"Come on, man, wake up." Sam brushed some strands away from Dean's forehead, again shocked about the hot, dry skin he felt under his fingers.
Dean's eyes opened again, the unmasked pain almost too much for Sam. He couldn't remember a time when he had seen his brother this sick. It was wrong – just wrong.
Confused glassy, green eyes zeroed on Sam though he doubted that Dean was really seeing something.
"Dad?" Hoarse and barely above a whisper.
"No, Dean. It's me –Sam."
Dean's brow furrowed, his fevered brain not able to work through the new info.
"No… S'my's at S-stanford. You're not … real. You're n-not … really here. Jus' in 'm head." He mumbled, eyes already closing again. "N-need … help. Need … 't call…."
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