Pairing: Dean/Jo (Pfft, like I'd write anything else?!)
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except rabid, Jo-loving plot bunnies.
Spoilers: AU Season 8. Because I really liked the scenes in the Men of Letters hideout, but felt there was a little something missing. Namely, Jo Harvelle.
With thanks to Silverspoon for her awesome beta skills.
x-x-x
Peeking out from beneath a barrage of dusty old books and ancient tomes, Sam Winchester sniffed delicately at the air, and was surprised to find the unmistakable aroma of a home cooked meal greeted him. He had been happily immersed in his research, when a strangely enticing scent had permeated his senses and shattered his concentration.
Frying onions, browning meat, and other equally delicious smells were rapidly merging together, filling the expansive library almost from floor to ceiling, and his stomach grumbled in hopeful anticipation.
Rising from his seat, Sam wandered hesitantly toward the kitchen of the bunker, and the sight that met him instantly caused him to blink in disbelief.
"Dean?" he called out to his sibling, not managing to contain a bemused smile as his brother turned and held aloft his beer bottle by way of greeting. The old fashioned floral apron he was sporting caused Sam to chuckle, his eyes wide with equal parts amusement and confusion.
"You're cooking dinner?"
Dean shrugged, taking a sip of his beer before passing the bottle to the blonde perched on the kitchen counter beside him. He busied himself with turning over the frying burger patties, as Jo Harvelle took a long, slow sip from the bottle and then placed it down beside her. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter as she leant forward and eyed their impending meal with obvious approval.
"That smells delicious," she enthused, laughing softly, not for the first time, as Dean's retro apparel caught her attention once again.
Dean held up his finger to her in warning, sensing the goading remark about to escape her lips, but his smile ultimately betrayed him and so she scoffed in reply. Jo held up her hands helplessly, as if the thought of further teasing hadn't crossed her mind, and she hopped down from the counter with a beaming smile.
"Looking good, princess," she shrugged, her eyes alive with mirth as she landed a heavy handed slap against his rear.
Dean simply glowered and poked impatiently at the burgers, and he watched as Jo crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Removing a chilled bottle of beer, she extracted the cap with a well-rehearsed strike against the counter top and sauntered over to Sam to offer him the beverage.
"Thanks," Sam smiled gratefully, still struck with the general absurdity of the situation.
"What?" Dean checked, noting the bemused expression on Sam's face.
Jo proceeded to extract a veritable buffet of sides and sauces from the refrigerator, complete with a bowl of salad from which she stole a carrot stick, before she returned to her perch next to Dean and bit into the vegetable with vigour.
Sam shook his head, "No, nothing, I… It's just when you guys said you were going to get groceries, I…" he frowned, "I kind of figured you were, you know… not getting groceries."
Dean smirked at his insinuation, first waggling his eyebrows at Jo before he regarded his brother again. His face was almost regretful of the wisdom he was about to impart, but the smell of the burgers under his nose soon peaked his more carnivorous and less carnal desires.
"Man cannot survive on mind-blowing sex alone, Sammy."
Sam laughed and cast his gaze tactfully to the floor, as the couple began a non-too subtle discussion of Dean's appraisal of the more intimate side of their relationship.
The smell of burning quickly caught Sam's attention, and through a hesitant glance in their direction, he noted a plume of grey smoke beginning to rise up from the skillet.
"Uh, guys, I think something's burning!" he tried, wincing as the smoke only increased, and Sam peered around the room and began to wonder if smoke alarms were a fixture in the old Men of Letters hideout. He assumed not, but wondered if they were about to find out.
Without so much as breaking the fevered kiss he was happily caught up in, Dean blindly pushed the smoking grill pan onto the neighbouring burner, before wrapping both arms tightly around Jo and pulling her against him.
Sam cleared his throat and began to back slowly toward the doorway, leaving the recently reunited pair to their own amorous devices.
"I'll just… I'll be in the…" he paused, "Okay then."
He made it just about to the threshold before Dean's voice stopped him in his tracks and proudly announced, "Dinner's ready."
Shooting a teasing grin at his younger brother, Dean arched an eyebrow as he adopted his best parental tone and added, "Don't forget to wash up."
Sam merely laughed, but found himself dutifully headed toward the bathroom at the suggestion. Though dinner smelled appetising, and Dean seemed strangely at home in this unprecedented picture of domesticity, there was only one word Sam could think of that aptly summed up the evening so far.
Surreal.
x-x-x
Later that night and Sam was once again happily immersed in journals and diaries, his mouth frequently forming an absent smile as he read over the diary entries of the men who had once sat around the very table he now found himself seated at; men who knew his grandfather; men who shared his heritage.
There were others like them. There had been others like them. They were part of something, part of something bigger than any of them could have ever dreamed, and Sam liked the sense of belonging that realisation brought with it.
The true nature of their lineage had initially held no appeal for Dean. He had dismissed talk of powers and spells, had scoffed irritably at the very idea that these Men of Letters held any sway over the universe or could somehow transcend the very laws of life and death. They were hunters, 'grunts' as he called himself, nothing more, nothing less.
But then Jo had been returned to him, and he suddenly found himself a believer.
Henry Winchester had failed his family and colleagues, and their desire to unite the Campbells and Winchesters had ended in bloodshed and heartache. But in death, and in taking his place in the paradise reserved only for those of his kind, Henry had found a way to make amends to his oldest grandson, and once again unite two families who shared a unique heritage.
James Harvelle had been a trusted friend and colleague in life, and in death, he and Henry were able to quickly strike a deal of sorts with the mysterious deity who ruled over the heavens.
