SPN Fic: keep on dreaming until we make it to the magic kingdom (Dean/Jo)
Title: keep on dreaming until we make it to the magic kingdom
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: R (sex)
Word Count: 1,941
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke and co. I’m just borrowing them.
Summary: He dreams about her. Not always, but often enough that it makes seeing her weird and he seems to be seeing her a lot these days.
A/N: Written for theredfeather at the spn_hetexchange. A big thank you to the amazing angela_weber for the beta! Any lingering mistakes are mine.
She flips the knife in her hand, once, twice, three times before he looks up, eyebrows knitted together in irritation. He always lets her get to three. She imagines he keeps count in his head, maybe that’s his idea of patience.
“We going to work or are you going to screw around all night?” he asks.
Jo smirks, flips the knife close and pockets it.
“That depends on you, sweetheart,” she says, voice dripping with honey. Dean rolls his eyes, buries his nose deeper in the book that he knows she knows for a fact he’s only pretending to read.
*
He dreams about her. Not always, but often enough that it makes seeing her weird and he seems to be seeing her a lot these days.
It’s messed up---his brain would make Hefner proud, but given that he spends more time watching porn than he does actually talking to real live women, it’s no wonder. And what does that say about the sorry state of his life? He tries not to think too hard on that.
The point is he dreams about Jo. Dreams about touching her, being touched by her, dreams about her lips and skin and her fucking knife collection. It’s not all dirty, not all the kind of stuff that would make a minister blush. Sometimes he’s just holding her. Sometimes they’re acting out the old Sam and Diane routine, bitching each other out, then slap, slap, kiss.
It alarms him that his head is all Hustler and ‘80s sitcoms.
He’s dreaming of her now and she’s barely two feet away from him, asleep on her own, musty little hotel bed. Somehow he’s aware of that even as he sleeps. He’s aware of his erection too, painfully so.
He turns on his side and the image of her mounting his waist slips and fades. He mutters her name and his eyes snap open, heart suddenly beating too fast like he’s been caught elbow deep in the cookie jar.
He listens, waits for her to say something smart, but her side of the room is quiet. He doesn’t know if this is luck or wishful thinking.
*
She hears him, her name tripping from his lips so easy, so full of wanting. Truth be told, she’s never heard anyone say her name like that before. It makes her blood run hot. The feeling is not unpleasant.
There are things she could do. Slide out of her bed and crawl into his, take matters into her own hands, take what she wants just this one time. Or she could lie here feeling young and small, keep her mouth shut. Or she could wait until morning and call him on it, see if she can make him blush.
She smiles in the dark, waits until she hears his breathing even out again and give way to a boyish snore before she slips out to stand on the cold concrete in her bare feet and watch the trucks pulling in and out of the motel parking lot. Some of the men leer as they climb down out of their cabs, some of them barely look her way.
She’s not afraid of them, not afraid of much of anything to be honest. Hazard of the job.
But she is afraid of going to sleep.
She dreams about him too.
*
“You could have had the real thing, you know. But it sounds like dream me is quite the hellcat,” Jo teases.
Dean chokes on his orange juice, coughing and sputtering. It’s too easy for her to catch him off guard. She gets this glint in her eyes and it pisses him off as much as it turns him on. He hates losing the upper hand. Funny thing is he’s not even sure what kind of game they’re playing.
“You’re insane,” he says.
“Mmm…that why you were muttering my name last night? Jo, Jo, I want you Jo,” she dissolves into giggles and Dean grasps for a good excuse. Nothing comes.
“If I wanted you, I’d have you,” Dean says.
She rolls her eyes. Apparently, that line played out just as lame out loud as it did in his head. She plays along anyway.
“Is that so?”
Dean stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth before speaking.
“Damn straight,” he says, eggs tumbling from his lips. Jo wrinkles her nose and he grins.
“Charming.”
*
The job is an easy one. Jo could have handled it with her mom, hell; she could have handled it on her own. Likewise, it’s the sort of thing Dean and Sam could have wrapped up in an hour or two. They both know it. They knew it when she called him to ask for help, but he had the good grace not to mention it.
It was a good excuse to see each other and as much as it embarrasses her, Jo knows she’s always on the look out for one of those. She doesn’t think she’s the only one.
They pull up to the house before noon. It’s old, abandoned. Kids use it for fucking and dares now, you can tell from the graffiti. There are more phone numbers tattooed on the walls than there are in any men’s room stall. The place is damp and dark, every inch covered in mold and grime. It’s disgusting. Jo can’t help but pity any spirit damned to spend their afterlife tied to a rat hole like this one.
Dean breaks out his EMF meter and starts scanning the walls.
