Fic: Gretel Was a Lonely Girl (SPN, Jo/Lucifer)
Title: Gretel Was a Lonely Girl
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Jo/Lucifer
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sometimes falling is the easy part. It's who you meet on the way that's interesting.
A/N: Thanks to kijikun who enabled and encouraged :)
It felt like falling. Except there wasn’t a landing, not yet.
*
Jo could strip a gun in under a minute and reassemble it almost as fast. She wasn’t sorry about that. There were too many things crawling around in the dark, biting with sharp teeth, pretending to be human before they dragged you away or sometimes not bothering with the pretending part for her to care that her mangled chew-toy of a childhood had seriously fucked over her chances of a normal life.
Screw normal. She wouldn’t even know where to start.
Jo was Ellen and Bill Harvelle’s daughter. She’d worked the bar at the Roadhouse most of her life and could out-drink a few of the regulars. She’d known the Winchesters, still did sometimes. She had a tattoo down her spine that nobody knew about. She was a hunter.
Jo Harvelle was a lot of things. Normal could never be one of them.
*
“Who are you, child?”
It took a second for Jo's head to clear and register several things - that the ground under her feet was stable again, that wherever she was was so inky black that she couldn't even see her own hands, and that she had company. Peachy.
She lifted her voice, the easy half-lie sliding into place on autopilot as her mind focused on working out just where the hell she was and what was talking to her. “Just stumbled off the track. Looking for my little brother. Who are you? ”
A soft amused laugh. Not cruel, or malicious. It could even be described as warm. Something shifted at Jo’s left. Her flashlight was probably smashed and useless wherever it'd landed. Great.
“You must have been the kind who stuck your hand into the flames after your mother told you it would burn.”
Definitely not a helpless tourist. The local crazy maybe. Jo discarded the idea. This guy sounded like he was enjoying the view, like she amused him, like he could see right through her words. He sounded like the kind who enjoyed playing with his food. He was too comfortable in the dark. He didn’t sound like a hunter. A shiver worked its way through Jo. Time to drop the act.
“What do you want?”
There was another shift, and for a moment breath and the faint smell of sulphur close to her ear.
“Conversation.”
She whirled and struck emptiness with her second favourite silver knife, the one with the Latin carved into the wooden handle.
The laugh made another appearance, the amusement turned up. Jo reached for her gun.
*
Jo had thought she’d loved Dean Winchester once. Her Mom still brought it up when she thought Jo needed bringing down a peg or two. It was a lot more often than Jo liked. There was no Ash acting as a buffer anymore with his goofy smile and overflowing goodwill. It was a space never filled.
Sometimes, Jo played the last song she’d heard blasting out of Ash’s room. Sometimes she’d sing without realising she was crying.
Being a hunter meant bits of your life got carved off until there wasn’t much left to whittle. Dean had known that, that was obvious. Sam had believed in a better life, in another way of handling things, in a choice, that there would be an end to that life eventually. Turned out, he was that end.
Jo drank whiskey, played cards, and laughed when Tom McKell tried to take her home. She didn’t need to use her mother’s name to keep herself alone.
*
“How have you lived, Joanna Harvelle?”
“Sunshine and rainbows, buddy. Can’t you tell?”
Jo wanted to sit down. But whatever was moving in the dark knew a lot more than it should. The human voice was an enticing lie. She carefully loaded her gun with silver bullets. She’d always said she could do it blindfolded.
“You remind me of the Gordian Knot.”
Jo smiled, a hard contrast to her words and tone. “You might want to work on your sweet-talk.”
“There hasn’t been the need recently.”
“There still isn’t.”
She aimed at where she’d last heard the voice. But there was quiet now and was that water dripping? The walls she'd bumped into felt like rock and odd soft plant growth and there was that smell that said 'wendigo lives here' so she'd fallen into the right place. But she definitely wasn't talking to a wendigo.
*
Jo had learned to hunt alone, once the Winchesters left.
Sometimes, she ran into Rufus or Bobby. They expected her to shut up and hunt. When Tamara was in the country, she called Jo and never told Ellen she'd seen her daughter. Sometimes, Jo found herself passing on knowledge. Stuff she'd picked up as a kid like ABCs - you brush your teeth, you comb your hair, you put salt lines at the doors and windows, you keep a cup of holy water by your bed. Simple stuff that everybody should know. That should be normal.
She didn’t hunt so much with her Mom. That was probably best for both of them, no matter what Mom thought.
Alone became a relative term. Because wherever she was, Jo could feel a presence. Like someone was looking over her shoulder, keeping an eye on her. Like they were amused. It was annoying as hell. It was extremely familiar. It could be oddly soothing too. Jo wanted to lean into it.
But she could smell the sulphur.
*
“Is there any way out of here?”
“Probably.”
Jo blew frustration out with her breath. Her companion chuckled. She heard movement, like he was getting closer. Her fingers clenched around her knife, nerves pulled tight. She'd set out early that morning and being stuck in perpetual night was messing with her. She wanted to sit down. She wanted to know who she was dealing with.
