The local diner of......whatever town they were in was small and quaint and......homely.

Sure, Dean ate in a lot of diners. He pretty much ate at a diner in every state, trying every greasy food he could get his hands on.

It was quiet in the diner, save for the few patrons that came and went with their to-go cups of coffee and the waitresses and cooks in the back.

Dean, who had left Sam behind in the motel room, took a seat at a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. A waitress had brought over a menu for him, setting it down on the table and then leaving. He scanned it for a moment, trying to decide what he wanted -- he settled on a breakfast sandwich with bacon.

Nobody came over to him for a few more minutes, and, well, he grew impatient. So, he called over to the (mildly attractive, to put it nicely) waiter that stood near the counter.

"'Scuse me, sweetheart," he called out to them, "can I get a cup of coffee? Black?"