It was strange at first; honestly it just sounded like mumbling. I noticed it because Dean never talked in his sleep. And it was only every once in a while. Not very frequent, so I wasn't worried. But then he started mumbling every other night. It became really frequent. Then it was every night. After about a week or so, I could actually make out a single word:

Jo.

I don't know what I thought. Maybe he was having a nightmare. Dean ALWAYS had nightmares. And these ones seemed to have a really bad effect on him, because the next morning he always had circles under his eyes and poured some whiskey in his coffee. I'd ask, but he never wanted to talk about it. "Drop it," he'd say. So I did. But I always thought about it.

I knew about his life. The hunting life. Maybe it was one of his hunter friends? Maybe a family member? Dean never talked about his family. Hell, I didn't know he even had a brother until I met the guy. It coulda been someone that he killed I guess. A monster. Because monsters have names too, right? Like Dracula. Wow, I'm getting off track.

Anyway, it just kept getting worse. By the next week, I could make out a few words.

Jo, Stay Back.

It was really hard to sleep, because all the time I could feel myself straining to hear anything that resembled a word. Different scenarios would go through my head. Who was this guy? Why did he mean so much to Dean? He must be dead, I thought grimly. I really needed to know. So, I asked him.

It was a sunny morning, and he was drinking his whiskey-and-coffee mixture. I was washing some plates or something. And I just asked,

"Hey Dean, who's Jo?"

I remember most how dark his eyes got. He looked kinda angry and really sad.

"Do me a favor, and don't ask that ever again, okay?"

Normally I would've backed off, but he just looked so sad and troubled, and I wanted to help.

"Dean, you need to talk about this. If something is troubling you, I can help."

"I said drop it." He got up and walked out of the room.

I didn't say anything else for a while. He started tossing and turning at night, and the words became clearer. I had to sleep on the couch once, actually. But really, my big break came one day when I needed to get some gas for my car.

"Dean! I need to get some gas. Can I grab a 20 from your wallet?"

"Sure," he said with his mouth full of some multimeat sandwich. I kissed him on the cheek and went up to our room to grab the money.

I'm not gonna lie, I snooped. I grabbed the 20 and saw the edge of something sticking out between a credit card and a Biggerson's coupon 2-for-1. I pulled it out and looked at it. It was a picture.

There was a pretty blonde girl in the picture, probably in her early twenties. She had brown eyes and was leaning against a bar, I think. She had her head cocked and was smiling at the camera. The edges of the photo were worn down, so I knew it was someone Dean cared about. I flipped it over and on the back in Dean's horrible handwriting were the words

Jo at the Roadhouse, 2007.

So I knew who the mystery 'Jo' was. I wasn't expecting a girl, and I'll admit I got a little jealous. But I realized, if Dean was troubled this much, this girl was probably dead. Dead and gone. My heart broke for Dean. I wanted to know, know anything about her so I could help him. God must've been listening to my thoughts, because Dean came in a second later and saw me looking at the picture.

"What are you doing with that?!"

I sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. His face got really red and he snatched the picture from me. He kinda caressed then put it carefully back in his wallet. He had a tear falling down his cheek and he said,

"Don't ever touch my wallet again."

I walked out of the room and grabbed my car keys. I paused a moment and stood by the door. I heard him slide down the wall and land on the floor.

"Why'd it gotta be like this Jo? I'm here and you're not. You should be here, not me. I'm an ass. I was an ass to you, and I've been an ass to Lisa."

After that, I never asked about Jo again. The sleep talking got better, but he still says her name sometimes. So whenever he has a rough night, I don't say anything. Instead I just pour him more coffee and whiskey. All I can do is hope with each day it'll hurt a little less.