Considering the circumstances, it made Dean Winchester just a bit uncomfortable to be in Nebraska. Even avoiding the Roadhouse, enough hunters passed through the nearby towns to make it still worthwhile to be there -- get a lot of 'em drunk enough, and they'd spill anything. Of course, the risk of being recognized with up drastically, the closer to the Roadhouse he was ... but if it came to a choice between gathering as much as he could, or being recognized? He wanted the information. Being 'dead' made using his contacts difficult -- and, well, all things considered, he'd really rather not explain how Sam was alive again (though Sammy was currently lounging in the nearby motel), or why he'd vanished for three months. Dean was on his third beer of the night, and was very close to packing it all in and heading back. The bar he'd chosen that night was dead -- himself and two other hunters (real, honest-to-god, deer and bear and moose-hunting hunters, not the type he was looking for), plus the bartender. Not exactly a fountain of information, was it? It also wasn't quite as empty as initially supposed. One of the doors in the back opened, and none other than Jo Harvelle came sidling in, arms filled with beer glasses. She bumped the door shut with one hip as she twisted slowly to head towards the bar, mouth already opening to bark some sort of lazy affirmation to the 'tender and greetings to the patrons. Drunken slobs, the lot of them. Quieter than the Duluth crowd, but also not as interesting as the roadhouse people. But she didn't like setting foot in the new building. It made her uncomfortable. Gave her the creepy-crawlies. She kept feeling the intense absence of the self-proclaimed 'Dr Badass'. Roadhouse just didn't feel like home anymore. Nowhere did, really. Especially not this seedy little place, filled with-- The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her thoughts cutting short. No, it couldn't be. The quiet click of the door caused Dean to turn his gaze from his beer (really, the beer had, up until that point, been more interesting than anything else in the tiny little bar) and towards the sound. And he'd be damned -- Jo Harvelle, in the flesh. Shit. Whatever momentary flash of surprise registered on his features, he did his best to bury. Not that he thought it'd do one damn bit of good, but maybe if he said nothing, she'd say nothing, and when he left, that'd be the end of it. Maybe. Maybe Jo wasn't going to say anything -- the words were all bubbling over and she couldn't catch them, she didn't know what to say -- but something broke the silence anyway. The sound of shattering glass, the entire pile of mugs tumbling out of her arms and crashing on the floor. She instinctively leapt away from the cascade as it broke, and the rest of the heads in the bar whipped to stare at her. "Jo?" She didn't fucking care about the bartender at this point, though. She'd feel really, really dumb if it was just -- just some guy, some guy with an uncanny resemblance, but it couldn't be. But it also couldn't be Dean Winchester sitting there enjoying a goddamned beer. With all the ferocity of the grief and worry she'd been bearing over the past couple months, Jo stomped over. "Dean?" Well, there went that plan. Dean quirked a brow, almost questioning, staring up at her. "Well it ain't Fat Albert," he replied after a long moment, before taking a drink from his nearly empty beer. He was very much regretting coming out that night -- or, at the very least, not leaving after beer two. On top of everything else, he wasn't sure he had it in him to play nice, or spare her feelings or ... whatever. There was a reason he hadn't called anyone. Still ignoring the quizzical looks from the other men in the bar, Jo settled onto the stool next to Dean. She was afraid her legs would buckle if she tried standing any longer. Jesus, it was like -- like seeing a ghost. Of course she hadn't known if Dean had actually taken the plunge and bitten his own bullet, or thrown himself on one hunt too many; but with Sam gone, the possibility had seemed more and more painfully possible. These months had been longer than he'd ever gone without contacting them at least once. And with the cellphone clicking to voicemail each time, until finally the service stopped responding at all... Jo had convinced herself that he was probably dead. She had grown about as accustomed to that odd emptiness as she could. Yet of course, even with that rush of relief and happiness rushing through her, cynicism prevailed. "This really you?" Jo asked, eyes narrowing. She was already mapping out where the nearest blunt objects were, the nearest route to her daddy's knife. The gun in the back. If this was some fucking lure by a shapeshifter, a ploy by one of the new demons, well... He eyed her a moment, then 'stretched' -- it wasn't so much stretching as as subtle way of showing the gun at his hip, and putting his hands well away from it. "You can take it, if it makes you feel better." If he wasn't Dean, he wouldn't have offered. Hell, a few months prior, he