Author's Notes: Eh. I felt like it.
No You Won't
Who I am going to see tomorrow!
As a matter of fact, he does call her.
She's too startled not to answer; she'd wanted to make him leave a message. But his name flashing across her cell phone is such a shock that she can't resist—knowing he wouldn't call unless something horrible happened, doubting he'd remember her if it did. But there was his name, and that was his voice spilling over her speakers.
"I just wanted to let you know that Sam's okay," he said hesitantly, and she can see him in her mind's eye perched on the corner of his bed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, we, uh … we got the demon, and …" A beat. "He's really sorry, Jo."
She almost laughs at that, because only Dean would think that hearing 'I'm sorry' from someone's older brother makes it all go away. "I know," she answers.
"It wasn't Sam."
"I know." There's a longer pause, in which she can faintly hear the shower going in the background, rumbling just under Dean's slow exhale of breath. Jo leans against the bar, wincing a little as she bumps one of her sore wrists against the cold metal. It's not exactly an awkward silence, only an unbearable one; she can tell that Dean would rather be anywhere than on the other end of that telephone and she can't stand being his obligation. Jo doesn't know how to make this man part of her life without letting him become her life.
She doesn't know how to take his self-satisfied smirk and turn it into exasperation; how to take his dumb innuendos and turn them into friendly banter. She doesn't know how to stand on whatever middle ground he offers her, because the grass is so much greener everywhere else.
"If you need anything," he begins, but she cuts him off.
"Look, I appreciate you calling," she tells him honestly. "I'm really glad Sam's okay. But you don't … I'm not …" she trails, off, frustrated, not sure how to tell him what's on her mind. So she settles for saying what she's sure is on his. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to tell anyone what happened, and," she makes herself say it, "I know you don't really want to be having this conversation right now. It's okay."
There's a long silence. Jo knows that Dean wants to take what she's offered but feels guilty doing it; and just like everything else, she doesn't know how to make it okay if he hangs up just the way she doesn't know how to make it okay if he doesn't.
"I'm sorry," he says at last. "It's not, uh, it's not you."
She does laugh at that. "Wow, Dean. Breaking up with me before sex? That must be a new record for you."
"Well, I should be flattered. At least you're not sneaking out the window or handing me a tip."
She's satisfied to hear a small breath of laughter. It's not much, it's not even really anything, but it's more than she expected and probably a little of what he needs. "You just think you're so funny," he accuses good-naturedly, but there's a little hitch in his words.
Jo's tempted to say something comforting, something to make him understand that she can be there for him, help him, be more than just the feisty Harvelle girl who always wears shirts that don't cover her midriff. But she's not that person for Dean. Sam is that person for Dean.
Jo is just … Jo.
She can hear the shower shut off and knows that his mind has already flipped away from her, like it's on some sort of timer and she's just run out of seconds. She doesn't bother with a segue. At least this way she still has control. "Goodbye, Dean."
He doesn't miss a beat. "I'll see you around, Jo."
He still manages to hang up before she does and Jo sighs, looking down at her phone. His name is still illuminated in bright blue letters, flashing beside his picture. She snaps it shut and drops it into her purse.
"No you won't," she mutters.