December 2006
The smell of wet earth permeated the night air. It probably made most people think of gardening or camping holidays, but for Dean, it recalled an endless parade of cemeteries in the darkness. Open graves, moldering mausoleums, corpses closer to soil than humanity.
He breathed slowly through his mouth, letting the frigid air ghost over his tongue and tasting the moisture in it. For a strange moment he had the impression he was dissolving into it, a walking corpse finally rotting.
Then, his brother's match flared and Dean shook himself, leaning into the warmth of the growing fire.
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AN: Morbid, I know. But hey, not really a good year for Dean....