When he left the Roadhouse, he'd told Tam he had a long drive ahead of him -- but that wasn't exactly true. He still had almost two days to kill before he planned to meet up with John again, and he had no intention of leaving Nebraska, not until that time was up. So he headed to the bar where Jo worked, asked for her. It didn't take long for the bartender to tell him she wasn't working and turn him out, but that was fine by him. She wasn't at the Roadhouse, and she wasn't working, which meant she was probably in her apartment, so that's where he headed next, hesitating only a fraction of a minute before knocking once he'd reached her door. The only audible sound from the apartment was the low buzz of the television in the background. Jo was lounging on the small two-seater in her miniscule living room, with a plastic sheet spread out over the coffee table. Small slivers of wood littered the surface, and her hands scraped out more by the second; with Bill's knife, she was whittling out a small flute with almost-bored movements. She remembered seeing someone do this for the first time in kindergarten, and she remembered practicing in the years since. This afternoon, it was simply a way to pass some time while channel-surfing on her day off. Uneventful, as all things go. At least until the knock. Jo didn't answer at first, instead simply eyeing the door somewhat warily. She dropped the flute and moved to her feet. Dean wasn't an entirely patient person by nature, but he refrained from knocking again, merely stuffing his hands into his pockets and shifting his weight uncomfortably while he waited. Really, he'd give her another minute, then try again. A minute wasn't being impatient, was it? Even after recognising him through the peephole, Jo paused right beside the doorway and opened it the obligatory inch or two on its chain -- still locked. But she didn't squint and scowl like an affronted and paranoid old spinster; she smiled through the crack, head resting against the doorfame. "That really you?" "Uh, I think so," he replied. The smile he gave her was genuine, and he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, just a little nervous. "Can I come in? Or ... maybe you come out?" She made a tch sound, tongue against the top of her mouth, but it was a soft noise of playful scolding. The door closed briefly before the scrape of the lock indicated that she'd unchained it, and a second later, the door swung open. Jo's posture was lazy and relaxed; it really had taken about a month to heal up from her last hunt and iron out her tensions. And life had finally gone back to something resembling normal. "You've got good timing. Was just starting to think things had gotten a bit quiet around here, but at least Winchesters spell trouble. What's up?" Dean still wasn't back to a hundred percent -- close, but not there yet. But he wasn't feeling bad enough that he hesitated in closing the distance between the two of them, wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a hug. "You might want to avoid the Roadhouse for a few days," he murmured to her, and he sounded just a bit amused when he said it. Really, he felt bad for Ellen, but he had a pretty good idea of what had happened after he left. There was a moment of limp hesitance, before Jo returned the hug, with arms around his torso. A shot of instinctive fear gripped her at his words, before she quashed it; he wouldn't have sounded so amused if something actually horrible had happened. But she couldn't help but ask: "What? Something wrong?" All told, she didn't like leaving the roadhouse for too long. There'd been too much bad news this year. "Depends on your definition of 'wrong'," he said, running a hand along her spine briefly. "The world ain't ending and no one's dead." He shook his head lightly, before explaining. "Tam likely isn't too pleased with me, though. And I don't care." After the contact, Jo eventually ducked away from his touch -- she was almost evasive with her wriggling out from under his arms. "What, broke a few glasses at the roadhouse?" He let her go, though it was reluctant, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. "No. Just did what I should've done months ago and ended it." He didn't know why it was so important that Jo know -- it just was. "Oh." There was a pause there -- but what it signified, even Jo herself couldn't say. All she knew was that the atmosphere in the room had taken on a considerably different feel, and the young woman was already scrambling over herself to mask it. She didn't know why Dean was here either. "Sorry to hear that. Get you a drink?" Jo nodded her head at the kitchen, where the fridge was considerably stocked with cold brews. She was going the Guy Route. A chilled beer. That's what all hunters wanted after their day had gone downhill, wasn't it? He hesitated before nodding. "Sounds great, actually. Thanks." Even on the best of days, Dean wouldn't turn down a beer, especially not a beer in good company, and Jo was that, at the very least. And without