AN: Warning for some disturbing imagery in the last third of the chapter. Nothing much worse than the show itself, but if that's not your kinda thing, it's the first seven paragraphs of that section.

When Dean comes to, it's with a start. Pain blooms across his left side, a fire spreading under his skin. He squeezes his eyes back shut and rides out the agony pulsing, it feels like, through his very soul. It's all very familiar and he's afraid to open his eyes again and see where he ended up. But he does, anyway. No use in prolonging the inevitable.

A light breeze wafts over his face, as Dean's vision clears. It seems like he's still in that hardware store. Still on the floor. He looks around at the charred and smoking remnants of the place and wonders what happened to it.

It's as if he'd been encased in a bubble, the area around him untouched. The rest of the building seems to have gone up in flames. Then he remembers.

Like a shock to the system, the memory flashes through his mind and he doubles over as the pain flares up again. He presses a hand against the spot where the hellhound had mauled him. But it feels different than last time, more localized. When the hounds had dragged him to Hell, he'd felt the intense agony all over. All nerve endings on fire. Now, it's just his side.

Dean recalls Jo bandaging him. But when he looks down at himself, there's no gauze or medical tape. No blood. Just a torn t-shirt and a set of angry red scars, from his ribs to his hip. He stares at the sight.

"You really thought it'd be that easy, did you?"

Dean turns his head in the direction of the voice so fast, he nearly gives himself whiplash. He blinks away the dark spots and his eyes focus on Zachariah. The angel is sitting in a desk chair, legs crossed and chin propped in one hand. Dean blinks again and shakes his head. That only makes him dizzier, so he stops.

"What the fuck?"

"We weren't going to let you die," Zachariah says, straightening his back. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. "You are the Michael Sword, after all." His gaze hardens. "And I wasn't in the mood to send someone to pull your ass out of Hell, just so you could corrupt them like you did Castiel."

"Gee, thanks," Dean mutters.

"I'd say any time, but that'd be a lie." Zachariah studies him for a few seconds, disgust obvious on his face. "If it were up to me, I'd have let you burn. But orders are orders."

"I didn't ask to be saved," Dean snaps. He's had enough of the angel's superior attitude. "So you and your whole Heavenly Host can go screw yourselves."

Zachariah doesn't say anything to that. Just stares at him with a weird expression plastered across his borrowed features. Dean ignores him. He bends his knees experimentally, testing out how well he can move and how much it'll hurt. Then, he slowly pushes himself into a standing position.

He has to catch himself on the edge of the counter when the pain almost drives him back to the ground. Breathing through his nose to keep from being sick, he forces his body to do what he wants it to. In the end, he manages to stay upright. By the skin of his teeth, but he does.

"You know," Zachariah says when Dean stops swaying, "today's events were supposed to unfold differently."

Dean looks up and frowns. For some reason, that statement makes a chill run down his spine.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"You weren't the one who was originally going to die," Zachariah says. He seems confused. "I don't know why or how, but something happened to change the outcome. Curious." He rubs his chin briefly. "Never mind. That's not important."

"Who was it gonna be?"

Dean utters the words before he can decide if he truly wants an answer. For some reason, his mind flashes back to the hellhound that'd attacked Jo and clawed her arm as it went down. The one he'd shot. He swallows thickly.

"You sure you really wanna know?" Zachariah smirks when Dean shakes his head. "Thought not."

"I'm guessing you want something in return for fixing me up," Dean says. Changing the subject seems like a good idea, right about now.

"You know what I want," Zachariah says. Figures.

"Well, you kinda did a piss-poor job," Dean points to his scars for emphasis. "Especially since it still feels like I'm being chewed on. And like I lost half the blood in my body."

"That'll be the damage to your soul," Zachariah says. He waves a hand dismissively. "It'll mend itself in time." The smirk reappears on his face. "But if you say yes to Michael, I can make it go away."

Here it comes. The real reason for this whole conversation. It's not to just stick around and gloat. Why else save him from certain death and another tour of Hell? Dean gives the dick angel the dirtiest look he can muster.

"You can shove that offer where the sun don't shine," he says, satisfied when the words put a scowl on the other's face. "The answer will always be no."

"Very well," Zachariah's tone is clipped. Good. He stands up and sends the chair rolling into a shelf. "But remember this, you ungrateful waste of space. You've been marked by a hellhound. So if you die before your soul recovers completely, you're going straight to the Pit. So is your friend." His eyes shine with glee for a split second. "And this time, I'll leave you there for a whole year. See how you like that!"

