So this is what death smells like. He's heard the phrase before, in movies, in books, but he never really knew what it meant until now. He thinks he could have gone his whole life without knowing.
Standing back, slightly apart from the others, he really does not want a good look at whatever, whoever, is lying under that sheet. He's not even quite sure why he's here; he doesn't have the same relationship with J.R. that the others do. His father's older brother had been something of a shadowy figure throughout his childhood and adolescence, someone to be respected, but also feared, and he had been careful to maintain a certain distance. The man had always seemed somewhat disdainful of his young nephew's beginnings in life, and his lack of Ewing blood. Though now, as an adult, he's willing to consider the possibility that maybe he had just been too sensitive. J.R. was an acquired taste; now it seems likely he'll never have the opportunity to acquire it.
An entire lifetime passes in the moments before J.R.'s face is revealed, as pale and still as marble, and then, from beside him, comes a sharp inhalation as Sue Ellen starts quietly crying. John Ross looks angry, like he wants to punch someone, anyone, and he walks off with clenched fists to the back of the room. His dad seems to be in shock, motionless, staring at the body with hollow, haunted eyes. They're each caught up in their own grief, all of them too immersed in their private pain to see what's happening to the others.
He walks over and wraps his arms around his sobbing aunt, just in time to keep her from sliding to the cold concrete floor.
This is why he's here. He's here for his family.
It's what they do.