We're All Lost Somewhere (Mildly Dean/Jo, PG-13)
More comment fic that I didn't feel like splitting up into multiple responses.
Title: We're All Lost Somewhere
Pairing: Mildy Dean/Jo
Rating: PG-13
“Water wraith,” Bobby says. He lifts his cap off his head and scratches at his temple with his thumb. “Think you kids can handle it?”
Dean laughs. “Please.”
Sam circles obituaries and newspaper articles in red and black ink; cross-references his own research with their dad’s journal. Dean refuels the car and makes marks over statelines on an old map that sits mostly forgotten in the glove box.
Bobby phones around the time that they reach Rigby.
“Somebody beat you boys to it. Messy fuck up of a job, but it’s done.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Dunno. Walker says it was some girl. Young one. And I ain’t heard of anyone new out there.” There’s an uncomfortable pause. “You and Sam watch your backs, you hear?”
Dean snorts into the phone. “Because of some chick? Bobby, c’mon.”
A chupacabra down in Eagle Pass.
“Got the silver bullets?” Dean asks. He tests the sharpness of a bowie knife with the tip of his finger and then sucks at the small drop of blood. Sam doesn’t answer, so Dean nudges him with his elbow. “Sammy?”
Sam nods towards the ground and then kneels down and moves his hand around in the dirt. “It’s desecrated.”
“Son of a bitch.” He throws his shotgun back into the truck. “Hand to fucking God, I find out who’s been nicking our jobs and they’re gonna be pissing out of a new hole.”
Sam just shrugs.
In Danbury it’s a banshee.
And in Danbury, Dean finds little Jo Harvelle.
Of course.
She’s sitting in the back of a seedy bar and greedily gulping down a beer. Dean takes a seat next to her and gives her his best smile. Jo just gulps the rest of her beer and slowly lifts her middle finger in his direction.
“Cute,” he says, smirking.
Glass empty and she smacks it down on the table and wipes her forearm over her mouth and smirks right back at him. When he doesn’t say anything, she gives an expectant raise of her eyebrows. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail and she has a neat little scar that cuts through her lower lip and into the start of her chin. Sometime after Nebraska and after Duluth, Jo went and turned herself into a cliché.
“Where’s Lurch?” she asks.
He laughs a little. “Sammy’s back at the motel.”
“And here I was ready for a fight.” She shrugs and rubs at that scar on her lip.
“Seems like you’re always ready for a fight these days,” Dean says. “Doing a bit of a piss-poor job of it, too.”
Jo stands and flips a few bills onto the table and tugs on a well-worn baseball cap; Seattle Mariners, with the bottom of the ‘S’ all torn and frayed. She puts a too-fake smile on her lips and looks a little like that girl that he met once in a different bar.
“Nice seein’ you, Dean. Keep in touch.”
When Sam and Dean get to Rock Hill, the werecat is already dead. She’s getting better at hitting jobs, but Jo’s always been more a research girl and it shows when she tries to cover her tracks.
“She’s really starting to piss me off, Sammy.”
Sam gives a sympathetic and almost guilty sort of frown. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, Dean.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Two couples were murdered in Brigham City.
It’s an evil spirit of the garden variety sort, nothing they can’t handle. Jo turns up in the middle of the job, but keeps her distance.
When everything is said and done (and salted and burned), Dean finds her sitting on the curb in front of their motel. Her knees are pulled up to her chest and she’s wearing the same baseball cap that she was in Danbury and a half-smoked cigarette rests between two of her fingers. She looks up at him with something that might be a smile or might be sneer, but the scar combined with the smoke curling around her lips makes it hard to tell.
“Hey,” she says. And then unprompted, she nods at Sam. “If you wanna tie me up again, there’s a nice telephone pole in the alley. It’s pretty sturdy, I checked.”
“I-Jo, that wasn’t-” Sam sputters out the words. “I’m sorry.”
She waves her hand. “Yeah, possession and demons and whatever. It’s all water and bridges.”
“Sam, why don’t you go inside?” Dean suggests and it leaves his mouth as more of an order.
Sam grabs for Dean’s duffle bag and shoves his way into the motel room. Dean sits down next to Jo and plucks the cigarette from her fingers, taking quick pull and then flicking his thumb at the brim of her hat.
“Mariners, huh?”
“It’s Ash’s,” she says. She stares at her hands. “He collects them. Not just Seattle, from everywhere.”
Dean kind of nods and shrugs, like he doesn’t really care, and then rubs the cigarette out on the pavement.
“So, you gonna back off on this hunting thing for awhile?” he asks. ‘Cause, sweetheart, this ain’t the high life. And pretty soon, you’re gonna wind up dead and it’ll be faster than you can blink.”
She smiles almost softly. “I don’t know. I blink pretty fast.”
“Yeah, well.”
Jo knocks her knee into his and when he looks back at her, she pulls at the sleeves of her jacket to cover her hands. The soft smile turns almost coy and baiting, but it’s still nice. “Maybe you could teach me to blink faster?”
