Heard This Song Before
Title: Heard This Song Before
Rating: R
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hetfic
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Warning: Spoilery, sort of, for 2.2 "Everyone Loves a Clown", 2.6 "No Exit" and 5.10 "Abandon All Hope". Cussing. Character death.
Wordcount: 1095
A/N: Written to fill "abandonment issues" on the hoodie_time Prompt Challenge, also fills "confession in desperate situation" for my hc_bingo card. Beta'd by the lovely, lovely Brandy, who is SUCH A DOLL for staying up late just to read my crap.
Summary: Dean had heard a saying about how, once you’d lost everything, you could do anything. It was bullshit. Once you’d lost everything, you’d do anything not to lose ever again.
One of the perks of freshly won victory is that it makes you horny as hell. Dean walked into the Roadhouse with that swagger that was part Mighty Hunter Returns, part Raging Stiffy and distinctly all Dean. Jo's lithe blonde figure walked by with a pitcher of beer, and her smug grin said she noticed his strut but considered it unworthy of comment. As she passed, the ends of her hair twitched in time to the percussive rhythm of hips.
Lo, the hunter stalks his prey.
He took a seat at the bar and watched Jo clean a table recently vacated, projecting "come to Dean" thoughts at the inch of bare skin between where her shirt ended and her jeans began. By the light flush to her cheeks and the too-obvious way she ignored him, he knew it was only a matter of time. She walked back to the bar, flicking an amused glance his way.
"Can I get you a beer?" she asked.
"The hunt went great, thanks for asking. An invisible clown threw a knife at me in a funhouse."
"Sounds exciting. Draft or bottle?"
This wasn't working. He changed tactics.
"Bottle of whatever you've got that's really cold. I can ice down my nose with it." He tenderly felt the bridge of his nose, as if to check for a lingering bruise where she'd hit him. "It still hurts."
"Oh, you poor baby." She leaned a little closer - not much, but a little. "You want me to kiss it better?"
Now that he thought of it, there was this spot on his thigh that kind of hurt still too. "Well… it's the least you can do."
She leaned over further, her blonde hair filling his vision, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of peach shampoo with a vague hint of bleach from the bar rags.
You want Mommy to kiss it better, baby?
The smell of slow-simmered tomatoes and something flowery, and long blonde hair caressing his chubby tear-stained cheeks. The lightest pressure of her lips where he'd hit his head on the coffee table, and her finger tilted his chin to kiss the tears away. The little cut on his forehead still stung, but he didn't care so much anymore. Mom was magic.
The long-buried memory passed, taking with it the tang of victory that had, for just a little while, filled up the empty hollow carved by too many good-byes. He felt the light pressure of her lips on the bridge of his nose, and opened his eyes to the aching glow of her blonde hair.
"Better?"
People say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved it all. People are always saying some stupid shit like that, mostly because they never had to deal with the 'lost' part. Saying good-bye sucked. There were places on his soul that would never get better no matter how many times they were kissed. For one long moment, he wanted to tell her this.
Sam plopped down on the barstool next to him. "Bobby called. He found a new door for the Impala, and he can get you some decent tires."
The moment passed.
:: ::
He'd said he was going to take the cement truck back, but Dean said a lot of things. The trio turned to go back to their temporary rented apartment, leaving behind the truck and the new permanent home of one pissed-off serial killer ghost.
They were filthy, they had committed several felonies, and they'd won. He’d had worse moments.
She let Sam get ahead of them and Dean allowed it, matching his pace to hers. He could still hear her scream as the ghost took her, the sound bouncing around inside his skull. Something about that scream tapped him on the shoulder to let him know this was a very bad idea. He shrugged it off. The samurai monk bit was Sammy's thing, not Dean's.
"You did good back there," he said.
Her shoulders relaxed a bit. "Yeah?"
"For a kid."
She slugged him in the shoulder, and it really hurt. "Ow."
The issue of hunting supremacy settled, they continued the slow stroll back. She began to talk hesitantly, easing into it like the opening of a good Styx song. She told him about comforting the other girl the ghost had taken, and her eyes sparkled as she described cutting the spirit in the arm with her father's iron knife. Funny thing was, he could see her doing this. Hunting. Knives and shotguns. Being the rescuer.
He could see her dying doing this.
Hell, he was going to die doing this.
Was that so bad? Was that the worst he could picture? His eyes roamed her features, eager and lively in her excitement, and he listened with half an ear as his imagination took over. In his mind's eye the animation leeched from her face to be replaced with the empty eyes of a body, like a house where no one was home. On the ceiling, torso dripping blood, blonde hair fanned out as the flames took over.
Dean wanted to kiss her anyway.
They reached the door to the apartment and she leaned against it. "I'm going to hop in the shower, then maybe we can get a pizza and some beer to celebrate."
"I, uh, I think actually I ought to call your mom. Let her know you're okay."
Her face fell slightly and then her lips tightened. She stalked off to the shower without another word.
One kiss. God, he could be such a moron sometimes.
:: ::
Her hand was so cold as he slipped her the detonator and curled her fingers around it. His gaze crawled across her face, committing the features of a friend and a fellow hunter to memory. His breath huffed out in one short, humorless non-chuckle.
He'd never kissed her the first time because he'd never wanted there to be a last time. Joke's on you, Dean.
Her eyes were full of fear but her chin was defiant. She wasn't asking him for a thing, only that he remember she went down like a hunter. He cradled her head in one hand and pressed his lips to her forehead, fervently, eyes shut tight against the good-bye in his throat.
And then he kissed her. First time. Last time.
All the yesterdays Dean squandered for tomorrows that would never come. He turned away, adding a first kiss and another last memory to the lonesome black hole inside.
