Warnings: mild femslash, character death
Author: Lily Zen
Notes: Written for the LJ comment_fic prompt: Meg/Jo, twist and turn under the Love = 42 Words challenge. There are only forty-two words of dialogue in this entire piece.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
An instant before the explosion consumes her, she appears and says, "Do you want to live?" Jo, terrified, near death, and huddled against the still body of her mother in a frozen field of fire, shudders, nods jerkily, and whispers, "Yes." She looks like an angel as she leans down, long, brunette curls cascading around Jo's face, and takes her lips in the gentlest kiss. A moment later there's agony of a different kind as Jo watches the building burn from a safe distance, her savior's arms wrapped around her.
At first it's just a game, Meg's saving of the blonde haired hunter that the Winchesters seemed so fond of. She takes the girl's mouth with her own and sends her magic sliding down Jo's throat: healing, sinking inside her cells, awakening the latent talents in the girl. Jo will be her little witch now, and when Meg turns her against the brothers it will hurt them worse than any weapon or spell ever could. The mother's useless: she leaves her there to burn.
They go someplace calm and isolated, just the two of them. A cabin in the woods, far away from distractions, interruptions, or casualties. The magic hums in her blood, zings like lightening. Every time she works a spell and does it right, Jo feels a little storm coalesce and blow over within her, and the release of tension is intoxicating. For some reason the power dulls the pain of loss, distances it. She becomes another person under Meg's tutelage; she lives for the demon's proud smile. Somewhere along the way the lines blur, and Jo finds herself feeling more and more strangely every time her mentor is near. The lightening within her starts to travel south, the eye of the storm finding a home between her thighs, and when Meg stands too close to her it feels like the gales have stolen her breath. She remembers that kiss, replays it over and over in her mind, picking out every little detail and devouring them greedily until one day Meg puts her hand over Jo's heart-she's explaining something about a spell, so it's completely platonic-and something inside of Jo cracks. Her fingers tangle with Meg's as she croaks, "Please." Meg smiles, but it's different this time... A moment later her lips are occupied, and the thunder within her roars with satisfaction.
Meg thinks it's just sex, and power, and loneliness that ties them together. Demons can't feel more than that. She's forgotten that somewhere inside of her blackened soul lay the shattered remains of a human being. She curls her body-and when did it become a 'body,' not a meat suit?-around her little witch as the fire in the hearth dies down to smoldering embers. She runs her fingers through Jo's flaxen hair, and kisses her behind her ear. Meg's lips twitch upward as Jo stirs and murmurs, "Hm? What's up?" For some reason those words make her feel so warm inside in a place that hasn't been touched in centuries. A place she thought had been obliterated under the oppressive force of Hell's torturers. "Babe?" Jo asks, and reaches back, tangling her fingers with Meg's, and pulling their joined hands forward until her arm is looped around Jo's tiny, bare waist. "Better," her little witch sighs and drops back into slumber.
A month later Jo looks up from the altar and the scrying bowl, her eyes immediately landing on Meg. Her-what?-is lying on her stomach on the bed dressed in a t-shirt and her underwear, impervious to the frigid draft that seeps into the cabin from somewhere unidentifiable. One of these days Jo's going to have to hunt it down and figure out how to get rid of it. That's if they stay here much longer though. With that thought in mind, she puts to words what's been slowly piecing itself together. "You want to go after Sam and Dean, don't you?" Meg looks up from the notepad she's been doodling on, drawing strange symbols that Jo can't read just yet. Pursing her lips, Meg replies, "Eventually."
"When?" Jo asks, "It'll be winter soon. We'll be snowed in up here."
Meg slides off the bed, standing up, and pacing over to where Jo is kneeling in front of the coffee table turned magical altar. She stops when they're side by side and places her hand on Jo's head. Swallowing thickly, Meg manages to get out, "You're not ready. We'll train through the winter."
Jo nods, accepting the answer at face value. She leans her head against Meg's leg. It's solid and real; her hair tickles. Meg thinks again about pitting Jo up against the Winchesters, and she feels a terrible, gaping emptiness within her. The part of her that was once a person rails against the idea. She wants Jo safe, here, existing. She doesn't want her little witch to die like so many of her other comrades have. Whatever's left of Meg's humanity is entangled with Jo's presence, and she doesn't want to lose that.
This isn't a game anymore.