Dedicated to my internet best friend, Sandy. I ship destiel, but this is for her Jo and Dean shipping ass. Happy birthday, I love you, Sandy!
If there are typos, I'm sorry. I proofread it twice, but mistakes can slip.
"I'm going to go check out the area."
Sam, in the shower, yelled out, "Yeah, whatever!"
Dean put on his jacket and walked out of the apartment. They were here on a hunt, well it seemed like one.
There had been a dozen murders in the last 3 months, and no sign or whisper of the killer. All the victims were killed the exact same way: stabbed 16 times, limbs unattached, and then hung up on a tree near the courthouse.
"Excuse me, sir, you can't be here," said a voice.
Dean turned around, seeing a police officer. He pulled out his fake FBI badge, and the officer let him go past the yellow tape.
He looked at the tree, where the body parts were randomly hung up on. Walking over, he tried to look for sulfur, or any other signs of demonic presence.
He turned back to the officer. "Do the victims have a common enemy or someone th—"
Dean ran, ran to catch up with the blonde woman he had just seen, that familiar face he hadn't seen or never thought he would get to see again. He ran past the yellow tape, past the ongoing cars and grabbed the arm of the blonde.
He gave himself a moment to breathe and to think this through. Trying to calm himself down to talk, but the only word he got out was:
"Jo?"
Jo spun around to face him. She looked different, and yet the same. The years that had passed, the horrible years that had passed, had done her bad. She had bags under her eyes, little bruises everywhere, and, most of all, her eyes looked soulless; like she had no hope to live, or anything to live for.
"Dean," she said, causing Dean to stop staring and wonder how this could even be possible. She pulled her arm away.
"Jo, how—how is this possible? You…," he finished lamely, having no idea what to say.
"Come with me," she said, grabbing his arm and walking down the sidewalk. At the end of the block, she opened a door to an apartment and pushed him inside.
After, locking the doors quickly, she spun around, pulled him against her, and kissed him.
Not seeing her after so many years, so many unsaid words, so many stares they had shared, were all poured into that one kiss, that one kiss that made Dean feel like he had a reason to live; that one reason that made him feel like he was doing hunting for a real, actual cause: Jo.
His hands were in her hair, and they kissed, kissed with the impatient longing that was in both of their heart for years. She took off her shirt, and he did the same, and the heat in the room rose to a maddening degree, and they stared, really stared.
Their eyes were locked, and he knew she could see what he had been through, just as he could with her. They both were connected, connected with the traumas of their life. The only exquisite thing in both of their lives were each other, and they were torn apart.
Dean, who couldn't control himself anymore, kissed her, not even taking a moment to ask how she was here, how she had survived.
Within seconds, and some hard, heavy breathing from the two of them, they were naked and on the bed, their clothes randomly thrown upon the floor. The only thing that mattered was them.
Dean Winchester woke up to the blinds showing the bright sun and making his eyes hurt. He moved to get up and felt someone's arm around him.
Jo.
The events of the previous night came flooding back in his mind. He looked at her sleeping; how she looked at peace, how she looked just like she did the first time he had seen her: full of life.
He gently took her arm off of him, and quietly got up.
Grabbing his shirt and pants from the floor, and putting them on, he thought of how this could be possible. Jo was dead, he saw it, he knew it, he felt it.
Lost in his thoughts, his eyes looked around the room, and he saw the right side of the wall full of pictures, maps, diagrams, and the title was crossed out, but the word was clear to his eyes:
MISSON
He walked over to the wall and looked at the images more closely. The photographs of the people were the victims, the victims that were brutally killed and hung on the tree, worthless and helpless; their lives…gone.
He read the diagrams, well tried to. None of it made sense. They were just words:
Boat, Dream, But, Down
He grabbed the photographs and the maps, the pages making a loud, crunching sound between his fingers.
He spun around; Jo was standing by the bed.
"Dean—"
"Did you kill these people?" he interrupted, angrily, waving the picture of a 9 year old girl in a Micky Mouse shirt at her.
She came closer. He moved away.
"Answer the question! What does Boat, Dream, But, and Down mean?"
She ran her hand through her hair. "Dean, just give me a moment to explain. Just calm down," she said, calmly, as if she always got accused of murdering people and knew how to handle it.
"Answer the damn question," he said, trying not to look into her eyes, but through.
She bit her lip. "I can't tell you anything. You need to leave."
This time, he went over to her, practically shoving the photograph of the girl in her face. "Answer the question. Did you kill this girl? That's all I need to know. Just shake your head one way or the other," he said.
She looked into his eyes, and Dean almost let go of the pictures, and the maps, and would have kissed her if he hadn't seen Mickey Mouse when he blinked.
She nodded her head. Her lips were close to his ear, and she whispered so silently he could have imagined it, in fact he wish he had. She said the one word that ruined every possibility, every kiss they had shared, every touch, everything. The word was: "Yes."
Dean stared to move, but she grabbed his arm. "Kiss me," she said.
He pulled his arm away. "What the hell is wrong with you? You just told me you killed an innocent person, and you really think I would kiss you?"
She leaned closer, and he didn't move, how could he? "Yes, I do," she whispered, and kissed him.
