Fic: Kitchen Overhaul (1/4)
Part 1
"You did what?!" Dean exclaims. The rolling pin clatters against the metal prep table and a puff of flour rises into the air. Sam gives Dean a serious look, leaning over the bowl of batter in front of him.
“I registered us to be on Kitchen Overhaul,” Sam repeats, “and we got selected.”
“What? Why?” Dean gapes, eventually regaining his composure and grabbing his rolling pin once more.
“Because, Dean, their site said that they were looking for businesses in dire straits,” Sam says as he scrapes the chocolate mixture from the sides of the bowl. “We’re practically the definition of ‘dire straits’,” he finishes, folding the thick batter in on itself.
“No we’re not,” Dean denies weakly, flattening out his poor dough with much more force than necessary. “What the hell gave you that idea?”
“I do our books, Dean, and you know we’re in debt up to our eyeballs,” Sam states plainly, placing the batter aside and reaching for a parchment-lined pan. “Have been for years.”
Dean looks away, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist. Sam isn’t lying, and Dean knew it. Every month, they noticeably sank a little deeper into the red, constantly cutting corners and cutting staff until the only remaining employees were just him and Sam. Occasionally, Jo would come in and work the front counter to take home a dozen donuts at the end of the day in lieu of cash. She always said that the donuts were worth far more than Dean could pay her, but he knows she’s just doing them a favor.
“Business will pick up,” Dean mumbles, but the tone of his voice betrays his message of defeat.
“You’ve said that since Dad retired,” Sam replies dully, “but every year we take one step forward and two steps back.”
Dean turns and grumpily grabs two pie pans from the metal rack behind him. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Pie-making is his therapy, his happy place. When he’s rolling out crust or carefully peeling apples for the dessert, Dean’s mind instantly clears. Sam discussing the bakery’s issues casts a pall over everything.
“You think showing off our asses on national TV is going to fix everything?” Dean asks skeptically.
Sam shrugs as he presses some chilled cookie dough into the bottom of his pan. “The show has a good track record. I’ve done the research. A lot of times, just having an outsider’s opinion can show you what needs to get fixed, but if nothing else, it could be free publicity.” Sam places a handful of Oreo cookies in perfect rows down into the cookie dough to later be covered in brownie batter. Dean calls these “Slutty Brownies”.
“I don’t think so, Sammy,” Dean huffs as he cuts his pie crust in half. “If anything, we’ll be the laughing stock of the city.”
“We won’t,” Sam says, not looking up from his brownies. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for some help. Jess said Antonio’s restaurant in Wicker Park really turned around after being on the show. She said Chef Novak-”
“Who?”
“Castiel Novak. The show’s host. He comes in, spends a couple days observing and then tells you how you can improve and shows you how to implement any changes.”
Dean grimaces, “Isn’t he the guy that yells at people until they cry?” he asks.
Sam sighs and nods. “That’s on his cooking competition show though,” he replies. “He doesn’t really do too much yelling on this one.”
Dean shakes his head and gently presses the crust into one of the pie pans. “I’m not letting you do this,” he says solemnly as he scallops the crust’s edge carefully with his fingers. “I own this place and there’s no way I’m letting you bring in some… interloper to tell me that I’m a fuck-up.”
Sam huffs sharply and grabs the pan, thrusting it into the oven. “You’re not a fuck-up, Dean,” he says carefully, “It’s just that- well, there have always been issues with this place, ever since it reopened. But things have snowballed in the last few years and we’re going to need to make some serious changes.”
“Not gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean snarls, walking over to the stove where the apple filling simmers. He stirs it, checking the consistency and tenderness of the apples.
“Well, that’s not entirely up to you to decide,” Sam counters. “I own half this place, and if you don’t agree to this...” Sam hesitates before continuing, “I’m walking, Dean.”
Dean’s expression drops and Sam feels a pang of guilt from the betrayed look he’s getting. “You wouldn’t,” Dean says in shock.
Sam raises an eyebrow, knowing that it’s unfair to threaten leaving in order to get his way, but sometimes Dean needs a hard push in the right direction to do what’s best for himself or the bakery.
“I can just as easily be a lawyer as I can be a baker, Dean,” Sam says. “The money would be better, I can tell you that much.”
Dean scowls and wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron. “Dammit, Sammy,” he curses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Look- all I’m asking is that you let Chef Novak come in for an assessment.” Sam holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “If you get a bad feeling about this, or if they make any changes too extreme, we’ll send them packing.”
“I already have a bad feeling about this,” Dean mutters, working his dough into the pie pan. He glances up at Sam for a moment, watching his brother wipe down his work area (“mise en place” as Sam is quick to remind him) on the prep table opposite him.
Dean knows the bakery is in trouble. There’s no denying that business has waned ever since their Dad left without warnin, leaving Sam and Dean responsible for the bakery, and the subsequent increased competition and staffing issues didn’t help matters. Dean just didn’t want someone to come in and change this place into something it wasn’t meant to be, with frou-frou pinks and pastels. That’s not the kind of place he wants, not the kind of place their mom had wanted.
Dean watches as Sam opens the door of the walk-in cooler, grabbing several packages of butter to start on the puff pastry.
“You give me your word that if I say they go, they go?” Dean gives Sam a cautious look, receiving a quick nod in return. He sighs and throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “Fine! You can bring this… Chef Novak in.” Sam gives a soft smirk; Dean can tell he’s trying to tamp down his enthusiasm over this victory. Dean rolls his eyes and refocuses on the second pie crust.
“Don’t look so smug, Sammy,” he mutters, “We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”
Castiel glosses over the contents of the file folder in his hands, examining the details about their next stop. “Winchester and Sons’ Bakery,” he mumbles, absently examining the supplied photographs. “A father and son place?” He looks at Crowley sitting in the driver’s seat over the top of his sunglasses.
“Two brothers, actually,” Crowley answers. “The father retired about 6 years ago and they just never bothered to change the name.” Castiel hums to himself, making a mental note of things that are definitely going on his list of changes. He can here Hannah enthusiastically tapping on her tablet behind him.
“You have a radio interview tomorrow morning at six-thirty,” she mumbles, “That’s not too early, is it?”
“No, that should be fine,” Castiel says, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes, “What time is our call here?”
“Seven,” she answers, “We’ll do the call-in in the car.” Castiel nods and smiles. He likes Hannah. She’s a good assistant, efficient. Plus, she makes it so Castiel’s interactions with his producer Crowley are at an absolute minimum.
“We’re moving up the call to four-thirty,” Crowley mutters, eyes not leaving the road, “Need to be there when the owners arrive.” Hannah glares at him with a pinched expression, and sighs, mumbling something about “taking 15 minutes for a damn phone call.”
