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Dean wakes up slow.
He’s still in the car; he knows that straight off just by the smell of her, the feel of her against his back and thighs. She’s still sleeping, her engine quiet, and the sky is still mostly dark, starting to get orange-yellow at the edges with the upcoming sunrise. For a moment he’s not sure why he’s awake.
His right side is cold where it should be warm. Sammy’s not there, tucked against him, bony little chin digging into Dean’s shoulder like it should be. When Dean looks at the front seat Dad isn’t there, either, and a little bit of fear starts to trickle in. Dad never leaves without telling Dean where he’s going, and Dean doesn’t get why Dad would take Sammy somewhere but not him. He hasn’t messed up recently - he’s looked after Sammy, hasn’t snuck out (hasn’t done that for years), hasn’t wasted a shot or got blood on the Impala’s upholstery or nothin’. No reason to punish him by leaving him behind, not that Dean can think of. He pushes the car door open, listening to her creak as he rubs sleep out of his eyes.
“Dad? Sammy?”
Nobody answers except a couple of birds. Dean watches them wheel through the air in nonsense circles for a second, trying to stay cool.
If something’s happened to Dad and Sammy, he needs to find them, and he needs to rescue them. The shotgun Dad keeps in the front is gone, so either he has it or whatever took them does; Dean pulls his knife out of its sheath in his boot and flexes his fingers around the handle. Even at 12 he knows he’s good with it - if he needs to he can kill with it. He shuts the door behind him.
First off: try to find a trail. Not everything leaves footprints, but anything that could’ve taken two humans would have to. Dean starts at the car and moves outwards. The dirt is packed and hard from the harsh sun of the last week - his skin’s still peeling a little behind his ears where Dad didn’t think to put sunblock - but it starts to get softer at the base of the corn stalks where they’ve been watered, and…
Bingo. His heart sinks back into his chest with relief, freeing up his throat. Clear as day, the familiar tread of Dad’s boots and the scuffs Sam’s sneakers leave when he doesn’t bother picking his feet up. Dad’s prints are evenly deep, no sign of any struggle or reluctance - just a straight line walking from the car towards the path that leads to the edge of the cornfield. Sammy’s footprints are blurrier, but that’s because he walks lazy, dragging his feet all over the place.
Maybe Sammy wanted to go for a walk, the geek. Watch the sun rise or something. Dean smiles at the thought, because Sammy’s not here to see and doesn’t have to know that Dean thinks his weird nerdy way of getting excited about regional birds or school-assigned reading lists is kinda cute, when Sammy’s not bugging him with annoying questions about it all. Weird for Dad to leave Dean sleeping, instead of dragging him out with them, but Dad’s been sleeping badly lately. Having nightmares where he wakes up calling Sammy’s name, his eyes wide and panicked, and Dean waking up too and staying up with him until Dad has stopped shaking means he’s tired too. Maybe Dad figured he could do with the extra rest, for once.
Well, he’s up now, and maybe if he catches up in time Sammy’ll have time to ramble on about bugs or rock subtypes or whatever his latest weird fixation is before they head back to the car. Dean follows the footprints to the path, then follows the path down through the cornfield, tucking his knife back into his boot. The sun is rising properly now, yellow-orange bleeding up into the rapidly-turning-blue sky as the sun itself peeks over the horizon - there’s a bit of an incline ahead, so it’s probably further up than Dean can see. He wouldn’t say it aloud but it’s pretty, like a painting someone would have in their office on tv. The corn stalks are shining at the very tips as the sun starts to hit them. The path turns right; he checks for footprints in the corn to either side, damaged leaves or anything else that might show Dad and Sammy decided to go off-road, but there’s nothing, so he keeps following the path.
The path twists again so Dean’s facing the sun again, and it hits him square in the eyes as he crests the hill and hears Sammy shout, “Now, Dad, now!”
He’s about to shout back, “Sammy?”, lifting his arm to shield his eyes - he’s freaking blind right now, can’t even see Sammy and Dad, just hot golden light - when a gun goes off, startlingly loud in the quiet morning. Not just any gun - Dean knows the sound of Dad’s shotgun anywhere. Dean flinches automatically, and his eyes adjust just in time to see Sammy crumple to the ground, like one of those stupid puppets you can buy in toy stores getting dropped by a kid who doesn’t want to play anymore. Dad’s still holding the shotgun, a tiny wisp of smoke twisting up from the barrel, which is pointing at where Dean’s brother is lying, still and silent.
