The warning (I dragged you out of hell I can throw you back in) stayed in my head for days, after that dream that wasn't a dream at all, along with angel, god and the devil.
For the first time in years (twenty-five godless years) I pulled the bible that mom held close to her chest every Sunday.
It was battered and worn, dust coating every page that hadn't been read or even flipped through since her own fingers clutched it. 'Don't forget your goodnight prayers Dean.'
'I've forgotten them for twenty-five years, mom, I don't think I can just pick them up.'
Everyday (as I step outside and breath in the fresh air that should be hell fire and ash) it comes in pieces, the memories that I worked so hard to misplace along the way.
It always starts with burning, flesh is a given but my mind, my soul is also burning along with it, over and over again.
Every hour of every day, four damn months, it never stopped burning.
"Dean!"
He shook me awake (roles reversed, as my hands shake him away from the visions that ripped a hole in him every single time) the flames retreated and the laughter died.
When the red from fire faded away all that was left was the raw feeling in my throat from the screams that are only mirrors of the ones that I let out when I was alone, in my personal hell.
"Are you okay?"
Puppy-dog eyes try to reach into me and pull out all the secrets that stick to me like super-glue, they ask the questions that his lips want to scream at me.
What he doesn't know is that I have a few of those on my own and the one I want to scream out until my voice dies away, who the hell are you and what have done with Sammy?
"I'm fine, bad dream involved Micheal Jackson, trust me it's way too bad to tell Sammy."