Chapter Text
Sam Winchester had just completed his senior year. Although he attended this high school for only a couple of months, he still was cheered as he walked to the podium to accept his diploma. In a very short time, his smarts and charm had won him friends and a couple of serious admirers.
The young Hunter had received more than one invitation from classmates to attend celebratory parties at their homes. Shared hugs and congratulations, but he didn't tell his classmates and teachers he would be leaving the next morning for good. Again.
Brother Dean Winchester was there, whooping and hollering. Stood up and applauded like the other happy family members did when the principal called their kid's name. Promised Sam that he found the best hippie rabbit food restaurant in the state for their private family celebration. Just the two of them. It was a restaurant with a menu that showcased a dozen countries across the Mideast, not discriminating based on geography, religion, or politics.
Dean, for one night, did not nag or tease. He thought the sweetened mint tea was weird, but okay. And the skewers of grilled lamb were better than okay as were the different kinds of breads and spreads. His highest praise was for a lumpy, spicy dish with a thick gravy. Sam broke the news that it was a vegan dish.
"All veggie, Dean."
Dean frowned at the bowl, took another bite, and smiled.
"This," he pronounced, waving with his fork like a symphony conductor over the sauced mix of cauliflower, carrots, potatoes, and onions.
"This is so good, Sammy, it doesn't even taste like veggies."
Of course, Sam had to know everything about every dish, and the waiter, who was also the assistant manager, was delighted in the young man's interest. He ended up sitting at their table when the dinner crowd thinned out. When he learned that the meal was to celebrate Sam's graduation and how well he had done in school–Dean bragged nonstop until Sam kicked him hard enough to leave a serious bruise on his ankle–he asked the kitchen to bring out a sampling of dishes that weren't on the regular menu. Plus a bottle of a very good French wine after he carefully checked the brothers' false ids.
The waiter, whose name was Abe ("My American name"), was interested in both boys. He wanted to know about their families, what they were doing, and most importantly, he said, he wanted to know about their dreams for the future. He and his family had come to the United States with a dream. How about them?
Sam and Dean, of course, lied about everything. Created a parallel universe that included their shared home in Lawrence, Kansas. A plausible reason why Sam had finished high school out-of-state. A loving father who was on the road as a classic car mechanic for wealthy families. Dean working his way through college to earn a degree in automotive engineering and Sam heading to a library grad school in a neighboring state.
Both boys felt bad that they were lying to the nice man. But, it was so good to bask in the positive attention and accolades of an adult who, in a matter of an hour, was treating them like family. Packed them off with a gift box of homemade baklava, which put both Winchesters into a sugar coma when they got back to the motel.
But damn, so good.
John, predictably, was somewhere else. Texted Dean to get on the road with Sam by 9 am the next morning. Dean would break ranks and pretend he never got it the message. He told his baby brother that they had the motel room until 1 pm.
"My present to you, Princess Sammy? You get to sleep in, Sleeping Beauty."
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A few weeks later, the brothers were eating fries (Hey, Sam isn't a fanatic) at Beck's, a family restaurant in a small town in the upper Midwest.
Father John had sent the boys off to check on a series of disappearances in the smaller communities along the western shore of Lake Michigan and the inland towns near smaller lakes and rivers. Sam was tasked with looking for patterns–seasons, dates, weather, profiles of possible victims-while Dean studied the lore in the region–a mix of the myths of indigenous tribes and the legends brought by immigrants from a dozen countries. Often, the creatures they had been brought up with in the Old World tagged along to the New. Anything that was about creatures who lived in or around water.
Cultural diversity in this part of the state meant there were two Lutheran churches, Missouri and Wisconsin synods, which pretty much accounted for everyone in town. Not bad people, just somewhat insular and sometimes xenophobic.
Much to John and Dean's surprise, Sam did not bitch about being ordered to hit the road and work a case. They didn't know it was his version of a chapter in his "Long Good-bye."
-----
The Winchesters, with their boyish good looks and ubiquitous hunter apparel, fit in just fine. Found an oversized booth near a window so Dean could keep an eye on Baby, who was basking in the spring sun. The boys had papers spread across the table regarding the hunt. Sam told the attentive waitress that they were graduate students, investigating historical patterns of crime in rural America. A good cover if overheard conversations contained too many gruesome details.
