Jo doesn't wait any longer than the length of her conversation with Jack before starting her search of the house for Dean, trying with every step and every press of her molars (and fuck but it's weird that she can press them and her head doesn't go off like a five-alarm explosion; even having her balance back is its own vertigo, she keeps trying to correct for the sway and buckle of each step, faltering a little when it doesn't come) to try and still the entirely erratic sprint of her heart. She knows it's worse than playing chicken with the dark for the right reasons.

She knows it'll be so much worse if she doesn't.

(Worse on worse compounded; that where they all are now.
Castiel still missing. Even with more information.
Dean .. Dean sliding wholesale into the Mark.

Her--

They can't afford even worse.)

Jo checked the basement rooms first, furthest of the furthest from everyone. Weapons, and books. Accumulated wards and dark corners with locks. But there's no one. Then it's the first floor, and she only marginally isn't expecting Sam to suddenly be in the third room she slides through the doorway, looking sideways along the length.

If he happens to look up fast enough, Sam might catch it. The momentarily blink, copper eyes soft, trigger wary-reluctant, before her shoulders, spine, and head straighten up like an arrow. A sword. She's got clean clothes, and aside from a few flecks of blood in her golden hair she hadn't managed entirely to wash out from a quick dash at the sink after Jack, all of the damage is gone. She doesn't wait for him to get to ask any of the obvious questions first.

She bites out, though without any heat or hardness: "Where's Dean?"