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It was risky, but Dean couldn’t help himself. He was all but invisible sitting in the darkened kitchen window of the fourth floor apartment, anyway. Even if Sam saw him—maybe caught a glint of light reflecting off of the binoculars that Dean had borrowed from the lady of the house—he’d have plenty of time to get away.
For a moment, Dean wondered nervously if he’d miscalculated. What if Sam went in the front door? Then Dean would miss everything, damn it. Licking his lips, he reminded himself that his brother was smarter than that. Sam would almost certainly go in through the back: after all, he couldn’t risk being seen going into a dead girl’s apartment, could he? That would ping Agent Henricksen’s radar, and Sam couldn’t afford to waste his energy dodging the FBI right now. Not when he already had Dean to deal with.
Sure enough, almost twenty minutes later the twin beams of headlights swept down the back alley between the two apartment buildings. Dean sat up straighter, excitement humming through his skin as the familiar, sleek shape of his baby pulled to a stop next to the fire escape. Sam must have finished at Cassie’s some time ago: must have been closer than Dean had thought to have driven here instead of flying.
Not close enough, though.
Dean’s eyes traced hungrily over the lines of his car. The purr of her motor vibrated low in his bones until his brother turned off the engine. Sam had been taking care of her; Dean had to give him that much.
Then Sam unfolded himself from the driver’s seat and Dean could have given a rat’s ass about the car.
He shifted forward a little, wishing that he could be closer: wishing that he could feel Sam’s warmth on his skin, smell that intoxicating scent on the night air. Sam’s face, caught in the crosshairs of the binoculars, was twisted into a grimace of determination, but Dean could tell that his brother had been crying. Probably sobbed the whole way up here, the little bitch.
Dean wondered if Sam would cry when he finally got his hands on him. It was so easy to imagine licking his brother’s tears away before biting down: some salt to offset the honeyed sweetness of Sam’s blood. He could practically hear his brother begging in his mind: soft little pleas for Dean to let him go, don’t do this, God, Dean please. And then, later, the pleas would change to pants of pleasure. Sam begging him not to stop, Sam wanting more, Sam finally needing him the way he’d always needed his little brother.
A sudden moan from the floor to Dean’s right snapped him from the red haze he’d fallen into. He spared a brief glance for the woman who was finally coming around from the blow he’d given her, and then returned his attention to the window. Watched Sam pick the lock on the rear entrance to Jo's building and then disappear inside with a knife—dead man’s blood on the blade, of course—clenched in his hand.
The woman moaned again and this time Dean slid out of the chair and went to kneel next to her. For the first time in hours, he let himself pay attention to the tantalizing scent of blood oozing from the cut on her eyebrow. Sam wouldn’t be inside long, but he’d be long enough for Dean to have a snack.
Besides, he was going to need a little pick-me-up if he was going to resist the temptation that Sam would present once he’d seen what Dean had left for him in Jo’s apartment. All that misery and pain singing through his brother's blood: the pleading in his eyes for this to be over ... for Dean to make it better … for Dean to help him not care …
For Dean to make them a family again.
The woman opened confused eyes as Dean stroked her cheek. “What—” she started, and then the rest of her question was cut off as Dean clamped his hand down over her mouth. Wouldn’t do for her screams to wake the neighbors, after all.
Smirking, he let his teeth press out through his guns and leaned forward.
Dean’s feeling a little better by the time Jo leads him into her apartment, which means that his system has begun to work through the dead man’s blood. He figures he has maybe another half hour, an hour at most, before his wounds heal. Luckily, Jo works quickly; sitting him down on the bed and helping him shrug out of his tattered shirt.
She winces when she sees the slice on his stomach. Tells him to lie back while she gets her med kit. The disinfectant she sloshes in a cold wave across the cut a few moments later doesn’t really sting, but Dean hisses as though it does. He’d have to be a moron to get this far and then mess up on a mundane detail like that.
“Sorry,” Jo says, biting her lip. She daubs at the cut with a facecloth, trying to be both gentle and thorough at the same time.
Dean could tell her it isn’t necessary to be either, but instead he says, “Next time, warn a guy.”
“How’d it happen?” she asks as she puts down the cloth and grabs a needle and thread from the small white box beside her.
“What? The cut or Sam?”
