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Harvelle's roadhouse after close is a wash of browns: mahogany fading to chestnut and pine. When the large front doors are finally closed and locked for the night, a fine layer of ashy dust covers the floor and tables.
Boots trod in and out all day, kicking in the dirt from the unpaved lot outside. Ellen keeps talking about getting a cement truck out here to pave it, but everyone knows that’s never happening. The Harvelles run a tight, clean ship, and there is no reason for them to make the place fancier. The Roadhouse is never full, but the clientele are steady. They come in with questions and leave with a manila folder of research under their arm. It's only sustainable because they have the bar element. As Ash says: real research ain't cheap, and it's never easy.
This is the second night Dean has spent here in a row, helping Jo close up shop until they open again the next evening. He’s gotta admit— it's a pleasant change of pace. Last night Sam was at Bobby's reading up on a hunt, by the end of today he should be somewhere out in Montana, chasing a rogue Kelpie keen on drowning folks in one of the Teton lakes. Dean would have loved to go, but his luck is always shit.
Instead (on a much less appealing day of nonstop driving through Oklahoma just to gank some hick poltergeist) he'd gotten a massive grandfather clock knocked over onto his chest, effectively fracturing two of his ribs. He'd broken some before, but it never ceased to amaze him just how much a broken rib hurt . He'd be sitting on his ass for a week minimum and so Sammy went alone. ‘Sides, if the hunt went south he 'n Sam both knew it would be sink or swim and he would be sinking. To the bottom of the lake. To get eaten by a demon horse.
Like he said, it's fine . He likes the Roadhouse and he doesn't mind helping out with chores and bartending.
From across the large singular room that makes up the bar, Ellen gives them a two finger salute and switches the lights off, signaling to any wandering drunkards that they'll have to go somewhere else until morning comes. There's still enough light to clean by, though, and so Jo grabs the mop bucket and gets to work. Dean starts stacking the chairs onto the tables to clear her way.
"How's Sam?" She asks.
"Good. Think he's realizing he's got his work cut out for him, but 's okay. It's good for him. 'm sure he'll enjoy the lake more than I would've."
"Once you get past the demon horse." Jo says flatly, and Dean wonders why he ever wondered if he’d get along with the Mini Harvelle.
Dean laughs with his nose, amused at the image playing in his mind. Sam'd never gotten the hang of horsebacking, even with all the opportunities to learn at Elkin's place. "Almost wish I could be there— just so I could take a video."
"You don't worry about him?
"'Course I do. He's my lil' bro. But sometimes you gotta let them spread their wings and fly." Dean pantomimes an eagle, effectively making an ass out of himself, but at the moment, he doesn’t really care. It’s just Jo.
"If you say so." She works over a particular gooey spot on the floor with a shudder, sounding just like her mom. After another swab, she pulls the mop close, leaning against it and narrowing her eyes at Dean like he’s just spilled a whole keg of beer all over the floor.
"Hey, I've uh. been meanin’ to ask ya something." She says.
"Shoot."
"What's with you 'n Ash?"
Dean swallows, tossing a chair up onto the table with a wince at the twinge of pain in his ribs, before he hobbles on to the next one. "Huh?"
Her tone stays the same, inquisitive, if not prying. She jerks the mop forward and points at him with her pinky. "Ash and you. What's up."
"He's cool. Never thought I'd see a mullet on a living and breathing human ever again. But , yeah, he's cool." Dean’s aware that wasn’t the answer she was fishing for, but god dammit, not everyone has to pry into his life. Or at least, he doesn’t have to let them.
"Hm."
"What?" Dean shoots her a heated look.
"Nothin'."
Mercifully, she relents, tossing the mop back in the closet and kicking the bucket back towards the drain, where she empties it. Dean gathers the trash and takes it out to the dumpster towards the end of the parking lot, bracing for more prying, but when he comes back inside Jo's hanging up her waist apron and heading for the door.
"Need anything before I lock up?"
Ellen and Jo have a small house just a quarter mile down the road. Evidently it's all the same property, but Dean can see why they'd want to work and sleep at different places. Especially with the rowdy crowd they bring in most nights. Hunters bring messes, monsters, vendettas and a tendency for brawls everywhere they go. A bar is certainly no exception.
They're kind enough to offer Dean one of the two spare rooms in the back. It's small— borderline cramped— but at least the bed is a real one with sheets and pillows, so he has no room to complain. Ash usually occupies the other room, but tonight he's MIA, muttering something about 'having to go to an actual library’ for the case he’s working.
Dean throws a thumbs up, giving her his best geeky grin. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks though, comrade."
Jo clicks her heels together and gives him a limp salute. "No problem, amigo. Don't drink the whole bar while I'm gone."
"I won't. Promise."
She smiles, stopping halfway through the door to look back. "G'night, Dean."
***
The bed is lumpier than curled milk. Dean has barely (finally) drifted off into sweet, sweet unconsciousness when there’s a tap tap tap on the door.
