For spn_30snapshots. Prompt 18, death on table 03. Paranormal State.

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"No!"

Wide eyes, desperate, and panicked. His voice rose and fell with the weight of his grief, and the agony of memory.

Pain, and he knew he was going to die. He could feel it, the drag of their claws on his soul, as they were pulling him away, down, into the Pit. Damned, and the contract was up.

Time to go, Dean-o, he could hear in their snarls, an unholy glee as they ripped into his body, tearing the meat from his bones; they tore into his soul, too, and the agony was unbearable, too much, and his silence was lost to screams for the next thirty years.

Light faded from dark eyes, and the quick-spreading liquid was too red against the concrete. The world was narrowed down to the sight of dark hair splayed over pavement, mixed with cooling blood, and the bile rose in Dean's throat at the sight of Lisa's corpse. Clenched fists, and his breathing was harsh to his own ears as he stared down at her, completely ignoring her killer.

Helpless. He could do nothing except watch her die, and pray that Ben was safe with the only angel he'd ever trusted. He was shaking, he realized belatedly as he gathered himself, and looked up into mocking, painfully familiar, hazel eyes.

He shattered, broken into a million pieces that would never be found.

"I told you, Dean," Sam said, voice of silk, and honey-smooth, "you should have thought about the danger you were putting them in, by staying here."

Outrage, and something like the calm in the eye of a raging storm, swept through him as he slowly straightened. It was over, finally. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he told him, quiet and resigned. He knew he'd failed his brother, but it was time to let go. Maybe Cas would catch him, when he fell.

He ran at his black-eyed brother, knife flashing silver against the moonlight, and he didn't scream when the hounds pulled him down, ripping into him, and tearing his soul apart. Forty years in Hell, and a hound's teeth and claws were all-too familiar. His blood mixed with Lisa's, leaking into the grass, vibrant crimson on faded, dying brown.

The light went out of green eyes, fading into nothing on the crescendo of a demon's howl of denial, and a returning angel's song of grief.

Winchester, Dean. 1979-2010

Angels are watching over you.

A single cross in an empty field; ashes dancing in the wind.