The problem with ripping a box you don't want to open and dumping it on the floor is that other people think they're allowed to touch it, too. That they've been invited to. Being reprimanded for her word choice is dismissible—the sharp certainty of a deserved rebuke that was predicated on her own actions right before.
But his following words —
the way his voice suddenly gets soft, goes gentle; slams into a word that might be worst, most unexpected
s i n c e r e
— are the first things since the moment Jo walked in the door that nearly made her back up. Because she's not. She's nowhere near ready to talk about it. She's only really ready to snap about it.
(Jo'd tried to come here, tried to let it have a few seconds to be something else, something without someone else's scrutiny and baggage fucking with what was expected of her to see in it too, to just try for whatever it was, wasn't, might be, just her and it; a twice dead tête-à-tête, and this was what met her inside the door.)
She hates him.
Jo hates that it suddenly feels worse than if he'd thrown a bucket of ice water on her. She'd have something to stay madder about then. Because he never thinks. And thinks too much but doesn't want people to figure out he does. (He brought it here. Kept it here. And it can't mean nothing. And she can't think about that either.) Jo looks off to a side, listening to Dean say he'll just leave it.
If she wants. He brought it, and she can rip it away.
(How many things have been taken from him already? How deep does she know The Roadhouse doesn't ever turn away its own?)
Her throat clenches for a breath that won't go down, a swallow that's dry as the air outside of here. An ultimatum set to the tune of a plea and played too well, too soon. Fuck she hates him, and she hates that it works. That Dean gets in her head, and other places, in a way almost no one else does. That when it's words when they come, Jo's focus flicks back behind Dean, and the only thoughts she has about that admission about what Dean did is also one she doesn't want: he does that.
She looks back at Dean; it's still more of a glare than anything else, but there's something cracked through it, again, and it's hard to tell if it makes her any softer, any less dangerous, or even potentially more for such a straight, true score of a shot. "Fine." It comes out harder than her expression, if quieter than her last words.
"But I reserve the right to change my mind." It gets stronger, sterner, if not louder, as her willpower forces words to level themselves out. "At any time." Beat. "And if i—" Her words stop, her teeth press, and there's a heavy breath out of her nose. "—if he does anything—" like he will, it implies; like they always do "—maybe I do throw you both out on your asses then."
It's a yes. It's a tacit agreement to at least trust Dean. But it's not pretty, not with her chest cracked wide again.
no subject
But his following words —
slams into a word that might be worst, most unexpected
s i n c e r e
— are the first things since the moment Jo walked in the door that nearly made her back up.
Because she's not. She's nowhere near ready to talk about it. She's only really ready to snap about it.
(Jo'd tried to come here, tried to let it have a few seconds to be something else, something without someone else's scrutiny and baggage fucking with what was expected of her to see in it too, to just try for whatever it was, wasn't, might be, just her and it; a twice dead tête-à-tête, and this was what met her inside the door.)
She hates him.
Jo hates that it suddenly feels worse than if he'd thrown a bucket of ice water on her. She'd have something to stay madder about then. Because he never thinks. And thinks too much but doesn't want people to figure out he does. (He brought it here. Kept it here. And it can't mean nothing. And she can't think about that either.) Jo looks off to a side, listening to Dean say he'll just leave it.
If she wants. He brought it, and she can rip it away.
How deep does she know The Roadhouse doesn't ever turn away its own?)
Her throat clenches for a breath that won't go down, a swallow that's dry as the air outside of here. An ultimatum set to the tune of a plea and played too well, too soon. Fuck she hates him, and she hates that it works. That Dean gets in her head, and other places, in a way almost no one else does. That when it's words when they come, Jo's focus flicks back behind Dean, and the only thoughts she has about that admission about what Dean did is also one she doesn't want: he does that.
She looks back at Dean; it's still more of a glare than anything else, but there's something cracked through it, again, and it's hard to tell if it makes her any softer, any less dangerous, or even potentially more for such a straight, true score of a shot. "Fine." It comes out harder than her expression, if quieter than her last words.
"But I reserve the right to change my mind." It gets stronger, sterner, if not louder, as her willpower forces words to level themselves out. "At any time." Beat. "And if i—" Her words stop, her teeth press, and there's a heavy breath out of her nose. "—if he does anything—" like he will, it implies; like they always do "—maybe I do throw you both out on your asses then."
It's a yes. It's a tacit agreement to at least trust Dean.
But it's not pretty, not with her chest cracked wide again.