Archive of Our Own

His phone is ringing again. 

He pretends like it’s not happening,

Lately, whenever he complained about the constant calls he’d been getting, Dean would give him a weird look. Whenever he went to take any phone calls at all , he’d get that weird look. Even just reacting to his phone ringing would earn himself a questioning glance, the one that had something buried behind it that Sam really didn’t want to identify. So, since Dean was so insistent on ignoring the ringing, Sam started ignoring it too. 

But lord, his phone was ringing. He couldn’t stand it. He could hear it vibrating insistently in the glovebox, and felt it when he placed his hands on the small compartment door.

Eyes are burning into the side of his head. He looks over at his brother, who’s glancing between him and the road with that weird expression again. He can see the question on the tip of his tongue, so he puts his hands back in his lap and turns away, pretending to be interested in something outside the window, and ignores the ringing.

But Jesus Christ, his phone is ringing . He’s itching to answer. His brain is insisting that it’s something important, something to be concerned about, like a life or death matter—maybe someone’s in trouble, or maybe the world is ending again. Both are, incredibly, equally probable.

Yet Dean’s not concerned. Well, if Dean’s not concerned, he tries to reason with himself. If Dean’s not concerned, how important could the calls be? 

A voice carries over the ringing. “You doin’ ok over there, Sammy?” Strangely, Sam feels like he has to calculate his response. It should be automatic.

He knows he pauses for too long. “It’s Sam ,” he insists. 

Ding ding ding! He can feel his brother’s gaze linger for a moment longer, and then turn back to the road; it feels like he’s just chosen the right answer on a game show. Inexplicably, tension he didn’t notice melts out of him, and he leans his head against the cool glass window. 

His phone is still ringing. Phones don’t ring this long. 

Dean is ignoring it. Sam ignores it. 

…but his phone is ringing .

“Can we pull over for a second?” He didn’t notice himself sitting up, suddenly strung with tension. Dean furrows his brows. 

“What for?” He starts. “There’s a motel not too far up the road if that’s what you mean. We can stop there if you want—“

“ No ,” Sam interrupts, sharp and unnatural in all the wrong ways. “I mean now. Like, pull over.” There’s a heavy, heavy pause, and the expression on Dean’s face is back and more intense than before. But his phone is ringing and he can’t pretend for much longer. “Just pull over, Dean. It’ll only take a second.”

“Alright, alright, jeez, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Dean mutters, pulling the Impala onto the side of the road. It’s dark outside and the wheels crunch unpleasantly on loose gravel. The car shakes slightly as it stops, but Sam’s already getting out with the phone in hand before they’ve fully parked, and struggles to flip it open when it’s buzzing so aggressively. 

He shoves it against his ear, breathing out a desperate, “Hello?” He doesn’t know what he says in response, and doesn't hear the initial answer. He’s facing the pitch black woods. 

He knows he answered that phone. He knows he had a conversation with someone. He knows because he remembers it happening .

But a hand on his shoulder sends him reeling back and the phone flying out of his hand. “Woah! Chill out, Sammy! Just wondering if you’re done with that phone call yet,” and of course it’s his brother, who else?

“I just answered ,” Sam responds, not bothering to censor his irritation as he runs a hand through his hair, shaking off his initial fright. He crouches down to look for his phone, now lost in the dark. “We don’t even have a case yet, what’s the rush?”

There’s a heavy pause, like before. Sam pretends to look for his phone a few seconds more before sighing and looking up; Dean’s expression is unreadable, swathed in shadow. “ What ?”

He’s been stuck with his brother day-in and day-out long enough to tell he’s considering his words very carefully. However, Dean tends to be a terrible liar, and especially terrible at sugar coating the truth. Impatiently, he repeats again, “What, Dean?” 

The pause only lasts for a few more seconds, and he hears a rapid, sharp inhale and exhale before Dean slowly responds, “…you do realize you’ve been standing out here, on the phone, for fifteen minutes, right?” 

All Sam can do is let out a breathy laugh in disbelief, because Dean had delivered it so deadpan. “I know you’ve had a thing with phone calls lately, but don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little? I just answered,” he scoffs, going back to feeling around in the dirt. The banter he expected, and maybe hoped for, did not commence. There was just more silence. 

“What?” Dean says in a way Sam can tell is rhetorical. That’s it. Just ‘ what ?’ Sam sighs, closes his eyes for a second to recollect, and stands up to properly face his brother.

“What, ‘ what ’?” He shoots back. They’re both looking at each other like the other is lying or telling some big joke. The tension in the air is crackling, like hot air colliding with cold air to create a storm. 

Sam opens his mouth, but is beaten to it. 

“Okay, okay, listen. Are you tryna’ start a prank war again, or somethin’?” Dean asks in such genuine disbelief that Sam finds himself taken aback. His brother goes on, “cause’ if so, consider me gotten. Consider me pranked. Cause’ I got no freakin’ idea what the hell is goin’ on here. I have a thing with phone calls? You gotta be kidding me; that’s all you, man,” Dean’s frustration is visibly mounting, and Sam feels like maybe all that’s been building up for quite some time now.

