She was annoyed, and even secretly a little relieved, to catch this hunter’s particular brand of gratitude for her trouble. "You're welcome." It meant Dean Winchester was back.
"Look, if you wanna suck face with your friend back there, by all means, but for now shut up, c’mon and c’mere. I’ve gotta clean that hickey before you grow the fangs to match the bite." One concern down and on to the next one. Viscerally wincing in distaste at the bite-mark, Jo dutifully leaned forward on tiptoe, the small huntress examining and assessing the torn flesh first with her eyes then tentative fingertips. And while the jagged wound was mercifully shallow, it might be enough to end a promising hunter’s career if not promptly dealt with.
She leaned down, thumbed the cap off a flask of holy water that she’d been carrying in pocket, "This is going to hurt. Alot," she stoically warned jerking the older hunter’s scruffy head to the side. "Fortunately, I won’t feel a thing."
As Jo doused the wound with blessed water—- it frothed white, foaming, bubbling, and fuming at the flesh unnaturally, singeing and burning as it purifies the taint with each additional pass—- she conversationally adds, "You never called by the way." The dizzying pain would soon subside as the infection quelled until then, he’d have to grin and bear it.