Superstitions {Dean Winchester 2}

Chapter 18

No Exit

After Sam and I searched the bottom floors and found nothing, we all met back up at the apartment. Dean and Jo had found a chunk of blonde hair in a vent but nothing else. By that time it was too dark to do anything else.

So we all picked a place to sleep. Sam took the sofa, Dean the recliner chair, leaving the bed for Jo or me. I decided to let Jo have the bed and take over Dean's space instead.

I woke up an hour or two before him. I stood up from his lap, stretching. I then got ready for the day and joined Jo at the table. Sam had left to get coffee earlier. 

"Morning, princess." Jo said suddenly. 

I turned in my chair to see Dean now awake. I smiled at him. 

"Where's Sam?" He asked, voice raspy from sleep.

I sighed.

"Went to get coffee." Jo answered, flipping the pocketknife in her hand. 

Dean groaned, standing. "Ohh, my back."

"Oh, you poor old man." I teased. 

Dean sat down next to me. "Shut up."

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, grumpy?" I asked. He glared at me. I patted his arm, laughing a little. "Oh, don't get all grouchy."

"Not everyone gets up at the crack of dawn all bubbly and excited." Dean muttered. "So how'd you sleep on that big, soft bed?" He asked Jo. 

"I didn't. Just been going over everything." She replied. 

Dean grabbed the duffle bag of weapons from the floor, pulling out a much larger knife than the one Jo had. He flipped it in the air, catching it by the blade before offering it to her. "Here."

"What's this for?" Jo asked. 

"It'll work a hell of a lot better than that little pig-sticker you're twirling around." 

Jo held out her knife. Dean took it, flipping it over in his hand. I lean over to see three letters engraved on the blade. W, A, H.

"Willian Anthony Harvelle." Jo stated. 

"Sorry." Dean says, handing her the knife. "My mistake." 

"What do you--? What do you remember about your dad?" Jo asked, eyes flickering between the both of us. "I mean, what's the first thing that pops into your head?" 

Dean didn't reply. I didn't either. He leaned back in his chair, placing an arm around the back of mine.

"Come on, tell me." Jo pressed. 

"I was 6 or 7 and, uh, he took me shooting for the first time." Dean began. "You know, bottles on a fence, that kind of thing. I bulls-eyed every one of them. He gave me this smile, like..." He trailed on, a faint smile appearing for only a moment. "I don't know."

"He must have been proud." Jo says. 

For a moment or two it was silent, then I realize Jo had looked to me. 

"Oh, what, I'm in this conversation?" I asked. Believe it or not, it's not the first time I've had to ask that question in my life.

Jo nodded her head. "Mom says your dad swung by the roadhouse a lot."

I nodded. "He did. Took me and my brother with him a lot. We went everywhere with him. Except an off weekend or two when we stayed with my Aunt Morgan. He always brought me a flower back after every hunt." I paused, shaking my head. "I'd give him the biggest hug because he came back for me. Which is more than some people can say. He was great. And you?" I asked because if I went on anymore I'd end up in tears.