Je veux ton amour, et je veux ta revanche
Story Title: Je veux ton amour, et je veux ta revanche
Summary: Brady's not the same boy Jess knew, but he's still a friend.
Wordcount: 681
Warnings/Spoilers: Show-levels of violence, spoilers through 5.20
Neurotic Author's Note: This was written as a first entry in spn_las for the prompt "Bad Romance" by Lady GaGa (I know). Anyway, this is what came to mind. I figured that writing what happened between Jess and Brady on November 2nd, 2005, was a good way to explore the prompt. I forgot to post it when I was allowed to reveal my Sooper Seekrit Identity.
Brady's not the same boy Jess knew, but he's still a friend, and the only friend Sam had before they started dating. He's still her friend, understands that Sam is a frustrating mystery, and he's the only one she can really talk to. He sits in her kitchen as she scrapes chocolate-chip cookies from a baking pan onto a cooling sheet, sips his beer, and says all the right things. She shouldn't be talking to him about her relationship problems, she thinks
.
“He doesn't deserve you,” Brady tells her, watching her over his beer bottle.
She doesn't know what to say to that. His stare is intense, and she's suddenly uncomfortable in a way she's never been before, not around Brady. He's supposed to be her friend, but now she can't shake the feeling that there's more going on here than she understands. She feels like that mongoose in the Kipling story, facing down the cobra. There have been moments when Sam has frightened her, when she's caught glimpses of him that she doesn't understand, but it's never felt like this, never as though she's nothing but flesh to be taken and torn apart at his whim. Brady's eyes are cold, and for a split-second she imagines she sees them flicker black, and she swallows convulsively.
“It was nice of you to stop by,” she says lamely. She's being ridiculous. Nothing is happening here except her own imagination working overtime. “Look, Sam's going to be home any minute, and I have to take a shower, because I've been running around all day and I'm gross and, uh. Anyway. Thank you. Maybe we can talk when I'm not sleep-deprived and half-crazy?” she laughs nervously.
Brady grins, polishes off his beer, the picture and she feels even more ridiculous. “Of course. You know I'm a phone call away.”
Jess doesn't bother seeing him all the way out, anxious to be rid of him. She runs the shower as hot as she can stand, slips into the white night dress she knows is Sam's favourite --she plans on surprising him in a decidedly pleasant way when he gets back. She's humming to herself as she wrings the water out of her hair on her way into the bedroom, when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and she can't quite bite back a startled shriek as Brady emerges from the shadows.
Just as she's about to relax with another nervous giggle and tell him he scared her half to death, he raises one hand, and she feels her feet leave the floor. She's slammed against the wall, the air rushing from her lungs with a painful jolt, and when Brady steps closer she sees that his eyes have turned completely black, whites and irises obscured by some kind of filmy, oily substance. She opens her mouth to speak, but can't emit more than a strangled squeak. He leers at her, and she wonders how she ever let herself believe he was human, or safe.
“You've served your purpose nicely. Now, I just need you to do this one last thing for me.”
She's pinned; thinks of the butterflies framed in the biology laboratory at school, all paper-thin wings and broken legs. There's a burning pain in her stomach, and she can't so much as curl over to protect herself, shield herself from all this. Suddenly she's furious. She sets her jaw, looks Brady in the eye.
“Sam will kill you for this,” she spits. Certain of it, down to the marrow of her bones. She's seen that darkness in Sam, and for the first and last time, she revels in the knowledge that one day Brady will be nothing but a rotting corpse at Sam's feet.
“I'm counting on it.”
She harbours a last, desperate hope that she'll stare her murderer in the face as she dies, defiant to the last. But the last thing she sees is Sam's terrified face beneath her, screaming her name, before her world erupts into flames.
Summary: Brady's not the same boy Jess knew, but he's still a friend.
Wordcount: 681
Warnings/Spoilers: Show-levels of violence, spoilers through 5.20
Neurotic Author's Note: This was written as a first entry in spn_las for the prompt "Bad Romance" by Lady GaGa (I know). Anyway, this is what came to mind. I figured that writing what happened between Jess and Brady on November 2nd, 2005, was a good way to explore the prompt. I forgot to post it when I was allowed to reveal my Sooper Seekrit Identity.
Brady's not the same boy Jess knew, but he's still a friend, and the only friend Sam had before they started dating. He's still her friend, understands that Sam is a frustrating mystery, and he's the only one she can really talk to. He sits in her kitchen as she scrapes chocolate-chip cookies from a baking pan onto a cooling sheet, sips his beer, and says all the right things. She shouldn't be talking to him about her relationship problems, she thinks
.
“He doesn't deserve you,” Brady tells her, watching her over his beer bottle.
She doesn't know what to say to that. His stare is intense, and she's suddenly uncomfortable in a way she's never been before, not around Brady. He's supposed to be her friend, but now she can't shake the feeling that there's more going on here than she understands. She feels like that mongoose in the Kipling story, facing down the cobra. There have been moments when Sam has frightened her, when she's caught glimpses of him that she doesn't understand, but it's never felt like this, never as though she's nothing but flesh to be taken and torn apart at his whim. Brady's eyes are cold, and for a split-second she imagines she sees them flicker black, and she swallows convulsively.
“It was nice of you to stop by,” she says lamely. She's being ridiculous. Nothing is happening here except her own imagination working overtime. “Look, Sam's going to be home any minute, and I have to take a shower, because I've been running around all day and I'm gross and, uh. Anyway. Thank you. Maybe we can talk when I'm not sleep-deprived and half-crazy?” she laughs nervously.
Brady grins, polishes off his beer, the picture and she feels even more ridiculous. “Of course. You know I'm a phone call away.”
Jess doesn't bother seeing him all the way out, anxious to be rid of him. She runs the shower as hot as she can stand, slips into the white night dress she knows is Sam's favourite --she plans on surprising him in a decidedly pleasant way when he gets back. She's humming to herself as she wrings the water out of her hair on her way into the bedroom, when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and she can't quite bite back a startled shriek as Brady emerges from the shadows.
Just as she's about to relax with another nervous giggle and tell him he scared her half to death, he raises one hand, and she feels her feet leave the floor. She's slammed against the wall, the air rushing from her lungs with a painful jolt, and when Brady steps closer she sees that his eyes have turned completely black, whites and irises obscured by some kind of filmy, oily substance. She opens her mouth to speak, but can't emit more than a strangled squeak. He leers at her, and she wonders how she ever let herself believe he was human, or safe.
“You've served your purpose nicely. Now, I just need you to do this one last thing for me.”
She's pinned; thinks of the butterflies framed in the biology laboratory at school, all paper-thin wings and broken legs. There's a burning pain in her stomach, and she can't so much as curl over to protect herself, shield herself from all this. Suddenly she's furious. She sets her jaw, looks Brady in the eye.
“Sam will kill you for this,” she spits. Certain of it, down to the marrow of her bones. She's seen that darkness in Sam, and for the first and last time, she revels in the knowledge that one day Brady will be nothing but a rotting corpse at Sam's feet.
“I'm counting on it.”
She harbours a last, desperate hope that she'll stare her murderer in the face as she dies, defiant to the last. But the last thing she sees is Sam's terrified face beneath her, screaming her name, before her world erupts into flames.