"I'll take my chances," Dean says, holds eye contact. He can't let this asshole see how much that thought terrifies him.

"Suit yourself!" Zachariah seethes. With a flutter of wings, he's gone.

Dean sags against the counter and breathes a sigh of relief. This damn back and forth drained him. His legs are shaking. He feels dizzy. And he's in pain. He wants nothing more than to slide back to the floor and close his eyes. To sleep. But he can't do that. He needs to keep going. Needs to find out what happened to the others.

Straightening his shoulders, Dean leans his back against the counter and pulls his phone out of his pocket. It's busted. With a growl, he shoves it back. Having no other choice, he pushes off the surface holding him up and takes a step forward. And another. One at a time and, after a while, it gets easier. Eventually, Dean makes it to the place he remembers parking the Impala.

But it's gone. And so is Ellen's truck. Which means that at least some of his friends made it out alive. He stumbles to a phone booth and fishes for some change in his other pocket. Calls Sam's phone. Then Bobby's. Both times, it rings once and cuts off. He tries Bobby's house phone. Same result.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean slaps his hand against the booth door and almost falls on his face when it opens.

Figuring that even the landlines were down in this dead town, he staggers across the street. Maybe if he gets out of this twilight zone, he'll be able to contact the other hunters. But first, he's going to raid a pharmacy. He'll need some painkillers, if he's going to drive all the way to South Dakota.

Like all the doors of the various shops in Carthage, those of the drugstore are open too. Not wanting to waste this opportunity, Dean grabs the biggest bag he can find. Stuffs it full to bursting with every prescription level medicine he can think of, as well as any other thing one could possibly need in a first aid kit. He then gets another couple of the same bags and fills them up too.

It's not like the townspeople are gonna need any of it. If the silence and deserted streets—and abandoned cars—are any indication, it means that the Colt failed to kill Lucifer.

When he's done, Dean swallows a few of the strongest pain meds he can find. He sticks to those he knows won't make him drowsy, though. Then, he makes his way to the nearest truck, checks that it's in working order and shoves his loot under the back seat.

Leaning against the car for a few moments to catch his breath, Dean looks down at his torn t-shirt. The jacket and flannel don't look much better. He looks around and spots the nearest clothing store a couple shops away from the pharmacy. So he forces his tired body in that direction.

Even though Zachariah had cleaned up the mess of blood and gore, the smell still lingers. No matter how dead he is on his feet, Dean knows that he can't go around looking and stinking like a zombie.

It takes him a while to find something in his size. And to his taste. He hobbles to the closest bathroom, not caring it's the ladies', and struggles through cleaning himself up. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do. Stuffing his own ripped and dirty clothes in a bag, he heads back to the car.

Dean puts a few miles between him and Carthage before he stops to try another phone booth. The cell he'd found in the truck had been a bust too. Low battery and no signal. This landline is no different. One ring. A dead connection. He tries again. Nothing.

He drives off and doesn't stop until the truck runs out of gas, just outside Kansas City. Tries again there, with the same results. He even asks the clerk at the gas station to let him try the shop's phone. Still nothing. He doesn't know Ellen's number by heart, but he remembers Jo's, so he calls that one for a change. When he gets no answer, he continues on his way to Sioux Falls.

As he drives, stopping periodically to try calling Bobby's landline, Dean can't help but wonder what might have happened. Is Sam alive? Is Jo? Had Zachariah lied?

He forces his hands not to shake when he shoves his last coin into the machine. When the call cuts off again, he swipes at his face in anger.

He's halfway there already, so he decides that he's only wasting time. Pushing the dark thoughts down, Dean gets behind the wheel again and drives. And hopes that, against all odds, the others made it out of there alive, even if the mission failed.

It's past nightfall by the time he reaches Sioux Falls.

Bobby's junkyard is dark and empty when he reaches it. No wonder. It's closer to midnight than he'd thought, Dean realizes as his eyes sweep the dashboard and his gaze lands on the clock. It's almost eleven. Luckily, though, the gate is open, which he's grateful for. He doesn't think he'd be able to get out and do that.

He's barely hanging on as is. He's exhausted and his whole torso hurts. If he'd had to drive for one more mile, he doesn't think he'd manage.

