Sam and Dean are hunters. Just by that title, they knew how the end goes. Bodies are burned and memories are left with the ashes. But Sam couldn’t do that with Dean. He couldn’t burn his brother’s body and just walk away. So Sam set to work on a coffin. The worn boards slowly began to form a crude bed as he worked through the night, hammering and sawing. He was awkward with the unfamiliar tools and once hit his thumb instead of a nail. It didn’t even compare to the wrenching pain inside of him.
Bobby finally came out in the early hours of the morning, set a hand on his shoulder, and quietly said, “I’ll finish this, son. Go get some sleep.” Sam’s puffy eyes admitted to his exhaustion as much as they confessed to the tears that had fallen steadily throughout the night. Bobby slowly finished the coffin, hammering together the final boards for the lid.
It took a day for Sam to find the courage to actually place Dean’s body in there. Bobby had removed the blood covered clothes and Sam fought to believe that Dean was just sleeping peacefully. They drove in silence to the field. It wasn’t a special place, just somewhere that suited a hunter’s burial. The two men shoveled out a hollow grave and then lifted the coffin from the bed of the truck and carefully set it in its final resting place.
Before closing the lid, Sam felt in his pocket for the old lighter and slipped it into Dean’s cold hand. “In case you need it, man.” His voice broke and he stepped back, letting the lid fall. Bobby returned from the truck and, without a word, set a wooden cross in front of the grave. He’d made it when he finished the coffin earlier. It only seemed right.