Dean manages a ‘who?’ which sounds more like a confused parrot when it finally creeps out of his sleep-dry throat.
“It’s Doctor Badass.”
Dean smirks into his pillow and glances longways down his body, which is still strewn across the twin bed diagonally, the sheets tangled around his legs. He’s presentable. “C’m in.”
The door creaks and light floods in through the opening. Dean blinks rapidly, his eyes burning from the assault. Christ, what time is it?
“ Woah, big boy.” Ash squints at him. “Looks like ya heart's pumpin’ more tequila than blood. I miss a party or somethin'?”
Dean is about to protest when he remembers that yes, that’s exactly what happened. Jo had made some allusions and Dean had played it cool up until exactly the point when the bedroom door closed against his back and then he located Ash’s secret secret stash and had hit everything all at once, until he was nice and buzzed. Buzzed enough that he could play the Wasted card in defense of the tears sliding down his cheeks as he sat alone in the dark.
“Or something.”
He isn’t crying. He doesn’t have anything to cry about. There certainly isn’t anything that would make him feel warm at the exact same time it stirred panic right in his gut. He’s got nothin’ to tell anybody. Ev’ryone can fuck right off.
“And is that— “ Ash squints his eyes closed, suspicious, and works his sniffer twice. Dean’s sure that’s all the effort needed to damn him for his crime. “ — my stash?”
Here comes the guilt trip, Dean thinks, but he deserves it. “Yeah, I’m sorry, man. I— I didn’t mean to raid it. Got back to the room and it just kinda happened.”
“Forgiven…” His voice trails off as he assesses the room, only vaguely still interested in Dean’s confession when his eyes land on the Kerouac book tucked into the side pocket of his duffel. Distracted suddenly, like he’s just found something very interesting, he waves a hand at Dean dismissively. “Jo gave you the workin’ over, huh?”
Dean hums, looking away. “Something like that.”
“She’s a goddamn menace. Read me for filth freshman year a’ college. Took one look at me and I was bawling ugly. But I digress… You must have some baggage , Dean-o. To be this strung out post therapist Jo sneak attack.”
Dean scoffs. “Baggage kinda comes with the job. Y’know, survivor's guilt, murderous tendencies, insomnia, one night stands gone wrong. The works.”
Whatever psychoanalysis Ash is subjecting him to makes it blatantly obvious that Ash and Jo are both energy vampires and that they thrive as they do their evil bidding, getting all up in whatever it is you wanna talk about least.
Bunch of empath freaks.
Dean doesn’t do talks on a good day, even when it’s about things that make him happy. Unless it’s to a stranger in a bar, in which case he has to know their top five zeppelin songs or he’s going home alone. He’s got a system for this. Don’t fuck with the system.
“The works.” Ash repeats, slow, a small smile creeping into the corner of his mouth as he stares at Dean.
It’s fine for a second or two, but then the gaze keeps going and Dean’s feeling hot in his seat. He clears his throat. “Anyway, Ash, I was hoping you could show me how you do that thing on your laptop.”
Ash blinks at him, slowly, and Dean swears one eyelid closed and then the other, like some kind of gecko. “That thing on my laptop. You’re gonna have to me more specific. I’ve got so many things.”
“Y’know… where you go through that program to sift through the FBI database?”
“I’m willing to bet that’s out of your realm of expertise, Dean-o.”
“I’ve got a lot of realms and a lot of expertise.” Dean quips, the words flying out of his mouth before he can even think about the connotation behind them.
Ash pauses, considering Dean’s words carefully, enunciating both halves of the word separately. “Noted.”
In that moment, death by demon horse is sounding more dignified than whatever hole Dean’s digging himself into. Someone should come put him out of his misery.
***
He really hadn’t meant to pick a fight. But there were some ugly son of a bitches at the Roadhouse tonight and a pack of brutes had decided that Dean was looking a little too pretty. He barely hears the crunch of the bones in his nose over the roar of the blood pumping through him. He can’t even remember if he swung first. He’s pretty sure he swung first.
“Dean Marianne Winchester. What are you doing?”
Ellen’s voice cuts through the raucous like a hot knife through butter and everyone freezes. Dean’s fist is tight where it clenches around the other man’s collar, and the other man’s knee has just found its home in his stomach, using Dean’s distraction as an opening. He doubles over and lets his grip loosen just enough to let the ugly mother fucker take a step back, though his hand is itching for another swing.
If his ribs had been healing, he’s sure his nanosecond of impulsive anger has earned him a re-fracturing. He spits out the blood running down his throat from his nose onto the floor and grimaces. He’ll clean the whole place up once this is over. He can’t bring himself to look up at her. “Sorry, Ellen.”
“Don’t apologize. These assholes were told a week ago that if I saw their asses back in here I would pop a cap in their jeans. You just did the job for me.”
Dean’s breath is a little too wet for comfort, and he sucks in a ragged breath as he meets the stoney stare of the other guy with one he hopes is laced with equal malice. He wishes Ellen had been just a minute later. He would’ve had him on the floor if he’d just been able to land the punch on his jaw.
