Title: Sweet Cherry Pie
Original Prompt: Gabriel bakes a pie. Dean thinks it is awesome.
Summary: Gabriel gifts the brothers with a pie, a magic, endless supply of cherry pie. Has he done this out of the goodness of his heart, or is there an ulterior motive? The brothers are suspicious, but Dean's belly trumps his brain every time. Dean's belly which is about to get very, very full!
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Gabriel
Rating: I’m going to run with a K+
Warnings/Spoilers (if applicable): Spoilers for 3.11 Mystery Spot, otherwise totally non-canon.
The town’s library had been small, dusty and frustratingly devoid of any useful reference material. If Sam’s intention had been to bake a carrot cake, write a novel, lose thirty pounds, detox his colon, improve his sex life (yeah right, he had to find one first) or decorate his house taking particular account of south-facing colour schemes and favourable feng-shui, he would have hit the jackpot within five minutes, but could he find even the simplest little scrap of intel of how to deal with a particularly malicious dybbuk? Could he? Could he heck!
Thus it was that he returned to the motel room frustrated, tired, cranky and ultimately somewhat surprised to find Dean sitting at the table enthusiastically tucking into a massive cherry pie.
Dean was wearing a sublime smile of pure bliss as he glanced up at Sam and amiably nodded a hamster-cheeked, cherry-smeared greeting.
“Thanks dude,” he mumbled through a swamp of chewed pastry; “I really appreciate it.”
Sam shrugged, “what?”
“The pie,” Dean pointed his fork at the decimated wreckage of the pie; “this is totally awesome,” he gushed, spitting crumbs across the table; “best pie ever.”
Sam screwed his nose in disgust. “It wasn’t me, Dean,” he replied; “I went straight to the library when I left here.”
Dean looked down at the half-empty plate, “well it was on the table when I came out of the shower, an’ it was still hot.” He let out a happy groan and slumped back into his chair, patting his belly. Sam made an effort not to notice the distinct pie-induced bulge under his T shirt.
A sudden bolt of alarm drilled its way through Sam’s chest. “Well, if I didn’t buy it and you didn’t bake it, where the hell did it come from?”
Dean stifled a burp; “I don’t know bro’,” he sighed; “but I know where it’s going.” Priming his fork, he readied himself to dispose of the second half of the pie.
“No way man,” Sam leapt across the room in seconds and whipped the plate away, just as Dean’s fork stabbed the tabletop, the jolt travelling up his arm and rattling his teeth.
“What the hell?” he snorted indignantly, grabby hands reaching out for the receding plate.
“Dean, are you mad?” Sam snapped; “this could be supernatural, it could be poison.”
Dean paused for a moment, staring up into Sam’s face as he pondered his brother’s words.
“Well if it is,” he grumbled;” the damage is done, so I might as well croak with a smile on my face an’ finish it.” He reached out for the pie again.
Sam scowled, and stalked out of the room with it, heading toward the trash.
Dean stood bereft as he stared, horror-struck, through the window, a sheen of drool glistening on his lip as he watched the remains of his delicious pie vanish forever.
Sam strode back into the room, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Better get yourself a drink of holy water,” he sighed; “and we’ll just have to sit tight and hope for the best.”
“I’m gonna have a shower,” Sam announced the following morning, seemingly undeterred by the fact that Dean was blankly refusing to talk to him.
The bathroom door closed behind him, and Dean let out a sigh of relief as he finally turned off the sulky frown he had been wearing since yesterday’s pie incident. Wiggling his facial muscles lest they might cramp up and ‘stay that way’, he turned to the refrigerator looking for breakfast.
And his jaw dropped.
There on the table was a pie. It was almost identical in every way to the thing of beauty he had been deprived of yesterday, and he felt his mouth beginning to water profusely as the delicious aroma assaulted his nose.
Now, he knew there was something weird about this pie. It had just magically appeared out of nowhere. It was piping hot, even though there wasn’t an oven in the room. Every instinct in Dean’s body knew it was wrong, so very wrong.
On the other hand …
He glanced shiftily at the locked bathroom door.
It couldn’t be poisoned – he was pretty sure he’d be dead by now, or at the very least be giving it the full head-spinning projectile puke treatment if it was. It didn’t appear to be drugged either because Dean knew perfectly well what a good and a bad trip felt like – purely for medicinal purposes you understand – and he knew he was depressingly lucid right now; and as for being supernatural … well, what’s the worst it could be? He couldn’t be possessed thanks to his tattoo, he hadn’t been turned into a newt or any other kind of amphibian, he still had the right number of all his bodily parts - all in the right places too and so far he hadn’t sprouted horns, wings, boobs or anything else he needed to be concerned about.
