"Fuckity fuck fucking fuck."

Dean muttered it sharply under his breath but Sam heard it loud and clear and knew exactly what it meant. He dropped his toast like it had burned him and shifted so he could get out from the booth more efficiently. If they were going to have to make a run for it, it wouldn't due to get his feet tangled up. Sam had better access to the front door, but they'd parked the Impala around the back out of habit and the side door would be the fastest way to their ticket out of this mess. Both of them were armed, in more ways than one, but the last thing they needed was a reprise of the O.K. Corral.

Dean seemed to be on the same page with this one, but instead of leaning towards the flight side of fight or flight, he was going with the good old standby of ignoring the problem. He had his head turned away towards the window as if he believed that if he ignored it hard enough, the Fed would go away.

Their luck was far too shitty for that kind of break.

Still, Sam wasn't expecting the guy to stop by their table, hands in his pockets and a dopey looking half smile on his face, to say nothing more than "Hello."

Dean's eyes flickered over and caught Sam's, the what-the-fuck message loud and clear. But Dean had enough sense to keep his mouth shut tight and leave this cluster-fuck to the only one of them that knew how to keep his cool.

Sam put on his best college boy smile and didn't have to fake a bit of awkward confusion. "Hi?" he asked. Sam darted his eyes to the side quickly, but the woman was still in her booth, staring at them like she also didn't know what was going on.

"You boys headed north?" the man asked. As of that very moment, both Winchester boys had no plan other than to get as far away from this place as possible. So it wasn't hard to keep their faces blank. But the guy didn't wait for any kind of response. "We're heading up to Washington," he told them. "I'm trying to talk Dana into stopping by the caverns, but she doesn't think it's worth the stop. You two ever been?" He paused long enough to meet Sam's eyes briefly before staring long and hard at the side of Dean's head as if he was willing him to turn and face him. "What do you think?" he asked Dean.

And okay, it was beyond weird and suspicious as hell, but Sam knew how to roll with it and lie like a professional. If this guy wanted to make small talk about the Virginia cavern systems, Sammy could regale him with a detailed description. After all, despite having a somewhat patchy formal childhood education, he knew every major historical or ecological point of interest and road stop attraction in the continental United States.

But Dean was flushed up to the ears and missing the natural bravado that usually let him talk his way out of trouble. He squirmed in his seat, his far-side hand out of sight and probably hovering over his concealed carry holster. It had been a long couple of weeks and they were both feeling a bit edgy. There probably wasn't a worse time to get cornered like this. Sam tried to shoot him a look reminding him to play it cool.

But Dean was better at handling awkward situations when he was the cause of them, not the focus.

"Dude, don't know shit and don't give a shit," Dean replied gruffly. If Dean was going for the best stereotypical impersonation of a block-head tough-guy, then he was doing a fantastic job. He was also failing spectacularly at not pissing off the Fed.

But his belligerent response seemed to have the opposite effect from what Sam had expected. Instead of being offended, the Fed just smiled even more inanely and leaned in over their table. "Sure, it's not to everyone's taste. Some people find Sparkle's Scandalous Stage more fitting, but Dana's a classy girl and I could never take her to a place like that. Macombo Lounge maybe, but never Sparkle's."

That was all far more than Sam wanted to know about the local sleaze scene. But damned if Dean didn't perk up a little. He normally had the good sense to stay away from places like that. A bit too rich for their blood. And while Sam liked to think that generally Dean was better than that, he was also too well aware of how easily his brother could get distracted.

Sam wasn't the only one to notice his perv of a brother's interest. The Fed grinned smugly – then sat down.

Which, alright, wasn't as simple as it sounded. The guy had to do this little half shove, half wiggle to squeeze himself in beside Dean and it probably only worked because it seriously looked like the guy was going to just sit on Dean's lap if he didn't make room for him. All of which might have been entertaining under other circumstances. You know, the kinds that didn't involve a Fed rubbing elbows with his brother. His - very much supposed to be dead, wanted for multiple accounts of murder and bank robbing - brother.

"My name's Fox," the guy said, twisting around to hold his hand out to Dean.

Dean stared at the hand, then stared at the absentminded grin that went with it, and then stared at Sam like he was supposed to know what the hell was going on. Sam made shooing motions that he hoped expressed his strong urge to play along. No one was getting arrested yet, which was always a good sign.

"Steve Tyler," Dean replied, taking the hand with obvious reluctance but shaking it firmly. The name came out effortlessly. It was what their most recent credit card said and one they had been using for the past two weeks. They tried to keep consistent if they were still in the same area. They had learned the hard way that it drew more attention to change names in small towns. But that also meant that those same credit cards were getting ditched as fast as humanly possible after this little tête-à-tête.

"Really?" the guy replied brightly, like it was the best thing he'd heard all day. "Any relation?"

"Huh?"

"To the famous singer."

"What?" Dean looked like he'd just bit into a lemon pie when he had expected apple. Like he thought he could really get away with using his favorite band names forever and not get caught. "No, look, dude, do you mind? We're trying to eat in peace here." Though both of them were more than finished at this point. If they could get the Fed to back off for a moment, even just the smallest bit of hesitation or doubt, they could hotfoot it out of here.

