A/N: I've gotten very involved in Supernatural recently, due to the pressure of a lot of my friends, and thus I decided to entertain myself with a few fanfictions. Enjoy!
Summary: A large plate of fries, some ghostly appetizers, and a whole lot of snark on the side.
Order Up
It was a haunted diner. There job was a freaking haunted diner.
Sure, this spirit had the diner's owner and regulars scared witless, but it was almost docile—it hadn't hurt anyone yet, it hadn't even made threats.
Sam and Dean had decided to investigate in the first place because they had been in town at the time taking care of a standard railroad ghost and had heard rumors about the strange things happening at the diner.
And of course, the second Dean had heard the word 'diner' he was hungry, and they both decided it couldn't hurt to at least check the place out because, hey, there was food involved.
It had actually been a good thing that they had gone at the time they did, because they had actually experienced the thing. It was all pretty average as far as a haunting went—flickering lights, skittering sounds on the shiny linoleum floor and, oddly, the faint smell of hamburger grease in the air.
After speaking with the owner, a large woman named Mae (and really, was it any surprise her name was Mae? And here Sam though it was Flo), they learned that the previous owner had accidentally shot his fry cook, thinking he was a burglar as they closed up for the night. Actually, the man had survived the shot, but had never really been able to stand cooking after that. Apparently, the man had been "going places" in the diner world, on to big fame and success, until the accident.
He was dead now, of course—he had died a grumpy old man at the age of 70+. Clearly, being shot was a good enough reason to seek revenge as a spirit, and didn't Dean just find it hysterical that an old greasy fry cook was haunting a diner? Really, where was the professionalism?
After Sam assured Mae that they would take care of the problem, which they attributed to faulty wiring due to rats (the cause of the skittering noises), he grabbed his brother by the elbow and dragged him to their booth so they could finish their dinner in relative silence.
Of course, Dean felt the need to complain every five seconds about the music the jukebox was playing (some old jazzy tune), the state of the French fries ("they're all mushy, Sammy, you know I don't like them mushy"), and Sam's drink choice of that evening ("cherry soda? That's nasty, do you have taste buds?").
Finally, Sam snapped, got up to change the song on the jukebox (he used the last bit of his change, too, to change it to some goofy rock song that he knew Dean would just love), asked the waitress for another plate of fries (she looked at their already full plate and almost refused until Sam mentioned the tip), and traded his cherry soda out for a root beer (which Dean approved of much more).
Honestly, the things he did for his brother.
It was sort of worth it, though, to get some silence for once, as Dean hummed happily in time to the music pouring out of the jukebox.
They found Old Man Jenkins (and no, that was not his name, no matter how many times Dean called the guy that) in the town's cemetery, in startlingly close proximity to the railroad ghost's bones they had dug up not long ago.
It was easy—no unmarked grave, no interruptions—but as the bones burned Sam could have sworn he smelled hamburgers cooking. He shuddered and thought that he probably wouldn't be able to eat in another diner for the rest of his life without being reminded of this whole situation. The thought was vaguely terrifying, more terrifying than the actual ghost itself, ironically.
Dean and Sam threw their shovels into the back of the Impala and got in on their respective sides. As Dean started the car, Sam looked over at his brother, noting the happy smile that, he soon realized, was on both of their faces. Dean caught his eye and they stayed like that for a while, enjoying the exhilaration left over from the thrill of the hunt, no matter how lame it had been. Finally, Dean cleared his throat and punched Dean on the arm.
"Ready to go, Samsquatch? Heard some people talking at the diner about some strange goings-on at a school a little south of here. What do you say, ready for some more action?"
"If you call what we just did 'action', then yeah, I'm ready for a change of pace," Sam said, buckling his seat belt.
"Hell, I think that was a change of pace compared to our usual stuff. Like a… like a vacation."
"Sure," Sam replied, as Dean turned off out of the cemetery's drive onto the empty road. "A vacation with bad food."
"There's no such thing as bad food," Dean said. "Only people who cook food badly."
Sam snickered quietly to himself and watched the streetlights whizz by. "Says the brother who can't cook."
"Says the other brother who can't cook. Speaking of food, I'm hungry now. Let's pull up here."
The diner he pulled into had a flashing sign with a few missing letters, but Sam could easily decipher what it said: "Flo's Diner."
Fin