![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
everysecondtuesday posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tuesdayficTitle: Five Pies Dean Hated (And One He Loved)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam, John (gen)
Spoilers: General spoilers through S4.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1068 words.
Summary: Five pies Dean hated (and one he loved).
Notes: This was written formorebutterflys for the current round of spn_bitesized, FIVE. It being three_weeks_for_dw, this is a Dreamwidth exclusive for the next three weeks.
1. "That's not pie," Dean said loudly, and Sammy burst into tears.
"Be nice to your brother," John said absently, his attention on someone across the field, and Dean didn't know why they couldn't have been left at the motel rather than dragged to the park with John.
"But I, but I," Sammy hiccuped and said something garbled and beyond all understanding, ending in "for you!"
"It's mud," Dean said, glaring fiercely, because three year olds were the most annoying creatures on the planet, "not pie, and I'm not eating it."
If there were awards for being a good older brother, Dean thought he should win them all, because in the end, Dean took a bite anyway. Instead, because this was Dean's life, he got in trouble, because Sammy followed his lead and ate the rest of it, leading to him getting sick all over the Impala's backseat on the drive home, and when John asked what had led to this moment of genius on Sammy's part--the real answer being he was three and thought mud was the best new ingredient for pie--Sammy had pointed a shaking hand at Dean and started crying again.
2. "Who drugs pie?" Dean demanded. "What evil jack-ass does that kind of thing?"
"Could we focus less on the pie," Sam asked, "and more on how we're going to get out of this?"
Dean's handcuffs, it turned out, were loose enough that he could dislocate his thumb and slip his hand out. It was just as fun as it sounded.
"Seriously," Dean said after they'd finished their hunt and taken out the group of witches who'd been arguing whether to use them for a ritual requiring human sacrifice, or if they could trade them to demons, "messing with a man's pie? That's just wrong."
"And killing twelve people," Sam said sarcastically, "that's not so bad."
Dean pointed a finger at him and said, "There are some lines you don't cross."
Sam rolled his eyes and got in the car.
3. It wasn't the pie's fault, Dean reminded himself. It wasn't the pie's fault his brother was going to get himself killed and had chosen to keep secrets and had turned into a demon blood junkie.
The pecans tasted like ashes in his mouth, and Dean didn't stop for food again before confronting his brother.
4. "Is this a bribe?" Dean asked, staring at the blueberry pie with suspicion.
"It's not a bribe," Sam said. "It's just pie."
At the time, despite his trepidation, Dean enjoyed it. It was the perfect mix of sweet and tart, and wherever Sam had gotten it had made it with a latticework crust with sugar baked into it for unexpected crunches of sweetness. Sam had also bought vanilla ice cream, which was what had tipped Dean off that this was not the normal "I'm awesome and picked up food" kind of pie; Dean's suspicions were entirely justified when John got back and Sam revealed his plans to leave for Stanford.
Dean didn't usually get involved in their fights, but now he couldn't say anything if he wanted to, because Sam had bought his silence with delicious blueberry pastry goodness. When Sam looked over mid-fight to send Dean a pleading look, Dean mouthed, outraged, Totally a bribe, and Sam's eyes went narrow, his lips tight. He slammed out of the motel room maybe ten minutes later, and John followed barely sixty seconds after.
Maybe a quarter of the blueberry pie and a half tub of melting ice cream remained, but Dean threw it away. It felt like sacrilege, throwing away pie, but this wasn't real pie: it was a bribe, and pie for a brother wasn't a trade Dean was okay with making.
"Traitor," Dean muttered at the garbage bin, and he wasn't sure who he was talking to--the pie, Sam, or himself.
John didn't come back until morning. Sam didn't come back at all.
5. Dean's fifteenth birthday, they were stuck in a small Midwestern town. John had rented a furnished house after the first two weeks, and they were there three months total. John was gone most days, and he missed Dean's birthday itself, but Dean didn't expect any different by this point.
Dad's job is important, Dean reminded himself, and if it stung, it was a pain he was used to, one dulled by familiarity.
The house was a faded white, with two bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a closet, the rickety coffee table in the living room serving as their dining table. The oven was slow to heat and cooked food unevenly, such that it wasn't even good for frozen dinners, but Dean didn't want to make himself a birthday cake anyway; take-out was easier and didn't require so much clean-up. Dean didn't even know that "furnished" included an incomplete kitchen set with pots, pans, and several measuring cups until he returned with their food--double bacon cheeseburgers and fries, because birthday boy got to choose the food, never mind Dean always chose anyway--to find Sam with flour in his hair, dough on his chin and forearms, and splatters of red and blue like tie dye gone horribly wrong on his shirt.
"Did you kill the Pillsbury dough boy?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.
"Shut up," Sam said, "you're not allowed to look until it's done."
At this point, Dean was resigned to the worst birthday cake ever, though he didn't see a frosting can in the brief glimpse he got of the kitchen before Sam bodily shoved him out, still so much smaller than Dean but making up for it with sheer force of will.
Instead, Dean got the one of the worst pies of his life. The back half was charcoal. The middle was too wet. The front was somehow still doughy. Two candles--green and blue, the ends burnt and with dried wax down the sides, indicating Sam had probably saved them from his own birthday cupcakes the previous May--listed to the side in the goopy berry swirl. Sam looked like he might cry, but he just said, "You don't--you don't have to eat it. We can go back out--"
"Shut it," Dean said. "This is my birthday pie."
It tasted as bad as it looked, but he ate three slices, and though he was up sick half the night, it was probably the happiest pie had made him since their mom died.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam, John (gen)
Spoilers: General spoilers through S4.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1068 words.
Summary: Five pies Dean hated (and one he loved).
