[FIC] Father's Gun (58/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Checking out AMA is a huge pain in the ass, especially when Dean actually agrees with the docs who are trying to get them to stay. It’s pretty hard to keep saying ‘no’ when they’re telling him how risky it is to stop treatment, how Sam could still get worse, that maybe there are problems they won’t even know about until the test results come back, throwing out mortality rates and words like ‘infection,’ ‘co-morbidities,’ and ‘permanent damage’ like he doesn’t already know this is a piss-poor fucking idea.
Goddammit, Dean doesn’t like rolling the dice with Sam’s health. He really, really doesn’t. But there’s no way around it. They need to get the hell outta Dodge, fast.
Doesn’t mean Dean’s not gonna stop at the pharmacy and pick up the mountain of meds that’re supposed keep Sam from ending up in a freaking iron lung first, no matter how much his brother tries to push him to keep driving. He even takes the time to get details on what each one does, how to take ‘em and when, and has the pharmacist explain the deep breathing exercises Sam’s supposed to be doing each hour all over again, just to be sure.
He does all that more out of worry than out of a desire to mess with the kid, but he won’t pretend that when he comes out of the pharmacy and sees Sam sitting in the passenger’s seat where Dean left him, pouty-faced and arms crossed, it doesn’t give him a certain thrill of big-brotherly glee.
The early morning sky is full of grey, rumbling clouds and the smell of ozone, and as Dean jogs across the parking lot, a handful of fat raindrops land on his cheeks and shoulders. He slides into the car and manages to slam the door right before the bottom drops out, torrents of water obscuring the parking lot on all sides. He tosses his brother the slightly damp plastic bag and watches as Sam picks through them, reading the schedule Dean made the pharmacist write up for him with a pinched expression.
He looks up after a moment, giving Dean a questioning look.
“There a reason we’re not moving?”
“Just wanna make sure we got everything,” Dean tells him over the sound of rain battering the roof.
“It looks like we have the whole pharmacy in here,” Sam rasps, picking up the box containing a portable nebulizer with a raised eyebrow.
Dean’s pretty proud of that particular find. It hooks up to the cigarette lighter so they can use it no matter where they are. It’s not his fault Sam doesn’t appreciate ingenuity.
Sam lets the nebulizer plop back into the bag with a crinkle before picking up another, smaller box and peering at it curiously.
“That’s a rescue inhaler,” Dean tells him. “You’re supposed to carry it around with you from now on, just in case.”
Sam huffs out a frustrated, wheezy breath.
“Come on, don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?”
“Nope,” Dean replies shortly.
“Dean, I’m fine.”
“You really gonna try feeding me that line?” Dean asks. “‘Cause you sound like one of those people from the anti-smoking ads right now.”
“That’ll go away,” Sam protests.
“Yeah, it might. Or you might get sepsis,” Dean shoots back. “Don’t try to pull that crap. I got the same lecture back at the hospital that you did.”
“Just get us onto the Interstate,” Sam demands plaintively.
“Do your breathing thing,” Dean orders in return, cranking up the car and switching on his headlights.
“Why do I feel like that’s gonna be code for ‘Shut up, Sam,’ for the next week?” his brother grumbles.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean replies, squinting to see through the mist rising off the pavement as he backs the car out of its space.
He drives through the downpour, listening to the rhythmic sounds of the wipers and Sam’s deep breathing, interrupted only by the continued rustling of the bag as Sam inspects the rest of the contents. Dean still has no idea where they’re going, and he flips open his cell on instinct, only to find it dead.
He tosses it onto the pile in Sam’s lap where it lands with a muted, plasticy thump.
“Do me a favor and plug that in?”
Sam nods and does it without a word, lets out the breath he’s been holding and then takes another, and that reminds Dean of something else he’s been meaning to bring up, something he’d remembered this morning when he was shimmying out of hospital duds to change back into his street clothes.
Impulsively, he reaches up and yanks off his anti-possession charm, tossing it into the bag, too.
“And put that on, would ya?”
Sam picks it up, expression stormy, and opens his mouth to - undoubtably - give Dean hell.