Castiel leans back in his seat and stares out the window as the rest of the ride passes in silence. He closes the folder, deciding he doesn’t need more details. After four seasons, he knows people like this like the back of his hands: Co-dependent family members who believe passion and mediocre kitchen capabilities can make up for business acumen and logical thought; It’s the same story nearly every time. He doesn’t need 20 pages of documents to tell him that.
The car pulls up outside the bakery, the large equipment van parking close behind. The cameraman and sound guy hop out of the passenger seat and join Castiel, Hannah and Crowley on the sidewalk where they stand, staring up at the bakery’s store front.
“Oh my,” Castiel mutters. He gazes up at the shabby sign emblazoned with “Winchester and Sons Bakery” in fading red paint. The building before them is in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and a contractor. The awnings over the doors and windows are threadbare and sun-bleached and the wood paneling of the siding is chipped and cracking.
“Hannah,” Castiel says. Hannah hands him the tablet at the unspoken request and he quickly makes a note of the exterior. The front door of the bakery opens with a chime and two men walk out.
Castiel doesn’t quite know what he was expecting the owners to look like, but it certainly wasn’t this. The two guys before him look like they stepped out of an Axe body spray commercial. They are both tall and broad, in worn jeans with their plain chef jackets hanging open over faded t-shirts. The taller man has shoulder length hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He extends his hand forward toward Castiel.
“Chef Novak,” he says, smiling widely, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.” Castiel shakes his hand and mumbles a greeting before turning his attention toward the other brother. The man nods a greeting to Castiel, but his expression is not a friendly one. Castiel returns the nod, unperturbed. He’s used to being seen as a threat in circumstances like this; normally, there’s always someone involved with the business that’s opposed to his involvement. Crowley loves people like that; he says it gives the show an air of tension and drama.
“Very nice to meet you both,” Castiel says. Sam and Dean shake hands with Crowley and Hannah. The side doors of the van open and the crew begins to unload the camera and sound equipment.
“Why are there cameras here?” Dean asks, looking to his brother.
“Because we’re filming? For telly? The little box with the moving pictures and whatnot?” Crowley says patronizingly.
Dean frowns, his shoulders stiffening and looking like he’s about to give Crowley a piece of his mind.
“We film everything,” Hannah pipes up in attempt to diffuse the situation. “When we’re done, we cut together the best material. We never know when something interesting will happen.” She smiles diplomatically. Dean rolls his eyes and glares at his brother. Some unspoken accusation passes between them. Castiel can’t help but feel a tinge of pity for the two. Clearly, Dean is caught off-guard by most of this, and he’ll be the one to throw up the most resistance to anything Castiel might offer. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can already spot the gears in Crowley’s head whirring with eagerness.
“Shall we start, then?” Crowley asks, clapping his hands together. The brothers lead the way into the bakery.
Hannah and Crowley hang back behind the camera and sound operators as Sam and Dean lead Castiel on a short tour. The bakery is small and clean, if not slightly cramped. Castiel has to wonder how two men as large as Sam and Dean Winchester can maneuver themselves in a space like this. They show the kitchen, the prep area and nearly-bare cafe area.
“You don’t have enough seating,” Castiel comments as he skims his hand across the formica top of a vintage diner-style table.
“We really don’t have the space to accommodate-” Sam explains.
“Yes, you do,” Castiel cuts him off briskly. He picks up a small laminated menu from the table, glancing at the selection and grimacing.
“Alright,” Castiel says as he set the menu back down and stares pointedly at the brothers, “I’ve seen several things that need to be either improved or nixed.” He moves past them, leading them back into the kitchen.
“You’re working with domestic ovens, not professional ones. You can increase your output threefold by doing so.” Sam and Dean both nod, and Sam elbows his brother lightly in the side.
“Next, your kitchen set up is a joke.” Castiel says flatly. The brothers’ expressions both falter, but Castiel catches Crowley’s gleeful look out of the corner of his eye. “You have to cross the room to get to your cooler and then to the other corner to get to your sink. Your mise en place…” Castiel sighs heavily and looks at Sam and Dean.
“Do either of you know anything about cars?” Both men snort indignantly and Dean raises his hand.
“Uh, you could say that?” he replies.
“You should treat your kitchen like an an engine. Your mise is what keeps it greased. One item out of place is like throwing a spanner in the works.” Castiel says, quietly tapping on the tablet.
“Pardon me, Chef,” Dean says, raising his hand once more, “But if we’re talking about my own comfort level-”
“This isn’t about your comfort level. These are tried and true methods.” Castiel says seriously, his infamous vitriol surfacing, “If you had any sort of professional training, you would understand that.” Dean’s face hardens, but he doesn’t say another word.
“Now to the front,” Castiel says, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen. Sam and Dean follow after him, trying to squeeze by the crew members. Castiel stands in the center of the room and glances at his tablet.
“First off, how many staff do you have?” he asks.
“It’s just me and Dean,” Sam answers, “Once in awhile, we have a friend work the counter, if we know it’s going to be busy.” Castiel’s eyes widen.
“No staff?’
“We don’t exactly have the income to support it,” Dean replies sardonically.
“So if a customer comes in and no one’s at the front counter…?” He raises an eyebrow in their direction.
“We have a bell,” Dean says with a sarcastic smile. Castiel looks at the small silver bell on the counter and then back to Dean doubtfully.
“An extra staff member would help your customer base.” Castiel offers, “I seriously wonder how many people have stopped in, just to leave right away, thinking you were closed.
“First off, I recommend a revamp of the cafe area,” Castiel points behind the counter, “In fact I recommend restyling the whole place.” Sam raises a curious eyebrow, but Dean gapes at him.
“What? Why?” he scoffs
“You have a mixture of conflicting styles.” Castiel says, “You want to bring everything together. It will help brand you.”
“We have a style,” Dean insists, “It’s an… eclectic charm.”
“It’s a mish-mash,” Castiel gives Dean a withering look, “And much of this stuff is falling apart, liks this table.” Castiel examines the table, chipping off a bit of chrome off the corner with a fingernail. A hand abruptly grabs his wrist and pulls it away from the table. Castiel looks up to see a wide-eyed Dean staring daggers at him.
“Alright, fine,” Dean says softly, but his expression says that he is clearly placating Castiel so that he will move on.
“You have fifties vintage here, farm-style chairs, Victorian wainscoting, and Art Deco sconces...” Castiel points out each item as he names them, “I don’t even know where to begin. I recommend you pull everything out and start from scratch.” Dean is stunned silent by Castiel’s assessment.
