@makeitlatxr
He dreams about her.
Always around that day, he knows it’s coming, will try and drink himself beneath the table to try and outrun it. But he can’t. He can’t outrun the copper smell of her blood or the way she trembled in his hands.
(The way her lips tasted. Soft and sweet.)
Other times, anything could set it off. Long blonde hair turning a corner. A girl in a mall wearing the same perfume. A song on the radio.
(Cherry Pie, he used to play it loud to annoy her, watch her roll her eyes. It deflated a whole bunch of moments where he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from kissing her.)
He hasn’t had the dream in months, when he gets the phone call. Jody, hesitant with the phone tucked against her shoulder. She says there’s a girl here named Jo, asking for you.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t breathe. He snatches the keys off of the table between the hotel beds and throws his duffel into the backseat. Sam can finish the case. He’ll rent a car, or steal one, or something.
The drive is a blur of road noise and radio stations. Dean doesn’t turn the dial, he chases static across state lines. He stops only long enough for gas and a couple of energy drinks and some caffeine pills, knocking them back as he merges onto the highway.
He’s getting his hopes up for nothing. He knows it. A coincidence. An old case, maybe. But his baby’s tires still screech in dismay at his hard stop. Dean stumbles out of the driver’s seat, strung out on no sleep and too much stuffed in his head, and he sees her.
Standing in Jody’s front yard, hair as gold as the goddamn sun.
“...Jo?”
