[ Castiel turns up in a cloud of warm cider scents, and that one ever so unchecked word. There’s a quiet thanks murmured when her cup gets handed over, and the way it feels against her fingers, it’s a small miracle she doesn’t hold it to her cheek. But that miracle has a name, and it’s that still-not-quite-common uncheckered enthusiasm that Castiel isn’t putting on as he stares up at the sky, talking about magic here. Enrapt with the glowing sky animals as he is explaining that it’s all supposed to be this way here. Balanced. Right. That it’s the universe in front of them and behind it.
There’s a tug at the corners of her mouth; she can’t entirely stop it as she’s taking a drink of the hot cider. From anyone else, it might sound put-on, fanciful, or arrogant bragging about the unseen, unknown that wasn’t where he was involved. But it’s just Cas. Looking pleased and sharing that as if there weren’t ever a filter between seeing it, feeling it, and saying it. Unfettered.
When Dean turns around entirely, Jo leans on the rail on her side only to see both of them. The silence settles on an innocuous enough sentence. Castiel’s last. A wish. Making one and sharing one. Their group fell into an almost too easy quiet at it. The last time she was asked to put a wish into words, it hadn’t gone easily, had it? That one she hadn’t had to share, and she nearly got into an argument with someone just trying to help as she was figuring it out.
(But it’s weird to note. It came true. Not that it had anything to do with her.
Sam is here now. Dean has his brother back.)
What would she wish for if wishes came true?
For all of this business with The Mark to get cleared up. For Dean to be safe from it and everyone else. For there to be an answer. In some books, some new type of magic here learned or granted. Something. Anything that would do it. And beyond that, another wish with its one glaring parallel to the first, what? What would she wish for then? To go home? To be able to do the only job she should be, that nothing here is? To be able to see her mother again? When the wishing of that is the wishing for the exact path toward her death. Even in a life where every choice she made, and cast aside, had always been headed toward that death.
Even if her mouth could form those words, there’s a sour, small uncertainty balled in the pit of her stomach. Not fear, but—
Dean interrupts to clear the air as helpfully as a bomb can. Jo’s eyebrows are up in her hairline (and mortality, thankfully, rolled off the deck), and Jo’s answer is an instant deflection. It goes from an unimpressed half-roll of eyes at Dean straight across Dean to Cas in sympathetic solidarity (trying deep down not to feel a little relieved)). ]
no subject
There’s a tug at the corners of her mouth; she can’t entirely stop it as she’s taking a drink of the hot cider. From anyone else, it might sound put-on, fanciful, or arrogant bragging about the unseen, unknown that wasn’t where he was involved. But it’s just Cas. Looking pleased and sharing that as if there weren’t ever a filter between seeing it, feeling it, and saying it. Unfettered.
When Dean turns around entirely, Jo leans on the rail on her side only to see both of them. The silence settles on an innocuous enough sentence. Castiel’s last. A wish. Making one and sharing one. Their group fell into an almost too easy quiet at it. The last time she was asked to put a wish into words, it hadn’t gone easily, had it? That one she hadn’t had to share, and she nearly got into an argument with someone just trying to help as she was figuring it out.
(But it’s weird to note. It came true.
Not that it had anything to do with her.
Sam is here now. Dean has his brother back.)
What would she wish for if wishes came true?
For all of this business with The Mark to get cleared up. For Dean to be safe from it and everyone else. For there to be an answer. In some books, some new type of magic here learned or granted. Something. Anything that would do it. And beyond that, another wish with its one glaring parallel to the first, what? What would she wish for then? To go home? To be able to do the only job she should be, that nothing here is? To be able to see her mother again? When the wishing of that is the wishing for the exact path toward her death. Even in a life where every choice she made, and cast aside, had always been headed toward that death.
Even if her mouth could form those words, there’s a sour, small uncertainty balled in the pit of her stomach. Not fear, but—
Dean interrupts to clear the air as helpfully as a bomb can. Jo’s eyebrows are up in her hairline (and mortality, thankfully, rolled off the deck), and Jo’s answer is an instant deflection. It goes from an unimpressed half-roll of eyes at Dean straight across Dean to Cas in sympathetic solidarity (trying deep down not to feel a little relieved)). ]
“For the strawman here to develop a brain.”