Title: Darkness, Darkness
Rating: R.
Summary: Post 5x22. Proposed season 6 fic. Jo awakes in an alley with no memory of Heaven.
Word count: 2,695
Status: WIP
Characters: Jo Harvelle, Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester
Feedback: I loves me some feedback.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Kripke, et al, and I only borrow them to indulge in my sick, road trip-provoked fantasies.
Notes: This is set several months after "Faithfully", but it's not necessary to read that fic to understand this one. Much thanks to my betas, Mara and Alyssa, who are invaluable in the editing process. :wub:
CHAPTER ONE: Can't Find My Way Home
EVERY INCH OF her body hurt. That was the first coherent thought in her head when Jo Harvelle came-to in a dank and dingy alley. She was crumpled in the corner against a brick wall, and her damp jeans stuck to her legs. Her head pounded with a ferocity she'd never before experienced. It took a lot of effort and a couple of tries to get to her feet, and she only managed it with the assistance of the dumpster to her right.
Squinting against the harsh sunlight that assaulted her eyes, she looked around, trying to get a feel for where she was. "An alley" was as specific as she could get given her limited information. Slowly, carefully, she made her way out to the sidewalk.
It was bright, clearly midday, and the road was quiet, but not unpopulated. Everything appeared normal here; families walked together down the sides of the road, ducking into little shops and old men carrying newspapers shuffled along. It looked like a sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere. She could have been back in Nebraska for all she could tell. The problem was that she couldn't tell.
She had no idea where she was. No recollection of travelling anywhere. She didn't know what day it was, or even what year. The last thing she remembered was that hardware store in Carthage. The hell hounds. Blood. Pain. Dean. Then blackness. Nothing.
She should be dead, that much was certain. But the throbbing aches in her body insisted that, against all odds, she was most definitely alive.
Gritting her teeth against the stabbing pains in her hip, she hobbled across the road and into a little coffee shop. The bell at the top of the door made her entrance conspicuous, and she drew several startled glances from the customers eating muffins and sipping caffeine. Christ, she must look like walking death and she hadn't even thought to check her reflection in the window on the way in. She made a quick beeline for the bathroom.
When the door was shut and locked behind her, she flipped on the light and leaned heavily over the sink. Hesitantly, her brown eyes lifted to the mirror above it, and she inhaled sharply at the sight of herself. Dirt and grime streaked her pale white skin, and dried blood clung to her cheek and jaw, apparently from her nose and mouth. She grimaced and yanked some paper towel from the dispenser on the wall. After wetting it, she began the slow and somewhat painful process of cleaning herself up.
Fifteen minutes and twenty-seven wads of paper towel later, she looked somewhat presentable. The tank top she wore had a questionable gash in it, revealing a nasty scrape underneath that had streaked the fabric with crimson, but nothing could be done about that and the cut didn't look deep enough to worry about. Her nose was tender to the touch, and one side of her jaw was swollen. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, but short of sticking her head under the tap and washing it with hand soap three or four times there wasn't much she could do to fix it. When she was finished, she still looked like a homeless person, but at least she looked like one who wasn't dying.
In the dining area, she hesitated before taking a seat at a vacant two-person table. A helpful waitress appeared to take her order and Jo asked for a water to buy herself some time to think.
It only took the waitress a minute or two to bring the a glass of tap water to the table. "That all?"
"Yeah, thanks. Can you tell me what town this is?"
The question earned her a weird look from the server. "Bozeman."
"What state?"
"Montana. Are you sure you don't want a coffee or something?"
"I'm fine, thanks." The waitress departed, looking thankful the conversation was over. Jo couldn't blame her. As if her appearance wasn't bad enough, she must have sounded like an escaped mental patient.
She mulled over her situation as she sipped at her water. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she'd had the water in her hand, but she didn't want to drink it too quickly; if she asked for another one, they'd expect her to buy something, and her pockets were empty. She had no money, no means of transportation, and very little idea what was going on. But at least now she had a location.
She just needed to get in contact with someone who could help. Her first thought was to call her mother. It took a few seconds for her to come to unwelcome realization that her mother was likely dead. Unless, of course, something similar was happening to her somewhere. Maybe Ellen Harvelle, too, was in some Podunk town with no memory of how she got there. She felt a surge of tenuous hope at the idea, regardless of its unlikelihood.
She took a deep, steadying breath, and then chugged the rest of her water. Her throat was suddenly a great deal drier than it had been.
After making sure she was composed, she stood and approached the counter at the till. Her waitress was there, smiling woodenly. "Can I get you something else?"
Jo fixed on her best inquisitive look. "Are you hiring?"
The waitress's smile faltered. "No, I don't think so. But I can get you an application if you like." She looked Jo up and down doubtfully.
"That'd be great, thank you."
The girl disappeared into the back to search for an application form, and Jo quickly and easily slid the tip jar off the counter and left the cafe.
