[He knows Dean isn't asking how many days he'd spent at Scott's house while his mom was sick. He wouldn't be able to answer that with any amount of accuracy if it was what was being asked. He couldn't begin to guess. He glances over at Dean briefly, rubs the back of his neck.]

Two and a half years. I was eight when she died. [He looks away again, expression growing distant again. He chews his thumbnail.]

I was with her when...

[He exhales.]

Dad was working. Out on a call. A car accident. There was a girl that -- she was trapped in the car and she wasn't going to make it. He didn't want to leave her there, to die alone.