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kricketsI just want to say that I'm pretty nervous about working with these characters for the first time, since this is my very first Supernatural fic. Comments and concrit are more than welcome.
For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
we_take_five ficathon: prompt, smear.
Title: A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter: 1 of 4: Humans are Animals Too
Wordcount: 3174
Fandom & Pairings: Supernatural - Dean/Jo(centric), Sam/Jo
Rating: NC-17, Violence, Language, Sexuality
Genre: Angst/Drama/Action
Warnings: Spoilers up to BUABS
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kmousie & purestvixen
Synopsis: Set about two years in the future, Jo is in over her head on a hunt and calls Dean & Sam for help.
A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter 1: Humans are Animals Too
Silver City, New Mexico
present day
Jo drops to her knees, unable to stand any longer. Soon she’s on all fours, making bloody handprints across the concrete as she tries to stand up. Her bones no longer ache. She wills herself to feel, for it is pain that gives her strength. It has always been that way with her. She rests one cheek on the cold stone floor as she curls into the fetal position, giving in to her weakness – giving up. She, Joanna Beth Harvelle, is throwing in the towel. Mama will disapprove, of course. But seeing as she won’t be around to hear that particular lecture, she chuckles at the thought. Stubborn runs in the family. Family. Daddy, she thinks. She closes her eyes now, fresh tears carving a pathway through the blood.
She’s fought demons before, but this son of a bitch was different. She exorcised him. She recited the Latin a dozen times. She knows she got all the incantations right. She did it again and again. He only laughed – toying with her, telling her that the gathering will happen whether she wants it to or not – something about the coming pack and not to fight it. Werewolves. They weren’t scavengers, but if she wasn’t dead when the rest of them found her, they would eat her alive on principle alone.
Doc is dead. On her last trip back to the Roadhouse, she overheard him talking about a job over a few beers and a game of pool. Said it was a piece of cake but his partner had flaked and would the mighty huntress like to accompany him? She was hard up for a good hunt. All of her recent leads had been dead-ends. Halfway through the job, she realized just how wrong Doc was about the whole thing. That’s the last time I’ll ever listen to that fucking scumbag, she remembers thinking. Only it really was.
Somewhere between the failed exorcism and this abandoned warehouse, she picked up the phone and called Dean. Last she heard, he and Sam were headed to Arizona. They’d be pretty close – a few hours at the most. Did he say he’d come? Did she tell him how serious it was? Did she cry? Did she even get through to his line? She can’t remember. All she remembers now is being thrown through a glass window onto the alley, a dagger in her belly, a dead werewolf, his human body – blue-eyed and blonde and younger than she is – and the vomit that comes afterward. She’s bleeding out. She can feel it happening.
She hates New Mexico – and not just because it is, it seems, going to be her final resting place. She just hates it. From the moment she crosses the state line, she is overcome with a feeling of foreboding – a feeling she is not welcome. Everything here tastes stale, and there’s always sand in the corners of her eyes. She even hates the way the words sound in her mouth. She’ll never come back here if she ever gets out. Please, God, she thinks, the realization finally coming over her that she doesn’t want to die and if all she does is lie there, that is exactly what is going to happen.
“Get up, Jo,” she tells herself aloud. “Get up!” Her voice is pounding in her head, but soon she realizes it is only coming out as a soft whimper, a useless tiny sound. She starts to cry, heaving and gasping for air, when she hears something coming closer, heavy footfalls vibrating around her.
“Jo?” Dean’s voice sounds so far away, but he’s kneeling beside her a moment later, his knees brushing her side and his hand on her shoulder. “Jo…Jo! Hang in there!” He pulls her to him, lifting her from the floor and into his arms as he stands. She mouths his name, but no words come out.
“Sammy!” He calls for his brother, his voice panic-laden. Jo reaches up to touch his face, smearing blood on his jaw and lower lip before her eyes close and her head lolls back.
Dean carries her out to the car. With every step, she seems heavier in his arms. She is covered in blood, and Dean finds himself struggling to breathe. There is so much blood. He can’t help being angry with her for going off with Doc. He’s warned her about him before – a careless hunter and one who’s gotten more than a couple of his partners into trouble. “Dammit, Jo!”
“Dean?” Sam rushes out of the building and down the stone steps. “Is she alright?”
