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The black Impala rolls into the Roadhouse on a Thursday evening, eight days after Ellen expected them back. Through the Roadhouse's windows, she watches with narrow eyes until she sees Jo climb out of the back seat, and only then does the knot that's been in her spine for the last seven weeks loosen away.
Dean swaggers in like a cowboy walking out of the goddamn sunset, with even that bit of bow to his legs. The bar's pretty full tonight, and they all turn to watch as Sam follows Dean in, looking a touch sheepish of his height, as ever, with Jo right after him.
She's wearing different shoes than the one she left in, Ellen notes, thick-soled black leather boots that might have come from the men's section of an Army Surplus rather than the sneakers Jo used to favour. Her blonde, lip-glossed little girl's wearing work boots and a gun holster under her arm, and she's got gauze wrapped around the wrist that's showing beneath the cuff of her jacket.
They all look beat, but not quite like hell. Dean's face is cut up a bit and Sam's got a fat lip and a touch of a limp. Jo, far as Ellen can tell, hasn't got any more than a graze on her cheek, could be from anything. But more than that, they look triumphant, their beaten bodies as full up of satisfaction as any leather-tough old hunters coming off a good case.
Dean and Sam come with Jo right up to the bar, even though it's crowded near full and there are empty tables elsewhere. Fresh-faced and young, they settle in on barstools with all the grizzled old hunters like they belong, cocky and sure of themselves even though one or two ignorant irregulars side-eye the boys like they think a couple of rookies just waded into their midst. Then Jo takes a deep breath and slips behind the bar, pretending casual-like even when Ellen can see the uncertainty in Jo's eyes-- worry that Ellen ain't gonna let her back in this place, not after Jo took off hunting more'n two months ago with only the barest, most grudging of permissions.
Well, hell. Ellen might still be pissed that Jo left in the first place, but she can't be mad that Jo came back.
"Everything work out okay?" Ellen asks calmly, keeping her narrow eyes on the three of them even as she steadily dries the shot glasses Will's been going through all night.
"Yes ma'am," Dean says, Sam nodding eagerly. Lord have mercy, but they look like Ellen's gonna skin them. Probably because she threatened to, if they didn't bring Jo back the second they ran across her. Jo just makes her wide, innocent eyes and nods, but there's no hiding the relief and pride in them.
"I was expecting you boys back a week ago," Ellen says, as Jo takes a bottle of Walker down and pours Sam and Dean a couple fingers each without being asked. She pours herself one, too, and knocks it straight back. Ellen sees Don Warner's eyebrows lift in surprise.
"We meant to be," Dean says, dabbing at the cut on his hairline with a bar napkin. It's half-scabbed but come open again recently. "But we ran across this case on the way back."
"Chupacabra in Colorado," elaborates Sam. "Plus Jo dug her heels in."
"You expected me not to?" Jo says. She comes up with a dishrag of ice and tugs the napkin away from Dean's face. "You baby. Let me see. Here."
Her hand on his wrist lingers overlong, caressing his pulse point unconsciously as she dabs at the cut on his forehead. Dean's eyes, meanwhile, are fixed on Jo's face-- her face, not the cleavage she's showing. Pretty-boy mouth parted just a bit, he looks damn near transfixed.
Shit, Ellen thinks. Bill isn’t going to like this.
It's not like Ellen didn't see something like this coming, though. Jo and the Winchester boys had grown up close, especially with John and Bill partnering up sometimes. It had gotten Sam and Dean a safe place to stay while their daddy went off hunting, and Jo a proper playmate in a roadhouse full of hunters. It had also given Jo the itch for hunting way too young, when John had let his boys start helping out at fourteen. Not even the wreck of Bill's leg had cautioned Jo away from it.
Now here she is, full-grown at twenty-one and running with hunters of her own, giving even the Winchesters a run for their money if rumour is anything to go by. Jo’s been bobbing in and out of the grapevine for the last two months, flashing past other hunters in community safe spots too fast for them to snag her back to the Roadhouse, at least until she’d settled in with Sam and Dean on a case in New Mexico. Fit like hand in glove, according to the pastor who’d supplied them with the special St. Christopher medals they’d needed to put down the group of Navajo spirits haunting an abandoned mission.
“Chupacabra hunts are a bitch,” Ellen says, with the wisdom that comes of having soothed a hundred hunters’ sore tempers over a dragged-out case, Bill’s among them. They’re not very dangerous, but wicked fast, and they give red herrings that can make the case look like a demonic possession.
