First her Mom tried reasoning and pleading with her. She was seventeen years old. They wouldn’t get far. Couldn’t they just stay here and get to know each other a little first?

 

 

Then she screamed and yelled. Jo wasn’t going anywhere, even if she had to tie her up and lock her in her room. He’s a twenty-three year old man, for God’s sake, with a shiny car and a wicked smile of which absolutely nothing good could possibly come.

 

In the end it didn’t matter. Jo just let it all wash over her until Ellen was done, all her arguments used up and beaten through. She gave her a tight hug, holding on until she felt her mother’s grip loosen, and a peck on the cheek before she breezed outside, blending seamlessly into the harsh sunlight as soon as she stepped from the perpetual semi-dark of the roadhouse. He’s leaning against the car, waiting patiently for his prize. She’s seventeen years old.

 

Jo feels the excitement fluttering high in her chest as Dean takes her bag, his fingers lingering against her hand until she looks up into his eyes twinkling with a thousand smiles. He waits until she slams the heavy door shut before he opens the trunk and throws it inside to land haphazardly on top of the scattered guns and gleaming knives littered inside. Now was not the time to explain that yet.

 

As the engine roars to life, he leans over to open the glove box, his arm sticking to the thin layer of sweat covering her naked legs. She catches herself before her hands can nervously tug the tight skirt down a little lower, but he can smell it coming off of her in waves. He pulls back, hands her the battered map, specs of civilization disappearing between folded lines; there’d be plenty of time later to explore what was hidden beneath the faded denim.

 

They’ve mapped out their way in red, connected by little pools where the ink bled into the parchment where they stopped to contemplate their next move. She didn’t even need to look at it anymore, she had traced it over and over until all she had to do was close her eyes to see the route blazing behind her lids.

 

Jo digs around in her handbag between gum wrappers and stale dime-store lipsticks until her hand closes around the tape. They’d spent the last three nights putting it together, lying on their stomachs in front of the stereo until the early hours of the morning. She’d sneaked in one or two of her favourites, but it was mostly his choice of classic rock songs. She didn’t put up too much of a fight, they reminded her of her daddy. Couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten it, the soundtrack to their freedom.

 

They pull away as the first guitar cords come pouring from the speakers, pushing against the heat waves enveloping the black metal from the scorching asphalt below. Jo doesn’t look back, doesn’t see Ellen leaning against the doorway of the only home she’s ever known. She’s watching Dean’s hands on the wheel, the strong digits steering her life in a new direction and daydreaming about sucking them into her mouth. Dean flicks a triumphant glance into the rearview mirror, catching Ellen’s gaze and holding it as the small building shrinks to nothing behind them. She watches until the lonely stretch of highway is deserted again, wants to believe he understood her silent message, will answer her silent prayer to look after her little girl.

 

Jo waits in the car while Dean gets them a room at the motel for the night. He knows she’s worried what the people will think when they only get a single. It’s all they can afford, but he’s waiting for her to tell him when she’s ready, so he’ll wrangle for two single beds. She gave him the money from her thin wallet, tips and wages saved in secret, but he pays with a credit card with a name on it she wouldn’t recognize.

 

He’s cleaning the table, the sharp crack of cue against ball sending shivers up her spine while she holds his winnings. She hears floated whispers of hustler, but she thinks they’re just jealous of how good a player he is. He gets a little drunk and starts showing off. It’s really her fault he gets into that fight, so she lets him sneak a hand under her top when she’s tugging off his boots to get him into bed.

 

The next morning he apologizes for his behavior and she can’t help but laugh at the look of pure remorse he gives her. She forgives him after he feeds her sweet banana custard pie at the roadside diner when they stop for lunch.

 

They mostly only stop for the night, but one morning Dean overhears the waitresses gossiping about cattle mutilations over breakfast while Jo’s using the restroom. He doesn’t explain when he drops her back at the motel and the quiet way he tells her to stay inside scares her. She doesn’t want him to go, can see danger in the sharp twist of his mouth, so she holds him close and kisses him deep. Jo can feel the urgency slip from his muscles as his hands roam over her body. She pulls away with a gasp when his fingers dip into her panties. Dean lifts his hand and she jerks in fright, but he only tucks her hair behind her ear and turns from her with a dark look. The slam of the door rattles the window in its frame and echoes off the cracks in the walls until he walks back in hours later.

 

She’s trying to be brave as she wipes the blood from his face with a cold washcloth. They don’t have any disinfectant, so she rinses it in soapy vanilla water from the bathroom sink and remembers her mother nursing her six year old skinned knees. She needs to blink to clear her blurring vision and can’t help the tear running down her cheek. When he brushes it away with bruised knuckles, she can’t stop the loud sob that escapes her lips. Jo’s scared and doesn’t understand any of this, but she can’t help loving him even more.

 

He won’t talk about it, pretends it didn’t happen. They burn the bloody rags in a small fire next to the road and then he picks her wild flowers and puts them in her hair until she smiles for him all the way to her eyes.

 

By the time they hit Utah she’s completely in love with the road and wants to stretch their trip as far as she can. Begs Dean to take her to Salt Lake City, but he won’t budge. Says it’s miles out of their way and he wants to get her to Vegas as soon as possible. She starts to protest, but then he gives her this smoldering look and mutters something about making an honest woman out of her. Jo blushes and looks away, but he’s still looking at her like that and she feels her heart skip and hum. When Dean stops for gas in Desert Lake, she buys sodas and condoms.

 

Dean’s lying on his back, softly snoring. Jo can’t sleep, curls a hand against the sting and burn between her thighs. She wants to take a shower, wash away the sticky aches, but doesn’t want to wake him. So she traces the scars on his bare chest with steady fingers until the rising sun does the same with the pattern of the lacy curtains against the peeling wallpaper. He wakes up to her wide eye stare and rolls onto his side, stroking a hand over her hip and asks if she’s okay.

 

He buys her pancakes for breakfast and holds her hand walking across the parking lot back to the car. When she falls asleep in his arms that night after a chaste kiss and nothing more, she thinks how wrong her mother was about him.

 

Jo loves this, being stuck in the car with him the whole day long. He’s always within arms reach and they talk about everything, from the perfect cheeseburger to that thing causing the rattle in the engine. And when they’re not talking, even the quiet is perfect between them. She can’t imagine ever being this close to any other person.

 

They’re almost there, tomorrow there will be the chapel and Elvis and she’ll be Mrs. Dean Winchester. Dean’s out getting them a special dinner of fried chicken, a six-pack for him and cherry cola for her, but she’s too nervous to be hungry. She takes the little faded yellow sundress, the closest thing to white she has, from the closet one more time to make sure it doesn’t have any wrinkles.

 

Jo’s lipstick is pink and she’s putting up her hair in the bathroom when Dean’s cell phone rings. It startles her so bad she nearly jabs a pin through her ear. She can hear him talking and then the door opens and closes and it’s quiet. She finishes up and goes to sit on the bed, waiting for him to come back. After he’s not back in fifteen minutes, she gets up and starts straightening up a little. Might as well be useful while she waits. When she notices his duffel isn’t next to the bed, she finally admits to the panic that has been rising inside her since she could no longer hear his voice. With trembling legs she slowly walks to the door and stands holding onto the knob with a death grip until her fingers start to cramp before she turns it and flings it wide. Her eyes don’t need to scan the lot to know the car isn’t there.

 

 

 
 

 

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