“Sammy?” he shouts, dropping his arm in favour of sprinting forwards, and he hears Dad say “Dean, shit- Dean, wait,” and a strong arm comes around his waist and scoops him up easily, his own momentum slamming his tummy into Dad’s arm so hard that it hurts, but he can’t feel anything except I need to get to Sammy.
“Dean, hold on,” Dad says, and he’s using his serious voice, but Dean keeps struggling until he lands a hard kick against the inside of Dad’s knee and it throws him off balance enough for Dean to tip forward and out of his arms. Dad’s gun is on the floor, the barrel hot against Dean’s hand when he falls out of Dad’s hold and lands hard and ungainly, but he’s already scrambling towards Sam, the burn ignored.
“Sammy? Sammy?”
Sammy’s lying face down in the dirt, his arms stretched out like he’s hugging the ground, his legs a little apart, his feet pointed inwards at each other. He looks so small, and Dean scrambles to tip him back up the right way so he can see his brother’s face, but-
He pulls Sammy’s body over by the arm, and his face is, god, it’s all fucked up where the shotgun hit - it’s not even a face anymore, the entire top half blown away in a mess of blood and bone and brains - 3 B’s, and Sammy loves patterns like that, Dean thinks hysterically for a moment. There’s so much blood. He hoists Sam further up into the crooks of his elbows, one under Sammy’s knees and one under his shoulders, clutching him to his chest even though he’s barely recognisable with-
Dean retches, curls forwards and vomits bile and the last remnants of last night’s shitty diner burger onto the dirt, into the blood and gore spattered across it. Dad’s kneeling, his hand burning hot on Dean’s forearm, fingers barely brushing Sammy’s warm, limp body. “You were never meant to have to see this,” Dad says, and Dean can’t breathe.
“You killed Sammy,” he says dumbly. Dean looks up and Dad has that terrible blank look he gets after he comes back from a really bad hunt, like he’s been scooped hollow. There are tears shining on his cheeks. “You killed Sammy.”
“There are things you don’t understand here, Dean,” Dad says. His tone is intense but his eyes aren’t looking at them, and Dean’s grief falls into rage.
“You KILLED Sammy!” he shouts, his voice cracking, and drops Sammy’s body back onto the ground to launch himself at Dad, pummelling him with his fists and his feet and anything he can fucking manage, and Dad’s not even fighting back, just covering his face and his nuts so Dean can’t do any permanent damage, and that just makes him fucking madder. He’s screaming, he realises, wordless with pain and rage, and Dad’s chest is heavy and solid against his fists. It’s not even doing anything - Dad’s just taking it, just sitting there and letting Dean whale on him like it doesn’t hurt at all, and the urge to fucking hurt him rises like bile in Dean’s throat, his vision flashing red and white, blind like when he crested the hill and saw the sun and heard the gunshot-
The shotgun’s in his hands, familiar and stinking of metal, of shot residue. He points it at Dad, his arms trembling so bad he can barely aim it. Dad holds his hands up, still sprawled against the dirt; Dean scrambles to his feet, barely able to stand. His legs are trembling too, and tears are choking him like there’s a physical hand around his throat, but he points the shotgun and tries to stop the sobs wracking his entire frame. The endless mantra of he killed Sammy, he killed Sammy, he killed Sammy, is echoing through his mind. He can’t look at Sammy’s body again because he’ll lose it, collapse and never get up again.
“I had to, Dean,” Dad says, crying fresh again. “He had something in him, a darkness-”
“He’s my brother ,” Dean shouts back. “He was your son, he- I’m meant to take care of him, you told me to take care of him and then you killed him!”
“He had demons in him!” Dad says. “Demons or something, something terrible and evil - I’ve known for a while, and I’ve been dreaming- you know I’ve been having dreams, Dean, awful dreams. They’re always about Sammy, and he keeps telling me I have to kill him, that there’s something evil in him, and I know it’s true. There has been ever since that night - the night your mother died. Mary died, and Sammy… he’s never been the same!”
“He’s 8!” Dean shouts. “And he’s not evil, he’s Sammy, he- he cries when he steps on a snail on the sidewalk after a rainy night, Dad, how can you even say that? Sammy’s the best person I’ve ever known! He’s my brother!”
