The crate shakes as the indignant squawks coming through the very thin slits give off the same agitated refusal to cow quite as soon as sequestered, but it's obvious even as it shakes any side, the box isn't moving. Jo almost feels for it. But only because she feels it's a stupidly apt metaphor for what's about to happen as Sam turns to look at her.
"No, it's more a shitty 'you're special, so we kidnapped you to fight our war for us' kind of hell, where I got my gold-stamped invitation long before you did," Jo retorts all too easily, the raw edge of brittleness making her words a little too sharp when she's trying to make herself ready. But there's no ready-to-be. The last conversation touching this was Dean telling her it happened. Not her having to — handle? — someone else. Sam Winchester else. Realizing it.
It's edginess she doesn't trust. The uncertain awkwardness that's taken any ease Sam'd had, even while being chased by a chicken. Like he's waiting to see if she'll jump, and she'd rather not wait for him to. (Or for whatever happens on a mid-war military base when two of the Summoned seem to be taking matters into their own hands against each other.)
"I'm me." Beat. "Not dead. Still me." It's a weirdly clinical fact put that way. She can't tell how she feels about that, but she shoves past it with more words.
"I've got this if you want it," Jo said, one hand-held show it was open, and the other telegraphed slow to pull the silver dagger out of the back of her belt. No sword today; Ciri'd be disappointed, but she's not at daily. "I probably wouldn't trust me at this point either, but it's the only option I've got that isn't just saying, 'Hey, trust me because I said so.'"
Even as she says and knows it, she also wants that not to be true. She wants to be herself still. Be seen as herself. The way Dean manages most of the time, all of the time if she's counting when he knows she's looking at him, and not the times she catches him with a look like he's making sure she isn't a twist of the light about to vanish before he can clear it off his face again. She wants Sam to know her, too. Even if it would contradict all they both know about what monsters can do with faces.
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"No, it's more a shitty 'you're special, so we kidnapped you to fight our war for us' kind of hell, where I got my gold-stamped invitation long before you did," Jo retorts all too easily, the raw edge of brittleness making her words a little too sharp when she's trying to make herself ready. But there's no ready-to-be. The last conversation touching this was Dean telling her it happened. Not her having to — handle? — someone else. Sam Winchester else. Realizing it.
It's edginess she doesn't trust. The uncertain awkwardness that's taken any ease Sam'd had, even while being chased by a chicken. Like he's waiting to see if she'll jump, and she'd rather not wait for him to. (Or for whatever happens on a mid-war military base when two of the Summoned seem to be taking matters into their own hands against each other.)
"I'm me." Beat. "Not dead. Still me." It's a weirdly clinical fact put that way.
She can't tell how she feels about that, but she shoves past it with more words.
"I've got this if you want it," Jo said, one hand-held show it was open, and the other telegraphed slow to pull the silver dagger out of the back of her belt. No sword today; Ciri'd be disappointed, but she's not at daily. "I probably wouldn't trust me at this point either, but it's the only option I've got that isn't just saying, 'Hey, trust me because I said so.'"
Even as she says and knows it, she also wants that not to be true. She wants to be herself still. Be seen as herself. The way Dean manages most of the time, all of the time if she's counting when he knows she's looking at him, and not the times she catches him with a look like he's making sure she isn't a twist of the light about to vanish before he can clear it off his face again. She wants Sam to know her, too. Even if it would contradict all they both know about what monsters can do with faces.