Dean Winchester could be described in many ways.
Men considered him a threat. The way he swaggered around, confidence oozing from every pore despite the undying hatred he felt for himself on the inside. Most thought he was arrogant or cocky. They were right, of course, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was the attention given to him by the opposite sex.
Women considered him to be ruggedly handsome. With the face of a heartbreaker, many considered him to be a common player and yet, they kept coming. Women of all kinds would throw themselves at his feet, vying for his attention. All except one.
Jo.
Her death had been a real kick in the teeth. It had been little under a month and Dean still couldn't shake the image of those bright, whiskey coloured eyes from his mind. Her death played on a constant loop during the few hours he actually managed to get some sleep. Even when awake, the Winchester was plagued by constant reminders that the one woman he had ever come close to loving was now dead. The biggest reminder of all was, of course, her shotgun. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. How could he? It was all that was left of her.
Yes, Dean Winchester had come very close to loving someone outwith his immediate family. What had started out as mild flirting had quickly escalated into something that not only surprised the eldest Winchester but also scared him. As a man who preferred to avoid emotional vulnerability, love was something reserved for people such as his brother and his father; no one else. But Jo? Well, she just seemed to fit.
The Winchester bowed his head and let out an audible sigh. In his right hand, he held a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. In his right hand, a picture of Jo. He was unsure as to where he had found the picture -most likely drunk at the time- but he knew the second he spotted it that he had to have it. He needed something other than his restless mind to remind him of her. He knew that over time, the image of those honey coloured curls would darken; the sound of her turning him down after years of crushing on him would fade. He needed something that would keep him from forgetting.
Raising the whiskey bottle to his lips, Dean took a long swig. The bitter alcohol left a burning sensation in his throat that he found strangely comforting. How fitting, he thought, rolling his eyes, A Winchester seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle.
Pale green eyes dropped to the photograph in his hand once again. Tears began to pool but Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he set down the whiskey bottle and drew his hand across his face. Vision blurry from all the alcohol, he did his best to focus on the black and white snap of one, Jo Harvelle. Before he could help himself, he was speaking.
"God, Jo." He slurred, feeling a sense of helpessness begin to sink in.
"You have no idea what this is like; knowing it's your fault. Well, not your fault because it's my fault but if you're listening to me, you'll understand what I'm trying to say." Dean spoke, giving a short, humorless laugh. It was obvious he was hurting inside.
"I wish you were listening, Jo. There's so much I should've told you and by the time I even realized what I wanted to say, it was too late. God, if you could see me now; you'd probably punch me again." The Winchester smirked, finally feeling something other than sorrow or hatred for the first time in weeks. Then again, Jo had always been very good at that kind of thing; bringing out the side of him that enjoyed life just that little bit more. The side that gave him just a little more hope. He gave a soft, genuine laugh.
Then he felt it. Clad in his usual denim jeans, t-shirt and flannel overshirt, the dropping in temperature did not escape Dean. Letting out a long breath, the Winchester felt himself sober up slightly as he watched his misty breath confirm his suspicions. Despite his emotional vulnerability in that moment, his hunter instincts kicked in immediately. Jumping to his feet, Dean grabbed Jo's shotgun, it being the closest weapon. Cocking the gun, the Winchester raised both his eyes and the weapon at the same time. The shot was never fired, however. Just as Dean found himself speechless.
Watery green eyes trailed the figure before them. Silvery blonde curls hung down past shoulders hidden away by a grey t-shirt and a green jacket. Surprisingly pink lips stood out against a frighteningly pale yet unblemished complexion. None of this mattered. Of the whole image before him, only one thing stood out. Whiskey coloured eyes.
"Jo."