Work Text:
The diner sat off a state highway in central Iowa and prospered for decades before the new Interstate, built on a parallel route, sapped their profitable, big rig customers. But traffic from locals, who avoided the busy federal highway on principle when they could, kept the lights on. And, there was the inhouse bakery. Folks drove up from Des Moines for the buttery cookies, the French pastries, and the pies.
It was a semi-regular stop for the Winchesters. They rarely had any cases to pursue in the neighborhood; a visit was a welcome rest stop on long trips through the Heartland.
Sam Winchester liked the Greek salad served on a large dinner plate, a legacy of the original founding family, and the homemade chicken soup, replete with fresh and canned veggies, depending on the time of the year. And the chicken pot pie with the baby pearl onions and carrot bits shaped like little stars.
Dean Winchester was in the thrall of those fresh-baked pies, of course, particularly the house specialty, the Four-Season Apple, which featured a layer of maple custard buried under the fruit. He would call ahead and reserve a whole pie for the road. After he and Sam arrived and settled in their favorite booth, Dean would order two slices of the pie du jour along with his grilled bacon cheeseburger and steak fries. His to-go pie would be delivered in a cardboard box wrapped in twine, with a clear cellophane window through which the golden lattice crust was visible.
He would tuck it in next to him on his side of the booth, checking from time to time as if he was protecting the original Solomon's Seal from a flock of Djinn.
-----
One of the diner's regular weekend waitresses, Vanessa Ortega, had moved to Iowa from the Imperial Valley in California; she was on a scholarship to the state ag school, one of the best in the country. (Its website claims it's the best.) Vannie lived in the motel next to the diner for free on weekends, plus free meals. The wage was modest, but the tips were decent, and she would drive back to her dorm with a pocketful of cash, which paid for books and all the extra costs not covered by her scholarship. A sweet deal.
Vannie loved the university and her new friends but appreciated the weekly respite from the noisy chaos in the dorms. She could study when business was slow. She already knew the hands-on discipline of raising crops and animals; she was excited at the prospect of using scientific methods to improve the productivity and profits of the family farm.
Of course, Sam was over the moon when he first met her and learned of her plans. Few things he liked better that donning his "Sam the College Brain Cape" and helping the younger generation with their homework, particularly the smart ones. So when the Hunters would stop by, depending on the time and how busy the restaurant was, he and the waitress might share a booth, while she kept an eye on the customers. Vannie would spread her books and papers on the table, and they would dive in, while Dean got caught up on email and ate his burger and pie in peace.
If Vannie was working the cash register Sam would find a stool and sit besides her. Grill her with flash cards, read through her essays and make suggestions, and let her teach him things he had never learned at Stanford, like what's new in big animal veterinary medicine or how to read the market reports regarding commodity futures.
-----
The restaurant's owner/manager, a local named Stanley Klinsky, had no problem with Vannie taking time to study with the tall dude. He liked that Sam and his "friend" Dean hung out. Not sure what the kids would called their arrangement, even with the matching silver rings. Both men were super polite, tipped well, and ate hearty.
Dean looked like he could handle himself well in case of trouble. He had a military vibe, Stanley thought. Broad shoulders, muscular thighs under worn jeans, and the bulge of the gun under the jacket. Would sit so he could keep an eye on the door. And his pie.
Made Stanley feel okay about leaving Vannie on a weekend evening with just the cook and a dishwasher while he ran errands when the shift was slow. Maybe gone a half hour while he checked on his elderly mom at home; they had a comfy two-bedroom apartment at the far end of the adjacent motel.
Sam, on the other hand, taller and a little awkward, with long floppy hair and hazel eyes, was a sweetheart. Despite his size, he looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly. And those dimples.
It's been mentioned more than once that Sam Winchester had a remarkable ability to change his affect. Conscious of how his height might impact witnesses, for example, he would hunch slightly, shrugging under layers of Hunter Chic, soften his expression, tuck his legs in under the chair, pulls his arms closer to his body, and keep his expressive hands folded in his lap, like an obedient school boy.
It was cute how he would blush and stammer when the other waitresses–and the UPS delivery guy–would flirt with him.
Mostly Dean would sit back and grin. But sometimes he would glare if the flirt of the day crossed some line, too handsy maybe. His possessive nature would rear its head and give warning.
After the first time Sam sat with Vannie to study, Stanley saw her heart eyes and pulled her into the kitchen for "The Talk." She returned to the booth where she left Sam and stammered apologies. He waved it off and smiled.