And that’s really what it comes down to - Sammy isn’t evil, Dean knows that in his bones , and more than that he’s Dean’s brother, his whole world. Sammy, who never cared that Dean couldn’t talk for that year after Mom died, just waved his chubby little fists at Dean whenever he saw him and babbled like his big brother was the best, most exciting thing in the world. Sammy, who played a sunbeam for his school play a few months ago and waved at Dean and Dad in the audience with a big, bright smile as radiant as the sunbeam he was dressed as. Sammy, who doesn’t even like Scooby Doo that much but lets Dean put it on for hours as long as he gets to watch his dumb nerd programme at 6. Sammy, his brother .
Even if Dad hadn’t drilled it into him since Mom died, Dean knows in his bones that he would’ve always defended this kid to the death. Look out for Sammy. There’s blood soaking into Dean’s sneaker. His brother is dead. Dad killed him.
“Dean,” Dad starts, and Dean pulls the trigger.
Dad’s head blasts apart, and Dean’s seen the shotgun’s effects before, seen a monster’s head explode into a million pieces with the force of the shrapnel, but it’s never… it’s different, feeling the gun kick in his hand and smack against his shoulder, the smell of it overpowering even the stench of blood. Dad crumples to the ground, and it hits that Dean just killed his Dad. He doubles over, retching again even though there’s nothing left to bring up, just acid. The shotgun falls out of his numb grip.
Monsters kill innocent people , Dean thinks, and if anyone in the entire world was innocent it was his little brother. If Dad killed him, that made Dad a monster. It doesn’t make him feel any better, a big gnawing empty pit opening up in his stomach. His throat is raw with sobbing and screaming. He’s completely alone. He crawls back over to Sammy’s body and lies down next to him, big spoon to Sammy’s little like they always do when a motel has thin shitty duvets and they’re trying not to shiver to death. Sammy’s ruined head doesn’t even brush his chin; there’s no soft, annoying tickle against the soft skin. Dean always used to get pissed off at the way it tickled, but right now he wants it more than anything else in the world. For Sammy to squirm like the annoying little squirt he is, because for some reason he can’t just lie still when he’s trying to fall asleep unless he’s crazy tired out.
He pulls Sammy closer, trying to imagine that Sammy’s asleep. Arranges their arms like they usually sleep, his knees snugged up against the back of Sammy’s, ignoring the hard-packed dirt they’re both lying on pressing painfully against his hip and ribs. It’s fine. Sammy’s gonna be fine.
Dean’ll join him soon. Just another few minutes of pretending and he’ll reload the shotgun with the rounds he knows Dad must have in one of his pockets. He closes his eyes and listens to his own breathing, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears; imagines that Sammy’s breathing and he can feel his heart beating against his chest, in sync. The smell of fresh gore is heavy in the air, unavoidable, but Dean just keeps his eyes closed and listens to his heart, the birds crying up ahead, the wind rustling through the stalks of corn. The sun is warm on his face, even though it feels like his entire world has shattered into tiny, cold pieces. Sammy gets slowly, gradually cooler in his arms, until Dean can’t pretend anymore that he’s anything more than a corpse. He wants to say something, like a eulogy, but there’s shards of glass in his throat whenever he tries.
The shotgun is still warm with sun, and Dean doesn’t look at what’s left of Dad’s head as he rifles through his pockets for the shells. Focus, focus. His hand fumbles across Dad’s jacket and brushes against the hard edge of something in his inner pocket. Dad’s journal. Dean pauses.
He doesn’t know much about demons, because even Dad doesn’t know much- didn’t know much, but he knows that they can do scary, powerful things. Maybe even bring someone back to life. Dean pushes Dad’s jacket open and slides the journal from its pocket, flipping through the pages until he sees a familiar drawing. Black eyes.
The page is covered in Dad’s scribbled handwriting, sketches of occult symbols and a single yellow eye. Probably colored in with one of Sammy’s crayons , Dean thinks, and scrambles back to Sammy to cradle him again while he reads through the page.
- Go to crossroads, dig hole.
- Bury box containing photo (of deal maker? Uncertain), graveyard dirt, black cat bone.
- Deal made in exchange for soul.
- Bring someone back from the dead?
