Unfolding her arms from around herself, Claire slipped them around him and held on, pressing every possible inch of her skin against him. He was warm and strong and familiar and good and he'd always been that to her. She would never deny or dismiss Hell for him, but Hell's worst would never make her less certain that under the bravado and pain and flaws was, at the core, a good man.
He hadn't listened, he likely never would listen, so all she could do in the face of that was tuck herself against him just so and hope that now, soon, someday, something would outshout the torturous vengeance numbing her body.
"I don't want to be like this, Dean," she whispered against his throat. Of course no one would choose this, but it didn't change she didn't want to be like this. Somewhere inside her, that want was there and maybe with time it would be like it should be.