Chapter 15: It consumes thee in this den.

She decided it was about time to invest in a journal. Mind, though, its purpose would not be of a recording nature for her hunting escapades, but rather one to help her remain sane. Given the complex nature of her arrangement, a piece of paper would probably be the only entity she could be truly honest with. As well, it would provide her with at least a few minutes peace from the incessant research she had embarked upon to combat the latest enemy. Even though she was well aware of how redundant she had made herself, she decided not to research with the boys, rather resorting to assuring them she would be conducting it with Fergus. It was a lie of course; she knew Crowley was about as partial to books as she was to him at the moment. Her part in this play would be merely for show until the boys figured it out.

Still, it didn't hurt to hit the books just in case…

She turned back to the recently purchased leather-bound journal and ran her hands over it. It looked thoroughly unremarkable, enough to not draw attention and permit her thoughts to remain her own. And yet it had, in its own way, a cool sort of charm, like it had the ability to become an extension of her, rather than a mere accessory to life. The pages weren't lined, but she didn't mind, in fact, blank pages were preferable.

She had always believed diaries or journals written for any other purpose than the detailed record of a hunt was pure melodrama to the point where even as a kid she never wanted one. Secrets were never a part of her upbringing; you had a problem, you deal with it, face to face. Now however… Who else could she turn to if not a journal? Her mother? Juanita? The Winchesters? Ha! The prospect was laughable. She needed an outlet, and Crowley would surely not offer her one.

Here goes…

Wade,

I dreamt last night of a nightclub. Not of the ones I frequent here, but one of elegance, style, where the lighting didn't encourage excessive drinking, but dancing. The kind of club where there were always couches available in quiet seclusion for conversation or more indecent acts. It was here I was talking to a woman who listened and never spoke, never interrupted. I told this woman everything: everything I was hiding, everything I was unable to speak of to anyone else. But, more importantly, every truth, every lie, every feeling I was unable to admit even to myself. Even though I was frozen in shock of everything I had admitted, of all the self loathing and regret I had come to procure, she said to me in quiet understanding, "you are not the enemy here".

This woman's name was Wade. I don't know if it was a last name or a first name (frankly, it sounds like a guy's name), but it stuck, and seems right.

I decided as soon as I woke up the following morning that I was unable to let this outlet escape me, and although I would never be able to tell a real person all the things I intend to tell this diary, I would have the closest thing humanly possible. An outlet is still an outlet, even if it can't ever answer back. So here we are; Jo Harvelle with a diary. Who knew right?

On to the pressing matter: my deal with the demon Crowley.

I'm not going to go through the details because the story itself isn't something I need to let out, but what's been running through my head as a result.

Even now in reflection on my motivation for making the deal my reasoning comes up short. When it comes down to it, the sincerest of intentions are still just intentions. I intended to help my mother fight that werewolf 7 and a half years ago, I intended to find Lilith and have my contract ripped up, I intended to save myself from Hell. But they're just words; intentions don't mean anything, not really.

I need to start dealing with the situation. Even as I write this I know I've made the conscious decision to get over it before; what would make this any different. I haven't dealt because to be honest, I don't think I have the strength. Sure Jo Harvelle has girl-balls, and knows how to kick a bloke (or demon) in the jibblets without so much as a second thought, but to be constantly assaulted not only physically, but mentally… spiritually. He has the vile ability to get into my head, make a mess, and just walk away, leaving me to silently gather the pieces.

I was never raised to dwell on bad luck or wrongdoings. But somehow I don't find solace in these lessons anymore. I've made my bed, dug my hole, had my cake and ate it too, and now I have to accept the fact that nothing will change. Hindsight is perfect, but life isn't; not even close. Why can't I just get past this?

I can sit here blaming life for throwing me curveballs, but what difference does it make? Bitching and moaning about the difficulty of life won't change the fact that I still have to live it. It's not the concept of living that is at fault here. Getting over it, finding closure, moving on or whatever depends entirely on one simple fact: In the end, life doesn't screw you, but the choices you make which pave the path ultimately deciding your fate. Once you accept this, you realise you have the power to change it.

She paused, looking over the last paragraph, and chuckled to herself before putting pen back to paper;

But of course, I can't take my own advice. No, I'm just going to have to get used to playing both hero and villain in this never-ending war, regardless of good common sense.

J

7/8/2007

She closed the book and placed it on the counter next to her, sighing with relief. She felt better, even if she knew the feeling would be fleeting. Regardless of her tough-it-out upbringing, she was still a woman, and retaining a firm shell of solidarity would tear her to pieces.

