Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

Point Of View shifts between Dean and Sam are noted by OOOOOs. Since I apparently like to change POVs as fast as a rhesus monkey on crack, there may be a lot of these of O's. Like in this chapter. If this annoying, tell me and I'll stop.

And to my reviewers, thank you so much. I am astounded at your responses.

OOOOOOOOOO

Inside the diner and finally in a booth, they ordered coffee as they slid in, and Sam gratefully dropped his armload of newspapers on the bench seat. Grabbing the Weekly World News off the top, he glanced at Dean and watched him eye the menu through his sunglasses.

"Are your eyes OK?"

It took Dean a minute to take off and put away his sunglasses. "They're fine. They must not have gotten as much sleep as the rest of me".

Sam thought his pupils might still be dilated – he'd have to re-check Dean for a concussion when they got to the car. Momentarily tuning out his detailed 'Mystery of Dean' research, he checked the specials, and decided to go for the California plate – which was pretty funny since there were no micro greens, goat cheese, pine nuts or radicchio in sight. But there were scoops of tuna, chicken, macaroni, and fruit salads. If he was lucky, they'd use the canned fruit salad with the bits of maraschino cherries which for reasons he never wants to think about too much, he just loved. It's one of the things Dean used to bring home cans of every time he went to the grocery store when they were flush with money growing up. Even with all the fresh fruit in the Stanford cafeteria, that salad was always the one thing he really missed.

The waitress arrived to take their order, automatically topping their cups, and set the pot on the edge of the table. She considered the pile of newspapers, and grimly waved farewell to the tips she might have gotten if these two jokers hadn't settled in for the long haul. She glanced at Sam with a frown and said, "So what'll you guys have?"

Dean was being uncharacteristically slow to order, so Sam went first and ordered the salad plate and ice tea. The waitress sighed and turned a little toward Dean. "Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?" She tapped the table with the coffee pot.

Dean looked up and beamed a totally unselfconscious smile in her direction. She felt her knees grow a little weak. The tall kid was good looking but this guy – these boys could read all the newspapers they wanted. She'd even print more for them.

"I was going to get a bacon cheeseburger but the Rueben looks almost better. Do you use tomato paste or thousand island dressing?"

How was she supposed to answer when she was having trouble standing upright, she wasn't sure, but before she even had to try, the younger guy spoke.

"This once, for a change, take care of yourself and get something good for you."

Holy Mother of God - Sam almost clapped a hand over his mouth. Yeah he was freaked out about Dean, and the article about the statue of Christ on Mars in the Weekly World had distracted him a little, but where did that come from? That was downright pissy and sarcastic and condescending and nothing he ever meant to say out loud. Dean was going to kill him and damn if Sam wouldn't defend him for justifiable homicide. Distance was needed but Dean was between him and the door – if he wanted to survive he'd have to fake towards the john, then hope his legs were long enough to get him around the two tables on the right and out the door while Dean corrected his trajectory by orbiting around the hostess stand. He was a dead man. He took a deep breath, girded his loins, and set both hands palms down on the table to push off.

Dean shrugged a little, and smiling again, said, "That's probably a good idea, Sam." To the waitress, whose name tag said Judy, "I'll have the grilled chicken salad", and then he crooked up one side of his mouth, "a glass of water, and an order of fries." Moving his attention back to Sam, he said "You know I'll only go so far toward the healthy side."

OOOOO

The waitress gathered herself up and headed back to put in the order. Sam however was apparently frozen in place – he still looked like he was just about to get up. "You goin' somewhere?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. Dean frowned at him. What the hell was up with Sam this morning? Kid looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Dude, um, you don't mind about the suggestion?"

Oh, fuck me. "What, I did what you said and you still aren't happy? How bitchy do you have to be in one morning, Sam?" Dean selected the first paper from the top of his stack, the Wichita Eagle, shook it open with a huff, and glared mightily before ducking behind the page.

By the time Judy delivered lunch, Dean had more than made up his ill humor by reading stupid crook stories aloud to an increasingly irate brother. He knew that most of Sam's annoyance was not at Dean's actual reading, but because Sam couldn't help laughing even though he was trying very hard not to. Waiting until Sam put a big spoonful of fruit salad in his mouth, he drawled, "You think that story was good, you do know Wichita is where that guy shot himself in the balls, don't you?"

