Work Text:
They weren't at the beach for once. Death had been reluctant to bother with what sounded like just another rural diner, but the promise of an overflowing plate of crispy hash browns had been tempting enough. Properly cooked hash browns were rarer than one would think.
Dean ordered them some sort of special. It wasn't long before a parade of plates was presented to them. The hash browns did live up to the hype. However, the eggs were swimming in grease. The sausage was overcooked. The ham appeared to be crisp around the edges, but was actually room temperature.
In contrast, the French toast was thick and fluffy with whipped butter. The maple syrup was warmed and the perfect consistency, pouring smoothly in an amber ribbon. There was also an exceptional assortment of preserves.
On the side, there was a fresh fruit assortment, that was technically fresh and could possibly be considered an assortment, if one was willing to stretch the definition of the word, that consisted of a few sad pieces of cantaloupe and a single grape. The coffee was adequate. Overall, it was a mediocre, but acceptable dining experience. The food itself was hardly worth the trip.
Death looked to Dean to inform him that his streak of exceptional dining finds had come to an end, but was greeted with the sight of Dean Winchester enjoying a meal and struck silent.
Dean danced in his seat to a rhythm only he was aware of. His eyes were closed, blissed out, lips pursed and groaning with each bite. He was completely in his own universe.
Death remembered that dining was about more than the food.