Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

AUGUST

Janna has never before seen the diner look this crisp and shiny.

First day back at work, meeting the new bosses, and she steps into the diner with the keys she’s had for the past few months dangling on the old key rack her son made for her in boy scouts. Her jaw nearly drops wide open. It looks like a brand new place, but there’s just enough of Darla’s left behind to make it feel just the same as usual.

“Janna?”

A tall man, long brunet hair. Cecelia Lynn had told her about the new owners on the phone, but she’d definitely downplayed the height. Janna’s just happy to be over five foot, and this guy would be towering over her if he wasn’t slouched against the counter with hunched shoulders.

“You must be Sam,” she replies, walking closer and extending a hand, “Cecelia Lynn said you’d be here.”

Sam nods and stares at her outstretched hand for a moment like he doesn’t know what it’s for, before grasping on—gentle, like he thinks he’s going to break her with a touch—and giving the briefest possible shake.

“Yeah,” he says, dropping her hand and immediately tucking his arm closer to his body, “Dean’s at his chef classes.”

“Left you here with the inventory?” Janna points to the spread of papers and the battered laptop on the counter.

Sam nods, brief, turns his head back to the counter.

Cecelia Lynn had warned her that he wasn’t much of a talker. Funny that, seeing as he’s supposed to help her wait tables, she thinks. At least until someone else gets hired. She’s the only one from the old crew who came back. The last few months have been nice, without the everyday stress of waiting tables, but the extra funds are gonna get her kids through college and it’s nice to not feel so stretched at the wallet everyday.

And well, when Cecelia Lynn told her the new management was interested in hiring her back on, she couldn’t say no. And no offense to Cecelia Lynn intended, but it would be difficult to be a worse boss-slash-manager than her. Cecelia Lynn is one of her dear friends. She couldn’t manage the diner worth a damn. Janna was used to doing more than her fair share of work, and opening the diner without any other help other than the ever-rotating series of short order cooks.

So, it’s natural to walk closer, making Sam shrink further in on himself, and look over the assorted paperwork.

She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re an organized type, I take it.”

Sam meets her eyes as she turns to look at him with a smile and he looks baffled, like he can’t quite figure out how the conversation landed here so fast. Janna is having a hard time keeping track herself—it was just business as usual to show up to Darla’s and find a new person there to train (sometimes without any warning or indication from Cecelia Lynn).

Sam shrugs with one shoulder, still huddled in on himself, a giant trying to be an ant.

“Better than anything I ever did with inventory. I’ll leave you to it. Am I good to get started on checking equipment?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah. That’s great.” Sam trails off with nothing else to add, like he’s gotten lost in his thoughts. In fact, as she looks at him, his eyes seem to have lost their focus. Quiet one indeed. She wonders if he’s one of Darla’s friends, the crew Janna’s tried her very hardest to not be associated with. The drifters that come through, that know Cecelia Lynn and ask for her by name while they bleed into a cloth napkin left over from the time Cecelia Lynn wanted to try catering.

Another look at Sam and she’s certain he’s that kind of relative. The one without blood relations, but the kind Cecelia Lynn would claim as her cousin the second they ended up needing bailing from jail.

Cecelia Lynn is an interesting person. Janna’d almost forgot just how much crap she’d put up with from her and her ‘friends’ over the years, but Sam—young, tired-looking Sam—is bringing it all back. She’s just met the man but she’s certain he’s going through something.

She shakes herself out of her stupor, says, “Fantastic,” and starts walking around the counter, admiring the new window into the kitchen area. When she enters the kitchen, she’s greeted with a brand new oven, a fresh countertop, and the remnants of what looks like a very complex attempt at making pie. There’s two misshapen lumps in pie tins on the counter, one nearly burnt to a crisp on top, and the other obviously underdone.

No wonder Cecelia Lynn was paying for the new guy to take lessons.

Looking in the back office-breakroom is a shocking sight—mostly because there is a breakroom to be seen, without shelves and shelves of filing cabinets and boxes filling the space. There’s a janky-looking water cooler in the corner and what is obviously Cecelia Lynn’s old couch against the wall. Janna’s locker is still there, a coupon to the Smith’s two towns over still hanging on a magnet on the front. When she opens it, her aprons greet her. She’d never bothered to bring them home, waiting on a call from Cecelia Lynn that the diner was going to be open that day for some reason or another. And then the months had passed and she’d gotten the call that Cecelia Lynn was holding over the reins to some cousin’s kids or something (and Janna’s not bitter, she swears), and she’d never come to get her work things.