another word, she trudged to the fridge. The gentle sound of the door opening and then sealing shut, a rattle of glass on glass, and she emerged with two domestic bottles. Both unsealed, and she offered them both up to Dean, indicating him to open them. Dean was perfectly happy to open them, taking each in turn and hooking his ring under the lip of the cap, popping it off with a quick flick of the wrist. He did hers first, then his, and took a drink from it before studying her carefully. Jo turned away a little, visibly fidgeting under his look while he studied her and she took a sip of her own drink. Finally, she plopped herself down on the low sofa, and idly brushed away a few of the woodscrapings to clear space on the table. She looked up. "So. What was it? She snored, you hated her taste in music, or you're cutting your ties on this mortal coil?" A second later, she regretted that joke. She was still testing the waters, and trying to become accustomed to the potential outcome of Dean's fate. Instead, she was discovering that she hated it. She would never get used to it. He managed a smile for her -- the effort was appreciated, at the very least. "Nothing as morbid as that. I ... Arizona." He shook his head, sighed. "I just need to know if that was a mistake." And it was clear he didn't mean agreeing to join her on the hunt. It was what had happened afterward. And with that, her smile froze, like a deer in the headlights. She'd had the suspicion that this would come up eventually -- it had been over a month and they'd avoided having to discuss it, after all -- but that didn't mean that this was any less awkward. Without even realising it, Jo picked up the half-finished flute and plucked at the impurities in the wood with a thumbnail. "Don't know," Jo replied. At the very least, the culmination of that hunt had proved that the demon was wrong -- she wasn't like a little sister to Dean, for god's sake. Unless the man was severely screwed in the head. "It was then, I think." Because he was still seeing Tam, because she'd just gotten out of a harrowing and life-threatening situation, because she was high off adrenaline and relief and fear and hunting... "And now?" he asked, moving to sit on the couch beside her, though he didn't crowd her space. The beer was a bit of a distraction, and he sipped at it gratefully, studying her from the corner of his eye. What other coping mechanism could you possibly learn from a bar? Jo knew to crack out the alcohol whenever situations got tense and people needed loosening up -- or at the very least, needed something to stare at that wasn't the person beside them. It came marvellously in handy right now. "I don't know," was her same reply, before she continued, archly, "I won't lie and say that it didn't feel awfully right, though." But it was that other Issue hanging in the air, she could almost taste it. August. August. August was the one thing he couldn't forget, no matter how hard he tried. "You get this strange kinda clarity when you've got a clear-cut expiration date, you know? All the little things, they just don't matter as much anymore. Makes a person realize what might've taken 'em years to figure out otherwise." He paused, shrugged lightly before taking a drink from the beer. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about Arizona. And I don't know what's gonna happen, or what I've even got to offer, but ... well, there you have it." Damned if he didn't even know what he was trying to say. She dug her nails so hard into the small and fragile whistle that it snapped, simply falling apart in her hands. And she dropped the shards of broken wood onto the table, now picking at a splinter imbedded in her thumb -- doing anything but meeting his eyes. Jo was something between smug and proud and flattered and embarrassed that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Arizona -- because this was Dean Winchester, famed for his short expectancy with the ladies, and christ if she'd never witnessed this side of him before. She'd bullied and joked and been stubborn, but never expected that she'd be able to coax this side out. Apparently she'd succeeded somewhere along the way. "So you've finally figured your shit out?" Jo's voice was quiet, bemused. She was still dancing around the topic. She was still half-believing that she was hearing this. "It had to happen eventually, didn't it?" He noted the amusement, and took that for a good sign -- it was certainly better than the alternative, at least. "But c'mon, you know me. Takes ages for any kind of realization to hit me unless it comes at the end of a gun." Or on the lips of a demon, but there was no need to say that. Jo's smile grew even broader. "Then it's strangely fitting that I first met you at the end of a gun, huh." "Heh, you could say that," he said slowly, giving her an appraising look. "You're not gonna point a gun at me now, are you?" Well, he had to ask! She shrugged. "Rifle's locked in the back and it's my day off, so I'm lazy. What can ya do." The last of the