There was nothing but darkness.

The dingy motel mirror was barely lit by a guttering bare bulb. Still, Dean stared into as if he could find every answer lost, grasp the threads of memories that haunted him, and rediscover who he was. But he could see nothing. Nothing but the black of his eyes and the blood that stained him – sprayed high over his face, arching over one cheekbone like another brand marring his hide.

His slid his tongue along his lower lip and he wondered if blood had ever tasted like this to him before. Like he could taste the life of the demon he'd ganked. The death that he had wrought. Like sugar and cinnamon, battery acid and vodka.

Laying his fingers to the pitted silver of the mirror, resting them beside his blackened eyes. He blinked and a strange sensation slithered over them, like the scales of a snake. When he opened his lids, his own green irises were staring back at him, just like they had in countless other hotel mirrors, countless other times. Slowly, the memories of who he had been in his other life were coming back to him.

He leaned closer to the mirror, almost heedless of the blood congealing on his cheek. "Well," he whispered, his lips pulling back in a predatory grin. His eyes snaked back into black. "Ain't that a bitch."