Jo doesn't think to question it. The steps, the appearance, Dean being Dean, even in this place where everything has been fucked upside down against them for hours. There is no stop, no pass go, no collect two hundred dollars. One second it's the faintest shuffle of steps, and she's tensing, and the next, it's Dean's voice, and Jo's pushing up off the ground, a straight shot in his direction before he's finished those words. "Dean."

If she took a second, she might have checked a lot of things, including the sudden blossom of relief too big and broad and overwhelming or that strange current of something too sharp, too tragic to compare it to the candle-flicker shadow that was 'sadness.' But Jo doesn't. All Jo knows is one moment, she's scrambling up, striding fast past piles of bodies, and the next, she's nearly collided into his chest already.

Like, somehow, he's the one that isn't real,
more than would make sense about her.