Dean reads and rereads the list, one hand splayed over the page to keep it open and the other holding Sammy close. His jeans are cold and sticky with blood on one side, but he ignores it. He lays Sammy back down, gentle as he can be, and scrambles back over to Dad to find his wallet. It’s in his pocket, the opposite one to the book, and when he flips it open, yep, there’s a photo of Dean and Sammy from a few years ago. They’re leaning against the Impala, grinning wide and bright, Dean’s arm around Sam’s shoulders. He rubs a thumb over the shiny paper.
What’s the point of having a soul anyway, if Dad and Sammy aren’t here?
—
It’s hard dragging Dad back to the car, but Dean does it. He lays him across the back seat and manages to wrestle off his jacket, using it to cover his head and shoulders so it kinda looks like he’s just taking a nap on the backseat, like he used to do sometimes once Dean was old enough to watch Sammy for an hour in the front seat and they’d been driving all day. Sammy’s easier; Dean just carries him, one arm under Sammy’s knees and the other supporting his back, and takes off his own jacket to cover Sammy’s messed up head when he tucks him in the front passenger side. He’s not meant to drive without Dad’s supervision or unless it’s an emergency, but he’s pretty sure this counts as an emergency so he starts the car with only a single “Sorry, Dad.”
Anyway, Dad shot Sammy, so Dean doesn’t really want to follow his rules anymore.
Graveyard dirt is easy; Dean drives carefully, always a little under the speed limit, until he finds a cemetery. He tucks Sammy in with Dad, in the end; it’s easier that way to cover them both with a blanket, turning them into a strange lumpy pile covering the backseat that maybe a stranger would only glance at once. He steals a bunch of flowers off an older grave - feels kinda guilty about it, but ignores that feeling - and finds one that’s newer, where the dirt is less packed in and he can dig a little up with his hands and trickle it into his jean pocket. He leaves the flowers there as an apology to the person whose dirt he’s taken. It seems kinda rude to steal from a dead person, but he guesses it’s not like they need the dirt anymore.
He steals a tupperware from a nearby store, painfully aware of the eyes on his dirt-streaked hands and knees as he skulks to homewares. Nobody stops him, though, just looks at him with judgemental eyes. He resists the urge to start shit - he has to do this for Sammy, and for Dad. It doesn’t matter if people are looking at him like he’s been rolling in trash. He’s used to it, anyway.
Into the box - graveyard dirt, and some lint from his pocket that’s gotten mixed in. The photo of him and Sammy; he’d considered ripping it in half and just putting his half in there, but even separating them in the photo felt like admitting Sammy is-
He leaves it whole, smooths it down over the dirt. Checks the journal. Where the hell is he gonna get a black cat bone? Dad’s journal doesn’t have any tips, and while Dad has salt and bullets and all sorts of hunting equipment hidden in the Impala’s trunk Dean can’t find anything that looks like a bone. Can he use something else instead?
Demons are evil, Dean knows that much. The yellow-eyed one killed Mom, and he’s seen Dad kill them before - one shot right between the eyes, or smoke tearing free from someone’s throat after Dad slits it. They want people’s souls, right? Maybe if Dean just goes to a crossroad with some of the ingredients, willing to hand over his for Sammy and Dad, the demon will come even without the cat bone? Dean chews his lip a little.
Maybe they’ll take blood , he thinks. Or maybe… one of his bones? He looks uneasily at his hand, imagining cutting off the top knuckle of a finger to put in the box. What if the demon doesn’t take that, and he’s cut off a finger for nothing?
Shit. Dean has no idea what he’s doing. Whatever - he’ll find a crossroads, bury this stupid box, and maybe a demon will come. Maybe it won’t, and he’ll have to think of something else. The smell of blood and torn flesh is starting to fill the car, and he’s scared that if he waits too long then Sammy’s gonna start going bad, and then what if his body is too gross to fix? Can demons make someone a new body?
The roadmap in the passenger footwell is easy enough for Dean to read - even now, he’s been helping Dad with directions for years when he’s at the wheel and can’t look for himself. The nearest crossroad is a couple hours away. Dean starts the car grimly, thankful that there’s plenty of fuel in the tank, and sets off.
—
The smell of blood is so heavy now that Dean can taste it on his tongue, and the blanket has started staining red over Sammy’s head. He’s waiting for nightfall, because it seems only right that he tries to summon a demon when all the light is out of the world. Sammy’s in the passenger seat again, because Dean was missing him too much when he was with Dad in the backseat.
