"Dean!"

Dean heard Sam's cry even before he hit the ground, and he had just enough time to see the vengeful spirit of someone's none-too-satisfied mother-in-law disappear in a flash of flame before him before he slammed feet-first into the uneven ground with a yell, tumbled backward and came to a rolling stop on his side against the overgrown foundation of what had once been the mother-in-law's family home. Before her daughter's husband had gone and killed her, of course. Still numb from the impact, Dean watched Sam run across the weed-choked yard in the light of the fire from the now merrily burning corpse. Dean blinked.

"Dean, are you okay, man?" Sam was asking. "She must have thrown you twenty feet!" It appeared he'd arrived in the time it had taken for Dean to clear his head, and he'd placed his good hand protectively over Dean's upper arm. Dean's eyes wandered to it then back up to Sam.

"I'm fine," Dean grunted without bothering to check if it were true, shrugged Sammy off and started to sit up. The foundation was rough against his back, but it held him up as the world listed sideways, and he supposed that was what really mattered. Well aware of Sammy's concerned eyes still on him, he suppressed a groan. He'd feel this one in the morning all right. He started moving his feet toward him to work on standing up but stopped short when his left ankle gave a particularly vicious stab of pain. Sam was still watching him, though, so he snorted and gestured vaguely at the burning corpse. "This is why I never want to meet the girl's family."

"I think there's a difference between meeting them and killing them," Sam pointed out, ever the reasonable one, and offered Dean a hand.

Prepared this time, Dean took the hand and leveraged himself up, taking care not to place too much weight on his right foot. The ankle pounded anyway. A cut on his palm and another on the back of his shoulder where some rock had gouged through his shirt were also beginning to sting, and he could feel where bruises were forming on top of last week's bruises. Sighing, he took a moment to wish Sam had managed to torch the corpse just a few seconds sooner. But no, the mother-in-law from hell had managed to get in one last blow.

Sam's concerned face had returned, so Dean forced himself to focus. They were short on cash and he'd used the last good health insurance scams on the crash but hadn't had time or motivation to set up a new one since Dad. All of which meant he wasn't going to worry Sam with this unless he absolutely had to. In any case, his ankle was holding so he forced a smile and said, "I think I saw a diner down the road. Ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Watching Sam's brow furrow at the phrase, at least, took some of the edge off. He fished the key out of his pocket and hesitated just long enough for Sam start toward the car ahead of him. The Impala wasn't far—parked by the road on the other side of the old farmhouse—but his ankle twinged harder with each step and he was gritting his teeth by the time he got there. When the thought of operating the clutch made him feel slightly nauseous, he sucked in a breath then tossed the key to Sam.

Sam caught it reflexively, but his eyes narrowed in the moonlight. "You want me to drive?" he asked, holding the key out gingerly like it might try to jump him. "Come on Dean. Fess up. You're hurt."

"It's fine," Dean said.

Sam shook his head. "You're limping. How bad is it?"

Sammy had always been too damn perceptive for his own good.

"Just twisted my ankle," Dean said with as much levity as he could force into his voice, figuring that at least the statement was more true than not. He felt bone tired and his ankle was throbbing in earnest now, the pain starting to wrap around to the top of his foot. He just wanted to go back to the motel, but they hadn't eaten since a disappointing lunch of gas station pop tarts nearly nine hours ago and bowing out of dinner now would be far too suspicious. Couldn't be more than a sprain anyway if he could walk on it like this. "I'll be fine." He pulled open the passenger door and swung inside before Sam could respond.

Of course it wasn't long before Sam joined him. But like a dog with a particularly annoying bone, Sam was not about to let this one go. "So fine you handed me the keys?"

Dean sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. "Look, Sam, we can wrap it when we get to the motel and I'll take it easy for a few days. We don't even need to pick up a case. But for now, we're going to the diner. Happy?"

Sam slowly twisted the key in the ignition, and the Impala's engine roared to life. Dean closed his eyes and took simple pleasure in the way the engine's vibrations moved up his seat, letting Sam stew in his juices or whatever the kid was doing as they pulled away from the old farmhouse. The plink-plunk of gravel kicked up by the tires joined the humming of the engine.

