Author's Note: Not quite what I wanted it to be. I went with it anyway.
At first he thought it was just another nightmare.
He was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, but it was empty this time. And from beside him: "Sam, Sam. Look at me."
"No," he said, dread boiling like blood in his veins.
He never had trouble waking, after all. He shot straight up in bed, eyes wide open and panting with leftover adrenaline, subconscious skulking back into the murky waters from whence it dredged up these things to make every night a party.
"Sam," she said again, pawing at his arm, "Why won't you look at me? Don't you love me? You said you loved me."
"I did love you," he moaned, and squeezed his eyes closed. "I'm sorry, I'm-"
Dean rolled over with a sleepy grumble and opened one eye. "Nightmares?" he asked, and Sam wished just once that he wouldn't wake up every damn time.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Ha," said Sam, and rolled resolutely over. He could feel Dean staring at him, but trusted his brother's natural inclination toward sleep and away from serious discussions to take them away from the moment. As usual, he was right.
"Don't be sorry," she said, whispered, and he felt her shift over his body, something like hair brushing his face. "Just look at me. I just want you to look at me."
Sam's eyes slid open even as all his instincts screamed.
Once Dean's breathing evened out, Sam got up and went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, then leaned on the counter, staring into the dirty mirror. There were circles around his eyes. How many times? How many times did he have to live it over again?
He'd heard that dreams were your brain's way of sorting things out while you were asleep. His brain didn't seem to be doing much of any sorting. Just amplifying.
Sam took a shuddery breath in, and held it. He heard Dean's breathing change. Awake, then, and listening closely.
He turned on the water again.
Her skin was blackened and parts of her face had crumbled, were crumbling away. Her hair, her beautiful blonde hair, was flaking off in wisps of ash. Her hands on his chest were red and cracked with a mixture of blood and pus leaking from the open wounds.
Her eyes were perfect blue, like two opaque marbles set in her ruined face. She pouted. "Don't you think I'm beautiful anymore?"
Jessica, Sam thought but didn't say. "Go to sleep, Dean," he said instead.
"Just making sure you don't get lost in the bathroom, Sammy," said Dean blearily.
"Ha, ha," Sam said humorlessly. "I'll be right there. Chill, Dean." Maybe later he would find his way back to bed. Back to dreams, and Jessica.
Sam waited until he was sure Dean was deeply asleep before he allowed himself to throw up in the toilet.
Don't you think I'm beautiful anymore?
~.~
He fell asleep in the car on the way to the next case. Dean was watching him out of the corner of his eye like he thought Sam was about to fall apart, so Sam put his forehead against the window, intending to stare at the scenery and ignore his brother's significant 'talk to me, I'm sacrificing my manly pride for a chick flick moment here' expression.
But he just ended up falling asleep.
They were on the couch, tangled together with her head pillowed on his chest. Except her hair was almost all gone now, and she crackled as she shifted against his body. "Sam," she breathed, "Sam."
"No," he said, "No."
"Why don't you think I'm beautiful anymore?" She asked, her burnt hands clutching at his shirt. Some of the skin on her chest was peeling away, leaving raw muscle bare. "Is it because I'm dead?"
"No," Sam said again, because that was all he could say. The TV was on; a football game. He remembered this. It was the Super Bowl, and he and Jess had sat down to watch it and ended up having sex on the couch instead.
He'd gotten his elbow in the Cheetos.
"No? Then why?" She leaned forward. Her breath smelled like mint. Toothpaste. A flake of burnt skin fell from her cheek to his. "You said you thought I was beautiful. You said you'd think I was beautiful forever. Were you lying to me? Were you lying, Sam?"
She leaned closer, and the mint and the smell like burning meat mingled in his nostrils, making his stomach churn. "Were you always lying to me, Sam?"
"Jesus Christ, Sam-"
When he woke, everything still smelled like mint and burnt flesh. He scrabbled at the door, twisting in his seat. Dean grabbed his shoulder. "Hold on, Sam, we're still moving – hold on, shit, if you puke in my car-"
It took too long to get over to the side of the road, and then Sam leaned out and spewed up everything he'd eaten that morning. Goddammit, he thought, shuddering. Goddammit.
Dean rubbed his back like he always had. "You were dreaming again. We have to-"
"It's nothing," Sam said quickly, "—nothing to do with that, I mean. I must've – eaten something bad. Gave me some fucked up dreams. That's all."
"And that's why you threw up last night after that nightmare?"
Ah. So maybe Dean hadn't been as asleep as Sam'd thought. He felt a little indignant at being so deceived, but didn't have much energy for it. His head was starting to thud like an anvil hitting Wile E. Coyote. "Yeah," he said, though. "Maybe m'coming down with something."
Dean sighed, and then dragged Sam roughly back into the car. "Whatever, man," he said, after a long moment. "I'll wear you down sooner or later. If you feel like putting it off – it's just going to make the conversation worse when we finally have to have it."
Sam just shrugged. He thought Dean might be a little pissed off, but he did get Sam a salad without any ribbing when they stopped for food, so maybe not.
~.~
That night he went for a run instead of sleeping.
He ran for three miles along the roads without stopping, with no music to keep himself company. At the beginning of starting the run back, he discovered that every time his feet hit the ground his eyes closed for a second and Jessica was there.
"Don't you think I'm beautiful anymore, Sam?"
"Why don't you think I'm beautiful, Sam?"
"I love you, Sam." He felt her hands caress his face even as his eyes opened, and he nearly stumbled into a ditch, bending double as everything abruptly tilted. "Oh, fuck," he said, and squeezed his eyes shut to steady himself.
"Do you hate me, Sam? Tell me you don't hate me." Her teeth were still bright and gleaming behind red and blistered lips, too perfect in her ruin of a face. Bone gleamed through on her cheekbone.
Sam's eyes snapped back open. He shuddered once and forced himself to stop. He had to get back to the motel. To Dean. Something was seriously wrong.
But every time he closed his eyes, every time, no matter how briefly. Sam swallowed hard and straightened slowly. It was only three miles.
He started up his jog again and tried to focus on counting every step, every flash of burnt flesh and loving whispers and the soft sound of fingers crumbling to ash, flash flash flash oh god, Jess, oh god I'm sorry-
"Just tell me I'm beautiful?" Half her face had peeled away, leaving her left cheek and jaw a grinning skull with a few ropes of muscle. "Please, Sam. Please."
Oh god. You're beautiful, Jess. You're-
"Hey, are you okay? Are you- oh god, hang on, I'm going to call-"
Dimly, he was aware that there was something going on outside, something that he probably should pay attention to – something like pain and someone panicking. His whole body shuddered and his nose was full of the smell of burning.
-cradled his face between her crumbling hands. "There," she cooed, and more of her hair sloughed off. "There, there."
"Don't kiss me," Sam said, "Please don't," and she laughed in his face, eyes filling up with black.