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Summary
“How old are you?” he asks Death.
“As old as God. Or older. It’s not something you’ll be able to conceive,” Death shrugs. He looks at Dean with the pity of a parent. He looks at Dean with the kindness of a giant. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one,” Dean says, hounds tearing at his skin.
“One,” Dean says, dragging himself from the earth.
“Seventy-one,” Dean says, drenched in blood.
Death regards him, mildly interested. Or amused. Or Sad. “Now you know.”