Guilt clawed its way under Dean's skin, kept him pacing back and forth along the bank of the quiet lake.
Dammit, why had he snapped at Sam?
It had been Dean's decision last night to call it quits and head back to the motel, not Sam's. Dean's stupidity and a sixteen-year-old girl had died for it. Died screaming. Died bloody and scared and alone.
And her mother – God.
The memory of the poor woman's anguished wails at the morgue that morning tore through him, flayed his soul, and Dean glared out across the lake's still surface.
"Show yourself, you bastard!"