Contains dialogue from the episode 'No Exit', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Matt Witten.

Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)

Sam stirs; it rouses Jo from the stupor she'd sunk into. She blinks a few times rapidly and shakes her head, jostling herself out of the trance. When she looks down at the newspaper clipping on the table in front of her, she realizes that she's been reading the same line over and over again for who knows how long. She rolls her eyes a little at herself. The whole point of staying up while Sam and Dean slept on the couch and the chair, respectively, was to find something, anything, in this giant mess of articles and police reports and history books that could help them figure out what's taking these girls. She didn't get a moment's rest all night long, save for however long she'd just been staring into space, and all she's got to show for it is a giant, steaming pile of nothing.

It's nowhere near good enough. If she's going to do this, if she has any hope of convincing her mom and Dean that she can handle being a hunter, she's going to have to do better than this.

She scratches absently at the side of her nose and hazily considers Dean's sleeping form. He's all twisted up to fit onto the much too-small chair; he'd insisted Jo take the bed and Sam take the more spacious couch. Always putting everyone else before himself. It's one of the things she likes most about him. But he manages to even make impersonating a pretzel look good. He's really beautiful when he's sleeping; his face totally relaxed and peaceful, all the faint lines around his eyes and mouth completely smooth, cheeks dusted with freckles that stand out starkly in the weak morning light, thick sandy-colored eyelashes resting gently just above high cheekbones. Jo can't explain it, but she's got this intense, burning need to prove herself to him – to find the spirit they're hunting and kick it's ass so Dean'll stop looking at her like some helpless little girl and start looking at her like the capable woman she is.

Sam shifts again, snuffling sleepily and rolling over. He lifts his head and then he sits up slowly, blinking groggily in the light filtering in from the window. He runs his hand over his face a few times, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and then he turns to Jo, giving her a bleary nod of acknowledgment.

"Have you been sitting there all night?" he asks, voice scratchy, pushing his hair back from his face and squinting at her.

"Shh," she whispers, bringing her finger up to her lips and then pointing toward Dean's still-unconscious form.

Sam glances at his brother, and for just a moment he gets this little smile on his face – it's more than just recognition, it's full of a soft fondness that takes Jo by surprise – but then it's gone a second later and Jo isn't really sure if the sparkle in his eyes was just a trick of the light. Honestly, she's not entirely sure she even saw it at all, but it still leaves her with a strange feeling in her stomach, like her conscience telling her "I told you so". It isn't the first time she's caught a glimpse of them looking at each other like that, far from it. Possibly, that's just how everyone looks at their siblings. Jo doesn't have any, so she doesn't know, but she's got a strange feeling that most people wouldn't look at their brother the way Sam just looked at Dean. Her head wants to call it brotherly affection, but her gut wants to call it love, and either way it leaves her uneasy.

"So have you been sitting there all night?" Sam asks again, quieter this time so as not to wake his brother. He gets up, pushes his arms into the air to stretch out his giant frame, and walks the short distance to the table she's sitting at so he can join her.

"Pretty much," she answers. "I thought there must be something that could help us in all this."

"And?"

She sighs in frustration. "Nothing. There has to be a piece we're missing here, I just can't figure out what it is."

Sam nods sympathetically. "Being sleep-deprived isn't gonna help, you know," he points out. "Why don't you try and get a couple hours? I can take over for a while."

He reaches over and pats her shoulder, probably meaning to be reassuring but it just comes off patronizing, and Jo flinches and shrugs his hand off. She's not that much younger than Sam is, only a year or two, and the last thing she needs is him treating her like some idiot kid too. She gets more than enough of that from her mother, and, more recently, from Dean. When the two of them first walked through the doors of the Roadhouse, Jo's jaw nearly hit the floor. They're both stunning, really – tall and young and strong and good-looking, and seeing the two of them stroll into the bar was surreal, like they were movie stars or something. Now, though, Jo's starting to think maybe these Winchesters are kind of assholes underneath all that lovely packaging.

"I'm fine," she asserts, the words coming out snippier than she meant them to.

Sam frowns, withdrawing his arm, but he doesn't argue. "Okay, I … I guess I'll go shower, then."