“You must be tired, Joanna.”
She snorted. She wasn't a Gretel, easy to tempt into a gingerbread house. He could try though.
Then, the strangest sensation, like a bird brushing against her. Unexpected soft feathers across her back, lingering at her shoulders. The sulphur smell mixed in with something almost-clean. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. The voice again, quieter, serious. Like concern was creeping up on him and he was forcing it away.
“You should sleep, Joanna.”
It was the last thing she could recall about that day. When she opened her eyes, not remembering closing them, the empty caves were filled with bright beautiful morning light.
*
There was the softness of feathers in her dreams now, and that voice burrowing under her skin. Always telling her she needed to rest. Mocking her gently. Concerned. Pushing her. Cajoling her. Cradling her. Offering her impossible things. Staying with her after she always said “no.” His breathing matching with hers.
Sometimes she could make out a blur of broken skin and pale reverent eyes. Sometimes a hand caressed her perfectly, instead of soothing feathers.
She looked for answers, for consequences, when she was awake. Her research turned up zilch that could be possible. She’d stopped believing in angels a long time ago.
*
It was a year of phantom presences and shaded dreams before he let her see him again. She was getting a burger and a coffee - it'd been a late night of chasing down ghouls - when she saw a tall pale blonde figure outside the diner, right at the edge of her vision.
He was solid and real and familiar in the way he moved and he looked her dead in the eye. He looked pleased. More than that. His eyes were hungry. Caressing. She could imagine the sound of his laugh, the sensation of his hands on her body.
Jo left her order at the counter. He waited for her.
“How do you sleep, Joanna?”
His voice was the same. Rich and fertile. Dangerous. She shivered. There was heat under her skin. His mouth smirked. Her hard mouth mirrored it.
“You give 'stalker' a whole new meaning,” she told him, hand casually resting at the small of her back, ready on the hilt of her favourite blade. “What do you want?”
“Conversation.”
Jo snorted. His inhuman vibe she’d recognised in the dark was amplified now in the daylight. Or maybe he was letting her see it, surrounding her in it. There was sulphur in the warmth of his breath.
Something gentle and impossible touched her shoulder. Like a waking dream. Her fingers found invisible familiar softness, which made her skin tingle, and hard unforgiving bone. It caressed her as it curled around her. Like protection, or possessiveness. There was no pain. It was hard not to welcome it, to not lean into it. Jo narrowed her eyes, focusing. Her hand stayed on the knife. Her breathing matched his.
The man smiled.
*
It felt like falling, waiting for the inevitable crash. But sometimes there was another landing, as different and eager as feathers.
-the end
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Jo/Lucifer
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sometimes falling is the easy part. It's who you meet on the way that's interesting.
A/N: Thanks to kijikun who enabled and encouraged :)
It felt like falling. Except there wasn’t a landing, not yet.
*
Jo could strip a gun in under a minute and reassemble it almost as fast. She wasn’t sorry about that. There were too many things crawling around in the dark, biting with sharp teeth, pretending to be human before they dragged you away or sometimes not bothering with the pretending part for her to care that her mangled chew-toy of a childhood had seriously fucked over her chances of a normal life.
Screw normal. She wouldn’t even know where to start.
Jo was Ellen and Bill Harvelle’s daughter. She’d worked the bar at the Roadhouse most of her life and could out-drink a few of the regulars. She’d known the Winchesters, still did sometimes. She had a tattoo down her spine that nobody knew about. She was a hunter.
Jo Harvelle was a lot of things. Normal could never be one of them.
*
“Who are you, child?”
It took a second for Jo's head to clear and register several things - that the ground under her feet was stable again, that wherever she was was so inky black that she couldn't even see her own hands, and that she had company. Peachy.
She lifted her voice, the easy half-lie sliding into place on autopilot as her mind focused on working out just where the hell she was and what was talking to her. “Just stumbled off the track. Looking for my little brother. Who are you? ”
A soft amused laugh. Not cruel, or malicious. It could even be described as warm. Something shifted at Jo’s left. Her flashlight was probably smashed and useless wherever it'd landed. Great.
“You must have been the kind who stuck your hand into the flames after your mother told you it would burn.”
Definitely not a helpless tourist. The local crazy maybe. Jo discarded the idea. This guy sounded like he was enjoying the view, like she amused him, like he could see right through her words. He sounded like the kind who enjoyed playing with his food. He was too comfortable in the dark. He didn’t sound like a hunter. A shiver worked its way through Jo. Time to drop the act.
“What do you want?”
There was another shift, and for a moment breath and the faint smell of sulphur close to her ear.
“Conversation.”
She whirled and struck emptiness with her second favourite silver knife, the one with the Latin carved into the wooden handle.
The laugh made another appearance, the amusement turned up. Jo reached for her gun.
*
Jo had thought she’d loved Dean Winchester once. Her Mom still brought it up when she thought Jo needed bringing down a peg or two. It was a lot more often than Jo liked. There was no Ash acting as a buffer anymore with his goofy smile and overflowing goodwill. It was a space never filled.
