Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely reviews guys, you're the best. I'm so happy people are liking my first ever fic. This chapter is short, but perfectly formed ;-) Enjoy!

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Dean was waiting in the Impala, as instructed, trying hard to keep his eyes open in the biting gloom. Through the fluttering slits of his eyes he focused, caught glimpses of the spider-like shadows of trees as they crept over silver gravestones.

Just a quick detour on the way back to the motel, Sam had said. Dean had known what he meant without asking, and didn't argue. Didn't have the strength to. Couldn't, when the dead kid in question had just tried to kill him.

God, he wanted to throw up. He leant forward in the seat and wrapped his arms around his stomach, forehead lightly resting on the dashboard. Drops of rain began to bounce off the windshield.

When he heard a scream, low and angry, all his senses snapped at once.

Sam.

Dean flung open the door and staggered out into the muddy gravel path, expletives willing his feet to move in the general direction of the sudden cry. Shit, which way?

He stumbled forward a few steps before he remembered he needed his gun. Hands slipped on the wet trunk, fumbled, nearly fell when it sprung open. He grabbed his favorite shotgun, solid and heavy.

With the weapon in his hand he was stronger, steadier. His feet regained some purchase on the slick ground, abandoned the pathway to run across grass that shone in the moonlight. He slipped around graves, bruised his hip on headstones, ran where his gut pulled him.

"Sam! Sammy!"

The silence was long, too long. The rain was heavier now, pouring into Dean's eyes, his hair slick against his forehead. Then a voice penetrated the darkness: "I'm all right, Dean. Go back to the car!" But Dean didn't believe him, not when he couldn't see him.

He followed the arch of his brother's call, feet sloshing through the sodden ground, water in his shoes. Hand frozen to his gun. Peered through darkness in all directions.

Finally, he glimpsed a glistening head of hair poking out of a grave, dirt flying over it from the end of a silhouetted spade. In the dim light strong arms threw the shovel onto the grass, and Sam clambered out after it, wiping his hands on his thighs. Panting. He stooped to pick up a bag of salt and began pouring it over the splintered coffin.

"What happened, Sam?" Dean shouted over the rain.

Sam turned, startled, last remains of the salt spilled onto the grass. "Dean? What the hell are you doing here? I told you to go back to the car." His wet clothes clung tightly to his skin.

Dean breathed hard between each word. "Tell.. me... what... happened." A longer breath drawn in, and out, in again. "Are you... okay?"

Pause. "Nothing happened, Dean. I found the grave, dug it up, poured salt into it, you turned up." Sam walked towards him, frowning.

Dean rasped hesitantly, "But, I heard... heard you scream."

"Not me, Dean." Sam shone the flashlight in his face. "You all right?"

Dean raised his arm to his eyes until the light was taken away. Didn't answer, just stood there, chest heaving.

"Please go back to the car Dean," Sam pleaded. "You look like you're about to fall down."

Dean ignored the request. He turned his back and walked over to pick up the gas canister from the ground, approached the edge of the pit and started pouring. The sound of liquid falling, splashing, more insistent than the rain.

"No, we can-" he paused to cough, "-do this together." Last dregs of fuel dripped into the hole. "I'm not... useless." He spat the last word out hard. Then he threw the empty canister into the grave and waited for Sam to light the match. Watched him throw it in.

Job done. Tim Wilkins, age twelve, salted and burned.

Sam shielded his face from the flames and took a few steps backwards.

Dean just stared.

And, standing in the fire-emblazoned blackness, realized. Laughed a little, because it was funny, wasn't it? How he had been drawn towards reenactments of the very things he was trying to forget, lurched away from one bad memory into another, and another. Life mirroring death.

The flames engulfed everything. The air, the oxygen, his feelings, thoughts. Grass scorched. He felt the fire's heat, its burning heat, in the pit of his soul. Aware of Sam's hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him away from the edge. Gentle, not hard or overpowering. His eyes burned and watered. Staring into the fiery abyss.

He threw up when he saw Tim's bones poking out of the pyre.

"Shit, Dean, why don't you listen to me?" On his knees in the wet grass, retching. Hand rubbing his back. "Come on, let's get you to bed." First time he'd thrown up in front of Sam without being drunk since he was twelve.

They were half way to the car before he managed the wisecrack reply: "I don't swing that way, dude."

TBC