Fanfic: Walk Without Touching The Ground, John/Jo [1/2]
Title: Walk Without Touching The Ground
Pairing: John/Jo
Rating: R
Warnings: Some bad language, references to sex but nothing graphic
Summary: After John picks up a girl in a bar, he thought that'd be the end of it. Then he meets Jo Harvelle again.
Word Count: 12,000
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any characters. Title and cut text from Mason Jennings.
Beta: opheliahyde works way to hard and deserves more Glee-rewrite.
Notes: This was written for dreamlittleyo for the spnrarepairs exchange. It ended up being...significantly longer than intended.
He’s on his fifth beer when he sees her across the room, blonde curls flung over her shoulder as she bends across the pool table to take the shot. She’s thin, tiny even, but hiding a sense of strength even he can judge from this far away; as she sinks ball after ball, clearly hustling the men three times her size, John can’t help but feel a bit of respect for her.
The fifth ball is a scratch and the look of intense frustration melts away from her face almost as soon as he can see it, and she shrugs and giggles, clearly playing these men for all they’re worth. She’s good at it. His fingers flex a little and he considers how long it’s been since he’s played pool, how he’s itching to give her a shot. She leans against the table casually-she knows she’s sexy and he knows it, too. If he’s being honest with himself, pool isn’t the only way he’d like to try her out.
Instead of letting his mind drift down that road, he takes several large gulps of his beer. He knows she’s at least eighteen if she’s allowed in here-she’s younger than he is, but maybe not that young. The part of his mind not focused on the tenting in his pants reminds him that his boys were in bars well before they were of age, but the lump in his throat chokes that train of thought as he takes several deep breaths. He’s not ready to think about them yet, not with Dean hunting on his own and Sam hundreds of miles away, hidden away in a place where he can never follow.
As one of the men takes his shot, she glances up and locks eyes on him, smiling slowly. There’s something familiar in her smile and he shakes off the feeling of déjà vu-not every pretty blonde is going to be Mary, he tells himself, still knowing it’s a truth he’s never be able to believe in. Instead, he lifts up his beer in a toast to her, gives her a nod, and swallows it down, turning back to the bar and ordering a shot.
An undetermined amount of time passes before he stares at anything other than the white bar napkin, wet rings leftover from his drinks lining it in patterns he tries to follow, another thing lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts. When she sits down on one of the empty seats next to him, ignoring the barrier of separation he put up between himself and the rest of the world and says, “I’ll have what he’s having and another for him.” He finally gets a good look at her. It’s a face he knows, but he’s far too drunk to place it.
What’s important is that this isn’t Mary. He’s not sure if that’s the good part, or the bad part.
He holds his hand up to refuse the shot set in front of him. “No, really, that’s okay.”
“It’s my treat,” she says, flashing a thick roll of bills before sticking it back in the pockets of her jeans. “You looked like you could use it.”
It’s his policy not to lie to ladies any more than he has to, so he just nods and swallows it down, not even feeling the burn of alcohol against his throat. “Thanks.”
“Bad day?” she asks, then swallows her own glass down like a champ and he can see up close just how young she is and thinks things he shouldn’t be thinking about someone who could be young enough to be his daughter.
“Work’s a bitch,” he says and it’s not wrong. This case is kicking his ass and it’s been a while since he’s had to actually work alone. He was traveling the next county over just to borrow a damn book from Bobby.
He thinks he used to be better, but he’s so damn tired. His entire life is so damn tiring.
She nods, understanding, and part of him feel like she actually does. He wipes the glass condensation on his hand off on his jeans before holding it out to her. “I’m John, nice to meet you.”
There’s an interesting second where she hesitates, licking her lips slowly and he wonders what he messed up this time. Then she grins, and shakes his hand. “I’m Allie, nice to meet you.”
Neither of them can end the handshake and for several moments her hand rested in his, her soft skin brushing against his calluses. He wondered if he was supposed to notice just how long her fingers were. Clearing his throat, he pulled away, trying to make it casual. “You were really impressive over there,” he says. “I haven’t seen anyone that good since the last time I played.”
She raises an eyebrow, the side of her mouth quirked up in amusement. “Oh, yeah? If I didn’t think those guys over there would kill me for stealing their tables, I’d ask you to put your money where your mouth is.”
He laughs and nods-he’s been run out of pool halls more times than he can count. “I know the feeling.” Their eyes lock again and he searches her hazel depths, trying to place this face that has been lost from him for so long. He knows he knows her, trusts his instincts the way any hunter does, and wonders if she’s someone he’s known intimately before. There’s no other way to explain how his stomach twists and his mouth goes dry as she bites her bottom lip playfully.
Silence hangs between them and he thinks he sees a knowing smirk on her face as she stretches and slides from her stool. “I’d better get going. The longer I stay here, the madder they’re going to get.”
Glancing over his shoulder, John sees that the men aren’t concerned with her anymore, all focused around a game of darts. It’s either a very bad lie or a very good pick up line because he feels himself standing up to. “It is getting late.”
“Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?” she asks, more innocent than her body language conveys as she leans against the bar and counts out money to pay for their shots.
He had wanted to get to Bobby’s before lunch. It’s life and death as much as any of his work is, but he suddenly doesn’t feel like he’s in any sort of rush. “No. Not really.”
She steps closer to him, far enough to be completely casual, but close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body, smell the gentle rose scent of her shampoo. She has to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. “Your place is probably better,” she says, no hidden agenda, no pretenses. “I have a roommate.”
Swallowing hard, John nods. He doesn’t have roommates anymore. Adjusting his jacket, he puts his hand on the small of her back as he leads her outside the bar and into his truck.
By the time he wakes up early the next morning, she’s already gone, not even leaving behind something as simple as a phone number. He is surprised to find his wallet still there and still full. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d picked someone up and found out later what they were really about. It’s just a nice surprise.
There’s a diner nearby his hotel and he checks out quickly, packing everything into the trunk before eating. Unless Bobby knows what he needs right away, he doesn’t want to have to open a new credit card to pay for another night. Bobby’s couch is the closest thing he has to a home, after the truck. It’s a simple fact that he can’t ignore and he orders another cup of coffee to go to keep from thinking about it.
Sioux Falls is about an hour’s drive from where the hunt is and he manages to avoid most of the traffic, pulling into the Singer Salvage Yard after a rather pleasant drive. Rumsfeld barks at him, though his wagging tail gives away any pretense of aggression. John stops to pet the dog. If things had gone as planned, if he was still living in Lawrence, he knows he’d have been able to talk Mary into one eventually. A boy’s gotta have a dog and Dean had stopped being scared of them once he’d learned to be afraid of everything else.
He knocks on the door quickly, half wondering if he should have called when it takes Bobby a few minutes to open the door. His friend frowns at him from underneath his trucker hat. “Don’t you ever call?”
“Nice to see you, too,” John says, smiling despite himself. “I know how much you like surprise visitors.”
Bobby snorts, shaking his head. “Sons of bitches, all of you. What am I running, an inn?”
John frowns, not letting himself even think about the thoughts going through his head. The Impala wasn’t outside, so it couldn’t be Dean. But Palo Alto was so far away, and… “You got someone else here?”
“We were just eatin’ breakfast. You hungry?” Bobby says, not waiting for an answer before heading back into the house.
“I ate, but I could go for some more coffee.”
“Jo, pull out another mug,” Bobby calls, walking towards the kitchen and John follows closely behind.
For several seconds or hours or lifetimes, the world stops and all John sees is blond hair. That’s all he’s ever seen. And then she grabs a cup from the cabinet and turns around and the world starts spinning, too fast to make up for the cracks in reality and it’s Allie, it’s the girl from last night and John thinks he’s going to be sick.
But she just pours him a cup of coffee, smiling a completely shit eating grin. “Milk, or sugar?”
He can’t find his voice to answer and Bobby frowns at him until John manages to shake his head. “Black,” he croaks out. When he takes the cup from her, their fingers brush and he almost drops the mug right then and there.
“Must have been a while since you two have seen each other,” Bobby says, sitting back at the table and munching on a piece of toast.
“What does that mean?” John says, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.
Bobby shrugs, glances at Allie or Jo, or whoever the hell he is and lowers his voice. “You know, you not having been at the Roadhouse for so long.”
She shakes her head, scoffing playfully. “I’m not ten anymore, Bobby. I can hear you. What are you gonna do, cover my ears? Spell out words so I won’t know what you’re saying?” Grinning, she nudges him playfully before sitting down next to him and digging into her eggs.
Everything hits John at once and he puts the coffee on the counter so Bobby won’t see his hands shake. Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Jo Harvelle. Ellen’s daughter. …Bill’s daughter. She was Sammy’s age for god’s sake and the way she just keeps smirking at him means she knew.
