Dean did not talk about feelings, or emotions. In fact, he much preferred to keep those bottled up and away on a shelf, covering everything with humor, and up until a few months ago, brief moments of pleasure with the occasional stranger. But, today, twenty-or-so years ago, his mother had burned in that old house, so Sam proposed that now was as good a moment as ever to visit her grave— purely memorial, there was nothing but an empty casket beneath that dirt.

He couldn’t step within five feet of it. Jesus, he hated this. He stayed by you while Sam set flowers by the headstone, and didn’t say a single word. It hurt even you, seeing him so unable to allow grief, even so long after the loss.