God, it was so worth it. Sam turned almost bright red in an effort not to have little pear cubes come shooting out of his nose.

"Yeah, he was putting his gun into the waistband of his pants and blew off a testicle."

Sam waved a hand and grabbed for Dean's water.

"At least we would only shoot ourselves in the ass. Well in my case, I would, but you'd probably just blow a hole in your jeans, skinny little ass-less wonder that you are."

He wasn't going to have to do a Heimlich on Sam was he?

OOOOO

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and took a gulp of coffee. The diner had mostly emptied out while they plowed through the papers until he and Dean were pretty much the last two left. He glanced toward the counter to see if he could catch Judy's attention when he realized that he was being stared at. Actually, both of them were being stared at - outright ogled - by four waitresses, a bus boy, and what must be a cook. He felt himself starting to blush but before he could signal, thankfully another waitress poked Judy hard enough to drag her attention from Dean to him. He held up his coffee cup.

"I got nothing." He observed his newsprint blackened fingers. "No unexplained deaths, no haunted houses, no weird accidents. Unless you want to know about the phone company burying lines and how that will affect rush hour traffic, or the new school buses, or City Council meetings, Wichita is quiet. I might have something in Cali." He glanced at their audience and his watch. "We should probably think about leaving pretty soon – we've been here for over two hours".

Either they were going to have to leave a $20 tip or they were going to have to fight their way out the door. He wouldn't take bets at this point if it would be one or both.

Dean thanked Judy for the refill and turned his paper to show Sam an article. "I think I found something up our alley – I've got a man taking a header off a bridge into the Arkansas not too far from here. And it looks like this guy was just the latest to go. Couple of others took the plunge there over the last couple of years," he pointed further down the article "and see here, there was a murder on the bridge about 30 years ago. It might be nothing but it would be easy enough to take a look."

"I'm game." He shifted a little on the seat. "I have got to move – my little skinny wonder ass is asleep." He signaled Judy for the check. "I'll settle the bill and hit the head. Meet you outside."

Dean nodded and headed out. Sam watched heads turn to stare. He was so never going to tell Dean about this. When he realized those same heads were now swiveling to observe him as he walked to the john, like spectators at a Winchester tennis match, he almost reconsidered.

OOOOO

Dean slammed his sunglasses back on as soon as he left the diner. He decided to check the oil before they took a drive to the bridge, so he popped the hood and stepped around to the trunk to get a rag. Coming back around the car, he heaved up the hood – good old all American heavy as hell steel on his baby – and tugged the dipstick out. The oil looked clean but it might need topping up. He wiped the stick and leaned into reinsert it, when a phone rang, unbelievably loudly, right in his ear. He started up so fast he hit his head against the edge of the hood. Fan-fucking-tastic. He pulled off his sunglasses to rub his eyes when he felt something tingling up his spine. The phone rang again and there was that music again, and after that, the only thing he could see was the payphone on the edge of the diner parking lot. He didn't even feel it when the dipstick, rag, and sunglasses fell out of his hands and onto the ground.

OOOOO

The first thing Sam saw when he stepped outside was the Impala – hood and trunk open. What the hell? He took a couple of long strides toward the car, when he saw movement to his far right. He stopped so suddenly he almost fell over. Dean was walking toward a payphone. He suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He headed toward the phone and his brother just as Dean picked up the receiver.

This time when he stopped he did stumble a bit. As soon as the receiver got to his ear, Dean changed. Sam watched his stance go from relaxed and alert to something else. His back straightened, shoulders went back, feet aligned, but his head angled slightly down. Sam found it frighteningly familiar – that's just how Dean stood when he was getting a dressing down from Dad. Clearly paying attention but not looking into Dad's face – not challenging the alpha dog by looking him in the eye, oh no, not arguing, not defending, just taking it in, absorbing it. He never stood like that any other time, ever. And Sam knew it so well because it used to drive him batshit crazy – so crazy that when he argued with Dad it was heads up, challenging everything he could - chin to chin and eye to eye.

And Dean was nodding and talking into the phone. Sam bounded forward, shouting "Dean – hey Dean" like he was an eight year old kid in a playground with bullies on his tail, and reached out to grip Dean's shoulder.