But the guy didn't look put off at all. "Sure, sure," he agreed amiably. "Got to get in a healthy breakfast in between bank robberies and being dead. How's that working out for you by the way?"

Sam's right was to the window, which made it easy to slip his gun out and hold it out of sight. He couldn't see under the table, but he was fairly certain that Dean would have noticed if the Fed had his own piece out. "I think we're done talking," Sam gritted out, keeping his face blank and hoping the guy's partner was far enough across the room to have no clue what was going down. It was odd that they hadn't come over together and it made the hair on the back of Sam's neck standing up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"But we just met!" The guy replied, finally turning to face Sam. He leaned forward a little over the table, as if he knew that Sam had a gun on him and was daring him to pull the trigger. It was way too cocky for someone who didn't have a backup plan and Sam was not looking forward to finding out what that was.

"Sorry, buddy, you're not our type," Dean quipped, suddenly all smug smiles again. His own body shifted around slightly, going for his left which meant the knife. Better in close quarters.

The man's eyes widened in an exaggerated expression. "I would love to see what your type is like. I've heard you boys like them dead and rotting in their graves, but I guess to each his own. I'm more interested in knowing how Dean here's so well preserved for a man who died 2 years ago. And what really happened in at that police station in Monument, Colorado."

"Read the police report," Dean snapped back. He didn't like talking about what happened to Henrickson.

"Oh, I have! In fact, I have a few questions about how - "

"Don't care," Dean cut him off sharply, with what looked like an extra poke to make his point. "You're going to get up and sit in the booth behind you, facing away from the door. You turn around, Sammy here blows your head off. You try to warn your partner, and Sammy shoots you, then her. And if anybody else gets shot on the way out, that's on you. We clear?"

The Fed held his hands up mildly. "I can't guarantee what Dana will and will not do, you know. She's very dedicated. And one hell of a good shot."

"Not better than my brother," Dean replied without hesitation. And yeah, they were bluffing like mad but nobody bluffed better than Sam's brother. He'd had a lifetime of talking his way out of hell and back.

"I'd really like to hear your version of the event," the man replied, voice calm and eyes fixed on Dean even though Sam was the one with the gun.

"Nothing to hear," Dean grumbled. He poked the guy again, enough to get him scooting slowly out of the booth.

"Funny, that's not what most guilty men say." The man stood up slowly, but didn't move away enough to give Dean room to stand. Sam stayed in his seat, gun now cross body and too low to be fatal but he didn't actually plan on shooting anyone. "I'm going to pull a card out of my pocket," the Fed continued. "How about you not shoot me, okay?" He didn't wait for any kind of confirmation.

And it was one of those moments when Sam almost felt like he and his brother were operating with one mind, both so focused on the very real here and now that it was as if nothing else mattered. The Fed was either lying and calling their bluff, in which case they were screwed, or he really was just pulling a business card out of his pocket.

"That's my office and my personal number," the guy said, holding it out in front of Dean's face almost close enough to give him a paper cut. "You're right. I'm not going to try arresting you here in a diner. Not when I'm not the one with the gun. But I do actually really want to hear your story. I'm probably the only law enforcement officer who does. Take it. And when you boys feel like talking about what happened to you, I'd be happy to listen."

Dean snatched it out of the guy's hand and shoved it in his pocket. "Dude, really?" Dean barked out, exasperated and embarrassed all at once. He scrambled out of the booth, knife tucked away, and shoved the Fed over – all without getting between Sam and his target. The Fed took it mildly, flopping down in the next booth and keeping his hands were they could see them. Sam kind of wanted to tell him he should have saved his breath. Trying to appeal to Dean's emotions to talk about things was like trying to convince a Windigo that maybe it should take up veganism.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean muttered already halfway to the door.

Sam kept the gun tucked up close to him as he stood, but didn't actually put it away. At this point, someone catching an eyeful wasn't going to make this any worse than it already was. He moved slowly to follow his brother. The Fed stayed in his booth, but he had turned around to lean on the back of it, watching them curiously. His disappointment at them leaving was more like a kid being denied another bedtime story than a Federal Agent watching a wanted criminal walk away.

Dean was at the door and picking up speed. Sam turned around to catch up and nearly collided with the guy's partner. She was a good foot shorter than him, wrapped up in a voluminous wool coat that made her look even smaller. But she was eyeing him hard. Looking for something but clearly not quite catching it yet. Sam's face wasn't as well circulated as his brother's and the fact that she wasn't trying to arrest him meant she hadn't made the connection like her partner. But she looked like she was only a couple of steps behind.

"Sorry, excuse me, bye!" Sam blurted and gave up on all pretense of calm and controlled and darted after his brother. Dean had the Impala already running and Sam slid around to the passenger seat barely fast enough to avoid getting hit or worse left behind. They peeled out of the parking lot hard enough to fishtail the back end. Sam managed one last look as he twisted around in his seat. The woman was just now running out of the front door, gun in hand and a look on her face that didn't bode well for anyone. The guy, Fox, was still in his booth, face pressed up against the window, still looking like a kid who'd just had a toy taken away.

"Fuckin' Feds," Dean exclaimed with feeling and Sam had to agree. That was far too close for comfort. What were the chances of running into one of the few feds that could recognize Dean on sight?

Thank god they'd never see them again.