SPN fic: A Fine Line Between Disaster and a Good Time (pg-13)
Title: A Fine Line Between Disaster and a Good Time
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 759
Beta: none
Characters: Jo Harvelle, original characters
Summary: He held out a piece of paper; Jo looked down at it and frowned. It was an ad from the local paper, torn from the classified section.
Author's note: This was written for karate0kat in honor of her birthday. I told her I'd write a drabble, but it kinda got out of hand. It's based on what I found in a quick poke at her journal, trying to figure out what she might like, so here's hoping I done good. :P
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“Take me to man in charge.”
Jo glanced up from her ledger at the guttural voice. A man with the build of a linebacker stood in the doorway, his gaze traveling over the tables, chairs inverted on their tops to make it easier to sweep up all the crap from the night before. Jahleel, who had been taking inventory of the stock behind the bar, took one look at the man and responded with a curt nod toward Jo; the diamond stud in Jahleel’s ear flashed against his dark skin with his movement. Jo tugged lightly at her own earlobe. I’m going to have to win that back from him, one of these days, she thought.
The stranger turned in Jo’s direction, but made no move toward her. “Take me to man in charge?” he repeated.
“Yeah, man, that’s her.” Jahleel jabbed toward her with his pencil; he made a face at her before returning to his work and Jo bit back a bark of laughter. They were partners in the bar, but Jahleel always claimed Jo’s balls were bigger than his.
“I look for Joe Harvelle.” She could practically hear the ‘e’ on the end of the name.
With a roll of her eyes, Jo stood and stretched, then carefully laid her pencil across her figures, the eraser end more or less marking her place. They’d gone through nearly 65 pounds of salt last month, and this month looked to be even… saltier.
“I’m Jo Harvelle. What can I do for you?” she asked as she took a step toward the stranger, her right hand held casually at the small of her back. A .22 pellet made of rock salt wouldn’t do much to stop an actual linebacker, but it would still sting and if this guy wasn’t what he seemed, it might do some real damage.
“I look for job.” He held out a piece of paper; Jo looked down at it and frowned. It was an ad from the local paper, torn from the classified section. Like to hunt? Got killer instincts? Know your way around the Web? Come see us at The Old Goat Bar & Grill. Ask for Jo Harvelle.
Jo glared at Jahleel, mouthed got killer instincts? Jahleel grinned and laughed, started whistling as he returned to his inventory, leaving her to fend for herself.
“I like to hunt. I know Google.” The man waved the scrap of paper like one of those flags they hand out at Fourth of July parades. “I look for work, Jo Harvelle.” He smiled, melting years from his face; Jo relaxed, dropped her hand from her gun.
“What’s your name? And your accent… Is that Russian?”
He nodded. “I come here from Omsk.” He shook the paper at her again. “I work hard.”
“I’m sure you do.” She looked around the bar, loathe to tell him that they weren’t actually hiring. Maybe… Maybe they could use a bouncer…? “What’s your name?”
“Sacha Zubkov.”
“All right, Sacha Zubkov.” She swung a chair down and pushed it toward him. “How about you sit here for a minute. I have to talk to my partner.” The big man obediently sat and Jo stalked over to the bar, where Jahleel was studiously ignoring her.
“We’re not hiring,” she stated.
Jahleel jotted down a number in the margin of his inventory sheet. “Not for the bar, no.”
“We are not hiring.”
He shot her a look. “There’s too much activity in this area, Jo. We need help, so I advertised. I told you I was going to do it.”
“I thought you were joking.”
He set his paperwork down on the scarred surface of the bar and looked her in the eye. “I wasn’t.”
She sighed and turned back toward the main part of the room, leaned back against the bar with her arms crossed under her breasts. “What are we going to do with him, Jahleel? He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Jo.” He leaned over the bar; Jo’s gaze followed where Jahleel’s finger pointed. Zubkov, sitting obediently where Jo had told him to, sat back in his chair, the neck of his flannel shirt open. Hanging from a leather cord around his neck were a cross, a star of David, and what appeared to be a silver bullet.
Before Jo could say anything to Jahleel about that, the door opened again and a woman stepped through, a folded newspaper in her hand.
