Something Attempted, Something Done, for ashe_frost (Dean/Jo, R)
Title: Something Attempted, Something Done
Author: brin_bailey
Recipient: ashe_frost
Rating:R
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: This just might be the best morning ever.
Author's Notes: Title is taken from the quote, “Each morning see some task be done, each evening see it close; something attempted, something done.”
Dean slowly limps down the back stairs, skips the third step from the bottom because it creaks and he doesn’t want to wake up his brother or Bobby. He yawns and stretches and tiredly rubs the backs of his knuckles across his chin. It’s sometime in the early morning, pinkish hues of a rising sun staining the dirty glass of the windowpanes an ironic rose color.
Sam and him drove up to Bobby’s when it was still dark out, the shining headlights of Dean’s car making blurry and uneven yellow circles on the chipped wooden siding. Now Dean can see the messy drops of blood and clumps of dried mud that they trailed through the hallways, Sam’s shoulders threaded over his as they carried each other through the house and up the stairs to spare bedrooms with hand stitched quilts.
His knee throbs and he reaches down to push the pad of his thumb over the red and swollen skin as he hobbles on one leg towards the kitchen. He’s going to need a handful of ice for his knee and another handful to put in the bottom of a glass and drown in whiskey.
He jiggles the doorknob, it’s old and it sticks, and opens the door to see some half-naked girl with pair of white cotton panties wiggling in front of the refrigerator. Dean blinks and wipes at his eyes, thinking that maybe that ghost slammed his head against the wall harder than he thought yesterday. But the panties are still there, sitting on top of smooth girl thighs and long and thin fingers slipping into one side, pulling the underwear a bit further down over slim hips.
And, well, fuck him. Throw in some fresh made coffee and this just might be the best morning ever.
Dean sucks back a sharp breath through closed teeth and limps his way closer to the girl. She wiggles some more, taps on the fridge door with the tips of her fingers, and then slowly drags one foot up and down the back of her calf. He half bends down so his body is twisted just above hers, so close he can count the scars and freckles across her shoulders in between the straps of her tank top.
“You know, if you’re really hungry-”
She jumps and smacks the top of her head on the inside of the refrigerator. Dean reaches out to steady her, but she quickly whips around and slams a closed fist into his nose.
“Fuck!”
She jumps again, steps back on the balls of her feet, and brings a hand up to cover her open mouth. He thinks that she does, anyway, because right now everything looks a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Dean?” she asks.
Holy crap, it can’t be who he thinks it is. No way.
She lowers her hand and touches the tips of her fingers to his cheek. He groans, barely tipping his face out of reach, and then his vision starts to click back into place. His eyes are watery when he blinks again, but it’s her alright.
“Jo? The fuck are you doing here?” He waves a hand at her, mouth pinched. “In your underwear.”
She shrugs, a little on the sheepish side, and chews on her lower lip. “I live here.”
“At Bobby’s?” Dean starts to scrunch up his nose in confusion and feels a small stream of blood start to pour out of one nostril. He wipes at it with the back of his hand. “Jesus. Is this the only way you know how to greet people? Or am I just special?”
“Oh, you’re plenty special,” she says, smirking. She turns back around and grabs a dishcloth off of the counter, running it under cold water and then pressing it beneath his nose. “Sorry, by the way. Scared the ever living shit outta me, though.”
He nods and sniffs, pulling the cloth away from his nose to see it smeared with blood. Jo takes it back to rinse it off, then firmly shoves back it under his nose.
“So,” he says. He sniffs again. “You live at Bobby’s now? Since when?”
“Few months.”
She pulls the fridge back open and grabs a carton of orange juice and a half eaten pie, slams the door shut with her foot, and sits on top of the kitchen counter. With one bare leg crossed over the other, she leans down and pulls a piece of piecrust off, slipping it into her mouth. And maybe it’s because she’s only wearing a pair of panties and a small tank top with straps that keep sliding down her shoulders, but Dean thinks that it’s kind of really hot. Or maybe she just punched him really hard.
