SPN FIC - Magic Chef
"We've got a real kitchen now," he told Sam -- but there's more to it than that.
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
MAGIC CHEF
By Carol Davis
It's not just a matter of having a kitchen - they've had kitchens before. The one in Rufus's cabin was reasonably well stocked, as was Bobby's, and there've been a few motel rooms along the way with surprisingly functional kitchenettes.
There's more to it than that.
Knowledge? Ability?
Over the years, he's logged a lot of hours watching the Food Network: lessons on how to season meat and keep it moist; how to garnish things to make them visually interesting and more palatable. He's watched TV personalities demonstrate how to roast fowl, make a terrific kettle of soup out of leftovers, bake from scratch a cake that uses only half a dozen(ish) ingredients, and fry up omelettes that taste like a gift from the gods.
He's not exactly clueless, where cooking is concerned.
He's been unmotivated, yes, but not clueless. You could say that all he needed was time, and opportunity. A block of hours where he feels reasonably relaxed, and out of danger, in a place that feels something like a home.
And he's got all that, here and now.
Still, there's more to it than any (or all) of that.
After all, this particular kitchen was put together something more than fifty years ago - back when there were no microwaves, no automatic coffeemakers, no non-stick cookware. Everything in it looks like it was snatched out of an old black-and-white sitcom. Working in it makes him feel as if Ward Cleaver's going to walk in any minute now, asking what's for dinner, or that Timmy's going to show up with Lassie at his heels.
He had to buy all the food; the Letters left nothing behind. No salt and pepper, no flour, no ketchup, no butter.
So yeah: he's been in situations something like this. Some that were a little better than this. Some that were worse.
Some that were a lot worse.
But he's never been in a situation like this.
One where, in the most minute of ways, when he's cooking, it feels like somebody's moving him around. Like somebody's manipulating him, like Sigourney Weaver did with that ass-kicking robo-suit in Aliens. Not possessing him; it's not that, exactly, because there's no sense of wrong, no feeling of cold, or pain, or other.
More like… somebody's showing him what to do.
Like his mom and dad did, so long ago, guiding his small hands with their larger ones. Gently, with great love and warmth. Guiding him, teaching him, so that someday he can do it on his own.
Somewhere along the line, he figures, this kitchen belonged to someone. This was someone's domain, the place that that someone preferred to be.
If he closes his eyes and listens very carefully (not straining, though; more like, letting go and listening, the way you do when you're drifting off to sleep), he can hear the faint strains of old swing music. The big bands, heavy on the sax, like some of the old LPs he found upstairs. Toe-tapping stuff, all of it upbeat, joyful.
Yes: someone was happy here.
In their element.
And they left that behind.
He doesn't bother to mention any of that to Sam. There's no need to, not when Sam is in his glory with all those books. Not when he can make Sam happy by bringing him a plate of stew and biscuits, or a fat ham-and-cheese sandwich with a dash of homemade mayo, or some steel-cut oatmeal with fruit and brown sugar.
There's no need to tell Sam that this kitchen's special.
Not as long as they can both enjoy what someone left behind.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
MAGIC CHEF
By Carol Davis
It's not just a matter of having a kitchen - they've had kitchens before. The one in Rufus's cabin was reasonably well stocked, as was Bobby's, and there've been a few motel rooms along the way with surprisingly functional kitchenettes.
There's more to it than that.
Knowledge? Ability?
Over the years, he's logged a lot of hours watching the Food Network: lessons on how to season meat and keep it moist; how to garnish things to make them visually interesting and more palatable. He's watched TV personalities demonstrate how to roast fowl, make a terrific kettle of soup out of leftovers, bake from scratch a cake that uses only half a dozen(ish) ingredients, and fry up omelettes that taste like a gift from the gods.
He's not exactly clueless, where cooking is concerned.
He's been unmotivated, yes, but not clueless. You could say that all he needed was time, and opportunity. A block of hours where he feels reasonably relaxed, and out of danger, in a place that feels something like a home.
And he's got all that, here and now.
Still, there's more to it than any (or all) of that.
After all, this particular kitchen was put together something more than fifty years ago - back when there were no microwaves, no automatic coffeemakers, no non-stick cookware. Everything in it looks like it was snatched out of an old black-and-white sitcom. Working in it makes him feel as if Ward Cleaver's going to walk in any minute now, asking what's for dinner, or that Timmy's going to show up with Lassie at his heels.
He had to buy all the food; the Letters left nothing behind. No salt and pepper, no flour, no ketchup, no butter.
So yeah: he's been in situations something like this. Some that were a little better than this. Some that were worse.
Some that were a lot worse.
But he's never been in a situation like this.
One where, in the most minute of ways, when he's cooking, it feels like somebody's moving him around. Like somebody's manipulating him, like Sigourney Weaver did with that ass-kicking robo-suit in Aliens. Not possessing him; it's not that, exactly, because there's no sense of wrong, no feeling of cold, or pain, or other.
More like… somebody's showing him what to do.
Like his mom and dad did, so long ago, guiding his small hands with their larger ones. Gently, with great love and warmth. Guiding him, teaching him, so that someday he can do it on his own.
Somewhere along the line, he figures, this kitchen belonged to someone. This was someone's domain, the place that that someone preferred to be.
If he closes his eyes and listens very carefully (not straining, though; more like, letting go and listening, the way you do when you're drifting off to sleep), he can hear the faint strains of old swing music. The big bands, heavy on the sax, like some of the old LPs he found upstairs. Toe-tapping stuff, all of it upbeat, joyful.
Yes: someone was happy here.
In their element.
And they left that behind.
He doesn't bother to mention any of that to Sam. There's no need to, not when Sam is in his glory with all those books. Not when he can make Sam happy by bringing him a plate of stew and biscuits, or a fat ham-and-cheese sandwich with a dash of homemade mayo, or some steel-cut oatmeal with fruit and brown sugar.
There's no need to tell Sam that this kitchen's special.
Not as long as they can both enjoy what someone left behind.
* * * * *