“Don’t Ask Me to Forgive You (I Won’t)”
Supernatural
Dean/Jo
Rating: R for violence and sexuality
Summary: No more wondering. No more waiting. It’s here.
The air is dusty, filled with grains of sand and leaves blowing, tossing, turning--kind of like how Jo’s insides feel right now.
Her skins itches, but she doesn’t scratch her pink sunburned arms. Instead, she drags the long rifle behind her as she walks the dusty trail. She will leave footsteps behind her. Good. She wants him to know it was her.
Ten paces to her back lays a cooling body. Long dark hair swept to one side of his face. Eyes, that were sixty seconds ago ugly and yellow, shut forever.
When she had turned away, he was still bleeding. Bullet holes to his stomach,
chest, but it was the one to the heart that had killed him.
You always had a good
heart, Sammy.
She cringes. Only one person can call Sam Winchester that name. It’s not going to take long for that person to track her footsteps and follow the line running beside her boots. Her rifle dragging, dragging--the object that had killed his brother.
It wasn’t the gun. It
was you.
She knows that. He knows that. He will know that.
She keeps on walking. The wind picks up, throwing dust into her dirty hair. She lifts her head, lets out an exhausted sigh, and stares into the horizon.
She waits.
**
It starts as a rumor circulating among the secret society of hunters.
Sam Winchester is dead. Yeah, John’s boy. The younger one.
How?
They want to know what kind of demon had done him in.
When they hear, “Another hunter,” their mouths drop open.
When they hear, “Bill’s girl,” rumor starts to change into fact.
**
It’s a hot sticky summer night.
Jo lays in the twin-sized bed in her jeans and white bra. It’s too hot to move. She’s already taken three showers today. Doesn’t matter. Sweat is just water anyway. She lays there, studying the ceiling’s imperfections--cracks, peeling green paint.
Her gaze moves to the window. A shadow glides outside. With the curtains drawn, she’s not sure if she’s seeing things or not. But, she has to be sure--it’s in her nature.
Besides, she’s still waiting.
It’s been seven days. Seven days of looking over her shoulder and nights filled with cups of coffee and television reruns.
She can’t sleep, can’t close her eyes. No, not when the shadows start moving.
Jo picks up the rifle propped up against a corner. It still feels the same.
The door handle jingles. She leans against the wall, anticipating the door to swing open at any second.
She’s been waiting for seven days. She can wait one more second.
She takes in a breath, holds it in.
The handle shakes once more, then stops.
Seconds pass, then a minute.
Jo breathes out.
The door swings open.
**
Dean stands in the motel room’s doorway. Anger builds inside him, threatening to erupt any moment. His gaze falls on Jo, who’s dressed in jeans and her bra. She holds a rifle in her hands, but it’s not aimed at him; it stays at her side.
She’s not even going to fight back? It only angers him more.
He shuts the door behind him.
They glare at each other. The air is thick with tension, and like Dean’s façade, it will break soon.
He lashes out, snatching the gun from Jo’s possession. She flinches--not like the last time. He almost wants to smile at her reaction, at her fear. But he doesn’t, not as he realizes the weapon he’s holding could be the same one that had shot Sam dead. It burns his fingers.
He looks away from Jo, now focused on the rifle. He tilts it in his hands, left, right, then lets it balance.
Like how Sammy’s life had balanced on the edge of the rifle as the bullet zoomed through the air and struck him.
The mattress squeaks as Jo sits down. Her shoulders sag. Blond hair falls in her face.
With the tip of the rifle, he points it at her. He puts the barrel right under her chin and lifts her face up so she’s looking at him.
It’d be so easy to pull the trigger. Blast her pretty head off and splatter the green walls red.
Her eyes are wide, unwavering.
She expects him to pull the trigger.
Instead, he lowers the gun and whispers the words: “Come here.”
She doesn’t move.
He raises his voice. “Come here.”
And he grabs her skinny arms, hauling her to her feet.
She’s startled by his actions; again, the fear makes him want to smile.
But, he will never smile again.
Dean lets go of the gun. She doesn’t make a move for it. Doesn’t fight back.
Sweat rolls down the side of her head.
Pretty head. Red on green.
He places his hands in her hair, brushing it back from her face, combing his fingers through the soft damp strands. His bottom lip trembles. He bites down to stop it. He keeps brushing, keeps pushing, until all he can see is her face.
Clear, stoic, hard brown eyes look back at him.
Dean searches for Sam in those eyes, in her reflection.
Is he still here? Lodged in her memories? His last moments? His last breath?
Dean wants to see it all.
It isn’t fair.
None of it is fair.
**
Jo stands still. Lets Dean hold her head, stare into her eyes. She knows he’s doing, what he’s trying to do, but it won’t work.
Sam’s gone.
When Dean realizes that, he releases her and turns around. A quiet sob escapes his lips.
