Supernatural, Jo/Dean
A Normal Boy
Rating: PG-13 for minor sexiness
Summary: A normal boy would never use her as bait, never make crude jokes, never steal a cement truck. A normal boy would never drive a 1967 Chevy Impala.
The first time she saw Dean-after she pointed the gun at him, but before she punched him in the nose-Jo had idly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered what it would be like to feel him pull the rifle out of her hands, push her against the wall of the bar and kiss her, like in a movie. Then he opened his mouth and made a crude joke and she figured he was like all the other hunters who passed through the Roadhouse-rude, grabby and not very bright. She dismissed Dean from her mind, fetched drinks for him and Sam and let her mother deal with them. The two brothers drove off into the sunset (in a maroon minivan of all things) to destroy a phantom clown and that, Jo believed, was the end of it.
When she saw Dean’s real car, however, Jo revisited her idle fantasy. Dean’s car-it turned out that the maroon monstrosity was a loan-was a sleek, black Chevy Impala. Jo didn’t know cars, but she would have to be blind not to appreciate Dean’s car. Her first glimpse of it was as the Winchesters were driving away. Her mother sent them packing to Philadelphia and Jo was watching the window, knowing she should be hunting with them, wishing she had the right to fight by Dean’s side.
Jo’s father loved having a daughter, but he wished for a son. A son would carry on the family name; a son would be raised as a hunter like John Winchester raised his boys. Jo was interested in her father’s line of work (a little too interested for Ellen’s peace of mind). She learned how to throw knives and make bullets; how to clean and handle the rifle he kept over the door and even if he never got around to showing her how to use a shotgun, she knew her way around the handgun her mother used.
The one thing Jo never had any time for was the subject of cars. Cars took you places. You filled them up with gas, kept the tires firm and changed the oil a couple times a year. Jo was never going to build the damn things, so why should she bother learning about engines and horsepower and carburetors? Eyeing the Impala through the Roadhouse windows, however, Jo seriously regretted brushing off her father’s car lessons.
She just wished she had something… intelligent to say to Dean about his car. “Nice car,” sounded feeble and girly-like a bottle-blonde wearing a short skirt in a cheap bar trying to get into his pants. She could always ask, “What’s her mileage?” but that made her sound like a middle-aged man talking to a used-car salesman. “How’s the engine?” was no good because she would barely understand Dean’s answer.
It was hopeless. She felt like a teenager with a crush, practicing conversations in front of her bedroom mirror. She could imagine how the Impala’s leather seats would feel against her skin, but she had no idea how to make it a reality. She tried to concentrate on what her mother was saying (“Joanna Beth, go get another case of beer and don’t you think about chasing after the Winchesters”), but all she could see was her back against the Impala’s hood with Dean moving above her, around her, inside her.
It didn’t help that Jo was as good as tethered to the Roadhouse. It didn’t help that Dean saw her as a silly little girl who would get herself killed in the field. It certainly didn’t help that his grin was crooked or that his eyes flirted with her when he wasn’t even speaking.
Jo figured that she was probably wasting her time-Dean would never notice her beyond what he could get as a one-night stand. She would be better off going back to school and finding a nice boy who had never held a gun, never thrown a knife, never seen a demon. She could get married and have a normal life in a normal house. Her mother wouldn’t blame her, and neither, she suspected, would Dean.
The only problem was that any boy she met wouldn’t have eyes that could flirt without words or an edge to their voice when they ordered her to put the knife down. A normal boy would never use her as bait, never make crude jokes, never rip off a cement truck.
A normal boy would never drive a 1967 Chevy Impala.
Rating: PG-13 for minor sexiness
Summary: A normal boy would never use her as bait, never make crude jokes, never steal a cement truck. A normal boy would never drive a 1967 Chevy Impala.
The first time she saw Dean-after she pointed the gun at him, but before she punched him in the nose-Jo had idly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered what it would be like to feel him pull the rifle out of her hands, push her against the wall of the bar and kiss her, like in a movie. Then he opened his mouth and made a crude joke and she figured he was like all the other hunters who passed through the Roadhouse-rude, grabby and not very bright. She dismissed Dean from her mind, fetched drinks for him and Sam and let her mother deal with them. The two brothers drove off into the sunset (in a maroon minivan of all things) to destroy a phantom clown and that, Jo believed, was the end of it.
When she saw Dean’s real car, however, Jo revisited her idle fantasy. Dean’s car-it turned out that the maroon monstrosity was a loan-was a sleek, black Chevy Impala. Jo didn’t know cars, but she would have to be blind not to appreciate Dean’s car. Her first glimpse of it was as the Winchesters were driving away. Her mother sent them packing to Philadelphia and Jo was watching the window, knowing she should be hunting with them, wishing she had the right to fight by Dean’s side.
Jo’s father loved having a daughter, but he wished for a son. A son would carry on the family name; a son would be raised as a hunter like John Winchester raised his boys. Jo was interested in her father’s line of work (a little too interested for Ellen’s peace of mind). She learned how to throw knives and make bullets; how to clean and handle the rifle he kept over the door and even if he never got around to showing her how to use a shotgun, she knew her way around the handgun her mother used.
The one thing Jo never had any time for was the subject of cars. Cars took you places. You filled them up with gas, kept the tires firm and changed the oil a couple times a year. Jo was never going to build the damn things, so why should she bother learning about engines and horsepower and carburetors? Eyeing the Impala through the Roadhouse windows, however, Jo seriously regretted brushing off her father’s car lessons.
She just wished she had something… intelligent to say to Dean about his car. “Nice car,” sounded feeble and girly-like a bottle-blonde wearing a short skirt in a cheap bar trying to get into his pants. She could always ask, “What’s her mileage?” but that made her sound like a middle-aged man talking to a used-car salesman. “How’s the engine?” was no good because she would barely understand Dean’s answer.
It was hopeless. She felt like a teenager with a crush, practicing conversations in front of her bedroom mirror. She could imagine how the Impala’s leather seats would feel against her skin, but she had no idea how to make it a reality. She tried to concentrate on what her mother was saying (“Joanna Beth, go get another case of beer and don’t you think about chasing after the Winchesters”), but all she could see was her back against the Impala’s hood with Dean moving above her, around her, inside her.
It didn’t help that Jo was as good as tethered to the Roadhouse. It didn’t help that Dean saw her as a silly little girl who would get herself killed in the field. It certainly didn’t help that his grin was crooked or that his eyes flirted with her when he wasn’t even speaking.
Jo figured that she was probably wasting her time-Dean would never notice her beyond what he could get as a one-night stand. She would be better off going back to school and finding a nice boy who had never held a gun, never thrown a knife, never seen a demon. She could get married and have a normal life in a normal house. Her mother wouldn’t blame her, and neither, she suspected, would Dean.
The only problem was that any boy she met wouldn’t have eyes that could flirt without words or an edge to their voice when they ordered her to put the knife down. A normal boy would never use her as bait, never make crude jokes, never rip off a cement truck.
A normal boy would never drive a 1967 Chevy Impala.