wouldn't have offered, but he knew better than most just how dangerous things were. If giving up the gun kept him from having one turned on himself, well, he was okay with that. Besides, that was only one of three weapons he was carrying. She watched him carefully, her eyes dark. And after he spoke, Jo relaxed. A little. A tiny bit. It sounded like Dean, it moved like Dean. But he also seemed... different. Just ever so more tense, a bit more on edge. Even without that tension, her self-preservation instinct would have kicked in. No need to make foolish mistakes, especially in times like these. She swivelled a little, to glare at the still-gawking bar. "Back to your business, you guys. I'll pay for the fucking glasses later." She didn't stop glowering until each and very single man had finally averted their gaze. Then the woman leaned forward, bracing one foot on the bottom of her chair as she tugged the gun away from his hip, hands diving in under Dean's shirt. Jo didn't look away from his eyes, the entire time. It made him laugh, just a bit. "If y'wanted to cop a feel, all you had to do was ask." But there was a teasing glint to his eyes -- really, he didn't mean anything by it. Once she had the gun in her hands, he lowered his arms, reaching for his beer, draining it, and damned if he suddenly didn't want another one. "Didn't know you were back in Nebraska," he said finally, slowly. He thought she would have left again, all things considered. The gun was promptly, wordlessly, tucked away by her side. Jo was careful to shield it with the countertop. No need to have everyone else panicking and thinking this was a stick-up or something. Dean's joke and small laugh made her smile, though: now that was a hint of the old man she knew. She practically could have predicted the exact comment he'd make. Her smile had a touch of grimness to it, however, with her lips pursed in a thin line -- not at all like a certain Ellen Harvelle. "Didn't know you were even fucking alive. Where've you been, Dean?" The tone was soft, but vehement. Accusatory. He debated on how much to tell her, rolling the glass between his hands if only because it gave him something to be doing. "Taking care of things," was what he eventually settled on, the simplest answer to a complicated question. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. It was that what he'd done made him significantly less trust-worthy. After all, a man who sold his soul had nothing left to lose. Jo gnawed on her lower lip, still watching him intently. Truth was, she couldn't get enough of watching him, because part of her was still convinced this might just not be real. And damnit, she'd missed having him around. The world had seen some strange shit recently, and rebuilding the roadhouse hadn't been a pleasant experience. "Thought we'd lost you there," she mumbled. And with that, she wanted to kick herself. Jo's back straightened, and her jaw took on that stubborn jut it so often got. So she'd missed him. Whatever. No need to turn into a weeping female wreck just because of that. "Mm, I'm not dead yet." Still have three-hundred fifty-eight days until that, a pesky voice in the back of his brain insisted on piping up, and he shook his head as though to clear it, for what good that'd do. "It's just been a ... busy couple of months," he elaborated a moment later, shrugging. "You're looking good, though." It wasn't meant to be a pick-up line; considering everything, she didn't look as though it'd hit her as hard as the rest of them. "You bet it's been a busy couple of months," the woman retorted, still fuming with her left-over anger. Because anger worked a hell of a lot better than grief and worry, Jo had discovered. "The reason I'm back in Nebraska is because we've been rebuilding the roadhouse ever since it got blown to bits -- and we've been fending off demons the whole while. I can understand if you needed some time to, you know--" Her voice faltered. She'd never been good with the whole sentimental thing. "--time to grieve. But we really could have used you back there." Another pause, and Jo crossed her arms. "So. Are you back now?" No, she really wasn't putting in any effort to make their reunion a happy and fluffy one, was she? "Time to ..." Oh. Shit. Shiiiiiit. Well, there went Dean's plan of never mentioning anything about the previous couple of months. Not that he'd truly thought he'd be able to get away with it, all things considered, but he'd wanted to try. Of course, he also hadn't counted on running into a familiar face that soon. "Yeah. I'm back. We're back," he said finally, stressing the 'we' and meeting Jo's gaze evenly. If the shit was about to hit the fan, the least he could do was not be ashamed of what he'd done. And if it meant she wanted nothing more than to stay away from him ... well, that was probably the safest thing for her, wasn't it? She stared right back, her look carefully neutral. In all fairness, it wasn't because Jo was a master of reining in her expressions. (Quite the opposite -- she was extremely easy to read, after enough