It looked like Jo, sounded like Jo, but there was no way it was Jo. Jo was dead. He didn't know what to say; he was less sure what to do. He wanted to hug her, kiss her, take her out back and end her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry; he hadn't meant for her or her mother to die. He wanted her to know that he missed her, and she was part of why he settled down, not that he could explain why.
It took some jerk jostling him to get closer to the bar. A drunk who was telling poor Jo that she shouldn't cry, she was too pretty to cry. A drunk who thought Dean had done something to her. A drunk who was soon going to find himself in pain if he didn't mind his own business.
"Outside?" The hunter motioned to one of the side doors that he knew should get them a little bit of privacy.