fic: i know what sacrifice means
title: i know what sacrifice means
pairing: Claire/Jo
rating: PG-13
notes: ~1200 words, second person pov. Muchos gracias to jacyevans for the beta. Written for zempasuchil for spn_jimmynovak's Novakfest exchange.
From the prompt: My Heart Will Go On AU-verse: Jo has a crew, Claire is part of the group, they save people & hunt things & have daddy/angel issues & maybe even femslash? :D? I hope this works for ya, toots. <3
summary: You’ve gotten used to seeing her face when you roll over, and it scares you; attachments are for a different time, a world before. Or, a quick recap of this AU: So basically the world's gone to shit because Godstiel is cray cray and Jo's a natural-born leader and that's just how it goes.
Claire’s back is a canvas of scars, raised and jagged lines from too many close calls you couldn't protect her from, the worst of which includes a patchwork of old burns up near her neck where she got caught in a barn fire the first month you knew her, screaming your name like a prayer in a world where no one prays anymore as the wooden frame collapsed around her. You’d saved her like you always do, her cries of “Jo!” echoing into the chaos as you fought your way to her side. She’s the only thing you have left to fight for, now.
The rest of her skin is still soft and pale under your hands, not dry and rough from the sun and dust as yours has become, and you can't get enough of it, tracing her lines and curves every day that she lay beside you. Most days you can’t believe you’re both still here, expect to wake up one morning and find it all a dream, her side of the bed empty and cold, just the way you felt before she fell into your life.
You remember the night you met her, shortly after escaping a group of demons who chased you for days on end. You thought it was finally the end, no more running, that you and your rag-tag team of would-be hunters would finally go the way of the rest of the world, decimated by a lone creature in the middle of the night.
She stumbled into your camp, five and a half feet of beanstalk with wispy yellow hair looking half-dead on her feet. Her skin dusty and sunburned and her face scratched and covered in dried blood, but when her eyes locked on yours, you saw fire in them, the same type of determination you saw every morning when you looked in the mirror. You pointed your gun at her and she froze but she didn't tremble or speak. Most of all, she didn't look afraid. You could feel the rest of your crew regarding her warily, a Mexican standoff against predator and prey with neither side sure of who is which, but she held her ground, cocking her head to the side as she waited for your first move.
"Can you shoot?" you asked, hearing the disapproving scoffs of several of your comrades, but you'd run out of armed bodies and so had they; you were their leader and they deferred to your command.
She shook her head and looked to the ground as though embarrassed. Her hands twitched at her sides, her whole body slowly becoming a jittery mess the more she tried to hold still under your scrutiny, and you wondered how long it was since she ate, since she rested.
"You aren't much good to me if you can't defend yourself," you said sternly when it was clear she wasn't going to respond. Your mother used to say you had a bleeding heart, taking in strays the same way you took in hunters' tales as a child; she wasn't fond of you doing either. You learned that lesson in the months passed. At least you thought you did.
"I can learn." She spoke softly with a rough voice, like she hadn't spoken in weeks, and not for the first time since she stood in front of you, you wondered how she survived so far in this world.
“So you can speak," you said, tossing her the spare gun you usually carried in your boot. There was an overabundance of weapons in your world now and not enough people to arm themselves with them; it would be easy to find another gun. "Well, you better shape up. It's a dangerous world we live in these days."
She learned quickly - the right way to hold a gun, all the Latin you need to exorcise a demon, how to spot an angel in a crowd of people. Not that there were many crowds, or many demons left, for that matter. She learned faster than anyone else, and you taught a lot of people. Not that there were many left to show for it - every face around you was a revolving door of lives once lived.
You learned some new things too, little things about her in the way she squared her shoulders when she missed her aim and the way she stormed off sometimes when you tried to correct her, and bigger things like how she walked around as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders and how frustrated she became when she couldn’t fix everything.
