Jo walks away from Dean with a washcloth in her hand, laughing at his joke. Her golden curls bounce gracefully and her hips sway smoothly as the distance between the two of them grows, and Dean smiles, proud that his joke has succeeded in making her laugh, a sound that practically drips with honey and calms him, as he takes another drink of his scotch.
But when he looks back up, Jo's turned back into the waitress in the West Tennessee pub. Her lips are hot pink and her eyelashes are thick with mascara. She's pretty, but Jo never wore make-up as thick as this girl, and Jo was prettier.
The smile fades from Dean's lips quickly as he realizes that Jo is gone. She's been gone for a long time now. His stomach turns and he looks down at the bar, feeling sick.
"Hey, you all right?" the girl says in a calming voice. Compared to Jo's honey voice, this girl's voice is like metal wire scrubbed across an iron skillet.
Dean's eyes close tight and he nods. It's a few seconds before he responds, though, looking up with that suave façade that he's become so familiar with. "Yeah, I'm fine. Y'know, I really should get goin'. Just remembered some things I need to take care of."
Aside from getting out of that bar, Dean doesn't have anything he needs to do. Not tonight, anyway. He and Sam have decided to take the night off, or pretend as if they could. Sam's at a coffee shop slash book store down the street, reading some mystery novel he found. Even Geek Boy needs a break from religious texts. He's probably fifty pages in, but he probably has the plot and mystery figured out. Dean doesn't know why Sam insists on finishing every book he starts when he's already figured them out, but he does.
Dean's left the bar now, and the cold air outside stings and bites at his skin. There's a small rock in Dean's shoe and it rolls under his foot as he steps. It's digging into his sole, but he doesn't notice it. He's frozen, staring at the blonde across the street.
She's sitting at a table outside of another bar, shot glasses lined up on the cold black metal of the table. There's a bottle of Jäger in her hand and she shakes her head. "I was wonderin' if you were gonna show, Winchester," Jo laughs.
Dean laughs in response and glances down the empty road as he thinks of a witty reply.
It's a stupid mistake.
When he looks back, Jo is gone. She's replaced by a short blonde waitress, clearing a table of its used plates and dirty silverware.
His smile fades again, and he looks down at the rough black asphalt. Sometimes he wonders if being smeared across it would be less painful than this.
He wipes his hand across his face, lets out a long, exhausted breath. In the cold of the night air, it turns into little clouds and rises slowly. He watches it drift upwards, almost like it's his soul, floating further away from him with every second that he's without her.
Dean's stomach is violently upset. His head is pounding painfully. He looks around as he's walking down the sidewalk and ducks quickly into the alleyway to his left. Checking once more for people, he leans up against the cold bricks and opens his mouth, breathing deeply.
It feels as if he's suffering from a major hangover. What he's hungover, he doesn't know. Is it the alcohol, or is it that tiny blonde woman that was ripped violently from his life?
His stomach settles in an uncomfortable way and suddenly tightens and he heaves, his stomach purging itself of the burger, fries, and alcohol he's had tonight. He's there for about five minutes before he straightens up and continues on down the sidewalk towards their motel.
"Dean! Wait up!" Jo shouts from behind him.
Dean turns, and Jo isn't there. She never was.
It's the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol.
Dean picks up pace. He needs a beer. Maybe four.
Maybe, he thinks, just maybe, if he has enough to drink, his fantasies will become reality. Maybe she'll come back.
Probably not, but the alcohol is still tempting.