GAME NIGHT
A Season 8 one-shot set between "Torn and Frayed" and "LARP and the Real Girl." It's sort of a case-fic, but it's mainly my version of the Observant Waitress story. Clichés are clichés for a reason; she was fun to write.
Kentucky, Oklahoma is not a real town, but after deciding it would be the setting for this fic, I discovered that there's actually an Oklahoma, Kentucky. So that was fun, too.
Thanks to Eric Kripke and all those with legal claims to Supernatural for allowing those of us with no claims at all to write about Sam and Dean. My only profit is my own entertainment (yours, too, I hope).
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January 18, 2013. A cold Friday night. Just as a small town is faced with the possibility of tremendous loss, two rough-looking strangers arrive, potentially bringing even more trouble. Outsider POV.
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It was quiet in the diner that night.
Most of the town had gone over to McFarland for the high school basketball game. The rivalry between the Fighting Hillmen of Kentucky, Oklahoma and the McFarland Mustangs has always been fierce, going way back, so about the only folks from Kentucky not rooting on the Hillmen were either working, like me and Rogelio, or too old to drive and too alone for anybody to think about taking 'em along. Like Pete Billson, who sat at my second booth dribbling coffee down his whiskery chin, waiting for his regular order of eggs and grits to arrive. Other than him, the diner was empty 'cept for me and Rogelio, who was manning the grill. We'd get busier in a few hours, once the game was over and ever'body had finished the long drive back to town, but for now, it looked like I had plenty of time to roll silverware and start taking down our tired ol' Christmas decorations.
I was wondering, too, how things might be after the game….
Pete's eggs and grits had just come up when I heard a deep-throaty engine rumbling through our parking lot. It had a big ol' growl, low to the ground, so I knew it didn't belong to a pick-up, which is what we mostly get around here. When I glanced out the window, I saw a beautiful black classic Chevy slide into the space at the far end of the lot. Not a car I recognized, although I'd seen plenty similar in my day when I was head cheerleader at Kentucky Senior High. Seen 'em from the back seat, too, if you take my meaning, but maybe that's a little more information than I really want to share.
"Mayreen?" Rogelio called from the kitchen, reminding me I had Pete's order to deliver, and I snapped back to business before I could see who stepped out of the Chevy.
"Wake up, Pete," I sang out jovially. "Your dinner's here!"
I had just set down his plate and bowl when the bell over the door jingled and a tall, tired-looking fellow in his thirties somewhere stepped in with a blast of cold air, giving the place a quick sweep with his eyes. From his face, it seemed like he was hoping to see more folks inside. Or expecting, maybe, but that expectation died real quick, thinly veiled worry rising in its place.
"Have a seat anywhere, hon," I told him as he looked past me and Pete through the window out to the parking lot. "I'll be with you soon's I freshen up Pete's coffee, here. Get you some?"
He glanced down at Pete, then in through the service window at Rogelio, then finally at me, standing there waiting for an answer.
"Thanks," he said finally. "Coffee'd be good."
Seemed to me like he was having a little trouble tracking, and for a moment I wasn't sure if he was slow or just over-tired. On the right day, I thought he might be a pretty good-looking cuss, but this was definitely not that day. Dark circles of exhaustion were smudged under bloodshot green eyes, and there was a fresh scrape on his forehead like he'd run into something rough head-first. I thought I caught the shadow of a bruise on his jaw and chin beneath the two-day stubble, too.
First impressions-wise, his clothes didn't help him any, either—muddy jeans and muddier work-boots, faded tee under a wrinkled plaid shirt under an ol' green jacket that had seen better days. Sure looked like this fella worked hard for his living, whatever his occupation was. Assuming he had one, of course.
Was he homeless? I wondered, until I remembered the black beauty parked out in the lot, then wondered again when I caught sight of his hands, nails dirty and broken, knuckles all scuffed up like they get from bare-fisted boxing. He coulda stolen that car, I guessed.
There was a tension in him, too, beyond the worry evident on his face. It was like he was all wired up about something but trying to keep it inside. Or maybe he was just too tired for it to show much; I don't know, it's hard to explain. I was pretty sure it wasn't drugs, though Lord knows we've got folks in town with that kind of problem. This fella kept scanning the parking lot out the window like he was waiting on something, a deep furrow between his brows indicating his uneasiness at not seeing what he was looking for. Truth be told, he appeared to me to be more than a little dangerous, and that's what raised the hackles on the back of my neck, 'cause maybe he was here waiting on a partner in crime for a little armed robbery. Wouldn't be getting much from the diner tonight, not this early, but he wouldn't be the first to try, and this ol' boy looked like he could be trouble, big-time.
I do not like trouble.
More often than not, there's a sheriff's officer or two practically within shouting distance of this place, but this was Game Night. Most of our law-dogs were riding escort with the team out to McFarland, and the poor deputy who drew the short straw to stay in town was prob'ly over to Kentucky High keeping an eye on things there. 'Specially it being this game, and 'specially it being this time of year, although I'm not one who's much into superstition or paranoia. It just seems like things happen when we play the Mustangs, and I myself am a walking, talking example.
But I'm losing track of this story, a major part of which was standing in front of me, kinda swaying on his feet a little. I didn't smell booze on him, so it couldn't have been that, either….
"Rogelio," I called, leaving my eyes on this new fella but raising my voice enough to be heard in the kitchen, and keeping calm so as not to raise suspicions. "Don't forget we need to order more of that Greek relish the kids like so much!"
Ain't no such thing as Greek relish, and folks around here surely wouldn't eat it if there was, but that was our diner-code to stay alert, 'cause something bad could happen. I saw from Rogelio's eyes he knew exactly what I meant.
