From What I’ve Tasted of Desire, I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire, for quiet_rebel (Dean/Jo, adult)
Title: From What I’ve Tasted of Desire, I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire
Author: diva5256
Recipient: quiet_rebel
Rating:NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: I wrote for the prompt Dean/Jo “keep your heart broken”, which is also quite an effective summary of the plot.
Author's Notes:
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some in ice,
From what I’ve tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire - ‘Fire and Ice’, Robert Frost.
She’s too damn much like her mother, of that she is certain. Jo’s all cracked hard edges built and practised to keep the warm sentimental inside safe. Her heart’s been broken since she was eight years old, since she watched her mother clean and wrap her father’s body, since she saw her dead daddy burn right up in Bobby Singer’s backyard till there was nothing but ashes left.
Sometimes she forgets and begins to feel herself healing up, like the day she first holds a rifle to John Winchester’s oldest son’s back.
That night she reminds herself to stay hurt, to not go near the only man whose eyes can make her mother look frightened and agitated. That night Jo presses a knife with the letters W.A.H engraved on the blade sharp to her skin. She pulls away seconds from drawing blood and promises herself that Dean Winchester won’t be the one she lets in.
Dean’s got this thing about Nebraska girls, like Amy West who he lost his virginity to, aged fourteen, in her Dad’s cornfield, or Layla Rourke, who he still prays for even though he doesn’t believe, even though she’s probably already dead.
But none of them are like Jo Harvelle, with her mean right hook and her REO Speedwagon and her warm, dirty-dark eyes that promise of something more. From that first punch in the face he has wanted her, wanted to learn to love her the way his brother loves girls, gentle and constant, not low down and filthy in the back of a Chevy and gone in the morning.
But he knows how that story goes, knows it can only end in fire and blood and her lithe body pinned, broken, to a ceiling, so he tells her he’s scared of her mother and leaves her the hell alone.
He entertains the idea of her again, of course, the idea of her strength, of her being permanent in his life on that long car ride from Chicago to Nebraska as the words Cold As Ice, Willing To Sacrifice are stuck in his head and he keeps catching her defiant eyes staring at him every time he checks the mirror.
But then she learns the truth about how her daddy died and washes her hands of him as though he is nothing more than dust on the Midwestern back roads, easily washed away, easily forgotten.
The next time Jo Harvelle encounters Dean Winchester her head is throbbing from connecting too hard with a wooden bar top and her heart stutters with the sick thought that this is the end. The knowledge that she could be about to die curls through her brain like the first wave of nicotine from a cigarette, like relief. And he can’t look her in the eye. And her heart cracks a little more, her resolve hardens.
When she’s patching him up later, the tension between them is palpable, taut enough to almost make the air hum. She’d forgotten that she loves the scent of him, motor oil and violence. His eyes are razor-sharp, fierce, like a caged lion. The way he looks at her makes desire pool in the pit of her stomach and the space between her legs moisten and every emotion push down further inside her.
Only when he’s walking away can she let the soft realisation that no, he won’t call drip forward from her lips, like the tears she hasn’t cried since the day they burnt Bill’s body.
The Roadhouse is long gone (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) by the next time he shows up. He can already feel the freedom from burden that will be his in five short months. She’s unfinished business and unspoken words; she boils through his blood like fires of Hell itself.
He waits for her, lurks in the back of that fateful bar in Duluth, watching her work, sees her chatting and laughing, flirting with customers. He almost leaves, afraid to do this to her, to make her a last request, an item on a list.
Everyone else has gone when Jo looks over at him, like she has known he was there all night.
“Hey, stranger” she smiles, her voice a warm Midwestern singsong, comforting, like a soft reassuring touch to the arm.
“Hey, you” he replies, his own nowhere man drawl weary, having taken on so many different places in his twenty-nine years.
She brings a bottle of Jim Beam to his table and they drink and talk and skirt around the past like dancers gliding with ease. She doesn’t mention his brother’s possessed hands, cold and hard against her body and he won’t tell her how he’s going to die. And that old tension that runs between them sparks, like a live wire that has been left open and exposed for too long, an accident waiting to happen.
Dean kisses her. It’s a long, deep, dirty kiss, as his hands wrap around her waist, grasping and desperate. Jo kisses back, violent, a kiss like a punch.
They stumble up the rickety wooden stairs to the tiny room she rents above the bar. She can feel his crotch hard against her as she fumbles at his belt buckle, drunk on whiskey and him. Dean unbuttons his shirt and leaves it somewhere on the stairs, haste and desire spurring his sense of abandon.
When they reach her room Jo pushes Dean down onto her unmade cot as he lifts her t-shirt over her head, releasing her hair from her ponytail to tumble down her back, free and wild, like her. Dean slides off his jeans and boxers, before removing Jo’s pants for her, his expert hands smoothing tantalisingly across her soft naked legs, before removing her thong with an almost laughable ease.
