The Family Beans had been open ever since Sam was an infant. And its appearance had remained about the same ever since. All the original furniture was there — except, perhaps, the loveseat in the corner that had broken after the Halloween incident — worn into superb comfiness by the years of patrons resting their legs, kicking their feet up, balancing laptops on the arms of chairs, and letting their rambunctious offspring climb and hang off the backs of them. Keys jingling on his fingers, Sam bumped his hip against a wicker chair, scooting it back the inch it had been knocked from its spot.

The only lit-up portions of the house now were the space behind the counter and the storage in the back.
Dean, leaning against the sink, was absentmindedly scrubbing an already speckless blender with a tattered rag as his brother approached. He glanced up only to take the keys. "All locked up?"

"Yeah."

The room was silent for several seconds, save for the plastic squeaking under the cloth, then Dean broke out into a snicker, "You sure he didn't flash you?"

Crossing his arms, Sam joined in on the laughter, "I dunno, man, he just wanted an onion."

"Sounds to me like he just chickened out. I'm telling you, he had some sorta creeper vibe."

"You're the one who chickened out and hid in the back when we had three orders waiting. Just because one guy on the streets of—"

"You promised." Dean shook the cloth in Sam's face, "To never mention it again."

"It doesn't mean every guy in the same coat does."

"My point stands. He was creepy anyway."

Sam shook his head, "Not really, no. He had more of a... childish vibe than creepy. Like he was just lost or something, except really focused on being lo— okay, yeah, that's actually kinda creepy."

"M'tellin' ya." Dean set the blender and rag to the side — he'd leave it to put away tomorrow — following Sam as he started a step back. Thank goodness — he was downright itching to leave already.

"What are you still doing here, anyway?" Sam questioned, flipping the kitchen light switch on his way out. "Weren't you scheduled to skip out on the last few hours of your shift?"

"Waiting for you." Dean shrugged unthoughtfully, not acknowledging the accusation.

"We drove separately, Dean."

"Yeah, I'm just making sure Trenchie isn't waiting for you out here." The back door squeaked as Sam pushed it open into the frigid night air, simultaneously reaching into his pocket for his car keys. A rusty, tan Chevette beeped to their right, flashing its lights a couple of times onto the bricks.

"That's why you stayed so late? I can handle myself."

"What, I can't keep an eye on you?" Dean locked the back door, raising his voice as Sam ambled off to his car.

Sam raised a hand with a glance over his shoulder in farewell, "It's nothing to get worked up over. We're probably never going to see him again."

They saw him again.

Dean was too busy overflowing a curly-haired woman's latte with whipped cream to notice the man's second entrance to the house, at first, even as his shoes tapped right past him and up to Sam's side of the counter. But Sam had seen him through the window and was instantly having regrets — regrets of what, he didn't know.

The guy was wearing the same coat, too, reminding Sam again of its association with flashers, but that wasn't the worst of it. Unlike yesterday, he had the sloppiest case of bedhead imaginable, complemented by his disarrayed clothes. Sam would have thought perhaps he'd slept in the same outfit and stumbled out of bed and to the same coffee-house with no cares, probably with the same ridiculous request — oh goodness, he was going to ask for an onion again, wasn't he? But Sam knew at least some of the man's outfit was different; his tie was a shade of blue slightly lighter than it was yesterday.

Sam greeted him with a thin-lipped smile, struggling to keep more than a hint of sarcasm from sneaking into it, "Hello again."

The man hesitated before speaking, his eyes flitting to the left for a split-second, then locking his laser gaze at Sam's forehead once again, "You claimed to be out of onions yesterday. Have you been restocked?"

Of course. Just Sam's luck that he'd get stuck catering to the man who searched for vegetables in a coffee shop — doomed to be stuck in a loop of No, we do not have onions today... No, we do not have onions today... like a broken record. He took a glimpse at Dean who was now scribbling a phone number on the side of the paper cup, dotting his "1" with a heart, but chuckling under his breath as he did so. He was listening. And suddenly the pressure was on Sam to tell this man off in a way that wouldn't shake a howl of laughter from his brother and, consequently, make a spectacle of himself.

He probably should have told him, "No, this is a coffee-house. We will never serve onions." Probably. But no matter how preposterous the situation was, Sam didn't have it in him to be so direct. He had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Sure, this guy had waltzed on in, asking for onions, for two days in a row now, and even though he didn't the first time, perhaps he'd take a polite hint this go-around.