“Hey, I only counted three breaths there, Sammy,” Dean interrupts him. “Supposed to do ten, aren’t ya?”
“Dean-”
“Ah ah ah,” Dean chides. “Our job is running after monsters. I’m not taking any chances with your permanent freaking lung capacity.”
“Dean-”
“Sam,” Dean returns stubbornly.
Sam looks murderous but draws in another deep breath and holds it through a bitch face for the ages, and fuck yeah, Dean is a genius.
“Look,” Dean says, “it’s not like I can’t get a new one. Which I will, ASAP, but for now, I want you wearing it. And don’t you dare argue with me on this, because your little demon summoning field trip the other night makes twice now that not having one has almost gotten you killed. I’m not sitting around with a thumb up my ass waiting to see what happens next time.”
Sam lets out his breath with a furious-sounding, wheezy huff.
“But what if-?” he starts, only to have Dean cut him off again.
“No ‘but’s. Either you put it on or I’m flushing it like you did my last pack of Marlboros.”
Sam makes a disgruntled noise.
“Last pack,” he croaks sarcastically, sounding a little bit like a pissed-off frog. “Last pack I found.”
“Damn right,” Dean shoots back. “Now, you gonna wear it or is it going the goldfish way? ‘Cause I’m not putting it back on.”
Sam frowns deeply at the charm in his palm.
“Listen Dean, if this is because of yesterday-”
Dean’s cell phone switches on suddenly with a loud trill, rescuing Dean from whatever half-baked psychoanalysis crap Sam had been about to throw at him. (Because, you know, asking your brother to take some meds and not get possessed is highly suspicious behavior. Definitely some kind of deeper motive there. Christ.) Dean reaches over and grabs the phone off of Sam’s knee.
“Holy fuck,” he swears when he sees the number of missed calls. “Are these from you?”
“No, Jim 86’d mine before he threw the locks,” Sam rasps him, brows drawn together in concern. “What is it?”
“Ash, Bobby, Ellen, Ellen, Bobby, Ellen, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,” Dean lists. “Holy shit, what the hell happened?”
“Aside from our fun brush with immolation?” Sam suggests.
“Do your breathing exercises,” Dean tosses back absently, dialing his voicemail, then pauses with his finger over the speaker button.
He glances over at Sam, who’s watching him expectantly, and jerks his thumb towards the charm still clutched in his brother’s fist, a silent order: Put it on, then you can listen.
Sam rolls his eyes, but slides it over his head anyway. The second it hits his clavicle, Dean’s pressing ‘play.’
“Winchester Número Dos, Ash here. Can’t get your brother, but I got time-sensitive intel that needs droppin’, pronto. Hit me back.”
“Dean, answer your goddamn phone, boy! I don’t know what the hell you’re doin’ that’s so damn important, but this ain’t the time! My phones are going off the fuckin’ hooks, and it’s either dumbass friends of your daddy looking for your 20 or reports of demon activity right around where your 20 should be, so whoever she is, pull out, get Sam, and get somewhere safe.”
“Dean? Ellen. There’s- there’s been an attack at the bar. Demons. Came back, sulfur everywhere, and Ash, he... He didn’t make it. They’re movin’ on us, and they’re bein’ smart about it. You boys better watch out. Your Daddy, too.”
“Dean, you, Sam, your Daddy, and Jim Murphy have all gone radio silent at the same time, and that either means you’re all dumbasses, or you’re in the goddamn middle of this. Call me.”
“This ain’t funny, Dean. You and your brother keep not answering, and you’re gonna goddamn worry me, and you do not want that. Pick. Up. Now.”
Sam and Dean share a look of mute horror. Dean pulls over onto the shoulder, snaps his phone shut, and spikes it against the dash. There’s a hollow pit in his stomach, his mind buzzing like static - too much input, too fast, and he has no idea what to do with it. In the seat next to him, Sam’s curling so deep into himself that Dean’s half-convinced he’s going to disappear.
Dean’s the first one to speak.
“Shit,” he says eloquently and then, smacking a palm against the steering wheel, “Shit, shit, shit!”
He groans, pressing his forehead against the wheel, shutting his eyes tight. How could things have gone so bad, so fast?! And what the hell are they supposed to do now?
