Chapter 20: Training Partnership — Part 1
[Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska — October 25, 2005, Afternoon]
Jo was waiting on the front steps when they pulled into the parking lot.
She looked different from the first time they'd met—more confident, maybe, or just more focused. She'd been watching the road, and when Ethan's truck appeared behind the Impala, she stood up with an expression that suggested she'd been counting the minutes.
"You came," she said as Ethan stepped out of the truck.
"You sent good information." He pulled the case file from his jacket. "Multiple deaths over the past month. Electrical disturbances. Cold spots. Classic vengeful spirit signs."
"I did the research myself. Mom doesn't know I've been pulling cases from the hunter network." Jo's chin lifted, challenging. "I'm tired of waiting for permission to learn."
"So you decided to bait me into coming back."
"I decided to demonstrate that I'm useful." Jo crossed her arms. "The question is whether you're going to treat me like a resource or an annoyance."
Before Ethan could respond, the Roadhouse door swung open. Ellen Harvelle stood in the entrance, expression unreadable.
"Dean. Sam. Welcome back." Her eyes moved to Ethan. "You too, I suppose."
"Ellen." Ethan nodded respectfully. "Jo's case information was solid. We appreciate the assist."
"Mm-hmm." Ellen's gaze shifted to her daughter. "Assist. Is that what we're calling it?"
Jo's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "I helped. That's more than sitting behind a bar serving drinks."
"We've talked about this—"
"And we'll keep talking about it until something changes." Jo stepped past her mother, heading inside. "I'll grab the whiskey you asked for."
Ellen watched her go, then turned back to the hunters. "She's been researching cases for weeks. Thinks I don't notice her using the network when the bar's quiet." A pause. "She's going to do something stupid eventually. Get herself killed."
"Maybe," Ethan said. "Or maybe she's going to become a hunter whether you approve or not, and the question is whether she does it prepared or desperate."
Ellen's expression flickered—anger, fear, something that might have been resignation. "You sound like you've thought about this."
"I've seen what happens to untrained people who try to fight things they don't understand. They die, usually badly, and the people who care about them spend the rest of their lives wondering if they could have done something different."
"So your solution is to train her yourself?"
"My solution is to give her the skills to survive. What she does with those skills is her choice."
The silence stretched between them. Inside the Roadhouse, Jo was moving around—footsteps, clinking bottles, the ambient sounds of a bar that had seen too much death and kept serving drinks anyway.
"If you get her killed," Ellen said quietly, "I will make what you are irrelevant. I will hunt you down and end you myself."
"If I get her killed, I'd expect nothing less."
Ellen held his gaze for another moment, then stepped aside. "Come in. We'll discuss the case. And then—" She paused. "Then we'll talk about what training actually means."
[Abandoned Farm, Nebraska — October 25, 2005, Evening]
The barn had been empty for years, forgotten equipment rusting in corners, hay bales decomposing into mulch. It was private, isolated, and close enough to the Roadhouse that Ellen could check on them if she needed to.
Jo stood in the center of the cleared space, wearing clothes that suggested she'd been expecting physical activity: sturdy boots, practical pants, a shirt she didn't mind getting dirty.
"Basic rules," Ethan said, circling her slowly. "First: I'm not going to go easy on you. If you're going to face monsters, you need to know what getting hit feels like."
"Understood."
"Second: If you want to stop, say so. No judgment, no pushing through injuries. I've seen too many soldiers hurt themselves because they were too proud to admit their limits."
"I won't quit."
"Third: Listen. I'm going to teach you things that will save your life, but only if you actually pay attention. The moment you think you know better, we stop."
Jo nodded, expression serious. "What's the fourth rule?"
"There isn't a fourth rule. Three's enough." Ethan took a stance—relaxed, balanced, the kind of position that could shift into offense or defense in equal measure. "Show me what you know."