“What about you?” she asks. She playfully narrows her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Leaking bodily fluids all over Bobby’s house, apparently.”
He tries to laugh, but his lip curls up and he feels a few more drops of blood slip from his nose. He wipes it off and throws the balled up dishcloth into the kitchen sink. It lands on top of the faucet and Jo delicately lifts one of her legs and pushes the cloth into the sink with the tips of her toes. And suddenly the whole pie and panties thing takes second place for hottest thing ever and leg lifting in the same barely there panties pushes into first. Dean presses his knuckles to his lips and clears his throat.
“Uh. Sammy and me, we got pretty roughed up on the last hunt,” Dean says. He shows her his swollen and bruised knee and points a finger at the stitches above his left eye, the bruises on his neck. “It was just outside of Belle Fourche and we needed a place to crash.”
She nods. “Ah.”
He leans against the counter and twists the cap off of the orange juice, takes a quick sip right from the carton and then hands it over to Jo. She wipes her thumb across the corner of her lips, catches a piece of cherry pie filling, and sucks it off before taking a swig of juice.
“Bobby found me pretty much bleeding out in the middle of some field out in freaking Bumfuck, Nowhere.” Jo pulls her tank top up, just high enough that Dean can see the soft underside of one breast, and moves her fingers over a thick and lumpy purple scar that stretches right across her ribs. “He stitched me up and adopted me like the lost little puppy that I am.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “There’s a joke in there about you being a bitch, but I’m kinda worried that if I say anything, you’ll beat on me again.”
She laughs and digs her knee into his back, the bare skin of her leg rubbing against the bare skin in between his shoulder blades. He stiffens at the sudden contact, tenses up in his neck and his arms. Jo notices, quickly pulls her leg back, and sees that her top is still yanked up to her tits. She tugs it back down, fingers flicking across the scar.
“Good,” she says, popping another small piece of pie into her mouth. “You should be. Worried, I mean. Got a killer right hook.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean carefully runs his forefinger down the bridge of his nose. Smirking, he shoves at the pie plate and juice carton and her thigh. “Hey, move over. You’re being a freakin’ pie hog.”
She gives a mock over exaggerated sigh, and shifts herself over to make room, piling the pie and the juice in her arms. He hops up on the counter beside her, spitting out a few choice words about his knee, and scoops some cherry filling onto two of his fingers and then licks it off.
“How’s the job been treating you?”
“Just bagged a nest of vampires last week and followed it up with a little demonic exorcism.”
Dean turns his head, but still ends up looking at her kind of sideways. “So, what, you’re this badass hunter now?”
“Yeah. Maybe,” she says. “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”
“Oh, you know. Went to hell, came back from hell.” He licks at his fingers again. “About par for the Winchesters, I guess.”
She pitches the half full orange juice carton into the sink and holds up the near empty pie plate, offering Dean the last bit of crust and blobs of filling. He finishes it off and Jo tosses that into the sink too, shrugs her shoulders, and swings her feet against the cupboards.
“You look good,” she says. Her elbow pushes into his side. “For a once dead guy.”
Jo pulls down at the edge of her underwear, smearing a bit of cherry filling that’s still stuck on her hands, and then rubs her sticky fingers over the bottom of her tank top. Dean grins.
“You look pretty good too, Jo.”
She has two neat scars that cut into the top of her leg and disappear up into those white cotton panties. Dean drags his fingers over the scars, kind of wants to ask where she got them, but doesn’t know how. He holds his hand flat on her thigh, covers the scars completely.
“I waited for you to call,” she says. “But I guess going to hell is as good excuse as any not to. There was a lot of sleepless nights just waiting by the phone, reading old issues of Sassy and crying.”
He laughs, nodding his head. “Must’ve been heartbreaking.”
“Not really.” She starts moving her fingers around the outline of his hand where it rests on her leg, around the ridges of his knuckles and the rough edges of his palm, following the lazy movements of her fingers with her eyes. “Plus, you know, fucking randoms in the bathroom stalls of bars kind of lessens the pain.”
