Disclaimer: I own niether Supernatural nor Jimi Hendrix.
Author's Note: Inspired by a mutual meshing or pure unnadulterrated boredom, and an inability to get Hey Joe out of my head.
She'd never been a stranger to firearms, her father making a day out of taking her over to that nearby junkyard, firing off a few rounds – for practice or just plain release. He'd thrust a glock in her tiny hands, too small to even grasp the butt, wrap his long callused fingers around hers, and aim, hold, steady now, shoot. Just so she'd get the feel for it, the weight in her hands, cool metal bite on her flesh, blast back to the bone of the recoil.
She didn't flinch once. Not at the noise. Not at the steady hum moving through her arms after firing. Not even at the sheer power of the thing, and she knew what kind of power it held, what kind of power she held when holding it.
Jo knew better than anyone what having a gun in your hand could do for a person. One minute she was a sweet petite blond, pretty face and wide bright smile all just asking, begging, for trouble. There wasn't a man on the planet, or a woman for that matter, who wouldn't have underestimated that innocent little face. Joanna Beth, cute kid, even in her twenties.
But strap on some heat and she's a force to be reckoned with. Tight, spindly muscles might help in a jam, and that shiny little knife she flips so effortlessly could make a good warning. But the end all be all, most empowering tool, most comfortable thing to grip in her hand, was a gun.
He found that out the hard way, waking up to a barrel leveled at his head, so close he thought she might just use it to poke out his eye. Worst thing he could have done in a situation like that was laugh.
Only thing he could do in a situation like that, was laugh.
But he'd only remembered her gun toting ways from the first time they met, years before. His first impression of her having been made by the cool hard barrel of a shotgun pressed to his spine. His second was her fist. Imagine which one stood out as the more dangerous entity.
He hadn't been around to see her handle weapons much after that, refusing to hunt with her, or, more precisely, refusing to allow her to hunt with them. She'd just have been another liability, of that he was convinced. Just another kid to look after. And hell, even through all her arguing and pouty postures, she could sense that was the truth. They had no business being around each other back then, back when she was young and reckless. And he was the same, just in a more competent package.
So he'd never really gotten to see her in action before. Never got to see the shift in her eyes, or the sharp firm clench of her jaw, powerful jut of the chin, when a gun rested in her hands, a target in her sights, finger ready on the trigger.
But he should have known all the same. Because there came a time when he knew her hands better than anyone. Or anything. He knew the strength of her grip, short nails digging into tender flesh, long, lithe fingers clenching, kneading, bruising, up and down his arms, biceps, shoulders. He knew there were times that they recognized no boundaries, tore into him from all angles, clamping his own hands in a dangerous vice, pinned to the bed, the floor, the table, the backseat, wherever it was she straddled him at the time.
And he knew the look in her eye. That no nonsense, don't fuck around with me, just fuck me look, that, ironically enough, was identical to her no nonsense, don't fuck around with me or else I'll fuck you up look. He just didn't realize that heat and passion were the same no matter what the object of desire, or destruction, was.
Jo didn't realize either, never having seen the fluid determination in her eyes, the strong, set, clicked contort to her face. And she didn't know her own strength or fierce tenacity, sometimes breaking into fits of giggles, other times simply staring, dumfounded at the bruises and scrapes that mottled his flesh when they were done. She had never been like that before, the most adamant and violent escapade of hers merely involving throwing a guy back into the wall before pouncing on him. Tame in comparison to the things she'd done with Dean, to Dean. Downright goody-two-shoes in comparison with the things she longed to do to Dean.
She never bothered to put two and two together, never bothered to open her eyes wide enough to see. He made her feel like she did when holding a gun. Strong and intense, threatening and controlled. Somehow he'd done it, made her feel like she had a loaded weapon in her hands, cocked, aim, and ready to go.
Winchester, just like the rifle.
And wouldn't you know it, her whole life, never once had a gun backfired on her. Never once had one knocked her flat on her ass. Until now.
He laughs and that only makes her angrier. Because she's serious, damn it. This isn't a fucking game. He tries to push her away, get up even as she straddles his middle. So she clenches her knees around him harder, cocks the gun, and watches as his smile vanishes.
"Jesus, Jo, what the fuck?" he spits, swatting at the revolver. "What are you doing?"
And he must think she's stupid or something, because he seems genuinely confused, truly lost for an explanation of why she might have a gun leveled at his face in the middle of the night.
She gives him a moment to let it settle, click into place. When it does his eyes grow wide as saucers. "Shit," he mumbles, looking to his left, to his right. "Shit." Because this isn't her place. It's her place, what's-her-name with the red hair and too much make-up. "Shit, shit."
Jo rolls her hips, swings her leg over and off of him and he immediately jumps up. "What are you," he starts, sputters, "what are you doing here? I mean…what…"
And she doesn't answer, only sits on the bed, soiled, wrinkled sheets.
"Look," he tries, noticing the gun, still cocked, in her hand, "this isn't…we're not…you know…shit." He turns away, attempts to slow down his thoughts enough to actually think them. When he turns back she's up on her haunches, crouched on the bed, .38 trained on him. "Jo…"
He feels the burn before he hears the explosion, ripping, searing burn of fire metal tearing through skin. It's probably not bad, he's had far worse, but, "Son of a bitch! Are you fucking crazy?!"
"You shot me!" And all at once he begins to wonder where the chick is, whatever her name is. Because if Jo shot him… No. No, she wouldn't.
"Quit whining," she says, breaking into his thoughts. "It's just a flesh wound."
She moves closer – aim, grabs his face in her hands – steady now – and kisses him, hard and unrelenting – shoot.
It's almost enough to wash away the pain.