And we're off:
1. It's the boys on case! No idea where I was going with this. Heavily features some character named 'Flick'. No idea where I was going with that either. But apparently, some scary shit went down at some point. Monsters, I'm guessing. Or ghosts. Probably ghosts.
The bar is dimly lit except for flashes of neon that hang on the walls next to deer antlers and rusted shotguns. There’s a guy pouring drinks behind the counter, wearing a stained t-shirt, dirty slogan splashed across the front of his beer-gut. He sneers, lower lip brown from tobacco, one tooth missing.
“Oh, well this is just charming,” Dean says.
Sam nods in agreement and then coughs on the smell of stale booze, old peanut shells, and vomit. He sucks in a breath, a little queasy, and follows Dean towards the potbellied-drink-pourer.
Dean leans himself against the bar top, all sharp and hard angles, the way he does when he means business. He dips into the pocket of his jacket, slides a fifty dollar bill between his fingers and the counter.
“You know somebody named Flick?”
“Yeah.” The money gets plucked up quickly. “What’s it to ya?”
Sam sighs and pulls a matching fifty out of his wallet. “Know where we can find somebody named Flick?”
“Yep.” The guy nods, grabs the other bill. “Sits over in the corner there. One with the baseball cap. Hafta warn ya, though, don’t really talk none. Gotta touch of the crazy.”
Dean smirks. “Touch of the crazy is exactly what we’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” Sam says. He gives a small tip of his head in appreciation and the guy quickly shoves the fifties into the waistband of his pants, like he’s afraid that Sam or Dean will suddenly yank the money back.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a date in the corner.” Dean grins, then licks his lips and itchingly rubs his palms together.
The sound of their boots, too heavy and thudding on the worn floor, give whoever this Flick person is, a bit of heads up. Literally. Chin up and sneering, the tip of a knife gets pressed against Sam’s thigh.
“If I were either of you, I’d take a couple of steps back.”
Dean does, but only because the voice coming from beneath the grease-smeared baseball cap, mousy brown ponytail hanging out the back, is female and it catches him a bit off guard. He snorts.
“Yeah.” She twists her wrist and the blade digs deeper into the inseam of Sam’s jeans. “Wanna make nice with your own name? Or should I stick him?”
Dean laughs. “What was Crocodile Dundee on cable or something? Put the knife down, sweetheart.”
Sam tries to wriggle his leg away, rolling his eyes a bit. “His name is Dean. And I’m Sam.”
She pulls the knife back, keeps her grip on the hilt and waves at them to sit. Dean smirks, but does it anyway, dragging a chair out beside Sam. He sits with his legs straddling the back, fingers curling around the rungs.
“You have something we need,” he says.
“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
Sam shakes his head and hair falls into his eyes, so he shakes it again. The girl smiles, not happy and shy and cute, like most girls would, instead it’s almost an ironic tilt of her lips.
“Information,” Sam tells her. “You saw something.”
She shifts, straightens her cap. “I see lots of things.”
“Well, this thing that you saw, it’d be less in the way of ordinary and more in the way of freaky,” Dean says.
“Freaky?” The smile fades, replaced by raised brows. Her chin juts out. “And who says that ain’t ordinary?”
Sam near-grins. “So, this something that you saw, you know what we’re talking about?”
Flick leans over the table, jams her knife into a gap in the wood and purses her lips together tightly. “You two looking to get your hides tanned?”
Dean can’t suppress the slight flick of tongue darting out from the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Depends. Who’s doing the tanning?”
“This ain’t no joke,” she spits. She grabs the knife in one hand, Sam’s arm in the other, and a low hiss of air passes through her nose. “Meet me out back in ten minutes. And either get Sparky over there a tighter leash or chain him up. Got it?”
Sam doesn’t know what to say and gives a confused nod, not really committing to doing anything. Flick unwinds her fingers from around his wrist, pushing his arm back, and stands up, slow steps towards the back door. She keeps her head high and straight, but her eyes dart back and forth, making sure nobody is following her as she leaves.
“Man,” Dean says. He rubs the corner of his mouth. “Chick has a little more than just a ‘touch’ of the crazy. More like she’s been freakin’ smothered in it.”
“She knows something, Dean.”
Dean laughs. “You believe her?”
Sam shrugs lowly. “I think she saw it.”
“Oh, no way.” Dean leans back, then steadies himself when he realizes he’s sitting the wrong way and there’s nothing to lean back against.
“Well, what other explanation are you seeing, here?”
“How about the explanation that she’s nuts?”
2. Now this was a part of as the story goes if memory serves. I'm not entirely sure where/what changed along the way. But I kind of wish that I'd kept it this way. A desperate girl who was always in love with a boy who was never in love with her, but loved her just the same. That came out way more dramatic than I intended. Maybe it's more like: a girl with a pathetic teenage crush and a boy who was too cowardly to fuck her? Nah. That's not right either.
He used to think about this. Blankets pulled up to his chin and hand wrapped around his dick and he used to think about her.
“Have you ever?”
She laughs. “Have I ever had sex?”
Another laugh, low and unsure. She bites at her lip. “Why? Is it that hard to believe?”
“No. But, I guess I just always thought—”
“You just always thought that because I had some school girl crush on you when I was thirteen, that what? I’d save myself for you? Grow up, Dean.”
“Who have I slept with? God, what is your problem?”
His face turns red. He’s not sure why he’s angry. Just because he’s loved her since she was practically a baby, doesn’t mean that he has some claim on her. She’s not his, she doesn’t belong to him.
“No. It’s just—” His fists clench. “If not me, then who? I thought you had that whole virtuous commandment thing going on. Don’t you need a ring on your finger to fuck or something?”
