(Untitled)

[tobeclosetohim]

Later. After Happy Hour ended.

Jo brings a bottle and a set of shot glasses.
They get placed on the edge of the table first.

Dead pan, but wanting.

"She's gone back home now."

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[hopeitsworthit]

"Yup," Dean says.

He's trying like hell not to sound tired.

It almost works.

[tobeclosetohim]

Maybe to someone not used to that sound. To the kind of men who used it.
So much so the idea it might never happen again made it louder.

(She'd always known somewhere, somehow, she could go back.

Back to her mom. To the job. To the bar. To the hunters waiting.
If she decided she needed to. Or wanted to.

Hadn't she?)

Jo dropped into a seat, taking a glass.

She never would have. How did that make it worse?

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean snags his own glass, cracking open the bottle and pouring for them both.

He pours generously.

And then he downs the shot.

He's ready for his close-up, Miss Harvelle.

Or somethin' like that, anyway.

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo downed the first shot without tasting it.

Filled her second, still staring at him.

But didn't drink it, only held it.

"You're positive."

Another should-be-isn't-a-question.