“You should’a seen Jo,” Dean says, grinning lopsidedly. Proudly. “I’ve never seen a chupacabra case go so fast.”
“How d’you mean?” Ellen asks, her curiosity piqued by the way Jo bites her lip and blushes. Dean’s praise means a lot to her—maybe too much. This boy likes to love ‘em and leave ‘em far too much for Ellen to be easy about him holding so much of her baby girl’s heart.
“We got to the town where all the sightings had come from pretty late,” Sam tells her, taking over easily. “We figured we’d get out and start looking for tracks in the morning. Next morning, though, we get up and walk outside the hotel room to find Jo sitting on the hood of the Impala with a dead chupacabra.” He holds up a finger for emphasis, grinning. “One bullet right through the skull.”
For a moment Ellen’s distracted, trying to make sense of what she sees in Sam’s eyes, hears in his voice. That’s more than just amusement, just respect, just awe for a damn near legendary feat with a rifle. There’s a bit of little-boy blush in there, a crinkle to those big doe eyes. Does he—is he sweet on Jo too? Hell. That could complicate things.
Some of the other hunter at the bar make noises of appreciation, one or two of them saluting Jo with a glass. She smiles her thanks, but it ain’t the shy, giddy little smile Jo used to turn on when she got any genuine praise from the Roadhouse’s clientele. It’s satisfied, comfortable—like Jo knows she don’t need praise any more, even if she still likes getting it. Like she’s accepting a compliment from an equal.
“Freakiest gift I ever got from a chick,” Dean mutters, but there’s a smirk tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Hunters—they’re like cats, showing their love by bringing around dead things. Jo had to know that when she brought back the chupacabra instead of taking off again in the night.
“You were expecting maybe roses?” Jo challenges. She slides a couple cans of PBR across the bar to him and Sam to chase their whiskey.
“Call me old-fashioned,” Sam jokes.
“I’ll bring you beer and dead sons of bitches, and you’ll like it,” Jo retorts.
“Be still, my heart,” deadpans Sam.
Ellen’s eyes flash between Dean and Sam, because she knows Jo’s flirt-face and that’s definitely it. What the hell is she thinking, playing both brothers against each other—and right in front of Dean, too? If Ellen knows a damn thing about the Winchesters, she knows a game like that’s only gonna end with Jo losing both of ‘em. She didn’t think she’d raised such a fool that—
But then she sees Dean’s face, and it ain’t jealousy or anger in his eyes. He’s watching Jo flirt up Sam with a glint in his eye and hunger in the curve of his mouth, drinking in the sight like some men watch porn.
Ellen has a moment to wonder, astonished, and then she gets proof to that mad thought that flashed through her head. Jo reaches out and snags Dean’s beer bottle, lifts it to her mouth and takes a sip with challenging eyes fixed on Dean, who just smirks. And now it’s Sam watching, scoffing with a fondness in his eyes.
Well. She’ll be damned.
“You boys gonna need to be put up for the night?” Ellen asks sharply, reminding them all she’s still there.
“If you’ve got a room,” Dean says meekly. Jo clams up and hands his beer back, heading off down the bar to a waving hand.
“I do,” Ellen says. “Right up by mine and Bill’s.”
“That’d be great,” Sam says, with his best lying-hunter smile.
They drink another beer each and chat up some other hunters. They’re easily the youngest there, but they’re still telling stories that make the others stare, and telling ‘em with the casual ease of men with nerves hard enough that they don’t even flinch at an abandoned mission full of twenty furious Navajo spirits. ‘Like a friggin’ cornucopia of hell,’ Dean drawls, then joins Sam laughing.
When the Roadhouse starts to empty out for the night, they head up for the rooms on the second floor. Ellen watches ‘em go, then slips off into the kitchen to leave Jo dealing with the last stragglers.
Bill’s doing accounts at the table, his bum leg up on a stool. Ellen leans down and kisses him.
“Jo’s back,” she says.
“She came back and saw me earlier,” Bill tells her. “I’d have come out the second I heard her voice, ‘cept that my leg ain’t holding weight today.”
“Bill,” Ellen complains, crossing the room to pull an icepack out of the freezer. “Ain’t nobody in there gonna give you one second of bull for coming out in your chair.”
“Books needed doing,” he says gruffly. Then, after a pause as Ellen puts the ice on his knee, he mutters, “Jo looked good.”
“She looked beat.” But Ellen sees the look in Bill’s eyes, the one she’ll never quite understand, and she knows that to him, to hunters, that’s one and the same. “Looks like John’s boys’ve been good for her, after all.”
