WHO: Dean Winchester, Claire Bennet (future), and Peter Petrelli (briefly) WHERE: the Winchester & co house WHEN: Sunday, February 5, 2006; evening WHAT: Dean and Claire have a talk about what happened yesterday. RATING: PG-13 STATUS: log; COMPLETE!
The last two days had been eerily similar to the nightmares that Dean couldn't manage to shake. Dean and Ben had been having something of a 'guy's day,' and the day had been going great. Dean liked anything that involved spending time with his son, and it showed in the effort he put in to his Guitar Hero battle with the boy. He could hear his father doing things around the house, and normally Dean would have helped, because he loved playing the handyman, but he had already promised Ben the day. Everything was going great until they found out that Mary and Claire were missing and then things fell apart.
It was his Mom, and his best friend who was practically family, and Dean did NOT like people messing with his family. He ran down the list of typical bad guys, trying to find the one with the motivation and means to reach two women out shopping, but he came up with nothing. Somehow, not even a day later (although it felt like a long, seemingly everlasting hell day) Mary and Claire were released with a message-- the demon, a "real good pal" in hell, wanted the angel girl turned over fast or else he was going to take more people.
Dean ignored the message at first because he wasn't in the business of negotiating with hellish demons, because he had more important things to attend to first and because he wasn't ready to deal with Alastair, who he, his dad and Ruby thought it was. He made sure that Claire was brought back to the house safe and sound with Peter and an open invitation to any of her family who she wanted, and saw his Mom back safe in his Dad's arms. Soon enough they retreated to their room, and Dean saw Ben safely in bed, he had a lot of time to think. Peter was with Claire and she was safe, so he had time to himself to think, really, really think about the offer and figure out if they were all right.
The likelihood that Alastair had been the one to take his Mom and best friend made this personal. He was the one Alastair was trying to reach with this message, and so, in a way, it was his fault. Guilt ate at him all that night, as he gave Peter and Claire a little bit of space so that she could recover with her family.
The next day Dean kept a closer watch over Claire. He could see the pain clear in her eyes, but he wasn't sure if pushing to know every hellish detail of her captivity was the best thing. Instead he was just there with her, offering mostly silent support.
Instead, he pushed Alastair for the confirmation that he had been the one to kidnap Claire and Mary, and he got it. Now he was more determined than ever to get Alastair and take him out.
Because John had insisted Mary get some rest, meals had been more or less a free for all. Realizing that he hadn't seen Claire eat anything, Dean put some SpaghettiOs on the stove and made her a sandwich too. On his way out of the kitchen he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and then headed for the stairs.
Since being returned and telling the necessary details for people to have the information they needed, Claire had remained mostly quiet. Peter had sat up with her all night, through her silence, then her dozing off only to wake in tears and incomprehensible cries about what had happened, then her eventual calmer short space of sleep after his reassurances. But the next day, despite not entirely wanting to let him go (as it meant he wouldn't be a mental call away due to the barriers that were currently her only safety net right now) she had told him to get back to his responsibilities. He had a position and people to protect besides just her.
He'd told her he was staying.
She hadn't offered another protest to it, though she had insisted he at least go outside the barrier to check in occasionally, go home at some point even if he wasn't gone long, so he could check on the hotel and the people in it. He'd told her that Gabriel was sending him updates and Faith was handling things. Her conscience appeased, she'd not insisted further and he'd barely left her side since.
Because the Winchesters had made all of them welcome, the rest of her family had come and gone all day, coming to check on her and stay awhile with her. When people had joined her wherever she was during the day, she'd tried to smile and talk depending on who they were, because she didn't want people worrying, or worse, feeling sorry for her. She didn't want to feel even more of a victim than that demon had already forced her to feel, but she was so vehement about it because she knew she did feel exactly like that right now. Not strong or brave or capable, not like someone who had spent over six months in near-daily training to kill the things that hurt other people, but like someone who couldn't save herself, let alone anyone else.
People had been around the whole time, as the Winchester house was never quiet anyhow, but it had been just her and Peter in the family room for a little over twenty minutes now, the others busy finding food or taking care of other business. She hadn't been hungry, not because the thought of eating made her nauseous, but because she was afraid to have anything in her stomach if nauseated aftershocks hit.
