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Title: Open Road
Author: sugarcages
Disclaimer: Playing in Kripke's sandbox, as always.
Rating: G
Word Count: 276
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Jo
Summary: She hears the open road call out to her time and again.
Prompt Table: Is here.
At five years old, she stands outside the Roadhouse, staring at Nebraska's blue and gold horizon, summer at its finest. Daddy just bought her a new pair of boots, real leather ones, just like his, only hers are bright and stiff while his are worn and soft. She puts them on right just when Mommy's at her busiest and sneaks out. She likes hearing the crunch of gravel under her feet, the opening notes of an open road and a five year old's adventure.
At ten years old, the leather shoes stand in one lonely corner of her room, begging to be forgotten and thrown out, but Jo quite can't bring herself to it. Mom is crying again in her half-empty room and the bar is hollow and abandoned. If she sits still long enough, it almost seems like a haunted house, nothing but ghost-women living here. Instead she stands up and rushes downstairs, slams the bar's front door open as hard as she could, as if the noise could reassure her of her still-living state. She pads barefoot down past the porch, stands at the mouth of the road, uncaring of broken beer bottles and sharp pebbles. She stares out in the Nebraska horizon, weeds gently dancing in the wind. She breaks into a run, not quite knowing if it's still the open road she wants, or escape from the silence. She comes back home with bloodied feet, stays in bed for over a week.
At twenty-one, she hears a crunch of gravel, a slam of the door. She readies her shotgun, sitting next to her small leather boots.
At twenty-one, she meets Dean Winchester.
Author: sugarcages
Disclaimer: Playing in Kripke's sandbox, as always.
Rating: G
Word Count: 276
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Jo
Summary: She hears the open road call out to her time and again.
Prompt Table: Is here.
At five years old, she stands outside the Roadhouse, staring at Nebraska's blue and gold horizon, summer at its finest. Daddy just bought her a new pair of boots, real leather ones, just like his, only hers are bright and stiff while his are worn and soft. She puts them on right just when Mommy's at her busiest and sneaks out. She likes hearing the crunch of gravel under her feet, the opening notes of an open road and a five year old's adventure.
At ten years old, the leather shoes stand in one lonely corner of her room, begging to be forgotten and thrown out, but Jo quite can't bring herself to it. Mom is crying again in her half-empty room and the bar is hollow and abandoned. If she sits still long enough, it almost seems like a haunted house, nothing but ghost-women living here. Instead she stands up and rushes downstairs, slams the bar's front door open as hard as she could, as if the noise could reassure her of her still-living state. She pads barefoot down past the porch, stands at the mouth of the road, uncaring of broken beer bottles and sharp pebbles. She stares out in the Nebraska horizon, weeds gently dancing in the wind. She breaks into a run, not quite knowing if it's still the open road she wants, or escape from the silence. She comes back home with bloodied feet, stays in bed for over a week.
At twenty-one, she hears a crunch of gravel, a slam of the door. She readies her shotgun, sitting next to her small leather boots.
At twenty-one, she meets Dean Winchester.
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