“Your mother know you’re that kind of girl?”
“Hmm, and what kind of girl would that be?” Her lips quirk into a sweet smile, mouth stained a dark pink from the cherry pie, just like the windows from the sun.
“Well,” he starts, one eyebrow slowly lifting. “Me, personally, I wouldn’t call that the good kind. Necessarily.”
“Did you just call me a slut?” she asks, smiling wider and slipping her hand away.
“No,” he says. He curls his fingers further and tighter around her thigh, just enough for his bitten down nails to leave behind light marks. “I’m pretty sure that would’ve sounded a little more like, ‘Jo, you’re a slut’.”
“Uh-huh, right.”
“How d’you think it would’ve sounded like?”
She doesn’t answer, but shifts and crosses one leg on top of the other, trapping Dean’s hand between them. She moves her hand to his knee, then brings it up to his shoulder-the skin purpled up to his neck.
“You ever count the scars and bruises after a hunt?” she asks. “Add up the ways that you’re damaged?”
He looks down at her fingers tracing patterns between bruises. “Now, who says that makes you damaged?”
She laughs. “The world, Dean.”
Jo slides off the kitchen counter, her feet hitting the dirty tiled floor with a low slap. Pushing the straps of her tank top back up over her shoulders, she grins. It’s kind of strange to see her standing in Bobby’s kitchen wearing nothing but her underwear and the same smirk from the day he first met her. She doesn’t really look different, not in some obvious way, but there’s something about her that’s changed. Dean thinks it probably has a lot to do with that scar across her ribs.
She reaches up and winds her fingers around one of his wrists, gently pulling him down and off the counter until his toes bump into hers. Pointing at the back door, not the kitchen one with the knob that sticks, but a screen door with squeaky hinges that leads outside, and she nods her head.
“You feel up for a fieldtrip?”
Dean puts a hand to his knee, rubs out some of the pain, and returns her nod. “Yeah, sure.”
“Shoes,” she says.
She bends down, tank top scrunching up over her back and stomach, and tucks her bare feet into a pair of beat up motorcycle boots. She fiddles with a broken buckle on one, then shrugs and lets it hang awkward and limp. Dean yanks on Sam’s sneakers, tightening the laces so they don’t flop around his ankles.
“Where’re we going?” he asks.
“Your car.”
“My car?”
She bites at the side of her mouth, raises an eyebrow. “I wanna get a nice long look at the backseat.”
He follows her outside, both of them carefully walking through winding paths of metal scraps and engines and mufflers that don’t run. Jo leans against his car, wipes off the smudges of dust and dirt on the toes of her boots, then folds her arms across her chest. She looks up at the sky, lighter out now with pink slipping into orange, and sucks back a breath through her nose.
“God. Don’t you love sunrises and all that pretty shit?”
“Guess so,” Dean says. “What are we doing out here, exactly?”
She tilts her head forward and giggles. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you silly.”
“You’re gonna, wha-huh?”
She knots her fingers around his arm and tugs him into the backseat, treads of her boots pressed to his side and leaving behind prints. It’s been years since he’s sat back here with Sam, when they used to trade comics books and play I Spy, and Dean has to fold his legs at odd angles to make himself fit. Jo just crawls onto his lap.
She’s quiet and still for a full minute and Dean starts to squirm. He doesn’t really do awkward silence all that well.
“H-how’s your mom?” he asks, head tipped to the side and an almost-smirk on his mouth.
Jo puts her hands on both of his cheeks and tilts her mouth closer to his until his lips brush against hers, and kisses him. She tastes like drugstore chap stick and cherries and Dean almost slides his tongue past her lips, just to taste her a bit more.
“Mom’s good,” Jo says. She moves so her knees are tight around his hips, kisses him again. Her lips purse and she sucks a slow path down his throat and neck, makes new bruises beside the old. “How’s your brother? He doing okay? And, man, weird weather we’re having, right? Did you hear about the gas prices?”
