[ Jo's words comport themselves as the kind of vocabulary befitting any normal harsh Jo snap back, but her voice is a clumsy foal, uncertain of how to stand, a wobbly weeze, more air than sound, like she'd been shouting for an hour, like she hadn't taken a breath at any point in the last—seconds? minutes?—but it does come with her taking threatening a step back, body leaning away from him, with a wary look toward the hand that just touched her.
Her copper eyes, sheened a little too moist herself now, are still a little too wide. The whole of her is too wired; her mind too moving, her body too still. Trying to process too many things. Continuing to come back to those words, those black eyes, Cas' tailspin. The soul-deep recognition of what it is to coat yourself, every atom and every bone, in shame for loving something you're not supposed to. If she never meets Kyle, the nacho priest, that will probably be best for him. Part of her, right now, even wants to punch Cas. Because it's a marrow-deep trained-impulse to being made helpless, to fight back even harder. To make whoever it is, whatever it is, thrown further off their game than she is.
Except he asked, and she accepted; basically asked for it.
Without knowing. So much.
Maybe too much, but she probably will punch him if he tries it. Which means she has to figure out something else to go the fuck here. ]
That was just— [ Where the fuck does she even start? Gravity is just not going to come back, is it? Not now. Not with all of that. The rasp of that voice in her ear. The bull of Castiel's feelings still stumbling around, slamming into her ribs and spine, over and over, like it can't break free of the small space of her. Like it's bigger than her. Bigger than he ever knew until—
Small. Small. Start somewhere. Pick something. Anything. Find the ground. Move from there.
Jo makes herself focus on Cas face. The weight of his fingers in her hand; that she suddenly grips too tight, and can't make herself stop, even when the back of her head can only think that she shouldn't because he's—fuck he's really d—and she shakes her head. Because her emotions are a goddamn wash, and being in her body isn't helping, and her voice catches, and the only thing she can think, even if she can't tell where the fuck in the world she is anymore, is that what Cas just did?
With him? With giving it to her?
Was fucking brave.
And Jo doesn't know if she has that anywhere in her. Because Cas if goddamn dying, and just got his heart reamed straight through him, and then tattered and bleeding he shoved it into her hands—knowing she might be able to hurt him worse with it?—knowing that she'd have to—might (does it? should it?)—and he's still standing there, wildly vacillating, shame at dragging her into it, fear at what it might cost, and her eyes are too wet even if there aren't tears falling, but she shook her head again and say the one that's absolutely true. Regardless of all dominoes around it. ]
Dean would never, ever talk to you like that.
[ She's had those fights with him here. At the beginning. He can be purposefully mean. Especially scared. But never ... like that. ]
no subject
[ Jo's words comport themselves as the kind of vocabulary befitting any normal harsh Jo snap back, but her voice is a clumsy foal, uncertain of how to stand, a wobbly weeze, more air than sound, like she'd been shouting for an hour, like she hadn't taken a breath at any point in the last—seconds? minutes?—but it does come with her taking threatening a step back, body leaning away from him, with a wary look toward the hand that just touched her.
Her copper eyes, sheened a little too moist herself now, are still a little too wide. The whole of her is too wired; her mind too moving, her body too still. Trying to process too many things. Continuing to come back to those words, those black eyes, Cas' tailspin. The soul-deep recognition of what it is to coat yourself, every atom and every bone, in shame for loving something you're not supposed to. If she never meets Kyle, the nacho priest, that will probably be best for him. Part of her, right now, even wants to punch Cas. Because it's a marrow-deep trained-impulse to being made helpless, to fight back even harder. To make whoever it is, whatever it is, thrown further off their game than she is.
Except he asked, and she accepted;
basically asked for it.
Without knowing. So much.
Maybe too much, but she probably will punch him if he tries it.
Which means she has to figure out something else to go the fuck here. ]
That was just— [ Where the fuck does she even start? Gravity is just not going to come back, is it? Not now. Not with all of that. The rasp of that voice in her ear. The bull of Castiel's feelings still stumbling around, slamming into her ribs and spine, over and over, like it can't break free of the small space of her. Like it's bigger than her. Bigger than he ever knew until—
Small. Small. Start somewhere. Pick something.
Anything. Find the ground. Move from there.
Jo makes herself focus on Cas face. The weight of his fingers in her hand; that she suddenly grips too tight, and can't make herself stop, even when the back of her head can only think that she shouldn't because he's—fuck he's really d—and she shakes her head. Because her emotions are a goddamn wash, and being in her body isn't helping, and her voice catches, and the only thing she can think, even if she can't tell where the fuck in the world she is anymore, is that what Cas just did?
With him? With giving it to her?
Was fucking brave.
And Jo doesn't know if she has that anywhere in her. Because Cas if goddamn dying, and just got his heart reamed straight through him, and then tattered and bleeding he shoved it into her hands—knowing she might be able to hurt him worse with it?—knowing that she'd have to—might (does it? should it?)—and he's still standing there, wildly vacillating, shame at dragging her into it, fear at what it might cost, and her eyes are too wet even if there aren't tears falling, but she shook her head again and say the one that's absolutely true. Regardless of all dominoes around it. ]
Dean would never, ever talk to you like that.
[ She's had those fights with him here. At the beginning.
He can be purposefully mean. Especially scared. But never ... like that. ]