Bloodshed Battleground
Summary: Aftermaths of battles are never easy. Dean/Jo (some what gen)
Rated: T (violence implied)
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
The gun fell to the ground. Blood pooled around their feet, soaking the dirt with lives lost and demons banished.
Hands shaking, she sat down by a headstone. The cool of the stone soaked into her overheated skin, helping relieve some of the discomfort.
Blade sitting right by her side, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. No matter that the battle was over, the images continued to replay themselves, over and over again in her head. The cries of agony as one hunter lost an arm, followed by two more cries of pain splintered through the air. She tried not to remember, of how she found some of them. Tangled and torn in bits.
Tears stung the back of her eyes but she was too tired to even summon up enough strength to unleash them or banish them from existence.
"Normally I would ask if you're alright but I think I already know the answer." She heard his voice as it drifted closer to her. She didn't move from her spot and felt a presence sit beside her.
"Physically, I'll survive." Mumbling out what he wished to know, she tried hard not to breathe in the smell of iron in the night air. So much had been shed tonight and no matter if she left this cemetery and burn all her clothing, the scent would follow her for some time.
The sound of a metal clicking repeatedly caused her to crack an eye open and find him fiddling with one of his guns. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to stay distracted, keep busy." He said, clicking out the magazine and blowing into them in what she guessed was cleaning before he clicked it back in place.
She groused, "You know, cleaning or fiddling with weapons after just being a huge fight doesn't really take your mind away from it." Not paying attention to his piece, she snatched it from his hands with ease. "Not to mention this is the same one used to blow off a few heads no more than thirty minutes ago."
He watched with wry amusement as she undid the magazine and properly cleaned it before slipping it back in. "Well noted."
Shaking her head, she couldn't stop herself from smiling at the man's strangeness. While they sat in the battleground of bloodshed and violence, he could still make her feel better with just a silly joke or simply being himself.
Even though it was dark out, she could make out Bobby and her mother working on getting fresh corpses out to the truck where later they would burn in a fitting bonfire of respect, like they had done for her father.
Suddenly, she felt drained and it was showing as Dean wrapped an arm around her waist to hoist her up into his arms. "Why are you carrying me?" Leaning her head down on his shoulder, her vision swayed.
"We're done here." He motioned toward the truck. "It's time to head home."
"Okay."