Dean twists his fingers in the chain, and between one breath and the next, his head fills with fire, black and roiling and rising like a wave that bears him downward. He can't hold on, and after a moment more, he doesn't try.

he hardly puts up a fight at all, now. so sick and so tired.

there we go. enjoy your sleep.

i calm dean's breaths, roll his head forward

and cast mike to the furthest wall with a thought, body landing spreadeagled and hard enough to thunk.

"I believe he was talking about me."