A/N: Let me say at first, I do not condone Dean coming anywhere near Jo's girly parts. But she fit the pattern, the muse bit, and like I've said, its move forward or die. Written in response to a challenge on LiveJournal, and being the little filing clerk I am, must keep everything together in one spot, so posted here also. owns my soul. Thanks to those who created them for sending us the pretties to play with.
The bones at the bottom of the grave are burning merrily, the fire giving small crackles of happiness, the scent of gasoline combusted into smoke riding the soft southern air. Dean's flat on his back next the grave, the grass velvet soft under him, one hand thrown out with fingertips just grazing the marble headstone. Digging all night has lowered his defenses, the soft morning crumbles them, and stillness destroys him.
Jessica with her blond curls and her Smurf t-shirt, the only mental picture Dean has of the girl, her loveliness stored away to think about during the darkness. He knows part of Sam's brain is always tuned to Jessica, knows that the calm and stillness that is Sam's core is born from that Jessica part. So also is the fury and ice cold hate that rides his brother.
And Dean thinks again of Jessica standing in darkness, watching him, her hair darkened into the shade of honey in a glass, and how he knew she was Sam's other half from the moment their eyes met.
Mary with her white nightgown and her blond hair turning from flame, to flame, and Dean moves a little with the hurt, the last mental picture he has of his mother. She was iconic, turned from distant memories of warmth and safety into a figurehead for John's desperate ship. Not a mother anymore, though the way she called his name, smiling at him from the end of his shotgun, touched a place in him he thought had died when John saved Sam from the shtriga.
And Dean thinks again of Mary facing the poltergeist, her hair turning the shade of sun refracted through glass, destroying herself to save them.
Dean struggles into a sitting position, shoulders complaining about a night's worth of digging, his back joining in the bitch-fest. The fire at the bottom of the grave had almost burned itself out, and Dean stands, using the headstone as a crutch.
"Need some help?"
Her voice always makes him grin, regardless of circumstance.
"Oh, God, yes. Help me fill this hole and maybe I'll feel your hole." He leers at her, green eyes as soft as the grass under his feet.
She rolls her eyes. "Ass." But she's smiling, and joins him next to the yawning grave, taking the shovel from his hands. She had just cut her hair, tired of its easy way into the clutches of poltergeists and werewolves, and the blond ends twist and flip in the humid air.
They work together easily, the warm southern sun painting them with sweat, and Dean's looking at the way her white t-shirt sticks to the small of her back. They finally unroll the last of the sod, tamping down grass soft as a well-used quilt, and step back to work the kinks out of shoulders and backs.
She about to speak, her mouth open, her eyes sparkling with some smart-ass quip, but Dean grabs her and pulls her close to him, her face in the crook of his neck.
Cassie with her dark eyes and exasperated glances, her black hair reminding Dean of midnight. And Dean's so tired of midnight, so inured to midnight that its become a part of him, his soul midnight too much of the time.
He draws Jo close to him gently, like she's made of glass, her hair the same shade as the southern sun streaming down through the cemetery trees. And Dean thinks of how hard it is to hold onto glass, and buries his face in the chopped ends of sun dappled blond.