One of Sam's earliest memories is of salt. Chubby fingers holding a dark blue cylinder, pouring shaky lines along windows and doors. Looking up to see a smile on his big brother's face, a proud You did it, Sammy on his lips.

At the time, he didn't understand what he did or why he did it. Not really.

He just knew that he did.

"Hey," Jess says.

Sam snaps back to the present. "Huh?"

"You're doing it again."

He looks down at the grocery cart. Some bananas. A loaf of bread. The pasta sauce with the mushrooms that they both love. And 10 containers of salt.

He swallows hard. Nods. "Sorry." He starts putting the cylinders back on the shelf, one by one. But the last two won't leave his hands.

"Sam, we have salt. Too much. Enough to last us until the next millennium."

She's going to think he's crazy. Maybe he is crazy. But he can't put these back. "I need it, Jess. Please."

"I don't understand," she says, voice equal parts soft and sad.

The salt goes into the cart and Sam doesn't try to explain.

"That much salt isn't good for you."

Sam looks down at his plate. Everything is completely covered with a fine layer of white. Like snow. He sets the salt down and pushes the container away.

"How can that even taste good?"

The words are out of his mouth before he can process them. "It tastes like home."

"Wow," Jess pauses to take a sip of water, "your mom must have cooked with a lot of salt, huh?"

He watches as the grains are absorbed by his food, turning from white to clear. Invisible. "No. She never did."

Jess's blue eyes cloud with confusion. Or maybe concern.

When Sam takes a bite, it tastes like nothing.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

"There's an earthquake." He's trying to get the salt lines right, but the whole world is trembling, so they're more jagged than straight. He wonders if they'll still work. He should call Dean and ask, but his throat hurts too much. Everything hurts.

"What? There's no earthquake. Sam, baby, what are you doing with the salt?"

"Protecting us." Then there's a cool hand pressed against his forehead. Steady. Firm. "Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm the earthquake."

She drops the back of her hand to his cheek. "You're delirious. Let's get you back to bed. I'll clean up."

Jess guides him into their bedroom. The sheets are soft and uncomfortable against his skin. She places the thermometer under his tongue and it tastes like plastic, not gun oil. The blankets are too warm and the room is too big and bright and everything is wrong.

"Please don't," he whispers.

She frowns at the thermometer's tiny display. Helps him swallow a few shards of glass in the shape of Tylenol. "Don't what, baby?"

"Clean up. The salt."

"If I don't clean it up, we'll get ants."

Sam blinks a long blink, and when he opens his eyes there's a cool washcloth draped from one temple to the other. It makes him tired. "Sugar," he says.

"What?"

"Sugar attracts ants. Not salt. Salt keeps the bad things out."

Jess runs her fingers through his hair. "Sleep, baby. You'll feel better in the morning."

Sam dreams of ghosts flying out of vacuum cleaners.

"Just try it," Jess says. "Please. Before you dump salt on everything, take one bite."

Sam stares at his plate. "Jess…"

"It's organic chicken with fresh herbs. The corn is roasted with spices. It has so much flavor and it's healthy and I worked really hard on it, so please." Her voice breaks and she takes a shaky breath. "Just try it."

He doesn't want to have this argument. He puts his fork in his left hand, knife in his right. He cuts off a bite of chicken. Places it in his mouth. Chews. Feels Jess's eyes on him the entire time.

It tastes like fear. Fire and blood and death and overarching, overwhelming fear.

"Well?" she asks.

He forces himself to swallow. "It's good. Really good."

Her smile lights up the room. "I knew you'd like it. See, you don't need salt. Just the right combination of…"

Jess babbles and Sam nods in what might be the appropriate places. By the end of the meal, his heart is racing and cold sweat is dripping down the back of his neck.

As they clean up, Jess pulls him close, tucking her hands in his back pockets. "I'm proud of you for eating that. I want you to be healthy."

He nods and thinks that an exploding brain is the opposite of healthy. "Thanks."

Jess goes to the living room to study.

Sam eats a bite of salt straight from the container and feels so much better.

When Sam opens his eyes, the world is white, clean, and beeping.

"You with me this time?"

He rolls his head to the side. "Jess."

She's sitting in the chair next to his bed, arms folded across her chest. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened?"

She keeps her chin up and her voice flat. "When I got home from work, you were on the ground. Said your back hurt. Your muscles were cramping so bad you couldn't move. Then you lost consciousness, so I called 911."

The lure of sleep is strong, but Sam has to know. "I'm sick?"

"You were severely dehydrated, your electrolytes were way out of whack, and your kidneys were shutting down."

He stares.

"It's from all the salt you eat, Sam."

"Jess…I…"

She unfolds a little, arms dropping to her sides, and interrupts with voice that's less than steady. "They said you're lucky you didn't stroke out. That your heart and brain didn't follow your kidneys' lead. I almost lost you, Sam."

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"You've gotta take better care of yourself, baby. No more salt. We're not even going to have it in the house, okay?" She leans forward and sticks a hand through the bedrail, intertwining their fingers. "I love you."

Sam swallows hard and nods. "Love you, too."

The salt-free house feels empty. Vulnerable.

Sam holds Jess and kisses the top of her head and waits.