Notes: This was written for
morebutterflys for the current round of spn_bitesized, FIVE. It being three_weeks_for_dw, this is a Dreamwidth exclusive for the next three weeks. 1. "That's not pie," Dean said loudly, and Sammy burst into tears.
"Be nice to your brother," John said absently, his attention on someone across the field, and Dean didn't know why they couldn't have been left at the motel rather than dragged to the park with John.
"But I, but I," Sammy hiccuped and said something garbled and beyond all understanding, ending in "for you!"
"It's mud," Dean said, glaring fiercely, because three year olds were the most annoying creatures on the planet, "not pie, and I'm not eating it."
If there were awards for being a good older brother, Dean thought he should win them all, because in the end, Dean took a bite anyway. Instead, because this was Dean's life, he got in trouble, because Sammy followed his lead and ate the rest of it, leading to him getting sick all over the Impala's backseat on the drive home, and when John asked what had led to this moment of genius on Sammy's part--the real answer being he was three and thought mud was the best new ingredient for pie--Sammy had pointed a shaking hand at Dean and started crying again.
2. "Who drugs pie?" Dean demanded. "What evil jack-ass does that kind of thing?"
"Could we focus less on the pie," Sam asked, "and more on how we're going to get out of this?"
Dean's handcuffs, it turned out, were loose enough that he could dislocate his thumb and slip his hand out. It was just as fun as it sounded.
"Seriously," Dean said after they'd finished their hunt and taken out the group of witches who'd been arguing whether to use them for a ritual requiring human sacrifice, or if they could trade them to demons, "messing with a man's pie? That's just wrong."
"And killing twelve people," Sam said sarcastically, "that's not so bad."
Dean pointed a finger at him and said, "There are some lines you don't cross."
Sam rolled his eyes and got in the car.
3. It wasn't the pie's fault, Dean reminded himself. It wasn't the pie's fault his brother was going to get himself killed and had chosen to keep secrets and had turned into a demon blood junkie.
The pecans tasted like ashes in his mouth, and Dean didn't stop for food again before confronting his brother.
4. "Is this a bribe?" Dean asked, staring at the blueberry pie with suspicion.
"It's not a bribe," Sam said. "It's just pie."
At the time, despite his trepidation, Dean enjoyed it. It was the perfect mix of sweet and tart, and wherever Sam had gotten it had made it with a latticework crust with sugar baked into it for unexpected crunches of sweetness. Sam had also bought vanilla ice cream, which was what had tipped Dean off that this was not the normal "I'm awesome and picked up food" kind of pie; Dean's suspicions were entirely justified when John got back and Sam revealed his plans to leave for Stanford.
Dean didn't usually get involved in their fights, but now he couldn't say anything if he wanted to, because Sam had bought his silence with delicious blueberry pastry goodness. When Sam looked over mid-fight to send Dean a pleading look, Dean mouthed, outraged, Totally a bribe, and Sam's eyes went narrow, his lips tight. He slammed out of the motel room maybe ten minutes later, and John followed barely sixty seconds after.
Maybe a quarter of the blueberry pie and a half tub of melting ice cream remained, but Dean threw it away. It felt like sacrilege, throwing away pie, but this wasn't real pie: it was a bribe, and pie for a brother wasn't a trade Dean was okay with making.
"Traitor," Dean muttered at the garbage bin, and he wasn't sure who he was talking to--the pie, Sam, or himself.
John didn't come back until morning. Sam didn't come back at all.
5. Dean's fifteenth birthday, they were stuck in a small Midwestern town. John had rented a furnished house after the first two weeks, and they were there three months total. John was gone most days, and he missed Dean's birthday itself, but Dean didn't expect any different by this point.
Dad's job is important, Dean reminded himself, and if it stung, it was a pain he was used to, one dulled by familiarity.
The house was a faded white, with two bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a closet, the rickety coffee table in the living room serving as their dining table. The oven was slow to heat and cooked food unevenly, such that it wasn't even good for frozen dinners, but Dean didn't want to make himself a birthday cake anyway; take-out was easier and didn't require so much clean-up. Dean didn't even know that "furnished" included an incomplete kitchen set with pots, pans, and several measuring cups until he returned with their food--double bacon cheeseburgers and fries, because birthday boy got to choose the food, never mind Dean always chose anyway--to find Sam with flour in his hair, dough on his chin and forearms, and splatters of red and blue like tie dye gone horribly wrong on his shirt.
"Did you kill the Pillsbury dough boy?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.
"Shut up," Sam said, "you're not allowed to look until it's done."
At this point, Dean was resigned to the worst birthday cake ever, though he didn't see a frosting can in the brief glimpse he got of the kitchen before Sam bodily shoved him out, still so much smaller than Dean but making up for it with sheer force of will.
Instead, Dean got the one of the worst pies of his life. The back half was charcoal. The middle was too wet. The front was somehow still doughy. Two candles--green and blue, the ends burnt and with dried wax down the sides, indicating Sam had probably saved them from his own birthday cupcakes the previous May--listed to the side in the goopy berry swirl. Sam looked like he might cry, but he just said, "You don't--you don't have to eat it. We can go back out--"
"Shut it," Dean said. "This is my birthday pie."
It tasted as bad as it looked, but he ate three slices, and though he was up sick half the night, it was probably the happiest pie had made him since their mom died.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-01 01:15 pm (UTC)Hahaha! I'm with Dean on that.
The last pie was so sweet. Of course it would be a happy awful pie if Sammy made it.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-02 07:59 am (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2010-05-01 03:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-02 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-01 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-02 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-02 05:20 am (UTC)And, oh, that last one! It's incredibly sweet (Sam baking for Dean, Dean appreciating it) with just a touch of awful (John not being there), rather like the pie it contains.
In summation: ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-05-02 08:01 am (UTC)