Staring blankly at the wall, lost in her own thoughts, made Crowley's abrupt entrance go entirely unnoticed. She registered the return to his original upper-class publisher (or whatever the hell he told her he did) outfit, however also his apparent agitation.

'Get up. They're attacking now.' He panted, walking over to her.

'Wait, what?' She replied, utterly confused.

'Hastur and his bitches. Found the Winchester idiots at their motel. They. Are. Attacking. Now.' He pulled her to her feet.

'Shit. Wait. You can't come with me looking like that!'

'Yes, that's why I won't be coming with you.'

'What if I get hurt?' She asked, however incredibly ashamed as soon as the words escaped her lips.

'If the situation deems it necessary for my interference to save your skin I will oblige,' he said, speaking very quickly, 'however given the skill and weaponry of the three of you I doubt it would be called for. It's not like you've ever wanted my help in a situation such as this anyway.' The transient look he shot her was of exasperation, yet of undeniable curiosity. She deserved it though; was she becoming weak? Certainly one would assume so if her first response to a fight was whether or not he would protect her. God she was so messed up.

'Wait, I need my jacket,' she said, hastily pulling a large hunting coat from the nightstand. Responding to his querying look, she showed him the inside lining of the heavy garment, revealing a hunter's arsenal she'd rigged after learning of the current demonic problem. He nodded, grasping her arm again.

Her next thought was cut short as they appeared outside the aged cream cement rendering of the Best Western Motel off West 2nd. He vanished almost immediately after, leaving her to find the boys in one of the dozens of rooms. She ran up the left sidewalk, however the daunting task of checking each room individually was quite unnecessary, as a sharp cry called her quickly to room 19.

The door was locked. No mind. She pulled out her gun and blew the lock, kicking the door in. She gasped at the scene in front of her; both the Winchesters were pinned against the wall by an unseen force localized around their necks, controlled by a figure in the centre of the room. Her mind immediately connected it with Hastur, however felt a sharp kick in the small of her back before she could truly assess the situation. Prepared for this, she rolled forward, pulling from the inside of her jacket two navy blue guns shooting not bullets, but streams of water at her two advancing adversaries. They buckled over in pain at the onslaught, choking and gasping for air as the jets of seeming acid shot at their faces.

She heard something from one of the boys, and whipped her head around to find Hastur, now dressed up as an Eastern European woman, still concentrating intently on the boys, and apparently half way through a monologue. Thank God most demons monologue. It buys a hell of a lot of time.

'Niiipe,' Dean choked at her, through the relentless attack.

'What?' She was still trying to keep Hastur's two cronies at bay, a feat becoming increasingly difficult with the apparent conversation Dean was trying to strike up.

'Nipe! Nipe!' He gasped again. The demon, registering this exchange, telekinetically threw Dean across the room to the other wall, cracking his head against the dry wall and knocking him out cold.

'Don't worry honey, you're next,' spat the demon, smiling. One of the two she was subduing made to grab her leg, however missed. She kneed him in the face, and increased her holy water attack. She running dangerously low, with only about 30 seconds of fuel left. What the hell was Dean trying to say?

'Niipe!' Came Sam's choked voice from the far wall. She was getting frustrated.

'What the hell does 'Nipe' mean!' She yelled. But, as soon as she said the word out loud it made sense. Nipe? Knife! Following Sam's gaze to a few inches behind Hastur's feet she noticed an engraved athame. She registered it as the demon-killing blade of that demon friend of theirs and slowly backed up from the two she was subduing to bend down and grab it.

The holy water guns had emptied, and the two demons started advancing. A few swift moves on her part saw the both of them fall to the ground, defeated. Thanking her luck Hastur decided to bring second-rate lower-level demons to his aid rather than anything of value, she turned to face the bastard himself. Making her was to his occupied behind, she raised the blade and made to strike-

She was suddenly thrown against the wall above the bed, the same unseen force holding the boys now capturing her. Damn it, of course it was too easy! They were all so screwed.

'Now, where was I? Oh yes. So I thought to myself, what would be the best way to rise to the top? And it was obvious; kill the two of you.' Well that was obvious. Why must they always monologue?

A small white line appeared above the demon's head, making a circle around the subject. It continued inside to create a set of intricate patterns which she noticed immediately as the workings of a Devil's Trap. Her eyes darted to Sam who, appearing to be drifting in and out of consciousness, did not seem to notice the new additions on the roof.

