Fic: Dirt Under My Nails
Title: Dirt Under My Nails
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: ~2000
Characters/Pairing: John/Jo
Rating: R
Notes: Written for
kink_bingo, for the prompt "crossdressing (outerwear)". Set pre-series or S1, roughly. Title is from the poem "Botanica".
Summary: Parent-child pairs go missing. John's alone and Jo's alone, but together, they might have a chance.
Four parent-child disappearances in the past month -- John can't ignore it but he can't call Dean away from Massachusetts, where he's trying to take down a particularly nasty group of spirits. But then he runs into Jo, who just rolls her eyes when he asks if she wasn't supposed to be at school in Indiana. She tried to get into the farmhouse already, and he grudgingly forgives her the satisfaction in her voice when she tells him that he won't do much better, because she turns out to be right about it.
"Any idiot can tell this is where the trail leads," she says with an impatience that would do Sam proud. "But they don't want single kids. They don't want singles at all, actually, so they aren't gonna let you in, either, and the only way in is if they let you in."
She explains, when he asks her how the hell she can be so sure, that they didn't let her in because they know that she had a mother, and so they'll know John Winchester has a son, except Dean is a couple states over and a half a dozen up. That's when she brings up her big idea, and he tells her quite clearly that he's not going to have it. "Look," she says finally, "they turned me away without hurting me, so trying isn't going to do anything." And John has to admit that she may have a point here, too, but he only goes along with it when she's sworn that she'll shut up and run if he tells her to run, because he cannot and will not do this to Ellen again.
They throw the outfit together from the boys' section at Wal-Mart, jeans and a plain black tee-shirt. Her steel-toed boots are fine on their own and when she refuses to cut it, they manage to stuff her hair under a baseball cap. John tosses her a roll of gauze and manages not to flinch when she looks at him funny and he has to explain that she's gonna have to bind her breasts. He can't be flinching from her, can't be treating her different; it'll give them away before they can get anywhere. If she were his daughter, he'd probably have had to do this already, with the Grand Rapids job back in '97, for instance; he tells himself this over and over. But she's not his daughter, and, as she snaps when they're arguing about her hair, all it has to do is get them in the door, get them far enough that they can start pumping things full of bullets.
It works, and he thinks this must be one of the nastier jobs she's worked so far, because as they leave the farm, she's shaking. She hides it well, swinging her limbs and swaggering in an attempt to hide the small concession to terror inside a much greater show of overconfidence. John doesn't ask her if she's okay because it'll only piss her off, and instead offers to buy her a drink as thanks before he drops her back off at her car. It's a hot night, too humid for sunset to have yet made much difference in the air's oppressiveness. Jo's rolled down the window and started fanning herself with the baseball cap, which she somehow rescued from the chaos before the place went up in flames. She toys with her knife on the ride, jiggles her knee, tries to work off the adrenaline he knows she's got to be feeling because he's feeling it too -- the deaths were ugly, but they were done fast, without time to get in a good workout. She could be Dean, when it's only a little space in the corner of his eye that she's occupying. Except that he realizes she's looking at him, and when he meets her gaze, the similarities go out the window. There's no mistaking her for anyone but Jo Harvelle then; she may be dressed in boy's clothes but she's definitely not a boy, and she's definitely not one of his boys. Especially not when he realizes there's a smile playing in her face and she asks if maybe they could pull over.
In the few seconds that he can't answer her, she goes red and looks back at the road. "Sorry," she mutters, and he can practically hear her praying that he won't tell her mother about it.
Then he pulls over, the rattle of gravel by the roadside the only sound. He hardly dares breathe too hard, refuses to let himself look at her. The humid night sweeps in heavy around them, and he has to look at her when she shifts so that she can lean closer to him and kiss him.
Her skin's soft as the cheap clothes aren't, and between the job and the sweltering night there's a dampness that clings to her all over. He runs a hand along her chest and she arches, pushes back against his hand. She's breathing hard already. Jo's hands scrabble along his waistline, and she's already got the button undone while he's still trying to unwind the bandages from around her chest. There's no room to maneuver under the shirt, but she won't just shrug on out of it. He gives up on the bandages for the moment and wraps a hand in her hair instead, pulling it free of the ponytail she's got it in. She winces as the elastic snags, and it drops to the floor, and hell if he'll know where to find it later.
