> You got Mom's messages? She said she'd been trying you.
“Hers.” John nods again, looking past her towards the bar as if the trademark Winchester glare can pierce through walls to give him some sort of status report beyond the snippets gleaned from said messages. “Dean's. The boys, they're ins...?”
> ... I think she's talking to Aunt Evie right now or something and Dean and Sam are asleep
His sigh of relief is audible, flows from top to toe and drains something away in the ebb which follows leaving him breathing far more easily and looking marginally less angry (and also a hell of a lot more tired as the adrenaline is syphoned off) . “Good” he says, and goes to push off towards the Roadhouse because as much of a balm as hearing that they're inside sleeping is it's not really enough, not anywhere near it, as any parent would admit in a heartbeat.
> Where were you?
“Kubrick's” he replies. There's no real hesitation with John, no suggestion that she shouldn't ask (which is odd, because this is Jo and she's supposed to be kept in the dark, but he's a practical man and things have changed and they'll process what that means later – hopefully on the road out of here with the Harvelles shrinking in the rear-view mirror again) and only the slightest trace of guilt at not having gotten here sooner. If she asks anything else, now, that'll be a different matter; hopefully she's caught enough of the drift not to pursue the matter, and the glance she gets as he stops to look at her nudges in that direction as well.
His turn to ask a question, and he opts for “How you holding up?” He tilts his head towards the door as he asks, a silent walk-and-talk - or, well, this being John, a well, I'm going inside, though Jo being Jo she doesn't get the and you damn well better go to so much as a gentle suggestion.