Notes: I do not own the television show Supernatural but if I did, Jo would still be among the living and possibly together with Dean. What? A girl can dream. :D Side Notage: I've realized that apparently, I really love 5x10 of Supernatural. Okay, moving on. Don't own Christmas in Heaven, either.
Summary: Through the dancing, white flakes, he sees her spirited gaze and he knows: Maybe hope isn't wasted on those unbelieving. Pairing: Dean/Jo. Post 5x10, 'Abandon All Hope...'
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Inscribed As: Faith
Quotational Inspiration: Unknown
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If I never met you, I wouldn't like you. If I didn't like you,
I wouldn't love you. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't miss you. But I did, I do, and I will.
.
-
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As mothers and fathers bundle their little ones up for a night of Christmas light observing, one young man can't help but scowl.
"Easy there, Scrooge."
Shoving his now freezing hands in his pockets, Dean Winchester kicks his foot agitatedly into a freshly piled mound of snow. His face is stuck in an expression of exasperation, his frown deepening when Sam tries to brighten his evening.
"How about we pull a prank on good ol' Rent-a-Santa?"
Dean shakes his head and continues to trudge down the whitened sidewalk, his eyes downcast as he brushes past a laughing family. A small girl cries out to be held by her father and Dean turns to watch the man pick his daughter up, the girl giggling now. His wife wraps an arm around his waste as she holds onto a little boy's hand. The sight makes Dean want to yell out; not everyone is lucky enough to have such a close-knit family. Hell, some people don't even have a family.
Realizing that he's in a public place, he swallows his protest, pushing onward.
"C'mon, Dean. Cheer up?"
"No thanks, Sammy."
"Why not?" Sam prods.
With eyes burning, Dean spins to face his younger brother and growls, "Just leave me the hell alone, okay?"
Sam holds his hands up in defeat and waits for Dean to walk ahead.
They pass an older man, the bell in his gloved hand tinkling as he shakes it up and down. A few people pause to slip in several dollar bills and the man thanks them joyfully. Sam fishes around in his pocket for loose change and, after coming upon eighty-four cents, drops it into the red kettle.
"Thanks, son." Sam nods and the man looks up at Dean expectantly. The hunter glares, hoping the man understands. Unfortunately he doesn't.
"Anything for the less fortunate?"
"Shove it, kettle-pusher," he snaps.
Sam quickly apologizes to the Salvation Army man and jogs to catch up with Dean.
"Dude, what was that about?"
"I told you, leave me alone, or, is that concept too hard for your little pea brain to grasp?"
"Hey," Sam shoots back, his hands coming up to grab onto Dean's collar, "relax. Just take a chill pill."
Seeing Dean take a shallow, somewhat calming breath, Sam lets go of his shirt and continues, "Let's go. Bobby and Cas are waiting for us back at the hotel with fresh room service."
In silence, the pair walk back through falling snow to the cheerful looking hotel, Dean trying his hardest to ignore the lighthearted laughter coming from the various reunited families and friends.
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"Hey! I was wondering when you two would finally drag your sorry asses here," Bobby calls out from the small side room.
Castiel is sitting, stiff and rigid, his posture perfect as usual, his eyes flitting over the fire.
"Good, you've returned. Now you can explain to me why your television is on fire and no one is worried," the angel mutters from his seat.
Sam chuckles and peers at Dean hoping he'll join in. He doesn't.
"That's called a Yule Log, Cas," Sam explains. He reaches for the remote and flips back and forth through the channels, Castiel's stare widening.
"Why does that...?"
"It's for people who don't have actual fireplaces. They can watch the fire on their TV."
Castiel nods at the new information but murmurs, "That is rather ridiculous."
Wheeling himself into the room, Bobby grunts and after catching Dean's attention, tosses him a beer.
"Merry Christmas, kid."
"It's actually Christmas Eve," Castiel corrects.
"Same thing," Bobby retorts. When the angel looks up at Sam, the younger Winchester just shrugs.
In an unlike-Dean fashion, he puts the alcohol back down on the table, his eyes wandering over to the open window as the snow begins to fall down in larger wisps.
"I think I'll take a walk," he suddenly announces.
Sam opens his mouth to say that they just came in from a walk but, after catching Dean's expression, closes it. As Dean shuts the door behind him, Sam's jaw tenses.