Well, let me tell you, my opinion changed right sharp, because the very next second it seemed like Mr. Tall, Tired and Potential Trouble woke himself up. He blinked once or twice to bring himself around, caught my name-tag and then my eye, and gave me a big ol' grin that would've weakened my knees and melted my heart if I was twenty years younger.
Sometimes, good-looking fellas—or those who just think they're good-looking—will try to snow you by flashing those pearly whites, leading you down some garden path. They don't realize that smart women (and I count myself among 'em) can see smarmy fake behavior for exactly what it is. Now, maybe this fella had used his smile like that a time or two, I don't know, but not this time. Beneath the scrape and the exhaustion and the bruise and the stubble, this was an outright genuine smile.
"Coffee'd be great, Mayreen," he kinda repeated, his voice low and gravelly. "The hotter the better."
I suddenly knew I'd been wrong to think this ol' boy might be Greek relish material. Leastways, I could see he wasn't going to cause misfortune here. Oh, he could be trouble, I was certain of that, but just then, meeting his eyes, I knew I was looking at an authentic, trustworthy, hard-working man.
You can call me crazy if you want to—I can't explain it—but I suddenly felt warm and somehow secure. All my concerns about him just sluiced right away. Now, over the years, I have learned to trust my instincts; right then, they were telling me that, whatever this fella looked like on the outside, he had a good heart on the inside. That's all I needed to know.
Then, darned if he didn't give me a wink, too, which near about took my breath away.
So I looked him up and down and gave him a wink right back.
"Sit yourself down, sweetheart, and I'll be there in a jiff," I told him cheerfully, holding his gaze. Seemed I just couldn't look away, not just yet.
That smile on his face made a whole world of difference, practically lighting up the place, and it seemed to perk him up, too, at least for a moment, because he nodded, then sauntered on down the aisle to the booth at the very end. Right before he got there, though, he paused for a second like he wasn't quite sure where he wanted to be. Then he took a step or two back to Booth Five and slid into the bench seat facing the door, me and Pete within plain view but his eyes once again checking the parking lot, that furrow making a reappearance and putting a good five years on him, at least. Seemed like he just kinda ran out of steam, the way he slumped down where he sat, hunched over like he was hurting or sad or maybe both.
I see 'em that way sometimes, in here, the troubled ones. Men without women, women without men…hard to be alone in this cold, cruel world, 'specially this time of year. Look at ol' Pete, f'r instance.
Who chose just that moment to poke me in the hip with a bony finger to remind me he was still breathing and still waiting on his refill.
"Mayreen?"
Quavery ol' voice like a reedy whistle. Shoot, I've been slinging his java for what feels like my entire life, and it's not like I'd ever left him to thirst to death or nothing.
"Hold yer horses, Pete—it's comin'." I might have sounded a might testy, but I was a little distracted, after all. I shot another sly glance down at Booth Five, then sashayed on over to the coffee-pot and dropped my voice, making it just loud enough to be heard through the service window where Rogelio was standing on alert.
"I think we can forget about that Greek relish," I told him. "Don't think there'll be any call for it tonight."
He hesitated a moment, eyes dancing a couple of times between me and our new customer. "You say so," he said finally with a shrug, then set about preparing more hamburger patties for our post-game rush. Normally we close at nine, but it's good business to stay open a couple extra hours for the basketball crowd. Shelly'd be coming in about nine-thirty to give me a hand tonight, 'cause win or lose, this place was sure to be jumping.
I was glad I'd already started a fresh pot of joe, even if I hadn't expected anybody to show up to drink it for a while. I grabbed a mug from the rack, took the pot on over to refill Pete, then headed down the aisle to where Tall-and-Tantalizing had pulled out his cell phone and was checking for text messages or something.
"Here you go, sugar," I said. "Fresh and hot, just like my second husband. That Metallica you're hummin'?"
He tried out his smile again, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it this time. He glanced down at his phone once more, then leaned back against the bench seat and started to sling one arm over the top, all casual like, until something pulled him up short with a grimace. He dropped the arm back down to his side, and I wondered just how he had hurt it.
Well, two can play casual.
"I don't know as I've seen you in here before," I told him while I poured. "You from around these parts?"
"Passing through." His voice was deep and kinda sexy, putting me in mind of the car he'd been driving.
"Nice wheels, that Chevy out there," I said with a look out into the near-empty lot. His eyes followed mine to the black hulk parked deep in shadow, and this time the smile seemed a little more honest.
"That's my baby."
"You want somethin' to eat, hon? I can recommend just about ever'thing on our menu, but the chili dogs are particularly fine tonight. Rogelio grills a mean burger, too, and I've seen grown men cry for want of our roast beef."
My heart warmed when his smile did, and I felt like I'd done something good.
"I'm waiting on someone," he told me, clasping his hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. "He gets here, I'm gonna take you up on at least one of those recommendations."
I gave him a smile of my own, then gestured with the pot. "Let me know when you're ready for more," I said, then headed back behind the counter, stowing the coffee on the hotplate and tidying the counter, keeping an eye on my two customers and wondering about how the game was coming. Rogelio had the radio on in the kitchen, but there was so much static I couldn't hardly hear anything 'cept an occasional burst of mariachi music from one of the Mexican stations as the signal faded in and out.
It didn't take a whole lot of trying to see that tension was ratcheting back up in Tall-and-Thunderous, whose expression had slowly grown more than a little fierce. He was currently giving his thumbs a workout on that little ol' cell phone. His jaw was clamped tight enough so the muscle jumped when he finally gave up the texting and dialed for voicemail. Leastways, that's what I figured he was doing when he held the phone up to his ear, listening for just a second and not saying anything, then slammed the phone back down on the table when apparently there was nothing to hear. He cussed kind of quiet, but that boy's worry was just as plain as the grits ol' Pete had just spilled down the front of his favorite University of Oklahoma sweatshirt.
