The Impala had become a familiar landmark at the back of Harvelle's roadhouse, and Jo would be lying if she said the sight didn't make her glad. The sleek black lines of the car seemed out-of-place amongst the choking dust of Nebraska, but it was comforting, somehow — it meant he was here. It meant he'd come by to see her and, more importantly, that he hadn't left yet, which was a constant danger when dealing with Dean Winchester.

As soon as it sank in that he'd be sticking around for longer than last time, Jo started taking longer and longer breaks. (It's not like Ellen minded, after all; serving drinks was no longer one of the roadhouse's priorities. War meant research and talking to hunters, not whiskey. Not all the time, at least.)

So she took to following him around a little, watching him out of the corner of her eye and throwing joke after joke in his direction, trying to get him to respond. It was that competitive and playful drive that had her asking about his latest hunt, and trailing him out to the Impala while keys jangled in his palm. Even as Dean rummaged around in the trunk, Jo peered in over the side to survey the weapon collection.

It took only a few seconds for her inquisitive fingers to trail over one of the guns before picking it up, hefting its weight in her hands.  "This one any good for werewolves?" she asked, the curiosity nonchalant.

If Dean seemed to be on edge these days, that was perfectly understandable -- the deal hanging over his head, the stress of hunt after hunt, as many as he could possibly manage to take.  In fact, it was probably a wonder that he hadn't snapped before.

"Drop it."  The words were sharp, bordering on angry, and the look he gave her was one that had been known to make larger men than him back down in barfights -- he wouldn't have been surprised if it made her do as she was told, though he kind of hoped it didn't.  His latest hunt had been less than successful (the critter escaped into the sewer system and after three days of searching for it, the only conclusion had been that it was gone), and he was looking for an excuse to release a bit of anger.

"What, the topic or the gun itself?"

She couldn't resist the verbal jab, and that is precisely what made her Jo.  "You just own a helluva lot more of these things than I do, so I figured—"

The look he wore said, quite plainly, that she truly couldn't be that stupid.  "Well, you figured wrong."  He reached out to take the gun from her, by force if necessary -- which it wasn't. Jo let the gun slide out of her hands with an annoyed shrug and settled for watching his movements. He checked the safety (though whether it was on or off was anyone's guess) then couldn't resist pointing it at her briefly before chucking it back into the trunk and slamming the hood.

"Well, something crawled up your ass today, Dean-o."

"Don't call me that, Joanna."

She couldn't resist that wave of annoyance that flared up, red-hot. She didn't like looking down the barrels of guns, and she didn't like being called Joanna, but most of all, she really hated bickering with Dean. There was a moment while Jo debated back and forth, hovering on the verge of saying something, but she quelled the thought.

Instead, Jo settled for leaning back on the hood and propping her weight up against it, eyeing the man.

"And get off the damn car.  I just had it detailed."  Not that he believed he owed an explanation.

The blonde slid right off the hood with a frustrated sigh — with some of the air of a child being reprimanded — and instead took to pacing a few feet off, one hand dragging through her hair. The day wasn't working out, and Dean was being a grump, and hell, if it was gonna be like this, she'd rather be inside kicking Danny's ass at Pacman. But her steps brought her closer to the older man for a moment, kicking up dust, and she paused by his side.

"C'mon, Dean. Get your panties out of a twist, stop being a whiny princess for a sec and I'll cover your tab for—"

He went oddly still, if only for a moment, and then he was moving, his hand coming up sharply across her face.  "Why don't you kiss my ass."  It wasn't a suggestion, even as he stepped back, fingering his keys.

The sudden contact caught her completely by surprise, and Jo stumbled a few steps back from him, one hand covering her stinging cheek. Sudden and fierce rage roared up in her at the pain, her other fingers itching to reach for her daddy's knife. This wasn't the first time Jo had been slapped, and experience in Duluth with drunken patrons had taught her what the hell to do when she was ... but for the love of god, this was Dean. He hadn't even hit her after Sam died.

"What the FUCK is your problem, Dean Winchester?" Jo hissed.

"You wanna know the truth?  You are my problem.  All your goddamn clinging and whining.  Calling all hours of the fucking night just to talk.  If I didn't know better, I'd say I was still banging Evers," he snapped back at her, drawing a comparison he knew would cut -- and cut deeply.

And in that moment, her fears came true. She didn't even think of arguing back, of saying that he called her more often than not, because Jo's mind was far too wrapped around the weight and pain of his words and she just didn't think. Fuck. Oh, fuck. And suddenly, irrationally, she wondered about skin and shapeshifters and demons and possession. Because it couldn't be the truth.

"You don't mean that."

But there was a rotten core at the centre of her that thought 'Maybe he does.'  If it wasn't for that reeking seed of doubt, she could have safely jumped the man with holy water and silver. But part of her thought this might be true.

That was what hurt the most.

"I don't say anything I don't mean, sweetheart.  Not to those who don't matter."  He knew his words were cruel, but he didn't particularly care.  It was the truth, as far as he was concerned, and she might as well hear it now.  "You wanna know the truth?  Truth is, you're an easy lay.  And not even a very good one.  And I have no idea why I've wasted so much time on you."

"Fuck YOU, Dean," she snarled, turning around to trace a stomping path back towards the building in the distance. "I don't know what sort of twisted issues you're dealing with today, but when you're ready to get your head outta your ass..."

She almost told him to call her. But the words were biting and stinging, and she remembered Evers, and she remembered just how much it pissed her off seeing Dean unhappy in that relationship, and... christ. What had she become?

"No, you know what, I've had it with this today. Get the hell out of here. I'm going home."

"Oh, of course.  Didn't expect much less from a child.  You don't hear what you want, you run home to your mommy," he called after her, even though he knew it wasn't entirely true.  But then, he wasn't concerned with the truth, at that point -- he was more concerned with making it hurt.

She didn't respond that time. But her fingers still itched for the knife, and the roadhouse doors slammed behind her.