"Dean," Sam said after a moment. Dean opened one eye, and after staring at him a moment—probably to ascertain whether the other eye was going to open too, which it decidedly was not—Sam went on. "I get that you want to be tough, now, I really do, but just because—"

"Oh, come on Sam," Dean cut him off loudly, opening both eyes and sitting up just enough despite his aching muscles to crank the radio up to eleven, then settling back into the passenger's seat and folding his arms. A loud commercial for a local furniture store filled the car but he didn't bother to change it. Noise was all he needed. He was sure the next few words out of Sam's mouth would have included Dad and some form of I know you're… but for all he knew his little brother meant well, he couldn't possibly handle any more of that crap. At least not tonight. "Diner," he said forcefully. "The world is free of one more ghost tonight and all I want is some friggin' pie."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I'm sure," Dean said. He was sure. He was beyond sure. "Pie."

Sam snorted a little and shook his head, though whether that was at Dean's hopelessness in opening up or the single-minded desire for pie he was feigning like a champion, Dean had no idea. "Fine," Sam said. The gravel road merged into a county road, leaving the noise behind. "I hope it's open," Sam added.

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother's smirk. "Better be open," he said.

The slew of radio commercials finally ended and as the first few drumbeats of CCW's Fortunate Son filled the space between them and Sam fell silent, he sighed. Of course Sammy was just trying to look out for him. He only wished the kid knew how much easier it was when he just let it go. But of course Sam never would, and in the end that was a good part of the reason Dean loved him. No one else had ever tried so hard.

Maybe there was a God after all, because the diner was still open when they pulled into the lot. Dean maneuvered himself out of the car carefully, aware that injuries like this didn't always enjoy being moved after sitting for a while, but even the initial burst of pain when he touched his heel to the pavement of the parking lot did not prepare him for the agony that shot through his ankle when he stood. "Shit." He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the Impala's door with one hand and practically hanging on the roof with the other.

"Dean." It couldn't have taken him more than a few seconds to right himself and set his foot on the ground again, but Sam was already staring at him with unbridled concern over the top of the Impala. Like he might keel over any moment. "Dean you have to let me look at that."

"I will," Dean grunted, not sure whether he was being stubborn now just out of principle or because it looked like the diner was closing in a few minutes and some part of him really did want some food. He nodded toward the lighted entryway. "After pie."

"I…okay," Sam allowed, joining him on the passenger's side of the Impala. "Can I at least help you? Or something?"

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. This time he was prepared for the grinding agony, and took a halting step toward the lights and bustle of the diner. So it was a bad sprain. He'd had worse and he'd see worse again.

Inside, they were seated by a dark-haired girl who was probably still in high school. Dean eased into the booth with a tight smile at the girl and tried not to look too relieved. His ankle throbbed persistently, siphoning away what little hunger he'd dredged up in the car. Still, he picked up the menu and studiously avoided Sam's gaze for several seconds. They had a nice selection of burgers and Dean decided not to hold back, appetite be damned. Sam's rolling his eyes at the artery-cloggingness of his choice, which he announced to his brother with a grin, was just a bonus.

By the time the waitress, who wore heavy eye shadow and might have been the hostess's mother, came around to take their orders they were chatting more or less amiably about how to spend the next few days. A bit of hustling pool to refill their bank accounts was definitely in order, and Sam planned to search for yard work by going door-to-door with a cheap rake and his best puppy dog eyes, as he and Dean had often done together in the days before hitting the bars was an option. They also had a few errands to run—they needed food, ammo and medical supplies as always, plus Sam was complaining that his shirts were getting too tight for his bulging muscles and said he wanted to stop by a Salvation Army too. Dean pointed out that his shirts were also too sissy looking, and always had been, which meant he was fully in support of a thrift store run as well. Otherwise, though, they both agreed it had been too long since they'd taken a break—a real break, not a bury-Dad-and-fix-the-Impala type break—and Dean actually found himself actually looking forward to a bit of R&R.