“She mentioned ‘em. They cuffed her to the sink in a hotel room.”
Ellen laughs. “And apparently she got out of it just fine, without waking either of ‘em.” Bill grumbles something. “I sure as hell hope you don’t mind ‘em around, Bill, ‘cause I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna be seeing a lot more of those two.”
“She partnering up with ‘em long-term? I wouldn’t mind that. John raised a damn fine pair of hunters.”
“Something like that,” Ellen hedges.
Bill’s eyebrows fly up. “Don’t tell me she’s seeing one of them. A girl gets between those brothers and she’s liable to—hell. Ellen. Which one? Dean? Or Sam?”
“Yup,” sighs Ellen.
“Which one?” A long pause, in which Bill’s face works in confusion and then dawning comprehension. “You don’t mean—”
“Looks like it.”
He’s quiet for another long time, staring grimly at the calendar on the wall as he thinks. Ellen wonders which is going to win out, hunter’s solidarity or a father’s urge to get his shotgun. Because god knows that hunters are two things: tight-knit, and fucked up. They spend so much of their time playing chicken with death that they don’t have the energy left to give two shits about what someone else likes in bed, as long as that someone else is there to save their skin when they need it. They’re all used to the unusual arrangements that spring up between people who spend damn near every waking minute together, who save each other’s lives constantly. Still, Jo’s his baby girl, and Bill always did his best to protect her from what nearly killed him.
“Sam and Dean, too?” asks Bill eventually.
Ellen shrugs. “No clue. You know how close they’ve always been. Damn near impossible to tell what's between ‘em, the way they’ve learned to read each other. Would it make a difference, Bill?”
“Sam won’t let Dean break her heart,” is all he says, slowly, then looks to Ellen to make sure he’s got that right.
She nods. That’s that, then.
“You think we oughta call and tell John?” asks Bill.
Ellen laughs, swinging down to sit on Bill’s good thigh. It’s still strong, still hard muscle between her thighs. “William Anthony Harvelle, you are the biggest damn gossip I’ve ever met.”
“He should know,” Bill grouches.
“Maybe I’ll give him a call, have him come down for a visit,” Ellen teases. “Then you two old biddies can have a chat, and you won’t be the only one on crutches around here.”
“He still having trouble with that leg?”
“Shot in the knee by the Colt, Bill. Frankly, I don’t figure he’s got much drive to get back up and fighting again, not since it killed the demon at the same time. Man’s a bit broken. That demon was all he ever wanted.”
“Yeah,” Bill says. “You oughta call him down.”
“In the morning,” promises Ellen, leaning in for a sweeter kiss.
*
Jo slips into the room sometime past midnight, barefoot. Dean and Sam are both in bed, but neither of them’s asleep yet.
“Jesus, Jo,” Dean breathes. “Your know how many shotguns your dad owns?”
“Eighteen,” Jo says matter-of-factly. “You know it’s my mom you should be scared of?”
She’s already pulling the baggy t-shirt over her head, pale breasts riding high in the moonlight coming in through the window. Sam sits up as she climbs onto his bed, nearest to the door, knee-walking over for a kiss. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her close, their mouths clashing hungrily.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, swinging his legs out of bed. Of all the times for Sam to decide to take a risk…
Sam’s big hands cup Jo’s breasts, rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She arches into it, head tipping back out of the kiss. Dean gets onto the bed behind her, hands landing securely on her hips as he goes for the neck she’s just bared. His teeth leave marks almost immediately, sparking a groan that Jo smothers in her chest.
Dean sets himself against the curve of Jo’s body, pulling her hips back flush against his. With an appreciative eye, he watches her make out with Sam for a while, rocking himself to hardness against her ass. After a bit, Sam’s mouth trails down Jo’s throat and then to her breasts. From the sounds that hitch and whine in Jo’s throat, he’s biting her nipples, licking and sucking like a pro. Sam likes titties.
Is it okay to think that about your brother? Dean wonders. To know how much he likes titties because I’ve seen it?
But it doesn’t really bother him at the moment. He’s more engrossed by the way Jo starts to grind her hips back against his. He slides a hand down over the arch of her hipbone, over the mottled bruises there, and to the blonde curls between her legs. His fingers slide easily between her slick labia, long and sure as he seeks out her clit, circling it gently. Jo draws a long breath through her nose, shivering hard.
Sam kisses Jo again, long and wet. He even manages not to look like a dope while he’s at it, which can’t be said for the way he looks when he’s coming. His stomach muscles clench hard with the effort it takes to stay halfway sitting up and kiss Jo while his hands are busy with her breasts.
