Author's Notes: Free food to whoever spots the Anchorman quote.
Enjoy. A little more . . . mature, than usual, at least in some of the content. But I couldn't help it.
Dean/Jo awkward-sexy goodness. Bon apetite.
She was so, so not in the mood for this.
Weeks of stressing about the dress, the shoes, the nails, the fake tan . . . all the hours of agonizing pain as her face and hair were carefully constructed to perfection—and for what? So that her birthday party could be ruined by the demon of a jilted hooker?
Oh, no. This was so not happening.
Jo ducked as the body that used to house her best friend Julia (and now played host to an angry whore-bag) swung at her head. She lashed out a leg and Julia/Scary Demon fell with a heavy crash onto the dance floor. Jo scrambled to her feet, losing a shoe in the process. She glared down at the disgruntled spirit, hands on her hips.
"Now," she began, "I know you're angry that you didn't get paid or whatever, but was all this really nec—?"
She woke up what felt like years later; the sun had set fully and she found herself bound in the back of a barn somewhere. Jo blinked blearily until her vision cleared.
She let loose a low growl, struggling fiercely against the ropes that bound her. "This so not what I imagined today would be like," she muttered to herself as she worked the knot loose. "I thought a gorgeous dress, yummy cake, maybe some boys . . . certainly no supernatural freaks and definitely no bondage."
There was a weak cough from behind her, and then a familiar voice called out, ". . . Jo?"
She froze for a second, relief and anger flooding simultaneously through her veins. Then – "I knew it!" She renewed her efforts on the robe with extra fervor. "I knew that if anything was going to go wrong on my birthday, it was going to be because you two would crash in, bringing all Hell and God knows what else with you—"
"Now, Jo, you know that's not tr—"
"Not true?" She shimmied herself around so that she could look the Winchester boys in their faces. Dean wore that expressionless mask, as always, but Sam seemed at least a little chastised. "Uhm, let's not list all of the ways that it is. Even when I'm not looking for trouble, you two manage to find me!"
Dean rolled his eyes at her, also working at the knot on his hands. "When are you not looking for trouble?" He asked snarkily. "I thought that hunting was all you wanted out of life."
"All I want out of my free time," she corrected, viciously sinking her teeth into the binds on her hands and then ripping her hands free. She didn't stop her monologue for a second as she set to work helping the Winchesters. "Not that either of you bothered to call, but today happens to be my birthday! I was having a very nice celebration before that ugly whore turned up!"
She growled in frustration. "All right, which one of you has a knife?"
Dean arched an eyebrow. "Back pocket," he declared with a smug little smile as if to say bet you won't. Jo rolled her eyes reaching around him and dig her hand into his pocket and feeling around for the little pocket knife (not, she had to admit, altogether a bad experience).
Dean stilled, but Sam offered meekly, "Uhm . . . happy birthday, Jo."
She pulled the knife loose of Dean with then sliced neatly through his bindings. "Oops," she cried sheepishly as he yelped in pain. "Did I catch you?"
He simply glared at her, rubbing his skin. "Give me back my knife. I'm not letting you anywhere near Sam's wrists!" Jo dutifully handed him the weapon, finally attending to the one-shoe-on, one-shoe-off issue. Kicking the battered footwear aside, she placed her hands on her hips.
"So how are you going to destroy this thing?" She asked curiously. "What's the plan?"
It was not, by the way, a very good plan.
Jo decided this as she dangled from the roof of the barn, an incensed demon strolling around beneath her. "And then there's you! You and your stupid friends, who dare to come into the very place that I was abandoned and rejected! You celebrate there, toast one another . . . you have no idea what I went through!"
"That's not actually our fault," Jo interrupted. "And this is hardly the way to gain self-respect."
"Self-respect!" Julia/Scary Demon screeched, and shook her head disgustedly. "What do you know about self-respect? According to your friend's memory, you've been hung up on the same boy for years now . . . always wondering, in the back of your mind, if you're good enough yet, if you're tough enough yet . . . "
Jo blushed. "Maybe this isn't the best time for this conversation," she ventured, thinking of Dean and Sam in the rafters, waiting to pounce. "Let's go back to talking about you."
But now Julia/S.D. had ammo, and she planned to let fly. Jo scrunched her features, trying to block out all sound. "And a hunter! But you didn't tell Julia what he hunts, did you? You kept that little secret to yourself . . . but I know. I know this face! And I'll tell you something else. Hunters, especially this one, only love one thing—and it's not you."
"Yes," Jo agreed. "I'm aware of this. Thank you for putting salt in the wound."
She was fairly certain that the boys had had plenty of preparation time. Why weren't they executing the plan?
This plan, Jo thought darkly, was getting worse by the second.
"You'll die loving him," Julia/S.D. hissed. "And he'll die without a thought for you."