Jo’s hands tremble a little against Dean’s stomach at the sound of his brother’s name, but she gets herself under control almost immediately. “Both.”
“Don’t know about Sam. He went out to do some research on a job and when he came back he was … different.” Dean lets his breath huff out in a laugh. “I thought he was just pissed off about something, but then I woke up cuffed to the bed. He’d left me a note—said he was going to look up an old friend.”
Jo stops stitching.
“I figured he meant you, so I hightailed it up here. Found him outside your place a few hours ago. Things got … complicated … from there.”
“He’s here for me?” Jo says in a small, frightened voice.
“Hey.” Dean brushes the hair back from her cheek with one hand. “It’s okay, all right? I’m here. You’re safe.”
She nods and goes back to stitching, but he can taste her fear on the air. It tastes different than Sam’s—not quite as alluring, Jo's not family—but still heady in its own way. Jo’s young, and she has somehow managed to cling to her innocence despite the things she’s seen.
Dean thinks that it might taste like almonds. Sweet. So fucking sweet. He wonders idly what flavors a child’s blood might hold: someone even younger and more trusting. Kids like him, so it’ll be easy enough to detach one from Mommy’s watchful gaze.
He shuts his eyes to hide the flash of hunger his current thoughts are sparking. Presses his lips together to keep Jo from catching a glimpse of the teeth forcing their way free from his gums.
“Sorry,” Jo whispers, taking his expression for an indication of the pain he isn’t really feeling. “I’m almost done.”
Not trusting his voice right now, Dean nods. He has to concentrate on the plan: has to reign it in. He has to fucking control himself, bloodlust or not. He’s never been this quick on the draw when it comes to sex, damn it.
By the time Jo presses the final bandage against his forehead, Dean’s sweating with the effort of pushing the hunger back into the dark where it belongs. It’s worth it, though, because as her fingers not so accidentally skim down his cheek, he’s able to open his eyes and look up at her without fear of giving himself away. Jo immediately drops her hand and averts her eyes, skin coloring with an appetizing flush.
“I’ve got some painkillers in the bathroom, if you—if you need them.” Hands twitching with the need for distraction, she starts repacking her kit. “And you can get cleaned up. You can’t shower with those bandages, but you can use the sink for your hair, and there’s facecloths.”
“That’s great. Thanks.” Now that Dean thinks about it, the next phase of the plan will probably go smoother if he does clean himself off. Unless Jo is a hell of a lot kinkier than he’s ever suspected, the priest’s dried, flaking blood isn’t gonna be a turn on.
He makes sure to take his time in the bathroom, ducking his head under the faucet until the water runs clear down the drain without even a tinge of pink. He can hear Jo muttering to herself in her bedroom as he scrubs his skin back into its pale, pristine state. Stuff about Sam, mostly: telling herself that he can’t get in, that she’s safe. But a few of those “get a grip”s are for Dean, and once he catches a “he’s injured, idiot, and he’s worried about his brother, so forget it”.
Humming softly under his breath, Dean rinses the facecloth out and hangs it neatly on the towel rack. He checks his reflection in the mirror: arching cheekbones and full lips, eyes that gleam Absinthe green in the harsh bathroom lights. Freckles speckle the bridge of his nose like flecks of toffee. He considers toweling his hair dry and then decides it looks better this way, spiked and beaded with shining droplets.
One room away, Jo has worked herself up enough that she’s crying: soft, little hitches that Dean can barely hear even with his heightened senses. Now, he thinks, his pulse kicking up. Fucking finally.
She’s standing in front of her bedroom window when he comes into the room, and he deliberately makes his steps loud enough that she can hear him. Her shoulders tense at the sound, and she rubs at her face with both hands, trying to wipe away the evidence of her tears before she turns around. He’s there before she’s made more than a single pass, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his bare chest.
“D-Dean,” she says, startling.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re gonna be fine.”
Her slight frame trembles against him, so fragile. Bones as brittle as a bird’s in his hands. That fear-scent riding the air is distracting, but he’s already come this far and he’s not gonna blow it now.
“I am fine,” Jo bluffs. She tries to push him away and he just holds on tighter.
Dropping his head down to nudge at her cheek, he repeats, “It’s okay.”
Jo realizes that he isn’t going to let her run from him and leans back into his embrace. “What’s okay?” she rasps.
