Spring Fling for just-ruth. "The Life of Pie"
Sorry to take so long to post. I am here at last, hopefully in time. It's 8pm here in rain-washed Vancouver.
I picked up just-ruth's prompts, and decided to see what I could do with her desire for b. Apple pie, ice cream and a poltergeist. Together with the deliciously multitalented dizzojay, we set out to produce a multimedia delight for her delectation.
That sounds so good, doesn't it. All praise to dizzojay, who wasn't even slightly phased by the cracky nature of my offering and who produced an adorable piece of art for it, so here is:
Title: "The Life of Pie"
Word Count: 3,534
Beta: spoonlessone
Artist: dizzojay
Rating: gen
Featuring: Sam, Dean, Castiel, and The Pie
When Dean was a little boy he was often left to feed both his little brother and himself. By the age of seven, he'd become adept at heating up pans of spaghetti or beans, and by the age of ten he was all about experimentation. Sam, growing like a weed, rarely refused to eat his concoctions, although he had rebelled when they had only a can of tuna left in the cupboard, and Dean, who knew Sam hated it, had tried to disguise it by covering it with aerosol whipped cream. They had both been prepared to go to bed hungry, because Dean wasn't going to eat tuna anyway, cream or no cream, but fortunately Dad had turned up from his five-day hunting trip and ordered in a pizza when he'd seen their woebegone faces.
So it was that Dean had learned to cook and became good at it, into the bargain. He had never really had any opportunity to experiment with haute cuisine, but he made a mean burger, and his steaks were always perfectly done, moist and mouth-wateringly juicy.
For the record, let it be stated that Dean loved to cook. The day that the Winchesters stumbled on the bunker that had been occupied by the Men of Letters, Dean found his home. He walked into that kitchen and fell in love for the second time. To this day he's never confided in the Impala about his second love. Guilty much? But I digress.
Cooking was one thing, but baking was quite another. Dean had never really had the opportunity to learn to bake, and, at last, tired of banging his head against one brick wall after another as he and Sam tried to find some way of neutralizing The Darkness, he decided that now was the time, and come hell or high water he would learn to do so. His stated ambition to Sam was that he was going to bake the perfect pie.
"Seriously, Sammy, the pie that I'm gonna bake will be the most perfect pie ever. Just you see."
"Yeah. Okay, Dean. I'll wait right here. Call me when it's ready." And with that, Sam returned to his perusal of the illuminated Latin text that he believed would perfectly describe how to pull their half-brother, Adam, out of the Pit - he didn’t really expect ever to find a way, but at this late stage in the game there was no pressure on him to actually succeed, so it was kinda relaxing, and Sam treated it rather like you or I would treat Sudoku or a crossword.
Dean had amassed a collection of woman's magazines, (for the recipes, of course! If he happened to read the agony column from time to time, well, he occasionally got bored.) He had his laptop with him in the kitchen for guidance, and he was making a list of all the ingredients he would need in order to create shortcrust pastry.
"Sammy?" Dean's hair had flour in it as he stuck his head around the door into the study. "Have you heard of this stuff called shortening? You eat it, you know. Think that would help you any, Gigantor?"
"Busy here, Dean. Go play with your little friends." Sam waved his hand at Dean in a dismissive gesture, and Dean snorted.
"See if you get any of my pie," he huffed as he returned to the depths from whence he had emerged.
~*~
As previously mentioned, Dean loved his kitchen, and so it was that he prepared to make the most delicious pie the world had ever seen. He had cherries, sugar, and the tiniest drop of port wine for flavor, simmering in a pot. He'd bought the cherries from the local farmers' market and carefully washed them, pitted them - it was amazing the utilities one found on a Swiss Army Knife - and placed them tenderly into the pot to cook.
Turning to the pastry, he measured out what he'd need and prepared to rub the fat into the flour as detailed in "Woman's World".
~*~
Meanwhile, Sam had gone back into the storage rooms to find some of the items he would need to craft his ninety-fifth attempt at a release spell for Adam. He knew he'd seen a can of holy oil somewhere. He just couldn't remember where, but he figured that if he kept searching, sooner or later he'd come across what he needed. It didn't help that, unlike the other storage rooms in the bunker, items in this room had just been stacked on top of each other in no particular order.
He was about to give up, when he spied the elusive jerry can with its Enochian inscription peeking out at him from the topmost shelf in one corner of the room. Sam was tall, but he wasn't quite tall enough, and even standing on tippy toes wasn't helping him. His fingers brushed the side of the can, but he couldn't grasp it, and, grumbling, he turned to go find something to stand on.
As luck would have it, there was an orange box in one corner of the room, and he smiled. "Well, that was easy!" Lugging the box, which was heavier than it looked, away from its place beside one set of shelving to the shelves on the other side of the room took him very little time. Unfortunately, there was a bunch of items that had been wedged behind it, stacked in an unsteady pile, and as he turned to shove the crate, his heel caught the edge of the bottom-most container and brought the entire pile crashing down.
