Sam pushed the door to the Bunker open and all but collapsed inside. He pushed the door closed with a foot and locked it without standing up. His arm flopped to his side. He concentrated on taking even breaths.

Breaking out of the hospital had not been as easy as he had hoped. Despite waiting an extra week and being a quick healer, he knew he was in no fit state to be exerting himself. Like by walking more than four steps at a time.

Luckily, the infamous Winchester stubbornness had kicked in once he'd hobbled out of his room. His legs, after all, worked fine, provided he didn't put too much weight on his still-tender ankle. Fortunately, someone had abandoned a wheelchair halfway down the adjoining corridor. It sat there, ready for takeoff, ripe for the stealing. Or rather, borrowing. Once he'd found the Camaro he'd had moved to St. John's parking lot, a mixture of frequent breathing breaks and downright dog-headedness saw Sam safely back to the Bunker.

Feeling his breath coming more easily into his aching chest, Sam used the door's handle to heave himself to his feet. Now came the real challenge: stairs.

Carefully, slowly, Sam eased himself down each miniature cliff, clinging tightly enough to the railing that his bruised knuckles turned white. He waited a moment with both feet on each step before continuing his descent to the next one, the constant mantra of don't fall down, don't fall down, seriously, do not fall down, playing on a loop in his head. After several intense minutes, he finally had both feet firmly on level ground.

As he paused to catch his breath and allow his tense torso to relax somewhat, he looked around at the Bunker's atrium. It was exactly as he'd left it, all those months ago. The empty whiskey glass he'd forgotten to put away still sat like a squat glass toad beside the softly glowing desk lamp. The whiskey bottle lay on its side under the desk, half hidden in its shadow. The books lining the hall looked the same as they had the day he and Dean had first discovered this hunter's haven. Sam wondered idly if Magnus had spelled the Bunker to repel dust.

Sam walked slowly through the corridors until he reached Dean's closed door. He hadn't been in his brother's room since the day he had lain his cold corpse on his bed. Which also happened to be the day his brother came back to life as a demon and left him.

God, his life was weird.

Steeling himself, Sam opened the door and flicked on the lights. It was as regimented and neat as you would expect of a marine's son. Of a soldier. The bedclothes were perfectly tucked in, the guns uniformly level on the wall. Apart from a small pile of books and John's journal on the desk, there wasn't a speck of clutter.

Sam found himself by the desk, his hand reaching for the small photo of his mother holding a four-year-old Dean without conscious direction. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at the two smiling faces. As ever, Sam drank in the image of his mother. She was so beautiful. Her smile reminded him of Dean's, but he saw himself in the shape of her eyes. Then his eyes slid to his brother.

The faded picture of the smiling young boy sent a pang through Sam's heart. He could probably count on his fingers how many times he'd seen Dean smile like that. A true, genuine smile that echoed the joy within. He could imagine his dad taking this picture, listening to Dean giggle. Sam thought for a moment. The smile faded from his lips. He could only think of two occasions in the last ten years on which Dean had truly laughed.

He returned the picture to its place by the lamp and reached for the top drawer. As he did so, a small triangle of creamy paper sticking out of one of the books caught his eye. Straightening, he opened the book and found a small collection of old printed photos. He blinked in surprise. He had never seen these.

The first was a photo of his father, taken in some bar or other. John was leaning slightly away from the camera, one hand half-raised to discourage the photographer. A pint of beer was in his other hand, and he was grinning; his eyes, crinkled with the smile, were twinkling with mirth. Sam flipped the picture over. There was no date on the back.

The next was a shot of himself and Bobby, each with a bottle of El Sol in hand, both smiling patiently at the camera. The unexpected sight of his old friend sent a pang of longing through Sam. Bobby looked as he always had: his green baseball cap, scuffed and slightly ripped, sitting at a slight angle on his head; his usual waist jacket hanging over a plaid shirt and denims. Sam stared at the image for a long moment before moving on to the next one, wondering what Bobby would say if he were there with Sam in the biggest known library of all things supernatural. 'Idjit' would probably feature.

The next photo was of himself and Dean at Bobby's kitchen table, laughing over some long forgotten joke. Dean's head was bowed, half-looking at the camera, fiddling with the empty beer bottle held between his hands. Sam's arm lay draped over the back of his chair, the other holding the bottle halfway to his lips. It was such an ordinary picture. Two brothers sharing a beer and a laugh. You'd never know by looking at this photograph that these two brothers spent their days killing mythical monsters. Sam's eyes turned back to his brother's. God, he looked so young. They both did. Had Sam's hair always been that ... floppy?

Chuckling slightly, Sam shuffled on to the next and last picture. It was of Dean, leaning against the hood of the Impala, staring off across the lake to his right. Sam remembered taking this, years ago between hunts. They had just taken care of a vengeful spirit, and he could just make out the cut over Dean's left eye where he'd been thrown against a cabinet. Otherwise he looked perfectly healthy. Sam remembered that two nights later, Dean was in intensive care with a bad concussion and a breathing tube stuck down his throat. Courtesy of Alistair.

But right then, in that captured moment of time, Dean hadn't been in pain. He hadn't known he had broken the first seal. He was simply enjoying the sight of some lake after a hunt, leaning on the car he loved. As Sam's eyes turned to the old car, he felt another painful twinge. That poor car. Right now it barely looked like itself, twisted beyond recognition. Just like Dean, really.

Remembering why had come back here, Sam returned the photos to their hiding place. He opened the top drawer of the desk, pulled out one of the many bottles of pills – where did Dean get these anyway? – and read the label. Pain meds. Just what he needed.

He used the sink by the door and, after checking the dosage, popped two of the small capsules into his mouth and swallowed them with a handful of cold, clear water.

Now. To work.

It only took him an hour to find all he would need for the summons. He toyed with the idea of igniting the spell in the dungeon, but in the end he decided that really wasn't the message he wanted to send to someone who could probably kill him with just a thought.

God, this was a bad idea. But it was also his only idea, which, under the circumstances, made it a good idea.

Ignoring his misgivings, Sam sprinkled the final ingredient into the wide bowl. He struck a match and held it over the bowl as he spoke the old incantation. On the final word, he let the match fall into the golden-brown powders and jerked back slightly as it wooshed up in a brief, bluish flame. Sam glanced to the paper bag of reheated zucchini fries on the table.

This was a very bad idea.

"Well, well."

Sam turned to face the speaker, taking an involuntary gulp of air.

"Sam Winchester. I was wondering if you would call."