Whatever Jo was expecting to have to talk him down from?
It's not the words that come out of his mouth.

Jo's mouth opened as though she'd been spring triggered on a loop, ready to take whatever he said and spin right back for him; however he needed to hear it put. But her mouth opens, semi-closes, opens. Her brow ruffles in it. Because. She couldn't've heard that right. But there's nothing at all to steal a scrap of sound from bouncing all over this tiny god-forsaken lockbox.

She doesn't even. That makes no. He can't. But. If he. The beds flash in her head again. The chains. Child-sized. He had to have been a child at some point, right? Did that. Was she. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. (A flash, again, of that sheer rage in her face.) She opens her mouth again, and it hesitates, trying to find the right words because you're shitting me, right? are not the words that will get her out of this room.

(It's not quite an invitation for round two,
but she doesn't need to be any closer to this wall than she is.)

And, even in her head, she knows they're a bright bit of poison for shielding herself, more than rebuffing against him, against that precarious crack with Dean Winchester's name on it wrapped around the whole of Geralt's existence. A contradiction in trust and confidence.

Jo pressed her lips together, tongue licking her bottom lip, before finally.

"That's -- it's -- a memory?"