((Follows closely on the heels of First Blood.))
Back in their hotel room, thanks to whatever member of the Greek Pantheon had come to their rescue, Dean was grumbling loudly at the first aid his lovely wife was forcing him to endure. He felt like he'd just gone head-on with a eighteen wheeler, and Nim seemed sure his ribs were at least badly bruised, if not broken. In all his years of hunting, he'd lost count of how many times he'd broken a bone or suffered a concussion, not to mention died. It all just went with the territory. "Ouch!" he complained, wincing in pain as her fingers explored his left side. "Would you mind not poking me there" It hurts!"
"Well, that's kinda the point of the poking, princess," his lovely wife informed him with a smirk. "God, you're such a baby about this stuff." Slipping her hands from his side, she handed him two pills and a glass of scotch from the mini-bar - because she knew her husband very well indeed - and started to slather topical analgesic cream over his bruised side. "How many times have you been beat up by a chick now?"
He said nothing about being a baby, just clenching his jaw as he remembered a similar conversation that had taken place between them. How many years ago was it now" He gratefully took the pills and the glass, muttering a mumbled, "Thanks," before tossing both back with another wince, this time from the burning sensation as the scotch made its way down past his throat. He glanced at her curiously as she rubbed something cool and soothing over his side, wondering what had happened back there and what they'd done to her head. She didn't seem any different really, but he couldn't be sure. "More times than I can count. It's getting a little old, to be honest." He knew some guys liked that sort of thing, even thought it was kinky, but not him. He wasn't overly fond of pain, no matter how it was doled out or by whom.
"You know, it's comments like that make me wonder if you just let me hit you when we met," she commented mildly, without thinking. That morning, such recollections wouldn't have been possible, and yet now they were all there, the gift of a goddess who had been obeying an order intended to keep her out of the fight that had ultimately killed her mistress. It would take a while for everything to settle into place, no doubt, but for the first time in three years, everything was there. No gaps, no blankness. She was herself.
"What?" he exclaimed, jerking his head toward her, stunned to hear her mention an event he remembered so clearly in his mind, but that had been wiped from her memory - at least, until now, it seemed. "You remember that?" he asked, knowing she had to be remembering the first time they'd met back at the Roadhouse in their own world.
She withdrew a little, wiping her hands clean on a towel as she settled down to sit beside him. "Please, God, let that be a rifle," she said softly, recalling their first words to each other. "No, I'm just real happy to see you." Her shoulders rose and fell in a slightly confused shrug. "I remember everything. I don't know what she did, but ....it's all there. All that emptiness in my head, it's full. I know who I am."
He lowered the glass of half-finished scotch to rest against his leg as she gave her his full attention, wrestling with memories of his own and worried those same memories might change her feelings for him. Especially, since he was still blaming himself for her death. "You..." he stammered nervously. "You remember everything?"
"Everything." She twisted to face him, meeting his gaze with honest eyes. "You got no right to feel guilty about that other part of me dying, Dean. Seriously, you're gonna take that away from me" For the first time in my life, my mother listened to me like I was an adult, she let me make a decision that she should never have had to be present for. It sucks, I know, and I'm always going to live with the guilt that comes with getting her killed, but that is my guilt, not yours. I made those decisions, I put myself in the firing line, and I'm the one who chose not to hold out for help. Don't you dare take that away from me. How many people can say they've died for the people they love, and then got a second chance to live with them?"
He still hadn't quite grasped the implications of what she was telling him. If she truly did remember everything, that not only did she remember her own death, but she remembered Ellen and Bill and Sam and Bobby and even John. She remembered that Dean's father was responsible for her father's death, the same way that Dean was responsible for Bill's death in this reality. She remembered their last goodbye, and how it had torn him up to leave her. She remembered everything in between - every stolen glance, every flirtatious remark, every moment they'd spent together, every word they'd said. She remembered that last kiss, the one that had nearly ripped his heart to shreds. He met her gaze for a moment, listening to her, trying to understand what it was she was telling him before dropping his gaze, ashamed of the tears that were suddenly filling his eyes. He thought he'd already come to grips with all this months ago.
"It just about killed me to leave you behind," he murmured quietly, afraid she'd hear the emotion in his voice, the grief and the guilt.
"I know," she told him softly, her hand gentle against his cheek in an echo of the touch her ghostly self had given him not so very long ago. Yes, she even remembered that, though this incarnation of her had been alive and well in this reality at the time. "You carry all kinds of crap you don't have to," she said in a tender tone. "This is our second chance, Dean. Stop worrying you're gonna screw it up, because I've got a wedding ring and a baby inside me that says otherwise."
He lifted his gaze to her, leaning his cheek into her hand, even as tears spilled over onto his face, grateful for her touch, for her love. He had known her as Jo and as Nimue, in the past, the present, and even the future, each of them a little bit different, but all of them equally her. He realized in that moment that having her back, knowing everything she now remembered, only made him love the woman she'd become even more. "Jo," he whispered, not afraid to call her by the name she'd been given at birth. Joanna Beth Harvelle. His Jo; his Nimue.
She held his gaze, her own eyes a little watery in the face of his tears. "Yeah," she whispered back to him softly. "I'm your Jo again, if you want it. Joanna Beth Winchester, just like I scribbled in my journal for three years." She shrugged, her expression just a little self-deprecating. There was no denying the influence of her time as the amnesiac Nimue - the Jo he remembered would never have admitted that, but this Jo, with the maturity Nimue had given her, this Jo wasn't afraid to share that information with him.
