Later, Dean would blame exhaustion for the fact that Roger managed to bury that clump of hair before Dean even had a hand out, but the truth was, he'd been too shocked to move.

That blissful numb of surprise didn't last for long, no, in an instant it was replaced with cold, blind panic. Dean's knees hit the ground, one hand beating frantically at the earth covering the hair and leaves, the other slipping the gun from his waistband. "Fuck you," he muttered around a throat locked up so tight it was a wonder he could speak at all. His head spun wildly, searching for a threat to Roger, and when he found none Dean used the barrel of the gun to dig deep, desperate grooves in the ground until he saw green.