If you're looking for one of those hot-sex fanfics, you've come to the wrong place. Sorry. (But not really. Call me old-fashioned.)

I'm a hardcore Dean/Jo shipper.

And Jo and Ruby are my favorite girls.

So here's the story.

Sorry in advance for the typos.

It gets better after the first two chapters. Would you mind bearing with me?

No rights to Supernatural.

Jo was beginning to think that maybe she'd made a mistake.

When she'd passed out from blood loss, too weak to even tell her mom she loved her, she'd been accepting of the fact that she would die.

But here she was, fixed, new and improved. But she felt sick inside, like her guts actually would spill out of her body this time.

She wasn't sure whether or not you were supposed to dream when you were passed out, or if that was the work of the creature that made the deal with her.

"Oh, sweetie," she'd pouted in mock sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"What are you talking about?" she'd spat in reply.

"Look at yourself."

Jo had, and in her dream thing, she was just as bloody and torn up, the difference being she didn't feel the pain it was causing her back in the real world.

"We really got you good, didn't we?"

Jo was suddenly embarrassed that the forces of evil she'd spent so long overpowering had put her in this condition.

"It's a shame," the being in her dream had shaken her head at this. "He finally liked you."

"What?" she barked.

"Oh, you know, Dean. You spend all these years pining for him from afar, and he finally likes you. And now, he might never get a chance to love you."

Jo hung her head and tried not to let this affect her.

"But what if you had years to live? Years to see where this thing with Dean takes you?"

Jo had looked up absentmindedly and tried to push down the hope that had risen in her. "He only kissed me because I was dying."

"Maybe that's just what it took to help him realize he loved you. I mean, he has an impressive string of women in his life. Maybe you all bloody and dying is what it took to make you stand out from the pack."

Jo stared at the thing heavily. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"To sweeten the deal."

"What deal?"

This is what the thing was getting it. It was obvious in the way she straightened, like a villain finally able to reveal her motives to the ones she'd been stringing along. She crossed her arms tightly and slinked toward Jo, eyeballing her seriously.

"You can get your life back. At least for a while. And all I want is—"

"My soul," Jo finished for her. "Yeah, right. Get lost. How can a crossroads demon walk dreams?"

"Maybe I'm not a crossroads demon," she suggested intriguingly.

Jo looked over the woman. She looked human, short haircut with a one-note dye job, late thirties, and customary slimy attitude that most evil creatures with a grasp of the English language possessed. She looked like a crossroads demon, not that she'd ever seen one. But what else could she be?

"What are you, then?" Jo asked.

"Now, now. Where are your manners, Joanna?" the thing patronized. "What I am is of no import to you. What does matter is your answer. Do you want to live again?"

"I don't want to go to hell," Jo had proclaimed assuredly.

"I don't want that for you either, honey," the thing had assured her.

"You aren't planning to come for me in ten years and drag me to my doom?"

"No, honey, no," she said affectionately. "You can have your life back, and then never see me again."

"Well, you know what they say about things that seem too good to be true."

"You're a smart girl," she had nodded. "Don't worry, there's a kicker. I won't bring back your mom."

"What? Why?"

"That's another one of the things that's none of your business."

"No, don't think you can sign off my mom's death sentence and I'd just go along with it quietly. Make this deal with my mom instead."

"You think that's heroic, do you?" she had raised an eyebrow. "Do you think mommy dearest would like knowing that her darling daughter gave up her chance at life for her?"

"She doesn't have to know."

"Maybe not," she shrugged. "Too bad she's already dead."


"Yup," she had stated matter-of-factly, no remorse in her voice. "She's gone. And I can't get her back. Now take it or leave it, honey."

Jo was not willing to accept that. "You can bring me back, can't you?"

"No, actually," she had revealed. "I can't bring people back from the dead."

"Aren't I . . . ?"

"No, sweetheart. But you're closing in. So you better hurry up and decide."

And, well, here she was.

She didn't know why she felt so sick about the situation. She thought she understood at first. She'd woken up in a pile of rubble, all put back together, like a miracle. No scars, no bruises, not even the ones she'd retained from the past, nor the ones from the explosion that should have killed her.

And then she'd looked to her right, and there were the remains of her mother.

That's why she felt so sick, she decided. That was at least one reason, wasn't it?

Without a mother's house to run to, she was walking towards the only other place of solace she could think of.

The Winchesters' house.

Well, Bobby's house. But she suspected the Winchester's would be there. If not, scouring every motel across the country didn't seem realistic, so she'd probably just stay with Bobby until she pulled herself together and could go hunting again. It's not like she had money for a motel for herself right now.

She'd been walking for a while. She could have hotwired a car, but stealing wasn't her thing. Besides, with death so potent and strikingly possible now, she felt like being a good girl.

Her feet were sore by the time Bobby's house was in sight. She didn't know when she'd developed the limp she was now sporting.

A black Impala was in the driveway. The Winchesters were there.

Jo hadn't been nervous about dropping in. I mean, Sam and Dean hadn't exactly seemed happy at the prospect of her dying, of voluntarily exploding herself to save herself from what was chasing her.

What if those weren't hounds?

The thought suddenly sprung to her mind, as if unbidden. I mean, they were invisible. What if those weren't hounds? She couldn't see them, after all. What if they were just there to put her in that position, the position to make a deal?

Get over yourself, Jo thought to herself. That mission was not all about her. That mission was to fight some big, strong evil thing that any old hunt would have brought about.

Jo shook the thought away as she approached the porch. Nervousness started to well up inside her, but she shoved it away before it became too notable. They would be happy to see her, she assured herself. She knocked on the door assuredly, three times, even intervals between the raps.

She waited for several seconds. After about a minute passed, she knocked again, three times, with shorter intervals of separation.

She didn't think much of it. Of course they'd be skeptical of opening the door.

Jo wasn't going to give up. She continued waiting.

After about two minutes of waiting and knocking and waiting and knocking, the door swung open. It wasn't hesitant, more like whoever opening it was ripping off the metaphorical band-aid.

It was Dean.

He looked older already, like the time without her had aged him, and that possibility brought a smile to her face. (So maybe she was still pining. Old habits die hard.) He was in a three-fourths sleeve tan shirt and jeans, and it looked good on him.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, and lips parting, not as if to say something, just because whatever was holding his lips together seemed to be dissolved with her appearances.

"Hey, Dean," she chuckled weakly. A whole string of emotions was set off when she saw him again, after believing she wouldn't ever again, not in this life. She didn't bother making sense of them now. She was too busy anxiously awaiting his response, what he'd do first when he found words.

"Jo?" he asked, voice emotionless, indiscernible.

"Yeah, it's me," she confirmed, her smile spreading through her features.

And then Dean promptly shut the door in her face.