Rating: R
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hetfic
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Warning: Spoilery, sort of, for 2.2 "Everyone Loves a Clown", 2.6 "No Exit" and 5.10 "Abandon All Hope". Cussing. Character death.
Wordcount: 1095
A/N: Written to fill "abandonment issues" on the hoodie_time Prompt Challenge, also fills "confession in desperate situation" for my hc_bingo card. Beta'd by the lovely, lovely Brandy, who is SUCH A DOLL for staying up late just to read my crap.
Summary: Dean had heard a saying about how, once you’d lost everything, you could do anything. It was bullshit. Once you’d lost everything, you’d do anything not to lose ever again.
One of the perks of freshly won victory is that it makes you horny as hell. Dean walked into the Roadhouse with that swagger that was part Mighty Hunter Returns, part Raging Stiffy and distinctly all Dean. Jo's lithe blonde figure walked by with a pitcher of beer, and her smug grin said she noticed his strut but considered it unworthy of comment. As she passed, the ends of her hair twitched in time to the percussive rhythm of hips.
Lo, the hunter stalks his prey.
He took a seat at the bar and watched Jo clean a table recently vacated, projecting "come to Dean" thoughts at the inch of bare skin between where her shirt ended and her jeans began. By the light flush to her cheeks and the too-obvious way she ignored him, he knew it was only a matter of time. She walked back to the bar, flicking an amused glance his way.
"Can I get you a beer?" she asked.
"The hunt went great, thanks for asking. An invisible clown threw a knife at me in a funhouse."
"Sounds exciting. Draft or bottle?"
This wasn't working. He changed tactics.
"Bottle of whatever you've got that's really cold. I can ice down my nose with it." He tenderly felt the bridge of his nose, as if to check for a lingering bruise where she'd hit him. "It still hurts."
"Oh, you poor baby." She leaned a little closer - not much, but a little. "You want me to kiss it better?"
Now that he thought of it, there was this spot on his thigh that kind of hurt still too. "Well… it's the least you can do."
She leaned over further, her blonde hair filling his vision, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of peach shampoo with a vague hint of bleach from the bar rags.
You want Mommy to kiss it better, baby?
The smell of slow-simmered tomatoes and something flowery, and long blonde hair caressing his chubby tear-stained cheeks. The lightest pressure of her lips where he'd hit his head on the coffee table, and her finger tilted his chin to kiss the tears away. The little cut on his forehead still stung, but he didn't care so much anymore. Mom was magic.
The long-buried memory passed, taking with it the tang of victory that had, for just a little while, filled up the empty hollow carved by too many good-byes. He felt the light pressure of her lips on the bridge of his nose, and opened his eyes to the aching glow of her blonde hair.
"Better?"
People say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved it all. People are always saying some stupid shit like that, mostly because they never had to deal with the 'lost' part. Saying good-bye sucked. There were places on his soul that would never get better no matter how many times they were kissed. For one long moment, he wanted to tell her this.
Sam plopped down on the barstool next to him. "Bobby called. He found a new door for the Impala, and he can get you some decent tires."
The moment passed.
:: ::
He'd said he was going to take the cement truck back, but Dean said a lot of things. The trio turned to go back to their temporary rented apartment, leaving behind the truck and the new permanent home of one pissed-off serial killer ghost.
They were filthy, they had committed several felonies, and they'd won. He’d had worse moments.
She let Sam get ahead of them and Dean allowed it, matching his pace to hers. He could still hear her scream as the ghost took her, the sound bouncing around inside his skull. Something about that scream tapped him on the shoulder to let him know this was a very bad idea. He shrugged it off. The samurai monk bit was Sammy's thing, not Dean's.
"You did good back there," he said.
Her shoulders relaxed a bit. "Yeah?"
"For a kid."
She slugged him in the shoulder, and it really hurt. "Ow."
The issue of hunting supremacy settled, they continued the slow stroll back. She began to talk hesitantly, easing into it like the opening of a good Styx song. She told him about comforting the other girl the ghost had taken, and her eyes sparkled as she described cutting the spirit in the arm with her father's iron knife. Funny thing was, he could see her doing this. Hunting. Knives and shotguns. Being the rescuer.
He could see her dying doing this.
Hell, he was going to die doing this.
Was that so bad? Was that the worst he could picture? His eyes roamed her features, eager and lively in her excitement, and he listened with half an ear as his imagination took over. In his mind's eye the animation leeched from her face to be replaced with the empty eyes of a body, like a house where no one was home. On the ceiling, torso dripping blood, blonde hair fanned out as the flames took over.
Dean wanted to kiss her anyway.
They reached the door to the apartment and she leaned against it. "I'm going to hop in the shower, then maybe we can get a pizza and some beer to celebrate."
"I, uh, I think actually I ought to call your mom. Let her know you're okay."
Her face fell slightly and then her lips tightened. She stalked off to the shower without another word.
One kiss. God, he could be such a moron sometimes.
:: ::
Her hand was so cold as he slipped her the detonator and curled her fingers around it. His gaze crawled across her face, committing the features of a friend and a fellow hunter to memory. His breath huffed out in one short, humorless non-chuckle.
He'd never kissed her the first time because he'd never wanted there to be a last time. Joke's on you, Dean.
Her eyes were full of fear but her chin was defiant. She wasn't asking him for a thing, only that he remember she went down like a hunter. He cradled her head in one hand and pressed his lips to her forehead, fervently, eyes shut tight against the good-bye in his throat.
And then he kissed her. First time. Last time.
All the yesterdays Dean squandered for tomorrows that would never come. He turned away, adding a first kiss and another last memory to the lonesome black hole inside.