A/N: This is my first foray into the world of Supernatural fan fiction, and I've got to say, I'm a little nervous about it. I wasn't planning on writing this, but the plot bunny has been in my head for a week, and I just had to get it out.

I've always loved Dean and Jo together, and I kind of love what I did here. I hope you all do too.

Jo is used to waking up in the middle of the night and finding his side of the bed empty. Tonight is no different.

She rolls, half conscience, and reaches over expecting to find purchase on Dean's warm, solid chest. Instead her hand hits cold, rumpled sheets. Jo opens her eyes slowly and her heart sinks, the same way it does every time she wakes to find he's left for a case without saying goodbye.

Dean has a bad habit of leaving in the middle of the night after she's fallen asleep. He says it's because he doesn't want to argue about whether or not she's coming with him.

"Quit bein' so damn pigheaded, Dean. You and Sam can use me, and you know it."

Dean looked up from the duffle bag he was stuffing with clothes and supplies. "Not happening, Jo."

"Why? Because I'm a girl? Because you don't think I can do the job?" Jo tightened her hands into fists at her sides and stepped toward Dean until they were nose-to-nose, and he had no choice but to look her in the eye. "Well, I've got news for you, Winchester. I'm a damn good hunter, and you'd know it if you'd take your head outta your ass for one second."

He dropped the duffle onto the bed and turned to fully face Jo, whose cheeks were flushed pink in frustration. Dean ran a hand down his face. "You think I won't let you come because you're a girl? C'mon, Jo. You know better than that. I know how capable you are." He shook his head wearily and cast his eyes to the floor. " You just.. You're the last good thing I have in this miserable excuse for a life, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you go out there and get yourself killed."

They stop arguing about it after that night. Jo doesn't always agree, but she understands. Just like she understands that the real reason he leaves this way is because he doesn't want to say goodbye. He can't. They both know that every time he walks out that door he may never walk back in.

She props herself up onto an elbow and feels around on the sheets until her hand closes around a small square of folded paper. Dean always leaves a note. She opens it and smiles, in spite of herself, at his handwriting scrawled across the page.

"Take care of my baby, Baby."

Jo flips on the bedside lamp and sees the keys to Dean's Impala next to her phone on the nightstand. She bites her lip and blinks back a wave of tears that threaten to spill onto her cheeks. The last time Dean left the Impala in her charge, he was gone for nearly six weeks.

This time it's two weeks. For fourteen days she's kept sane by a handful of texts letting her know he's still topside, and for fourteen nights she's lulled to sleep wrapped in a flannel shirt that still smells of him — a mix of his cologne, gunpowder and leather.

And on that last night, when she feels the bed dip down on Dean's side, she waits for his strong arms to wrap around her. And when they do, she smiles and exhales a breath she's been holding for fourteen Goddamn days.

He tightens his arms around her waist and nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. "How's my girl?" The warmth of his breath on her skin paired with the raspy whisper of his voice sends chills up Jo's spine.

She turns over in his arms so their noses are nearly touching, and runs a hand down his face, stopping to trace a small cut along his stubbled jaw. Dean's eyes never leave hers, not even when she closes the small space between them and presses her lips against his. She pulls back slightly, but her hand continues to trace over his face, cataloging every inch of it into her memory. "I'm better now."

He's home. And so is she.