Set after the season 2 episode, Houses of the Holy.
I do not own Supernatural.
It had been two nights.
Two nights of no phone calls, texts...Dean had even found himself checking his emails, a rare occurrence.
Nothing.
Dean sighed, resisting the urge to grab a beer. He needed to be clear-headed. He had ignored every other phone call and spent two days driving around Sam's usual haunts and everywhere in between.
It was midnight and Dean had come back to the motel room in the half-hearted hope that Sam had made his way back.
Nothing.
Dean flung himself down on the bed, head in hands.
Damn it, Sammy.
He sighed, grabbed his cell, his heart dropping to hear Sam's voice mail once again.
"Sammy...Sam, God damn it, i'm tearing my hair our here...I know we argued but...please man, just let me know you're okay...please."
Dean hung up and reached for his car keys.
He had to get out again.
He had to keep looking, keep driving...stop his mind from going down other areas that he didn't want to venture down.
He wished...he wished a lot of things.
That argument... that friggin' argument...
He would hold his hands up, apologise, take responsibility for it all. If only Sam could give him a chance. They hadn't argued like that for a long time.
Yet Dean knew this wasn't Sam's style. Sure, he could give him the silent treatment for a few hours after a fall-out but a full on disappearing act? He wasn't that selfish.
So where was he?
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