Her hands cover his when he reaches for the hem of her shirt, or try to, but they're smaller than his and she has to push back at him. There's no telling how long they've got, although they're far enough in the middle of nowhere that interruptions are unlikely. She just kisses him instead, presses her mouth against his and twines her fingers with his and kisses him, standing on her toes to do it. Jo's mouth is soft, but she pushes back when he deepens it, tightening her grip on his hands even as she pulls them closer, till his knuckles are brushing her shoulders.
"Maybe not a drink?" he asks, not quite able to hate himself, because the important thing is that she's all right, and because she's kissing him at least as hard as he's kissing her, and she's made it plenty clear that Ellen's never going to find out about this to kill either of them for it. It doesn't help much, not really, but in light of the fact that she's eighteen and has made her wanting clear, John supposes this is still pretty far from the worst thing he's done to this family.
"Maybe not," she agrees, breathing hard. When the light of a 7-Eleven sign is glowing in the distance he starts to suggest that he stop off, and she grins as she digs in her pocket and pulls out a couple of condoms. They both laugh, and it helps, even as he notices she's got a gorgeous laugh and feels that knowledge way down in his groin.
He and Dean have got the same looks from the corner of people's eyes -- hell, if Dean were a girl they'd probably be getting a lot more of them -- but the smirk the kid behind the counter gives him feels different this time, possibly because the kid is completely right and they really aren't just here to sleep, and the fact that there's actually a girl underneath those clothes doesn't make John any less of a dirty old man. She's still in the outfit, hasn't even unbound her breasts, hood of her jacket pulled up over her head and hands thrust in her pockets and the attitude is more Sam than Dean, but without looking closely she could be his son. As soon as he closes the door behind them John puts his hands on his waist, feels the way it curves under the shapeless tee, reminds himself that she is not his child, that son or daughter doesn't matter because she's not his either way. She is just another hunter, another hunter who's done what she had to do for the job, and a hunter who's pulling him close again and kissing him again, a hunter who's got him hard against her thigh.
She grabs his hands when he goes for her shirt again, and he fights her a little this time, pushes back when she pushes him, but when she pulls his hands down and guides him to the closure on her jeans instead he goes docile as a kitten. She strips off the jacket while he goes for her jeans, and the underwear she's got on is simple, plain white cotton, but beneath the sharp jutting hipbones and the lines of her waist there's no denying anymore that she's female.
The sheets are rough when he pulls her down on top of him. Jo finally strips the shirt off over her head, but she takes hold of his hands again before he can do more than drag them down from the sides of her face -- he's been kissing her again -- to her chest, the curves of her ribs more obvious than those of her breasts, she's bound them up so tight. John gives up for the time being, just presses closer to her and breathes her in. There's no mythical Woman Smell, not that he's ever noticed, and hell if he knows what she smells like most of the time anyway, because he's never been compelled to start sniffing Jo's hair, and even if he had it wouldn't be when Ellen was standing right there at the bar, fully capable of shooting him for it. She just smells like sweat, and there's a tang of something that might have been her shampoo; she just smells like a person, at the end of the day. Though admittedly better than some of the other hunters he's worked with. As soon as his arms are around her, Jo grabs hold of him and flips them, pulling him on top of her, and startles a laugh out of him. She grins at that and tugs at his shirt, kissing him again as soon as it's off.
She's rolling her hips against his, making it obvious what she wants, and he's aching by now, because underneath the clothes she's pretty and female, and underneath the attitude she's a sweet girl who's made it very clear that she wants him, and John Winchester is many things but he's not an idiot. He holds himself up on his elbows as he pushes into her, but Jo just grins at him, reaches up and pulls him down closer to her.
It's easy to lose himself from there on, and she seems happy enough to do the same, and when he lifts himself enough that he can move his hand between them and gently start feeling for her clit, he's impressed that she's still together enough to push out a smile between her panting breaths.
He offers to leave her the room afterwards, and she rolls her eyes and tells him not to be stupid and chivalrous, "You've gotta be as tired as I am." She's right, and it's easier to lay down beside her than it probably should be, but she doesn't give him time to think about it, just turns out the light. She's asleep before he can say anything else, and John finally just decides that he may as well stay.
I'm so horrified at how hard I'm falling for this fandom. I MANAGED FOUR YEARS WITHOUT GIVING IN, WHY. I also have lulzy gen fic in mind, but we'll see if I ever actually get that written.