“We need to go to Bobby’s,” Sam rasps, as if in answer to his silent question.
Dean cracks open his eyes and turns slightly to stare at him.
“We what now?”
“We need to go to Bobby’s,” Sam repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Dude, are you crazy?” Dean demands, sitting up straight. “After what happened yesterday, the last thing we need is to be within a hundred miles of another hunter.”
“This isn’t just some other hunter,” Sam argues. “It’s Bobby.”
“Yeah, well, it was Pastor Jim before. And Dad. How do we know Bobby’s not the next person on our Christmas card list to be sipping the old man’s Kool-Aid?”
“You really think Bobby is going to be reporting to Dad?” Sam asks skeptically. “Seriously? Bobby?! Dean, last time they were in the same state the man shot him. Do you remember picking the buckshot outta Dad’s ass? All the things he said he’d do before ever throwing in with Bobby Singer again? ‘Cause I sure do.”
And yeah, when he puts it like that, it does sound kind of paranoid. After all, John’d be lucky to get Bobby to pick up the phone for him, much less to turn on Sam with nothing but his say-so to go on. Still...
“All I’m saying is, we’ve been burned before,” Dean tells him, tacking on a half-amused shrug as the pun hits him. “Well, y’know, almost.”
Sam grimaces.
“Dude, even for you?”
“What, too soon?” Dean asks, offering up a weak grin.
Sam is, predictably, unmoved by Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood.
“Look,” his brother forces out, swallowing hard to shove the words past the sting of smoke and cinder, “if Bobby’s not in our corner, we need to know now. And if he is, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of that. Things are just getting worse out there, and it’s not going to stop until we stop it. To do that, we’re going to need intel. We’re gonna need research and resources, and I know you’re not gonna wanna hear this, Dean, but somewhere along the line, we’re gonna need backup. Who else can we trust for all that if not him?”
Dean turns that over in his mind, lips pursed. It’s true that, outside of Dad, Bobby’s probably their best bet of tracking down this demon. Everything the hunters on his phone tree know, Bobby knows and then some. Research and word of mouth are the tools of his trade, and right now, Sam and Dean could use a good helping of both. Dad’s research has been reduced to cinders, their look-out guy is dead, and Dean’s contact list is now a catalogue of people he’d like to avoid at all costs. All they’ve got is whatever of Dad’s research Sam managed to save to the net and some cryptic whispers from the demonic rumor mill. Dean wouldn’t say ‘no’ to having a little bit more to go on than that.
“At the very least,” Sam adds quietly, “we should let him know we’re okay. He sounded really worried.”
And yep, there comes the guilt. Because Bobby really has been good to them. He was there for them after Louisiana, after Stanford, through this whole long damn year when Dad was nowhere to be found. He gave them the lead that got them the Colt, and it’s not like Dean doesn’t want to trust him. He wants to. He wants to believe so bad that Bobby’s still on their side, that he’s still someone they can turn to, still the man Dean always thought he was. But Dean’s been wrong before, keeps being wrong, and he doesn’t know if he can take it again. Doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle giving up on Bobby, too.
But Sam’s right. They do need to know, and God help them, if they’re wrong about Bobby, they need to know now.
“Fine,” Dean grits out. “Fine, I’ll make the damn call.”
He digs his phone out from under the seat and flips through his contacts until he gets to Bobby’s name. It only takes two and a half rings for him to pick up.
“This better be demon-goddamn-you callin’ to ransom the Ark of the fuckin’ Covenant.”
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says. “Good to hear from you, too. I’m doin’ fine. Sam says ‘hi’-”
“Shut up, smartass,” Bobby growls. “Or better yet, tell me why the hell every dumbass named Winchester decided not to pick up their goddamn phone for two goddamn days?”
“That’s, uh...” Dean trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck.
He glances at Sam, raising an eyebrow in silent question: “You sure about this?”
Sam nods.
“That’s kinda hard to get into over the phone,” Dean says finally, scrubbing a hand over his face. “If you’re at home, we’re about an hour out.”
“I’ll leave the porch light on.”