Dean got up and wandered over. Easy mistake to make that Sam was available, he said. He didn't mentioned that half the planet had thought they were together for years before Dean finally said yes.
(See Permission.)
One night, Stanley changed his mind about the man he called "Sweet Sammy" in his head. And about some other people he took for granted as well.
The Winchesters had driven in late, arriving just at the beginning of third shift, 11 pm on a Saturday. Vannie was at the cash register, nodding off over a statistics textbook. She sat bolt upright when the bell over the door rang and couldn't help but smile when she saw Sam enter the diner, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Stanley waved from where he was wiping down tables and taking trays of dishes back into the kitchen to wash. No need to hire a bus boy or dishwasher for a slow night.
"Where's Dean," he asked. Never saw one without the other.
"We just drove over from Indianapolis. I slept while Dean powered through. I told him to nap in the car. Will wake him in a while. We need to get home to Smith County in Kansas by tomorrow afternoon. Will be my turn to drive."
Stanley did the math.
"A lot of miles," he said. "Sure you boys don't want to stay the night in the motel? Give you the 'friends and family' discount."
"Thank you, but we'll be fine. Our Baby is our home on the road."
He motioned to the sleek black car parked outside the front window.
"I'll wake him up in time for burgers and pie before we leave.
"Coffee for me, please. And might you have chicken pot pie on the menu tonight? And a side of sliced tomatoes? And one of those apple pies to go, for Dean? And he'll have his usual."
Vannie hopped off her stool and went into the kitchen to give the order to the cook on duty, an older woman of indeterminate age and heritage. Had shown up 20 years before, looking for work. She said her name was Anastasia Nicole Roman when she first arrived; Stanley called her Anna, which she seemed to like.
Good manners, a decent line cook, and a phenomenal pastry chef. She was the one who baked Dean's pies and why people would drive an hour or more for a box of eclairs, her Black Forest cake, or her specialty, Rum Babas.
Anna always dressed in black underneath her white chef's jacket. Around her neck wore a small ornate gold cross on a gold chain with a large blue stone as the centerpiece. Her light brown hair was shot with silver and tucked up in a braided bun. Could see she was pretty when she was a girl.
She was nice to the other employees and especially kind to Vannie. She praised her for her studies and would make up a box of fancy pastries for her when she aced a test, to share with her classmates back at the university.
Anna mostly kept to herself after work. She lived in a one-bedroom suite in the motel. Occasionally she would drive down to Des Moines for dinner or to shop for books, or up to Ames to attend programs at a venue that catered to the university community. She would dress up black silk and buy the best seat in the house, definitely a patron of the classical performing arts: ballets, operas, choral groups, and symphonies.
-----
Sam walked over to a booth with a clear view of the car. Dean's head was pressed against the glass on the driver's side, sound asleep. Sam watched over him through the window as fondly as Dean would his apple pie.
There were no other customers that night, but Stanley knew that when the bars closed at 2 am, folks with the hungries would be showing up, plus late shift workers including county and state police. Sometimes students would drive down from the university, taking a break from all-night study sessions.
And, maybe, a couple of lost souls, awakened after midnight by familiar nightmares, would pull on rumpled clothes and make their way to a warm meal and a friendly smile.
Rarely were the late shift customers a problem.
Except the night in question.
The front door swung open, and three men strode in like they owned the place. They were heavy-set, middle-aged, wearing knock-off camo hunting jackets–the kind sold in military surplus stores–worn dirty jeans, and steel-toed boots.
Might be brothers or just friends from work. Shared body language: smirks and swagger.
They moved across the restaurant's lobby like a squall line storming across the state's endless cornfields, battering them with wind and hail. Too much to drink, maybe. Or maybe they didn't need liquor to make them arrogant and mean.
Vannie came out from the kitchen and greeted the men with her sweet smile.
"Please, take a seat, gentlemen. I'll bring you your menus. Coffee?"
They surged toward her as one, three-headed beast.
Stanley was not a big man. Not a fighter. But he was a good guy and not a coward. He figured he would do his best to protect her. Maybe Dean would help–not clear what he or Sam did for a living–but Dean was obviously the one he could call on. Should he yell? And what about Anna? She didn't look strong enough to put up a fight.
Vannie backed up against the back wall next to the cash register, her eyes wide. The men crowded her and one reached out, caging her in, his hands on her shoulders.