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: ~2000
Characters/Pairing: John/Jo
Rating: R
Notes: Written for
kink_bingo, for the prompt "crossdressing (outerwear)". Set pre-series or S1, roughly. Title is from the poem "Botanica".
Summary: Parent-child pairs go missing. John's alone and Jo's alone, but together, they might have a chance.
Four parent-child disappearances in the past month -- John can't ignore it but he can't call Dean away from Massachusetts, where he's trying to take down a particularly nasty group of spirits. But then he runs into Jo, who just rolls her eyes when he asks if she wasn't supposed to be at school in Indiana. She tried to get into the farmhouse already, and he grudgingly forgives her the satisfaction in her voice when she tells him that he won't do much better, because she turns out to be right about it.
"Any idiot can tell this is where the trail leads," she says with an impatience that would do Sam proud. "But they don't want single kids. They don't want singles at all, actually, so they aren't gonna let you in, either, and the only way in is if they let you in."
She explains, when he asks her how the hell she can be so sure, that they didn't let her in because they know that she had a mother, and so they'll know John Winchester has a son, except Dean is a couple states over and a half a dozen up. That's when she brings up her big idea, and he tells her quite clearly that he's not going to have it. "Look," she says finally, "they turned me away without hurting me, so trying isn't going to do anything." And John has to admit that she may have a point here, too, but he only goes along with it when she's sworn that she'll shut up and run if he tells her to run, because he cannot and will not do this to Ellen again.
They throw the outfit together from the boys' section at Wal-Mart, jeans and a plain black tee-shirt. Her steel-toed boots are fine on their own and when she refuses to cut it, they manage to stuff her hair under a baseball cap. John tosses her a roll of gauze and manages not to flinch when she looks at him funny and he has to explain that she's gonna have to bind her breasts. He can't be flinching from her, can't be treating her different; it'll give them away before they can get anywhere. If she were his daughter, he'd probably have had to do this already, with the Grand Rapids job back in '97, for instance; he tells himself this over and over. But she's not his daughter, and, as she snaps when they're arguing about her hair, all it has to do is get them in the door, get them far enough that they can start pumping things full of bullets.
It works, and he thinks this must be one of the nastier jobs she's worked so far, because as they leave the farm, she's shaking. She hides it well, swinging her limbs and swaggering in an attempt to hide the small concession to terror inside a much greater show of overconfidence. John doesn't ask her if she's okay because it'll only piss her off, and instead offers to buy her a drink as thanks before he drops her back off at her car. It's a hot night, too humid for sunset to have yet made much difference in the air's oppressiveness. Jo's rolled down the window and started fanning herself with the baseball cap, which she somehow rescued from the chaos before the place went up in flames. She toys with her knife on the ride, jiggles her knee, tries to work off the adrenaline he knows she's got to be feeling because he's feeling it too -- the deaths were ugly, but they were done fast, without time to get in a good workout. She could be Dean, when it's only a little space in the corner of his eye that she's occupying. Except that he realizes she's looking at him, and when he meets her gaze, the similarities go out the window. There's no mistaking her for anyone but Jo Harvelle then; she may be dressed in boy's clothes but she's definitely not a boy, and she's definitely not one of his boys. Especially not when he realizes there's a smile playing in her face and she asks if maybe they could pull over.
In the few seconds that he can't answer her, she goes red and looks back at the road. "Sorry," she mutters, and he can practically hear her praying that he won't tell her mother about it.
Then he pulls over, the rattle of gravel by the roadside the only sound. He hardly dares breathe too hard, refuses to let himself look at her. The humid night sweeps in heavy around them, and he has to look at her when she shifts so that she can lean closer to him and kiss him.
Her skin's soft as the cheap clothes aren't, and between the job and the sweltering night there's a dampness that clings to her all over. He runs a hand along her chest and she arches, pushes back against his hand. She's breathing hard already. Jo's hands scrabble along his waistline, and she's already got the button undone while he's still trying to unwind the bandages from around her chest. There's no room to maneuver under the shirt, but she won't just shrug on out of it. He gives up on the bandages for the moment and wraps a hand in her hair instead, pulling it free of the ponytail she's got it in. She winces as the elastic snags, and it drops to the floor, and hell if he'll know where to find it later.