Dean makes a confused face, teeth scraping over his lip. He slips one finger under one of the straps on her top, plucks at it idly. “Hmm?”
“Sorry, I thought we were making small talk.”
“And I thought you were gonna fuck me silly,” he says. The almost-smirk curls up around the edges, turns into a grin. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Well, plans usually have two parts.” She sighs and sits back on her heels, tucks the tips of her fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts. “I figured, maybe, we’d start with the first part of the plan, work our way up to the second.”
“So, in the fuck me silly plan, what’s the first part?” He pushes the thin strap down off of her shoulder and holds an open mouth to the top of her collarbone. He moves his hips up a little and she pushes herself down, meets him in the middle.
“Just like any plan, really,” she says. Jo slowly pulls off her top, shakes blonde curls out and around her face, and lets the tank fall from her fingers and down to the floor mats. “First part is always the prep work.”
Dean tucks his thumbs beneath her breasts, pressing his lips to the underside of her chin and smoothing one hand over the big and messy scar that covers her ribs. Jo was always nothing more than some little girl that worked in a bar and liked to play dress-up with her daddy’s things. Dean never thought of her as a hunter before, never thought of her as a someone who’d fuck a guy in the backseat of a car. And here she is, sitting in his lap with the proof that, really, she’s both. She smiles and tips her mouth towards his, kisses him with her tongue tracing the sharp edges of his teeth.
“Second part?” he asks.
“Just like any plan,” she says again. “You got the prep work and all that fun plotting. And if you do that right, you’ll get to the second part. The action. The big climax of everything. But, if you don’t map out your strategy right, well, then just any like plan, it kind of falls to shit.”
“Oh, don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got all kinds of strategy.”
Jo rolls her eyes, then laughs and pushes her hands against his chest, covering his mouth with hers. With his tongue pressing into her mouth and his fingers wrapped around her elbows, she tugs both of them down onto the seat and wiggles beneath him. Dean pulls a curl from her face, smirking. Jo Harvelle, all half-naked in the backseat of his car. He puts his lips to her neck.
“Hey, Jo. You know how to make fresh coffee?”
Author: brin_bailey
Recipient: ashe_frost
Rating:R
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: This just might be the best morning ever.
Author's Notes: Title is taken from the quote, “Each morning see some task be done, each evening see it close; something attempted, something done.”
Dean slowly limps down the back stairs, skips the third step from the bottom because it creaks and he doesn’t want to wake up his brother or Bobby. He yawns and stretches and tiredly rubs the backs of his knuckles across his chin. It’s sometime in the early morning, pinkish hues of a rising sun staining the dirty glass of the windowpanes an ironic rose color.
Sam and him drove up to Bobby’s when it was still dark out, the shining headlights of Dean’s car making blurry and uneven yellow circles on the chipped wooden siding. Now Dean can see the messy drops of blood and clumps of dried mud that they trailed through the hallways, Sam’s shoulders threaded over his as they carried each other through the house and up the stairs to spare bedrooms with hand stitched quilts.
His knee throbs and he reaches down to push the pad of his thumb over the red and swollen skin as he hobbles on one leg towards the kitchen. He’s going to need a handful of ice for his knee and another handful to put in the bottom of a glass and drown in whiskey.
He jiggles the doorknob, it’s old and it sticks, and opens the door to see some half-naked girl with pair of white cotton panties wiggling in front of the refrigerator. Dean blinks and wipes at his eyes, thinking that maybe that ghost slammed his head against the wall harder than he thought yesterday. But the panties are still there, sitting on top of smooth girl thighs and long and thin fingers slipping into one side, pulling the underwear a bit further down over slim hips.
And, well, fuck him. Throw in some fresh made coffee and this just might be the best morning ever.
Dean sucks back a sharp breath through closed teeth and limps his way closer to the girl. She wiggles some more, taps on the fridge door with the tips of her fingers, and then slowly drags one foot up and down the back of her calf. He half bends down so his body is twisted just above hers, so close he can count the scars and freckles across her shoulders in between the straps of her tank top.