And goddamnitall … he was hungry.
He glanced again at the bathroom door; Sam would be in there for ages messing with his stupid hair and moisturising and whatever else girly crap he got up to in there.
What Sam didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, right?
And fruit pie for breakfast … gotta be healthier than cold pizza, surely.
Decision made, Dean picked up a fork and sat at the table.
His nose twitched at the glorious aroma of the pie which drifted around the room, and he licked lips shining with moist anticipation as his fork hovered above it.
The glistening cherry filling oozed between fat slabs of golden, buttery pastry, and it was all Dean could do not to just slam his face into it and gorge it down without having to concern himself with the inconvenience of table manners.
Pie-eating was not just a function, it was an art; something precious and exquisite to be appreciated and savoured. Not everyone understood that, and Dean pitied those who didn’t, because they didn’t know what they were missing. He took a long lingering breath, closing his eyes as he pushed the fork into the golden crust, and listened to the sweet, musical crunch of breaking pastry. His lips stretched into a smile as felt a fat cherry bursting beneath his fork.
Lifting the loaded fork to his lips, he shovelled in the biggest mouthful he could manage. As he began to chew, his eyes rolled back into his head, face melting into a mask of pure, unadulterated bliss.
Emerging from the bathroom, refreshed and invigorated through a drifting fog of scented steam, Sam was more than a little dismayed to find Dean slumped in his chair, eyes hooded in trance-like rapture, smiling face stained cherry red; the top button of his jeans undone.
Sam’s eyes widened in horror; “please tell me you didn’t dig that damn pie out of the trash?”
Dean jolted out of his reverie, clearly not expecting to see Sam so soon, and stared up at him in alarm, “no … uh, yeah … I, um …”
Realising he’d been rumbled, he looked up at Sam like a naughty puppy who’d had his face rubbed in it.
“It just reappeared on the table,” he said in a small voice.
”What, out of nowhere?”
Sam palmed his face; “and you ate it?”
Dean looked down at the empty plate. “It seemed a shame to waste it,” he offered with a shamefaced grin.
Sam threw his arms up in despair. “Fine; you wanna eat enchanted food? You go right ahead; I’ll just sit here and research what I’m gonna do when you keel over asleep for a hundred years or turn into a freakin’ ferret.”
Dean leapt up from the chair as athletically as he could manage, remembering to grab the top of his undone pants before gravity sent them on a trip south, and snorted.
“I’m fine; I’ve had the pie twice now, and I haven’t sprouted butterfly wings and flown off to friggin’ Narnia, so quit your frettin’.”
Sam sat heavily on the side of the bed and sighed. There were times he really saw the appeal of being an only child.
Sam was sort of surprised and sort of not when he woke up the following morning to smell the delicious aroma of hot cherry pie. He was even less surprised to find Dean sitting at the table wolfing it down like a man starved.
“Mornin’,” Dean grinned, thumbing a trickle of cherry juice from his chin..
Sam rolled his eyes in reply, and reached for his muesli.
Five days passed.
Life for the Winchesters went on; cases came and went, miles were driven, fuglies were ganked and every single day saw their motel room gifted with one delicious hot cherry pie which Dean polished off with fervour, licking the plates so clean Sam was tempted to put them back in the cupboard. There were no obvious signs that he was growing tired of the mysterious treat, and, more importantly, there didn’t appear to be any ill effects; although the top button of Dean’s jeans might have argued that point.
Eventually, completely devoid of ideas of what could be going on, and in the spirit of ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’, Sam sat down one morning with a resigned sigh and joined Dean in a slice of pie.
Which he had to concede was indescribably delicious.
It didn’t matter where they went or what they did. For one hundred straight days there was a delicious hot cherry pie sitting on the table waiting for them.
Sam was amazed at his brother’s ability to eat cherry pie continuously for one hundred days and seemingly never tire of it. Sam had given up after six weeks proclaiming the next time he was forced to look at a cherry, he’d puke.
Dean’s response had been simple; “all the more for me then.”
On the one hundred and first day, they awoke to the luscious smell of pie again. This time it was different.
It was apple pie.