Claire had chosen a corner of The Couch in the family room, a comforter from the guest bed she was using wound around her to stave off the tremors, even though part of her recognized they weren't really cold tremors. Curled up in this blanket in a house that was protected from every angel and demon (save Ruby) in the city - and hopefully also the white-eyed bastard who had taken her and Mary - Claire felt as safe as she could muster the feeling to feel, but she still wanted to hide.
Peter was sitting beside her, close enough to be in physical contact (their thighs were pressed together just behind Peter's knee) but leaving Peter's hands free for the book he was reading. Something by Neil Gaiman, a collection of short stories, which he would read from for her if the comfortable silence took a turn for the oppressive, or when the shaking would come.
He heard the steps first, eyes flickering towards the doorway, but Dean's footsteps were distinct enough not to hold his attention.
"Hey," Dean said as he walked into the family room. "Look what I brought."
He came in, flashing Claire a smile. His eyes went over her again, checking for signs of injury, although he knew full well that Claire's body had healed itself against whatever injuries Alastair had inflicted.
"A full Winchester sandwich and SpaghettiOs."
Though the stairs were carpeted, Dean made enough noise on them coming down them that Claire wasn't startled by his entrance. If anything, seeing it was him, and not anyone else, let her relax again, letting down some of the falseness she kept pulling up for the others, save for Dean and Peter.
That demon, he had done his worst to paint Dean and John as monsters, but it hadn't worked. Claire hadn't wanted to push her best friend away now that she had heard all of that, truth or lies or truth mixed with lies. If anything, she understood more than ever that he was one of the few people who would know what her experience had been like.
"Thanks," she said softly, untangling herself from the comforter wrapped around her, "but I'm not really hungry, Dean." She turned to Peter, wordlessly asking for some private space with Dean.
Peter caught the look and nodded, shutting the book in his hands. He got to his feet, turning back to give Claire a kiss on the forehead. Though the house was warded against external telepathy, Peter was able to give her a light sending, I'll be right there if you need me, his eyes flickering towards the guest room. With a squeeze to her shoulder, he got up and moved away from the Couch, a telekinetic hand rustling her hair playfully as he moved away.
Which was when his eyes met Dean's. They were worried, but clear, and he nodded to the younger man. It wasn't consent, as he knew Dean had a claim to Claire as well, strengthened by the clear indication that she not only tolerated, but wanted his company, but a nod of approval. The food was good, if he could coax Claire into eating. Which would be a hard thing. But he was fine with letting Claire have some privacy with Dean. He had earned it.
Peter slipped into the guest room, flopping down on the bed to read his book and letting the door swing shut - though not completely. Just in case Claire needed him.
Dean was thankful that Peter was still there, both because he knew that Claire needed the support of her family just now, and because he knew how much having someone with her abilities near helped Claire as well. He returned the nod, and turned his attention back to Claire.
Dean knew SpaghettiOs might not be the best thing for someone who had been through what Claire had been through, but he didn't know much about cooking. It was so easy when he was on the road to go out for take out, but in this case he didn't want to leave the house where Alastair's latest targets were holed up. He knew how to heat up a can of something, or make cereal, but other than that his cooking skills were nearly non existant. Here, Mary normally took care of the cooking, which was a plus because she was great at it and because she loved to do it.
Goddamn it, he hurt them, and now Mom's upset and Claire's hurt and I can't even find something that she'll eat.
"Yeah, probably not," he said, sitting the plate with the bowl of soup and the sandwich on the coffee table near the couch where she was curled up. Fishing in the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the bottle of water and sat it next to her. There were still some nights when he had a memory of hell so vivid that he'd wake up tangled tightly in the covers and drenched in sweat. If the place she had gone was anything like where he had been, she likely needed the water more than soda or the too tempting alcohol (though Dean had hidden a small flask of that in his other pocket should it be needed.)
"But you've got to eat sometime, Supergirl, and it's not every day that you get a Winchester sandwich and SpaghettiOs at the same time." He paused, looking her over. "How you holding up?"
"Wow, I must be super special to get both today," Claire said, the normal teasing tone a little flat from the effort to do it. He had tried with the food, so she tried with the teasing, not to fool him into thinking everything was fine, but because she was grateful he was here and trying to do things for her.
"I'm okay," she finally said, the answer revealing nothing in the words. She took the cap off the water bottle took a drink before he could catch her gaze and see what was behind the words. She'd avoided food, but water had been greedily consumed the moment she'd been near it after being returned, then nursed regularly all today, trying to chase away the parched feeling that was mostly mental.