Chapter 59
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Checking out AMA is a huge pain in the ass, especially when Dean actually agrees with the docs who are trying to get them to stay. It’s pretty hard to keep saying ‘no’ when they’re telling him how risky it is to stop treatment, how Sam could still get worse, that maybe there are problems they won’t even know about until the test results come back, throwing out mortality rates and words like ‘infection,’ ‘co-morbidities,’ and ‘permanent damage’ like he doesn’t already know this is a piss-poor fucking idea.
Goddammit, Dean doesn’t like rolling the dice with Sam’s health. He really, really doesn’t. But there’s no way around it. They need to get the hell outta Dodge, fast.
Doesn’t mean Dean’s not gonna stop at the pharmacy and pick up the mountain of meds that’re supposed keep Sam from ending up in a freaking iron lung first, no matter how much his brother tries to push him to keep driving. He even takes the time to get details on what each one does, how to take ‘em and when, and has the pharmacist explain the deep breathing exercises Sam’s supposed to be doing each hour all over again, just to be sure.
He does all that more out of worry than out of a desire to mess with the kid, but he won’t pretend that when he comes out of the pharmacy and sees Sam sitting in the passenger’s seat where Dean left him, pouty-faced and arms crossed, it doesn’t give him a certain thrill of big-brotherly glee.
The early morning sky is full of grey, rumbling clouds and the smell of ozone, and as Dean jogs across the parking lot, a handful of fat raindrops land on his cheeks and shoulders. He slides into the car and manages to slam the door right before the bottom drops out, torrents of water obscuring the parking lot on all sides. He tosses his brother the slightly damp plastic bag and watches as Sam picks through them, reading the schedule Dean made the pharmacist write up for him with a pinched expression.
He looks up after a moment, giving Dean a questioning look.
“There a reason we’re not moving?”
“Just wanna make sure we got everything,” Dean tells him over the sound of rain battering the roof.
“It looks like we have the whole pharmacy in here,” Sam rasps, picking up the box containing a portable nebulizer with a raised eyebrow.
Dean’s pretty proud of that particular find. It hooks up to the cigarette lighter so they can use it no matter where they are. It’s not his fault Sam doesn’t appreciate ingenuity.
Sam lets the nebulizer plop back into the bag with a crinkle before picking up another, smaller box and peering at it curiously.
“That’s a rescue inhaler,” Dean tells him. “You’re supposed to carry it around with you from now on, just in case.”
Sam huffs out a frustrated, wheezy breath.
“Come on, don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?”
“Nope,” Dean replies shortly.
“Dean, I’m fine.”
“You really gonna try feeding me that line?” Dean asks. “‘Cause you sound like one of those people from the anti-smoking ads right now.”
“That’ll go away,” Sam protests.
“Yeah, it might. Or you might get sepsis,” Dean shoots back. “Don’t try to pull that crap. I got the same lecture back at the hospital that you did.”
“Just get us onto the Interstate,” Sam demands plaintively.
“Do your breathing thing,” Dean orders in return, cranking up the car and switching on his headlights.
“Why do I feel like that’s gonna be code for ‘Shut up, Sam,’ for the next week?” his brother grumbles.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean replies, squinting to see through the mist rising off the pavement as he backs the car out of its space.
He drives through the downpour, listening to the rhythmic sounds of the wipers and Sam’s deep breathing, interrupted only by the continued rustling of the bag as Sam inspects the rest of the contents. Dean still has no idea where they’re going, and he flips open his cell on instinct, only to find it dead.
He tosses it onto the pile in Sam’s lap where it lands with a muted, plasticy thump.
“Do me a favor and plug that in?”
Sam nods and does it without a word, lets out the breath he’s been holding and then takes another, and that reminds Dean of something else he’s been meaning to bring up, something he’d remembered this morning when he was shimmying out of hospital duds to change back into his street clothes.
Impulsively, he reaches up and yanks off his anti-possession charm, tossing it into the bag, too.
“And put that on, would ya?”
Sam picks it up, expression stormy, and opens his mouth to - undoubtably - give Dean hell.
