Author: WelshWitch1011

Title: State Lines

Rating: T (Occasionally M)

Spoilers: AU from end of S5.

Pairing: Dean/Jo

Author's Note: Hey all! This is my brand new multi-chapter fic, which is an AU version of S6. Ellen and Jo are alive and well (as they should have stayed, Eric!), and Lisa is nothing but a distant memory (again... as she should have stayed).

Each chapter will be set in one of the US states, and will follow on from each other in chronological order.

Thanks once again to Silverspoon, for her awesome beta skills... There is no sister better than mine. True story.

Well, on with the show... Angst ahead, you have been warned!

Nebraska

The stench of rotting, burning flesh permeates his nostrils, carried on hot, sharp blasts of air that cause his stomach to lunge.

His eyes are screwed closed, and he knows he dare not open them, for the sights that await him are far more insidious than anything in the world he has now left behind.

A tortured scream punctuates the low, unearthly moan of those trapped there with him, yet he finds he has lost the ability to verbalise his own anguish. His body lies dormant, and his reactions have gradually ceased against the constant burning and searing pain that holds him prisoner.

He flinches against the sound of blades cleaving flesh, and the telltale scream that follows; his senses have acclimatised perhaps too well to their surroundings.

But the all engulfing terror is too great to deny, and he knows that he can only resist for so much longer, before becoming the tormentor himself.

Hands claw at his skin, razor sharp talons embed into his chest and drag long, deep welts that instantly leave a crimson pool in their wake.

He hears his screams only in his head.

The binds at his wrists cut into him, as he struggles only momentarily against his captors, yet all too soon, the horrifying reality of his plight reminds him yet again that there is no fight to escape. This will be his eternity; an unceasing ordeal of de-humanising torture until all too soon, he becomes that which he fears above all else.

Yet his brother is alive, and this fact dulls the anguish that otherwise eats away at his mind.
Fragments of the past play like a silent movie in his head; the weight of his baby brother in his arms, his father's frantic screams, and the dense, heady smell of smoke, carried on the crisp air of a winter's night.

Occasionally though he finds solace in his memories, and for a few brief seconds he holds onto the sound of his mother's whispered lullabies, or sometimes, the sparkling life and light he had once found in a pair of deep, brown eyes. Her smile haunts him, like a goading reminder of all that might have been, and too soon the memories become nothing more than another form of torture, another pain to be endured there in the heat and never-ending chaos of Hell.

The tip of a blade presses lazily against his shoulder, and all too soon the sound of ripping, wrenching flesh and tendon pierces his thoughts, and her smile disappears from his memory. Inch by inch, the burning hot knife stabs into its victim and the sickening thud of metal hitting bone alerts his tormentor that his flesh can yield no more.

Yet the knife plunges through and finally, Dean Winchester screams.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The air left his lungs in a short, sharp gasp, as he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, the sheets damp and rumpled beneath his sweat slickened body.

Running his hands through his hair, Dean glanced desperately around the bedroom, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his breathing and swiped at the tears that had escaped him in sleep.

The moonlight shone in through a gap in the drapes, and illuminated the small room enough to assure him that this was reality.
Squinting against the darkness, he focused on the wooden dresser, hungrily digesting each detail of the items resting on it in an attempt to provoke less terrifying thoughts to occupy his mind. Yet in the fog of having just awoken, his surroundings still bore that strange sense of unfamiliarity, and it was several long seconds before he remembered the details of his present life.

Glancing to his side, he eyes swept the figure of the woman laying next to him, and he focused intently on her face, almost willing her eyes to open so he could lose himself in the warmth and adoration he knew he would find there.

Resisting the urge to wake her, or simply enclose her in his arms, Dean stared silently around the bedroom, noting how bare and yet somehow welcoming the sight before him was. Their possessions now sat side by side, his having crept steadily into her once solitary space, almost as easily as she had crept into his heart.

Two pairs of boots sat lined up beside the closet, their clothes lying in a tangled heap over the back of a chair, discarded hastily by their owners in a frenzy of lust and desire. The room lacked the usual barrage of possessions and trinkets that make a house a home, but nevertheless, it was home all the same.

He had promised his brother he would go to her, that he would live out his days as he had always wanted; seeking out the good in life, as opposed to hunting the evil. She had greeted him of course with sadness, shocked by his confession that he believed she was his one chance at happiness.
So she had invited him to stay, welcoming him into her life, into her home, and eventually into her bed. Jo's heart had always been his.

