Resolution 3/?
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,453 (this chapter)
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
The drive to Duluth was 18 hours. Dean made it in 15.
He put the car in park and turned off the engine, turning to face Sam with one arm stretched along the seatback. “This is it.”
Sam sat up straight and peered out the window. When he’d tracked down Jo to apologize, she’d been at the Roadhouse, visiting Ellen and Ash, so this was his first real glimpse of the tavern. He studied the lot filled with trucks and SUVs, the bright Sandpiper sign boasting “Dark Hills Premium Beer,” the surrounding warehouses and docks.
“Look familiar?”
Sam slowly shook his head. “How’d she ever wind up here?”
Dean yawned and rubbed the back of his head. “According to Ellen, an old Army buddy of her dad’s owns the place.”
Guilt prickled Sam’s conscience as he took in his brother’s red-rimmed eyes and the lines around his mouth. Dean had insisted on doing all the driving, pointing out what might happen--to the Impala--if Sam had a flashback at 70 miles an hour. To stave off sleep he’d cranked the radio, cracked his window when the car became too stuffy, and sent Sam on numerous trips for strong, truck-stop coffee.
Sam hadn’t minded. All Dean’s tricks for staying alert had the added benefit of keeping him awake, as well. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep.
“You think she’s in there?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.” Dean reached for the door handle and paused. “Unless you’d rather sit here and watch Jim Bob,” he indicated a large man staggering around the corner of the building, “take a piss.”
With a roll of his eyes, Sam yanked open his door and got out, stretching until his back popped. The sun had set, and thick gray clouds obscured the moon and stars, promising to add more snow to the light dusting already on the ground. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet along the icy ground. His mouth felt desert dry, and he kept his gaze fixed on the neon orange letters over the door.
Inside, the tavern was dark and noisy, the buzz of conversation overlaid by the blare of rock music. Sam looked through the sea of flannel and denim to the large windows overlooking the docks. He noted that most of the Sandpiper’s largely male clientele were either lined up along the bar or clustered around rough, wooden tables.
As he pulled his gaze back to Dean, one of the heavy support posts caught his eye. An image of Jo tied to the beam, her face obscured by a curtain of blonde hair, popped like a flashbulb across his vision, and his stomach dropped.
Dean gripped his arm, and Sam bit back a gasp. His brother’s gaze was sharp, assessing. “You still with me?”
Sam swallowed hard and tipped up his chin. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah. Right.” Dean glanced around, then steered him toward an empty booth tucked against the wall. “Park it. I’ll see if I can track Jo down.”
Sam shrugged off Dean’s hand, but slid into the booth without argument. He dropped his eyes to the scarred tabletop, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze for a long moment before his brother moved off toward the bar.
With a sigh, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. From the moment he’d stepped into the bar, he’d had the tingly, hair-raising feeling that Dean liked to call a “Haley Joel” moment. Though his head swore that he’d never set foot in this place, that nothing was familiar, his gut seemed to be connecting with the Sandpiper on a primal level.
And it was taking all his self-control not to head for the nearest exit.
Sam scanned the crowd, finally spying his brother’s leather jacket. Dean was slouched against the bar, chatting up the pretty redhead serving drinks. As she slid a mug of beer toward him, he flashed the patented Dean Winchester grin and slid his hand
over hers to encircle her wrist, the small bones as fragile as a bird’s beneath his fingers.
“Sam, what’s going on?” Jo tries to pull away, but he tightens his grip.
“I can be more to you, Jo.” The fear in her eyes thrills him, but he keeps his expression guileless.
“Maybe you should leave.” She’s doing her best to sound tough, but he hears uncertainty lurking beneath.
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then curves his lips in the barest hint of a smile. “Okay.”
She snatches away her hand as soon as he releases it. When he gets off the stool, she turns her back, obviously fighting for composure. He smirks--stupid bitch.
He grabs her and spins her around, reveling in the way she squirms against him.
“Sam, get off me!” Her voice wavers. Not so tough now.
He buries a hand in her hair and yanks, exposing her neck to his lips and teeth, loving the frantic hammering of her pulse. She reaches for an empty bottle, but he easily overpowers her.
