Of course they're not mine. Who do you think I am, Kripke?
AN: I meant this to be a little light mockery of Jo's infatuation with Dean, but then it got all angsty... sorry.
Half-baked romantic notions
Well, this is awkward.
Duh. Your little brother's just tried to kill her, and all you did to stop him was throw water at him. Well, it wasn't Sammy, that's the whole point, isn't it, but it was in his body. And you of all people know how hard it is (… even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you…) to distinguish between the two.
Her fingers brush lightly against your bicep, and alarm bells go off in your head. You know women, and their touch, and there's something in her touch…
Oh hell. She's not, is she?
Yep. She is.
Of course she is, you think with a mental eye roll, no male arrogance, just disgust. She's, what, twenty, twenty-one? Sheltered and naïve despite her cynical tough-girl attitude, and the only thing she knows about life, about this life, is… well, nothing. All she's got is – what did you call it back in Philadelphia? Ah yes – a bunch of half-baked romantic notions about the job.
And about you, apparently.
Hell doesn't even begin to cover it.
Suddenly, irrationally, you're furious at her. How can she? Now, of all times, when you're wounded, and wet, and Sam needs you more than ever, and your head is still so screwed up after Dad that there's days you can't tell up from down and if you don't get moving soon that demonic sonovabitch is going to use your little brother's body to commit yet another murder… now she confronts you with her schoolgirl crush? What's she expecting, that you'll realise your repressed feelings for her and sweep her into your arms?
Well, arm, anyway.
Quite apart from the fact that you value Ellen's continued friendship and good will far more than you'd enjoy getting into Buffy the Vampire Slayer's knickers.
As soon as you think that, you feel a flicker of remorse. She's just a girl, and it's not her fault she doesn't know better.
Still. What sort of idiot falls in love with a guy like you? Especially now. Can't she see, doesn't she understand, that there's no room in your life right now for anything other than Sam and the hunt. That Dad's last words to you, this coming war, have consumed you from the inside out and are all you can think about right now? That adding yet another responsibility to the pressing weight on your shoulders will snap you like a dry stick?
Alright, Winchester, that's enough. A little focus here, please? Remember Sam? He's what this is about. Broken hearts heal. You found that out the hard way; so will she have to.
You keep it casual, answer her questions, keep your distance, make sure she can't read anything into your words, your gestures.
Then she says she's going with you. Panic rises in your throat; the weight begins to grow already. You can't let her come, no matter how much your shoulder hurts, or how tired you are.
"You try and follow me, I'll tie you to that post and leave you here. This is my fight. I'm not getting your blood on my hands."
It's brutal, you know, but – be cruel, only to be kind, right? And it's true. It's your fight, your brother. What right does she think she has to tag along, to involve herself in this?
Because she's almost been killed because of it! Idiot. You'd be involving yourself, if it were the other way round.
Oh, come on. The only reason she wants to come along is so she can crush on you some more. Try and prove to you that she's not the spoiled brat you take her for. Not gonna happen, honey. You won't let her die for some silly fantasy of the two of you together. It'll fade away, eventually, and all you'll be to her is an old friend. She doesn't know what love is, this girl. Any kind of love: whether romantic or the kind you have for your family. And you're sure as hell not prepared to teach her. Not here, not now. In another life, another time, maybe… if Dad hadn't died, if Sam weren't in so much danger… if you yourself were a little less scarred, a little more innocent…
In the here and now, though, it's just too much to deal with.
"I'll call you later," you tell her, because you hate that other word, that brutal, final ending it signifies. Tell the truth, you're not sure you've ever said it out loud to anyone. You don't look back as you leave the bar. You're carrying enough pain of your own, you don't want to see hers as you walk out of her life forever and let the might-have-beens of your relationship fall to the ground behind you as you get in the Impala and start the drive to South Dakota.