He's laid across the bench seat, hands cupped against his chest. He doesn't look like he's just sleeping, but bodies never do. That's just a myth.
His cheeks are sinking in lopsidedly, their bones bending and cracking like dry reeds--the way they do when Grace reaches its boiling point. It's like Jack was only ever spun from paper, after all.
At some point they must decide that if they're getting out of here, they're taking the body, because Dean tries the door and when it's locked he swings for the window, and Sam never tries to stop him. The swing takes Dean's whole body with it, and he collapses against the truck as his knees buckle. The glass caught between his body and the truck's squeaks as Dean rights himself.
The rest of Jack's body is as dessicated as his face. Sam can see the pocks and divots of Cas's hands, when he'd first brought him to the truck. So that's what it's like to be burned by God Himself, then--no quarter.
Dean braces as though he's still banking on the body being north of 100 pounds, tugs from the waist. But Jack slides out easy, crumples against Dean's legs like a wind sock.
Sam forces himself not to look away. Not even to pretend he's scouting the treeline.
Sam's seen bodies in a lot of different states of decomp, a lot of different pretzels.
This is still wrong.
But maybe for the best, if "the best" exists in the end, because he doesn't think Dean could do this otherwise. That gravestone's really coming for him, now--he's moving like it's his body made of stone, and when Sam suggests they leave something in Jack's place, his reply is breathless.
"What, like a tip? You-- you wanna--"
"I dunno, so Cas knows it was us, and some scavenger didn't take him. Zombie stuff." Sam's already tried his phone, but there's no service. Not that he'd checked before the showdown, but he's pretty sure it's an End Times issue, not a T-Mobile one.
Sam scans the treeline. Still no Cas.
Silent, Dean holds his hand out. Sam hands him God's gun.
Dean tucks it in the glove box.
"It's where he keeps the keys," Dean explains, turning back to Sam. "He always-- He-- It doesn't matter. He'll see it. Motherfuck--"
Jack's body slips to the ground. He moves like paper. Dean, when he moves to catch him, moves like stone. He halts halfway down, and his hands gnarl into his thighs. They go white as the blood clenches away from them.
Sam waits for Dean to resurface, just barely, then thrusts the fence stakes at him. Only then does he bend to pick up Jack. Someone should always be armed.
Jack's body is light enough to handle one-handed, and Sam balances Jack's head against his bad shoulder, hikes him up like a gangly infant. Sam feels the body pucker, crinkle, collapse.
"You good?" Sam asks, when he starts towards the car and Dean doesn't follow.
Dean doesn't bother saying no. Just hisses, Not a-fucking-gain. Which--speaking completely honestly--could mean anything.
Carefully, Sam lays Jack's body in the backseat. Dean makes his way over, crutched against the Impala's body all the way.
"No Cas," Sam says, scanning the treeline again.
"Cas is fine," says Dean. He gestures toward the backseat. "And clearly had some free time. He's fine. We don't leave the road, he'll find us again. He's fine."
Dean takes a shuddering breath, flicks his gaze to the darkened sky, then to the open graves. "We need to figure out how bad this is."
Sam slams the Impala's back door. Dean flinches.
"Oh, we already know," says Sam.