Chestervelle Digest

Jo’s memories of Dean Winchester are composed of: quiet mornings, sitting next to him at the Roadhouse; serving him his usual order of coffee and booze; car rides with him and Sam; Philadelphia and an almost disastrous mission; pointless conversations revolving around nothing in particular—they always tended to veer off-topic (that’s where most of their conversations lead, by the way, when it’s not about anything death-defying); endless bickering; arguments about her choice in music; cheating him at old arcade games and promises of I’ll call you later, okay?

He was annoying even back then—a jackass too. But he was sweet. Kind of. And she trusted him—

—and, she didn’t exactly know why she did.

He’s kind of a douchebag, if she’s being honest—which she totally is. Except when he’s not. But really, the times when he is being a douchebag outweigh the times when he isn’t. So, she writes him off as an annoying idiot instead.

(he’s got a nice smile though, she thinks. it’s almost some sort of consolation. his eyes are green and pretty; his smile is nice and his ego is too unflattering; unfortunately though, his brain is probably the size of a blackened char that only functions when he’s a) drunk b) holding a gun c) bedding women or some strange, somehow possible combination of all three).

Back in Philadelphia, she’d been so sure he’d turn her in. But he didn’t, which kind of earned him her gratitude. And some of her respect. And maybe even a little bit of her trust. And it annoyed her, just a little bit; because see, she thought she had him figured out, and then he does this-he lies to her mother when she was convinced he’d turn her in.

That bastard.

Except he’s kind of sweet. A little. Okay, a lot, because even though he kept shooting her these half-angry, half-exasperated looks while she was poring over her files in the middle of the night and even though he glared at her from across the hall when they were checking the place out, he never said a word to her mother. He never picked up the phone and dialed Ellen’s number like she expected him to. So yeah, he’s sweet, and he cared, at least a little. If he didn’t, he probably would have turned her in the first chance he got.

These are her most romantic memories of him: sarcastic and annoying; cocky and arrogant; swinging in and out of her life, but always coming back in to save her just in time.

(They are not her dearest).

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At some point of her residency in Boston, she runs into a couple of old family friends. They bring her food sometimes: meatloaf and freshly baked muffins and they offer to help her tend to her tulips and her lilies. Her plants die a week after that, withering down into the dirt, so she lets Riley uproot them and agrees to buy fake plastic trees instead. It almost reminds her of home, she realizes; so she buys an armful of pots and asks Riley to try again. It’s too dark, she decides, so she buys colorful throw rugs and arranges them around the house; lets Ever pick out the curtains they’ll use. It doesn’t look like the Roadhouse anymore, she observes, wryly.

It rains sometimes and the roof leaks and she thinks about her father living here; wonders if her mother would have liked it. Sometimes, Ever is there, offering to keep her company and Riley, if he has the time, sometimes comes over to go help her fix the leaky roof. Jo smiles at them, even lets them keep an eye on the place when she sets off to hunt. It’s always a little warmer in the house when she comes back.

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Mornings, she learned, were best just as the sun started to rise, just as it started to gild the treetops like molten gold. Her mornings have usually come to compromise of: eyes creaking open to the alto chant of the crow-birds; combing through the bed tangles of her hair; peeking out of her lace-curtained windows to let the sun in and maybe even to greet Riley an offhanded “hey” if she catches him getting back from his jog; letting the coffee boil as she scouts for maps and her knives; going over everything once again before setting off to hunt; stowing her shotgun at the back of her truck and sometimes even leaving a note at Ever’s door to let her know she’ll be gone.

And at night when she sits on her porch, knees drawn to her chest, long fingers curling around a warm cup of coffee, (because most nights she can’t sleep; thinks about how she left her mother; dreams about her father—she thinks it’s too easy getting lost in the past when it feels so familiar, and she’d rather not think about what happens next). she thinks of azaleas in the fall and sunshine warm on her face; she thinks of fir trees and silver ornaments; she thinks of open windows and summer rain; she thinks of turkey roasting in the oven and cinders crackling in the fireplace—

(she doesn’t think about sunshine dappling fallen leaves; doesn’t think about rolls baking in the oven; doesn’t think about the smell of coffee and gunpowder in the morning; doesn’t think about the worn leather jacket hanging behind her mother’s door. there are other things to think about: hunting and her father’s memory and making the world a tolerable place to survive in. she thinks of a sword through a demon’s heart. she doesn’t think about what she left behind).