time spent in her company.) It was because she, quite honestly, took a few moments to let the implications sink in. "We? But wasn't--" And with that, Jo spluttered to a halt, her throat clenching. She'd heard, she'd known it was possible, she'd read about it in Bill's notes, but... "But he was..." "Whatever rumors you heard were very much exaggerated," Dean replied evenly, quirking a brow and adopting an expression that clearly said, Think whatever you want, but that's all I have to say on that right now. Mostly because he didn't want to get slapped. And the look on her face said that might be where she was going, if he said too much more on the matter. So he simply sipped his beer, and studied her carefully. For all that Jo wasn't the most talented of emotional manipulators, she knew Dean and she knew Dean's ways. She recognised that edge to his voice, that unspoken request to stop pushing the issue. His language was like whispers to her now, every little twitch of body movement letting her know precisely when she should stop and just forget about it. She'd expected Sam to be a touchy subject, but this... this was beyond politeness, beyond courtesy. If what she suspected was true, the elder Winchester's affairs suddenly became a lot more relevant. To her, and to all the other hunters safely encloistered in the brand new roadhouse. "Don't lie to me, Dean," she finally replied, her tone just a bit too harsh for her own liking. "I don't think you can dodge this one. Did you do what I think you did? I mean, Bobby said--" Both brows raised. He didn't deal well with orders, not unless they came from his father -- and, well, his father certainly wasn't a petite blonde bartender. "Bobby doesn't know everything, you know. But you know what? Even if he does? I did exactly what I had to. And I'd do it again, no questions asked. Sam's alive because of it. And it's worth it. It won't ever not be worth it." Because there was a damn short list of people that he'd give his own life for, unequivocally, without question -- and Sam was one of them. Jo was, too, but no need to say that. Jo heaved a sigh, one arm slipping onto the bar as she rubbed at her brow, fingers kneading her forehead. Stuff like this could give you migraines. But even with Dean's aversion to orders, he'd just gone ahead and told her the truth anyway. She'd heard all she needed to hear in order to understand what had happened. It was shockingly simple, really. Everyone knew the Winchester brothers would do anything for each other. Her blood had run cold when she first heard what had happened, knowing the sort of hell Dean would go through -- and would force himself through -- if his little brother ever... But Sam wasn't dead. Not anymore. "What'd you trade?" Jo's voice was suddenly tired, and sounded much older than her age. She was afraid of the answer. "Only thing I had." Himself. His life, and his soul. Both worth more than any possession out there, to his way of thinking, and the demon had certainly taken him on his offer. He had no doubts she'd have given him longer, had he not been so desperate -- but he hadn't been willing to take that risk at the time. "Not a bad deal, either, to my way of thinking. Heh, hell, I think I got the better end of it." Two for the price of one. Jo's eyes narrowed, and her voice sharpened to match. The rest of the bar had, at this point, gone back to carefully ignoring the young bartender and the man she'd picked up on talking to. Shards of glass still sprinkled the floor, the murky light glittering off them. Jo tried not to notice. The better end of it? "Sam's life is not worth more than your own, Dean," she said. Jo was on the verge of throwing in "--you stupid ass", but some pale vestige of common sense told her that this would not be a Good Idea. Dean could only shrug at that, a shrug that meant absolutely nothing, but filled his need to respond somehow. "We'll just have to agree to disagree on that one," he finally said before tipping back his beer and draining it. A glance at his watch, then he pulled out his wallet to leave a few bills on the counter, apparently ready to leave. "Mind keeping quiet on this one? Really not lookin' to have a bunch of self-righteous hunters ... well ... hunting me down." And they would -- there were many of them who believed that a man who sold his soul was no better than the demon he bargained it to. She was a self-righteous hunter. But she could let him go for now, if only because her head was reeling and spinning with the entire thing, and had numbed with a type of dead shock. And sliding out of her chair, Jo abruptly grabbed Dean's arm, her grip vice-like. Not gonna let him go yet. He had just come back. Jo stood up on tiptoes, and whispered fiercely into his ear. "How long do you have?" As she asked her question, her hands also tucked the gun back in under Dean's jacket. Yeah, no. She still didn't give a shit about personal space. Not right now. When she grabbed him and none-too-gently tucked the gun away, Dean Winchester did the only thing any self-respecting man would do: he