Y/N

"Y/N, can you cover for me?" My co-worker, Hadley, gestured to table three. Four little old ladies sat there, knitting and chatting in loud voices.

I sighed, cleaning up the rest of the milkshake my other lazy co-worker, Josh, had spilled. "Sure."

Hadley beamed at me, already lighting up a cigarette even though she wasn't outside yet. "You're the best."

"That's me," I muttered to myself. "Human doormat."

I raced around the diner by myself, taking orders, bringing drinks, repeating the specials half a dozen times to a forgetful old man who could barely hear me. By the time it hit one o'clock, my bun was falling out and strands of hair hung around my face. Smudges of chocolate and mustard decorated my cheeks. The tips of my fingers were covered in pen marks.

The bell on the door jangled, barely heard over the hustle and bustle of the lunch rush, and two men in their twenties slid into a nearby booth.

"Hadley?" I called into the kitchen, but she didn't answer. Her smoke break had lasted an hour and a half at this point, and I wasn't planning on her coming back until a few minutes before her shift was over. How she hadn't been fired by now was beyond me.

I made an annoyed huffing noise and grabbed my pad of paper.

"Welcome to Lucy's Diner," I said to the men in as chipper of a voice as I could manage. I relied on my tip money. It was the only way I could afford the rent. "Can I get y'all something to drink?"

The older of the two, a tall man with messy sandy-colored hair and bright green eyes, looked me up and down, smirking a little, though not unkindly. "Busy day?"

I rolled my eyes. "You have no idea."

"I'll just have a coffee," the other man said. His knees touched the bottom of the table, he was so tall. His hair was thick and long, the color of chocolate. He had a kind face, the sort of face you automatically trusted.

"Okay," I said, scribbling a note on my pad. "And for you?"

The scruffier man with the green eyes rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "I'll have the double bacon cheeseburger, side of fries, vanilla milkshake, and apple pie."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Dessert already?"

"Yeah," he said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. "You can bring it all out at once, too. If it makes it easier."

"What would make it easier is if I had co-workers who weren't idiots."

The man with the long hair chuckled. "I get where you're coming from."

"You have co-workers that goof off, too?" I asked.

He gestured to the scruffy man. "Yeah, Dean here can, uh, get distracted pretty easily."

"But I do step up when I need to," Dean argued. "You'd think it'd be the other way around, me being the older brother. But Sam's always been the responsible one."

"So what do you two do?" I asked conversationally.

Sam said, "FBI" just as Dean said, "Pest control."

"Sorry," I said, sensing some tension between the brothers. Sam glared at Dean, who cleared his throat and stared at a couple sticky spots on the table. "Didn't mean to pry. I'll be back with your food."

Dean muttered a, "Yeah, thanks." I thought I heard the two of them arguing in hushed tones as soon as I'd walked away.

I delivered their food as soon as it was ready, saying nothing except for, "Enjoy." They said nothing back. I tried to keep up with all the tables on my own, wondering if maybe I could persuade my boss for a slight raise next time I her.

I was wiping down the counters at the bar when someone slid into the stool across from me. I blinked up at Dean.

He grinned, green eyes wrinkling at the corners. He radiated pure sunshine. "Hey."

"Hi," I said cautiously. "Did I get your order wrong?"

"No, no," he said quickly. "The pie was delicious, by the way. Homemade?"

"Pre-made freezer packaging," I said dryly. "I guess you don't have very high standards when it comes to pie."

He looked sincerely offended. "Pie isn't a food, it's a lifestyle. Believe me, I have high standards."

"So what is it?" I set the soapy rag aside and leaned across the counter, propping my chin up on my hands. "Come to interrogate me? Or ask about our roach problem?"

Dean cleared his throat again and folded his hands together on top of the counter. He smiled, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes. "About that—"

"It's really okay," I insisted. "It's none of my business."

"No, it's fine. Here's the thing, we're not FBI or pest control. We're kind of private investigators. We just didn't want to blow our cover back there, with people listening in."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh. Makes sense, I guess. Is this investigation anything I should know about? You don't have to give me specifics; I'd just like to know if I'm—safe. If I should worry."

"Well, I'd recommend locking your doors at night, but other than that, you should be good." He met my eyes, and his face softened. "Sammy and I'll take care of it."

"Can I help in any way? I might be able to give you information about whatever it is you're doing."

"Maybe."

He turned to look over his shoulder, green eyes dancing as he scanned the room for anyone who might be listening in. When he turned back to me, our faces were inches apart.

"What do you know about Herman Glass?"

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. "Not much. He lived just down the street from me, but he was kind of a hermit. Didn't he commit suicide a few days ago?"

It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when he was looking at me. All I could think was how a person shouldn't be able to have eyes that green. It wasn't fair.

"That's what the police think," he said, tilting his head a little and pressing his lips together into a thin line, like he was preventing himself from saying anything more. "But the police are often wrong about this stuff."

"Oh, and you know better?" I taunted him, screwing up my face so I was wearing an expression of doubt.

Dean blinked at me and smirked. "As a matter of fact, I do. Why, you don't believe me?"

I shrugged and grabbed the soapy rag so I'd have something to do with my hands. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about the mustard and chocolate spots on my face. "Just a little suspicious, I guess. I've never met a PI before, and you sure don't look like the ones on TV, so . . ."

"Oh, so just 'cause we don't like TV stars you think we're not the real deal?" He sounded offended, but it was a teasing tone of voice. He crossed his arms, raised a single eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement.

I dropped the rag onto the counter from a few inches up so it landed with a splat. I mimicked his defensive stance. "I don't know. Can you prove that you're the real deal?"

"Would you like me to get my business cards from the car?"

"Business cards prove nothing," I pointed out. "A fifteen-year-old could become a private investigator if that's all it took."

"Fine." Dean threw his hands up in the air as if he surrendered. "How about I show you a little action later tonight, hmm? Sam and I are going by the police station sometime this evening to ask a few questions. Do you want to come along?"

I pretended to study him carefully, mulling his offer over, though inside I was yelling, yes, yes, yes!

"All right," I finally said. "My shift ends at six. You can pick me up at my house at seven."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Seven it is."

I scribbled my address on a napkin and slid it across the counter for him. "You'd better show up. Or else I'll be forced to believe you were never real to begin with."

"Me? Stand you up?" Dean made a pfft noise. "I'd have to be stupid to do that."

I tried to let my hair hide my face, which was burning hot, and pretended to continue to clean an already spotless counter. I felt his smile on me for a long time before he hopped off his stool and returned to the booth with Sam. When I chanced a glance up, I saw that they were whisper-fighting again, this time with wild gestures and glances my way. Either Sam didn't approve of Dean blowing their cover by inviting me along, or there was something else going on that I didn't know about.