The sound of Dean's cell phone ringing didn't so much wake Sam up as it reminded him that he wasn't sleeping. After a couple of feeble attempts at rousing his brother--who must have taken more than one painkiller if he was sleeping that soundly, and Sam didn't really want to think about why that would be the case--Sam sighed and flipped open the phone. Silence greeted him, which made Sam think that maybe the caller was...

"Dad?" he said anxiously, sitting straight up in bed. "Dad, are you there?" The younger Winchester was suddenly alert, heart pounding, a million different thoughts racing through his head. "Look, Dad, if it's you, just tell us where you are and if you're okay, okay?" More silence, and Sam felt his initial excitement give way to anger.

"Fuck you!" he yelled, hurling the cellphone across the room and staring in grim satisfaction at the dent it left in the drywall. His reverie was interrupted by a sound from Dean's bed.

"MmmSammy? Wha-happen?" Dean was blinking groggily, halfway propped up on his left elbow, his knife unsteady in his right hand. The blanket had dipped down slightly, and the dim light that filtered through the curtains from the parking lot made the bandages on his chest seem to glow. Sam suddenly felt foolish. And guilty. And then angry all over again at his father for getting them into this and his brother for following orders and himself for being too weak to stop Ellicott, or Dean, or his father.

He blew out a frustrated breath and got out of bed to retrieve the cell phone. "Nothing, Dean. Wrong number. Go back to sleep."

Dean looked sleepily confused, which a million years ago would have been fodder for some brotherly teasing, but tonight just made Sam's heart hurt. "D'ja kill my phone, Sammy?"

Sam examined the phone that was now in his hand. It still seemed in working order, so he placed it carefully back onto the nightstand.

"It's fine. Get some rest." He tried not to pay attention to how long it took his brother to get comfortably settled again, or to the poorly masked pain in his eyes as he did so.

Dean fell asleep again almost at once. Sam didn't.

Dean slept for almost 36 straight hours, which meant that Sam had almost 36 straight hours to torture himself, which he wasn't too keen on. So instead he shopped for supplies, did laundry, ate some generic meals from generic diners, and checked his brother's vital signs every few hours, just in case. Sam didn't think about the phone call again until Dean awoke, alert and exhibiting the one-track mind that always drove Sam nuts.

"Who called, Sam?"

"Well hello to you, too. Aren't you interested in what time it is--or even what DAY it is, Dean?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No. Who called? You tried to destroy my phone, Sammy."

"Sam. No one. There was no one there."

"And this enraged you so much you took it out on the drywall? Maybe you should have mentioned your anger issues to that shrink yesterday." There was a pregnant pause. Sam filled in the "Or to me" without having to hear it from his brother. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans and vowing not to get angry again.

"Yesterday was over two days ago, Dean, and maybe I did," he said, because he knew that would effectively end the conversation. Dean's eyebrows went up and his mouth closed. Mission accomplished. Well, except for the part where Dean's eyes got a little bit harder and his voice got deeper and more businesslike.

"Hand me the phone, Sammy." Sam didn't correct the name, and gave his brother the cell phone, noting Dean's reluctance to stretch out his arm to the nightstand.

The older Winchester thumbed through the menu. "Another text message," he said finally.

"So?"

Dean looked exasperated and held up the display. "Another set of coordinates. Didn't you check?"

"Golly, no. Must've had other things on my mind, like my unconscious brother, or maybe my missing father, or ..." Sam trailed off before his sarcasm turned to shouting.

Dean started to shift into a sitting position, and this time Sam didn't politely look away as his brother grimaced and his breathing got more labored.

"You cannot possibly think that we're going on another job based on anonymous coordinates," Sam said flatly.

Dean ignored him, concentrating on swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Judging by the sweat on his brow, this wasn't easy. Sam refused to help him.

"Of course we are--we have to check it out. It could be a lead."

"Or it could be someone yanking our chain. Or trying to get us killed." Sam was really upset now, pacing.

"It could be dad," Dean said stubbornly.

"Well so what if it is?" said Sam, turning on his brother. "What kind of father disappears and then only communicates with his only flesh and blood by sending them to places where they could die? And then not checking to see if they survived, but just sending more coordinates? Maybe I don't want to find the man who could do that!"

When Sam stopped to look at Dean, he was suddenly glad that his brother couldn't move too well, or else he probably would have been on the receiving end of another right hook. Dean's eyes positively glittered.

"He's our father, and we owe him," said Dean, struggling to a standing position and heading for the bathroom.

Sam waited until the bathroom door slammed shut before replying.

"Says you," he said quietly.