“So the poor bastard hung himself, right?” Dean asks.
“Yep. Over there by the window. His dad was in prison, girlfriend screwing the guy down the street. Just general life sucking.”
“Now Mr. Sad Sack gets his jollies by targeting pretty young things,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Guess all is fair in love and douchebaggery.”
Jo shivers as she hits a cold spot. She knew this job was going to be a quick one.
“Guess so,” she says as she loads salt rounds into her rifle.
*
It’s over in forty-five minutes. The ghost gets the jump on Jo once, tries to string her up and Dean shoots it in the face. But other than that it’s a cut and dry case.
They find his grave in a cemetery about a mile from the house, salt and burn the bones, and call it a day.
Dean’s covered in dirt. It’s under his nails, clinging to his forearm, and his shirt smells like stale sweat and smoke. Jo’s got it just as bad, but it looks better on her. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her pulling her tangled hair up. Her shirt lifts slightly, revealing a few inches of skin and he looks away. It’s too familiar for territory he’s never touched.
There’s a harsh, red line across her neck where the ghost got her and he knows she’s thinking about it because she’s gone quiet on him. He hates a quiet Jo. He likes it better when they’re fighting and teasing, all jokes.
The seriousness scares him, much as he hates to admit it.
“It could have happened to anyone, you’ve got no idea how many times Sammy saves my ass in a week or how many times I save his. That’s why we work in pairs, everybody needs somebody to watch their back,” Dean says.
Jo taps her fingers against the window in time to the AC/DC song blaring from the Impala’s speakers, keeps her eyes on all the nothing they’re passing by outside.
“I know that,” she says. And he doesn’t believe it for a second.
“You’re a good hunter,” he says. He should have said it long time ago, should have said it because it’s true.
She turns to look at him finally, smirk firmly back in place.
“Of course I am, dumbass.”
Dean turns the music up even louder, starts singing along, waiting to see how long she can stand it before she begs him to stop.
*
He could have left already. There’s no need to stay another night, but they’re both still there, lying on their separate beds freshly showered and still dripping wet.
Jo keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling. She’s nervous. Butterflies in her stomach and everything. She never gets nervous anymore. Not when she’s working a job or spinning a good cover story. But this, lying here waiting for him to make a move, is driving her crazy.
So she makes the move for him.
She sits up, switches off the game he was trying so hard to pretend to watch.
“I could have done this job with mom,” she says.
“Then why didn’t you?” Dean asks.
Jo groans. He’s going to make her say it. Screw that.
“Oh cut the crap, Dean. I’m tired of the dancing; let’s just get to the fucking.”
He winces slightly at the word and it makes her smile. If she had a nickel for all the times she’s had to make people realize she’s not a little girl, she’d be filthy stinking rich. Hell, most of those nickels would come straight out of Dean Winchester’s pocket.
“Jo,” he warns, but she’s already in his bed, invading his space until she’s leaning across his lap, her hair tickling his shoulder.
“Remember what Jiminy Cricket says: a dream is just a wish your heart makes,” Jo says, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Are you sure the cricket said that?” Dean asks. “I thought that was the mouse.”
As distraction tactics go, it’s a pretty lame one.
There’s a moment of hesitation before she kisses him, a little flicker of doubt. Then she closes the space, lets her lips and tongue do the talking for her, hands trailing down his chest. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to stop her, just goes with it. He flips her easily and slides his hand under her shirt. She twists her hips up to meet his, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding him tight.
“Damn, Jo,” he gasps, her name sounding every bit as reverent now as it did the night before.
*
He dreams about her. It’s a good dream. Full of details, little tidbits his subconscious didn’t know to add twenty-four hours ago. The sound of her voice, lilting upwards as she comes, the splash of freckles across her shoulder blade, the way she tastes faintly like peppermint, it’s like dreaming in high-def.
He wakes to find her wrapped around him. Her body warm and solid against his. It’s not exactly how he imagined it to be. Of course he imagined a nurse’s costume and a whole lot of bad dialogue and that just ain’t Jo Harville. Thank God, for that.
She’s muttering in her sleep and Dean strains to hear her.
“Dean,” she murmurs and it’s all he can do not to let out a whoop of triumph. He’s looking forward to using some reverse-Disney psychology on her ass in the morning. See how she likes it. Not that he didn’t like it himself. He liked it a whole hell of a lot.
He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes.
*
“Sweet dreams last night?” Dean asks smugly.
Jo feels a warm blush spread across her cheeks. This is so not fair.
“Shut up,” she mutters before stuffing a bite of pancake into her mouth. Dean laughs to himself and Jo tosses a spoon at his head. He ducks and her only reward is a couple of angry glances from the other diners.
