Sam and Dean Winchester walted their way carelessly into the first diner in this town that they could find, one of which they hadn't gotten the name of. They were so famished, the place could have been serving human meat and they wouldn't have known the difference. Their newest addition to their little party, a small blonde girl who looked too sweet to be associated with men of their likes, Lola, trailed behind them. Her pale blonde locks were brushed back neatly into a low bun, and she had her overcoat wrapped tightly around herself to protect her skin from the biting cold October winds. It genuinely baffled her as to how those boys didn't bat an eyelash at the weather. But maybe this was just another example of how delicate she was compared to them. It would have agitated her, but honestly, she was simply too exhausted to care.

Sam and Dean claimed a booth toward the back, seated across from each other. She decided to take the spot next to Sam, as sometimes Dean had a habit of letting certain things slip out without much consideration for the poor man or woman right next to him. Things that, to put it lightly, didn't smell like flowers and sunshine. Plus, she had a rather soft spot for Sam, anyway. Not that she liked Dean any less, it was just that, well, he'd become a bit more of a father figure, what with him often being the more sensible of the two anyway. And even when he didn't realize it, his paternal instincts often kicked in around her despite having no children of his own. He couldn't help being a little protective over Lola.

The only thing that kind of spoiled it for the two was Dean's often incessant teasing about how they should just hook up already, since she practically leeches herself onto him every chance she got, or at least that's what he said. Rest assured, if there was anything romantic between the two, they certainly wouldn't be posing as father and daughter during hunts when the occasion called for such a sham.

Lola got herself situated, rubbing her arms for warmth and such and all the while, she listened, amused, at the boy's back and forth banter.

"Look I'm telling you, the proof is in every grammy they've ever won! All the praise they've gotten over the years, Meg White is a good drummer!" Sam argued while Dean basically rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, in a room full of first graders she is. Even that's questionable, Sammy, let's face the facts. A ten year old could easily out-drum her with about five minutes of practice beforehand."

"Ten year olds usually aren't in first grade."

"Irrelevant," Dean quickly brushed that comment aside. "Point is, her drumming was subpar at best and the only reason she ever saw any success was because of Jack's actual musical ability and his inventive creativity. I swear, the guy's gonna have an entire gold statue of himself inducted into the rock and roll hall of fame one day."

"I'm not disagreeing with you on that, I know the he's a brilliant man, I'm not arguing otherwise. I'm saying Meg White was also a brilliant woman."

"Hardly!"

"Do you know any other drummer out there who played with such raw and primitive power? Who plays with such simplistic beats that still somehow add so much to the music without making it seem lazy and uncreative?"

"Raw, primitive, call it whatever you want. But at the end of the day, if it wasn't for Jack, their music would've gone down the shitter within the first week of their debut dropping."

"I'm pretty sure The White Stripes wouldn't have been nearly as great if Meg's drumming was the same as say, Lars Ulrich."

"Well no shit it wouldn't have been! Lars Ulrich is a metal drummer! White Stripes were a blues rock duo, god, that's like comparing Green Day to The Rolling Stones! How asinine could you possibly get?" Dean asked rhetorically, seeming to be genuinely offended by that comparison.

"Okay first of all, they were not just a blues rock duo, and second, you're overthinking what I just said! My point was that had her drumming style been any different or any more advanced than it was, that band wouldn't have made it as far as they did."

"Yeah well if she's as brilliant as you say then how come she hasn't made any contribution to the community since the break up, huh?" Dean tested. Sam had gotten a bit riled up by that challenge and was clearly more than ready to rip his brother a new one. But before he could get any louder than they already were, Lola sighed and stepped in as the mediator, as she usually did.

"Can we all just agree that no matter if you think Meg was good or not, the band will still always be cherished for their originality and creativity?"

"You mean for Jack's originality and creativity?"

"Dean."

"What!?"

"Good afternoon boys, and madmoiselle, my name is Debbie and I'll be your server today. Could I start you fellas off with some drinks?"

A perky waitress in a blue pin striped uniform had come bouncing up to their table with a close eyed smile and flaming red hair. She was probably ignoring their argument entirely, and Lola wished she had the ability to do such a thing when she was stuck in the same car as them for hours upon hours at a time. If only she had something to block their bickering whenever her amusement from it faded into just raw irritation.

Dean was of course the first one to speak up.

"I'll take a Bud Light, if you would." He flashed the waitress his most charming of smiles, but had virtually no effect on her much to his disappointment. Why he always felt the need to hit on almost every woman they crossed paths with everywhere they went, neither Sam nor Lola would ever understand. But, whatever floats his boat they supposed.

"I'll also have a Bud Light, if you wouldn't mind. And-" Sam placed a gentle hand upon Lola's shoulder. "-she'll have a black coffee."

Lola smiled to herself as she'd only known the boys for a few months and already it almost felt as if she'd known them for her entire life. Yes, this was such a minute little moment in time in which Sam had demonstrated in such an insignificant way how well he knew her. But she couldn't help but feel warm inside anyway.

"Alright, I'll have those right out for you folks!" And with that, the waitress spun around to go take other orders and such. Sam caught Dean's eye lingering for just a tad bit too long, and he would have scolded him for at, but at least he was being discreet this time.