“Being afraid,” Dean tells her.
He feels her breath catch and then she whirls around in the cage of his arms. Pressing her face into his chest, she clings to him and sobs, so grateful for the comfort she thinks he’s offering that he wants to laugh. Instead, he runs a soothing hand over her hair and makes gentle, encouraging noises. He holds her as she weeps tears that have been building up behind that tough, determined exterior ever since Meg-as-Sam shoved her up against a polished, alcohol-tacky bar.
It seems to take forever for Jo’s tears to taper off, but Dean waits patiently. Waits for her to regain enough control to realize where she is: for her to taste his skin against her salt-moist lips. As fear loosens its grip on her, he catches a fresh, new scent: something wet and panting.
Arousal.
This time when Jo tries to pull away, he releases his grip enough for her to bring her head up. She’s still crying slightly, and her face is blotchy and red from the tears. Dean feels a hot rush of desire at the sight. She’s so weak and helpless in his arms. So ready for him. Now. Now now now now now …
He ducks his head down and kisses her.
Jo opens her mouth under his, obedient and desperate. She lets him bite and suck at her lips with perfectly normal, blunt teeth. She opens for him like a flower for the sun, so ready. Begging for it.
Dean counts to ten before tearing himself away. She reaches for him—a tiny motion that he can easily pretend he hasn’t seen—and he backs out of range. Plasters a mask of horrified guilt on his face.
“Jesus, Jo, I’m sorry,” he splutters. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—I’ll go.”
Dean has only taken two steps toward the hall when her tiny hand catches his wrist. He lets the touch stop him, but doesn’t turn to face her.
“No,” Jo says. “He’s out there. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s not safe in here, either,” he answers her, fighting back a smile at the irony of his lies. “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t—I can’t be this close to you right now.”
She lets her hand fall away from him, and the sting of her hurt slices into the air. “It’s okay,” she stammers. “I know you didn’t mean it. It was just the heat of the moment. We’re both stressed and—”
“I meant it.” Dean keeps his voice tight: strained close to breaking.
Jo’s sharp intake of breath is almost deafening in the silence after his false confession.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out,” Dean continues after a moment. “I know that you’ve had enough of my family to last you—”
“What—Dean, what are you trying to say?” Hope apparently smells like vanilla, at least on Jo. It’s kind of cute.
Dean shakes his head. “I’ve got to go,” he mutters, taking a step forward.
Jo hurries in front of him, blocking his path, and looks up at him stubbornly. “Talk to me, damn it,” she insists. “You don’t get to just kiss me and then say you meant it and walk out of here without telling me what the hell that even means.”
“Jo …”
She kisses him. It’s a brief peck and her aim is a little off so she only catches the corner of his mouth, but it still counts. When she drops back off her tiptoes, she gives him a defiant stare.
“You blind idiot,” Jo says when he just stands there blankly. “I want you too.”
This time when Dean yanks her in, his hands slide down her body to cup her ass. He gives it a quick squeeze before pulling her firmly against him. She’s not really his type, and he spent last night worrying that he wasn’t going to be able to perform, but all it takes is the thought of what he’s going to do to her and he’s good to go.
Jo moans at the feel of him hardening against her, and suddenly she’s all he can smell: dripping wet and mewling for it. Yeah, he’s gonna enjoy this.
“Are you—oh God—are you okay for this?” Jo asks, ever concerned for him.
In answer, Dean adjusts his grip and hoists her off the ground. Jo gets the picture immediately and wraps her legs around his waist. The press of her is tentative at first, but when he doesn’t wince or hiss in pain, she pushes closer. Dean kisses her again as he walks them to the bed, working her mouth with his own until both of their lips are swollen and sore.
When he finally pulls back, Jo pants, “You gonna stand around and kiss me all night or are you gonna let me take care of you?” She thrusts against him—gentle, still mindful of his ‘injury’, but there—and his cock gives a heated pulse.
He grins at her and drops her on the bed. “Strip.”
“You first,” Jo dares, eyes sparkling with an emotion that Dean can only label as joy.
He shrugs and begins jerking his belt open, enjoying the feel of her eyes on him. Enjoying the sun swept taste of her happiness flooding the room. The sudden shock of her betrayal is gonna send him shooting like a fucking rocket. He grins as he kicks off his shoes and then starts to peel his jeans down, making the motion clumsier than it normally would be for him.
