She's not in the hallway anymore, not watching fingers like white worms pull her into blackness, but she's not quite here yet either, hands over her face, eyes peering through fingers. People are speaking to her and they aren't dead, confusingly enough, nothing is clawing at her face. The picture on the wall has stopped moving.

Mabel drops her hands, eyes darting back and forth between Dean and Integra, human again and feeling like the child she'd left trapped in her nightmares. She has no idea when the last time was that she ate or drank anything. She's not sure she can uncross her legs without falling right off the bed. She knows these people, she knows they're safe, but she's having trouble remembering why or how.

When she speaks, her voice is raw and croaking. "Is this real now?"