Dean pulls up on the right side of the Impala and cuts the engine. Before the lights go out, he notices Ellen's truck is parked on the other side. And now that the yard's been plunged into darkness again, he sees that the lights are on in Bobby's living room and kitchen. On the porch too. He opens the car door, gently twists around and climbs out.

He loses his balance as he slams the truck's door closed and has to lean on his own car so he doesn't fall on his ass. The sight of his beloved Baby makes him grin and he runs a hand along the roof. She seems to be in one piece. If Sam's scratched her, though, Dean'll have words for him. Strong words. But that'll have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, he wants to get inside and sit down, because his legs are shaking.

As he starts moving towards the house, Dean notices that someone's on the porch. It's Jo. One of her hands is behind her back—probably gripping a knife—while the other hangs loosely by her side.

The relief that she's alive is so strong, that it feels like taking in a deep breath after almost drowning. He stumbles, but doesn't fall. Continues walking, even though his legs start acting like lead weights. Pain lances through his chest again and he grips it tight. Only a few more steps to the porch. He can do it. He'll get there, even if he has to crawl. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the light falls across his face. He sways, but manages to muster a smile for the woman waiting there for him.

With a gasp, Jo drops her knife and launches herself at him. She's just in time to prevent him from face-planting, as his knees choose that very instant to buckle. They both go down, kneeling in the dirt, and Jo steadies him with a hand to his back.

She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a silver flask. Hands it to him. Dean grips it in trembling fingers while Jo unscrews the cap. Then, he downs almost half of it in a couple of swallows, only now realizing how thirsty he is.

A relieved smile spreads across Jo's face when nothing out of the ordinary happens. He's passed her test.

"It's really me," he says.

Then, darkness encroaches on him, pulls him under like quicksand. The last thing he's aware of, before he slips into unconsciousness, is Jo's grip tightening on his jacket.

Dean's head falls against her chest and he sags in her grip. It's all Jo can do to keep him somewhat upright. He's heavy.

She yells for Sam. Faster than she expects, the door bangs open and the man in question rushes outside, followed by her mother and Cas. For a few seconds, they all stand there gawking at her and Dean, and she wants to laugh, then cry.

"A little help…" she says, grunting when her hand gives out and she has to put both arms around Dean.

Her mom recovers first and, with a nudge to both Sam and Cas, she hurries down the stairs to aid her. The other two start moving just as Bobby wheels his way out onto the porch.

"What the…?" she hears him say, his gruff voice cracking when he figures it out.

"I checked him already," Jo says, presenting her flask for inspection. "No reaction to silver or holy water. It's him."

Sam and Cas lift Dean off her, and gently carry him into the house. Jo follows. Bobby and her mom rush in after her, the latter mumbling something about covering the couch in a sheet. Jo takes a closer look and realizes that Dean must have plundered one of the shops in Carthage, because the clothes he's wearing are not the ones he had on yesterday.

Once the couch is covered with a few of Bobby's old sheets, Jo steps closer. She helps Sam and Cas lay Dean out. He looks like he's sleeping even though his skin is ashen, feels clammy when she touches him. As Cas checks him over, Jo removes Dean's boots. It's like she's in a dream, her head spinning and fingers trembling.

There's no trace of any blood on Dean's clothes. None on his skin, either. Jo notices that only the shoes seem to be the same. Everything else is new. When Cas lifts the thin henley to expose Dean's torso, the silence is absolute, like everyone is holding their breath. But there's no bandage on his side. No gauze. There's no need. Where once there were four deep gashes, the skin is now covered in four thin, angry red scars. Just like Jo's. Cas runs a hand along them, closes his eyes.

"He's been healed by an angel," he says. He opens his eyes and retracts his hand. "One with more power than I have at the moment."

"A friend of yours?" her mother asks. "Could've stepped in earlier and saved us all the hassle."

Jo turns to look at her mom when the latter puts a hand on her shoulder. There's a frown on her face. Jo smiles and leans into the touch, grateful that someone is annoyed on her behalf.

"No," Cas says and moves away from Dean. He cocks his head to the side, seeming pensive. "It was probably Zachariah's way of making sure that Michael's true vessel wasn't destroyed. He doesn't care about anything else."

"He would do that," Sam mutters.