She came at him fast, faster than he'd expected. Her form was rough but effective—street fighting modified by watching other hunters, all instinct and aggression. Her fist aimed for his jaw, and Ethan blocked it easily, redirecting her momentum past him.
"Good aggression," he said. "Bad follow-through. You committed everything to that punch. What happens if it misses?"
"I adjust."
"You fall over." He demonstrated, pushing her shoulder lightly. She stumbled, caught herself, glared at him. "Try again. This time, stay balanced."
They went for an hour.
Ethan taught her basic strikes—jabs, crosses, hooks—and how to defend against them. He showed her how to use her smaller frame as an advantage, how to redirect strength instead of trying to match it. He demonstrated chokes and escapes, joint locks and counters, the kind of close-quarters combat that worked when weapons failed and running wasn't an option.
Jo learned fast. She had natural talent—good reflexes, quick thinking, the kind of stubborn determination that refused to accept failure. By the end of the session, she'd landed three hits on him: a jab to his ribs, an elbow to his chest, and one solid punch to his jaw that had actually hurt.
"Good," Ethan said, rubbing the sore spot. "Do that again."
"Which part?"
"The jaw shot. You saw an opening and took it. That's instinct you can't teach—you either have it or you don't."
Jo smiled despite the bruises forming on her arms. Her breath came in gasps, sweat darkening her shirt, but her eyes were bright with something that looked like triumph.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
"Same time tomorrow. We'll work on weapons."
The drive back to the Roadhouse was quiet. Jo sat in the passenger seat of Ethan's truck, nursing a water bottle, watching the Nebraska landscape blur past.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked finally. "Really."
Ethan kept his eyes on the road. The question deserved an honest answer, but he wasn't sure he had one that would make sense to anyone who hadn't lived his life—either of his lives.
"Because everyone deserves a chance to fight for what they believe in," he said. "And because you're going to do this anyway. I'd rather you survive."
"That's it? Practical concerns?"
"Does there need to be more?"
Jo was quiet for a moment. Then: "When my dad died, I was fourteen. Mom never told me the details—just that it happened on a hunt, that John Winchester was involved somehow, that it was complicated." She turned to look at him. "I've spent ten years watching hunters come through the Roadhouse. Some of them survive. Most of them don't. The ones who make it are the ones who had someone teaching them."
"Your mother taught you."
"My mother taught me to pour drinks and run the business. She doesn't want me to be a hunter—she wants me to be safe." Jo's voice carried old frustration. "But safe isn't an option in this world. Not really. The monsters are out there whether I hunt them or not. The only question is whether I face them prepared."
Ethan understood. He'd felt the same way once, in a life that seemed increasingly distant. A soldier who'd wanted to make a difference, frustrated by orders that kept him behind a desk while others fought.
"We'll get you prepared," he said. "Properly. The way real hunters learn."
"How long will it take?"
"Depends on how fast you pick things up. Basic combat, maybe a month. Weapons, another month after that. Research, lore, tactical thinking—those take years. You won't be ready for a real hunt anytime soon."
"But eventually?"
"Eventually." Ethan pulled into the Roadhouse parking lot, killed the engine. "If you work hard enough and don't get yourself killed in the meantime."
Jo opened her door, then paused. "Thank you. For taking me seriously."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you see what tomorrow's training looks like."
She smiled—the first genuine smile he'd seen from her—and headed inside. Ethan watched her go, aware that something had shifted between them. Not romance, not exactly, but the beginning of something that could become important if he let it.
His phone buzzed. Dean's number: You done playing teacher? We've got a case.
What kind of case?
The bad kind. Chicago. Demonic omens everywhere. Sam thinks it might be connected to whatever killed his girlfriend.
Ethan's chest tightened. Chicago. The word triggered memories from the show—Meg Masters, the demon wearing a young woman's face, the trap that had been set for the Winchester family.
On my way, he typed back. Tell Sam to be careful. Something about this feels wrong.
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