Surprisingly, Jonathan Kent is the only one who has nightmares after the incident with Earl Jenkins. Not the type of nightmares you might expect. No huge methane explosions with his son at the heart, no neat rows of child size corpses, no hole in the Smallville landscape.

"I never forget a face."

His dreams are older, more specific, things he hasn't dreamed for, fuck, years. Not since before they found Clark. Not since his hopes for the future replaced his fears of the past.

Drops down into sleep. Into warm summer nights and racing down lanes at 90 miles an hour with the lights off just for the sheer thrill of it. He's young, nearly as young as Clark. But not half so innocent. Most ways drunk on shoplifted beer and breathless from kissing. Excited, so excited. But, in his dream, fearful too. His older self knows what happens. Knows and can't change a thing, no matter how hard he tries. Can't make it right. And he tries so hard to struggle up from sleep. But, in spite of all he knows, it's too warm and too seductive. Maybe this time it'll be different.

A barrage of images. Lizzie Luthor warm and willing under him. The line of her even white teeth broken by an obscene poke of red tongue, her half giggled words urging him on, hot little hands gripped around his hips like he's a life preserver. The Brown's barn not the ideal romantic hideaway, but he'd done his best with cheap liquor, candles and picnic blankets First time, for both of them. Over too quickly. But they've got time. Time to try again in a minute, or two.

Then it starts. Lionel's sarcastic voice, one his son has learned so well, coming out of the dark. How long had he been there, watching? His half-sister cowering behind Jonathan, begging that their parents aren't told. Begging, then finally getting up the courage to face him, standing, right up close, right in his face.

No, don't, not again. Come back.

"Slut. Farmboy. Not good enough for you." Half heard words. Fire in Lionel's voice. Fire and more. Something sick, something unreal in a brother, half-brother, looking at his semi-naked sister like that.

And it all drops into bright focus and slow motion. Lionel's heavy right hand slapping across her face.

And Lizzie, falling, falling. Hard thump from the loft to the barn floor. There's nowhere else to look but down to her broken white body, neck at an angle no one could live through.

And Lionel, looking as shocked as Jonathan is.

"We have to go, get help."

"She's beyond help." Calmer now, already. Those few years he has on Kent really showing. Just as they do with their sons.

"It's your word against mine, farmboy. We can fix this. Don't think I won't say it was you. Who'd they believe? You? Me? Are you ready to take that chance?"

Helpless, powerless to resist, to fight what he knows is wrong. Who'd they believe. Son of a fine, upstanding family or tearaway farmer's son? Shock, dream within a dream. Led like a bull with a ring through it's nose

Down on the floor, amongst the bales. Lionel's hands touching the limp doll-like corpse.

Look away, don't want to see this again, please.

Lionel's fingers inside Lizzie's body. Feeling, moving, short thrusts.

"You use a condom, good, less evidence. Get it, throw it away, somewhere else. Not here." Hot eyes searching. Manic, rattlesnake smile.

Then it's nearly over. Old, dry hay on the floor, her body on it like a pyre, lit from the candle, burning. Too far from the road for anyone to see, anyone to come and save them from the fires of hell.

And they run. Lionel's laughing.

"It's all right. We'll get away with it." As if they're both to blame.

And Jonathan wakes, sweating, trembling.

"I never forget a face."