notes: plot? what plot? mostly this is just an accumulation of jo feels and some chestervelle because jo deserves the world and then more. also, you should probably know: i am kind of disappointed in the lack of good chestervelle fics. seriously. tsk, tsk, shame on you writers.
warnings: un-betad; i wrote this under three hours, so all mistakes are mine. publishing this now before i chicken out. i'll probably regret doing so when i wake up tomorrow, but screw it, i'm too exhausted to care right now and my emotions are kind of a whack.
more notes: goddammit why is this a thing. this is dumb. everyone is dumb. i hate these nerds.
disclaimer: standard one applies.
Jo's memories of Dean Winchester are composed of: quiet mornings, sitting next to him at the Roadhouse; serving him his usual order of coffee and booze; car rides with him and Sam; Philadelphia and an almost disastrous mission; pointless conversations revolving around nothing in particular—they always tended to veer off-topic (that's where most of their conversations lead, by the way, when it's not about anything death-defying); endless bickering; arguments about her choice in music; cheating him at old arcade games and promises of I'll call you later, okay?
He was annoying even back then, kind of a jackass too. But he was sweet. Kind of. And she trusted him—
—and she didn't exactly know why she did.
He's kind of a douchebag, if she's being honest—which she totally is. Except when he's not. But really, the times when he is being a douchebag outweigh the times when he isn't. So, she writes him off as an annoying idiot instead.
(He's got a nice smile though, she thinks. It's almost some sort of consolation. His eyes are green and pretty; his smile is nice and his ego, well, he can probably work on that. Unfortunately though, his brain is probably the size of a blackened char that only functions when he's a) drunk b) holding a gun c) flirting with anything that has two legs or some strange, yet somehow possible combination of all three).
Back in Philadelphia, she'd been so sure he'd turn her in. But he didn't, which kind of earned him her gratitude. And some of her respect. And maybe even a little bit of her trust. And it annoyed her, just a little bit; because see, she thought she had him figured out, and then he does this—he lies to her mother when she was convinced he'd turn her in.
That bastard.
Except he's kind of sweet. A little. Okay, a lot, because even though he kept shooting her these half-angry, half-exasperated looks while she was poring over her files in the middle of the night and even though he glared at her from across the hall when they were checking the place out, he never said a word to her mother. He never picked up the phone and dialed Ellen's number like she expected him to. So yeah, he's sweet, and he cared, at least a little. If he didn't, he probably would have turned her in the first chance he got.
These are her most romantic memories of him: sarcastic and annoying; cocky and arrogant; swinging in and out of her life, but always coming back in to save her just in time.
(They are not her dearest).
.
.
.
At some point of her residency in Boston, she runs into a couple of old family friends. They bring her food sometimes: meatloaf and freshly baked muffins and they offer to keep her company.
She makes a few casual acquaintances, gets enough cash together to buy a small house and Raven comes over every other night to eat takeout with her. And it's not lonely, she thinks, but the beige walls and the empty rooms begin to remind her a little too much of home, so she fills the shelves up with books, opens up the windows and asks Raven to come over more often. It's too dark, she decides, even when she paints the walls a bright blue, so she buys colorful throw rugs and arranges them around the house; lets Raven pick out the curtains they'll use. It doesn't look like the Roadhouse anymore, she observes wryly.
It rains sometimes and the roof leaks and she thinks about her father living here; wonders if her mother would have liked it. Sometimes, Raven is there, offering to keep her company and Riley, if he has the time, sometimes comes over to go help her fix the leaky roof. Jo smiles at them, even lets them keep an eye on the place when she sets off to hunt. It's always a little warmer in the house when she comes back.
.
.
.
Mornings, she learned, were best just as the sun started to rise, just as it started to gild the treetops like molten gold. Her mornings have usually come to compromise of: eyes creaking open to the alto chant of the birds outside; combing through the bed tangles of her hair; peeking out of her lace-curtained windows to let the sun in and maybe even to greet Riley an offhanded "Hey" if she catches him getting back from his jog; letting the coffee boil as she scouts for maps and her knives; going over everything one more time before setting off to hunt; stowing her shotgun at the back of her truck and sometimes even leaving a note at Raven's door to let her know she'll be gone.
