Dean drove for many miles before the memory finally reached his consciousness.
It was like an itch. It was deep, under the anger, under the hatred, under the indifference.
It scraped and twisted its way up and through, like a single thread weaving and dragging, pulling itself out of the tomb where it had been buried.
Slowly, without his cooperation, this thought, this single piece of himself, broke free.
"As long as I'm around…"
The next thought, he spoke aloud.
"I am a man of my word…..Sammy."