“That’s what I thought,” he says.
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: R (sex)
Word Count: 1,941
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke and co. I’m just borrowing them.
Summary: He dreams about her. Not always, but often enough that it makes seeing her weird and he seems to be seeing her a lot these days.
A/N: Written for theredfeather at the spn_hetexchange. A big thank you to the amazing angela_weber for the beta! Any lingering mistakes are mine.
She flips the knife in her hand, once, twice, three times before he looks up, eyebrows knitted together in irritation. He always lets her get to three. She imagines he keeps count in his head, maybe that’s his idea of patience.
“We going to work or are you going to screw around all night?” he asks.
Jo smirks, flips the knife close and pockets it.
“That depends on you, sweetheart,” she says, voice dripping with honey. Dean rolls his eyes, buries his nose deeper in the book that he knows she knows for a fact he’s only pretending to read.
*
He dreams about her. Not always, but often enough that it makes seeing her weird and he seems to be seeing her a lot these days.
It’s messed up---his brain would make Hefner proud, but given that he spends more time watching porn than he does actually talking to real live women, it’s no wonder. And what does that say about the sorry state of his life? He tries not to think too hard on that.
The point is he dreams about Jo. Dreams about touching her, being touched by her, dreams about her lips and skin and her fucking knife collection. It’s not all dirty, not all the kind of stuff that would make a minister blush. Sometimes he’s just holding her. Sometimes they’re acting out the old Sam and Diane routine, bitching each other out, then slap, slap, kiss.
It alarms him that his head is all Hustler and ‘80s sitcoms.
He’s dreaming of her now and she’s barely two feet away from him, asleep on her own, musty little hotel bed. Somehow he’s aware of that even as he sleeps. He’s aware of his erection too, painfully so.
He turns on his side and the image of her mounting his waist slips and fades. He mutters her name and his eyes snap open, heart suddenly beating too fast like he’s been caught elbow deep in the cookie jar.
He listens, waits for her to say something smart, but her side of the room is quiet. He doesn’t know if this is luck or wishful thinking.
*
She hears him, her name tripping from his lips so easy, so full of wanting. Truth be told, she’s never heard anyone say her name like that before. It makes her blood run hot. The feeling is not unpleasant.
There are things she could do. Slide out of her bed and crawl into his, take matters into her own hands, take what she wants just this one time. Or she could lie here feeling young and small, keep her mouth shut. Or she could wait until morning and call him on it, see if she can make him blush.
She smiles in the dark, waits until she hears his breathing even out again and give way to a boyish snore before she slips out to stand on the cold concrete in her bare feet and watch the trucks pulling in and out of the motel parking lot. Some of the men leer as they climb down out of their cabs, some of them barely look her way.
She’s not afraid of them, not afraid of much of anything to be honest. Hazard of the job.
But she is afraid of going to sleep.
She dreams about him too.
*
“You could have had the real thing, you know. But it sounds like dream me is quite the hellcat,” Jo teases.
Dean chokes on his orange juice, coughing and sputtering. It’s too easy for her to catch him off guard. She gets this glint in her eyes and it pisses him off as much as it turns him on. He hates losing the upper hand. Funny thing is he’s not even sure what kind of game they’re playing.
“You’re insane,” he says.
“Mmm…that why you were muttering my name last night? Jo, Jo, I want you Jo,” she dissolves into giggles and Dean grasps for a good excuse. Nothing comes.
“If I wanted you, I’d have you,” Dean says.
She rolls her eyes. Apparently, that line played out just as lame out loud as it did in his head. She plays along anyway.
“Is that so?”
Dean stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth before speaking.
“Damn straight,” he says, eggs tumbling from his lips. Jo wrinkles her nose and he grins.
“Charming.”
*
The job is an easy one. Jo could have handled it with her mom, hell; she could have handled it on her own. Likewise, it’s the sort of thing Dean and Sam could have wrapped up in an hour or two. They both know it. They knew it when she called him to ask for help, but he had the good grace not to mention it.
It was a good excuse to see each other and as much as it embarrasses her, Jo knows she’s always on the look out for one of those. She doesn’t think she’s the only one.
They pull up to the house before noon. It’s old, abandoned. Kids use it for fucking and dares now, you can tell from the graffiti. There are more phone numbers tattooed on the walls than there are in any men’s room stall. The place is damp and dark, every inch covered in mold and grime. It’s disgusting. Jo can’t help but pity any spirit damned to spend their afterlife tied to a rat hole like this one.
Dean breaks out his EMF meter and starts scanning the walls.
“So the poor bastard hung himself, right?” Dean asks.
