Well hello lovelies I know its been a while! I wrote this little one shot quite a long time ago, but I only just now got the gumption to post it. I guess you could call this a PWP, but I had always been curious to the idea of what was the final tipping point for Jo to start hunting on her own, and this was my interpretation of the answer to that question. Enjoy, and as always, reviews are love!
Warnings: Smut. Lots of yummy but hopefully still emotional smut.
Disclaimer: Yeah I still son't own Supernatural.
She was sure she'd been in love with him since day one. She knew it because no relationship could ever be real for her unless it was one half passion and one half pain. She'd deny to his face, but she loved to fire back at him with blunt force wit all too reminiscent of the knuckles she'd hurled into the bridge of his nose the very first time they'd met.
How far they'd come since then.
It was late at the Roadhouse, the wind was howling and every five minutes thunder would snarl over the roof with such force that the windows would rattle ominously in their panes, like some bad scare tactic on a low budget horror movie. The rain had been going for hours now and the storm seemed like it was never going to let up. Ash had said that they were in the middle of a massive cell of clouds and to expect it to go on until almost dawn. Due to the ferocious weather, nobody was really in tonight, the last patron had booked it an hour and a half ago, just before the wind had turned lethal. Her mother had been feeling a bit under the weather, and Jo was more than capable of handling an empty bar on her own. Ash had long since headed to his room and so it was just her alone in the Roadhouse while the storm raged and she rigged the jukebox to avoid having to pay with her tips, singing along with her favorite songs while she meandered through the bar, cleaning any crumbs she might have missed on the first pass. Every clap of thunder sent a shiver through her skin and she was grateful for the walls and roof surrounding her. She thought of nights when her dad might have been out there, alone, on a hunt, hunkered down in some leaky room pouring over research, gun resting at his side on the bed, flickering lamp causing his eyes to strain as he tried to find a way to save some stranger's life from forces they wouldn't even believe existed.
She walked up the two steps to get behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the shelf and a clean shot glass, pouring herself a measurable amount, but she didn't drink just yet. Her mom would be pissed she was essentially drinking the profits, but Jo doubted that she would notice one or two drinks. She leaned against the bar, the shot glass held between her slender fingers as she hummed with the mournful song that was crooning from the speakers of the jukebox, sliding the sole of her boot against the floor, that old familiar sensation of isolation that she'd been trying so hard to outrun her whole life creeping up on her like a wet chill. It was that feeling that had driven her to drop out of college, knowing she was the freakiest of the freaks, despite trying to tell herself she wasn't for a year of her life. Two semesters of trying to pretend she was like everyone else, that she wanted what everybody else wanted, that she'd really and truly grieved the death of her father and the damage it had done to her mother. Two semesters of going to parties and drinking too much, desperate to fit in, and finally one day suffering a severe hangover and a bit of disgust in herself, she climbed off the bathroom floor, threw her stuff in her duffle bag and marched out the door without a word to anybody. Joanna Beth Harvelle was many things, but the kind of girl to sit on her bedroom floor with a bottle of cheap wine, crying to reruns of chick flick TV shows and made up drama wasn't one of them. So she'd come home to the Roadhouse, back to her mother who's joy at seeing her daughter after a year evaporated quicker than a pond dries up in a summer without rain. She slung beer and shots of cheap whiskey to the hunters, fended off sleezy, horny creeps with a vicious bite in her words, hustled drunk pool and poker players to make extra money, and sometimes take off to Vegas for a weekend when she just couldn't stand the suffocating weight of her mother's worry anymore. Jo couldn't say she was exactly proud of her life, but at least this was somewhere she knew she belonged. It actually made her smile to think of the girls she'd met at college and how they would cringe at a place like the Roadhouse.
She took her shot of whiskey and smirked a bit through the burn.
He came to her that night like the answer to all her bitter prayers that she said to the ceiling, angry her father was gone, angry she couldn't ever get out from under her mother to be the hunter she knew she was capable of being, desperate to distract herself from the pathetic cliched angst that she'd never have anyone in her life that truly understood her. The boom of the thunder muffled the sound of the door opening, but when the sound of the storm escalated at the barrier being flung open, she jerked her head up, her heart pounding behind her ribs as she laid eyes on him.
Damn he looked good. He was soaked through but somehow his hair was still standing up just a bit, his shoulders broad and angular beneath that well worn leather jacket. Feet confidently leaving a trail of water and mud across the previously clean floor as he turned to shut the door against the gail force winds before spinning back around to face her.
"Well look who decided to show up," she quipped, easing her expression even though there was a blooming heat in her stomach completely unconnected with the shot of whiskey she'd had.