“I don’t believe you!” Dean huffs, “Even if I were to agree to these changes, which I don’t, by the way, where on Earth do you expect us to get the money to pay for all this shit you recommend? And why the fuck should I even listen to you?” Crowley coughs and mutters “language” under his breath while Castiel just glares at Dean.
“Your bakery’s participation in this is voluntary,” he states calmly, “You were made aware of what might happen when you registered for-”
“Hey, I didn’t sign us up,” Dean shakes his head vigorously and throws a thumb over his shoulder toward Sam, “It was that one.”
“You know, we do actually provide you with $5,000 in order to make any improvements,” Hannah volunteers hesitantly, but shrinks back as Dean levels an angry glare at her.
“Dean,” Sam says, placing a hand on his arm. Dean shakes him off quickly.
“Let me make you aware of something, Mr. Winchester, I was brought in here to assist because of my professional expertise.” Castiel offers cooly. His tone is even, but his clear blue eyes are narrowed in irritation, “Numerous restaurant and eating establishments have brought me in, and I have been able to save all of them from the brink of disaster where, unless I’m mistaken, you currently are.
“You don’t have to take my advice, but neither do you have to keep this place open, which you won’t unless you make some severe changes to your kitchen, your cafe and your menu-”
“Whoa,whoa,whoa, we are not touching the menu!” Dean declares finally. Castiel snorts humorlessly.
“Your selection is far too limited and narrow. You don’t even have a coffee maker or an espresso machine-”
“Oh, here we go,” Dean mutters sarcastically. Sam shoots him a frustrated look.
“And these names!” Castiel reaches out and grabs the menu off the table, “‘Slutty Brownies’? “You’ve got to be kidding! Are you in high school? And what is ‘Bye Bye Miss American Pie’?” Castiel grimaces at the menu.
“It’s, uh… a piece of apple pie topped with a slice of melted cheese… Cheddar cheese actually, not American, but it sounds better that way,” Sam explains. Castiel, Hannah and Crowley all look at Sam with a mixture of shock and disgust, “It’s… kind of our specialty?” He smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. Castiel closes his eyes and takes a calming deep breath.
“That sounds disgusting and you should take it off your menu,” he says flatly.
“Absolutely not!” Dean snarls, “Look here, I can deal with you bitching about my kitchen or calling the bakery a hot mess, but you are not touching our menu!”
“Whoever thought this white-trash buffet was a good idea, needs to rethink their palette” Castiel snipes. Dean’s face goes blank before twisting in anger.
“That’s it!” He yells, rushing to the door and throwing it open, “Everyone out! Now! I mean it!”
“Dean, C’mon man,” Sam pleads, “Don’t be like this.”
“No, Sam, you said if I got a bad feeling, I could shut it down,” Dean snarls, “Well, I've had a bad fucking feeling since the minute these pretentious assholes walked in and I am fucking done.”
“Mr. Winchester,” Crowley approaches Dean calmly, “We do have a contract-”
“I didn’t sign a damn thing!” Dean replies flippantly, “And I own this place, so get the hell out of my bakery before I call the cops on you for trespassing!” Crowley gives Dean a tight smile and ushers Castiel and a slightly frightened-looking Hannah out the front door. Sam watches through the front window as they hurriedly pile into their vehicles and speed away.
Dean leans over the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles turn white, trying to calm himself down. Sam stands there in stunned silence, glancing around the empty waiting area.
“Dean-” he starts.
“Don’t, Sam,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Just don’t.” He pulls himself off the counter and trudges back into the kitchen. The muffled sound of pots and pans being slammed onto the metal prep table echos through the building. Sam knows it’s best to stay out of Dean’s way until he’s baked three or four pies and calmed himself a bit.
He sighs and slips off his chef’s jacket, throwing it behind the counter before turning and heading through the front door, flipping the “Yes, We’re Open” sign to closed as he leaves.
Castiel gazes out across the horizon, gripping the balcony railing tight and taking a deep breath. He was quite pleased with the suite they had booked for their days here and is more than a little disappointed they will have barely an evening to enjoy it before flying out in the morning.
Crowley’s voice drifts from the neighboring balcony, where he angrily barks into his cell phone, no doubt chewing out whatever assistant selected Winchester and Sons in the first place.
Castiel snorts to himself. He has no opinion over today’s proceedings. It’s no skin off his nose if a failing business doesn’t want his help. His track record with saving places from closure speaks for itself and if they don’t want his expertise, so be it. He can take on another restaurant who won’t try to insult him for doing his damn job (and really, if they think calling Castiel a “pretentious asshole” amounts to an insult after all this time, they have another thing coming).
There is a soft “flick” sound, and Castiel looks over to see Crowley lighting a cigarette, shooting him a “don’t tell the wife” look as he does. Castiel takes the opportunity to escape the smoke and heads back through the balcony doors into the suite.
Hannah is positioned on one of the bed, back against the headboard.The TV is set on CNN, volume low, but she isn’t paying attention. Castiel is surprised to find Hannah, rather than tapping away on her tablet, engrossed in the Winchester and Sons’ file folder, the contents spread around her on the bed. Her face is pinched in concentration as she reads over a clipping.
Castiel flops back onto the other bed, toeing off his shoes and rubbing at his eyes.
“Did you read this?” Hannah mumbles.
“Hmm?” he props himself up on his elbows and looks at her.
“Did you read this stuff?” Hannah asks again, holding up a newspaper clipping.
“About the Winchesters?” Castiel ask, shrugging. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” She glances at him seriously. Castiel sits up.
“Yes,” He says, furrowing his brow, “What is this about?”
“Did you know they had a fire?” She swings her legs off the bed and offers the clipping in Castiel’s direction.
“Yeah, but it was like 20 years ago right?” Castiel gives her a condescending look, “Wasn’t their father running the place then?”
“Did you know that their mother was killed in the fire?” Hannah raises an eyebrow. Castiel snatches the article, his expression faltering as he reads.
“They lost almost everything,” Hannah explains, “That was an interview in the Sun Times when they reopened a year later. Apparently, Papa Winchester tried to incorporate as much as he could from his late wife’s “dream design.” He also mentions how what little they could save they integrated into the new place, including the sconces, the wainscotting-”
“And the tables.” Castiel finishes sadly. He scrubs a hand over his faces and groans, “It was her menu wasn’t it?”
“It would explain why he went nuclear when you said to change it,” Hannah offers.
“And you think I should apologize?” Castiel infers.
“I think you hit a nerve,” She says, standing from the bed and walking to the mini bar, grabbing a $15 bottle of water, “and, if nothing else, you need to save a little face.” Castiel sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump forward.