And well, it’s worked out so far.

By the time she is done admiring all of the shiny new work in the building, there’s a new voice in the dining area that greets her as she rounds the corner out of the back area.

“What do you think about milkshakes on the menu—we gotta have them, you know. Multiple flavors or just stick to the regular three? Nah, we gotta have a peanut butter one.”

There’s a noncommittal sound, and when Janna finally peers out to see, she can see Sam, still hunched over his laptop and papers.

“And onion rings, man, we gotta have good onion rings. And tater tots. You know people’ll order burgers just to get the sides and not even realize it?”

The man talking looks around the same age as Sam, young but beaten down by the years nonetheless. He’s got shorter hair and already Janna can tell he has a larger personality, a larger presence than the guy who’d practically crawled into himself to get away from her when she first arrived.

Dean. Like James Dean—that was how Cecelia Lynn had introduced him. Said he was an overconfident son of a gun, but that he was a good guy, really. Just rough around the edges.

Janna walks closer, raises a hand in greeting.

“You Janna?” Dean says, looking up from where he’d been hovering over Sam’s work, one hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Yep. You must be Dean.”

“You got me. Cecelia Lynn said you were our best bet for getting everything up and running again around here.”

“Been working at this place probably longer than you’ve been alive. You bet your ass I know how to get things done around here.”

Dean breaks into a smile and Janna thinks he’s sold. People either like her or they don’t, and first impressions lead to a lot of that decisiveness. Sam is still ignoring her. Hopefully he’ll come around.

“You got the chance to look around at the place now that the remodel’s done?”

Janna nods, “The window’s a nice touch, and the equipment looks nice. Can’t say the same for whatever you were trying to cook in there.”

Dean’s face falls, “Yeah. Just trying to figure out the pie. Gotta get it all good for when we’re back up and running.” His hand is still on Sam’s shoulder and Janna can see him squeezing at it, almost rocking Sam back and forth on his stool.

“We sellin’ pies now?”

“Hell yeah. Ain’t a diner if they don’t have good pie.”

“Well, in that case, you’d better go wash your hands and put an apron on. I’ll teach you how to make the best damn pies in the whole state.”

She’d gone to the state fairs with her pies as a teenager. Cecelia Lynn only ever had scoops of ice cream and milkshakes on the dessert menu.

Her tone and offer seem to take Dean aback and he raises his eyebrows and stares.

“We don’t got all day,” she says, turning back around to the kitchen to grab her own apron. She’s had to work double duty on the kitchen enough times to know where they’re kept.

Behind her, she hears a slight chuckle.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says.

There’s a light whack sound, then an offended, “Hey!”

Janna smiles. Seems like Sam might be on his way to warming up to her.

Sam is sitting on the hood of the Impala.

He’s alone.

It’s raining.

The hood is growing slick. He hooks his boots in the grill. Dean would kill him for it.

He looks up and gets dizzy. The sky is full, so full of stars. The stars burn bright, pinpricks. They pulse in the sky.

Dean used to tell him when he was younger that stars were holes in the sky, like there was a curtain covering the universe with tiny rips in its fabric.

He’d believed him for a long time.

Now, he looks closer. The curtain is there, but it’s not wrapped around the universe, it’s wrapped around something inside of it, muffling it, trapping as much of the light as it can behind itself. But it’s got holes and the light, the light that is burning Sam’s eyes, is leaking out.

The Impala feels real beneath his hands, wet from the fat drops of rain that are growing steadily more rapid in their descent. The Impala is stabilizing him as the sky rattles above him.

Sam thinks that’s Lucifer, behind the curtain. He thinks the curtain is himself.

The holes and rips and tears are real. If he wanted to, he thinks he could reach up and touch them, but that would put him too close to what’s behind the sky.

He’s further away than he used to be, from the sky. A greater distance, like he’s learned to drive away from it.

