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Dean had parked the car outside of a barn. Inside was an RV.

The three got out of the car and headed towards the other vehicle. Inside, it had the same arrangement as Frank's house. Except this was a smaller version.

"Why the downsize?" Dean asked as he looked around.

"You." Frank replied. "' Hey Frank, go dig up some dirt on Richard Roman.' That night, I was burned off every I.P. I had. Ears on my phones, eyes on my house..."

"Wait, Dick's got people watching you?" Dean asked.

"Do I look like I know? Do you think it's easy to see this deep into what's real and also be bipolar with delusional ideation? There is no pill for my situation, sweetiepop, so, yeah, best guess—the bigmouths are onto me. Next question?"

"What's the word on the bigmouths?" Jessica asked.

Frank sighed. "Their tentacles are everywhere. I'm looking at bankers, military high-ups..."

"This is why you didn't call me back." Dean said.

"Hey, cut me some slack. You called me four days ago."

Dean's eyes widened. "Frank, that was four weeks ago."

"What? No. Really? Days, weeks, quit busting my chops."

Dean stood their shocked. "What, are you kidding me?"

Frank pointed a finger at Dean. "You cool your heels Buster Brown."

"Frank, I paid you 15 grand for this." Dean yelled.

"Yeah, I get that—"

"No, you don't get that! Dick Roman is every card in my hit deck. You understand that? Those numbers, they got something to do with him, okay? Bobby died for those numbers."

Frank sighed. "Look, I'm sorry about Bobby. I really am." He chuckled. "You know, this one time, we were in Fresno, and we got stuck—"

Dean cut him off.

"No. No no no. I'm not gonna play 'this one time with Bobby' crap, all right? I'm not gonna get all warm and fuzzy with somebody else who barely knew him."

"Just trying to make friendly conversation."

"This is not a friendship, Frank. I'm paying you!"

"Hey," Frank stepped towards Dean. "You know what you need? A little LSD, a little Shiatsu—"

Dean grabbed Jessica and pulled her with him. "We're out of here."

"Hey! You want to know what those numbers are? Bupkes. They're not lottery numbers, license—"

Dean stopped walking and turned around. "I know that, Frank. Thank you." He was getting furious now.

"Which leaves us little else to do but probability generate."

Dean cocked a brow. "Come again?"

"You run most reasonable possibilities for a Levi-related five digit number written by a dying drunk, you come up flat. Know what you start to wonder?" Frank cleared his throat. "'Hey, maybe I'm missing a number.'"

"How do you figure?" Dean asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Because Bobby was dying of brain trauma." Frank said sarcastically. "I just had a tickle there was a reason nothing was popping out at us, so I set up a program to run possibilities for six numbers, seven, eight. But, good news."

"Good news." Jessica scoffed.

"Never had to go past six, because this... my little lamb, is coordinates."

Sunlight ¥ Dean Winchester [1]Where stories live. Discover now