Hotshowand I are at it again!We've come up with a sequel to Lil' Sammy. No amnesia this time, but hopefully plenty of fun and drama all around. Chapter 1 posts tonight. Here's a little preview:

Murphy's Law

Dean strolled through the graveyard, using his flashlight to help him find the gravesite he and Sam located this afternoon. Sam mumbled behind him, carrying most of their digging equipment. Dean grinned into the darkness.

"Sam? Problem?" He squinted at the next headstone. Nope, not it either. He could have sworn it was right around here. Dean stopped to rub his eyes. It was getting harder to read the damn names. God, he hoped he didn't need glasses.

"I thought it was closer than this, Dean," Sam whined. His brother had been doing a lot of that lately. Whining. The music was too loud or too soft. The food was unhealthy or cooked wrong. The motel room was not clean enough or too bizarre. Dean had to admit their current motel was one of his all-time favorites. It actually had a Chevy theme. The Chevy bowtie was etched into the bathroom mirror and framed prints and photos of classic cars decorated the walls. The wall paper looked like stamped steel and the bedspreads were rejects from a kids' decorating department, covered with racing cars and bright red flames. Sam squirmed each time he had to pull back the bedspread.

"Gotta be right around here, Sammy." Dean squinted into the shadows. About time, there it was. He dropped down to check it closer, make sure they had the right grave. "This is it."

"About time," Sam grumbled as the bag with the shovels and weapons hit the dirt.

Dean held out a hand and waited. He heard another huff before Sam slammed a shovel into his hand. He used the shovel to push himself back into a standing position. The shovel bit into the rich graveyard soil with ease as Dean thanked his rare good luck. At this rate, they could be out of here and in bed in less than two hours. He said nothing as he dug, wondering when his brother would feel he had worked enough to pay off Sam carrying the supplies. After a good twenty minutes, Sam joined him. They dug in silence. When they hit the hard, hollow sound of a coffin beneath their feet, Dean waved Sam out of the hole.

As Dean lifted his shovel to break through the coffin, he felt a tightness through his chest. He could not catch his breath. He froze, eyes rotating to look at Sam. Sam was pulling the salt and lighter fluid out of the bag, not paying any attention to him. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but the tightening sensation squeezed so hard he felt like his chest was in a vice. Was that the sound of his ribs cracking?

Eyes riveted to Sam, silently pleading for his brother to look up, Dean struggled to simply take in air. It was like being underwater, in a vice. He suddenly had great sympathy for everyone organized crime had thrown into a river with cement overshoes. Finally he discovered the one thing he could still do. He dropped the shovel.