Who: Dean, Jo When: However long after she's not there when he gets back with John that he goes to find her Where: Her place Rating: This post is rated AEECSF for Angst, Emo, and Jo's Epic Coping Skills of Fail. Oh and also M for language. Status: Thread, incomplete
She flexed her knuckles absentmindedly, feeling the pull of the cuts and dried blood from where her fist had found the mirror. A less than perfect release for the sinking feeling of being a hypocrite that settled like dead weight in the pit of her stomach. She who could still be angry, who could still want to throttle someone over what John had done but still sleep with, and worse, fall in love with his son. She felt marked, tainted; like a sunday worshipper drinking herself silly on a monday. She honestly had no idea she could ever feel this torn, pulled in two directions both that would require her to give something up, turn her back on something. She could forgive, forget, move on, but was that a betrayal to the father she had lost? But she knew if she couldn't do that, couldn't move forward then any chance she had of continuing her relationship with Dean was basically over, especially now with John here. And she wasn't sure if she could ever be okay with that.
"I thought you and John were friends..." She had known from that. As the words had left her mouth all those little bits and peices had fallen into place. The way John never came back after her Dad died, the whole sticky mess that had been her hunt with Gordon all those years ago, the even stickier mess that had been the aftermath of her hunt with Sam and Dean. But still the gravity of the words, of actually having it explained to her she hadn't been expecting. She had walked the entire seven miles into town, the three of main street and she would have walked the seven back if it hadn't been for Ash pulling up and telling her to get in the damn truck already, it was the last time she saw him. Her head had felt filled with more questions than had been answered. The revelation, the realization that the true nature of her Dad's death had been kept from her for years, was just the last in a growing list of things to cause dischord between the two Harvelle women and had become Jo's stance to leave.
"You see, Bill was all clawed up. Holding his insides in his hands. He was gurgling and praying to see you and Ellen one more time. So my dad . . . killed him. Put him out of his misery like a sick dog. She still sees it vividly in the nightmares that haven't stopped, the image of her Dad holding his guts, begging, just like the demon had said. She can still see the almost gleeful look the demon had when informing her of the truth, the singsong voice, my Daddy shot your Daddy in the head. The phrase that could still catch her off guard mid way through the day, stacking glasses in the sink, in the shower in the morning, in the middle of dinner, fork falling to her plate and the very breath sucked out from her lungs. And while Sam can tell her he doesn't think it's true till he's blue in the face she knows, she goddamn knows, it is. He wouldn't have stayed away like that if it wasn't, he would have gotten over it and found his way back to Nebraska, ruffled her hair with a sad apologetic smile and her Mom would have shrugged and slid him a glass of his favourite if he had simply just been there. He wouldn't have left her like that if it wasn't true.
She can remember being just so damn lost after that. Angry at everyone and everything. Some damn demon knew the truth that had been kept from her, probably even from her mom, for years. The second of three major catalysts that had kept her bitter, angry, and alone for over a year; that had kept her from going home, from admitting she had fallen out of line.
She knew she wasn't being fair. She hadn't even told Dean she wouldn't be there when he returned with his Dad, she'd let the calls go to voicemail, the texts ignored. The logical part of her screamed that she needed to at least let him know she was okay (in the loosest definition of the term), especially given the circumstances with some demon gunning for them. But dealing had never really been the strongest of her skills and well, that was what got her into this mess in the first place hadn't it.
She hadn't dealt. And now it was staring her in the face and more than coming back to bite her.
She sighed letting her head fall back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, where she sat next to her bed. She wasn't quite sure how long she had been sitting there, probably a while she figured running a hand through her hair seeing as it was dry and she had found herself sitting there staring at the wall shortly after getting out of the shower. She suddenly felt more alone than had through that entire year of hunting by herself. Because they were all happy, and she knows she should be happy (at the very least for Dean, for Sam), but while they were all given something it was only a slap in the face to her of the things she'd lost.