And even then, she stands still.
Time passes with only the sound of Dean crying.
She doesn’t join in. She had her moment seven days ago.
So, she just stands, just listens, and she waits.
**
Dean wipes his face, takes in a deep breath, and turns back to Jo. She hasn’t moved.
The room is aching to be filled with words, but he has none to give.
He picks back up the rifle. He tilts it again. Left, right, then SLAM!
He rams the butt of the gun into Jo’s head. It’s a hard hit, but not enough to knock her out, just off her feet. She falls back into the bed.
Dazed, she touches her head and pulls back red fingers.
She just sits there and stares at her blood. She doesn’t fight back. She expects to die. She wants to die.
Just like he does.
Jo drops her bloody hand to the white sheets. More crimson joins the spot as the wound releases more droplets. They draw a messy painting on the clean bed.
Dean lowers the gun again and reaches for her. She doesn’t flinch this time. He brushes her hair from her face and checks her injury. Just a scratch.
She’ll live.
**
Dean’s hands are gentle. They don’t wrap around her neck or throw her across the room. They fix her hair and linger on her collarbone. They’re even shaking a little bit as they lower her bra straps.
The room spins, not from her injured head or the trepidation growing inside of her, but because Dean lifts her to the feet, twists her around, slamming her into the wall. He pushes his body against hers. She can’t breathe, and she thinks he will suffocate her instead of shooting her. But, he pulls away momentarily to remove his jacket and drops his shirt next to it. He finishes taking off her bra and pushes his body against hers again. His amulet drifts in between the valley of her breasts.
They stay like that. Naked from the waist up, legs clad in denim entangled as one.
He breathes into her and her into him.
He touches her head again, pulls away red. He leaves a handprint on the wall beside her.
And she’s spinning again--spinning because Dean grabs her and brings her back to the bed.
He doesn’t waste any time removing the bottom half of their clothing--jeans, underwear.
Despite the AC, their bodies become slick with sweat.
He enters her from behind, working her clit, and pushing in deeper into her. She arches her back, moaning, whispering his name.
This is how he’s going to kill her.
The room tilts again as Dean pushes her onto her back, spreads her legs, and thrusts into her. His hands are everywhere--breasts, face, hair, arms, legs. Their contact sizzles, and with fire, comes burning.
Dean continues to pump into her. Harder. Faster. Until Jo starts to squirm.
Pleasure turns to pain.
She wants to say stop, but she’d be lying. She doesn’t want him to stop, and even if she did, he probably wouldn’t have listened to her anyway.
**
When it’s over, it’s over.
They lie there, loose limps, sweaty bodies. The AC rumbles.
Dean stares at the ceiling, refusing to look at Jo.
But, he speaks.
“It should have been me. I was supposed to pull that trigger. He was my brother. He was counting on me to do that for him.”
He hears the sheets rustle next to him, then her soft voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Her apology saturates the room.
**
Dean falls asleep, breathing in swallow breaths as his chest rises and falls.
Jo is still awake, waiting.
But, the shadows aren’t moving tonight, and her eyes grow heavy.
For the first time in seven days, she rests.
**
It’s morning when Jo’s eyes flutter open.
Sunlight peeks in from under the curtains. The spot next to her is empty. She sits up and finds Dean, dressed and sitting in a chair in a dark corner.
She looks for the rifle. It’s on the ground next to her pile of clothing.
She brushes the hair from her eyes. Her head still aches and her legs are sticky. She says his name.
At the sound of her voice, Dean comes to her.
Then, she sees it.
The shadows move with him.
She knows.
Dean stands at the foot of the bed. He lowers his lips to kiss the top of her head.
She closes her eyes.
No more wondering. No more waiting. It’s here.
Cold steel touches her neck.
**
It’s been fourteen days. Fourteen days of endless travel, an empty passenger’s seat, and blood stains that won’t wash away.
Dean pulls into a gas station to fill up the Impala just as his cell phone rings. As soon as he answers it, he hears static and a voice calling his name. He recognizes it right away, but it can’t be. It’s not possible.
Sam’s voice carries through the telephone line, becoming stronger, clearer. He needs help. He needs Dean.
Dean forgets about the gas.
**
Somewhere in
Dean can’t move. Just stands there, staring at Sam.
Are you real? Are you telling the truth?
And he looks into Sam’s eyes, searching for the answer.
“Dean, it’s me.”
But all Dean can see is a dusty trail and all he can feel is the shovel in his hands and the heat on his back as he walks away from the fiery grave.
Sam calls out his name.
Tears collect in Dean’s eyes. “It’s you. It’s really you.”
**
It starts as a rumor circulating among the secret society of hunters.
Jo Harvelle is dead. Yeah, Bill’s girl. The pretty one.
How?
When they hear it was another hunter, their mouths drop open.
When they hear the name
THE END