Disclaimer: SPN doesn't belong to me, only this story.
01 | Say you love me, say you don't.
Say you'll wait, say you won't.
Say you'll wait, say you won't.
Ten days after Carthage, she ambushes a bunch of demons in search of Meg and ends up with a six inch scar on the side of her stomach instead. She walks in the house with a hand on her stomach to keep the blood from pouring out. Sam sees her first and almost faints from the sight. Dean finds out what happened from Sam once he came back from a solo hunt and screams at her for being so ‘fucking careless’. She glances at Sam, who just looks on, guiltily. She says nothing and lets her mind’s drifts elsewhere. She wakes up a few nights later gasping for air and soaking in tears.
It’s not long (exactly a week) before she uses the Colt that Dean was too stupid to use in the first place and shoots Meg right between the brows. It’s not easy or without collateral damage, but it’s worth it; instead of being dead, she only ends up with a half torn leg and a reopened stomach wound. That’s a pretty good trade-off in her opinion. Sam finds her first (it’s always him, never Dean); his face turns ghostly white when he sees all the blood but once she explains that it’s not all hers and points toward Meg’s body, he releases a small breath of relief.
Dean, on the other hand, isn’t as kind. His face turns red (only when he’s really pissed) and his lips twitches like there’s no tomorrow. Sam knows that World War III just might happen so he steps in front and holds him back by the shoulders. “Dean…She’s okay,” Sam reassures and tries to muster a half-ass smile.
“Oh shove it, Sammy. She’s clearly out of her damn mind.” He then brushes Sam off, like he always does, and approaches her like he’s the big bad wolf and she’s the little Red Riding Hood. “Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed?”
She scoffs and crosses her arms defiantly. “Maybe—what’s it to you?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? No—wait—don’t even answer that—” her words must have a bigger affect than she thought it’d because rambling is never a Dean Winchester thing. “You’re impossible—”
“I don’t need another mother, Dean,” says Jo, as she rolls her eyes, “so thank you but fuck off, would you?”
Then he shuts up and storms out, not without cursing son of a bitch under his breath.
Sam stands there like a lost puppy. “Jo—I’m—”
“Don’t.” She’s surprised by the harshness of her own voice as her eyes begin to burn. “Can you give me a minute, Sam?”
He nods understandingly and leaves the room.
Once safe, she breaks into sobs because it hurts more than she could imagine; because nothing’s been the same since Carthage, since her mother’s death, since her two failed suicide attempt. Fuck it all, she mutters and rocks her body back and forth. She should have fucking died instead.
When Dean comes back hours later (no doubt he’s driven to some bar to blow off steam), he quietly calls out her name. “Jo?” It’s the softest tone he has spoken to her in months. “Y’wake?”
She has long erased the tears from her face but she always senses that he’d known regardless, so she turns out the lights and keeps her eyes close just for safety.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
They both turn silent as he takes his prospective place on the bed over and pretends that he doesn’t know why she’s acting the way she does or he’s reacting the way he does. Then another two weeks pass before she stands across from him with a suitcase in hand. “I’m done.” It comes out easier than she thought and she doesn’t cry (she thinks it’s probably because she’s emptied all the tears weeks before).
He says nothing, only stares; not that it matters much since all she hears or sees on his face these day is guilt.
A few minutes pass before the silence gets to her. “Say something, Dean.” Her voice turns cold, desperate, and angry. “Say anything.”
He nods toward Sam and out he goes, leaving the two alone.
“Say you’re right.” Her voice trembles but the tears have long stopped forming. “I know you’re thinking it.”
“You chose this.” His voice carries no sympathy and his face’s blank. He doesn’t do sentiment well, unlike Sam, and she wonders why she was attracted to him in the first place. “You know what this life entails.”
“I know—” her throat turns parched like it hasn’t tasted water in years “—I just never thought that—” She then looks away as his face hardens. They both know what’s hanging on the tip of her tongue that’s been long overdue. “I don’t know where I’m going with that.”
“Say it.” His voice turns harsh, like dagger piercing her skin. “It’s my fault.”
“No,” she immediately rushes out. “I never—”
He scoffs. “I’m the reason that your mother’s dead.”
She cringes when she hears the self-hatred in his voice because he always does this, blames himself for every single thing that happens like he actually has control over them. “My dad killed your dad–”
“I know the fucking story,” she says, resigned, “so can we, for once, just say goodbye like normal people?”
Instead of answer, he gives her a look that says otherwise; and the truth of the matter is, he’ll believe what he wants, no matter how hard she tries to convince him otherwise and she has grown too tired to do that any longer. “I won’t stop you.”
“I know.” Her shoulders drop as she sighs. “I’ll be seeing you, Dean.” She then picks up her luggage and drags her feet to the door, spotting a sullen Sam sitting at the bottom of the steps. “Hey.”
He frowns, wrinkling his brows together. “You leaving, Jo?”
She always did like Sam. “Yeah, while I can, y’ know?” She tries to lighten the mood but neither laughs. “Good luck, okay?”
He nods and understands what she wanted to say but couldn’t. “I’ll make sure that he’ll—I mean—we’ll both be okay.”
Her smile falters briefly. “I know.”
Then they hug before she gets into her beat up car and drives away.