”She’s hurt bad.” Dean is surprised his vocal chords still work. “Now open the goddamn door.”
There are good and bad things about being a hunter. One of the good things is that when you save people’s lives, they feel indebted to you forever. The downside of that is that one day, inevitably, you’re gonna find yourself in a situation where you need them to live up to those words uttered as half-goodbyes. If there’s anything you need. They say it because they feel safer with you in their world and because it’s the right thing to say. But the truth is they never really want you to knock on their doors. Because that means there’s something even you don’t know how to fix, and where does that leave them?
When Sam brings in a nurse from a nearby hospital that they helped with a poltergeist a few months back to stitch up Jo, Dean remembers the good. But the next night, when he carries a bundle of sheets – soaked in Jo’s blood – down to the dumpsters outside, he remembers the bad.
Jo was never a part of the plan. But it’s clear – from the first day he’s introduced to the barrel of her shotgun at the Roadhouse – that she’s not all that interested in plans or fitting into them.
He said he’d call her again, but the truth is he never meant it. She worked her way into this place in his life where he felt responsible for her safety. Maybe it’s because of Ellen or the way Jo looks at him – that mixture of anger and expectation. Whatever it was, he didn’t need another Sammy in his life. One was enough. So when he had promised her that, it had always been a lie.
Duluth, Minnesota
one year prior
It is Sam who brings her back to them. He wakes up one morning after a hunt in Oregon a little more than year later and suddenly remembers everything – what he did to her. Dean doesn’t ask because Dean doesn’t want to know. He only nods and tells Sam they’ll go, so he can apologize; make her see that he is him again and that he would never hurt her. Dean, on the other hand, already has hurt her. And he has no excuse.
They find Jo wiping tables one night in the same barroom where Dean had stopped the demon in Sam from doing whatever it was about to do to her. She smiles with closed lips and talks to Sam alone for hours after her shift. She looks different, grown-up, or just tired – like she’s seen too much. Dean drinks, overhears the two of them swapping stories about the past year’s hunts, and never says a word. At closing time, Sam tells Dean they’ll stick around tomorrow, his conscience not yet at ease, and walks across the street to their hotel.
“You can stop brooding,” she says when they’re alone, but she doesn’t look at him, hasn’t yet. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
He grabs her arm roughly, his reflexes still on point despite the amount of alcohol in his blood. Her muscles under his hand are taut and lean, seasoned from a year of hunting alone. The thought of it sickens him. “And how would you know that?”
She jerks her arm out of his grasp. She is strong and stubborn, just like he remembers her. “You’re not as complex as you think.”
“What do you know about it, Jo?” he growls, the smell of booze on his breath giving away just how many drinks he’s downed over the past few hours. Dean isn’t going to be a nice drunk – not tonight.
“Plenty.” She shoves her chair back. It screeches along the wooden floor and echoes throughout the nearly empty bar. “Tell your brother I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Because Dean loves his brother, he doesn’t say no when Sam asks him if they can stay in town for a few more days. He doesn’t utter a word when Jo brings a file folder thick with information to their hotel room. He doesn’t whine when Sam eagerly accepts her invitation to share a local case. He doesn’t even protest when Jo fills his trunk with her gear, shiny and sharp and too girly for his taste.
The days turn into a week, and then another. And then there is Sam. Sam is too wrapped up in his own guilt to see the tension between the two of them rise and fall with every new lead, every round of rock salt.
And when the beastie is put to rest, Dean doesn’t even flinch when they celebrate at the bar, Sam’s fingers lingering a bit too long on Jo’s hips. He even pretends not to notice Jo leaning in to whisper something in Sam’s ear as they walk past him to the dance floor, his brother’s aftershave and the smell of her shampoo mixing together in a sickening amalgam of fruit and musk that makes the contents of his stomach rise up in his throat. Or maybe that’s just the booze.
Sam turns in early that night, but not before disappearing into a dark hallway with Jo, out of sight. When he’s gone, Jo saunters up to where Dean sits at the bar. She leans back on the counter, using it keep her steady, her blood alcohol level a bit higher than normal.
“Six days,” she says simply.
Dean flashes a sideways glance at her, his brows knitting together. “What the hell are you talking about, Harvelle?”
“You haven’t spoken to me in six days,” she elaborates. “You haven’t even looked at me in eight.”