It was a faint, quick kiss. It was over before it had started, and when she pulled away, he missed the touch, even though he knew he shouldn't since she was a murderer.
"See? You still want me to kiss you. This doesn't have to change anything."
Dean could feel himself blowing up. After all these years of missing her, all these years dreaming about her being back, all these years just wishing for one minute with her, he got this: a murderer. "I wish you would have died in that building," he half-lied.
Her eyes were full of hurt, and he really, really wanted to take back what he had said, but he also needed the truth. "You don't mean that. Besides, I have to do this. This is my job."
He scoffed. "So, you're an assassin? Who would want a 9 year old girl killed, huh?"
"It's not my business to ask. Dean, stop dreaming. I'm not the same girl you met years ago."
She looked at him in the eyes. "To quote someone, 'You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.' Dreaming of me being that same girl is going to have consequences. I've changed, I've seen life, I've taken life," she said, whispering the last sentence.
Dean shook his head. "I'm not dreaming. I just didn't imagine you killing to make a living. This is wrong. How did you even do it? How did you hang them up by a tree right near the courthouse without getting caught? How? Answer me!"
She spoke, spoke as calmly as before, as if she was questioned about murdering everyday. "I didn't do that part, I just went into their house, late at night, or if they were at a crowed place, and I put drugs in their drinks or food. We only killed when they were eating or drinking.
"Then, they passed out. If it was in a crowded place, we grabbed them and took off. If it was at their house, it was slightly more complicated, but we got it done.
"After we brought them to our…warehouse, the other people left me alone…so I could get the job done.
"Take the 9 year old girl, for example. She was passed out, so she didn't make any noise; they were really strong drugs. I laid her on the table, and I stabbed her, 16 times. I watched as the blood, the dark, red blood came dripping out of her body like a current of a waterfall, fast, out of control. I cut off her arm, then her other arm, her leg—"
"Just get to the part where the body parts ended up in the tree," Dean said, trying not to look at the hunger in her eyes as she was talking bout cutting the girl.
"When I was done, I put the limbs in a trash bag, and the others took it. I don't know how they did it, nor do I care. After they left, I had the pleasure of cleaning the blood. If no one was watching me, I licked some of—"
"Stop."
She laughed, actually laughed. "Dean, calm down. I'm joking. I'm not a serial killer, and I don't drink blood."
He glared at her. "How, how is any of this remotely funny to you?"
She put her hands around his shoulder blades and pulled him close and kissed him. He kissed back, knowing he shouldn't.
She bit on his lip hard, so hard she drew blood. He was going to push her away when she licked his blood on his lips. She pulled away, smiling. "Will you stop looking at me like that? I did that as a joke. You have to admit, though, it was hot."
He almost said yes but controlled himself. "I have to turn you in."
"Dean, we can be together," she said running her hand through his hair. "Me and you, you and me."
"I—I can try to help you get a good lawyer," he mumbled.
She smiled. "'Do, or do not. There is no try.'"
"Stop quoting people. You're coming with me," he said, and grabbed her arm and started dragging her out of the apartment.
She got serious, quick. "Dean!" she yelled, trying to pull her arm away from his grip. "This is illegal."
"Oh, and killing people isn't?" he said, once they were on the sidewalk, his hand still having a firm grip on her arm.
"Can we just have angry sex, and make up?"
"I'm turning you in," he said.
She pulled her arm away. "You really think I can't handle you after chopping up people? You are not turning me in. If you want to be with me, be with me. If you don't, leave, or it will get ugly."
"This is the thing: I do want to be with you, I really do, but you're a murderer, and I don't date people who kill other people," he said.
"Goodbye, Dean. Forget me. Also, stop, stop dreaming of me. I'm gone. I'm never coming back. You will never see me, not tomorrow, not today, never. We could have had a chance, but it's gone, just like I am gone," she whispered, and kissed him.
It was soft, nothing like the one they had shared last night. This one was a goodbye kiss. This was it. This was the end.
She pulled away. She looked right into his eyes, and he did the same. Her eyes looked like they were watering. She put her hand on his heart. "I lo—"
A sound of a bullet went through the silent, dark night. Jo fell, fell so slowly, Dean could feel the life going out of her with every second of the fall. He held her on the ground, in his lap. Her blonde hair, the blonde hair he had followed, ran after, was soaked with red: blood.
He realized right there what Boat, Dream, But, and Down meant. The victims. It counted the number of victims. The letters added together were 16. They only killed 12. They still had 4 more people to murder.
The words were from Row, Row, Row Your Boat. He knew, knew exactly why they picked that song. 'When the tides of life turn against you, and the current upsets your boat, don't waste those tears on what might have been, just lie on your back and float. Surrender…'
Jo was sending messages through the quotes she had told him. She was trying to tell him what it meant, what those four words meant, and what he should do: forget. She was trying to send a message: move on.
Tears were going down his cheek before he could even process what had happened. Her eyes were still open, looking, but not seeing, not seeing him, him crying over her dead body.
Dean Winchester woke up to the sound of a familiar voice saying, "Dean, you okay?"
He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to get the image of red on blonde out of his head, and lied to his brother. "Yeah, I'm fine."