“Yep. Over there by the window. His dad was in prison, girlfriend screwing the guy down the street. Just general life sucking.”
“Now Mr. Sad Sack gets his jollies by targeting pretty young things,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Guess all is fair in love and douchebaggery.”
Jo shivers as she hits a cold spot. She knew this job was going to be a quick one.
“Guess so,” she says as she loads salt rounds into her rifle.
*
It’s over in forty-five minutes. The ghost gets the jump on Jo once, tries to string her up and Dean shoots it in the face. But other than that it’s a cut and dry case.
They find his grave in a cemetery about a mile from the house, salt and burn the bones, and call it a day.
Dean’s covered in dirt. It’s under his nails, clinging to his forearm, and his shirt smells like stale sweat and smoke. Jo’s got it just as bad, but it looks better on her. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her pulling her tangled hair up. Her shirt lifts slightly, revealing a few inches of skin and he looks away. It’s too familiar for territory he’s never touched.
There’s a harsh, red line across her neck where the ghost got her and he knows she’s thinking about it because she’s gone quiet on him. He hates a quiet Jo. He likes it better when they’re fighting and teasing, all jokes.
The seriousness scares him, much as he hates to admit it.
“It could have happened to anyone, you’ve got no idea how many times Sammy saves my ass in a week or how many times I save his. That’s why we work in pairs, everybody needs somebody to watch their back,” Dean says.
Jo taps her fingers against the window in time to the AC/DC song blaring from the Impala’s speakers, keeps her eyes on all the nothing they’re passing by outside.
“I know that,” she says. And he doesn’t believe it for a second.
“You’re a good hunter,” he says. He should have said it long time ago, should have said it because it’s true.
She turns to look at him finally, smirk firmly back in place.
“Of course I am, dumbass.”
Dean turns the music up even louder, starts singing along, waiting to see how long she can stand it before she begs him to stop.
*
He could have left already. There’s no need to stay another night, but they’re both still there, lying on their separate beds freshly showered and still dripping wet.
Jo keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling. She’s nervous. Butterflies in her stomach and everything. She never gets nervous anymore. Not when she’s working a job or spinning a good cover story. But this, lying here waiting for him to make a move, is driving her crazy.
So she makes the move for him.
She sits up, switches off the game he was trying so hard to pretend to watch.
“I could have done this job with mom,” she says.
“Then why didn’t you?” Dean asks.
Jo groans. He’s going to make her say it. Screw that.
“Oh cut the crap, Dean. I’m tired of the dancing; let’s just get to the fucking.”
He winces slightly at the word and it makes her smile. If she had a nickel for all the times she’s had to make people realize she’s not a little girl, she’d be filthy stinking rich. Hell, most of those nickels would come straight out of Dean Winchester’s pocket.
“Jo,” he warns, but she’s already in his bed, invading his space until she’s leaning across his lap, her hair tickling his shoulder.
“Remember what Jiminy Cricket says: a dream is just a wish your heart makes,” Jo says, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Are you sure the cricket said that?” Dean asks. “I thought that was the mouse.”
As distraction tactics go, it’s a pretty lame one.
There’s a moment of hesitation before she kisses him, a little flicker of doubt. Then she closes the space, lets her lips and tongue do the talking for her, hands trailing down his chest. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to stop her, just goes with it. He flips her easily and slides his hand under her shirt. She twists her hips up to meet his, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding him tight.
“Damn, Jo,” he gasps, her name sounding every bit as reverent now as it did the night before.
*
He dreams about her. It’s a good dream. Full of details, little tidbits his subconscious didn’t know to add twenty-four hours ago. The sound of her voice, lilting upwards as she comes, the splash of freckles across her shoulder blade, the way she tastes faintly like peppermint, it’s like dreaming in high-def.
He wakes to find her wrapped around him. Her body warm and solid against his. It’s not exactly how he imagined it to be. Of course he imagined a nurse’s costume and a whole lot of bad dialogue and that just ain’t Jo Harville. Thank God, for that.
She’s muttering in her sleep and Dean strains to hear her.
“Dean,” she murmurs and it’s all he can do not to let out a whoop of triumph. He’s looking forward to using some reverse-Disney psychology on her ass in the morning. See how she likes it. Not that he didn’t like it himself. He liked it a whole hell of a lot.
He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes.
*
“Sweet dreams last night?” Dean asks smugly.
Jo feels a warm blush spread across her cheeks. This is so not fair.
“Shut up,” she mutters before stuffing a bite of pancake into her mouth. Dean laughs to himself and Jo tosses a spoon at his head. He ducks and her only reward is a couple of angry glances from the other diners.
“That’s what I thought,” he says.