His clowning brings him a giggle from Jo and she finally starts to pull her own clothes off. Naked and ready, Dean stands next to the bed and watches. His eyes find the long line of Jo’s neck and his cock twitches visibly, bringing a smirk to her lips as she kicks off her own jeans. She tosses them off the bed and lies there. Her hair trails over one shoulder, shading that swan-slender neck like a strip tease.
Calves can’t look this good when they’re being led to the slaughter, although they’re probably just as oblivious.
“You’re beautiful,” Dean says reverently.
Jo flushes, suddenly shy, and drops her eyes.
“Hey,” he breathes, climbing onto the bed and crawling up so that he’s kneeling over her. “Don’t hide from me.” Brushing her cheek with his knuckles, he kisses the tip of her nose.
Her hands come up and ghost along his shoulder blades tentatively. “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up in a minute,” she confesses, and then grimaces. “God, that sounded corny.”
“No. No, I know how you feel.” Dean kisses his way across her cheek to her ear and nibbles a little on the lobe.
Moaning, she turns her head to allow him better access and inadvertently bares a tantalizing flash of throat. He allows himself a single lick of that tender flesh before sliding lower. His lips trail across one soft breast and then latch onto Jo’s peaked nipple. He can practically taste the blood singing beneath her skin, and his hunger lunges forward, heavy and clumsy.
Adjusting the angle of his head, Dean sucks harder on that nub. He’s careful to keep his teeth out of the way just in case his fangs join the party a little early: while he’s mastered a kind of rudimentary control over his bloodlust these last few weeks, he’s excited enough that he doesn’t trust himself not to slip up.
Jo seems to be enjoying herself as well. Her hands find the back of his head and grip.
“Dean,” she gasps. “God, Dean!”
Reaching for her clit, Dean scrapes across it with his thumb, just this side of painfully rough. Jo bucks underneath him and her legs drop open. Dean slides his hand even lower, edging first one finger inside of her, and then two. He keeps teasing her nipple with his mouth as he preps her.
“Dean, need you—need you now—” she begs.
He lifts his head, the hazy desire in his eyes not entirely faked, and asks, “Condoms?”
She thrusts up into his fingers. “’M on the—p-pill. Trust you.”
Of course she does. He’s her knight in shining armor.
Dean gives her what he hopes is an appropriately wondering smile before lowering himself. His weight cages her as he presses their lips together in a kiss. Pulling his fingers free, he uses her juices to slick himself up. The movement makes the tip of his dick brush Jo’s entrance and she shivers.
He breaks the kiss and rests their foreheads together. She has her eyes shut: her hands clutching him close.
“Look at me,” he pleads. “Come on, baby.”
With difficulty, Jo’s eyelids flutter open.
Dean gives her a wide smile, positioning himself so that the head of his cock is nestled just inside her pussy lips. “I love you,” he whispers, and as Jo’s eyes widen he pushes in.
She’s a furnace inside, and he has to fight not to just fuck her hard and deep. Has to bit his lip to keep from tearing into her throat and drinking her down while he finishes himself off. Propping his hands on the mattress, Dean slides in slow and thorough as molasses, bottoming out deep inside of her. He pauses there, feeling her muscles work his cock. Smelling her need all around him.
“Love you,” she whimpers, bringing her legs up. They hook behind his ass to drag him closer. “Love you so much.”
Triumph flares in Dean’s chest and he starts to move, setting up a slow, easy pace that has Jo keening and writhing under him. Shifting his weight, he slides one hand between them and starts fingering her clit. Nestles his face in the crook of her neck and murmurs, “Jo.”
“Dean! So good so—harder—oh, fuck—harder, baby, I—please—”
“I’ve got a confession to make,” Dean says, keeping up that slow, torturous pace with his cock and speeding his fingers. He nuzzles her cheek.
“W-what?” Jo grunts, thrusting up to meet him. Her body is quivering, strung out on a long, shining thread of desire. All she needs to crest is a little push.
Dean licks a languid line along her jaw up to her ear. Hovering there, his lips just brushing her skin, he breaths, “You should have listened to Sam.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Jo’s face twist in confusion even as her orgasm hits her. He presses his mouth to her throat again, finally letting his teeth rip through his gums. The mouthful of warm blood that floods his mouth as he bites down is every bit as good as he’s imagined. He moans and fucks into her harder, licking and sucking at the wound he’s made: nowhere near life threatening, but deep enough for a taste.