The Impala beneath him is cradling him close. He leans back, feels the windshield against his head.

And slips into wakefulness.

The back of his head is squashed against the headboard of the bed. He thinks that might be what woke him.

It’s strange to wake so normally.

It’s been months since his last restful night of sleep. He wonders why Lucifer let him get away with it.

He wonders why it’s been easier recently.

There’s so many factors that he can’t figure out why. Can’t figure out why he’s been more present, more able to communicate, more able to exist outside of his war with Lucifer. Is it the diner? Time spent with people who aren’t Dean (mostly Janna, who’s put together their whole lives at the diner for them, helped Sam learn how to fold the cutlery, made jokes at Dean’s expense that made Dean laugh out loud)? The upcoming start date for running the diner with customers? The stress of the job? The late nights of working to get the new menu formatted? Hanging out with Dean in the kitchen as he makes Sam try every single dish (something about Dean’s taste buds being weird)? Staying so close to Dean?

It could really be anything. Maybe Lucifer is tired too. Or maybe he’s just gearing up for the biggest fight he can give.

Dean snorts, snuffles in his sleep. Dean’s got his back pressed against Sam’s, the two of them facing away from each other but stuck together from shoulder to middle back. Sam’s grateful for it, his legs still have bruises from two nights ago when Dean kicked him in his sleep.

There’s a small patch of light peeking in through the curtains that are opened just enough to let it in. Sam watches it.

It’s quiet in his head.

He’s worried.

Valerie can’t wait to format this for the front page of the paper this week.

The last time she had something this exciting to write about, it had been the fire at the McGovern house, and it had broken her heart at the same time.

A grand opening with a line out the door was way more exciting.

She frames the shot in her camera lens, trying to capture the magnitude of what is occurring at Darla’s at the very moment. She reviews the pictures, sees the Under New Management, reopening August 27th sign perfectly at an angle on the left, and smiles.

Valerie lets her camera hang on her neck as she pulls out her notepad, ready for more interviews. She’d already gotten to several people in line, but the more the merrier (and the more she has to pull for her piece).

Mr. Riding, one of the newer history teachers at the high school, is standing with his family just to the back of where she left off her interviews. She goes through the usual Lageme greeting, the how’s the folks, dog, leg, back, kids and then asks for Mr. Riding’s views on the re-opening for the paper.

“Well, I’ll tell you, I’m excited for it. Darla’s is a staple around here, it's good to see it up and running again. I just hope the line keeps moving!"

It's been a slow but steady trickle of people in and out. Fast service, apparently, just too many people. Lageme's excited for anything new.

Plus, the new people. The owners. It's only polite to try to get to know them and stick their noses in their business, at least in the Lageme way of things.

"Thanks, Mr. Riding!" She finishes jotting down her notes with a flourish, and seeing Ted move up to the spot closest to the door, she packs up and heads back to her spot next to him in line. It's too hot to be holding hands, but she reaches out anyways and he gives her hand a squeeze before releasing it, both of their palms hot and sweaty.

Peering in through the new, giant glass doors, she starts taking mental notes. It looks good. Classic, like she's about to head into the set of a goofy 80's teen movie. and get up to some shenanigans.

The Smiths (the ones on Center street) exit the diner, and after a couple of minutes, they move up in line to wait indoors. The air conditioning is on high, people are everywhere. It’s loud and crowded and happy. The clattering of dishes, the sound of kids excitedly doodling on their menus.

Ted leans over and, in quiet tones, says, “It’s all so normal.”

Valerie leans in too, to say her piece: “I know. Something weird’s going on though, Rich swears there’s something weird about the new owners, and you know it was weird when Cecelia Lynn was running the place too.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

She’s not a conspiracy theorist, not really. She just likes to find the inside story. The secrets. The reasons why.

Cecelia Lynn was someone everyone at least knew of. It would be hard to say anyone in town actually knew her though.

Valerie went to school with her kids. And there was always something weird about them, about their family. Something more than religious scrupulosity.

And now, some weird relatives taking over the family business? Something is definitely up.

Either way, she’ll have a good front page for the paper, so it’s really just about the fun of snooping, the annoyance of a year-long mystery. And a little bit of wanting something in town to be exciting.