She knew the whole time and she still went back to his motel, begged him to fuck her loud and dirty until he kissed her to shut her up.
He can see a little bit of a hickey he left peaking out from under the collar of her plaid shirt and he thinks that if Bill were here right now, John would shoot himself just to not put his friend through the trouble.
Picking up his coffee, he drinks it down quickly, imagining that it makes a hollow noise as it hits the pit of his stomach because he is dead on the inside. He fucked his friend’s little girl. The friend he got killed. It’d been so long since he thought of Bill that he’d forgotten how much it hurt.
Maybe hurt isn’t the word. John was pretty sure there wasn’t a word for this.
Jo-Jo Harvelle, daughter of his friends, a little girl whose pigtails Dean had pulled, who Sammy had colored with when he was still old enough to think eating crayons might actually be a good idea-held up a plate of bacon, offering it to him as if he didn’t still have her bite marks on his shoulder from when she came not twelve hours before. “You sure you don’t want some?”
He’d wanted some last night, that’s for damn sure, but it wasn’t bacon. Shaking his head, he just pours himself more coffee, wondering if Bobby had a secret flask around here. Knowing Bobby, there was probably some stored away behind some old papers and bones and dried bits of animals that he didn’t want to ask about, but the man had clearly cleaned up for Jo. John supposes that’s the normal reaction to seeing a girl who had once called you Uncle, looked up at you with the sweetest eyes you’d ever seen. She’d looked at John with those eyes last night, but they were hungry and powerful and passionate and he’d been so proud of himself when his hands had got them to flutter close and she moaned and rocked against him.
At least he could be pretty damn sure he was her favorite uncle.
“Sit down, John,” Bobby says, more of an order than a request. “What brings you here?”
“I’m about three cities over, got a problem with what looks like fae and I thought you might have some lore I could look into that isn’t on the internet.”
“Fae, huh?” Bobby chews slowly, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve got something. I thought there might be something strange going on there, but I promised Rufus I’d help him out with something over in Missouri.”
John perks up, interested in being in any other state than this. “Oh? You want me to tag along?”
Bobby shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “You know Rufus, the man freaks out over nothing. If it were any farther away, I’d tell him to go screw himself. Actually, as soon as I finish breakfast, I’m gonna get out on a quick supply run and head over there, but Jo’s been reorganizing my library, so I can write you a list of things that might help and she can help you find them.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Jo says, seeming far too interested in the prospect.
“Oh, no need to go through all that trouble,” John says, the words sounding hollow to his own ears.
Bobby snorts. “Nonsense, you didn’t come over here just to chat and see what was up with me. Get your info and clear out those fae so I don’t have to deal with them when I get back. You can stay here, too, if you want. Jo’s in the guest room, but you and yours practically have your name sewn into the couch.”
Swallowing hard, John can’t think of any other reason to say no, at least not until Bobby is far enough away that he won’t stab him. Bobby would stab him, maybe cut his Achilles tendon: nothing too severe, nothing fatal. Bobby believes in the right parties handling their shit. He’d just make sure he could get John to Ellen.
Ellen.
He can’t think of Ellen right now. Right now his dick is so scared of Ellen, he’s half considering chopping it off himself just so he knows he can make it hurt less.
Jo clears the kitchen as Bobby gets ready to go on his supply run, asking John if he needs anything. He answers the negative, then kicks himself at letting a perfect opportunity to get out of this house go to waste. Bobby says he’ll be back in about a half hour, and then leaves. When did this kitchen get to damn small, John thinks. Jo works between the counter and the table, bringing in dishes and sticking stuff back into the fridge and John just sits there, unsure of what the hell he’s supposed to do next.
“Are you sure you don’t want any eggs?” Jo asks and he can’t tell if her tone is more genial, or more morning-after. He has no idea how girls work anymore. Teenage girls. Fuck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone is gruffer than he intended, but maybe she deserves it.
“I was just trying to be a nice hostess,” she says, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye and he has kids, there’s no way he’s buying it.
He shakes his head quickly. “Last night, you knew who I was.” And of course she did, the way she hesitated, the way she was laughing at him behind her smile.
“You didn’t even remember who I was.” She scraped the leftover eggs onto a plate, along with the scraps of half-eaten toast, walking past him to go outside and dump it in Rumsfeld’s bowl.
Taking several deep breaths, John hesitated, counting backwards from ten. “It was a long time. You grew up a lot.” She didn’t look like she believed him. John ran his hands through his hair. He probably wouldn’t believe him either. “I knew that I knew you, I just didn’t know how.”
“So do you sleep with every girl who you think you might know, or am I just special?”
There was no way to answer that honestly and not tell her everything he didn’t want to say. “I was drunk.”
She barked a laugh that he could hear even over the sudden water rushing from the faucet as she started to fill up the sink with soap. “Not that drunk. At least parts of you weren’t.”
Pretending like last night didn’t happen was getting him nowhere, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was trying to get out of this. “Why did you do it? I mean, what was the point?”
The dishes banged together as she dropped them in the sink and she picked up a sponge and started furiously scrubbing at a butter knife. “I was horny and you’re hot.”
“Jo.”
“I’m serious,” she said, turning to him and wiping a lock of hair from her face. She was definitely serious, her eyes staring into him without a sense of playing. “And you respected me and that was…refreshing.”
He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. “Why wouldn’t I respect you?”
She laughed, ducking her head again rinse off a plate before putting it on the rack to dry. “You’re a really great hunter, John. And you’re an adult, which most people don’t consider me, even though I’m of age. I’m always gonna be Ellen’s little girl, especially to my mom and sometimes that’s not so great. But you treated me like a woman and I liked that.”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
“Besides,” she added, smiling lightly. “I always had kind of a crush on you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says automatically, and he’s starting to think that’s where Sammy got it from.
Shrugging lightly, she pushed open the door to the refrigerator with her foot, grabbing a carton of juice and pouring the rest of it into a rinsed coffee mug, chugging it down while he waited as patiently as possible. “I guess you’ll never know.”
There were very few times when John was at a loss of things to say, but he stood there and watched as Jo finished cleaning up the kitchen, mind completely blank. He couldn’t scold her for something they both consented to, he wasn’t her father. Last night was one of the best he had had in a while. The only thing he really had to be angry about was her lying to him and it wasn’t much to stand on.
If he’s not allowed to be angry, he’s not sure what else he can feel other than confused and mildly turned on again, neither of which is about to help him accomplish anything. “You can’t tell your mom. Or Bobby. She hates me enough as it is.”
She stared at him for a few seconds before laughing in shock. “Are you kidding? I barely tell my mom when I’m going to the store to pick up tampons. Why on earth would I tell her about sleeping with you? She doesn’t like you enough as it is.”
That hurts more than it should and he nods slowly. “Good. Not Bobby either.”
“Bobby and I don’t exactly talk about my sex life.” She drinks down the rest of her juice, and then washes the cup, the only sounds in the room the splashing of water. After placing it in the rack with the rest of the dishes, she dries her hands slowly on a towel. “You know, I don’t know what happened between you and my mom, but, like…whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not a big deal. She never talks bad about you and everyone says you’re a good guy.”
Closing his eyes, John takes a deep breath, wondering if that sudden pain in his chest is his heart dying. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that he’s the reason she grew up without a father and she thinks he’s a good guy, and he had sex with her last night, and this is more fucked up than he could ever imagine. When he opens his eyes again, she’s smiling at him and the only thing he can do is smile back because it’s either that, or throw up and he doesn’t want to explain it to her, doesn’t want to be the one to tell her things Ellen never would.
The front door opens with a loud creak followed by an even louder bang and the moment of quiet between them is lost. John is off like a pistol at the starting gate, walking as quickly as he can without seeming suspicious. “Need help with anything?”
“Nah, I got it all,” Bobby says, dropping some bags in the corner. “Go through it when I get back. Most of my stuff’s already in the car, just gotta grab my bag from upstairs.”
John nods, gnawing inevitability growing in his gut. “If you and Rufus need me, you just need to call.”
Grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen off the hall table, Bobby shook his head. “We’ve got it covered, John, but thanks.” He scribbles a few words down on the paper, and then hands it to him. “This should do you, but if you think you might need more, just give me a call.” His attention focused on Jo, who had appeared behind John without him realizing. “You gonna be okay here, kid?”
“I’m fine, Bobby. I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He grabs two duffle bags from the library, throwing them over one shoulder. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days, hopefully, but I’ll call if I think it’s gonna be more than a week and to check in. You got my number.” Lowering his voice, he nodded to John. “Look after her, will you? She’s a troublemaker in disguise, more than your boys ever were.”
