When he'd been on the rampage, Meg inside him filling every crevice in his soul, his self with her poison, and scented Jo on the air and headed for Duluth, he'd found her so intoxicating. The fear in her eyes as he loomed over her was unspeakably delicious; the way she'd gotten herself so tangled in Dean that she couldn't see that he wasn't Sam just made everything easier. He'd thought the lust that had spiked through him belonged to Meg, and had done his best to push aside every whisper of how vulnerable she looked, how beautiful blood and bruises were on her milk-white skin.
So apparently he had been wrong.
Because he can feel himself reacting to her like he's never seen anything more beautiful, even while he's thinking to himself that this is Dean's girl, despite knowing that Dean never once touched her except with friendly hands, a fellow hunter's watchful gaze. She's wearing what looks like the vest of a man's three-piece suit over a pair of tight, dark jeans. Below the sharply cut silver vest there seems to be nothing but white and pink flesh; her chest is small enough to let her get away with that, with being a tease in a way that would never occur to someone used to getting what she wanted. He wonders what her skin smells like.
She looks older, more carefully put together, the dash of color on her mouth not a little girl's attempt at dress-up but a declaration of independence. She shifts her weight impatiently, and one long, pale curl slips from back to front to rest, coiled, on her collarbone. Jo's grown up, evidently, and she's not going to make the same mistake twice. Asking questions indicates weakness, and she won't bend enough to inquire after Dean.
"Jo," he finally says, when he realizes waiting her out is only ratcheting up her impatience. "I really need -"
He cuts himself off when her eyes narrow dangerously at the word. "I'm fine, Sam, thanks for asking," she bites out.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, but presses ahead, betting that the remorse he's putting on, added to the fact of Dean's absence, will get her to give in and ask how she can help. "I just - I didn't ..."
She cuts him off right quick. "You didn't realize we all had lives, that we weren't all waiting around for you to show up? That helping you is not actually the highlight of our lives?"
If she wants to play it like that, he can be just as nasty. "Who's 'we'? Last I heard, you still weren't on speaking terms with your mother." Not like he's in a position to be lecturing anyone on filial devotion, but then again, she'd never seen him and Dad in the same room; she's used to having Dean to filter him through too.
Quick as a flash, he's soaked, his hair matting under the weight of the holy water she's thrown on him. There's a cheer from some of the regulars, and he realizes they must have gotten pretty loud.
Her dark eyes go confused and wary when they register that there's no smoke pouring out of him. He draws his sleeve across his bangs to keep any more water from dripping in his eyes. "Now that we've got the preliminaries out of the way, you got some place we could talk in private?" he asks. He can't catch the towel she throws at him, but he picks it off the floor, scrubs at his hair, and follows her swishing hips to a room at the back of the bar.