It probably says something that no one in the tiny box has time to remark on that Jo doesn't glare at him when he bites out those last two words, so tight they could pop, so demanding it might as well be the crack of a whip, no matter that she can hear that part, under it, shaking like glass ready to shatter.

"I'm still trying," Jo says through mostly gritted teeth. "I haven't stopped trying."

It's just sitting there like that. It doesn't look anything like what Jo's picturing except for its shape, and that shape is just the shape of any door anywhere. Even as Geralt gropes the wall for purchase or handle, nothing is firming up, and Jo has no clue where to pull anything else from to make this work any better. It's invisible dream mumbo-jumbo that gave her back her childhood house. (Well, and Dean mixed in that. But no time.)

"It's just not. Doing anything else." Jo lets go, a wave blowing back through her body. Unclenching her muscles, dropping her shoulders back down from how tight they'd pressed. "I can't make it do anything else." She doesn't like that idea already, but that crack of light shape on the walls stays like a glowing reminder of failure to needle at her. "Maybe it has to be both of us."