Dean still remembers what he was doing when he got the call.
It was a rainy Monday night, and Dean had just finished another one of his father's odd jobs in Palo Alto, California. This hunt had been another benevolent spirit, and Dean wanted nothing more than to get the image of the maimed man out of his head. A cold beer and a nice lady would do the trick just fine. He'd headed back to his shady motel room, showered, changed, and was back in the Impala within 10 minutes.
His only options bar-wise were either the crappy bar/dinner or the gay bar on the other side of town. Wrinkling his nose at the thought of the latter, Dean turned the keys and listened to his Baby's engine purr.
"Hiya pretty boy, what can we get for a nice fellow like you tonight?" Dean had just sat down at the bar, and was already regretting coming out. He sighed and scrutinized the bartender, a long-haired brunette with a plethora of tattoos and piercings, who had to be about 30.
He really shouldn't have picked this job. The motel was crappy, the women were crappy, and he'd had one of his worse hunts to date.
"I'll take whatever tonight's special brew is and a burger with a side of fries." He prayed that the food wasn't as crappy as the rest of his day had been.
He waited for his meal, trying to pretend that he didn't notice the man staring at him from across the bar. Jesus, this town was creepy.
25 minutes later, his food finally arrived. Dean wasn't quite sure how it had taken 25 minutes to whip up something as simple as a burger, but beggars can't be choosers. Just as he was lifting the (cold) burger to his mouth, his phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID as a formality more than anything else, finger already on ignore. What made him freeze was who was calling.
Sammy. The same Sammy who hadn't called since he left for Stanford over a year ago.
After staring at his phone for what felt like eternity, and considering letting it go to voicemail, Dean finally concluded that Sam wouldn't be calling unless it was important.
He hit answer, ready with a snarky "What do you want?" or "'Bout time."
All notions of that went out the window when the line was filled with heavy, panicked breathing. Sam uttered two words.
"Dean. Help."