IN THE DINGY phone booth, Jo shook three Advil out of the bottle she'd purchased at the corner store and swallowed them dryly. Once she'd washed them down with a few gulps from the Dasani she'd bought, she fished a few extra quarters out of her pocket. Lifting one to the coin slot in the phone, she hesitated. She still hadn't decided who she'd call. Only three options came to mind: she could call Dean, but going that route would have implications she'd rather avoid – she didn't want him thinking she still had a crush on him just because he was her first phone call post-resurrection; she could call Sam, but they weren't close, and she still felt a bit awkward asking him for favours in the aftermath of his whole possession-thing – besides, he had enough to deal with; the only other option was Bobby, who was wheelchair-bound and probably wasn't able to come and get her. She'd end up having to hitchhike, but she still decided quickly that Bobby was least awkward choice.
She dialled his number from memory, and after three rings she was greeted with a gruff, "Yeah?"
"Bobby? It's Jo."
Silence. Then -
"Christ, Jo, I've been looking for you for weeks now."
"You have? But, Bobby, I -"
"Where are you, kid?"
"Montana. Bozeman. I don't know how I got here."
"I'll be there in two and a half hours. Just sit tight, and for chrissake don't go anywhere."
"But -"
The line went dead in her hand.
THE NEXT THREE hours were the most stressful of her life. She'd never felt so clueless before, and it wasn't a feeling she liked. She liked feeling in control. She liked knowing what was going on, and she hated feeling out of the loop. Her anxiety was aggravated by the newspaper she bought that pegged the date as June 17. A Thursday. Her last waking moment had been in November. The day she died. Seven months ago.
It was clear from the fact that the world was still turning that the apocalypse had been averted. Or had the fight not gone down yet? She hadn't thought to ask. She hadn't even asked if the boys were alive. She'd been so freaked out by her apparent resurrection that she'd forgotten the apocalypse. It was stupid and selfish. There were more important things than her life.
Jo was still brooding over the unknowns when Bobby pulled into the park's paved lot. She was laying on the top of a picnic table, one leg bent at the knee and an arm thrown over her forehead. She'd been watching the ominous grey clouds roll in from the east, marring the blue summer sky that had reigned when she awoke in the alley. She didn't even notice Bobby was there until she heard his relieved "It's damned good to see you, kid."
"Bobby!" She hadn't realized how badly she'd needed to see a familiar face until she laid eyes on Bobby Singer.
He looked exactly the same. Same well-worn ball cap, torn jeans and flannel shirt. Same rusty beard and kind blue eyes. The only difference between Bobby now and Bobby seven months ago was that, now, he was standing.
She slid off the table and into his open arms, where he promptly squeezed the air out of her. She smiled into his shoulder. Then a strange wetness splattered onto her head. She pulled back and glanced up at the sky. "We should go sit in your truck, I think it's starting to rain."
"Sorry." Bobby shrugged sheepishly and held up his flask. "Holy water."
She winced as the water trickled down her scalp and tickled the sensitive area behind her ear. "You can do all the tests you want on me, Bobby, but first you have to tell me what happened with the apocalypse."
FRIDAY WAS DEAN'S least favourite day of the week. That didn't used to be the case; back before Sam had died, he hadn't had a least favourite day. All the days had blurred together, each one the same as the last, with no discernible weekend to signal their beginning or finish. But now that he worked five days a week, regular hours, Monday to Friday, he found himself dreading the weekend.
Weekends meant time to himself, which wasn't something he enjoyed. Not anymore, anyway. Too much time alone meant too much time to think. He preferred the distraction of working, or even picking up the occasional girl, but his trysts never lasted long. Longer than they used to, granted, but never longer than a week.
He'd given it a shot. He'd tried, because he'd promised his brother. He'd gone to Lisa's, and he'd stayed with her and the kid for nearly three weeks before Lisa had kicked him out. He'd made a terrible mistake there, believing that Lisa would make him happy. In a way, she did; she was a great woman, super hot, and he did want the family life. But he wasn't ready for it, couldn't settle down and forget so much of his life so quickly. In his years of hunting, he'd idealized Lisa as the epitome of what he wanted, but reality fell far short of his expectations. Unfortunately, she'd figured all that out long before he had, and had made a clean break as soon as she'd realized it, for the sake of her kid. She'd known he'd been staying because of Sammy, and she deserved better than that. At least she hadn't settled.
He rolled out from under the rusty Plymouth Voyager, whose break line needed replacing, and searched for a monkey wrench in the tool box next to the work bench foot. The van was old and should have been put out of its misery long ago, but the owner was a broke college kid who couldn't afford anything better. She was his boss's niece, and so the work done on her van was done at a discount price. Even with the new breaks, the Voyager wouldn't last long, but they paid him anyway, so what did he care?
When his hand closed on the handle of the wrench, he glanced at the clock and noted the time: 2:04. He'd missed lunch again. As if on cue, his stomach gurgled angrily. Dean obediently climbed to his feet, dropping the wrench back in the tool box, and snagged a cloth off the work bench. He was wiping off his greasy hands when he realized he had company.
"Would it kill ya to pick up a phone, boy?"
His heart jumped in his chest at Bobby's voice, and he whirled around, the beginnings of a smile quirking at his lips. Then his eyes landed on the petite blonde at Bobby's side, all too familiar, and any traces of a smile vanished from his face, replaced with the dumbstruck expression of someone who'd just seen a ghost. That ghost smiled at him tentatively.
When he spoke, his voice was raspy. "Hi, Jo."
"Hey."