I was sick a few weeks ago and couldn't do anything else than watch TV, browsed through Netflix, stumbled over Supernatural and thought ... why not? Seven weeks later I'm half way through season 8, and a die hard Dean Winchester fan. A friend of mine told me he is so 'me', and she is totally right. Dean is so my character. I didn't stand a chance. And since I love to write, I just couldn't resist trying my hand on some SPN fanfiction.

I don't really ship Dean with anyone on the show, but I think under different circumstances Jo and he would have been perfect for each other. This story is slightly AU since I needed to incorporate Jo more in his life, and it's set in season 4 when Dean came back from hell, with Bobby being still alive, and Castiel being a 'normal' angel.

Okay, I'm gonna stop rambling now (my AN's are normally not this long), and just let you read the first chapter! :-)

Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me, just this story.

Chapter 1

He didn't know what had changed, why he suddenly looked at her differently. Or maybe this had always lurked deep inside of him, and his time in hell had just brought it closer to the surface.

He just didn't know.

But between trying to get back to his normal life, and wrapping his head around the fact that there were really angels in this world - one of them had apparently pulled him out of hell, something he hadn't thought possible, believing he'd never escape the horror that was hell – realizing that Jo was a woman, and not the girl he'd teased relentlessly every time Sam and he had needed to swing by Bobby's house, had hit him like a freight train.

He just needed to get laid. That was the problem. A nice fuck with a stranger he picked up in a bar – that would definitely get her out of his head.

Because seriously – Jo was like a sister to him, ever since Ellen died six years ago, and Jo appeared on Bobby's doorstep and refused to leave again. He hadn't seen much of her over the years, Bobby being adamant that she got a proper education, trying to keep her as far away from all the hunting business as possible. Not that he was very successful in that department. More than once Dean had found Jo sitting in one of the car wrecks at the other side of the yard – as far away from the house as possible – immersed in one of Bobby's books.

She would end up a hunter like the rest of them. She would end up dead. Like so many before her. Like his parents. Like her mother. That was the reason you did not develop feelings for anyone in their line of work. Especially not for a woman you had no business having anything than platonic feelings for. But since he came back from hell he'd caught himself more than once staring at her ass; his cock telling him that there was nothing platonic about imaging grabbing this ass with his hands while he was fucking her against the wall.

But relationships were out of the question for people like him; not that he'd ever been even slightly tempted to have anything serious with a woman. Sex without strings – that was all that he wanted, and he definitely didn't want to fuck a woman he might care too much about afterwards. Sex was there to relieve some pressure, and there was no way he would actually sleep with Jo. No freaking way.

Leaning his head back against the headrest, he closed his eyes. The cool night breeze was wafting in through the window of the car, and just for a moment he could relax. Just for a few seconds he thought about absolutely nothing. But then a memory of hell flashed over his closed eyelids, and he lifted the bottle of Jack to his mouth to take a deep gulp.

The solitude of his car and the alcohol were the only things that got him through the nights. He couldn't talk to anyone about it, couldn't admit to anyone that he'd failed, that he'd broken under the torture eventually. He just ... he couldn't tell anyone. Not even Sam. Especially not Sam.

Because how could he tell anyone about the horrendous things he'd done in hell? About the number of souls he'd tortured and extinguished? How was he supposed to explain to anyone that it'd felt like forty years down there, and not four months? That he'd eventually succumbed to the darkness inside of him?

How?

He wasn't supposed to be back on earth; he didn't deserve to live. He didn't want to be part of God's plan. What was even his freaking plan? They should have left him down in hell.

Where he belonged.

He stared out of the window, tears burning in his eyes, and his fingers tightened around the bottle as he fought against his inner demons. But the problem was … he didn't believe he could ever leave them behind. Didn't believe he'd ever be able to defeat them.

He should leave. Leave Sam. Leave Bobby.

Leave Jo.

He felt too sullied by the things he did in hell, and he didn't want to drag anyone he loved down with him.

Because no matter what he did, there was only one possible outcome … eventually he would end up back in hell.