for a second, heâs able to hold back his tears and prevent them from rolling down his cheek. he canât show his weakness now  â   not when heâs the one holding the gun. every instinct is telling him that he has to shoot her, and it will all be over. SHEâS A MONSTER, and dean kills monsters. it should be simple as that. it should have been, but itâs not.
    the winchester begins to remove his jacket, as he listens. an apology from her is simply inadequate. she canât undo what dean had gone through, and she canât make up for what happened between them. he canât forgive her easily. itâs too hard to look past what sheâs become now. he throws the jacket at her direction, so sheâll put it on, for the sake of decency. heâs far from kind when he tosses it at her. the irony on her final words is impossible not to address. itâs what truly ticks him off.     â you really wanna talk about choice? when you took mine in the first place?!   â-   i didnât deserve this!  â    he raises his voice in protest, as he grows even more frustrated with the dilemma heâs in. she took away his choice ; is he really willing to do the same to her?  HE CANâT DECIDE, because every time he looks at her, all he can think about is him grieving her death. in a way, he did grieve something: her humanity. sheâs no longer human, after all.
      HE HATES IT, because once again, he canât save her. he fails her, just like he failed when he couldnât protect her from the skinwalker. he exhales heavily and releases a short laugh, aimed the twisted game that life has picked for him to play. the cold of the night barely affects him, even without his jacket  â  because thereâs ANGER inside him that boils hot. emeralds avert towards the ground where he finds the gun in his hand.  he stares at it, as he thinks aloud:   â what am i supposed to do now? â  gaze lifts to stare back at her,    â can you tell me? â
     ruby stares at the jacket as it lands in her lap. the motion is nowhere near as kind as she remembers it once being, times long ago when he once gently draped it over her shoulders with care, but... itâs more than most hunters would do for someone they saw as nothing more than a monster. pushing herself upright with a wince, ruby lifts the jacket and slips her arms in, long sleeves slipping down past her fingers as she pulls it tight across her chest. beyond his leftover warmth, she also finds herself wrapped up in his scent, the same heady cologne she remembers from all those years ago. it takes all her self-control not to bury her nose into the crook of her elbow and inhale -- because the last thing either of them needs right now is a stark reminder of just how much sheâs changed, even if he hasnât.
     her own frustrations finally boiling over, ruby barks out a laugh, as watery as it is hysterical. she can only take so many of his accusations, so much lack of empathy for the hell sheâs been through, before sheâs bound to snap. âoh, you didnât deserve this? what, like i did?â she practically growls. with his gun nearly out of the picture sheâs grown bold, fear folding in the face of white-hot anger. âi didnât ask to become a monster! that thing found me, and it -- -â she stops, breath hitching at the memory. those first few days had been utter torture, enough so that she canât bring herself to recount a single moment of it aloud. âit didnât give me a choice, either. i didnât want this. it was forced on me, and the only choices after that were to learn to live with what i am now, or kill myself.â or let you do it -- but she canât bring herself to say that. shouldnât, not while sheâs fighting for her life.
      only when his gaze drops does hers soften. despite the years gone by, ruby knows dean -- she can see how much this is tearing apart. somehow, the sight is enough for her to muster what she can only hope is a reassuring smile, dim as it may be. âi donât know.â god, she wishes she could just tell him. but ruby herself barely knows what to do -- even what to say that wonât send him into another rage. âi understand if you canât let me go, but...â her gaze follows his to the gun still clenched tightly in one hand, smile wiped clean off her face. the memory of it pointed between her eyes sends a chill down her spine, one that has nothing to do with the cold. voice dropping to a whisper, a pale echo of her desperation mere minutes ago, she manages to choke out one last plea: âi donât want to die, dean.â