For the first time in his adult life, Dean knew he should be happy, and sometimes he was, in moments when he forgot the how and why of his present life, and he let her laughter and her kisses drown out the sorrow that otherwise overcame him.

Ellen and Bobby remained close-by, and the four hunters now worked jobs together, although each perhaps kept a more vigilant eye on each other than they had before. He hunted, as he had always done, but now Dean had someone to come home to, and a chance for as close to an 'apple pie' life as he knew his birthright and temperament would allow.

Hunting would always be a part of his life, just as it would always be hers. And Dean had realised that despite who he always thought he had wanted to become, this was who he was. This was the only life he had really known, and for better or worse, it was the only one that made sense, or gave him purpose. This was everything and all he could ever be, and Jo loved him for, and perhaps sometimes despite, this fact.

Whilst he had been unsure as to whether to darken her doorstep and indeed her life with the shadows he knew he would undoubtedly bring with him, the pull to be near her, to finally love and be loved, was too great to deny. Because if anyone were to understand him, and love him despite who he feared he had become, it was her.

He fought daily with the paralysing fear of somehow losing her, of his life becoming an echo of his father's, yet he found himself unable to leave. He had never made clear his intentions of how long he would stay, and she had never asked, and occasionally a strange sense of uncertainty hung in the air between them.

But they werehappy, having somehow managed to form a surprisingly functional relationship in their otherwise dysfunctional world.

Yet Dean couldn't shake the feeling of loss and the gaping hole that festered in his heart - because in his ideal world, in his perfect life, his brother was there beside him.

Dean pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, as he tried in vain to stem the tears that escaped his eyes, as he wondered if his hellish fate had now also befallen his sibling. It was unimaginable to think of Sam that way, yet the images continued to cruelly assault his mind.
The bed beside him dipped gently, and he felt a small, warm hand land against his shoulder. Her whispered voice made soft soothing sounds, as she edged closer across the mattress and leant her head against his arm.

He turned to stare at her in the darkness, abandoning the shame and embarrassment that gnawed away at him as her hand tenderly brushed his jaw, and she ushered him into an embrace.

Kneeling up beside him, Jo enclosed him in her arms, her heart breaking that little bit more as she felt his warm tears splash against her skin, and his arms tighten almost uncomfortably around her hips.
She ran her hands through his hair, his breath hot and ragged against her stomach, as he pressed his face against the fabric of her nightgown, and he held onto her as if she were the lifeline he knew she had become.

Jo didn't offer platitudes or false promises, she didn't tell him it would 'be okay', because they both knew it never would be. Sam was gone, and with his death, Dean had lost not just a brother, but his best friend. They had relied on each other for so long that the idea of one surviving without the other seemed incredible, and Jo often wondered how she would ever be able to contemplate healing the wounds that cut deep into Dean's soul.

The nightmares were terrifyingly frequent, and only days after first having slept beside him, Jo had awoken one night to find him gone, the sheets drenched with sweat and tears, wrung into pleated twists of cotton by desperate fists.

She had found him in the kitchen, sitting in perfect silence at the table, with a haunted expression on his face that he apparently hoped to lose in the depths of the liquor bottle clutched in his hand.
Removing the bottle from his grasp with surprising ease, Jo had poured the amber liquid down the sink, the final dregs dropping from the bottle as the first tears had escaped his eyes.

"Sam wouldn't want this," she had told him. Then she offered him her hand, and he took it.

Sometimes, in the nights that followed, they would end up like this, sitting in silence, allowing the minutes and hours to pass by, as she held onto him and he to her, as if his salvation depended on it.
Jo never asked him to talk about his nightmares, to give a voice to the horrors she knew plagued him. She never demanded more than he was willing to give, content to simply lie there, stroking his hair and kissing his cooling brow until sleep came to claim him once again.

Other times, he would seek comfort in other ways, losing himself in her body until his energy was spent, and a heavy, dreamless sleep overcame him in her arms.

He never spoke of his dreams in the light of morning, and the usual, flirtatious, easy banter that had always existed between them once more coloured their exchanges. He returned her laughter and smiles with his own; true, sincere smiles that brought light to his eyes. Because Sam was right, and she made him happy.

"It was my job to take care of him."

His heartbroken words shattered her reverie, and Jo pulled him closer, finding herself rocking slowly and rhythmically as if comforting a child.