'And with that?' Apparently the demon had finished with his little speech, and Sam was subsequently thrown into the nightstand next to Jo, rendering him now completely unconscious, a trickle of blood falling down his forehead. Damn, I hope they're alright.

'Now now, Jo Harvelle. You have real promise there girl. I hear that little shit Crowley has you running errands for him like a good, little, dog.' She was being dragged up the wall, closer to the roof. 'He won't be happy that I've killed you, but I'm sure in the end he wouldn't really care.' She was thrown onto the floor next to Sam. Remarkably unhurt by the turn of events, she rolled over and jumped up, just in time to see Dean fall to the floor, still comatose. The Devil's Trap was complete, and Hastur was rendered incapacitated.

Crowley shot open the door and strode in. 'Yes, I do care.' He picked up the knife and threw it to Jo where she caught it effortlessly. Using the same power Hastur had just used on the three of them, Crowley managed to asphyxiate the demon to his knees. Jo, hatred rising in her chest, walked right up to the pathetic wad, and drove the knife home, twisting it maliciously until all light was extinguished from behind those dead eyes. Pulling it out and wiping the blood off onto the demon's clothing, she turned to Crowley.

'Thankyou.' She admitted, walking over to Dean who was stirring slightly.

'Just protecting my investment.'

'You'd better go; they'll be waking up soon. I'll explain.' He nodded and vanished.

She walked to the bathroom and gathered a few wet towels to place on the boys' foreheads. As she returned to the room, she noticed an interesting addition to the Winchester's rucksack; The Colt.

If she was ever going to get some answers out of Crowley, the only method would be through coercion, and seeing as he would easily best her in a knife fight, perhaps the gun could come in handy. After all, this fight had brought up a number of very important issues she would rather not remain ignorant about.

Given Crowley had erased the Trap from the roof, it was not difficult to convince the boys that Fergus had arrived to help them out just in the nick of time, rather than having to explain how a Trap appeared out of nowhere directly above one of the most powerful demons in existence. It was, however, slightly more difficult to explain why she needed to borrow the Colt for a night, as they did not quite buy her half-baked story that she wanted to "examine" it and its supernatural properties. Still, they allowed her to take it so long as it would be promptly returned at 8am before they hit the road again. Thank you Lord!

So much was buzzing through her mind; recounting the events of the day, the deal, the diary, the upper ranks of the Hell, how many days she could get away without doing laundry. But the most pressing question she needed answering at this moment was as such; why was Crowley so adamant about saving the boys? What value could they possibly have to the underworld? Would it not be beneficial to just allow the demon to kill them, then have Crowley and her to come and clean house? Why spare their lives? It has become abundantly clear that most of Hell wants them dead, so why on earth would Crowley want to protect them?

Whatever the answer, it would not be good.

Ah, speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

'Come to congratulate yourself? Or are you just making one of your oh-so-welcome coital house calls?' She asked.

'Though it is flattering that you anticipate my visits so, the former is more accurate. I have a splitting headache. Got any Aspirin?'

She snorted. 'Didn't know demons even got headaches.'

'We do, usually after a prize-winning fight. Though it takes half a bottle to actually alleviate any discomfort. Pills?' He asked again.

'Bathroom cabinet, but before you rape my supplies, I have a question.' He raised his eyebrows in a "you're kidding, right?" kind of way. 'Given the sentiments of other demons of your caliber, I would have presumed you either hated, or were indifferent to the Winchester boys. So why make sure I arrived in time to save them?'

He scoffed at her. 'So you're friends survived, and yet you have to poke a hole in the victory-balloon anyway? You can never just accept that the bad guys lost without ruining it, can you?'

'See I'm not so sure they did lose today. Why not let them die?'

'Maybe I knew how important they were to you.'

'Ha! Since when have you ever given a damn about my wellbeing? I know you have something nasty up your sleeve.'

'It just so happens I don't.' He replied. She shook with anger; like hell she was going to believe him!

'So I'm just supposed to trust that you have the right intentions? As a demon? Really?'

He thought for a brief moment. 'Yes,' he said, eyebrows slightly raised.

'Hold on while I suspend my disbelief,' she said dryly, 'what plans do you have for the boys?' She asked, not really sure why she was expecting an honest answer.

'None of your business,' he turned his back to her and walked into the bathroom, opening the mirror to reach for the bottle of aspirin.

'Those boys are family', she retorted, slamming the small door on his fingers, 'it matters.' He adopted that all-too familiar look which plainly told her he was thinking of the most creative way possible to explain to her that he would in fact not be opening up.

