No. No. Were it not for the way that her breath caught in her throat, panic cutting off all air and thoughts a jumbled mess, Faye might have screamed to push him in the other direction. Screamed, to scare him off. (But even in the haze of confusion, another voice sounds wryly from the corners of her mind, the one that always has doubts about a reality too content, and it tells her that screaming is the last thing that she wants to do now, because if anyone knows how to push past it, it'd be Dean.) Instead, her hands reach out even through the brilliant spill of gold across her vision, finding his shirt, trying to tug him in the other direction, even as she still feels the cool press of glass near her heel.

"They're here," she manages to rasp, glancing over her shoulder again, and it's blue, all blue, brighter than the ocean that stretches by their side. "It's Vincent's virus, you need to run, you need to get out of here."

She tries to bite down quick and sudden against her lip, intent on drawing blood. It'd worked for Vincent. He'd stopped the pounding in her throat, the spill of blood in her lungs. Kept her alive with that same blood. But there's too much at stake, and it weakens her— somehow, because he's the one she can't afford to lose, strength saps away, and futility sets upon her again.