"You?"
Dean watched as she drank the water, thankful that she was at least getting some fluids. Of course, she likely needed a hell of a lot more than a single bottle of water to replace all the blood and sweat Alastair's sadistic plot had taken from her, but Dean figured going slow was the best approach. He wanted her to eat, but God knew he couldn't make her.
"You are super special, and if you finish your dinner, I'll go to that shop on the corner and get you pie with a scoop of ice cream on top." It was blatant bribery, but he didn't care at the moment.
He ignored her question entirely, because right now this wasn't about him. It was about her, about getting her better, about making her and his Mom feel safe again. The bastard who had done this to Claire did it to point something out to him, after all. It was his fault, not his turn to have her fuss over him.
It was blatant bribery, and even if it was a Dean-centric bribery, the ice cream would have lured Claire in on any other day. But not today.
"I'm afraid to eat," she admitted softly, studying her hands to hide the twinge of embarrassment that came with the admission. Afraid to eat, it was ridiculous. She moved her thumb over her left ring finger where the mark of her old engagement ring had once been... where Alastair had started the cut...
Dropping her hands into her lap, she closed her eyes.
Dean knew what that was like. Sometimes, after the nightmares, even he wouldn't want to eat for fear of something not sitting right and him losing his breakfast or lunch later in the day and looking like some wimp. He had hoped that things hadn't gone that badly for Claire, that Alastair had stopped short of screwing her up that badly, but clearly there was no low that Alastair would not stoop to.
"Shhh." Dean scooted closer to her, and pulled her into a hug. "I know...I know." And he did. Dean Winchester had been there for thirty years before he finally broke down and started dealing out the torture, he knew what it was like to suffer under it.
It was that 'I know', even more than the hug, that turned Claire's few-thread grip on herself to nothing, because Dean did know. It wasn't about all the things that the demon had shown her and claimed Dean had done to others, it was that for thirty years, he'd suffered through what she had, only infinitely worse because he had really been in Hell, not some building this demon was making into Hell.
It made her want to cry for him even more than for herself. With him being so understanding, yet another glimpse into the real Dean Winchester under the front he showed to most, the Dean she saw because they were such close friends, she really couldn't fight the need to cry. She had managed to keep from doing so since early this morning, but now it started again.
Pressing her face against his chest as the tears started, Claire yanked the comforter up around her, as if to simultaneously muffle the sounds of her crying and hide herself from anyone else coming into the room. "I just- he- Oh, God, Dean-"
Dean closed his eyes and pulled her closer. He knew exactly how long they had been gone, and how much Alastair could do in a very little amount of time. He could imagine exactly what Alastair had done to Claire, and it hurt to imagine her going through even a little bit of what he had. He didn't want that for her, the nightmares, the memories, the guilt...
Except she had not broken down. Through it all she had managed to take the torture, to not give in (and Dean knew Alastair well enough to know that he must have tempted Claire with an option to relieve the pain.) But his Mom was fine, other than the haunted look in her eyes and the small bump on the back of her head, so Claire had somehow managed not to give in, so there was likely no guilt for Claire to deal with.
Dean opened his eyes, looking away. For a long moment he didn't trust himself to speak, afraid of what he would say but finally he cleared his throat and managed to find his voice. "You're safe now, Claire. He can't get to you here."
It was only out of awareness that other people had bedrooms down here that they could want to come to at any time that kept Claire mostly quiet as she cried. It wasn't entirely that she thought people might think badly of her as it was concern for upsetting someone, like Ben. Everyone had already been put through worry yesterday, they didn't need more.
He can't get to you here.
She hoped not, even clung to the reassurance as tight as she had her hand fisted in the fabric of Dean's jacket. She didn't want to admit just how much that demon terrified her, a creature infinitely more sadistic than even Sylar. That there was someone she could now hold as more evil than that monster of a man who had murdered her family and people with abilities, who had hurt scores of people and ruined so many lives - it was boggling to her.
And that was just after half a day in 'Hell'. Dean had known that demon for forty years, suffered through all of that for thirty. Regenerating ability or not, Claire wasn't certain she would have lasted close to that long, not with what the demon had been able to do to her.
"I don't know- I don't know how you did it," she sobbed softly.