It all happened so fast.
There were times when an informed observer would recognize exactly why Sam was bred to be Lucifer's vessel and proclaimed the Boy Prince of Hell.
Before Stanley could act, Sam was on his feet. It wasn't like he was hurrying exactly. The tall man was moving like a big cat in one of those animal movies his mom loved. Fluid and easy, accelerating, longer steps, and then, the leap and the pounce.
Stanley would swear under oath that the taller Winchester snarled.
Sam yanked one of the men by the collar and threw him across the diner into a booth. No effort, like flipping a dishrag into a sink. The man hit hard; something cracked. The second man he tossed over his shoulder into the same booth; didn't even bother to look behind him. Another rag, discarded. Forgotten.
When he went over the scene in his mind later, Stanley realized that the men probably each weighed in at 250, at the least.
The third man, the one with his hands on Vannie, turned his head quick enough to follow the airborne trajectories of his buddies. Sam's big left hand–Stanley hadn't noticed before how big Sam's hands were–reached around and grabbed him by the throat. The perp's hands dropped away from Vannie, who dashed into the kitchen.
Sam lifted him up one-handed, holding him at arm's length effortlessly. He cocked his head, curious, while the third man thrashed and his face turned purple.
Stanley, still stunned, watched as a wide-awake Dean burst into the diner, a big silver gun in his hand, shouting for his Sammy to drop the bastard. And out of the kitchen ran Annie, her always-neat bun disheveled, a boning knife at hand, shouting in French. Vannie followed her out, holding an even bigger knife.
-----
Without ceremony Sam dropped the third man, who writhed on the floor, clutching his neck and wheezing. Regarding the other two men, one was unconscious, draped across the table in the booth where he was thrown, and his buddy sat on the edge of the booth's bench, moaning and holding his arm.
Dean ran forward, gun now pointed to the floor. Ignoring everyone except Sam, he reached up with one hand, pulled him down by the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Sam shook his head. The big mean military man kissed him on the cheek; his look was that of love and tender devotion.
Stanley could see the broad smile and dimples from across the dining room.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
Vannie stood by the man Sam had mike-dropped near the cash register.
"You'll live," she said, toeing his ribs with her shoe.
Anna walked quickly over to the men who had landed on the booth table and bench. The unconscious one was just waking up. She pointed her knife at them and ordered them, in French and Russian, not to move. Pretty sure they got the message.
A couple of county deputies were already on their way for a meal break, so they arrived five minutes after Stanley called 911. Took everyone's statements. Sam and Dean seemed to be used interacting with the police.
Stanley was insistent that Sam had acted appropriately, defending himself against three big, angry men probably under the influence, and he had protected Vannie against an inevitable assault.
Sam stood next to the deputy who was tasked with keeping an eye on the three men while they waited for the county emergency ambulance to arrive. He didn't look angry, not even upset. He just looked contemplative, like the competent predator anticipating his prey's next move.
All that power just waiting for the opportunity to reveal itself again.
Come on, make a move. Make my day.
Who was the real Sam, wondered Stanley.
The women were surprisingly calm. They were still holding on to their knives. The deputy sheriffs were amused and just a tad condescending. They shouldn't have been.
Vannie was the baby girl princess in her family, doted on by a tribe of brothers, her parents, and grandmother. A princess who lived in overalls, drove heavy farm equipment, swung an ax, delivered calves, participated in hometown rodeos, tossed around 40 pound bags of chicken feed, and weeded the carrots by hand at high noon. She could kill a feral hog with a single shot and field dress it faster than her brothers.
Anna muttered curses at the men in some Slavic tongue, strong enough to cause the lights in the diner to flicker. She had survived war and totalitarian regimes and was not above using a knife or gun to stave off the bullies of the world.
Any court would have ruled the blood on her hands was justified.
-----
Dean flashed a badge and had a private conversation with the two deputies. Shook hands. Done and done. Okay, Stanley was going to find out exactly who these Winchesters were, if nothing more than for his peace of mind.
The ambulance arrived. The three battered hooligans, all of the fight drained out of them, were squeezed into the back. They didn't have much to say. When Sam walked out to see them off, they winced in unison and looked away.
Anna loaded up the deputies with two big bags of maple-frosted bear claws and a tray of coffees to go. Enough for the EMTs, the station house, and even the three miscreants.
-----
The sky was turning silver, with the morning clouds catching pink and gold rays on their edges. The Sunday morning shift employees were coming in, eager to find out what had happened. Didn't take much to activate the local grapevine.
