[Fic] Best Served Cold, Sam, Dean, gen
Title: Best Served Cold
Author: ginzai
Genre: Gen, fluff
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: None past early S1
Word Count: ~2450
Summary: Sam gets sweet, sweet revenge.
It's Dean jeering at Sam's bag of baby carrots that does it.
"Seriously, are you a rabbit now?"
His voice is full of what he probably imagines is well meant teasing, but it grates on Sam's nerves regardless. There had been plenty of times when money had been tight when they were kids and dinner went from whatever Dean could hastily make out of actually recognizable ingredients to split bowls of ramen or bags of stolen processed goods, but Stanford taught Sam to love salads and green, leafy things, and even weird fruits like kumquats and gooseberries.
Carrots are almost disappointingly normal in comparison but they're easy to find, even in the typically dubious gas stations the Winchesters are finding most of their meals these days. Sam's life has become a measure of taking what he can get, in this no more than in other areas. He's fine with carrots.
Or he was, right up until Dean started in on them. After that, it was on.
Sam doesn't even the score right away. That would be too easy. Besides, Dean had seen the flash of irritation on Sam's face and he'd be suspicious if Sam tried anything too early, too careful to accept anything that could be used as a means of revenge. True, Dean would probably be expecting coffee laced with a half cup of salt or something along those lines, but Sam doesn't want to start another prank war. He's got a subtler end game than that.
He wants the perfect comeuppance for Dean and his apparent desire to give himself a heart attack by thirty-five. Dean's sneered at Sam for choosing "yuppie cardboard" options such as turkey sandwiches over bacon cheeseburgers or selecting side salads instead of greasy fries more times than Sam can count and Sam? Well, Sam's a big proponent of letting the punishment suit the crime.
He plots it out thoroughly. The first step is in reducing his quarry's defenses. For other people, that would be easier said than done but Sam has literally studied his older brother for years and knows exactly where to push and where to pull to get the results he wants.
He sets his plan in motion carefully. Sam casually gets Dean his cup of caffeine the morning after the carrot incident and when, sure enough, Dean refuses to drink it, Sam shrugs and imbibes it himself. Dean watches him warily but relaxes when Sam finishes the whole cup without a single negative consequence. After that, Dean seems to think the matter forgotten and done with, the crisis averted.
It's not, not even in the slightest. Dean's not going to know what hit him.
Infiltration, complete.
Step two is in gathering what he needs. The issue isn't with getting the supplies. They're available at any of the larger grocery stores, not that the Winchesters have had much cause to shop at those as of late. The trick is with getting the car to himself and then having enough peace to actually concoct his experiment.
That last might actually be the most difficult part. Sam found a list of his necessary supplies online, but most of them require tools that Sam simply doesn't have and isn't likely to get. That in turn will mean the end resulting quality might be lowered and Sam can't risk that. It has to be perfect, otherwise the disguise will fail and Dean will guess what Sam's striving for and the results of that are not likely to be pretty. Sam's got one shot at this; he has to make sure it's pulled off without a hitch.
He thinks about it for a while, debating and rejecting ideas almost as soon as they come to him. He's fairly sure that a drill can't be used for a hand-blender, for instance. Even if it worked and the resulting taste wasn't somehow turned metalic, Sam's pretty certain that the drill would never be the same and then he'd have to deal with Dean bitching about that instead.
It takes the better part of a week for Sam to get his chance. Dean's out doing investigative footwork, basic level interviews that don't need both of them and while Sam could have gone along, he feigns a headache and stays home instead. Dean would have taken the car but the motel they're staying at is only a couple of blocks over from their targets and Sam doesn't hesitate to play the whiny sick younger brother card to get to keep it, "just in case I get hungry later."
Dean's not happy about it, but he heads out anyway. Sam gives him a 15 minute head start and then is out of bed, dressed, and out the door himself. He rushes the job and is back within a half hour, flushed and primed for success.
