There was enough dry tinder in the old buildings and dead-fall trees to build a fine pyre for Sam's remains. Dean's face was a mask of suffering; I couldn't begin to imagine his inner turmoil. First John, then Sam, their deaths scarcely a year apart.

With our preparations concluded, he stood looking at his brother's face for the last time. Then he unfastened the talisman he wore for most of his life. I've never known where John acquired it, and Dean would never take it off long enough for me to get a good look. Some kind of ancient Persian, near as I could tell.

He placed it gently around Sam's neck, murmuring, "I was supposed to save you, Sammy, and I failed. I don't deserve protection." He leaned forward to kiss Sam's forehead, then consecrated the body with salt and stepped back. I handed him the gas can so he could anoint the bier.

Old, dry wood and gasoline. A spark would've been enough to ignite it. The torch shook in his hand. Small wonder, considering...

That talisman was ancient Persian, we found out. It invoked the healing power of the mystical phoenix. One resurrection; just add fire.