It's words. It's all words. Words blowing through her harder that magic and poison that's still left her feeling vaguely disoriented sometimes. A fountain of words. Dean Winchester. Staring over the the car at her. Tell her how he died. How he did it to save Sam.
She doesn't know when she starts moving, rounding the car. Not on the passenger side. On his. Past the trunk. Past the door. Barreling against him. Even if it's probably wrong. Inappropriate. Not her place. Not her world. Not her Dean. Except. It's still Dean. Dean still died, and nothing in her understands any of the details between point A and point B. Not if that one is TRUE.
She can't stop. Her forehead ends up against her chest. Her arms half around. Finger fisting in his shirt.
She has to know he's real. He's alive. Right now. Solid. Alive. Heart beating.
And there's a viciousness, in her whisper against his shirt, that was never present even in the garage, "Don't you even dare make a joke about this."
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She doesn't know when she starts moving, rounding the car. Not on the passenger side. On his. Past the trunk. Past the door. Barreling against him. Even if it's probably wrong. Inappropriate. Not her place. Not her world. Not her Dean. Except. It's still Dean. Dean still died, and nothing in her understands any of the details between point A and point B. Not if that one is TRUE.
She can't stop. Her forehead ends up against her chest. Her arms half around. Finger fisting in his shirt.
She has to know he's real. He's alive. Right now. Solid. Alive. Heart beating.
And there's a viciousness, in her whisper against his shirt, that was never present even in the garage,
"Don't you even dare make a joke about this."
Maybe later. Maybe never.
Not about what she's done. Not about dying.