Notes: Angelface universe. Just a short scene that didn't quite fit into a greater story. An experiment in mood and possibly the lead on to the next step in the saga.
The rich, heady aroma of espresso hangs heavy in the air, infused with the undertone of steamed milk. A thousand cups a day of perfection, percolated and steamed alike. The house blend is a dark roast. Tempered with sugar and just a dash of milk, it was the perfect cheap cover story.
The cafe was equipped with both tables and booths alike, the chairs lined with blue denim. The Denim Co's very own gimmick. Across the street were office buildings. Newsagents, cafes, or expensive front lobbies at the bottom and companies that leased by the floor above.
The black beauty was parked across the street near the entrance to a building marked number 229 in large silver letters.
Sam sits in a corner booth, a laptop open on the table in front of him and a cup of the house blend resting by his left hand. He isn't looking at the screen, instead frowning at some distant sight far along the street. To all outward appearances he was just one of many faceless students or travellers; A wholesome face that blended into the crowd seamlessly, attracting no attention and gaining no ill will.
The cafe's only afternoon waitress smiles at him as she places a chocolate chip muffin on his table. She catches sight of the web page open on his laptop screen and begins to wonder exactly what sort of student (because what else could he be?) he was. Forensics perhaps, or criminology. It would never occur to her that perhaps that was his idea of light reading.
The cafe door swings open, the quaint little attached bell jingling like crazy. Sam doesn't even look up. He keeps staring out the window even when the new arrival slides into the seat opposite him.
"Well?" Sam asks, watching a woman in a light blue corolla pull out of a company parking lot.
"There was a choice between a flashy two bedroom condo or a one bedroom shithole cottage on the edge of town."
"You took the one on the edge of town, didn't you?"
Keys jingle in front of his face, held up by a hand scarred from a lifetime of bloody knuckles and nicks from blades too sharp to cause as much pain as they should. "In case you feel the itch, baby boy. Dirt floor garage and a six foot fence around the back yard."
"No contest." Sam takes the keys and shoves them into his pocket. He looks across the table at his brother and smiles. "Sleepy suburbia. Brings back memories, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," one of those scarred, rough hands reaches across the table and before Sam knew it his muffin had been stolen and Dean was picking out the chocolate chips and eating them one by one. "Memories of learning how to forge official documents and how to make a bloody mess in the bathroom hacking your prom date into pieces big enough to fit into a shopping bag. You really fucked up with that one."
Sam shrugs, unconcerned with the details of names and places he could barely put a face to. He answers with the ease of habit, bickering only because it was a pastime as familiar as his own skin; "I've told you more than a thousand times, Dean. That was an accident."
"She never would have put out anyway. You had shit taste in girls."
"Why are we talking about high school?"
"You were being all nostalgic, I had to snap you out of it before you hurt yourself."
Sam frowns. He couldn't help but think that Dean had a point. The past was past, long gone and faded - memories dulled or erased by the passing of time. Their lifestyle wasn't the kind that gave a lot of thought to the past. Only in the periods where they were stationary did he have the time to think about the past as anything more than hard earned experience - which method best evaded detection, how to get the hell out of dodge. Sam's frown turns into a small, wicked little smile.
"You know," he says, and pauses to sip at his coffee, "according to you I still have shit taste in girls."
"Your new girlfriend is a demonic hellbitch." Dean waits a beat before continuing. "So you're getting better."
"At least I'm not sleeping with Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street."
"Who?"
"You have no concept of culture do you, Dean?"
"Fuck you, Sammy."
Sam spins the laptop around and pushes it towards his brother. The lab results from an autopsy are displayed on the plain white screen, accompanied by several clinical photographs of anomalies.
"Dude, that's a vampire."
"Astute. Look what killed it."
"Large calibre bullet wound to the chest," Dean reads, paraphrasing somewhat to slice through the medical jargon straight to the point. "Looks like we've got more than just a theory. Looks like we've got hard evidence."