And thus Dean Winchester was dumped gracelessly over onto the ground face-first, to the tune of a low and guttural groan. Into the grass, there may or may not be a mostly-inaudible murmuring of fuck you. Two or three seconds later he presses his palms to the ground and heaves himself up onto his knees, feathers askew and twig-filled, hair ruffled, looking wholly undignified — just in time to see Jo finish her perfectly graceful descent from mid freaking air.

Flat as a pancake in the world's deadest deadpan: "Showoff."