I sighed and was headed over with a washrag to wipe the ol' coot down when the bell over the door nearly came off its hanger, the new fella busting through came in with such force. It was like the wind had tossed him inside, sending a gust of bitter cold air with him.
Lordy! If I'd thought the first arrival was tall, this second one was just pure giant, practically having to stoop over to come on inside. There weren't no doubt this was who we'd been waiting on—I could tell easy as pie. Maybe in his early thirties. Same general kind of get-up as the first fella—jeans and plaid shirt and jacket—but without the mud and the scrape, and with a whole lot more hair on top of his head. Plus a duffel bag. Same potential for good looks on some better day, and the same potential for danger, I thought, although tonight he was pale and seemed kind of pulish for a body so large, truth be told. Still, he even had the same tired and troubled expression as the first fella, lips pursed tight and forehead all wrinkled up until his eyes flew right over me and Pete and lit on the occupant of Booth Five. Then it was like some higher power just whisked off his coat of worry and relieved him of a whole score of burdens, that's how much his face changed when he saw who he was clearly looking for.
The one who'd been looking for him.
"Hey," the newcomer called, like there wasn't anybody else in the place, and I watched him limp down the aisle toward Comparatively-Short-and—well, that first fella still looked pretty thunderous, but there was also a passel of relief in his eyes. I could see it plain as day from where Pete and I were gawking. I shook myself and headed for the coffee pot again.
"I've been trying to reach you for the past hour!" the first one kinda growled. He must've realized how loud he was talking, because he dropped his voice enough I really had to listen hard to hear him add, "Where the hell have you been?"
Tall-and-Tardy huffed some air, tossed his bag onto the seat and then wedged himself into the booth opposite his friend, leaving his gimpy left leg sticking out about five yards into the aisle.
"At the gym, Dean. I had to turn my phone off because of—" He stopped short, catching sight of me behind the counter to his left as I got the coffee and another mug.
But Dean flicked his eyes in my direction and finished for him.
"Barney?" he said, and the new fella nodded. Me, I smiled a little to myself, because any time I hear the name Barney, I just automatically think of Barney Fife, the klutzy sheriff's deputy played by Mr. Don Knotts in that old Andy Griffith show. Remember that show? There's a lot about Kentucky, Oklahoma that would remind you of Mayberry, I do believe, but that's a bunch of stories for a different occasion.
"It just took longer than I expected," the new fella said. "He was parked right in front and didn't move the whole time…guess he wanted people to know he was there."
"Everything go all right?"
"Yeah, no more cup. You?"
"All good, Sammy. We're done here."
The taller one—Sammy—heaved another sigh and settled himself and his mile-long legs a little more comfortably in the booth.
"Chalk up another one for Dad," he said.
By this time I was setting the mug in front of him, catching his eye for the go-ahead to pour. He gave me a nod, then wrapped big hands around the mug without drinking, as though he relished the warmth.
It was a cold night out, that's for dead certain.
"You boys need menus?" I speared Tall with a pert glance, but Taller beat him to the answer.
"Just the coffee for now, thanks. It always this quiet here?"
Taller's eyes were hazel, and just about brimming with empathy and kindheartedness. His temper might could turn on a dime, for all I knew—this one seemed like he had as much potential for trouble as the other one, if not more—but what I mostly felt from him was a solid dependability, with a sweetness that was almost innocence. Even with him just sitting there in the booth holding that coffee, I could tell, that's how strong an impression he gave.
And, shoot. Between him and the other one? Dear Lord, if there was ever any ol' boys who could make you feel safe as houses just being in their presence, it was these two.
Dean and Sammy….
I practically had to shake myself to look away.
"It's Game Night," I said, remembering at last that I'd been asked a question. "Everybody's over to McFarland for the basketball game, big ol' cross-county rivalry, goin' back decades. They'll all be along when the game's over. Menus're there on the table when you're ready—just holler. Name's Mayreen."
I smiled congenially, then moved on back down the aisle. I walked slow, lingering a little to watch Pete scrape up the last of the grits from his bowl. It also gave me time to puzzle over what Sammy's dad might have to do with Sammy not needing a jockstrap at the gym any more. No more cup? Didn't make a lick of sense, so I let that one go right quick.
But speaking of underwear….
I had a thought, and put a little more speed in my step, passing around behind the counter to the silverware station.
Not very many people know it, but if you stand just so by where we roll the silverware into their tighty-whitey napkin sheaths, the diner's acoustical peculiarities allow you to hear just about every word spoken at Booth Five. Booth Four, too, now that I think of it. Anyway, you can also watch just about every word being spoken at Booth Five by keeping an eye on the mirrored back of the dessert case, in a spot right over the fluffy meringue topping of Rogelio's specialty, lemon chiffon pie. Not that I'd ever intentionally eavesdrop, mind you, but that silverware wasn't going to roll itself. So I put the coffee back on the hotplate again, settled in and got quietly busy.
There was a special quality about these two fellas that I wanted to study on, and while they definitely reeked of potential danger, there was also something oddly comforting about them. Even now I'm not certain what it was—I just know I felt it in my gut, and I couldn't hardly keep my eyes off 'em.
"Room?" I heard Tall ask. Well, Dean.
"Clean." That was Taller, Sammy. "We're good to go."
"Car?" Dean's reflection in the mirror seemed noticeably more relaxed now that he and Sammy were both sipping on their coffees.
Sam, I corrected myself mentally—that boy was too old and too big to be called 'Sammy' by anyone who didn't know him well.
