He dreams about her.
Somewhere between the reoccurring nightmares and fitful lulls of sleep, she pops up like a wildflower, sprouting in the dead of winter - so full of life and heavy with promise.
She's tangible and looks like she did that first day he'd met her. Defiant, yet naïve, with the big bad world ahead of her, just like Sammy.
He knows though. It comes to him in flashes: screaming, crimson, burning. He shakes his head, turns to his left and she's swimming in his vision, blond locks, soft curves and that smile.
They're leaning against the Impala - stuck in the middle of some nowhere town, where the sky is a cornflower blue peppered with cotton-candy shaped clouds painted silver.
The light kisses her bare shoulders, the warm rays caressing the dip of her collar-bone and the freckles on her shoulders as a lover would.
He wants to memorize her as she is right then and there; immortalize her in his mind like the ancient Greeks with their divine.
"Dean?"
Her voice hangs in the air, sweet and tainted.
He turns, green eyes carefully taking in the angles of her face. The slope of her nose, the quirk at the corner of her lips. He wonders if this is just his mind substituting features that have long ago become a hazy recollection of thoughts; the slow fade of time having corroded all the details away.
"Yeah, Jo?" His mouth feels like it's filled with marbles and he wishes he could make amends, share the guilt that she had had a glimpse of that fateful night he'd been put on trial.
He wants to tell her he's sorry. Sorry for never calling, for leading her down this destructive path, for ruining her, or for not loving her enough to sell his soul.
But he remembers this is just a dream, and this is Jo.
She wouldn't listen to his bullshit for a minute. She'd stomp around, messy curls bouncing and lips set into a stubborn frown.
Instead, he relishes in this moment - dream or not, real or not real.
Jo smiles and presses a hand against his cheek, delicate fingers trailing lightly along his jaw.
Her skin feels hot against his, feverish like a balmy summer day. It feels nothing like the sickly cold, phantom of a touch he has stashed away.
He leans into her touch, and he feels safe. He wants to stay.
"It's okay, Dean." Jo, always so damn sure of everything.
She smiles and he brings his hand to hers, fingers intertwining like tangled yarn.
He doesn't get a chance to tell her - he's awake again in the tattered motel room that's miles away from cornflower painted skies and tow-colored locks.