So here is the fic!
Title: Jamie’s got a Gun
Word Count: 629
Warnings: Some canon Dean/Jamie references.
Spoilers: Season 4. Post-Monster Movie.
Author's Note: Entered in an spnland challenge.
Summary: Jamie shot a man last night.
Last night, Jamie shot a man dead.
Without even thinking it through, she’d picked up the gun, squeezed the trigger and put two bullets clean though his chest.
Then he was gone.
Or maybe what happened was nothing like that. She can’t be one hundred percent about any of it; someone had put some drug in her drink and it’d made her head go all fuzzy. She’s all turned around; no longer sure what to think.
She’s killed something she’s certain of that. A man, a monster, a whatever; a dream if she’s lucky, a terrible face from her nightmares, but she’s never that fortunate, and despite the fuzz of the morning after the rufie before, she knows most of the night was horribly real and not just a bad trip fantasy. But however she sees it, the facts just don’t add up to sense; even now she doesn’t know exactly what the guy was meant to be. A shapeshifter, Dean had called him; whatever the hell that was. It sounded like some kind of X Files weirdness from the TV. Something like that wasn’t a real thing, people made impossible stuff like that up for Halloween or a horror movie. She couldn’t kill something like that.
But Dean the unlikely G Man hadn’t been lying, not about this anyway. Even if every other line he’d fed her was bullshit, she believed that haunted look in his eyes that shadowed the charming gleam. Wordlessly, it spoke of a lifetime full of all this strange shit, a life of endless horror and pain, a tough life. A strange life. A mission from God as he called it.
Some mission. No one ever deserved to live like that. Finishing the job was the least she could do.
She still doesn’t know how she did it or what deep reservoir of nerve she’d managed to tap, but she’d picked up the gun and she hadn’t thought twice about squeezing that trigger; because it needed to be done and she’d always been practical like that. Some creep obsessed with monsters and his dress up box meant that people were getting killed and she might be next. The gun was close, then in her hand, and what the hell else was a girl supposed to do?
But that was fine for that moment, it was what came after that hurt. Adrenaline and great sex were awesome ways to push back the shock and the fear and, oh god, the terrible guilt; the rush and the climax, and brush of soft skin along every inch of her own, the ecstasy carrying her along on its strong tide until…
Until he leaves for good and she’s alone once more and she just has to finally stop to face what she’s done to this strange shapeshifting, movie freak guy. Actions had consequences and, unlike the movies he wanted to live so bad and the melodrama of his final death scene; real bullets ended real lives, damaged bone and flesh until bodies broke and were beyond repair. For him, he made the movies his real world, for her his actions were what she would live with for the rest of her life. She would never forget.
He, the whatever-he-was, was dead because she had killed him.
She’s a killer.
She’s taken a life.
The realisation brings the shakes and reality bites hard and she can’t just deny the blood on her hands anymore in the arms of some great looking guy.
Last night, Jamie shot a man dead.
She’d put a couple of bullets through some man because someone needed to do it. Because someone always needed to do it and this time it had to be her.
She’s been right all along.
Hunting monsters really did suck.