She pretends not to notice this dance of theirs, the one of avoidance mixed with acute awareness, but the closer she gets to Sam, the tighter Dean’s jaw clenches and the harder it becomes to ignore.
“Yeah well,” he draws out after a long drink, “I don’t have a problem keeping it that way, do you?”
“Why do you hate me, Dean?” she asks then, because it’s not as though she hasn’t been thinking it since that night they showed back up in Duluth. “What did I ever do to you?”
“I don’t hate you, Jo,” he says, because it’s the truth.
She laughs then, throwing her head back and reaching out for his arm like an old friend. He flinches at her touch, but he doesn’t mean to. The tension between them has been so built up over the last few weeks that it surprises him when she pushes right through it, those earlier shots of whiskey fueling her courage. But after a moment, her amusement subsides, and she draws her hand back.
“I’m glad you find this funny.”
“Let’s make a deal,” Jo says, her voice steady now, serious.
“Not interested,” Dean says and stands abruptly. He hates how she gets to him. Without even trying, she is under his skin, inside his brain and gnawing away at the part of him that he liked to ignore – the jealous part, the part that cares about her, the part that feels like keeping her at arm’s length is just about the dumbest idea he’s ever had. “We’re here because Sam wants us to be here. I don’t know everything he did when he was under, but for whatever reason it makes him feel like he owes you something. Don’t mistake that, Jo, because I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Jo clenches her jaw, watching him walk away as the cloudiness somehow subsides with her anger. “Fuck you,” she whispers, but not loud enough for him to hear. All that strength she prides herself on crashes to the floor like a thick empty tumbler, rolls around until it settles someplace where she can’t get it back. Hiding behind knives and silver bullets will never protect her from how much Dean Winchester can hurt her.
A call from one of John’s old contacts about a possible haunting near Jackson Hole the next day is just what Dean is hoping for. The sooner back on the road the better, he figures. But when Sam throws that all-too-familiar small black duffel into the trunk of the Impala later that afternoon, Dean finally cracks.
“Hell no!” These are the first words that come to mind, and they come barreling out of his mouth like a cannonball that has been wedged in just a little too tightly.
“Why the hell not?” Sam is usually so good at reading people, at reading Dean. It is a quality Dean himself is short on, and frankly, he is pissed as hell that his own brother hasn’t figured it out by now. Dean wants as far away from Jo Harvelle as he can possibly get. “She’s a good hunter,” Sam adds. “Besides, she says we owe her one anyway.”
“Did she now?” Dean is reminded of their conversation in the bar the night before, and he chuckles. Of course she’d make him regret is own words. Always with the last word, that one. “Well I’ll take that into consideration when we get to Wyoming, alone.”
“Dude, come on.” Sam flashes him a pleading look and Dean knows what it means.
“Ain’t gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean waves his hand and picks up Jo’s bag, dropping it into the dirt. “Not this time.”
“It’s too late. She’s on her way over here right now,” Sam argues and picks it back up, tossing it into the trunk defiantly.
“Save it. She is not going on the road with us just so you can get into her pants, Sammy. I know you’re hard up, Mr. Sensitive, but dude, find somewhere else to stick it!” Dean throws the bag this time, and it hits Sam square in the chest, who catches it.
“Dean,” Sam warns. “Don’t talk about her like that. What is your problem?”
“Fucking no! How many ways can I say it? Sammy, I am not changing my mind about this.”
Reliance, South Dakota
They stop for the night in Reliance, South Dakota, halfway between Duluth and Jackson Hole. Dean would drive all night but he is hungry and angry and just plain sick and tired of listening to Jo and Sam in the back seat, chatting and bonding and asking him to turn the music down. What the fuck? This is his car, isn’t it? He turns it up, blasting the Zeppelin, and Sam smacks him on the back of head, and that’s it. He pulls off. “I’m not dealing with any more of this shit tonight,” he grumbles, and then adds something about not being their damn chauffer.
Reliance is a ghost town. Not a damn thing but a roadside motel with one vacancy and no diner in sight. “Could you have picked a more Podunk town to bunker down in?” Jo teases.
“Shut up,” Dean says as he tosses his bag nearest bed in the room, which smells of bleach and old sex.
Sam follows them into the room with the rest of their crap and hooks his arm around Dean’s neck. “I suppose the genius who landed us here wouldn’t mind venturing out to find us some food? I’m starving.”
