AN: So… hey! It's been a while! Not going to go into all the boring little details, but I started grad school, and let's just say it's been kicking my butt. I've recently associated computers and typing with painfully long essays, which has made me less than enthusiastic to stay on a computer longer than I have to, even if it is to write some Jo/Dean magic.
But thank you to those who have stuck around! Many have reviewed, favorited, and followed A Little Thing since I last updated, and I could not be more grateful. You beautiful people are the reason I keep kicking myself for not being a faithful updater. Seriously, I have bruises.
Anyways, let's put an end to this BM scene (GM scene…?), and move onto what you really came here for!
Prompt: This is a special request from loneghost13 – what if Mary hadn't been the one brought back in "Alpha and Omega"…?
WARNING: This one rather vividly talks about hell and torture. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…
Too God to Be True
She was back at the beginning. Jo remembered when she used to feel relief at that, when she was so overwhelmed from the lack of pain that she could barely stand. Bones that were whole, skin that was unbroken, clothes that were no longer sticky with blood and sweat – it was as if she'd only imagined the hours, days, years of endless torture. But now – after reliving this sadistic cycle of agony and respite and agony and respite – she knew better. Being made to feel human again wasn't a gift. It was a curse. It meant they'd thought of a new vicious way to rip her to pieces.
It was hell. It was literally hell. When she'd died in that hardware store, feeling safe in her mother's arms despite the fact that she was holding her own intestines in, she hadn't even considered the possibility that she might end up in hell. She'd thought about her mother, naturally, who was so uselessly sacrificing herself that Jo would've kicked her mother's ass had she been able to feel her own legs. She'd thought about Bobby, who would no doubt find a way to shoulder some sort of senseless guilt for their deaths and sink further into the false comfort of liquor. She'd thought about a pair of perfect green eyes that had been so filled with self-loathing and pain as they'd turned away from her that she had almost died right then and there.
Yes, she'd been thinking a lot with her last, shaky breaths. But not a single thought about the afterlife. Now she could think of nothing else.
The demons had started off easy – shredding, ripping, sawing, burning. Oh, she hadn't thought it 'easy' at the time, but looking back… the torture had all been physical. She should've appreciated that. She'd had no idea how much worse it could be. After all, what could possibly be worse than being hung midair from iron hooks surgically implanted through the skin and muscle of her limbs and chest? What could be worse than having a demon vividly describe how the instrument in his hand would sever her left eye from its socket before it was scooped out completely? What could be worse than the perpetual shrieks of pain and suffocating odor of burning flesh and rotting corpses?
Even through the constant pain, she'd grown comfortable in the predictability of it all. She'd forgotten her torturers were demons, and while demons relished the pains of the flesh, they thrived on the pains of the soul.
The first time she'd been released from the hooks, she'd lain there on the stone floor for what felt like days, her body so broken that even the hope of freedom could not make it move. When she'd finally opened her eyes and blinked away the haziness of fear and darkness, she'd realized that she'd been scratching at her wrist. Scratching. With fingernails. But they'd ripped those off, one by one. Hadn't they?
Stupid, foolish Joanna. She'd felt hope, hope that she'd imagined it all or that she was being thrown into a cell and forgotten. And, of course, as soon as she let that treacherous seed of light take root, the demons had snapped her back to reality, killing the hallucination with the thrust and twist of a knife to her stomach. They'd savored that particular session. Apparently, she'd grown boring and unresponsive, but having that hope, that reminder that she had once been human stripped away… her screams had echoed through hell for hours.
She'd fallen for the illusion a second time. Then a third and a fourth. Eventually, she'd stopped playing their games. It was hard. Damn, it was hard. Even knowing it was all a hallucination, knowing that the smooth skin and clean clothes were a damn lie… eventually she'd realized that the respite wasn't worth the pain, that she was torturing herself more than the demons were by letting herself believe that she was safe and free just because she needed to be in denial for a few brief moments.
She'd stopped believing. She'd beaten their game. And then they'd raised the stakes.
They'd shown Jo her mother. Ellen, having come to rescue her daughter. Ellen, having nuked the gates of hell just to drag her only daughter up to heaven. And, once again, she'd bought it.
That time, it was a knife to the eye that had dragged Jo from the dream. The demons' laughter had almost drowned out her screams that night.
