"Cause I know that tone.
I remember the first time
we wished upon parallel lines.
Waiting for a friend to call
and say they're still alive"
Dean wakes up. There's no jolt of surprise, or cold sweat from a nightmare, nor is there a reluctance to rub his eyes and rid them of any lingering lethargy. Instead, his eyes simply open; an automatic, mechanical act.
Without a glance, he flops his arm onto his side desk drawer and pats around for his phone. Funny, he thinks, his desk is normally cluttered with junk but now it feels completely empty. He lazily shrugs it off, dismissing the thought.
He brings the screen an inch away from his face and squints at the painfully bright screen. 3am...fun…
Dean peers at his notifications: 24 missed calls, 17 new text messages, 8 new voicemails. Shit… 15 calls from Mom and 11 from Sam. He checks some of his texts.
Sam (6:15 pm): Where are you? Mom says dinner is in 15 min. Get home fast.
Sam (6:23 pm): Srsly?! I've been trying to cover for you for 10 minutes. Mom's gonna notice.
Sam (6:30 pm): Mom noticed and she's pissed. Get home now before all hell breaks loose.
Sam (6:38 pm): Where are you? Mom's in hysterics please come home.
Sam (6:56pm): Dean?
Sam (7:05 pm): I swear she's about to call the cops. Fair warning.
Sam (7:10 pm): Dean please come home.
Sam (7:27 pm): You need to get home right now.
Sam (7:27 pm): Dad's home…
Sam (7:28 pm): Please hurry.
Mom (6:30 pm): Dean where are you?
Mom (6:35 pm): Sammy and I have been trying to get a hold of you. Why aren't you picking up your phone?
Mom (6:45 pm): Call me now.
Charlie (7:03 pm): Dean what the hell are you doing? Sam called and asked to try to get a hold of you he and your mom are pretty worried. Would it kill you to look at your phone?
Charlie (7:17 pm): Ground control to Major Dean! You're starting to freak me out.
Charlie (7:30 pm): Seriously bro, get your ass home wherever you are...things aren't going well…
Jo (7:42 pm): Are you ok? Your mom called and and my mom dropped everything to go to your house. My mom wouldn't let me come…
There's an abundance of these types of messages on his phone and none of them make a lick of sense to Dean. One message, the most recent, catches his attention. It's from an unknown number. He opens it.
012-389-4527 (2:45 am): This is a prayer message for the Novak family. Their son, Castiel, was taken into heaven tonight. Fwd to spread support for them and their angel.
The message has been sent by at least 50 other numbers. I hate chain mail messages Dean thinks, deleting the text.
Another text from the same number pops up. Out of naïve curiosity, Dean opens it and his blood runs cold.
012-389-4527 (3:07 am): This is a prayer message for the Winchester family. Their son, Dean, was severely injured tonight and is trying to recover in the hospital. Fwd to spread the love.
What the… Dean tries to look around but discovers his head is held firmly in place by a hard, plastic brace. He darts his hands around and finds not his own covers, but papery, scratchy, linen sheets. On top of that, he isn't even in his own clothes; a thin cotton gown is covering him. He explores a little more revealing flimsy, twill tape ties in the back that are already starting to undo. The smell of cleaning products and plastic fills his nose and the soft beeping monitors echo throughout the room. To his alarm, Dean notices the I.V. jabbed in both his arms, a rigid nasal cannula crammed up his nostrils, and a finger clip pinching his index.
Panic quells in his gut and he feels the need to throw up, his stomach churns as he thinks, Well how the hell am I supposed to throw up if I can't fucking move? This, he concludes, is how he will die: asphyxiating on his own vomit in a fucking hospital. Ironic. Dean's mouth starts to water. Fuck, this is really happening. His stomach does another flip and twists painfully in his gut. This cannot be how I die. Beads of sweat roll down his neck as his belly does a painful little jolt. Nope. Fuck no. This isn't happening.
He tries to take control by breathing it out, taking slow deep breaths. In. And out. He thinks. In. And out. In, and out in and out in out in out in out… He begins hyperventilating So much for control… His head spins wildly. If he could see through the veil of darkness, the ceiling would probably be whirling and twirling above him. Much to his discomfort, his head turns feather light as he heaves uncontrollably. He's going to pass out. He's going to throw up, pass out, suffocate and die.
What if I yell for help? He opens his mouth but only hears his own ragged gasps. How do you yell? Did I forget how to yell? How the fuck do you forget how to use your vocal cords? I don't even know what's going on anymore.
Dean feels something smooth and hard under his hand. Thank God. It takes several tries to wrap his trembling fingers around the remote and, just like his phone, he has to bring it up to his face to look for the call button. The small amount of strength it takes to push a button is apparently too much. The remote falls from his shaking hands, crashes painfully on his swollen nose and just sits there, mocking him because he's too weak to get it off.
"Dean?" A timid voice calls out from the dark.
"Nurse?" Dean asks.
"No," the says the voice. "It's me, Sam."
A ceiling light turns on, filling the darkness with florescent light. Dark hazel eyes covered by sandy brown hair gaze back at him. It's a boy only a few years younger than himself. He walks over and takes the remote from Dean's face. "Dean…" the young boy whispers, "you never texted me back… I knew something was wrong… "
"Sam?" Dean asks, fighting the urge to just close his eyes and rest. The fuck is Sam? He thinks before slipping back into unconsciousness.