The funeral was quiet and subdued, even though half of Stanford came.

Dean watched from the front row as Sam went forward, a bouqet of flowers in his hand, and stood in front of Jess's grave. He bowed his head.

Just when Sam had been standing there long enough for the audience to side-eye him, he laid the flowers carefully on the freshly-dug earth. Then he turned away and walked back over to the seat beside Dean, dry-eyed and tired-looking.

'Well done, kiddo,' said Dean under his breath as someone began to give a speech. Sam didn't respond.

It had been a week.

Sam had already been hospitalised when Dean got there; he'd been sedated and they kept him overnight in case of smoke inhalation. Beneath the oxygen mask, his face had been pale and tear-streaked; the sight pulled at Dean in a weird way, so he'd stayed, falling asleep in a chair next to the bed.

Only to wake up with a start the next morning when Sam ripped the mask off and started screaming and sobbing, fighting his way out of bed. Dean had jumped up and held his wrists down until a nurse got there and injected him with something; Sam slumped back against the pillows.

'What is that?' Dean had said, staring in horror at the syringe.

'He'll be out for a few hours,' said the nurse. Dean looked at her, suspicious. She had short blonde hair, and her nametag read 'Megan'; in other circumstances he might have flirted.

The next time Sam woke up, he'd been calmer. His eyes widened, hands going shakily to the mask- obviously he hated the damn thing- but Dean put a hand over Sam's. 'No, Sam, come on. I know it's a bitch, but you might need it.'

Sam pulled it off anyway as soon as Dean took his hand away; he sucked in a breath, looking round at the ward with wide eyes. 'Where's Jessica?'

Oh, God, Dean had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Sam looked at him. A curl of hair had fallen in one eye. 'Dean?' he said. His voice was scratchy from the smoke. 'Where's Jess?'

'Sam,' said Dean.

Sam's eyes were fixed on him pleadingly.

Dean cleared his throat. 'How... how much do you remember?'

His brother pressed his knuckles into his face. 'Um, there was a fire. Someone... someone pulled me out.' He looked up. 'You?'

Dean shook his head. 'Brady.'

'Oh.' He looked around. 'So where's Jess?'

'Sam...' How the hell was he going to say this?

'Yeah?'

'Jess. She, uh. I'm afraid she didn't make it.'

Sam was staring at him.

'I'm sorry, kiddo.'

'No,' said Sam. 'N-no. You pulled her out, right? Someone did? I mean, I got out fine.' His voice was getting louder. 'This is the twenty-first century, people don't just- just die in fires, I mean, come on...'

'Sam, I'm sorry,' he said. 'I am so, so sorry.'

A pause, then Sam laughed. It was a wobbly sound. 'Dean, if this is some kind of sick joke-'

'Sam-'

Suddenly Sam winced, hard. He knuckled at his temples. 'Agh- D- Dean-'

Dean was seconds from shouting for a nurse, but then Sam doubled over, hunching up, clutching his head. He took Sam by the shoulders, uncurling his body, and put a palm to his forehead- nothing, no fever, but Sam was gasping now, clutching at him. 'She was on the ceiling, Dean- oh, God, she burned up, she burned up-'

The blonde nurse- Megan- appeared by the bed, looking exasperated, but Dean held out a hand. 'I got it.'

'Okay, Winchester,' she said, clearly unconvinced, but she left them, drawing the curtains round their partition.

Sam was no longer in pain, it seemed, but he was shaking so bad Dean could actually see it. He sat down on the bed beside Sam and drew his brother to him, but Sam turned his face away. Dean was pretty sure he was crying.

There was something niggling at the back of Dean's mind, something not right. But Sam's curly head still smelled like bonfires. He had enough to worry about as it was.

SPN SPN SPN

When the funeral was over, the crowd stood by her grave. No-one was wearing black- Jess's parents had been very firm on that- but a fine, misty rain was falling, beading eyelashes and hair and grass.

Carmen touched Dean on the shoulder. 'How is he?'

'Oh, he's peachy.'

'Dean.'

They looked over at where Sam was being embraced by their mother. He put his arms awkwardly round her.

'Sorry,' said Dean. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'I'm just tired, I guess.'

'You know,' she said, gently, 'you don't have to stay up with him.'

'He has nightmares, Carmen.'

'I don't mean that no-one should. But you don't have to do it by yourself, Dean.'

'There's no-one else.'

They both stopped talking as Mary led Sam over to them. Carmen gave Sam a soft, sympathetic hug; Dean made as if to hug him, then changed his mind and patted him on the back. 'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine,' said Sam. Carmen and Mary exchanged glances.

The crowd round the grave was starting to dissipate. Sam looked over at it, and Dean saw a yearning in his eyes.

'Um,' Sam said. 'Would you mind if I- if I take a moment? Alone?'

They all muttered 'Sure' and backed off a little, letting Sam walk over to the grave. The crowd was gone now. He stood there alone, a slender figure against a grey, luminous sky.

'C'mon,' said Dean. 'Let's go. Give the kid some privacy.'

As they walked away through the graveyard, it occured to him what had been niggling at his mind. How had the nurse in the hospital known their name was 'Winchester'?