“I’m gonna get you back, Sammy,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He hasn’t eaten since before everything happened, and he’s so hungry he’s starting to feel nauseous, but the idea of eating before Sammy gets back makes him feel even worse, so he just ignores it. If Sammy can’t eat, neither can he. “Don’t matter what I gotta do, you hear me? I’m getting both of you back.”
Sammy doesn’t say anything, but Dean can imagine him rolling his eyes. Sure, Dean, he says, except Sammy would never say anything like that; he knows Dean would never leave him. You let Dad kill me , Sam says, accusing, and Dean scrunches his eyes shut tight until colorful worms squiggle across his eyelids.
“You know I didn’t, Sammy,” he says. “I didn’t know he was gonna do that. It’s my job to protect you.”
Great job you did, says the Sammy in his head, and Dean feels his anger swell and bubble until it bursts and he shoves Sammy with all his might, like when they’re having one of their stupid fights about who gets the shower first or who’s better at reading. Sammy’s stiff, and cold, and falls with a thunk against the dashboard. A wave of nausea hits Dean, hard , and he quickly settles Sammy upright again.
“Sorry,” he says. His voice is squeaky with tears, and he swipes them angrily away. “I didn’t mean that. I’m gonna fix this, Sammy, swear to God.”
Sammy doesn’t say anything this time, not even the mean Sammy in Dean’s head. The sun is almost down, and Dean decides suddenly that this is close enough to dark. He can’t wait any longer.
The dirt is hard, packed in by years of car tires battering it down flat - Dean has to get Dad’s shovel from the trunk to dig a hole out, his nails catching and tearing when he tries to do it with his hands. It’s maybe 20 minutes of digging, sweat gathering on his forehead and under his arms, before he has a good sized hole that’ll take the tub he stole. The moon has started rising.
He takes one of Dad’s knives and cuts his arm, letting blood drip-drip-drip into the graveyard dirt and turn it muddy. Hopefully a demon will take human blood instead of some cat bone. He clicks the box shut, ignoring the blood now running slowly down his forearm towards his hand, and pushes it carefully into place, scooping dirt back over it and then patting it down with both hands until it looks the same as it was before, if not for the spots and smears of blood marking the dirt. Dean looks around. There’s nobody in sight - definitely nobody with black eyes, or demon horns or whatever.
How long does it take for a demon to get summoned? Dad’s journal didn’t say. Fuck, is he gonna have to just wait here all night?
“Deeeee-eeeean,” says a young voice, and Dean whips around.
It’s a girl, pale and blonde and wearing a white nightgown. Her eyes are bright and blue, and her smile is almost mischievous. She twirls a lock of long, shiny hair around her finger. She looks about Sammy’s age.
“Are you a demon?” Dean says, trying to pretend his voice isn’t shaking. “You don’t look like a demon.”
The girl pouts. “Is this better?” she says, and when she blinks, her eyes open black and empty. Dean takes a step back, and she giggles. “Did you do something naughty, Dean? Did you kill your Daddy?”
“I want you to bring Dad and Sammy back,” Dean says. “You- demons, you do that, right? Bring people back?”
The demon tilts her head in consideration, pigtails swinging against her shoulders. “Hmmm, I don’t think so,” she says, pouting a little. “My Daddy and your Daddy are having so much fun together. I’d hate to break up their bonding time. Your Daddy screams so prettily when he’s getting his skin peeled from the muscle.”
Dean feels like his heart is breaking in two. “Please,” he forces out, hating how weak it sounds. “We need him.” I need him.
The demon shakes her head. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you shot him in the head,” she says, fake sympathy dripping from her tongue. “Daddy’s not coming back, kid. Get used to it.”
“Sammy?” Dean says. His fists are balled so tight his fingernails are biting into his palm. The demon twists the end of her pigtail in her fingers.
“What are you gonna give me for him?” she says coyly.
“Anything,” Dean says without hesitation. “Please, I just need my brother back.”
“Even your soul?” the demon says, stepping forward and looping her arms casually around his neck, her black eyes boring into his. Her feet are bare, like she literally climbed right out of bed to come when he summoned her. Her skin feels warm and real and soft against his neck.
