Tad later than usual, I know: sorry y'all – RL is a black dog at the moment, so hope you forgive. Once again, thanks so much for your lovely reviews! They really do cheer me up. ;-) And thanks to my unregistered reviewers who I can't PM: koco55, psychadelicfur, I really appreciate your feedback… Happy Halloween! :)

Best Laid Plans

Pestilence hacks pieces off him and scatters them, so that when he sees past the blur in his eyes he's focusing on gobs of ivory cartilage and bloody muscle that sprout tattered plumage and look like roadkill. They make him think of Hell, even though it isn't quite the same because the Horseman isn't as skilled a surgeon as he was down there. And after a while Pestilence snarls his toothy smile right down level with Dean's face and drones on about all the plans he has for Michael's feathers: a Harry Potter quill pen, a tickling stick, a feather duster, a bookmark, a feather keychain charm, a nature collage with a few acorns and twigs in the mix, a dream catcher, and he'll laminate the smaller, softer, fluffier ones onto postcards with that poem about angel feathers and distribute them at the local nursing home.

"Just call me the pheasant plucker," he burbles merrily, and he plants his hand down right next to Dean on the floor.

"I bet you can't say that in German," Dean slurs, and he's cobra swift as he strikes. He closes his hand around the meatsuit's wrist, twists him down, heaves his body up and on top, with a groan of effort, and Pestilence bucks like a mustang, starts frothing at the mouth and sliding on the pooled blood as his indignation ratchets up to anger and then violent fury.

The poison in his system seems to have solidified his mojo because it sure as fuck isn't flowing up and out through his magic finger, and Dean finds he's blinking back tears at the searing pain in his back, across his shoulders, as he reaches desperately for his boot, for his Bowie, do it the old-fashioned way. And now all those teeth are glittering at him, and the violent spasms are winding down, and Pestilence brays out laughter right into his face because he knows all he has to do is wait. Well fuck that, Dean thinks, because he's the badass motherfucker apex predator in this fight. He slams his head down into the teeth, once, twice, three times, feels them shatter under the final blow. And he cackles, and now he wrestles the meatsuit's hand up, up, up, to his face, and he smiles his own megawatt smile.

"I'm the Hannibal Lecter in this relationship, asswipe," he hisses.

And he thinks he might see it starting to dawn in the Horseman's eyes as he drags the hand closer, and now the struggle is starting up again under him so he's dizzy with the buffeting. But he's holding on fast and tight, ignoring the clamor, closing his jaws around the knuckle, and he can taste his own blood on the meatsuit's skin. He grips, saws his teeth down through ligaments and muscle and bone, until he feels them meet in the middle and his molars grind against the metal of the ring. And then he pulls, whipping his head from side to side like a shark feeding, as he rips, tears, feels it give, and wrenches it free to a howl of rage.

And now he has the power back, and he leers down. "Finger food," he rasps out around the bloody digit, still held firm between his teeth. "We're done here, Ponyboy."

The Horseman is frothing bloodily at the mouth, shrilling out distress, and Dean ignores it, ignores the pain, slams his palm down on the meatsuit's brow, dredges up something, anything, feels a lethargic buzz gooseflesh its way along his arm. And there's no comparison with before, it's the difference between pitching the power out of himself at one hundred ten miles per hour, like Nuke LaLoosh, and rolling it sedately along the driveway so some drooling toddler can field it and roll it back. But thank Christ it's effective, and he flops down through a foot of thin air to the floor.

He can hear the whistle and wheeze of his own breath as it comes fast and feverish, and he pushes up onto his hands and knees, spits the ragged chunk of flesh out onto the floor. He pats his way over to it, picks it up gingerly, and his hand is shaking so badly he can barely hold onto it. He lurches up to his feet, windmills his arms for a few seconds trying to stay balanced. And the room spins and tumbles around him, and he poleaxes, crashing down onto his back, and the agony shrieks through him before it all fades out.

"Is there a floor map?" Sam asks in a loud whisper, as Crowley marches across the glass and modern art stripe-and-blotch canvassed lobby, stepping over the sprawled forms of what looks like Security, lying there with wide scarlet smiles gaping under their chins.

The demon nods down the hallway. "We don't need one," he says blithely. "We just follow the trail of crumbs."