“You don’t have to listen to me,” Hannah shrugs slightly, dropping down next to Castiel, “but I do believe that if you apologize soon, we might be able to salvage this clusterfuck and shoot ourselves a show.”
“Crowley would probably love it,” Castiel admitted, “Being kicked out only to be brought back in and turn it around.”
“See, you get it!” Hannah elbows him lightly. Castiel snorts and checks his watch. It’s 7:30. No doubt the place is closed already, but he might be able to get there in the morning. He looks up and tips his chin toward the folder on the opposite bed.
“What time does it say they get there in the morning?” He asks.
Dean carefully scrapes the side of the container as he adds flour and water to his starter. Feed the bitch or it’ll die his father’s voice echoes in his head. 15 years of working in the bakery, he could probably feed starter in his sleep, which, on some early morning openings, he probably has.
He covers the container and places it on the shelf behind him, wondering if this starter will outlive the bakery. He scratches at his forehead and turns to grab a towel, only to startle when he sees Castiel Novak standing in the back doorway.
“Jesus Fuck!” Dean shouts, jumping backwards and knocking a stack of baking trays off the prep table.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Castiel says, “The door was open.”
“Well, that doesn’t give you permission to scare the living shit out of me at the asscrack of dawn,” Dean gripes, clutching at his chest,
“Why are you here? Came to criticize my bread-making skills?”
“I came to apologize,” Castiel states, gazing down at his feet. Dean stares at him seriously for a moment.
“Well, not accepted,” He says with an apathetic shrug. He turns away, wiping his hands gruffly, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops on-”
“I read about the fire,” Castiel interrupts. Dean looks up at him, brow furrowed. “I was given your folder a few days ago. I’ll admit I didn’t read it in depth. I had no idea..” Castiel trails off and Dean looks away despondently. “I never meant to be so insensitive about your loss.” Dean gives him a sad smile.
“This place is all she ever wanted,” he mumbles, “Well, besides Sam and me and my dad, but this bakery was her dream.” Dean sighs, picking at a stray thread on his chefs jacket, “When the fire happened, we just… we just lost so much. We wanted to keep as much of her dream alive as possible, every detail.” Castiel takes a step forward.
“I understand,” Castiel says, “and I still want to help you guys out. We don’t have to change anything you don’t want to.” Dean raises a curious eyebrow.
“We keep the eclectic charm?”
“You can have as much kitschy charm as you want.”
“And the menu stays the same?” He asks.
“I may suggest additions, but we won’t take anything off,” Castiel promises, “I only ask that you give me a chance, take some of my ideas into consideration. I can see that you already have,” He indicates around the kitchen, “You rearranged the kitchen to be more efficient.” Dean glances around the room and shrugs non-committedly.
“Yeah, well…” Dean mumbles, “Don’t pat yourself on the back too much. I would’ve thought of it myself eventually.” Castiel smiles but doesn’t contradict him.
“What if you start to get onto something I don’t want changed?” Dean asks, crossing his arms and leaning back against the prep table. Castiel thinks for a moment.
“What if we had some sort of code word?” He offers.
“Code word?” Dean asks, “Like a safe word?”
“If that’s how you’d like to think of it, sure,” Castiel laughs lightly, “Just a way to tell me to tread lightly.” Dean nods in agreement and thinks for a moment.
“How about ‘Thunderstruck’?” He asks.
“‘Thunderstruck’?” Castiel looks at Dean skeptically.
“Yeah, ‘Thunderstruck’.” Dean repeats, “I say it, you back off.”
“Agreed,” Castiel offers his hand, which Dean shakes.
“I do have one request, though,” Dean says.
“What?” Castiel asks, a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. Dean steps away and walks through the swinging door to the front. He returns a moment later with three-quarters of an apple pie, which he sets on the prep table. He then goes to the walk-in cooler and emerges a second later with a block of cheese. Castiel watches with concern as Dean cuts a slice of pie, depositing it carefully onto a plate. He then slices a thick cut of cheese, dropping it onto the top of the pie before placing the plate in the warm oven.
“You have to try our specialty,” Dean says, smirking. Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off. “Do it, or the deal’s off.” Castiel sighs and nods.
“Fine,” he mutters. Dean grins triumphantly and slips on a glove, pulling the warm plate from the oven. The cheese is melted and bubbly on top of the pie, tantalizingly dripping over the edge. Dean offers a fork in Castiel’s direction. He takes it and without pretense digs into the pie, popping a generous bite into his mouth and chewing.
Dean watches him carefully and he chews, a look of concentration etched on his face.
“So?” Dean asks cautiously. The corners of Castiel’s mouth curl up slightly.
“S’good,” he says, still chewing, “Very good. Much better than expected.” Dean’s face breaks out into a pleased grin and Castiel can’t help smiling back reflexively.
“See? Our menu isn’t all bad.” Dean points out.
“I’m still not sure if the name Slutty Brownies is entirely appropriate,” Castiel snorts, giving Dean a dubious look, “Did your mom come up with that name?”
“She called them Better Than Sex brownies,” Dean admits, and Castiel genuinely laughs in response, “Hey, where are the cameras for this? I thought they were supposed to follow you everywhere?” Dean glances around suspiciously.
“I felt it was better to do this off the record,” Castiel says, taking another bite, “An exercise in trust.”
“And if it all went to pot, it would be your shining word against mine.” Dean offers sarcastically.
“No, no, I just wanted to show you I was on the level,” Castiel says, “Talk to you like a fellow chef, not a TV host.” Dean makes an impressed little noise, as if he hadn’t been expecting such admirable behavior from someone who regularly yells at young cooks about undercooked chicken.
“Crowley will be heartbroken though, I’m sure,” Castiel continues, “This would have probably made for excellent TV.” Dean tips his head and considers him carefully.
“Well, I appreciate the effort to make us more than just fodder for ratings,” he says. Castiel shrugs and looks away shyly.
“You’re welcome, Dean,” He plucks his phone from his pocket and frowns at the time, “Speaking of Crowley, I ought to get back before he notices I’m missing. I think Hannah can only distract him for so long.”’ Dean walks Castiel to the back door and waves him off as he slips behind the wheel of the black Audi rental.
As he drives away, Dean sighs heavily. He should call Sam and let him know they were back on the show. He’ll admit that the place could probably could use a fresh coat of paint and some repairs. The $5,000 they were offering was pretty tempting and the thought of a pair of industrial stoves in his kitchen made Dean a bit giddy with excitement.
He pops a cassette into the ancient boombox on the back shelf and hums along as Iron Maiden blares from the speakers. He returns the cheese to the cooler and begins gathering ingredients for berries and cream coffee cake.
We’ll make this place awesome, Mom, he thinks to himself, Just you wait!