"Couple of blocks down," Sam said, jerking his head a little over his right shoulder by way of direction, and Dean nodded. No wonder I hadn't heard another car drive in—seemed like Sam's cool-down after his cup-free workout at the gym had involved a little walk.
I started to puzzle over what gym he'd been to, since the only one in town is at the high school, and a-course he wouldn't have gone to that one. So where-?
"Your knee doing all right?" my first fella asked quizzically, interrupting my train of thought.
"I told you, Dean—I'm fine. What's up with your shoulder?"
"What?"
"Your right shoulder—look how you're holding it."
"Bastard tried to double-dribble me," Dean replied wryly, rolling said shoulder with just a tiny wince.
I thought for a second maybe he and Sam knew each other from whatever gym it was, prob'ly played a little basketball there, which was how they were acquainted. That didn't seem quite right, though…felt to me like they knew one another a lot better than a couple of workout buddies might. There was something about the way they just seemed to be mindful of each other, on things like the limp and the shoulder.
Oh, my! Was it possible they were…?
But just as my thoughts started heading in that direction, I remembered the way Dean had smiled at me, and my reaction to that smile, which set my mind completely at ease. Not that there's anything wrong with it if they were, you know; we just don't have much experience with it here in little bitty ol' Kentucky, O-K, population 2,642. I don't, anyway. Call me naïve if you want to.
"I think it's almost half-time," Rogelio said through the service window, twiddling the radio dial. "Sounds like we're up 36 to 32."
We were winning! What I felt then was a combination of civic pride mixed with no small amount of relief, along with my uncharacteristically overwhelming curiosity about the current occupants of Booth Five. Honest, I'm not generally the nosy type…I just like to know my customers.
"Go, Hillmen!" I said fervently to Rogelio. Then, "Hush!"
"That's the shoulder that keeps popping out." It looked like Sam was concentrating on his coffee, but any fool could hear the concern in his voice. I'm no fool, nor was Dean, apparently.
"More times than I can count," he agreed amiably. Then, more sober, "I'm still in one piece."
In the dessert case mirror, I watched as Sam's face darkened, his lips pulling tight again. "I should have gone with you," he said. "You know that."
"What I know is that we agreed I'd do the heavy lifting on this one while you gave your knee a rest. Bad enough you had to do anything."
"Dean." Sam's voice sounded a little peevish. "I've told you a hundred times, I'm fine."
Dean outright snorted at that. "Then what you see when you're shaving isn't the same gimpy guy I'm looking at, little brother, because you look like crap on toast."
Whoa, Nelly! Given another couple of minutes, I might have guessed it. At the moment, though, I almost dropped a fork, I was so startled. Little brother? Still, as soon as Dean said it, everything about those two just clicked right into place.
There'd been plenty of evidence: all that worry on Dean's face before Sam showed up, the aggravation with his cell phone, the way his whole demeanor eased as soon as Sam blew in—had he picked Booth Five over Six so someone with a bum knee wouldn't have so far to walk before sitting down?
There'd been even more evidence from Sam—the relief in his expression a reflection of Dean's once they'd laid eyes on each other, his concern about Dean's shoulder, his tone in answering Dean's questions.
With all of that, a-course they were brothers; it was just as clear as day.
I took a tiny second to chastise myself for not seeing it right off. I gave my two fellas a fresh once-over in the dessert case mirror, realizing again that they both looked like crap on toast, not that we serve anything of the kind. Time to get back to work, I thought, grabbing up my order pad.
"You boys ready to fill your tanks with somethin' a little more substantial than java?" I asked, businesslike but kindly, too. Like I said, all my earlier concern about maybe being robbed had just floated right on out the window, replaced with sympathy and warm feelings, what with Dean's smile and hurt shoulder, and now Sam's kindliness and bad knee. Plus, them being brothers and all. I guess I'm just a sucker for family.
"Sam?" Dean said pointedly, and Sam sighed for the third time in just about as many minutes, then picked a menu out of the rack and gave it a cursory glance.
"I'll have the house salad," he said , but Dean intervened immediately.
"With the roast beef," he said. "That's what he means, Mayreen. Extra vegetables and load him up with the mashed potatoes."
Sam's expression soured, but he didn't say anything more, so I made some unnecessary scribbles on my pad while stifling a chuckle. I guessed that ol' boy had had a good-sized helping of Dean's big brothering through the years…knew when to argue and when not to, and this time was one of the not-to's.
"That's a right smart choice, Sam," I told him. "You need to re-fuel, Rogelio's cookin' is one great way to do it. Now, how about you, sugar?"
Dean ordered a cheeseburger, extra onions; chili and seasoned fries on the side.
"Oh, that's going to be fun in the car," Sam said, rolling his eyes, but Dean didn't dignify him with an answer.
"Comin' right up, boys," I promised, then kited off to give Rogelio the order so I could get back to my listening post—well, you know I mean the silverware station.
'Course, there was still Pete to consider, and by this time the ol' fella was falling asleep in the runny yellow remains of his eggs over easy, it being all of 8:15 or so. I got him woke up and cleaned up and settled up before sending him on his way home, leaving just those two brothers for me to wait on.
They both tucked right into their dinners when I served 'em up, Sam starting with his salad and Dean with his chili. For a while there weren't no talking, just companionable silence.
I used the time to start taking down the garland we'd draped around the door and in the front windows for the holidays, keeping one ear peeled for Rogelio's radio. The lead in the basketball game seemed to be changing pretty regular, with us ahead, then McFarland, then back to us, but it was hard to tell with all that static and mariachi music. I was nervous about the outcome, and frustrated not to hear what was going on, but that didn't stop me from eyeballing my customers every minute or two, anyway, or keeping their coffees refilled.