"I don't remember actually ever being invited…well…anywhere." There was a glimmer that made the peridot of his eyes practically glow beneath the hazy of the Roadhouse lamps. A playful smile twitched across his face, causing his jawline to tighten and an electric tingle pulsed through her fingertips.
He swaggered up to the bar, owning the space he inhabited like he'd built the world all on his own and it was his right to be anywhere he damn well pleased. Technically the bar was going to close in ten minutes but he knew that she'd let him stay, because it was him. Dean Winchester. The man who smelt like whiskey and leather and sin, who had rock and roll rebellion pumping through his veins, who fought monsters and ghosts and demons like he'd been born to do it, because he had been, because he'd never had to fight off the idea that he had to be anybody else but who he was.
"Where's Sam?" she asked as she reached to grab another shot glass as well as a large towel she kept stashed behind the bar in the case of a large spill. She handed him the towel as he shrugged out of his jacket and set aside on another stool while he sank down onto the seat right in front of her, tussling his short clipped hair and rubbing the back of his neck dry with the towel.
"Back at the motel a ways down the road." His tone was dark and Jo felt a slight twitch of discomfort.
"You two had a fight or something?" she asked, pouring him a drink which he readily swallowed down as soon as she'd stopped pouring. She might as well not have even tipped the bottle upright because as soon as he set the glass down she refilled it, along with her own, the smell of the potent liquor wafting up between them.
"Could say that," Dean muttered, the edges of his eyes tightening. "Sammy…he…what can I say? He's…" He trailed off, obviously against the idea of talking crap to her about Sam but clearly still frustrated.
"He's your little brother and a pain in your ass? Yeah, I get it." She took a sip of her shot and Dean tilted his head at her disbelievingly.
"You're an only kid," he said with a furrowed brow.
"You don't think my mom rides my ass worse than any tailgater you've ever seen?" She leaned against the bar, the space between them shrinking rapidly; she could practically smell the rain still clinging to his skin. She picked up her shot and raised it not quite at eye level to him, her elbow leaning against the bar. He clinked his glass against hers and they drank together, exhaling almost at the same time as the burn washed over them.
"Try not to be so hard on your mom," Dean said quietly, his voice as gentle as someone like him could ever be- roughened by whiskey and a million times tightening his vocal cords to bite back all the things he'd never let himself say out loud.
"She cares about you a lot. She just wants what's best for you. Those are good things."
Jo sighed softly and hopped up onto the bar so she was situated a little bit taller than he was, her legs still dangling over the bartender's side, her torso twisted so she was still facing him, his green eyes looking up at her with a mixture of expressions.
"Yeah, they are. But maybe she doesn't really know what's best for me. Maybe nobody knows what's best for us but us, you know?"
"Jo, I know you want to get out there and hunt but trust me…"
Her patience snapped. She wasn't sure if it was because the frustration inside her finally broke the dam, or if it was because he was so close she could literally feel the heat coming off of him like some kind of cosmic lure, or if it was because she could see a reversed mirror of all her own pain and she wanted to soothe the wounds because she understood his conflict so much better than he ever might have believed.
She closed the gap between them and kissed him finally with an insistent, firm touch of her lips against his own. Heat seeped into her from his touch and seemed to diffuse through her skin like the warmth of the perfect temperature bath at the end of a long day on her feet. She cautiously ran her fingers through his short clipped hair, brushing the top of his ear as she held onto him as loosely as she could, not sure if he'd return the motion or if she'd made a mistake she was going to have to play off on whiskey and sad jukebox songs.
He was the first to pull back but he didn't go far. He eased away and looked up at her with a head tilt that was two parts cute and one part enticing, some of his devil may care persona dripping to the floor with the rest of the rain water that clung to his clothes.
"What was that about?" His voice was questioning but there was an invitation in his eyes.
She shrugged one shoulder loosely. "I know you way better than you think I do, Winchester."
A lonesome guitar string wailed as thunder rattled the window panes as Dean arched up and cradled the side of her head and pulled her in for another kiss, this time insistent and wanting. Their tongues met in the middle with the feeling of electricity snapping across Jo's nervous system as the taste of him washed over her- whiskey, rye, ozone and humidity in the slip stream of a steaming hot highway. She sighed softly at the sensation, practically wriggling with pleasure at the feeling of his lips against hers, his tongue exploring her mouth, everything and more what she had dreamed it might be. Her nails traced random patterns against his scalp as his fingers tightened in her hair. She heard him breathe in deep, as if he was trying to pull more of her scent into his lungs, and it put an ache just underneath her skin that only his touch would quell. Without much of her own control, her teeth sank into his lip just a little right as he rocked himself up off the stool and climbed onto the bar with her, his hand slipping down her neck, his thumb brushing against her jaw, pressing just slightly on her pulse point. She curled her arms around his shoulders and tried to tug him down with her onto the surface of the bar but she could feel him resisting.