Yeah, that’s my brother, Dean thinks. He’s hot stuff.
Jo wriggles between them, pushing back against Dean’s cock. “You’re ready to go, cowboy,” she breathes. “Don’t make me wait all night.”
“Didn’t plan on it,” Dean whispers back, pressing hard on the sensitive place right above Jo’s clit. She arches, sucking a harsh breath. A flick of his eyes to Sam is all it takes.
Dean wraps one arm around Jo’s waist, holding her tight against him. Then he feels Sam’s fingertips bump against his, slicking up. Dean spreads Jo’s labia wide with his thumb and middle finger, wondering what it looks like to Sam, all open and glistening. Jo twitches, a stifled noise in her throat, then makes a harsher sound of pleasure as one—no, two of Sam’s huge fingers slide into her.
Laying back on the bed with Jo in his lap and Dean behind her, Sam curls his fingers upwards and fucks them in slowly, pressing and stretching Jo wide. Jo arches, pressing her breasts up high and her shoulders back against Dean, leaning hard on him for support. He breathes in the smell of her hair and keeps stroking her clit. The slick sound of it fills the dark room.
“Fuck,” Jo rasps. She keeps trying to lift her hips, pull away from the full thrust of Sam’s thick fingers, but Dean’s arm keeps her trapped in place. She digs the nails of one hand into his wrist and rides Sam’s hand harder.
Dean keeps pace as Sam speeds up, fingering Jo harder and faster. There’s sweat gleaming on her breasts now, a dampness on her lower back rubbing off against Dean’s belly. To stifle his groan, Dean bites Jo’s throat again, spurring a jerk in her hips.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” whispers Jo. Her thighs start to tremble.
Sam’s fucking into her furiously now, his face tight with anticipation. Dean sets two fingers right above Jo’s clit and grinds down, circling hard over the swollen ridge he can feel hidden there as Sam flexes his fingers and presses at Jo’s g-spot from inside. Dean knows he is; Dean taught him that.
Jo bucks her hips once, frantically, her teeth sunk into her hand, head flung back. Then she’s shaking violently, shuddering and jolting through the aftershocks in enforced silence. Dean keeps a steady pressure on, feeling her clit throb beneath his fingers; against his pinky, he can feel that Sam’s got his two fingers spread wide, intensifying the burn each time Jo’s cunt clenches around them. Her eyes shock-huge and bright in the moonlight, Jo sags back against Dean and gasps for air.
“Fuck me,” Jo pants, challenging, though it looks like the last thing in the world she’s ready for.
“Christ, Jo,” he mutters. She laughs breathlessly.
Sam’s pushing himself back, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. For a moment he flops about like an injured seal, trying to untangle his legs from the sheets and push his boxers down at the same time. Then they slide down his thighs and his cock springs free. Dean catches his eye and winks, and even though he can’t see it in this light, he knows Sam’s blushing.
“You want to?” Sam asks Jo, as overcautious as ever. Still struggling for breath, Jo nods. With the fingers of one hand still wet from Jo’s cunt, Sam slides his hands into her hair and guides her head down. Jo goes easily, even though Sam’s cock—well, let’s just say that it gives Dean a lot of respect for the chicks who’re willing to go down on him.
Dean has to get off the bed, kick his boxers off and grab a condom from his wallet. From the bedside, he can see the length of Sam’s cock sliding in and out of Jo’s mouth as she sucks, her lips wet and shining, her cheeks hollowing. Sam, for once, isn’t blushing and looking away awkwardly, the way he usually does when he catches Dean watching; he’s got all his attention focused on Jo, his eyes heavy-lidded and hot.
It’s a nice picture. Fuck, that’s his brother, and that’s better than any porn Dean’s ever seen.
Dean has a giddy, terrifying moment to wonder just how far they’re going to end up taking this.
He shakes it off, climbing back onto the bed and ripping the condom open, rolling it on. He’s hard enough to pound friggin’ nails, already wet at the tip. His hand at Jo’s hip makes her respond distractedly, spreading her knees open wider. Stifling a curse, Dean shoves in fast, deep. He hears Jo’s strangled moan and Sam’s equally choked noise.
They don’t make love, him and Jo. She gets that from Sam, sometimes, when it’s been a while and she needs the time to adjust to his oversized Sammy cock. But she doesn’t come to Dean looking for gentle, and he doesn’t give it to her. She comes to him as a hunter, every inch his equal, and he wouldn’t have her any other way. The first time they fucked was on the hood of the Impala, fifteen minutes after a wendigo kill that nearly cost Dean an eye, and they haven’t slowed down since.