John doesn’t have to look at Jo to know that she heard that. He just nods; he’s pretty sure he knows about her trouble more than anyone.
Neither of them moves until they hear Bobby’s car pull out of the driveway. Jo steps closer to him, pealing his fingers off the paper Bobby gave him. “I’ll find these for you,” she say, her voice intimate and the house is so suffocatingly small, so John just nods because he has no idea what else he’s going to do.
Jo heads off into the library and he watches her go, unable to stop looking at her body, or to forget how nice it felt, or to ignore the charge of electricity when her hand touches his even though all of those feelings should have disappeared the moment he found out what her last name was.
Swallowing hard, he takes several deep breaths and wills himself back under the command of his brain. He’s going to read Bobby’s books, kill these fae, and get the hell out of Sioux Falls as fast as he damn well can.
When he’s done, he’s gonna bed the first brunette he can find and put another perfect little blonde as firmly in his past as he possibly can.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Arguing with her mom has made more than one night at the Roadhouse tense and uncomfortable, but she’s never been in a situation nearly as awkward as trying to have dinner with John Winchester after having great sex with him.
And it was great sex. She will never say otherwise. It’s not like she knows all that much about anything, but she’s been with her fair share of hunters-the ones that have never seen her mama’s extensive gun collection, mostly-and John Winchester is better at everything than them and that includes knowing how to use his dick. And Jo is very much okay with that, thank you very much.
But it still doesn’t make it any better that she made pasta with meat sauce, which is probably the first homemade meal he’s had in basically forever and he’s barely said two words from her since Bobby left a whole nine hours ago. The house feels too big and while she enjoys getting lost in the shelves of the library, organizing and trying to make things a little more reasonable, she wishes someone would be grateful when she finds a book of tree fae shoved under a Quran and book on early seventeenth century vampires, but John just gives her a nod of thanks and goes back to his research.
Even after she cleans up dinner, he’s in the living room reading and jotting down notes, doesn’t even flinch when she sits next to him and turns on the TV, trying to find a channel that doesn’t come in fuzzy so she doesn’t have to fiddle with the antennae. Wheel of Fortune doesn’t make anything better, especially when she hears John muttering the puzzle answers under his breath: he’s paying attention, just not to her.
She glances at him out of the corner of his eye, scribbling the pen in the margins to try and get some more ink out. Sighing to herself, she gets up and grabs a pen from the desk, handing it to him. “Here.”
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for it, but she steps back, pulling it out of his arm span. John looks up and frowns at her, obviously confused.
But he’s a smart man and it doesn’t take him more than a second to sigh and look into her eyes. “Thank you, Jo,” he says slowly, carefully enunciating each word.
“You’re welcome,” she whispers, handing it to him and sitting back down. The fall back into their regular silence and she wants to scream and hit something, but she knows that now whenever he looks at her, he sees the little girl who lost her daddy and she doesn’t want to perpetuate that image more than it already is. “Can I help?”
He shakes his head. “Not even sure what I’m looking for yet.”
“Maybe I could help you figure it out.”
“You know anything about fae?”
“I can read just as well as you can.”
Sharply, he looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have something more important to do than to just sit here and watch me do this.”
Setting her jaw stubbornly, she shrugs, stretching her arms above her head until her shirt rides up over her bellybutton. For a split second, she catches him looking. “I could probably go out and get laid again. I mean, it worked so well last night.”
There’s a scarlet blush on his cheeks and she holds her breath, hoping she’s reading him right. The look in his eyes is beyond just embarrassment: the regret is dotted and swirled and intertwined with need, the same thing she saw last night when he pulled her into his room, tearing their clothes off piece by piece until all she could feel was him.
Still, he doesn’t answer her and she wonders if she’s gone too far. “I want to know,” she says softly, and maybe it’s the sincerity in her voice that draws his attention off the page. “I want to learn more about hunting. Mom won’t let me, says it’s too dangerous, and we just kept getting angry at each other, so I came here. Bobby says he won’t train me because he doesn’t want to get between us, but he’s letting me stay here and not exactly hiding stuff from me.” She takes a deep breath, pulling at a loose thread on one of Bobby’s few throw pillows. “You’re a good hunter, one of the best and everyone knows it. So if you taught me, then I could be just as good and she wouldn’t have to worry.”
John puts his pen down and wipes his face with both of his hands, age and tiredness showing in his features. “Bobby’s right. It’s not for me to get between you and Ellen. And your mom’s right, it is dangerous.”
She bites her bottom lip hard to keep from saying anything too rash. “I always wanted to be like my daddy.”
“Bill died for it, that’s the point!”
He stares at her like she’s silly and stupid, and she feels like a little kid who doesn’t know anything, again. “You’re John Winchester,” she says, barely a whisper. “You won’t let me get hurt.”
The book he’s holding closes shut with a snap and he shakes his head. “No. That’s my final answer, Jo. You should go home to your mother. This life isn’t going to be for you.”
She stands up gradually, finds that her breathing has gone irregular and as soon as she’s on her feet, all she wants is to get out of that room as soon as she can. Jo takes the stairs two at a time, locks herself in the guest-bathroom and sits on the top of the toilet staring at her feet. She isn’t quite sure what she expected, but no matter what she wanted, no one’s ever prepared for complete and total rejection of every kind.
The claw foot tub in the bathroom is one of her favorite features of Bobby’s house and she runs it all the way to the top before climbing in, excess water splashing over the sides as she dunks her head underneath. She can hold her breath for seventy-seven and a half seconds a her last count, but this time she barely makes it past forty until she sits up, sputtering for air, gasping and feeling water rolling down her cheek that has nothing to do with the bath.
It drips down into the tub and mixes in, and she decides that that gives her the right to pretend that absolutely nothing is wrong.
She stays submerged long after the water has gone lukewarm, and then cold. When she steps out and grabs one of the threadbare towels to wrap around herself, she wonders what it would be like to wear nothing at all, to show John everything he’s missing.
The logical part of her brain knows that he can have so much more than a little girl from her parent’s bar. He’s not missing anything.
Jo’s tired from her late night and early morning, and after changing into an extra-large shirt that used to belong to her dad, she tiptoes downstairs to get Rumsfeld. Bobby scolds her halfheartedly, tells her she spoils his dog, but she likes him in the bed with her when she sleeps, like a big, warm, stuffed animal.
She’s almost to the front door when John’s voice calls after her. “Is that why you slept with me?”
Freezing in her path, she turns around, staring at him in the archway leading to the living room. “What?”
When his eyes lock on hers, they’re hard and cold, and she knows that look: it’s something hunters grow into over time when they’ve seen so much that they need something other than silver and rock salt to protect them. “Did you sleep with me because you thought I would teach you how to hunt?”
It takes her far too long to answer that without wanting to scream at him. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“I haven’t seen you in over ten years, Jo,” he says calmly. “I don’t know anything about you. All I know is that one night you lie to me and you sleep with me, and then next you’re asking me to help you with something behind your mother’s back.” And that makes too much sense for her to even pretend to be offended.
There’s a lump in her throat that’s almost impossible to swallow around. “I didn’t think I would see you again. I didn’t know that you wouldn’t recognize me, or that we would end up sleeping together, though I had some kinda idea about the latter. I thought you’d just go on your way like they all do. I slept with you because I wanted to, no other reason. And if that’s not good enough, I don’t know what to tell you.”
John looks away and several silent moments pass by. Finally, Jo sighs and leans against the doorway, eyes closed. All of a sudden, she feels very tired, more tired than she can remember feeling, like the crushing weight of everything she can’t accomplish is suddenly pressing down on her.
“Jo…”
When she opens her eyes slowly, he’s standing there in front of her, so close that she has to tilt her head up to look at his face. His jaw is clenched and he looks just as lost and confused as she does. Taking a deep breath, she pushes up onto her toes, and he automatically closes to gap to kiss her again. It’s more tender than the night before had been, and she leans against his solid chest as his calloused hand holds her cheek. All the chemistry from the night before-everything that made her lie, that kept her from stopping this before she got in to deep, saving both of them while she had the chance-surged through her again and as his arms wrapped around her waist, she knew she wasn’t alone.
For minutes that fly by like hours, they kiss: each press of skin against skin, lips against lips, growing more passionate until she’s pressed up against Bobby’s wall several inches off the ground, his strength holding her up. Jo’s hands run across his back and he hitches one of her legs up around his hip, hand stroking up the skin of her leg. A whimper escapes from the back of her throat as she breaks the kiss, panting heavily. “John…”
It’s one word, but it breaks the spell over them and John doesn’t look at her as she sets her back on the ground. Jo can’t breathe. It feels like gravity is too heavy. John manages to shake his head and says, “I can’t do this, Jo. I just can’t.”
