This is a love story.
I'd like to say it was a classic case of love at first sight, but I don't know if that's true.
All I know for certain is that it's a love that was meant to be.
We don't get many quality folk in this dump that calls itself a diner. Truckers who haven't seen a washcloth in days – weeks maybe. Bums who stumble in to get out of the cold, taking up table space long after they've drained the last drop of coffee in their cup. Old folks on a tight budget looking for a cheap meal. Cheaters looking to score, streetwalkers looking to oblige them. Impatient, forlorn, pitiful people. Losers, every one.
He stood out like a sunbeam slicing through a cloudy sky. Clean, well-dressed, and handsome – god, he took my breath away with his movie star good looks. He was way prettier than the models you see in those fancy magazines – the ones I leaf through in the grocery line, but can never afford to buy.
"I'm gonna to marry that man," I murmured.
Rhonda snapped her gum as she turned her head to follow my gaze. "Him?" She snorted. "Honey, he's out of your league. Married. Or gay. My money is on gay. Look at the long-haired fella he's with. There's something going on between them."
"I don't care. I want that table. I'll trade you for the party of six." I hitched my thumb towards table three.
The cackling old biddies sitting there were fussy, but they were surprisingly good tippers. Regulars who liked to meet up after church, or their book club, or whatever. Normally, Rhonda and I butted heads over who got to serve 'em.
"Your loss." Rhonda shrugged and sauntered away. I saw the good-looking guy shoot a glance at her ample bosom as she walked by.
Gay, my ass.
I popped a couple of buttons on my blouse, the better to display my cleavage. If he liked boobs, mine were an even bigger eyeful than Rhonda's. The rest of the package wasn't bad either.
The green eyes that turned my way as I approached the back-corner booth set me in mind of an emerald I once saw in a store window. Dazzling. No other word for it.
"What can I offer you, gentlemen?" I asked in as sultry a voice as I could muster.
"Well, I don't know," Mr. Wonderful drawled – and damned if he didn't sound just as good as he looked. "What do you have to offer?" The suggestive smile that accompanied the question set my pulse racing and my cheeks ablaze.
"Dean!" the tall one barked.
Oh-oh. I quickly suppressed a sigh. Jealous boyfriend alert. Abort! Abort!
But it would appear luck was on my side, because the next words out of his mouth were:
"You'll have to excuse my brother. He... He's..." Mr. Tall flung up his hands, as if giving up on trying to explain the unexplainable.
His (hallelujah!) brother grinned unrepentantly.
"I'll have a salad – the house dressing is fine," Mr. Tall continued, obviously deeming it better for all concerned if he changed the subject. "He'll have the double cheeseburger with fries. And, uh... two coffees, please. Make mine decaf."
"And pie," Dean added. His eyes caressed my name tag, before straying over to the curve of my breast. "Apple if you've got it, Sherri with an 'i'. With whipped cream –"
"And a cherry on top?"
"Ahh, a woman after my own heart. Thank you, darlin'."
I could feel the weight of his stare as I walked away. Who could blame me if I put a little extra wiggle in my walk?
"Not gay," I whispered as Rhonda and I crossed paths. "With his brother. And he's a first class flirt."
"Hrmph," she muttered. "That don't mean nothing. I might bump him from gay to bi, but that's the best I can do for you. My gaydar's never wrong."
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Rhonda? She's my best friend and I love her to bits, but she can be an insufferable pain in the ass when she thinks she's right. Which is all the time.
I wasn't going to let her be right this time. Mr. Wonderful – Dean! – was the kind of man I'd been dreaming of for far too many years. I was through with settling for Cracker Jack toys! I wanted a real prize. And there he was... not ten feet away.
A glance over my shoulder at the booth showed Dean frowning as Mr. Tall shoved his laptop towards him. They both seemed pretty engrossed by whatever was on that screen. Real serious, like. So it would appear that I had a little competition after all. Digital competition. Pfftt! I wasn't worried about that. With my looks and bubbly personality, most men easily sway the way I want them to go. I fluffed my hair and unfastened yet another button. Hey, when you're going for the gold, you gotta give it all you've got.
I picked up the tray containing their order and called up my best smile. The megawatt one that best shows off my dimples and pearly whites.
That smile dimmed considerably as I turned to face them.
There was a third person in the booth. Another man. Another looker, with dark, wind-swept hair and heavy five o'clock shadow on his chiseled jaw. Dean had scooched over to make room for Mr. Trench Coat, but they were sitting close. Really close. In fact, they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee.
