"I can still count," he pointed out, moving to a small side table where he had started stacking some books. Some days he could still think, too, and put on his own socks.

He could still read as well, and with some concentration the act became a good way to stay anchored to reality. The little things helped--remembering to make his bed in the morning, doing laundry, reading a few chapters of a book. Little things he'd taught himself, without a heck of a lot of guidance from anyone else. Not very groundbreaking or game-changing, maybe, but he could at least say he didn't pretend to be more than he was, or make promises he had no intention of keeping.

"You and Dean--really following a tight schedule, aren't you?" Sarcasm had a tendency to come on unprovoked in moments like these, when he caught a whiff of something that stank of self-gratification. "Don't push yourself too hard. I'm not a priority, you don't need to tell me that. But it's a little late to be wringing your hands about this now."

Zombies could have nibbled his ribs clean way before an angel got around to checking out whatever Michael had done.