Jo nods slowly, and then pulls away from him, eyes trained on the ground. She doesn’t even bother getting Rumsfeld before heading upstairs and collapsing on the old bed in Bobby’s guest room. It’s time to get used to be alone again.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The sun streams through the thin curtains in Bobby’s living room when John wakes up and even though he call tell that it’s late morning, he doesn’t feel rested at all. It’s not the couch-John can sleep on anything. The feeling of tiredness aches in his bones and his chest and in his head, and he wonders if this is just how he’s going to wake up feeling every day.
There’s the scent of food cooking in the air and he winces as he stands up, knees and lower back protesting the movement. Jo’s at the stove and he takes a second to stare at her back until his heart stops beating so fast. “Good morning,” he says eventually, softly so as not to startle her.
“Good morning.” She doesn’t even turn to look at him. “You like pancakes, right?”
John’s never been picky-he’ll eat pretty much anything put in front of him. “Pancakes are great.”
The condiments and silverware are already on the table, so he just sits down and waits. Jo doesn’t say anything as she serves out the pancakes and they eat in silence, nothing more than the sound of chewing and the clanking of silverware. It makes him nostalgic in a way that something so awkward shouldn’t, but all of a sudden, John misses his boys fiercely. He wants to get up and get his phone, but he knows Dean will just think he’s checking up on him and Sam…he’s not even supposed to have Sam’s number. It’s a pit in his stomach even the pancakes can’t fill so he stays there and eats because what else is there to do?
As soon as she’s finished eating, Jo gets up and starts clearing in the table, the sound of the running faucet drowning out the silence. John brings his plate to the sink. “Do you need any help?”
“I’ve got it,” she says sharply. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of work to do.” She punctuates the statement by taking the plate from him and scrubbing it under the hot water.
She hasn’t looked at him once.
“Right,” he says finally. “Thank you for breakfast.” She nods once and he suddenly feels like he’s been dismissed. Shaking his head, he wanders around the rest of the empty house, changing into his last pair of clean clothes and shaving, wondering if Bobby finally got his washing machine fixed. He feels restless before finally heading into the living room. The faster he can figure out what kind of fae he’s dealing with, the faster he can get out of here and put all this behind him.
He’s going over the different books Jo found for him, wondering where to start next when there’s a knock at the door. John hesitates, nerves on end because he can’t imagine who Rumsfeld wouldn’t bark at. Telling himself it’s just a friend a Bobby’s, he gets up and opens the door.
The last person he’s expecting is Ellen Harvelle, though after the thought runs through his head, he’s knows that’s stupid of him. She looks just as surprised to see him though and for a minute, neither of them talks. “Ellen,” he says eventually. “Hi.”
“John.” She nods in greeting and his inner scale tells him that this is more awkward than any silent breakfast could ever be. “I…I talked to Bobby. I’m here for Jo.”
She wasn’t reaching for her gun, so that either meant that Bobby didn’t suspect anything about him and Jo, or he just didn’t tell Ellen. He feels…mildly safer, at least. “Of course.” Stepping aside, he holds the door open for her as she crosses over the threshold, careful not to disrupt the line of salt. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Ellen obviously knows where the kitchen was, but John walks with her anyway. Jo’s back is still turned as she dries the dishes and John clears his throat softly. “Jo, your mother’s here.”
The pan she’s holding falls on the counter as Jo turns around quickly. Her eyes dart from John to Ellen before settling on him, staring at him with a hurt and betrayal he’s not sure he deserves, but feels guilty about anyway. Ellen crosses her arms. “Joanna Beth, you have some serious explaining to do. Bobby told me you were here.”
“Bobby told you?” she says softly, leaning back against the counters.
“He knew I was worried as all get out, he wasn’t gonna lie to me.”
“The note said I’d be fine,” Jo says, rebellious protest clear as her voice strengthens.
Shaking her head, Ellen says, “I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, I’m supposed to trust a damn note? I don’t think so, baby girl.”
John backs away slowly as their voices escalate, seeking refuge in the living room. He picks up a random book to flip through, but can’t even pretend to concentrate on it as their voices filter through the hallway and he can hear bits and pieces of the conversation.
“I can’t just leave, Mom!” Jo’s voice carries the most. “I promised Bobby I would take care of the house while was gone and that’s what I’m gonna do.”
He’s not sure whether that’s true or not, but after a long pause, Ellen seems to buy it. “Fine. But as soon as Bobby’s back-and mark my words, I will know when he’s back-you are coming home and we are having a very long talk. Do you understand?”
There’s nothing more to hear after that, but John’s still on edge as he looks down at the book in his hands and realizing it’s in a language he can’t even read. Closing his eyes and sighing, he drops it on the table before rubbing his hands over his eyes.
There’s a sharp knock on the wall of the living room and he jumps a little, staring at Ellen. “Can I talk to you before I leave?”
John nods, following her outside and to her car as Ellen watches him carefully. She leans against the side of her car and finally says, “Did something happen between you and Jo?”
His heart pounds in his ears and he wonders if his death will be slow enough that he can see his life passing before his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She lets out a long breath. “I mean, you didn’t tell her about Bill, did you?”
The relief in his chest lasted for only a few seconds before being replaced by guilt and despair. “No,” he says softly, the word shaky on his tongue. “I wouldn’t do that. That’s…that’s yours to tell.”
Nodding, she relaxes just a little. “Thanks, I appreciate that. You gonna be stickin’ around here for while?”
“Probably a few days. Need to use Bobby’s library, fae problem the next town over.”
“You’ll keep an eye on her, then?” The look in Ellen’s eyes is one that he knows familiarly and for the hundredth time he wishes his boys really were just a phone call away. “She’s too smart for her own good I think, sometimes, too many plans and not enough preparation, and I just…I worry. I want to make sure she’s being careful.” Ellen hesitates, then swallows hard. “You’ll make sure nothing happens to her?”
He can’t even imagine how hard it must be for her to ask such a thing, for her to put that kind of trust in him and he nods, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch her. Nothing’s gonna happen to her.”
Ellen forces a smile, then holds out her hand to shake on it and all of a sudden John feels young and lost, like he’s not sure what he’s doing. He waits out there in the sun until she pulls away, tires kicking up dust behind her.
When he finally turns to go back inside, Jo is sitting on the porch, petting Rumsfeld’s head as he sits next to her, tail thumping lazily against her leg. She stands up when he walks towards her, moving past him quickly. “I’m gonna run some errands, I’ll be back later,” she says, and he doesn’t try to stop her. None of this is in his control.
John spends the majority of the day reading and studying, though he’s not sure how much he actually learns. Usually, he enjoys silence when he’s trying to think, but it’s different than a small hotel room. This is a place that should hold so much more, should be a home full of people and energy and life. Instead, like everything John touches, it just feels like more death.
He orders a pizza and is halfway into it when Jo finally comes back, sun long set. “Hey,” he calls to her and it feels brave enough, though he knows that a simple greeting should be anything but. “You hungry?”
She peeks her head in, obviously intrigued by the pizza. “What kind?”
“Pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. It’s kind of cold though.”
Shrugging, she just sits down and grabs a slice, eating it over half a paper towel. For a second, he can see her here, fitting into this life, but he shakes it away. Hunting doesn’t work by written invitation.
“So you ran away?” he asks, because it’s been hanging on his mind all day.
“Does it count if I’m not a little kid?”
“Yes.”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Then yeah, I ran away.” He sighs, shaking his head and her back straightens; he can see she’s on the defensive. “Oh, don’t give me that. Everyone does it eventually. It’s not like your kids have never runaway.”
It stings and he winces, reflexively sitting back, farther from her. He misses Sam. He’s probably gonna miss Sam for the rest of his life and it feels like the repeating ache of Mary.
“I’m sorry,” Jo says softly, sincerity clear in her voice. “I shouldn’t have said that, I was really out of line. Me and my mom have nothing to do with you and your kids.” She puts her crust on the table, wrapping her arms around herself. “She just won’t listen. She treats me like a baby and I think I deserve to make my own choices, and she says not under her roof, and then I leave her roof and she just tries to make me come back, and I want to because I miss her, but…” Pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye, she shrugs. “I just don’t know what to do.”
He nods. The idea isn’t unfamiliar to him. Life had always been a simple thing for him up until that night in November. Even when Mary’s parents died, he knew that they were gonna get married and settle down, and he was gonna take care of her. But he knew the struggle of duty to everyone else and duty to what you felt was your destiny. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, because there’s nothing else he can say.
She laughs bitterly, but smirks at him. “Yeah, thanks.” In that moment, he sees more Bill in her than anything else and it settles in his chest like a long lost friend that he missed dearly. Maybe Ellen can’t see it, can’t see the fire in her daughter’s eyes, but she’s just as much Bill, and John…he can see it.