And there they are, crumpled bodies dotting the polished floor at random intervals, staring up at nothing, open mouthed in sheer annoyance, and all with a sooty burn on their brows.

"And we're walking…" Crowley gestures at the bodies like he's narrating a White House tour, even turns and sidles along backwards as he describes the view. "As you can see, your brother was doing quite well at first," he confides knowledgeably. "I reckon our equine friend lulled him into a false sense of security with all this cannon fodder though, and then it went arse over tip." He sniffs. "Looks like even Michael isn't above a bit of hubris. He flew too close to the sun this time, that's for sure." He points to a desk at the top of the hallway. "I got as far as there, saw them on one of the monitors."

Sam jogs up there, ever watchful, leans down and scans the small screens as they cycle through empty labs, offices, hallways. Nothing. "Which one?" he demands urgently. "Which one did you see him on?"

Crowley frowns, ponders it.

"Jesus, Crowley, come on, I don't—"

The demon winces, stabs a finger to the left. "There. That one. I think. Hangar something or other. And must you keep saying the J word?"

Sam leans forward, observes some more, taps out his frustration on the wooden surface of the desk as the monitor loops through its sequence, until there it is. "Hangar four. It's the only one on this monitor… it must be at the back, they'd need parking lot access for moving stuff in and out."

He shrugs off his duffel, cracks open his shotgun, double checks for shells, all present and correct, kneels down and fishes out a fully stocked bandolier, slings it around his neck. "Are you sure all the alarms are tripped?" he asks, as he roots about again. He hauls out Bobby's street sweeper, and feeds his arm through the strap so the gun lies against his back.

"I'm a professional," Crowley says witheringly. "Give me some credit. I learned this from the Kray twins."

Sam stands up, eyes Crowley with a measured stare, wonders if he can risk giving the demon a gun.

"I know what you're thinking," Crowley says, and he folds his arms, leans back on the desk. "But I'm not going anywhere near Champion the Wonder Horse. I think you can handle it, all Ramboed up." He motions at the gun. "Much as I like the pretty, pretty weapons of mass destruction, I think it's better if I keep watch." And he smirks. "From all the way back here."

Sam rolls his eyes, thinks ruefully that it's probably for the best anyway, because the last time he trusted a demon to watch his back it started this whole mess. He steels himself, and slips stealthily up and around the corner towards the back of the building.

A couple more turns and a dead end later there it is, and now he can smell that weird church smell, incense, remembers it from Providence, the murdered priest, there's no such thing as angels, Sam. It sends a chill running up his spine, because now he can hear Father Reynolds, as clear as if he just spoke, the archangel Michael, with the flaming sword… the fighter of demons, holy force against evil, God's warriors, can hear his own voice in reply. And he laughs, hollow and brief, because his brother definitely isn't the Hallmark card version.

It's dead quiet as he slides along the wall to the doorway, and he leans his head forward, peeks barely, so that only the front millimeter of his eyeballs even extends past the doorjamb. He can see his brother, flat out and unmoving on the floor, about fifteen feet into the room.

He pulls his head back, sucks in a deep breath, steps out and to the right, whirling as he does, pointing forward, left, right, covering the cavernous hanger. He's alert for ambushes, eyes darting everywhere, and he steps in, and he's constantly twisting, turning, pointing, in all directions, doesn't let his guard down even when he sees the blood, skirts around the ring of ashes that circumnavigates Dean's splayed out body. He heads around back of the piled up boxes, and there's no one. It's deserted, except for his brother.

He strides back over to Dean, eyes on the doorway, gun pointed and ready, drops to his knees and puts the tips of his fingers to his brother's neck. Pulse faint, thready, and Sam releases a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding and his head is dizzy for a second. He studies Dean's face, sheened with perspiration, ashen, blotched with smears of blood that shine wetly around his lips, and touches his hand to the metal bolt, about two inches of it sticking out of his brother's shoulder. A shy, barely visible column of smoke is wreathing up around it, and he can smell sulfur in the wispy haze.

"Dean," he mutters, and he lightly slaps his brother's cheek. "Dean… come on, man. This can't happen to you now. Mojo up, huh?"

