The phone rang.

Rachel glared at it through blurry eyes, stirring sugar into her as yet undrunk coffee. She hated it when people called before ten. Even when she was up early--and this was not one of those days--she hated it. Mornings were supposed to be private, set aside for waking up and contemplation and coffee and all the other necessities of life. They weren't for talking to other people. Especially not to telemarketers. Even the magazine editors were unwelcome.

The phone continued to ring.

It might be an editor, she thought. She pulled the spoon from her coffee and took a tentative sip. Not perfect, but enough to get her through the phone call. The last thing she wanted was to pass up an opportunity to make more money. Ever since graduation, she'd been submitting articles to the plethora of supernatural magazines in the world. They paid well for the stories she sent in, and it was much easier to publish in one of those publications than a legitimate one. More fun, too. She'd made two hundred forty dollars for the first printing of the story about the ghost in the painting; other magazines had picked it up after (the supernatural world seemed to share an awful lot, which she didn't mind as long as the money rolled in.) The kitsune money netted her even more: more words, more money, more coverage.

The big story, though, the one she was working on now, was Sam and Dean's encounter with the hell house. She'd pitched the idea as soon as Sam had told her what had happened. Mostly, the more legitimate magazines, the ones who actually knew what they were doing as opposed to those in it for the flash and fun, were highly interested in it. No wonder. Demons and such were always been raised by people who didn't know what they were doing. This, however, was the first time that the internet had been involved. It needed to be studied, and Rachel was going to make bank, and a name, when she got it out there.

Best not start pissing anyone off before that happened.

"Hello?" she answered, trying not to sound as asleep as she felt.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Gregory Isaacosn. May I please speak with Mrs. Rachel Winchester?"

Her heart stuttered. "Um. I beg your pardon?" she managed, through tight.

"Mrs., uh, Rachel Adams Winchester. Or Rachel Adams. I'm not sure what she goes by. I guess I shouldn't' assume."

Her face felt funny. It tingled, around her mouth, her temples. She felt lightheaded. The room faded from immediate view, her concentration turning inward. "This is she."

The man cleared his throat. "Ah, what should I call you?"

"Rachel is fine." Her hand flailed behind her, searching for a chair. When she found it, she pulled it to her and sat.

"Rachel, I'm afraid I have some troubling news. Please be assured that your husband is in stable condition. We expect that he'll make a full recovery. However, he was in a very bad accident. He was in a car that was hit by a truck. He wasn't buckled in, and was tossed around a bit. He also seems to have been injured prior to the car accident. He lost a lot of blood and is in a coma."

"Oh, God." She put a hand to her mouth. "What about his brother?"

"Sam Winchester was driving at the time. He has a sever concussion, a few broken ribs, and a broken shoulder. He also hasn't woken up. Neither has their father."

"John was with them?"

"Yes."

Oh God, all of them together. It had to be that demon that was after them. A car accident? Much too mundane to have been all that'd gone on.

She put her coffee down. Scrabbled for a pen and paper. "Where are you?"

The doctor gave the address, the phone number, and room numbers. "You'll have to have ID, of course, when you get here. And, uh, the, uh, head nurse will have to talk to you about insurance and payment. The police couldn't find any of that information in their car."

"Right, of course. Okay, thank you so much, Doctor." Rachel hung up. Her head was spinning. There was so much to do. She had to pack. She had to call her dad. She had to get supplies together for an exorcism and protective wards and the like. There was no way the hospital was going to allow her to salt the windows and doors; she had to use something else.

"Sam," she whispered. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and rose. She could start packing at least. "Goddamn it Sam, why the hell did you do this to me?"

It wasn't fair to ask. He'd done it because he'd had to. Because he was the thinker, the planner. The schemer. And he'd known. He'd known that they'd need someone like her.

Rachel just hoped she was strong enough.