A/N: In this 'verse, the Roadhouse didn't burn down in All Hell Breaks Loose and Jo didn't die in Abandon All Hope. Assume Dean and Jo are teetering on the edge of together, but not an actual couple.
For Silverspoon and WelshWitch1011...as much as Steph brought me to Supernatural, these ladies brought me to Dean and Jo.
Where would I be without stephaniew? Lost. Many, many thanks to my friend, beta and co-conspirator... Check out her stories!
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
It's a slow night at the Roadhouse and Jo Harvelle is restless. When she's restless, she looks for entertainment. Much to her mother's chagrin, she's been hustling pool since she was eleven. The $100 she pockets off a drunk college kid misfortunate enough to have fallen for the innocent way she had batted her eyelashes is the bounty from her third mark of the night. Smiling, she walks over to the bar and orders a beer.
Dean Winchester leans on his elbow, his fingers circling a bottle of his own. Having arrived only ten minutes earlier, he has yet to remove his jacket. He shakes his head and tosses a wry smile Jo's way as he tilts the bottle to his waiting mouth. "Poor bastard didn't even have a chance, did he?"
Jo takes a sip of her beer, cocks her head to the side and grins at him. "Nope."
"That's my girl," he says cockily.
She shivers at the dark, possessive tone of his voice. Would that she were his girl. Then they could stop dancing around and just get on with it already. After a handful of kisses - mostly in tense situations - she's tired of standing still.
"When'd you get back?" she asks, peeling the corner of her label. She doesn't dare to look at him.
He slips the beaten leather from his shoulders, throws it over the back of the bar stool and scrubs at the stubble on his chin. "Only stopped long enough to take a shower," he answers. Truth was he'd missed her. He'd thought about calling but hadn't wanted to appear over eager or too interested. Playing it cool is completely new to him...but he's enjoying it.
Dean licks his lips and rubs his thumb over them. He rolls up his sleeves as he inches toward Jo. "How about a game of eight ball?" he offers.
She considers it for a moment, leaning back against the bar with both elbows. "What're the stakes?" she asks.
"Anything you want," he says casually.
"Anything?" she questions. Raising a brow at him, she smiles.
"Winner chooses the prize," he voices.
"You sure that's a good idea?" she asks, her eyes narrowing, "I mean I did just take a couple preppies for over 200 smackers..."
Dean laughs. "Bring it, blondie," he answers, his eyes twinkling.
"Alright then," she responds, shaking her head as she finishes her beer. She pushes off the bar and heads back to the felt-lined table. "Rack 'em, Dean-O," she toys saucily, "But just remember, you asked for it."
Dean sets things up and reaches for a cue. It isn't until Jo leans over the table to break that he realizes that she's wearing a short skirt and heels. He wonders if this is normal when he's not around. He tries to think if he's ever seen her dressed like this before - in a scooped neck t-shirt with tiny buttons that reveals a hint of... Whoa. That's how she'd done it.
"Dean?" she says, coming to stand in front of him. Raising her fingers in V-formation, she points. "My eyes are up here, big guy."
Dean shakes his head to dispel the image. He needs to think of something else. Fast. It's times like these he realizes it's a shame he's not into baseball. "You play dirty, Harvelle," he mutters, looking into her dark eyes. "This your own personal version of cutthroat?"
Jo shrugs. "If the shoe fits," she answers. Sidling closer, she lays a hand on his arm. They're so close, she swears she can hear his heartbeat over the jukebox. He smells like aftershave and leather. Their noses almost touching, she adds, "I seem to recall someone telling me that I should use every trick I could to gain an advantage..."
"Damn," he nods. "Guess I did say that, didn't I? Who knew you actually listened."
She slides the rack and pulls the plastic free. Bending forward again, she calls her shot and two more before it's Dean's turn. "Must have been an off day," she observes.
He can't help but watch as she leans her cue against the table and stretches to pull her hair into a messy ponytail. The movement causes her top to stretch across her breasts and forces the fabric to cling tightly to the curves of her body.
Jo watches him set up his shot. The flannel of the old button-down hugs the breadth of his shoulders. It molds to him and makes her long to feel his taut muscles beneath her hands.
Catching her looking, Dean unbuttons the top three buttons and reaches back behind his head to pull it off. His undershirt rides up with it and she catches a look at his toned abs and smooth back. He smirks. Two could play at this game.
"Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're doin'," she warns, a hand resting on her hip.
"Sweetheart, if I was up to something, you'd know it," he feigns innocence, taking his next shot. The shot falls short and he watches her mouth form a tiny circle as she whistles.
"You really oughtta be more careful than that, princess," she teases. "Ya sure you don't need help setting up your next one?" She leans to make the shot and he stands over her, folding around her so they're cheek to cheek. It's not until she draws the stick back that he speaks, his breath burning against her neck.