Jo didn't get the chance to answer, since this was when the Winchester boys tumbled out of the ceiling and landed heavily on top of her captor.
Well, that was that then.
Jo watched Julia disappear into the ambulance (bad fall from the hay loft, officer, will she be okay?) and tucked her hands across her chest. So much for a quiet birthday.
"Jo? You all right?"
She smiled at the Winchester brothers, letting Sam give her a hug. "Fine . . . I'll have an Indian burn on my wrist for years to come, but . . . fine." Dean grinned at her, suddenly letting his eyes scroll over her. Jo was hyper aware of him and cocked her head. "Dean," she scolded, "I said I'm fine."
He didn't answer, just shrugged. Sam rolled his eyes. "Do you want to go out with us somewhere?" He prompted in the awkward silence. "To celebrate?"
She frowned. "No ghosts?" She asks. "No fights, no insensitive comments, no digging up a past that will make our relationship even more complicated?"
Sam stretched out his hand, clasping her own with finality. "No complications," he declared firmly. "Promise."
She was almost good.
Five rounds later, Jo had made it all the way to her front stoop before she found herself blurting, "Wait. Do you guys want to come in? I'll get you some coffee."
Sam and Dean looked at each other—Sam too far gone to have any real decision-making skills and Dean too amused to say no. And so she let them in (stupid, stupid) and tried making coffee (but it wasn't her fault that the stupid thing wouldn't stop rocking back and forth!) before Dean tag-teamed in and ordered her to sit on the couch.
"I don't know why he's sober," she complained to Sam, resting her head happily in his lap. "Isn't he usually the one who can't see straight?"
Sam snorted, and then placed hand on his head. "Holds alcohol well," he explained. "Used to liquor."
About three rounds into the celebration, Sam had decided that apparently subjects weren't that important to sentence structure. Jo hadn't seen hide or tail of one since he tipped back that fateful Jose Cuervo.
"Well, he's stupid," she declared after much thought. But Sam wasn't paying attention—he was too busy drooling all over her brand-new couch. Jo climbed to her feet, walking through a maze of spinning rooms until she found Dean. He was sitting at her kitchen table, eyebrows raised as she stumbled onto his lap. "Couldn't find a chair," she explained numbly.
His voice was laced with humor. "That's a very common problem."
"You're comfy," she added "More comfy than my chairs. They're made of wood. You're made of soft."
"Not just soft," Dean teased, "But the best year for soft."
Jo thought about that. "I'm made of stupid," she told him finally, nodding once at her decision, but before he could interrupt she added, "Look, I'm just going to throw this out there, and I mean you can take it or just throw it right back: I want to be on you."
Dean blinked at her for a second, not seeming to understand. Then he grinned. "That was simpler than I thought it would be," he declared, before his mouth landed on hers.
Jo vaguely knew that they were stumbling into the bedroom and she was tearing at his clothes and he'd long since stripped her of hers; all she could think was that Dean Winchester was kissing her and laying her on the bed and boy, was it hot in here or was that just her?
"Owwwwww. Owowowowowow." Jo blinked away the morning sun, diving beneath her pillow. "Go away, world."
A deep chuckled resonated from beside her, and Jo froze. Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God. She picked up some random guy last night after the party and—
No. Wait. She came home with Dean and Sam last night. Which meant . . .
Jo gulped. Please let that be Sam, she thought. If it were Sam, they could both chalk it up to liquor, no harm done, true blue friends and all that. But if it were Dean . . .
"Hi, Dean." Jo kept her head underneath the pillow. "So, this might sound a little awkward, but . . . are you naked?"
His hand reached out to run up and down her spine. "Yes."
She considered that. "And are we naked in the way that I think we're naked?"
"Is there more than one way to be naked?"
He laughed. "All right, all right. I think so."
She emerged from the pillow but couldn't muster the courage to actually look at him. "Is this a bad thing?" She managed meekly. "I mean, is this going to be one of the complications that we were so desperately avoiding? Because I'll tell you what, buddy, you and I can't handle any more of those."
Dean shrugged, rolling over so that she had to look at him. He pressed his mouth onto hers and began to trail little kisses on her jaw and neck. "Not sure," he admitted cheerfully. "Depends."
Jo struggled to concentrate. This was not fair. She tucked her head under his chin to stop him. "On what?"
She felt him chuckle and arched an eyebrow. He looked at her very sincerely as he said, "Do you still think I'm trouble?"
Jo thought about that for a second. "Yes," she decided.
Dean seemed to think that was fair. "Well, then, Jo, the only question is . . . " here he shook free and continued to kiss her, ". . . do you like trouble?"
And Jo didn't answer, exactly, but she was pretty sure that Dean got the message.
"Yes, I like trouble. I like trouble very much."