"Then we'll get a knife," says Dean, face pressed hard against her throat. Her lips brush her skin, her pulse racing hard against even the barest touch, and it's everything he can do not to lash out, not to punch the nearest hard surface until it breaks.

"We'll get whatever you want, just talk to me." Grasping her wrists to hold them close against his chest, Dean pulls back. "How do you know there's a virus? What does it do?"