The '67 Impala roared down the highway, raindrops beading up and rolling off the sleek black exterior. Dean Winchester, as he was often called, was at this moment running away from his problems. Sure, he had just killed the final Knight of Hell who had been plaguing him and his friends for months, but that didn't mean he was done. Of course, some manipulative dirtbag angel — who happened to be named Metatron; what the hell kind of a name was that? — had to still be up and kicking. No matter. Dean deserved a break. He'd had enough of dealing with Heaven and Hell's crap for the time being.
Absentmindedly, he scratched at his face, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. He still had droplets of blood splattered on his aspect from Abaddon's vessel. Grumbling something about 'damned formalities', the hunter reached past the ancient jawbone on the seat and snatched a handkerchief from the glove compartment before slamming it shut. He rubbed the blood off, not minding the caked up scabby-bits that fell into his lap, until there was no trace on his face. At least, none that he could see in the rear-view mirror. He didn't even bother trying to clean it off his hands or the bone. There was no way it would all get off. And, if worst came to worst and he had to talk to people, he could just stuff his hands in his pockets and the jawbone in his belt.
With a sigh, he shuffled through the box of cassette tapes sitting under the radio, and shoved the one labeled Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx into the tape deck. The familiar snare-and-guitar beat of Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song bellowed through the car, and he tapped his fingers on the wheel in time. To be honest, he had no idea where he was going, just that he was going. He had to get away; it was becoming clear that he couldn't keep burning the candle at both ends. If he kept at it like this, it wouldn't be long before he snapped at Cas or Sam or, hell, even Crowley. If someone had told the Hunter a few years ago that he would be bearing the Mark of Cain and running around without little Sammy, he would have told them to screw off. Yet here he was. Speeding down an unfamiliar road, with nobody in the passenger seat, and that brand-like mark on his arm giving him an itch to gut something, even though he didn't have anything to be particularly mad at at the moment.
As he was musing, the sun caught his eye, reflecting off the sign he passed and drawing his eyes to it. The sun was directly overhead, highlighting the chipped painted sign that spelled out, Welcome to Storybrooke! "Storybrooke?" The Hunter scoffed. "Well that's flamboyant." The town seemed quiet enough. From what he could tell with the way people seemed to walk on the street and engage with others, these people seemed to feel very safe and comfortable around each other. It looked to be your average 'We look out for our own' kind of small town, couldn't be more than four-thousand citizens. Brrrreauuuughhhh. His growling stomach pulled him out of his thoughts, and he parked near a building advertising Granny's Diner, grumbling to himself, "Yeah, yeah." Pulling the key out of the ignition caused the music to cut off, but that wasn't important. He leafed through his wallet and found enough cash from his most recent poker hustle to get a burger and still have some left over. So, after stuffing his gun and the jawbone into his waistband behind his back, he threw on his jacket and stepped out of the Impala.
The door of the diner was left open to let some of the noontime air in, and the moment he stepped foot inside, all eyes were on him. If it were an old western movie, music would've abruptly cut off and the floor he was standing on would have squeaked. The Hunter did his best to ignore it, and many of the patrons went back to their food and conversations, pretending he wasn't there. He sat at an empty table in the center of the diner and an older-looking lady wearing glasses stepped up in front of him.
"Welcome to Granny's Diner," she said, an air of suspicion in her voice. "I'm Granny. You know what you want, or can I get you a menu?"
"Yeah, uh, you got burgers here?" She nodded, so he continued, "Okay, then I'll take a burger with extra onions, and a black coffee, please."
She nodded and tapped the table, saying, "Coming right up."
"Thanks," he nodded as she stalked off toward the kitchen. He looked around the diner, and tried to ignore his phone buzzing in his pocket. I've gotta talk to him eventually. He sighed and flicked his phone out. "Hey, Sam."
"Dean," the voice on the other end of the line snapped. "Where the hell are you? I've been calling you for hours!"
"Listen Sammy, I need a break. I can't keep this up forever. Hell, man, I haven't had three days without a case! I just need a week at least, man. Give me a week or two vacation, and then I'll come back and we can deal with Metatron. 'Sides, Sam. We both know this isn't about that angel, brother." He didn't wait for a reply before hanging up and shoving the cell back in his jacket.
"Here's your burger," a girl with long curly brown hair set down a plate and cup of coffee in front of him, eyeing him carefully.
"Thank you..." he glanced at the name badge on her shirt and let out a chuckle. "Ruby."
She nodded curtly and looked him over again before leaving to deliver another order. He dug into his burger and attempted to overlook the stares and whispers being sent his way. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark-haired woman approaching a woman of smaller stature at the booth next to him. He did his best to focus on his food, but he couldn't help but overhear their conversation. "So how is Henry, is he okay?"
"He's fine," the sitting woman assured the first. "Everything's fine."
"What'd he say?"
"I didn't actually talk to him."
The first woman sighed sharply and sat down. "Then why am I here?"
"Because I know you've been lying," the other replied without hesitation. "And I thought it was time we talk about it."
Dean listened intently. What was this about? Was Henry one of their husbands who was cheating with the other lady? Were they married and this was a confrontation about an affair? Was Henry a mutual friend with a secret one of them was covering up?
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
Lady Number Two cut her off. "No, no, no, no. No more lying," she said in a strict voice, as if instructing a child. She continued, "I know you've been with your mother. I know you're looking for the dagger."
Well that wasn't what he was expecting. Dean ruled out all of the aforementioned ideas while taking another bite of his burger. Could they mean...? No. No, that was impossible. That blade was so goddam far away that even he couldn't get to it if he tried. Not that he would want to.
Lady Number One took a breath and snapped, "What I'm doing is my business."
"There's a war starting, Regina."
"That much is clear, yes."
"Lucky for you, you've earned enough goodwill with me to give you one last chance. A chance to choose the right side, the side of good."
A war? What the hell were they talking about? Some sort of wild family feud? Or was it like those Live-Action-Role-Playing wierdos?
The now-named Regina retorted, "Have you ever considered that maybe, perhaps, I am good? I was always the Queen, it was you who added 'Evil' to my name."
Oh. Definitely L.A.R.P. Unless...
"Good doesn't do what you do," the second lady pushed. "Why? Regina, why go back to being this way after how hard you tried?"
"And what did it get me? Dinner with a bunch of hypocrites who pretend they'll forgive me, when, in their hearts, they know they never will. You're giving me a chance? How about I give you one. Stay out of my way." With that she stood.
"Listening to your mother is a mistake, Regina," the — still unnamed — woman insisted.
"Because listening to you will work out so much better."
"She doesn't care about Henry. All she wants is power."
"Power's how you get things."
Almost reluctantly, she added, "She doesn't care about you."
Regina glared. "And what would you know about mothers?" With that, she left.
The Hunter whistled low and took a sip of his coffee. "Well that was harsh."
The lady at the booth looked at him, seeming to notice his presence for the first time. She looked at him with an almost unrecognizable expression; somewhere between curiosity and disbelief. "Who are you?".