Character(s): Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Inspirational Music: "Medicine," by Daughter.
Demon!Dean reunites with an old friend. Together, they mourn the people they used to be. AU.
Medicine
oOoOo
"Dean?"
He turns slowly. The woman suddenly standing in front of him is a total stranger. A brunette, with steely eyes. Even before her eyes darken, he knows that she is a demon, like him. He can feel it in his bones. Oddly, she looks shocked, frightened; like she's seeing a ghost. And in a way, she is.
He fingers his blade, weighs it experimentally. Might be he just found his next victim, to satiate his bloodlust. Still, there are courtesies to be observed. "Who are you?" he demands, roughly.
With a nervous smile, she takes one shaky step towards him. "The Roadhouse," she says, unevenly. "Philadelphia. Carthage. Ring any bells?"
He stares, uncomprehending. Then, disbelieving, after he pieces the roadmap together again. "Jo?"
She takes another step towards him, and his fingers clench around the blade. For a moment, he's tempted to scream, to tell her to start running, and get as far away from him as she possibly can. He owes her that much, at least - a warning. But he doesn't. He never does.
"I never thought—"
"How did you—"
Suddenly, the room is filled with the sound of their quiet chuckles and anxious giggles. It seems they've done nothing but interrupt each other since they first met at the Roadhouse. Slowly, Jo closes the distance between them. She reaches up and touches his stubbled jaw, a wistful smile playing upon her lips. He lets her touch him, wondering all the while what it would be like to slit her throat and watch the blood come pouring out. He would stand over her while she lay dying, choking on her own blood, and he would say, "I'm sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it were mine." But, somehow, he doesn't.
"I started looking for you as soon as I heard . . ." she begins, softly. "Oh, Dean. What have you done?"
He pulls away abruptly, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "No more'n I deserve," he growls. "I got you killed, Jo."
She shakes her head, and a strand of dark hair falls into her eyes. He wishes it was blonde instead.
"I went to Heaven once," he goes on, sharply. "Did you know? I looked for you and Ellen, but you weren't there. I thought, maybe, you'd — well, I know the truth now." He smiles grimly. "I was right." Only the damned are killed by Hellhounds.
"I didn't want you to know," she whispers.
He turns on her then, almost angry. "What? Why?"
She says nothing; only looks at him mournfully, with a pair of grey eyes that aren't hers. Eyes that seem to say, Why didn't you tell me about your deal? Even he has to admit they have a point.
"Where's Ellen?"
"Crowley has her in his safe-keeping," she tells him, sadly. Her smile becomes bitter. "How else do you think he would convince me to join his goon squad?"
He curses. Then, he says, "I'm sorry." But he isn't thinking of Ellen. He's thinking of Jo. Because it's always been Jo, even when he was with Lisa. Always.
She kisses him then, and he kisses back, but he has to keep track of his hands for fear that they'll strangle her when he's not looking. The kiss is bittersweet and reminds him of the Roadhouse, of Carthage, of friends lost along the way.
Afterwards, he leads her to his bedroom. For once, she doesn't resist.
He was rougher with her than he should have been. He might have cared more if the circumstances were different. If only she was human, her arms would be covered in hand-shaped bruises, and those would be nothing compared to the ache between her thighs. In retaliation, he let her hurt him, too. His words were still echoing in his head — No more'n I deserve. She bites him all over, and her nails leave weeping gouges in his back.
Without a need for sleep, they lay in bed afterwards, staring silently at one another. To him, her eyes are almost accusing. They don't remind him of whiskey anymore; instead, they're grey, and he doesn't know what to do with grey.
When he touches her unfamiliar face, his fingers tremble. "I miss your face," he tells her, sadly.
She almost smiles. Almost. "I do, too. Maybe I should possess someone who looks like me," she half-jokes, before she sobers. "I miss being me."
So do I, he wants to say, but doesn't. I hate what I've become.
Her fingers caress his Mark, and he wishes, silently, that she wouldn't. It only makes him want to kill her more.
"The only time I feel like myself anymore, is when I'm pretending to be somebody else," she tells him, softly. Her grey eyes seem to glitter in the darkness, like coals.
When he doesn't answer, she continues.
"We're monsters, aren't we," she says. He can tell by her tone that it isn't a question; it's a statement.
He bows his head, as if ashamed. "Yes," he admits.
With tears forming in her eyes, she bites her lip. "Dean—"
His body tightens around hers like a vice, and for a moment, he wonders what it would be like to crush her into pieces, to match what remains of his heart. "I know," he says at last, soberly. "Maybe one day we'll actually like it."
The words echo in the ensuing silence. Oddly enough, they almost sound like a prayer.