“Dammit,” Dean whines. “Fuck you both.”
Dean drives around for an hour, circling the same farm houses, passing the motel at least a half a dozen times, and finds nothing but a gas station with a crappy convenient mart. It’s a last resort, and a shitty one at that. He fills up the Impala and buys all the beef jerky and packaged pastries he can grab.
He doesn’t notice that the room is empty when he enters, tossing the provisions onto a chair and his keys onto the table. He only realizes he’s alone when he hears a crash coming from the bathroom.
He jerks his head around only to see Jo’s half naked form sitting on the counter through the half-open door, her legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, their mouths covering each others, too absorbed in their fucking to notice him. She still wears her bra and boots, and Dean tries to ignore how hard that makes him. She groans low and Dean thinks he hears her whimper “fuck,” as Sam moves in and out of her, fingers digging into Sam’s sinewy back muscles.
Dean flushes. The proper thing to do is to turn around and walk away, but he is paralyzed, a deer in the headlights, filled with fascination and fear and, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, anger.
Jo cries out when Sam pulls himself from her. “Sam, please!” she gasps. He crushes his mouth to hers, silencing her, and pulls her off the counter, turning her around. He bends over her and hitches her hips up toward his, plunging his cock into her from behind. “Fuck!” she cries. Dean is sure of it this time. His cock twitches at the sound of her pleasure. “Oh, god,” she growls low.
The sound of his brother’s voice calling her name is desperate and pleading, followed by a high and hitching gasp, almost feral – the kind of noise you make when your entire body forgets all the show and pretension of waking life and remembers that humans are animals too. It is a quiet and intimate sound and one that Dean is not intended to hear.
The sound of the door slamming shut behind him does not escape Jo. She glances up just in time to see him stalking past the window. Sam is oblivious as he continues to pump her from behind. His hand snakes down her side and around to her cunt where he works at her tiny bud with his index finger. She sucks in a quick breath, closes her eyes, bites her lip, and tries not to think of Dean when she comes.
Ch. 2 - Thank God for Independence Day
For the
we_take_five ficathon: prompt, smear. Title: A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter: 1 of 4: Humans are Animals Too
Wordcount: 3174
Fandom & Pairings: Supernatural - Dean/Jo(centric), Sam/Jo
Rating: NC-17, Violence, Language, Sexuality
Genre: Angst/Drama/Action
Warnings: Spoilers up to BUABS
Thanks to:
kmousie & purestvixenSynopsis: Set about two years in the future, Jo is in over her head on a hunt and calls Dean & Sam for help.
A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter 1: Humans are Animals Too
present day
Jo drops to her knees, unable to stand any longer. Soon she’s on all fours, making bloody handprints across the concrete as she tries to stand up. Her bones no longer ache. She wills herself to feel, for it is pain that gives her strength. It has always been that way with her. She rests one cheek on the cold stone floor as she curls into the fetal position, giving in to her weakness – giving up. She, Joanna Beth Harvelle, is throwing in the towel. Mama will disapprove, of course. But seeing as she won’t be around to hear that particular lecture, she chuckles at the thought. Stubborn runs in the family. Family. Daddy, she thinks. She closes her eyes now, fresh tears carving a pathway through the blood.
She’s fought demons before, but this son of a bitch was different. She exorcised him. She recited the Latin a dozen times. She knows she got all the incantations right. She did it again and again. He only laughed – toying with her, telling her that the gathering will happen whether she wants it to or not – something about the coming pack and not to fight it. Werewolves. They weren’t scavengers, but if she wasn’t dead when the rest of them found her, they would eat her alive on principle alone.
Doc is dead. On her last trip back to the Roadhouse, she overheard him talking about a job over a few beers and a game of pool. Said it was a piece of cake but his partner had flaked and would the mighty huntress like to accompany him? She was hard up for a good hunt. All of her recent leads had been dead-ends. Halfway through the job, she realized just how wrong Doc was about the whole thing. That’s the last time I’ll ever listen to that fucking scumbag, she remembers thinking. Only it really was.
Somewhere between the failed exorcism and this abandoned warehouse, she picked up the phone and called Dean. Last she heard, he and Sam were headed to Arizona. They’d be pretty close – a few hours at the most. Did he say he’d come? Did she tell him how serious it was? Did she cry? Did she even get through to his line? She can’t remember. All she remembers now is being thrown through a glass window onto the alley, a dagger in her belly, a dead werewolf, his human body – blue-eyed and blonde and younger than she is – and the vomit that comes afterward. She’s bleeding out. She can feel it happening.
