Sam sits in the corner, arms locked around his knees, rocking frantically back and forth. Eyes staring, breathing rapid, he remembers.
Dean, teaching him to read, taking him to school. Making sure he has enough to eat.
Dean, digging around in the guts of the Impala, wiping his greasy hands on Sam's clean shirt with a mocking grin.
Dean, standing with him over their father's burning pyre. Screaming under a hellhound's jaws.
Dean. Returned from hell.
Dean. Telling him they were better off apart.
This store of memories – they are all he has left of his brother.
They aren't enough.