The man was staring, Sam hadn't realized as he carefully chose the right words to say, and then Dean was staring expectantly too, leaving the woman batting her eyelashes to her chair.

"U-hum, sorry." Sam attempted casually, "No. No onions today." At least it was boring enough to send Dean back to the espresso machine — but still within eavesdropping distance.

"I will most likely try again tomorrow." the man's response was still unemotional, unrushed despite his tense glare.

That would have been Sam's cue to set things straight, to bring that harsh "never" to the tip of his tongue, but he didn't. "Alright," he said instead, "Maybe we will tomorrow... uh, what's your name?"

"Cas."

"Maybe we will tomorrow, Cas. Have a nice day."

Cas blinked — probably the first time Sam had seen him do so since he walked in — frozen in his square-shouldered stance for two seconds before replying, "You have a nice day..." another left-ward glance, "as well," and making his exit in confident stride.

"Sammy."

Sam bit his lip, turning around at his brother's voice.

"Did you just invite him back?"

If Cas were to be completely honest with himself, it was probable that his best choice would be to ignore whatever escapades his brother sent him on. To walk the other way when Gabriel so much as flopped his hand in a particular direction. He had pondered this under the spray of the automatic sprinklers in the vegetable section, scrutinizing how the water droplets rolled off the parsnip in his palm. That was what he was attempting, walking in the opposite direction: the grocery store was across the street from the coffee-house.

Now, Cas, with a full plastic bag hooked around each finger, discreetly clicked the apartment door shut behind him.

Nevertheless, Gabriel's head fell back over the arm of the sofa, greeting his brother with a mischievous, upside-down eyeroll. "Cassie, Cassie, Caaassie," he groaned, kicking his feet off the table and rushing to the door, "There's my favorite eyesore. Did you get my onion? Oh, you can't even put your tie on straight! You can't expect me to dress you every morning."

Gabriel smoothed down the offending tie, giving it a sarcastic pout.

Cas' fingers trembled under the weight, "Gabe, may I first get to—"

"No, no, no. No." He wagged an orange finger at Cas' nose, still fumbling with the tie. Smoothing it wasn't enough. It was tied in at least two flimsy knots, and turned around backwards for good measure. Gabriel had the gall to undo the knots by hand, reloop the entire thing around his brother's neck, and tie it all over again, correctly this time. He then licked his fingers and smushed them into Cas' hair, a poor attempt to tame the unruly tufts that stuck up every which way.

Cas cringed. He doubted his hair was any neater — only slick with his brother's saliva and, very likely, soggy Cheeto crumbs.

"Even your buttons are all off!" Gabriel spoke again in an obnoxious whine, reaching for the second button where it was secured in the third button-hole.

"Enough." Cas asserted plainly as he turned his shoulder towards the kitchen, bumping Gabriel's hands away.

One hand was back in his space before he could get anywhere anyway, slapping his back harshly, without restraint. "That's my little pimp," his brother praised. It made Cas lurch forward, only able to keep from tipping over when a bag slipped his grasp and two red onions rolled across the carpet. There was a silence that was broken by a bubbly whine from the television.

"Hey now," Gabriel said with a raised eyebrow and a skeptical smirk, "where did you find those?" Surely his featherbrained sibling hadn't actually managed to wrestle onions out of the barista.

"The produce aisle," Cas snapped back before trudging into the kitchen, bag of onions abandoned on the floor.

"Nooo, they're not the same!" Gabriel wailed as he settled back down on the couch, "It has to be the Winnie's! The Winnie's onions are magical." He made a grandiose gesture, throwing his arms up above his head and flicking his wrists as a flourish on the word "magical."

Author's note: I know it's not very promising just quite yet, but I have gotten some good feedback from the short-as-heck excuse of a first chapter, so thank you guys so very much for the review and favorites and follows! I sincerely hope this story'll live up to your expectations!

Also, huuuge thank you and shout-out to my beta reader, missingmymothership on Tumblr! I'd link here if I knew how, but I'd totally suggest you go check zir blog out 'cause ze's totally lovely.

Hope you all have enjoyed so far! Let me know what you like or dislike, if you want, and regardless, you have a nice day... as well.