It takes a week, and the final report claims it was an accident, some faulty wires in an old building. The funeral's scheduled two days later, and Dean has to rent suits and feed Sam and wake him up in the middle of the night when he starts screaming his girl's name. It's long and tiring and Sam still looks so dead at the end of it, heading to the cemetery empty handed (because when Dean asked about flowers or a card, Sam said no. Nothing but that, no).
It's warm, still, the sun bright, so bright that colors fade, each headstone they pass are only bleak, gray masses. No inscriptions or pictures, surrounded by bland grass, half way to dead under the glaring sky. "I'm sorry, Sam." Sam just shakes his head, back and forth, frantic, before Dean lunges and grabs his elbow. "Sam."
"What, Dean?" It's acid, spit hard at him when Sam turns. But Dean manages to drag Sam closer, anyway, to wrap his arms around him when Sam tries to pull away.
It's awkward for a moment, with Sam stiff and reluctant. He doesn't relax so much as just stop, but Dean moves his right hand, finds the back of Sam's neck. It's always been his spot, that brief touch, to offer comfort or understanding when he couldn't always use words. "I'm sorry," and he feels Sam shake under his hands.
He's gotten used to this at night, when Sam's half out of his mind with nightmares and grief, but out here - in daylight - it feels strange, knowing that anybody could look and see. Everything. Sam's pain, Dean's confusion. But he can't pull away, not until he hears, "we're going to be late."
Then they move apart and straighten clothes, start heading forward again, closer and closer to the green tent covering the gravesite.
It's a small, private funeral with a hushed ceremony only broken once by a tiny blonde's sobbing. Jess's parents walk up to Sam at the end, and it's stiff and awkward, and Sam's face is so strained that Dean almost wishes he'd just cry. After that, Sam's covered in people, Jess's friends he guesses. Crying and asking questions and trying to offer comfort or get comfort.
Dean watches from the sidelines. No one approaches him, not until Sam's the only one left.
Sam swallows, tosses his head after the last few stragglers. "Local church."
"You wanna...?"
"No," Sam's lips twist. "Dean."
Sam's eyes are bright, brighter than Dean's seen them since the fire. "Hey." I've got you. It's okay. "Let's get going, then."
He hears Sam breathe deep beside him, and then they start walking.
FILLED - 3/3
It's warm, still, the sun bright, so bright that colors fade, each headstone they pass are only bleak, gray masses. No inscriptions or pictures, surrounded by bland grass, half way to dead under the glaring sky. "I'm sorry, Sam." Sam just shakes his head, back and forth, frantic, before Dean lunges and grabs his elbow. "Sam."
"What, Dean?" It's acid, spit hard at him when Sam turns. But Dean manages to drag Sam closer, anyway, to wrap his arms around him when Sam tries to pull away.
It's awkward for a moment, with Sam stiff and reluctant. He doesn't relax so much as just stop, but Dean moves his right hand, finds the back of Sam's neck. It's always been his spot, that brief touch, to offer comfort or understanding when he couldn't always use words. "I'm sorry," and he feels Sam shake under his hands.
He's gotten used to this at night, when Sam's half out of his mind with nightmares and grief, but out here - in daylight - it feels strange, knowing that anybody could look and see. Everything. Sam's pain, Dean's confusion. But he can't pull away, not until he hears, "we're going to be late."
Then they move apart and straighten clothes, start heading forward again, closer and closer to the green tent covering the gravesite.
It's a small, private funeral with a hushed ceremony only broken once by a tiny blonde's sobbing. Jess's parents walk up to Sam at the end, and it's stiff and awkward, and Sam's face is so strained that Dean almost wishes he'd just cry. After that, Sam's covered in people, Jess's friends he guesses. Crying and asking questions and trying to offer comfort or get comfort.
Dean watches from the sidelines. No one approaches him, not until Sam's the only one left.
Sam swallows, tosses his head after the last few stragglers. "Local church."
"You wanna...?"
"No," Sam's lips twist. "Dean."
Sam's eyes are bright, brighter than Dean's seen them since the fire. "Hey." I've got you. It's okay. "Let's get going, then."
He hears Sam breathe deep beside him, and then they start walking.