That's. She's not. Words hurt. But her brain won't shut up, and her breathing doesn't stop. So suddenly, the usual of old, old familiarity is almost as brutal as everything else. With nothing to prepare her, and no means to have been held back. Suddenly, she's breathing in leather, warmth, motor oil, and Dean. And she wants to swear as much as she just wants to tuck her head into his shoulder, against his neck. Where it will be warm, and his pulse will be beating. Where she used to tuck her face, her nose, like she owned those inches and everything else connected to them.

There's a bed a second later, and she's blinking. As suddenly as he was pressed against her, he isn't, and she almost hates that, too. There's a lot of hate to be spread around. Some at him, most at herself. A lot at the new Sparkle Tossers. But giving is not in her vocabulary. Not ever. "I am." Her fingers pushed into her forehead, and she twisted, even when it swung her vision dizzy, spotted, to her shoulder. It looks more like she cauterized her skin than healed it. But it was closed. All one piece. Scarred. (Things her team could handle later, or she could. Since it was the only scar on her.)

And there's that taste still. That one at the back of her throat. Again. That strange sharp, sweet thing, strong again.

Jo scowled, remembering where. "That is the last time I eat anything from Paraguay when not in Paraguay."