She hates New Mexico – and not just because it is, it seems, going to be her final resting place. She just hates it. From the moment she crosses the state line, she is overcome with a feeling of foreboding – a feeling she is not welcome. Everything here tastes stale, and there’s always sand in the corners of her eyes. She even hates the way the words sound in her mouth. She’ll never come back here if she ever gets out. Please, God, she thinks, the realization finally coming over her that she doesn’t want to die and if all she does is lie there, that is exactly what is going to happen.
“Get up, Jo,” she tells herself aloud. “Get up!” Her voice is pounding in her head, but soon she realizes it is only coming out as a soft whimper, a useless tiny sound. She starts to cry, heaving and gasping for air, when she hears something coming closer, heavy footfalls vibrating around her.
“Jo?” Dean’s voice sounds so far away, but he’s kneeling beside her a moment later, his knees brushing her side and his hand on her shoulder. “Jo…Jo! Hang in there!” He pulls her to him, lifting her from the floor and into his arms as he stands. She mouths his name, but no words come out.
“Sammy!” He calls for his brother, his voice panic-laden. Jo reaches up to touch his face, smearing blood on his jaw and lower lip before her eyes close and her head lolls back.
Dean carries her out to the car. With every step, she seems heavier in his arms. She is covered in blood, and Dean finds himself struggling to breathe. There is so much blood. He can’t help being angry with her for going off with Doc. He’s warned her about him before – a careless hunter and one who’s gotten more than a couple of his partners into trouble. “Dammit, Jo!”
“Dean?” Sam rushes out of the building and down the stone steps. “Is she alright?”
”She’s hurt bad.” Dean is surprised his vocal chords still work. “Now open the goddamn door.”
There are good and bad things about being a hunter. One of the good things is that when you save people’s lives, they feel indebted to you forever. The downside of that is that one day, inevitably, you’re gonna find yourself in a situation where you need them to live up to those words uttered as half-goodbyes. If there’s anything you need. They say it because they feel safer with you in their world and because it’s the right thing to say. But the truth is they never really want you to knock on their doors. Because that means there’s something even you don’t know how to fix, and where does that leave them?
When Sam brings in a nurse from a nearby hospital that they helped with a poltergeist a few months back to stitch up Jo, Dean remembers the good. But the next night, when he carries a bundle of sheets – soaked in Jo’s blood – down to the dumpsters outside, he remembers the bad.
Jo was never a part of the plan. But it’s clear – from the first day he’s introduced to the barrel of her shotgun at the Roadhouse – that she’s not all that interested in plans or fitting into them.
He said he’d call her again, but the truth is he never meant it. She worked her way into this place in his life where he felt responsible for her safety. Maybe it’s because of Ellen or the way Jo looks at him – that mixture of anger and expectation. Whatever it was, he didn’t need another Sammy in his life. One was enough. So when he had promised her that, it had always been a lie.
one year prior
It is Sam who brings her back to them. He wakes up one morning after a hunt in Oregon a little more than year later and suddenly remembers everything – what he did to her. Dean doesn’t ask because Dean doesn’t want to know. He only nods and tells Sam they’ll go, so he can apologize; make her see that he is him again and that he would never hurt her. Dean, on the other hand, already has hurt her. And he has no excuse.
They find Jo wiping tables one night in the same barroom where Dean had stopped the demon in Sam from doing whatever it was about to do to her. She smiles with closed lips and talks to Sam alone for hours after her shift. She looks different, grown-up, or just tired – like she’s seen too much. Dean drinks, overhears the two of them swapping stories about the past year’s hunts, and never says a word. At closing time, Sam tells Dean they’ll stick around tomorrow, his conscience not yet at ease, and walks across the street to their hotel.
“You can stop brooding,” she says when they’re alone, but she doesn’t look at him, hasn’t yet. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
He grabs her arm roughly, his reflexes still on point despite the amount of alcohol in his blood. Her muscles under his hand are taut and lean, seasoned from a year of hunting alone. The thought of it sickens him. “And how would you know that?”
She jerks her arm out of his grasp. She is strong and stubborn, just like he remembers her. “You’re not as complex as you think.”