Janna is there, the waitress who’s been waiting tables the whole time Valerie’s been alive to remember it. A boy she doesn’t know is seating people. When he turns around, she gets a good look at his face and realizes he must be one of the Anderson kids—they all have similar features, but there’s too many of them to keep track of.

“Hi,” he says, as they make it to the hostess station, “welcome to Darla’s. Booth okay with you?”

Looking around at the full, bustling diner, Valerie privately thinks they don’t really have a choice in the matter, but she gives a polite smile and nods.

The Anderson kid (Zach, his nametag says) looks harried. He nearly drops their menus and almost plows right into a taller guy carrying a platter of dishes, but they finally manage to snag a booth in the back, still slightly damp from being cleaned.

Zach hands them their menus and pulls out a notepad.

"Can I get you started with drinks? Our lemonade is made fresh."

Ted cocks an eyebrow, says, "Fresh, huh? Well I'll try it."

"Just a water for me," Valerie says, "and when you get a chance I'd love to interview you for the paper!"

Zach blinks, looks back to the front where the line is still spilling out the door, and looks back with a confused expression on his face.

"Just when you get a chance," Valerie repeats, with less enthusiasm. She might need to come back later in the week–but that would delay her story, so there's no way she's doing that. If she does, Bradley will get to write yet another front page piece, and she's tired of being relegated to page three.

Zach nods and turns away, disappearing.

Ted opens his menu, says, "Damn, they updated this."

Valerie opens her own menu. It's organized, clear, and full of options.

It might still be called Darla’s, but it’s clear it's a different place now.

Or, as she gazes at the menu, maybe not. It's all still classic diner food, with a few additions. The Darla’s favorites are still there–they even have their own place on the menu.

It's all put together neatly, but underneath the sheen is still the same place.

Which means there's still secrets to uncover.

Zach returns with their drinks, and for a split second, Valerie thinks he’s going to spill directly on Ted's lap, but he manages to rescue it just in time.

"Alright, Sam should be by in just a minute to take your order."

He leaves without another word and Valerie and Ted share a look, tinged with humor.

They wait a long few minutes, and Valerie passes the time by organizing her notes foe her piece.

Sam, apparently, is the tall guy they passed by earlier, with his hair long enough to be tied back.

"My name is Sam, I'll be taking your order today, what can I get you?" He rattles off, so fast it takes Valerie a moment to process his words.

"Can I get the turkey bacon club?" Ted asks, talking loud to be heard in the din of the busy restaurant.

"Fries, tots, or onion rings with that?"

"Fries."

"Regular or seasoned."

"Regular is fine."

"And for you?"

Sam turns to look at Valerie, and for the first time, she can look directly at his face. He doesn’t look like anybody in town and she's certain she's never seen him before.

"I'll have the Alabama burger," she says, "with onion rings."

"Alabama burger, onion rings," Sam repeats, jotting down something that just looks like scribbles to her on a notepad. "Anything else I can get you?"

"Are you one of the new owners?" Valerie asks.

The divergence from their order seems to startle Sam. He blinks a few times before nodding, silent.

"My name is Valerie, I write for the Lageme County Bulletin. I'd love to interview you sometime, for the paper."

Sam swallows hard, blinks again, and then oddly darts his eyes over to the kitchen.

"Ah, my . . . My brother might be better for that."

"Is he available for an interview?"

Sam shakes his head in the negative, "He’s cooking."

"Well if you get the chance, I'd really appreciate it."

Sam nods, flips his notepad over and leaves without another word.

"Weird dude," Ted comments, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

"No kidding," Valerie leans in even closer, "something is definitely going on here."

"I mean," Ted says, "you're probably right. But it's busy, maybe he just is busy."

"Ted, c’mon. You know there's something weird about this place!" Valerie can feel her heart drop. This has been their joint investigation for the last two years, ever since that time Cecelia Lynn had to close the diner for two weeks because of some kind of infestation. But Ted's dad was the only exterminator nearby, and he wasn't called in for anything.

"I know, Val, I'm just saying. You know me, I gotta play devil's advocate."

Valerie sighs, leans back in her seat, "Yeah, I know."

"We'll figure it out someday."

