Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

A moment ago, he was in pain and arguing with his youngest son about what should have happened in that cabin. Next... all he remembered was the sound of shattering glass and the groan of metal protesting as it bent... the shrill screech of the tires on the pavement. Then the blackness surrounded him, and he heard and saw no more.

When the darkness dissipated, he was standing -- standing? -- outside the car, overseeing the wreck from a distance. An ambulance had pulled up along side them and rescue workers were pulling bodies form the car.

He wanted to get closer, so he did, walking right up to the passenger side of the Impala. There were a lot of memories in that car.

"What about this one?" he heard one of the rescue workers say as he came up behind him, gesturing to the passenger side.

He moved forward, leaning in to see what the EMT was looking at -- a battered, lifeless body riding shotgun.

"Leave him for now," another answered. "These two are still alive. We need to get them to the hospital."

That's what was wrong, he realized. He no longer felt the pain of his wounds or the endless weariness of his eternal battle with the demon. His body had been beaten, tortured and used... and now it had expired.

A few feet away, his sons were being laid out on stretchers and he moved to stand next to them. He knelt down between them, watching.

His eldest was stirring, stubbornly refusing to die, too. "Dad?" he whispered in a voice hoarse with pain.

For a moment, their eyes met and he gave a weary smile. "I've got to now, Dean, and you've got to live to fight another day."