“Hey, I only counted three breaths there, Sammy,” Dean interrupts him. “Supposed to do ten, aren’t ya?”
“Dean-”
“Ah ah ah,” Dean chides. “Our job is running after monsters. I’m not taking any chances with your permanent freaking lung capacity.”
“Dean-”
“Sam,” Dean returns stubbornly.
Sam looks murderous but draws in another deep breath and holds it through a bitch face for the ages, and fuck yeah, Dean is a genius.
“Look,” Dean says, “it’s not like I can’t get a new one. Which I will, ASAP, but for now, I want you wearing it. And don’t you dare argue with me on this, because your little demon summoning field trip the other night makes twice now that not having one has almost gotten you killed. I’m not sitting around with a thumb up my ass waiting to see what happens next time.”
Sam lets out his breath with a furious-sounding, wheezy huff.
“But what if-?” he starts, only to have Dean cut him off again.
“No ‘but’s. Either you put it on or I’m flushing it like you did my last pack of Marlboros.”
Sam makes a disgruntled noise.
“Last pack,” he croaks sarcastically, sounding a little bit like a pissed-off frog. “Last pack I found.”
“Damn right,” Dean shoots back. “Now, you gonna wear it or is it going the goldfish way? ‘Cause I’m not putting it back on.”
Sam frowns deeply at the charm in his palm.
“Listen Dean, if this is because of yesterday-”
Dean’s cell phone switches on suddenly with a loud trill, rescuing Dean from whatever half-baked psychoanalysis crap Sam had been about to throw at him. (Because, you know, asking your brother to take some meds and not get possessed is highly suspicious behavior. Definitely some kind of deeper motive there. Christ.) Dean reaches over and grabs the phone off of Sam’s knee.
“Holy fuck,” he swears when he sees the number of missed calls. “Are these from you?”
“No, Jim 86’d mine before he threw the locks,” Sam rasps him, brows drawn together in concern. “What is it?”
“Ash, Bobby, Ellen, Ellen, Bobby, Ellen, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,” Dean lists. “Holy shit, what the hell happened?”
“Aside from our fun brush with immolation?” Sam suggests.
“Do your breathing exercises,” Dean tosses back absently, dialing his voicemail, then pauses with his finger over the speaker button.
He glances over at Sam, who’s watching him expectantly, and jerks his thumb towards the charm still clutched in his brother’s fist, a silent order: Put it on, then you can listen.
Sam rolls his eyes, but slides it over his head anyway. The second it hits his clavicle, Dean’s pressing ‘play.’
“Winchester Número Dos, Ash here. Can’t get your brother, but I got time-sensitive intel that needs droppin’, pronto. Hit me back.”
“Dean, answer your goddamn phone, boy! I don’t know what the hell you’re doin’ that’s so damn important, but this ain’t the time! My phones are going off the fuckin’ hooks, and it’s either dumbass friends of your daddy looking for your 20 or reports of demon activity right around where your 20 should be, so whoever she is, pull out, get Sam, and get somewhere safe.”
“Dean? Ellen. There’s- there’s been an attack at the bar. Demons. Came back, sulfur everywhere, and Ash, he... He didn’t make it. They’re movin’ on us, and they’re bein’ smart about it. You boys better watch out. Your Daddy, too.”
“Dean, you, Sam, your Daddy, and Jim Murphy have all gone radio silent at the same time, and that either means you’re all dumbasses, or you’re in the goddamn middle of this. Call me.”
“This ain’t funny, Dean. You and your brother keep not answering, and you’re gonna goddamn worry me, and you do not want that. Pick. Up. Now.”
Sam and Dean share a look of mute horror. Dean pulls over onto the shoulder, snaps his phone shut, and spikes it against the dash. There’s a hollow pit in his stomach, his mind buzzing like static - too much input, too fast, and he has no idea what to do with it. In the seat next to him, Sam’s curling so deep into himself that Dean’s half-convinced he’s going to disappear.
Dean’s the first one to speak.
“Shit,” he says eloquently and then, smacking a palm against the steering wheel, “Shit, shit, shit!”
He groans, pressing his forehead against the wheel, shutting his eyes tight. How could things have gone so bad, so fast?! And what the hell are they supposed to do now?
