Missing Her

Part 1

The phone started ringing for the third time that night. It wasn't a number you recognized, and they didn't leave a message which was an instant red flag. The biggest red flag, however, was that it wasn't the burner phone that Ellen gave you. That was the only one that would ring this time of night, which meant it couldn't be an emergency.

It finally stopped after about seven rings, but when it immediately started up again, you got angry. Who the hell would be calling you in the middle of the night, and on the landline no less.

You grabbed the receiver and took a breath before barking into it. "What?!"

Silence.

"Listen, fuckface, if you call here aga—"

"Y/N," he said, and your heart stopped. That voice was familiar, and not the kind that whips up a nice dose of nostalgia. This was the kind of familiar that makes ice run through your veins and elicits a frenzy of fear of what it could mean.

It couldn't be.

"Y/N? Its Sam. Sam Winchester."

Holy shit. Why... why now? It had been years since you last heard his voice. He knew not to call, he promised he wouldn't. He promised he would leave you be...

"Sam..." you didn't know what else you could say. Sitting up in your bed, you leaned over and clicked on the lamp. "What, uh, what do you want?"

"It's Dean. He's in trouble and... I don't—" he paused. You could feel the desperation and weight of his sigh through the receiver, "I wanna tell him. I want YOU to tell him. Maybe... maybe this will be the thing that saves him."

Your heart stopped and climbed up into your throat. The lump that it formed there felt permanent and you began to panic.

"Tell him? Why? What good would that serve, Sam? No. I can't—I won't."

You slammed down the receiver and exhaled a rush of breath. How fucking dare, he? Fucking Winchesters... running your hands nervously through your hair, you kicked off the covers and began pacing the room, fingers still apprehensively pulling at the tendrils around your face. They always seemed to pop up just when your life was good. Then, bam! Tears and broken hearts. The last time you talked to one of them, it hadn't ended well, so you assumed this would, too.

"Dean's in trouble... how the HELL is that my problem? I did what I was asked... played my part, why is Sam calling me now?"

You continued mumbling to yourself, going over the history you shared with the Winchesters. Those damn men, all three of them had turned your life upside down at one point. You missed Dean, though. You didn't want to send him away, but you had to. Guilt ate at you every day for what you had done, but it was necessary... wasn't it?

Dean... God I miss him... you thought to yourself, like you did more often than not.

You sighed and fell back onto the bed, and rested your head against the headboard. Your hand absently went to the empty side of your bed and mindlessly rubbed at the spot where he could have been—SHOULD have been, had John not interfered. You shook your head to rid yourself of John's face and the way it looked that night he stood on the steps outside your front door. Pitch black around him, except for the yellowed porch light that illuminated his deeply-rigid scowl. Your stomach was swimming in rough seas, the nausea was intense, and John's demands had only made it worse.

A brief flashback to happier times entrenched itself in your mind. It was a different house, a different bed, but Dean was there. He had been young, charming as hell and beautiful. The stranger with the green eyes who bore the eyes of an angel and the smile of the devil had somehow wormed his way into your bed and then stayed for a while.