The decor at Lisa's Cafe-if you could call it that-was small-town diner thrift-shop. People sat on fifties-style padded metal chairs at a variety of old formica-topped tables with battered tops. There was a faded picture of George W. Bush hanging on one wall facing an even more faded picture of Ronald Reagan on the opposite wall. The industrial tiling, originally alternating black and white, was patched with a mish-mosh of whatever color was cheapest. Decor aside, it was obviously the town hub; there was a group of older men seated at two tables pushed together, and a smattering of families and friends sprinkled across the huge, low-ceilinged room.
When they walked in, a fresh-faced teen with a blonde ponytail and freckles called out cheerily, "With ya in a sec, guys!", and swooped down on one table with a tray of orders. Dean watched, eagle-eyed; he could see a slice of pie that looked homemade, and it tantalized him.
Done, the waitress brushed her hands off on her apron and came up to them, grabbed a couple of menus from behind the cash register counter, and smiled widely. She had braces. Dean sighed mentally, looking at her-he suddenly felt...not old, oh no, but..."mature". Yeah. That was the word.
"We're actually looking for Hugh Scott," Sam said, before she could lead them to a table.
She paused, surprised, and looked at them more closely. "Oh! Well." She gestured to the big group at the two tables. "You'll find him over there, with all the old guys. Will you two be needing a menu?"
"Not really-" Sam started, but Dean interrupted.
"Pie? What kind of pie you got?"
She dimpled a smile at him. "Apple, of course, blueberry, lemon meringue, and chocolate cream. My ma makes them fresh every day."
He smiled widely in return, his eyes sparkling. "Slice of blueberry and coffee for me!"
Sam shook his head at her. "Just coffee, thanks."
She led them over, calling "Hey, Hugh, some fellas to see ya."
The men at the tables peered at them with interest. There were six, with two empty chairs that had dirty dishes from previous occupants still there. A burly, iron-gray-haired man with a luxurious mustache waved at the empty seats. "Sit yerselves down, boys. Megan, clear that mess up, would ya?" He stood up, reached over the table to shake hands. "I'm Scott. And I'm guessing you boys are some type of law?"
"Yessir," Dean responded, sitting down. They nodded at the gathered men.
The man next to Scott, a graying Hispanic man, gave Sam's shorn head a shrewd look. "Hey, Hugh, looks like our lawman here got visited by the nighttime barber." All the men focused on Sam, and a quiet ripple of chuckles swept around the table. Sam ran his hand over his fuzzy haircut, blushed, folded his lips, and gave them a curt nod.
"Well, yeah, and that's why we're here to chat with you, Mr. Scott," Dean used the opportunity to plunge right in. Megan slid a plate of pie before him, dumped two cheap coffee cups before them, and filled them up.
"Everything okay?" she asked. Sam and Dean nodded, and she whisked off to another table.
"Y'see, the sheriff mentioned that all of the...um...incidents affected you, so we thought we'd see if you had any thoughts..."
Sam tuned him out, focusing on each of the men, one at a time. One of them, a rangy, scrawny balding guy with bushy gray-brown eyebrows and mustache, caught his eyes: he was staring down at his coffee cup with a small frown, stirring it idly with his spoon. Without warning, he dropped his spoon on the table, stood up, and mumbled, "I'll see y'guys later." He sauntered off to the front door, all long legs and arms, head down in thought.
Sam nudged Dean. Dean glanced at him. Sam jerked his head after the man who had just left. Dean twitched an eyebrow, looked after him, narrowed his eyes, nodded. He continued talking to Scott and the others. He was taking bites of the pie with happy appreciation whenever one of the men answered a question.
Sam angled his own long legs out from under the table, stood up, and followed the rangy man, catching up by his pickup in the dusty, unpaved parking lot.
"Hey. Sam McDonald." He held out his hand with the abrupt introduction. The man squinted at him narrowly, nodded, shook his hand.
"Jeff Hines."
"I noticed you weren't joining in with the others in describing what all has been going on."
Hines stared out at the street, frowning and chewing his lips. He shifted, scratched his head, then looked back at Sam.
"Yeah. The big mystery."
He sounded somewhat scornful. Sam tilted an eyebrow. "So you don't think it's much of a mystery?"
Hines looked away, rocked back and forth on his heels. "See, they probably all have a good idea, but nobody wants to mess with Hugh. But, damn, there he is, playing like he's in the dark, when he's gotta know. Y'know?"
Sam was definitely in the dark himself, but he gamely replied, "Uh. Okay. He's got to know what, exactly?"
Hines stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and frowned down at the dust. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble." He sighed, looked back up. "But, hell, it's gotta be Jen. His ex," he clarified. Having given out that much, he seemed to relax, and the words came pouring out. "Jen-see, Hugh caught her having an affair. And, well, I guess he was just mad as hell, and he's kinda biblical, and-well-damn. The guys laughed about it, but I didn't think it was funny, not at all. See, she had this really gorgeous long blond hair-" Hines blushed faintly. "Anyways, that night, he chopped it all off while she was asleep." Sam's brows jerked up in surprise. "And then told her it was punishment for adultery the next morning. And then kicked her out." Hines fell silent for a moment, staring into the distance, jaw working. "Now I know some folks is real religious. And I know that Hugh was just gut-wrenched about her steppin' out on him like that. But, damn. Just wasn't-wasn't-" He stopped again, waved his hands, apparently at a loss for words. Finally, he finished, "Well. It ain't what I woulda done, y'know?"
"Uh. Yeah, me either," Sam answered faintly. Anger, passion, made people do strange things, he knew, but something like that-?
"Anyways. So y'might wanna talk with Jen." He frowned down at the dirt, kicked it, shrugged, jerked open the truck door and climbed in. He fumbled with some papers clipped to the driver's visor, handed Sam a card. "This is her nail salon. She's prob'ly there, if not, y'can get ahold of her at that number." He nodded at Sam, closed the door, and drove off, a small whirlwind of dust rising behind the truck.