"He's still hung up, huh?" Bobby asks. Castiel rises from the couch to join the two hunters in the entryway, his face grim.
"Of course he is," Sam replies. "It makes sense. I mean, it's only been three months and, besides Mom and Dad, I don't think he's lost someone that close to him in a long, long time." That and the fact that the last time they had really taken time to celebrate Christmas, Dean was at Death's Door. Holidays weren't really the Winchester's forte.
"Ah."
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Outside, the atmosphere is as carefree and untroubled as it was when he and Sam had walked in. Lights are strung around trees and lampposts alike, a cloaked crowd of carolers singing merrily, their voices echoing through the filled streets. There's a young blonde vocalist with twinkling blue eyes that makes him pause for a double-take. She is smiling widely at a tall, brown-haired man and their hands join together, their fingers intertwining as the group continues on into a peaceful rendition of Silent Night.
Not her.
The snowfall is thicker now and Dean takes a turn on Third, his mind set on spending the evening in the park, surrounded only by the barren oaks and the periodical couple. He's been to this town on a few occasions to hunt down numerous ghouls so he knows about the wooden bench under the gazebo. Though the thought of pavilion makes him think of her, he can't' help but be drawn to it. Whenever he need a place to think in the small town, he would always come to the bench to think and, in rare instances, she would join them. They wouldn't speak to each other per say, but her presence did help him to clear his mind and think of a well-worked battle plan.
Squinting through the growing flurries, he sees a light glowing from inside the gazebo. His interest is piqued so he continues onward. Soon, the image of an angel (plastic, not real) comes into view and he realizes he's looking at a manger scene; Jesus, Mary, the shepherds and animals—the whole deal.
A few children are gathered around it, their parents standing only feet behind. They are talking animatedly with their mothers and fathers, questions bubbling about God and His angels.
Dean mutters cynically, "They're not all that nice," to which a man and two women turn to glare.
Finding that he won't be able to sit where he had planned, he moves on, a trail catching his attention. He takes it.
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"Sam, are you sure Dean's okay?" Castiel asks, his worry finally becoming visible. It's been thirty-seven minutes since the hunter had stormed out of the hotel room and even though the three men know he can take care of himself, they all are aware of the state he is in.
"I don't know, Cas. He says he's fine but we all know how that knucklehead thinks."
"Or doesn't," Bobby cuts in.
Sam smiles warily before offering, "Let's give him a few more minutes and then I'll go out and get him."
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Dean can no longer see the lights on the buildings. The snow is thick and heavy and crunches under his feet as he walks under the large oaks. His mind is reeling with thoughts and unanswered questions. He begins to whisper to himself, logically chalking it up to the fact that he thinks better aloud.
"Why?" he starts out. It seems the best place to begin.
"What did I do wrong?" Another question.
"Why did I wait so long?" The most pressing of the queries. His fists are clenched as his voice rises in volume.
"She didn't deserve it, dammit! She was only trying to help!" He grows more and more frustrated with every passing second and his pace quickens into a light jog, his body literally running away from his fears.
His fears of family, his fears of loss, his fears of love and most importantly, his fears of lost love. It's been four months; long enough for him to come to terms with the fact that she's gone but not long enough for him to be okay with it.
He's been running for three minutes, his eyes shut tightly as he tries to get the image of her out of his head. Her mischievous smile, her strong gaze, her sweet personality (when she wasn't threatening to kick his ass) and they way she didn't take shit from anyone.
"Dammit! Leave me alone," he yells. It's so unlike him to outwardly vent his emotions, yet, he feels that if he doesn't, he'll explode. Since the death of his mother, he prided himself in being strong, not only for his younger brother, but also for himself. However, as time passed, bottling his emotions only made it harder for him to come to terms with the realities around him. If he pretended to be unaffected by events, then, to him, it felt like they never happened. But, as he thinks of her, he knows that she did exist; Jo Harvelle wasn't some spirit whom he destroyed and sent back to Hell. She was there, physically there, and that what gets him the most.