"Just let me brush my teeth first, then it's all yours," Jo answers, grabbing her backpack and heading for the bathroom. It's probably silly, but she wants to look at least halfway presentable when Dean wakes up. She's not going to get all primped up for him, she's not that kind of girl, but she should at least wash her face and run a comb through her hair.

The cool water feels almost heavenly when she splashes it on her tired skin; it refreshes her and by the time she's finished brushing her teeth she feels much more awake than she did five minutes ago. She hangs the wet washcloth up over the shower door while she rinses her mouth out, and then she spits into the sink and turns off the tap. As the leftover water trickles down the sink, Jo pauses – she could've sworn she heard something. She can't hear it now, though, so she ignores it and goes back to attempting to untangle her messy curls, but as the sink stops gargling, she hears it again.

She strains her ears, trying to make out the sound, and after a second it hits her – it's voices. But not ghostly voices from inside the walls, it's just the soft murmur of words from beyond the bathroom door. Logically, she knows it's probably just the boys; Dean's probably woken up and they're discussing the case, but she can't get that look she thought she saw on Sam's face out of her head, and she knows it's not polite to eavesdrop but she has the sudden urge to find out what they're saying.

Slowly, making as little noise as she can, she sets her hairbrush down on the porcelain edge of the sink and eases the door open, slipping passed it and flattening herself against the wall just outside the bathroom. She can't see into the rest of the room from this position but she can hear them a little better; she catches the tail end of a whispered sentence.

" – you sleep okay?" Dean's sandpapery voice asks.

"Not bad," Sam's smoother baritone answers. "Missed you, though."

Jo frowns. What on earth does that mean? Dean laughs quietly and she misses most of his reply, but she manages to pick out what sounds like the words "big friggin' girl" somewhere near the end. Sam doesn't respond, but there's a shuffling noise, and then a very soft click and a hum so tiny she almost didn't hear it. She knows she shouldn't, they'd be so pissed if they caught her spying on them, but her curiosity gets the better of her and she carefully leans forward just enough to peer around the corner. The sight that she's met with almost stops her heart cold.

Dean's still lying on his back in the reclined chair, but Sam … Sam is sitting somewhat awkwardly on the arm of the couch, and he's leaned over Dean's body with one hand braced on the headrest above Dean's shoulder, holding himself up. For a second Jo thinks he's just lost his balance or something, but then she sees it. He's … he's kissing Dean. Jo has to squeeze her eyes shut and blink a few times rapidly to make sure she isn't seeing things, but even blinking until she's dizzy doesn't erase the scene in front of her. Sam is actually, honest-to-god kissing him, lips moving in slow, tender sweeps against Dean's like the way you'd kiss a lover good morning. And Dean's kissing back. By any logic, he should be freaking out; shoving Sam off him and asking what the fuck he thinks he's doing, and maybe punching him for good measure. But he isn't; he brushes his mouth over Sam's gently, almost reverently, and when he hums softly Jo realizes it was him that made the contented sound the first time, and her heart leaps into her throat.

"Where's Jo?" Dean asks in a whisper, pulling back just enough to slur the words against Sam's skin.

Jo barely keeps from gasping; she whips her head back and presses her body into the wall so they can't see her. She holds her breath so she won't make any noise, but her heart's beating so frantically against her ribcage that she's sure they'll be able to hear it. Shit, shit, shit.

"Bathroom," she hears Sam answer, and then they go silent again.

This can't be happening, it just can't. They're brothers, how the hell can they be sitting there making out like it's nothing at all? Jo doesn't needto have any brothers or sisters to know that this is definitely not just a sibling thing she doesn't understand. This is wrong, like deeply, morally, spend-the-rest-of-eternity-burning-for-your-sins wrong. Not to mention she's pretty sure it's completely illegal. She chances one more glance at them; Dean's slid one hand up into Sam's hair now, fingers tangled in the long strands and using it as leverage to angle Sam's head the way he wants it so he can deepen the kiss, and Sam's hand has moved down to Dean's waist, pushing up just under the material of his t-shirt. She sees a shiny flash of one of their tongues and that's it – absolutely all she can take without snapping – so she tiptoes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.

