Jo stops short of getting there. Short of getting through the last group of people in between them entirely. Short of that stumble back, hand raised at, wardingly, her, and the deep, unflinching, unwavering understanding of just what could be done by her with a single hand. Word. Choice. With an expression that is confusion bending itself lightning fast to dangerous suspicion and deadly self-defense. Jo knows too well. That face.

That has never more than once or twice looked at her like this.

Only at the very beginning, when she wasn't sure yet.

If she could trust Jo, the hunter, as an Angel, the same way she'd trusted Jo, the bartender at The End of the Universe, as a human girl.

Because she doesn't. Doesn't trust Jo. Doesn't know Jo.

Not here. Not now. Not looking at her like this. Like she's the next attacker sent by Heaven or Hell, or whatever the hell in-between that it might be, wherever, whenever she was pulled from. It's Sam, and Jess, and Mary, and Dean, all over again. Except it's like she's been shot. Like she can't remember how to breathe in at all suddenly.

Or to speak. It's just no. Just. No, no, no, no. Not Anna, too.