This makes no sense. 

“Dean, what are you talking about?” He responds in exasperation. “Every-time I say anything about phone calls you get weird! And don’t pretend you haven’t, cause’ I’ve seen the looks you’ve been giving me. I’m getting sick of it. I’ve been trying to ignore the ringing too, but don’t pin this on me!” Oh, look, now he’s getting mad too. He can’t do a sibling fight right now.

“Sam, I’ve been giving you weird looks cause’ you’re talking about phone calls that don’t freakin’ exist ! On your burner cell ! Just now you wanted me to pull over and then got out and acted like you were answering your, let me repeat, burner cell , and stood there for fifteen minutes. Excuse me for maybe, I don’t know, being a little weirded out?” Dean’s voice is raised to a shout by the end of his rant, and Sam can only stare, only imagine what they look like, arguing in the dark on the side of a back-road, bordering the woods. 

“What do you mean, ‘ phone calls that don’t exist ?’”

“I mean, what was that conversation about? Can you tell me? Cause’ I sure as hell couldn’t tell. All you did was say hello.” 

“All I did was say hello? I had a whole conversation! Dean, you’re acting crazy!” Sam couldn’t stop his defensiveness, or the sudden sinking feeling of saying the wrong thing. Alarm bells and buzzers were suddenly going off in his mind. 

“Oh, now you had a whole conversation, huh? What happened to ‘I just said hello?’” Dean sneered, and Sam’s sense of wrongness only mounted. “ Say , what was that conversation about, Sam?”

“Dean, this is ridiculous-“

“ What was the conversation about ?”

“I-“

“ Who were you even talking to ?”

“I don’t know!” Sam suddenly shouts, taking a dangerous step towards Dean. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know! It just wouldn’t stop ringing!” 

“Sam, nothing was ringing. It was dead silent.” The tension is dying, now, and being replaced with uneasiness. Sam is trying and failing to stamp down his rising panic. “Sam, when did you last charge your burner phone?”

“What? I-“

"Isn’t it dead ?"

The car jerks and he nearly whacks his head on the flipped-down visor with the way he startles upright. “Woah! Chill out, Sammy! Bad dream?” Dean asks casually, eyeing his brother out of the corner of his eye. However, Sam is panting , as in, just-ran-marathon panting, and doesn’t offer an answer. His gaze lands on Dean with a look not unlike a wild animal. He pushes a hand through his hair to get it off of his sweaty forward, tearing his confused and scared eyes off of Dean to look around the car. 

It’s daylight.

“Pull over,” he chokes out. “For a second. Pull over.”

“What for?” Dean starts. “There’s a motel not too far up the road if that’s what—“

“ No ,” Sam interrupts, and it’s still all sharp and unnatural and he’s going to puke. “Dee, pull over. Please. I-“ He slaps a hand over his mouth, stomach muscles convulsing. His other hand grips the door handle. 

“Holy shit, woah! Okay, hold on, Sammy, hang in there,” the Impala jerks unwisely and Sam is tumbling out before it’s fully stopped and emptying the contents of his stomach. A car door slams and the gravel crunches— unpleasantly —as Dean circles around to crouch next to his brother. Sam’s on his hands and knees, panting, still, and stares down at the dirt and his own bile. Slowly, his head moves up to the tree line. He knows this unimpressive strip of roadside, and before he can help it he’s throwing up again. 

His hair is moved out of his face and a hand placed hesitantly on his back. “Sammy? What’s goin’ on?” His brother takes no mind to hide his worry. Sam shakes his head frantically, and while he appreciates his brother's concern, it was a dream . A dream .

His phone starts ringing from inside the car. Every muscle in his body snaps. Nausea forgotten, Dean forgotten, he shoves his brother off of him, slipping and scrambling to get to the car. The passenger door; wide open, so he throws himself back into the seat and fumbles for the glovebox with shaking hands. His heart is pounding, threatening to tear itself through his throat and out of his mouth. Not the ringing. There is no ringing. Stop!

The ringing is like a jackhammer to his ears, triggering some deep-rooted fear he could never begin to explain. His rifles through the glove box until his hands lock around the phone with familiarity, but he doesn’t bother answering this time, though the worst part is that he wants to, and instead clambers back out of the car and throws it onto the ground as hard as he can with a sickening, satisfying crunch. To the side of him, Dean shouts something and reaches out to stop him. But Sam can’t be stopped; he brings down his foot and stomps and crushes and kicks his phone frantically, long after the ringing has stopped and he’s reduced it to a mangled mess of technology. Every act of violence against this phone feels like a buildup and release at the same time. 

His shirt is soaked with sweat when he’s done. Dean stands beside him, dumbfounded. The ringing is gone . Gone, gone. 

Sam drops to his knees, dry heaves, and wails.