"Ted, this is the biggest development about Darla’s we've ever seen! Cecelia Lynn even left town. You know something has to be up with the new owners!"

"Yeah, well, we're gonna figure it out. It just might not be today."

"I know. I'm just . . . Frustrated." They'd tried to get the inside scoop while the repairs were happening, but Saul Thompson was on always on site, and he kept turning them away, telling them some story about construction and permits that didn't permit them to be on the property. Their only info over the past month was from Rich, Valerie’s cousin’s boyfriend, who worked with Saul on the remodel.

Ted reaches out and pats her hand. She recenters herself. She knows Ted knows how much this means to her.

She goes back to her notes and they wait. And wait. And wait.

And finally, the food arrives.Sam puts their plates down gingerly, says, "Sorry for that wait," and hands them rolls of utensils before rushing over to another table.

The food looks good. The plates are full. She just doesn't know if it was worth the wait.

But she takes a bite and is pleasantly surprised. The burger satisfies the carnal part of her that longs for grease and meat. The onion rings are nice. A little too crispy.

“How’s your sandwich?” She asks.

Ted’s, “Good,” is muffled around his bite of food.

Valerie rolls her eyes. She forgets that Ted’s a scarfing guy, even though they’ve been together so long. There won’t be any real conversation out of him until his plate is clean.

She eats slowly, keeps looking around Darla’s. She watches Sam closely. He’s sure footed, easily dodging Zach and other customers. As Valerie watches, she sees him move over to a small station and pull out a dish tray and cleaning spray. Huh.

He’s bussing tables too. Double duty.

Or just poor management.

Sam disappears behind the counter, and she finds herself just watching the other customers. Most have familiar faces, people who she went to highschool with, or the parents of those people. A few of the kids from the daycare she works at when she’s not writing articles.

It’s like the town decided to get together and welcome in the new people, the new Darla’s.

Suspicious.

She doesn’t know why, but it seems strange. Why would anyone in this town care to welcome a couple new move-ins who had completely changed the classic diner?

They’d never cared about her situation. Why would they care now?

Suddenly the burger doesn’t taste as good. She sets it down and starts picking at her onion rings.

And the diner keeps bustling.

Dean doesn’t know why the hell they’re so damn busy.

It’s a diner. Just like a million he’s passed through. They’re reopening, but it’s not like they’re having a sale.

His head’s about to explode.

Michael is pounding away as Dean attempts to keep every order straight, hollering at their new hire cook, Shauna, to do this or that and getting hollered back at. The dishes are stacking up because they don’t have a dishwasher yet, and he just can’t do it all.

The thought builds in his mind as puts together order after order—newport beach, frog sticks, throwing a hamster on the side. He hadn’t understood why Sam put up such a fight in cobbling together their diner lingo, these things stick in his head so much better than just, ‘hamburger,’ ‘fries,’ ‘side of bacon.’

Why did they ever let themselves get convinced of this?

“Throw a sloppy on the garden,” Sam calls through the window.

“Crystal,” Dean calls back, turning to Shauna who’s already in the fridge.

“Grab some more lettuce for me,” he says.

“On it,” Shauna replies.

Dean likes Shauna. Shauna is calm and collected under pressure. Apparently she’d managed the Subway in town for years before deciding she hated the owners enough to transfer over to help them out for Cecelia Lynn.

“More frog legs!” Sam calls.

And yeah. That’s why they let themselves get convinced. He’d almost forgotten.

Sam’s talking again. And moving. And around people.

He’d always needed people more than Dean did. Dean only needed a couple. Sam needed . . . more.

The pounding in his head suddenly grows louder, heavier, and he can almost see the imaginary trunk in his mind dent from the force. He finds the edge of the counter and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Dean?” Shauna is by his side, suddenly. He shakes his head, trying to warn her away from distracting him. He needs to shove the trunk back in place, needs to keep Michael under lock and key.

“Dean.” This time it’s a more familiar voice.

Sam.

Dean startles as Sam suddenly grabs onto his shoulders, pulling him back and away from the counter. Dean stumbles back into Sam’s torso, feels arms around his chest.

“Dean, breathe.”

He realizes he’d stopped a few moments ago. He breathes in heavily, opens his eyes and blinks rapidly. He steadies his breathing again.