Lola gave both the boys a playfully stern grin, like she was waiting for their previous argument to be revived. Instead of hopping right back into it, however, it seemed they were both challenging each other, waiting for their opponent to make some kind of snide comment under his breath that would give them an excuse to reignite their verbal combat.

"Are we...done?" She tested. The boys exchanged flippant looks before Sam held his hand out for him to shake.

"Truce."

Dean eyed it for a long moment, the corners of his lips pulled up just slightly. He then held his own hand out in front of him, reeled his head back and made a scraggly, gurgling sound in the back of his throat. Sam didn't have a lot of time to comprehend it before he'd hacked a wad of spittle onto his hand and gripped Sam's with a solid grasp. Had Sam realized this was what he was going to do, he would have pulled away a lot sooner.

Sam's mouth contorted into a horrified 'o' shape, eyes bulging. "What...the hell!? Is wrong with you? Oh gross!" He lunged across the booth and wiped his palm against his brother's shoulder. Dean only snickered like a devious child, both of them regressing back into constantly bickering children for a hot second. Lola almost felt like their tired mother always trying to quell their often juvenile arguments.

"What, you never did spit-handshakes as a kid?"

"No! Dean, that's so vile! Such an easy way to catch diseases, dear god." He continued to wipe his palm with a napkin from the stack right next to him. "But why am I so surprised? If it has to do with saliva, you're all in."

"Not all the time, but, y'know, we all love a good spit roast every once in a while."

"Dean!" Lola slammed an ivory hand on the table. "Not at the table!"

"What is so gross about a spit roast?" Sam looked at her with furrowed eyebrows. "If anything, that's more relevant to the situation than anything else he's said. God, I never thought I'd be defending anything you say."

"No," she shook her head rapidly. "No, it's not."

"Wha-how is-"

"Urban Dictionary it, I'm not saying shit."

"And how do you know what a spit roast is, huh Blondie?" Dean smirked. "Not as sweet and innocent as we all thought."

"You shut up."

"I'm not sure I wanna know what it is, now." Sam piped in. Lola rubbed her temple in annoyance and embarrassment.

"Can we please not talk about spit roasting anymore? One more word out of you and I swear to god, I'm booking it all the way back to Detroit." Lola threatened. Dean raised his hands in mock defeat, although that mischievous little smirk never left his lips. Sam and Lola did their best to ignore it.

The topic of conversation had smoothly transitioned into something a little less sexually grotesque when Lola caught sight of the redhead waitress coming their way in her peripheral. Her strut was confident and bold, hips swaying with each step as she neared, and for a moment, Lola paused and found herself staring as she often did with females more often than males, which often spurned some teasing from Dean, asking if she was questioning in a ribbing fashion. For but a moment, the waitress was an audacious damsel in a picturesque fantasy as she stared with an unreadable face. But the fantasy was quickly stripped of its shimmery filter when a man, no, a boy ran up to the waitress from behind. With dark hair sticking up in random, sloppy directions, he brandished a gritty steak knife, lifting it high above his head and more than ready to bring it down upon the poor, unsuspecting woman. Since Sam was sort of stuck against the wall inside the booth, it was Dean and Lola who shot up from their seats. Sam followed close behind.

"HEY!" Dean shouted as Lola dove for the waitress, wrapping a petite yet strong arm around her waist and yanking her out of harm's way. The beverages she'd meant to deliver had of course, gone crashing down and spilled all over their shoes; the waitress's white sneakers and Lola's black combat boots.

While Lola held the poor woman close, Dean was quick to snatch the boy's paled wrist, pull him in and force him to spin around so his back was held hostage against Dean's concrete chest. The boy tried stabbing Dean in a fit of fury, but when Dean held his arm, firm, he'd resorted to kicking and screaming.

"Hey, HEY! Calm yourself!" He'd ordered, but the kid in his grasp was practically frothing at the mouth and his shouts and curses were deafening to all ears, including his own. The waitress cowered against Lola, too surprised to realize she was clinging on to a little blonde woman even short than she as if she were a well muscled man.

"What is wrong with him?" The woman asked, fear evident in her tone. Lola shrugged, shaking her head back and forth while the boys struggled to get the boy to calm down.

"Someone call the cops!" another patron had ordered, and about five others were already pulling out their phones and placing them up against their ear. The boy in Dean's arms wasn't calming down in the slightest, in fact, as the seconds ticked by he only seemed to get more violent. Dean was starting to have a hard time in keeping his attacks at bay. When Sam approached to try and intervene, lessen his brother's load, he was promptly met with a heavy boot to the groin, causing the man's face to pucker up; lips contorting into the likes of an undulating rectum. His groan sounded like air squealing out of a balloon as he slowly sank down to the floor.

"Okay," Lola had finally had enough. She left the waitress's side, grabbed the nearest coffee mug from a booth, which was still being used when it was taken, and approached. The guy who'd she'd taken the mug from was too distracted with the scene before him to give a damn about his stolen drink. He simply watched as Lola carelessly dumped the contents out onto the floor and walked in front of the writhing boy. Without giving it much thought, she slammed the mug down against his head. Thick chunks of white ceramic pieces rained down from his head, and a spot on his head that had taken the brunt of the blow was already beginning to seep with blood. Although the boy had slumped over, going limp in Dean's arms.

She dropped the disembodied handle onto the floor and sighed.

"Everywhere we go. I swear, it's like the havoc is in love with us."