It was after a hunt that he saw it.

Dean had just finished salting and torching the body of a particularly nasty ghost. Sam had chosen to wait by the car for the fire to burn itself out; any fire still made him a little jumpy. After putting the last shovelful of dirt back into place with a tired sigh, he saw it peeking through the tress.

An angel statue.

It looked brighter than it should in the dark. It stood proud above a grave he couldn't read from where he was standing. Its wings were open halfway, still large and looming in the distance. He dropped his shovel. Took a shaky, uncertain step toward it.

"Dean? Are you—"

Dean whirled around and deflated when he realized it was just Sam, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Don't," Dean answered.

"But Dean, he isn't coming back."

"I said don't," he choked out. A few paces more and he reached the car. He got in and barely gave Sam enough time to get in the car and close his own door before peeling out.


He came back the next day.

He couldn't help it.

He told himself it didn't matter if he left this town.

He'd find another cemetery in the next one.


Dean didn't pray. It would be weak to give in.


He made a trip every once in a while, whenever he could get away, whenever Sammy was asleep or just passed out. It's not like either of them slept much anyway.

Dean hurried through the cemetery of whatever town he was currently in, always looking for the best statue he could find. The one with the biggest wings. He knelt in front of it. He imagined a tie around its neck. He imagined pulling on it as hard as he could.

He didn't pray. He sat on the cold ground, shivering, waiting. It was better than drinking most nights.

Nothing ever happened.

Dean would wait until it did.