Sometimes, Jo played the last song she’d heard blasting out of Ash’s room. Sometimes she’d sing without realising she was crying.
Being a hunter meant bits of your life got carved off until there wasn’t much left to whittle. Dean had known that, that was obvious. Sam had believed in a better life, in another way of handling things, in a choice, that there would be an end to that life eventually. Turned out, he was that end.
Jo drank whiskey, played cards, and laughed when Tom McKell tried to take her home. She didn’t need to use her mother’s name to keep herself alone.
*
“How have you lived, Joanna Harvelle?”
“Sunshine and rainbows, buddy. Can’t you tell?”
Jo wanted to sit down. But whatever was moving in the dark knew a lot more than it should. The human voice was an enticing lie. She carefully loaded her gun with silver bullets. She’d always said she could do it blindfolded.
“You remind me of the Gordian Knot.”
Jo smiled, a hard contrast to her words and tone. “You might want to work on your sweet-talk.”
“There hasn’t been the need recently.”
“There still isn’t.”
She aimed at where she’d last heard the voice. But there was quiet now and was that water dripping? The walls she'd bumped into felt like rock and odd soft plant growth and there was that smell that said 'wendigo lives here' so she'd fallen into the right place. But she definitely wasn't talking to a wendigo.
*
Jo had learned to hunt alone, once the Winchesters left.
Sometimes, she ran into Rufus or Bobby. They expected her to shut up and hunt. When Tamara was in the country, she called Jo and never told Ellen she'd seen her daughter. Sometimes, Jo found herself passing on knowledge. Stuff she'd picked up as a kid like ABCs - you brush your teeth, you comb your hair, you put salt lines at the doors and windows, you keep a cup of holy water by your bed. Simple stuff that everybody should know. That should be normal.
She didn’t hunt so much with her Mom. That was probably best for both of them, no matter what Mom thought.
Alone became a relative term. Because wherever she was, Jo could feel a presence. Like someone was looking over her shoulder, keeping an eye on her. Like they were amused. It was annoying as hell. It was extremely familiar. It could be oddly soothing too. Jo wanted to lean into it.
But she could smell the sulphur.
*
“Is there any way out of here?”
“Probably.”
Jo blew frustration out with her breath. Her companion chuckled. She heard movement, like he was getting closer. Her fingers clenched around her knife, nerves pulled tight. She'd set out early that morning and being stuck in perpetual night was messing with her. She wanted to sit down. She wanted to know who she was dealing with.
“You must be tired, Joanna.”
She snorted. She wasn't a Gretel, easy to tempt into a gingerbread house. He could try though.
Then, the strangest sensation, like a bird brushing against her. Unexpected soft feathers across her back, lingering at her shoulders. The sulphur smell mixed in with something almost-clean. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. The voice again, quieter, serious. Like concern was creeping up on him and he was forcing it away.
“You should sleep, Joanna.”
It was the last thing she could recall about that day. When she opened her eyes, not remembering closing them, the empty caves were filled with bright beautiful morning light.
*
There was the softness of feathers in her dreams now, and that voice burrowing under her skin. Always telling her she needed to rest. Mocking her gently. Concerned. Pushing her. Cajoling her. Cradling her. Offering her impossible things. Staying with her after she always said “no.” His breathing matching with hers.
Sometimes she could make out a blur of broken skin and pale reverent eyes. Sometimes a hand caressed her perfectly, instead of soothing feathers.
She looked for answers, for consequences, when she was awake. Her research turned up zilch that could be possible. She’d stopped believing in angels a long time ago.
*
It was a year of phantom presences and shaded dreams before he let her see him again. She was getting a burger and a coffee - it'd been a late night of chasing down ghouls - when she saw a tall pale blonde figure outside the diner, right at the edge of her vision.
He was solid and real and familiar in the way he moved and he looked her dead in the eye. He looked pleased. More than that. His eyes were hungry. Caressing. She could imagine the sound of his laugh, the sensation of his hands on her body.
Jo left her order at the counter. He waited for her.
“How do you sleep, Joanna?”
His voice was the same. Rich and fertile. Dangerous. She shivered. There was heat under her skin. His mouth smirked. Her hard mouth mirrored it.
“You give 'stalker' a whole new meaning,” she told him, hand casually resting at the small of her back, ready on the hilt of her favourite blade. “What do you want?”
“Conversation.”
Jo snorted. His inhuman vibe she’d recognised in the dark was amplified now in the daylight. Or maybe he was letting her see it, surrounding her in it. There was sulphur in the warmth of his breath.
Something gentle and impossible touched her shoulder. Like a waking dream. Her fingers found invisible familiar softness, which made her skin tingle, and hard unforgiving bone. It caressed her as it curled around her. Like protection, or possessiveness. There was no pain. It was hard not to welcome it, to not lean into it. Jo narrowed her eyes, focusing. Her hand stayed on the knife. Her breathing matched his.
The man smiled.
*
It felt like falling, waiting for the inevitable crash. But sometimes there was another landing, as different and eager as feathers.
-the end