veneficusvenato | [Flashback; Sam's First (Unofficial) Meeting]

[Flashback; Sam's First (Unofficial) Meeting]

Time: Back Then
Location: Dean's Flat
People: Jo, Sam (Maybe Dean)

The front door is open, because the late spring breeze is nice.

And Jo is laying on the couch, pulling a curl absently, while reading.

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"My lasagne," Dean informs her, "is to die for. Guaranteed."

He cooked it a lot when Sam was little and Dad was busy. He's smirking at her, now, cheerful at the thought of cooking for her.

"If you don't like it you get a full refund."

Edited 2011-10-25 11:51 (UTC)

"Of all my time and my effort?" Jo asked pertly.
Pushing herself off the couch finally.

Bare feet on the carpet.

She's been here a while, at it.

And there was too much room between them still.

Edited 2011-10-25 12:00 (UTC)

Dean pulls his hands right out of his pockets and holds both arms out to her, open and welcoming. And grinning.

And adoring. And so in love.

The last steps are like flying. Because she launches herself into his arms with a bright glowing smile. Because she might have been here, in a place, that has things. But he's here now. Home.

Dean spins her, laughing, joyful. Because she's his Jo and she's in his arms and no matter how terrible his day was, he has his own tiny piece of sunshine in his arms.

And it's been way too long since he kissed her goodbye this morning. So he kisses her hello, first, a hand winding into her hair, holding her face.

"You. Hi."

Her lips dipped into a smirk.

"You already said that." Beat. "Twice."
But she doesn't even really care.

Not with her fingers still in his hair.

"I like saying it." Dean kisses that smirk, too, grinning at her, nose to her cheek. "Reminds me you're here."

In so many ways. Still here. Still his.

She can close her eyes and feel the way her chest expands, like it might swell too large for her frame. Still alive. All warm and breathing, burying his face against hers and her hair, lips against hers, against her skin.

The rough stubble and smell of work and that cloak.

And every minute of wait before this was worth it suddenly.
And every minute that existed before this vanishes entirely.

And she catches his lips, again. Before. No, twice.
How did she ever let him talk or walk out of here?

And then grinned, all smug. "Oh, I'm here. I might even be here for a few days. I might," with emphasis of this last word, "Have convinced them I earned two days off call for getting back two days early this weekend."

And even if there is no completely off call for WHD, she can dream.
Especially when her arms are around him, and there is not other world that this.

"You might?"

Dean kisses her, again.

Their conversations are all, always, a lot like this. Words, punctuated by kisses.

Because who knows how long this might last?

"Well."

Kisses.

"Good."

Kisses.

"I'm seeing myself coming down with a really nasty flu. Can't report in for at least two days, now."

Edited 2011-11-07 11:16 (UTC)

Like idiot children.
Like love sick fools.

So many comparisons she could make.

But she can't really think when he's smiling like that.

She decided long ago Dean Winchesters mouth was a lethal weapon.
Even before she figured out what it did if it touched her.

Jo's face shifted, too look mock-serious, a thumb brushing across his cheek just barely. "Well, we can't have that. I'd have to stay and take care of you, then. Give up all of my hard earned free time to make sure you weren't feeling too terribly the whole time."

Dean lets his fingers dance over her back, grinning at her.

Like idiots. It's idiotic to love this hard.

Yes. Love.

He's been using that word - inside his own head and nowhere else - for weeks now. Months. He forgets how long. Time has no meaning unless you separate it into Before Jo and After Jo.

It's dumb. It's stupid.

But there it is.

"Really, now. That's uncharacteristically altruistic of you, Miss Harvelle."

"Lies." Her expression turned offended.
Except for those so bright copper eyes.

And she patted his cheek with a hand.

"I'm the sweetest, most caring person you know."

"And the most modest, too." Dean curls his fingers at the nape of her neck, grinning, all the more for her offended expression, and settles his other hand against her ass. "You're lucky I can look past all that."

"It's so generous of you." Her smirk only widens when his hands settle, especially the lower one. "You know, if I could be wrong, too, but I do not believe this is how you prove to me you can cook lasagna."

Though a good half of her thinks encouraging him to go do anything that is not staring at her like that, touching her at all, is tantamount to insanity. She should be able to subsist on just this.

Who is she kidding. Whatever it takes to truly live. Is made of up of this.

Edited 2011-11-09 11:35 (UTC)

"I have proved," Dean says, and kisses her, "the lasagne thing," kisses, "a million times. You can't guilt me," kisses, "into letting go of you," kisses, "just by being hungry."

Kisses.

"So there."

God, he loves her.

How is she ever supposed to think, want to think.

When his mouth keeps. And her spine is melting.
And she's leaning in to him, hands along his side.

"What if I am--" she finally manages, pulling back.
Only barely, before leaning down. In. To kiss his neck.

Then, again, slowly. Perfectly here -- no, perfectly hers.
How she missed the taste of his skin this much? "-but not for food?"

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[Flashback; Sam's First (Unofficial) Meeting]

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