Part 2
"You did what?!" Dean exclaims. The rolling pin clatters against the metal prep table and a puff of flour rises into the air. Sam gives Dean a serious look, leaning over the bowl of batter in front of him.
“I registered us to be on Kitchen Overhaul,” Sam repeats, “and we got selected.”
“What? Why?” Dean gapes, eventually regaining his composure and grabbing his rolling pin once more.
“Because, Dean, their site said that they were looking for businesses in dire straits,” Sam says as he scrapes the chocolate mixture from the sides of the bowl. “We’re practically the definition of ‘dire straits’,” he finishes, folding the thick batter in on itself.
“No we’re not,” Dean denies weakly, flattening out his poor dough with much more force than necessary. “What the hell gave you that idea?”
“I do our books, Dean, and you know we’re in debt up to our eyeballs,” Sam states plainly, placing the batter aside and reaching for a parchment-lined pan. “Have been for years.”
Dean looks away, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist. Sam isn’t lying, and Dean knew it. Every month, they noticeably sank a little deeper into the red, constantly cutting corners and cutting staff until the only remaining employees were just him and Sam. Occasionally, Jo would come in and work the front counter to take home a dozen donuts at the end of the day in lieu of cash. She always said that the donuts were worth far more than Dean could pay her, but he knows she’s just doing them a favor.
“Business will pick up,” Dean mumbles, but the tone of his voice betrays his message of defeat.
“You’ve said that since Dad retired,” Sam replies dully, “but every year we take one step forward and two steps back.”
Dean turns and grumpily grabs two pie pans from the metal rack behind him. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Pie-making is his therapy, his happy place. When he’s rolling out crust or carefully peeling apples for the dessert, Dean’s mind instantly clears. Sam discussing the bakery’s issues casts a pall over everything.
“You think showing off our asses on national TV is going to fix everything?” Dean asks skeptically.
Sam shrugs as he presses some chilled cookie dough into the bottom of his pan. “The show has a good track record. I’ve done the research. A lot of times, just having an outsider’s opinion can show you what needs to get fixed, but if nothing else, it could be free publicity.” Sam places a handful of Oreo cookies in perfect rows down into the cookie dough to later be covered in brownie batter. Dean calls these “Slutty Brownies”.
“I don’t think so, Sammy,” Dean huffs as he cuts his pie crust in half. “If anything, we’ll be the laughing stock of the city.”
“We won’t,” Sam says, not looking up from his brownies. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for some help. Jess said Antonio’s restaurant in Wicker Park really turned around after being on the show. She said Chef Novak-”
“Who?”
“Castiel Novak. The show’s host. He comes in, spends a couple days observing and then tells you how you can improve and shows you how to implement any changes.”
Dean grimaces, “Isn’t he the guy that yells at people until they cry?” he asks.
Sam sighs and nods. “That’s on his cooking competition show though,” he replies. “He doesn’t really do too much yelling on this one.”
Dean shakes his head and gently presses the crust into one of the pie pans. “I’m not letting you do this,” he says solemnly as he scallops the crust’s edge carefully with his fingers. “I own this place and there’s no way I’m letting you bring in some… interloper to tell me that I’m a fuck-up.”
Sam huffs sharply and grabs the pan, thrusting it into the oven. “You’re not a fuck-up, Dean,” he says carefully, “It’s just that- well, there have always been issues with this place, ever since it reopened. But things have snowballed in the last few years and we’re going to need to make some serious changes.”
“Not gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean snarls, walking over to the stove where the apple filling simmers. He stirs it, checking the consistency and tenderness of the apples.
“Well, that’s not entirely up to you to decide,” Sam counters. “I own half this place, and if you don’t agree to this...” Sam hesitates before continuing, “I’m walking, Dean.”
Dean’s expression drops and Sam feels a pang of guilt from the betrayed look he’s getting. “You wouldn’t,” Dean says in shock.
Sam raises an eyebrow, knowing that it’s unfair to threaten leaving in order to get his way, but sometimes Dean needs a hard push in the right direction to do what’s best for himself or the bakery.
“I can just as easily be a lawyer as I can be a baker, Dean,” Sam says. “The money would be better, I can tell you that much.”
Dean scowls and wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron. “Dammit, Sammy,” he curses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Look- all I’m asking is that you let Chef Novak come in for an assessment.” Sam holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “If you get a bad feeling about this, or if they make any changes too extreme, we’ll send them packing.”
“I already have a bad feeling about this,” Dean mutters, working his dough into the pie pan. He glances up at Sam for a moment, watching his brother wipe down his work area (“mise en place” as Sam is quick to remind him) on the prep table opposite him.
Dean knows the bakery is in trouble. There’s no denying that business has waned ever since their Dad left without warnin, leaving Sam and Dean responsible for the bakery, and the subsequent increased competition and staffing issues didn’t help matters. Dean just didn’t want someone to come in and change this place into something it wasn’t meant to be, with frou-frou pinks and pastels. That’s not the kind of place he wants, not the kind of place their mom had wanted.
Dean watches as Sam opens the door of the walk-in cooler, grabbing several packages of butter to start on the puff pastry.
“You give me your word that if I say they go, they go?” Dean gives Sam a cautious look, receiving a quick nod in return. He sighs and throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “Fine! You can bring this… Chef Novak in.” Sam gives a soft smirk; Dean can tell he’s trying to tamp down his enthusiasm over this victory. Dean rolls his eyes and refocuses on the second pie crust.
“Don’t look so smug, Sammy,” he mutters, “We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”
Castiel glosses over the contents of the file folder in his hands, examining the details about their next stop. “Winchester and Sons’ Bakery,” he mumbles, absently examining the supplied photographs. “A father and son place?” He looks at Crowley sitting in the driver’s seat over the top of his sunglasses.
“Two brothers, actually,” Crowley answers. “The father retired about 6 years ago and they just never bothered to change the name.” Castiel hums to himself, making a mental note of things that are definitely going on his list of changes. He can here Hannah enthusiastically tapping on her tablet behind him.
“You have a radio interview tomorrow morning at six-thirty,” she mumbles, “That’s not too early, is it?”
“No, that should be fine,” Castiel says, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes, “What time is our call here?”
“Seven,” she answers, “We’ll do the call-in in the car.” Castiel nods and smiles. He likes Hannah. She’s a good assistant, efficient. Plus, she makes it so Castiel’s interactions with his producer Crowley are at an absolute minimum.
“We’re moving up the call to four-thirty,” Crowley mutters, eyes not leaving the road, “Need to be there when the owners arrive.” Hannah glares at him with a pinched expression, and sighs, mumbling something about “taking 15 minutes for a damn phone call.”
