Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Sam stuffs his face.
Sam had attacked his plate almost as soon as it hit the table.
Not eating anything but warm cans of coke in an entire 24 hour period did interesting and terrible things to his body. It was past hunger and right into a nervous sugar heightened pain. He had ordered what had just looked like the largest amount of food that would fit on two plates and a bowl. It was midnight but he took advantage of what these types of places offered. Crab cakes at dawn and an omelet by moonlight. A stack of pancakes and everything on the side sounded perfect to him at the moment.
He looked up from his food long enough to see Dean hadn’t exactly gone for his dinner with the same desperation. Sam didn’t know why. Dean hadn’t eaten in as long as he had. He had been drinking coffee instead of coke but Sam was pretty sure the sickness at the end of that ride was just about the same.
Sam looked at Dean’s plate. It wasn’t as if they got his order wrong. No one ever got his order wrong. It was three eggs scrambled, side of bacon, grits if they had them and whatever pan fried potato variation of hash browns were available. Even if they got his brother a few sunny sides up instead of what he asked for he still went right ahead and ate it. Once they had even brought him an entire platter of souvlaki instead of his usual and Dean hadn’t said a word. Food as they say, was food.
However, tonight his brother was just moving around his scrambled eggs with his fork.
Sam paused in his work.
"No salt." Dean mumbled.
Sam looked around, reached over and took the metal caddy off the empty booth behind him. He set it down right in front of his brother. Resuming the demolition of his own dinner, Sam didn’t stop until he started to see worn old diner porcelain appear out from under his pile of hash browns.
“Have you ever wondered just how many people before you have used these forks?”
Sam’s forkful of perfectly peppered and greasy joy hovered about an inch from his mouth. With a sigh he went ahead and shoved it in anyway.
“Once or twice.” He said between chewing.
The waitress appeared again, younger than the type they usually got, and therefore was even more susceptible to Dean’s attention than usual. At least she normally would be. All he did was muster up half a smile for her as she started to fill their coffee cups back up to full.
A low deep whistle made Sam lift his head. Dean had managed to notice something. Turning towards the door he saw another two customers had walked in. Both women. Both too cute to be in this joint way after dark and with plenty of skin showing top side. What was it with this state anyway? Everywhere they went all the girls were in kind of a 80s time warp, all cleavage and acid wash—
Sam turned back at a softly muttered curse. The coffee pot had over filled Dean’s mug. It more was more than over filled, it had started pouring over the rim and all over the table. The young waitress smiled in strange insincere apology towards them both before she quickly wiped it up with a dish rag. Leaving half the spill smeared across the table she quickly moved on.
“What was that?” Dean mumbled, watching her departure over his shoulder.
“In my experience,” Sam pretended not to hear his brother groan. “...most women find other beauty a threat to their own.”
Dean had finished piling up his eggs onto one side of his plate and was now messing around with his home fries.
“Why the hell would they do that for?”
“I don’t know.” Sam honestly answered as he grabbed for the ketchup. Turning the bottle upside down over his hash, he found himself a little surprised that his brother of all people wasn’t aware of that fact. “They just do.”
Dean threw down a wad of napkins on the coffee puddle in the middle of the table as it traveled towards the edge and started to drip down into his lap.
“You got any more pearls there for me Dr. Spock?”
“Doctor Spock is—“ He stopped, too confused by the bilateral manner of ways Dean had gotten mixed up. Instead, Sam stuck his spoon into his oatmeal. “…No. I’m fresh out.”
His brother went silent again, the coffee flood abated, and the dented napkin holder now empty.
“Wanna hear a joke?” Sam asked.
Dean’s sullen gaze flickered reluctantly up from the carefully knotted straw wrapper in his hands.
“Two fish were in a tank…”
His brother groaned again.
“…and one said to the other, ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’”
Dean’s straw wrapper was flicked with almost perfect precision between Sam’s eyes.
“Get it? A tank—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it…”
Sam saw it though, as brief as it was. Dean’s mouth twitched into a real smile, unforced and uncontrived.
“I was thinking,” Dean started with a small sigh. “… maybe tomorrow we’ll head south. Go somewhere warm.”
Stuffing his face in the bouts of starvation always made Sam pretty much agreeable to anything. Well, almost anything. Although, nowadays, his span of ‘within’ reason’ stretched almost so far into either horizon he wasn’t sure where it even stopped anymore. But his brother’s tentative suggestion disguised as a declaration sounded just fine to him. More than fine.
“South sounds good to me.” Sam eyed Dean’s untouched plate. “You gonna eat that?”
He watched his brother pick up his fork again.
“Yes.” Dean answered curtly, stabbing at his cold eggs. “I am.”
“Because if yer not—“
“I know why that waitress made a break for it.” Dean mumbled as he ate. “She was afraid to get her hands near your mouth.”
Sam wanted to laugh but he was afraid the sudden movement might make him puke. He slowly sat back realizing that he might have eaten so much that there might actually be no room for pie.
Who was he kidding?
There was always room for pie.