She was within his grasp for years and it was only with her impending death urging him on that he finally let his emotions run freely. It was because she was going to blow herself and those Hellhounds to bits that he realized this was the last time he would see her. He didn't want to admit anything to her at that moment for fear that she would think he was pitying her. That was a lie, of course. From the moment she punched him in the face (he totally saw it coming; he let her have the upper-hand) she took a special place in his heart that none of his previous girlfriends and one-night stands could ever touch. He cared so deeply for her that it hurt his chest to think of her not being there with him. He would do anything for her; anything at all. He had made deals with demons before and, if she had said the word, he would have done it again, just to know that she was walking on Earth again. To see her face, hear her voice—he'd do anything.
From the corner of his eye, he sees movement. He stops running. Is that what he thinks it is?
He reaches a small meadow in the center of the park; it looks like a rundown baseball field, the batting cage gone, the dirt slowly filling up with green grass though now, it is covered with snow. The flakes of frozen water are lessening but he knows he would be able to spot her through a blizzard.
"Jo..."
She smiles as her hands ring themselves together. She's dressed in the same clothing she donned when she died but the blood and tattered hole are gone; disappeared.
Dean is still, afraid that the slightest movement will startle her, or worse, erase her from the field all together. It is silent and finally, Jo takes a step forward, her eyes never leaving his.
"Hey," she whispers.
He can't believe what he's seeing. He's seen banshees, vampires, and zombies but, for some reason, when presented with the ghostly image of the dead hunter, he doesn't believe his eyes. Jo moves toward him again, her steps slow and precise as if she's calculating how far she can stay from him, or, as he would later learn, how close she could get to him without losing control.
He is unspeaking as he gazes at her and then, with moderate restraint, holds his hand out to her. She doesn't take it, her eyes downcast as she mutters, "I can't; part of the deal."
His voice is nearly inaudible as he repeats, "The deal?"
"Yeah," she sighs. Spotting the confusion on his face she explains, "I had a little chit-chat with God and He said I could come say hi. The thing is, I can't make physical contact." Jo sounds sad as she recites the rules of the bargain.
Dean's hand drops to his side and he smiles sardonically, "Of course. That blows."
She laughs, the sound practically earth-shattering in the once thick dead of night.
"Yeah, it really does."
Quiet.
They stand still, their stares torn in different directions until Dean finally speaks up to ask, "So, how are things?"
Nodding nonchalantly, Jo replies, "Good. Can't really complain I guess."
This starts their conversation. They begin to talk, the topics ranging from Heaven to recent events to Sam's meager attempts at dating. (Though they poke fun, they both know that Sam is still hung up over Jessica and her death. It's understandable. After all, Dean's bachelor-hood is starting to painfully resemble his brother's.)
It isn't until the moon peaks back up over the sparse oaks to illuminate Jo's pale, somewhat transparent complexion that Dean realizes he and Jo have been speaking for over an hour.
Faraway, Jo can hear Sam's worried call and she knows that her time is up.
"I gotta hit the road," she comments.
Dean looks dejected as he complains, "Already?" The sound of his brother's yells become louder and Dean looks up at Jo only to find her mere inches away. As he exhales a sigh, small puffs of warm breath appear and he notices that Jo's breathing isn't experiencing the same effect in frigid night's air.
That's right; she's dead. She doesn't do the whole 'breathing' thing.
And then he feels it, like a tepid breeze against his cheek. It's Jo and her hand is hovering over his cheekbone.
"But God—" he sputters. She clearly stated an hour ago that she couldn't touch him.
Jo is smirking. "Whatever. God makes the rules but somebody's got to break 'em."
Dean chuckles and he smiles; an honest-to-goodness grin that makes Jo warmly beam back. The sensation slowly fades away and Jo's already translucent figure is slipping into the night.
"Jo," he calls. Worry etches into his features as the blonde hunter gives Dean a large grin.
She's quick to reassure. "Hey, Dean, listen up."
He does.
"No matter what, protect Sammy, okay? Watch after Bobby and Cas—you know as well as I do that Cas would be dead meat in a matter of seconds if someone wasn't there to bail his ass out. He might be a big, strong angel, but he's a wuss on our turf."
Dean places his hand over what is left of Jo's though, it's more like he's cupping a pocket of warm air.
"Most of all, stay safe," she demands, her voice laughing. "I'd better not see you for a good fifty years, 'kay? If you show up before then, I'll kick your ass straight to Hell. Don't put it past me."