Dean and Sam had finished their meal, and Dean had tucked his pie box in the black car's back seat, buffered between their duffel bags. Came back in to score one last cup of coffee for the road.
Stanley gave a quick version of the takedown, but Sam insisted on giving the women credited for intimidating the thugs, which earned them a round of applause from their co-workers. The early Sunday brunchers were arriving, so everyone went to work.
Stanley cashed out the register drawer and tucked Saturday's proceeds into his old leather bank pouch with the little silver lock and key. As usual, he would take it back to his apartment for safekeeping. Then, along with Sunday's cash, first thing Monday morning to the local bank. Did all his business face-to-face.
Anna finished her baking with a flourish of powdered sugar and a scattering of ripe raspberries. Other employees stepped up and lined the glass shelves in the display case out front with fresh paper doilies. They transferred the goodies under the watchful eye of the out-of-towners, who were already lining up at the register, cash in hand, to put in their orders. The favorites, like the mini honey cakes and decorated petit fours, available only on Sundays, would be gone by 10 am.
Now that the excitement was over, Vannie had run out of adrenaline and was stumbling as she gathered up her books to walk back to her motel room. Figured she would nap until noon, clock another shift, and drive back to the dorm.
She tripped, but before she hit the ground Sam had scooped her up in his arms, bridal style and walked out of the diner to more applause, with customers opening the doors. Dean picked up her purse, books, and school papers and followed behind. Anna and Stanley took up the rear.
They walked over to the diner's motel, just around the corner. Vannie was falling asleep in Sam's fatherly embrace, so Stanley used his master key to open her motel room door. Accompanied by Anna, Sam placed the waitress on her neatly made-up bed. Anna took off her shoes and pulled a spare blanket over her.
She murmured her thanks, rolled over, and was asleep immediately.
Dean put her purse and books on the bedside table, and they tiptoed out. Stanley locked the door.
The sun was up. Promised to be a beautiful day.
"Come," said Anna and she motioned Stanley and the two Winchesters down the row of motel doors to her suite.
"Gotta check on my mom. I'll be back," said Stanley.
Anna unlocked the door, and Dean and Sam walked into a room that was fit for 19th century royalty. Walls covered in dark red velvet decorated with gold-framed, formally posed black and white family photos. Religious paintings from a half dozen different milieus. Russian icons. One wall of bookcases, and, to Sam's educated eyes, the leather bindings were at least 100 years old.
Hand-woven rugs, two and three deep, underfoot, the kind one sees hanging in museums.
The furniture was also from another era. Upholstered in brocade. Lamps with Tiffany-glass shades. And a small chandelier dangled from the ceiling in the center of the room, hung with ruby-colored crystals and lit with the tiniest fairy lights Dean and Sam had ever seen. Like Anna was celebrating Christmas every day.
And somehow, everything look comfortable and inviting, even a little messy. Lived in. There were piles of cooking and travel magazines on side tables and the floor, and several books, old and new, with ribbons for bookmarks.
Sam, who usually would be overflowing with questions and comments, was silent. The two men stood quietly, taking it all in. Anna was bustling in the little kitchenette, which was in an alcove beyond an open door.
There was a knock on the door, and Anna called out. Stanley walked in. He smiled at Dean and Sam and stage whispered:
"Something, huh."
"Come, come," said Anna. She carried a tray into the room and placed it on a coffee table in front of the couch that dominated the room. Somehow, in a couple of minutes, she had conjured up a full pot of coffee, glass cups in silver holders, a plate of cookies, smelling of gingerbread, and a stack of napkins, printed in images pulled from a portfolio of botanical art.
Stanley motioned Dean and Sam to sit on the couch while he took a chair. He acted like he was at home.
Anna served. The coffee was better than good; didn't need sugar or cream. And Dean had eaten three cookies before Sam put a steadying hand on his knee.
"Easy, tiger," said Sam, and they shared one of those private looks.
You know what I mean.
"I wanted to say thank you for protecting Vanessa. She is a sweet girl. There would have been more trouble if I had to intervene."
Anna saluted the Winchesters with her raised cup.
Sam leaned forward.
"Excuse me, but may I ask?"
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
"This, this is magnificent."
Anna, posture perfect, nodded and smiled, as if she was generously acknowledging a compliment from a favored subject.
"Family heirlooms," she said. "They give me comfort."
