"Yeah. Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly apologetic.

The spirit is watching them, flickering and hazy, and by the time they're close enough to make out the pattern of gashes in her neck, they can also see the look in her eyes -- pure cold rage.

"Hey, there," Dean says, quietly. "Can we help you?"

In answer she lifts her knife, lips twisting in a snarl -- and in another flicker of focus she's on top of them.