Jo’s hands fist in the bedsheets, clutching for support as Dean pounds into her. She’s gasping and moaning around Sam’s cock, and Dean has half a second to feel shitty for taking her attention from Sam’s blowjob, but then he figures that Sam’s got nothing to complain about, not with the live show he’s getting.
Jo stretches out her body, spine lengthening and flexing like a panther’s as she takes it. The deep muscle between her shoulder blades bunches up powerfully. Dean rides her even harder in response, digging deep for the grit to match her strength. She’s wet and hot around him, stretched out from Sam’s fingers and absolutely soaked.
Sam digs his hands tighter in Jo’s hair, guiding her head up and down on his cock. The wet gasps of Jo’s breath and the open O of Sam’s faintly shocked mouth make Dean shudder and bite down on a curse, impossibly turned on.
It isn’t long before his balls start to tighten, the furious pistoning of his hips turning even rougher. Just as it occurs to Dean to reach down and make sure Jo gets off again, though, he feels a touch that almost makes him jump out of his skin. He snaps his head up, wild-eyed.
Sam’s leaning forward, one hand on the back of Jo’s head and the other reaching under her belly. He’s pushed his fingers around the curve of her pubic bone and farther back, fingertips brushing Dean’s cock. Then, even as he locks eyes with Dean and holds them with dark, saturated heat that Dean’s never seen before in his brother’s eyes, Sam slides a finger to either side of Dean’s cock, framing him as he thrusts in and out of Jo. The heel of Sam’s palm grinds against Jo’s clit, strong and steady.
Dean comes almost instantly, blindsided by the intensity of it. It’s almost the same moment Jo comes again with a muffled cry, Sam’s cock dropping from her open mouth, her cunt fluttering and clenching around Dean. She jolts back against him roughly, her orgasm slower and more drawn out the second time around, and Dean fucks her through it and his own, his cock still pushing between Sam’s fingers.
“Sammy,” Dean gasps as he disentangles himself, shakily lowering himself to one side of Jo, who’s shaking and got her head pillowed on Sam’s thigh, “what the hell?”
Sam finally draws his hand back, blushing and looking away again. Then he looks back, his face somehow defiant and pinched with confusion at the same time. “I don’t know. I wanted to.”
Dean just pants for a few seconds, unable to think anything but holy shit, that was good. “Works for me,” he finally says, flopping down on the edge of the bed beside Jo.
He doesn’t care if it was a fucking incredible orgasm; they’re still not talking about feelings.
Shaking with nonverbal satisfaction, Jo lifts her head a few inches and tongues the head of Sam’s cock, which is still hard and leaking. Sam jumps and gives a squeak that makes Jo chuckle and Dean snort. Too tired to do anything but mostly lay there, Jo still takes the head of Sam’s cock back into her mouth, rolling his balls in one hand. She swats away the hand Sam tries to jerk his own dick with.
Sam’s hips jerk and twitch, right on edge. He tips his head back against the headboard and pants, open-mouthed, because Sam doesn’t need to cover his mouth to come silently. Dean never bothered mastering that skill, even though—maybe especially because—it used to make his baby brother so furiously flustered.
Jo opens one eye to look right at Dean and raises her eyebrow in challenge. He acts without thinking.
All it takes is three rough strokes of his palm, pulling Sam’s cock from Jo’s mouth and jerking it swiftly. Sam spasms and shoots all over Dean’s hand and his own stomach, making that stupid orgasm face with an extra dash of utter shock.
While Sam’s still gaping (while Dean’s still reeling at what the fuck he just did) Dean wipes his hand off on Sam’s chest. Sam stares at him mutely, turns his huge shocked eyes on Jo and then looks back at Dean.
“Looked like you needed a hand,” Dean drawls. All the same, he’s trembling all over and breathing too hard. There was a line there, and Dean just crossed way, way over it. Suddenly, though, he knows that this, this was what they’ve been careening towards since they started sharing Jo. There was no way they couldn’t.
“Good,” Jo says matter-of-factly, sitting up and wiping her swollen mouth, and she’s the only one who doesn’t even seem fazed by it. “Someday you two should fuck me at the same time.”
Dean shivers hard, suddenly imagining the friction of Sam’s cock pounding into Jo alongside his with only a thin stretch of flesh between them—or with nothing at all, just Jo’s cunt stretched tight around him and Sam, the two of them driving her into a frenzy together—
Dean locks eyes with Sam and thinks he likes the sound of that.