'Honey, precedence dictates I'm not going to tell you, and you should count yourself lucky I'm not outwardly lying to you. This arrangement works on a need-to-know basis, and this is not need-to-know.' She scoffed.

'Withholding the truth is still lying!'

'Still not caring.' She shook her head and left the bathroom, pulling something from her jacket pocket, keeping her back to him. He looked at her, curiously.

'What are you-' She whipped around, the fabled Colt in her hands, aiming directly at his forehead.

'You sick, perverted, lying piece of trash. I'm done, so done.'

'Is that the-'

'Colt? Yeah. Borrowed it from the Winchesters. Now, how about you suck it up, and tell me why the Underworld is so damn interested in those boys. And, for that matter, why I'm of such interest to you.' He chuckled, downing half the aspirin bottle and throwing it on the floor. Despite her threats and the obvious demise he would face should she pull the trigger, he seemed thoroughly unphased by the recent turn of events.

'Good luck with that, sweetheart.'

'You know what this gun is, and what it can do.' Her voice was steady, even though it took almost all her strength to stop her shaking hands.

'Yes, but see, I don't think you'll pull the trigger.'

'I've killed for a hellof a lot less.'

'Oh I don't doubt you have. But I think you've overlooked a significant clause of our deal'. She fought to keep her expression stony. 'Sunshine, we are not just bound by the continued deliverance of your "services",' he snickered, 'but you are bound to me; in life, and in death. You pull the trigger, and you'll be signing your own death certificate. Except you won't be joining dear old Daddy in Heaven, you'll be dragged down to Hell.'

Their eyes met again, each not daring to blink and give the game away.

'You're lying,' she said.

'Am I? Prepared to take that on faith?' He asked.

'I have no faith in you.' She spat, coldly.

'Then by all means, shoot. Kill me, see where that gets you. Or, call the Winchester's for back-up; see if we can't have a good old fashioned Mexican standoff.' She could sense he was trying to get in her head. She focused all her energy into keeping her hand strong and her eyes clear. 'In fact, considering my own hesitance to tell you why I have such an interest in those two meat-heads, the evidence shows that my intentions are to cause them harm. Following that logic, killing me might save their own lives.

'So, hypothetically, I guess it comes down to this; it's either your life, or Sam and Dean's.'

Her eyes swam with tears as she fought to keep the gun pointed at him. 'So your intentions are to harm them?'

'Maybe. Maybe not. It's all a matter of perspective.' God! Why on earth must he make EVERYTHING so difficult! He has never given her reason to trust anything that comes out of his disgusting mouth, so why should she believe him now? His calm exterior in the face of imminent death is not reason enough to believe his claim, even though it could make a hell of a lot sense. Why not add that extra clause into the bargain; an insurance policy if you will against her hatred for him? Still, if he was right, is she game enough to die, even if it will save two of her closest friends?

'Damn,' she lowered the gun, and threw it on the floor. 'You're a nasty piece of work.'

'Aww honey,' he said in an almost mocking voice as he walked up toward her, 'no one's judging you. You made the right choice.'

He lifted her chin and kissed her gently. As he did, she could feel him suck the last of her resolve from her soul, leaving her powerless against his increasingly ambidextrous grasp on her life.

'I'll be back tomorrow.' And with that he was gone.

A/N

Wow. It has been a looong time since I've updated this. Like 2 months! Geez I suck.

So, a lot happened this chapter. You're welcome!

The bit at the start actually happened to me; I had this really helpful dream where I just sat and talked to someone about all the rubbish in my life. I've never been to therapy, nor have I ever really needed it, but I woke up the next morning with such renewed perspective… So I decided to let Jo have it.

This chapter is my masterpiece, my Everest. I've been battling the worst procrastination since I've been on winter break. But it's done! At 2am before semester starts tomorrow. Wow I fail. It's my last semester, so it'll be extra busy. But seeing as I do more writing here when I'm busy elsewhere, this should be the first in a string of updates coming your way! So beware! Or be excited; it depends on how much of a life you have…

Title goes to Faust! Of course!

All the reviews… you guys are the best! It's such an obscure pairing that I never really expected to get many reviews at all, yet here you are! All of you, you're AWESOME!

Anyway, I have 8 hours of work and 5 hours of lectures tomorrow. Best be off to the real world! Peace!

-thesolitaryone-

P.S. This was written at 2am, and in my haste to get it up as fast as possible, good and thorough editing may have been sacrificed. Sorry!