Author's Note: A drabble I wrote almost two years ago that I just realized I forgot to post here. Whoops.
Dean wiped his forehead on his plaid sleeve and stared at the smear of dirt on the fabric. He had a couple more weeks to make do before laundry day.
"Dean."
The command straightened Dean's spine and he hefted the shovel in his small hands, striking the dirt hard enough to make his bones shake. He tried to regulate his breathing against the thick odor of dirt and rotting leaves, his body jerking with each restrained cough. The worn slab beside him drew his gaze and he prepared to deliver another blow, when the shovel was wrenched from his grasp.
"I didn't mess up," Dean said.
"We're passed the rulers, Dean." John stared down at him, his hands strategic in their position on the handle.
"I know," Dean said. John stared down at him, still gripping the handle. Dean could feel the sweat dripping into his eyes, making them sting. His eyes burned, but he kept his hands at his sides. "I'm sorry."
Dean tried not to flinch when those words came out, when John thrust the shovel back into his hands.
"Don't be sorry. Just get it right," John ordered.
Dean gave the expected nod and returned to the small dent he had spent the last hour working into the dirt. He studied the ground and aimed each strike at the right angle. Sweat stung his eyes and the dirty sleeve burned each time he tried to wipe it away, but he kept going.
John said they would be digging graves till dawn, but maybe if he got the next couple right, he would get a reprieve.