Sam spent a fair amount of time cutting his roast beef into tiny little bites, and Dean chased those chili beans around his plate some, so neither brother seemed like he was in any particular hurry. Dean had told me before they were just passing through, and the diner's a warm, cozy place if I do say so myself. 'Specially considering how cold it was outside on that January night.
Watching what I was doing with the decorations brought the frown back to my first fella's face. "How did we miss Christmas?" I heard him ask across the table, and my second fella looked up sharply.
"Gee, Dean, you tell me," he said after a moment or two of what seemed like disbelief. His voice sounded angry and kinda sarcastic-like. "I was in Texas, and I don't know where the hell you were. Didn't really care, either."
I could tell he meant it.
Dean's frown changed into something more like side-swiped, with a dose of sorry and a lick of 'shamed to boot as he cut his eyes away from his brother. Finally he cleared his throat and nodded tersely.
"Yeah. I think I was taking care of an old lady outside of Denver about then."
Well, I wouldn't have thought it, Dean looking after a senior citizen over the holidays. It apparently didn't surprise Sam any, though, 'cause he just bobbed his head curtly. After a few seconds, he said, like an accusation, "I should have been there, too."
I'll confess that I was a little confused about what was going on between those two. Despite the relief they'd each clearly shown upon meeting up at the diner, there was now some major tension roiling in Booth Five. Seemed like something bad had happened between my fellas that they were having trouble working through. Whatever it was, it had definitely split them apart, at least for a little while.
Conversation stopped again, but this time around, there was a lot being said in the silence. Ever' so often I caught Dean looking at Sam when Sam wasn't looking at Dean, and vice versa, measuring, assessing, the both of them clearly chewing on more than just their dinners.
Honestly, most often I saw circumspect care on the watcher's face, as a brother shifted uncomfortably in his seat, easing the stiffness in an injured limb. Stubbornness, as well, on either side of the table. Sometimes, though, I was sure there was sorrow or regret, as if one of them had left a needed apology unsaid. If there was indeed a debt, I could never tell who owed who—maybe both, and maybe neither.
I'll admit there was a fair amount of wrath, too.
I had time to take down a whole mess of garland, let me tell you, and now I was worried about more than just the game. Oh, they plucked at my heartstrings, those two, in ways I hadn't been plucked in years. If ever.
Once, just as I was coming out of the storeroom where we keep our party supplies, Sam leaned back and breathed in real deep through his nose, like he was about to say something important. When Dean raised his head up from his burger and raised an eyebrow, too, Sam just paused a second, gave his head a little shake, and resumed picking at his mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. Dean shrugged with that right shoulder, or maybe just tried to ease it some, and went to take another bite of cheeseburger.
But then he just tossed it down on the plate in front of him and shot a look across the table. I might have glided quietly back over to the silverware station along about then, the decorations having been stashed away and all.
"I thought we were past this, Sam," Dean said point-blank, but his brother didn't even look up from his dinner when he answered, his tone real tart.
"And maybe that's going to take some doing, Dean."
A few seconds passed before Dean sighed and retrieved his burger.
"Surrender, Dorothy," he said, kinda dark-like. I could see that any enjoyment from eating had gone right out the window, but he took a half-hearted bite, anyway.
Sam sat back again, his mouth all puckered up, glaring hard at his brother across the table, no warmth at all any more in his hazel eyes. Then, just about the time I couldn't hold my breath any longer, the glare softened, his lips thinning out, his shoulders slumping a little.
"Dean," he said again, waiting until his brother looked up before going further.
Oooh, there was some serious smoldering happening in the green eyes, some turbulent mix of anger and suspicion and resentment. Guilt, too, I thought.
Sam nodded brusquely, like he was acknowledging all those things, and clearly feeling a few of them himself. Then he dismissed them with a sniff.
"I told you I was both feet in," he said, loud and clear. "I meant it."
Dean's eyes flickered a moment or two as he examined Sam's expression carefully, then the fire in them went right out.
"Me, too, Sammy," he said at last, sounding just the tiniest bit relieved. "Both feet in."
I found myself breathing again.
The corner of Sam's mouth curled up a smidge, and after a second he responded with something that was just too soft for me to hear, darn it all anyhow. Whatever it was, Dean answered in kind, in that low, sexy rumble of his. Then he gave a sort-of laugh.
"You are such a little bitch," he said, without seeming at all offensive.
Sam's mouth curled a little more, and I could tell he didn't mean it when he said, "And you are such an enormous jerk."
Dean's lips twitched wryly.
"You got me."
Then he laughed outright, and Sam's smile grew before my eyes into an honest-to-goodness grin, complete with dimples that would make me swoon if I was twenty years younger. In that very instant, most all of the strain that had existed between those boys just vanished—poof!
Then Dean grimaced, working a knot out of his shoulder. I know Sam saw him, just as I know Dean saw Sam unconsciously massaging his left knee with those long fingers of his.
"I think I've got half an aspirin," Big Brother Tall said finally, kinda sardonic. "Want to share?"
Little Brother Taller laughed. "Let's save it for a rainy day."
But Dean wasn't funning.
"You need it, you tell me," he instructed firmly.
His brother immediately countered, just as firm, "You need it, you take it."
They both sorta huffed at one another, then fell back into the comfortable silence.
I finally bussed Pete's table, then checked in again on my remaining customers, barely in time to see Sam's eyes flutter closed. I glanced at Dean to see if he'd noticed, but it seemed like my first fella had flat out nodded off altogether, 'cause his eyes were closed, too.
Then they each gave a little start, took a second to gather themselves, and picked right up eating again, just like neither one of 'em had pretty much fallen asleep in his dinner. Darnedest thing—'specially it not even being nine o'clock yet. For sure I'd have taken those ol' boys for night-owls.