“Jo, Jo, Jo.”
Smashing the bottle, he shoves her against the bar, pressing himself along her back. All the wriggling and fighting just makes it better.
She’s sobbing now, terrified. “Sam, no! Please! Please!”
“Sam.”
He jerked away from the hand on his shoulder, scrabbling blindly toward the back of the booth. Voices, motion, music all assaulted his senses, and he blinked hard, struggling to bring it all into focus.
Dean was staring at him with the little line between his eyebrows that meant he was worried and trying not to show it. “Dude, it’s just me.”
“I’m okay.” Sam said the words automatically, self-defense against the concern.
“Yeah, catatonic’s a good look for you.” Dean sat and slid a mug across the table. “Brought you a beer.”
Just the smell set Sam’s stomach to churning. It must have showed on his face, because Dean raised an eyebrow and pulled the drink back. “Or not.”
He breathed slowly through his mouth, willing the nausea to pass. “What’d you find out?”
“Her shift starts at seven, so she should be getting here any minute.” Dean took a drink from his mug and shook his head. “I still think maybe we should’ve given her a heads up, Sam. Let her know we were coming.”
“And she’d have asked why.” Sam pressed his trembling hands against the table top. “It’s better this way.”
Dean looked unconvinced. “Whatever, man. Anyway, the lovely Emily,” he hooked a thumb at the bartender and waggled his eyebrows, “promised she’d send her over.”
Steel bands tightened around Sam’s chest. The air felt too thick, the clatter of scraping chairs, boisterous laughter, and music too loud. When he swallowed, his throat made a dry click. “No.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
Sam shook his head, scooting toward the end of the booth. “No, I won’t . . . I mean, I don’t think I . . .
“Whoa, hold on.” Dean clamped a hand around his wrist, only to release it when Sam shuddered. “What’s going on? You were the one that wanted to come here, that had to see her, remember?”
“I do. I will.” Sam felt sweat break out on the back of his neck as he stood. “I just . . . I can’t do this here.”
Understanding flooded Dean’s gaze. “What exactly did you remember?” When Sam just looked away, he sighed. “Okay, okay. See that door over there? It opens onto the docks. Go get some air. I’ll bring her to you.”
Not trusting his voice, Sam nodded and fled. He wove his way through crowded tables, tripping over someone’s foot and nearly taking out a girl juggling several pitchers of beer. Muttering apologies, he pushed through the door and stumbled outside.
For a moment it was enough just to draw the crisp air into his lungs. Sagging against a wooden railing, he let the darkness and silence envelop him, slowly calming his jittering nerves.
As he stared out at the water, Jo’s wide, terrified eyes--and worse, his own feelings of excitement--rose in his memory. His stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. He’d gotten off on her pain and fear. No matter that it was Meg in control, it was still his body, he still felt and enjoyed every minute of it.
Just like the monsters he and Dean hunted.
Only this time, he was the monster. And Dean hadn’t been there to stop him.
He opened his eyes and stared down into the inky black water as it lapped against the wooden pilings. Behind him the door opened, spilling light and warmth. Pulling in a deep breath, Sam turned. Jo stood beside Dean, wearing the same guarded expression that had begun to haunt him.
He pasted on a smile. “Hey, Jo.”
“Sam.”
He started to fold his arms, stopped, shoved hands into his pockets instead. “You look good.” He flushed, horrified. “Uh, that is, I mean--”
“Thanks. You look like shit.” She quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “So do you.”
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.” Dean looked at Sam. “Totally worth the 15-hour drive.”
“And speaking of that . . .” Jo glanced between the two of them. “What’s this all about?”
“I needed to talk to you.” Sam took a breath. “Alone--if that’s all right with you.”
She was good. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he’d probably have missed the fear that briefly flickered in her eyes. “Sure. You want a drink?” Her mouth set in a straight line. “It’s on the house.”
Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking for a specific reaction to that. “Uh, actually . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, then curled his fingers into a fist when they trembled. “Out here would be better. If you don’t mind.”
She stuffed her hands in her pockets and inclined her head. “Okay. But you’ll have to make it fast. My shift started five minutes ago.”