Dean felt the shift in the room before he heard the discussion at the front counter. A middle-aged African-American couple, stood by the cash register, accompanied by an elderly woman who gave off a grandma vibe. They were talking with one of the waitresses, a thin-lipped white woman with badly bleached hair in a style popular when she was in high school, maybe 20 years before.
The boys looked around. Their own competent and pleasant server had apparently left at the end of her shift, leaving the restaurant at the mercy of Blondie.
The rest of the customers glanced over, but no one made a move to intervene.
The man was gesturing at the half-empty dining room, and the employee was shaking her head. Pieces of the conversation drifted across the restaurant. Not good. Dean and Sam looked at each other, and Sam nodded in response to an unspoken question. Dean pushed up and out of the booth and walked quickly towards the front of the restaurant, where the discussion was now escalating into an argument. Louder and louder.
Dean ignored the waitress and focused his brilliant smile on the family. He made one of those fast-draw decisions that had saved his life in the field more than once.
"Hey, hey, nice to see you. Glad you found us!"
He leaned down and kissed the senior woman on the cheek and gave her a hug. Then, proceeded to hug the man and the other woman. Everyone was speechless, except the employee, who was a wavelength away from a full-throated screech.
"Oh," said Dean, as if he had just noticed her. Rufus Turner, who had started out as a state trooper in Illinois at a time when not so many African-American men held that job, taught the boys that a devastatingly cold and polite demeanor, tinged with disbelief, was one of the best reactions to bigotry masked as "enforcing the rules." Worked well with petty bureaucrats, particularly on those rare occasions when both Dean's smile and Sam's puppy-dog eyes failed.
The employee was still yapping, circling around, over and over, fixed on the same issue. She was like a dog on a short chain that knows only the radius of the world it can hear and see, which appeared to be a hundred variations of "You can't eat here. The tables aren't cleared. It's too late for breakfast. You don't have a reservation. All the empty tables are booked for a big party that's arriving any minute. We have to clean the room for a health department inspection. We close early on Thursdays."
"Nonetheless," said Dean, interrupting her rant. She slowed down. He paused for effect, another trick he had learned from Rufus.
"Nonetheless," he repeated, a little bit louder, letting his voice fall into its lower registers, which got the employee to shut up, "these issues appear to be your problems, not ours. These fine people are my family, and they are sitting with me and my brother at our booth.
"We'll want fresh coffee, fresh water, and five menus. Quickly, if you please. If serving your paying customers is beyond your skill set, I'm sure I can call someone, explain the situation, and ask for assistance. I'm sure your mayor's office would love the publicity for your town. I understand it's said there is no such thing as bad publicity."
Even a fresh-faced 22-year-old Dean Winchester was a force to be reckoned with, particularly when channeling his inner daddy John.
The employee's tirade was neatly punctured. Maybe because she was rarely challenged and had few tactics besides loud and louder.
Dean herded the shell-shocked family to the booth, where 17-year-old Sam, just pushing six feet plus a hair's breadth, was standing at attention, welcoming the family with a flourish as if seating Hollywood royalty. (He had swept the tabletop clean of incriminating evidence, stuffing the maps and documents into his backpack, which he kept by his side for the rest of the afternoon.)
The two women slid in one side of the booth, and the man claimed the other. Sam took the extra seat next to the man, meaning Dean shoved him in, then grabbed a chair for himself from a nearby table to sit at the edge of the booth's table.
Before the older Hunter sat down, he leaned over to shake hands with each family member, who seemed to be in recovery mode. Still a little stunned.
"Dean Winchester. This is my little brother Sammy," he said.
"Sam," said the teenager automatically and reached across the table to offer a hand to the women, and then the father, who hadn't stopped scowling.
The older woman stared at the two young men. She wore a heavy blue overcoat, too warm for the season. Something to ward off the chill of old age, sometimes a habit from a childhood of poverty, when layers of clothing were armor against the inequities of a harsh life. She sported a matching blue cloche with a plastic spray of lilies-of-the-valley over a carefully crafted crown of amber curls, complementing her dark skin. Her black eyes held a twinkle of humor in their depths.
When she spoke, it was with the authority that comes with 35 hard-won years as a middle-school teacher in a big-city classroom.
"You kidnapped us, young man," she said. Sounded like the lead detective in an old-school police procedural television show.
"Kidnapped me, my son, and my daughter-in-law. So, now, suddenly, we are family?"