Sam suddenly found himself in a large, decadent office. A huge mahogany desk stood in front of a wall of windows that overlooked nothing but sky. A little, bald man in a designer suit was perched at the edge of the desk, ankles crossed almost daintily.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded. He didn't think he was from any of his memories, he was fairly certain he'd never seen the man before. "I don't remember this place. This isn't one of my memories."

"No, it isn't. This is my office."

"And you are . . ."

"My name is Zachariah," the little man gave a curdled perfunctory smile. "I'm an angel."

Sam blinked. "Aren't you supposed to have wings, or something?" he asked after a second.

Zachariah rolled his eyes. "I do have wings. But I didn't have time to wash them today so I'm keeping them pinned up."

Deciding to ignore the sarcasm, Sam took advantage of the opportunity to ask: "If you're an angel, you might be able to help me. My brother . . ."

" . . . is going to make a deal with a crossroads demon and sell is soul to Hell in order to bring you back to life, yes, old news," Zachariah smirked. "You're worried about him – that's all too plain."

"What do you mean?"

"You just exited your third memory of your brother being injured in some way. Obviously it's because you are afraid for his welfare and therefore your subconscious is dredging up these pathetic little daytime soap operas in response."

"You have to help him! You're an angel, you must have the power."

"Actually, that's what we're here to talk about. It seems as though the terms of your contract have been slightly renegotiated. Terminated, in fact. Loopholes are a bitch."

"What?"

"Your brother made his deal. Your restored physical wellbeing in return for his own soul. You must be worth more alive than dead."

Sam felt the defeat and the anger begin to crush him from the inside out. Dean had done it. He'd sold his soul just like their father had done for him. Sam would kill him. Why couldn't he have left well enough alone? Because it was Dean, that's why. And because he was stupid and reckless and selfish and was the one person who Sam knew loved him enough to attempt something so insane. This could not happen.

"You've got to undo it."

"Sorry, no can do." Zachariah stood up. "What I can do, however, is wipe your slate clean. See, we find that when people remember their time Up Here . . . or Down There, as the case may be . . . they have trouble readjusting – culture shock, we like to call it. So standard procedure is to obliterate any and all memories of what happens after death. Don't worry, no one would believe you even if you remembered enough to tell them anyway. Better for everyone all around, so just hold still, this won't hurt a bit."

Zachariah placed his hands on the sides of Sam's head, and Sam shouted in surprise and pain as white light burst from the angel's fingertips and seemed to shoot right through Sam's head.

"See you sometime, Sam," were the last words he heard before everything faded to black.