BAJA FRESH

It was always a bad omen when he was craving Mexican food.

The sun had risen lazily, casting an oddly offensive glare through the motel rooms open window, right onto his face. Well, actually, it was only onto about half of his face, because the rest of it was shoved into his pillow, which hid a rather large knife that was clutched in his hand beneath. Nonetheless, when the light had woken Dean, he grumbled at the nerve of the stupid sun to wake him this early on a Sunday.

It was one of those rare days off, after all.

The last week had been pretty tough, and Sam had gotten the worst of the beating from their last job. Dean figured his brother probably wouldn't wake for a long while, and even if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to move. Groaning tiredly, Dean sat up and squinted across the room to see that Sam was still out on his own bed, and that the clock on the bedside table read 8:34AM. That was soooo wrong; just cruel that he was awake, because he knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. Rolling his eyes at the fact, he decided that if he couldn't sleep, then he might as well eat, and he realized that he was ridiculously hungry.

Blinking tiredly, Dean showered, dressed, and left the 'Riverside Airport Inn' to find a decent eating establishment in this hazy little area of California. He drove for a good twenty minutes, seeing a Long John Silver's, a Jack in the Box, a McDonald's, and at least four Chinese take-outs joints, but none that seemed to call out to him.

He realized that what he was really craving was Mexican food. Mmmm, thick, juicy taco's and a cup's worth of cheap imitation salsa. Bring on the sour cream, baby.

And so, it was with mouth-watering visions of carne asada and hot tortillas that Dean pulled into the parking lot of a very clean-looking Baja Fresh, knowing that there was no way this would live up to the real deal stuff, but that it would be good enough.

He should have known that just an easy trip for food was too much to ask for.

Dean walked into the place, noting the posters of dripping burritos and extra large sodas. The place was pretty busy, considering that it was only about nine in the morning.

He figured California people must just like their breakfast burrito's or something.

He was waiting in line, trying to decide whether he wanted five tacos and a burrito, or two burritos and a quesadilla, when it happened.

He felt a brushing bump against his right shoulder, and he turned with eyebrows slightly raised to see who had run into him. The very white man appeared to be in his late forties, with brown hair that just reeked of gel, and fingernails that screamed manicured. His wide eyes were brown also, and his face held that look of false surprise that famous or powerful people often receive when a fan just happens to run into them and has a favor to ask.

But that wasn't the best….or worst...part.

He was wearing a fire-engine red, cut-off t-shirt with large violet letters splashed across the front that spelled out 'VOTE!'. His matching running shorts were….short….and he held himself in a manner that strangely hinted 'I need protecting.'

It was….surprising, to say the least.

"Oh my gosh," the red-t-shirt guy said with a small gasp that was somehow loud enough for everyone within a ten foot radius to pick up, "I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you there, oh wow I almost just went up in front of you didn't I, oh I'm so sorry but I wasn't trying to, I'm not that kind of person, I wouldn't just go right in front of you I mean you've been waiting in line too, but I just ran into you, and how clumsy of me!"

Dean blinked. He thought that was supposed to have been, like, eight sentences, but they'd been said in one big rush, on one breath, in a very whiny kind of voice.

"Uh, 's fine…man." Dean took a step back, noticing that the guy hadn't moved away since bumping into him. Dean tried to smile in a friendly, thoroughly non-affectionate way, but all he could come up with was a sort of half-horrified gawking expression.

Mr. Red T-shirt didn't seem put off at all by Dean's awkwardness, however. In fact, he did nothing but grin happily at the hunter the entire dang time that they were waiting in line. By the time they got to the registers, Dean was thanking twelve kinds of gods that Sammy was not here to see this.

The girl at the register had asked Dean what kind of drinks he wanted, and he told her to make them both cokes. Sammy might not actually be able to sit up long enough to eat, but Dean had gotten him something anyway, just in case.

The lady put the first of the two drinks on the counter at the same time the other cashier put Mr. Red T-shirt's drink on the counter. Dean reached for his coke, only to realize to late that Mr. Red T-shirt's hand was reaching for it also.

It was with an awful jolt that Dean realized he had just accidentally grabbed Mr. Red T-shirt's hand. He jerked back, again surprised and again with that horrified expression on his face, when Mr. Red T-shirt began to ramble again, giggling intermittently this time.

"Oh my goodness, I am so sorry, wow you know it just seems like something's drawing us together doesn't it?"

Dean should've just let it go then. In stead, his automatic sarcasm reflexes decided to kick into gear as his instincts made him take another step back. He muttered a half-hysterical response after a 'tut'ing sound of disbelief left his lips.

"What, the Force?" he asked rhetorically, feeling that he'd give anything to be in the clutches of Jaba The Hut right now rather than caught near Mr. Red- T-shirt man.

The man just looked up at him, wide-eyed and clearly hopeful.

"Oh my gosh, you think so?" he asked, genuinely excited by the prospect.

Dean decided not to make eye contact with anyone at Baja Fresh anymore.

He tried to ignore the fact that Mr. Red T-shirt was waving at him as he left, and he slammed the door of the Impala before thrusting the key into the ignition.

He should've known Mexican food was a bad idea. Some thing bad always happened when he went for Mexican food.