Jo knows now—Dean can smell the knowledge in the fresh fear and despair pulsing from her with every sob—but her body hasn’t quite caught up to her mind just yet. Her hips meet his thrusts even as her hands pull at his head in a weak attempt to get him off. He sucks harder, fucking into her with increasing speed as his own climax hits.
When he’s done, he drapes himself across her in a heavy blanket and laps at the trickle of blood still running from her neck. She’s slapping at him, trying to get the leverage to punch him and failing miserably. He chuckles against her skin.
“What’s wrong, baby? Don’t you love me anymore?”
“You can’t,” she sobs. “You can’t be.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Jo,” he hisses, finally pulling his cock free. She lets out a broken moan that he’s gonna be dreaming about tonight. “Most of the time, the legends get it wrong. You want to know a surefire way to know if you’re dealing with a vamp?” He catches her flailing fists and pins them to the bed with one of his own hands. Grins at her, wide, with her blood smeared over his mouth and his teeth extended. “Check for fangs.”
“Get off me!” she shouts.
He ignores her and glances around the room. “You got any handcuffs lying around?” he asks conversationally.
“Fuck you!”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart. The spark’s gone out of our relationship.”
“Bastard,” she moans, closing her eyes and turning her head to the side. She sounds damaged. Ruined.
It’s almost enough to make him want to go again.
Instead, he smirks and repeats, “Handcuffs, Jo.”
“You think I’d tell you even if I did have some?” she says dully.
“Yup,” Dean answers. “You want to know why?” Leaning closer, he lowers his voice and whispers, “Cause if you don’t tell me where they are right fucking now, I’m gonna break your arms and legs, immobilize you that way.” He tightens his grip on her wrists, grinding those thin bones together. “Any way you want to play it, baby: I really don’t give a shit.”
There are tears shining in her eyes, but she’s not crying. Not yet. “Dresser,” she mutters.
“Which drawer?”
“Second down from the top.”
“Okay,” he drawls. “Here’s how we’re gonna play this. I’m gonna let you up, and you’re gonna sit there like a good girl while I get the cuffs. Cause we both know that I’m faster and stronger, don’t we?”
She stares past him at the ceiling.
“Don’t we?” he repeats, giving her wrists an emphatic squeeze.
Jo can’t bring herself to say it out loud, but she nods, and that’s enough for him. Whistling to himself, Dean swings up off of her and saunters over to the dresser. He hears her sit up behind him, but she doesn’t try to get off the bed so he lets it slide.
“Can I get dressed?” she asks.
He glances back at her while he roots around in the drawer for the handcuffs. Considers whether it will hurt Sam more to leave her naked and then decides it won’t make much of a difference either way. He shrugs.
“Knock yourself out.”
Dean keeps half an eye on her as she pulls her clothes back on, moving slow and careful like he’s fucked her raw. He finds the cuffs underneath a pair of Jo’s yellow cotton panties while she’s rebuttoning her shirt. Twirling them around one finger, he waits for her to finish.
When she’s done pulling her socks back on, he says, “On the bed. Lie on your back and put your hands over your head.”
Jo bites her lip, hesitating.
“Jo …”
“No.” She backs away toward the window.
Dean narrows his eyes. Apparently the clothes were a bad idea: they’ve given her some of her spine back. Not that it’s going to matter in the end.
“Last chance,” he warns.
Jo breaks for the window, sprinting like she’s planning on diving headfirst through the glass. Annoyed, Dean swears under his breath and moves after her. He throws an arm around her waist before she’s gone more than a couple of steps and yanks her back against him. She fights, of course: all nails and snarling. Catches him a good one across the cheek and startles a few drops of blood from his skin before the scratches heal over. Ellen would be proud.
But really, Dean was the better fighter when he was still human, and Jo’s resistance now is laughable. He wraps one arm around her throat and squeezes, cutting off her air. She claws at his arm, coughing and gasping and trying to buck him off. He stands there, amused, and waits for her struggles to weaken. For her to slump in his grip.
