my take on how Jo meets the Winchesters
disclaimer: I don't own
Just a normal night – nothing special. Just smiling and batting your eyelashes at the hunters which look at you. Just pressing your body too close to theirs for a split second, in the hope of a tip or a drink. Just feigning interest in the horror stories you've heard too many times before. Just bending over to pick up that dropped napkin and lingering there a moment too long, just so the regulars can enjoy the view.
Just a normal night. So normal that you don't even bother looking up as the bell over the door announces the entrance of yet another customer. You imagine that it's probably a man, alone, mid-thirties and with far too many scars. You imagine that he'll sidle up to the bar and ask what you can do for him and, if he's not too sleazy, you'll reply with something encouraging – these men pay well. You imagine he might buy you a drink and you'll accept, that is, if your mom's not around. And when he's good and proper drunk, you'll nick his wallet and leave him with blue balls.
Just your average customer. So as you feel a tap on your shoulder and hear a surprisingly polite request for two beers and a chat with the owner, you turn around, your interest piqued. There are two guys there, one with his hand stretched out towards you. He is tall, that's the first thing you notice about him, and young. Too young for this life. Almost as young as you. And he is in desperate need of a haircut, but it kinda makes him look cute. And he is – he's cute – there's a surprise. He has a pretty mouth so you smile up at him and he flashes his dimples, his hazel eyes sparkling. You grab him the beers and you bat your eyelashes at him, asking him archly how long he'll be in town. He looks more than a little flattered by your attentions, and you let your hand linger too long on his as you hand over the drinks. He smiles again as he turns to walk away.
You carry on wiping down the glasses on the bar whilst keeping your eyes on his lanky frame. He goes and sits at an empty table, placing the beers in front of him and taking a long swig from one of them. He looks over and you blush at being caught staring, before you realise he's not looking at you. You follow his gaze to another man, sitting at the bar not three feet away from you. You hadn't registered any details of the guy the cute one walked in with, but now you can't pull your eyes away. You realise why the tall one was so flattered by your flirting. He obviously didn't get much action hanging around with this guy.
All thoughts of the tall one are washed from your mind as your eyes drink in his friend's perfection – his sandy hair, his greengreen eyes, his lazy smile. The nonchalant way which he lowers himself from the barstool, so gracefully, and saunters the few steps between the two of you. His perfectly formed lips part slightly and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation of what he's going to say.
"Hey there, sweetheart. Now, what can a pretty young thing like you do for a pretty young thing like me?"
You feel yourself exhale sharply, and you turn away abruptly, almost rudely, to hide the stupid tears which are suddenly filling your eyes and threatening to overflow. You hear him make some snarky comment, and you feel him walk away. When you can bring yourself to look again, he is sitting opposite the tall man, chugging his beer and laughing. It looks like he's recounting a tale of his so called bravery to an older man on a neighbouring table. The cute one, the one with the pretty mouth, looks bored and slightly annoyed by his friend's boasting.
You sigh inwardly and abandon the glass you are cleaning, setting it down and slipping inconspicuously up the stairs. You curl up on your too small bed in your too small room, but you don't let the tears escape. This is why you can never be a proper hunter, you tell yourself severely. Your judgement is so off. This is just another example of how your hopes are always too high. Of how you always set yourself up for a fall – every single time. The tall one – he was cute and sweet. He seemed like a nice guy. And you could've gone for him. But no. A dreamer as always, you'd set your hopes on the perfect one. The beautiful one. You'd hoped maybe he could be sweet and funny and smart. Maybe his personality could be as perfect as his looks. But, like always, you'd set yourself up for a fall. Because he was an egotistical, sleazy, 'heroic' bastard. Just the same as all the rest.
I've never written anything from a girl's POV before (which is weird because I am a girl…) so feedback would be great!
xx