Jo catches the dark expression that flits across his face, and she's reminded of her conversation with Lucifer the other night. If Lucifer wants Sam to be his vessel, then Michael probably wants the older Winchester to be his own. There's a logic to it. As messed up as it is. But there's something that doesn't add up.

"Why does the freakin' Devil need you to say yes?" she asks, turns to look at Sam. She ignores his frown. "Or Michael for that matter. Can't they just… you know… possess you?"

"Unlike demons, angels need permission to gain access to their vessels."

Cas is the one who answers, although Jo doesn't understand why he has that almost guilty look on his face. She wonders about the angel's own host. There's more to the trench coat wearing figure than she initially thought. Later, when things have settled down, she'll ask what that's about.

"Even Lucifer," Cas goes on, "is still an archangel. The same rules apply to him. As long as the chosen vessel refuses him entry, even a true vessel like Sam, he cannot force his way in."

"That's reassuring," Jo says. "If they could just force the issue, like those damn demons, it'd be game over for us. Quickly."

Jo has to make a conscious effort to suppress the shudder that thought causes, because she doesn't want the others to see how freaked out she feels. And she also doesn't want to lie and say that she's cold if anyone notices. Her mom would pester her about it. Jo can't deal with that right now.

After a while, having concluded that there's nothing else they can do, the others disperse to different corners of the living room. Bobby wheels back to his desk and puts away the books he'd been looking through. Cas and Sam have a quiet conversation—that Jo can't make out—after which the angel takes off. A swish of wings and he's gone. Jo doesn't know if she'll ever get used to that.

Her mother dragging one of the comfier chairs closer to the couch breaks Jo out of her trance.

"You better sit down, honey," her mom says, worry bleeding through in her voice. "You're as white as a damn sheet and you look like you're about to drop."

Jo does as she's told. It's only then that she realizes that her hands are shaking and her knees wobble when she bends them to sit. Everything is catching up to her and it's hitting her like a freight train with busted brakes. Balling her fists, she fixes her eyes on Dean's prone form. Dread fills her for a split second. She doesn't think she can do another heart-to-heart, not after everything.

But her mom doesn't say anything else. She disappears for a few minutes, then returns with a couple of pillows and blankets. Throwing one of the latter to Jo, she sets about covering Dean's long legs and shoves the pillows under his head. On her way to the kitchen, she stops by Jo's side and kisses her forehead.

"Holler if you need anything, okay sweetie?"

When Jo merely nods, her mother leaves her be. And it's such a relief, that everyone's just giving her space, that she feels like crying for joy. She takes a deep breath and wipes away the tears that have rolled free.

Her gaze is drawn to Dean's face again, after some time. He looks pale, but at least he's breathing. Jo can't believe he's really here, that she's not just dreaming. Part of her is still scared that it's a trick. That the rug will be pulled from under her and it'll all have been an illusion. She resists the urge to touch him. At least for now, she'll simply keep watch.

There's nothing else she'd rather do, anyway. Jo doesn't feel tired in the slightest, not even when it's well past midnight. Mentally, she's exhausted. But her body hasn't gotten that memo yet. And going to lie down will only make her toss and turn all night.

As Jo'd expected, Bobby's the first one to retire. He hadn't gotten any sleep the past couple of nights. Her mom's next, bidding her a good night with a kiss on the cheek and a sideways hug. Sam brings her a mug of tea—her favorite, incidentally—before he, too, goes upstairs. It's only her and Dean now.

The near total silence gets oppressive, fast. Despite this, Jo knows that everyone—her included—needs some peace and quiet after the roller coaster of emotions over the past few days. So she can't distract herself with anything loud, like music. But she needs something to get her mind off everything that's happened. Because it's like having whiplash. Not even a few hours ago, she had been mourning Dean's death. For the second time, she'd thought that she'd lost her chance at having even something as simple as his friendship. Not to mention anything beyond that. And now he's back, he's whole and Jo can't process the turmoil of emotions.

She still feels guilty for pushing him away, for holding him responsible for something that wasn't even his fault. His father had been the one involved. And Dean hadn't even known.

Jo'll probably never find out what really happened when her dad died. But she sure as Hell won't believe anything that fucking demon told her. Dean was right. Demons lie, especially if they wanna mess with your head. Just like Lucifer had the previous night. He must have known that Dean wouldn't really die and he'd still tried to play her like a damn fiddle. Jo's pretty proud of herself for not falling for that.

