shatterverse | Metropolis, Jo's Apartment

The door opens about a minute later. He might even be half down the walk away at this point. But still the door opens, on one fairly normally dressed, faintly disheveled in loose curly hair, Jo staring at him through the only about foot it opens.

Her expression is far too calm and clear, and yet not for the focus of wanting to be sure, one hand behind her back and the other, with a hand, fingers pressed precariously at the knob of the door.

Dean stops, halfway down the path, and swings slowly around, hands still in his jacket pockets, head tilted back in curiousity.

"...Jo?"

It is Jo, right? She's not - moving right.

So she was right.

She's not quite sure if she should know what to do with that. Her finger almost shifted against the door knob, but they don't move enough. She already opened it. Her lips pressed together and she just stood there.

She was right about not getting him before. Too.

"Jo."

He's worried now, all that relaxation sliding away, replaced with a tension that sits much more comfortably on Winchester broad shoulders. The footpath only takes four quick steps to cover and then he's hesitating on the edge of the porch, reaching slowly for the door.

"What is it?"

He looks exactly the same.

It's a wonder that's the thought that collides with sunshine through a gaping bloody hole and auburn strands of hair. And this time her fingers do move, at the thought and the fact he's suddenly coming rapidly toward her. Even if only to stop.

"You've been gone."

Because that clears up so much.

Dean leans over to take the door from her hand carefully, swinging it open, ready to catch her if she falls. Jo would never fall, but ... he has no idea what's going on here any more.

"Yeah. Sorry."

If either word really sinks in is debatable.

Her gaze doesn't sharpen at the apology, even a bland and easily given one, nor do her shoulders shrug to blow it off. She's just staring at him, copper eyes following his movements, even when she doesn't move and he's only inches away taking the door from her.

There's something there though.

Just enough out of focus that it doesn't change her expression.

Edited 2009-05-06 09:55 (UTC)

Dean reaches out slowly (never touch a hunter without warning them) to touch her cheek, gentle enough that it would be unusual if Jo wasn't Jo.

No, it's unusual anyway.

"Jo."

Her eyes followed his hand, the rest of her still unmoving, until it brushed her skin. And then her hand was suddenly tight around his wrist, a lightening flash of reflex movement, and her eyes had to move to it, as though they hadn't quite been part of that choice.

Rachel and Jack had done without the touching.

This is....different.

And some part of her still fuzzy, repeats, it's Dean

Making her eyes moved back to his face suddenly, her hand still there but looser, strayly noticing the warmth of his skin, with a wrinkle to her face that might have looked apologetic if it were anytime but now.

It looked absently confused now.

She hadn't actually made him stop touching her though.

"Jo," he repeats, quieter, not moving the hand against her cheek, just - touching her.

(right now he can't even remember that woman at the farm's name.)

"Jo, talk to me. What happened?"

It's smashes together -- an onslaught of three different capacities -- devastating the ability for a response. She licked her lips, with a glance to one side of his face. Her hand softened, finger tips pressing in just faintly against the skin on his wrist.

Something there. Something. Someone. Dean. What was the last thing she touched that wasn't the sheets or her jeans or her hair? There were Rachel's hands somewhere, blurry, hesitant. Rachel holding her hands and moving them....which wasn't the same thing as her touching someone.

Her eyes closed briefly.

It takes more effort than it should by far.

"Too much."

Dean is really, really worried right now.

His other hand slides over hers on his wrist, lowers to her shoulder, pushes her gently into the house. "I'm comin' in. If you want me out, you've still got a mean right hook."

This part she's used to. The being moved part. It says things that she just moves with, almost flows into not having to make the decision to move herself. The house itself just from a glance at the front door is an even bigger story.

The front room is disastrously clear with a few exceptions in a arc around entrance to the back room. There is a pile of all the weapons in the house. There are bags of food and bottles of alcohol. All of these things untouched, unopened, unmoved, and looking as though they have been for days.

Dean steers her gently to the closest seat, snagging a bottle of something amber on the way through the front room.

He doesn't speak again yet, but even once she's sitting, his hand stays on her shoulder.

"Everything.."

Her voice is hollow, and she's staring at his leg. Though staring is a charitable term. She could be looking through it for all he knows or she's actually moved her sight since being sat.

She shook her head, raising her hand slowly to rub her cheek.

She couldn't even figure out where to take the words.

"Something specific," Dean says dryly, crouching in front of her, anxiety creasing his face up. "Like, 'My brain has been replaced by chocolate fudge.' That'd be a start."

Jo's gaze moved over to his face. Her right hand stirred as though she had the urge to move it. Which she does and she's not sure what stops her. Maybe his words. Maybe she forgets. Maybe its the tremble before the answer.

And then she says a sentence.

As though maybe she's been waiting to forever.

As though it's nothing at all except air and sound.

"I can forget my hell, but I can't forget shooting a hole through my mother's head."

Dean opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Gently, he lifts one hand to tuck her hair back behind her ear, out of her face.

"Do you need t'talk about it?"

Not want, Christ, she can't want to. He sure as hell wouldn't. But if she said that, unprompted -

"I'm here."

There's a flicker.

It's sudden in her eyes.

Disconcertingly sudden and there.

"You weren't."

At any other time there'd be a note of accusation. But there isn't.

"No," Dean agrees, quiet. "You're Jo."

Jo doesn't need him. Doesn't need anyone.

Right?

"I'm here now."

Please talk to him.

There's a very, very slow movement. Her hand raised and she reached out. Then stopped, it staying in midair, perfectly still. Then it moves again, finger tips touching the side of his forehead, small callused fingertips dragging very slowly over about half an inch his skin while she maintained a distant, serious, conflicted expression.

"Your mom," Dean prompts her, staying very still, letting her touch, worried more by the cool fingertips against his skin.

"Ellen."

"Wasn't her."

There is a tremor in her completely even tone.

Her fingers stopped moving, all of her did.

"Not anymore."

"Never is," Dean says softly, his fingers spreading out against her shoulder. "Shapeshifter?"

"Zombies."

She looked down at his hand.

"The whole Road House."

Metropolis, Jo's Apartment

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