Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Nothing.

He pours his coffee, hums Smoke on the Water. It was the last song he had playing before he went to sleep the night before, and it's stuck in his head.

There it is again. He lifts his right foot, puts it down again. Still nothing. Maybe he's got to move a certain way. He takes a few steps across the kitchen...

There. Left foot. Dean places his coffee cup on the table, stands on his right leg as he examines the underside of his left boot. Pokes it a few times—

Something small and grey darts beneath him.

Dean shrieks and flails and almost falls. He scrambles up onto the table, knocking his steaming cup of coffee off onto the floor.

Sam's footsteps pound down the hall, and he appears in the doorway, gun drawn and looking for a target.

"Easy, tiger," Dean says. He clambers down as Sam lowers the gun. Tries to be dignified, but he fails, and he laughs at himself. "It's just a mouse."

"A mouse," Sam says.

"Yeah." Dean shudders. "Little fucker made me think my boots were squeaking."

Sam grins. "Dean, why were you on the table?"

"Shut up." Dean stoops to pick up the pieces of his broken coffee mug, then throws them in the trash. "Just get rid of it, will you?"

"Me? Why can't you get rid of it?"

Dean grabs the mop and bucket and points at the coffee spilled all over the floor. "I've got a job."

Sam returns with beer and pie and a brown paper bag from the hardware store. "I didn't know what to get," he says, as he dumps the lot on the table in the library.

Dean reaches for the pie, dives into it with a fork. Crumbs fall onto his shirt and he brushes them off onto the floor. "Show me, then," he says, and more crust falls.

"Wouldn't have mice if you didn't drop crap everywhere," Sam says, and upends the bag onto the table.

A white plastic jar rolls to a stop beside Dean's pie plate.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean says, and backs away from the table, taking the pie with him. "Poison?"

Sam shrugs and stands it up on the table. There's a black skull and crossbones label on it. "The guy said it was the most effective—"

"What'd that mouse ever do to you? You know what that shit does? They fucking bleed to death, from everywhere. That's a horrible way to go, dude."

Sam laughs and shoots Dean a look of disbelief. "Yeah," he says. "I know. You know. But you told me to deal with it, so I'm dealing with it. You don't like how I do it then—"

Dean puts his pie down on the opposite end of the table and gets closer, reaching for a plastic trap. "And this?" He waves it at Sam. "That's like...I dunno...dropping a piano on a human being or something. Guts everywhere. You ever seen—"

"Yes, Dean. I've seen it happen. To you. Fine." He sweeps the poisons and the traps back into the paper bag and heads back to the stairs. "But don't blame me if I come back with a cat."

"I'm allergic to cats," Dean says, before the door slams closed behind Sam.

The Impala's engine rumbles, Dean behind the wheel.

Sam's in the passenger seat.

In the back, beside the cooler filled with beer and sandwiches, there's a cardboard shoebox with the lid taped on.

Every now and then there's a scratching from the box, and occasionally a squeak.

"If that thing gets out," Sam says. "Are you gonna scream and climb out the window onto the roof?"

"You leave Jerry alone," Dean says. "If he gets out, I pull over, and wherever I stop will be his new home."

"You named it?"

"Shut up," Dean says.

He spies the rest stop, slows the car, and pulls in. "We're here."

The back door creaks as Dean opens it. He lifts out the cardboard box as though it's both precious, and a bomb in danger of exploding, all at the same time.

Carefully, he passes it to Sam. "Would you do the honors?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but takes the box. He approaches the tree line, and then drops into a crouch. "You ready?"

Dean keeps a safe distance.

Sam rips away the tape and takes off the lid. Tips the box onto it's side.

Something small and grey streaks out, pauses for a second, then it's gone.

"Goodbye, Jerry," Dean says.

Sam and Dean sit on the hood of the Impala, eating sandwiches and drinking beer.

Dean brushes crumbs off his shirt and onto the ground.

"You really gotta stop doing that at home," Sam says.

"Sure," Dean says, as he brushes off more crumbs, and then tears the crusts of his sandwiches into nibbles and drops them over the side of the car.

"If he goes for that bread, a bird will probably get him."

"Eek," Dean says, and balls the remaining crusts into his fist. "Do you think he'll be okay?"

"He'll be fine." Sam sighs. "You know there's a daddy long legs in the bathroom. I was thinking about squashing it."

Dean glares at Sam in horror. "You wouldn't."

Sam laughs and shakes his head. "Nah." He looks up at the bright sunlight. "Kinda enjoying this weather. Wouldn't want it to rain."