tarotgal

Dean tried to tell himself that if Sammy didn't want to have anything to do with the family, then Dean shouldn't care what happened to him. Sammy was the one who yelled and stormed out. Sammy was the one who thought he was too good for hunting. Sammy was the one who left for Stanford and didn’t look back. But when Dean's phone rang at four in the morning and Dean saw the calling number had a 650 area code, he answered right away. “'Lo? Sammy?”

“Dean!” He sounded weak, panicked.

Dean sat up. He glanced over at the other bed, but his dad was fast asleep, probably partly courtesy of that bottle of Jack Daniels that sat on the motel nightstand. It was the middle of the night, but Dean suddenly more awake than he had in days. His heart raced. “What's wrong?”

“I need... I... can you come?”

Dean must be tired; he must not have heard right. Or maybe he was dreaming this. Surely, Sam hadn't asked this. “What?”

“Can you come to California? I don't... feel... Please, Dean?” He sounded desperate. His voice cracked. “Please?”

“Yeah.” Dean scrubbed a hand up and down his face. He fought back a yawn. “We're in Montana, about seventeen and a half hours away.”

He heard Sam whimper and realized that Sam didn't have seventeen hours. If he was desperate enough to call, things must really be bad.

“I can get in the Impala and drive straight there. I'll be there in fifteen hours. Maybe sooner. All right?”

Sam's reply was a meek “Okay.”

Dean got out of bed and started pulling on his jeans and a flannel. “Hang on, Sammy. I'm on my way. Just hang on.”