Chapter Text
He knows.
Dean wipes the sweat off his forehead as he digs a six foot hole, breath short as he gasped for air.
He knows.
He digs the grave, wide enough for two yet knew they'd be buried separately. The dirt heavy in his shovel as he flung it out of the hole, his chest clenching as he stood in it. 6 feet under, where the monsters go.
He would be sick, he determined rather quickly, jumping to climb out of the grave and losing his grip, falling on his back. He felt the hard, sturdy tombs underneath him, but they were definitely not the chuch's best.
He laid there, for just a moment, heart pounding and unable to will himself upright.
How long until he ended up here?
How did he know?
Was it the way he sings? Maybe, just maybe, he danced a little feminine and John got the wrong idea. What if it was the way he spoke? Or the way he wasn't all that great at math.
Was it the way he talked about Lee? The unintentional fondness that Dean held when speaking about him. Was that why his dad would look at him different? His dad loved the way his friend was a 'womanizer', he always did point to Lee as an influence.
Dean shook his head as he felt his eyes well up with tears. You're an idiot, that's how. His brain yelled as he opened the tomb, quickly climbing his way his way up to avoid being in the presence of the sinners. The monsters. The things you hunt and kill.
Dean kneeled as he looked at them, stripped of their holy garbs. Buried separately yet facing each other. Their very bones longing to hold one another.
It was disgusting, Dean decided. Because he couldn't explain why else he'd feel so sick. He rested his head on his shovel. They wouldn't get to heaven, would they?
This was their punishment, Dean justified as he choked on his tears. And this was his warning.
He'd close it off before he even knew what it was. He wouldn't end up like them. Gasoline poured onto the bodies, hand shaking as he did so. "Why serve a God that didn't love you?" He choked out, pouring too much gas into the caskets. "Why-" He lit the match, "-didn't you run?"
He put out the match with a single shake of hand, realizing that he had forgotten the salt. He picks it up, mentally scolding his arms for shaking. Why are you scared? You're not like them. They were... dirty.
They were nuns. His conscience reminded himself. He wasn't half as holy.
If there was a God, a heaven, a hell- he should get on his knees and repent. Nuns in love couldn't be saved, what chance did he have?
But he wasn't like them, though. He wasn't.
He spread the salt across the corpses, wiping the tears from his eyes as he clenched his jaw. It was his first hunt, he was alone. He didn't have time to be crying over stupid things. He had to be on his guard, just like his father wanted him to be. No one could hurt him if he was just who John wanted him to be.
He lights and drops two matches into the hole quickly, scattering backward as the flames shot up. He had forgotten how much gas he had put, burning them in a heat that resembled hellfire. He turned to the church, the ghosts slow-dancing in the window as they glowed brightly.
They didn't hurt him, they saw right through him.
They disappeared together, yet the classical music still played. It drove Dean mad. What year was that? Old ass ghosts, imagine if they knew how little had changed.
He was lightheaded, fell to his knees as he fought the tears from flowing back. He reached into the nearby patch of weeds, yanking out the dandelions, small flowers, with small bits of grass following along. He put them on the ground in front of him, taking a deep breath despite the foul smelling fumes of the burning, rotted flesh.
He hoped the hags could rest.
He stood up, leaning heavily on his right side as he swayed.
The fire was tempting, he gulped down his tears. He hated fire, it had terrified him ever since he was 4 years old, but the heat- the warmth.
The hags were lucky, offed themselves and had their sins burn away from the world they know.
Dean took a step back, watching as the fire burned bright. He didn't have that luxury. He had a pubescent preteen to feed. The kid would grow 7 feet tall with the way he ate.
Dean grit his teeth, forcing a smile. Sammy was gonna grow up and Dean was gonna watch him do it.
He took another step away from the fire. Turning his back on the open graves, taking his phone out of his pocket as it vibrated against his leg. He listened as his ringtone hummed their favourite song, flipped opened the phone and put on a tough voice. "Hello?"
"Jesus, did ya salt and burn your vocal cords?"
Dean choked out a laugh, securing his gun in his back pocket. "Shut up."
"How was it?" Lee asked, his voice holding an unfamiliar softness. "I woulda came with, you know."
Dean smiled, "Don't try to steal my first solo hunt." He wiped a stressed hand over his face, but still forced his tone to sound somewhat lively. "You would've gotten in my way."
"Yeah, sure. You sound roughed up already." Lee paused for a second, Dean assumed he could hear him packing his things into the trunk. "What'd you see?"
Dean paused for a second before exhaling a laugh. "The boogeyman. C'mon, it was the standard. Vengeful spirits or whatever."
"So you're going home?"
"Yeah I mean, that's where my dad wants me." Dean cleared his throat to hide the way his voice broke slightly. "Why?"
"You should come over."
"I don't think I can." Dean sat in his dad's car, listening to the engine to distract himself from the silence of the other end of the phone line. He didn't think he should, in all honesty.
Dean waited as Lee shuffled around with something before asking, "You're in the car, right? Safe n sound?"
Dean raised an eyebrow, "Yes, now what are-"
The strum of a guitar had cut him off, and Dean listened. He put the phone on speaker just in case it fell as his hands shook. Lee hummed along to the strums before finally-
"Happy birthday to you." He sung, and Dean couldn't do anything but listen. Clasp his hand over his mouth so he didn't interrupt with his sharp inhales as he felt his resolve crumbling. Hot tears running over it, tightening the grip on his mouth as he considered cursing him out for no other reason than it hurt. The pure betrayal. The despair. The blissfully sickening realization that he was like them.
He was like them, and he could never do anything about it.
There was no happily ever after for people like them, was there?