All three stood in silence for a moment before Dean threw Sam a worried look, then cleared his throat. “Okay, then. If anyone needs me, I’ll be dazzling Emily with my awesome good looks and sparkling personality.”
After he disappeared inside, Jo looked at Sam with raised eyebrows. “So?”
Hearing the edge in her voice, Sam moved back to lean against the railing, putting a healthy distance between them. “I need to talk to you about what happened . . . before.”
Jo regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
It wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Huh?”
“Why do we need to talk? I thought we were past it.”
“We were, it’s just--”
“You were possessed, you apologized, there’s barely even a bruise left--it’s all water under the bridge, right?” She delivered the words with her gaze fixed just over his left shoulder, never making eye contact.
Her obvious discomfort only increased the sick sense of wrong in Sam’s gut. “Yeah, sure, but--”
“Because it’s not really something I want to reminisce about, you know?” she said, posture rigid and expression stony. “Like, ‘Hey, Sam, remember the time you tied me to that post?’ doesn’t really work for me. I’d just as soon let the whole thing drop.”
Frustrated, he straightened from his slouch. “I can’t.”
It came out sharper than he intended, and Jo flinched back, her hands shifting restlessly in her pockets. She recovered quickly, though, and her eyes were flinty when they finally challenged his. “Why the hell not?”
Sam swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve been getting flashes of things that happened while I was possessed,” he said quietly. “Some of them are from that night.”
“And?”
“There are still holes--gaps. And I need to know . . .” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I hurt you. I need to know exactly how bad.”
With a huff, she rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, you threw me around a little, knocked my head against the bar.” As she studied his face some of the stiffness leaked out of her shoulders. “It was a mild concussion, Sam. I stopped having headaches after the first day.”
He shook his head, his agitation rising even as Jo calmed. “That’s not what I mean. I want you to level with me.”
She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you’d better tell me just what it is you expect me to say.”
“The truth!” His voice cracked, and his eyes burned. Turning away, he scrubbed at them with the heel of one hand.
“Sam . . .”
He dropped his hand, surprised by the concern in her voice and the fact that she’d moved to face him. It took all his courage to meet her gaze. “I remember some of the things I said, things I did. And I’ve got to know how far it went. Did I . . .” His voice cracked. “Jo, did I . . . rape you?”
Her eyes widened, then went soft with emotion. “Oh, Sam. No. God, no.”
The intense wave of relief turned Sam’s legs to rubber, and he sat on the cold wooden boards, his back pressed against a post. Jo crouched down beside him but remained silent, giving him space. He had a sudden memory of the two of them sitting in the back seat of the Impala, trading amused glances as Ellen reduced Dean Winchester, badass hunter, into a stammering little boy.
He wondered if they’d ever share that easy camaraderie again.
“You--she--messed with my head,” Jo said. “And I’ll admit there was a moment when I started to worry . . .” A shiver rippled through her.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She gave him a tentative smile to prove her words. Then it faded. “The truth is she wasn’t really interested in me at all. It was Dean she was after.”
Seeing a ghost of the wariness that had troubled him, Sam cleared his throat. “Jo, did I say or do anything else I should know about?”
Pain drifted across her face, but she shook her head. “No.”
Sam frowned. “Are you sure? ’Cause that didn’t look like a no.”
She set her jaw, but he could tell the hardness in her eyes wasn’t for him. “Demons lie, right? And even when they don’t . . . Nothing she said matters.”
She stood, dusting off her jeans before extending a hand. “I’ve got to get to work.”
Sam accepted the tug upright. “Thanks. For, you know . . .” He gestured vaguely. “And for talking to me. Considering the last time I came here, well . . . Agreeing to be alone with me was pretty brave.”
Jo cocked an eyebrow. “Not really.” She pulled her father’s hunting knife from a pocket, and one corner of her mouth turned up.
Sam chuffed a startled laugh, the knot in his chest loosening a little.
“You two heading out soon?”
“If I can drag Dean away from Emily,” Sam said dryly.
Jo rolled her eyes. “Good luck.” She opened the door to the tavern, but turned back. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “You, too.”
