Do you think it will work? She wants to ask, and she won't.
There's a weary part of her, studying the door, that knows a week ago—or is it months now? She can't tell anymore—the question would have brusquely been, Do you want this to work? But the unchecked and unquenchable fortitude of morality, maybe even hunter legacy, is too dinged, and she's too weary. Once almost dead. Once dead-not-dead. She doesn't have room for it. Just standing and breathing (choking on the desperation hope) is taking up all of it now.
She knows already that he knows just as little as the rest of them whether the switch this his blood, and Ciri's, can stand in for something already so rare and hyperspecific. She knows that, regardless of what happened in the Bad Lands, he's here, he's still given his blood, still staying to give those shots, and still sitting outside this door.
He's caught in the same traction as all of them. Feet dangling over the precipice of whether he lives. Dean Winchester. Who matters to all of them beyond words.
In a way that actions show too clearly in this house—and maybe it's time to stop pretending they don't show just as clearly, just as unwaveringly, outside of those in this house, too. In a way almost no one else is allowed to. Despite whatever is allowed or judged.
Jo took another drink and held it out and down toward him.
What she chooses is something else. A sigh through her nose. "I hate waiting."
no subject
There's a weary part of her, studying the door, that knows a week ago—or is it months now? She can't tell anymore—the question would have brusquely been, Do you want this to work? But the unchecked and unquenchable fortitude of morality, maybe even hunter legacy, is too dinged, and she's too weary. Once almost dead. Once dead-not-dead. She doesn't have room for it. Just standing and breathing (choking on the desperation hope) is taking up all of it now.
She knows already that he knows just as little as the rest of them whether the switch this his blood, and Ciri's, can stand in for something already so rare and hyperspecific. She knows that, regardless of what happened in the Bad Lands, he's here, he's still given his blood, still staying to give those shots, and still sitting outside this door.
He's caught in the same traction as all of them.
Feet dangling over the precipice of whether he lives.
Dean Winchester. Who matters to all of them beyond words.
In a way that actions show too clearly in this house—and maybe it's time to stop pretending they don't show just as clearly, just as unwaveringly, outside of those in this house, too. In a way almost no one else is allowed to. Despite whatever is allowed or judged.
Jo took another drink and held it out and down toward him.
What she chooses is something else. A sigh through her nose. "I hate waiting."