You learned you weren’t quite done thinking about Dean Winchester. You tried not to think about it too much, but sometimes the way she set her jaw and walked away from you left you wondering what had happened to Dean and Sam in the aftermath. You wondered if they too were walking around with the weight of the world still on their shoulders, and you figured the answer was probably ‘yes’.
Only once did she mention the angels to you, something so normally left unspoken around camp, as everyone was aware where the blame for the state of the world laid. She was delirious, in pain, her shoulder pierced by a poisoned arrow from another camp of hunters less experienced than yours and without a leader, scared and rabid in your deteriorating world.
"Hey," her voice whispers beside you, rough with the leftover remnants of sleep. Big blue eyes meet you when you turn. You’ve gotten used to seeing her face when you roll over, and it scares you; attachments are for a different time, a world before. You’re still not sure just where the transition from ‘student’ to ‘friend’ to ‘lover’ happened, just one of those things out on the road. Sometimes you like to imagine it was inevitable, a fated thing from the moment you met, but you’re jaded enough to know better, so you take it, whatever ‘it’ is, because it’s better than nothing at all.
"You're back," you say. "Everything okay?" Sometimes when you’re together she goes away in her head, seeing something that isn't there, a world outside of your tiny encampment full of creatures with haunting black wings and others with even blacker eyes. The first time this happened, her blank stare terrified you; she wasn't just one more soul on your twisted path, this tiny blonde girl who seeped her way into a heart you thought hardened long before.
You fiddle nervously with the knife your father left you, never far from your hands, the handle worn and dulled under your repetitious use. She watches you with her curious gaze, always so guarded around everyone but you. "It was my father's," you say, aware that family isn't a subject anyone shares lightly. "I keep wondering what he would do in this situation."
"Mine would pray and hope God keeps him safe," she says bitterly.
You don't have a response to that. She's never mentioned her family before.
"Hey," she says again, changing the subject in a way in which you’ve noticed she’s very adept, "We'll find something, keep going."
"Yeah, I know," you say, a practiced response. There's silence after that, just the sound of your breathing in a surprisingly quiet night.
You’ll keep going, with her.
pairing: Claire/Jo
rating: PG-13
notes: ~1200 words, second person pov. Muchos gracias to jacyevans for the beta. Written for zempasuchil for spn_jimmynovak's Novakfest exchange.
From the prompt: My Heart Will Go On AU-verse: Jo has a crew, Claire is part of the group, they save people & hunt things & have daddy/angel issues & maybe even femslash? :D? I hope this works for ya, toots. <3
summary: You’ve gotten used to seeing her face when you roll over, and it scares you; attachments are for a different time, a world before. Or, a quick recap of this AU: So basically the world's gone to shit because Godstiel is cray cray and Jo's a natural-born leader and that's just how it goes.
Claire’s back is a canvas of scars, raised and jagged lines from too many close calls you couldn't protect her from, the worst of which includes a patchwork of old burns up near her neck where she got caught in a barn fire the first month you knew her, screaming your name like a prayer in a world where no one prays anymore as the wooden frame collapsed around her. You’d saved her like you always do, her cries of “Jo!” echoing into the chaos as you fought your way to her side. She’s the only thing you have left to fight for, now.
The rest of her skin is still soft and pale under your hands, not dry and rough from the sun and dust as yours has become, and you can't get enough of it, tracing her lines and curves every day that she lay beside you. Most days you can’t believe you’re both still here, expect to wake up one morning and find it all a dream, her side of the bed empty and cold, just the way you felt before she fell into your life.
You remember the night you met her, shortly after escaping a group of demons who chased you for days on end. You thought it was finally the end, no more running, that you and your rag-tag team of would-be hunters would finally go the way of the rest of the world, decimated by a lone creature in the middle of the night.
She stumbled into your camp, five and a half feet of beanstalk with wispy yellow hair looking half-dead on her feet. Her skin dusty and sunburned and her face scratched and covered in dried blood, but when her eyes locked on yours, you saw fire in them, the same type of determination you saw every morning when you looked in the mirror. You pointed your gun at her and she froze but she didn't tremble or speak. Most of all, she didn't look afraid. You could feel the rest of your crew regarding her warily, a Mexican standoff against predator and prey with neither side sure of who is which, but she held her ground, cocking her head to the side as she waited for your first move.
