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"You gonna marry her?" Ellen asks. She raises the glass of whiskey to her lips and stares at John like the wrong answer will land him face down in the creek behind the Roadhouse.
"Jo doesn't want to get married," John says. He fidgets with his own glass and wonders just how frank he should be. On the one hand, Ellen's got as much right to know as anyone. On the other hand, if Jo hasn't told her, maybe she doesn't want her mother to know that John already proposed—that Jo turned him down with a wink and a mischievous smile, and the cryptic response, 'Maybe someday, baby, but not just yet..'
If Jo were here now, he could check with a look. But she's not. She's outside fiddling with his truck, after spending three days insisting that the engine doesn't sound right. Sounds just fine as far as John can tell, and he's got a mechanic's ear. But Jo's also never been wrong about an engine. She didn't need to argue long to convince him to let her look under the hood.
"What are you going to do?" Ellen asks when John doesn't volunteer any further information. And despite his stockpile of stubborn calm, John barely resists the urge to fidget under her cool, threatening stare. He wonders if she hates him.
He sure as hell wouldn't blame her.
"We're still hammering out the details," he hedges, because he doesn't really know the answer. All he knows for sure is that, no matter what happens, he's going to take care of Jo—her and that baby both—even though he doesn't deserve either one of them.
"You gonna keep hunting?" Ellen presses, not to be deterred.
"Doubt it," says John, but he can't give Ellen the promise she obviously wants. They don't always have a choice. "I can't very well put her in that kind of danger, but she'll handcuff me to the truck if I try and do anything without her." John might be imagining it, but he could swear he sees an incremental thawing of the cold behind Ellen's eyes. "We'll figure something out," he adds confidently.
"You take care of her, Winchester," Ellen says, reaching for his arm and grasping so tightly it hurts. "You keep her safe, or I swear to god I'll hunt you down myself."
"I will," says John. When he adds, "I promise," it's as easy as breathing.
Sam walks into the bar just as John stands and reaches for his coat, and John didn't think his sons were even in the state, let alone in visiting distance from the Roadhouse.
"Heard you might be here," Sam says, sparing a bright smile for Ellen and shaking John's hand warmly. They don't hug. Hugging is just for special occasions—life and death—and the rest of the time John and Sam maintain a more careful distance. Better for not butting heads and tearing each other apart.
"Where's your brother?" John asks, smiling in spite of himself.
"Outside," says Sam. "We can't stay long. Just wanted to check in."
"Could've used a phone," John points out with a smirk.
"Yeah, well. We were in the area. Besides, two birds with one stone this way." And just like that his attention shifts to Ellen. John watches the woman's cold edges melt away instantly when Sam approaches her.
"Hey, kiddo," she says, hauling him down into a hug. "That problem-child brother of yours better be coming in to say hi. How've you boys been?"
"Pretty good," Sam says. "How's business."
John feels a little awkward just walking away, but he knows when he's not needed. Ellen and Sam are already gravitating toward the bar, grinning and chatting, and John just wants to be outside watching Jo work on the truck.
Instead, when he steps into the parking lot, he finds Jo and Dean slouched against the closed hood, leaning towards each other in a way that looks almost conspiratorial. Their conversation is a quiet murmur that John can barely hear from this distance, but both are smiling easily—amusement and fondness and warmth—and for a moment John is breathlessly grateful, wondering how it is a man like him gets a second chance to have it this good.
He could interrupt easily enough—they'd smile and make room for him in a heartbeat. But for the moment he's content to stand unnoticed, watching the exchange and letting his gaze flicker proprietarily over Jo. She's five months along now, enough so that there's an unmistakable swell to her stomach that leaves him constantly wanting to reach out and touch.
From his vantage point across the lot, John watches Dean's face light up, bright and happy, and then Dean reaches out one tentative hand—slow enough to be a request for permission—and sets it on the swell of Jo's belly. Jo actually laughs at the touch, and punches Dean teasingly in the arm. When she catches sight of John watching a moment later, her smile spreads even wider.
That's John's cue, and he starts forward at a casual stride, cracking a grin of his own at the sight of Dean taking his hand back to make a show of rubbing at his arm.
"It's good to see you boys," John says, capturing Dean in a hug as soon as he's close enough. Dean claps him on the back, and leaves a hand on John's shoulder when they step apart.
"How long are you here for?" Dean asks, glancing at Jo and then at John again.
"A couple days at least," says John. "I hope you're planning to stick around."
"Hell yes," Dean says, winking broadly at Jo. "What's the point of stopping by if we don't get to take advantage of Ellen's kitchen and beer?"
"Shameless," Jo says, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
Later, when it's just the two of them and they've watched Dean disappear inside, Jo asks, "So. How was your talk with Mom?"
"About how you'd expect," says John. "She didn't have a shotgun this time, though."
"Good," says Jo. Her expression darkens into something quiet and serious. "I don't think she understands."
"Of course she doesn't," says John, reaching up to brush unruly strands of hair from her forehead. "It's not her fault." Her hair blows right back into her face with an unexpected gust of breeze.
"Maybe we shouldn't have come," Jo murmurs, eyes cutting away towards the horizon.
"Don't be ridiculous," John chides gently. "She's your mother. She loves you. And she hasn't seen you in almost a year. Are you going to go say hi, or do I have to carry you in there?"
"You wouldn't," Jo says, eyes narrowing in challenge.
"Try me," says John, narrowing his eyes right back.
It feels like a genuine contest of wills for a moment, but they both know Jo is going to cave first. John is right—and Ellen is waiting. They hold steadily, gazes locked and determined for long moments, but finally Jo sighs and rolls her eyes.
"Fine," she says. "But if she pulls a shotgun on you again, I am not getting involved."
"Fair enough," says John, and follows her inside.