new intro to set up claire cleaning the house and falling in with Dean

It wasn't until she stepped inside that the full force of it hit her, the air was stiffling, she felt as if her lungs were collapsing, a supernova of yellow kitchen walls, blue daisy curtains collapsing in on her, a bowl of rotten grapes on the counter, her stomach turned at the sunken orbs, already flakes of white mold spreading across them. She felt herself trying to suck in air and finding none, began to choke, a bit of bile in her mouth. The windows seemed to bend with caustic desert light, the glass warped and laughing at her. She felt herself gasping for air and retreated sobbing to the porch to where she spit out an orange gray bile and collapsed on the steps. "Once something dies you can't make it live," her grandmother was pulling out a dead basil plant accidentally left out and caught in a frost, it's gray wrinkled leaves made crisp crinkling sound against her skin. "It's the same with people Claire, once they're gone you can't get them back. Well, usually anyway." She chuckled lightly. Claire turned to look at her. "Everynow and then you might run across some people that do come back after they're gone the first time, but they're rare." 

Claire stopped crying and went back inside to get a tissue and blow her nose. Something about the mundanity of her mission perhaps, but this time the house felt neutral as if it no longer cared who came and went within it's walls. Claire stood at the kitchen window looking at the Sahorro cactus in the yard. She remembered planting it as a child, digging the hole with her shovel and how the man from the nursery helped them lower the small cactus in the hole, all of them gingerly avoiding the downward hooked thorns. In the twenty five years since the cactus has grown over six feet, but still somehow Claire felt, looked younger than her and she was sure would outlive her and then some.

She avoided the closets, started in the bathroom where there was only one photograph, her great grandfather in an gilded oval frame. She studied it for a while thinking how strange to see someone she was directly descended from and yet might well have been an image in a textbook, so utter without connection or reference to her own life. He looked like a statue, something used a basis for fountain sculpter, his shoulders draw up sharply, the antiquated upright posing style of the day, trapped without color on a photographs stool, cursed to yellow with age. A small crack in the photograph had begun to peel and the left side of his face was cripped white and obscured. She spent the afternoon pitching lotions and powders in a trashbag, dried out, crusted Lancome bottles, Tylenon that had solidified to a single clump, hemroidal creme that she refused to touch without the aid of a tissue, Windex and Clorox, bottles of pills and medicines long expired, a deck of cards she kept, she shut her mind down and nothing produced any emotion save a frizzled and frayed toothbrush which should have been replaced months ago and Claire remembered saying as much to her grandmother and how she had simply shrugged. Claire sighed heavily and went outside for some air.

It was well past dark by the time she went home. There were four garbage bags out front of the house, when Jimmy picked her up. They drove in silence and didn't say a word walking up Claire's steps. Inside the door she turned and they tore at each other's clothes.

Flashback to Sil and Dean having ti out and parting ways.