Dying to get to you, a supernatural fanfic

Title: Dying to get to you.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Summary: Somwhere along the west coast it all goes wrong - but they miss each other more than they think they would. Dean decides to do something about it.

They were just off the west coast, midnight, when it really started. The radio turning static and Dean cussing it all to hell. The storms, of course. Nothing like some of the ones they'd seen but the rain and the thunder, rolling across the sky and smashing like fists into the hood of the car as they pulled over about twenty yards short of a decent motel.

It was barely even a lay-by really. Barely even anything but a slip of road not bustling with people too much in a hurry to get anywhere. It was dark, they were tired. Dean's eyes ached in all the wrong places and even the dimly flickering lights painted behind his lids meant another half hour drive at least. Sunday. It was Sunday, he thought, maybe. Full of nothing but silence and scenery. So they pressed themselves back into their seats and let out a collective breath. It had been days since they'd been able to feel that sense of relief nudging up their spines. Days.

And there - here - out in the middle of fuck-knows-where -- Sam leaned forward, resting his hands on the dash and Dean glanced across at him warily.

But there was nothing. A snide under-the-breath remark about Metallica before the silence caused him to grit his teeth and slam his fists against the wheel.

"God'dammit Sammy -"

"I can't do this anymore, Dean. I want to go home."

Somewhere between Michigan and Illinois Dean started to miss him.
But he just snorted to himself, looked out the window and flipped the cassette tape.
Singing along like it didn't even matter.

Somewhere between a backpack full of scribbled notes and the voicemail on his cell, Sam started to miss him too.

Two weeks and it was starting to feel a little like abandonment. Only with seperate heartbeats.

"Fucks'sake" Dean muttered to himself, lying staring up at the ceiling with the duvets slumped around his hips, "It's not like he's even a big deal."

Sam held his breath, trying to remain as still as he could as he waited for Dean to pick up - the dialtone pushing his lips together firmly until his bottom teeth were jutted against the skin.

Three seconds in - he paused - and hung up.

Right before hitting redial.

Five missed calls.

"This is stupid --" Dean hissed under his breath, speeding down the highway at four in the morning with no music. His own breathing fogging up the windows and his wiper blades wearing out the glass. But it was. Really. It was completely stupid. And he didn't even know why he was doing it. Except that it was because it was Sam.

Nobody else could truly inspire him to be such an idiot.

His eyes were dragging heavy with sleep and his mind kept drifting. He'd had four cups of coffee by midway point and his head was pounding quite inarticulately.

Too much for Metallica to calm him down. Not enough for Black Sabbath.

8:49am and Sam pulled open the door with a guarded look on his face.
Messy hair, unshaven. Dressed in an old shirt and boxers.

He kind of hoped it was the mailman.

"Dean --" he stared, blinking and rubbing a fist against his eye sleepily. He paused, opening his mouth and shifting to lean against the wall.
"What are you--" he started and Dean just shrugged as if that explained it all.

"I drove all night to get to you --" he said to his shoes (which Sam was pretty sure meant it was really to him). He looked up. They both looked up. " -- is that alright?"

It should have been awkward. It was awkward. But they were as much of a mess as each other.

Sam tilted his head to the side and his eyes creased up into his brows as he smiled.

"I think it is."

(He was definitely glad it wasn't the mailman.)