Would you like a flavor shot with that?

Title: Would you like a flavor shot with that? (1/1)
Author: Dea Brynhild Ensomhet Spikess
Fandom: Supernatural
Timeline: Pre-series
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Supernatural cast/crew/characters/plotlines/etc. All hail Kripke. All original ideas are mine. Please don't sue or steal.
Rating: PG, I think? This is a heck of a lot tamer than my usual stuff. No slash or anything...
Warnings: none.
Summary: Dean gets a job. Work sucks. Gen fic.
Huge thanks: to Candygramme for the beta! I've edited it a bit since, so any mistakes that are still in here are all mine.
Finished: 11/14/07


A woman's voice crackles in his ear. "I'd like a raspberry cappuccino."

It's rare, but there are moments Dean really hates his dad. They'd stopped at a diner in northern Ohio for a short break - a black coffee for John, coffee with cream and sugar for Dean, and a slice of pie with milk for Sammy. Dean had been sixteen, though he could pass for eighteen, and the waitress serving them couldn't have been more than two years older than him at the most. She'd had a tired, worn look about her that was unusual for someone so young, but she'd still smiled as she'd kept the coffee fresh and hot and made sure there was nothing else they needed. John had left a ten dollar tip half-hidden under Sammy's pie plate, and Dean had commented on it once they were in the car, We don't have much money, so why did you leave a tip that was more than our entire order?

It was at that moment John decided his eldest needed to learn a lesson about the workforce. John rented a motel room for a month in the next town they stopped in, and Dean reluctantly applied and was hired at a nearby doughnut/fast-food joint.

Now, he has some idea of how that waitress felt dealing with stupid customers all day. Dean swallows back his annoyance and presses a button on the battery pack at his waist before saying in a smooth-as-honey voice, "We don't have raspberry cappuccino. We have raspberry hot smoothies, or we have English Toffee or French Vanilla cappuccino."

"Oh," the woman says, and considers this dilemma for a moment. Dean rolls his eyes as he waits. "Then I'll take a large mocha."

People are psychotic, Dean thinks. Give him a hunt any day. Demons and other creepy crawlies always have a pattern, and their logic tends to make sense. People are just plain crazy. Really, how does someone go from wanting a raspberry cappuccino to wanting a mocha? He almost offers to put a raspberry flavor shot in the mocha, but then changes his mind - he doesn't really feel like doing this lady any favors. He's only been working here for two weeks, and already he's counting the days until the month's rent is up. A few days ago some guy bought two honey doughnuts after finding out they were sold out of triple chocolate cookies. Seriously, how do you equate one chocolate cookie to two chocolateless doughnuts? "That's one large mocha. Will that be all?"

"How old are your butter croissants?"

In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? Dean thinks. He really doubts she has any food preparation background, or that she knows how long croissants are good for. Hell, he doesn't even know how long their lifespan is - the training video probably mentioned it, but he'd been too busy voice-overing the actors, MST3k-style, to pay too much attention. "They were made a few hours ago, but they're still within their shelf life," he lies. Or maybe he doesn't - he hasn't a clue when they were made; they were on the shelf when he started his shift a few hours ago.

Apparently that's a good enough answer for her, because she orders two. He takes her money with a practiced fake smile and gives her the food and change, letting the smile drop as soon as she drives away. He turns and walks a step, before the wire that attaches his headset to the battery pack catches on something, yanking the headset off his head. He jerks and swears, picking the headset up from the floor and untwisting the wire before putting it back on. The only good thing about this job is the money, and the free food that the manager lets him take home at the end of his shift when they replace all the stock. Even if the bread and doughnuts are a little stale, they're still free and none of the Winchesters complain.

Well, Sammy still complains sometimes, but Sammy can always find something to complain about when he wants to. Someone ordered a dozen triple chocolate chip cookies hours ago and still hasn't picked them up, so that should appease Sammy, although Dad won't be thrilled with the resulting sugar high. Tough luck, Dean thinks. He's already sick and tired of "normal", and if a bag of cookies will buy him an evening free of pestering little brothers who are fascinated with the idea of "real" jobs that don't involve killing things, he'll gladly pay the price.


Dean puts two bags full of bagels, bread, and cookies, and a large box of doughnuts next to Sammy in the back seat. Sammy's already shoving a cookie into his mouth by the time Dean climbs in the front. "Here," Dad hands him a bundle of clothing, which turns out on closer inspection to be jeans and a shirt, "There's a string of violent deaths over in Philadelphia I want to check out. Save some of those for later, Sammy."

Dean changes out of his work uniform as Dad pulls onto the highway, shimmying a little to get his jeans all the way on and buttoned. "Ghost?" Dean asks, yanking off the work shirt and balling it up icing-stain-in before pulling on the clean shirt and buckling his seatbelt.

"Maybe, but I don't think so. All of the victims are missing their fingernails."

"What does that?" Dean asks as he pulls a few maps from the glove compartment and finds the one for Ohio and Pennsylvania. Dad doesn't answer, and Dean lets the question drop. Either it's something Dad hasn't seen before, which means a lot of research, or else Dad has a good idea of what it probably is, but isn't completely sure yet and wants to look at the evidence before committing to a theory. A cookie hovers over his left shoulder, and he takes it, "Thanks, Sam," and eats as he calculates the best route to Philadelphia on the maps. It'll be eight hours, give or take, plus a couple days to figure out what is killing people and hunt it down... "I'll call in the morning, let them know I'm sick and won't be in for a few days."

"Tell 'em you quit. I think you've learned your lesson," Dad says, and sometimes Dean really loves his father. "We'll come through after the job's done to pick up your last check." Dad flashes a grin at Dean before returning his eyes to the road, "So, how was work?"

~ End


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