The sting of reminiscence rises in her chest like bile rising in her throat. It hurts to reflect on what her family could have been, what it once was. She had John Winchester to thank for that. The ache that flowed from her heart to the arteries in her wrists fueled her hands to do something.

To fight.

To resist.

Fight her mother’s efforts of placating her. Fight the fear that this has embedded into her bloodline. She needs to fight those monsters that stole her father away from her. To resist falling into the selfish hardened patterns of hunters like John.

Jo hurts for the hunt. She seeks it like an addict. Every beast she hears that you or the Winchesters wasted—it fuels her. Unfurls her complacency.

She wants to leave these repetitive lumber walls and bartops, she wants to hunt. She sips a beer, brow furrowed into a deep valley of contemplation. She was still only a girl after all. These walls have the memories of her father trapped within them as well.

She hurts for the hunt.

She hurts for her father.

She feels lingering eyes and casts a glance over her shoulder. A half-glance. “Need something?” Her tone is clipped, she doesn’t care much for speaking with you. You and those Winchesters refuse to let her pursue those monsters with you. All because you’re scared of Ellen.

You would never get it. No one would ever get it. She washes down the bile with a swig of booze.