She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't know what to feel. Working at the Roadhouse, Jo's heard a lot of things about the infamous Winchester brothers in the last couple of weeks; they're fairly well-known by the hunting community and when news of John's death spread it seemed like it was all anybody could talk about. But she never heard anything about this. Everyone goes on about how great a hunter John was – what a damn shame his death was, but how great it is that his sons have stepped up and are more than making up for the hole his absence leaves. God, if all those people only knew what their heroes get up to when no one's watching.

Even though her heart's pounding so quickly she's light-headed and it's against all her better judgment, Jo can't help wanting to look again. She was transfixed by them, by how easy and familiar they seemed with each other, like a couple that's been together forever. The thought strikes her that in all likelihood, they have been together forever – she knows their mom died when they were young and she knows they've been hunting together their whole lives. It's kind of sickening and not at the same time.

The sharp knock at the door startles Jo so much she slips on the bathmat and almost falls into the tub. She manages to right herself by grabbing onto the towel-rack, letting out a shaky breath of relief followed by a shakier breath that's filled with dread. She has absolutely no idea now she's going to look either of them in the eye anymore.

"Jo?" Sam calls uncertainly.

"Just a minute," she answers, in a voice that's tight and too high-pitched and doesn't sound at all like her own.

Somehow, she manages to pack her toiletries back into her bag and leave the safety of the small room, but she brushes quickly passed Sam without saying a word or making eye-contact. He watches her walk away, she can feel his eyes on the back of her head, but she ignores it and plops back down into the kitchen chair. She spares a lightening-quick glance at Dean's form on the chair, he's either fallen back asleep or he's pretending to be asleep but either way works for Jo; so long as she doesn't have to be face-to-face with him. She stares resolutely at the pile of papers in front of her; Sam hovers near the door for a moment but eventually he gives up and moves into the bathroom – a minute later she hears the water running and she exhales heavily, letting the tension out of her body as much as she can. It's still not very much; she still can't get her head wrapped around what she just saw, but at least now she'll have a few minutes to herself to think about it.

It makes some sense, now, why Dean ignored her advances. Jo's not cocky, it's not like she thinks she's the hottest chick in existence and everyone and their mother should be lining up to have a go at her, but from what she'd heard about Dean Winchester – from what everyone has heard about Dean Winchester – the guy'll bang anything with tits and a pulse, so Jo couldn't understand what he could've found so unappealing about her.

Jo couldn't help herself, she's got a weak spot for a wild bull just begging to be tamed, and Dean fit the bill perfectly. He's gorgeous of course, supermodel gorgeous, and he carries himself with an air of complete confidence and undeniable masculinity that Jo's always been a sucker for. But he's got these soft, soulful eyes that made her think he's probably very sweet under all that bravado. So yeah, it hurt when he seemed entirely uninterested. And the way he looked at her while he turned her down, with this expression that was half apologetic and half pity; at least now she knows why.

But it's the why that's currently making her stomach churn. Well, sort of. Jo wants to be disgusted by this, she really does, but truthfully, she thinks the reason she's a little nauseous right now is because she's not actually as repulsed as she probably should be by what she saw. It was strange; there was, of course, the initial 'holy-crap-they're-kissing', followed immediately by 'holy-crap-they're-brothers', but now that the fog's cleared a little bit, Jo finds herself not quite as upset as she would've thought she'd be. Maybe because there was something there between them, something intangible but completely real – it was like they were … talking. Like they were communicating, without words. Like somehow, in the way Dean cradled Sam's face in his hands and the way Sam nudged Dean's nose with his own; somehow they were saying things to each other, things that no one other than the two of them could ever understand.