Part 2
Pairing: John/Jo
Rating: R
Warnings: Some bad language, references to sex but nothing graphic
Summary: After John picks up a girl in a bar, he thought that'd be the end of it. Then he meets Jo Harvelle again.
Word Count: 12,000
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any characters. Title and cut text from Mason Jennings.
Beta: opheliahyde works way to hard and deserves more Glee-rewrite.
Notes: This was written for dreamlittleyo for the spnrarepairs exchange. It ended up being...significantly longer than intended.
He’s on his fifth beer when he sees her across the room, blonde curls flung over her shoulder as she bends across the pool table to take the shot. She’s thin, tiny even, but hiding a sense of strength even he can judge from this far away; as she sinks ball after ball, clearly hustling the men three times her size, John can’t help but feel a bit of respect for her.
The fifth ball is a scratch and the look of intense frustration melts away from her face almost as soon as he can see it, and she shrugs and giggles, clearly playing these men for all they’re worth. She’s good at it. His fingers flex a little and he considers how long it’s been since he’s played pool, how he’s itching to give her a shot. She leans against the table casually-she knows she’s sexy and he knows it, too. If he’s being honest with himself, pool isn’t the only way he’d like to try her out.
Instead of letting his mind drift down that road, he takes several large gulps of his beer. He knows she’s at least eighteen if she’s allowed in here-she’s younger than he is, but maybe not that young. The part of his mind not focused on the tenting in his pants reminds him that his boys were in bars well before they were of age, but the lump in his throat chokes that train of thought as he takes several deep breaths. He’s not ready to think about them yet, not with Dean hunting on his own and Sam hundreds of miles away, hidden away in a place where he can never follow.
As one of the men takes his shot, she glances up and locks eyes on him, smiling slowly. There’s something familiar in her smile and he shakes off the feeling of déjà vu-not every pretty blonde is going to be Mary, he tells himself, still knowing it’s a truth he’s never be able to believe in. Instead, he lifts up his beer in a toast to her, gives her a nod, and swallows it down, turning back to the bar and ordering a shot.
An undetermined amount of time passes before he stares at anything other than the white bar napkin, wet rings leftover from his drinks lining it in patterns he tries to follow, another thing lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts. When she sits down on one of the empty seats next to him, ignoring the barrier of separation he put up between himself and the rest of the world and says, “I’ll have what he’s having and another for him.” He finally gets a good look at her. It’s a face he knows, but he’s far too drunk to place it.
What’s important is that this isn’t Mary. He’s not sure if that’s the good part, or the bad part.
He holds his hand up to refuse the shot set in front of him. “No, really, that’s okay.”
“It’s my treat,” she says, flashing a thick roll of bills before sticking it back in the pockets of her jeans. “You looked like you could use it.”
It’s his policy not to lie to ladies any more than he has to, so he just nods and swallows it down, not even feeling the burn of alcohol against his throat. “Thanks.”
“Bad day?” she asks, then swallows her own glass down like a champ and he can see up close just how young she is and thinks things he shouldn’t be thinking about someone who could be young enough to be his daughter.
“Work’s a bitch,” he says and it’s not wrong. This case is kicking his ass and it’s been a while since he’s had to actually work alone. He was traveling the next county over just to borrow a damn book from Bobby.
He thinks he used to be better, but he’s so damn tired. His entire life is so damn tiring.
She nods, understanding, and part of him feel like she actually does. He wipes the glass condensation on his hand off on his jeans before holding it out to her. “I’m John, nice to meet you.”
There’s an interesting second where she hesitates, licking her lips slowly and he wonders what he messed up this time. Then she grins, and shakes his hand. “I’m Allie, nice to meet you.”
Neither of them can end the handshake and for several moments her hand rested in his, her soft skin brushing against his calluses. He wondered if he was supposed to notice just how long her fingers were. Clearing his throat, he pulled away, trying to make it casual. “You were really impressive over there,” he says. “I haven’t seen anyone that good since the last time I played.”
She raises an eyebrow, the side of her mouth quirked up in amusement. “Oh, yeah? If I didn’t think those guys over there would kill me for stealing their tables, I’d ask you to put your money where your mouth is.”
He laughs and nods-he’s been run out of pool halls more times than he can count. “I know the feeling.” Their eyes lock again and he searches her hazel depths, trying to place this face that has been lost from him for so long. He knows he knows her, trusts his instincts the way any hunter does, and wonders if she’s someone he’s known intimately before. There’s no other way to explain how his stomach twists and his mouth goes dry as she bites her bottom lip playfully.
Silence hangs between them and he thinks he sees a knowing smirk on her face as she stretches and slides from her stool. “I’d better get going. The longer I stay here, the madder they’re going to get.”
Glancing over his shoulder, John sees that the men aren’t concerned with her anymore, all focused around a game of darts. It’s either a very bad lie or a very good pick up line because he feels himself standing up to. “It is getting late.”
“Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?” she asks, more innocent than her body language conveys as she leans against the bar and counts out money to pay for their shots.
He had wanted to get to Bobby’s before lunch. It’s life and death as much as any of his work is, but he suddenly doesn’t feel like he’s in any sort of rush. “No. Not really.”
She steps closer to him, far enough to be completely casual, but close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body, smell the gentle rose scent of her shampoo. She has to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. “Your place is probably better,” she says, no hidden agenda, no pretenses. “I have a roommate.”
Swallowing hard, John nods. He doesn’t have roommates anymore. Adjusting his jacket, he puts his hand on the small of her back as he leads her outside the bar and into his truck.
By the time he wakes up early the next morning, she’s already gone, not even leaving behind something as simple as a phone number. He is surprised to find his wallet still there and still full. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d picked someone up and found out later what they were really about. It’s just a nice surprise.
There’s a diner nearby his hotel and he checks out quickly, packing everything into the trunk before eating. Unless Bobby knows what he needs right away, he doesn’t want to have to open a new credit card to pay for another night. Bobby’s couch is the closest thing he has to a home, after the truck. It’s a simple fact that he can’t ignore and he orders another cup of coffee to go to keep from thinking about it.
Sioux Falls is about an hour’s drive from where the hunt is and he manages to avoid most of the traffic, pulling into the Singer Salvage Yard after a rather pleasant drive. Rumsfeld barks at him, though his wagging tail gives away any pretense of aggression. John stops to pet the dog. If things had gone as planned, if he was still living in Lawrence, he knows he’d have been able to talk Mary into one eventually. A boy’s gotta have a dog and Dean had stopped being scared of them once he’d learned to be afraid of everything else.
He knocks on the door quickly, half wondering if he should have called when it takes Bobby a few minutes to open the door. His friend frowns at him from underneath his trucker hat. “Don’t you ever call?”
“Nice to see you, too,” John says, smiling despite himself. “I know how much you like surprise visitors.”
Bobby snorts, shaking his head. “Sons of bitches, all of you. What am I running, an inn?”
John frowns, not letting himself even think about the thoughts going through his head. The Impala wasn’t outside, so it couldn’t be Dean. But Palo Alto was so far away, and… “You got someone else here?”
“We were just eatin’ breakfast. You hungry?” Bobby says, not waiting for an answer before heading back into the house.
“I ate, but I could go for some more coffee.”
“Jo, pull out another mug,” Bobby calls, walking towards the kitchen and John follows closely behind.
For several seconds or hours or lifetimes, the world stops and all John sees is blond hair. That’s all he’s ever seen. And then she grabs a cup from the cabinet and turns around and the world starts spinning, too fast to make up for the cracks in reality and it’s Allie, it’s the girl from last night and John thinks he’s going to be sick.
But she just pours him a cup of coffee, smiling a completely shit eating grin. “Milk, or sugar?”
He can’t find his voice to answer and Bobby frowns at him until John manages to shake his head. “Black,” he croaks out. When he takes the cup from her, their fingers brush and he almost drops the mug right then and there.
“Must have been a while since you two have seen each other,” Bobby says, sitting back at the table and munching on a piece of toast.
“What does that mean?” John says, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.
Bobby shrugs, glances at Allie or Jo, or whoever the hell he is and lowers his voice. “You know, you not having been at the Roadhouse for so long.”
She shakes her head, scoffing playfully. “I’m not ten anymore, Bobby. I can hear you. What are you gonna do, cover my ears? Spell out words so I won’t know what you’re saying?” Grinning, she nudges him playfully before sitting down next to him and digging into her eggs.
Everything hits John at once and he puts the coffee on the counter so Bobby won’t see his hands shake. Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Jo Harvelle. Ellen’s daughter. …Bill’s daughter. She was Sammy’s age for god’s sake and the way she just keeps smirking at him means she knew.