Dean wanted to pull back when she spoke, but because she was still crying he resisted. It wasn't about not wanting to be near her as much as a sense of overwhelming guilt. Didn't know how he did what? How he got off the rack one day and began tearing people apart? How he stopped caring who he was hurting as long as Alastair wasn't carving him up anymore? That she didn't know how he went thirty years but couldn't make it ten more?
"Alastair's a bastard. A worthless, sadistic bastard. You did good, Claire, you beat him at his own game, and I'm proud of you."
Face still pressed against his chest, Claire shook her head vehemently. "Beat him? I didn't do anything, I couldn't do anything except lay there while he-" The words lodged in her throat and the shaking of her shoulders increased, the mound of comforter that she was buried under moving like gelatin in time with the shaking.
"You know I don't feel pain like other people," she said when she could speak again, "it doesn't hurt half as much- maybe even less than half as much for me sometimes, but he- he made me feel it all the time. And she saw all of it. She saw everything he did to me!"
Even now, that was a whole new level of pain and sickness for Claire, that Mary had seen all of what Alastair had done, now knew all the gruesome things she could come back from.
Dean slid an arm between her and the comforter, trying to hold her more tightly to absorb some of the shaking. It wasn't right for Claire to be shaking like that, hurting that badly, and he was trying, in his own way, to stop it.
"That's what Alastair does. He specializes in pain. He makes you hurt until that's all there is. You don't exist anymore, your family, your friends...there were days when I couldn't even remember my own name. He wanted to hurt you, and he knew seeing you hurting would hurt Mom, but we're gonna get him, Claire."
Claire listened as he spoke, teeth digging into her bottom lip at first to hear over her sobs. It was the single longest thing he had ever said about Hell. He had said things here and there, like how long it had been all together, and the nightmares that left him with sleepless nights and groggy days told a story of how much he was remembering, but never details like this.
"All he did was talk. Talk all the time, about everything," she whispered, "but sometimes he'd stop talking, stop doing, and tell me it could stop. But I couldn't, because he would have done that to Mary, and I couldn't-" The words stuck with sobs again and Claire reached up to rub at her face, swallowing hard so she could continue.
"But it- and when he- I don't know how you lasted so long. He said it was thirty whole years." It was a tearful awe - admiration mixed with pain in thinking about how much he had suffered, all because he'd selflessly given his soul to save another's - but there was still a faint question, because she didn't know if it was true.
Dean looked away. It was one thing to tell her things about hell that would help her, and another to talk about his time in hell just to be talking about it. He didn't like laying his head on other people's shoulders, talking about his miserable forty years in the pit, or crying about it, because at the end of the day he was the lucky one. He made it out.
"Yeah, thirty years." Dean said quietly, spitting the number like a bad word. He had lasted thirty years, but not forty. "He likes making offers, but he's a tricky bastard. Had you agreed, and had Mom taken your place, it might have been good enough at first, but he would have changed the rules eventually, made you do more and more until you--" Dean cleared his throat, pulling his arm out of the comforter and wrapping it more tightly around her. "But you resisted him, and you didn't do what he wanted you to, so you won."
Claire looked up when he pulled his arm away, as the gesture had been stabilizing and comforting, but what she saw on his face made her forget her own protest. The bitterness with which he had said the number, the way his explanation had held an edge of pain - it was all there in his expression when she first looked up. She was hurting now in ways more than physical, but he had been hurting far worse for much longer.
Was he judging himself for those last ten years? The thought that he was, and the way that that knowledge suddenly explained even more about Dean these last few months, it broke her heart.
"Demons don't always lie, do they?" she asked, the question voiced in barely a whisper.
Dean stood, going to pace the room. From the moment he knew Alastair was responsible for the kidnapping, he knew that anything he might have not wanted to share about hell was going to be shared with his Mom and Claire. Still, he had wanted to hope that Claire at the very least would think that every word Alastair spoke was a lie, because he didn't want his best friend to see him any differently.
"Not always." He said quietly, going to stand next to a bookcase with his back to her. "Sometimes they lie, but sometimes they tell the truth if they know it'll hurt more."
When Dean pulled away entirely to pace, Claire retreated into the comforter cocoon to watch him, regretting asking the question. He had just wanted to take care of her, see her eat and be a shoulder to cry on, and now he was upset. The whole set of his body said so, even if he'd deny it with his every breath.
But his feelings gave her something to focus on, to curb the crying so she could speak without halting on the words.
