Jo swallowed past that boulder in her throat, and maybe she hated him a little because her eyes burned for no reason she could specifically qualify. Maybe because that sounded even more real. That plea that masks itself as a complaint. The one that was too real. From that 5% that was not Dean's 95% shit talk. The one that begged, through shit, for something that wasn't real. Because real was worse. Come'on, be a brat, be a bitch, be anything but suddenly silent. Wherein silent might as well have stood in for hurt, which Jo Harvelle just didn't do.
Maybe even across worlds. She swallowed, again against it.
"I try to reserve that for when you're actually being an asshole." Not when he was being honest. Not when he was talking about her, the other her saving her, and getting her home, and bloody fuck.
Just all of that. She didn't show up just so she could walk on graves and the whole world could be wrong. She was supposed to be in the middle of a firefight right now or, Goddrick willing, outside of it, back home, with a glass of scotch and a hot bathtub, dress and heels left on the floor by the door. Or screwing someone she picked up on the way home, high on a ministry win and not giving a damn.
But she isn't home (..and she isn't dead..) and Dean is here. Looking pained by her existence and her silence (..just like her....like Dean from her world).
So, she does what he asks, what she can, what she's done for a whole world more hundreds of times that she could begin to count. She takes breath and she balls her fingers in the flannel still in her hands, and instead she says, almost too conversationally, pushing off the door. "We should head down to the garage, right? Keep your brother and his tots from racing every corridor to find us?"
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Jo swallowed past that boulder in her throat, and maybe she hated him a little because her eyes burned for no reason she could specifically qualify. Maybe because that sounded even more real. That plea that masks itself as a complaint. The one that was too real. From that 5% that was not Dean's 95% shit talk. The one that begged, through shit, for something that wasn't real. Because real was worse. Come'on, be a brat, be a bitch, be anything but suddenly silent. Wherein silent might as well have stood in for hurt, which Jo Harvelle just didn't do.
Maybe even across worlds. She swallowed, again against it.
"I try to reserve that for when you're actually being an asshole." Not when he was being honest.
Not when he was talking about her, the other her saving her, and getting her home, and bloody fuck.
Just all of that. She didn't show up just so she could walk on graves and the whole world could be wrong. She was supposed to be in the middle of a firefight right now or, Goddrick willing, outside of it, back home, with a glass of scotch and a hot bathtub, dress and heels left on the floor by the door. Or screwing someone she picked up on the way home, high on a ministry win and not giving a damn.
But she isn't home (..and she isn't dead..) and Dean is here.
Looking pained by her existence and her silence (..just like her....like Dean from her world).
So, she does what he asks, what she can, what she's done for a whole world more hundreds of times that she could begin to count. She takes breath and she balls her fingers in the flannel still in her hands, and instead she says, almost too conversationally, pushing off the door. "We should head down to the garage, right? Keep your brother and his tots from racing every corridor to find us?"