Jo leans forward and teases at his stiff cock with her full lips, her tongue dancing lightly around the head until he is harder, swelling fuller. He holds her arms to steady her as she raises her head to kiss his lips, a red bloom of desire already speckling her chest. She clamps him down with her thighs; already slick with the trail of her wetness, her anticipation. He reaches a hand down and lets his fervent fingers explore, alternately tender and angry, rough and graceful, each touch eliciting another gossamer-thin moan. Dean lifts Jo, with an alarming strength, as he slides her down onto him, thrusting deep into her. Anything but touch and sex and this simple easy moment are already lost to him.
Jo rocks forward, leaning into him, pushing him further inside her, producing soft, hot, slippery peaks of arousal as she feels the orgasm building inside her, the power of speech eluding her as she moans in satisfaction. Dean leans back, exposing his toned abs, the product of too much training, too much hunting. Jo reaches out and touches, runs her hand across them, reminds herself that he is tangible, that he is really here, as she comes with a shudder and the whisper of his name Dean not quite able to make it past her lips.
She sighs deeply and rolls off him. Dean leans over her, a strong arm either side of her, and kisses slowly down her chest, traces every inch of her body with his delicate fingers, before turning her over and pulling her under him, suddenly unable to look in her eyes, fucking her harder and rougher until he comes too.
They fall asleep entangled in sweat soaked sheets that smell like sex, their bodies stuck together despite the cool weather outside. She wakes like that, with Dean’s arm protectively across her.
“I made a deal”, he whispers in her ear, and she feels a coldness fill her stomach.
“Go”, her voice is icy, measured and calm.
She watches him dress in silence, does not move from the bed or put on clothes of her own.
She does not cry until he is gone, and she is still naked and alone and her skin smells like him. She calls in sick to the bar. Jack, who runs the place, has a crush on her so he doesn’t question her obvious lie. Jo puts on an old AC/DC T-shirt and finishes the whiskey she started with Dean, hardens herself, remembers that long ago broken heart and remembers to keep it that way.
They meet again, on a hunt in Milan, Ohio and he’s looking petrified and she knows why so they drink until she can’t stop screaming at him as though that is enough to make him not die.
“You bastard Winchester, you fucking ass” she cries as he fucks her against a wall, behind the bar where they’ve been drinking for hours. And maybe the words “I love you” slip out somewhere in-between but that doesn’t matter when his footsteps are just an echo walking away and the word “fucker” still stings on her swollen lips and his kiss is just the burn his stubble has left behind on her cheek.
Jo is sick the morning she hears, bent and retching over a dirty toilet back in Duluth, but when she finds out that Dean Winchester’s dead her heart doesn’t break.
She kept it broken all along.
Author: diva5256
Recipient: quiet_rebel
Rating:NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: I wrote for the prompt Dean/Jo “keep your heart broken”, which is also quite an effective summary of the plot.
Author's Notes:
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some in ice,
From what I’ve tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire - ‘Fire and Ice’, Robert Frost.
She’s too damn much like her mother, of that she is certain. Jo’s all cracked hard edges built and practised to keep the warm sentimental inside safe. Her heart’s been broken since she was eight years old, since she watched her mother clean and wrap her father’s body, since she saw her dead daddy burn right up in Bobby Singer’s backyard till there was nothing but ashes left.
Sometimes she forgets and begins to feel herself healing up, like the day she first holds a rifle to John Winchester’s oldest son’s back.
That night she reminds herself to stay hurt, to not go near the only man whose eyes can make her mother look frightened and agitated. That night Jo presses a knife with the letters W.A.H engraved on the blade sharp to her skin. She pulls away seconds from drawing blood and promises herself that Dean Winchester won’t be the one she lets in.
Dean’s got this thing about Nebraska girls, like Amy West who he lost his virginity to, aged fourteen, in her Dad’s cornfield, or Layla Rourke, who he still prays for even though he doesn’t believe, even though she’s probably already dead.
But none of them are like Jo Harvelle, with her mean right hook and her REO Speedwagon and her warm, dirty-dark eyes that promise of something more. From that first punch in the face he has wanted her, wanted to learn to love her the way his brother loves girls, gentle and constant, not low down and filthy in the back of a Chevy and gone in the morning.
But he knows how that story goes, knows it can only end in fire and blood and her lithe body pinned, broken, to a ceiling, so he tells her he’s scared of her mother and leaves her the hell alone.
He entertains the idea of her again, of course, the idea of her strength, of her being permanent in his life on that long car ride from Chicago to Nebraska as the words Cold As Ice, Willing To Sacrifice are stuck in his head and he keeps catching her defiant eyes staring at him every time he checks the mirror.
But then she learns the truth about how her daddy died and washes her hands of him as though he is nothing more than dust on the Midwestern back roads, easily washed away, easily forgotten.
The next time Jo Harvelle encounters Dean Winchester her head is throbbing from connecting too hard with a wooden bar top and her heart stutters with the sick thought that this is the end. The knowledge that she could be about to die curls through her brain like the first wave of nicotine from a cigarette, like relief. And he can’t look her in the eye. And her heart cracks a little more, her resolve hardens.
