"Walt...?"

The British Men of Letters American Chapter were destroyed, and the explosives - Walt's explosives - were set to obliterate the buildings. They'd placed the bodies of the fallen hunters in an empty room to be incinerated in the blast and as soon as Walt flicked the switch the countdown timer would commence.

But Walt was crouched next to his brother, not moving, not speaking, not reacting, just crouched, waiting, grieving.

"If you want, if you – if you – " Sam cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say. He wanted to ask, almost asked, Can I help? but it was a stupid question and he knew it was a stupid question. He knew it better than anybody. Brother grieving brother, there was no help for that. And leaving a brother behind? That was its own kind of hell.

"We'll take him," he said. "We'll take Roy and give him a hunter's funeral. All right? We won't leave him here."

Walt nodded. He looked at Sam and nodded and started to say something then didn't. He looked at Roy and nodded again. He lifted Roy over his shoulder and followed Sam and Jody out the building and got his brother settled and covered in the backseat of their car.

It was a scene so familiar, it made Sam sick.

"I know a few places," Jody offered. Walt shook his head.

"No, I know – we've got a place." He looked at Sam. "We've talked about it, you know? We – agreed – we – " He sniffed and straightened his shoulders and looked into his car. "I'll take care of Roy. I need to – we need to – him and me, we need to take care of this by ourselves."

"I understand," Sam told him and Walt managed a short, painful chuckle.

"I know you do," he said. "I appreciate it."

"Walt, if you need anything, call," Jody said and Sam echoed her.

"Anything at all. You call us."

"Yeah."

And they got into their vehicles and drove away and behind them the compound erupted into fireballs and tinder.

The End.