Castiel leans back in his seat and stares out the window as the rest of the ride passes in silence. He closes the folder, deciding he doesn’t need more details. After four seasons, he knows people like this like the back of his hands: Co-dependent family members who believe passion and mediocre kitchen capabilities can make up for business acumen and logical thought; It’s the same story nearly every time. He doesn’t need 20 pages of documents to tell him that.
The car pulls up outside the bakery, the large equipment van parking close behind. The cameraman and sound guy hop out of the passenger seat and join Castiel, Hannah and Crowley on the sidewalk where they stand, staring up at the bakery’s store front.
“Oh my,” Castiel mutters. He gazes up at the shabby sign emblazoned with “Winchester and Sons Bakery” in fading red paint. The building before them is in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and a contractor. The awnings over the doors and windows are threadbare and sun-bleached and the wood paneling of the siding is chipped and cracking.
“Hannah,” Castiel says. Hannah hands him the tablet at the unspoken request and he quickly makes a note of the exterior. The front door of the bakery opens with a chime and two men walk out.
Castiel doesn’t quite know what he was expecting the owners to look like, but it certainly wasn’t this. The two guys before him look like they stepped out of an Axe body spray commercial. They are both tall and broad, in worn jeans with their plain chef jackets hanging open over faded t-shirts. The taller man has shoulder length hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He extends his hand forward toward Castiel.
“Chef Novak,” he says, smiling widely, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.” Castiel shakes his hand and mumbles a greeting before turning his attention toward the other brother. The man nods a greeting to Castiel, but his expression is not a friendly one. Castiel returns the nod, unperturbed. He’s used to being seen as a threat in circumstances like this; normally, there’s always someone involved with the business that’s opposed to his involvement. Crowley loves people like that; he says it gives the show an air of tension and drama.
“Very nice to meet you both,” Castiel says. Sam and Dean shake hands with Crowley and Hannah. The side doors of the van open and the crew begins to unload the camera and sound equipment.
“Why are there cameras here?” Dean asks, looking to his brother.
“Because we’re filming? For telly? The little box with the moving pictures and whatnot?” Crowley says patronizingly.
Dean frowns, his shoulders stiffening and looking like he’s about to give Crowley a piece of his mind.
“We film everything,” Hannah pipes up in attempt to diffuse the situation. “When we’re done, we cut together the best material. We never know when something interesting will happen.” She smiles diplomatically. Dean rolls his eyes and glares at his brother. Some unspoken accusation passes between them. Castiel can’t help but feel a tinge of pity for the two. Clearly, Dean is caught off-guard by most of this, and he’ll be the one to throw up the most resistance to anything Castiel might offer. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can already spot the gears in Crowley’s head whirring with eagerness.
“Shall we start, then?” Crowley asks, clapping his hands together. The brothers lead the way into the bakery.
Hannah and Crowley hang back behind the camera and sound operators as Sam and Dean lead Castiel on a short tour. The bakery is small and clean, if not slightly cramped. Castiel has to wonder how two men as large as Sam and Dean Winchester can maneuver themselves in a space like this. They show the kitchen, the prep area and nearly-bare cafe area.
“You don’t have enough seating,” Castiel comments as he skims his hand across the formica top of a vintage diner-style table.
“We really don’t have the space to accommodate-” Sam explains.
“Yes, you do,” Castiel cuts him off briskly. He picks up a small laminated menu from the table, glancing at the selection and grimacing.
“Alright,” Castiel says as he set the menu back down and stares pointedly at the brothers, “I’ve seen several things that need to be either improved or nixed.” He moves past them, leading them back into the kitchen.
“You’re working with domestic ovens, not professional ones. You can increase your output threefold by doing so.” Sam and Dean both nod, and Sam elbows his brother lightly in the side.
“Next, your kitchen set up is a joke.” Castiel says flatly. The brothers’ expressions both falter, but Castiel catches Crowley’s gleeful look out of the corner of his eye. “You have to cross the room to get to your cooler and then to the other corner to get to your sink. Your mise en place…” Castiel sighs heavily and looks at Sam and Dean.
“Do either of you know anything about cars?” Both men snort indignantly and Dean raises his hand.
“Uh, you could say that?” he replies.
“You should treat your kitchen like an an engine. Your mise is what keeps it greased. One item out of place is like throwing a spanner in the works.” Castiel says, quietly tapping on the tablet.
“Pardon me, Chef,” Dean says, raising his hand once more, “But if we’re talking about my own comfort level-”
“This isn’t about your comfort level. These are tried and true methods.” Castiel says seriously, his infamous vitriol surfacing, “If you had any sort of professional training, you would understand that.” Dean’s face hardens, but he doesn’t say another word.
“Now to the front,” Castiel says, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen. Sam and Dean follow after him, trying to squeeze by the crew members. Castiel stands in the center of the room and glances at his tablet.
“First off, how many staff do you have?” he asks.
“It’s just me and Dean,” Sam answers, “Once in awhile, we have a friend work the counter, if we know it’s going to be busy.” Castiel’s eyes widen.
“No staff?’
“We don’t exactly have the income to support it,” Dean replies sardonically.
“So if a customer comes in and no one’s at the front counter…?” He raises an eyebrow in their direction.
“We have a bell,” Dean says with a sarcastic smile. Castiel looks at the small silver bell on the counter and then back to Dean doubtfully.
“An extra staff member would help your customer base.” Castiel offers, “I seriously wonder how many people have stopped in, just to leave right away, thinking you were closed.
“First off, I recommend a revamp of the cafe area,” Castiel points behind the counter, “In fact I recommend restyling the whole place.” Sam raises a curious eyebrow, but Dean gapes at him.
“What? Why?” he scoffs
“You have a mixture of conflicting styles.” Castiel says, “You want to bring everything together. It will help brand you.”
“We have a style,” Dean insists, “It’s an… eclectic charm.”
“It’s a mish-mash,” Castiel gives Dean a withering look, “And much of this stuff is falling apart, liks this table.” Castiel examines the table, chipping off a bit of chrome off the corner with a fingernail. A hand abruptly grabs his wrist and pulls it away from the table. Castiel looks up to see a wide-eyed Dean staring daggers at him.
“Alright, fine,” Dean says softly, but his expression says that he is clearly placating Castiel so that he will move on.
“You have fifties vintage here, farm-style chairs, Victorian wainscoting, and Art Deco sconces...” Castiel points out each item as he names them, “I don’t even know where to begin. I recommend you pull everything out and start from scratch.” Dean is stunned silent by Castiel’s assessment.
