I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

It's a rare night when there's a fight in my bar. I try to run a quiet joint and most days I succeed because I have good regulars who know I don't really have the money or the traffic to justify a bouncer.

So when one of my best regulars, one Captain Jim Kirk, rattles into my bar like an out of control shopping cart with a squeaky wheel just spoiling for a fight, I figure there's something seriously wrong.

I waved off everyone else, who was quite happy to keep their heads down and let me handle it. Don't get me wrong, my regulars would step up if I was in real trouble. But Jim Kirk's not real trouble (to me anyway) and most of my regulars are older, past their prime. Getting into a bar brawl with a scrappy front-line Starfleet captain isn't high on their to-do list (bucket list, maybe).

Already drunk, Kirk weaved against the bar. I silently set down a big tumbler of whiskey and watched in concern as he tossed it back immediately and without pausing. Jim Kirk was a hell-raiser, not an alcoholic and this wasn't normal. As was becoming the norm whenever a morose Enterprise or Impala crew member wandered in, I checked my memory for any news of said ships meeting up with doom, gloom or disaster.

I came up zilch. Which was good, really, but it also meant dragging answers out of Kirk, who could and would clam up tighter than little old Mrs. Reno across the street, who'd lived through WWIII and hoarded credits, food and information like WWIV was arriving tomorrow.

And he was already half-slumped over, mostly plastered and glaring at Tom, who was doing his level best to ignore Kirk. I rolled my lips together in consternation and made an executive decision.

I picked up my old-fashioned phone and called Spock.

"Spock."

"Hi Spock, it's Amanda. Have you lost someone?"

"You are referring to the captain." There was a barely tangible thread of hope in his voice.

"Yep." I eyed a lolling Kirk carefully. "Can I ask what's going on?"

There was muttering in the background and the sharp squawk of someone yelping. Dr. McCoy, probably.

"I believe Captain Kirk had an unfortunate encounter with a certain member of his immediate family. We had just been made aware that the meeting had gone poorly and began looking for Captain Kirk when you called. If you would keep Captain Kirk with you, I will arrive within 8.6 minutes."

"Gotcha."

Spock hung up with a sharp click and I turned to find a bright blue glare pinning me in place.

"You called Spock."

I quietly poured him another glass. "I did."

He seemed caught between making a run for the door, throwing the whiskey at me or just slugging it back.

When I refused to cower under his scowl, he inhaled the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar like a challenge.

"Is this the part where I tell you my sob story?" he demanded.

"I don't know," I replied calmly, putting the cap back on the whiskey bottle and handing him a beer instead.

"If we were in a movie, it would be." Kirk clenched his fists and stared unseeingly at the wood grain under his whiskey glass. Definitely not ready to talk to anyone about it, let alone a bartender.

"We aren't in a movie and you're definitely not a movie star."

"Should I be insulted?" he asked with a humourless smile.

I shrugged and started washing glasses.

"I'm not talking to you or anybody else."

I hummed in agreement.

"Stop agreeing with me."

I swallowed an inappropriate grin. "Okay."

Kirk glared at me again but the set of his shoulders loosened just that little bit. "What did I just say?"

The door to the bar swung open and I didn't have to look in Spock's direction, setting on the kettle for his favourite Vulcan tea (if I didn't look, I could avoid his attempts to pay me for the tea. Stubborn Vulcan knew how much the real stuff cost me these days).

"Spock's here, isn't he?" Kirk asked inanely.

"Who else comes to a bar to drink tea?" I replied, keeping my amusement gentle.

Spock sat down, nodding hello.

Two minutes later, the width of the bar had grown enormously. It seemed a thousand miles wide as the captain and first officer sat silently shoulder to shoulder, a few centimetres apart on their bar stools.

I set the pot of tea down and included two handle-less ceramic cups even though the chances of Kirk actually drinking the potent and spicy stuff were about as good as him dressing in drag and dancing the hula. Spock gave me another nod and then I made myself scarce despite the curiosity practically roiling under my skin.

Spock sipped his tea.

Kirk nursed his beer.

I refilled as necessary.

Rinse, repeat. Just like that, for the better part of two hours.

Finally I heard the low mutter of Kirk's voice and noted the incline of Spock's head. Things were starting to look up and I was feeling hopeful when the door to the bar slid open, clearly under the wavering influence of someone very, very inebriated. The newcomer was an older man and happily plopped down to souse himself in lousy, cheap booze. I was busy making sure he didn't drown in his alcohol, so I missed the door opening yet again.

All I heard was the thunderous roar of Jim Kirk and the crack of fist on bone.

A burly, beer-bellied man was laid out flat on his back, holding his jaw like it was made of glass as Jim Kirk loomed over him like Atlas himself.

To my surprise, instead of immediately holding his captain back, Spock sat still on the chair, coiled up like a pissed rattler and I thought "Shit, I'm going to be scrubbing blood out of the floor if they don't get arrested for murder and my bar turns into a crime scene."

It seemed like a good time to start praying for a miracle, so I did.

I got my miracle – the door to the bar opened again and thank God in heaven above (no sarcasm involved), the Winchester brothers filled the doorway.

"What the?" Dean began as the guy Kirk hit scuttled backwards on the floor. "Jim?" he asked in a careful "Do I need to kill someone?" tone of voice.

"Hey Dean," Kirk replied distractedly. I stared pleadingly at Sam who smiled reassuringly and inserted himself into the picture with his hands held up and his usual harmless air.

"So what's going on here?" Sam asked quietly, injecting just a little more normalcy into a charged situation.

