How recently had she told Cas that her presence here only prolonged pain—just a weight that would wound later—and he's argued she wasn't the weight, she was the relief. At least before things that night had gotten ... complicated. A shared sentiment about life and death he didn't have to concern himself with anymore. Just her.

Jo's gaze flicked down and back to Geralt when the silence broke on his words, and it took her a brief second to reorient her focus to his voice, to the sudden shift in conversation, her brow wrinkling as what he was saying pieced itself into a picture she couldn't have guessed at. Even if she'd separated them for so long in her mind, they were fluid when together.

There was no gap in how they acted with or spoke of each other,
that matched the kind of crossed memories he mentioned.

Jo took the bottle and looked at it in her hand.

"That must have been confusing."

Painful is the word she means, but Jo Harvelle, no matter her mood and even locale, is the girl who ran her fingers along a bar top well older than her for decades and kept court with people's nightmares, broken lives, and shattered dreams with a care (and, even, yes, profanity, where and when it was needed) that only two other people ever mastered. "What'd you do?"

She still can't even decide if she wants to know all Castiel's learned.
She knows she'll ask. But those are two facts that stand apart.