Upon waking, Jo could feel her thighs aching and her back throbbing with some deep pain she could hardly comprehend. At first she thought it was the after-effects of a hard night in- vivid memories of Dean pressing her against that wall came to mind. But the pain was too direct, too real.
Jo's eyes flickered open, the sun seamlessly pouring right into her line of vision, causing her to squint owlishly up at the curtains. Damn it. What was it about the Winchesters that caused her to continuously wake up feeling as if she'd been dropped head-first off the Eiffel Tower? This was, what, the fourth time now?
With an inward groan she sat up, immediately catching sight of her bandaged thighs and stomach. Her reaction should probably have been a little more audacious, but all she could manage to think was a mild sort of 'oh…right.'
Both Sam and Dean were on the other end of the room, backs turned, working in silence. Jo decided not to draw attention to herself- rather, she stiffly got to her feet, and steadied herself on the bedstead. She was aching like hell- her legs, stomach, and arse, unfortunately. Being in physical agony was tolerable, but now she couldn't even sit down without feeling as if she were being assaulted with an arsenal of searing fire.
She let go and began to pad softly towards the bathroom- but she'd hardly taken a few steps before her screaming muscles decided to pull a Houdini on her, and she went crashing to her knees.
She managed not to squeal, but both boys whipped their heads around simultaneously, rising from their chairs.
"Damn," said Jo meekly as Dean moved around the room to come to her assistance, eyes filling with concern and guilt.
"How you doing?" he asked, kneeling down to her level. She felt like a diminished little seven year old that had fallen and grazed her knee.
"Fine," she snapped waspishly in reply.
"Are you sure? You look-"
"I'm fine, Dean. Help me up. They're just scratches."
Dean shrugged and extended an arm. Jo took it and attempted to haul herself up but found her strained legs wouldn't give her the leverage and began to topple backwards.
Dean instinctively reached out and caught her, around the waist- his arm accidentally and unintentionally brushing across that very tender spot on her bottom.
Jo yelped before she could help herself and Dean paused to stare at her with a look of growing disbelief, which quickly turned into glee.
"Don't even say it," she snapped with narrowed eyes.
"So… the hellhound…"
"Dean…"
"Wolfie literally…had a 'piece of ass?'"
There was an awkward pause, before Dean began to laugh helplessly and Jo blushed, fingers still clasped around his forearm. When she spoke, it was a little flustered.
"Hey, jackass, if you haven't noticed I'm in a sort of precarious position here, so would you mind helping me the hell up?"
Dean was still laughing, but relented and helped her onto her feet. Jo reached out again for the bedstead to support herself, glowering.
"Hey, that's pretty funny, Jo," said Dean, still chuckling mirthfully. "You gotta admit."
"Yeah, well, before 'Wolfie' turned up you were having a little shameless 'piece of ass' yourself. So, I wouldn't be talking, smartass," snapped Jo in reply, massaging her aching bottom.
Needless to say, that shut Dean up, and he spent the remainder of the silence with an expression of contemplative curiosity.
"So, did you find anything out about the dog?" said Jo finally, running a hand through her hair to break out the knots.
"Uh, yeah," said Dean, glancing back at Sam who had settled back into his chair, laptop balanced on his knees, watching them both scrutinisingly. Dean shrugged.
"Once they've been let out, they can't be sent back to hell until they kill someone. Anyone. They need to seize a soul in order to return. Except for the Mississippi hound- but we made a deal with a demon for that one, and that's a dime a dozen. Last night, Arianne Silver was killed, ripped to pieces. She's five rooms down from us."
Jo shuddered, revulsion thick in her throat.
"Oh, god. She died because of me, didn't she?" she whispered, clenching her fists. "Because the hound couldn't get me, so it killed her?"
"No," said Dean firmly with that savage expression which said he meant every word he was about to say.
"She died because some demonic son of a bitch killed her. So, we're going on a retribution mission. Did the demon say anything to you? Anything that might help?"
Jo paused and her eyes wavered momentarily to Sam's bowed head. She swallowed.
"Uh, no," she lied, and then paused momentarily before quickly adding, "Well, yes, actually- It's the Duluth demon. Meg."
"Oh," said Dean, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes with a huff. "That motherfucker is going down, I swear."
"Anyway," continued on Sam dryly, picking up from where Dean had left off. "Her neighbour, Lucy Jones, heard the screams and came to have a look. She says she saw a large black dog in her apartment before it ran away."
"Ran away?" repeated Jo with a scoff.
Sam shrugged. "Well, I guess she didn't really want to put 'vanished into thin air' into her statement…"
"As per normal," added Dean with a reasonable shrug and smile.
"So, where is she going to be tonight? She's going to need guarding, right?"
"Ah, yes," said Sam, eyes flitting down to his laptop, chewing on his bottom lip.
"I managed to, uh, get into her email inbox…"
Sam flushed, Jo looked vaguely amused and Dean looked almost proud.
"…she's got tickets for a musical tonight. Let's see… Cadillac Palace Theatre… Phantom of the Opera."