She gets up, unable to take sitting still anymore. Paces the room a few times, careful to make as little noise as possible. Dean doesn't stir, but she still doesn't take her eyes off him for very long. She takes a sip of her tea from time to time and, when she's done, heads to put the empty mug in the kitchen.

While she passes one of Bobby's book stacks, her knee snags on the top one and it falls. Jo sets the mug down on another stack and bends to pick up the book. As she does so, some papers fall out and she just about swears out loud. There's an almost audible click when she snaps her mouth shut at the sight before her.

The papers are actually two photos of her and Dean a couple of nights ago. Before Carthage. She rolls her eyes at the expression on her face in one of them. So typical of her. She makes a mental note to be more careful when around others. The next instant, though, that thought goes out the window and she does a double take as her gaze lands on the second picture. In it, she sees the same look mirrored on Dean's features. A bit different and more openly longing than hers. Probably because she wasn't looking directly at him in that moment.

Jo swallows down the sensation of her heart trying to jump out through her throat. She remembers seeing a hint of that expression on him, both the night before the mission and in Carthage. Her heart pounds in her ears as she realizes what this could possibly mean. If she's read it right, this magnetic pull she feels when it comes to Dean might not be as one-sided as she'd thought. And that makes her head spin again. So she shoves the photos back into the book and replaces it on its stack. She resumes pacing, her mind now a hurricane of thoughts and feelings she has no definite name for.

What will she do, if Dean's own attraction is more than just physical? If he cares about her the same way she does about him? Can he really see her as more than a friend?

Jo looks back at their conversation in the hardware store for a moment. She remembers the look on his face then. The tears in his eyes, expression full of regret. His words.

All these things put together seem to indicate him having, at least at some point, considered the possibility of something more than friendship when it came to her. If that's true… She sees their roll in the sheets in a whole new light. The tenderness of Dean's touches, the want. She recalls the way he'd almost freaked—his demeanor very nearly pleading—when she'd gotten up to go to the bathroom.

Jo wants to smack herself for believing that demonic bitch who'd ridden Sam into her bar that night years ago. But there's no turning back time. She'll never reclaim the wasted opportunities, so she might as well live in the here and now. She's suddenly very glad she'd changed her mind about sleeping with Dean. That's one thing she'll never regret.

A soft whine redirects Jo's attention back to the couch. She stops pacing. Dean's fidgeting under the covers, his body tensing and his head slowly turning side to side. Jo steps closer, slow as to not make any noise. She stops again, a few feet away from him.

The grimace on his face makes Jo consider whether it'll be wise to wake him at this point. But she doesn't want to startle him.

Dean gasps and winces, then presses his face into the back of the couch. Whatever he's dreaming about, it's not pretty. There's no doubt about that. Jo decides to put an end to it the same instant Dean sits up, something akin to a shout lodged in his throat. A shout he bites back. Jo recoils and almost falls on her ass. It's really lucky, she thinks, that the chair is right behind her as she plops down into it.

Dean's eyes are wide and his breathing harsh. Like he'd run a marathon. He stares ahead—seemingly unseeing for a few seconds—not giving any indication he's noticed her. Then he flinches and his eyes snap shut, face scrunched up in pain, and he nearly folds in on himself. A whimper escapes his lips and he grips his side.

Very carefully, Jo leans forward and places a hand on Dean's bent back. She doesn't want to spook him. She starts rubbing up and down, in gentle lines, not wanting to cause him any more pain than he's already in.

As the minutes pass, Dean's breathing evens out. The tension seeps out of his posture and he straightens his back, even though he still clutches his side. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, then lets it out. And turns around to face her.

Dean's exhausted slumber is marred by images of claws and blood. Of hellhounds bearing down on him and slicing him open, claws cutting deep into his chest, fangs ripping his face off. There's the taste of blood in his mouth. For a horrifying moment, he can't tell if it's real or just another nightmare he can't wake up from. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

In the background, above the snarls and howls of the hounds, he can hear someone's manic laughter. It's eerily similar to Alastair's. Dean panics, but then remembers that the bastard is dead. Sam killed him.

One of those hell-mutts bites into his leg. Blood spurts from the wound and Dean tries to scream. When no sound emerges from his raw throat, he realizes that he must have done so much of that, that it's no longer possible anymore. He's pinned to the ground, can't move. Can't shake the beasts off himself. He's trapped.