The reality of the situation hits soon after. Sam hasn't ever tried his hand at this before; he's sampled the end result and been suitably impressed, but it had always been something other people had done for him. Sam's only rarely had to cook anything with more complicated instructions than "open, pour, and heat" and it shows in his efforts quite clearly.
It's a messy, messy business. He doesn't have measuring cups, so has to estimate amounts. The lack of a blender is only poorly made up by his newly purchased potato masher and it's far from effective at mixing everything properly. Finally he has to give up on the masher and steal a ziplock gallon sized bag from the Impala's miscellaneous supplies, dumping the whole concoction in and squishing it manually until everything seems appropriately blended.
Finally though, he thinks it's prepared. The secret ingredient is hidden, completely disguised by chocolate and vanilla extract, and when he finger tests the resulting mixture, a warm touch of pride lights itself in his chest. It doesn't taste half bad. The bag gets stuffed into the motel's mini-fridge to chill and Sam does what he can to straighten up and hide the evidence.
By the time the lock jiggles, Sam's back in bed with the TV on to some nature documentary, the volume set for low. Dean tosses a new bottle of Advil onto the blankets as he makes his way past and Sam almost, almost feels guilty for lying about being sick, but really, if this works, it'll be for Dean's own good.
"Thanks," he mutters instead and glances up at Dean low from under his lashes. "I sort of had a craving when you were out."
Dean quirks an eyebrow at him and Sam very carefully resists the urge to flush. He did not mean for that to sound so dirty.
"Pudding!" He blurts out instead and swallows hard. "I made pudding."
"Pudding." Dean looks skeptical. "Any reason you felt like playing Susie Homemaker, Sammy?"
Sam can't resist the scowl and doesn't even try. Being too blase here would give the game away, anyway.
"I felt like it." His voice sounds petulant, but what the hell. He's supposed to be sick, right? Might as well play it up a bit. "I hadn't had any for ages and the store was out of the pre-made stuff."
"Uh huh." Dean says and Sam sees again that flicker of wariness in his eyes. Dean's older brother instincts have to be blaring right now; this is definitely the trickiest part of the whole deal. One wrong word will cause the whole thing to blow up in his face.
"Yeah. It should be ready by now. Check the fridge for me?"
Dean stares at him for a moment longer, searching Sam out, but Sam's no raw beginner. His face is perfectly innocent, the anticipation of being so damn close carefully hidden away under the irritation that he always shows when one of his headaches starts up.
Dean pulls the bag of pudding out from the fridge and, okay, so it's not the most tempting specimen Sam's ever seen but it doesn't look bad. There are maybe a couple of lumps here and there but hopefully Dean would take those for leftover pudding mix and not for the actual truth.
Dean pretends not to be glancing in the trash for evidence of any dire plots as he makes his way back over, but Sam's better at this than that and had carefully stashed the wrappings in the bathroom instead. He'd even gone so far as to purchase a box of instant mix and stashed that in the trash can instead to allay suspicion. Sam's efforts seem to have done the deed; Dean's returning to the bed a moment later with a spoon and a carefully poured measure of pudding in a leftover coffee mug.
Sam accepts it gracefully when its handed over, primly ignoring Dean's not so subtle attempts to suss him out. He eats instead, letting his eyes fall shut as the pudding slips down his throat. It's not as good as what Jessica used to make - she had an awesome hand in the kitchen, it was one of the reasons Sam had so loved her - but it's not half bad. It's rich and chocolatey and he doesn't hide a contented moan when he takes a second spoonful.
Dean's watching him and it's deja-vu with the coffee all over again.
"You can have some too, if you want." Sam offers and digs in yet again. Dean hesitates a moment, but Sam can practically feel him caving. He'd chosen chocolate pudding for a reason; Dean was a sucker for the stuff and if Sam hadn't had the homemade variety in years, he couldn't even imagine how long it had been since Dean had last had the chance.
"You didn't lace this with anything, did you?" Dean asks, but he's obviously tempted. He's heading back to the fridge even as he speaks.