His eyes flit away from Dean's face then, because he's kneeling in blood, and it's a ghastly reminder of New Harmony. He stares at it, wonders if his vision is playing tricks on him, because he's sure he can see the hazy outline of dollops, lumps of something, scattered at random intervals, but when he blinks hard they aren't there. And then he tilts his head, freezes for a full minute, his fascination overcoming his worry. And he pushes up to his feet again, needs to get some distance, some perspective, and it's like he's hypnotized by it, a vision he knows isn't real because he was just kneeling right there, had his hand flat on the floor right there, and he knows he felt solid, cold concrete under his palm.

He takes a few steps back, gazes at them, spread out, blood streaked but not real, a bronzed gossamer outline sweeping out on either side of his brother's shoulders, ten feet on each side of him, flickering in and out of phase like a mirage in the desert, the twin to the smoky, blackened outline of wings he glimpsed in the split second between Dean destroying Zachariah and hauling him out of the room in Van Nuys. And even in his awe it makes Sam's blood run cold, this final proof, as if he really doubted any more, that maybe this Dean is nothing more than a veneer, the outer shell of something ancient, and brutal, and deadly: Michael, who will burn it all down if he has to. And the knowledge leaves Sam feeling hollow and numb with the tantalizing thought that he himself might save the planet if he turns and walks away, leaves Michael to the tender mercies of whatever demon or Horseman happens to wander by.

"Makes you wish you had a camera handy, doesn't it?" the voice says from behind him. The spell is shattered, and Sam spins, sweeps his gun around.

Crowley is pocketing his cellphone, one hand raised defensively. "Bobby called, wanting a progress report." He gestures at Dean's sprawled out body. "The Weekly World News would pay a small fortune for a snapshot of that," he says regretfully. Then he smiles. "Looks like they slipped him a mickey," he mocks. "That crossbow bolt must've been dipped in something fairly potent to take him down like that."

Sam lets the gun drop, raises a heavy hand to his head, palms his face for a second while he calms himself. "How long for the boilers to go once Bobby plugs the valves?" he says wearily. "And is it clear out there still?"

Crowley nods. "It's clear, but we're pushing it… these guys don't clock off just because it's Saturday. I told him to go ahead, we'll have time." He motions past Sam with his eyes. "Looks like you might kill two birds, if you'll pardon the expression."

Sam glances back round again, only now sees the legend stamped on the boxes. "Croatoan," he breathes. He flits his eyes from the nearest palate to all the others in turn. "Do you think that's all of it?"

The demon shrugs dismissively. "Anyone's guess. But it's something to be going on with." He reaches into his inside coat pocket, pulls out a small, round object, holds it up to the light and smiles.

"Is that a hand grenade?" Sam gapes.

"I always carry one," Crowley replies smoothly. "You never know when it'll come in handy."

There's a noise, a labored groan, his name. "S…m…" And Dean cracks open his lids, and his eyes are stark with pain and suffering, and it's so familiar, because it's Dean's eyes, not Michael's, and they aren't ancient, and brutal, and deadly.

And Sam drops to his knees again, slides a hand under his brother's head. "Dean," he says urgently. "You there? Dude?" His words tumble out, strained and nervous. "I'm right here, I got you. I'm getting you out, I'm – I'm just not sure how… the wings, I don't know if I can—"

"They're not really there," Crowley cuts in. He walks around them, taps his foot where the shapes glisten, and his shoe goes right through them. "They're an illusion… Pestilence must've worked some spell to make them manifest, but they can't be on this plane of existence." He sniggers suddenly. "Like my horns and tail. It's like – a shadow of them. A representation. Or something like that. You can lift him, your hand will just pass right through."

Sam bites his lip, puts out his fingers, touches the shapes where they waft and shimmer, feels an odd tingling in his hand, creeping higher, like static, and the hairs on his arm stand up, entranced. He slides his hand further, under, feels normal so far, until his brother stifles a cry and stares wildly at him.

"Of course, he'll still feel it if Pesky used his evil powers to damage them in any way," Crowley remarks offhandedly. He's walking towards the boxes now, gazing up at the piles. "Some accelerant would be good," he declares. "Then we could really get this party started."

Sam looks down into his brother's wide, hurt gaze, and he feels his own fear gnaw at his insides. "How did he hurt you?" he says, and he flicks a glance at Crowley. "In the bag. Kerosene."

The demon nods, walks briskly out of the room, and Sam turns his attention back to his brother. "Dean, how did he hurt you?" he repeats, his voice dry and scratchy with anxiety. "Is there something on the bolt? Did he say what it was?"

