"Hmm," Jo says through pursed lips, staring a few seconds longer at him. She doesn't look surprised or insulted. If anything, that slight sound is levelly vindicated with not so much as a blink at how he lays it out. That he owes nothing for the right to be in The Roadhouse. Him. Whatever 'Witcher' means. Because 'that's it' isn't any part of this. Nor is Dean trying to put a song and dance act to distract from that question.

She can't entirely lie to herself. She's too good at lying, and the lies of hunters who might as well have acting awards, not to see through it. She might have had in the very most minor one percent expected more, because of Dean. What he'd said. She should know better than to trust that impulse in the face of facts, shouldn't she?

Jo turns, breaking eye contact with nothing else to it, like it's nothing more than the wind in her hair, turning herself so that it brings her back to facing across the bar rather than down it. She lets her heels hook on the bottom rung on the stool. She doesn't miss, doesn't have to look, hadn't since not long after her legs got long enough. Her feet barely even make a sound catching there.

She picks up her drink and toasts it toward Dean. "Strike one."

Then Jo downs it flat — insanely glad to feel something burn — and holds it out to him.