“I don’t believe you!” Dean huffs, “Even if I were to agree to these changes, which I don’t, by the way, where on Earth do you expect us to get the money to pay for all this shit you recommend? And why the fuck should I even listen to you?” Crowley coughs and mutters “language” under his breath while Castiel just glares at Dean.
“Your bakery’s participation in this is voluntary,” he states calmly, “You were made aware of what might happen when you registered for-”
“Hey, I didn’t sign us up,” Dean shakes his head vigorously and throws a thumb over his shoulder toward Sam, “It was that one.”
“You know, we do actually provide you with $5,000 in order to make any improvements,” Hannah volunteers hesitantly, but shrinks back as Dean levels an angry glare at her.
“Dean,” Sam says, placing a hand on his arm. Dean shakes him off quickly.
“Let me make you aware of something, Mr. Winchester, I was brought in here to assist because of my professional expertise.” Castiel offers cooly. His tone is even, but his clear blue eyes are narrowed in irritation, “Numerous restaurant and eating establishments have brought me in, and I have been able to save all of them from the brink of disaster where, unless I’m mistaken, you currently are.
“You don’t have to take my advice, but neither do you have to keep this place open, which you won’t unless you make some severe changes to your kitchen, your cafe and your menu-”
“Whoa,whoa,whoa, we are not touching the menu!” Dean declares finally. Castiel snorts humorlessly.
“Your selection is far too limited and narrow. You don’t even have a coffee maker or an espresso machine-”
“Oh, here we go,” Dean mutters sarcastically. Sam shoots him a frustrated look.
“And these names!” Castiel reaches out and grabs the menu off the table, “‘Slutty Brownies’? “You’ve got to be kidding! Are you in high school? And what is ‘Bye Bye Miss American Pie’?” Castiel grimaces at the menu.
“It’s, uh… a piece of apple pie topped with a slice of melted cheese… Cheddar cheese actually, not American, but it sounds better that way,” Sam explains. Castiel, Hannah and Crowley all look at Sam with a mixture of shock and disgust, “It’s… kind of our specialty?” He smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. Castiel closes his eyes and takes a calming deep breath.
“That sounds disgusting and you should take it off your menu,” he says flatly.
“Absolutely not!” Dean snarls, “Look here, I can deal with you bitching about my kitchen or calling the bakery a hot mess, but you are not touching our menu!”
“Whoever thought this white-trash buffet was a good idea, needs to rethink their palette” Castiel snipes. Dean’s face goes blank before twisting in anger.
“That’s it!” He yells, rushing to the door and throwing it open, “Everyone out! Now! I mean it!”
“Dean, C’mon man,” Sam pleads, “Don’t be like this.”
“No, Sam, you said if I got a bad feeling, I could shut it down,” Dean snarls, “Well, I've had a bad fucking feeling since the minute these pretentious assholes walked in and I am fucking done.”
“Mr. Winchester,” Crowley approaches Dean calmly, “We do have a contract-”
“I didn’t sign a damn thing!” Dean replies flippantly, “And I own this place, so get the hell out of my bakery before I call the cops on you for trespassing!” Crowley gives Dean a tight smile and ushers Castiel and a slightly frightened-looking Hannah out the front door. Sam watches through the front window as they hurriedly pile into their vehicles and speed away.
Dean leans over the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles turn white, trying to calm himself down. Sam stands there in stunned silence, glancing around the empty waiting area.
“Dean-” he starts.
“Don’t, Sam,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Just don’t.” He pulls himself off the counter and trudges back into the kitchen. The muffled sound of pots and pans being slammed onto the metal prep table echos through the building. Sam knows it’s best to stay out of Dean’s way until he’s baked three or four pies and calmed himself a bit.
He sighs and slips off his chef’s jacket, throwing it behind the counter before turning and heading through the front door, flipping the “Yes, We’re Open” sign to closed as he leaves.
Castiel gazes out across the horizon, gripping the balcony railing tight and taking a deep breath. He was quite pleased with the suite they had booked for their days here and is more than a little disappointed they will have barely an evening to enjoy it before flying out in the morning.
Crowley’s voice drifts from the neighboring balcony, where he angrily barks into his cell phone, no doubt chewing out whatever assistant selected Winchester and Sons in the first place.
Castiel snorts to himself. He has no opinion over today’s proceedings. It’s no skin off his nose if a failing business doesn’t want his help. His track record with saving places from closure speaks for itself and if they don’t want his expertise, so be it. He can take on another restaurant who won’t try to insult him for doing his damn job (and really, if they think calling Castiel a “pretentious asshole” amounts to an insult after all this time, they have another thing coming).
There is a soft “flick” sound, and Castiel looks over to see Crowley lighting a cigarette, shooting him a “don’t tell the wife” look as he does. Castiel takes the opportunity to escape the smoke and heads back through the balcony doors into the suite.
Hannah is positioned on one of the bed, back against the headboard.The TV is set on CNN, volume low, but she isn’t paying attention. Castiel is surprised to find Hannah, rather than tapping away on her tablet, engrossed in the Winchester and Sons’ file folder, the contents spread around her on the bed. Her face is pinched in concentration as she reads over a clipping.
Castiel flops back onto the other bed, toeing off his shoes and rubbing at his eyes.
“Did you read this?” Hannah mumbles.
“Hmm?” he props himself up on his elbows and looks at her.
“Did you read this stuff?” Hannah asks again, holding up a newspaper clipping.
“About the Winchesters?” Castiel ask, shrugging. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” She glances at him seriously. Castiel sits up.
“Yes,” He says, furrowing his brow, “What is this about?”
“Did you know they had a fire?” She swings her legs off the bed and offers the clipping in Castiel’s direction.
“Yeah, but it was like 20 years ago right?” Castiel gives her a condescending look, “Wasn’t their father running the place then?”
“Did you know that their mother was killed in the fire?” Hannah raises an eyebrow. Castiel snatches the article, his expression faltering as he reads.
“They lost almost everything,” Hannah explains, “That was an interview in the Sun Times when they reopened a year later. Apparently, Papa Winchester tried to incorporate as much as he could from his late wife’s “dream design.” He also mentions how what little they could save they integrated into the new place, including the sconces, the wainscotting-”
“And the tables.” Castiel finishes sadly. He scrubs a hand over his faces and groans, “It was her menu wasn’t it?”
“It would explain why he went nuclear when you said to change it,” Hannah offers.
“And you think I should apologize?” Castiel infers.
“I think you hit a nerve,” She says, standing from the bed and walking to the mini bar, grabbing a $15 bottle of water, “and, if nothing else, you need to save a little face.” Castiel sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump forward.
