles again, and this time it's more genuine.
"All the gin joints in the world," he muses.
"I get off in" - she drops a glance to her watch - "forty minutes."
"You do."
"I do."
"And then what?"
"I usually go home. Go to bed."
"You don't snore. Am I remembering that right?"
"I think so."
"Sam," he says to the roast beef sandwich, "snores like a friggin' chain saw."
"So do you, as I remember."
"I do? Shit," he says.
Then he grins at her, and there's a flash of something in his eyes, a gleam that says he remembers Pennsylvania. Remembers Oktoberfest. Huge steins of beer and big pretzels. Short skirts and lederhosen. Gruesome deaths and a white silk gown and a shapeshifter who pretended to be a girl named Lucy.
"I don't hold it against you," she says.
"No?"
"No."
"I could -"
It's there in his eyes: I could hold something against you.
The tension's gone out of his shoulders, out of the crease between his brows. Two days, she thinks - just two days, almost four years ago. She didn't get to know him then, but she learned enough.
Cared enough.
"Eat," she says quietly. "Build up your strength."
"I'm gonna need that?"
"Snoring burns a lot of calories. So I'm told."
"You're funny."
"We're all good at something."
"Jamie," the barback calls from the other end of the room. She turns, gestures to him, takes a half-step away from the booth. When she looks back at Dean Winchester, at the man who was never a Fed, he's still smiling.
"Yeah," he says, and there's a hundred years' worth of I know you written in it.
"Forty minutes," she tells him.
Then she goes back to work.
* * * * *