Dean's eyes are glazing over, drifting closed, and Sam shakes him gently, sweeps his eyes around the room again. "Did you take him out?" he says. "Dean. Pestilence, did you take him out, did you get his ring?"

Dean smiles at him, and his teeth are stained red too. He flops his hand up, fingers clenched tight around something.

Sam turns at the sound of footfalls behind him again, Crowley, can in hand.

"Sammy…" Dean is murmuring it out, pulling at his shirt, tapping at it with whatever he's holding, and Sam catches hold of his hand, extricates the prize, blanches when he sees what it is.

"I believe he's giving you the finger," Crowley offers from above, and he walks on past, right through the wings that still flutter feebly in and out of phase, and Dean doesn't react, doesn't wince until after Sam stuffs the chunk of meat into his hip pocket and maneuvers his hand under his brother's shoulders again, and then he lets out a strangled moan and his eyes roll back in his head.

Nothing for it, Sam thinks. He slips the street sweeper off his back, parks it on the floor next to the shotgun, and then he hauls Dean up, bends, hoists him up across his shoulder, and if he's expecting to feel something, some kind of dragging heaviness from the wings, it isn't there.

"He's bleeding pretty badly at the back there," Crowley remarks, as he sloshes the accelerant around the palates, and the rank smell rises up to met Sam's nostrils in place of the holy oil. "You know… whatever Pestilence shot him up with should wear off," the demon adds, and it's almost sympathetic, reassuring, almost like he's making an effort.

Sam glances down at the guns, looks over at Crowley again. "Can you get those? And the duffel?"

Crowley smiles, and Sam fancies it might even reach his eyes. "I can get them."

Sam starts walking, lurching, staggering under the burden because Dean's solid, packed muscle and no lightweight, and he's leaning forward, letting his brother's weight be the momentum he needs. As he reaches the desk he turns to see Crowley walking up behind him, brisk and businesslike, toting the bag, the street sweeper in his other hand.

"I could get used to this," the demon quips down at the big gun. "I feel all lock, stock and two smoking barrels about it, actually." He motions over at the desk. "I'd duck if I were you."

Sam blinks for a second, shuffles in there and collapses to the floor, eases his brother's limp body down and shields it with his own while Crowley hunkers in behind him.

"When is it going to—"

The blast rocks the hallway, resounds for long seconds, and Sam can smell smoke, feel it ease its way into his nostrils.

"Right about then, I should think," Crowley says redundantly. "They'll be coming out of the woodwork now. We should leave before the fun really starts."

Sam hauls his brother out from under the desk, hefts him up again, and his eyes fall on the monitors and he stops, stands dead still, stares hard, and he's speechless, feels a numb shock that turns his legs to lead.

Crowley is already halfway across the lobby. "Sam," he hollers back. "When I said we had time, I didn't mean we had time to watch the telly. Come on."

Sam turns, teeters up to the demon. "Call Bobby," he huffs out. "Tell him to abort. Do it now." And he keeps going, breaks into a clumsy trot that almost has him crashing down face first, but he forces himself on even though he can feel his brother's head flopping limply against his back, feel slick blood on his hands where he's hanging on to Dean.

Crowley is passing him by, pulling at the door. "What the fuck are you on about?" he's sputtering, outraged. "He's probably waiting in the car by now. It's too late for him to go back down there, he'll go up with the joint…"

And Sam crashes past him, through the open door and out into the night, feels the air cold and bracing on his face, and he keeps running, almost losing his legs, out across the parking lot, breath heaving in and out, and Castiel is there, hovering by the car, as huge-eyed with anxiety as Dean was when he came round and stared up at Sam.

"Door, get the door, Cas," Sam pants out, because he can feel himself flagging, and Castiel sidesteps adroitly, pulls the back door open. Sam bends, flops his brother half on and half off the seat, and Castiel is crabbing nimbly in on the other side then, pulling Dean up the rest of the way and cradling him in his arms as he stares down, and his voice is cracking with panic.

"What happened to him? What did they do, Sam, why is he—"

Sam is already pulling his head out, backing away. "I don't know… watch his shoulder, there's a crossbow bolt in it. Crowley thinks there might be something on it, poison, some sort of infection maybe." He stops for a second, bends over double, can feel himself starting to gag as he glances sideways at Crowley, who's holding his cellphone and still looks mystified. "Did you get Bobby?" he asks thickly.