“What do you know about it, Jo?” he growls, the smell of booze on his breath giving away just how many drinks he’s downed over the past few hours. Dean isn’t going to be a nice drunk – not tonight.
“Plenty.” She shoves her chair back. It screeches along the wooden floor and echoes throughout the nearly empty bar. “Tell your brother I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Because Dean loves his brother, he doesn’t say no when Sam asks him if they can stay in town for a few more days. He doesn’t utter a word when Jo brings a file folder thick with information to their hotel room. He doesn’t whine when Sam eagerly accepts her invitation to share a local case. He doesn’t even protest when Jo fills his trunk with her gear, shiny and sharp and too girly for his taste.
The days turn into a week, and then another. And then there is Sam. Sam is too wrapped up in his own guilt to see the tension between the two of them rise and fall with every new lead, every round of rock salt.
And when the beastie is put to rest, Dean doesn’t even flinch when they celebrate at the bar, Sam’s fingers lingering a bit too long on Jo’s hips. He even pretends not to notice Jo leaning in to whisper something in Sam’s ear as they walk past him to the dance floor, his brother’s aftershave and the smell of her shampoo mixing together in a sickening amalgam of fruit and musk that makes the contents of his stomach rise up in his throat. Or maybe that’s just the booze.
Sam turns in early that night, but not before disappearing into a dark hallway with Jo, out of sight. When he’s gone, Jo saunters up to where Dean sits at the bar. She leans back on the counter, using it keep her steady, her blood alcohol level a bit higher than normal.
“Six days,” she says simply.
Dean flashes a sideways glance at her, his brows knitting together. “What the hell are you talking about, Harvelle?”
“You haven’t spoken to me in six days,” she elaborates. “You haven’t even looked at me in eight.”
She pretends not to notice this dance of theirs, the one of avoidance mixed with acute awareness, but the closer she gets to Sam, the tighter Dean’s jaw clenches and the harder it becomes to ignore.
“Yeah well,” he draws out after a long drink, “I don’t have a problem keeping it that way, do you?”
“Why do you hate me, Dean?” she asks then, because it’s not as though she hasn’t been thinking it since that night they showed back up in Duluth. “What did I ever do to you?”
“I don’t hate you, Jo,” he says, because it’s the truth.
She laughs then, throwing her head back and reaching out for his arm like an old friend. He flinches at her touch, but he doesn’t mean to. The tension between them has been so built up over the last few weeks that it surprises him when she pushes right through it, those earlier shots of whiskey fueling her courage. But after a moment, her amusement subsides, and she draws her hand back.
“I’m glad you find this funny.”
“Let’s make a deal,” Jo says, her voice steady now, serious.
“Not interested,” Dean says and stands abruptly. He hates how she gets to him. Without even trying, she is under his skin, inside his brain and gnawing away at the part of him that he liked to ignore – the jealous part, the part that cares about her, the part that feels like keeping her at arm’s length is just about the dumbest idea he’s ever had. “We’re here because Sam wants us to be here. I don’t know everything he did when he was under, but for whatever reason it makes him feel like he owes you something. Don’t mistake that, Jo, because I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Jo clenches her jaw, watching him walk away as the cloudiness somehow subsides with her anger. “Fuck you,” she whispers, but not loud enough for him to hear. All that strength she prides herself on crashes to the floor like a thick empty tumbler, rolls around until it settles someplace where she can’t get it back. Hiding behind knives and silver bullets will never protect her from how much Dean Winchester can hurt her.
A call from one of John’s old contacts about a possible haunting near Jackson Hole the next day is just what Dean is hoping for. The sooner back on the road the better, he figures. But when Sam throws that all-too-familiar small black duffel into the trunk of the Impala later that afternoon, Dean finally cracks.
“Hell no!” These are the first words that come to mind, and they come barreling out of his mouth like a cannonball that has been wedged in just a little too tightly.
“Why the hell not?” Sam is usually so good at reading people, at reading Dean. It is a quality Dean himself is short on, and frankly, he is pissed as hell that his own brother hasn’t figured it out by now. Dean wants as far away from Jo Harvelle as he can possibly get. “She’s a good hunter,” Sam adds. “Besides, she says we owe her one anyway.”