Her hands cover his when he reaches for the hem of her shirt, or try to, but they're smaller than his and she has to push back at him. There's no telling how long they've got, although they're far enough in the middle of nowhere that interruptions are unlikely. She just kisses him instead, presses her mouth against his and twines her fingers with his and kisses him, standing on her toes to do it. Jo's mouth is soft, but she pushes back when he deepens it, tightening her grip on his hands even as she pulls them closer, till his knuckles are brushing her shoulders.
"Maybe not a drink?" he asks, not quite able to hate himself, because the important thing is that she's all right, and because she's kissing him at least as hard as he's kissing her, and she's made it plenty clear that Ellen's never going to find out about this to kill either of them for it. It doesn't help much, not really, but in light of the fact that she's eighteen and has made her wanting clear, John supposes this is still pretty far from the worst thing he's done to this family.
"Maybe not," she agrees, breathing hard. When the light of a 7-Eleven sign is glowing in the distance he starts to suggest that he stop off, and she grins as she digs in her pocket and pulls out a couple of condoms. They both laugh, and it helps, even as he notices she's got a gorgeous laugh and feels that knowledge way down in his groin.
He and Dean have got the same looks from the corner of people's eyes -- hell, if Dean were a girl they'd probably be getting a lot more of them -- but the smirk the kid behind the counter gives him feels different this time, possibly because the kid is completely right and they really aren't just here to sleep, and the fact that there's actually a girl underneath those clothes doesn't make John any less of a dirty old man. She's still in the outfit, hasn't even unbound her breasts, hood of her jacket pulled up over her head and hands thrust in her pockets and the attitude is more Sam than Dean, but without looking closely she could be his son. As soon as he closes the door behind them John puts his hands on his waist, feels the way it curves under the shapeless tee, reminds himself that she is not his child, that son or daughter doesn't matter because she's not his either way. She is just another hunter, another hunter who's done what she had to do for the job, and a hunter who's pulling him close again and kissing him again, a hunter who's got him hard against her thigh.
She grabs his hands when he goes for her shirt again, and he fights her a little this time, pushes back when she pushes him, but when she pulls his hands down and guides him to the closure on her jeans instead he goes docile as a kitten. She strips off the jacket while he goes for her jeans, and the underwear she's got on is simple, plain white cotton, but beneath the sharp jutting hipbones and the lines of her waist there's no denying anymore that she's female.
The sheets are rough when he pulls her down on top of him. Jo finally strips the shirt off over her head, but she takes hold of his hands again before he can do more than drag them down from the sides of her face -- he's been kissing her again -- to her chest, the curves of her ribs more obvious than those of her breasts, she's bound them up so tight. John gives up for the time being, just presses closer to her and breathes her in. There's no mythical Woman Smell, not that he's ever noticed, and hell if he knows what she smells like most of the time anyway, because he's never been compelled to start sniffing Jo's hair, and even if he had it wouldn't be when Ellen was standing right there at the bar, fully capable of shooting him for it. She just smells like sweat, and there's a tang of something that might have been her shampoo; she just smells like a person, at the end of the day. Though admittedly better than some of the other hunters he's worked with. As soon as his arms are around her, Jo grabs hold of him and flips them, pulling him on top of her, and startles a laugh out of him. She grins at that and tugs at his shirt, kissing him again as soon as it's off.
She's rolling her hips against his, making it obvious what she wants, and he's aching by now, because underneath the clothes she's pretty and female, and underneath the attitude she's a sweet girl who's made it very clear that she wants him, and John Winchester is many things but he's not an idiot. He holds himself up on his elbows as he pushes into her, but Jo just grins at him, reaches up and pulls him down closer to her.
It's easy to lose himself from there on, and she seems happy enough to do the same, and when he lifts himself enough that he can move his hand between them and gently start feeling for her clit, he's impressed that she's still together enough to push out a smile between her panting breaths.
He offers to leave her the room afterwards, and she rolls her eyes and tells him not to be stupid and chivalrous, "You've gotta be as tired as I am." She's right, and it's easier to lay down beside her than it probably should be, but she doesn't give him time to think about it, just turns out the light. She's asleep before he can say anything else, and John finally just decides that he may as well stay.
I'm so horrified at how hard I'm falling for this fandom. I MANAGED FOUR YEARS WITHOUT GIVING IN, WHY. I also have lulzy gen fic in mind, but we'll see if I ever actually get that written.