Sam manages to look offended. "It's pudding, Dean, and I'm eating it too. If you don't want any, you don't have to have it. I'll eat it all myself."
Dean shrugs apologetically and Sam forces himself to only watch out of the corner of his eye as Dean gets his own mugful and settles down on the other bed. It's practically impossible to keep the smirk off his face when Dean actually takes the first bite, but Sam's worked too hard at this to slip up now. It's hell to not say a word when Dean goes back for more, leaning backwards on the pillows and lazily fishing for the remote with his other hand.
"Penguins, Sam?" He asks around his next spoonful. "Seriously, dude, you've got issues."
"It's about killer whales if that helps your masculinity any." Sam snipes back and takes another bite himself. "They're just a little sidetracked right now."
"Whatever." Dean says and keeps eating.
The show's all but over when Dean makes his first comment on the pudding itself. "This isn't like what I remember. The instant shit always had that funny aftertaste to it."
Which was true, come to think of it. That's why, when they were kids, Dean had always made the cooked version.
"I guess they changed the recipe. Why, you don't like it?" He shrugs and holds his breath, waiting for Dean's answer.
Dean pauses for a moment and Sam starts to get worried that he's suspicious again, but then he takes another bite. "Eh, it's okay." He says and Sam relaxes minutely. Then, irrationally, he gets irritated again. Just okay? Sam worked for hours on that!
"It's, I dunno." Dean goes on a moment later. "Rich. It's pretty good. Better than the cups you get at the store."
It's not exactly a rave review, but Sam's mollified regardless.
"So you do like it." He's taking a risk in pressing, he knows, but he's still got the "sick little brother" factor playing in his favor and sure enough that seems to enough to loosen Dean's tongue a bit.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says indulgently, "I like it a lot."
Sam grins so wide that his face actually hurts. The flicker of pride he'd felt before blossoms into a full blown rosy glow, warming him from the inside out. It only grows larger when Dean snags the bag of pudding from the fridge and divides the remaining amount between the two of them a few minutes later. He makes a comment about Sam making it again sometime and really, that's just the icing on the cake.
Meanwhile, it's warm and comfortable and as close to perfect as any Winchester can ask for. The Discovery Channel mumbles on in the background and Sam and Dean sit on their beds and eat their just desserts.
The facade is ripped away the next morning.
Sam wakes up when something crackly lands on his face. Pushing it aside with one heavy hand, he muzzily peers upward to where his older brother is standing over his bed, a scowl playing across his features.
"Dean?" He croaks, definitely not entirely awake and head still heavy with sleep.
"You want to tell me what that is, Sam?" Dean sounds pissed and blearily Sam tries to focus on whatever that is.
Oh.
It's playing with fire, but a snort escapes him. Dean's expression turns from angry to furious and Sam cracks up laughing, a tear actually running down his face from the force of it.
"The hell, Sam! You told me you hadn't laced it with anything!"
"I didn't!" Sam manages between chuckles, "I just followed the recipe, I didn't add anything-"
"The fuck you didn't! Tofu does not belong in pudding, Sam!"
Sam can't help smirking up at his brother. "It does when it's tofu pudding."
Dean actually gapes at him for a moment. "Please tell me you didn't just say that. Please tell me that the world isn't so cruel and terrible a place that people put tofu in their pudding voluntarily."
Flicking the empty tofu wrapper onto the floor, Sam leans back and crosses his arms behind his head.
"You said you liked it." He grins. "You ate two cups of it. You licked the spoon."
The anger slips from Dean's face all of a sudden and he falls back to sit on the other bed as though his strings have been cut, looking betrayed.
"Tofu." He spits, as if the word itself is some dirty, vile thing. "I ate tofu."
"Could have been tofurkey," Sam offers pleasantly.
"Not helping, Sam. I'm traumatized over here."
"Still want me to make more?" His tone is perfectly innocent, it's true, but really, he isn't at all surprised when two seconds later Dean tackles him off the bed.