“You know, if you’re really hungry-”
She jumps and smacks the top of her head on the inside of the refrigerator. Dean reaches out to steady her, but she quickly whips around and slams a closed fist into his nose.
“Fuck!”
She jumps again, steps back on the balls of her feet, and brings a hand up to cover her open mouth. He thinks that she does, anyway, because right now everything looks a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Dean?” she asks.
Holy crap, it can’t be who he thinks it is. No way.
She lowers her hand and touches the tips of her fingers to his cheek. He groans, barely tipping his face out of reach, and then his vision starts to click back into place. His eyes are watery when he blinks again, but it’s her alright.
“Jo? The fuck are you doing here?” He waves a hand at her, mouth pinched. “In your underwear.”
She shrugs, a little on the sheepish side, and chews on her lower lip. “I live here.”
“At Bobby’s?” Dean starts to scrunch up his nose in confusion and feels a small stream of blood start to pour out of one nostril. He wipes at it with the back of his hand. “Jesus. Is this the only way you know how to greet people? Or am I just special?”
“Oh, you’re plenty special,” she says, smirking. She turns back around and grabs a dishcloth off of the counter, running it under cold water and then pressing it beneath his nose. “Sorry, by the way. Scared the ever living shit outta me, though.”
He nods and sniffs, pulling the cloth away from his nose to see it smeared with blood. Jo takes it back to rinse it off, then firmly shoves back it under his nose.
“So,” he says. He sniffs again. “You live at Bobby’s now? Since when?”
“Few months.”
She pulls the fridge back open and grabs a carton of orange juice and a half eaten pie, slams the door shut with her foot, and sits on top of the kitchen counter. With one bare leg crossed over the other, she leans down and pulls a piece of piecrust off, slipping it into her mouth. And maybe it’s because she’s only wearing a pair of panties and a small tank top with straps that keep sliding down her shoulders, but Dean thinks that it’s kind of really hot. Or maybe she just punched him really hard.
“What about you?” she asks. She playfully narrows her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Leaking bodily fluids all over Bobby’s house, apparently.”
He tries to laugh, but his lip curls up and he feels a few more drops of blood slip from his nose. He wipes it off and throws the balled up dishcloth into the kitchen sink. It lands on top of the faucet and Jo delicately lifts one of her legs and pushes the cloth into the sink with the tips of her toes. And suddenly the whole pie and panties thing takes second place for hottest thing ever and leg lifting in the same barely there panties pushes into first. Dean presses his knuckles to his lips and clears his throat.
“Uh. Sammy and me, we got pretty roughed up on the last hunt,” Dean says. He shows her his swollen and bruised knee and points a finger at the stitches above his left eye, the bruises on his neck. “It was just outside of Belle Fourche and we needed a place to crash.”
She nods. “Ah.”
He leans against the counter and twists the cap off of the orange juice, takes a quick sip right from the carton and then hands it over to Jo. She wipes her thumb across the corner of her lips, catches a piece of cherry pie filling, and sucks it off before taking a swig of juice.
“Bobby found me pretty much bleeding out in the middle of some field out in freaking Bumfuck, Nowhere.” Jo pulls her tank top up, just high enough that Dean can see the soft underside of one breast, and moves her fingers over a thick and lumpy purple scar that stretches right across her ribs. “He stitched me up and adopted me like the lost little puppy that I am.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “There’s a joke in there about you being a bitch, but I’m kinda worried that if I say anything, you’ll beat on me again.”
She laughs and digs her knee into his back, the bare skin of her leg rubbing against the bare skin in between his shoulder blades. He stiffens at the sudden contact, tenses up in his neck and his arms. Jo notices, quickly pulls her leg back, and sees that her top is still yanked up to her tits. She tugs it back down, fingers flicking across the scar.
“Good,” she says, popping another small piece of pie into her mouth. “You should be. Worried, I mean. Got a killer right hook.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean carefully runs his forefinger down the bridge of his nose. Smirking, he shoves at the pie plate and juice carton and her thigh. “Hey, move over. You’re being a freakin’ pie hog.”