"Hot damn!" exclaimed Dean perhaps a little too loudly, making Jo jump in surprise. She looked around at him, blinking, brows furrowed.
"Phantom of the Opera? With Marni Raab? I love that chick!"
Dean seemed to notice his boyish exuberance a few moments too late because when he'd finished both Sam and Jo were staring at him with identical expressions of dubiety.
Dean made a face as if he were about to speak but seemed to think better of it and went quiet again, prolonging the silence.
"So, uh," said Jo finally, daintily taking a seat on the bed, still giving Dean a rather self-satisfied look.
"How much are the tickets? For three of us, I mean, it's going to cost a pretty penny…"
"Wait, whoa, slow down," said Dean quickly, intercepting her with a swarthy glare.
"Who said you're coming? You're been targeted and, quite frankly, it's a two-man job. Plus, what the hell? You can hardly walk, Jo, let alone work something like this. You're staying here."
"Uh, no," replied Jo, her voice uncharacteristically ironclad. There was usually always the part of Jo that could be swayed but right now it was pure untainted determination- an undeniable streak of Ellen shining through.
"I don't care if I need to walk there, Dean, I'm coming with you and I'm going to kill that son of a bitch myself if it means I've got to unload an entire magazine into somebody's head."
Dean's jaw steeled. "Jo, it's stupidity. You're not going. End of story."
"To hell with stupidity, Dean! I'm going with you. No two ways about it."
"Oh, really?" he replied, becoming more vehement. "And where's the money, Jo? You gonna pay for your own ticket? Huh?"
The memory came back to Jo in a thunderclap of verbal fury.
"Where's the money? You tell me, Dean? What about the five hundred dollars I won from Poker back at the steakhouse? Yeah, you thought I'd forgotten, hadn't you?"
Dean's sudden silence and the fervent anger in his eyes told her he had. The tension and heat radiated from them both until finally Dean sighed and averted his eyes.
"Alright. Fine. Whatever."
"Don't shrug me off now, Dean," she chased relentlessly, her interest piqued. She'd only just remembered that substantial pot of money- and she hadn't seen it since. "Where's the money?"
Dean looked awkward. "In that alcohol you were so keen to gulp down, the fuel, the motel room, the bandages and the sterling bullets. Hey, you gotta earn your keep, sweetheart."
"And the rest?" she asked, quirking a brow. She wasn't shaken so easily- five hundred dollars wouldn't go so quickly on such meagre equipment.
Dean sighed again. "Alright- in the trunk. It's in the trunk."
Jo smiled viciously in victory, and Sam chuckled, exchanging a mental high-five. It was always nice to watch somebody find a chink in Dean's armour, given that it wasn't a regular occurrence.
"Alright, so- when's it start?" asked Dean, casually scratching his head.
"Seven thirty," replied Sam after a brief glance to his computer screen.
Dean dropped his hand and yawned, flexing his arms and stepping towards the bathroom.
"Well, I call first shower. Sammy, book those tickets."
Dean shut the door behind him but didn't bother to lock it and Jo paused, on the brink of indecision, staring at the door. She seemed to come to a conclusion and stepped stony-faced for the door, turning the knob with a mumbled excuse something along the lines of 'getting my hairbrush.'
Dean was already getting undressed, shirtless and down to his boxer shorts when Jo barged in. Dean blinked incredulously at her.
"What the hell?" he exclaimed, indignant.
"Shhh," said Jo with a wince, leaning in to the shower and turning both taps to full. The jets fired out with a satisfying hiss. She slid close the shower door and stepped forward, herding Dean back towards the vanity bench. He looked suspicious, even defensive, those taut muscles in his arms bunching and bracing, his eyes locked on hers.
"Sam," she whispered, bringing her head up to his ears, her breath tickling his neck, eyes imploring. "It wants Sam next."
Dean's eyes widened, surprised both by how daringly close she was to him, and the words coming out of her.
"What?"
"When you were possessed." Jo heaved a breath as if saying it without the need to fill her lungs would make it easier. "It told me that Sam was next on it's list of priorities."
"Why? Why the hell would it want Sam, of all people? He's supposed to be the leader of the apocalypse!"
"Shhhh!" she warned him, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes. Their voices were shielded by the running water.
"Because… It wants to whittle away everything from you until you've got nothing left to stand on."
Jo paused and her teeth tightened on her lower lip. "That way, when your year is up, you'd have nothing left to live for anyway."
Her voice was so low, almost deathly, pained, heart-wrenching. She could see the despair and shock in his eyes.
"It told you?" he said finally, voice surprisingly hoarse, uncontrolled.
Jo couldn't help herself. The vulnerability, the desperate need to steel himself, almost tore the tears from her eyes. She reached up and put a hand to his chin, feeling the warmth of his jaw, the rigidness of his muscles.
"Yes," she whispered, and though she had so much more to say, the words wouldn't come.
She dropped her hand and stepped away.
"Sam's next," she repeated in a deadpan before she turned and quickly retreated from the bathroom, leaving him to stare blankly at the bathroom door.