DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own the characters. They belong to Kripke and CW.

A/N: Thanks for stopping by to read this. Things are about to get wibbly wobbly. Thank you wonderful anon Spotz for your review. It was relieving to find out this wasn't a total floozy. ILY! ;) Enjoy!


The bell above the door gave a little jingle, but there was no immediate greeting. There were only two other patrons, both sitting on opposite sides of the cramped diner, wearing their respective trucker caps and plaid lumberjack shirts. Neither of them faces the entrance way, and Dean was almost relieved that he didn't have to meet their hardened gazes.

Sam lead them to the second to last booth, here the red leather seats had the least amount of rips and foam on display.

Dean slid into the booth with an "oomph", as the impact sent dust flying into the air, from the unused seat cushion.

Dean gave Sam a raised eyebrow, "Quality."

Voices arose from the kitchen, and Dean winced as a deep voice said sharply, "Darla! Git that beyfurr we lose aynother custymer!"

"Shut your trap, Pappy! I'm goin' as fast as I can!" a shrill voice replied, smacking what could only be gobs of gum, in-between each spoken clause.

Darla pushed her way into the diner-front with a frown, chewing her gum with a wide open mouth, and then began to make her way over to the boys. She attempted to put on her charm, squishing together her lopsided breasts, which practically spilled out of her low-cut white waitress-shirt, as she saddled up to their booth.

"Hi y'all…" she said in her shrill drawl, drawing out the pops of her gum so she could show off her tongue. She batted her lashes, and ran her left hand down the seam of her shirt, down her stomach, into the apple-red pocket of her mini-apron. She pulled out a small note-pad and a sparkly blue gel pen, all the while never losing eye contact with Sam.

Dean cleared his throat, but she didn't stop. In fact, she became even more overt, leaning over to flick some "lint" off of Sam's jacket.

Dean hated her already. She was a dirty tramp, probably carrying more diseases than the dirty diner and its customer's combined.

"Sorry Darlin'," pop, "is there any-" pop, "thing I can get y'all?" she said, still smacking her gum, propping a fist on her right hip.

"Sure thing, Darling," Dean said with a sugar sweet voice, "I was wondering if you have any sausages; preferably the really meaty kind - with sauce, lots of sauce."

Sam was staring at him oddly, but Dean paid him no mind.

The waitress sent Dean a glare, but wrote it down anyways, "And as for you, Sugar?"

"Uhm, do you have any chicken salads?" Sam asked, politely avoiding her cleavage.

"Anything for you," she said leering at his chest, "will that be all?"

"Yes-" Sam said, but Dean spoke over him.

"Actually, I think I'll have some red hot jalapenos with my sausage… and maybe some… sliced cucumber."

The waitress smacked her gum in annoyance, and Dean smirked.

"Never mind, I'll just get a juicy burger."

Darla's face turned sour, her nostrils flaring, as she smashed the gum between her scraggly teeth and scratched out Dean's previous order. She gave Sam a wink and turned on her heel, but Dean's voice stopped her from taking any steps.

"And Darling? You have something, right here." He mimed wiping his entire face. She actually didn't have anything, but he really didn't like her. At first she looked shocked, but then she caught on to his game and frowned. With a frustrated grunt, she stomped off into the back room, where her gum popping could be heard loud and clear through the walls, like the incessant moaning of a bothersome spirit.

Sam was giving Dean a look, one of those why-are-you-such-a-jerk-stop-embarrassing-me-in-public looks that Dean prided himself on receiving.

"I'm just doing my daily good deed, Sammy. Letting the thick-headed bimbos know their place."

Sam didn't look pacified, in fact, he looked rather constipated.

"What, come on Sammy, it's not like you appreciated her advances, anyway!" the upper left corner of Dean's mouth quirked up, but it fell flat when Sam still didn't respond.

"Sammy, I'm just joking. No harm done!"

"She's a human being Dean. Just because she might not be the brightest creature to grace this Earth, it doesn't give you the divine right to ridicule her!" Sam seethed, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull.

"Okay, I'm sorry." Dean held his hands up in defeat, not wanting to get into an argument over a dumb bimbo. He'd learned a long time ago that it was better to pretend to go along with Sam, rather than to outwardly oppose him. It always led to them splitting up, and Dean hated that more than anything. They had been separated more than enough, in his opinion. Nothing was gained from their diverging travels.

While they waited for their low-class high-calorie meals, they discussed their usual agenda – any odd occurrences nearby or any new jobs – and it wasn't long before their food was being placed in front of them by a peeved Darla.

She let Dean's burger drop gracelessly onto the table, while she gave Sam the special treatment, leaning over to place everything right in front of him, accidentally knocking over the salad dressing into his lap in the process.

"Oh my, I'm so sorry!" she smiled, "Here, let me get that!" Darla reached into the depths of her red pockets again, and pulled out a wet washcloth, and proceeded to fondle Sam's crotch. Sam tried to push her off, but she was relentless.

Dean crossed his arms, not even slightly amused by her hapless antics. In fact, he was rather annoyed. Women were pitiful sometimes, tripping over themselves for a hot piece of ass.

After some more struggling, Sam managed to push her away, and she sauntered back into the kitchen area like a satisfied cat.

They finished up their food fast, with an awkward silence hanging between them. Dean dropped a twenty on the table and left before the waitress could come out and sexually harass Sam again.

Dean was getting ready to climb in the driver's side, but Sammy and his monster legs got in his way. He handed over the keys without saying anything, and went over to the passenger side and got in.

The stereo crooned out the sweet twangs of Blue Oyster Cult and Dean dozed in and out of consciousness. Just as the sun began to descend, the Impala dinged angrily at its passengers. Dean sat upright immediately, "What's wrong?"

"The oil signal is flashing – shit; we're almost out of gas."

"What." Dean said; it wasn't a question, "I filled up the tank five hours ago. It can't already be empty! Damnit!"

The headlights rolled over a small green sign, announcing an exit in half a mile.

Dean slammed his open palms upon the Impalas' dashboard and cursed, "I knew we shouldn't have stopped at that dingy diner!"

Sam turned at the exit, just as the sun fell below the horizon. Great. They were stuck in the middle of bumbfuck Nebraska, on an empty tank of gas. Life sure liked to mess with the Winchesters.

For a small town in the middle of nowhere, the only hotel was abnormally packed. Sam had to park the Impala in an adjacent parking lot, and when they entered the white building, there were large posters on all of the walls.

"Welcome!" a dainty voice said from behind the cream counter, "I see you're here for the Supernatural convention!"


TBC... it might get a little bit inaprope next chapter, but nothing explicit. ;)