Lines Are Open
K Hanna Korossy

Dean's cell rings about an hour out from Lost Creek, and Dean pulls it out wearily as Sam looks on.

"Is it Dad?" he asks as Dean checks the caller ID, trying not to sound as anxious as he feels. As desperate as he is.

Dean shoots him an apologetic glance as he answers the call. "Marco? Hey. You finally track down that woodwose colony you've been looking for?" He pauses for a moment, then his eyebrows climb as he laughs. "No kidding! Yeah, let me grab a pen."

Sam sighs, and tries just as hard to hide the disappointment.

00000

He's a lot less hopeful when the phone rings at 3 a.m. a week later. Dean's fighting a cold from his recent dip in a lake, and it takes him three rings to fumble the phone from the nightstand.

"'Lo?"

Sam lies back as he listens and pretends the phone woke him. He finds himself staring at the ceiling, and rolls over to look at Dean instead.

Who says sleepily, "Thanks," and clicks off. A moment, then, "Caleb says there's a bunyip out in Nebraska."

Sam turns away and tries once more to go to sleep.

00000

They're in a motel having breakfast—or dinner, depending on how you look at it—when the phone rings again, and Sam doesn't even pay attention this time, especially when Dean's voice drops an octave.

"Hey, beautiful…"

Which is strange, actually, because Sam's already realized that while Dean collects women's numbers freely, he rarely gives out his own. He must have really liked this one.

Sam just shakes his head when Dean excuses himself for a few hours, knowing the haunted house they were planning on checking out isn't going anywhere. And neither, apparently, is Sam.

00000

It's the middle of the day, somewhere in the middle of the country. But Sam hasn't been sleeping well, so his face is mashed against the window and he barely hears the ring of his brother's phone or the whispered conversation that follows.

"Wha'sit?" he mumbles, shifting in his seat, when Dean is finished.

"Nothing important—the new batch of consecrated iron rounds is ready next time we pass through Mississippi. Go back to sleep, Sam."

He stares at the hypnotic fields of corn passing by, the picture lullabies of his childhood, until he can't help but obey.

00000

The last straw is the call that interrupts Sam in the middle of an important ritual chant, giving the domovoy another crack at him and requiring him to start over. He glares at Dean over the book as he reads, but reaches out to snag his brother's jacket and yank him out of the way of a flying toaster.

"Who was that?" he hisses afterward, when they're limping out to the car.

Dean shrugs. "Old client. He thinks his neighbor has our kind of problem."

"Dude, don't you ever turn off your phone?"

Dean just looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

00000

Darkness is all around. Sam can't get warm or stop shaking, and a groan wells up from deep inside every time he shifts his leg. It takes three tries to push the right buttons on his phone.

It's picked up in the middle of the first ring. "Sam?"

"Dean." He closes his eyes in relief. "I need some help, man. C-could you come get me? Please." The last is a whisper.

He can already hear the sounds of movement. "Yeah, 'course. Where are you, Sammy? You okay?"

Sam stays on the line while Dean comes for him, hanging on to the phone with a strengthless grip, and thanks God for his brother's priorities.

The End