"Everyone, meet Frank. Frank, meet everyone," Kirk said sarcastically, poison oozing from every syllable. Spock still hadn't relaxed and the man on the floor stayed there, showing a surprising amount of sense for someone who had voluntarily pissed off Jim Kirk. Whatever this guy had done to Kirk, it was big and I was pretty sure that if I knew what he'd done, the phaser under the bar might be making an appearance.

"Hi Frank. What are we going to do with Frank?" Dean asked pleasantly, shuffling into a loose, ready stance, prepared for anything (just not in my bar, please!).

Kirk was still simmering and for a moment I was afraid I might need that phaser set on stun for a friend instead of the jackass on the floor. "Nothing. Throw him out."

"Gladly," Sam volunteered and collared Frank like he was a nasty bit of slime fished out of the gutter. It was the work of a minute for Sam to pitch Frank out the door like a sack of potatoes and return, dusting his hands off with relish. By then I had everyone's drinks laid out and was busy but not busy with dishes again, this time standing close enough to eavesdrop. I wanted to know if I needed to keep the phaser ready should Frank return.

"So?" Dean asked quietly.

Kirk shrugged.

The Winchesters waited, Sam more patiently than Dean, who played with my little menu folders like they were Matchbox cars.

"My mom married that asshole when I was four." Kirk's voice was low and hurt.

Sam's face took on that painfully understanding cast and Dean's menu-cars screeched to a halt. Spock twitched, actually twitched in his seat and I felt a sudden compulsive need to check my phaser. On Frank, preferably. No one gets to make my friend sound that depressed without repercussions.

"Shit," Dean sighed, breaking the tension and I slid more drinks down the bar.

"Amen," Kirk half-laughed and it was a broken sound.

That was when I decided potato wedges were in order and brought out four big bowls, having used up all the potatoes in my kitchen to make enough for everyone. Spock stared at the concoction like it was some sort of alien life form and quickly passed the wedge boat down the bar. I wrinkled my nose at him in an amused scowl, silently daring him to try just one.

Three curious heads swivelled to watch as Spock carefully snagged the bowl and dragged it back in front of him, picking out a middling-sized wedge with finicky finesse. I had to swallow a giggle as the three other friends stared fixedly while Spock sampled the wedge, chewing with thorough, bland movements.

I knew what the result would be. No one had ever managed to scorn my gramma's wedges after tasting them. But without the inside scoop, it must be torturous to watch Spock decide if he was going to keep the potatoes or hand them over to the two bottomless pits pretending to be captains.

"Hey Spock, you don't have to eat those. Dean and I can handle it for you, you know," Kirk volunteered when Spock gazed contemplatively at the rest of the wedges.

To my immense satisfaction and amusement, Spock's hand clamped down firmly on the fingers inching towards his potato wedges. "That will not be necessary, Jim." Kirk's fingers wiggled just a little bit more under the steely grip. Spock clearly wasn't cutting off circulation or anything but Kirk sure as hell wasn't getting anywhere near those wedges.

"You sure, Spock?"

"I am, as you say, positive."

There was a muttered "damn," before Kirk turned back to his own food as Dean tried to pull a fast one on Sam's food, resulting in brotherly bickering and I refilled everyone's drinks.

By the time the wedges vanished, the four Starfleet officers were busy hashing out the details of some failed mission over in the Gamma quadrant where some idiot captain had danced too close to a black hole in an attempt to shave a few more hours off his courier route and had to pull a repeat Enterprise by ditching the warp cores. Of course, the captain was in considerably more trouble than Enterprise had been. After all, he hadn't saved Earth in the process of losing said warp cores.

Why yes, I'm rather proud of my two favourite Starfleet ships. Sue me.

Anyway, things were starting to look up. Kirk and Spock said good night shortly after that, as they were taking off for the Delta quadrant tomorrow afternoon and the Winchesters were tossing back their last beers when I spotted Frank through the darkened bar window.

Evidently my displeasure showed on my face because Dean spun around on his bar stool and scowled. "Jackass. Wonder why he's still lurking around here?"

"Don't know but he's not welcome in my bar," I said darkly, strangling the pestle I used to crush mint.

Sam loosened up as soon as he saw my white knuckled grip. "Easy girl, down," he chuckled and I set the pestle down, reaching under the bar for the phaser. "Seriously," Sam reiterated in a reassuringly strong manner, "we got this."

I took a deep breath and admitted to myself that Dean and Sam were more than capable of laying a beat down on this douche. I'd relegate myself to the body-hiding detail. Maybe poke him a few times with a really pointy stick in the process.

And Frank didn't come into the bar. Maybe he felt the evil intent seeping out from under the door.

"Still doesn't explain why the hell he came to 'Frisco," Dean muttered, clearly thinking along the same lines as Sam and I. "Kirk's not telling us the whole story. Again."

Again? What again?

The worst part about this whole thing with these two crews, I decided, was that as the bartender I didn't have any right to pry further even if I did have the best of intentions. So I bit my tongue and eyed the windows and waved off the Winchesters when they left an hour later.

Being the bartender for these two crews was going to be the death of me.

Pretty sure there's an explanatory story in there somewhere, so no one shoot the author. I'll admit that I like writing this choppy, Amanda-view. She doesn't get to see everything and has no right to demand more. All she can do is put a band-aid on the ouch, for lack of a better expression. If I were mean-spirited person, I would never explain it ever and leave us all dangling from Amanda's POV.

Because I'm not a mean-spirited person, the whole story is over in Fathers, Friends and Faith.