There's a grave, and a fire, and Dad's got the shovel and is already heading back to the car.
Dean's hands dance over the flames, not quite touching, but sparks will shower his fingertips and leave little white specks on his skin.
Sam has seen it before, the dim yellow light glowing under motel bathroom doors in the dead of night, when Dad's asleep or still at the local bar, and Sam knows that Dean's fingers are twitching over the burn of his lighter.
He doesn't say anything when Sam asks, tells him he doesn't know what he's talking about. But Dean's scared of fire, always has been, and Sam can tell in the way he stands too close to the grave, so close that the light goes straight through, bathing him in shimmering gold. His eyes are dark and threatening, a cooling contrast to the blaze.
Dad doesn't look back, because he knows. He remembers.
Dean's hands trace the melody of the heat, twisting and gliding (conducting, Sam thinks) to music only he can hear in the roar of the inferno. He wonders if Dean can see their mother. He wonders if she follows his movements, up, up, before she disappears into smoke.
He'll kiss scorch-red knuckles later, medicate Dean's trembling hands from the too hot. Hold them in his, rough and still-baby-soft mingled together in a mess of mended broken.
But for now, he lets Dean's hands dance over the flames.