“Anything,” Dean says again, trying not to retch. Her breath smells like blood.
The demon pouts again, thoughtful. “Hmmmm,” she says. “You’re a bit young for me.”
“But you’re just a kid,” Dean says. The demon laughs, and this time it doesn’t sound like a kid anymore.
“Oh, Dean,” she says, grinning, her black eyes glinting. “I’m all woman, I can promise you that. Do you want to see?”
“I want my brother back,” Dean says, not quite daring to squirm out of her hold even as it tightens around his neck, her soft skin suddenly making his own crawl.
The demon sighs. “You’re no fun,” she says, almost sulkily. “Fine. Tell you what - I’ll even give you ten years before I come to collect. How does that sound? Ten more years with your precious Sammy.”
Dean’s knees almost buckle with relief. “Really?”
The demon laughs, warm air puffing over his lips. “Mhm,” she confirms. “All it’ll take is a kiss to seal the deal. And then Sammy’ll be back, right as rain, and all you have to do is figure out what you’re gonna tell him about dear old Daddy.”
“And all I have to do is give you my soul?”
“Oh, baby,” the demon croons. Her lips are almost brushing his now. “We’re gonna have so much fun when you’re a little older. I’m gonna make you scream for me.”
Dean wants her to shut up, so he kisses her. Her hand is suddenly in his hair, holding it so tight that it hurts , and when he makes a muffled sound of pain she presses somehow even closer, her other arm still around his neck so he can’t move away. Her tongue flickers across his mouth and he jerks backwards, pushing her away with enough force that he falls over, landing heavily on his ass. The demon laughs; his push hasn’t even moved her an inch.
“Tease,” she says.
“Are we done here?” Dean asks. He wants to scrub his mouth out with soap like Dad used to threaten to do. Anything to get the taste of her off of his lips.
“Ten years, Dean Winchester,” the demon says. She giggles again. “I’ll see you soon, lover-boy.”
Dean blinks, and she’s gone.
Bile finally rises high in the back of his throat; he manages to stumble to the edge of the road before he throws up, hot and stinging with acid.
Sammy, he thinks suddenly, and forces himself to get up so he can make his way back to Baby on unsteady legs. “Sammy?” he says aloud, clambering into the driver’s seat again and hastily tugging his jacket from over Sammy’s face. And it is a face; Sammy’s ruined, pulpy half-destroyed head has fixed back up into floppy brown hair and chapped lips. Dean realises he’s crying when it bursts out of him in a sob, his wet cheeks soaking the fabric when he presses his face against Sammy’s chest. “Sammy,” he says, uselessly and compulsively. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. ”
“D’n?” says Sammy, sleep-rough. “W’s ‘ppenin’?”
Dean sits back up and roughly swipes his arms over his face to clear some of the tears. The blood from his still-bleeding cut smears across one cheek and he thinks shit, shit , because there’s no way in Hell Sammy won’t notice the stink of gore filling the car, the sweet smell of something - (someone, he doesn’t think) - starting to rot, the blood and dirt coating Dean’s hands and knees. The way he can’t seem to stop crying.
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” he says thickly. “It’s alright. Just had a nightmare.”
Sammy blinks at him, still only half-awake.
“M’head hurts,” he says, squinting. Dean lays his jacket back over him, tucking it so the bloodstained part isn’t touching Sammy’s skin.
“Just go back to sleep, okay?” he says.
“Y’r okay?” Sammy asks, and when Dean nods, hoping the darkness in the car will hide his wet face, he settles back down and is asleep in moments. Dean lets a long, long breath out.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he says. “I’m okay now. It’s gonna be okay.”
He has to get rid of Dad’s body before Sammy wakes up, and try to scrub the blood outta the car’s upholstery where Dad lay on her. He’s gotta find some excuse to give Sammy that isn’t anywhere near the truth, and he’s gotta find some way to keep him safe without Dad there to protect them. But he can do it, he knows that - he made a deal with a demon for his brother. Raising him without Dad’ll be easy.
This isn’t true, of course, but it’s comforting to pretend anyway. Dean gets out, careful not to slam the door shut, and grabs the shovel.
“Sorry, Dad,” he whispers as he drags his stiff, cold body outta the backseat. “I’ll look out for him, I promise. Just like you taught me.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, not even when Dean starts covering him in dirt.