Dean caught my eye as I approached and hissed, "Personal space!"
"My apologies," Mr. Trench Coat replied in a low rumble that rivalled Dean's for the honour of sexiest voice ever. Though why he was apologizing wasn't clear to me. Dean was the one who hadn't moved over far enough in the first place. The bigger question was where he had come from, though. I hadn't heard the bell ring to announce his arrival. It was a mystery that didn't sit well with me.
"Would you like to place an order, sir?" I said, polite and frosty in the same breath, as I set plates in front of the two brothers.
"No."
No, thank you. Lovely manners you have, there.
Blue eyes lifted to meet my gaze, staring at me – through me – as if they could see into my very soul.
"No, thank you," he intoned.
And just like that, I was dismissed. I mattered less to him than the cockroaches in the kitchen.
His eyes turned back to Dean. Dean's gaze fell to his plate. Mr. Tall choked back what could have been a chuckle – or maybe he just swallowed funny.
I beat a hasty retreat. But I wasn't done with table nine yet. Dean was clearly a dessert man. And I had pie as my secret weapon. Homemade pie, too. None of that pasty store-bought stuff most dives like ours serve. I baked it myself twice a week to squeeze a few extra bucks from our skinflint boss, and I wasn't beyond letting that little fact slip when I brought a slice over to Dean. So, take that, Blue Eyes.
Confidence restored, I felt almost generous towards the poor guy. I even brought him a glass of ice water – which he didn't touch. Nor did he thank me for it.
It was a fairly busy night, but I kept glancing over to that corner as I hurried about my tasks. Dean had once again inched closer to Blue Eyes – or maybe Blue Eyes was crowding him? Either way, their knees and elbows were knocking. Mr. Tall noticed this too. Judging from the knowing little smirk he wore, it wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen. But even his eyebrows rose when Blue Eyes casually swiped a fry from Dean's plate, and Dean didn't so much as blink. He'd slapped Mr. Tall's hand when he'd tried that trick not five minutes before, hard, growling something along the lines of, "if you insist on eating rabbit food, don't expect me to share the good stuff."
Blue Eyes dove in for another fry. And then a third. And then he snagged Dean's coffee and took a tentative sip.
Apparently, that wasn't much to his liking. I had to turn away from the sourpuss face he pulled, just so I didn't laugh out loud. When I turned back, Dean was doctoring his coffee – pouring in creamer and adding tons of sugar – all without taking his eyes off the computer screen or his mind off his ongoing conversation with Mr. Tall. He removed the stir stick from the mug and licked it. Blue Eyes took advantage of his distracted state to grab the coffee and cautiously sample the results. He smiled and took a second, deeper drink. And a fourth fry.
It was with considerably less enthusiasm than I had originally planned that I delivered the pie and declared it was made by yours truly.
Oh, I hovered in the vicinity, ready and eager to reap the rewards of my labour, but I had a sinking feeling that Rhonda – once again – was going to be proven right.
Sure enough, I wasn't the one Dean sought out after the first bite. The look of bliss that crossed his face was all I'd wished for – and more – but it was Blue Eyes he turned to. Blue Eyes on the receiving end of an ecstatic smile. Blue Eyes who obligingly opened his mouth when so prompted, and thus received the second forkful of my pie.
What Blue Eyes thought of it, I'll never know. For at that very moment, the bell that had been faithfully announcing arrivals and departures (except for Blue Eyes', of course) blasted from its place above the door, followed by the door itself. Shattered glass flew in all directions, and the metal frame embedded itself in table five. I heard Rhonda scream, saw her limping for the kitchen with blood seeping from a gash on her left leg. Customers who jumped up, preparing to follow her example and flee, were trampled as a horde of people poured into the diner – fifteen – twenty – maybe more. They looked like a biker gang, all dressed in black leather with dangling chains, all tattoos and piercings and unkempt beards. We've had a lot of bikers pass through. Most of 'em never cause a spot of trouble, though a couple of times we've had rival gangs rumbling in our parking lot. But I'd never, ever before seen black eyes like this lot had. Black. So very black. Like the gates of hell must be...
I'm a little hazy on what happened next. There was a lot of hollering and pushing and crashing. Things flew through the air – tables, chairs, even people.
