He may have been intent on keeping that sword, but Claire had a different idea- one fueled by the knee-jerk reaction of someone about to have their livelihood ripped away. And of someone who had trained herself on that livelihood hours a day, every day for nearly a decade. He'd barely pulled it free when Claire's hands snapped out, one cinching his wrist with an awkward (and painful) jolt forward while the other twisted the blade into the blow and away from his grip. In all of half a second, she'd stood up and disarmed Dean, and glaring a wild-eyed warning at him to not touch her shit again. Claire sheathed the weapon to it's hilt on her hip.
Only then did a little of the metal in her shoulders loosen, and the barbed wire in her eyes unwind. She was still a dangerous sort of calm, but it was just as much hurt as it was anger, and she was thoroughly done with this dead end where she'd hoped there would be support.
Instead, she'd found more suspicion, and abandonment.
"Got it. Loud and fuckin' clear," she said lowly, something hard and painful twisting in her gut started for the diner door. "Thanks for the help."