And at night when she sits on her porch, knees drawn to her chest, long fingers curling around the hilt of the knife her father used to own, (because most nights she can't sleep. She thinks about how she left her mother. Sometimes she dreams about her father. She thinks it's too easy getting lost in the past when it feels so familiar, and she'd rather not think about that at all), she thinks of azaleas in the fall and sunshine warm on her face, thinks about lilacs and open windows and summer rain, thinks of turkey roasting in the oven and cinders crackling in the fireplace—
(She doesn't think about sunshine dappling fallen leaves; doesn't think about rolls baking in the oven; doesn't think about the smell of coffee and gunpowder in the morning; doesn't think about the worn leather jacket hanging behind her mother's door. There are other things to think about: hunting and her father's memory and making the world a tolerable place to survive in. She thinks of a sword through a demon's heart. She doesn't think about what she left behind).
—maybe her father would have liked it here, she thinks.
.
.
.
Sometimes at night, she hunts if she has to, but some nights, Raven invites her over and they go out—flirting, drinking, laughing. Tonight, Riley is there when they go clubbing and he smiles when he sees her, asks her to dance.
She hasn't said yes, but he reaches for her hand, long fingers curling around her wrist and his grip is gentle and calming and far more careful than what she's used to. "Hey," he says over the loud music, with a smile that looks a little shy. His fingers move up from her wrist to her shoulder and Jo thinks he might be enjoying touching her a little too much, but she smiles and lets him lead her to the dance floor anyway.
His hand curves over her hip, the blue of his eyes bright even in the dim lighting and she thinks of another set of hands, ghosting across her nerves and setting her skin alight, tugging at her curls, wrenching her away from the fight; of hands cupping her face and curling at her hip, rough and calloused, calm and steady—
She closes her eyes.
.
.
.
She remembers, when she left the Roadhouse, and life became difficult and terrible and wonderful all at once. She remembers, when she stumbles: waitressing, collecting tips; she remembers, when sets off to hunt, her knife tucked in her boot: getting yelled at, cheating at old arcade games; she remembers, when she curls up in her bed at night: lying in her room, wishing for a vast starry expanse up ahead; she remembers, when she listens to the radio: the curve of Dean's jaw, the steadiness of her father's hands and she remembers his promise that he'd be back home as soon as he can and she remembers that he said he'd call her. She remembers and then she thinks: it's past. It doesn't really matter.
.
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.
Spring ends and the air changes.
It's hotter at night already and her clothes stick to her body, and she realizes, sitting in the empty silence of her house, that she hasn't thought of Dean as handsome in a long time—hasn't thought much of him at all lately—but that's okay. Hunting had won its war against everything else in her mind. She doesn't think about him at all that much anyway.
.
.
.
(She remembers missing him though, rarely, sometimes; remembers his fingers curving at her waist; remembers his hands tugging at her hair. There were the little things that she forgot, like: the freckles that brushed along the bridge of his nose and the smell of mint and gunpowder that stained his sun-bleached clothes. other things though, never failed to remind her of him, like: the soft chords of old rock tunes grousing through dusty radios on some beat-up gas station or some random stranger at a bar with a cocky smirk and an all-too familiar arrogance that made her look twice).
.
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Jo doesn't wait. She doesn't sit by any window, doesn't wait for the phone to ring; never worries her thumbs or taps her feet. Life goes on for her like this: on and on and on. She eats, she laughs, she fights. Jo doesn't wait because that's all she's ever done. There's no one else she should have to wait for—she's already one of those who've gone ahead.
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.
On her way back from Louisiana, she runs into Dean.
