He dreams in glorious Technicolor; flames burning brighter than the sun, the violent crimson of her blood.
He dreams in surround sound; the roar of the fire and an imagined dying scream ringing in his ears.
He kicked and twitched. He twisted and turned and fought invisible demons. His legs tangled in the covers and sweat plastered his long fringe to his brow. It was less than a week since he buried Jess. Less than a week since he laid her cremated remains to rest. But there had been no rest for Sam. Every night was another bout of renewed violence; a nocturnal battle for his sanity.
Dean knew it was useless to say anything, that Sam would refuse to talk about it, would pretend that nothing was wrong. So he rolled over to face the wall, put the pillow over his ears and thought about a girl he once knew who could tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue.
During the day on the road, Sam sat in silence. Often his eyes were closed and he tried to recall Jess's face to mind. The curve of her jaw, the soft light in her eyes, the way her hair fell about her face. But instead he saw her pale and flaming, mouth open in a silent scream. His memories of her forever corrupted.
Dean turned the stereo up extra loud, thumped his hands against the wheel in time with the beat and occasionally sneaked a look at his brother from the corner of his eye. Sam looked tired. His smile didn't reach his eyes anymore and there was a look of defeat on his face that worried his older brother.
Another night, another motel room. Sam awoke with a start at three in the morning. Dean rolled over "Wassamatta?"
Sam wiped the perspiration from his face into the cool cotton sheet, "Nothing, go back to sleep." His brother rolled over and Sam lay back down, eyes open in the dark.
Seeing nothing, he stared into the blackness until sleep came back to claim him. Dean waited silently until he heard Sam's breathing change into the low, slow rumble of a deep sleeper. He climbed from his bed and pulled on his jeans. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair and quietly slipped out the door, letting it softly click shut behind him. Sam grunted twice and rolled over, and returned to dreaming of fire trucks and little plastic dolls.
Eventually Sam woke and blinked in greeting to the morning. Dean, who had been up for hours, was waiting for him. "Finally," he said "You were starting to make me think of that dude who slept for a really long time."
"Rip Van Winkle?"
"Nah, Sleeping Beauty."
"Hah hah."
"I got breakfast while you were busy catching z's."
Sam got up and shuffled over to the scratched formica-topped table that stood in the corner of the room. Dean had made up a place setting of a small plastic bowl and plastic spoon. In the middle of the table stood a carton of milk and a box of Lucky Charms.
"What's this?"
"Breakfast"
"Lucky Charms?"
"You love Lucky Charms."
"Yeah, when I was eight."
Dean affected a bad Irish accent "Ah come on now Sammy, you know you love me Lucky Charms."
"Do you have any idea how much sugar there is in the stuff?"
"It's good for you."
"Not to mention additives."
"It's fortified with minerals and vitamins."
"Dean it's marshmallows."
"Part of healthy and nutritious breakfast."
"You think black coffee is a food."
"Just eat the damn cereal Sam!" Dean stomped out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.
It had been a long time since he'd pissed his brother off this much. He sat down at the table and opened the box of cereal and poured some into the bowl. No breakfast, he reasoned, should contain this many colours. He splashed on some of milk and then took a spoonful. He hated to admit it, but it actually tasted pretty good.
He was on his second bowl when Dean let himself back into the room. Dean scowled at him. "Thought your body was a temple?"
"Yeah well, I guess I'm still a kid at heart. Here." And he handed a small cellophane wrapped packet to his brother.
"What's this?"
"I saved you the toy surprise." And this time the smile touched his eyes.