A/N: For deangirl1, just because.

The coffin burns. Dean's pale, touchy - coughing up a lung.

The Roadhouse isn't far from here.

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Sam almost wishes he'd been taking notes. Terse words, a flick of the wrist - mercury shaken down, buried in Dean's mouth to rise again - Ellen can be scary. Dean sags at the bar, lips tight and ashy, and Sam can't catch his eye.

Three minutes of quiet beer, soft words traded - Dean's a statue - then: "GhaaACHHOOOO!" - the thermometer rockets clear across the counter, shatters on the floor as Dean dissolves in helpless, flustered hacks.

Ellen's eyebrows raise. "That's bed, hon."

Sam can't help toasting.