"It didn't," she said, low but with enough volume to carry. "I wanted him to be lying about everything, but even if only a little of it was true, it didn't hurt me, it just made me hurt for you, for your Dad, for your Mom to have to hear it." Even now, Claire wasn't certain she could give the demon that much credit to know Dean's forty years in Hell would hurt her in sympathy, not revulsion.
Dean looked back at her for a long moment. He wanted to believe her, but she had not seen what he had done. She had not watched him exact his torture on those innocent souls (Alastair had been quite impressed with his growing skills, that much had been clear). Hell, if Claire had been down in the pit, Dean would not have noticed her, because he didn't look twice at the faces of those he tortured. He couldn't. He would have hurt her and made her cry and beg and he wouldn't have blinked. And that was where they differed.
"You should eat." Dean said quietly, hoping to change the subject, because thinking down the line he was thinking now only brought him back to the same point. Alastair had hurt Claire to send a message to his favorite student, and one day, Claire's nightmares were going to change, and she'd see HIM doing the things Alastair had done to her..because they were all things he had done at one time or another.
It was a classic Dean Winchester shut down, a 'I don't want to talk about this because a) it's too personal b) I'm blaming myself for it or c) both' move. She wanted to press it, but right now, she wasn't even sure where to begin.
"I'm not hungry," she said quietly, but dug herself out of the comforter enough to pull the sandwich to her. Maybe if she ate a few bites, she wouldn't regret it later and she could give him something to be pleased about.
Lifting the sandwich to her mouth, she bit into it - and felt and heard the familiar favorite crunch. It wasn't just a Winchester sandwich. He'd put chips in it - he had remembered. It didn't matter that he'd seen her sandwich quirk times without number over the time they'd known each other, all that mattered was that he had done that for her now.
She started crying again, only this time she wasn't entirely certain why.
Dean turned his head when he heard her start crying, unsure why she was crying as well, but he chalked it up to Alastair, as it seemed the short, simple answer, and returned to her side. She'd likely come to realize what a monster he really was because of this, but she hadn't yet, and right now she needed a friend.
He went back to the couch, sitting down and wrapping his arms around her. It was awkward, as the comforter was bulky and she was bundled up like an insect in a cocoon, but he knew she really needed the hug. "Hey, it's gonna be ok."
The sandwich was put back down hastily before it crashed to the floor and Claire once more faceplanted against Dean's chest. "It's not okay!" she wailed, though it was distinctly muffled by both the comforter and his chest. "You put chips in there, and I like that, but I wasn't going to eat it and I should be making you sandwiches!"
That the statement made little sense didn't seem to occur to Claire, because to her it made sudden perfect sense. What had been done to her, it was only half a day. It had been pain like nothing she had ever felt, she didn't want to eat or sleep for fear of the consequences of those actions, she had been told more lies/truth/both than she imagined either Winchester would have ever told anyone on their own, but it hadn't even last a day.
In the end, it didn't compare to the years had Dean spent down there, the years had John spent down there, being tortured and then having an act of survival there likely weigh on them now that they were here. Claire knew in their place, the guilt at torturing others would eat at her, just like the guilt of not fulfilling the 'save the world' half of her destiny, and thus not saving those millions of lives in New York, ate at her. She just had no idea how to say that to Dean when he didn't want to talk about it.
Dean laughed quietly, because she didn't make any sense. They both had to eat, didn't they? She wasn't the cook, so it wasn't her duty to be making him sandwiches or anything, so what was she going on about?
"Of course I put chips in there, Supergirl, it's your thing." He brushed off the comment about making him sandwiches because he didn't want her dwelling on it, not now when she had just been through literal hell on eath. "Why don't you just eat a little of the food. We'll see how it goes with that, maybe you can even have dessert later if the sandwich agrees with you."
Shaking her head, Claire shifted so her chin was on his chest, instead of her face, and she could look up at him. It made her chin bump oddly against his chest, to do it while her jaw still moved with the crying, but she wanted to see his face.
"That's not what I meant," she said, pulling the edge of the comforter over to wipe her quickly-wet cheeks. "I meant, you made it for me, you're looking after me, being here for me, and he- all of that- it wasn't even one day. And you- all this time- I should have done that!"
At her most reasonable, she knew he would never have let her 'fuss' over him, but suddenly the balance of friendship, doing all you could for a friend because you loved them, felt very uneven.
