'

PART ONE
--

Slumping down against the wall, Dean scrabbles for a hold against the brick. His fingers are numb, though, bloody and unresponsive, so Dean slides downward and hits the floor with a loud thump. His borrowed angel-mojo had never been meant to last, he'd expected it to burn out hot and fast like a flare; he hadn't expected it to feel like this. He is hollowed out, empty and with his insides scraped raw; the pain in his side feels as if he's been run through.

( "Sammy," he tries to say; it comes out as barely a wheeze. His chest tightens painfully, squeezing even more air from his lungs. )

PART FOUR
--


When Sam dies, Dean remembers.

( It happens at two-thirty-nine in the afternoon, on a Tuesday. He's working on the car -- an old beat-up thing his mom picked up cheap for his sixteenth birthday, but after some elbow grease and a lot of searching for parts, Dean's sure there isn't an engine in the world that runs as smooth as his baby's. )