"Will do," he chokes out.
Jo is almost gone, but, with last of the time God has given her, she leans forward to press a kiss to the cheek she isn't holding.
The kiss isn't like her hand. No, Dean swears that he feel her lips—physically feel them against his face. They're chapped and a tad cold from the freezing temperature but they're real and to him, it's the most amazing feeling in the world.
"Chin up," she urges after pulling away. "Take Lucifer down a notch, for me, all right? He deserves a good ass-kicking and I'd bet you'd rather deliver before he gets Sam."
"That I would."
"Stay strong, Dean. I'll be watching you and you better put on a good show." Jo offers him one last smile before her silhouette is blown away with the snowfall.
Forlorn, Dean whispers into the dark, "Jo?"
There is no answer. Then, there is Sam.
"Dean! Hey, Dean!"
"S-Sammy?" Dean replies though the volume of his voice is nowhere near his brother's.
"Thank God," Sam mutters as he rushes up to Dean. Moments ago, Sam had spotted Dean standing where the old ballpark had been, his hand outstreatched into nothingness. He watched Dean talk to nobody and immediately, anxiety overtook him. What if Dean had lost it? What if he had gone nuts and started speaking to empty spaces? That was when Sam had run up to his brother and worriedly reached out for his arm.
"What were you doing?" Sam chides.
"I... Jo was—"
Jo? What about Jo?
"I saw her, Sammy," Dean declares.
"You saw her?"
"Yeah. I know it sounds dumb, but really I did. She said something about God and time and we talked. I'm not lying. She had to go though. Said that she'd be watching over us."
Sam mulls the idea over and in the end, he gets it. Really, he does. It makes sense to him. When Jessica had died, Sam had seen her for a week before coming to terms. Even afterwards, she popped up from time to time, though, for a while, it had been Lucifer puppeting the girl's body. Maybe Jo found a way to communicate with Dean. It isn't too far fetched. Sam just hopes that it isn't Lucifer playing with Dean's head.
He decides that it's best to not bring that point up and instead, claps him on the forearm. "That's good, Dean."
"Yeah..."
They are silent for a few fleeting moments before Dean shivers and Sam snaps to attention. "C'mon, Dean. It's cold out and you're freezing."
"It's not that cold," Dean shoots back, although, as he speaks up, he has to try and restrain a shiver that ghosts down his spine.
"Whatever you say, dude."
Together, both Winchesters walk back to the hotel where they are met by Castiel, Bobby, and hot coffee. As Dean bunkers down for the night, he can't help but smile at the evening's events. Though his main thoughts are on the fact that he was able to see the blonde hunter again, deep down, Jo's sudden appearance has been good for Dean and his morale.
Over the months, he has begun to slowly lose hope in the battle against Lucifer. Jo's unplanned and unexpected, temporary materialization has brightened Dean's optimism and resolution to defeat the Devil.
As the elder Winchester falls into a fit-less slumber, Sam watches, pleased to see that his brother has found a peace in the questioning, uncertain times. It's not often that one can have this feeling and the hunter smiles at the prospect that his brother has received it.
"Thanks, Jo," he murmurs, his eyelids falling.
It may be Christmas, one of the Winchester's most feared holidays, but Sam is happy that they took the time to celebrate. Now, it was time to find Lucifer and give him a proper ass-kicking, but, as everyone drifts into subconscious dreams, they know that that is for another day. Right now is the time for rejuvenation; the only downtime they'll get for the next eight months and they'll happily take it with pride.
A tug of Dean's lips is the only sign that he is alive—aside from his breathing, of course—as his dreams are filled with snow and lights and Jo. His mind reels with visions of her and Sam and Bobby and Castiel; their faces smiling as they celebrate Christmas the right way, with eggnog (disgusting but Sam drinks it like water) and mistletoe and a large, green tree. Screw capitalism and its bullshit money-spending. Just give him those he cares about most and he's a happy camper.
Yeah, that is the type of Christmas Dean will battle for. It's all he needs to defeat Lucifer.
I know the end was choppy but I really wanted to get it out there. I'll probably re-read it again and fix it, but, should anyone feel like they have an opinion on how to end it, speak up. I love comments, criticism... all that jazz. :D Leave a review if you have time.