"Can you shoot?" you asked, hearing the disapproving scoffs of several of your comrades, but you'd run out of armed bodies and so had they; you were their leader and they deferred to your command.
She shook her head and looked to the ground as though embarrassed. Her hands twitched at her sides, her whole body slowly becoming a jittery mess the more she tried to hold still under your scrutiny, and you wondered how long it was since she ate, since she rested.
"You aren't much good to me if you can't defend yourself," you said sternly when it was clear she wasn't going to respond. Your mother used to say you had a bleeding heart, taking in strays the same way you took in hunters' tales as a child; she wasn't fond of you doing either. You learned that lesson in the months passed. At least you thought you did.
"I can learn." She spoke softly with a rough voice, like she hadn't spoken in weeks, and not for the first time since she stood in front of you, you wondered how she survived so far in this world.
“So you can speak," you said, tossing her the spare gun you usually carried in your boot. There was an overabundance of weapons in your world now and not enough people to arm themselves with them; it would be easy to find another gun. "Well, you better shape up. It's a dangerous world we live in these days."
She learned quickly - the right way to hold a gun, all the Latin you need to exorcise a demon, how to spot an angel in a crowd of people. Not that there were many crowds, or many demons left, for that matter. She learned faster than anyone else, and you taught a lot of people. Not that there were many left to show for it - every face around you was a revolving door of lives once lived.
You learned some new things too, little things about her in the way she squared her shoulders when she missed her aim and the way she stormed off sometimes when you tried to correct her, and bigger things like how she walked around as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders and how frustrated she became when she couldn’t fix everything.
You learned you weren’t quite done thinking about Dean Winchester. You tried not to think about it too much, but sometimes the way she set her jaw and walked away from you left you wondering what had happened to Dean and Sam in the aftermath. You wondered if they too were walking around with the weight of the world still on their shoulders, and you figured the answer was probably ‘yes’.
Only once did she mention the angels to you, something so normally left unspoken around camp, as everyone was aware where the blame for the state of the world laid. She was delirious, in pain, her shoulder pierced by a poisoned arrow from another camp of hunters less experienced than yours and without a leader, scared and rabid in your deteriorating world.
"Hey," her voice whispers beside you, rough with the leftover remnants of sleep. Big blue eyes meet you when you turn. You’ve gotten used to seeing her face when you roll over, and it scares you; attachments are for a different time, a world before. You’re still not sure just where the transition from ‘student’ to ‘friend’ to ‘lover’ happened, just one of those things out on the road. Sometimes you like to imagine it was inevitable, a fated thing from the moment you met, but you’re jaded enough to know better, so you take it, whatever ‘it’ is, because it’s better than nothing at all.
"You're back," you say. "Everything okay?" Sometimes when you’re together she goes away in her head, seeing something that isn't there, a world outside of your tiny encampment full of creatures with haunting black wings and others with even blacker eyes. The first time this happened, her blank stare terrified you; she wasn't just one more soul on your twisted path, this tiny blonde girl who seeped her way into a heart you thought hardened long before.
You fiddle nervously with the knife your father left you, never far from your hands, the handle worn and dulled under your repetitious use. She watches you with her curious gaze, always so guarded around everyone but you. "It was my father's," you say, aware that family isn't a subject anyone shares lightly. "I keep wondering what he would do in this situation."
"Mine would pray and hope God keeps him safe," she says bitterly.
You don't have a response to that. She's never mentioned her family before.
"Hey," she says again, changing the subject in a way in which you’ve noticed she’s very adept, "We'll find something, keep going."
"Yeah, I know," you say, a practiced response. There's silence after that, just the sound of your breathing in a surprisingly quiet night.
You’ll keep going, with her.