This story is set in Season 11 following the episode The Vessel.

Chapter 1

Dean had been standing there for nearly five minutes, flipping the pack of matches over and over in his hand. He hadn't really imagined that this part would be so hard. Of all the things he had done over the past few hours, he had thought this simple act would be perfunctory, automatic. Truthfully, maybe he had expected to simply be numb at this point. Everything was ready to go. All he had to do was light the damn thing. How many times had he done this?

Too many – his mind answered. Around and around his head the argument went, always ending in the same place.

Just light it up –

I can't, I just –

Why not? This is nothing. This is just the way the business works –

It might not be over, something could have gone wrong –

You know he's been standing back there for ages now. He would have stopped you if something was wrong –

I just can't do it –

Of course you can. How many times have you done this? –

Too many –

And on and on it went. The pack of matches kept flipping, and Dean kept standing there, and the night kept getting darker.

He could feel the cold seeping through his clothes now. It was just early March, but temperatures had been surprisingly mild for a few days. It looked like spring might actually be on its way. Dean had noticed a particular tree that was blossoming along many of the roadsides. It was generally small and gnarled, seeming to fight for its place against bigger, thicker trees, but it had a tiny purple bloom that appeared to spread over every inch of its branches. Seen from a distance, these blooms had a hazy quality, like a purple aura surrounding the tree, and the color was vibrantly obvious among the winter-bare branches of the surrounding vegetation. Dean had even gone so far as to Google the name of the tree. It was called a redbud, according to some site, which he thought was stupid since it was clearly purple, but he had to admit that he liked spotting the little things.

He had surprised himself with his interest. Trees were not usually something he spared much attention for. He finally decided he simply liked what the little trees represented – something small, insignificant, yet struggling to show the world that better days were coming.

The redbuds had been dead wrong, of course. Over the last couple of days, the weather had done an abrupt 180 and returned to winter with a vengeance. Wouldn't you know it, Dean had thought to himself with more resignation than bitterness. Resignation had become a habit some time ago. Bitterness was an active thing, something that required strength, and Dean had so little of that left. Apparently not even enough to light one simple match. There he stood, the cold encircling him, creeping into his bones – into his heart –

"I know you're there," he said with sudden gruffness. "You might as well come out and quit skulking around."

"I didn't know if you would want anyone with you or not." Cas emerged from the surrounding trees where he had been silently standing. "I don't believe I was skulking…"

"Whatever. Everything good? He's set?"

"Yes, I saw him, everything is…as good as could be expected." Cas answered the abrupt queries.

"Did you talk to him? Did he say anything?" Cas was silent for a moment.

"I did not talk to him. I'm not sure, but it seemed an awkward time to engage in conversation." Dean exhaled in what was almost a chuckle.

"I guess that's some progress, Cas. At least you know when to be uncomfortable." They both stood without speaking for some time longer, Dean staring straight ahead and Cas glancing at him occasionally to see if he was making any move toward completing his task. Cas finally broke the silence.

"Dean, I can do this for you if you would rather not."

Dean began shaking his head before he spoke.

"No…no…I have to…I mean, thanks, Cas, I know you're trying to help…but I have to…" Dean took a long breath, "…I have to do this myself." He tried to smile. "I didn't build this overgrown pyre just to let somebody else set it off."

"I assume it is larger than most pyres would need to be," Cas said thoughtfully, forcing an actual laugh from Dean. He was still laughing as he rubbed both hands briskly over his face, rubbing feeling back into his frozen skin, rubbing away the tears that had fallen.

Finally, he tilted his head back and took a steadying breath. Then looking straight ahead, Dean pulled a match from the pack, struck it on the side of the box, and threw the tiny flame in front of him.

The pyre was well built and soaked with gasoline. From the spark of the little match, it was engulfed in flames almost immediately. Dean forced himself to watch as the white-shrouded figure atop the structure caught the surrounding fire and began to burn.

Too many, he thought to himself. That was how many times he had burned a loved one's remains on just such a pyre. But this would be the last one.

"Bye, Sammy."