3.
We are going to blow up Jo.
We are going to blow her up.
We are going to blow her sky high in a grave of salt and nails and fire and demons.
Dean was pretty sure he wasn't breathing as he collected all the ingredients. He rushed around grabbing, and moving as fast as he could.
The faster he moved, the faster it'd all go to hell.
Not literally of course. Not this time. He couldn't imagine Ellen or Jo going to hell.
Sam and Dean carefully ran the lines, propane to wire, to salt and nails, to Jo – and Ellen curled around her daughter as if that would somehow stop the inevitable.
2.
It went up in a ball of fire.
Appropriate it seemed. They were hunters and going out without a fight would be inappropriate. So cliché. One big cliché.
When he turned around he wanted to imagine some miracle, some miracle of Jo and Ellen walking out of the flames with gun in hand.
But he couldn't.
Because Jo had her guts ripped out by a Hell Hound and couldn't walk or breathe or live and Ellen would never leave her daughter. Ever.
And because he's seen too many people die, in sad ways, noble ways, desperate, angry, depressing ways.
Too many people he'd cared about, known for a moment, barely met, gone in an instant forever.
Taken away by the ugly monsters that slipped under the covers, and beneath the bed.
1.
So, he looked at Sam, and forgot.
Because if he didn't there's no way he could take another step.