"It was a long time ago," Dean said quietly. And it was. The time when he had endured as she had was long since past. If Castiel had pulled him out ten years earlier, then yeah, maybe it would be ok to accept some sort of comfort like this, but as it was, thinking about someone fussing over him only brought the guilt on anew. Who was going to take care of the people, good and bad, who he ripped apart down there? Dean shook his head, reminding himself that it had barely been a day since Alastair had taken Claire. This was his turn to take care of her. "And I'm a Winchester and we're tough."
Trying for a teasing tone, he took a corner of the comforter and wiped at the tears coming down her cheeks. "You're a girl and exposure to girly movies and Justin Timberland makes you a bit softer, so I have to put the chips on your sandwich and look out for you. It's part of the being friends thing."
He wanted to tease, Claire wanted to tease back, but it just wasn't the right time, not with all of this laid out. It felt horribly out of balance and she wanted to give back some of what she had been taking since she had come inside the house last night, relying on him, letting him take care of her. Even if he wanted to blow it off because he was tough, or because he was letting those ten years keep him from comfort.
"It still happened," she said with a soft sob, shifting slightly, not so she had to move her chin, but so she was at a better angle still to look up. "It happened and you survived it and I didn't know how bad it had been."
It was, in some ways, easier to do this. Easier to feel guilty than to feel afraid, easier to feel she hadn't been the best friend she could be than to feel helpless.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't really understand before, that I wasn't there as much as you deserved someone to be there."
"You have been there." Dean insisted, a frown forming on his face as he pulled her closer. "Claire, you have." He didn't need someone to coddle him day in and day out, he was a man strong enough to not be completely bowed by the torture of hell, after all. She had been there though, through thick and thin. There through the bad days when he needed someone to drink with and there on the good days when he wanted to joke around at the garage. She was his best friend for a reason, because she gave him exactly what he needed when others would have given too much or too little.
He frowned. She was his best friend and she was there looking at him and saying how sorry she was that she hadn't been there for HIM.
Goddamn it, it wasn't even a day ago when she was getting ripped to shreds and she's saying sorry to you? How fucked up is that?
Dean stood quickly, needing space before he thought more on how messed up it all was, how she felt for him even after all she had just gone through. He needed to get away before he saw her face on the face of his victims.
Not enough. The words died on her lips when Dean moved away, because Claire felt that right now, that maybe she hadn't done enough, that maybe she should have pressed more instead of doing what she had always done in waiting for the right time, but she could tell that saying those words out loud would only make this worse.
"Dean..."
He was bolting, it was completely clear that he was trying to distance himself, trying to push her away. Maybe push everyone away right now, not because of what she said but definitely because of what he was feeling. She couldn't beg him to stay, despite knowing what he was about to do. She wanted to do it, right now so much, and she wanted to tell him that those ten years didn't change the fact he was her best friend she loved him, but she knew that look in his eyes, that wild expression that said what he was feeling made him feel like a trapped animal.
He needed the space right now.
Dean did need space. God help him he did. Before he even really realized what he was doing, he swung back, going to open the door of the guest room. "Hey, Peter," He said, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice in the normal, friendly tone he wanted to use with Peter instead of the scared as hell one that threatened to come out. "I'm gonna head out for a while. Wanna keep an eye on Claire and make sure she eats her sandwich? There are more potato chips in the kitchen if she wants more. She likes her sandwich crunchy."
I need to get out of here. I've got to get out of this house before I think how close I came to being just like that bastard, how I could have hurt Mom and Claire without blinking twice when I was in the pit.
Turning quickly before even giving Peter a real chance to respond, Dean headed for the stairs. "Going out for a little while, Claire, stay in the house."
God I'm going to hell for this, she's hurting and I'm leaving...
Dean all but ran up the stairs.
When he crossed the room, Claire almost did beg him to stay, to stay because she needed him, but that warred with knowing he needed this space to get through what he was feeling right now. So instead of calling out, she muffled it until he was gon and then buried her face in the comforter. When Peter joined her again on the couch a few seconds later, Claire leaned in and cried for a lot of things, asserting Dean hadn't done anything to make her cry, that none of what had happened recently was his fault, the remembered pain from yesterday mingling with the sympathetic pain of knowing others knew it, with frustration that she couldn't make herself better right now so she could go make things better for others, like Dean.
But when Dean came back, they'd make this as right as it could be for now. It was what best friends did.