She remembers now why she recognized that look on Sam's face earlier; the gentle affection, the way his lips curled into a tiny smile and his eyes went glittery-soft – it's the way her dad used to look at her mom. And she knew she wasn't seeing things, a few nights ago when the two of them stayed at the Roadhouse. She only peeked through the window for a second before Dean's eyes looked in her direction and then she high-tailed it out of there as fast as she could, but she was sure she saw them wrapped around each other in the bed, even if it didn't make a lick of sense at the time. She'd run through every possible explanation in her head – everything from them not being used to sharing a bed so maybe they'd cuddled up like that in their sleep without meaning to, to there being a tumor the size of a golf ball in her occipital lobe that made her see things that weren't there – but now she knows for sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

A few minutes later, Sam comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, fully dressed but still rubbing a towel over his wet hair, and when she keeps refusing to look at him, he mumbles something about going to pick up some coffee from the gas station across the street. She answers with a short "Kay", and he pauses again and stares at her. She feels it rather than sees it, and when she glances up at him, he's looking at her with his head tiled to the side in confusion. He almost looks wounded, like she's hurt his feelings or something.

She's struck with the sudden urge to laugh – it's a little ridiculous that someone as big and strong and supposedly tough as Sam can still manage to look like a kicked puppy. But she feels a little bad about it; in all honesty she doesn't like him very much right now, since apparently he is what's standing in the way of her chances with Dean, but it isn't really his fault, so she gives him a small smile. It's forced, but it seems to do the trick; he grins back and grabs his wallet and then he's gone.

The soft click of the door closing is enough to wake Dean up – he makes a show of stirring and stretching and dragging himself slowly back to consciousness, and Jo's positive now that he was just pretending to be sleeping. She's not sure whether or not she should be annoyed by that. On one hand, she can understand why they wouldn't want her to know what they were doing while they thought she was in the bathroom. But on the other hand, it seems stupid that the two of them felt the need to set up this elaborate charade just to keep her from finding out something they weren't particularly good at hiding in the first place.

"Morning princess," she says, smiling fakely.

"Where's Sam?" he grumbles sleepily.

Jo barely resists rolling her eyes. Of course the first thing he thinks about is Sam. "Went to get coffee."

Dean sits up and groans. "Ugh, my back. How'd you sleep on that big soft bed?"

"I didn't," she answers, dropping her gaze down to the mound of papers spread over the table. "Just been going over everything."

He eyes her for a moment, and then he grabs his duffle bag and drops it down on the table. Jo watches warily as he rummages around inside, pulling out a large hunting knife wrapped in a leather sheath. He undoes the buckle and pulls it free of its protective covering, and then he hands it to her.

"Here."

"What's this for?"

"It'll work a hell of a lot better than that little pig-stick you've been twirling around," he answers, condescension probably unintentional, but present nonetheless.

Her heart clenches momentarily in her chest – she hadn't even realized she'd picked it up, but now that he's brought it up she notices the weight of it in her hand. Her dad's knife is the most important thing she's ever owned, she never goes anywhere without it, and it hurts like it always does to have someone make fun of it, even though deep down she knows that isn't really what Dean meant. She blinks a few times and hands the smaller blade to him without a word, and he turns it around a few times in his big hands. Then he falters, frowning a little, and Jo knows he found it.

"William Anthony Harville," she deadpans.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, like he really means it, handing the switchblade back to her. "My mistake."

"What do you … what do you remember about your dad? I mean, what's the first thing that pops into your head?" she asks slowly. She can't explain it – by any logic she should be revolted by him right now, by both of them, but for whatever reason, she isn't. She still feels this pull toward the man standing in front of her, like a magnet and it's too strong for her to ignore. Maybe because she knows how he feels right now, so soon after his father's death. For all his bluster, there's a lost, sad quality to Dean that Jo empathizes with. She wants to wrap him up in a warm hug.

Dean sort of smiles a little, dismissively, like he's about to brush her off again, but if there's one thing Jo's good at, it's not taking no for an answer.

"C'mon, tell me," she pushes.

Jo doesn't know him very well, hell she's only known him for a few weeks, but she feels like when she looks at him she can see an emptiness in his eyes, like there's something missing in him right now. Her own emotions are all muddled up in her head; he's still the most gorgeous man she's ever seen and she still can't really look directly at him without her stomach doing that funny little flutter, but at the same time she doesn't know how to act around him now. The last thing she wants is for her face or the tone of her voice to give away what she now knows about him and Sam. Jo supposes if she's honest with herself, what she feels for him isn't much more than a crush and if his heart belongs to someone else, she can deal with that, even if that someone else is his brother. But she still feels bad for him. She knows how it feels to lose someone you love, to be so broken and lost and confused that you can barely get up in the morning. In a way, she's not sure she can blame him and Sam for turning to each other in the way that they have.