Too late to do anything about it at that moment, Sam swiftly climbed onto the box and lifted down his holy oil can and then turned to restore order to the mess he'd made. There seemed to be a mix of cartons and boxes that had toppled when he'd disturbed them. There was one container that had fallen on its side and spilled its contents, which appeared to be assorted charts and maps, so he stuffed them back and made a note to peruse them later to see if there was anything they might find useful in their fight against the things that insisted on going bump in the night.
He thought he'd got everything back into its pile and in a somewhat more stable formation too, but when he stepped back to admire his handiwork he heard the crunch of glass and jumped in horror when he saw that he'd stepped on a small jar and shattered it.
There was a kind of breathless, popping sound - the kind that's almost a silence, and then nothing. Shrugging, Sam went off to find a dustpan and brush.
~*~
Things were going well for Dean in his kitchen - it was his kitchen, dammit, no matter what Sam might say. His cherries were cooling in a dish. His pastry lining was rolled out and waiting to be added to the pie plate, and the oven was heating up in preparation for receiving the finest pie the world had ever seen. He was marking time by creating little pastry leaves to put on the piecrust. Never let it be said that Chef Dean ever did things half-assed. His pie would be perfect. Sammy would weep and beg for a slice when it was done.
He had ice cream in the freezer, and his mouth was watering at the thought of pie a la mode. Carefully, he placed the cherry filling into the case and painted around the edge of it with milk so the top would stick to the bottom and seal it. He carved the vents into the top of the pastry crust and then put his ornamental leaves around to decorate it. Finally, he painted on an egg-wash glaze, made a note of the time and then popped his creation - Superpie - into the oven.
As the dish went into the oven, there was that almost sound that seemed as if everything in the world had frozen in its tracks for just one moment and then continued as usual. Dean, busily concentrating on his pie, didn't even notice.
He was washing his dirty dishes and making sure that there were no traces of the war he'd waged with his pastry, when Sam came into the kitchen clutching the fragments of what seemed to Dean to be a glass jar or possibly an old-fashioned light bulb.
"Wassup?" Dean wasn't really paying attention still, since three quarters of his brain was occupied with thoughts of dessert.
"I broke something, and I don't know what it was. There doesn't seem to be any damage, but I wanted to check, because in this place you never know. Everything okay in here?" Sam dropped the dustpan full of fragments onto the worktop to show his brother. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the Batcave, there was a distant crashing sound, and both men frowned.
"You let some kind of creature escape, Sammy?"
"I think I'd have noticed a creature. Nope. It was an empty jar. I don't think... wait, I did knock over a pile of stuff. Maybe when I restacked it, it wasn't as secure as I thought. I don't think that it's anything else."
Somewhere, a door began to bang.
"Oh, Jeez," grumped Dean. "Don't tell me you let a poltergeist out."
"Come on, Dean, whoever heard of a poltergeist imprisoned in a glass jar?" Sam frowned. It did sound like a poltergeist. Another door, somewhat closer to them, joined in the chorus and Dean could see Sam thinking hard.
"First time for everything, Sammy-boy," smirked Dean and came across to the counter to study the pieces of the container that had been broken. "Hmmm... Just looks like a jam jar to me."
"Maybe something in one of the other containers I knocked over had something in it. There was a box with a bunch of charts and stuff as well as this." Sam shrugged. "I guess since I started it, I'd better go try and put it down."
Dean checked his watch. "Hold on, Sammy. I've got 35 minutes. I'll come with. It won't take the two of us too long to banish a stupid poltergeist. Let's go back to where that jar thingie was."
The two of them made their way back to the room Sam had been exploring, and the door slammed shut then opened again a couple of times before they reached it. It didn't move at all once they arrived, but as Sam stepped into the room, he groaned. Instead of haphazard stacks and piles of boxes and cans on the shelves around the room, everything had been tossed into the center of it. The contents of at least half of the containers had been spilled, and it was impossible to tell what went where.
"Oh, no," said Sam, horrified.
"Where do we even start?" Dean scratched his head, and behind him the door slammed, bumping against his behind just as he was leaning forward, off balance, to take a look and propelling him into the room in a rush to save himself from falling flat onto his face. "Hey! Cut that out!"
"I guess we start with a banishing ritual and then get busy tidying up this mess." Sam pulled a box up from out of the heap and set it onto a shelf, and immediately the box was tossed off it again, back onto the pile of debris.
Dean just said, "Be back in a minute," and went to find a marker pen, salt and holy water. Returning a moment later, he narrowly missed the door slamming on him once more, but handed the holy water to Sam and began to sprinkle salt around them both in a circle. Sam drew a series of runes on the floor and began the banishing ritual. As he reached the last few lines, the door slammed furiously, but finally, as Sam pronounced the final exorcism, it became still.
