"No," she spun around, "Of course not. I never had the chance." All the dying Jo had ever experience was done at a mind-numbing distance-- deaths were arrangements determined by the actions of others-- rendered grieving an exercise in futility, because Jo had been robbed of the simple, yet profound, opportunity to say goodbye, closure would never come. All she felt was the endless loss.
There was no time to grieve, and since she couldn’t grieve, Jo got angry. Anger was an easier and far more familiar emotion to process, one that even in this state, Jo was equipped to handle, and change this grief-denied into a strange strength allowing her to focus on the dire matter at hand. But having bore witness to those words and tears set the young huntress off her mark, deflating her anger a notch, leaving her hovering ineffective there, at a loss for words.
She understood why Dean had done it--to people like them, family was everything-- but the fact remained, she couldn’t believe he would have done that. It was at once too much and not enough.
"But your soul, Dean... Your soul," the blond huntress cried her breaking voice resonating the very fear shared of all good men: To have fought the good fight all your life, to have won the battle and lose your soul in the process, there was no greater cosmic betrayal than this. There was no more plentiful mortar for Hell’s roads. "Our fathers didn’t die fighting this thing for you could make such a selfless and incredibly stupid..." Overwhelmed and overcome, Jo suddenly pulled Dean to her, and in this embrace, shotgun and pride forgotten, as she buried her tear-streaked face against his shirt.