For the grandchildren they had never known, there was now the chance to start again, to renew the bonds that had been broken. So Jo Harvelle had been returned to earth, with the hopes of their ancestors resting on the tragic love affair that had existed all too briefly between her and Dean.
Jo was never told of the reason for her second chance at life, simply being reassured that her living was 'meant to be'.
The second kiss she ever shared with Dean Winchester quickly silenced any doubts on the subject.
Sam blinked, shaken from his thoughts as Dean dropped heavily into the chair beside him and started to toy idly with an old journal to his side.
He began to flip slowly through the pages, and as something fell from the binding and fluttered to the ground, both brothers bent to retrieve the object.
Dean's fingers enclosed around the corner of the old black and white photograph first, and he held it up for Sam to see. The smiling face of a pretty young woman greeted them, and in a faded, scrawled cursive, Sam read aloud, "My darling Vivian. December 24th 1954."
Lips pursed, Dean mulled over their find, twisting the picture in his fingers as he wondered about the fate of the woman and the man who had loved her. Fate had not been kind to the Men of Letters, and Sam stared down silently at the pages before him as he too reflected on their lives. They had sacrificed so much to keep the world safe from evil, and perhaps nobody understood that better than the Winchesters; loss and heartache had tainted the brothers' existence their whole lives, until their hearts had all but become numb to their effects.
"You think he ever got to go home to her?" Dean finally asked, nodding slowly as Sam simply offered him a shrug, and the photograph was tucked neatly back into the pages it had fallen from.
His thoughts instantly settled on the photograph on the dresser in his room, and he exhaled slowly as he remembered his mother, not merely as the parent he had adored, but as the young, beautiful and vibrant girl they had once met in the expanse of time. Mary's smile had been dazzling and all consuming, and all too soon his memory conjured up the face of a girl from a bar in Nebraska. The same blonde curls, the same fiery nature, each now owning their own place in his heart.
Sighing to himself, Dean walked over to a nearby bureau, and it was only then that Sam realised he was wearing an old bathrobe. He accepted the glass of scotch Dean offered him with a disbelieving chuckle.
"You do realise you're wearing some dead guy's robe," Sam began askance, sighing as Dean simply shrugged off his remark and took a long sip of his scotch.
The music playing softly in the library was beginning to have a strangely calming effect on Dean, and as Billie Holiday sang about love and longing, he closed his eyes and leant his head back to allow the lyrics to wash over him.
Usually Dean preferred less cerebral music, opting for the kind of raging melodies that left little option for quiet contemplation. But the ambience of the room was soothing, and he soon found himself enjoying the strange sanctity of their surroundings.
Sam smiled, shaking his head as he busied himself with once again trawling through the notes, and he tried to find voices for the names who were now becoming familiar to him as they talked of their findings and the hunters they worked alongside. Their stories were fascinating, and each time he read a name he recognised, it spurred him on to the next page and the next, as their lives unravelled before him.
Dean's eyes flickered open as a pair of arms wound around his neck, and Jo suddenly appeared behind him, her bare feet having made little noise on the glossy floor.
She pressed a kiss to his cheek and giggled as he hauled her onto his lap and buried a retaliatory kiss against her damp curls. He breathed her in, dragging kisses up her cheek until she turned her head and rewarded him with a tellingly adoring smile.
"That shower is amazing!" she stated, picking absently at a piece of cotton on the t-shirt she wore. The long black shirt rested almost to her knee, and Dean instantly recognised it as one of his own. He swept his hand up and down her bare leg and nodded in ready agreement.
"See? What did I tell you?!" he replied enthusiastically for Sam's benefit, smiling and shaking his head as Jo stole a sip from his glass and then winced as the liquid burned the back of her throat. She turned the heavy cut glass in her hand, frowning as she swept her gaze around the room and took in the decidedly masculine décor.
"You know, I'm pretty sure I'm the first girl this place has ever seen," she mused, noting how the furniture, décor and boxes of cigars littering the room gave it a distinctly 'old gentleman's club' feel. She figured the title 'Men' of Letters had been fairly descriptive of its members.
"Uh, yeah. Probably, I guess," Sam agreed, thinking back on the politics of the era.
"You'd probably be the first girl some of the dudes here had ever seen," Dean snorted, safely assuming that a number of his grandfather's comrades had fallen into the distinctly geeky category. "But, I kind of like the place…" he added as an afterthought, generally approving of the old-fashioned, masculine vibe the interior of the building exuded.
Jo snorted with amusement and gestured down to his attire, "Really? You do, Mr. Hefner? That's… shocking!"
Sam laughed out loud, earning a scathing glare from Dean who simply swallowed down another mouthful of his drink, and wrapped his arm a little bit tighter around his girlfriend. Two months after her return and he was still afraid to let go.
Jo and Sam chattered on happily, both oblivious to Dean's train of thought, and the actual reason for his contentment.
It wasn't for the newfound heritage they shared, the perfectly aged scotch, or the Egyptian cotton he was wearing. Nor was it due to the lavish furnishings, extensive library, or even their newly appointed bedrooms.
It was that in the glass next to his bathroom sink, two toothbrushes nestled side by side. That mugs and glasses sat on the drainer, marked with a reassuring smear of cherry flavoured lip balm, and that his clothes hung in the closet next to hers; shirts and jeans a messy tangle of the life they now shared together.
But most importantly, she was there. In their room, in their bed, in his arms, at the beginning and end of each new day. And that was really all that mattered.
He figured maybe Billy Joel had said it best.
She was home.
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