“Hello? I’m here regarding a job posting? My name is Toshiko Sato…”
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 759
Beta: none
Characters: Jo Harvelle, original characters
Summary: He held out a piece of paper; Jo looked down at it and frowned. It was an ad from the local paper, torn from the classified section.
Author's note: This was written for karate0kat in honor of her birthday. I told her I'd write a drabble, but it kinda got out of hand. It's based on what I found in a quick poke at her journal, trying to figure out what she might like, so here's hoping I done good. :P
-----------------
“Take me to man in charge.”
Jo glanced up from her ledger at the guttural voice. A man with the build of a linebacker stood in the doorway, his gaze traveling over the tables, chairs inverted on their tops to make it easier to sweep up all the crap from the night before. Jahleel, who had been taking inventory of the stock behind the bar, took one look at the man and responded with a curt nod toward Jo; the diamond stud in Jahleel’s ear flashed against his dark skin with his movement. Jo tugged lightly at her own earlobe. I’m going to have to win that back from him, one of these days, she thought.
The stranger turned in Jo’s direction, but made no move toward her. “Take me to man in charge?” he repeated.
“Yeah, man, that’s her.” Jahleel jabbed toward her with his pencil; he made a face at her before returning to his work and Jo bit back a bark of laughter. They were partners in the bar, but Jahleel always claimed Jo’s balls were bigger than his.
“I look for Joe Harvelle.” She could practically hear the ‘e’ on the end of the name.
With a roll of her eyes, Jo stood and stretched, then carefully laid her pencil across her figures, the eraser end more or less marking her place. They’d gone through nearly 65 pounds of salt last month, and this month looked to be even… saltier.
“I’m Jo Harvelle. What can I do for you?” she asked as she took a step toward the stranger, her right hand held casually at the small of her back. A .22 pellet made of rock salt wouldn’t do much to stop an actual linebacker, but it would still sting and if this guy wasn’t what he seemed, it might do some real damage.
“I look for job.” He held out a piece of paper; Jo looked down at it and frowned. It was an ad from the local paper, torn from the classified section. Like to hunt? Got killer instincts? Know your way around the Web? Come see us at The Old Goat Bar & Grill. Ask for Jo Harvelle.
Jo glared at Jahleel, mouthed got killer instincts? Jahleel grinned and laughed, started whistling as he returned to his inventory, leaving her to fend for herself.
“I like to hunt. I know Google.” The man waved the scrap of paper like one of those flags they hand out at Fourth of July parades. “I look for work, Jo Harvelle.” He smiled, melting years from his face; Jo relaxed, dropped her hand from her gun.
“What’s your name? And your accent… Is that Russian?”
He nodded. “I come here from Omsk.” He shook the paper at her again. “I work hard.”
“I’m sure you do.” She looked around the bar, loathe to tell him that they weren’t actually hiring. Maybe… Maybe they could use a bouncer…? “What’s your name?”
“Sacha Zubkov.”
“All right, Sacha Zubkov.” She swung a chair down and pushed it toward him. “How about you sit here for a minute. I have to talk to my partner.” The big man obediently sat and Jo stalked over to the bar, where Jahleel was studiously ignoring her.
“We’re not hiring,” she stated.
Jahleel jotted down a number in the margin of his inventory sheet. “Not for the bar, no.”
“We are not hiring.”
He shot her a look. “There’s too much activity in this area, Jo. We need help, so I advertised. I told you I was going to do it.”
“I thought you were joking.”
He set his paperwork down on the scarred surface of the bar and looked her in the eye. “I wasn’t.”
She sighed and turned back toward the main part of the room, leaned back against the bar with her arms crossed under her breasts. “What are we going to do with him, Jahleel? He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Jo.” He leaned over the bar; Jo’s gaze followed where Jahleel’s finger pointed. Zubkov, sitting obediently where Jo had told him to, sat back in his chair, the neck of his flannel shirt open. Hanging from a leather cord around his neck were a cross, a star of David, and what appeared to be a silver bullet.
Before Jo could say anything to Jahleel about that, the door opened again and a woman stepped through, a folded newspaper in her hand.
“Hello? I’m here regarding a job posting? My name is Toshiko Sato…”