"No, I did not," the demon snaps. "He didn't pick up. And what the hell is—"

Castiel cuts in, calling out from the car, high-pitched and desperate now. "Blood, Sam… there's blood here, everywhere…"

Sam gulps back bile as he straightens up, and it sears his throat. "They did something to his back, Cas," he chokes out, past the burn. "Damaged him – the wings maybe. They were there, I could see them… like Pestilence summoned them or something." And now he's turning to start his trip back. "Cas, call Bobby. Tell him to unplug the valves if he can – Adam is in there."

He bends, lifts the street sweeper up from where Crowley laid it across the duffel, starts running, and he can hear shouting behind him, thinks he might even catch sight of Bobby in his peripheral vision, haring out of the darkness over to his left.

And then Sam is through the doors again, hugging the walls, sneaking back to the desk, staring at the screens, and he exhales a shuddering breath. Adam, pacing in and out of shot, gesturing, talking at someone offscreen, and he looks agitated, mad as hell in fact. And Sam hears Dean's voice in his head, we got Adam sucked into this mess, sees the guilt shadowing Dean's eyes as he said it, and this might be his chance to set that right, lift that weight from his brother's shoulders.

"We need to get him out of it," he murmurs. "Room, which room…"

He breathes in smoke, stifles a cough, covers his mouth. And he lopes purposefully back up the hallway.

And really, is it any surprise it hasn't gone their way, Bobby thinks as he leans in, shines his flashlight down on Dean's shoulder. "Dammit," he mutters. "We'll have to dig that out." And then he shakes his head as he looks up at Castiel and barks out questions rapid-fire. "Adam? Are you sure? Was Sam sure? How can that be? Why would they have him here?"

"That's what he said," the younger man replies somberly. "Pestilence must have picked him up in Van Nuys… Zachariah's destruction will have been a homing beacon for anything demonic or supernatural for hundreds of miles. Maybe he showed up there looking for Michael." Castiel's eyes flick over towards the building. "They baited my brother before with Adam…" he murmurs. "Maybe they intend doing so again." He looks back. "How much time is there before it blows?"

Bobby shields his face with his hands, and his voice is muffled. "Jesus," he sighs. "I don't know."

Castiel leans forward, urgent. "Bobby, if it blows with Sam in there, if he gets hurt… his ribs, if they're broken, if any part of the sigil is broken – he won't be hidden from Lucifer any more."

Bobby sets his jaw, roots in his pockets. "Here. Car keys." He locks eyes with Castiel for a minute. "I'm gonna head back to the furnace room. If it goes up, don't hang around, get him away from here. We'll make our own way home." He pauses then, bites his lip. "If Lucifer got in Sam… he'd know everything Sam knows, is that right?"

Castiel nods wordlessly.

Bobby lowers his voice. "Okay. In that case… at my place, there's a hidey hole in the mantel in the den, Dean knows where. There's a lockbox… IDs, medical insurance, bank account details, money. In case you need to hit the road." He makes his tone meaningful. "In case it isn't safe for you there any more."

He can see Castiel is reading him loud and clear, and the younger man reaches out, grabs his sleeve, and his face is strained. "Bobby," he says thinly. "I don't know how to—"

"Just clear out," Bobby snaps back harshly. "No fancy goodbyes, we'll catch you up."

"Drive…" Castiel trails off lamely, and he shrugs. "I don't know how to drive."

Bobby rolls his eyes, manages a weak smile. "Come on… there must be something of Novak in there…" He snorts at Castiel's headshake. "Idjit. It ain't rocket science. Just crank the ignition, switch on the headlights, point it that way and go west, young man. It'll come back to you." He reaches out to tip Dean's chin up for a second, stares down at his lax features, slides his thumb across his cheek. He flicks his eyes up to Castiel again, and the other man is gazing back, as knowing as he always is. "Take care of him," Bobby says gruffly.

Castiel nods simply. "You know I will."

Bobby straightens up, walks past Crowley, who's pacing irritably and scribbling his frustration in the air with his hand.