"What?" she panted, not at all surprised to find she was breathless.
"Your mom would kill me. And you. And me again." His green eyes were blazing with heat and lust and she smirked up at him, running her hand down his chest and abdomen before curling her fingers into the buckle on his belt and hauling him forward against her.
"I don't care, Dean. We hunt monsters for God's sake, now untwist your boxers and get busy."
A low growl rumbled in his throat as he hovered over her, kicking off his shoes until they thumped to the floor as the sound of more thunder boomed over head.
"Yes ma'am."
She dug her fingers into the hem of his T-shirt and pulled up, taking the amulet necklace he always wore off with it as she dropped the clothing to the floor beside her. Her fingers danced across his bare skin, feeling the searing heat like she was putting a hand on a scorching stove and it sent a wriggling spike of pleasure straight to her flesh and bones. He dove down and attacked the length of her neck, brushing away her hair as he worked on leaving what she knew would be a prominent bruise just underneath her ear. The sensation of his teeth and tongue against her skin had her gasping short, constricted pants of air as her hips bucked up into his and she clung to his shoulders, seeking friction just as desperately as he was. She could feel the hardness in his jeans just like the barrel of a gun and her head tipped back as his teeth grazed her jugular vein while the rest of his body molded against her own.
She worked the buttons on her shirt open until finally she was able to worm her way out of it, and before he could waste time fumbling with her bra, she sat up and unclipped it and let it fall to the floor, giving Dean no quarter before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and crushed her chest against his own, the flush of so much skin to skin contact sending her way up into the atmosphere. The moon was still just a bit out of reach, and he knew it too, and he definitely intended to make her work for it.
His hands slid expertly over her skin, sending shockwave trails of fire through her. Somehow, he managed to touch parts of her that had been entirely ignored by anybody else she'd ever been with in her life; that delicate space between the curve of her breast and the edge of her ribs, the patch of skin where her shoulder met her arm, the very bottom of the dip in her spine. His touches somehow were able to be exactly what she wanted, firm and rough enough that she knew she'd feel the echoes for days to come, but so tender at the same time you'd never have believed him capable of such softness. It was like she was a shrine and he'd come to worship on bended knee and she didn't even think twice about letting him do exactly as he pleased.
She arched up underneath him in order to ruck her jeans and panties off, kicking off her canvas shoes at the same time, losing a sock in the process, completely uncaring about anything else but becoming as one with him as it was possible to be. She moaned when his fingers gripped her hips and he angled himself down, the denim of his jeans rasping against the ultra sensitive skin of her thighs. She fumbled with his belt buckle to the point where he reached a hand of his own down to finish undoing it while the other tangled first in her hair and then squeezed over her breast, a heavy breath exhaling from his lungs as he did so. The tightness of his grip sent delicious shivers through Jo's core and she worked desperately to pull Dean's jeans and boxers off and let them hit the floor, her nails drawing lines down his back and shoulders as he finally pressed against her, fully naked and so close to satisfying that desperate ache he'd drawn up from the depths of her being.
That first touch of his fingers against her sex had her eyes practically rolling. Her breath came out in stuttered pants as he almost playfully rolled her clit underneath his fingers, soaking up her reactions like a sponge. In the background the song on the jukebox shifted to an old bluesy rock song with an acoustic steel string rhythm that set Jo's heart pounding as Dean's fingers continued to work her into a frenzy, rubbing back and forth, applying pressure that was just this side of too much but still exactly what she wanted. She noticed he was rocking his hips against her in a slow, heavy grind that seemed to echo the claps of thunder, or maybe the pulse of the bass coming from the speakers, she wasn't sure. She wondered why he didn't just push into her and surely satisfy the ache that made his shoulders tremble beneath her fingertips, but she didn't question it either.
She keened as he rubbed her clit just the right way and felt the spike of pleasure hurtle through her body like an Olympian throwing a lance. Tension sweet as honey and as aching as a broken heart curled around her guts as she clutched at Dean desperately, arching her hips as he hit that sweet spot repeatedly, rubbing back and forth now that he knew exactly where to push and pull. It was just like the two of them- feeling each other out, pushing back, pulling against, until finally they broke through to the raw mess of emotions and scars underneath. She let out a high pitched gasp when she came for him the first time that night, clinging to his shoulders for dear life as the pleasure seemed to break her open like a well placed bullet to a stubborn padlock.