It took her a few more hallucinations, but eventually she'd toughened up. They'd started sending others. Bobby, Garth, Rufus, Castiel, Dean. That last one was the worst aside from her mother's appearances, not because she'd wanted to see him any more than the others, but because if there were some stupidly suicidal march into hell, there wasn't a doubt in her mind Dean Winchester would find a way to plant his ass on the frontlines.
Eventually, even the familiar faces hadn't made her react. The demons had continued their pre-session torture through hope-filled illusions, but it no longer filled them with the glee it used to; they were just biding their time until they could brainstorm another way to rip her soul apart.
And so here she was again.
She was standing in a garden or a park. She couldn't quite tell, and she didn't really care. Looking around only made the dream seem more real. She'd learned to stop searching her surroundings after the third round with Bobby 'rescuing her.' She just stood there, waiting. Whatever hallucination they had planned, it would come to her. After a few minutes of silence, a rustling in the mass of brush and trees ahead of her proved her right.
The tall, confident figure of Dean Winchester stumbled from the greenery, eyes on whatever it was he was carrying in his hand. This version of him looked older than usual, she noted, watching as it walked forward blindly, still not looking towards her. She couldn't quite fathom the reason for the demons to make him look older than when she'd last seen him, but neither did she waste time pondering it. She just wanted to get this over with.
Finally, it looked up and saw her. It slowed, seemed to stagger without thought for a few more steps before stopping completely, still a good distance away.
She didn't move, didn't speak. She felt the mirage of a breeze flow through her hair. She only just kept her mouth from twitching as she felt the long blonde strands tickle her cheek. She missed her hair. She'd taken a great deal of pride in it when she'd been alive. Now, the demons always seemed to enjoy shaving it off.
They stared at each other, she and Dean's illusion, neither speaking or moving. It seemed to be struggling. If it were human, she would've guessed it was trying to determine if he were really seeing her standing there. Ironic, she thought, that the hallucination thought it was having a hallucination.
"Jo?"
And there it was. The voice. The voice that used to send a shiver down her spine. The voice that used to make her want to scream in frustration and smile in her damn infatuation. The voice that still threatened to inspire hope in her cold, dead heart…
It didn't seem bothered by her silence. It still looked lost, confused. She almost smiled then. Even when Dean Winchester was lost or confused, he sure as hell didn't let anyone see it. If she'd been doubting the deception before, she certainly didn't now.
It couldn't take its eyes off her. She watched as it seemed to come back to life, suddenly pocketing the phone that had been in its hand as if it were a weapon he thought might scare her off.
It opened and closed its mouth, unsure what to say. "I, uh…" it tried. It shook its head, slowly stepped towards her. "Are you… really… real?"
Still, she didn't move.
It held out a beseeching hand and slowly, carefully, reached for her. She could feel the heat from its body. A part of her – a bigger part than she cared to admit – begged her to just give in, just this once. Reach for him, touch him, hold him…
Just when its fingertips brushed the fabric of her plaid sleeve, she whirled into motion.
Fingers wrapped around its outstretched wrist and yanked it down. She sidestepped, shoved it to the ground, grabbed the thing by the back of its neck.
"You're getting sloppy," she bragged, digging her beautiful, full set of fingernails into its skin. "If you're going to use Dean Winchester to torture me, at least put some effort into it. I feel insulted by this shit performance."
It was stupid to goad the demons; she knew that from past experience. But it was one of the only ways she could feel even the slightest edge of victory over them, and she needed that momentary sense of triumph to get through the oncoming days of torture.
She felt its muscles tense as it prepared to retaliate, but she tightened her grip on its arm and pulled it back, forcing the thing to still unless it wanted a dislocated shoulder.
"Seriously, the whole lost puppy look? Wrong Winchester," she spat. "You think you'd know that, given how many years you've wasted chasing after them."
It was silent for a few moments, their heaving breaths the only sound in the suffocating darkness. Another piece of evidence this wasn't really Dean Winchester – he never would've allowed himself to stay in such a vulnerable position for so long without lashing out.
"Where do you think you are, Jo?" it finally asked.
"You know where I am," she muttered.
"Tell me anyway."