squeaked. "Easy on the goods there, sweetheart," he replied, ignoring her question for the moment and flashing a grin that could only be described as pleased. She'd been the one to initiate contact, so he had no qualms about settling his hands on her hips, the position thoroughly intimate for anyone watching. But he hadn't ignored her question, and the utterly serious, "One year," that he muttered, almost as an afterthought, seemed out of place given his previous words. But she had wanted to know, and the least he could do was tell her. It felt like she'd been punched in the gut. One year meant 365 days meant 8760 hours, but it did not feel as if Dean was going to die within the upcoming year. It felt like she'd already lost him now. After hearing his reply, Jo drew in a sharp intake of breath; her instincts warred between wanting to step away from him as fast as she could, or to latch onto him and give him a big sappy hug and never let go, damn what it did for her image or for Dean's pride. ... well, screw the emotionally aloof thing. All it took was for Jo to wrap her arms around his neck and suddenly bury herself in a hug, head tucked in against his neck. Something in her at this very moment was familiar, and reminiscent of Jo as a child. A fragility to her movements, an openness in the way she drowned herself against his chest-- she welcomed him back like a younger Joanna always welcomed back her father, coming home from his hunting trips. The remaining patrons in the bar had the good sense to look away. "It was good to see you." He released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and there was only a moment of hesitation before he curled his arms around her, more than willing to run a hand up and down her spine. Screw no chick flick moments, he didn't mind it so much. "Gimme your number, hm? I ... kind of lost it when my phone went out the window," he muttered against her hair, somehow managing to sound just a bit sheepish over the whole thing. It was likely still out there on the side of the highway, no doubt smashed to bits, from where he'd chucked it while flying down the interstate some three months before. It had since been replaced, and he was slowly but surely accumulating the phone numbers he'd lost, particularly the ones he hadn't had memorized at the time. Releasing the much taller man from her embrace, Jo stepped away. There was a certain edge of hesitance in her movements, but when she spoke again, her voice was hard and business-like as she recited the numbers. But when she finished, there was a ghost of a smile on her face. At least she'd seen him. At least he'd come by, even if it was by sheer, dumb, backwards coincidence. He couldn't help the slight frown at how utterly businesslike she sounded; it hurt, just a little, though he couldn't exactly say why. He didn't write down her number, though, instead pulling out his phone and punching it in -- then giving hers a quick call so that she couldn't say she didn't get his. "And now you've got mine," he said, quirking his lips into a grin. "So ... I guess I'll see you around?" The conversation was winding down, that much was obvious. He didn't need a glowing neon sign to tell him that. If she noticed the frown or how badly her little slip of habit had affected him, Jo pretended not to. Because she was preparing to let him go again, and it always took iron-clad will and determination to make Jo Harvelle do that. Usually she was the one who left others. "Look, Dean..." There it was, the tell-tale falter in her voice. She marshalled herself together again. "Take care of yourself, okay? You get your stupid ass in danger, I'll kill you myself." "Don't you know by now Danger's my middle name?" No, actually, it was Matthew, but that ruined the joke. "I'll be fine, that much is a promise." He pretty much had to be; he had a little less than a year left, and several hundred thousand square miles of area to search for his father. It wouldn't do to go getting himself killed before they found John. After, maybe, but not before. Jo tugged lightly at his sleeve, once, before turning it into an impulsive pull, her fingers knitting into the jacket material. "Okay. I'll see you around, then." The smallest pause, almost imperceptible. "Right?" "We'll keep in touch," he replied, and he freed his jacket from her grasp only so that he could wrap his fingers around hers, however briefly. "Give me a call in a few days, hm? I promise I'll answer." Well, assuming she didn't catch him in the shower or something. "And I promise I'll call," she replied, with a gentle smile. "That's a shitload of promises back and forth, but there you have it." "Sometimes they're all you've got," Dean replied, giving a light shrug. It was particularly true, in his case. "I should probably let you get back to work," he said as he slid his wallet from his pocket, laying a few bills on the counter to pay for his drinks. Any other place, he might have just said to hell with paying, but Jo worked there; he didn't want her to get stuck with the tab. It just didn't seem right. |