It gets easier with that first patch. She has more of an idea of direction, and she's starting to work out how to move them gently from the wrong direction to the right one. She doesn't let it change the set of her mouth, but they're delicate, which alone feels unnerving. Breakable. Like a wrong move too far might snap them. Make that joke they were tossing all too real.

"Wow," is for his answer, as she's lifting carefully to turn some of the longest ones back into the apparent pattern and set they should be in rather than twisted and fluffed. "Not feeling too bad about missing any of that."

It's half a lie. Jo doesn't want to have had to deal with it—to have been forced to share her dreams, nightmares, or memories—but it doesn't go so far as being fine with the other hand of that balance, being he'd been here alone. Or not alone; him and Cas; them alone. She'd rather take that hell and help than leave them in the wind, spinning.