AN: Came home from a crappy day and found reviews waiting for me in my inbox for this fic. Aww…thanks guys.
21.
She's rising fast, so very fast, and she's not sure how, but it's not through the nameless dark of suspension any more.
It's through water.
All at once she breaks the surface, in a flurry of light striking her eyes, the sound of her own gasping breaths filling her ears, the feel of the water sloshing and frothing about her.
The hand gripping her wrist becomes two and she is hauled up, nearly clear of the water and…
And into a boat.
It's an old-fashioned row boat, the kind with varnished wooden oars and a hand painted name on its side. Jo slumps in its bottom, between the narrow cushioned seats and coughs her lungs to pieces, too blinded by the sunshine at first to see around her.
When she blinks away the water in her eyes, her line of sight follows the hand still resting on her shoulder, up the wrist and forearm, to the broad shoulders and bear-bearded face…
"Un-uncle John?" she manages.
John Winchester smiles back. "Hey there, Jo," he says. "Been a while, kiddo."
She finds a smile. "Ye-yeah."
John helps her sit up and pulls a blanket from under one of the seats to put around her shoulders, though she hardly needs it; the sunlight it thick here, an almost solid presence that strokes over her like a warm hand. While he picks up the oars and begins to row, Jo takes in their surrounds as they glide easily downstream.
They're on a river, its waters inky black as they lick against the boat's sides. Beyond the surface glitter there is nothing but dark emptiness. Jo shivers.
On one side of the river is a jungle; a tangle of verdant green and the occasional spill of warm color that Jo realizes are huge star-shaped flowers. Butterflies move from blossom to blossom, each insect like an enormous living kite, the great planes of their wings glinting with metallic and pastel hues. She can smell the leaves, the rich loam the trees grow from, the raw honey that seeps from the flowers. Only the river lacks a scent, and that's no surprise.
It has a sound though. It whispers, with a hundred voices it seems. She pricks up her ears and listens hard, but can't pick one apart from its fellows.
When she looks up again, John has a knowing smile on his face. "Listening?" he asks.
She nods.
"It takes a lot of practice," he tells her, "but after a long while you can figure out what they're saying. Sometimes you can even find who they belong too."
He gives her a significant look from under his dark brows.
"You could hear me?" Jo breathes. "While I was…while I was down there?"
John nods, shoulders bunching in the rhythmic pull-and-sweep as he continues to row. The jungle slides by, constant and vivacious.
"It's easier to find people you've known," he murmurs.
Jo is quite for a moment, then says, "Uncle John?"
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Where are we?"
John smiles that enigmatic smile of his.
"That," he says tilting his head towards the fluid dark they float on, "is the River Styx. And all of this…this is Amavasya.
"This is the dark side of the moon."
AN2: 'Amavasya' is actually the Sanskrit phrase for 'new moon', but in this case I'm going to claim creative interpretation and artistic license. Roll with it people.