The sky over the Kansas field is bleeding out in shades of orange and violet. The air is cool, smelling of dry grass and distant rain. The Impala sits silent and black on the dirt track, a monument to the moment.

Dean Winchester leans against the driver’s side door, hands in his jacket pockets. His shoulders are tight. Sam stands a few feet away, hands also shoved deep into his own pockets, his gaze fixed on the horizon. You are between them, facing the west, your back to Dean.

He looks away.

The gunshot is a thunderclap in the quiet field. The birds in a distant copse explode into the sky in a panic of wings.