Dean dumped another shovelful of dirt into the open grave.
"It's not like I didn't warn you," he said conversationally. "Don't push me. I told you." More dirt in the hole. "Short-tempered, that's me." Dean shook his head regretfully.
Scrape. Dump.
"Man who's gonna play pool oughta know there's always somebody better waiting to kick your ass." He dumped in one last shovelful and tamped the earth down. "And you definitely oughta know you don't lay hands on a man who carries an eight-inch Bowie knife." He grinned, green eyes sharp and predatory. "Guess he learned that lesson a little too late, huh, Sammy?"
Sam, sitting next to the grave, eyes lambent in the moonlight, remained silent.
Tossing the shovel down, Dean extended a hand to his brother and pulled him up into a hard kiss. "You mad at me, baby?"
Sam shook his head.
Dean stroked a gentle hand down Sam's cheek and Sam smiled and leaned into it.
"You ever gonna talk again, Sammy?"
In answer, Sam offered his mouth and Dean covered it with his own. After a slow, warm, silent space, Dean murmured, "It's okay if you don't want to talk, Sammy. There's lots of other things you can do with your mouth."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Okay, I got no freaking clue where this came from, but it's gonna be fun.