I slipped in a puddle of what I sincerely hoped was ketchup, and felt myself falling... but, somehow, Dean was there to catch me. He scooped me up in his arms like the hero in one of those stupid romance novels Rhonda likes to read. He carried me through the mêlée, shoved me into the restroom, and told me to lock the door and keep it locked.
He didn't have to tell me twice. I didn't have to see any more to know that whatever was happening out there, it was bad. Really bad.
I just prayed the bathroom door was strong enough to keep it from happening to me.
If there had been a window, I would have climbed out of it and run away.
But there wasn't a window. And I would never have known the end of the story if I had skipped out at the middle.
Two clear voices rang out, rising above the continuous chorus of furious shouts and frantic cries. A sudden wash of light crept under the door, almost blinding me with its intensity. The silence that followed was almost worse than the horrible noise that preceded it.
I'm not ashamed to admit I screamed like a little girl when a quiet knock sounded on the door. I was bawling like one too, I was that scared: snot and mascara smearing my face, breath hitching and heart hammering fit to burst.
"Sherri? Sherri, it's Sam. It's over. It's okay to come out."
"I don't know you, Sam." I sniffled and drew closer to the door, but I wasn't about to open it. "Why should I trust you?"
"I'm Dean's brother."
"Where's Dean?"
"He was injured in the attack. Cas is... uh... patching him up. Don't worry, Dean's in good hands."
"Is Cas a doctor?"
"No... not exactly. He's... It's hard to explain. Sherri, will you open the door? We have to get you out of here."
"Dean told me to stay put."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," I heard Sam mutter. And then, louder, "Cas! Can you help Dean over here? I need him to convince Sherri that it's safe."
Slow, shuffling footsteps made their way across the floor. It felt like an eternity before the voice I wanted to hear finally spoke my name.
"Sherri," he said wearily. "It's Dean. Open the door."
Blue Eyes was standing there scowling at me when I cracked the door open. His arm was snugly draped around Dean's waist, clearly supporting most of his weight. Dean's arm was slung around Blue Eyes' shoulders, further steading himself. I suppose I should have felt guilty for making Dean come to me in his condition, but I didn't. I flung myself against his chest and hugged him tight. But not too tight, and not for as long as I really wanted to hold him. His quick gasp let me know how much his ribs were hurting him.
"Thank you," I said, reluctantly stepping back. "Thank you for saving my life."
"It's what we do. Besides, how could I deprive the world of a five star pie maker like you?" The cocky grin was back and (damn!) it looked good on his face. Even bruised and bleeding, he was one fine looking man.
Blue Eyes' fingers twitched, knotting into the fabric of Dean's shirt. His little finger brushed against bare flesh where the shirt had rucked up. Dean shivered and turned a questioning gaze his way. "Sam will take you home," he said absentmindedly, as if he'd already forgotten I was still standing there. It was obvious he was trying real hard to fit a puzzle together, as if he'd just found a missing piece and the picture was finally making sense.
Sam ushered me away, his giant hand hovering near my face, ready to shield me from the worst of the carnage, or so I believed at that moment. We were almost to the door when a thought struck me.
"Rhonda!" I exclaimed, suddenly stopping dead in my tracks. "She went into the kitchen. She was hurt."
"Wait here." Sam righted a toppled chair and gently but firmly insisted I sit down. I bit my lip as I looked around. Carnage? Where was the carnage? There should have been bodies. Lots of bodies. But there were none, just a strange, dark ash that coated every surface. As if the people had been burned away.
I remembered the blazing light.
Just before it flared, I remembered a voice calling, "Dean! Dean!" Desperation filled the cry. The anguish of a man about to lose all that he held dear. The voice of a blue-eyed man who liked his coffee overly sweet.
And I remembered Dean's voice crying out in reply. One single word: "Cas!" As if the name carried with it a thousand conversations they'd never had – should have had – might now have.
The kitchen door swung on its rusty hinges, and Sam came towards me carrying Rhonda as if she weighed no more than a kitten. She was unconscious, but alive. I felt my heart blossom in relief as I rose from the chair and rested a hand on her arm. Sam led us out the door. Out to the blessed smell of fresh air, where a hint of rain lingered like a promise on the breeze.
I don't know why I turned around for one final look at Mr. Wonderful.
He didn't look back at me.
He and Blue Eyes were too busy staring into each other's eyes.
Slowly, Dean leaned forward. Just as slowly, Blue Eyes tilted his head and leaned in to meet him halfway.
All love stories should end with such a tender, yearning kiss.
And, like I said at the beginning, this is a love story.
It just isn't mine.