Jessica Lee Moore. 1984 - 2005.
Jess pushes her way inside, closes the door behind her. She’s back at Stanford, in the tiny one bedroom apartment she shared with Sam. It’s not what she expects to be ‘her perfect and everlasting resting place’, but there’s got to be a reason her Heaven is made of this. There’s the bookcase with the Baseball Encyclopedia her dad bought Sam for Christmas the first and only year he went with her to visit her family. ( “Every self-respecting man should know all about America’s greatest past time,” he’d said, and Jessica had just rolled her eyes as Sam thanked him over and over. )
The beads hang in the kitchen doorway and the Del Sol beer she’d grown to love ( thanks to Sam ) even though it was cheap, was stocked in the fridge. Hung with alphabet magnets is a picture of Sam and Luis, one of Sam and Brady, one of Jess and Becky and Carmen from freshman year. There’s also the photo booth strip of four pictures of herself and Sam the only time she’d ever gotten him to loosen up enough to go to a carnival. ( She still wishes he hadn’t punched that clown, but she laughs about it now all the same. )
The bed is unmade, just as it always was, and there were plants on every available surface. Her paints are all still in the corner of the room, brushes laid out on an old towel he’d provided her that smelled like gun oil and paint thinner. An old Psych book, that she’d paid for but never came in handy until an impromptu wrestling match with her tall, lanky and street fighter-esque boyfriend resulted in a broken easel leg, is still shoved under that long piece of wood holding up the painting she never finished. Jess thinks maybe she should do that soon.
The only thing, it seems, that’s missing … is Sam. But that’s the way it should be. He’s still alive and it should be another eighty or so years before he joins her here, and that’s okay … she can wait. Her patience knows no bounds now because of that beautifully broken boy and so she puts it to the test … slips on her painting smock and goes to work on that unfinished painting.
It’s only barely two years later … time passes differently in Heaven so it doesn’t seem that long but apparently it is. She hears the door open and she knows he’s home. That’s worrisome in itself but she’s excited to see him, nonetheless. “Hey baby, I’m in here! I almost got this painting done finally.” She doesn’t get a response but can still hear him shuffling around, the beads in the kitchen doorway clinking together and foot steps drawing close. The bedroom door opens as she gets to it and she’s sees his face, smiling and happy. She goes to kiss him but right before lips meet skin … he disappears. Gone. Vanished into thin air. Jess spends that night, and many days to follow, crying.
It happens again a few times over the next few years. And each time it’s always the same thing. Jessica starts spending a lot of her time in the front room, moving her daily tasks in there in case he comes home one day and she can get to him before he’s gone again. It never happens. She’s baking cookies once and he doesn’t fully make it into the kitchen. Another time she’s reading, laying under soft sheets and curled up in one of Sam’s old Stanford hoodies that miraculously still carries his scent when she hears the door open and she doesn’t even bother to call for him; instead sprinting to see a glimpse of his beautiful smile before he’s disappeared again.
By now she can’t take the cruel game that Heaven is playing, and she’s heard whispers that he got to Heaven once, with his brother, but he never made it to her door that time. Something about going through the best parts of his life, and Dean’s, but maybe he just didn’t have time then. Jessica is to the point now she hopes he doesn’t come back again. She doesn’t understand how he keeps coming and going but it seems that it’s pretty common knowledge in this place that the Winchester’s don’t stay dead for long. Jessica makes her peace with that, and finally locks her door for good.
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