Had Zachariah changed his mind? Tossed him into Hell anyway? Dean wouldn't put it past that asshole to give him the illusion of freedom, only to then snap his fingers and take it all away. Unless he did survive and this is just a nightmare. But then why can't he wake up?

The laughter gets closer. Dean turns his head in its direction and is met with a set of glowing red eyes. A bloodstained grin, devoid of any real mirth—bordering on demented—is plastered across the man's face. His sandy hair has splotches of red in it. Blood. Dean wonders if the guy'd been close enough for Dean's blood to land on him.

Even though Dean doesn't recognize him, the way he's grinning madly, the way he laughs, only points to one logical conclusion. God, why can't he wake up?

The man squats by Dean's side, abruptly stops laughing. His expression changes. He's now eyeing him like Dean's an all-you-can-eat buffet. Dean tries his best to hide his reaction, to conceal his horror at the realization of just who this guy is. And then, he touches Dean's left shoulder and the action shoots agony through his entire body. His blood feels like it's boiling, his muscles are on fire, his back arches. As Dean turns his head to face upward, a scream finally tears its way out of his throat.

Only, in reality, it doesn't. He bolts upright, the sound dying before it can be completed. His side hurts so bad, that he can't even see for a few moments. And his ragged breaths aren't making things better. The pain intensifies, making him close his eyes and lean forward. Maybe if he makes himself as small as possible, it'll go away. Dean bends his knees to do just that. Anything to get away from the agony that's spread throughout his entire being. He even thinks he hears himself whimper. But he's way past caring about how weak he looks. Or about who might see him.

As he tries to get his breathing and heartbeat under control, Dean becomes aware of another presence. It takes all his effort—and then some—to not flinch at their tender touch. A small hand runs up and down his back in soothing motions, and he starts to relax. Slowly, he calms down.

He knows it's Jo there with him by her scent. A zesty citrus perfume, or shampoo, mixed with the smell of salt and gunpowder. It's a heady combination, one he'd thought he'd never have the chance to perceive again. But he's alive. And she's alive too. It was just a nightmare—at least the part with the freaky guy who'd looked at him like he was a delicious meal. Dean suppresses a shudder. Not thinking about it. Nope.

He gingerly straightens his back, takes a deep breath and turns to face her.

Jo looks like she's been through the wringer. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tear tracks still drying on her face. There are bags under her eyes, too. He swallows hard.

He wants to say something, tell her that he's okay, but he can't. No sound comes out when he tries to speak.

Dean closes his eyes for a few seconds, then opens them and maneuvers so that his feet are on the floor. He notices that he doesn't have any shoes on, but that's not high on his priority list. Pushing the blanket to the end of the couch, he beckons her to sit by him. With a cut-off sob, she does so.

"How?" Jo asks, voice thick with tears.

Dean wants to tell her, he really does. But he can't speak. Her hands frame his face and he leans into her touch, the contact warming his chilled skin. He trembles a bit as the adrenaline slowly fades. Using his free hand he draws her closer and she winds her arms around his midriff. They hold each other as they cry for a while. Dean doesn't know for how long, but Jo doesn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon, so he's not complaining.

Her closeness, for some reason, makes the pain less intense. And he likes the feel of her pressed to his chest, warm and alive. Dean remembers his discussion with Zachariah and squeezes her a little tighter. Add that to the things he doesn't want to think about.

When they finally break apart, there's a tentative smile on Jo's face. He returns it and tries to reassure her by sliding his hands up and down her upper arms. Then, he flinches and stops, remembering her own injury. She takes his hands into her smaller ones, gives them a gentle squeeze.

"It's okay," she says, "Cas healed me."

Relief floods through him and he nods. Good. That's good. It'll all be fine in the end.

"Was it an angel who fixed you up?"

Dean nods again. He opens his mouth, then closes it as no sound emerges. God, this is annoying!

"Hey, it's okay," Jo says, having apparently noticed his frustration. "It's all right if you can't talk right now. I'll listen when you can again." She studies his face for a moment, her thumbs caressing the backs of his hands. "Has this ever happened before, you not being able to speak?"

Dean nods. He remembers all too well that year after his mom died, and the other instance later on. He'll tell Jo about it when he regains his voice. Hopefully, it won't take very long this time.

"Okay." She gets up, lightly patting his shoulder, and dashes to one of Bobby's cupboards and back, holding a pad of paper and a pen.