—maybe her father would have liked it here, she thinks.

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Sometimes at night, she hunts if she has to, but some nights, Ever invites her over and they go out-flirting, drinking, laughing. The club is hot and sweaty, a mass of tightly packed bodies moving in time to a persistent electronic beat and then someone’s at her hip, fingers curling around her wrist. Riley holds his hand out; she stares at it for a long moment, but lets him lead her to the dance floor. Strawberries, Riley muses, as he twirls her around and smiles, drukenly sweet. He’s clumsy with his dopey smile and gentle hands, with his eye for flowers and his stuttering words.

You smell like strawberries, he shouts at her over the loud music, voice unheard, hands lowering to her sides-

(she thinks of another set of hands, grazing her back and setting her skin alight, tugging at her curls, wrenching her away from the fight; of hands cupping her face and curling at her hip; rough and calloused, calm and steady—)

—she closes her eyes.

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She remembers, when she left the Roadhouse, and life became difficult and terrible and wonderful all at once. She remembers, when she stumble: waitressing, collecting tips; she remembers, when sets off to hunt, her knife tucked in her boot: getting yelled at, cheating at old arcade games; she remembers, when she curls up in her bed at night: lying in her room, wishing for a vast starry expanse up ahead; she remembers, when she listens to the radio: the curve of Dean’s jaw, the steadiness of her father’s hands and she remembers hispromise that he’d be back home as soon as he can and she remembers that he said he’d call her; she remembers and then she thinks: it’s past.

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Spring ends and the air changes.

It’s hotter at night already and her clothes stick to her body, and she realizes, sitting in the empty silence of her house, she realizes that she hasn’t thought of Dean as handsome in a long time, hasn’t thought much of him lately; but that’s okay, hunting had won its war against everything else in her mind. She doesn’t think about him at all that much anymore.

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(she remembers missing him though, rarely, sometimes; remembers his fingers curving at her waist; remembers his hands tugging at her hair. there were the little things that she forgot, like: the freckles that brushed along the bridge of his nose and the smell of mint and gunpowder that stained his sun-bleached clothes. other things though, never failed to remind her of him, like: the soft chords of old rock tunes grousing through dusty radios on some beat-up gas station or some random stranger at a bar with a cocky smirk and an all-too familiar arrogance that made her look twice).

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Jo doesn’t wait: she doesn’t sit by any window, doesn’t wait for the phone to ring; never twiddles her thumbs or taps her feet. Life goes on for her like this: on and on and on; in truths and deceptions, in short fragments and broken pauses. Jo doesn’t wait, because there’s no one to wait for: she’s already one of those who’ve gone ahead. There’s no need to look back.

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On her way back from Louisiana, she runs into Dean.

It was an accident, really, and there’s a moment, just for a fraction of an instant, where she just stops in her tracks and he does the same, so she stares at him and he just sort of stares back and—

(oh, she thinks. of course. of course).

—he looks tired, is the first thought that enters her mind when she sees him (which is actually kind of stupid because of all the words she associated with him—stupid, annoying asshole, Winchester, guns, Philadelphia, eyes, hunter, jerk—he’s never been that, not once); she eyes sad tilt of his mouth, the dark shadows under his eyes, the tired slump of his shoulders.

“Jo,” he says on an exhale and the corner of his lips quirk up for a brief moment before settling back into their sad tilt. “Hey”.

There are two laughing drunks at the mouth of the alley, passing a bottle back and forth between them. There’s a girl standing by the door of a club who looks too young to be wearing that much eyeliner. A door is left open behind them, the light from inside spilling out into the darkened alley and causing shadows to play on his face; there are seven breaths between them before she decides to speak; she inhales, exhales, closes her eyes, and then—

“Dean,” she breathes, almost smiles and Dean pulls her forward, awkwardly wraps an arm around her slim form, all hard muscle and large broad shoulders. She hesitates for a moment before allowing herself to wrap her own arms around him. He smells like mint and gunpowder. She remembers he smelled that way back then too, and at first she never paid much mind to it, thought maybe it was something he wore—but no, it’s always been just Dean, mint and gunpowder and death. A summary of all his parts.

