Purgatory is warm.
The leafmould beneath Dean's boots, the decomposition, the moist rot of fallen trees.
Benny's skin against his own, so unexpected. Topside, vampires are cold.
Dean spent seven years remembering, with the defiant hope that Benny still lived.
He existed, somewhere.
Dean was closer now than he'd been in too long, and the warmth filled him right to his core, but then—
"Dead, long time ago. His own kind, they didn’t trust him..."
Breeze on Dean's skin, moss on the trees, still warm.
But inside, he's suddenly ice cold.
He puts it aside.
There's work to be done.