Don't hate me…life sucks. But this is the new chapter and boy do I have news for you…it's not the last one. I don't know…the story just took a life of its own…I can't help it. I hope you're still with me, but if not, I totally understand. And this is short, but it's all I have.

I still don't own anything but the grammar mistakes are all mine.

Enjoy

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A thin mist was caressing the pavement of the parking lot; cars were loosing their tires in the wet thing, trees were being swept away by the soft arms of the wicked fog, garbage cans were being raided by cats in search of food and inside motel room number 8 Sam was loosing his hands in Dean's shirt, fighting for purchase in the thin material.

"I gotcha, Sammy…" were the words whispered in Sam's hair, in his shoulder, near his ear. They were the only words that made sense to Dean at the moment and saying something else…would be a lie.

He didn't know exactly what made Sam scream, but he had a good idea of what might have been. The witch, the memories, the whole night…it was all being pushed on Sam through his dreams and finally falling under the weight of it all made Sam wake up with a scream. The tough Sam from before was a coping mechanism and Dean was counting his lucky stars that Sam came to his senses.

Where the Hell's Dad?!

Holding onto his little brother wasn't easy; the shaking bones and skin kept slipping out of his grip, but when Sam's hands grabbed at the back of his shirt, his fingers digging into his skin, Dean knew Sam found his purchase and that all he needed to do now was hold on tight and wait.

But waiting...waiting is the hardest part. Waiting has this sweet pain wrapped around it that makes your breath hitch every time you think that the waiting is over.

"Sam…" Dean's voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears…the silence that sneaked inside the room, was making him try to hide his voice, just so that he wouldn't disturb a thing.

Sam was more vocal…noises that seemed like little sobs were muffled by Dean's shirt. Tears getting lost in the cotton, puffs of air warm on his skin.

"Sammy…hey…" he grabbed Sam's arms, putting no pressure on them, feeling little tremors beneath Sam's skin. He pushed him away from himself, but Sam's fists wouldn't unclench: "Sam, Sammy, come on…let go of me."

It broke his heart to say that to his little brother, but sometimes tough love is the way to go.

Sam took a breath and shook; his whole body shook like it was vibrating and Dean almost pulled him back to himself.

Holding his brother in arms length, Sam's red, cried out eyes and tears still held by his eyelashes, Dean tilted his head sideways and sighed.

"Sam talk to me. Just…what happened!? Huh?"

Sam's hair was in his eyes, traces of tears still on his flushed cheeks, his body shaking; light tremors, like small waves on a lake.

"Hmmmm…Sam, come on." Dean practically begged with the faintest of sound, but all he really wanted to do was shake Sam and yell at him.

But that was not the proper way…not by the look on Sam's face…fear. He shattered inside when Sam's eyes locked with his. There was something in them, an emotion, something, some unidentified thing, that freaked Dean out.

Dean has freckles. A lot of them. All over his face.

"Sam…"

And dark hair. And green eyes.

"Sammy, talk to me."

And his voice is deepening with every passing day.

"Sam I swear to God if you don't open your mouth…"

And his nose is small. And his teeth are white.

"Sam, just…tell me."

And he smells of sweat and soap.

"Sammy…"

And he calls me Sammy.

A garbage can rattled outside, a cat meowed and a man yelled: "Freakin' cats."

"It was Dad." It was barely a whisper, a brush of air over Dean's shirt.

Dean was puzzled. He shifted his body higher up the bed, his knee touching Sam's.

"What was Dad?"

"The…the man in the woods, on…on the ground."

Sam's lips were moving, Dean could see that, but the words were not entering his mind.

Dad!? What the…!?

He grabbed Sam by his forearms, feeling the bones under Sam's skin colliding with his palm: "It was a witch…she made you see things, and feel them and none of it was real."

"I saw him on the floor…"

Sam's voice was drifting away, gliding on the thick motel air…

"It was the witch, Sam. She made you…Dad is fine, Sammy, he's…he's fine."

How do you explain to a kid, that everything he saw and felt and dreamed and imagined…that none of that was real!? That it was all an illusion!?

"Where is he then?"

If Sam's eyes would be able to kill with their sorrow, Dean would be dead by now.

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TBC…