When she’s patching him up later, the tension between them is palpable, taut enough to almost make the air hum. She’d forgotten that she loves the scent of him, motor oil and violence. His eyes are razor-sharp, fierce, like a caged lion. The way he looks at her makes desire pool in the pit of her stomach and the space between her legs moisten and every emotion push down further inside her.
Only when he’s walking away can she let the soft realisation that no, he won’t call drip forward from her lips, like the tears she hasn’t cried since the day they burnt Bill’s body.
The Roadhouse is long gone (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) by the next time he shows up. He can already feel the freedom from burden that will be his in five short months. She’s unfinished business and unspoken words; she boils through his blood like fires of Hell itself.
He waits for her, lurks in the back of that fateful bar in Duluth, watching her work, sees her chatting and laughing, flirting with customers. He almost leaves, afraid to do this to her, to make her a last request, an item on a list.
Everyone else has gone when Jo looks over at him, like she has known he was there all night.
“Hey, stranger” she smiles, her voice a warm Midwestern singsong, comforting, like a soft reassuring touch to the arm.
“Hey, you” he replies, his own nowhere man drawl weary, having taken on so many different places in his twenty-nine years.
She brings a bottle of Jim Beam to his table and they drink and talk and skirt around the past like dancers gliding with ease. She doesn’t mention his brother’s possessed hands, cold and hard against her body and he won’t tell her how he’s going to die. And that old tension that runs between them sparks, like a live wire that has been left open and exposed for too long, an accident waiting to happen.
Dean kisses her. It’s a long, deep, dirty kiss, as his hands wrap around her waist, grasping and desperate. Jo kisses back, violent, a kiss like a punch.
They stumble up the rickety wooden stairs to the tiny room she rents above the bar. She can feel his crotch hard against her as she fumbles at his belt buckle, drunk on whiskey and him. Dean unbuttons his shirt and leaves it somewhere on the stairs, haste and desire spurring his sense of abandon.
When they reach her room Jo pushes Dean down onto her unmade cot as he lifts her t-shirt over her head, releasing her hair from her ponytail to tumble down her back, free and wild, like her. Dean slides off his jeans and boxers, before removing Jo’s pants for her, his expert hands smoothing tantalisingly across her soft naked legs, before removing her thong with an almost laughable ease.
Jo leans forward and teases at his stiff cock with her full lips, her tongue dancing lightly around the head until he is harder, swelling fuller. He holds her arms to steady her as she raises her head to kiss his lips, a red bloom of desire already speckling her chest. She clamps him down with her thighs; already slick with the trail of her wetness, her anticipation. He reaches a hand down and lets his fervent fingers explore, alternately tender and angry, rough and graceful, each touch eliciting another gossamer-thin moan. Dean lifts Jo, with an alarming strength, as he slides her down onto him, thrusting deep into her. Anything but touch and sex and this simple easy moment are already lost to him.
Jo rocks forward, leaning into him, pushing him further inside her, producing soft, hot, slippery peaks of arousal as she feels the orgasm building inside her, the power of speech eluding her as she moans in satisfaction. Dean leans back, exposing his toned abs, the product of too much training, too much hunting. Jo reaches out and touches, runs her hand across them, reminds herself that he is tangible, that he is really here, as she comes with a shudder and the whisper of his name Dean not quite able to make it past her lips.
She sighs deeply and rolls off him. Dean leans over her, a strong arm either side of her, and kisses slowly down her chest, traces every inch of her body with his delicate fingers, before turning her over and pulling her under him, suddenly unable to look in her eyes, fucking her harder and rougher until he comes too.
They fall asleep entangled in sweat soaked sheets that smell like sex, their bodies stuck together despite the cool weather outside. She wakes like that, with Dean’s arm protectively across her.
“I made a deal”, he whispers in her ear, and she feels a coldness fill her stomach.
“Go”, her voice is icy, measured and calm.
She watches him dress in silence, does not move from the bed or put on clothes of her own.
She does not cry until he is gone, and she is still naked and alone and her skin smells like him. She calls in sick to the bar. Jack, who runs the place, has a crush on her so he doesn’t question her obvious lie. Jo puts on an old AC/DC T-shirt and finishes the whiskey she started with Dean, hardens herself, remembers that long ago broken heart and remembers to keep it that way.
They meet again, on a hunt in Milan, Ohio and he’s looking petrified and she knows why so they drink until she can’t stop screaming at him as though that is enough to make him not die.
“You bastard Winchester, you fucking ass” she cries as he fucks her against a wall, behind the bar where they’ve been drinking for hours. And maybe the words “I love you” slip out somewhere in-between but that doesn’t matter when his footsteps are just an echo walking away and the word “fucker” still stings on her swollen lips and his kiss is just the burn his stubble has left behind on her cheek.
Jo is sick the morning she hears, bent and retching over a dirty toilet back in Duluth, but when she finds out that Dean Winchester’s dead her heart doesn’t break.
She kept it broken all along.