Chapter 1: Saving Souls
Summery: As Jo dies, someone is there, in the back of her mind, helping her cope.
Warnings: Spoilers/character death
A/N: Jo/Gabriel, I ship it. I own nothing etc etc. This is based off of Broken Halo Brigade, which is a former, deleted story of mine. So if any chapters bare resemblance to that short-lived pile of suckage - that would be why.
Even as the scent of blood, pain and fear filled the air, she could still recognize a cliche when she saw one. Hearing a voice in the depths of your mind as you lay dying - comforting you, distracting you - was a horrible cliche. It was typically reserved for cheap flicks and shitty novels. Yet, here she was - Johanna Beth Harvelle - listening to the smooth, sarcastic voice she only vaguely recognized.
"Hey!" The voice called as another wave of agony seized her body, "Pay attention to me, sweet cheeks, not the pain."
Jo grit her teeth, fuck, her subconscious was pushy, "I'm holding my guts in with an Ace bandage - not much but pain. Now go away." She wouldn't admit it, but listening to the strange voice hum in agreement made her affliction roar a little quieter.
"Look at it this way, kiddo, it'll stop hurting soon," the voice offered as consolation. Jo watched the Winchesters gather the materials for the bomb - processing the information once again. Dean, the floor, her hands were all stained with blood. Her blood. She could almost hear the click - and her stomach would've sunk if it was in its proper place.
"I'm going to die before this place blows." She scoffed, "Figures, strapped to a fucking explosive and I get to die a long and painful one."
The voice gave a short noise of hesitation before a quick 'snap' resounded through her body, instantly the pain lessened to a more 'manageable' torture. Manageable being an iffy term when you've literally been torn apart. It was still better than the feeling of flames licking their way from her abdomen, for that, she would be grateful for the rest of her short, short life.
"I'm sorry," the voice sounded guilty for what he'd done, "It's all I can do - but just... don't worry."
"Who are you?"
"I came into your bar a couple times, ordered an Appletini or six. To be honest, I could have drunken everything behind that counter and still driven home, there was this one time my brother and I -" The voice faded as her mother approached with her decision to stay. Jo fought weakly, knowing nothing could budge Ellen Harvelle when it came to her daughter.
Dean kissed her forehead, trying not to cry.
Her mother held the trigger in one hand, the other arm wrapped in a vice-like grip around her only child.
Jo couldn't tell if the voice disappeared with her upcoming death, or stayed silent out of respect for their goodbyes. Pain stopped all together - not the effect of the mysterious being who whispered to her, but the effect of a body closing in on itself.
When he returned, the sarcastic edge was gone, instead it held a comforting glow. It felt like her mothers embrace and her fathers old leather jacket. Like a summer wind and a fire in the winter. It was like every time Jo felt safe, comfortable and warm.
The voice was everything wrapped in a loving, protective tone, and it whispered, "Close your eyes."
A/N: This is going to be an ongoing drabble machine, so if you want to leave prompts or ideas - please do so (keep it T, guys). If not, go ahead and review anyway.