Dean dropped to his knees beside his unconscious brother, machete falling to the grass. Carefully avoiding the ugly, bloody wound on Sam's throat, he felt for a pulse, breath gusting out with relief when he found it.

He scooped Sam up into his arms, kissing the top of his head as it rested against his chest. Then, moving fast, he carried the younger boy to the Impala, settling him securely in the passenger seat before pulling out his cell.

No signal.

And no phone lines anywhere near the house, which meant no telephone inside.

Dad would just have to wait.