#i made like 3 jorowena posts and then thought fuck it it's ficlet time

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

💔 be still, my beating heart ❤️

jorowena ficlet - 1074 words - rating: T - cw for blood and stabbing - read on ao3

Rowena’s chest hitches, then, her mouth opening as if to speak, and Jo doesn’t think twice she just takes her father’s knife, which was so heavy in her hand and now is lighter than ever before, and throws it, hard, straight into the witch’s chest.

Or the Jo stabs Rowena homeoritcally in the heart fic.

Jo waits, knife in her hand in the center of the hallway. It’s all she can do now; there’s no use running from a witch this powerful. She’s heard the stories of witches before. Every hunter has.

Most hunters have faced one before, though, too. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

The familiar cold clink of high heels on stone echoes along the corridor, slowly gaining ground. Nearer and nearer the door, nearer to Jo. 

It’s beginning to feel a lot like the end. It always does, Jo reckons, when she stands and fights rather than runs. It’s strange, not to give in to the instinct at moments like this, when she’s been running her whole life. 

The clinks of footsteps come to a stop.

She hadn’t bothered bolting the door, there’d been no time, so it creaks open slowly and easily. The witch is revealed bit by bit, coming into startling view from the grainy dark of the doorway.

Then she just stands, facing Jo, calm as anything.

It feels a bit like a shootout, like the moment in a Western when the two gunfighters stand amid the blowing sand and stare at each other until the time comes. Until someone strikes first.

So Jo stands amid the cold breeze of the stone hallway and stares at the witch. 

Rowena. 

She isn’t hard to stare at. She’s a compelling woman - no taller than Jo, somehow handsome and pretty all at once. Hair, a little too red to be ginger, unfurls in ringlets down her back. 

And Jo is no stranger to a little black dress, but she’s never seen someone wear one with a cape before. 

Rowena stares back. There’s the barest hint of a sly smile unfurling at the corners of her mouth, but it might be the fleeting light. 

Jo looks again, and the witch’s face has lost all trace of humor.

Rowena’s chest hitches, then, her mouth opening as if to speak, and Jo doesn’t think twice she just takes her father’s knife, which was so heavy in her hand and now is lighter than ever before, and throws it, hard, straight into the witch’s chest. 

It hits bullseye, right in her heart.

Jo never misses, after all. Like the archery set out in the garden when she was a kid. Shooting and aiming for the heart. 

Daddy’s little cupid.

Rowena blows a sharp pant of breath after the dull thud of the impact, but she doesn’t even take a step back. Just stands there, face unreadable. Maybe a little smug. Blood starting to drip down her little black dress.

The only sign that shows that she’s really felt anything is the way she folds her hands up to her heart, around the knife, like it aches. Or maybe like she wants it to sit deeper.

But she shouldn’t be wanting anything at all. She should be dead.

Jo never misses.

“You’re still alive,” Jo whispers, the words drawn out of her like the goosebumps all along her arms.

The witch hums, deep and rich. Now, there’s a hungry smile playing around her mouth. “I have been for a very long time,” she murmurs; her lips fall around the words in an accent Jo wants to taste. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for someone.”

The words are solid and the air is still after that. Hanging, mid-moment.

Rowena steps forward, her heels clicking boldly against the stone. The knife still in her heart never wavers. 

She comes continually closer, and with every step, Jo feels the instinct she has felt her whole life, the instinct to run, fall away. Or maybe this is instinctual now, instead. To stand so close to Rowena that Rowena could reach out and touch her. 

And then Rowena does. 

The blood on her hands glistens in the low light as she brings them away from her wound and reaches down, down to where Jo’s hands are tense by her side.

For some reason, and she doesn’t quite know why, Jo lets her take them. Lets the witch take her hands, the blood slick between them both, working its way into the love and life and fate lines of both their palms. 

The knife is still stood, pierced deep into her breast.

Now the witch’s blood is on both of their hands, and the handle of Jo’s father's knife, as Rowena cradles Jo’s hands with her own around the sheath and guides her to tug. Her fingers are taut and strong around Jo’s, deft amid the blood. The edges of her manicured nails scratch lightly against Jo’s skin. 

Jo’s hands feel inadequate. Deep in her gut she wants the witch to hold her harder.

The knife comes out slowly, with a wrench and wet noise almost overpowered by Rowena’s shuddering gasp of pain. 

So she is alive, but not unfeeling.

Rowena’s torn gasp settles itself on Jo’s neck, the movement of air flush against her skin, the witch’s quivering lips a movement away. She’s still got her hands wrapped around Jo’s, both of them holding the knife. Jo can feel the warmth on the blade still, from where it was in her chest. 

Her mouth must be warm too. Her breath is.

“Waiting for someone?” Jo asks, a little ruined. Blood is dripping from their hands to the floor.

The witch loosens her grip on the knife and so Jo does too, it clattering needlessly away to the ground. It’s loud, but she barely hears it. 

The witch has pressed her hands up to her breast, taking Jo’s with her, covering the stab wound. Blood is pulsating sluggishly out still between both their fingers. It’s a dark red. Darker than the lipstick on the witch’s lips.

Jo’s never really used lipstick before, never tasted it on someone else, either. Does it taste different on a witch? On a woman?

Her knees are getting weaker with the every beat of Rowena’s heart Jo can feel through her bloodied palms. Trembling, almost, now, but the witch seems to return it, and as if with gravity, she sways closer too. 

Words spill from the witch’s lips again, out from around her tongue in that foreign accent Jo wants to push her fingers inside of. 

“Someone like you,” Rowena says. There’s barely any sound to her words. 

Just air.

Just the warmth of her heart, her blood, in Jo’s hands.

And then, the heat of her lips crashing into hers.