"I know," I murmur, my arm around his shoulders and my lips against the curve of his cheekbone, the taste of him salty with tears.

I never thought, even for a second, that he wanted to go. That he would've gone, if he'd had a choice. What I couldn't live with, what made me fuckin' crazy for a whole year, was not knowing... Not knowing if he'd been afraid. If he'd been in pain.

"That day... It's one of the first things Dean remembered, here. He knew my name, and he knew that somebody had died. Somebody close to me. He remembered telling me." That day stuck with a lot of people. Not just me.