Everyone quickly left the danger zone.
The wind outside Tranquil Valley carried a chill, stirring the loose strands of hair over Dean's forehead. He, Sam, and Bobby Singer stood silently before the newly piled pyre.
Old Marcus's remains, which might have carried unknown pathogens, had been carefully placed at the center of the woodpile. The gasoline poured over them gave off a pungent stench.
Bobby took out a metal lighter, his fingers rubbing its cold casing. It had been a gift from Old Marcus when Bobby had first entered the trade, engraved with simple demon-hunting runes.
He took a deep breath, flicked it open with a snap, lit the flame, and tossed it onto the pyre.
"Boom—!"
Flames surged up in an instant, orange-red tongues greedily devouring the last traces of the old demon hunter.
There was no eulogy, no flowers—only the silent gazes of three comrades and the crackling of the fire.
The sight clenched their hearts tighter than any demon's roar.
Bobby heavily pressed his rough, callused hands onto Dean and Sam's shoulders. His voice was low and hoarse, as though weathered by years and gunpowder smoke alike. "See that, boys? That's where this line of work ends."
"Dying like Old Marcus, leaving behind bones that can at least be properly burned instead of becoming some hellhound's chew toy—or worse. You won't even find that in two out of ten."
He paused, the flames reflected in his pupils. "Don't feel sorry for him. He made peace with it a long time ago. Using what was left of him to pave a road for those who came after—that was the path he chose. We have to keep walking it for him. Don't let this fire burn without meaning."
Dean stared at the all-consuming flames, his jaw clenched tight. At