A/N: You know how great it is to wake up to an inbox full of reviews? Made my day. Thanks, guys!
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Jo woke in the morning to blinding lights and yet another ear-splitting headache. The repercussions of a hard night out. Someone was calling her name, but the warmth of the blankets was far too comfortable to give up at the moment.
With a moan of protest, she snuggled deeper into the bed.
"Jo!"
Cold hands gently touched her cheek and she jerked awake, the iciness of the fingers startling. She stared up to be confronted by the face of Dean, who grinned back at her.
"Would you like some hair-of-the-dog?" he offered in an imperialistic sort of way, dangling a bottle of mid-strength over her face. No wonder his fingers had been so bloody cold.
She groaned and shook her head, rubbing her eyes and hauling herself up, habitually kicking off the blankets. She'd gotten a majority of the nausea out of her system last night, but the headache refused to budge.
"Hungover?" Sam asked from across the room with an airy smile which immediately made her want to go and kick him somewhere tender. Lucky for him, he had a laptop on his knees, so she settled for a callous glare.
"Yeah," she replied, getting to her feet with a catlike yawn. Dean chuckled.
The paracetamol had been left by her bedside table and she immediately reached out for it, craving some sort of relief. She knew that paracetamol was supposed to be bad for hangovers, but she really didn't care. If her liver decided to shut down, well, she'd jump that hurdle when she came to it.
"So, we figured we'd head back to the steakhouse and have a poke around in that alleyway," said Dean, eyes flickering across her face. Jo's fingers immediately rose to wipe away the smudged eyeliner that she knew must be giving her a panda-like sort of appearance. Dean smirked.
"I'm coming," she replied immediately, though the thought of crawling back into bed was incredibly tempting.
"Just let me take a shower before we do. I smell like old fat men."
"That's what tends to happen when you play poker," noted Dean in a 'told you so' sort of way.
"You can talk," replied Jo immediately, breaking into a reminiscent smile. "Don't think I've forgotten what happened between you and Sam-antha back at the tavern…"
Dean managed to look simultaneously chastened and humiliated, flushing as Sam's head jerked up, glaring at them like a pissed-off cat might eye a defenceless mouse.
"Don't speak of that again," snapped Dean in a forbidding sort of way, furrowing his eyebrows.
"I have a .44 in my pocket loaded with rock salt and I'm not afraid to use it…"
"Oh, come on, Dean," teased Jo relentlessly, the pain of the headache marginalized somewhat by the pleasure she found in taunting them both.
"You can't spell 'Winchester' without the…"
"Spell 'incest' and I swear to god you'll wake up in three months time tied up somewhere in Utah," he growled quite seriously, incensed, the redness on his cheeks intensifying. Jo began to laugh helplessly, shrugged and picked up the towel at the base of the bed that had once been Dean's.
"Whatever. I'm having a shower."
It made her feel good to know that she now had something to blackmail him with for the rest of his mortal life. Jo shut the door and stripped out of her clothes, surveying herself in the mirror. Her face was ashen, arms smeared with blood, eyes bloodshot from the alcohol over-indulgence. She shivered, smoothed a hand through her hair and stepped into the shower.
Once the warm water hit her skin she didn't want it to stop and almost fell back to sleep under the warm jets of the showerhead. She shampooed her hair a good three times to rid it of the scent of blood and cigarettes, scrubbing down her arms and legs until they felt raw, turning it back on cold for a few seconds before turning off the water altogether to properly wake herself up.
No sooner had she wrapped the towel around herself, the door swung open and Dean stepped into the bathroom.
She blinked expectantly at him, but he drew a breath, pausing for a moment to blatantly eye her down. She suspected he had hoped to catch her before she had the chance to grab the towel.
"Jacket," he said finally, brushing past her to retrieve the jacket draped over the sink.
He slid past her side-on, so that for a moment in time their bodies were only a hair's breadth away in the confined space of the bathroom, and she felt the ripple of his breath across her skin. She huffed as goosebumps spread across her arms, and subconsciously drew the towel tighter around herself.
Before he could leave she extended a hand and caught his arm, tugging him back. Dean paused and turned his head over his shoulder to face her.
"Have a singlet I could borrow?" she asked, inclining her head sheepishly down to the blood-stained shirt on the floor.
Dean quirked his eyebrows mischievously and nodded, eyes flickering back and forth across her face.
"Sure thing. Wait a sec."
He left and came back a moment later with a plain white singlet that she knew would be a little too big for her, but she had the jacket in the car she could wear over the top.
"Thanks," she offered awkwardly as he passed her the shirt.
"No worries," he replied huskily, hitching both brows again, giving her another brief stare-down before he stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door.
This time, Jo flicked the lock behind him. Sometimes he was too damn transparent for his own good.
She dropped the towel and re-dressed herself in her bra and jeans, relishing in the clean feel of her skin. The singlet that Dean had given her was a bit big and hardly fit her across her shoulders, but it was passable and she stepped out of the bathroom with a shrug, tying up her hair into a ponytail as she did so.
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Dean parked the Impala across the road from the steakhouse, on the curb. It was early in the morning, and the traffic was relatively light, so they had no trouble getting into the alleyway unseen. Jo's stomach dropped significantly as she caught sight of the blood trailing across the floor in thick maroon masses and smeared across the walls.
The blood continued to pool in larger puddles, ending beside the garbage bin where what was once a human body lay, ripped from head to toe.
Jo had to forcibly stop herself from dry-retching.
"Oh god," she gasped, closing her eyes and turning her head. "You don't think that I…?"
"Well, if you did, you did a thorough job of it," replied Dean in a sickly sort of way, leaning over to observe the various internal organs that seemed to have been pulled from their place.
