Lost in the Wishing Well

It didn't take a six-pack of cheap beer and Zeppelin on the jukebox.

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all of the time if they were.

Rating: M

Pairing: Dean/Jo

Warnings/Spoilers: None

Beta(s): Just me and my mistakes.

A/N: Written for jadeblood.

It didn't take a six-pack of cheap beer and Zeppelin on the jukebox.

He was biding his time with a bottle of Cuervo and a pool table, holding out for the kind of luck that showed up wearing high heels and a smile. Waiting for a bow-shaped mouth that would whisper any name he gave her except his own, a warm body that would shudder around his fingers and his tongue – around him – long enough for him to get lost in the skin and hold back the scream that made his fingers twitch; to drown out a dead man's voice giving away the secret that turned everything into a lie.

In the end, all it took was some hick in a cowboy hat taking Dean Winchester for an easy mark.

One way of getting lost was just as easy as the other, his fist striking flesh when the bastard reached for the money they'd both slapped down on the table without taking the next shot. Didn't even recognize his own voice in the screaming that followed, the howl in the room undercut by the roar of Ellen's husky voice as Sam dragged Dean down the hall. Sam pushed him into the storeroom with a 'cool the fuck off' and left Dean alone with nothing but the pounding in his ears, staring down at his bloody knuckles while he worked his jaw.

The last thing he needed to see was Jo Harvelle.

She was standing in the doorway, backlit by the light coming in from the hallway, but he didn't look away once their eyes met. He didn't tell her to leave, even with the gruff refrain of 'never shit where you sleep, son' rushing through his veins and reasons of his own not to stay. He didn't tell her anything at all, just watched as she shut the door behind her and flicked the lock with one twist of her hand.

It might have been easier to say something if his breathing was normal instead of coming out in time to the ragged hitch of his shoulders.

Jo didn't say anything either, crossing the room with a frown on her face. She picked up his right hand in hers, brushing her fingertips across the knuckles before bringing them up to her lips. Her breath was hot against the bruised skin, a warmth against the ache that he didn't deserve, and she tilted her head to look up at him. Jo was wearing the same stubborn grin she had flashed the first day they met, entangling her fingers with his before she started a dance as inevitable as the promise he was going to break.

Not even the ghost of John Winchester would get that out of him.

He swallowed and rested his hands on her hips, catching the scent off of her hair as she lay her forehead in the crook of his neck. Underneath the smoke there was something clean that wasn't his to take no matter how willingly she offered it but her mouth had found the pulse underneath his ear and, shit, his hands were moving on their own underneath her t-shirt, rough skin teasing smooth until Jo hissed and dug her nails into his shoulders.

Her fingers fumbled at his waist. Dean could have stopped her, should have done something more than touch her wrist and clench his jaw when he heard the metallic scrape of the zipper. But there was no stopping when she was finally flicking her thumb across slick skin and dragging his breath into a stutter, doing things with her fingers that would have made a better man than him groan into her hair and beg for more.

His hand slipped inside her jeans between one gasp and the next, sliding past the down-covered cleft into the wet that was waiting for him.

Didn't take long after that.

Jo pushed him backwards against one of the shelves, fingers still working in time to his groans, and bit her lip. He had two fingers curled up inside her. They were a frenzied thing filling the room with salt and spunk and soft sounds, her whispers of 'fuck, Dean' and 'God, yes' glancing off the scar inside of his rib cage until she was clamping around his knuckles. It was the flush in her cheeks that did him in, the way Jo's hair curled around her face in little wisps from the sweat, and he came with a grunt; ropy strands pouring out into her hand right along with the guilt spreading out from his belly.

If anything could have split him open, it would have been her smile as she stood up on the tips of her toes and aimed for his mouth. She giggled when Dean turned his head, planting a kiss on the corner instead of full on the lips. But nothing could replace the numb for long, the way it crept through the empty spaces between them and left nothing but the memory of her eyes when Jo tried to kiss him for a second time.


She laughed, a tiny sound that turned smaller still when Jo Harvelle realized what kind of man was standing in front of her – a man who stole just enough innocence every night to keep a dead man's secret and the truth of that was scratched into his bones for anyone to see if they looked hard enough.

Jo narrowed her eyes and wiped her hands on her shirt before turning on her heel.

She unlocked the door, walking out of the storeroom as quietly as she had walked in.


The title of this story is a song lyric from "Wild Side" by Motley Crue.