Summary: 7x17 Missing Scene – Dean swallowed at the realization that Sam had been in an accident that was serious enough to have strangers making emergency contact phone calls.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: spoilers for 7x17 and usual language
If you only knew how I refuse to let you go even when you're gone. ~ Shinedown
He didn't answer the first time it rang; just continued to lie on his back – the mattress uncomfortable, the sheets scratchy, the comforter unusually thin beneath him – and listened to the vague buzz of his vibrating phone; keeping his eyes closed and wishing it would stop; wondering if whoever was calling knew he was too fucking tired to give a shit anymore.
Because Bobby was dead...and Cas was dead...and Frank was missing...and Dick Roman was proving to be one slippery sonuvabitch to find and kill...and oh, yeah – his little brother was falling apart – compliments of Lucifer himself – and there didn't seem to be one fucking thing Dean could do about it.
So if some hunter – or who-the-fuck-ever – was calling in the middle of the night to tell him about strange happenings in Wherever, USA, Dean didn't care...not one fucking bit.
But the phone continued to vibrate.
"Shut up," Dean growled and then felt a brief wave of satisfaction when it seemed to actually work.
The phone stopped vibrating...right before it started again; the caller apparently being one determined asshole.
"Jesus..." Dean swore and blindly reached for his phone; looking forward to unleashing his swear-filled rant on whoever wouldn't leave him the fuck alone.
His phone began to vibrate once more; clattering against the nightstand as it inched its way toward the edge and then abruptly fell to the floor.
Dean sighed harshly and sat up; blinking in the darkness at the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock – 5:38 – before realizing the bed opposite his was empty.
"Shit..." Dean hissed – instantly awake and alert – and glanced around the motel room; reminding himself not to panic; that just because Sam wasn't in bed didn't mean he wasn't still in the room.
But the room was empty.
The bluish glow of the moon and the orangey burn from the neon lights in the parking lot mingled and mixed and flooded through the thin curtain drawn across the window, illuminating the small space...but showing no signs of Sam.
"Sam..." Dean called anyway, ignoring the vibrating phone on the floor and standing up; turning a tight circle as his eyes scanned every inch of their room. "Sammy..."
But Sam didn't answer...because Sam wasn't there.
The bathroom door was open, and all corners were clear.
Dean swallowed, hating that checking corners for hiding – cowering – little brothers was now part of his life. "Sam..." he called again, his tone desperate.
But Sam did not materialize...and Dean's phone did not stop vibrating.
Uneasiness clenched his stomach as Dean cut his eyes at the phone bouncing around on the carpeted floor; sudden realization making him want to throw up.
Because maybe the determined asshole that kept calling and wouldn't leave him the fuck alone was Sam.
The possibility had Dean bending and grabbing for his phone; momentarily dizzy from how quickly he had moved.
Not bothering to check the caller ID, Dean flipped his phone open and frantically called Sam's name into the receiver.
There was a pause.
Dean narrowed his eyes, hearing voices and general commotion in the background of whoever was calling. "Sam..."
"Is..." There was static. "Is this D?"
Dean arched an eyebrow, both at the unfamiliar woman's voice and at the mention of something he hadn't been called since Sam was a baby and just learning to talk.
"Hello?" the voice asked through the continuing static.
Dean pulled his phone away long enough to check the caller display; his heart hammering as Sam's name glowed on the screen.
"I'm calling from Memorial Hospital, and I'm trying to get in touch with D," the woman's voice continued to explain. "Is this – "
"Yeah," Dean answered abruptly, remembering that Sam had his number listed as such in his phone...and that his brother would always revert to calling him that whenever the kid was severely injured.
Dean swallowed at the implications – that somebody else had Sam's phone and that Sam was potentially hurt to the degree of calling out for him as "D".
"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded, reaching for his boots at the end of the bed; thankful that he had fallen asleep while still wearing his jeans and t-shirt.
"Are you D?" the woman persisted.
Dean scowled his annoyance. "Yes," he barked, yanking his left boot on and stomping his foot down into it. "Where's Sam?" he repeated, doing the same motion with his right boot. "Is he okay?"
Static filled the line.
"Hey!" Dean yelled, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you there?"
"Yes," the woman's voice answered. "I apologize for the bad connection. Sam's phone was damaged pretty badly in the accident."
"Accident?" Dean echoed, his heart pounding; wondering how the fuck Sam had left the room without him noticing; remembering a time when the kid couldn't roll over in bed without him knowing about it.
But not now.
Now Sam had left the motel – for god knew how long – and had been involved in some kind of accident; an accident that was serious enough to have strangers making emergency contact phone calls.
Dean briefly closed his eyes, instantly pissed with himself for not watching Sam better – especially these days – and pushed down the resulting guilt.
Because now wasn't the time.
Sam needed him.
Dean sighed, opening his eyes. "What happened? Is Sam okay?"
The woman hesitated. "I think you should get here," she advised.
Dean narrowed his eyes, well aware that she had dodged his question. "I'm on my way," he told her, holding the phone between his chin and shoulder as he continued to sit on the edge of his bed and hastily tied the laces of his boots. "But you didn't answer my question. Is Sam okay?"
Because even after everything, that was all that mattered; everything else could be dealt with as long as his little brother was okay...or at least as okay as he could be with Lucifer as co-pilot.
The woman hesitated again. "He's in pretty rough shape," she admitted quietly. "But that's all I'm allowed to say over the phone."
Dean laughed humorlessly; wondering how somebody could offer a description like that and then expect the issue to drop.
"You'll need to speak with Dr. Kandinsky once you arrive, and he'll update you on your brother's condition," she further explained; her tone indicating she had relayed such information too many times over the years.
"Listen, lady..." Dean began, standing and grabbing his coat from the back of the chair by the door before snagging the car keys from the table. "I know you're just doing your job..."
Dean exited the motel room, glancing around the parking lot as he crossed to the car-of-the-week.
"But taking care of Sam is my job..." – even though I've kinda sucked at doing it lately – "...so I suggest you get in a chatty mood and tell me what's wrong with my brother, or I – "
Dean scowled as the line suddenly went dead; no static, no unfamiliar voice, no nothing.
"Damn it!" Dean growled in frustration; uncertain if the woman had intentionally hung up on him, or if the connection had been lost as Sam's damaged phone had finally reached its limit and was unable to function.
Dean sighed harshly, sliding behind the wheel of the car and cranking the engine while one-handedly trying to redial Sam's number...and receiving a busy signal.
"Shit..." Dean hissed and snapped his phone shut; tossing it in the passenger seat – Sam's seat – and pulling out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of the local hospital.
"Alright, Sammy..." Dean sighed into the silence; his knuckles white from how hard he was anxiously gripping the steering wheel. "Just hang on, man. I'm coming..."