Back in their hotel room, thanks to whatever member of the Greek Pantheon had come to their rescue, Dean was grumbling loudly at the first aid his lovely wife was forcing him to endure. He felt like he'd just gone head-on with a eighteen wheeler, and Nim seemed sure his ribs were at least badly bruised, if not broken. In all his years of hunting, he'd lost count of how many times he'd broken a bone or suffered a concussion, not to mention died. It all just went with the territory. "Ouch!" he complained, wincing in pain as her fingers explored his left side. "Would you mind not poking me there" It hurts!"
"Well, that's kinda the point of the poking, princess," his lovely wife informed him with a smirk. "God, you're such a baby about this stuff." Slipping her hands from his side, she handed him two pills and a glass of scotch from the mini-bar - because she knew her husband very well indeed - and started to slather topical analgesic cream over his bruised side. "How many times have you been beat up by a chick now?"
He said nothing about being a baby, just clenching his jaw as he remembered a similar conversation that had taken place between them. How many years ago was it now" He gratefully took the pills and the glass, muttering a mumbled, "Thanks," before tossing both back with another wince, this time from the burning sensation as the scotch made its way down past his throat. He glanced at her curiously as she rubbed something cool and soothing over his side, wondering what had happened back there and what they'd done to her head. She didn't seem any different really, but he couldn't be sure. "More times than I can count. It's getting a little old, to be honest." He knew some guys liked that sort of thing, even thought it was kinky, but not him. He wasn't overly fond of pain, no matter how it was doled out or by whom.
"You know, it's comments like that make me wonder if you just let me hit you when we met," she commented mildly, without thinking. That morning, such recollections wouldn't have been possible, and yet now they were all there, the gift of a goddess who had been obeying an order intended to keep her out of the fight that had ultimately killed her mistress. It would take a while for everything to settle into place, no doubt, but for the first time in three years, everything was there. No gaps, no blankness. She was herself.
"What?" he exclaimed, jerking his head toward her, stunned to hear her mention an event he remembered so clearly in his mind, but that had been wiped from her memory - at least, until now, it seemed. "You remember that?" he asked, knowing she had to be remembering the first time they'd met back at the Roadhouse in their own world.
She withdrew a little, wiping her hands clean on a towel as she settled down to sit beside him. "Please, God, let that be a rifle," she said softly, recalling their first words to each other. "No, I'm just real happy to see you." Her shoulders rose and fell in a slightly confused shrug. "I remember everything. I don't know what she did, but ....it's all there. All that emptiness in my head, it's full. I know who I am."
He lowered the glass of half-finished scotch to rest against his leg as she gave her his full attention, wrestling with memories of his own and worried those same memories might change her feelings for him. Especially, since he was still blaming himself for her death. "You..." he stammered nervously. "You remember everything?"
"Everything." She twisted to face him, meeting his gaze with honest eyes. "You got no right to feel guilty about that other part of me dying, Dean. Seriously, you're gonna take that away from me" For the first time in my life, my mother listened to me like I was an adult, she let me make a decision that she should never have had to be present for. It sucks, I know, and I'm always going to live with the guilt that comes with getting her killed, but that is my guilt, not yours. I made those decisions, I put myself in the firing line, and I'm the one who chose not to hold out for help. Don't you dare take that away from me. How many people can say they've died for the people they love, and then got a second chance to live with them?"
He still hadn't quite grasped the implications of what she was telling him. If she truly did remember everything, that not only did she remember her own death, but she remembered Ellen and Bill and Sam and Bobby and even John. She remembered that Dean's father was responsible for her father's death, the same way that Dean was responsible for Bill's death in this reality. She remembered their last goodbye, and how it had torn him up to leave her. She remembered everything in between - every stolen glance, every flirtatious remark, every moment they'd spent together, every word they'd said. She remembered that last kiss, the one that had nearly ripped his heart to shreds. He met her gaze for a moment, listening to her, trying to understand what it was she was telling him before dropping his gaze, ashamed of the tears that were suddenly filling his eyes. He thought he'd already come to grips with all this months ago.
"It just about killed me to leave you behind," he murmured quietly, afraid she'd hear the emotion in his voice, the grief and the guilt.
"I know," she told him softly, her hand gentle against his cheek in an echo of the touch her ghostly self had given him not so very long ago. Yes, she even remembered that, though this incarnation of her had been alive and well in this reality at the time. "You carry all kinds of crap you don't have to," she said in a tender tone. "This is our second chance, Dean. Stop worrying you're gonna screw it up, because I've got a wedding ring and a baby inside me that says otherwise."
He lifted his gaze to her, leaning his cheek into her hand, even as tears spilled over onto his face, grateful for her touch, for her love. He had known her as Jo and as Nimue, in the past, the present, and even the future, each of them a little bit different, but all of them equally her. He realized in that moment that having her back, knowing everything she now remembered, only made him love the woman she'd become even more. "Jo," he whispered, not afraid to call her by the name she'd been given at birth. Joanna Beth Harvelle. His Jo; his Nimue.
She held his gaze, her own eyes a little watery in the face of his tears. "Yeah," she whispered back to him softly. "I'm your Jo again, if you want it. Joanna Beth Winchester, just like I scribbled in my journal for three years." She shrugged, her expression just a little self-deprecating. There was no denying the influence of her time as the amnesiac Nimue - the Jo he remembered would never have admitted that, but this Jo, with the maturity Nimue had given her, this Jo wasn't afraid to share that information with him.