Dean lets her pull her arm away, but he follows that half-step forward, the concern leaking into his expression a moment gone now replaced by a renewed fury. She's standing there like she's not bleeding, tone scraping like sandpaper over his last nerve, and Dean can't - he can't -

He can't even process what he's feeling, and when his lungs fill up with hot air he lets it right back out again. "Would you stop acting like you wouldn't be dead if I'd gotten here three seconds later?" he shouts. "Dead, Faye, do you not even - " He's red and gasping, but he doesn't feel any better, won't feel any better until he's punched something, or drunk something, or fuck, he doesn't even know. His heart's pounding against his ribs like he's terrified, but Dean doesn't even know what he's afraid of, short of seeing her dead. "Do you not even care?"