Above her, Dean was practically purring as he felt the tremors spike and then slowly begin to ebb away as he coaxed her down with further and further spaced apart brushes to her clit. Only when she managed to gulp down a measurable breath did he dip his fingers lower and find her still burning hot and so wet for him that he was practically slicked up to his wrist. She moaned low in her throat at the feeling of his fingers purposefully sweeping as deep inside her as they could reach, too intently to be casual brushing against her sweet spot that had her almost thrashing underneath him.
"Dean, please," she whispered, breathless, aching, and knowing that she'd sold herself to her own personal Hell for this one night that she would never forget, and uncaring of the consequences to be reaped in the form of long, empty nights and worry about what would become of him later when his back vanished out the door and the snarl of the Impala faded away down the road.
He kissed her deeply as he withdrew his hand and with a reverent slowness took himself in hand and pushed into her. Though it felt like her lungs might burst from lack of oxygen she didn't break away to catch a deeper breath instead determined to cling to him as he filled her completely. Only when he was buried to the hilt and he pulled back to press his forehead against the space beneath her collarbone did she allow herself to fill her lungs with oxygen that was slicked with the taste of his sweat and skin, an even deeper, more encompassing of that taste of ozone, humidity, rye and whiskey that would only ever belong to him.
He rolled his hips against hers in a way that was far too calculated to be lazy- and she realized he was just testing her, just gauging to see how far he could push her, how far she'd let him go. In everything they did it was all instinct, no mental calculations, no games. They knew they didn't have to add that crap to each other's already full plates. Maybe that was why it was so easy to be with each other, until the old creep of responsibility crawled its way inside.
His next thrust banished all of that from Jo's mind. His fingers slid down her skin, still seeking out all those hidden spots to tease her with, to create that desperate ache deep inside that only he could satisfy. The calloused pads brushed against the line where hip met thigh, the very top point of her right shoulder blade. As he filled her again she knew she was moaning and didn't even think to care how it might have sounded wanton and desperate. She was desperate, and he was too, she could feel it in the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble of his thighs, the tightness of his stomach. She angled her hips up against him and encouraged him with a stroke of her palm against his cheek, bringing him in for another kiss as she sank all the way to her back on the surface of the bar. Her knees hugged his ribs helping to rock him as deep into her body as possible as she enveloped him in a full body embrace.
The depths of his thrusts never waned but the pace of his rhythm increased steadily as the minutes ticked by and Jo could feel that a new creature was beginning to take him over. As Dean always did, he came into his own right in the thick of things, and here now with her was no exception. A rough growl escaped his lips as some switch inside flipped in him. Maybe it was the roar of yet another boom of thunder, maybe it was the chugging rhythm of an electric guitar on the speakers, maybe it was the flutter of her breath and the soft "yes, yes, yes," she kept chanting with his name sprinkled throughout. Instinct rose up and civility washed away under the scorching heat of the lust burning through both of them as raw, carnal pleasure began to sizzle up from their bones and torch their flesh.
With so little warning it caused Jo to yelp, Dean pulled out and climbed off the bar, pulling her with him by the hips, cleanly bending her over the bar before pushing back in, rolling his hips with a smoothness that rivaled the pistons on the Impala's engines the first hundred miles after a tune-up. Jo could hear the high pitched sounds coming from her mouth but was helpless to stop even as Dean rode her down, sending her higher and higher, the new angle sending her sky-high up the pleasure meter. She practically choked on her own breath when he came home for a particularly powerful thrust that she felt all the way in her belly and unexpectedly stopped his rhythm, shushing the perpetual chirps she was making the same way one would soothe a startled dog. His large hands swept over her shoulders and down her ribs, gently fondling her breasts with both hands before allowing one to curl against her stomach and pull her tight to his body as he folded over her, his chest melding against her back.
He whispered her name in her ear and kissed the curve of her jaw bone, nipping in his teeth at the very end as his free hand skated down her stomach and buried his fingers within the folds of her sex until he found the aching button of her clit and rubbed once just as he rolled his cock through her achingly tight heat. Her head arched back as her eyes practically rolled at the burst of molten pleasure that suddenly began to wash over her, making her knees weak. She clutched the bar for dear life as Dean slowly began to work a new rhythm with her, timing his strokes with the touches of his hand until she was literally trembling underneath him.
"I have you, Jo," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck and the quality of his voice like the husk of the last song of a rock show. She groaned underneath him and trusted him so implicitly that when she came for him again, she let go of the bar and held onto his arms instead, knowing he would keep her from falling.