He eases up before Jo blacks out and carries her back to the bed. Tosses her onto it and positions her while she gasps in desperate lungfuls of air. He has her hands above her head and cuffed to one of the bedposts before she’s come around enough to understand what’s happening. Crouching by her side, he watches while realization fills her face.
“Don’t hurt me,” she begs. “You got what you wanted, so just—stop. Please.”
“What I want,” Dean corrects her gently. “Is my brother back.”
He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Jo jerks her head away to stare at the wall. Dean shrugs and reaches over to her nightstand for the cordless.
Lifting it from the cradle, he punches in the one number he knows by heart and then holds the phone to his ear, waiting. It rings twice and then Sam picks up, already anxious and concerned.
“Jo? Did you see him? Are you all right?”
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says.
Sam goes dead quiet on the other end.
“How’re you and Cassie getting on?” Dean prods. “She’s a pistol, isn’t she?”
“Did you kill her?” Sam asks. All of the anxiety is gone from his voice. Now he just sounds tired. Defeated.
Dean’s lips stretch in a grin. “Not yet. Here, I’ll put her on. You can say goodbye.” He holds the phone to Jo’s ear.
The line of her spine immediately stiffens. “Sam?” she whispers. “Oh, God, Sam, help me, please. I don’t—”
She squeezes her eyes shut as Sam’s voice, distant and small, tells her to stay calm. A solitary tear slides down her cheek as Sam lies to her: tells her everything is going to be okay.
“I didn’t—I didn’t know—” Jo chokes out. “He said it was you, and I never would have let him. You have to believe me. I thought he was okay, I thought—I wouldn’t have.”
Dean takes the phone back then, so he hears Sam ask, “Wouldn’t have let him what?” loud and clear.
“Fuck her, probably,” Dean answers, wandering toward the window.
Sam makes a choked noise. “You son of a bitch.”
“Careful, Sammy. That’s our mother you’re talking about.”
Glancing down, Dean realizes that the bandage Jo slapped over his stomach is hanging askew. He tears it free with a casual motion and then rubs his thumb across the stitches marring his healed skin. Those’re gonna have to come out later.
“Let her go, Dean,” Sam insists. He actually sounds like he thinks Dean’s gonna listen to him.
Dean drops the bandage and then peels the second one off his forehead. “Hmm,” he drawls, “Lemme think … No.”
“You can have me. All you have to do is walk out of there and—”
Snorting, Dean turns around and heads back toward the bed. “How dumb do you think I am, dude?”
“Dean, please—”
“Tell you what: why don’t you come on up and we’ll talk it over. Maybe you can show me the error of my evil ways.”
“You’ll wait? Dean?”
“Better hurry,” Dean says, and hangs up. He drops the phone carelessly on the floor and then tears the phone cable out of the wall so that he won’t have to hear it ring when Sam spends the next hour or so calling back. Sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Jo, he strokes her hair.
She keeps on staring at the wall with red-rimmed, dead eyes.
“Nothing personal,” Dean offers.
Jo lets out a harsh laugh.
“Okay, so it’s maybe a little personal.”
Now Jo does look at him. “I hope he stakes you to the floor,” she says.
“Wouldn’t do much good,” he replies, smirking. “But don’t worry, Jo. Sam’ll be here soon, and he’s gonna give you a lesson in how to kill vamps. Only surefire method there is.”
He brings his wrist to his mouth and, delicately, bites down.
Jo’s eyes widen in sudden understanding and she starts to scream.
Dean was back in his chair by the window by the time Sam came stumbling back out of the apartment building. He was licking his fingers clean and humming idly—Zeppelin’s Black Dog. Then the door burst open and spilled Sam out onto the pavement.
Dean focused the binoculars on his brother and watched as he knelt in the alley, shuddering and puking. The machete Dean had thoughtfully left on top of Jo’s dresser was still clenched in Sam’s right hand, its blade edged in something wet and red. When Sam finally hauled himself back to his feet using the Impala’s bumper, Dean saw that he’d gotten blood on his shirt as well.
Sam’s shoulders were hunched as he popped the trunk and dropped the blade in. The knife he’d brought inside with him, hoping to use on Dean, followed. Dean watched his brother slam the trunk shut again and lean there, head lowered. Full of black amusement, he grinned to himself.
He may killed Jo, but ultimately it was Sam who ended her life.