He’s being mean to her and he knows it.
She shakes her head and pushes the hair from her face as it falls over her cheeks. She stands up, holds her shirt closed with her fingers, and looks like she’s going to cry.
“You are such an asshole.”
“C’mon, Jo. Who was it?”
“It’s none of your business.”
3. Dean sees Jo naked. That's really all it is.
Jo pulls the towel tighter over her tits, knuckles strained white from her grip. She’s flushed red from her cheeks to the tips of her toes and her lips are pinched into a scowl.
“Don’t,” she spits. “Don’t look. Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just don’t anything. Okay?”
Dean smiles. He’s never been too good about taking orders, unless of course those orders were coming from the mouth of John Winchester. And Jo’s certainly not his dad. In fact, most days she’s just a gigantic pain in the ass.
“Wow, Jo.” He smirks. “Never woulda guessed that you weren’t a real blonde.”
“Shut up,” she says. “God.”
4. Drunk Dean? In a cemetery? With Jo? Sure, why not.
It’s raining, hard and heavy. The sky is dark and, somewhere, thunder rumbles low and deep. And it’s just about every old, black and white horror movie that Jo’s ever seen—young girl walking through a cemetery at night. Except that she’s not alone.
Her boots slip on the slick grass and mud and Dean slips with her, one of his arms loosely hanging across her shoulders. She grips his hand tighter and grabs at his shirt, trying to steady him.
“Careful,” he says, mouth twisting and sliding over the vowels. “I’m precious cargo, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” she grinds out. “Precious, heavy cargo.”
Dean gives a lazy and sort of drunk smile. “You calling me fat? Rude, Jo. That’s just plain rude.”
She steps carefully, the grass turning into gravel. And she slips on that, too. She grunts a bit, manages to get Dean into her car in one piece.
5. I think this was going to be something about a teenaged Jilly Singer. Love me some Jilly.
Her dad says she’s like a tornado. Destroys everything she touches.
The first time she sees Dean Winchester, he’s wearing ripped jeans and his bottom lip is split right open, tied together with messy stitches. He tips his head to the side and smirks at her, eyebrows raised.
He might be the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen.
His dad has one thick hand wrapped around the back of the kid’s neck, pulling him out of the front seat of a car. They keep their heads ducked low, weary hunters with secrets.
Her own daddy plucks the baseball hat from his head, wipes his fingers through his hair and then plops the hat back into place. “Ain’t no trouble, John.”
Dean kicks at the dirt, shoves the tips of his fingers into his pockets.
“I’ll come around for him in a few days.” John lets go of Dean’s neck and ruffles his hair. They both look sorry. “See you later, dude.”
He nods. “Later.”
John climbs back into the car and as he pulls away, gravel kicking up from under the tires, a small boy pops up from the back seat, flattens his nose and both hands against the rear window. Dean laughs, and it’s the first and only time she hears it.
She finds him the junkyard, sitting on the hood of some busted up Chevy, with one knee pulled up to his chest and a beer in his hand. He doesn’t look up when she slides up next to him, leans her small body on the rusted metal.
6. Man, I wrote a lot of Dean/Jo, huh? This was something that got replaced by Hold Tight, which I was never really crazy about. The fic, I mean. This snippet is kind of cute.
Three years ago.
Jo wrings out the washcloth over the rusted sink, water slipping past her fingers and slowly rolling down her hands, leaving wet trails on her sleeves. The cloth drips as she walks over to him, dark little spots on the already stained carpet.
The motel room is damp and dark, with dirty wallpaper that’s curling at the edges and a crooked painting of a moose hanging above the bed. It’s rent by the hour, paid for with a handful of crumpled bills and Dean’s oh-so-charming-smile.
Jo kneels in front of him, presses the cloth to the open cut on his forehead. He catches her wrist between his fingers and she quickly pulls out of his grip. Closing his eyes, he slowly rubs his knuckles over his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he says.
She stands, shaking her head. “Yeah, right.”
“Oh, c’mon,” he grunts. He touches the back of his hand to his head, blood smearing over his brow. “I didn’t ask you to play nurse.”
“You called me.” Jo wipes the blood away, from both his head and where it smudged over her hands, and tosses the cloth to floor, shoving at it with the toe of her boot. She pushes at the faded bedspread, and then sits down beside him. “Two years late, but whatever.”
“Jesus. Hold a grudge, why don’t you?”
“Always.” She smiles, sets her shoulders in a small shrug and tips her chin out in a nod. “It’s this thing I have. Cute, annoying, holds grudges. That’s me.”
“Hey, well you’re definitely two out of three, there.”
7. I want to say that this was somehow going to be a Gilmore Girls cross-over. But I'm honestly not sure how that would have worked. It's a mystery.
Sam lies in somebody else’s bed and feels so much like his brother that he wonders if Dean is sitting under a desk lamp and flipping through a thick book with an absurdly long title, like they’ve switched places since he left.
But Dean’s always been Dean and Sam knows that he’s probably tangled up in some random girl’s sheets, same as him. He grins at the thought.
Sam rolls over, tucks his hands under the pillow. “Yeah, it’s nothing.”
She pushes into him, curving her arms around his waist and nudging her nose under his chin. “I’m heading back home next week. For Christmas.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, feigning interest.
She taps her fingers over his arm. “Yep. Back to Hartford.”
“I know somebody who lives near there.”
“Who?” she asks. She wriggles closer to him, gripping him so tight that Sam starts to feel like he can’t breathe.
Dean lives in New York. Last he checked, anyway.
“No one,” Sam says. “He’s no one.”
Um. That's it. Thanks for playing!
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