Sam was drifting into a feverish sleep, where demons of the past and ghosts in the closet watched him with dark, yellow eyes.
"Dean..." He tried, tried hard to warn his brother about them, not so that he'd come save Sam, but so that he'd protect himself and get himself away from the things. His father stepped out of the shadows, head down. But when he saw Sam, he cheek dimpled and he stepped to embrace his son.
"Dad." Sam said. "Is this hell?"
"No, bud. It isn't. You're sick, real sick and you've gotta get back in there and fight." The old man smoothed back Sam's hair like he had when he was small. "It's not your time, kiddo."
"But, Dad...what about you? What happens to you?" Sam clung to the jacket lapels, like a stubborn child.
"Don't you worry about me, Sam-the-man. I've got my own. You've gotta watch out for that brother of yours. He's thinkin' with his heart again, except he's not too good at it yet. Go show him how it's done."
"Dad..." Sam pleaded, as John began to fade from his grip, his sight. "Don't go, please."
"I love you, Sammy. More than you know. Tell your brother for me, too."
Sam gasped when consciousness slammed into him like a semi. He cracked his eyes open at Dean, tried to talk but found his mouth was mush.