Edward is a scientist. He does not believe in the afterlife. But staring at the match in his hand, he has no choice but to believe in hell.
The evidence sits in his palm, deceptively innocent. Fragile. If he wanted to, he could snap it in half between his fingers - metal or flesh ones. The notion is more tempting than it should be, after they've come this far. Then Al's armor creaks in the wind, the chill soaking right through Edward's coat and cutting to the bone, and Edward thinks: it won't be cold for very long.
He throws the matchstick before he can think again.
The spark takes only a second to catch, spreading across the gasoline-doused husk of his childhood home with a desperate hunger. There's a roar of sound, a rush of embers, as the blaze takes hold. He blinks. The entire house is up in flames. The entire house is up in flames and all Edward can think about is how much the fire, snaking up the roof and towards the sky, looks like a hand. A hand that is reaching, reaching, reaching. For something nobody else can see. For something it was never meant to have.
Yeah. When he's close enough to feel the heat and smell the smoke, it's impossible to deny. This is hellfire.
"Well," Edward says softly. "No going back for us now, brother."