"Berk," the demon snarls. "Fucking muppet." He whirls, wags a finger. "I'd start driving right now if I were you," he snaps. "Because this has officially gone tits-up, and—"

Bobby ignores him, starts jogging back into the darkness, and he can hear Crowley yelling after him, can hear the thud of shoes hitting tarmac as the demon catches him up, and he sprints around in front and forces Bobby to a halt.

"Are you mad?" Crowley spits hotly. He gestures back at the Impala. "I heard what he said… about the ribs, the sigil. If Satan stops by to collect after that place goes up and you're in there too, he'll dig you out of the rubble and use you as a bargaining chip—"

"Get out of my way," Bobby growls. "Find another rock to hide under."

"Oh, do me a favor," the demon snaps back. "How fast do you think the moose will cave if Lucifer starts slicing and dicing you in front of him? Because I'd give it two minutes tops before he spreads them and puckers up. And then the devil has his one true vessel, while our guy is bleeding out on the back seat of his car. I'm not liking those odds, Bobby."

Bobby leans in, scathing now. "I said, get out of my way." And then there's a tap on his shoulder and he swivels around, finds Castiel standing behind him. "What?" he snaps.

"Crowley's right," the younger man races out, agitated. "Forget what I said. You can't go back in there."

Bobby feels his ire ramp up, takes a step forward. "You listen to me, boy," he says, and he pitches it low and dangerous. "If Sam gets hurt in there, he could pop up on the devil's radar. Those were your words. And I'm damned if I'm letting—"

And now Castiel takes a step forward, right into Bobby's personal space, and his tone isn't panicked any more, it's steady, icy cold and burning hot all at once. "No, you listen to me," he bites out. "You know too much. I heard Michael talking to you…" He cocks his head, slants his eyes beyond Bobby, to the demon and back again, and he lowers his voice to match Bobby's. "I'm not going into the details in present company, Bobby, but you know too much. Do you understand me? I know what I said about Sam, but Crowley is right… if my brother shows up and starts working on you to turn Sam, well…" He shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, sardonic now. "Let's just say plan B will be off the table. Because I'd give it two minutes tops before you spread them and pucker up."

Bobby doubletakes and then stares it out with the other man for a minute before he pulls back his fist and lets fly, feels it slam into Castiel's jaw, and sees him stagger before he collapses onto his butt on the ground, rubbing at his cheek.

Crowley sniggers from behind him. "Well, if it's a fight…"

And that's the last thing Bobby hears for a while.

The smoke from the warehouse is hazier on the other side of the building and it's easier to breathe. And the final door in the hallway is the only one that's closed, but it has a glass panel in it. Sam sneaks a peek, and there he is, his half-brother, skinny, hair tufted wildly like Dean's the morning after one dozen too many, eyes almost but not quite Dean's eyes. He has one hand thrust in his pocket, and the other stabbing at the air as he talks, his face twisted into the same disgruntled expression Sam remembers him wearing at Bobby's when it turned out he knew full well who they were.

Sam sags against the wall for a second, grounds himself with a few deep breaths, smiles. "We got them both back, Dean," he breathes. "Okay. Three. Two. One."

He steps out in front of the door, aims his foot dead center and it flies open, and Adam goggles at him for a split second before his face lights up.

"Sam… I don't believe it. You came, I don't believe it…"

No time for pleasantries, he's in through the door, and she steps out in front of him, her navy blue eyes darkening to black.

"Hey, Sam," she trills insolently and she's already raising her hand, but he gets in first, punches the power out of him, pins her to the wall, and she bares her teeth at him in a snarl.

"Meg, just once," he says acidly, "will you shut the fuck up?"

Adam points at her, his lip curled up in distaste, and he babbles out a stream of words. "They've had me here for days, her and that bald creepy guy. What the hell is going on? And are you okay?" He cranes his head past Sam, out into the hallway. "Where's Dean, is he with you? Is he okay? I thought I heard him say yes, Sam, is he okay?"

Sam motions his head backwards, lies as smoothly as he ever did to Dean, because he needs his brother focused and moving. "He's fine, Adam, he's waiting for us. But we have to get out of here now, because—"

And then Sam feels the ground start to vibrate under his feet, hears a dull, far-off roar begin and start to get louder. He sees something flicker in his brother's eyes, sees them widen, sees him start to form words, raise his hand to point behind him, sees Meg tip her head back and start to laugh in the fraction of a second before something solid impacts with the back of his head.

And then he doesn't see anything.

TBC

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