Go to part 4
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,453 (this chapter)
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
The drive to Duluth was 18 hours. Dean made it in 15.
He put the car in park and turned off the engine, turning to face Sam with one arm stretched along the seatback. “This is it.”
Sam sat up straight and peered out the window. When he’d tracked down Jo to apologize, she’d been at the Roadhouse, visiting Ellen and Ash, so this was his first real glimpse of the tavern. He studied the lot filled with trucks and SUVs, the bright Sandpiper sign boasting “Dark Hills Premium Beer,” the surrounding warehouses and docks.
“Look familiar?”
Sam slowly shook his head. “How’d she ever wind up here?”
Dean yawned and rubbed the back of his head. “According to Ellen, an old Army buddy of her dad’s owns the place.”
Guilt prickled Sam’s conscience as he took in his brother’s red-rimmed eyes and the lines around his mouth. Dean had insisted on doing all the driving, pointing out what might happen--to the Impala--if Sam had a flashback at 70 miles an hour. To stave off sleep he’d cranked the radio, cracked his window when the car became too stuffy, and sent Sam on numerous trips for strong, truck-stop coffee.
Sam hadn’t minded. All Dean’s tricks for staying alert had the added benefit of keeping him awake, as well. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep.
“You think she’s in there?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.” Dean reached for the door handle and paused. “Unless you’d rather sit here and watch Jim Bob,” he indicated a large man staggering around the corner of the building, “take a piss.”
With a roll of his eyes, Sam yanked open his door and got out, stretching until his back popped. The sun had set, and thick gray clouds obscured the moon and stars, promising to add more snow to the light dusting already on the ground. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet along the icy ground. His mouth felt desert dry, and he kept his gaze fixed on the neon orange letters over the door.
Inside, the tavern was dark and noisy, the buzz of conversation overlaid by the blare of rock music. Sam looked through the sea of flannel and denim to the large windows overlooking the docks. He noted that most of the Sandpiper’s largely male clientele were either lined up along the bar or clustered around rough, wooden tables.
As he pulled his gaze back to Dean, one of the heavy support posts caught his eye. An image of Jo tied to the beam, her face obscured by a curtain of blonde hair, popped like a flashbulb across his vision, and his stomach dropped.
Dean gripped his arm, and Sam bit back a gasp. His brother’s gaze was sharp, assessing. “You still with me?”
Sam swallowed hard and tipped up his chin. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah. Right.” Dean glanced around, then steered him toward an empty booth tucked against the wall. “Park it. I’ll see if I can track Jo down.”
Sam shrugged off Dean’s hand, but slid into the booth without argument. He dropped his eyes to the scarred tabletop, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze for a long moment before his brother moved off toward the bar.
With a sigh, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. From the moment he’d stepped into the bar, he’d had the tingly, hair-raising feeling that Dean liked to call a “Haley Joel” moment. Though his head swore that he’d never set foot in this place, that nothing was familiar, his gut seemed to be connecting with the Sandpiper on a primal level.
And it was taking all his self-control not to head for the nearest exit.
Sam scanned the crowd, finally spying his brother’s leather jacket. Dean was slouched against the bar, chatting up the pretty redhead serving drinks. As she slid a mug of beer toward him, he flashed the patented Dean Winchester grin and slid his hand
over hers to encircle her wrist, the small bones as fragile as a bird’s beneath his fingers.
“Sam, what’s going on?” Jo tries to pull away, but he tightens his grip.
“I can be more to you, Jo.” The fear in her eyes thrills him, but he keeps his expression guileless.
“Maybe you should leave.” She’s doing her best to sound tough, but he hears uncertainty lurking beneath.
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then curves his lips in the barest hint of a smile. “Okay.”
She snatches away her hand as soon as he releases it. When he gets off the stool, she turns her back, obviously fighting for composure. He smirks--stupid bitch.
He grabs her and spins her around, reveling in the way she squirms against him.
“Sam, get off me!” Her voice wavers. Not so tough now.
He buries a hand in her hair and yanks, exposing her neck to his lips and teeth, loving the frantic hammering of her pulse. She reaches for an empty bottle, but he easily overpowers her.