She'd been walking back to her truck, gun slung low over her shoulder and he'd been leaning against the front window of the coffee shop, shoulders slouched until he looked up. There's a moment, just for a fraction of an instant, where she just stops in her tracks and he does the same, so she stares at him and he just sort of stares back and—
(Of course, she thinks. Of course).
Something clenches in her throat when she looks at him. She closes her eyes, thinks, I can't do this. She can't just—
"Jo," Dean exhales sharply, like he's been holding his breath for days. He takes a step forward, blinks. "Hey".
There are two laughing drunks at the mouth of the alley, passing a bottle back and forth between them. There's a girl standing by the door of a club who looks too young to be wearing that much eyeliner. A door is left open behind them, the light from inside spilling out into the darkened alley and causing shadows to play on his face; there are seven breaths between them before she decides to speak; she inhales, exhales, closes her eyes, and then—
"Dean," she breathes, almost smiles. Dean crosses over to where she is in four strides and pulls her forward, wrapping an arm around her slim form, all hard muscle and large broad shoulders. She hesitates for a moment before allowing herself to curl her own arms around him.
"Hey, kid," he murmurs into her hair, his throat constricted and his voice rough. "Hi".
She almost laughs right then but it feels weird and disorienting, being wrapped up in another person's arms and she doesn't know what this is supposed to mean yet but at least it's dark and she's hidden. If she focuses on the streetlights and not at their hands, she can't do anything stupid like cry. She can do this, she thinks as his other arm comes up to wrap around her shoulders. It's not so bad.
"C'mon," she gestures, when he finally draws back; offers him a hand. There's still some warmth left in his expression and even though he's been through hell and back and twelve different kinds of fucked up, she can see that his eyes are bright. "Let's go get a drink".
.
.
.
The walk to the diner isn't particularly awkward or long and neither of them say anything but Jo doesn't mind the silence as much as she should. It makes it easier for her to notice things about Dean she hadn't before, things like:
He tucks one of his hands in his pockets whenever he walks and there's something different about the coil of his shoulders, like they're stronger. He keeps two knives with him—one in the back pocket of his jeans and the other tucked into the sleeve of his jacket, and he stands straighter, doesn't slouch as much as he used to.
It shouldn't be strange. After all, its been a while, and yet: Dean is still Dean. Dean, who still hunts, and who's still rude and sarcastic, and who still can't use a a decent pick-up line to save his life, and who still reads reports about strange occurrences from old journals. Dean, who's still cocky and arrogant and who still listens to old rock tunes. Dean, whose smiles are marked by a distinct sense of sadness and anger, though not yet exactly bitterness; Dean, whose smiles are like icicles on a branch in midwinter; like the rough scraping of autumn leaves on concrete. Dean, she thinks, who smiles like hurts.
He still looks the same to her, but he's different, in little ways and Jo wonders what she looks like to him, if she's changed as well. She doesn't ask.
.
.
.
Midwinter snow gathers on the windowsills of the small diner, tinged blue in the early-setting evening. The diner they sit in is dimly lit, the deep blue walls stiff and undecorated, the stools and booths clean and rigid. And yet, there's a certain warmth that envelopes them, a deep sense of home she hasn't allowed herself to feel ever since she left. They catch up: he asks her about where she's been and she's curious about Sam. They skirt around the topic of Hell, but in the end, she doesn't bring it up and he doesn't say anything.
(did you call? she always wanted to ask, but it's been a long time, and she won't be the first to make a move. would you pick up if i did? do you remember what you promised me? dean, dean, dean—)
"Did you know," she begins lightly, "I used to really—"
"I knew," Dean says, turns to look at her, eyes serious, but a smile in his voice, bottle of booze resting between his solid hands, already half gone. He cocks his head to the side, and after a long beat, he tells her, abruptly sincere, "Thank you".
(There's a lot of things she wants to say, a lot of things he probably wouldn't want to hear - things like: You knew, and yet you never said anything, and: Why didn't you ever say anything, and: Why didn't you call, and: Look at me dammit, I've grown up, and: You jerk, I hate you).
