Dean strips down to his boxers and lounges on his back in the middle of the bed. He stares up at his cell phone. The screen is all cracked to hell, but it works.

He had just been looking for Sam's phone number; the picture is a massive bonus. He switches back and forth between from covering one half, then the other half of the snapshot with his hand. He squints at it with his right and then, his left eye. He doesn't bother to look up when Jody comes into the room. She drops her purse on the floor and kicks off her shoes. "Get out of my bed, you hooligan."

He gives her the finger and tries zooming in on Sam's face. Then, he slides it over to look at the pixelated image of Jo.

Jody collapses next to him with a heavy sigh. She yawns and rubs her eyes before she jabs him with cold toes. "Tired as fuck. Why don't you be a good boy and rub my feet?"

"Rub your own feet." He shoves her away.

Jody snatches the phone and points at her feet. He rolls his eyes and gets to work. She is wearing the same jean skirt with the tattered hem that she wears most days. The way she lays, he catches a sorely unwanted glimpse of the blue lace trim on her panties.

He massages and kneads while Jody studies his phone. "The girlfriend is cute. She looks sweet."

"She is."

"Stiff competition, but no match for my boy." Jody declares like she's giving a victory speech.

"That's his sister."

"That should make it easier."

"Give me that." He grabs the phone and tosses himself down beside her. This time, he lays on his stomach. "Hey, you know what flour is?"

Jody sits up and continues massaging her own feet. "Like, flour? For baking?"

"Yeah, exactly. You know about that?"

She snickers. "And I'm crazy? What? You didn't know what flour is?"

"How would I know … Whatever. Forget it. What should I write to Sam?"

"Exactly whatever you're thinking." Jody crosses the tiny room to the rickety dresser. They had found it on the side of the road. It had been hell getting that thing into the apartment, just the two of them.

"Whatever I'm thinking? Come fuck me right now." He articulates each word as he thumbs the message into his phone.

Jody smiles and pulls her shirt up over her head. "That's good. Get this and get lost. I need to get some sleep."

Dean glances at her back. He uses one hand to loosen her bra for her. "Come on. I need you to help me. What should I write?"

"Stop being a pussy about it, Dean. Just whatever you kids say to each other. 'What's up, dude?'" Dressed in a long T-shirt, she kneels back on the bed and slaps his ass.

"He's not a kid. He's old, like you."

"Fuck you." She flops onto her belly next to him. "How old?"

"I don't know. Thirty, maybe."

Her eyes pop open. "Thirty? Dean. Jesus. You're gonna get the guy locked up."

"Why? You calling the cops?"

Jody squints down at the picture. "No, I'm just saying. What does a guy his age wants with a kid your age?"

He rolls onto his side and looks straight at her. "I know what you're thinking and it's not like that. For one thing, no matter what we do, Sam's not going to knock me up."

He flips onto his back and stares up at the phone again. "I'm going to start with 'Hi.' Or 'Hey.' Is 'Hi' or 'Hey' better?"

Jody frowns at the image. "Big muscle-head. Fat neck. Shoulders for days. Is this your coach, Dean? He looks like a football player."

He grabs the phone back and sits up on the edge of the bed with his feet on the cold floor. "No."

She sits up behind him. "So, we're going through that again?" she sighs.

He keeps his back turned to her, still staring down at the photo. "Would you stop worrying? Please. I got it covered."

"How am I supposed to stop worrying, Dean? This is exactly how he found us last time. You and fucking football." Her voice quivers over the last word.

"Well, what if he can trace police records, too?"

"Then stay out of fucking TROUBLE!" She punches him in the side, seriously trying to inflict pain.

Dean grips his throbbing ribs. "I will, because I'll be too busy training."

"You know, it would be fine if you could just play, have fun and blend in. But no. You have to be the crackerjack hot shot. You have to wind up in the paper. Why don't you just send up a smoke signal for fuck's sake?" Jody stands up and huffs over to her piece of shit dresser.

Dean doesn't mind attention. He gets it whether he likes it or not, so usually, he just rolls with it. But he doesn't play football for attention. He doesn't play to show off. He plays to stay sane. He doesn't bother trying to explain.

Jody's hands tremble as she shakes a cigarette from the pack. She points with it between her fingers. "You're a fucking showoff is your problem. Well, he's not just going to come for you, you know? And I'm not ready to die. Stop with the fucking football."

Dean sighs. "Mom, I swear to you: He's not going to find us. Not ever again. And if he does, I'll deal with it."