And the pounding slowly fades.

“I’m okay,” he says, finally. Sam loosens his grip and Dean pulls away, slowly. The noise of the diner filters in again and Dean shakes his head, refocusing.

“I’m okay,” he repeats, looking Sam in the eyes and nodding. Sam looks back, eyes darting over his face before he nods back and starts to exit the room.

Shauna is standing to the side, looking lost.

“Sorry,” Dean says. He opens his mouth to say more and then realizes he has nothing else to say.

“‘S’all right,” Shauna says, slowly putting a bag of lettuce on the counter. Dean picks it up and starts on the next order, using one hand to flip a burger patty and the other to start mixing the salad.

“My cousin served in Iraq,” Shauna says suddenly, still standing off to Dean’s side. Dean slows his movements.

“So, you know, I know what—I’m just saying it’s okay with me.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. He looks back at Shauna, takes in her sincerity, and gives her a nod of gratitude.

She nods back, respect, and turns to stir the pasta.

Shauna doesn’t understand, but no one really does. No one but Sam could really come close.

At least he has that.

Dean breathes in, the pounding now far away, and resumes his work in putting together the dishes that need to go out to customers.

Sam has hit a new level of exhaustion.

It feels a little like when he was studying for the LSAT, when his mind was so caught up in trying to study at all times while his body went to classes and worked at the coffee shop and did homework. He’d crashed so hard after taking the LSAT that he hadn’t gone to any classes for a week (and he spent the rest of the semester paying for that decision).

He wonders when his crash will come. He can’t let it, not really, because if he crashes, the world resumes its apocalyptic demise.

He’s so tired. And yet, he can’t sleep. He’s still wound up, still trying to process the day, the fact that he kept Lucifer back the whole time while keeping track of orders and solving crisis after crisis.

And the fact that the lights flickered so badly when Dean had his moment that there had been screams in the diner.

Dean isn’t sleeping either. Sam can tell because Dean is still rubbing at Sam’s back. The second they had gotten back (at two in the morning, after doing all the dishes), they’d both stumbled upstairs, thrown their work shirts to the ground, and collapsed into the bed. Dean had started running a hand over Sam’s shoulder blades, occasionally stopping to press into the knots that had formed in his muscles. He hasn’t stopped yet.

Sam doesn’t think he could move if he tried. He wants to shift, adjust how he’s situated on the bed, but he can’t even think about moving his limbs.

But he still has control. That’s the important part. He has control.

“You asleep yet?” Dean’s voice surprises him, and it’s only his exhaustion that keeps him from tensing up in surprise.

Sam vocalizes something in his throat in the negative, hears Dean give a short laugh.

“Alright.”

His hand keeps moving. Dean finds the spot in-between Sam’s neck and shoulder that always gets tight and presses down. Sam makes a sound of discomfort, almost involuntarily.

“You need to stop tensing up right here all the time.”

Sam goes to say something like, ‘fat chance of that,’ but his mouth doesn’t want to form the words. He just hums.

Dean gives a short exhale that means he finds that amusing.

“Go to sleep, Sammy.”

It’s a monumental effort, but Sam manages to nod a couple of times, face first in the pillow.

“Gotta go back in for work again tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t be as crazy.”

“Mmmhmm,” Sam agrees. Something about the reopening had gathered what felt like the whole town together. They’d run out of . . . well, everything. The line had never stopped.

And Sam doesn’t know how on earth they had kept it together.

A significant portion of the credit has to go to Janna and Shauna. Sam still doesn’t understand why Cecelia Lynn gave them control over the restaurant when Janna was right there. He and Dean want her on the paperwork, they’ve just got to figure that out with Cecelia Lynn. Janna’s been the only reason they’ve gotten the place up and running

Sam sighs onto his pillow. Lucifer is quiet right now. He has been quiet. Maybe Cecelia Lynn was right about idle minds.

Or maybe Lucifer is just waiting for the right time. For Sam to let down his guard. For the perfect moment to take over and kill Michael.

Either way, he needs to sleep. If his mind will let him.

Dean’s hand returns to his shoulder blade and comes to a stop.

They'll figure it out. That's what Sam has to tell himself.