Suddenly Dean is letting go of her hand, causing something so settled in and rooted behind her sternum to give a strange hard lurch, shooting her eyes open. And. They're back. On the floor. In Dean's small, not quite crowded room, everything feeling insanely surreal, like her skin is a few millimeters out of place, hairs on her skin raised.

Torn between fuck that was weird and the impossibly unsayable Dean was right and what is she even supposed to make of that checking in expression over there on his face as she focused on him. Deciding with lightning speed as it all clarifies that she hates parsing herself as not remembering herself. Her family. Her life. The choices and consequences worth those choices. Not knowing him, but knowing him, letting him —

Nope. Absolutely not.
She was not looking at that right now.

Jo gives an abortive wave of her hands right above her knees; that's a whole lot more an admission of there not being much of a second option on the board so, than the uncomfortably irritable, "It wouldn't be hard to be better than all that. A tumbleweed has more life."

It left a bad taste in her mouth. But she hadn't moved to get up. Where the hell would she go?