Pungent, that smell. Petroleum and something almost like spice. Nothing else like it. Gun oil.

Yeast and a sharper tang. Beer.

Onions, that peculiar bite in the breath from raw ones.

A whiff of almost-garlic. Sweat. Maybe his own, maybe not.

The coppery, rusty taste of blood.

A hint of bitter bile, making him queasy.

Vibration beneath, inside him, rumbling.

Throbbing pain, almost everywhere.

Pressure on his shoulder, warm and light.

A voice, low, urgent. "Sammy? You with me?"

Dean's face, gaunt in the shadows of the dashboard light. "You ok?"

A split-lip smile worth the sting. "Yeah. I'm good."