Stanley couldn't wait any longer.
"Sam, Dean, who are you?" he blurted.
Dean spoke for the first time. Sam and Dean leaned in and intertwine their hands. The matching rings glowed, picking up the kaleidoscope of colors from the Tiffany lamps.
"Sam is my husband, my first and last love. And...we are Hunters."
Stanley looked puzzled, but Anna inhaled sharply and clutched the gold cross hanging from the chain.
"Christo," she whispered. " Les Chasseurs."
She put down her cup, clasped her hands in her lap, and lowered her head, whispering a prayer in Russian.
Another mystery, Stanley thought. He bit back a question and waited. Dean and Sam looked at him and looked at each other.
They shrugged, he shrugged back.
The three men sipped their coffee and waited. Dean snuck another cookie, broke off a piece and gave it to Sam, who smiled and nibbled on it until it was gone.
An old-fashioned mantel clock with a mother-of-pearl face ticked off the time.
Finally, Anna looked up. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she looked happy and at peace.
"You are Hunters," she said. "Hunters saved my life, in Russia. Smuggled me out of the country after my family was murdered.
"A dozen countries later I ended up in Switzerland. Lived there. Then Ireland. Then Canada. I decided I needed to go to the "Ends of the Earth". So, here I am, in Iowa. Twenty years. This is home.
"Meanwhile, somehow, the Hunters found friends who were able to pack up many things. Somehow, when I settled here, boxes showed up. Like magic."
"I don't understand," said Stanley. "Hunters?"
Sam talked and talked, nonstop. Dean and Anna listened. Seemed like Anna knew some of the storyline, the basics. That definitely was a tale for another time.
An hour, a fresh pot of coffee, and a plate of cherry jam butter cookies later, Stanley understood. Surprising how quickly he was able to accept the news. Supernatural beings. Monsters and witches and ghosts. Creatures of legend. Angels? Demons? Heaven and Hell, and Heaven and Hell again?
And Dean and Sam seemed to be at the center of this parallel world. Famous? Celebrities?
Stanley stumbled to his feet.
"I'm going home," he said. "Going to sleep. Thank you both. Thank you, Anna."
And he left.
"We need to be going," said Sam. "But we'll be back. Would like to see you again."
The men stood up, as did Anna. She stepped forward.
Sam reached out with both hands and took her offered hand. And his wedding ring, with the Enochian symbols flashed, and the golden cross on her neck flashed in response.
She covered her necklace with her free hand.
Sam let go and backed off. He and Dean looked at each other for confirmation.
Anna sat down, and Dean and Sam returned to their seats on the couch.
Both silver rings and the cross were glowing. As if they recognized each other and were communicating in the language of the Angels.
"A holy man gave me the cross. Told me never to take it off, it was a blessing. Would grant me a long life. But after the Hunters saved me, they saw the cross and were sad on my behalf. They explained it came with a curse. Long life, yes, but if I ever took it off, I would die at the next sunrise. The holy man never told me that."
"We know who you are, yes? Do we call you Duchess?" asked Dean. Ever the gallant, he rose, walked over, knelt on one knee at her feet, took her hand, and kissed it.
Anna smiled.
"No one has called me that for a very long time."
Another long conversation, and hugs and kisses all around. And a bag with a loaf of walnut/apricot bread for Sam and a container of the same maple custard she put in her signature apple pie.
And then the Hunters were gone.
-----
Epilogue
Sam and Dean visited the diner once a month, more or less, for years. Introduced Anna to other Hunters, who treated her with respect while keeping her secret.
Vannie met a veterinary student eager to start his own large animal practice. He was tall and broad and blond and thought Vannie was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Their wedding after graduation, back in California, was the event of her farming community's year.
Stanley was a good friend to Anna. After his mother died, he made her a partner in the diner and motel. They had another 15 years before he passed away. He never knew about her masquerade.
Anna dyed her hair dark brown and pretended to be her own niece, named Anna Rose, taking care of an ancient Anastasia who she eventually pretended to bury and mourn. That was the story to keep her from having to move again. Another 25 years, and she was done. Left a note, asking her possessions be gifted to the Winchester family in Lebanon, Kansas. Call them; they will know what to do. Sell the motel and diner, and give the money to the ag school.
Anastasiya Nikolaevna Romanova put on her favorite nightgown and took off the the necklace. First time since 1916. Kissed it, put in on the coffee table, laid down on the couch, and waited for the dawn.