He was shaking now so that the book trembled in his hands, the edges of the pages growing mushy with the sweat that now beaded on the palms of his hands.
Yet still, he read on.
What he saw next frightened him even more.
One word stood out on the page, like it was the only one there. Demons. It seemed to swallow his vision, the letters shifting from black to the thick red of blood on the page. He could almost feel the fire around him again, hear the screaming, the taste of something metallic in his mouth that burned on his tongue….
He scrambled frantically at a sudden noise now, that broke through the depths of his hellish daydream.
"Sam. What—what are you doing?! That's Dad's, you shouldn't be looking at that!" Dean, it was Dean, he realized as he looked up from where he was sprawled on the bed..
The journal lay open on the crumpled blankets between his sneakered feet, the headboard pressing into his back as he'd scampered back across the bed from where he'd been sitting at the foot when Dean burst in.
Sam tried to speak but no words came out, only an empty woosh of air.
Dean picked the book up, closing it. Wordlessly, he placed it deliberately back in the top drawer, a serious look on his face.
"Really, you shouldn't go nosing into stuff that's not yours," Dean reproached as he turned to face Sam, who stared blankly out in front of him.
"Sam?" Dean asked after an uncomfortable moment or so had passed without any sign of recognition from Sam.
"Sammy? What's going on with you?" Dean sat on the bed beside him, shaking his shoulder, feeling the stonelike tension of his brother's tightly coiled muscles.
"Quit messing—" Dean muttered as Sam failed to respond, his voice now rising with alarm. "Sammy!"
With a quick, shuddering gasp, Sam snapped back to reality. He leaned weakly, trembling now against his brother's shoulder.
"It—it—" he tried to get the words out, but the unreasoningly surreal terror of the experience stole his voice.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Dean asked, his tone now softer, far sadder than it had been angry just seconds ago.
Sam nodded miserably, trying not to cry.
"Look, it's gonna be OK," Dean mumbled, wrapping his arms around Sam, who relaxed exhaustedly against his brother, the tears finally escaping to slide down his face.
"It's OK, really," Dean said again, squeezing Sam into a hug. "It's OK. I'm here. Nothing's gonna get to you…."
They sat thus, on the bed, Dean silently comforting Sam the only way he knew to offer it; by his mere presence.
It took Sam quite a while to calm down, but finally he did, migrating eventually from his brother's arms to curling up against the headboard, knees to his chest, a terribly grim frown twisting his face.
After what seemed an unbearably long period to Dean, he finally stood up from where he sat, proclaiming, "Hey, Sammy, you still hungry? Remember, I was going to get food? Well, I've got sandwich stuff, Cheetos and crackers, OK?"
Sam only nodded, staring passively as Dean picked up the grocery bag from where he'd dropped it. He brought it to the table that sat between the two beds, where he unpacked baloney, a loaf of bread, paper plates, a box of crackers, and a big bag of Cheetos.
He opened the bread, putting two slices on a plate for each of them, and a piece of lunchmeat between those, shoving Sam's plate toward him as he bit into his own.
After a moment, he realized Sam wasn't moving, staring blankly at the wall behind him. "Hey, dude, aren't you gonna eat?"
Sam snapped back to reality, it seemed, grabbing the bag of Cheetos, which he ripped open, dumping some on the table in the process.
"Oh, OK, let's miss the plate why don't we?" Dean cracked with a grin. Yet instead of the smile it would have usually brought to Sam's lips, he merely twitched a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as he picked up a fistfuls of Cheetos, which he slowly began to eat before moving to the sandwich.
It was Dean's turn to frown, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs from the bag to put on his plate. He was done with them in seconds, reaching for more as the weight of whatever change had overcome Sam pressed at his nerves. It was quiet in the room; too quiet, he decided, standing.
"Hey, Sam," he called, relief visibly tinting his face as Sam glanced up.
"I'm gonna turn the TV on, OK?"
Sam didn't reply out loud but shook his head.
"Oh, come on, dude!" Dean exclaimed, the frustration and pressure of the situation, of Sammy's strange behavior, leeching into his voice, before he thought better of it and added, softer this time, "You've had all day to watch what you want. It's just too quiet in here, so I'm gonna turn something on."