The fire dances and swirls, spits and hisses. It's a macabre medley of sights and sounds and Dean can't tear his eyes away from it. Orange and red and blue and white. Colours melding into one another, sparking off each other. He knows he should be heading back to the Impala, back to where he left his brother lying on the back seat, bleeding. He knows this fascination of his is unhealthy but as he stares into the depths of the flames, he can't bring himself to care.

He's not sure how long he's been standing here, lost in the heat of another banished spirit, but it's long enough for the flames to have died down from a blazing inferno to an almost hypnotically gentle waltz. He feels tired. Tired in his bones, tired in his soul. He can hear the leaves rustling in the night breeze and the crickets chirping happily in the long grass beyond the manicured lawns of the graveyard. He laughs silently to himself as he imagines the look on the gravediggers faces when they arrive in the morning to continue their work. He tries to make it a rule to fill in holes they've dug but Sammy is waiting for him and somehow he needs to drag himself out of this stupor and get back to him. He shakes himself down, pausing to brush imaginary flecks of ash from his jacket, and gathers the tools of his trade to him. He takes one last look at the fire, diminished again to a pile of glowing embers, and turns wearily back to the Impala and Sam.