She knew the whole time and she still went back to his motel, begged him to fuck her loud and dirty until he kissed her to shut her up.
He can see a little bit of a hickey he left peaking out from under the collar of her plaid shirt and he thinks that if Bill were here right now, John would shoot himself just to not put his friend through the trouble.
Picking up his coffee, he drinks it down quickly, imagining that it makes a hollow noise as it hits the pit of his stomach because he is dead on the inside. He fucked his friend’s little girl. The friend he got killed. It’d been so long since he thought of Bill that he’d forgotten how much it hurt.
Maybe hurt isn’t the word. John was pretty sure there wasn’t a word for this.
Jo-Jo Harvelle, daughter of his friends, a little girl whose pigtails Dean had pulled, who Sammy had colored with when he was still old enough to think eating crayons might actually be a good idea-held up a plate of bacon, offering it to him as if he didn’t still have her bite marks on his shoulder from when she came not twelve hours before. “You sure you don’t want some?”
He’d wanted some last night, that’s for damn sure, but it wasn’t bacon. Shaking his head, he just pours himself more coffee, wondering if Bobby had a secret flask around here. Knowing Bobby, there was probably some stored away behind some old papers and bones and dried bits of animals that he didn’t want to ask about, but the man had clearly cleaned up for Jo. John supposes that’s the normal reaction to seeing a girl who had once called you Uncle, looked up at you with the sweetest eyes you’d ever seen. She’d looked at John with those eyes last night, but they were hungry and powerful and passionate and he’d been so proud of himself when his hands had got them to flutter close and she moaned and rocked against him.
At least he could be pretty damn sure he was her favorite uncle.
“Sit down, John,” Bobby says, more of an order than a request. “What brings you here?”
“I’m about three cities over, got a problem with what looks like fae and I thought you might have some lore I could look into that isn’t on the internet.”
“Fae, huh?” Bobby chews slowly, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve got something. I thought there might be something strange going on there, but I promised Rufus I’d help him out with something over in Missouri.”
John perks up, interested in being in any other state than this. “Oh? You want me to tag along?”
Bobby shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “You know Rufus, the man freaks out over nothing. If it were any farther away, I’d tell him to go screw himself. Actually, as soon as I finish breakfast, I’m gonna get out on a quick supply run and head over there, but Jo’s been reorganizing my library, so I can write you a list of things that might help and she can help you find them.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Jo says, seeming far too interested in the prospect.
“Oh, no need to go through all that trouble,” John says, the words sounding hollow to his own ears.
Bobby snorts. “Nonsense, you didn’t come over here just to chat and see what was up with me. Get your info and clear out those fae so I don’t have to deal with them when I get back. You can stay here, too, if you want. Jo’s in the guest room, but you and yours practically have your name sewn into the couch.”
Swallowing hard, John can’t think of any other reason to say no, at least not until Bobby is far enough away that he won’t stab him. Bobby would stab him, maybe cut his Achilles tendon: nothing too severe, nothing fatal. Bobby believes in the right parties handling their shit. He’d just make sure he could get John to Ellen.
Ellen.
He can’t think of Ellen right now. Right now his dick is so scared of Ellen, he’s half considering chopping it off himself just so he knows he can make it hurt less.
Jo clears the kitchen as Bobby gets ready to go on his supply run, asking John if he needs anything. He answers the negative, then kicks himself at letting a perfect opportunity to get out of this house go to waste. Bobby says he’ll be back in about a half hour, and then leaves. When did this kitchen get to damn small, John thinks. Jo works between the counter and the table, bringing in dishes and sticking stuff back into the fridge and John just sits there, unsure of what the hell he’s supposed to do next.
“Are you sure you don’t want any eggs?” Jo asks and he can’t tell if her tone is more genial, or more morning-after. He has no idea how girls work anymore. Teenage girls. Fuck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone is gruffer than he intended, but maybe she deserves it.
“I was just trying to be a nice hostess,” she says, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye and he has kids, there’s no way he’s buying it.
He shakes his head quickly. “Last night, you knew who I was.” And of course she did, the way she hesitated, the way she was laughing at him behind her smile.
“You didn’t even remember who I was.” She scraped the leftover eggs onto a plate, along with the scraps of half-eaten toast, walking past him to go outside and dump it in Rumsfeld’s bowl.
Taking several deep breaths, John hesitated, counting backwards from ten. “It was a long time. You grew up a lot.” She didn’t look like she believed him. John ran his hands through his hair. He probably wouldn’t believe him either. “I knew that I knew you, I just didn’t know how.”
“So do you sleep with every girl who you think you might know, or am I just special?”
There was no way to answer that honestly and not tell her everything he didn’t want to say. “I was drunk.”
She barked a laugh that he could hear even over the sudden water rushing from the faucet as she started to fill up the sink with soap. “Not that drunk. At least parts of you weren’t.”
Pretending like last night didn’t happen was getting him nowhere, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was trying to get out of this. “Why did you do it? I mean, what was the point?”
The dishes banged together as she dropped them in the sink and she picked up a sponge and started furiously scrubbing at a butter knife. “I was horny and you’re hot.”
“Jo.”
“I’m serious,” she said, turning to him and wiping a lock of hair from her face. She was definitely serious, her eyes staring into him without a sense of playing. “And you respected me and that was…refreshing.”
He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. “Why wouldn’t I respect you?”
She laughed, ducking her head again rinse off a plate before putting it on the rack to dry. “You’re a really great hunter, John. And you’re an adult, which most people don’t consider me, even though I’m of age. I’m always gonna be Ellen’s little girl, especially to my mom and sometimes that’s not so great. But you treated me like a woman and I liked that.”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
“Besides,” she added, smiling lightly. “I always had kind of a crush on you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says automatically, and he’s starting to think that’s where Sammy got it from.
Shrugging lightly, she pushed open the door to the refrigerator with her foot, grabbing a carton of juice and pouring the rest of it into a rinsed coffee mug, chugging it down while he waited as patiently as possible. “I guess you’ll never know.”
There were very few times when John was at a loss of things to say, but he stood there and watched as Jo finished cleaning up the kitchen, mind completely blank. He couldn’t scold her for something they both consented to, he wasn’t her father. Last night was one of the best he had had in a while. The only thing he really had to be angry about was her lying to him and it wasn’t much to stand on.
If he’s not allowed to be angry, he’s not sure what else he can feel other than confused and mildly turned on again, neither of which is about to help him accomplish anything. “You can’t tell your mom. Or Bobby. She hates me enough as it is.”
She stared at him for a few seconds before laughing in shock. “Are you kidding? I barely tell my mom when I’m going to the store to pick up tampons. Why on earth would I tell her about sleeping with you? She doesn’t like you enough as it is.”
That hurts more than it should and he nods slowly. “Good. Not Bobby either.”
“Bobby and I don’t exactly talk about my sex life.” She drinks down the rest of her juice, and then washes the cup, the only sounds in the room the splashing of water. After placing it in the rack with the rest of the dishes, she dries her hands slowly on a towel. “You know, I don’t know what happened between you and my mom, but, like…whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not a big deal. She never talks bad about you and everyone says you’re a good guy.”
Closing his eyes, John takes a deep breath, wondering if that sudden pain in his chest is his heart dying. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that he’s the reason she grew up without a father and she thinks he’s a good guy, and he had sex with her last night, and this is more fucked up than he could ever imagine. When he opens his eyes again, she’s smiling at him and the only thing he can do is smile back because it’s either that, or throw up and he doesn’t want to explain it to her, doesn’t want to be the one to tell her things Ellen never would.
The front door opens with a loud creak followed by an even louder bang and the moment of quiet between them is lost. John is off like a pistol at the starting gate, walking as quickly as he can without seeming suspicious. “Need help with anything?”
“Nah, I got it all,” Bobby says, dropping some bags in the corner. “Go through it when I get back. Most of my stuff’s already in the car, just gotta grab my bag from upstairs.”
John nods, gnawing inevitability growing in his gut. “If you and Rufus need me, you just need to call.”
Grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen off the hall table, Bobby shook his head. “We’ve got it covered, John, but thanks.” He scribbles a few words down on the paper, and then hands it to him. “This should do you, but if you think you might need more, just give me a call.” His attention focused on Jo, who had appeared behind John without him realizing. “You gonna be okay here, kid?”
“I’m fine, Bobby. I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He grabs two duffle bags from the library, throwing them over one shoulder. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days, hopefully, but I’ll call if I think it’s gonna be more than a week and to check in. You got my number.” Lowering his voice, he nodded to John. “Look after her, will you? She’s a troublemaker in disguise, more than your boys ever were.”
John doesn’t have to look at Jo to know that she heard that. He just nods; he’s pretty sure he knows about her trouble more than anyone.
