“He’s cute, isn’t he? In that, you know. That kind of
devil-may-care kind of way.”
Ellen keeps polishing the glass like nothing has
changed, but everything has, because Jo’s voice is everything Ellen’s been
afraid of: besotted and a little dreamy, those
green eyes sure did a number on her.
Ellen tells her daughter in measured tones: “Cute ain’t
something you can build on, sweetheart.”
Jo grows sharp across the bar top; her gaze dark and unyielding.
“You don’t like him.”
It’s not a question, thank God, because Ellen wouldn’t know what to answer.
She doesn’t know how to tell her smitten golden
daughter that the sunny, damaged boy she’s fallen for is already madly in love
with someone else. She doesn’t know how to put words to the things she’s seen
the Winchester boys do in the dark, the things she’s heard them whisper to each
other at night when the lights were all out. She doesn’t know how to ask: Did you not see him, honey? Did you not
see how there’s no room for anyone but his baby-brother, god bless their poor
souls, in those devil-may-care eyes of his? Are you that over the moon?
Ellen puts the glass down, a little too hard, and Jo’s
“Do yourself a favor, darlin’,” Ellen murmurs. “Give
your heart to someone else.”