[ He’s lost track of time. It could be weeks since he left his home, but if he was told that it was months, he wouldn’t be stunned. A sign that signals a roadhouse ahead is his personal way of knowing that maybe it’s time to stop and grab something to eat before heading out of town once more. When Sam enters, it’s evident that he’s one of the few attendees at this time. Dark bags below his eyes are plain, and his clothes haven’t been thoroughly cleansed in weeks, but damn, he’s as h a p p y as he’ll ever be. ]
[ Her question has become much too familiar to his ears. Sam sprawls a few maps across the table, before he addresses her. Eating has become one of his last priorities, but not doing so would result in various unneeded problems. A hand rubs his neck, as if he’s pondering her question. ]
❝Uh——what’re your specials?❞
[ He’s really not interested in what their prominence is, but rather, decent food that’s cheap. Money is scarce, and he needs to start nailing that into his head instead of buying things with ease. ]
it’s not a personal thing, really, but for the span of about thirty seconds, she sort of hates him. his earnest distraction, the maps, the helpless happiness he can’t have the decency to hide. it’s all what she wishes she could have. this is some new age sort of torture. this is like starving, and being subjected to 24 hours of the food network.
she presses her lips together, because she’s half-forgotten what their daily is, or what day of the week it is, for that matter. she’ll check over her shoulder at the grubby chalkboard where, just under the daily special, some ignorant soul has written something obscene.
the blonde gives an exasperated sigh, and swipes the curse away the best she can, leaving the ghost of it’s vulgarity streaked on her apron.
when you grow up in a place like this, you do it without h o p e. everyday you see your mother turn from a glowing goddess, to an old and angry shrew, & everyday, you see your father turn from the hero he once was to a balding mess with gray at his temples, and a bad back.
everyday, jo’s forced to look at the face of people living her dream. her home is a pit-stop on everybody’s scenic trip, and she’s stuck here, shackled by her own responsibility.
it’s late, dinner time, her slowest at the bar. nobody ever eats here, they’ve all got higher standards. she sits, completely alone, her parents off god knows where.
the clink of the bell above the door startles her, expecting her father. instead, her gaze set on a younger man, tired-looking, and restless. another traveller. another person with a way out, a luxury she just doesn’t share. she can hardly twist her face into her most polite smile.
[ He scoffs, but he knows that she isn’t joking— the brothers rarely communicate with anyone, and unfortunately, the Harvelle’s are rarely an exception. ]
❝ You know, a phone works both ways, Jo. But— yeah, sorry. I’ll try to have Dean check in more, if you want. ❞
she’ll spare him a look now, her jaw softening a bit. it’s not like it was personal. hunters lose track of time, of a lot of things. her dad always did.
❝just… y'know, people care, sam. — you can sit down, if you want. ❞
