Don't You Cry » Supernatural [7] | ✓

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        Later, Dean, Elena and Frank pull up at a barn containing a trailer. "Why the downsize?" Dean asks.

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

       "Wait—Dick's got people watching you?" Elena asks.

       "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?" Frank asks. "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 asks.

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

       "This is why you didn't call us back." Elena says.

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

       "I called you four weeks ago, Frank." Dean says.

       "What? No. Really?" Frank asks. "Days, weeks—quit busting my chops."

       "What, are you kidding me?" Dean asks.

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

       "Frank, I paid you fifteen grand for this." Dean says.

       "Yeah, I get that—" Frank starts.

       "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—" Frank starts.

       "No. No, no, no. I'm not gonna play "this one time with Bobby" crap, all right?" Dean says. "I'm not gonna get all warm and fuzzy with somebody else who barely knew him."

       "Just trying to make friendly conversation."

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

       "Hey. You know what you need? A little LSD, a little shiatsu—" Frank starts.

      "We're out of here." Elena says.

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

       "I know that, Frank. Thank you." Dean says.
   
       "Which leaves us little else to do but probability generate."

      "Come again?" Dean asks.

       Frank sits 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." He says.

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

      "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."

      "Good news?" Elena asks.

       "Never had to go past six, because this..." Frank starts. "...my little lamb, is coordinates."