"I'm in hell, you black-eyed bastard." Jo'd never quite figured out if the demons just conjured the illusion of Ellen and the rest of the gang being there or if the demons took on their appearance themselves and physically joined her in the nightmares, but it didn't really matter. As far as she was concerned, the hallucinations were the demons, even just by association.
The thing swallowed, and its mouth worked to find the right words. "No, Jo. You're not." It tried to twist its head, to meet her gaze. She pressed down harder, forcing its cheek into the cold hard ground. "This is earth. This is- I think you- I think you're alive, Jo."
She laughed. It was such an empty sound it would've made her cry if she weren't already dead. "Your pick-up lines are getting old, demon. You've used that one on me before."
The problem with these dreams was that, while she felt and looked physically whole again, she wasn't. The shadows of the torture they'd put her through still haunted her mind and body, slowed her down, gave her only the illusion of control and humanity. So when the hallucination lunged back and grabbed her wrist, she didn't move fast enough. It snapped her forward. Her back hit the ground. She gasped for air, tried to scramble back to her feet, but the hallucination threw itself on top of her, straddled her waist.
She punched, bit, scratched, anything to get it off her, but the effort was draining. Even when she did manage to hit flesh, she could tell it was barely an annoyance for it. Finally, its long slender fingers latched onto her wrists and slammed them into the ground above her head.
"Jo!" it growled, bringing its face inches above hers. "Damn it, stop! Just stop!"
She did, not in obedience but in utter exhaustion. What was the point anyway? Struggling never got her anywhere; may as well save her minimal strength for the next session.
Its green eyes bore into hers, and she couldn't repress a shiver at just how beautiful they were, even knowing it was nothing but a fantasy. She could get lost in those eyes. She'd wanted to so many times before when she'd been alive and the man had been real. But she had never let herself. Now, a part of her wished she had. Maybe the temptation to fall for the lie wouldn't have been so overwhelmingly strong if she'd ever given herself the chance to feel the real thing.
"Your name is Joanna Beth Harvelle," it said. "You were born April 7, 1985, to Bill and Ellen. Your father died on a hunt with John Winchester. You carry his knife around everywhere you go because you want to be just like him. You and your mom worked at the Roadhouse until you started hunting together."
"Thanks for the history lesson," she spat, "but I think I know my own biography."
It continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You like REO Speedwagon. You knocked a guy's left molar out when he felt you up New Years Eve. You dated a hunter named Rick who disappeared without a trace; he was the first man you ever loved, but you told me once you were scared he was just using you. In 6th grade, you used to tell people Jo was short for Josephine after you read Little Women the first time. Your favorite movie is 'The Princess Bride', and you quote it so many damn times, I had to watch it just to keep up with what you were saying, and even though I told you it was the stupidest movie I'd ever seen, you knew I actually loved it because I slipped up and started quoting it, too."
It was nothing a demon couldn't have figured out by digging around in her memories, but it still shook her. The demons didn't usually use such information to try to convince her of their lies; they generally liked the more emotional approaches. She bucked her hips, trying to weaken its hold on her, but it only tightened its grip on her wrists.
"The first time we met, you punched me, almost broke my nose. I'd just lost my dad, but you managed to make me smile for a while. You were like my kid sister, and no matter how many times I tried to get rid of you, you kept popping back up like you knew I didn't really want you gone anyway. You had a crush on me, and even though I didn't feel the same, you still held on to it for years."
"Stop…" This was new. They'd never done this. In the nightmares, Dean always declared his love for her, apologized for being blind, begged her to come with him because he couldn't live without her. That's what made it so hard to keep the truth and the lie straight in her mind, because she wanted to hear those words of love and hope so badly after years of sadistic torture and agony. Eventually, she'd used such declarations to her advantage, knowing the real Dean would never wear his heart on his sleeve so openly with her.
But this hallucination… it wasn't spewing words of love and devotion. It wasn't putting on a Prince Charming, knight in shining armor act. It was speaking as Dean – the real Dean – had when she'd still been alive.
"Do you remember dying, Jo?" it persisted.
"I said stop-"
"We were gonna take down Lucifer. We were gonna stop the apocalypse. And then you jumped in front of a hellhound to save me. Do you remember that? We had to duck tape your stomach just to keep you breathing. And we kissed, and it was messy because we were both shaking and crying. And then you and Ellen blew yourselves up! Do you know what that felt like, walking away without a scratch knowing it was because you two were dead?"
