Broken Open - 3/?
Title: Broken Open
Characters: Dean/Jo
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer: SPN doesn't belong to me, only this story.
03 | But I wish I could feel it all for you
If I could erase the pain
The maybe you'd feel the same
I'd do it all for you, I would
She finds Dean waiting on her steps when she comes back from school a week later. She stops to catch her breath (easy in, easy out). He looks up, and their gaze locks for the first time in months. He looks older, more mature and slightly worn out. She could barely muster a greeting when he simply greets, “Hey Jo.”
Her resolve to treat him like a stranger crumbles before her eyes; and it’s not fair that he can still do that to her with just two words.
He then looks at the ground. “How long?”
She scoffs with sarcasm as she walks pass and he follows closely behind. “Why Dean, I’m fine. Thanks for asking and no, I’m glad to see you too.” Of course it’s about Sam. It’s always been about Sam, and it shouldn’t hurt to remember this but it does; and because she’s still bitter that it’s always Sam and never him. “And what do you mean by how long?”
The frown on his lips deepens. “Don’t play with me.”
“I didn’t even realize we were playing.”
He grabs on to her arm for dear life and swings her around. “Damn it, Jo. This isn’t a game!” His voice sounds like lightning striking in the midst of a sunny day. It doesn’t scare her. Nothing does anymore. “Tell me where he is.” His voice quickly turns softer. “Please-Is Sammy here?”
“Let go,” her eyes then narrow dangerously, “now.”
There’s an imprint of his fingers on her wrist when he releases and he didn’t realize that he had grabbed on so tightly. ‘Sorry.”
She shrugs. “Don’t be.”
“Jo.”
“Dean.”
“Sam-”
“I don’t know where Sam is,” she interrupts, “and I don’t know where he could be.”
He stares at her for a while, probably trying to see if she’s lying (she’s not) then sighs. “Will you-”
“No.” She then pours herself a glass of water. Talking to Dean has a habit of turning her throat dry, she thinks, as she chugs it down. He’s still there when she turns around. “Anything else?”
He stares at her, and it’s a look she hasn’t seen in a while. It reminds her how butterflies in her stomach used to feel. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out then looks down at the ground like he’s a kid being scold. “For everything.”
She gulps; the urge of wanting to cry tightens her throat. “I know.” It’s the same damn story of boy meets girl. Girl falls, and boy lets her. Wrong time, wrong place, says boy and puts that on repeat. Somewhere in between, there are ‘my dad shot your daddy’ and ‘hey, your mom died because of me’ reasoning that she sometimes forget. “How’d you find me?”
He smirks and she thinks that she can still see the old Dean hiding underneath all the lines. “You’re not the only good at tracking people.” She flashes him a grin and she thinks that maybe they’ll be okay. He angles his head toward the chairs. “Shall we?” She says nothing and follows along as they move from the kitchen back to the living room. 5 minutes of silence then they try to fill the silence with useless conversations about their mundane life rather than getting down to the heart of the matter: the whys and the what-ifs. He pauses, which she notices when she sees his eyes skimming over her shoulders to the pictures behind her, then looks back at her.
“Name’s Michael.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t have to.”
“Name’s Lisa.”
“I know.”
The left corner of his mouth curves up as he peers up at her. “Me too.”
She licks her lips dryly, biting back the first thing that comes to her mind (a snarky comment that no doubt will result in him storming out like he always does). “It’s getting late.” It still sounds wrong even after contemplation. “She’ll worry.”
He feigns a smile and she sees it a mile away. His fingers run through his hair as he leans back into the chair. “Maybe.”
“I’ll walk you out.” She stands up first and leads him to his car. They don’t speak until his hand is on the handle.
“So…” It’s so unlike him to stall. “You happy?”
She could only shrug, knowing she should say yes. She found a good man, has a decent job and is doing well in her class. All those things should equate to being happy. “I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“I see.”
“He doesn’t make me worry.”
There’s a quick flicker of emotion then it’s gone. He clicks his tongue and stares at the keys in his hands. “No, I can’t imagine he would.” Then he takes his leave while she lingers on, watching him drive off while pushing the thought of running after him away. Once he’s out of sight, she finds Sam waiting in the shadow (it’s like clockwork with these two). She sighs, “One day, you two will be the death of me.”
It meant to be a joke, or maybe a premonition. Either way, he doesn’t laugh, or say much, and just stares at the ground like it’s made of gold or something.
She then notices tears circling his eyes and when he peers down at her like she’s a savior to his plight, she curses under her breath (she has a soft spot for tortured souls, she thinks, or maybe just for the damn Winchesters) and invites him inside. Once seated, his arms rest on his lap, silent as usual. She leaves him for a couple of minutes (she doubts that he even notices she’s gone) to grab the 32pack of beers she’s stashed in the garage. Then, with all her strength, she throws it on the table, earning (finally) startled reaction. “What the hell-”
“You, me, wasted, today,” she cuts in and throws him a can. “Start drinking.”
They start slow. No one speaks; and words aren’t necessary because there’s no awkwardness, never with him. By the time the 6th can roll around, he starts opening up. “I’m horrible, right?” he asks; voice starts to crack, “I mean, I want him to be happy but it feels like he’s-”
“Forgetting that you’ve ever existed?” she continues for him “Drink up.”
He takes a small gulp before finishing the thought. “It’s selfish.”
“You’re only human.”
He laughs because it’s been awhile since anyone’s called him that. “Right.”
“God, I’m so sick of both of you and your self-hatred shit,” she says, not bothering to hide the disdain in her tone. “You both carry the weight of the world like it’s yours to hold. He’s happy, so what? Screw him. You can do it too, be happy.”
“You make it sounds like it’s easy.”
“It’s not, especially with that whole you-are-me-I-am-you type of deal you got going on with Dean but-” she pauses for dramatic effect and sips her beer “-you’ve known that one day, you two would have to lead separate life. Well, that day’s coming, Sam, so either you buckle up and deal with it or let your boxer ends up in a bunch. Whatever works, y’ know?”
He drops his head and bites his lips bitterly. “I don’t even know what kind of life I want anymore.”
“Go back to hunting. Kill some more. Save some people. Go to school. Date a girl. Marry a girl. Have a family. Do whatever the fuck you want. The world’s your oyster.”
He looks at her funnily. “The world is my oyster? Since when has Jo Harvelle become so sentimental or has such a potty mouth for that matter?”
She smirks, reminding him of someone’s else. “Since I fucking wanted to be.”
It could be that she’s funny or maybe it’s the beer. Either way, he erupts in a fit of laughter like he hasn’t heard anything funnier in years. “I guess…”
“Don’t guess. Just do it.”
“That’s a Nike commercial.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Nike stole that shit from me.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious, Sam,” she says, leaning in, “Why waste it brooding over something that stupid? It’s not like you can’t keep Dean in your life. Hell, if I know you two, you’ll find a way to be with each other-” she pauses when she sees disgusted face “-what?”
“You make it sound like we’re lovers.”
“Well-” she then clicks her tongue and laughs when she sees his frown. “All joking aside, you damn Winchesters are so aggravating. You act like you’re star-crossed family or something when all you need is to call. Some people don’t even get that privilege.”
His face turns into horror. “God-I’m-”
“Oh shove it, Sam,” she then rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that you act like he’s buried 9ft underneath the ground or something. Family is family; no matter where you are so just because you guys are not hunting together, it doesn’t mean shit, okay?”
His expression softens as he concedes defeat. “Okay.”
Then they cheers and drink the night away.
Like the Winchester that he is, he leaves the next morning and all she finds is a note that he left behind.