You'd think there would have been some phenomenon, some event, that made him realize it. Some life or death situation, a close call. Funny thing was, they'd had more encounters with death than Dean could count on both hands and feet, but for some reason those traumatizing moments had never done the trick.

Sure he felt the gut wrenching, searing pain of loss every time he'd held his brother in his arms as he died. A feeling so strong, it led him to make a deal with a demon without batting an eye. But he'd always thought that was just how families worked. They'd die for each other. Go to hell for each other. And he hadn't realized that every damn time he held his dead brother in his arms, it was like he couldn't breathe, like a piece of his soul had died.

No, that's not how he came to this world shattering realization. All they were doing was sitting at the fucking table, talking about a possible case that had caught Sam's eye in the papers, and eating breakfast. That's it. Ten years of hunting, the two years Sam was at school and Dean was a hollow shell, and his entire fucking life hadn't hinted to him what exactly was going on in his fucked up heart.

Nope. Just breakfast.

"Dude, you with me?" Sam looked only slightly concerned as Dean looked up at him, breaking his panicked daze.

"Yeah, yeah," he said gruffly before looking up into his brother's disbelieving stare.

"Okay, fine. No, I wasn't listening. Sorry. You said something about a witch, right?"

Sam's concern hadn't dissipated, but seemed to accept Dean's answer and leaned back in his chair again. "Uh, yeah. Mongo, Indiana. Two mysterious deaths in the last week. First victim was Mark Jenkins, 27. Police report says the day before he died, witnesses described his behavior as erratic and strange."

"Strange?"

"Apparently, he was confessing things."

"Like, to a priest? 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned' kinda thing?"

"No, he wasn't religious. Never went to a church. According to this, he just walked up to his sister and confessed to sleeping with her boyfriend."

"Awkward."

"Yeah, no kidding. But that's what he was doing. To everybody. Anyway, he jumped off the roof of his apartment building the next day. Next victim was Traci Hinders, 24. She slit her wrists and was found on her kitchen floor. Family and coworkers all report the same thing. 'Confessions that most people would take to their grave.' That's what her roommate told the police."

"Yeah, okay. Sounds like our kinda gig. So you're thinking a witch put some sorta hoodoo truth spell on 'em, and afterwards, they're too embarrassed to go on living?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Or maybe they figure out what's going on and kill themselves before they can talk to anybody else. Or maybe the witch just kills them when she's satisfied with their revelations."

"Why not just lock yourself up in your house until it wears off?"

"I don't think they have control over that. It's almost like they're forced to go find the people they need to confess to and then spill their guts."

"Seems kinda weird, though, right? I mean, why would a witch wanna make people start confessing shit?"

"I don't know. Why does a witch do anything? I'm sure we'll figure it out once we get there and start asking around."

Dean paused for a moment to take that in. "When do we leave?"

"I can be ready in ten."

14 hours later and they were pulling into the Budget Motel in Lagrange, Indiana, just before midnight approximately 15 minutes outside of Mongo.

With this new found knowledge of Dean's, the look the guy at the front desk gave him (full of innuendo) as he asked for two queens was less irritating and more debilitating on his resolve to not think about it. Still, he managed a half-hearted smile as the guy handed over his room key with a knowing look.

"Enjoy your stay at the Budget Motel. Let us know if you need anything else."

Dean mumbled a "thanks" and scurried out the entrance. Sam was leaning against the car, bags in hand, when Dean walked up to him and yanked the bags out of his hand and shoved the keys to the car in their place. "Room three. Drive her over," he said, already headed towards the door.

"Dude, what happened? You look pissed," Sam said, sounding genuinely worried.

"Drive the car, Sam," Dean called over his shoulder before unlocking the door, walking in, and slamming it behind him.

Yeah, if he was gonna play it cool, he really needed to calm the fuck down. It wasn't even that big of a deal. He was overreacting. He ran a hand through his hair as he dropped the bags to the floor and paced slightly in the small room. Unfortunately, Dean didn't have a lot of time to calm down before Sasquatch wrenched the door open and shut it behind him, looking more than a little annoyed.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam huffed, a hint of concern working its way into his voice. Dean turned to face him and sat on the bed attempting to radiate nonchalance.

"What?" It sounded forced even to Dean, but he had to try. Sam pulled out his bitch face in response to Dean being an asshole. Well, shit. "Okay, fine, man. The guy at the front was just being a dick, and it was pissing me off. Like I said, not that big a deal." He pitched his answer so it was just vague enough for Sam not to get the whole story, but also detailed enough that he would be satisfied and not feel the need to talk about it more. Hopefully.

"Dude, you need to work on your anger issues," Sam exhaled a barely-there laugh of irritation, but he visibly calmed with it.

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," Dean said rubbing a hand over his face. "All right, man. Let's get some shuteye then head out in the morning to talk to witnesses."

"No argument here." Sam grabbed his bag from the floor, setting it on the other side of his bed and rummaged through it. Dean didn't really feel like putting too much effort into getting ready for bed, so he kicked off his boots, took off his jeans and over shirt, and crawled under the covers facing away from Sam who was currently undressing himself to change into actual pajamas. Dean refused to turn around.