Jo doesn't know what in the world to make of the things Ciri keeps saying over that shoulder at her, while looking at Geralt, and if Ciri weren't taller, Jo'd probably be making a bewildered expression at Geralt over that shoulder. But she is taller, and she's starting to head into really fucking weird territory — while sounding like Ciri's trying to protect her?

Ciri, who knows well and truly Jo can take care of herself,
and that in what she can't, Jo's learning that from her.

Jo looks to her side at the tug, and there's a pinch to her expression that collides with not abandoning them and the realization that Dean Winchester is still fucking shit at listening to what anyone else tells him to do. But her eyes linger on that hand on her arm, and when it doesn't happen again, she nods uncertainly. A little slow. A few steps away, but not leave them here. It's a cold relief, the solid touch on her arm—like Ciri's hand; that hug right before—and the Rolodex she's not swinging through.

It seemed that the labyrinth had shifted roulette on who to fuck with more now. There's no gratitude in that. They don't deserve it, either. There's a part of Jo that would have rather kept being at the fucked up, circle-spun center, rather than whatever this was turning into.