Sam stared down at the phone in his hand as if it were about to bite him. The first twinges of panic made themselves known as his stomach twisted painfully, but he refused to dwell on it. Instead, he slammed the trunk closed and got back into the driver's seat, turning to look at Dean. His brother was still breathing, but that was about all Sam knew for sure. Turning back around he gripped the steering wheel tightly with his left hand and studied the phone in his right.
"Think, Sammy, think," he said out loud, unconsciously mimicking Dean's speech pattern and nickname. "Where do we go from here? Who can we call?" Suddenly Sam dropped the phone into the passenger seat and grabbed the duffel bag, unzipping it and locating John's journal. He dug through the jumble of business cards and scraps of paper tucked into the pocket at the front of the journal until he found what he was looking for, then retrieved the cell phone and punched in a number.
On the third ring, the phone was picked up. "What's wrong, Sam?" said the woman's voice on the other end.
"We need help, Missouri, and I don't know who else to call," said Sam. The tremor in his voice increased and he cleared his throat to stop it. "Something...Dean's hurt. Something really bad is after him and I can't stop it. I...we're in Charleston." Sam trailed off, knowing he wasn't making sense.
The advantage of knowing a real psychic was that she could pick up on and understand what was happening without being told. The soft voice on the other end didn't hesitate. "You're right to get out of there, Sam. I've got a friend in Raleigh, North Carolina, about 4 hours from you. Her name is Sarah Wilson. If you leave now you'll get there by 7 a.m. your time." Sam looked at his watch, startled. Reflexively he started to stammer an apology for calling at 2 a.m., which Missouri cut off.
"I'll let her know you're coming." Missouri gave Sam the address and directions. Sam thanked her and started to hang up, but Missouri had one more piece of advice.
"Sam, call your father and tell him what's happening."
Sam didn't bother to try and tell Missouri that he didn't believe his father would come, that he was afraid that if Sam did call and John didn't come it might mean that he was dead; or worse, if John did come he would blame Sam for being out of practice and failing to help his favorite son. Instead, he was silent, trying to keep himself under control.
Missouri sighed. "He loves you boys. Both of you. And he needs to know about Dean."
"Yeah," said Sam finally, his voice rough. "Thanks."
"Be careful Sam."
Sam turned off the phone and started the engine. "Hang on, Dean," he said to the still figure in the back. "I'm getting help."
The Impala sped up Interstate 95, Sam pushing it as fast as he could without risking a ticket and subsequent police escort to a hospital. He didn't know why, but he knew that a hospital was not what Dean needed. Sam stopped twice for coffee, checking his brother carefully each time and growing more and more worried. Dean's skin was ashen and cold to the touch, and his breathing and heart rate were slowing down.
At 6:59 a.m. Sam turned onto Ridgemore Road, in what turned out to be a pretty upscale neighborhood near downtown Raleigh. He located number 427 and turned into the driveway, killing the engine and opening the driver's side door in one fluid motion, not bothering to close it behind him as he sprinted up the walk to the front door.
The door opened as he reached for the doorbell and Sam stood staring at a petite brunette woman in her early forties, dressed in a powder blue sweatsuit and carrying a stethoscope. "Hi, Sam," she said, brushing past him and starting to the car. Sam quickly followed, watching as the woman he assumed was Sarah Wilson efficiently checked Dean's vital signs and listened to his heartbeat.
"Carry him inside--I've prepared the downstairs guestroom. Come on." Sarah stood and walked around the car to the front passenger's side, opening the door and retrieving the duffel bag. Off Sam's puzzled look, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and said, "I need to find out what happened. I get better readings by touching objects." Then she started back to the house. Sam carefully removed his brother from the Impala and headed into the house.
"In here," Sarah indicated a doorway to the immediate right of the entryway. Sam entered a tastefully decorated bedroom with a double bed, dresser, nightstand and chair. He settled Dean on the bed, giving his brother's hand a brief squeeze before turning to look at Sarah, who had followed him in. Bright blue eyes appraised him sharply.
"Sit down in the chair and get comfortable," said Sarah.
Sam complied, fairly falling into the chair Sarah had indicated. He looked up at her, questions in his eyes.
"We're going to need to work fast, and I need you as relaxed and alert as possible," Sarah continued. Her gaze softened at Sam's incredulous expression. "Something is using a pretty strong psychic attack against your brother, and from the looks of him it's been going on for a couple of weeks. I need you to go through this stuff, " she dropped the duffel bag at Sam's feet, "and take out any items you or Dean have used in that time frame while hunting."
Sam found his voice for the first time since he'd arrived. "Can you help him? Can you stop it?"
Sarah laid a warm hand on Sam's shoulder. "Our job is to help Dean stop it." She withdrew her hand and gave Sam a small smile. "I've got coffee ready--I'll get us some while you go through the bag." Sarah left, and Sam unzipped the bag, grateful to be doing something constructive.