Chapter 6

"Don't expect me back till late."

Dean set the pieces of the .45 he was cleaning back on the table, a frown marring his face. "Again?"

His father stopped by the door to the outside in the back of the kitchen his brow rising.

Dean knew he wasn't one to talk – late nights being a specialty of his and all, but not every single day. Since they'd come back from their last hunt, his father had left every day before sundown and rarely made an appearance before three am. He'd get up just long enough to clean up and ask if they had a job, before leaving again. As plastered as Dean had seen him come in, it was a wonder he hadn't ended up in a ditch with the old truck somewhere or been in some accident. At least he had sense enough not to take the Impala out for his drinking binges.

This was getting out of hand though, no matter how he looked at it. But Dean possessed no idea how to bring up the subject without getting his head chewed off. His Dad's tolerance quotient was at an all time low of late.

"You got something to say, Dean?"

Yeah, definitely at an all time low. "No, sir."

His father grunted then went outside, letting the door slam behind him.

Dean let out a slow sigh and scratched his head. Things couldn't go on this way. Sooner or later something had to give. And when it did, it wasn't likely to be pretty.

He put the pieces of the .45 back together barely paying attention to what he was doing, the motions ingrained from long practice.

The real problem was Sammy. There'd been no word, no sign of him whatsoever for almost a week – not since the day he left. Worry for him gnawed at Dean's gut whenever he allowed himself to think about his brother, and he really hadn't been gone all that long. Still, this was the longest they'd ever done without him, and if something had happened to him… A hard lump constrained his chest at the thought. Dammit all, Sammy. Call, email me, something! You promised me.

He didn't realize he'd banged his fist on the table until the side of his hand began to throb. An almost overwhelming desire to just jump into the Impala and take off for Palo Alto made him dizzy with the force of it.

If he broke a few laws and drove straight through, he could be there in less than twelve hours. He was halfway to his feet before he brought himself up short. Getting to Palo Alto wouldn't be a problem…but finding Sammy once he got there… He sat back down.

That in itself wasn't an insurmountable issue, but it would take time. Time his father would be left on his own, with no one to try to pick up the pieces. His fist smashed the table again. "Shit, shit, shit."

Dean shot to his feet tumbling his chair to the floor behind him. He was being torn in two. Yet no matter how much he missed his brother or drove himself crazy worrying about him, he knew Sammy could take care of himself. Right now though, their father was something else altogether. He was self-destructing and didn't seem to care. If Dean didn't cook and put the food in front of him, he was pretty sure his father wouldn't even eat. He just couldn't leave him on his own right now – no matter how frustrated it made him feel.

The room suddenly seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing in as if to trap him there. Grabbing the .45 and tucking it into his jacket, he stomped out of the kitchen and through the living room to go out of the house's front door.

The lowering sun glared into his eyes and for a moment, he thought there was someone tall standing in the drive. His heart lurched hard until he realized there was no one there – it'd been but the shadow from one of the trees. The disappointment was almost more than he could bear.

He quickly clamped onto the feeling and buried it as deep as he could manage.

This was the place he'd seen Sammy for the last time. His gaze roamed over the yard, ending by the tree where the two of them had parted. Maybe coming out here was a mistake.

Looking away, his gaze fell on the mailbox on the side of the road. Had he checked the darn thing since they got back? Sammy had always been the one to worry about the mail before.

Dean stepped off the porch. Fresh grooves in the rocks and dirt, plus the lingering smell of dust showed the path his father took on his leaving.

Sam didn't have a phone. Calling long distance would cost money. There'd been no emails. But what about plain old mail? His pace quickened until he almost ran the rest of the way to the mailbox. Don't get your hopes up, idiot. There was no guarantee there would be anything in there.

He called himself a fool, his hand shaking as it moved to open the box. A small pile of mail was nestled inside. He held his breath as he reached in to pull them out.

Junk. Bill. Bill. Junk. The last was a postcard with the Greyhound bus line logo on it. On the other side, in neat handwriting were only five words. But they filled Dean with such relief he was giddy.

Reached Palo Alto. Doing okay. –