Title: Broken Open
Disclaimer: SPN doesn't belong to me, only this story.
02 | Deliver my heart with the pieces
And parts of me that every last day
Seem to carried away
The apocalypse ends on a silent note, differently than how she’d anticipated it to be.
She finds Sam (or rather, he finds her; and it’s not Dean, never Dean) on the steps of her house, barely conscious. It takes three days for him to wake up from his coma, or ‘sleep’ as he likes to call it because according to him, saving the world from Lucifer can do that to a person (he’s turning a bit cocky and she doesn’t question where, or rather, who he gets that from). She calls Bobby to let him know that Sam’s okay. He pretends that he’s not crying over the phone and that it’s only the god-damned allergies.
Sam doesn’t talk about Dean and neither does she; but his name is always hanging in the air; like a hushed secret that’s too fragile to slip from their lips. After he got better, she hands him an address.
He looks up; brows wrinkle and confused. “What’s this?” asks Sam, but she knows that he knows.
“What does it look like?”
“No shit, Sherlock,” she remarks. “It’s Dean’s location.”
His mouth parts slightly and uneasily before he hands it back to her. “I don’t need it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sam.”
His shoulders slumps down. “You don’t understand, Jo—I—”
“Don’t care and don’t want to know. You’ve been moping around like you’ve lost a damn lover or something—” she pauses and holds up the piece of paper again. “He’s been staying some gal by the name of Lisa—” The look on his face tells her that he knows who she’s talking about “—so don’t be a dumb ass. Go see him and give yourself a peace of mind.”
He hesitates before taking it in his hand slowly, like a kid that’s afraid of grabbing a present too quickly for the fear of having it slip through his fingers. Then he looks up and asks, “How did you find his address anyway?”
She doesn’t tell him that she couldn’t sleep three nights before their showdown or that she tracked Dean down after hearing he was resurrected (she’s still a hunter even if she no longer hunts) or that she stayed outside for three days after to make sure he was going to be okay. Instead, she merely releases an exasperated breath, “A little birdie told me.”
Sam flashes a grateful smile then heads for the door. Before exiting, he turns back. “So…I never did ask,” he starts then changes his mind when he sees an annoyed look on her face; he then settles with the question of, “You, this house, those pictures—new life, huh?”
She laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah—new life. I went back to school—mom always wanted that for me, y’know? Thought I’d do it before I’m—” she slits finger across her throat. “Anyway, met someone too.”
“Oh?” He sounds surprised. She doesn’t blame him. “He’s a—”
She cuts in. “Normal guy.”
“I know. Me, the freak with a knife collection and the boy next door. Who’d have thought?”
“I’m happy for you, Jo.”
She smiles, a real one this time because sincerity has always been his strong suit. “Thanks.”
Then he drives off without promising to come back and she doesn’t ask him if he will either because she knows the Winchesters were never good at staying in one place longer than necessary and their promises are as fleeting as the wind brushing against her hair. She then licks her lips dryly before turning in. It’s a good thing he didn’t stay here long or else she’d have missed him more than she needs to.