A/N: okay, so while I wait for comments on my other story, Playing with Fire, I came up with a new story to tie me over on my 'must write or die' days. Tell me what you think and enjoy.

Chapter 1: You've Got Mail

It wasn't unusual for either of them to go hours without speaking. After growing up spending practically every waking moment with each other, one tended to run out of things to talk about. The resulting silences were comfortable and warm.The cold silence that stifled the air of the Impala as it cut through the night, however, wasn't due to a lack of subject matter.

They'd started a hunt in Rome, Georgia that had to do with a possessed antique bed. How to deal with the spirit was obvious. How to get into the mayor's mansion, burn the bed, and get the hell out without getting shot was proving to be a little difficult to figure out.

Sam and Dean had been brainstorming in their shitty motel room for the past four hours when Dean's cell hummed to life. Dean paused in mid stride; turning from the papers tacked haphazardly on the wall to the small table across the room. Sam sat at the table (he's been working on the computer).Dean gave him a pointed look and Sam raised an eyebrow. He knew better than to answer his brother's phone without consent, and he fully intended to let it ring even though he was barely an arm's length away from it. Finally, Dean crossed the room. Picking up the phone, he flipped it open. With out bothering to look at the ID, Dean put the phone to his ear. "Talk to me."

In retrospect, both boys should have known something was up the minute the phone rang. After all, how many of the 'normal' people they knew would call them at two in the morning?

"Dean, it's Missouri," a feminine voice spoke softly.

Dean groaned and tossed Sam a pained look. Sam just looked at his brother questioningly.

"Whada ya want, Missouri," Dean asked insolently, adding her name for Sam's benefit. Sam's mouth quirked into a half-smile.

"Don't cop that tone of voice with me, young man! Why else would I call you if it wasn't important?" she paused. "Speaking of important," Missouri continued in a berating voice, "why the hell didn't you two call me after the demon attacked you?"

Dean's heart clenched at the underlying accusation. Why didn't you call me after John died?

She was a pain, but Missouri had helped their family many times throughout his life. She would have probably wanted to know. Dean sighed and sat on the bed; it would be a moment before he could speak again. Truth was, neither Sam nor Dean had informed any of the haphazard family they'd acquired over the years about John's death. Dean felt bad for the omission, but shouldn't she have known about the death anyway? She was, after all, a psychic.

"We kind of had a lot on our minds," was his clipped reply. His tone had come out harsher than he intended, and he winced again slightly when he realized he would probably be getting yelled at again.

What Dean didn't expect was a very somber reply to his words. "My powers don't work like that, Dean," Missouri said honestly, "and I'm sorry for snapping at you." She paused. "I'm not all-seeing, it takes something to trigger the knowledge, like a person or thing."

Dean was confused. "Then how did you find out about Dad?" he asked.

There was a dry chuckle, and then Missouri replied in an ironic tone. "That's what I was calling you about," she said, "I received a piece of mail that's addressed to you and Sam. Dean, its from your father."

xXx

Which is why three hours later, Sam found himself in the Impala going through some godforsaken back road on the far western edge of Tennessee. Dean was pushing the speed limit, his jaw set and eyes locked on the road ahead of him. Sam shifted nervously in his seat for the fourth time. For the fourth time, Dean ignored it. Given the current situation, Sam knew Dean was in the right frame of mind to drive, but the subtle threat in the car made him keep his mouth shut.

Mailing the package to them was out of the question. Apparently, Missouri had walked into the back door of her house to find it sitting on her dining room table (quite a ways away from the mail slot in her front door).

Dean sighed and ground his teeth. Now, he was driving all night to his least favorite town in his least favorite state to go see one of his least favorite women (well, except maybe for Yoko Ono, that girl broke up the Beatles for Christ's sake).