"Honey, I don't miss," he whispers.
They watch as the ball hits its target, but the balls it hits doesn't go where Jo is expecting. It sails over the edge of the table and rolls along the hardwood floor. Dean chases it down, grinning ear to ear as he palms it. The 8 ball. The ball that, when knocked off the table, cost Jo the game...and won him the bet. It had ended more quickly than he thought. He had expected to be at this for a while - flirting, tormenting each other like they had been for months.
"Son of a bitch," she mutters, shaking her head as he returns to the table. "You cheated!"
Dean places the ball on the table and rolls it toward her. "It seems you're the one who should be more careful," he says with a smile.
"I want a mulligan," she demands. "That wasn't fair."
"Life isn't always fair, Jo," he answers.
"Dean," she pouts, trying to convince him. "Come on..."
He smirks. Taking her cue, he lays the pair of them on the table before turning back and wrapping his arms around her waist. "So," he says in a husky tone. "About my prize."
She rolls her eyes and tries to keep her cool as she raises her arms to circle his neck. "Why do I have a feeling I'm gonna be sorry?"
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through her body as it lights his face. "I dunno..."
"Hey, Jo?" the bartender calls out. "Can you come here a minute?"
She sighs, unsure of whether she should be upset or relieved. "Yeah," she yells back. "I'm coming."
He watches as she gets to work. He sits at the end of the bar, nursing a beer as she manages an unruly drunk while serving other customers. There'll be plenty of time to finish what they started later. This just gives him a chance to think about it further...though he's pretty sure he's already made up his mind. The idea makes him grin around the mouth of the bottle.
At closing time Dean follows her around, helping her put up the chairs and stools. He watches as she checks the work of the staff, ensuring that everything has been properly cleaned and put away. Finally satisfied, she reaches for the light switch to find Dean's hand over hers. He stands at her back, their bodies in alignment. It would take nothing to lean against him, melting into his chest, but she controls herself. Being alone with this Winchester is dangerous.
He turns her to face him, his fingers brushing along her jawline. She tucks her hands behind her back and focuses on the tiny freckle on his lower lip.
"Jo," his voice is hushed.
"We're alone," she teases. "You don't have to whisper."
Dean tilts her face up to his. Alone. Finally. "I missed you," he tells her. He leans in, wanting to feel the warmth of her lips beneath his. It's been more than a week and, as far as he's concerned, a single day without touching her - kissing her - was too long.
"Are you hungry? I could fix you..." Jo asks, brushing past him and heading into the kitchen at the back of the Roadhouse. She's nervous. She needs a distraction.
He laughs heartily and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes mock her. "The last time I suggested you make me a sandwich, you told me to fuck myself."
"Dean, come on..." she retorts sweetly as she reaches out to place a hand on his chest.
He takes it, kissing her wrist, his eyes flashing wickedly. "Are you afraid, Jo?" he questions as he places her arms around his neck and pins her to the counter.
"No," she answers, biting her lip and shaking her head. She lets out a shaky breath, cursing herself for not sounding more confident.
The left side of his mouth twitches upward in the way she finds irresistible. She looks down to see his hands curling around her waist. She feels the heat of his breath on her neck as he whispers in her ear. "Are you gonna chicken out?"
She knows the danger in the words that are about to pass her lips, but she says them anyway. Raising her eyes to his, she asks, "What do you want?"
He grins because he's been waiting for this moment. "Anything?" he asks, his tone puckish as he goads her. "Whatever I want?"
She nods. "I do believe that was the agreement," she says ruefully.
He steps back, holding her at arms length. "Dance for me," he says.
She laughs at him and pushes out of his arms. "That's you're big request?" she asks. "Really, Dean? I gave you way more credit..."
Rubbing his hands together, he charms her with a smile and she knows she's in trouble. "But not just any dance," he says slowly. He pulls out his iPod and scrolls through his playlist. "I want a lap dance."
Her chin drops. "You can't be serious..."
"Oh, I'm deadly serious," he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he cocks his head to the side.
She gulps in air as she looks around the room. "Here?" she chokes, her eyes widening. "Now?"
Dean laughs. "No time like the present."
"What about Mom?" Jo asks. Good Lord, if Ellen caught them...
His fingers stroke down her arms. "She's with Bobby," he replies.
"And Sam? Shouldn't he be home any minute?" she stalls, as she paces the floor. Her thumb strokes the palm of her other hand. She meets his eyes, hopeful that his answer will get her off the hook.
"Sammy's looking into a case. He won't be back for a couple days," he answers smoothly.
Defeated, Jo stares at him. "Do I at least get to pick the song?" she asks, reaching out to snatch the player.
"Nope, my fantasy, my rules," he replies, pulling it to his chest. "Besides, driver picks..."
"...the music," she finishes with a huff.
