Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Call To No One

He wonders for the millionth how it came to this.

The scene plays like a butchered song on replay in his mind, and he can't stop the continuous loop, not even during the few hours' sleep he somehow gets. But none of it makes any sense. Bobby—he'd been there, right behind them, mere seconds before, fighting off the seemingly–invincible Leviathans. Armed. And perfectly intact. Hell, in better shape than any guy his age. Hopped in the van. Gunshots. Sped off with tires squealing, just in the nick of time.

He covers his face in his hands, feeling useless, runs them through his hair as he stares at the blurry white–tiled floor, suddenly having a desire to yank it all out. Dean can't believe he didn't notice. Bobby, the man who he looked to as a father, shot. In the head, no less.

The chances of surviving that. . . . He doesn't want to know or even think about it. But how can he not? What else does he have left to live for besides Sam? The world always seems to be in the toilet, has been for the past three years, probably will be for some time. Lost some good hunters and friends along the way. And, to be honest, he's tired of being the only guinea pig up for the job no one else wants, hell, even knows about.

Sam's a different story. He has so much faith and belief that everything will turn out to be alright. And if it doesn't . . . well, he'll cross that bridge when they come to it. But Dean can't quite get behind his brother on this one. It's not easy to be a Winchester, and with their luck, he finds himself wondering how they're both still even topside.

The doctors say it's likely Bobby won't live, though Sam swears he had a pulse in the van; Dean remembers feeling a fluttering heartbeat momentarily, but not a minute of the drive to the hospital. He just knows he's sitting here now, waiting, hoping for any news on the older hunter's condition.

He looks at the white walls, floors, uniforms . . . all of it blends together. One big white blur. He can't distinguish one thing from another. It's all one in the same.

Lids fall over hazel eyes, his fingers pressed to the corners, fighting the images his mind conjures and the building moisture.

"Don't you dare die on me, Bobby!"

God, he just wants it to end.

When he looks up again, Sam is bent over in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight, eyes shut in concentration. Dean's never seen his brother pray so desperately before. He tries to mimic the position—has several times—but his own hands seem to repel each other.

His stomach churns nervously, flopping around in his gut. And he can't sit here any longer.

Sam looks up as he stands. "Where're you going?"

"Bathroom," he mumbles hoarsely.

He's out of breath and gasping for air as he stumbles through the door. The room starts to spin, but he clutches the door handle for support, fumbling to lock the world away. He practically falls into one of the sinks, catching a glimpse of his pale reflection in the mirror. Dean twists the knob and brings cool water to his mouth and face.

Only when the room decides to right itself does he realize he's alone. Really alone. With Sam's unbreakable faith and Death knocking on Bobby's door. . . .

Pulling out his phone. A short scroll down and he hears the familiar ring. Then—

"You've reached the voicemail of—beep—I don't understand. Why . . . why do you want me to say my name?"

The corners of his mouth lift slightly at the gravelly voice, the sound of a few buttons being pressed out of confusion. A similar beep follows.

He swallows hard.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says. "It's me." He tries to clear his throat, which feels so dry it's as if he's been dehydrated for days. "Look, uh . . . Bobby's hurt pretty bad down here in the ER, and Sam's going crazy, you know, praying for some kinda miracle and, well, I don't know . . . I guess you were the first nerd angel I thought of."

He gives a weak, unconvincing laugh that sounds foreign to his own ears. Who is he kidding? His friend is dead, took a swan dive into a goddamn river and never resurfaced, will never hear this message. He's talking to no one, all alone in the men's room. It's also hard to look over the fact that Sam or Bobby would never look at him the same if they knew what he was doing.

Probably earn him a one–way ticket to the psych ward.

"It's been real hard since your synchronized swimming class," Dean continues, trying to smile despite the large lump welling up in his throat. "Damn Leviathans all over the place. Sodium Borate slows 'em down, but somehow . . ." He sweeps a hand over his face. "One got to Bobby," he practically whispers.

He pauses. Half–expecting a mumbled "I'm sorry, Dean" after a few seconds' silence. But of course there's nothing.

"This whole thing's gone screwy, man. We're verging on apocalypse number three now, and I just . . . I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Cas." He blinks, and a tear spills over. "I keep waiting to wake up, you know? See you and Sam and Bobby. . . . Back when saving the world wasn't so damn impossible."

Dean's thumb passes under his left eye, and he inhales sharply once, waiting again for a response.

"If you ever get your ass back to earth, do us all a favor and pick up a damn phone, would ya?"

There's a soft knock, a jiggle of the door handle, and Sam's calling him from outside.

"Oh, and Cas—you really need a new voicemail message, dude. This one sucks. Big time."

Dean Winchester flips the cell phone shut and leans his head back against the wall. It's only after he's sure Sam has gone that he slips out through the small window and ventures out into the darkness.


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