“C’mon,” she gestures, when he finally draws back; offers him a hand. There’s a spark in his eye, warm and quick and bright. “Let’s go get a drink”.

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The first twenty-six years of Dean Winchester’s life is one of those soap-opera worthy tales of betrayal and revenge and high adventure, melodramatics which neatly conclude themselves one night after a gunfight conducted in the old tradition (except that it’s never gunfights, whenever the Winchesters are concerned. it’s always always something more dangerous like: vampires and werewolves; vengeful spirits and shape shifters; their circumstance always involving something supernatural and that their story has never actually reached a particular conclusion. so—) The real tragedy, Jo thinks, starts after that.

Yet: Dean, is still Dean. Dean, who still hunts, and who’s still rude and sarcastic, and who still can’t use a a decent pick-up line to save his life, and who still reads reports about strange occurrences from old journals. Who’s still cocky; arrogant and who still listens to old rock tunes. Dean, who’s smiles are marked by a distinct sense of sadness and anger, though not exactly bitterness; Dean, whose smiles are like icicles on a branch in midwinter; like the rough scraping of autumn leaves on concrete; who smiles like hurts.

And the corollary to this: She’s still Jo.

Some things never stay the same, winter skies and autumn leaves; old scars and women’s hearts. Other things though—

—there’s no need to say goodbye.

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Midwinter snow gathers on the windowsills of the small diner, tinged blue in the early-setting evening. The diner they sit in is dimly lit, the deep blue walls stiff and undecorated, the stools and booths clean and rigid. And yet, there’s a certain warmth that envelopes them, a deep sense of home she hasn’t allowed herself to feel ever since she left. They catch up: he asks her about Ellen and she’s curious about Sam. They skirt around the topic of Hell, but in the end, she doesn’t bring it up and he doesn’t say anything.

“Jo,” he says, after a while and smiles, rusty and sharp-edged; his fingers curl around wrist, “you look good”. Her eyes dart to his face for second, and then to his fingers; she knows that it’s the closest she’s getting to an I missed you from Dean Winchester.

“Too bad I can’t say the same for you, huh Deano?” She teases, and smiles, a little tiredly, a little sadly and he grins, sharp and cutting and boyish. They fall silent after that; neither of them speak for while: Dean finishes his coffee and starts drinking from a bottle he produced from somewhere within his jacket and she picks quietly at her muffin.

(will you call? she always wanted to ask, but it’s been months, and she won’t be the first to make a move. would you pick up if i did? do you remember what you promised me? dean—)

“Did you know,” she begins lightly, “I used to really—”

“I knew,” Dean says, turns to look at her, eyes serious, but a smile in his voice, bottle of booze resting between his solid hands, already half gone. He cocks his head to the side, and after a long beat, he tells her, abruptly sincere, “thank you”.

(there’s a lot of things she wants to say, a lot of things he wouldn’t want to hear—things like: you knew, and yet you never said anything, and: why didn’t you ever say anything, and: why didn’t you ever call, and: look at me dammit, i’ve grown up, and: you jerk, i hate you).

Oh, she thinks instead, and then: “Don’t worry about it,” she shrugs and hopes that he doesn’t notice how the uplifted corners of her mouth don’t quite fit. “It’s no big deal”.

She’s not lying—really, she isn’t. Jo has never lied for Dean—never had to—but there are lesser truths and greater truths; this just happens to be a lesser truth.

(other lesser truths: jo really does hate dean sometimes; hates him for not calling, hates him for showing up now. and the thing is, he’s always been oblivious whenever it came to her, like that guy in that old clichéd movie she and daddy used to watch. he calls her, “kiddo,” and ruffles her hair like she’s his annoying, adorable kid sister. jo thinks he’s an asshole, a fuck up; he’s emotionally retarded, emotionally scarred; she thinks he’s a coward, thinks he’s not strong enough. sometimes, she wonders if she’s better off if she never knew him, and sometimes, she wishes she never had.

the greater truth: he’s worth all that).

“So,” she says, after a while, flicking at a piece of her muffin and watching as it lands lightly on Dean’s hand. “Will I see you again?”

His lip curls up and it’s not quite a smile, but it’s close to one. She finds it endearing all the same. She waits and he asks her, finally,”Do you want to?”