He hits play. Of course it would be this song, she thinks to herself as the AC/DC tune comes through the speakers. Turning to him, she pulls out a chair. Moving in time to the intro, she walks him into the seat. When he reaches for her, she shakes her head, "Uh-uh, Dean-O. Hands off." He wants a show, I'll give him a show, she thinks.
She shimmies in front of him, sliding a long leg out to the side as she glides her hands up her body. Swiveling her hips, she approaches him. The music a road map, she moves side to side, coming to straddle him with her "American thighs" at just the right moment.
She hovers just over his lap, one hand over his shoulder gripping the chair back as she pushes the other up her neck to remove the elastic from her ponytail. She tilts her head back, shaking her honey-colored hair free as she thrusts her breasts into Dean's face. Squatting over him, she pulls her shirt over her head and makes a show of twirling it above her before tossing it on the floor.
Dean can't draw his eyes away from the lacy cups of the pale pink bra that covers her breasts, nor can he keep his mouth from going dry at the sight of her body. The urge to touch her is maddening as she gyrates in his lap.
Watching Jo take control is intoxicating and he feels his jeans tighten. He longs to discover if this little game is affecting her. He looks at the creamy expanse of thigh revealed by the denim skirt she's wearing. He considers a little adjustment to find out, sure that he could accidently come in contact with her panties by doing so. Her body, the song, the way she's moving...it's all making him crazy. Dean knows exactly who he wants to be shaking all night long.
She smirks, enjoying his expression. The hunger in his eyes makes her feel powerful, wanted. It drives her on, makes her work him over that much harder. His hands on her hips, grinding her body against his, cause her to moan. "How's this working for you?" she purrs, her lips millimeters away from his.
Not that she needs to ask. She can feel how it's working for him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, angles his head back and strokes her tongue over his pulse point. She licks her lips, tracing over his with her thumbnail. Smirking, she pulls away as he turns his head in an attempt to kiss her palm. "Ya know..." she says thoughtfully.
"Hmm?" he answers, leaning toward her in effort to bring her mouth to his.
She feels his fingers brush lightly up her back and shudders, moving to claim his earlobe with her mouth. Her breath is hot on his ear as she whispers, "You could have had me with that whole end of the world speech..."
His eyes snap to hers. She's got his attention now. She wiggles, sliding her fingers into her own hair as she bites her lip. "Mmm," she mumbles. "I wanted you," she says, appealing to his ego as she continues to writhe in his lap. "I even thought about crawling into bed with you that night."
He gulps. His eyes have darkened almost to black and he moans as she drags his t-shirt off and presses her body close to his. The skin to skin contact - friction of the lace scratching against his bare chest - is almost too much.
"I still do..." She traces over his tattoo with her fingertips before her tongue flickers out to trace the star at it's center. "What would you have done, Dean?" she asks wantonly. "Would you have taken me?" She moves against him again, ruffling his hair. "Or would you have sent me away?"
"You're treading on thin ice," he warns, his voice knife sharp as he struggles to maintain his composure. How was it that five foot four inches of blonde had turned him into a teenager all over again? He's close. Too close. He doesn't want this to be over...not before it really has a chance to start.
"Answer the question, Dean-O," she laughs. "Do." - wiggle - "You." - thrust - "Want." - swivel - "Me?"
He groans, gritting his teeth. "Yes," he moans. "God, yes."
She smiles. "Good," she husks against his lips. "We have only one problem then..."
Problem? Did she just say problem? How was that a problem? Think, Dean. Think! He couldn't focus. He felt vulnerable. Exposed. Naked even though he was still largely dressed. "Problem?" he squeaks as she continues to move fluidly in his lap.
"Mmm hmm," she answers. "As an only child, I'm no good at sharing."
He manages to kiss her chest, his mouth moving to her throat as his hands move to the clasp on her bra. He grunts when she tugs him closer. "I haven't thought about anyone else since the first time we kissed," he confesses.
Her tongue scrapes over her lips as she pulls back until they're looking at each other. "Not even the Double Mint twins that came into the Roadhouse before you left?" she questions.
"There were twins in the bar?" he teases her.
She swats at him playfully before continuing to move against him, pushing every last button she's discovered tonight.
"Easy, babe..." he hisses. "You gotta slow down or I..."
She moves against him, tormenting him with languid motions before picking up the pace. It's deliberate now. She listens to him moan and gasp, watches the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes slam shut and he bites his lip as he stills her hips with his hands.
"You just learned something new about me, Dean-O," she says as she gets up. Grinning innocently, she plucks at his lips before grabbing her t-shirt.
Air passes through his lips, but does not form words. He's speechless. No woman - not even the girls he messed around with in high school - ever made his body respond like that. He was a sticky mess. Finally, he manages to string the words together. "What's that?" he inquires.
Bending, she presses her lips to his ear and whispers, "I like to be on top..."