Author: ginzai
Genre: Gen, fluff
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: None past early S1
Word Count: ~2450
Summary: Sam gets sweet, sweet revenge.
It's Dean jeering at Sam's bag of baby carrots that does it.
"Seriously, are you a rabbit now?"
His voice is full of what he probably imagines is well meant teasing, but it grates on Sam's nerves regardless. There had been plenty of times when money had been tight when they were kids and dinner went from whatever Dean could hastily make out of actually recognizable ingredients to split bowls of ramen or bags of stolen processed goods, but Stanford taught Sam to love salads and green, leafy things, and even weird fruits like kumquats and gooseberries.
Carrots are almost disappointingly normal in comparison but they're easy to find, even in the typically dubious gas stations the Winchesters are finding most of their meals these days. Sam's life has become a measure of taking what he can get, in this no more than in other areas. He's fine with carrots.
Or he was, right up until Dean started in on them. After that, it was on.
Sam doesn't even the score right away. That would be too easy. Besides, Dean had seen the flash of irritation on Sam's face and he'd be suspicious if Sam tried anything too early, too careful to accept anything that could be used as a means of revenge. True, Dean would probably be expecting coffee laced with a half cup of salt or something along those lines, but Sam doesn't want to start another prank war. He's got a subtler end game than that.
He wants the perfect comeuppance for Dean and his apparent desire to give himself a heart attack by thirty-five. Dean's sneered at Sam for choosing "yuppie cardboard" options such as turkey sandwiches over bacon cheeseburgers or selecting side salads instead of greasy fries more times than Sam can count and Sam? Well, Sam's a big proponent of letting the punishment suit the crime.
He plots it out thoroughly. The first step is in reducing his quarry's defenses. For other people, that would be easier said than done but Sam has literally studied his older brother for years and knows exactly where to push and where to pull to get the results he wants.
He sets his plan in motion carefully. Sam casually gets Dean his cup of caffeine the morning after the carrot incident and when, sure enough, Dean refuses to drink it, Sam shrugs and imbibes it himself. Dean watches him warily but relaxes when Sam finishes the whole cup without a single negative consequence. After that, Dean seems to think the matter forgotten and done with, the crisis averted.
It's not, not even in the slightest. Dean's not going to know what hit him.
Infiltration, complete.
Step two is in gathering what he needs. The issue isn't with getting the supplies. They're available at any of the larger grocery stores, not that the Winchesters have had much cause to shop at those as of late. The trick is with getting the car to himself and then having enough peace to actually concoct his experiment.
That last might actually be the most difficult part. Sam found a list of his necessary supplies online, but most of them require tools that Sam simply doesn't have and isn't likely to get. That in turn will mean the end resulting quality might be lowered and Sam can't risk that. It has to be perfect, otherwise the disguise will fail and Dean will guess what Sam's striving for and the results of that are not likely to be pretty. Sam's got one shot at this; he has to make sure it's pulled off without a hitch.
He thinks about it for a while, debating and rejecting ideas almost as soon as they come to him. He's fairly sure that a drill can't be used for a hand-blender, for instance. Even if it worked and the resulting taste wasn't somehow turned metalic, Sam's pretty certain that the drill would never be the same and then he'd have to deal with Dean bitching about that instead.
It takes the better part of a week for Sam to get his chance. Dean's out doing investigative footwork, basic level interviews that don't need both of them and while Sam could have gone along, he feigns a headache and stays home instead. Dean would have taken the car but the motel they're staying at is only a couple of blocks over from their targets and Sam doesn't hesitate to play the whiny sick younger brother card to get to keep it, "just in case I get hungry later."
Dean's not happy about it, but he heads out anyway. Sam gives him a 15 minute head start and then is out of bed, dressed, and out the door himself. He rushes the job and is back within a half hour, flushed and primed for success.