"We're pathetic," Sam murmured matter-of-factly, and his brother chuckled.
"You're telling me."
Suddenly, the radio in the kitchen blared louder as Rogelio adjusted the volume. "Mustangs got hot!" he announced, his voice tight. "They're ahead by twelve!"
I think I might have let out a cry, and my fellas exchanged glances.
"Not a good thing?" Dean asked, his deep voice carrying across the length of the diner.
"No, it's the worst," I told him, sounding a lot more aggrieved and nervous than I'd like to have as I set to wiping down Booth Two. "The Hillmen just have to win tonight, that's all there is to it!"
I hustled on back of the counter so I could listen better to that ol' radio. When bad news is coming, it's best to be prepared. I also chose to sit just so by the dessert case again, so's I could roll some more silverware. Busy hands calm nerves, you know. I did it quiet, though, so I wouldn't make much noise. Too hard to hear that way.
"…more to it than just the timing, and the score," Sam was saying, just audible over the mariachi music, and Dean gave a little shrug.
"Guess we'll find out if you're right about the tie to the cup," he said. Or maybe it was something about a tie-clip, I couldn't tell.
"Between the two of us, I think we solved the problem," Sam replied. Then he kinda hunched over the table. "Hey, Dean, do you suppose Dad would've even picked up on the whole thing if it hadn't been for your birthday?"
My first fella snorted a little laugh, dragging a couple of French fries through a mess of ketchup he'd squirted on his plate.
"I didn't think Dad even knew our birthdays, most of the time. Never saw a man who could keep track of things in our business the way he did, then forget his own kids' birthdays like clockwork every damn year."
Sam looked thoughtful for a couple of moments, then made a quick face. "Not saying I disagree with you. So it's a coincidence that his first journal entry about this was two days before he gave you the Impala?"
"Fourth quarter!" Rogelio announced loudly, making me jump. "We're still down by twelve!"
"Shhh!" I hissed back, just as loudly. With a quarter to go, the Hillmen might make a comeback yet. I was hanging on to hope the best I could, and distracting myself every way I could.
For the life of me I couldn't imagine what brought these two fellas to our little town on this, of all nights. Whatever, they were sure helping me keep my mind off the game, and for that I was grateful.
From what I could gather, those boys' daddy was some kind of scientist or writer—maybe a historian—and they had followed in his footsteps. Judging by the dried mud on Dean's jeans and boots, the only right kind of scientist I could think of was archaeologist, like that Indiana Jones character played by Mr. Harrison Ford. Sam was a good deal cleaner, and didn't look like he'd been out rolling around in the dirt this evening, not the way Dean did. Maybe he'd showered after his workout.
"…the car four days after my birthday, Sam," Dean was saying, "which he had conveniently overlooked until his research on this reminded him of the date. No big deal, anyway. It's just another day."
"No, it's not, Dean," Sam grumped.
"You don't honestly think I got the Impala because Dad was feeling guilty about missing my sweet sixteen, do you?" There was more than a little sarcasm in Dean's voice, and a flush of color rose in Sam's cheeks.
"I don't think Dad felt guilty about missing anything with us, ever," he replied tightly, but then Tall-and-Temperamental let all that steam flow right out of him, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. "But I'll tell you what, this year, let's do something to celebrate."
Dean stayed quiet for a minute, but I could see he was thinking about it, and kinda happy with the idea.
"Yeah?" he said finally.
"Yeah," his brother said back. "Maybe it's time for the Vegas run."
That brought the ghost of another grin to Dean's mouth, half-full of fries though it was.
"No surprise weddings?"
Sam snorted right out loud. "Not if I can help it."
"Sounds good, Sammy. I'd like that."
"All right, then." Sam gave a little smile back. "Vegas it is."
Their conversation got a lot softer after that, and even sitting in the sweet spot, I could only catch occasional words and phrases. I know I heard "angry" and "connected" and "teach them a lesson." "Dad" or "dead" or maybe both. "School spirit," I thought, which seemed like an odd topic for these two. Sometimes it seemed they were talking about themselves, and sometimes it seemed maybe they were talking about somebody here in town, although they were complete strangers to me.
Shoot, I'm Kentucky, O-K, born and bred, so a-course I expect to know ever'thing and ever'body with any reason to be here!
Right about then a gust of wind rattled that dang door, setting the bell a-jangling, and I'll admit it took me by surprise, so I gave out a tiny shriek.
Rogelio and both brothers looked at me with mixed degrees of alarm, and I promptly turned six shades of red, feeling the blood just flow into my face. I was twenty years younger, I'd have died of embarrassment, all eyes on me that way. Well, that's a flat-out lie—I always did appreciate attention from the fellas. So next I gave a little laugh and maybe patted the back of my hair just an itty bit.
"Don't know what's got me so bothered," I told them all. "Probably just anxious about the game."
Mr. Tall and Mr. Taller exchanged looks for about the ten thousandth time, and then Sam shifted some so he could see me better.
"The basketball game?" he asked, and I nodded. "Why's that?"
"Shoot. Seems like bad things happen when we play McFarland," I said. "'Specially in January and most 'specially when we lose."
"Things like what?" Dean might have been talking to me, but his eye was now on Sam's hand reaching reflexively across the table to help himself to one of those ol' French fries. Dean shook his head at himself, then pushed the plate a couple of inches closer to his brother.