She gives a mock over exaggerated sigh, and shifts herself over to make room, piling the pie and the juice in her arms. He hops up on the counter beside her, spitting out a few choice words about his knee, and scoops some cherry filling onto two of his fingers and then licks it off.
“How’s the job been treating you?”
“Just bagged a nest of vampires last week and followed it up with a little demonic exorcism.”
Dean turns his head, but still ends up looking at her kind of sideways. “So, what, you’re this badass hunter now?”
“Yeah. Maybe,” she says. “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”
“Oh, you know. Went to hell, came back from hell.” He licks at his fingers again. “About par for the Winchesters, I guess.”
She pitches the half full orange juice carton into the sink and holds up the near empty pie plate, offering Dean the last bit of crust and blobs of filling. He finishes it off and Jo tosses that into the sink too, shrugs her shoulders, and swings her feet against the cupboards.
“You look good,” she says. Her elbow pushes into his side. “For a once dead guy.”
Jo pulls down at the edge of her underwear, smearing a bit of cherry filling that’s still stuck on her hands, and then rubs her sticky fingers over the bottom of her tank top. Dean grins.
“You look pretty good too, Jo.”
She has two neat scars that cut into the top of her leg and disappear up into those white cotton panties. Dean drags his fingers over the scars, kind of wants to ask where she got them, but doesn’t know how. He holds his hand flat on her thigh, covers the scars completely.
“I waited for you to call,” she says. “But I guess going to hell is as good excuse as any not to. There was a lot of sleepless nights just waiting by the phone, reading old issues of Sassy and crying.”
He laughs, nodding his head. “Must’ve been heartbreaking.”
“Not really.” She starts moving her fingers around the outline of his hand where it rests on her leg, around the ridges of his knuckles and the rough edges of his palm, following the lazy movements of her fingers with her eyes. “Plus, you know, fucking randoms in the bathroom stalls of bars kind of lessens the pain.”
“Your mother know you’re that kind of girl?”
“Hmm, and what kind of girl would that be?” Her lips quirk into a sweet smile, mouth stained a dark pink from the cherry pie, just like the windows from the sun.
“Well,” he starts, one eyebrow slowly lifting. “Me, personally, I wouldn’t call that the good kind. Necessarily.”
“Did you just call me a slut?” she asks, smiling wider and slipping her hand away.
“No,” he says. He curls his fingers further and tighter around her thigh, just enough for his bitten down nails to leave behind light marks. “I’m pretty sure that would’ve sounded a little more like, ‘Jo, you’re a slut’.”
“Uh-huh, right.”
“How d’you think it would’ve sounded like?”
She doesn’t answer, but shifts and crosses one leg on top of the other, trapping Dean’s hand between them. She moves her hand to his knee, then brings it up to his shoulder-the skin purpled up to his neck.
“You ever count the scars and bruises after a hunt?” she asks. “Add up the ways that you’re damaged?”
He looks down at her fingers tracing patterns between bruises. “Now, who says that makes you damaged?”
She laughs. “The world, Dean.”
Jo slides off the kitchen counter, her feet hitting the dirty tiled floor with a low slap. Pushing the straps of her tank top back up over her shoulders, she grins. It’s kind of strange to see her standing in Bobby’s kitchen wearing nothing but her underwear and the same smirk from the day he first met her. She doesn’t really look different, not in some obvious way, but there’s something about her that’s changed. Dean thinks it probably has a lot to do with that scar across her ribs.
She reaches up and winds her fingers around one of his wrists, gently pulling him down and off the counter until his toes bump into hers. Pointing at the back door, not the kitchen one with the knob that sticks, but a screen door with squeaky hinges that leads outside, and she nods her head.
“You feel up for a fieldtrip?”
Dean puts a hand to his knee, rubs out some of the pain, and returns her nod. “Yeah, sure.”
“Shoes,” she says.