sentence was delivered with the click of her teeth knocking against the glass rim of the bottle; christ, but it was so easy to evade when it came to conversations between them. But with her mind steadied by the familiar chill of the drink, Jo was starting to feel she could tackle this. It made him chuckle and shake his head, leaning back a little, propping his elbow on the arm of the sofa. "And I'm not givin' mine up again. I've only got the one tonight." A clear implication that when he'd given her his gun the first time they saw each other after his little disappearance, he'd had more than one. Really, if she wanted to dance around the subject, he wouldn't press the issue. It'd get tackled all in its own time. Jo arched an eyebrow at that. But on second thought, she really wasn't surprised. Doing anything otherwise would've been dumb, and she had never figured him for stupid. And then she was about to say something about his guard being down, but the words died unspoken. She dropped her bottle on the table, only half-finished. He could only shrug vaguely at her arched brow, sort of a what were you expecting? movement, accompanied by a quiet, "What?" The only time Dean was ever unarmed was in the shower or the bedroom -- and even then, a gun was only as far away as his pants. Not entirely expecting a response, he took to sipping at his beer again. But the response came, because now Jo had, at last, strung together whatever nerve had been cracked and splintered over cold steel and the sing-song voice of a demon. "Are we finally at the right place, right time?" "I ... was hoping so," came his honest reply a moment later. It wasn't ideal -- nothing about the situation was ideal, and considering how short his time was, it likely never would be ideal. "There're a hundred reasons why this is a Very Bad Idea. More, probably. But I don't care. I just don't." I don't care. I just don't. "That's what I always fucking liked about you," Jo said, her voice suddenly fierce. It was like a weight had slipped off her shoulders; like getting that admission from Dean had been a whisper of permission, a green light signalling go. Because with those words, she moved forward, one hand gently brushing his face to turn in her direction before she kissed him. Second time. Dean was the first to pull back from the kiss, and he gave her a long, appraising look. Whatever he saw must have erased any lingering doubts from his mind, because he leaned forward, just long enough to set his beer on the table, and then he was on her, curling a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her close, and sealing his lips to hers. He kissed her, as if the hounds of hell themselves were on his tail, and she were the only thing to keep them at bay. It was like Arizona, in that a type of driven passion forced Jo's hand; but last time was a type of incoherent thrill at simply being alive. Tonight, it was the culmination of a year and a half of waiting, of watching from afar, of not being able to do anything, of always thinking that it was the wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Tonight was the satisfaction of knowing she'd been right, and it was that relief that had Jo matching Dean's energy step-for-step and slowly shifting herself on the small sofa to slide onto his lap. There was a new kind of urgency in this kiss, and she recognised it. Three months. Just three months more. He couldn't help but groan into her mouth at the pleasant turn of events, and his arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer, sealing the two of them as close together as was humanly possible. It wasn't about sex -- though the thought was there, boy was it there, on the edge of his mind -- it was about closeness and comfort and longing. It was about being selfish and getting what he'd never realized he'd always wanted, with just enough time left to appreciate it. With all the myriad of reasons stacked against them, Jo was surprised that they'd even made it this far. She was half-convinced that she wasn't actually straddling him now, winding their bodies as close as they possibly could. Because, yes, it wasn't sex -- of course there was tension and there were desires, but there was so much more layered over it right now. It was knowing and it was inevitability. And it was enough not about sex that she could break the contact, removing herself by just a few inches in order to chuckle, low and close. Jo rested her forehead against his. "Okay." "Okay." By that point, he wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to, or what she was agreeing to, if they'd even agreed to anything. He loosened his grip on her ever so marginally, skimming a hand along her spine. The movement was relaxing, comforting in a way. "Mm, it's getting late," he murmured, just then realizing exactly how late it'd gotten. It hadn't exactly been early when he'd knocked on her door, and it had been a long day. And if he stood any chance of finding a motel room, he figured he probably shouldn't stay too much later. A sudden memory tickled her mind, and Jo jerked involuntarily, letting herself settle in against his neck and shoulder. 