Dean just looks at her for a minute, like he's sizing her up, but whatever he was searching for in her face he must have found because he sits down in the other chair and starts talking

"I was six or seven, he took me shooting for the first time," he starts slowly. "You know, bottles on a fence, that sort of thing. I bullseye'd every one of them. He gave me this smile, like …"

For a second, Dean's whole face lights up and Jo's painfully reminded of why she was attracted to him in the first place – he's breathtaking when he smiles. But then as quickly as it comes, it's passed, and his face falls again.

"I dunno," he mumbles.

"He must've been proud," she says softly.

"What about your dad?" he asks.

Jo shrugs. "I was still in pig-tails when my dad died, but … I remember him coming home from a hunt. He'd burst through that door like – I don't know, like Steve McQueen or something." She laughs quietly, the memory filling her up. "And he'd sweep me up in his arms, and I'd breathe in that old leather jacket of his. And my mom, who was sour and pissed from the minute he left, she started smiling again. We were a family."

Dean doesn't respond. He just stares at her, through her, and she tries to smile even though it's a little unnerving to having his piercing green eyes stripping her bare like that. He doesn't look sad, just … pensive.

"You wanna know why I wanna do the job? For him," she finishes. "It's my way of being close to him. Now tell me, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," he whispers.

For half a second, there's this electric tension between them and Jo actually thinks maybe he's going to kiss her, but then the door swings open and Sam bursts in.

"Where's the coffee?" Dean asks gruffly.

"There're cops outside," Sam says, a frantic edge to his voice. "Another girl disappeared."

Jo storms out the door, slamming it behind her as roughly as she can and stalking away passed those stupid boys and their stupid car. She's pissed – more pissed than she's ever been in her whole life, and hurt and devastated and shattered and a million other emotions she doesn't have the capacity to understand right now. She was kidnapped today, she was held in a basement by an angry spirit who put his disgusting hands all over her and it was horrible and terrifying but it's nothing, nothing, compared to this.

Dean immediately chases after her. "That bad, huh?" he asks sympathetically, obviously under the impression she's upset because she's in trouble with her mom. He doesn't have a fucking clue.

"Not right now," she grinds out.

"What happened? Hey, talk to me," he says, reaching out and touching her arm gently.

"Get off me!" she shouts.

A flicker of hurt passes over his face, followed by annoyance. "Sorry, I'll see you around," he mutters, turning and starting to walk away.

"Dean."

He turns, glancing at her in concern over his shoulder. Sam's there too, only a few feet away from them with the car, but Jo can even begin to deal with him too right now so she focuses on Dean.

"Turns out my dad had a partner on his last hunt. Funny, he usually worked alone and this guy did too, but I guess my father figured he could trust him," she chews out bitterly. "Mistake. The guy screwed up, got my dad killed."

"What does this have to do with – "

"It was your father, Dean!" Jo interrupts, emotions swirling around in her so much she's dizzy and her chest feels like it's about to rip right in two.

"What?" Dean looks truly surprised, upset even, and that just pisses her off even more.

"Why do you think John never came back! Never told you about us? Cause he couldn't look my mom in eye after that, that's why!"

"Jo," Dean starts softly, but she cuts him off again.

"Just get outta here. Please, just leave." She spins on her heel and stalks away, moving her legs as fast as they'll go, needing to get as far away from him as she possibly can – as far away from Sam, and the bar, and her mom; all of it. She just needs to be gone, to run as fast as she can away from the memories and the pain and the horrible truth; maybe if she runs fast enough, it won't be able to catch up to her.

She was wrong before, when she was begrudgingly accepting of the relationship Dean has with his brother. It's not okay, and it's not understandable, even after the life they've lived. It's wrong, it's disgusting. Between that and the knowledge that she grew up without a father because of a fucking Winchester? She never wants to see either of them ever again.