She bends down, tank top scrunching up over her back and stomach, and tucks her bare feet into a pair of beat up motorcycle boots. She fiddles with a broken buckle on one, then shrugs and lets it hang awkward and limp. Dean yanks on Sam’s sneakers, tightening the laces so they don’t flop around his ankles.
“Where’re we going?” he asks.
“Your car.”
“My car?”
She bites at the side of her mouth, raises an eyebrow. “I wanna get a nice long look at the backseat.”
He follows her outside, both of them carefully walking through winding paths of metal scraps and engines and mufflers that don’t run. Jo leans against his car, wipes off the smudges of dust and dirt on the toes of her boots, then folds her arms across her chest. She looks up at the sky, lighter out now with pink slipping into orange, and sucks back a breath through her nose.
“God. Don’t you love sunrises and all that pretty shit?”
“Guess so,” Dean says. “What are we doing out here, exactly?”
She tilts her head forward and giggles. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you silly.”
“You’re gonna, wha-huh?”
She knots her fingers around his arm and tugs him into the backseat, treads of her boots pressed to his side and leaving behind prints. It’s been years since he’s sat back here with Sam, when they used to trade comics books and play I Spy, and Dean has to fold his legs at odd angles to make himself fit. Jo just crawls onto his lap.
She’s quiet and still for a full minute and Dean starts to squirm. He doesn’t really do awkward silence all that well.
“H-how’s your mom?” he asks, head tipped to the side and an almost-smirk on his mouth.
Jo puts her hands on both of his cheeks and tilts her mouth closer to his until his lips brush against hers, and kisses him. She tastes like drugstore chap stick and cherries and Dean almost slides his tongue past her lips, just to taste her a bit more.
“Mom’s good,” Jo says. She moves so her knees are tight around his hips, kisses him again. Her lips purse and she sucks a slow path down his throat and neck, makes new bruises beside the old. “How’s your brother? He doing okay? And, man, weird weather we’re having, right? Did you hear about the gas prices?”
Dean makes a confused face, teeth scraping over his lip. He slips one finger under one of the straps on her top, plucks at it idly. “Hmm?”
“Sorry, I thought we were making small talk.”
“And I thought you were gonna fuck me silly,” he says. The almost-smirk curls up around the edges, turns into a grin. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Well, plans usually have two parts.” She sighs and sits back on her heels, tucks the tips of her fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts. “I figured, maybe, we’d start with the first part of the plan, work our way up to the second.”
“So, in the fuck me silly plan, what’s the first part?” He pushes the thin strap down off of her shoulder and holds an open mouth to the top of her collarbone. He moves his hips up a little and she pushes herself down, meets him in the middle.
“Just like any plan, really,” she says. Jo slowly pulls off her top, shakes blonde curls out and around her face, and lets the tank fall from her fingers and down to the floor mats. “First part is always the prep work.”
Dean tucks his thumbs beneath her breasts, pressing his lips to the underside of her chin and smoothing one hand over the big and messy scar that covers her ribs. Jo was always nothing more than some little girl that worked in a bar and liked to play dress-up with her daddy’s things. Dean never thought of her as a hunter before, never thought of her as a someone who’d fuck a guy in the backseat of a car. And here she is, sitting in his lap with the proof that, really, she’s both. She smiles and tips her mouth towards his, kisses him with her tongue tracing the sharp edges of his teeth.
“Second part?” he asks.
“Just like any plan,” she says again. “You got the prep work and all that fun plotting. And if you do that right, you’ll get to the second part. The action. The big climax of everything. But, if you don’t map out your strategy right, well, then just any like plan, it kind of falls to shit.”
“Oh, don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got all kinds of strategy.”
Jo rolls her eyes, then laughs and pushes her hands against his chest, covering his mouth with hers. With his tongue pressing into her mouth and his fingers wrapped around her elbows, she tugs both of them down onto the seat and wiggles beneath him. Dean pulls a curl from her face, smirking. Jo Harvelle, all half-naked in the backseat of his car. He puts his lips to her neck.
“Hey, Jo. You know how to make fresh coffee?”