"Shut up!"
"Is that the last thing you remember, Jo? The heat of the flames? Or is it when you were brought back to put me on trial? Is that it?"
"I remember the pain, you bastard!" she screeched. Her cheeks were wet. Why were they wet? It wasn't raining. "I remember hanging there begging my body to just die already, only to realize that I couldn't because I was already dead. I remember wondering what was taking you so long to come back and finish me off because I still had skin you hadn't stripped from my bones. I remember the woman telling me-"
What?
What woman?
"What woman?" the illusion asked, mirroring her own thoughts.
She blinked, shook her head. Her memories were scrambled. They had to be.
But she was remembering the woman just as vividly as she remembered the pain. She'd really been there. Jo was sure of it. How the woman had found her, Jo couldn't say. She wasn't even sure how long the woman had been standing there watching her because Jo had barely been able to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds, still reeling from her last session. Jo remembered thinking how comfortable the woman seemed in the midst of the fire and decay that surrounded them. Her eyes had been steady, knowing, aloof. Queen of the Underworld, Jo had thought. My new torturer…
But the woman hadn't lain a hand on her. Instead, she'd spoken. And suddenly, the interaction became so clear Jo wondered how she could've forgotten it. The words were etched into her skull, unable to be ignored now that she'd inched the door open.
Joanna Beth?
Yes.
Dean Winchester's Joanna Beth?
No.
I can see why he likes you. When you see him, tell him Amara's debt is repaid
"What did you say?"
She started, having forgotten where she was.
"Amara- Amara's debt is repaid," she repeated through trembling lips. "There was a woman, and she- she freed me. I think…"
Was it real? No, it couldn't be. This was just another trick, another sadistic lie. But it didn't… she could always tell when she'd been in a nightmare. After she'd been taken out, she could always tell. The memory of an illusion always was hazy and grey, just like she remembered real dreams being. But this memory was vivid, bright, as if someone had purposefully stamped it in her brain to stand out above the others.
Suddenly, the weight on her stomach was gone. The illusion of Dean sat back in the grass, staring wide-eyed. Carefully, slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows, then her hands. The grass felt soft, freshly cut beneath her unbroken fingers. She watched as the ends of her hair danced about freely, not from the cut of razors dragging across her scalp but from the soft breeze that blew through the night. She looked at her body, whole and unmaimed and fully clothed.
And then she looked up.
He – it – hadn't moved. It didn't even seem to be breathing as it sat and just looked at her. She looked back.
There were hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And he looked harder than she remembered him being – colder, unforgiving, lost. As familiar as the face was, it was just as unfamiliar to her. He'd never appeared this way before. He'd always been the same young Dean from her memories. Was that… could it be because she wasn't imagining it?
"Are you real?"
He – it – blinked. "Yeah," it said. "I am. Are- are you?"
She heaved, a dry sob wracking her body. "If you're not real, I swear to God I will slaughter every last one of you for this."
It pushed itself up to its knees, hands up beseechingly. "I'm real," it said. "I'm Dean. I'm your Dean."
They were close enough that she only had to stretch out a shaking, hesitant hand to touch him. He didn't move, his eyes never straying from her face. She couldn't meet his gaze, not yet. Instead, she watched as her trembling fingertips met the rough fabric of his plaid shirt. After two full breaths, she pushed on and flattened her hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through the layers of cloth. She waited, counted. Only when her own heartbeat matched his did she look up. The rims of his eyes were red as if he were holding back a tide of emotion.
She didn't bother holding back the tears.
"Dean."
And then she was in his arms, and for the first time in years, she felt the warmth of hope.
AN: So, I have this headcannon involving Jo. When Dean and Sam made their trek through heaven way-back-when and ran into Ash, Ash told them he hadn't seen either Ellen or Jo. In my crazy, romantic Dean/Jo brain, I imagined a universe where the demons might have figured out Jo meant more to Dean than just a sister or friend or fellow hunter, and therefore they grabbed her before she could get to heaven so they could use her against Dean if necessary. It's a bit farfetched, I'll admit, but given that the show gave very little in terms of Dean/Jo material to work with, I shove in some romance and angst where I can!