'It's getting late.' Those words were awfully familiar, and they usually signalled that she was about to be abandoned for the night. Almost as if she could sense what was coming next, she said, too quickly, "Stay." For a woman used to living with other people for the first couple decades of her life, Duluth and this apartment had been far too quiet and lonely. It had been a long time since she'd simply slept beside someone. And that last someone had simply packed up and left. Desperately, almost painfully, she didn't want Dean to do the same. "I'm not goin' anywhere," he replied quietly, and there was the vague sense that he didn't mean just then. He couldn't stop death from coming in three months, but until then? He wasn't running. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and he sighed, exhaling hotly against her neck. "It is getting late, though." And damned if he wasn't exhausted. But if she wanted him to stay, well, he wouldn't argue with her. He just wanted a bed. (Or a couch, or a bit of floor -- whatever worked, really.) "Don't think you'll fit on the couch." It was true. It was just a battered loveseat, and his lanky limbs would spill over the edges. "But you're welcome to crash on my bed." Jo's voice had a sleepy calm to it -- and there was something in the lack of innuendo, its straightforward plainness that made it exactly clear what she was looking for. There was some of Ellen in the woman now, and a clear setting of boundaries. Not that she would have minded. But she didn't want to rush. They stood in the most danger of rushing now. She didn't want that ticking red timer over Dean's head to shove her down an impetuous road she still wasn't quite ready for. He had no plans of rushing things; Jo wasn't one of any number of girls he'd taken to cheap motel rooms for a night of rolling between the sheets. It was different with her, and even with the lack of time, he still wanted to take it slow, find their way into something that wasn't just about the passion. "Where you go, so go I," was his quiet reply. Even without the boundaries in place, he was pretty certain nothing would come of the evening beyond what had already happened -- in short, he was simply too tired for it. "Funny, thought I was supposed to be the helpless damsel trailing after," Jo replied, but it was an easy and half-hearted response. She slid off him, pausing only to pick up her forgotten beer bottle in one hand and finish it off with a few last, deep sips. And with that, she carelessly tossed it into the recycling -- a crash and jangle of glass -- and stopped to press one more kiss to Dean's lips, tasting slightly of bitter and sweet and alcohol. And she sauntered off towards the bedroom, her hand brushing against his as a signal to follow. No, she really didn't give a damn about the rest of the world at the moment. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep and then wake up and see this in the hard light of dawn. 'Cause then it'd be real. Follow he did, with little care to the remainder of his beer -- really, he'd clean it up in the morning. But he followed, and once in the bedroom, latched the door closed behind them with a quiet click, peeling off his overshirt and kicking off his boots. Jeans, he could sleep in, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take off the extra layers, for comfort's sake. It was a sign of how exhausted Jo was that she didn't crack a joke about the boots or messing up her floor. The room itself was in that comfortable state of semi-messy already, that she simply didn't mind peeling off her shirt and changing into the oversized t-shirt that lay crumpled on the pillow. After that was done, it was short work to squirm out of her own jeans and collapse into the bed, wriggling in under the blankets and entwining herself in the pillows. A less confident woman might've shied away at being seen in her bra in front of someone who until recently had been just a friend, or might have waited to watch him get into bed. But she'd had enough of bullshit and toeing around. She knew he would join her eventually, and that warm presence would be more than fine. He said he didn't have anything to offer? Hell. Just himself was enough. Well. Considering how comfortable she was, he didn't think twice about stripping down to his boxers (they were comfortable, and still within the bounds of decency -- and she could giggle at the smiley-faces, if she wanted to). His clothes ended in a pile on the floor next to the bed, gun and holster on top within easy reach, before he slid beneath the sheets and into the bed beside her. He made himself comfortable, then slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. Between the comfort of her beside him, the steady sound of her breathing, and the sheer exhaustion tugging at him, it didn't take long for him to drift off -- and for the first time in a long time, his dreams were pleasantly absent. |