"Mercy, I hardly know where to begin," I said. "Well, that's not true, because the whole thing started on January 24th, 1964. 'Cept we won the game that night, which mighta been why the first bad thing happened. Buncha Kentucky kids out drivin' around celebratin' our victory got in a car wreck, and Bridge Hanson, our team captain, got killed. Wasn't more than an hour after he'd been selected game MVP for bringin' home the Josiah H. Stevens Trophy, which was sittin' in the car beside him when the accident happened. It was a terrible tragedy."
I noticed Rogelio had turned the radio down when I started in on talking, like he didn't already know this story just as good as anybody who's been in town long enough to experience a single season of Kentucky Hillmen basketball. It had become legend, practically from the day it happened.
"Sounds like you know your local history pretty well," Sam commented, munching idly on his soggy fry. I clicked my tongue, swinging around to the dessert case unasked and pulling out two slabs of pie, one rhubarb and the other blueberry.
"I guess I ought to," I told him, maybe sounding a might more tart than I should have, "considerin' that trophy was right beside me that night, too. I was sittin' right there in the front seat with Bridge, who was my steady beau at the time. I woke up from a coma one week later with a broken nose, broken collarbone, broken wrist and a broken heart, once I learned what happened. But at least I woke up."
Now, Lord knows I've spent plenty of time thinking about what happened that night nearly fifty years ago—fifty!—and I've certainly told my story on more than one occasion since then, but it's safe to say all my wounds are healed. So I pshawed at those boys' startled faces and set the pie plates in front of 'em, Dean the rhubarb and Sam the blueberry.
Without one moment of hesitation, my second fella pushed his pie over toward his brother, who collected it smoothly without taking his eyes off me for even a heartbeat.
"So, after that, more bad things happened when Kentucky played McFarland?" Dean asked, cutting into his slab of rhubarb and forking in a big bite, sight unseen.
"Every time we played 'em in late January and lost," Rogelio chimed in from the kitchen. "The bigger the loss, the worse the catastrophe."
I nodded. "Folks say one week either side of the anniversary of the crash, that's the critical time."
"And you're playing McFarland tonight." That was Sam, and again I nodded.
"Which is why you boys are the only folks in here tonight—ever'body else is at the game."
"We just lost, 72 to 56," Rogelio said grimly, and I might have moaned a tiny bit.
"Oh, shoot," I said, in lieu of using stronger language unbefitting a lady. "That's bad."
"Anniversary of the game, McFarland wins, disaster happens in Kentucky," Dean summed up succinctly, taking another bite of pie. Blueberry this time, I noticed.
"You're going to think we're crazy, or superstitious, but it's common knowledge in these parts. More often than not, the game's scheduled earlier or later in the season, and there's always a good chance we'll win, a-course. But, four times in just the last twenty years, not countin' maybe tonight or tomorrow…."
"The bad things." That was Sam again, sounding very matter-of-fact, like he believed. Come to think of it, neither he nor his brother seemed very surprised or skeptical about our local legend. 'Course, they weren't very worried about it, either, not like me and Rogelio.
"Yes! The bad things!" Rogelio practically shouted, then began ticking 'em off on his fingers. "The school auditorium burns down. Pipes freeze and burst in the boys' locker room, destroying it. The town water tower collapses—" Dean caught Sam's eye at that one and twitched a brow—"and just two years ago, the assistant coach has a heart attack the morning after the game and dies. It's like a curse or something!"
I nodded vigorously this time. "That's what folks around here say—that the Mustangs cursed us that night that Bridge died, and now, every time they win, there's some big disaster like they're shovin' it in our faces."
This time it was Sam's brow that shot up, but his voice was soothing. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence," he said calmly. "Win or lose, you've probably got nothing to worry about."
"Any more," Dean muttered under his breath, and Sam and I both snapped our heads around to look at him.
"Coffee!" he added quickly, his eyes widening with innocence as he glanced across the table at his brother and then over at me. "I mean, any more coffee, Mayreen? I sure could use another cup."
I started to get the pot, but something made me stop. There was a whole different energy in the diner right sudden, and I knew for a fact that my fellas would be gone for good in just another minute or two.
Now, mostly I was feeling worried about the curse—not that I'm superstitious, mind you. Or paranoid. I just don't like to see people get hurt.
I also knew we were about to get real busy at the diner, when the Hillmen fans got back home.
But honestly, I was also feeling disappointed to see these ol' boys leave. So I stayed right where I was, not moving.
"Dean, it's getting late. We need to go," Sam said, sure enough. He grabbed his duffel bag and shifted around some so he could stand up.
"I'm sorry, boys, but there's no motel in town," I told them. "Closest one's over to Linden, about thirty miles south of here."
Dean shoveled in a few more bites of pie, finishing off both plates, then also rose. He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a few bills, which he tossed on the table. I could see he'd included a sizable tip, and if I'd been twenty years younger and a lot less concerned about us losing the game, I mighta blushed or preened a little or something.
"Yeah. We won't be staying," he said, taking one last gulp of coffee and maneuvering past me in the aisle as he and Sam headed for the door. Sam was moving a little slow because of the limp, and Dean grabbed the duffel from his hand.
"Gimme," he said, but Sam snatched it right back.
"Dean, your shoulder!"
My first fella rolled his eyes, turning directly to me. "Thanks a lot, Mayreen. Don't sweat losing the game tonight—anything bad happens, it won't be because of some curse or spirit or whatever."
"Spirit?" Rogelio asked from the kitchen, his eyes growing large at the new idea. "Like an evil spirit? I don't know anybody ever thought it might be an evil spirit!"
"Dean!" Sam said sharply at the same time. Then he gave an exasperated little huff, and it was his turn to roll his eyes, while Dean held up one hand in surrender.
"I don't know," he floundered, and it was actually kinda funny, although I should've been too anxious to think so. "Just, I wouldn't worry."