"Don't worry about it," she says instead, like it's not a big deal, like she doesn't—didn't miss him. "It doesn't matter".
She's not lying—really, she isn't. Jo has never lied for Dean—never had to, but it doesn't really matter what she has to say about it. Her admitting it to him isn't going to change anything. She isn't stupid. She knows that.
(Here's what everyone's forgotten: Jo really does hate Dean sometimes, hates him for not calling, hates him for showing up now. And the thing is, he's always been oblivious whenever it came to her, like that guy in that old movie she and daddy used to watch. He calls her, "kiddo," and ruffles her hair like she's his annoying, adorable kid sister. Jo thinks he's an asshole, a fuck up. He's emotionally retarded, emotionally scarred. She thinks he's a coward, thinks he's not strong enough. sometimes, she wonders if she's better off if she never knew him, and sometimes, she wishes she never had.
Here's what she's always known: he's worth all that).
"Okay". He gives her a look, like he doesn't believe her, but he doesn't say anything else. She always hated that look. It used to make her feel worthless, like she wasn't enough, like she was a stupid kid and he expected better. Right now though, it feels almost affectionate.
They're quiet for a moment, and then he says, "You know, your mom used to call a lot".
"Yeah?" Jo already knows this, but she feels something cold and aching unfurl in her chest anyway. "What did she say?"
"Said she missed you".
"And?"
The corners of his mouth quirk up a little before settling back into their sad tilt. "For a while, she kept asking if me and Sam knew where you were. We told her we never saw or ran into you. But she told us to keep an eye out; made us promise to call her if we ever did".
Jo raises an eyebrow. "You and Sam agreed to that?"
"We did. Kept an eye out for you, or at least we tried to for a while, I mean," Dean shrugs. "Your mother threatened to kick both our asses if we didn't. She was worried sick when you ran off. But Sam and I, we figured you'd be fine. We told her that you'd be alright and that you'd be able to handle yourself out there. She wasn't exactly convinced, but she backed off after a while".
"Well," Jo says, her voice scratchy. Her jaw feels too broken to work and suddenly saying anything else felt like putting in too much effort. She asks anyway. "Have you called her?"
"Actually," he tips his head at her, thoughtful, "I think you should be the one to do that".
Vaguely, she thinks she probably should too but Jesus, she just—she can't. She can't do this, but she doesn't know how else to thank him, so Jo just nods and bows her head. He leans forward, reaching out like he's about to grab her hand, but all he does is tap a finger on the inside of her wrist, like he used to do when they'd first begun and she'd only been a kid.
"Sure." She sucks in a breath, watches as the finger on her wrist taps out a steady rhythm. "It's been a while".
"Yeah". Dean stares at the broken light fixture in the other room. He doesn't say anything else, but when she flicks a piece of her muffin at him he grins at her, like it's normal and flicks it back.
"Hey," she laughs. It lands somewhere on her face and she scrapes a hand across her cheek. Dean smirks at her, lazy and slow and he looks a lot like he did back when she first met him, arrogant and cocky and way too much like a complete ass. She thinks about how he doubled over when she punched him, smiles.
He looks at her for a long beat then he reaches out, swipes his thumb across her chin. "There," he says. His thumb is sticky with crumbs when he pulls away. "Better".
"Thanks. You're a real dick, by the way".
"I just—" he says, laughing a little and his fingers curl around her wrist, nails short and sharp digging into her palm. "You look good". Her eyes dart to his face for second, and then to their fingers. She knows that it's the closest she's getting to an I missed you from Dean Winchester.
"Too bad I can't say the same for you, huh Deano?" She says and he grins, sharp and cutting and boyish. They fall silent after that but when she stands and he throws down enough money to pay for the both of their orders, she can't help but smile back.
"So," she says, zipping her jacket, trying not to sound as hopeful as she felt. "Am I going to see you again?"
His lip curls up. It's not quite a smile, but it's close to one. "Do you want to?"
She smirks back and he stands, leans in close so that their eyes catch. "I wouldn't hate it".
.