He wants to kiss her right then and there. Taking the pen, he scribbles a quick Thanks and smiles.

"It'll pass," he then writes down. "I don't know how long it'll take, though." Dean frowns as an idea crosses his mind. "Do you happen to know any sign language?"

It's a shot in the dark, but it's easier than writing. He'd learned ASL as a teenager, when something like this'd happened after his first hunt. Sam had always said that it might come in handy and they both can make do, even though Dean is very rusty. Jo reads his words.

"Yeah, I know some," she says. "Had a college roommate who was hard of hearing and she taught me."

That's good, he thinks. At least she'll be able to understand him. So he haltingly tells her what happened, from the moment he woke up in the hardware store to when he passed out in front of Bobby's house. He messes up a bit, has to clarify some parts and does end up using the notepad when there's a sign he can't remember. But Jo takes it all in stride. And he wants to kiss her again for that. If he weren't so damn tired, maybe he would. That's one thing he doesn't need his voice for.

Dean doesn't tell her about his freaky nightmare, though. He'd like to erase that from his memory, even if he knows he probably won't ever forget it. Jo doesn't ask about it. Maybe one day he'll talk about it, but doesn't feel ready just yet.

Once he's done recounting the events of his day, Dean feels drained. He drags a hand down his face and Jo seems to notice. She gets up and stretches, then holds out a hand to him.

"Come on," she says. "You need some proper rest. And a shower, if you feel up to it."

He finds the way she wrinkles her nose at those words downright adorable. Snorting, he nods and takes her hand. He sways a bit once he's standing and clutches his side, gives his legs a few moments to adjust.

"This your way of telling me I stink?" he signs, grinning down at her.

"Yep."

Jo loops her arm around his back and helps him up the stairs and into the bathroom. While she's in his room picking up some clean clothes for him to change into, Dean strips. The pain is back in full force, making him grit his teeth to hold back the whine he wants to let loose. But he plows through it. By the time Jo's back, he's down to his boxers.

"Do you want me to help?" she asks, looking a bit uncertain.

That surprizes him somewhat. She's already seen him naked and so much more. Why be shy now, of all times?

He nods quickly. In part because he does actually need someone to keep an eye on him so he doesn't slip and split open his skull. But the bigger part is because he really doesn't want to be alone right now.

"Just…" he signs, pauses. "I don't wanna fall and break my neck."

"Okay."

His quip brings about a moment of levity and the tension's broken. It doesn't take him long to wash off the sweat and dust. And he manages not to slip, barely.

Jo helps him dry off and get dressed. He's so grateful for it, because his movements have become sluggish. His hands are trembling and his legs feel weak. It hits him that he's utterly, thoroughly exhausted. He's so wiped, that he can barely see.

Jo seems to sense that, as she forgoes the t-shirt and just steers him towards the door.

"You're almost there," she whispers. "Don't pass out on me again, 'cause I'll just drop your heavy ass straight to the floor."

He laughs at that, a sound no more than a raspy breath. He puts in some extra effort not to sink to the ground. Makes it to his bed. Again, barely. Jo helps him put on the shirt while he's sitting.

When he lays down, she pulls the covers up to his chest. Bends down to kiss his forehead, her hand pressed to his cheek. Then she makes to leave and Dean panics for a second. He scrambles to grab her wrist, shakes his head. Quickly signs.

"Will you stay with me?"

He feels embarrassed by the surprized look on her face. But he can't help it. It might be selfish on his part, but he's terrified of being alone. He tries to keep his breathing under control, not wanting to seem too desperate.

"Of course," she says, a tender smile replacing the shock. "Scoot over a bit."

He does so, relief coursing through him. Jo settles down on the bed and stretches beside him. Dean notices that she's wearing a tank top when he puts an arm around her shoulders. She must have ditched the jacket while he showered.

As Jo gets comfortable, Dean sighs. Her face is pressed to his chest and she tentatively settles her right hand on the side of his stomach. Right over his scars.

"I'm really glad you're alive," Jo says after a few moments of silence.

Dean takes a chance and presses a kiss to her temple. He then closes his eyes, running a hand up and down her back.

"Me too," he says.

It's a whisper so quiet, so low and gravelly, that even he barely hears it. By the way Jo twitches and holds on a little tighter, she does too. Dean drifts off to the sound of her even breathing, a little while later.