Chapter 3: Burying the Dead

Seasons don't fear the reaper,
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.
We can be like they are.
Come on, baby.
Don't fear the reaper.
-Blue Oyster Cult

Sam buried his brother in Blue Earth.

It went against everything his father had taught him, but his father was not there. So he drove the body to Minnesota alone. Dug the grave by himself. Tried to pretend it was just another salt and burn, only without the salting or the burning.

"Does this feel like any other job to you?"

No. He was digging Dean's fucking grave. There was no way to make that okay. But somehow he managed to complete the too-familiar task without shattering or melting or bleeding out or any of the thousand ways his brother's death threatened to destroy him.

There could be no official burial for Dean. As far as the relevant authorities were concerned, Dean Winchester had died in St. Louis, the prime suspect in a series of brutal murders: an ignomious footnote to the parade of inexplicable brutality that filtered through the nation's newspapers and disappeared as quickly as it arose. There could be no death certificate, no headstone, unless it were under a false name and that Sam simply could not bear.

It was Pastor Jim who provided Sam with a solution. Pastor Jim, whose freshly scorched bones lay buried in salt three plots over. Sam had called in desperation, not knowing who would answer the phone or how they might help, only remembering that this church, with its adjacent graveyard, had felt a little like a home once. It was here that Sam had learned to see cemeteries as resting places for the dead and not just creepy battlefields that had to be navigated with shotguns and shovels.

Dean hadn't been afraid of graveyards because his father had taught him that they were just part of the job, like forging silver bullets or shooting ghosts instead of running from them. Sam no longer feared graveyards because a kind priest had once given him a few happy memories during a childhood that had been too full of darkness.

Jim Murphy's death had not knocked St. Michael's out of the fight. The young nun who received Sam's call instantly picked up on the true meaning behind his cautious, coded inquiries. She knew what was out there in the dark and knew the part the Winchesters played in the war against it. She was willing to make all the necessary arrangements. If she saw forgery and the improper disposal of human remains as violations of her vows, she didn't show it.

When he'd arrived, she'd been standing in the doorway of the church, not looking much like a nun in jeans and an AC/DC shirt that reminded Sam painfully of Dean. He could only guess at her story, but her sad eyes told him that it was as full of violence and grief as his own. He didn't need any freaky psychic visions to reveal who had buried Pastor Jim. He could tell from the way she quietly faded into the church when he started working that she understood his need to perform this last duty to his brother by himself, no matter how fiercely his mind recoiled at the idea of putting his brother's cold body in the earth with his own hands.

Dean's name could not appear on any records, but Sam refused to give him an unmarked grave. He had the stone engraved with a simple line drawing of a Winchester rifle - the first Winchester, the 1866.

"God didn't make all men equal. Samuel Colt did." Dean is shoving cartridges into the breech with more alacrity than a ten-year-old has any right to. He looks up at Sammy and grins. "And Oliver Winchester made them equal at greater distances."

Grave digging was a tough enough job with two people; by himself, it took Sam hours to dig the hole and fill it again. The sun was just setting when he patted down the last of the dirt and kneeled next to it. Cold November wind iced the sweat on his neck as he stared at his brother's grave.

He waited for something to happen, for some meaning to soften the harsh fact of what had happened. He thought about the dream, and wondered for the thousandth, gut-wrenching time if it had been only that. In the past, he had often fervently wished that all his dreams were only dreams, and not supernatural visions. Now he felt like the opposite sentiment was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

There was a moment when he thought he felt something stirring in the lengthening shadows, thought he saw a flash of light like two luminous eyes beneath one of the red pines that bordered the small boneyard. Then the feeling was gone and the deepening night was once again merely cold and empty.

Sam watched as the Hunter's Moon crested the horizon and lit up the world below like a giant second sun. It made the earth look as though it were stuck in a permanent twilight of grays and washed-out blues. A landscape devoid of extraneous visual cues, designed with purely utilitarian intentions. Sam suddenly ached for something to hunt, to chase down and punish. He wanted to end something.

A steaming cup of coffee appeared in his peripheral vision and startled him out of his aggressive melancholy. He hadn't heard any approaching footsteps, but when his eyes followed the angle of the arm holding the mottled styrofoam, he found the young nun standing next to him. He accepted her offering wordlessly. The coffee was black, strong and bitter, but he wasn't feeling particularly picky.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but Sam broke it anyway.

"I'm sorry. About Pastor Jim..."

"Don't."

Sam looked up at her in surprise and her eyes softened, though her tone remained firm.

"I just mean...don't act like you didn't lose him too. And don't pretend that your family is to blame."

Sam looked back to the freshly packed dirt.

"He'd still be alive if it weren't for us," he said quietly, his voice breaking just the tiniest bit because he wasn't sure he was just talking about Pastor Jim anymore.

"Bullshit," she said. And then, "No offense," off the look he gave her.

He tried to formulate a response, but she seemed to know what he was going to say.

"The blame for a crime rests with the criminal, not the victims. Always. Don't beat yourself up over what that evil son of a bitch did. You do that and you stay a victim. That's letting the demon win."

Sam found his eyes drawn to the 9mm Glock resting in a well-worn holster on her shoulder. She noticed the glance and smiled tightly.

"Pastor Jim taught me that."

Sam looked away and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. A few more moments of unpressured silence passed before he took a steadying breath and rose to his feet.

"Thanks. For everything," he said, making a vague inclusive gesture with the hand that was still clutching the coffee. He realized suddenly that he had never asked her name, but couldn't think of a polite way to broach the subject.

She nodded once. "You heading back tonight?"

"I think so." Now that he had finished what he'd come there to do, all Sam wanted to do was leave, to drive away and keep driving forever.

"You let me know if you need any help tracking that fucker down," she replied as she turned back towards the church.

Sam took one last look at the fresh grave, clenching his jaw against the agonizing pain in his chest.

"I will do that."