Jo has no patience for Dean's stupid, flippant mouth about giving her the keys to the Impala he would never hand over and is intensely more aware of it as Dean walks away from between them, and she's sans a divide from the. From. Geralt. She tries it once in her head, at least. She makes no promises and has no need to be polite about saying it out loud. She can't believe she's agreed to even this much. She'd rather take a chair to him still.
She's going to find someone who can make her a gun if it kills her.
Agreeing not to go after someone is nothing near agreeing to be friendly. Or to stop looking at him like she might welcome a cockroach infestation faster.
She won't put her back to him, but Jo slowly follows the direction of where Dean went, and it's still disortienting as fuck for Dean Winchester to be behind that bar. He moves around behind it like he knows what's back there— grabbing bottles and cups like it's normal. That's a whole other bag of nails to go driving into her skin.
Jo takes a stool, not close. Doesn't care. It's precisely what it looks like, and she has just as many apologies as the fucks she snarled about earlier. Does she want a drink? Maybe. Would she have gotten one if neither of them had been here, to begin with? Probably. Making her want one even more so now. Except there's no want even to pretend they are going to have some kind of tea party talk now.
It's get the kind of look Ellen would have been proud to pass on, clipped barely touched that mountain of black leather over there. She's not even going to pretend the guy falls into any 'that's it category' that Dean wants to smooth over as it being something simple. All this makes every bit of her usually charming, flirty lead-up in conversations with new people on either side of the aisle stone-cold serious.
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Jo has no patience for Dean's stupid, flippant mouth about giving her the keys to the Impala he would never hand over and is intensely more aware of it as Dean walks away from between them, and she's sans a divide from the. From. Geralt. She tries it once in her head, at least. She makes no promises and has no need to be polite about saying it out loud. She can't believe she's agreed to even this much. She'd rather take a chair to him still.
She's going to find someone who can make her a gun if it kills her.
Agreeing not to go after someone is nothing near agreeing to be friendly.
Or to stop looking at him like she might welcome a cockroach infestation faster.
She won't put her back to him, but Jo slowly follows the direction of where Dean went, and it's still disortienting as fuck for Dean Winchester to be behind that bar. He moves around behind it like he knows what's back there— grabbing bottles and cups like it's normal. That's a whole other bag of nails to go driving into her skin.
Jo takes a stool, not close. Doesn't care. It's precisely what it looks like, and she has just as many apologies as the fucks she snarled about earlier. Does she want a drink? Maybe. Would she have gotten one if neither of them had been here, to begin with? Probably. Making her want one even more so now. Except there's no want even to pretend they are going to have some kind of tea party talk now.
It's get the kind of look Ellen would have been proud to pass on, clipped barely touched that mountain of black leather over there. She's not even going to pretend the guy falls into any 'that's it category' that Dean wants to smooth over as it being something simple. All this makes every bit of her usually charming, flirty lead-up in conversations with new people on either side of the aisle stone-cold serious.
"And the eyes?"