Sam's voice splices in with Dean's grunts, and then Dean's weight shifts, and then vanishes; there's a scuffle of legs drug back off her, over hers, and what she has first doesn't belong to her. Her whole chest contorts, and she's coughing, pulling in gasps of air that are too thin and won't go deep enough, and her throat keeps hacking right back out at first.

Fire blazing throughout her throat, wanting to refuse use.
Sharp and spiking somewhere in the middle when she breathes in too deep.

All across her face. It's all she can manage for a moment. Breathing. Except that's not enough; her mind can't pause to appreciate (hollow, dry, sandy, gritty; the miracle of) air. Because she's trying to roll up and pull away. Not in a ball. That's trained in deep. Curling up in a ball only made you a smaller space to strike or cover. It gave you a place to die.

It doesn't protect your organs;
nothing in the human body is truly built to.

It's surrender, and that's not a thing Jo knows how to do.

Even though she's not up all the way, she backs a few feet, haphazardly sprawls up into sitting, her vision a wash, there are spots, and she's not sure if it's tears or blood in her eyes, maybe both? Everything is too loud and too quiet at once, jagged with imbalance, throbbing everywhere, but what comes into focus first is the back-to-towering form of Dean and the absolutely lucid and stricken expression on Dean's face.