The reality of the situation hits soon after. Sam hasn't ever tried his hand at this before; he's sampled the end result and been suitably impressed, but it had always been something other people had done for him. Sam's only rarely had to cook anything with more complicated instructions than "open, pour, and heat" and it shows in his efforts quite clearly.
It's a messy, messy business. He doesn't have measuring cups, so has to estimate amounts. The lack of a blender is only poorly made up by his newly purchased potato masher and it's far from effective at mixing everything properly. Finally he has to give up on the masher and steal a ziplock gallon sized bag from the Impala's miscellaneous supplies, dumping the whole concoction in and squishing it manually until everything seems appropriately blended.
Finally though, he thinks it's prepared. The secret ingredient is hidden, completely disguised by chocolate and vanilla extract, and when he finger tests the resulting mixture, a warm touch of pride lights itself in his chest. It doesn't taste half bad. The bag gets stuffed into the motel's mini-fridge to chill and Sam does what he can to straighten up and hide the evidence.
By the time the lock jiggles, Sam's back in bed with the TV on to some nature documentary, the volume set for low. Dean tosses a new bottle of Advil onto the blankets as he makes his way past and Sam almost, almost feels guilty for lying about being sick, but really, if this works, it'll be for Dean's own good.
"Thanks," he mutters instead and glances up at Dean low from under his lashes. "I sort of had a craving when you were out."
Dean quirks an eyebrow at him and Sam very carefully resists the urge to flush. He did not mean for that to sound so dirty.
"Pudding!" He blurts out instead and swallows hard. "I made pudding."
"Pudding." Dean looks skeptical. "Any reason you felt like playing Susie Homemaker, Sammy?"
Sam can't resist the scowl and doesn't even try. Being too blase here would give the game away, anyway.
"I felt like it." His voice sounds petulant, but what the hell. He's supposed to be sick, right? Might as well play it up a bit. "I hadn't had any for ages and the store was out of the pre-made stuff."
"Uh huh." Dean says and Sam sees again that flicker of wariness in his eyes. Dean's older brother instincts have to be blaring right now; this is definitely the trickiest part of the whole deal. One wrong word will cause the whole thing to blow up in his face.
"Yeah. It should be ready by now. Check the fridge for me?"
Dean stares at him for a moment longer, searching Sam out, but Sam's no raw beginner. His face is perfectly innocent, the anticipation of being so damn close carefully hidden away under the irritation that he always shows when one of his headaches starts up.
Dean pulls the bag of pudding out from the fridge and, okay, so it's not the most tempting specimen Sam's ever seen but it doesn't look bad. There are maybe a couple of lumps here and there but hopefully Dean would take those for leftover pudding mix and not for the actual truth.
Dean pretends not to be glancing in the trash for evidence of any dire plots as he makes his way back over, but Sam's better at this than that and had carefully stashed the wrappings in the bathroom instead. He'd even gone so far as to purchase a box of instant mix and stashed that in the trash can instead to allay suspicion. Sam's efforts seem to have done the deed; Dean's returning to the bed a moment later with a spoon and a carefully poured measure of pudding in a leftover coffee mug.
Sam accepts it gracefully when its handed over, primly ignoring Dean's not so subtle attempts to suss him out. He eats instead, letting his eyes fall shut as the pudding slips down his throat. It's not as good as what Jessica used to make - she had an awesome hand in the kitchen, it was one of the reasons Sam had so loved her - but it's not half bad. It's rich and chocolatey and he doesn't hide a contented moan when he takes a second spoonful.
Dean's watching him and it's deja-vu with the coffee all over again.
"You can have some too, if you want." Sam offers and digs in yet again. Dean hesitates a moment, but Sam can practically feel him caving. He'd chosen chocolate pudding for a reason; Dean was a sucker for the stuff and if Sam hadn't had the homemade variety in years, he couldn't even imagine how long it had been since Dean had last had the chance.
"You didn't lace this with anything, did you?" Dean asks, but he's obviously tempted. He's heading back to the fridge even as he speaks.
