Disclaimer: I do not own SPN. I am just writing for fun. Only own my OC.

Chapter 18: Adventures in Babysitting Part 2

The car ride to Frank's house was relatively quiet. Dean and I didn't speak much. Dean had to open up sometime. If not with Sam, then maybe with me.

"Dean…." I began slowly.

"Don't," he said rather roughly.

I sighed. "Look, you're going to have to open up sometime. You can't just keep everything bottled up, even if it's for Sam's sake."

Dean narrowed his eyes at me. "Did you just psychic me?"

"A little," I admitted. "I know you're angry. You lost Cas. Now Bobby…it can't be easy…."

"I said don't," he grounded out. Silence fell between us. "Look, I'm sorry all right? It's just…this feels more like a you and Sam kind of conversation. Me? I drink and then I'm fine."

He parked the car.

Right. I knew Dean wasn't the type for chick flick moments. But I was worried about him. I was worried about Sam and Dean.

"Let's go," he said. He climbed out of the car and I followed, closing my door shut.

We walked through Frank's house. I stayed by Dean with his gun drawn out in front of him.

"This can't be good," Dean said. I glanced around the place. It was messy and empty. Suddenly the sound of a gun cocking raised our alerts and we spun around to see Frank pointing a gun at us.

"Well…hi," Dean said.

Frank didn't lower his weapon. I tensed beside Dean.

"Frank…we're amongst friends here. Okay, acquaintances."

"That's just what a Leviathan would say," he said.

"Frank. I'm not a Leviathan, and neither is Kaylee," Dean motioned his head over towards me. I shook my head.

"Oh sure. You're not a Leviathan. Dick Roman's not a Leviathan. Gwyneth Paltrow is not a Leviathan."

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

"Trust me," Frank said.

"Okay. You know what, Frank? I think you've been doing a little too much research," Dean said.

"I'll say," I said, glancing around his work area filled with articles up the wazoo.

"They're anywhere, anyone. Who's to say this ain't the day they come for old Frank who knew too much?" Frank asked.

"They bleed black goo, right?" Dean asked. "You want to see what I bleed?"

Frank pointed his shotgun at Dean's foot.

"Oh! Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let's take the gun out of it, okay?" Dean asked as I'd gasped at the gun.

"Okay," Frank said.

Dean put his gun on the table and took out a switchblade out of his back pocket. He made a cut on his forearm. No black goo.

"Kaylee," Dean said, giving me his switchblade.

"What? No way, I'm not digging myself a hole with that thing."

"Just do it," Dean said. I sighed. I grimaced and reluctantly took the knife from him. I braced myself for the sting that would come with the territory of a blade cutting into skin. I dug a little into my skin and showed him that I wasn't a Leviathan either. I didn't do a big gash like Dean did.

I handed the knife back to Dean.

"See? Red-blooded Americans," he said. He wiped the blade off of his sleeve. "Now…your turn," he handed the knife to Frank.

"Oh! Whoa, Look, I'm obviously not-"

"Fair's fiar, douchbag," Dean said.

"Could be a little bit nicer," I murmured to him. Dean gave me a look. I shrugged.

Frank took the knife from him and made a cut into his palm. Then he handed the knife back to Dean.

"Yeah," Dean said as he wiped the blade off with his sleeve.

"I'm glad we could share that together."

"Grab your gun, come with me. For God's sake, don't make any noise," Frank said. Dean and I glanced at each other before we followed him.

We pulled up at a trailer.

"Why the downsize?" Dean asked.

"You! "Hey, Frank, go dig up some dirt on Richard Roman. " That night, I was burned off every IP I had. Ears on my phone, eyes on my house…"

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

"Do I look like I know? 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."

"All right. Well, what's the word on the bigmouths?" Dean asked.

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

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

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

"I called you four weeks ago, Frank," Dean reminded him.

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

"What, are you kidding me?"

"You cool your heels, Buster Brown," Frank said.

Dean glared at him. "Frank, I paid you fifteen grand for this."

"Yeah, I get that –"

Dean shook his head. "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."

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

Dean cut Frank 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," Frank shrugged.

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

"Hey. You know what you need? A little LSD, a little shiatsu –"

"I'm out of here," Dean turned to leave. I hesitated. "Dean, I know we're here for the numbers, but my life's at stake here too. You can't just walk away."

"Then you stay here," Dean said.

"Dean!" I exclaimed.

"At least until you get your new identity," Dean reminded me.

"Hey, you want to know what those numbers are? Bupkis. They're not lottery numbers, license –"

"I know that, Frank. Thank you," Dean said.

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

"Come again?"

Frank sat down at a computer. "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? "Hey, maybe I'm missing a number."

"Well, how do you figure?" Dean asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Because Bobby was dying of brain trauma. 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."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Good news?"

"Never had to go past six, because this..." He typed 454893 into the computer.

"..my little lamb, is coordinates."

"You sure? To what?" Dean asked.

"A field in Wisconsin," Frank replied.

"No. No, Bobby didn't give us coordinates to some patch of weeds in Cheeseville," Dean shook his head.

"No, he gave you coordinates to a parcel recently purchased by Willman, Inc., a subsidiary of [FRANK makes a trumpeting noise] Richard Roman Enterprises."

"So what do we do?" Dean asked.

"Stay away. Or, if we're stupid... we go there and set up surveillance," Frank said. "And as for Kaylee's identity, I'd have made it, but Dick's eyes are on me. They'll notice she's missing and go after her. I'm sorry Dean. I can't protect her."

I crossed my arms in disbelief. "Can't or won't."

"Both," Frank said. I sighed.

"All right, I'll call Sam," Dean said, dialing up his phone.

"Hey," Dean greeted.

"Find Frank?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Those numbers? Coordinates. Dick bought some land. We're headed there now.

"Wait, wait, wait. You're just gonna drive right up to –"

"Relax. It's a field, not the Death Star. Dick's at a TED Conference. It's all over The Huffington Post," Dean explained.

"Wait, wait, wait. Since when do you read?" Sam asked.

"Know your enemy, Sam. What's going on with the girl?" Dean asked.

"I don't think she even knows her dad's in the life. So far, I got three missing truckers and one blood-free body."

"Good times. All right, well, keep me posted," Dean said. He hung up.

"You didn't tell him about keeping my identity safe," I noticed.

Dean pinched the bridge between his nose. "The way I see it, you're safer with us. Let's go surval this guy."

~I*SPN*~