Ok, here goes. My first ever SPN fic is a response to Kam's challenge. Silence is a great healer. I posed another challenge on myself with this as well: Outside POV first person without the use of the word 'I' except in conversation. I'm not sure it worked and it was harder than I expected. So as I've said before, don't hold back, all criticism is welcome and appreciated. Thanks! cJan
I guess, if I need to pick a time frame, this would fall somewhere early second season.
Just Another Tuesday Night
It was late and the place was quiet. Only two midnight regulars sat at the counter curled over their plates and a pair of young lovebirds was tucked into a back booth. Rain pelted the big picture window turning the lights outside into mottled splashes of color.
The door jerked open and in walked a tall young man looking like he'd had a day near the top of his list of bad days. Dried blood clung to his cheek despite the driving rain and his dripping wet hair. A rag was wrapped around his hand and his pants were caked with mud. He looked around then made a beeline for the bathroom.
Clyde, 'Tuesday, turkey on rye', tossed a few bills on the counter. "Guess I'll brave the weather, Maude, doesn't look like it's gonna let up. See you next week."
"I'll be here, Clyde."
Before the door had a chance to close another newcomer slipped in, this one looking worse off than the first. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead and he walked with a noticeable limp. He headed for the bathroom door and banged once, hard enough to rattle the solid wood. The door wasn't the only thing to suffer; he tucked an arm in close to his side and let out a soft groan then stumbled to the counter for support. He pulled a few napkins from the holder and wiped at the blood dripping into his eye. After a few shaky breaths, he moved back to the door and waited, then waited some more. Just as he raised his fist to give it another go the door flew open. The two exchanged looks verging on anger but there was something more, something hard to discern. They traded places.
The first one, with the longer hair, folded himself into a booth and pulled the menu from its spot by the window.
"Bad day?"
"Something like that."
"Coffee?"
"Sure."
"What about your friend?"
"You'll have to ask him." He opened the menu and studied it like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.
"No problem, Sweetie, I'll ask."
It was a surprise to see the other one leaning on the counter, watching. He'd cleaned up the best he could, considering. They both had.
"Here."
With a nod he took the offered towel and pressed it to his brow. "Coffee," he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward the booth.
Steam rose in curls from the mugs set before them. One went for the sugar the other the milk. Would have been just as easy to ask but these two weren't speaking, not a word. "You boys look like you could use some pie. I make the best raspberry peach pie you've ever tasted and it's fresh. Made it today."
"Fine," they both snapped in unison then, as if feeling guilty for their sharp tone, added, "Thank you."
No two ways about it, they had to be brothers. "Either of you want ice cream on that pie?"
One raised a brow, which had to hurt. "Hell, no." You'd think he'd been asked if it should be burned to a crisp.
The other one considered the question for a minute. "Yes." He nodded giving an obviously forced grin. "I think I would." He eyed his brother. The grin vanished when the only reaction was a roll of his eyes.
The lovebirds giggled their way across the diner, their eyes locked and their hands lost in each other's clothing. They bumped the bench seat. The movement pulled a groan from one boy's lips. His brother's face twitched and the anger faded. "Dean, what the hell happened out there? You could have been kill-"
Silence took over when the plates appeared; ice cream for one, none for the other and a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. Not-Dean looked up, surprise and worry spilling from his big eyes.
"You both look like you could use some. I'll take it back if I'm wrong."
"No." He picked up the bottle and began lining up the arrows. "You're not wrong," he said, placing four pills in front of his brother.
"Thanks," they said as one.
"Don't mention it."
The anger revealed itself through their forks as they ate. Sharp stabs and vengeful scoops gave way to focused sideways scrapes in an attempt to gather up every last glob of sweet goodness. Not-Dean made a few attempts to prod his brother, seeking answers, an apology, or an angry outburst, it was hard to tell. Didn't matter, because whatever he was after didn't come, only silence.
Full, both boys leaned back and closed their eyes. There were no smiles on those faces but the anger had faded and the Tylenol appeared to have kicked in. Not-Dean opened his eyes when the check and a pastry box landed in front of him. He slid the paper out from under the string and looked at it.
"'I've got this, Dean," he said, digging in his pocket. "Why don't you get in the car? Hell, at the speed you're moving, I'll probably beat you."
Dean stood, pulled the keys from his pocket and dropped them onto the table. He said nothing and moved toward the door.
Not-Dean picked up the keys and approached the counter. He passed over the check. "There is no amount on the check. What do we owe you?"
"Remember what it says."
"Silence is a great healer?"
"Look, Sweetie, it ain't none of my business but that there's good advice. It'll come, when he's ready."
"You don't know-"
"That's true, I don't. But what I do know is I wish someone had bothered to tell me that once upon a time. "
He nodded. "So, what do I really owe?"
"Just that. Well, that and enjoy the pie. Think you can do that for me?"
"Sure, we can do that. Thanks."
The door closed, leaving Henry, 'scrambled with home fries, no toast', at the counter. "You're a softie, Maude. You know that, right?"
"I know, Henry, I know."
THE END