“You don’t have to listen to me,” Hannah shrugs slightly, dropping down next to Castiel, “but I do believe that if you apologize soon, we might be able to salvage this clusterfuck and shoot ourselves a show.”
“Crowley would probably love it,” Castiel admitted, “Being kicked out only to be brought back in and turn it around.”
“See, you get it!” Hannah elbows him lightly. Castiel snorts and checks his watch. It’s 7:30. No doubt the place is closed already, but he might be able to get there in the morning. He looks up and tips his chin toward the folder on the opposite bed.
“What time does it say they get there in the morning?” He asks.
Dean carefully scrapes the side of the container as he adds flour and water to his starter. Feed the bitch or it’ll die his father’s voice echoes in his head. 15 years of working in the bakery, he could probably feed starter in his sleep, which, on some early morning openings, he probably has.
He covers the container and places it on the shelf behind him, wondering if this starter will outlive the bakery. He scratches at his forehead and turns to grab a towel, only to startle when he sees Castiel Novak standing in the back doorway.
“Jesus Fuck!” Dean shouts, jumping backwards and knocking a stack of baking trays off the prep table.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Castiel says, “The door was open.”
“Well, that doesn’t give you permission to scare the living shit out of me at the asscrack of dawn,” Dean gripes, clutching at his chest,
“Why are you here? Came to criticize my bread-making skills?”
“I came to apologize,” Castiel states, gazing down at his feet. Dean stares at him seriously for a moment.
“Well, not accepted,” He says with an apathetic shrug. He turns away, wiping his hands gruffly, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops on-”
“I read about the fire,” Castiel interrupts. Dean looks up at him, brow furrowed. “I was given your folder a few days ago. I’ll admit I didn’t read it in depth. I had no idea..” Castiel trails off and Dean looks away despondently. “I never meant to be so insensitive about your loss.” Dean gives him a sad smile.
“This place is all she ever wanted,” he mumbles, “Well, besides Sam and me and my dad, but this bakery was her dream.” Dean sighs, picking at a stray thread on his chefs jacket, “When the fire happened, we just… we just lost so much. We wanted to keep as much of her dream alive as possible, every detail.” Castiel takes a step forward.
“I understand,” Castiel says, “and I still want to help you guys out. We don’t have to change anything you don’t want to.” Dean raises a curious eyebrow.
“We keep the eclectic charm?”
“You can have as much kitschy charm as you want.”
“And the menu stays the same?” He asks.
“I may suggest additions, but we won’t take anything off,” Castiel promises, “I only ask that you give me a chance, take some of my ideas into consideration. I can see that you already have,” He indicates around the kitchen, “You rearranged the kitchen to be more efficient.” Dean glances around the room and shrugs non-committedly.
“Yeah, well…” Dean mumbles, “Don’t pat yourself on the back too much. I would’ve thought of it myself eventually.” Castiel smiles but doesn’t contradict him.
“What if you start to get onto something I don’t want changed?” Dean asks, crossing his arms and leaning back against the prep table. Castiel thinks for a moment.
“What if we had some sort of code word?” He offers.
“Code word?” Dean asks, “Like a safe word?”
“If that’s how you’d like to think of it, sure,” Castiel laughs lightly, “Just a way to tell me to tread lightly.” Dean nods in agreement and thinks for a moment.
“How about ‘Thunderstruck’?” He asks.
“‘Thunderstruck’?” Castiel looks at Dean skeptically.
“Yeah, ‘Thunderstruck’.” Dean repeats, “I say it, you back off.”
“Agreed,” Castiel offers his hand, which Dean shakes.
“I do have one request, though,” Dean says.
“What?” Castiel asks, a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. Dean steps away and walks through the swinging door to the front. He returns a moment later with three-quarters of an apple pie, which he sets on the prep table. He then goes to the walk-in cooler and emerges a second later with a block of cheese. Castiel watches with concern as Dean cuts a slice of pie, depositing it carefully onto a plate. He then slices a thick cut of cheese, dropping it onto the top of the pie before placing the plate in the warm oven.
“You have to try our specialty,” Dean says, smirking. Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off. “Do it, or the deal’s off.” Castiel sighs and nods.
“Fine,” he mutters. Dean grins triumphantly and slips on a glove, pulling the warm plate from the oven. The cheese is melted and bubbly on top of the pie, tantalizingly dripping over the edge. Dean offers a fork in Castiel’s direction. He takes it and without pretense digs into the pie, popping a generous bite into his mouth and chewing.
Dean watches him carefully and he chews, a look of concentration etched on his face.
“So?” Dean asks cautiously. The corners of Castiel’s mouth curl up slightly.
“S’good,” he says, still chewing, “Very good. Much better than expected.” Dean’s face breaks out into a pleased grin and Castiel can’t help smiling back reflexively.
“See? Our menu isn’t all bad.” Dean points out.
“I’m still not sure if the name Slutty Brownies is entirely appropriate,” Castiel snorts, giving Dean a dubious look, “Did your mom come up with that name?”
“She called them Better Than Sex brownies,” Dean admits, and Castiel genuinely laughs in response, “Hey, where are the cameras for this? I thought they were supposed to follow you everywhere?” Dean glances around suspiciously.
“I felt it was better to do this off the record,” Castiel says, taking another bite, “An exercise in trust.”
“And if it all went to pot, it would be your shining word against mine.” Dean offers sarcastically.
“No, no, I just wanted to show you I was on the level,” Castiel says, “Talk to you like a fellow chef, not a TV host.” Dean makes an impressed little noise, as if he hadn’t been expecting such admirable behavior from someone who regularly yells at young cooks about undercooked chicken.
“Crowley will be heartbroken though, I’m sure,” Castiel continues, “This would have probably made for excellent TV.” Dean tips his head and considers him carefully.
“Well, I appreciate the effort to make us more than just fodder for ratings,” he says. Castiel shrugs and looks away shyly.
“You’re welcome, Dean,” He plucks his phone from his pocket and frowns at the time, “Speaking of Crowley, I ought to get back before he notices I’m missing. I think Hannah can only distract him for so long.”’ Dean walks Castiel to the back door and waves him off as he slips behind the wheel of the black Audi rental.
As he drives away, Dean sighs heavily. He should call Sam and let him know they were back on the show. He’ll admit that the place could probably could use a fresh coat of paint and some repairs. The $5,000 they were offering was pretty tempting and the thought of a pair of industrial stoves in his kitchen made Dean a bit giddy with excitement.
He pops a cassette into the ancient boombox on the back shelf and hums along as Iron Maiden blares from the speakers. He returns the cheese to the cooler and begins gathering ingredients for berries and cream coffee cake.
We’ll make this place awesome, Mom, he thinks to himself, Just you wait!
Part 2