When the aftershocks finally subsided, she slowly managed to pull off his cock and find her footing, but not for very long. She nudged him to sit spread legged on the bar stool and he helped her climb onto his lap, her knees hugging the dip of his ribcage as she slowly impaled herself on him once more, shivering at the sensation that pulsed through her. She took control of the rhythm now, determined to bring him off in the best way she knew how- to let him free fall without worrying if he was going to crash and burn on impact. She knew deep inside that was all he had ever really wanted- to not need such broad shoulders to hold the weight of the world. She knew he despised the parts of himself that didn't feel up to taking on the weight, and she knew too that she would probably never be able to cure that in him, but she could try. She could try, because he deserved to have a moment in his life without that weight crushing him.
She rolled her hips smoothly and watched with delight as his head rolled back on his shoulders and his chest shuddered. She stroked his pectorals and shoulders before trailing her fingertips down his abdomen before gathering him in her arms, holding herself tight against the breadth of his chest and proceeded to ride him with a quick, steady canter. The messy waves of her hair tickled against her overly sensitive skin as Dean's arms came up to curl his fingers over her shoulders and anchor her to his body, his forehead pressed tight against her shoulder. She curled her fingers into his hair and helped him look up at her so she could catch his slightly swollen lips in her own, kissing him in lieu of words because words would ruin the beauty of the moment. She could taste the caustic pain in him, but also the ferocity of his will, the depth of his strength, and the pure rebellion of his rock and roll heart. It seared her like a brand and she clutched him as tightly as she could as he shuddered hard underneath her, his body trembling, teetering on the edge of release. She might have expected him to try and up the pace but instead he backed off and in the slow, languid ebb and flow of being locked together he came with her as the storm raged above their heads, a lightning strike finally managing to kill the power and plunge them into darkness.
He held her tight against him in the dark while the thunder rattled the windows and the wind ripped at the roof without managing to pull it apart. She leaned into his chest and smiled when he nuzzled her hair and kissed the crown of her head before she slowly slid herself off him to ease the pressure on his back. It was slow and methodical the way they moved, picking up their clothes and putting them back on, like sliding into a skin whose fit was just off enough to make you notice. Something was different, and they both knew it, but they couldn't say whether it was a good or bad thing.
They stayed up all night, drinking and talking and sometimes not talking. Dean laid down enough money to pay for the bottle that they were working on and by the time the storm finally began to ebb, they were down to pale golden dregs. The words pulled and receded like tides on a beach, washing away a little more of what they'd been before and revealing something else each time.
She knew Dean wasn't the kind of man who would stay and cuddle, who would make her breakfast in the morning, kiss her on her cheek before he took off in the Impala to go pick up Sam and head off to the next hunt. She didn't know if she wanted a man like that anyway. Dean would never be traditional, he'd never do things the way they'd always been done, and even if it drove her crazy, it was just one of many things she loved about him. So when she walked him to the door in the face of the rising sun she didn't know what to expect, but when he cupped her cheek and kissed her deeply, it took her by surprise. She let him seek solace with her once more, somewhat for him, but mostly for herself, knowing this could very well by the last time, and she desperately wanted to always remember his taste. She tasted the razor edge of his conviction, the smoke of his self doubt, and the rasp of steel strings against soft skin that could only ever come from living the life he did. It was all rock and roll, all whiskey and rye, all ozone and humid heat, and all Dean.
I'll call you," he said when he finally pulled back and shrugged into his jacket.
She cocked her hip out and let it lean against the door frame as she watched him climb into that menacing black car and roll away, the snarl of the engine taking far too long to fade as she watched him go.
"No you won't."
She stayed there watching that empty highway for far longer than was necessary, debating on what to do. She breathed in shallow enough that it couldn't wash the taste or feel of Dean's lips away from her mouth and inwardly something in her chest loosened and she felt a slow smile creep across her face.
She left a note on the edge of the bar for her mom before she walked out the door with a duffle bag of her clothes, weapons, and a case file under her arm. She took the spare car and fired up the engine, heading for the highway, smiling in the wake of a sting of tears, knowing she'd never really be free, but damn it if she wouldn't live her life the way she wanted it to be lived. She had a wad of money in the glove compartment and plenty of street smarts to make her more than capable of taking care of herself. She had a knife in her pocket, a gun in the seat next to her, good classic rock on the radio, and an open highway all to herself. She had her father's bravery, her mother's take no prisoner's attitude, and she had Dean to thank for dismantling the wall of her own hesitation.
And for that he would always be the love of her life. Whether he liked it or not.