Sam manages to look offended. "It's pudding, Dean, and I'm eating it too. If you don't want any, you don't have to have it. I'll eat it all myself."
Dean shrugs apologetically and Sam forces himself to only watch out of the corner of his eye as Dean gets his own mugful and settles down on the other bed. It's practically impossible to keep the smirk off his face when Dean actually takes the first bite, but Sam's worked too hard at this to slip up now. It's hell to not say a word when Dean goes back for more, leaning backwards on the pillows and lazily fishing for the remote with his other hand.
"Penguins, Sam?" He asks around his next spoonful. "Seriously, dude, you've got issues."
"It's about killer whales if that helps your masculinity any." Sam snipes back and takes another bite himself. "They're just a little sidetracked right now."
"Whatever." Dean says and keeps eating.
The show's all but over when Dean makes his first comment on the pudding itself. "This isn't like what I remember. The instant shit always had that funny aftertaste to it."
Which was true, come to think of it. That's why, when they were kids, Dean had always made the cooked version.
"I guess they changed the recipe. Why, you don't like it?" He shrugs and holds his breath, waiting for Dean's answer.
Dean pauses for a moment and Sam starts to get worried that he's suspicious again, but then he takes another bite. "Eh, it's okay." He says and Sam relaxes minutely. Then, irrationally, he gets irritated again. Just okay? Sam worked for hours on that!
"It's, I dunno." Dean goes on a moment later. "Rich. It's pretty good. Better than the cups you get at the store."
It's not exactly a rave review, but Sam's mollified regardless.
"So you do like it." He's taking a risk in pressing, he knows, but he's still got the "sick little brother" factor playing in his favor and sure enough that seems to enough to loosen Dean's tongue a bit.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says indulgently, "I like it a lot."
Sam grins so wide that his face actually hurts. The flicker of pride he'd felt before blossoms into a full blown rosy glow, warming him from the inside out. It only grows larger when Dean snags the bag of pudding from the fridge and divides the remaining amount between the two of them a few minutes later. He makes a comment about Sam making it again sometime and really, that's just the icing on the cake.
Meanwhile, it's warm and comfortable and as close to perfect as any Winchester can ask for. The Discovery Channel mumbles on in the background and Sam and Dean sit on their beds and eat their just desserts.
The facade is ripped away the next morning.
Sam wakes up when something crackly lands on his face. Pushing it aside with one heavy hand, he muzzily peers upward to where his older brother is standing over his bed, a scowl playing across his features.
"Dean?" He croaks, definitely not entirely awake and head still heavy with sleep.
"You want to tell me what that is, Sam?" Dean sounds pissed and blearily Sam tries to focus on whatever that is.
Oh.
It's playing with fire, but a snort escapes him. Dean's expression turns from angry to furious and Sam cracks up laughing, a tear actually running down his face from the force of it.
"The hell, Sam! You told me you hadn't laced it with anything!"
"I didn't!" Sam manages between chuckles, "I just followed the recipe, I didn't add anything-"
"The fuck you didn't! Tofu does not belong in pudding, Sam!"
Sam can't help smirking up at his brother. "It does when it's tofu pudding."
Dean actually gapes at him for a moment. "Please tell me you didn't just say that. Please tell me that the world isn't so cruel and terrible a place that people put tofu in their pudding voluntarily."
Flicking the empty tofu wrapper onto the floor, Sam leans back and crosses his arms behind his head.
"You said you liked it." He grins. "You ate two cups of it. You licked the spoon."
The anger slips from Dean's face all of a sudden and he falls back to sit on the other bed as though his strings have been cut, looking betrayed.
"Tofu." He spits, as if the word itself is some dirty, vile thing. "I ate tofu."
"Could have been tofurkey," Sam offers pleasantly.
"Not helping, Sam. I'm traumatized over here."
"Still want me to make more?" His tone is perfectly innocent, it's true, but really, he isn't at all surprised when two seconds later Dean tackles him off the bed.