It's cratering fast toward the end, and she can't think it through, but it's a white-knuckled burst that somehow, fucked as all get out, has a desperate will and relief to knowing how little left there is to get through. It's the hiccups of only a matter of seconds, most of a minute all together.

Pieces fading even (Dean jerks away. Her mother stays. They leave over her shoulder. Her mom's voice. And when it got too hard to lift her head, to open her eyes.) as the feeling was coming back to her. As Dean had shifted to grab her arm, and something about that movement shattered free the wired lock on her bones, and she threw that arm out, slapping up to hit his arm with her hand, to break that grasp no matter how well meant, at the same time using her other to shove herself back with a hand in the middle of his chest.

"Fuck." That's. "It's—" She can't. "Don't touch me." It's too sharp. Snapped hard. She nearly tripped on a corpse behind her in that quick retreat. Panic both stringent anger and the draining drop wrapped. Wrong person; no reason; it's this place, it's not Dean. (She's not dying here.) Like Geralt said. "I'm fine." Nothing is fine. "Just living it up through my fucking death again."

Jo can't apologize. Yet.
She's too busy finding a wall.

"New rule," comes as a hand finds the wall finally.
The brick rough and solid and cold. She leans against it.

"No one touches me again until we're out of this fucking place."