playinginsand | Summer of Sam

Summer of Sam

[ Summer of Sam: Ending B ]

Twenty minutes later, when he's washed his hands and put the kit away, Sam is standing in the bathroom again. Confident this time to complete his shave, since he'd threatened to tie Jo to the hotel bed and/or make her use the crutches in the car for the rest of the day - possibly tomorrow - maybe the next day if she didn't stay the hell on the bed at least until he'd finished putting their things to rights.

She's yelling at him, but only over the sound of the television and the water running over his razor. Got the books out, the notebooks, suggesting places to go, people to see. Things to check into. And maybe it's the afterglow talking, but it's the first time he's felt at all ready to address any of it.

"We're not going anywhere near Nebraska until it's been a week since I lied to your mom."

Well, there are still some things going unaddressed.

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He's looking back at her, head only slightly turned, dark brown at the corner of his eyes to watch her.

Lips curved in the slightest of smiles, surprisingly little of it forced.

"I really don't deserve you," he points out - and grins. "And that's not a compliment to you."

It's a cleaner shot of his profile.
That newly decided lack of tension in him.

The smallest, tiny crease of his dimple dipping in.

"Oh, I know." Jo said, far too smugly for any good. "I'm totally tallying how much I'd need to supplement our supplies to block a door and a window, now."

He kept grinning.

For another handful of seconds, before her words sunk in and his mind had a moment to work through it.

And the smile faltered.

"...you know," was thoughtful, and slightly apologetic for changing the mood. "We should test salt, too."

She won't push the joke any further than he does.
Because she can watch the moment it's already too far.

The moment everything is a little too still, before fading.
And she's even aware enough to be sad of it. Some.

"It's in most of our food. Consider choking on any of it recently?"
Beat. "I haven't thrown any holy water at you recently, either."

A blink and his frown deepens, with surprise more than displeasure. "The fries at the diner were salted. What if it's only in certain amounts? It's not like I'm full-"

God.

Just don't.

He lifted a hand to rub at his hair, sighing. "So. New leg, right?"

She can't say it for him.

And if she barely shifts her gaze to the bruises she can see at the edges of her book, where her bare skin is still there.

There's not any weight toward guilt or accusation or any specific emotion. It's that she's not lacked in some of those abysmally pointed thoughts that he has but won't speak either. It's their training. Even for and about each other.

And she opened her mouth, meaning to say

A bright and shiny one. Something about airports.

But what came out, quietly, was, "You're still you, Sam."

More silence. A smirk would force it into a joke. Making some pouty sad face wouldn't help.

But.

"This started when I was six months old, Jo."

It came out tired but factual, almost like giving a report.

"It's possible 'this' is the only 'me' I've ever been."

"Except the iron thing is new."

Jo laid back again, resting her hands on the pages.
It wasn't like either of them was doing much reading.

"Or you'd have come with a warning label about it long ago."

But he's still looking at the laptop. Staring at the screen. Shoulders tense because he's realized, in this moment, after everything, there's one more thing he can say about John Jo does not already know.

One more thing to ruin her view of the uncle she thought she knew.

Except he had, hadn't he?

Jo let a breath out. Not a sigh.
Even though it had wanted to be one.

Her mother had warned her about all Winchesters.
Her mother who was somewhere trying deal with her choices.

Jo watched Sam, wondering if it was too much too soon for now.
And whether she really had the ability to not be pushing for now.

Edited 2011-10-22 21:38 (UTC)

She's here. She wouldn't leave. He couldn't let her. There's enough wrong with that to write a book or six.

And she needs to know everything. It's only fair after the years of secrets and orders he learned from.

"Before he died... my dad told Dean to watch me. That something might happen, tip the scales, I guess. And he'd have to kill me."

His frown is thoughtful, more than troubled. It's been long enough, enough shit between then and now, that it doesn't shock so sharply, hurt on an emotional level.

"I don't know what he knew, but there was something. Even then, before we met you. Nearly five years since I'd seen him."

Jo sat there very still for very long seconds.

Then she leaned over, nudged him, but didn't sway back to her spot.
Listed. Leaned. Her lips pressed together, still looking forward.
Before her temple ended up against his upper arm. Resting there.

"We'll figure whatever's happening, then, Sam. Together."

Or she might have to take care of it.

Edited 2011-10-22 22:17 (UTC)

Oddly, his response? The twitch of his mouth into a smile.

No-- that was only the first part. With her being gentle, making the effort. Her hair soft on his arm and her words chosen carefully, beautifully kind.

There's a kiss given to the top of her head. Or really, less a kiss, more the pressure of his lips against her hair.

But she's trying really hard not to think about that last thought.

So. Jo closed her eyes at the press against her hair.
And pushed it out. For now. Until. In case. Later.

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Summer of Sam

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