Breathe With Me (One, Two, Three)

Chapter 1: The Stubborn Waiter

"What a dick."

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Dean was starting to get fed up with his family. First, Sam goes off to Stanford- which is obviously fine- but he disconnected his phone, cut ties with him and John. Dean didn't ask for much from his brother when he saw him off as he went to the bus. All he said was for him to shoot him a text, tell him he's alive. Did that happen? Nope. Nuh uh.

Then, John decided to be, well, John and disappear in the middle of the night without saying anything. All he did was leave a note. It's time we've hunted on our own. Apparently, he didn't want to say it face-to-face, wasn't man enough to say it. He always thought John meant it when he said family always stuck together.

Go to Hell, Dad.

Now, he was hunting on his own but he was tired. With no one to watch his back, he was wound up and sleep-deprived. He had to do all his research on his own because he didn't have enough money to buy another phone after a fugly destroyed it. He was dirty and worn out and hungry. He probably looked homeless. Hell, he lived in his Impala.

He'd been driving for hours now, running near empty on the gas tank, and his stomach had decided to make itself known. He figured it had been a couple days since he last ate and finally went to turn into a town nearby. God, he didn't even know what state he was in. Last time he checked, he was somewhere in Oklahoma.

Geez.

He pulled up in front of a local diner and stumbled on in, thankful it was early in the morning. There was barely anyone around and anyone that did see him only cast him one or two worried glances. He quickly slid into a booth in the back away from anyone's wandering gazes and sank down in the comfortable, worn seats.

"You look like Hell."

Dean looked up to see a waiter looking at him with a raised eyebrow, a menu in his hand. He looked about his age, twenty-three, and held himself with caution. Rightfully so since Dean probably looked like a serial killer on the run. He wore a black shirt that said Support Madison Wisconsin's School for Gifted Artists. There was a cool splash of colors behind the words and a signature at the bottom. One of the artists in the school probably made it. Well, at least he knew where he was now. He took in the rest of the man's appearance. He had windblown black hair and bright green eyes that looked like someone had cut an emerald and stuck it in his face. He had a healthy tan, like he spent most of his time outside, and he seemed to work out a bit in his spare time. He held himself carefully, like he was ready to fight. It didn't seem intentional, more like he had stood like that so many times, it was second nature.

"Feels like it," He chuckled in response to the waiter's comment. He looked at his name tag. Jackson. "So, Jackson," He tapped the cover of the menu the other had dropped in front of him not unkindly. "What's the cheapest thing you got here."

Jackson quirked an eyebrow, green eyes dropping to the menu before looking at Dean, "How much money you got on ya?"

The Winchester dug in his pockets for a moment and produced a couple of crumpled bills, laying it out on the table. He didn't say anything as Jackson reached over and unfolded them to count it all. He realized that the man didn't move his hands from over the table, unconsciously showing that he wasn't going to run away with his money or scam him. "So?" He bit his lip when the waiter frowned for a split second before his features smoothed out.

"This'll do you good," Jackson snatched up the menu with a smile. He turned around slightly to look back at one of the waitresses walking around near the front, "Hey, May, get this guy a drink, will ya?"

"Get it yourself, you lazy bastard," A redhead said with a fond eyeroll. "I ain't your maid."

"I'd fire you if you were," The waiter responded, pouting at her. "You'd be a lousy maid. You'd poison me first chance you get."