Title: Home to Her

Rating: M for use of f-word and slight description of coupling.

Pairing: Dean/Jo (if you don't like it, don't read it)

Note: I wrote this at 1:00 am and I didn't proofread it. It wasn't meant to be great, and the style and grammar is probably wonky, but I like it. I love feedback, and, as long as it is constructive, I welcome criticism. Please no flaming or anything overtly hostile/hurtful.

She wasn't really sure which one of them warmed his bed at night. Ruby was mysterious, but fun, something Dean had always seemed attracted to. And Bela…Bela was cold and hard and merciless and she knew that called to a side of Dean he didn't always admit to.

No, she wasn't sure which one of them he was fucking, and she wasn't sure when it was she decided she had that much insight into a man she rarely saw, but she was sure of one thing. He came home to her.

The Roadhouse had been rebuilt. Brick and timber and glass, bit by bit, by Sam, Dean, Bobby, Ellen, and any other hunter who had heard about the fate of their old refuge. She had come as soon as she heard, her heart racing, sobbing for Ash's loss, and bursting with a joy for her mother's life that only a hurtful parting can bring about.

That first night had been a celebration. For those who were alive and for the lives of those who were lost. She fell into his bed, drunk and giggling, wanting him in a way she'd never wanted anyone. He'd been drunk too, he'd been celebrating and commiserating for awhile before she joined in, but he'd touched her like he'd known her body before. He'd touched her in ways that made her gasp and grip and sigh and ache, and he'd whispered her name so softly in her ear as he went rigid with release above her.

It had been a mistake. She knew it when the harsh light of morning woke them and he stared at her with guilt in his green eyes. She knew it when he tensed up, dressing with quick movements and refusing to meet her gaze. "Dean," she murmured, slipping off the bed, "Look at me."

A quick glance and he turned crimson. "Jesus, Jo, put on some damn clothes!"

She sighed, so different from the ones he'd caused just a few hours before, and picked up the tank top and pink panties she'd spotted on the ground. When covered, she'd turned back to find him staring at the soiled sheets of the bed. At the few drops of dried blood that gave evidence to what shouldn't have happened.


She stared back at him, face expressionless. She'd always wanted it to be special, to be with The One. High school hadn't brought her that guy, at college she was the freaky knife girl who was hit on by other freaks or guys looking to win a bet, and at the Roadhouse…The Roadhouse was always full of hunters looking for a one or two night stand, a girl easily lulled by beer and pizza and Zeppelin. She wasn't that type of girl, even though she knew he was that type of hunter.

But he was still The One.

"Wrong place, wrong time, Dean."

She was giving him the out he needed. Needed because she had been a virgin, and because he was determined to think of her as the little sister he never had. Needed, because if she pushed him on this, he'd never come back. And she needed him to come back.

So she slid on the jeans that a landed by the radiator and brushed past him, already half out the door before he made a move toward her. She winked, and the hand that he had stretched out dropped to his side. "Don't worry," she said, trying hard to keep a smile on her face, "I won't ever tell my mother."

He smiled back at that, and she remembered being glad even as the tears started to sting. "She'd kill me."


He and Sam were gone the next day. She settled back into life at the Roadhouse, safe as her mother could make her without being at a school hundreds of miles away. But she didn't think she could leave again, didn't think she could stand not being with Ellen and the saloon if something were to happen again. Didn't think she could stand not being in her mother's arms when she started dying at the news of Dean Winchester's death.

So she stayed, listening to the gossip, her ears sharp for tales of the Winchester boys, and trying to find a way out of Dean's deal with the crossroads demon. That was how she found out about the girls. She knew they were gorgeous, they'd been to the Roadhouse once, and the hunters still spoke about them with hushed, awed tones even while they made lewd comments about her ass and what they could do to her if she'd only ride back to the motel with them.

The news that Ruby and Bela had assisted the Winchesters or been assisted came more and more frequently, and she tried to tune it out even though it killed her a little bit every time. She knew he had to be doing unspeakable acts to one of them, he wouldn't be that type of hunter if he wasn't, but she wondered, in her heart of hearts, that part that wasn't saying Dean Winchester was a jackass, if he whispered her name with that slight hitch in his tone like he had when he'd breathed 'Jo' in her ear. If he whispered 'Bela' or 'Ruby' as if he couldn't quite figure out how he'd managed to get her beneath him, moaning and clutching at him as if he were the only man in the world who could possibly make her feel this way.

Somehow, she didn't think he did.

And now, he was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of beer and still not looking at her. She needed to know. Know if she should start encouraging that new mechanic of Bobby's, Brian, with his dark brown eyes and big, oil stained hands, who looked at her as if he wasn't sure she was quite real or if he was allowed to talk to her.

He pushed the bottle of beer aside and stood, almost as if he knew she was going to approach before she moved an inch. He finally glanced up; freckles obvious on his pale face, and his tired bloodshot eyes caught hers. She stepped forward, feeling hesitant, but he let her come to him, and he followed when she walked past him.

Her apartment out back was small. It hadn't changed since the last time she'd brought him here, drunk and giggling, but circumstances had. She watched as he lay his leather jacket down on the back of her sofa, and left his boots beside her bedroom doorframe. She stayed silent when he lay down on her bed and looked at her with those weary eyes.

Her apron came of easily, a quick pull of a string, and she shucked it toward her tiny computer desk with its rickety wood chair. Her shoes, practical for waitressing, were toed off and left just inside the door. She moved forward, sitting near his head, her back against the headboard, and placed a hand on his head.

Those too-old eyes stared at her, half guilty and half wistful, and she knew he was still The One and Brian would have to be let down gently. "Jo…" She closed her eyes at his whisper, at the hitch in his breath, and shook her head. He didn't need to say anything. She didn't need him to throw on the Dean Winchester charm and pretend everything was all right.

Because everything wasn't all right.

He was running out of time, and there was no solution in anyone's sights. She ran her fingers through his hair; absently noting it needed a trim, and felt him relax. When she opened her eyes he had closed his and his breaths were deep and even. And she decided it really didn't matter if he was fucking Bela or Ruby or a waitress or a nurse or whatever type of girl because he was that type of hunter.

He came home to her.