Neither of them moves until they hear Bobby’s car pull out of the driveway. Jo steps closer to him, pealing his fingers off the paper Bobby gave him. “I’ll find these for you,” she say, her voice intimate and the house is so suffocatingly small, so John just nods because he has no idea what else he’s going to do.
Jo heads off into the library and he watches her go, unable to stop looking at her body, or to forget how nice it felt, or to ignore the charge of electricity when her hand touches his even though all of those feelings should have disappeared the moment he found out what her last name was.
Swallowing hard, he takes several deep breaths and wills himself back under the command of his brain. He’s going to read Bobby’s books, kill these fae, and get the hell out of Sioux Falls as fast as he damn well can.
When he’s done, he’s gonna bed the first brunette he can find and put another perfect little blonde as firmly in his past as he possibly can.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Arguing with her mom has made more than one night at the Roadhouse tense and uncomfortable, but she’s never been in a situation nearly as awkward as trying to have dinner with John Winchester after having great sex with him.
And it was great sex. She will never say otherwise. It’s not like she knows all that much about anything, but she’s been with her fair share of hunters-the ones that have never seen her mama’s extensive gun collection, mostly-and John Winchester is better at everything than them and that includes knowing how to use his dick. And Jo is very much okay with that, thank you very much.
But it still doesn’t make it any better that she made pasta with meat sauce, which is probably the first homemade meal he’s had in basically forever and he’s barely said two words from her since Bobby left a whole nine hours ago. The house feels too big and while she enjoys getting lost in the shelves of the library, organizing and trying to make things a little more reasonable, she wishes someone would be grateful when she finds a book of tree fae shoved under a Quran and book on early seventeenth century vampires, but John just gives her a nod of thanks and goes back to his research.
Even after she cleans up dinner, he’s in the living room reading and jotting down notes, doesn’t even flinch when she sits next to him and turns on the TV, trying to find a channel that doesn’t come in fuzzy so she doesn’t have to fiddle with the antennae. Wheel of Fortune doesn’t make anything better, especially when she hears John muttering the puzzle answers under his breath: he’s paying attention, just not to her.
She glances at him out of the corner of his eye, scribbling the pen in the margins to try and get some more ink out. Sighing to herself, she gets up and grabs a pen from the desk, handing it to him. “Here.”
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for it, but she steps back, pulling it out of his arm span. John looks up and frowns at her, obviously confused.
But he’s a smart man and it doesn’t take him more than a second to sigh and look into her eyes. “Thank you, Jo,” he says slowly, carefully enunciating each word.
“You’re welcome,” she whispers, handing it to him and sitting back down. The fall back into their regular silence and she wants to scream and hit something, but she knows that now whenever he looks at her, he sees the little girl who lost her daddy and she doesn’t want to perpetuate that image more than it already is. “Can I help?”
He shakes his head. “Not even sure what I’m looking for yet.”
“Maybe I could help you figure it out.”
“You know anything about fae?”
“I can read just as well as you can.”
Sharply, he looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have something more important to do than to just sit here and watch me do this.”
Setting her jaw stubbornly, she shrugs, stretching her arms above her head until her shirt rides up over her bellybutton. For a split second, she catches him looking. “I could probably go out and get laid again. I mean, it worked so well last night.”
There’s a scarlet blush on his cheeks and she holds her breath, hoping she’s reading him right. The look in his eyes is beyond just embarrassment: the regret is dotted and swirled and intertwined with need, the same thing she saw last night when he pulled her into his room, tearing their clothes off piece by piece until all she could feel was him.
Still, he doesn’t answer her and she wonders if she’s gone too far. “I want to know,” she says softly, and maybe it’s the sincerity in her voice that draws his attention off the page. “I want to learn more about hunting. Mom won’t let me, says it’s too dangerous, and we just kept getting angry at each other, so I came here. Bobby says he won’t train me because he doesn’t want to get between us, but he’s letting me stay here and not exactly hiding stuff from me.” She takes a deep breath, pulling at a loose thread on one of Bobby’s few throw pillows. “You’re a good hunter, one of the best and everyone knows it. So if you taught me, then I could be just as good and she wouldn’t have to worry.”
John puts his pen down and wipes his face with both of his hands, age and tiredness showing in his features. “Bobby’s right. It’s not for me to get between you and Ellen. And your mom’s right, it is dangerous.”
She bites her bottom lip hard to keep from saying anything too rash. “I always wanted to be like my daddy.”
“Bill died for it, that’s the point!”
He stares at her like she’s silly and stupid, and she feels like a little kid who doesn’t know anything, again. “You’re John Winchester,” she says, barely a whisper. “You won’t let me get hurt.”
The book he’s holding closes shut with a snap and he shakes his head. “No. That’s my final answer, Jo. You should go home to your mother. This life isn’t going to be for you.”
She stands up gradually, finds that her breathing has gone irregular and as soon as she’s on her feet, all she wants is to get out of that room as soon as she can. Jo takes the stairs two at a time, locks herself in the guest-bathroom and sits on the top of the toilet staring at her feet. She isn’t quite sure what she expected, but no matter what she wanted, no one’s ever prepared for complete and total rejection of every kind.
The claw foot tub in the bathroom is one of her favorite features of Bobby’s house and she runs it all the way to the top before climbing in, excess water splashing over the sides as she dunks her head underneath. She can hold her breath for seventy-seven and a half seconds a her last count, but this time she barely makes it past forty until she sits up, sputtering for air, gasping and feeling water rolling down her cheek that has nothing to do with the bath.
It drips down into the tub and mixes in, and she decides that that gives her the right to pretend that absolutely nothing is wrong.
She stays submerged long after the water has gone lukewarm, and then cold. When she steps out and grabs one of the threadbare towels to wrap around herself, she wonders what it would be like to wear nothing at all, to show John everything he’s missing.
The logical part of her brain knows that he can have so much more than a little girl from her parent’s bar. He’s not missing anything.
Jo’s tired from her late night and early morning, and after changing into an extra-large shirt that used to belong to her dad, she tiptoes downstairs to get Rumsfeld. Bobby scolds her halfheartedly, tells her she spoils his dog, but she likes him in the bed with her when she sleeps, like a big, warm, stuffed animal.
She’s almost to the front door when John’s voice calls after her. “Is that why you slept with me?”
Freezing in her path, she turns around, staring at him in the archway leading to the living room. “What?”
When his eyes lock on hers, they’re hard and cold, and she knows that look: it’s something hunters grow into over time when they’ve seen so much that they need something other than silver and rock salt to protect them. “Did you sleep with me because you thought I would teach you how to hunt?”
It takes her far too long to answer that without wanting to scream at him. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“I haven’t seen you in over ten years, Jo,” he says calmly. “I don’t know anything about you. All I know is that one night you lie to me and you sleep with me, and then next you’re asking me to help you with something behind your mother’s back.” And that makes too much sense for her to even pretend to be offended.
There’s a lump in her throat that’s almost impossible to swallow around. “I didn’t think I would see you again. I didn’t know that you wouldn’t recognize me, or that we would end up sleeping together, though I had some kinda idea about the latter. I thought you’d just go on your way like they all do. I slept with you because I wanted to, no other reason. And if that’s not good enough, I don’t know what to tell you.”
John looks away and several silent moments pass by. Finally, Jo sighs and leans against the doorway, eyes closed. All of a sudden, she feels very tired, more tired than she can remember feeling, like the crushing weight of everything she can’t accomplish is suddenly pressing down on her.
“Jo…”
When she opens her eyes slowly, he’s standing there in front of her, so close that she has to tilt her head up to look at his face. His jaw is clenched and he looks just as lost and confused as she does. Taking a deep breath, she pushes up onto her toes, and he automatically closes to gap to kiss her again. It’s more tender than the night before had been, and she leans against his solid chest as his calloused hand holds her cheek. All the chemistry from the night before-everything that made her lie, that kept her from stopping this before she got in to deep, saving both of them while she had the chance-surged through her again and as his arms wrapped around her waist, she knew she wasn’t alone.
For minutes that fly by like hours, they kiss: each press of skin against skin, lips against lips, growing more passionate until she’s pressed up against Bobby’s wall several inches off the ground, his strength holding her up. Jo’s hands run across his back and he hitches one of her legs up around his hip, hand stroking up the skin of her leg. A whimper escapes from the back of her throat as she breaks the kiss, panting heavily. “John…”
It’s one word, but it breaks the spell over them and John doesn’t look at her as she sets her back on the ground. Jo can’t breathe. It feels like gravity is too heavy. John manages to shake his head and says, “I can’t do this, Jo. I just can’t.”