“Did she now?” Dean is reminded of their conversation in the bar the night before, and he chuckles. Of course she’d make him regret is own words. Always with the last word, that one. “Well I’ll take that into consideration when we get to Wyoming, alone.”
“Dude, come on.” Sam flashes him a pleading look and Dean knows what it means.
“Ain’t gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean waves his hand and picks up Jo’s bag, dropping it into the dirt. “Not this time.”
“It’s too late. She’s on her way over here right now,” Sam argues and picks it back up, tossing it into the trunk defiantly.
“Save it. She is not going on the road with us just so you can get into her pants, Sammy. I know you’re hard up, Mr. Sensitive, but dude, find somewhere else to stick it!” Dean throws the bag this time, and it hits Sam square in the chest, who catches it.
“Dean,” Sam warns. “Don’t talk about her like that. What is your problem?”
“Fucking no! How many ways can I say it? Sammy, I am not changing my mind about this.”
They stop for the night in Reliance, South Dakota, halfway between Duluth and Jackson Hole. Dean would drive all night but he is hungry and angry and just plain sick and tired of listening to Jo and Sam in the back seat, chatting and bonding and asking him to turn the music down. What the fuck? This is his car, isn’t it? He turns it up, blasting the Zeppelin, and Sam smacks him on the back of head, and that’s it. He pulls off. “I’m not dealing with any more of this shit tonight,” he grumbles, and then adds something about not being their damn chauffer.
Reliance is a ghost town. Not a damn thing but a roadside motel with one vacancy and no diner in sight. “Could you have picked a more Podunk town to bunker down in?” Jo teases.
“Shut up,” Dean says as he tosses his bag nearest bed in the room, which smells of bleach and old sex.
Sam follows them into the room with the rest of their crap and hooks his arm around Dean’s neck. “I suppose the genius who landed us here wouldn’t mind venturing out to find us some food? I’m starving.”
“Dammit,” Dean whines. “Fuck you both.”
Dean drives around for an hour, circling the same farm houses, passing the motel at least a half a dozen times, and finds nothing but a gas station with a crappy convenient mart. It’s a last resort, and a shitty one at that. He fills up the Impala and buys all the beef jerky and packaged pastries he can grab.
He doesn’t notice that the room is empty when he enters, tossing the provisions onto a chair and his keys onto the table. He only realizes he’s alone when he hears a crash coming from the bathroom.
He jerks his head around only to see Jo’s half naked form sitting on the counter through the half-open door, her legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, their mouths covering each others, too absorbed in their fucking to notice him. She still wears her bra and boots, and Dean tries to ignore how hard that makes him. She groans low and Dean thinks he hears her whimper “fuck,” as Sam moves in and out of her, fingers digging into Sam’s sinewy back muscles.
Dean flushes. The proper thing to do is to turn around and walk away, but he is paralyzed, a deer in the headlights, filled with fascination and fear and, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, anger.
Jo cries out when Sam pulls himself from her. “Sam, please!” she gasps. He crushes his mouth to hers, silencing her, and pulls her off the counter, turning her around. He bends over her and hitches her hips up toward his, plunging his cock into her from behind. “Fuck!” she cries. Dean is sure of it this time. His cock twitches at the sound of her pleasure. “Oh, god,” she growls low.
The sound of his brother’s voice calling her name is desperate and pleading, followed by a high and hitching gasp, almost feral – the kind of noise you make when your entire body forgets all the show and pretension of waking life and remembers that humans are animals too. It is a quiet and intimate sound and one that Dean is not intended to hear.
The sound of the door slamming shut behind him does not escape Jo. She glances up just in time to see him stalking past the window. Sam is oblivious as he continues to pump her from behind. His hand snakes down her side and around to her cunt where he works at her tiny bud with his index finger. She sucks in a quick breath, closes her eyes, bites her lip, and tries not to think of Dean when she comes.
Ch. 2 - Thank God for Independence Day
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Date: 2007-04-01 02:22 am (UTC)You bet he does! I'm not Sam/Jo either, but I think one of the interesting dynamics between Jo, Dean and Sam is that even though I ship Jo and Dean, I think that Jo and Sam really WORKS. So it was really easy to kind of concoct a kind of love triangle with the three of them.
I've seen a little bit of Jo/Dean vs. Sam/Dean done in fic. And I've seen PWP with Dean/Jo/Sam. but I don't think I've seen it done in this way, so hopefully it's believable and interesting.