“Jo, Jo, Jo.”
Smashing the bottle, he shoves her against the bar, pressing himself along her back. All the wriggling and fighting just makes it better.
She’s sobbing now, terrified. “Sam, no! Please! Please!”
“Sam.”
He jerked away from the hand on his shoulder, scrabbling blindly toward the back of the booth. Voices, motion, music all assaulted his senses, and he blinked hard, struggling to bring it all into focus.
Dean was staring at him with the little line between his eyebrows that meant he was worried and trying not to show it. “Dude, it’s just me.”
“I’m okay.” Sam said the words automatically, self-defense against the concern.
“Yeah, catatonic’s a good look for you.” Dean sat and slid a mug across the table. “Brought you a beer.”
Just the smell set Sam’s stomach to churning. It must have showed on his face, because Dean raised an eyebrow and pulled the drink back. “Or not.”
He breathed slowly through his mouth, willing the nausea to pass. “What’d you find out?”
“Her shift starts at seven, so she should be getting here any minute.” Dean took a drink from his mug and shook his head. “I still think maybe we should’ve given her a heads up, Sam. Let her know we were coming.”
“And she’d have asked why.” Sam pressed his trembling hands against the table top. “It’s better this way.”
Dean looked unconvinced. “Whatever, man. Anyway, the lovely Emily,” he hooked a thumb at the bartender and waggled his eyebrows, “promised she’d send her over.”
Steel bands tightened around Sam’s chest. The air felt too thick, the clatter of scraping chairs, boisterous laughter, and music too loud. When he swallowed, his throat made a dry click. “No.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
Sam shook his head, scooting toward the end of the booth. “No, I won’t . . . I mean, I don’t think I . . .
“Whoa, hold on.” Dean clamped a hand around his wrist, only to release it when Sam shuddered. “What’s going on? You were the one that wanted to come here, that had to see her, remember?”
“I do. I will.” Sam felt sweat break out on the back of his neck as he stood. “I just . . . I can’t do this here.”
Understanding flooded Dean’s gaze. “What exactly did you remember?” When Sam just looked away, he sighed. “Okay, okay. See that door over there? It opens onto the docks. Go get some air. I’ll bring her to you.”
Not trusting his voice, Sam nodded and fled. He wove his way through crowded tables, tripping over someone’s foot and nearly taking out a girl juggling several pitchers of beer. Muttering apologies, he pushed through the door and stumbled outside.
For a moment it was enough just to draw the crisp air into his lungs. Sagging against a wooden railing, he let the darkness and silence envelop him, slowly calming his jittering nerves.
As he stared out at the water, Jo’s wide, terrified eyes--and worse, his own feelings of excitement--rose in his memory. His stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. He’d gotten off on her pain and fear. No matter that it was Meg in control, it was still his body, he still felt and enjoyed every minute of it.
Just like the monsters he and Dean hunted.
Only this time, he was the monster. And Dean hadn’t been there to stop him.
He opened his eyes and stared down into the inky black water as it lapped against the wooden pilings. Behind him the door opened, spilling light and warmth. Pulling in a deep breath, Sam turned. Jo stood beside Dean, wearing the same guarded expression that had begun to haunt him.
He pasted on a smile. “Hey, Jo.”
“Sam.”
He started to fold his arms, stopped, shoved hands into his pockets instead. “You look good.” He flushed, horrified. “Uh, that is, I mean--”
“Thanks. You look like shit.” She quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “So do you.”
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.” Dean looked at Sam. “Totally worth the 15-hour drive.”
“And speaking of that . . .” Jo glanced between the two of them. “What’s this all about?”
“I needed to talk to you.” Sam took a breath. “Alone--if that’s all right with you.”
She was good. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he’d probably have missed the fear that briefly flickered in her eyes. “Sure. You want a drink?” Her mouth set in a straight line. “It’s on the house.”
Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking for a specific reaction to that. “Uh, actually . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, then curled his fingers into a fist when they trembled. “Out here would be better. If you don’t mind.”
She stuffed her hands in her pockets and inclined her head. “Okay. But you’ll have to make it fast. My shift started five minutes ago.”