Dean laughs and taps his finger along the brim of her hat again.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Title: We're All Lost Somewhere
Pairing: Mildy Dean/Jo
Rating: PG-13
“Water wraith,” Bobby says. He lifts his cap off his head and scratches at his temple with his thumb. “Think you kids can handle it?”
Dean laughs. “Please.”
Sam circles obituaries and newspaper articles in red and black ink; cross-references his own research with their dad’s journal. Dean refuels the car and makes marks over statelines on an old map that sits mostly forgotten in the glove box.
Bobby phones around the time that they reach Rigby.
“Somebody beat you boys to it. Messy fuck up of a job, but it’s done.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Dunno. Walker says it was some girl. Young one. And I ain’t heard of anyone new out there.” There’s an uncomfortable pause. “You and Sam watch your backs, you hear?”
Dean snorts into the phone. “Because of some chick? Bobby, c’mon.”
A chupacabra down in Eagle Pass.
“Got the silver bullets?” Dean asks. He tests the sharpness of a bowie knife with the tip of his finger and then sucks at the small drop of blood. Sam doesn’t answer, so Dean nudges him with his elbow. “Sammy?”
Sam nods towards the ground and then kneels down and moves his hand around in the dirt. “It’s desecrated.”
“Son of a bitch.” He throws his shotgun back into the truck. “Hand to fucking God, I find out who’s been nicking our jobs and they’re gonna be pissing out of a new hole.”
Sam just shrugs.
In Danbury it’s a banshee.
And in Danbury, Dean finds little Jo Harvelle.
Of course.
She’s sitting in the back of a seedy bar and greedily gulping down a beer. Dean takes a seat next to her and gives her his best smile. Jo just gulps the rest of her beer and slowly lifts her middle finger in his direction.
“Cute,” he says, smirking.
Glass empty and she smacks it down on the table and wipes her forearm over her mouth and smirks right back at him. When he doesn’t say anything, she gives an expectant raise of her eyebrows. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail and she has a neat little scar that cuts through her lower lip and into the start of her chin. Sometime after Nebraska and after Duluth, Jo went and turned herself into a cliché.
“Where’s Lurch?” she asks.
He laughs a little. “Sammy’s back at the motel.”
“And here I was ready for a fight.” She shrugs and rubs at that scar on her lip.
“Seems like you’re always ready for a fight these days,” Dean says. “Doing a bit of a piss-poor job of it, too.”
Jo stands and flips a few bills onto the table and tugs on a well-worn baseball cap; Seattle Mariners, with the bottom of the ‘S’ all torn and frayed. She puts a too-fake smile on her lips and looks a little like that girl that he met once in a different bar.
“Nice seein’ you, Dean. Keep in touch.”
When Sam and Dean get to Rock Hill, the werecat is already dead. She’s getting better at hitting jobs, but Jo’s always been more a research girl and it shows when she tries to cover her tracks.
“She’s really starting to piss me off, Sammy.”
Sam gives a sympathetic and almost guilty sort of frown. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, Dean.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Two couples were murdered in Brigham City.
It’s an evil spirit of the garden variety sort, nothing they can’t handle. Jo turns up in the middle of the job, but keeps her distance.
When everything is said and done (and salted and burned), Dean finds her sitting on the curb in front of their motel. Her knees are pulled up to her chest and she’s wearing the same baseball cap that she was in Danbury and a half-smoked cigarette rests between two of her fingers. She looks up at him with something that might be a smile or might be sneer, but the scar combined with the smoke curling around her lips makes it hard to tell.
“Hey,” she says. And then unprompted, she nods at Sam. “If you wanna tie me up again, there’s a nice telephone pole in the alley. It’s pretty sturdy, I checked.”
“I-Jo, that wasn’t-” Sam sputters out the words. “I’m sorry.”
She waves her hand. “Yeah, possession and demons and whatever. It’s all water and bridges.”
“Sam, why don’t you go inside?” Dean suggests and it leaves his mouth as more of an order.
Sam grabs for Dean’s duffle bag and shoves his way into the motel room. Dean sits down next to Jo and plucks the cigarette from her fingers, taking quick pull and then flicking his thumb at the brim of her hat.
“Mariners, huh?”
“It’s Ash’s,” she says. She stares at her hands. “He collects them. Not just Seattle, from everywhere.”
Dean kind of nods and shrugs, like he doesn’t really care, and then rubs the cigarette out on the pavement.
“So, you gonna back off on this hunting thing for awhile?” he asks. ‘Cause, sweetheart, this ain’t the high life. And pretty soon, you’re gonna wind up dead and it’ll be faster than you can blink.”
She smiles almost softly. “I don’t know. I blink pretty fast.”
“Yeah, well.”
Jo knocks her knee into his and when he looks back at her, she pulls at the sleeves of her jacket to cover her hands. The soft smile turns almost coy and baiting, but it’s still nice. “Maybe you could teach me to blink faster?”
Dean laughs and taps his finger along the brim of her hat again.
“Yeah. Maybe.”