Sam pushed open the door, letting in a gust of freezing cold air. "Dean's right," he said, those hazel eyes of his all warm and sincere as he looked right at me. "You shouldn't worry."
He was using that soothing voice again, everything about him all compassionate and empathetic. So, darned if I didn't start believing both of those boys, despite a ton of evidence to the contrary of what they were telling me.
Like I said before, there was just something about 'em….
Sam kept talking, hoisting the duffel over one shoulder, then tucking his big hands into his jacket pockets.
"Any more bad things happen, they won't be because of a basketball game, Mayreen," he said. "Just trust us on that. Dean, come on."
His brother gave me one last wink.
"Trust us," he said, like it was an order, green eyes drilling into mine, and then they were gone.
In a minute, I heard the rumble of that big ol' Chevy engine and saw the headlights flick on just as Shelly arrived to help with the post-game rush, chattering nervously about what might happen now we'd lost.
Me? For some reason, I just wasn't concerned any longer. Not much, anyway. I'd been instructed not to be, and my instincts told me that what those ol' boys had said was true.
Now, maybe I shoulda stayed a teensy bit concerned, because even though there were no local disasters in the next few days, it turned out there'd been something of a small-town crime wave in Kentucky on Game Night.
That's right. When just about ever'body was over in McFarland to see some basketball being played.
The first crime was noticed the next day when Coach Carey went to deliver the Josiah H. Stevens Trophy back to the Mustangs, on account of us having lost the honor of keeping it for the next year. But the big ol' loving cup was somehow missing from the display case in the gymnasium where it and all our other awards and trophies are kept.
Funny thing was, every player on the team swore they'd seen it in its regular spot right before they loaded up the bus for the trip to McFarland. Now it's just gone, and nobody knows where it went. Nor when nor how it got taken, either—there was absolutely no sign of a break-in, and Deputy Johnson was right there on duty all during the game.
So what happened to the trophy? It's a mystery, for certain.
Seems like the second crime was also committed on Game Night, although Bill Sweeney, the cemetery caretaker, admits he can't be a hundred percent certain of the timing. Anyway, when he went out to cut the grass the morning after, he found the ground around Bridge Hanson's grave disturbed, like somebody'd been digging in it. Soil was all put back in its place, and the headstone hadn't been bothered, but it was still a little creepy, 'specially given the anniversary and all. Probably kids that done it, but Sheriff Varga said it didn't seem like there was anything to investigate. Shoot, I don't know how he could tell without digging up poor ol' Bridge, but nobody wants that. Best to just let it go, I guess.
Finally—and this crime has no connection to high school basketball whatsoever, except for the when of it—day of the McFarland game, sometime in the afternoon or evening, a car got stolen from a bar parking lot down in Linden. Leastways, that was the last time the owner remembered seeing it. It took a few days for the police report to make its way thirty miles up the road to Kentucky, but then it wasn't much longer before our vigilant law officers found the car, abandoned and unharmed, right down the street from the diner. No fingerprints on it, a-course, so it doesn't look like the thief'll ever be caught.
Still, nothing burned, and nothing collapsed. Nobody died. It wasn't anything like what we expected, after having lost to the Mustangs—shoot, it was almost business as usual. Town had a few nervous days, sure, but then folks moved on to the next big thing on the civic agenda: the annual Bake Sale and Chili Cook-off. After all, Valentine's Day was just a few weeks away.
When the news about that ol' stolen car reached the diner, Rogelio scratched his head and squinted one eye.
"Hey, Mayreen," he said. "You remember those two guys were in here on Game Night?"
"Two guys?" I replied, turning away to wipe down the counter for probably the twentieth time that shift and the billionth time in my life. "What about 'em?"
"They were in here on Game Night," he told me, emphasizing the last two words.
"So you said."
"You called Greek relish on the first one, remember? And then the other one came in. I was just thinking, what with everything that happened that night—"
I stopped him right there. "Rogelio, honey, you know perfectly well that I have never been one lick of good at math."
"Math? I'm not talking about math." He sounded more than a little confused, so it's likely I smiled just the teensiest bit.
"Good," I told him archly, "because I'm not interested in talkin' about it either. Besides, here comes ol' Pete, so you'd best get to work on his eggs and grits. Go on, now. Shake a leg before that bony ol' fella keels right over from hunger."
Rogelio turned to his grill, shaking his head. Pete sat down at Booth Two just like always, and after a few minutes I pretended to write down his order. Just like always.
Somehow the subject of Sam and Dean never came up again.
That doesn't mean I don't think about 'em, of course. Sometimes I think about how handsome they'd look, cleaned up some. Other times I think about where they might have got to, or are they still together, like brothers ought to be—I guess my gut knows the answer to that. But mostly I think about how, since they were here, Game Night between the Fighting Hillmen of Kentucky, Oklahoma and the McFarland Mustangs has become just a game, with no dire consequences waiting to happen should our team lose.
I may not be very good at math, but I'm a waitress. I can add.
One: Sam's comment that there was no more cup.
Two: The mud on Dean's clothes.
Three: The fact they arrived separate, but left together in that big ol' beautiful Chevrolet.
Four: Their whispered conversation about school spirit, or maybe a school spirit…
Five—well, on reflection, I've realized there were a lot of things said or done that night that could be added into the equation. Basically, though, it all boiled down to one plus one, and I've always known that answer.
Sam plus Dean, as simple as that.
Shoot, I'll bet those two are the answer to a whole lot of things, and I'm grateful they were ours.
I may never understand ever'thing that happened on Game Night, January 18, 2013. Still, I know that we owe those boys some thanks for what they did. So I hope they come through here again someday.
Next time, the coffee will be on me.
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Thanks for reading! Comments are welcome.