“We need to go to Bobby’s,” Sam rasps, as if in answer to his silent question.
Dean cracks open his eyes and turns slightly to stare at him.
“We what now?”
“We need to go to Bobby’s,” Sam repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Dude, are you crazy?” Dean demands, sitting up straight. “After what happened yesterday, the last thing we need is to be within a hundred miles of another hunter.”
“This isn’t just some other hunter,” Sam argues. “It’s Bobby.”
“Yeah, well, it was Pastor Jim before. And Dad. How do we know Bobby’s not the next person on our Christmas card list to be sipping the old man’s Kool-Aid?”
“You really think Bobby is going to be reporting to Dad?” Sam asks skeptically. “Seriously? Bobby?! Dean, last time they were in the same state the man shot him. Do you remember picking the buckshot outta Dad’s ass? All the things he said he’d do before ever throwing in with Bobby Singer again? ‘Cause I sure do.”
And yeah, when he puts it like that, it does sound kind of paranoid. After all, John’d be lucky to get Bobby to pick up the phone for him, much less to turn on Sam with nothing but his say-so to go on. Still...
“All I’m saying is, we’ve been burned before,” Dean tells him, tacking on a half-amused shrug as the pun hits him. “Well, y’know, almost.”
Sam grimaces.
“Dude, even for you?”
“What, too soon?” Dean asks, offering up a weak grin.
Sam is, predictably, unmoved by Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood.
“Look,” his brother forces out, swallowing hard to shove the words past the sting of smoke and cinder, “if Bobby’s not in our corner, we need to know now. And if he is, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of that. Things are just getting worse out there, and it’s not going to stop until we stop it. To do that, we’re going to need intel. We’re gonna need research and resources, and I know you’re not gonna wanna hear this, Dean, but somewhere along the line, we’re gonna need backup. Who else can we trust for all that if not him?”
Dean turns that over in his mind, lips pursed. It’s true that, outside of Dad, Bobby’s probably their best bet of tracking down this demon. Everything the hunters on his phone tree know, Bobby knows and then some. Research and word of mouth are the tools of his trade, and right now, Sam and Dean could use a good helping of both. Dad’s research has been reduced to cinders, their look-out guy is dead, and Dean’s contact list is now a catalogue of people he’d like to avoid at all costs. All they’ve got is whatever of Dad’s research Sam managed to save to the net and some cryptic whispers from the demonic rumor mill. Dean wouldn’t say ‘no’ to having a little bit more to go on than that.
“At the very least,” Sam adds quietly, “we should let him know we’re okay. He sounded really worried.”
And yep, there comes the guilt. Because Bobby really has been good to them. He was there for them after Louisiana, after Stanford, through this whole long damn year when Dad was nowhere to be found. He gave them the lead that got them the Colt, and it’s not like Dean doesn’t want to trust him. He wants to. He wants to believe so bad that Bobby’s still on their side, that he’s still someone they can turn to, still the man Dean always thought he was. But Dean’s been wrong before, keeps being wrong, and he doesn’t know if he can take it again. Doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle giving up on Bobby, too.
But Sam’s right. They do need to know, and God help them, if they’re wrong about Bobby, they need to know now.
“Fine,” Dean grits out. “Fine, I’ll make the damn call.”
He digs his phone out from under the seat and flips through his contacts until he gets to Bobby’s name. It only takes two and a half rings for him to pick up.
“This better be demon-goddamn-you callin’ to ransom the Ark of the fuckin’ Covenant.”
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says. “Good to hear from you, too. I’m doin’ fine. Sam says ‘hi’-”
“Shut up, smartass,” Bobby growls. “Or better yet, tell me why the hell every dumbass named Winchester decided not to pick up their goddamn phone for two goddamn days?”
“That’s, uh...” Dean trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck.
He glances at Sam, raising an eyebrow in silent question: “You sure about this?”
Sam nods.
“That’s kinda hard to get into over the phone,” Dean says finally, scrubbing a hand over his face. “If you’re at home, we’re about an hour out.”
“I’ll leave the porch light on.”
Chapter 59