“Well now, that’s weird.” The Winchesters stood and stared at the steaming, golden pastry, inhaling the aromatic scent of the apple sauce which oozed from it’s latticework crust.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed; “where’d I put that fork?”
“One hundred days we get cherry pie,” Sam mused; “and suddenly it’s apple.”
His blood ran cold. One hundred and one days …
“Dean,” Sam explained breathlessly; “you died one hundred and one times at the Broward County Mystery Spot.” His shocked gaze flitted between Dean and the pie; “the last time you died, on the one hundred and first day, one of the diners had raspberry sauce instead of maple syrup on his pancakes.”
Dean shrugged, “and?”
“Don’t you see,” Sam gasped; “one hundred days we’ve had cherry pie, and on the one hundred and first day, we get apple pie.”
He stared at Dean expectantly.
Dean looked up from his pie, fork in hand; “so what’re you saying? We’re not going to get any more pie?”
Sam stifled a groan.
“Dean, what I’m saying,” he sighed; “if just for once you’ll think with your brain and not your gut – is that this is all Gabriel’s doing.”
They both spun round on hearing a slow handclap behind them.
Gabriel sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room looking mightily pleased with himself.
“What’s this about?” Sam snorted angrily, snatching the pie away from Dean and ignoring the indignant whimper that resulted; “what are you up to?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Peace offering,” he stated bluntly.
Sam’s gaze flitted between the angel and his brother. Dean’s gaze never left the pie.
“Peace offering?” he repeated unsurely.
“Yeah,” Gabriel replied with an impatient sigh that suggested he was talking to a cretin; “I’m an angel and we’re supposed to be the good guys, and I guess I did some pretty crappy things, you know, back in the day.”
He ran his hand through his bangs as if the admission was painfully awkward for him; “and so, this is me, saying sorry,” he grinned; “saying sorry one hundred and one times for all the times I killed you, Dean.”
Dean briefly tore his eyes away from the pie that Sam held for a second to glare at Gabriel.
“What’s the catch?” he snorted.
“No catch,” Gabriel replied with a shrug; “no small print, not even any conditions. There's a whole new order upstairs and the general feeling is that I should make more of an effort to do what angels are supposed to do; that is be honourable and nice.” He wrinkled his nose as if the idea had a bad smell attached to it.
Gabriel regarded the two faces that stared back at him.
Eventually it was Sam that spoke.
“Are you nuts?”
He glared furiously at the angel; “you put us through hell,” he snapped; “one hundred and one times Dean died. One hundred and one times I had to watch him die because of you, and you think that a few lousy pies is gonna put that right?”
Gabriel shrugged, “well, I said I’m sorry, c’mon it’s the hardest word an’ all … what more do you want?”
Sam’s epic bitchface twitched with anger, and a loaded silence settled over the room, simmering in all its disgruntled glory.
Suddenly, he moved toward the angel with a snort of rage. With perfect co-ordination and no small amount of fluid grace, he slammed the apple pie into Gabriel’s face, gave it a twist then stood back, letting the plate drop to the floor so that he could admire his handiwork.
Gabriel stood motionless in the middle of the room, wet chunks of apple dripping off his nose, and a large clump of pastry stuck to his forehead.
Blinking sticky, syrup-clogged lashes, he licked gobbets of thick apple juice from around his lips and flicked a limp crescent of apple flesh off his chin.
“Feel better now?” He sighed.
Sam nodded, wiping sticky hands on his jeans and ignoring his grief-stricken brother’s whispered lamentations; “m-my pie … Sam, my freakin’ pie …”
“Yes,” Sam replied calmly, taking a deep breath; “thank you.”
“my pie …” Dean whimpered.
“You’re welcome,” Gabriel replied; “s’long as you’re happy.”
Rolling his pastry-caked eyes, he glanced back at the Winchesters before he vanished in a flutter of wings, leaving a circular puddle of pie debris on the floor.
Sam turned to his brother; “well, I guess we won’t have any more trouble from him,” he announced airily, slowly beginning to backpedal across the room from the simmering green eyes that glared dangerously at him.
Dean gestured toward the mess on the floor. “My pie,” he growled; “you trashed my goddamn pie!”
“In fact,” Sam added hesitantly, reaching for the safety of the bathroom door; “I’d even go so far as to say we can all live ‘appley’ ever after.”
He slammed the door shut before him a mere second before Dean’s fork slammed into the other side like a javelin.