Breathing is imperative, at least as loud as the constantly crashing pain, even as it causes it, every swallow of mouth, every shift of her lungs expanding, shifting of whatever the hell moved inside her skull when she breathed in. Sitting up is barely working, and her hand on the ground has to stay there, too rigid, like she might fall right off the ground itself if she didn't, it didn't.

There's movement—an object too fast, kicking up sand, and large, so much larger than her—and Jo jerks and fumbles desperately backward on that same shifting sand. A wash of terror spiked instinctively so fucking loud it meets and marries the pain that explodes violently through her head at her own, moving too quickly in response.

Even as Sam comes into focus. If you can call whatever her vision is doing now focus.
Fuzzy but familiar. A lie on his lips that the desperate panic in his eyes doesn't believe.
Shame and embarrassment at retreat mix into that misery, caught in her throat with the air.

How bad—how bad is it, she wants to ask, but Sam's pressing a rag into her hand and putting it to her face, and everything in her vision rolls into boiling red-black. There's a sound coming out of her mouth that doesn't sound attached to her, and it only hits a different note when trying to clench her teeth makes it worse, doubles, triples the agony. Something is wrong. Broken. She. Can't.

But Sam is pulling her up and moving her, and her body doesn't want to move right, but she's shoving her eyes open, vision a spotty wash, trying to move with him anyway. Sam. She trusts Sam, whatever Sam needs her to do now. (Dean. Her throat constricts, blossoming pain.) She has to push that away, the world drunkenly sloshing, as she clutches part of the rock Sam left her behind. She has to get her bearings back.