Jo does not kiss the ground. She does not. But she almost wants to. Or to hug the ground. Whatever. She's so much happier when her boots are actually on real ground and no longer in the air, and she's no longer bracing just a little before her weight shifts to the next lower stair, like it might give out any next second, at any point she decided to take it for granted.

There's no kissing the ground, but the relief is so grand, and she'll take a terrifying walk through the sky to Dean, who looks like he decided to get friendly with every single branch of the tree above him. It's damn near comedic, even when it makes her want to wince a little. Jo chooses neither. There's a blithe smile, just for him, as she gave a wave of a hand at the whole mess of him over there. "Someone has to show you how to do it. Because this? Is obviously not it."

There's a glance toward the folded-in pile of Geralt, and is it weird that more than earlier makes her look at him for a second? Geralt. All head in his hands. Taking a moment to breathe or whatever. She knows better—and that's not about him, it's about hunters and even miniature breaking points—so she looks back to Dean. "Anyone have a guess where we are now?"