“Close to Him”

Supernatural

Dean/Jo

Rating: PG

Jo only thinks about her missing journal when she finds herself scribbling on wet napkins at the bar.

While waiting for last of the hunters to finish their drinks, her pen moves from left to right.

It’s been almost two months. I hope they’re safe.

“Hey, Jo.” An empty beer bottle gets lifted into the air.

“Sorry. Last call was ten minutes ago.” She balls the napkin into her fist, lets the ink bleed together.

**

The call comes in after midnight.

Jo jerks away in bed and her breath quickens at the sight of Dean’s number on her cell phone.

When she answers, all she hears is static.

“Dean?” she says.

He must be somewhere remote, far from a signal.

Then, his voice breaks through. Her body goes limp as relief washes through her.

“Jo--can--hear me--Jo--”

“Dean,” she says again.

I’m here.

“Hey, I’m coming.” For that one second, the static vanishes and his words are crystal clear.

And he says it again.

“I’m coming.”

She smiles. “I’ll be waiting.”

But, the call drops before she can finish.

**

Jo waits. One day. Two days. Three.

She begins to wonder if she had dreamed about the phone call. It wouldn’t be her first time lost in dreams of Dean returning to her.

It’s night when she picks up a napkin. She hides behind a curtain of hair and writes.

Words pour out of her. Her confession (I need him). Her truth (I love him). Emotions locked inside screaming to be let out with her ballpoint pen.

Then, the door to the Roadhouse slams shut. She looks up, a gasp filling her throat.

Two shadows move as one towards the counter where she stands.

“Hey, Jo.” Sam gives her a familiar tired smile.

She hops over the counter, throwing her arms around him. He chuckles and returns her hug.

“Should I be jealous?”

And that voice.

His voice.

She looks over Sam’s shoulder. Dean stands there with his dusty leather jacket and muddy combat boots.

He holds out his arms. She doesn’t need any other invitation.

Jo falls into his chest, burying her head into his neck.

“So, how much did you miss me?” Dean asks.

Instead of her usual answer, she just closes her eyes, lingers in his hold, and never lets him go.

**

Jo doesn’t ask about her journal, but she does wonder about her book. Had Dean used it? Had he written in it like she had instructed him to do? Did he even have it with him anymore?

She knows he’ll tell her when the time is right.

In her bed, they lie entwined. Her clothes still smell of smoke and booze. Dean’s scent is wild and musky. His leather jacket is draped on her bedpost.

He plays with her hair, twirling a strand around his index finger. She stares out her window at the moon and stars.

He didn’t bring a gift for her this time.

He only brought himself.

“Dean?” Jo whispers.

“Yeah?” He talks quietly too like the walls can hear.

“Last time you asked me a question.” She feels his body tense. He remembers. “You said we wouldn’t know the answer unless I asked. Well, I’m asking now. Can I come?”

Dean sits up, letting out a heavy sigh.

She sits up with him. “I knew this was going to happen. You’d get pissed, and I’d end up feeling bad for even asking in the first place.”

“It’s not that.” He lifts his knees to his chest and places his elbows on them, running his hands through his hair.

“Then, what is it?” she asks.

He goes to his jacket and takes something out from his pockets.

Her journal.

Without saying anything, he stands at the foot of her bed and hands her the book.

Jo opens it towards the back. Her flowers--the ones Dean had given to her--are still pressed in between the last few entries she had written. She turns a few more pages and traces the jagged edges along the inside border from the page Dean had ripped out. The same page she keeps stored inside a dresser drawer. The same one she pulls out to read the one word that makes her still believe. Believe that all this waiting will be worth it.

She keeps turning the pages, but they are all blank. There are no new entries, nothing written by Dean. Her stomach twists.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“The last page.” He flips the pages for her. “Here.”

And there is it. One paragraph written just for her from Dean.

It’s dated last week Thursday.

Jo--Ever since you gave me this journal, I stared at it everyday, wondering what kind of things you wanted me to fill it with. I wish to hell you hadn’t given it to me. I’m no good with words, you know that. Then, I thought about it. Maybe it was more about me reading it, so, I did. Every night I read it. Shaken, bruised from a hunt, tired as hell, I still read it. And I just want to say thank you. Thank you for every single word you wrote in here. If this wasn’t what you were expected, then I’m sorry. That’s all I can give you.--Dean

Jo doesn’t dare to look Dean in the eye, not after reading that. She keeps her head lowered.

“What do you want me to say?” she says.

“Nothing. Not yet. Not until you turn the page.”

Even though there are no more pages to turn, she flips to the back of the journal. There’s one more entry scrawled on the hard back cover.

It’s dated four days ago. The night he called her to tell her he was coming.

Jo--It’s over.--Dean

Over? No more hunting? No more chasing after a yellow-eyed demon? No more good-byes in the mornings?

Over.

She finally raises her head and looks up at Dean. She gets her answer.

His eyes say it all.

Yes.

“You see, it’s not about you asking if you can come.” He sits down next to her. “It’s about me asking if I can stay.”

Her lips curve upwards. Tears form in her eyes.

Dean cups her face and runs his thumb over her smile. “So, what do you say, Jo? Can I stay?”

And she nods, laughing and crying and pressing her mouth against his.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean says, smiling with her.

She pulls him down onto the bed, her hands slipping underneath his T-shirt. “It’s a hell yes.”