"It's not your fault, Dean," she stated softly, feeling powerless to provide any real comfort.

Jo felt his body relax in her arms, and she knew sleep was once again drawing him away from her. His words became muffled against her, his breath drifting across the bare skin of her arms as he nuzzled against her body, resting his head against her chest as his fingers curled around her waist.
Leading him back down toward the pillows, Jo allowed him once more into her arms, his damp cheek pressing against her collarbone. Dean brushed a kiss to her skin, whispering apologies that she instantly silenced.

Her fingertips drifted across the shell of his ear, and Dean closed his eyes tightly, feeling both overwhelmed and undeserving of the tenderness and affection that radiated from her touch.

Taking a deep breath, he fought back his pride and shame, and with a tentative, uncharacteristically uncertain voice, Dean finally told her of the nightmares that haunted him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The morning sun was an unwelcome intrusion to her slumber, and Jo squinted against the beam of sunlight that sliced unrelentingly across her pillow.

Yawning through the wave of tiredness she felt about to overcome her, she smiled sleepily at the warm, pleasantly numb feeling that drifted over her body.

Dean's hand rested high on her abdomen, the heavy, yet not oppressive weight of his arm lay across her hips, and kept her close to his chest as he slept curled up beside her. Stretching languidly, Jo smiled as she felt her bare skin brush against his, their legs an undeterminable tangle beneath the sheets.

A sudden flutter of movement behind her alerted her to the fact that he too was now awake, and she sighed airily as a path of kisses was trailed slowly down her neck.

Turning in his arms, Jo rolled over onto her back and was pleasantly surprised by the wide smile he greeted her with.

After his outpouring of grief and long held secrets the night before, she had been afraid that he would become distant or closed off toward her - made to feel self-conscious by his admissions the morning after.

Her fears were silenced by the distinctly adoring smile he beheld her with, and before any of the regular morning greetings or pleasantries could be exchanged, he had claimed her lips in a toe curling kiss.

Jo giggled against his mouth, lifting her head from the pillow to seek out his lips once again, as his knee gently nudged her legs apart, and he settled himself in the cradle of her hips.

Breaking away from their kisses, Dean stared down at her with such intense scrutiny, that a blush rose upon her cheeks. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, before repeating the gesture over her cheek and eventually down to her lips.

Meeting his gaze, Jo reached up and brushed her hand across his jaw, her thumb sweeping the corner of his mouth, which he again caught with a kiss.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, his eyes boring into hers as he explained, "for last night. For listening."

Jo shook her head, dismissing his gratitude just as she had his apologies, and she silenced him on the subject with a smile and the first in another succession of kisses.
"You'd do it for me," she said simply, watching as he stared down at her and nodded in reply.

His fingertips tangled in her hair, and he ushered her lips towards his, hearing her groan beneath him as he left her breathless and wanting.

Brushing the tip of his nose against hers, Dean smiled and began dragging a line of open mouthed kisses down her neck, pausing to lick and suck at her pulse point until her hips arched up against his and he bit down lightly in response.

Her hands scoured his back, and she let her head fall back against the pillow as he continued his languid exploration of her body.

Pausing as his hand slid slowly up her thigh, Dean lifted his head from her chest and leant up over her, his forehead pressed lightly to hers as he appeared momentarily thoughtful.

Immediately sensing the change in mood, Jo glanced up at him uncertainly, yet her questioning remark died on her lips as he suddenly spoke.

Cupping her cheek in his hand, Dean hesitated for only a moment.

"Jo… Can I stay?"

Releasing a relieved breath, Jo beamed up at him and shrugged for effect.

"Well, that all depends. How long were you thinking?" she fished, mirroring the grin that soon twitched at his lips.

"I don't know," he tried to sound allusive, and failed miserably, the glint in his eyes suitably betraying his intentions and his voice took on a more serious tone once again. "You think you could stand having me around for good?"

Her arms wrapped tighter around him and this time Jo kissed him, her breath warm against his cheek as she replied. "I guess that'd be okay."

Smiling in approval at her response, he lowered his head toward hers pausing seemingly the second before their lips met. "Don't ever go anywhere, okay?"

Jo trailed her fingertips across his neck and bobbed her head in agreement, "Well, that works both ways, Winchester."

Weaving his fingers through hers, he nodded solemnly, before enclosing her in his arms once again.

For the first time in a long time, Dean Winchester made a promise he prayed he could keep.