"So what, wanna find a bar?" Sam asked, adjusting the chicken and pesto sandwich the waitress had just set down before taking a bite.

Dean picked up his bacon burger with relish. His appetite hadn't quite returned to full force, but the juicy beauty in front of him was going a long way in repairing it. "Nah," he said, taking a mouthful of delicious burger. Most times, of course, he'd have been all over the chance to have a drink and maybe bump uglies with some cute Oklahoman chick…but honestly, he hadn't been much in the mood since Dad, and he still wasn't. Not to mention his ankle was still throbbing and he knew how much of a turn-on his hobbling would probably be. "Maybe a movie?" he suggested instead, working on ideas that wouldn't involve moving any part of his body too much. He took a sip of water—none of the good stuff in this joint—and considered the town they'd passed through on their way to the farmhouse. "They must have those here."

"Movies?" Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dean, I think they have those everywhere."

"Well, you know, in town," Dean said. "I ain't driving two hours out to see whatever chick flick you'd probably drag us to."

"Ha, ha," Sam said. "And just so you know, 'critically acclaimed' doesn't mean that it's a chick flick."

"Whatever you say, Sammy." Dean flashed him a grin around his next mouthful of burger. "Any idea what's playing?"

"I'll check," Sam said, fishing his fancy camera phone thing out of his pocket.

Dean shifted in his seat, trying in what he hoped was a subtle fashion to find a comfortable position for his leg. Resting his foot flat was making him squirm but tilting it was even worse. He wondered if Sammy would notice if he put it up on the lumpy booth beside him.

"Oh hang on," Sam said, squinting at the small screen, his brow drawing together. "I have a message."

"Bobby? Ellen?" Dean guessed. He decided to lift his foot while Sam was distracted, but touching his heel to the seat just made a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and he brought it back down with a grimace, gripping the thigh just above his knee as though that might help. Which of course it didn't.

Luckily, though, Sam hadn't noticed anything. He was shaking his head as he poked at the phone with his thumb. "Number's withheld," he said.

"Huh," Dean remarked, trying to ignore the pit that had formed in his stomach at the words. Withheld number could mean a lot of things. Didn't have to spell disaster.

Sam's face told him otherwise as he held the phone up to his ear and listened. First his eyebrows drew together, his jaw tightening, then his eyes went wide and he swallowed, glancing up at Dean.

"What is it, Sam?"

"It's…" Sam shook his head again, holding the phone out to Dean. "It's not good," he said as Dean grabbed the little device and hit the button to repeat the message, then held it up to his own ear. "It's Bobby," Sam said. "They've got him."

"Who?" Dean asked, even as the message began to play. "Who's got him?"

The words coming through the phone did little to answer his question .The voice on the other end was garbled and mechanical, indistinguishable as male or female, young or old, but the words were clear. Hello, Winchester boys, it began. If you wish to see Robert Singer alive again, you have twelve hours to report to his home in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He will not be there, but the next part of your instructions will. Then the voice cut out, and after a second of shuffling static, Bobby's voice cut in. "Boys, whatever they—" Whatever he might have said next, however, was cut short by the sound of an impact and a grunt of pain. And then the message ended.

Dean set the phone down on the table harder than he should and stared at Sam. "Dammit," he growled, shoving his plate away and scrubbing a hand across his face. "Dammit."

"So what do we do?" Sam asked. "Obviously it's a trap."

"Obviously," Dean agreed, grimacing both at the prospect and as his ankle decided it was a good time to sear with pain. He grabbed a fistful of booth cushion out of Sam's view and clenched it until the pain eased. "But did that sound like we have much choice to you?"

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. "We don't even know who or what that was," he said, looking at Dean pleadingly. As if Dean had any of the answers.

"No, we don't," Dean said, setting his foot down and getting ready to stand. The pressure on his ankle made him want to scream but he swallowed the impulse and pushed himself out of the booth. "Come on, Sam. We have a damn long drive ahead of us."