Summary: Sam was lying there, half propped up by pillows, pale and thin with butterfly bandages bridging a long cut that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek, and very much alive. But that was not possible. Sam was dead.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, it's all owned by Eric Kripke and them at CW. Written for pleasure, not profit.

Chapter 1

It was his phone ringing that woke him up, pulling him from tormented sleep to fumble blearily at the table beside his bed until his fingers brushed against the cold, hard plastic of his cell phone and wrapped his hand around it, jerking it close to his face and glaring sleepily at the screen.

It took him a moment to realise the phone in his hand was deathly quiet. That the muffled ringing was a tune that hadn't played in years, and his gut twisted painfully as he suddenly came awake, goosebumps rising as though he'd been plunged into an ice-cold bath.

The phone in his hand slipped from numb fingers, and he launched himself from the bed, fighting the twist of sheets around his legs briefly, ignoring the flash of pain as his hip made hard contact with the corner of the table, and then he was across the room, wrenching open the closet door, pulling open the battered duffel that lay at the bottom, his heart jumping as the tune came louder and clearer as he dug within and pulled out the cell, the screen bright, and the entire thing vibrating in his hand. It was not his imagination. The thing was ringing.

He glanced at the screen, not recognising the number, and then flipped the phone open, putting it to his ear as he moved back across the room, glancing at the clock on the table, though not even registering the time that glowed out into the dark.

"Hello? Is this Dean?" the voice was young, feminine and completely unrecognisable, and he scrubbed a hand across his face.

"Speaking," he said in a voice thick with sleep.

"I'm sorry for the early hour, sir," the girl said, and there was regret in her all-too-chipper tone "Is it possible that you know a Sam?" the ice-cold feeling washed over him again, making his legs weak, and unable to support himself he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, gripping the phone tightly.

"Sir?" the girl's voice was anxious now, and he realised he'd been silent for maybe a minute or so.

"Yes," he croaked, his throat was tight, his hands shaking, and he took several deep breaths before he was able to continue "Yes. He's my brother."

"Sir," the girls voice was calm and perky again, making him feel even more tired. "Your brother was brought in this afternoon. If you could come to South Mercy Hospital…" the rest of her words were drowned out by the roaring in his ears, hospitals meant morgues, and his heart clenched at the thought of Sam lying on one of the cold metal gurneys, pale and still and obviously dead.

"Sir?" the girl's voice broke through his fear "Dean?"

"I'm here," he said slowly, "Which State?"

"Nebraska," the girl said "Norfolk." His gut twisted again, the silence stretching again

"Sir?"

"I'll be there in an hour," he told her, and hung up.