All three stood in silence for a moment before Dean threw Sam a worried look, then cleared his throat. “Okay, then. If anyone needs me, I’ll be dazzling Emily with my awesome good looks and sparkling personality.”
After he disappeared inside, Jo looked at Sam with raised eyebrows. “So?”
Hearing the edge in her voice, Sam moved back to lean against the railing, putting a healthy distance between them. “I need to talk to you about what happened . . . before.”
Jo regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
It wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Huh?”
“Why do we need to talk? I thought we were past it.”
“We were, it’s just--”
“You were possessed, you apologized, there’s barely even a bruise left--it’s all water under the bridge, right?” She delivered the words with her gaze fixed just over his left shoulder, never making eye contact.
Her obvious discomfort only increased the sick sense of wrong in Sam’s gut. “Yeah, sure, but--”
“Because it’s not really something I want to reminisce about, you know?” she said, posture rigid and expression stony. “Like, ‘Hey, Sam, remember the time you tied me to that post?’ doesn’t really work for me. I’d just as soon let the whole thing drop.”
Frustrated, he straightened from his slouch. “I can’t.”
It came out sharper than he intended, and Jo flinched back, her hands shifting restlessly in her pockets. She recovered quickly, though, and her eyes were flinty when they finally challenged his. “Why the hell not?”
Sam swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve been getting flashes of things that happened while I was possessed,” he said quietly. “Some of them are from that night.”
“And?”
“There are still holes--gaps. And I need to know . . .” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I hurt you. I need to know exactly how bad.”
With a huff, she rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, you threw me around a little, knocked my head against the bar.” As she studied his face some of the stiffness leaked out of her shoulders. “It was a mild concussion, Sam. I stopped having headaches after the first day.”
He shook his head, his agitation rising even as Jo calmed. “That’s not what I mean. I want you to level with me.”
She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you’d better tell me just what it is you expect me to say.”
“The truth!” His voice cracked, and his eyes burned. Turning away, he scrubbed at them with the heel of one hand.
“Sam . . .”
He dropped his hand, surprised by the concern in her voice and the fact that she’d moved to face him. It took all his courage to meet her gaze. “I remember some of the things I said, things I did. And I’ve got to know how far it went. Did I . . .” His voice cracked. “Jo, did I . . . rape you?”
Her eyes widened, then went soft with emotion. “Oh, Sam. No. God, no.”
The intense wave of relief turned Sam’s legs to rubber, and he sat on the cold wooden boards, his back pressed against a post. Jo crouched down beside him but remained silent, giving him space. He had a sudden memory of the two of them sitting in the back seat of the Impala, trading amused glances as Ellen reduced Dean Winchester, badass hunter, into a stammering little boy.
He wondered if they’d ever share that easy camaraderie again.
“You--she--messed with my head,” Jo said. “And I’ll admit there was a moment when I started to worry . . .” A shiver rippled through her.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She gave him a tentative smile to prove her words. Then it faded. “The truth is she wasn’t really interested in me at all. It was Dean she was after.”
Seeing a ghost of the wariness that had troubled him, Sam cleared his throat. “Jo, did I say or do anything else I should know about?”
Pain drifted across her face, but she shook her head. “No.”
Sam frowned. “Are you sure? ’Cause that didn’t look like a no.”
She set her jaw, but he could tell the hardness in her eyes wasn’t for him. “Demons lie, right? And even when they don’t . . . Nothing she said matters.”
She stood, dusting off her jeans before extending a hand. “I’ve got to get to work.”
Sam accepted the tug upright. “Thanks. For, you know . . .” He gestured vaguely. “And for talking to me. Considering the last time I came here, well . . . Agreeing to be alone with me was pretty brave.”
Jo cocked an eyebrow. “Not really.” She pulled her father’s hunting knife from a pocket, and one corner of her mouth turned up.
Sam chuffed a startled laugh, the knot in his chest loosening a little.
“You two heading out soon?”
“If I can drag Dean away from Emily,” Sam said dryly.
Jo rolled her eyes. “Good luck.” She opened the door to the tavern, but turned back. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “You, too.”
Go to part 4