And just like that, Claire went from angry and hurt, to angry and hurt, and cornered. The doors closing on their own, the pie-lady being some kind of telekinetic... hell, at this point she'd guess demon or angel too. Claire no longer gave a shit. Her eyes were burning from the inside, the long-ago banished feeling of tears building pressure behind her sinuses, but she wouldn't let it out. It stayed buried, like everything else. She hadn't even cried when Alex died.
The last time Claire cried, it was over her mother's body.
"You've gotta be goddamn kidding me-" She folded her arms, shifting tensely near the doors and turned slowly to face the rest of them. Dean in particular, who she pegged with a stare that shared every drop of her pain, especially as it welled up in her voice in a growly crescendo. "You. Gave me this sword-!" Her voice echoed in the diner.
"I don't give a shit if you don't remember- I do. It's all I have left of everything I was. I don't wanna use it- not on Rory, not on anyone- and especially not you. But you of all people should understand the meaning of 'nothing left to lose', right Dean?"
Translation: that sword would only leave her hand if it was cold and dead, and chances were, people would get hurt in the process. Her words were pointed, and though they were steeped in pain, they were absolutely, irrefutably honest. "I just wanna leave. I'll go find my own damn spot in this shithole, far away from any of you."