It was a really hard hunt tonight. A poltergeist. Real nasty sonovabitch, this one. Sam had gone out to get more first aid supplies. That damn spirit cut him good, down to the bone on his arm. It was gonna need a few stitches. He'd live, but it was gonna be a long night.

On hard hunts, Dean used the hard liquor. Tonight it was Jack Daniel's, and he was already on his second bottle. He always told Sammy he drank to ease the pain, but he drank to ease his memory. To forget about the faces and names that haunted his thoughts, the ones he couldn't save, the ones that saved him. He took another long swig of his whiskey and cringed. He could already feel the effects of the alcohol.

Now he went through his brain, disposing of the names of those he could get drunk enough to forget, if just for tonight. And they all slip away, after some coaxing with the bottle. Except for one. That one that hangs back in his mind, and hangs on tight. Jo Harvelle.

He drinks and drinks and drinks, and yet, he can still see her smile-well, it's more of a smirk really, when she looked at him- and he can see her laughing and her determination to do the job. For her dad. He can see her dying eyes, eyes that used to be bright and innocent and full of life, and he can feel the cold clamminess of her hand, and taste the iron blood on her chapped lips. Maybe it's because she was here 3 weeks ago- whole and tangible- and now she's a ghost in the mind of a lunatic.

No matter how much he drinks, how many bottles he breaks, he can always see her. He throws the bottle across the room, and then another and another, until one hits a sawed off shotgun leaning against Sam's bed.

The shotgun that maimed a hellhound; the shotgun that she pressed into his hands as he walked away from her; the shotgun that had the initials J.B.H. carved into the stock. Maybe the alcohol finally got to him, because he lost it.

Now he didn't cry, because Dean Winchester doesn't cry. But he did scream. He shouted profanities at heaven, at hell, and well, anybody who'd care to listen. And then he picked up his phone and did something he promised he'd do.

He called Jo Harvelle.

Hey! It's Jo. Well, I guess you knew that. Anyway, leave me a message and I'll get back as soon as I can.

*BEEP*

"H-Heya, Jo. Guess I'm-I'm finally calling ya, like I said I would. Uh," He sighed. "Gosh, I miss you Jo." With that, he hung up and put his head in his hands.

Since that night, after a really hard hunt or if he was alone, Dean would call Jo. Sometimes, he'd just say hello. Other times, he'd talk about a nest of vamps he and Sammy had taken out and maybe a demon or two. Once he talked about how he started listening to REO, and Sam thought he damn near lost his mind. Sometimes, he'd tell a joke and laugh to himself. But other times, Dean just listened. He'd listen to the recording, then hang up and call again. Because he could picture Jo alive and well, recording that onto her phone. Instead of dead and gone.

His biggest fear was that one day, Jo Harvelle wouldn't answer.

Sam knew, of course, about Dean calling Jo. But he never said anything. He actually noticed Dean starting to improve, and he seemed to be drinking less. So why try and make something out of nothing? He missed Jo too. But not as much as Dean missed Jo. He knew Dean felt personally responsible for her death.

So when Sam walks into the motel room one day to find Dean with a bottle of Southern Comfort to his lips, and an empty bottle next to him, Sam is surprised. Without missing a beat, Dean says dryly,

"They cancelled her number, Sammy. She's gone."