Title: You're The Reason Our Kids Are Ugly.

Honestly, he'd only wanted a beer.

One single, lousy, beer that was cold and came from something other than the cooler in the back seat. And maybe forty-five minutes worth of not driving and not listening to Sam ramble. If there was a pretty girl nearby or a pool table with a sucker attached or even a dart board, that was gravy too, but beer. Beer.

There wasn't much in this part of Utah, and had the heavens been kinder - Ha, fucking HA - Dean wouldn't have much party to it. Too bad it was between points F and R, so there he was (with Sam), and hallelujah: BAR.

There isn't an actual sign, as such. Just a lit neon advertisement for PBR and three guys in trucker hats smoking next to the cactus by the door. They give the Impala a steely eye as it pulls in, but quickly go back to their smokes and their bullshitting. The place is grungy in the way of the best bars, with a gravel parking lot that's half-full and a great view out the grimy windows of absolutely nothing. Okay, there was a tree across the road, but it looked pretty scraggly.

If Dean were at all sentimental or the bitch his brother is, the place'd probably feel like home or something. But he's not, so he just walks past the smokers, trailing Sam like a crabby duckling, and slides in the front door.

He is greeted by the soothing tones of Creedence Clearwater Revival and the backview of a tiny, blonde bartender. With a phenomenal ass.

Sam grunts crankily as Dean stops cold, appreciating his good fortune. It's not something he's had a lot of lately. Which, really, should have told him something.

"Dean, move." Sam's voice is loud in the open area, fueled by six hours in the car and three shitty years. Dean just shoots him a level glare and turns back to move towards that vision in skin-tight jeans.

Creedence wails in the background about a bad moon and they're not fucking kidding because who else but Jo Harvelle is staring at him. The same Jo he hadn't seen in close to three years. The one he'd left pissed, and throwing rocks at the tail end of the Impala.

"Jo!" Ever captain obvious, Sam squeaks behind him, only to be drowned out by an ungodly wail. His hands are reaching for his Colt and eyes scanning the partially-full bar before the sound actually registers in his brain. He doesn't draw because he can see the protective sigils above the bar disguised on football pennants. Just keeps his hand on the butt and watches as Jo ducks under the bar, completely disappearing from sight, before standing back up. Only she's holding something when she stands.

A kid. All ruffled hair and crabby tears, it faceplants into her shoulder hard, even as it wraps itself around her upper body.

It's Jo. With a kid. And from the absolutely pissed off expression on her face, Dean's got a sinking feeling about just where this is all going. That she hauls back with the mostly-full bottle of Jack in her hand pretty much confirms it. His last thought before a spectacularly aimed bottle makes contact with his head is Holy, shit, I'm still in Hell, aren't I?

"You know you're a fucking bitch, right?"

"Stop your whining and keep the icepack on your head."

"Why is it, whenever I see you, you give me head wounds?"

"Considering the rugrat in the corner, do you really need an answer to that question?"

"Yeah. About that..."

"Yes, you asshole, he IS yours!"


"Well, your dick-"

"You said you were on birth control! I used a condom!"

"I don't fucking know! You think I was excited and thrilled about this? That I pulled my head out of the toilet - because that's how I spent six months of my goddamn life because of you - and started singing about rainbows and puppies and imagined you'd come sweep me off my feet and we'd live in a castle somewhere! Are you retarded!"

"You've been wanting to get that out for months, huh?"

"Little bit. Don't judge, I have to live with my mother."

"Aw, shit."

"Yeah. For the past year. And there is nothing worse than dealing with Ellen Harvelle in full-on "No, shit, I was RIGHT, KID." mode with added toddler."

"I'm sorry I didn't call?"

"No you aren't."

"No, I'm not. Look... what do you want to happen now?"

"Oh, come on. Do you-? Holy, shit, you actually think I want you to marry me or something like that, don't you?"

"You don't?"

"Dean. I hate to break it to you, but you're a jackass asshole who's given me zero reason to like you, let alone want to raise a child with you. For the few times we've been in each other's presence, you belittled my chosen career-"

"Hunting is a call-"

"Don't you fucking start! You belittled my career choice, called me a rank amateur, used me as bait, fucked me behind a bar, dropped me on my ass, and didn't call me for close to two years. Oh, and you got me pregnant with a Winchester. That's like painting a fucking demonic target on my forehead with paint you can see from orbit. I had to move to fucking Utah so I could be surrounded by enough salt to keep supernatural activity down to once-a-week!"


"Yeah, oh. Jesus."

"If it makes you feel better, I spent three months in Hell."


"Yeah. And Sam died. And I got ripped to pieces by hell hounds."

"I spent thirty hours in labor because your kid had a head the size of a cantelope. And didn't get to die at the end of it."

"Also, Ellen."

"That really can't be understated."

"You know, I never imagined having a kid."

"Not surprised."

"I mean. A kid."


"That's like huge."


"...what the fuck do I do from here?"

"Why the hell are you asking me?"

"That's a stupid question."

"Fair enough. I have no idea. I mean, we've been getting on fine. The bar's doing well. Turns out dry country means more people willing to sneak off on a Saturday."

"Do you... do you want me to stick around for a few days?"

"I guess I shouldn't say no. I mean, it's kinda fair for you to get to know him. JoDean's a pretty awesome kid."

"...what the fuck!"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I named him JoDean. Thought it was appropriate. You might want to breathe there. That is a rather attractive shade of white."

"You named my son JoDean!"

"No, you ass. His name's Matthew."

"You've gotten a lot bitchier in the last couple years."

"I'm taking that as a compliment because I gave you another concussion."

"I am sorry."

"Hey, these things happen. A lot of it has been shit and hard, but it's been good too. Matt's pretty awesome, even if he's hitting the terrible two's with a goddamn baseball bat."

"I'd be more surprised if the kid behaved well."

"Given the source material, you've got a good point. I don't know, Dean. There's a lot to consider. I'm not going to kick you out and tell you that you can't visit. Especially now that you know. But you really need to think about this. About all of it. We've had three demons get as close as the third salt ring in the last six months."

"It... Jo, I don't know how much you know about what's going on-"

"Enough. Enough to know that half my contacts aren't picking up the phone and I'm pretty sure it's not because I pissed any of them off."

"It's war, Jo."

"And you're right in the middle."

"Front row seat."



"You know, I never thought I'd say it, but thank God for Utah."

"So, yeah. A lot to think about."

"Well this is all fucking depressing. Can we go back to the insults for a bit?"

"In a minute. I just... do you need money or something? I don't have much but-"

"Er.. no, it's fine. It's not a problem."

"Are you sure? I can dig something up. For like diapers or something. Or food. A bike?"

"He's two, dumbass. But no, we're fine."


"Trust me, you helped."


"Uh... well."

"What? What did you do?"

"Ripped you off to the tune of $300,000. You might want to contact a lawyer. Identity theft is just rampant these days, Dean Winchester."

"You fucking bitch!"

"Remind me why we didn't stay in touch?"