"Hey," said Sam suddenly, observing the masses of blood leading into the alleyway with narrowed eyes.
"Check this out."
Jo followed his gaze and her eyes fell upon what looked like one, single, enormous paw print in the middle of the carnage. It was similar in appearance to a dog paw, but in size, was comparable to a small bear.
"Oh, fantastic," said Dean dryly. "So, basically, we're playing a big, sadistic, lethal game of 'Blues Clues.'"
Jo's mouth twitched, somewhat relieved that all signs pointed to the fact that she hadn't been the perpetrator of the crime.
"I'm going to jot this down on my Handy-Dandy Notepad," he added, withdrawing a nonexistent notebook to write on with a nonexistent pen, wearing a thoughtful expression. Jo grinned, unable to help herself.
"Stop messing around, Dean," suggested Sam, obviously not sharing their amusement.
"We'd better go before someone finds us and adds another line to your criminal record."
That seemed to sober him up, and within no time they were back in the Impala and on the main road.
"So, what are we thinking?"
"Looks like all the work of a hellhound… but for the fact that we both saw the thing back in the Fawcett house, and they're visible only to the things they hunt. And, anyway, they usually only hunt the people who've sold their soul, bring them to hell. None of these people seem to be particularly special, so it doesn't look as if any of them have made deals. Still doesn't explain your missing memory," Dean mused with a shrug, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
"Or, it could be a Black Dog," added Sam as an afterthought, "But they're more like omens, and their victims usually suffer from random heart attacks, car accidents, that sort of thing, rather than directly being ripped to shreds. But, given what happened in South Wyoming, I'm guessing that whatever it is, it has free license to do whatever it wants."
"I guess it wouldn't hinder the demons to have a few hellhounds climbing out of hell too," said Dean thoughtfully.
"Why don't you guys slow down and tell me what the hell you're going on about?" suggested Jo, confused and frustrated. South Wyoming? Climbing out of hell?
There was an awkward silence, each brother expecting the other to do the explaining. Once the silence had stretched on long enough, Sam finally decided to do the work, sighing and rolling his head. He explained briefly about Colt's iron devil's trap, the Wyoming cemetery, Jake, and the gates to hell. He omitted any of the more personal parts that he or Dean had to play, opting just to tell the things that needed telling. He explained about how the Colt was the key to hell and how Jake had opened the crypt, unleashing something of an apocalypse, how John had climbed out with the demons, how Dean had managed to retrieve the Colt and shoot the Yellow-Eyed Demon in the heart.
When he finished, Jo let the silence fall, taking a moment to digest the information.
"Mom told me the Roadhouse burnt down," she added in a hoarse voice.
Dean nodded. "Demons," he replied shortly with a shrug, as he had no other explanation for that particular incident. He wasn't omniscient, but all signs pointed that way.
Jo sighed and put a hand to her head, gazing wistfully at the back of Dean's chair. Suddenly the random outburst of hunting opportunities didn't seem like such a godsend.
"So, what about our Mr. Fawcett?" asked Dean finally, looking over at Sam who was staring absently out the window.
"We loaded the dog full of salt but there's no saying it couldn't have come back after we left."
"There was nothing in today's paper," he replied with a shrug. "But then, it would have only happened last night. Maybe we should drop around and see if everything's okay."
"Wouldn't hurt," replied Dean absently, hitting the indicator to drive back towards the Fawcett apartment.
When they arrived, it was immediately evident that nothing was well. There was an ambulance out the front and the police already had 'crime scene' tape all over the place.
"Looks like it came back to finish the job," noted Dean. Jo swallowed. Two attacks in one night- and they still hadn't explained Jo's missing hours.
The three of them got out of the Impala just as a stretcher was being carried down the stairs, a white blanket laid over the immobile occupant. The stretcher bumped somewhat on the descent and an arm flopped out from underneath the blanket. Even from afar, Jo could see the scratched and mangled flesh before they managed to push it back under the cover.
There was a young blonde woman sobbing hysterically next to the police officer as the paramedics stowed the body in the ambulance. The police officer looked grim.
Dean nudged Sam in the ribs and inclined his head in the direction of the officer. The two men immediately turned and made for the Impala. Puzzled, Jo followed.
"What?" she asked immediately upon entering the Chevrolet again, slightly irritated as Dean started the ignition.
"Well, sweetheart," he replied with a grunt as he backed out of the alleyway. Jo cocked a brow.
"At the moment I'm at the very height of America's Most Wanted, so it's probably for the best if I leave my interrogation to Sam. For the coroner. Easier and safer that way."
"Since when have you ever opted for 'easier and safer?'" replied Jo with a scathing snort.
Dean shrugged. "Since Folsom Prison. I'm not gonna rot in some cell for the rest of my life when I have Sam around to do the dirty work."
Sam's knuckled tightened on the window ledge and Jo watched curiously as his expression contorted in one of momentary anguish before he could slip his icy mask back on. He noticed Jo watching him in the rear-view mirror a moment later and his eyes narrowed slightly before he offered her a prompting smile. Jo averted her eyes, though she still had the strong feeling that the brothers were omitting something, something serious, important. It was gnawing at her.
"Well, what now?" she asked with a huff, running fingers through her still-damp hair.
"Yeah, well, that's sort of the question of the minute right now," replied Dean without rancour, driving aimlessly down the main stretch.
"Right up there with 'Who framed Roger Rabbit?' For now, at least, I think breakfast would be a good place to start. Somewhere where Jo can't get her hands on anymore alcohol."
Sam snorted derisively in the passenger seat.
"Hello, Pot, meet Kettle?" he replied in a withering way, earning himself a halfhearted punch to the shoulder by Dean as he pulled in and parked the Impala on the curb parallel to an urban café.