“Well?” Ellen barks, reaching over the counter and under it for the shotgun, aiming it squarely at the other man’s chest. “Git.”
They don’t run away with their tail between their legs, but the first guy who’d made some comments about Dean is hobbling, all of his weight on the leg that Dean hadn’t kicked the everliving shit out of, so Dean takes it as a win anyways.
“Yeah,” Dean calls after them, ignoring all the eyes trained on him from the other patrons. “That’s right. Get outta here.” His gaze skips over Ellen’s quickly, as he yanks a barstool out and swings a leg over it, pressing a thumb to the bridge of his nose and hissing sharply, muttering under his breath. “ Goddamn truckers, man .”
Ellen meets him on the other side of the counter, a pitying look gracing her face. “Don’t worry about it, kid. They’ve just never seen a guy as pretty as you in a place like this.”
“Aw gee, thanks.” His nose feels like it’s falling off, and he’s not really in the mood for whatever conversation she’s gearing up for. He’s really not. He can’t even taste the whiskey over the blood.
His retort earns him a disappointed look. Dean hates it.
“Just don’t let it happen again, y’hear? The spare room is for people who keep the roadhouse in one piece, not the other way around. And gimme that— ” Ellen yanks the glass out of his hand and sets it down on her side. “Last thing you need is another drink. Jo’s in the back doing dishes. She’ll get you some ice for that.”
***
“You’re worse than me. Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to pick fights with guys three times the size ‘a you?”
Dean stays silent, and Jo takes the hint. “Right, shit. Sorry.”
“‘S okay. I earned that one.”
Jo smells nice. Like vanilla and whiskey. She dabs a damp rag against his nose and even though she’s gentle, it still hurts. He bites back a yelp.
“You’re real stupid, Dean.”
“I know.”
“You’re also real smart. Smarter than that shit you pulled out there.”
“I know.”
Jo applies more pressure to her wrist and Dean hisses as the bones in his nose realign. “Would you quit with the Han Solo act.” Dean opens his mouth to say something harsh and quick, but doesn’t manage to get the word out as Jo replaces the rag with a cotton ball smothered in vodka. “You’re not fooling anybody.”
Dean lets the conversation fall into the abyss. It would be uncomfortable if he and Jo weren’t two sides to the same shitty little coin. Bratty hunter’s kids with daddy issues. Shotguns loaded with salt rounds, ready to unleash pain onto anything that looks at them wrong. It’d be funny almost, if it wasn’t sad instead.
Jo gets up to clean the rag in the sink and Dean follows her, watching the red swirl with the soap until it disappears down the drain. Grabbing a towel, he starts to dry the dishes on the rack. They stand there in silence for long time.
“Dad used to… He always said everything he did was for my own good. When I turned seventeen he sent me out on my first hunt alone. I was almost— almost excited. Dad trusted me to be able to do it by myself. It was this run down church in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. He’d told me these two nuns were haunting it. Didn’t find out until I got there that they— the nuns, they had been in love, then found out. Dad had told me they’d killed themselves. Didn’t know why. It was only for a second that I saw them watchin’ me. Holding hands before I burned their bones and rosaries. I put ‘em together in the same grave. Dad thought I’d gotten in a fight ‘cause my leg was all scraped up but I’d just fallen through the floorboards. They didn’t put up any fight at all. When I got there they looked through me, past me out onto the prairie. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the car and turning the key in the ignition that I realized— Dad, he uh, he must’ve known— - fuck, he knew that whole time, he knew and he wanted to show me what happened to people like me—”
Dean’s hands have a tremor where he grips the plate, and he sets it down, swallowing a boulder that has lodged itself in his throat.
“Dean?”
Dean inhales, looks away. “Yeah.”
“It’s okay.”
“Shit, shit— Jo. He knew.”
“Dean—”
“He knew what I was. Am. ‘m not supposed to be. I’m the big brother. I’m the good soldier, Jo. He never would’ve wanted this for me.”
“Yeah well, he’s dead.”
Dean’s head jerks up and he looks at her, shocked. Her brown eyes are looking at him, through him. But instead of looking past him to a life she could lead, she scooches closer to him at the sink and lays her head down on his shoulder.
“My daddy’s dead, too.” She says, and it’s a sentence loaded with a thousand different meanings. He freezes as her blonde hair tickles the corner of his jaw. “So it’s okay. You ‘n me both. Did you ever learn their names?”
“Ida and Josephine.” He says, too fast, surprised he remembered them at all. Jo smiles. He can feel her cheek move against his shirt as she tests the names out in her mouth. In a minute, Ellen’s going to bust through the door and tell Dean to get his lily white ass out there to clean up his mess, and he will. But for just a minute longer, Dean wants to let what’s unspoken and yet clearly accepted and understood and maybe even reciprocated hang in the air between them. Just one more minute of quiet in the back room of the Roadhouse.
That’s all he could ever hope to ask for.