Jo nods slowly, and then pulls away from him, eyes trained on the ground. She doesn’t even bother getting Rumsfeld before heading upstairs and collapsing on the old bed in Bobby’s guest room. It’s time to get used to be alone again.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The sun streams through the thin curtains in Bobby’s living room when John wakes up and even though he call tell that it’s late morning, he doesn’t feel rested at all. It’s not the couch-John can sleep on anything. The feeling of tiredness aches in his bones and his chest and in his head, and he wonders if this is just how he’s going to wake up feeling every day.
There’s the scent of food cooking in the air and he winces as he stands up, knees and lower back protesting the movement. Jo’s at the stove and he takes a second to stare at her back until his heart stops beating so fast. “Good morning,” he says eventually, softly so as not to startle her.
“Good morning.” She doesn’t even turn to look at him. “You like pancakes, right?”
John’s never been picky-he’ll eat pretty much anything put in front of him. “Pancakes are great.”
The condiments and silverware are already on the table, so he just sits down and waits. Jo doesn’t say anything as she serves out the pancakes and they eat in silence, nothing more than the sound of chewing and the clanking of silverware. It makes him nostalgic in a way that something so awkward shouldn’t, but all of a sudden, John misses his boys fiercely. He wants to get up and get his phone, but he knows Dean will just think he’s checking up on him and Sam…he’s not even supposed to have Sam’s number. It’s a pit in his stomach even the pancakes can’t fill so he stays there and eats because what else is there to do?
As soon as she’s finished eating, Jo gets up and starts clearing in the table, the sound of the running faucet drowning out the silence. John brings his plate to the sink. “Do you need any help?”
“I’ve got it,” she says sharply. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of work to do.” She punctuates the statement by taking the plate from him and scrubbing it under the hot water.
She hasn’t looked at him once.
“Right,” he says finally. “Thank you for breakfast.” She nods once and he suddenly feels like he’s been dismissed. Shaking his head, he wanders around the rest of the empty house, changing into his last pair of clean clothes and shaving, wondering if Bobby finally got his washing machine fixed. He feels restless before finally heading into the living room. The faster he can figure out what kind of fae he’s dealing with, the faster he can get out of here and put all this behind him.
He’s going over the different books Jo found for him, wondering where to start next when there’s a knock at the door. John hesitates, nerves on end because he can’t imagine who Rumsfeld wouldn’t bark at. Telling himself it’s just a friend a Bobby’s, he gets up and opens the door.
The last person he’s expecting is Ellen Harvelle, though after the thought runs through his head, he’s knows that’s stupid of him. She looks just as surprised to see him though and for a minute, neither of them talks. “Ellen,” he says eventually. “Hi.”
“John.” She nods in greeting and his inner scale tells him that this is more awkward than any silent breakfast could ever be. “I…I talked to Bobby. I’m here for Jo.”
She wasn’t reaching for her gun, so that either meant that Bobby didn’t suspect anything about him and Jo, or he just didn’t tell Ellen. He feels…mildly safer, at least. “Of course.” Stepping aside, he holds the door open for her as she crosses over the threshold, careful not to disrupt the line of salt. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Ellen obviously knows where the kitchen was, but John walks with her anyway. Jo’s back is still turned as she dries the dishes and John clears his throat softly. “Jo, your mother’s here.”
The pan she’s holding falls on the counter as Jo turns around quickly. Her eyes dart from John to Ellen before settling on him, staring at him with a hurt and betrayal he’s not sure he deserves, but feels guilty about anyway. Ellen crosses her arms. “Joanna Beth, you have some serious explaining to do. Bobby told me you were here.”
“Bobby told you?” she says softly, leaning back against the counters.
“He knew I was worried as all get out, he wasn’t gonna lie to me.”
“The note said I’d be fine,” Jo says, rebellious protest clear as her voice strengthens.
Shaking her head, Ellen says, “I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, I’m supposed to trust a damn note? I don’t think so, baby girl.”
John backs away slowly as their voices escalate, seeking refuge in the living room. He picks up a random book to flip through, but can’t even pretend to concentrate on it as their voices filter through the hallway and he can hear bits and pieces of the conversation.
“I can’t just leave, Mom!” Jo’s voice carries the most. “I promised Bobby I would take care of the house while was gone and that’s what I’m gonna do.”
He’s not sure whether that’s true or not, but after a long pause, Ellen seems to buy it. “Fine. But as soon as Bobby’s back-and mark my words, I will know when he’s back-you are coming home and we are having a very long talk. Do you understand?”
There’s nothing more to hear after that, but John’s still on edge as he looks down at the book in his hands and realizing it’s in a language he can’t even read. Closing his eyes and sighing, he drops it on the table before rubbing his hands over his eyes.
There’s a sharp knock on the wall of the living room and he jumps a little, staring at Ellen. “Can I talk to you before I leave?”
John nods, following her outside and to her car as Ellen watches him carefully. She leans against the side of her car and finally says, “Did something happen between you and Jo?”
His heart pounds in his ears and he wonders if his death will be slow enough that he can see his life passing before his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She lets out a long breath. “I mean, you didn’t tell her about Bill, did you?”
The relief in his chest lasted for only a few seconds before being replaced by guilt and despair. “No,” he says softly, the word shaky on his tongue. “I wouldn’t do that. That’s…that’s yours to tell.”
Nodding, she relaxes just a little. “Thanks, I appreciate that. You gonna be stickin’ around here for while?”
“Probably a few days. Need to use Bobby’s library, fae problem the next town over.”
“You’ll keep an eye on her, then?” The look in Ellen’s eyes is one that he knows familiarly and for the hundredth time he wishes his boys really were just a phone call away. “She’s too smart for her own good I think, sometimes, too many plans and not enough preparation, and I just…I worry. I want to make sure she’s being careful.” Ellen hesitates, then swallows hard. “You’ll make sure nothing happens to her?”
He can’t even imagine how hard it must be for her to ask such a thing, for her to put that kind of trust in him and he nods, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch her. Nothing’s gonna happen to her.”
Ellen forces a smile, then holds out her hand to shake on it and all of a sudden John feels young and lost, like he’s not sure what he’s doing. He waits out there in the sun until she pulls away, tires kicking up dust behind her.
When he finally turns to go back inside, Jo is sitting on the porch, petting Rumsfeld’s head as he sits next to her, tail thumping lazily against her leg. She stands up when he walks towards her, moving past him quickly. “I’m gonna run some errands, I’ll be back later,” she says, and he doesn’t try to stop her. None of this is in his control.
John spends the majority of the day reading and studying, though he’s not sure how much he actually learns. Usually, he enjoys silence when he’s trying to think, but it’s different than a small hotel room. This is a place that should hold so much more, should be a home full of people and energy and life. Instead, like everything John touches, it just feels like more death.
He orders a pizza and is halfway into it when Jo finally comes back, sun long set. “Hey,” he calls to her and it feels brave enough, though he knows that a simple greeting should be anything but. “You hungry?”
She peeks her head in, obviously intrigued by the pizza. “What kind?”
“Pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. It’s kind of cold though.”
Shrugging, she just sits down and grabs a slice, eating it over half a paper towel. For a second, he can see her here, fitting into this life, but he shakes it away. Hunting doesn’t work by written invitation.
“So you ran away?” he asks, because it’s been hanging on his mind all day.
“Does it count if I’m not a little kid?”
“Yes.”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Then yeah, I ran away.” He sighs, shaking his head and her back straightens; he can see she’s on the defensive. “Oh, don’t give me that. Everyone does it eventually. It’s not like your kids have never runaway.”
It stings and he winces, reflexively sitting back, farther from her. He misses Sam. He’s probably gonna miss Sam for the rest of his life and it feels like the repeating ache of Mary.
“I’m sorry,” Jo says softly, sincerity clear in her voice. “I shouldn’t have said that, I was really out of line. Me and my mom have nothing to do with you and your kids.” She puts her crust on the table, wrapping her arms around herself. “She just won’t listen. She treats me like a baby and I think I deserve to make my own choices, and she says not under her roof, and then I leave her roof and she just tries to make me come back, and I want to because I miss her, but…” Pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye, she shrugs. “I just don’t know what to do.”
He nods. The idea isn’t unfamiliar to him. Life had always been a simple thing for him up until that night in November. Even when Mary’s parents died, he knew that they were gonna get married and settle down, and he was gonna take care of her. But he knew the struggle of duty to everyone else and duty to what you felt was your destiny. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, because there’s nothing else he can say.
She laughs bitterly, but smirks at him. “Yeah, thanks.” In that moment, he sees more Bill in her than anything else and it settles in his chest like a long lost friend that he missed dearly. Maybe Ellen can’t see it, can’t see the fire in her daughter’s eyes, but she’s just as much Bill, and John…he can see it.
Part 2