"Well, that didn't take too long," said Dean, pleased. "And I've got ten minutes to go before it's time."
"Time for what?" Sam was carefully gathering up fallen items and putting them back into their stacks on the shelves that lined the room.
"Time to unveil my creation," said Dean, his eyes alight with anticipation. "The finest cherry pie the world has ever seen. I call it Superpie."
"You actually managed to bake a pie?" Sam looked up, surprise on his face.
"Oh, ye of little faith! Just wait ‘til you see it, Sammy. It's gonna be a thing of beauty."
Gathering up a bunch of robes from where they were spreading out from a wicker basket, Dean folded them and put them back into their container, then set the basket onto a shelf.
There was still stuff lying untidily on the floor when Dean went to take his creation out of the oven, but Sam left it where it lay and followed his brother, dying to see what sort of creation would emerge from the oven.
There was a delicious, slightly spicy smell coming from the kitchen, and both paused on the threshold to inhale it before stepping inside.
"It certainly smells like a pie," said Sam, giving his brother a smile.
"Told you," murmured Dean. "When did I ever lie to you?"
"Well..."
"I mean about food," said Dean, hastily. He pulled the oven door open and grabbed a couple of pot holders, then reached in. As the pie came into view, Sam gaped. Golden brown and delicious looking, scent rose from it in tantalizing waves of sugary richness, and his mouth watered.
"I've got to hand it to you, dude. That looks like a pie."
"Yeah." Dean's smile was that of a little kid who just received a puppy. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yeah," breathed Sam. "It… er… she's pretty close to perfect."
"You wanna try it?" Dean had forgotten completely about withholding his creation from his brother. Lost in ecstasy at the fragrance from it, he reached for a couple of plates and cut two slices from the still steaming pie. Scooping them onto the plates, he directed Sam to go fetch the ice cream.
A moment later, both had plates of pie a la mode. Sam found spoons and forks and then picked up his plate, turning to go to the library, and Dean had gone to put the balance of the pie into the fridge, when there was that moment of negative sound again. Sam noticed it this time, was turning back to see what was happening, when Dean's plate rose from the worktop and flew at him.
"Oh, you JERK!" roared Sam, scooping a handful of the sticky pie filling as it slowly meandered down his cheek to drip off his chin onto his last clean T-shirt. He took the handful and wound up his throwing arm, aimed and fired it straight at Dean, who was standing with his mouth open in horror.
Unfortunately, just at that point in the proceedings, Castiel winked into being, directly in the line of fire.
"Dean..." he said, as ever, his utterance pregnant with meaning, and then was silent but for gagging, squelching sounds as the missile filled his mouth, his nose and slithered down his forehead to get in his eyes.
Dean, having put away the rest of his pie and his ice cream, had turned back to grab his own plate and devour the fruits of his labor, and as Sam let out his yell he veered around to see Castiel get his face full of pie. His pie.
"Hey!" he bellowed, and when Dean bellowed, things in cupboards rattled. They rattled rather more at this particular point in the proceedings, and Sam didn't think that it was because of Dean's loud voice.
This was confirmed a moment later when the cupboard behind Dean’s head flew open and a cascade of china plates and cups poured down onto his head and shoulders. Dean growled, a deep rumbling growl that promised mayhem to follow. Castiel, fingers covered with gourmet cherry filling, blinked at him owlishly, limpid blue surrounded by pastry.
“Dean?” This time his tone was questioning. “Did I do something to offend your brother?”
“You got in the way,” said Sam. “No offense meant.”
“Why is there a small brown person who looks like Beyoncé throwing china at you? Did you offend her in some way?” Both Sam and Dean gaped at him, and he continued to stare for a moment before waving his hand in the air. Sam blinked, and all of a sudden he could see the creature the angel was pointing out.
“What the hell?” he said. It certainly looked like Beyoncé, if indeed Beyoncé had been around twelve inches tall and wearing a costume that looked like something an extra from Star Wars might wear. The small creature chattered her teeth at the angel, grimacing in fury.
“Meddling fool,” she hissed. “I was having fun.”
“I am sorry,” said Castiel. “However, my friends, Sam and Dean, were not.”
“What… What are you?” Sam was the first of the brothers to find his voice.
“Call yourself hunters,” snorted Mini-Beyoncé. “Don’t you recognise a bwbachod when you see one?”
“A what?” Dean was still gaping.
The little creature drew itself up to its full height. “I am a bwbachod.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Dean, smirking a little as he recovered whatever savoir faire he might have had. “So you’re this… this whatever you call it with boobies. Why do you look like Beyoncé, and why are you throwing things at me?”
The little creature moved very swiftly and before Dean realized what was happening, she was sitting on his shoulder. When he turned his head to look at her, she tweaked his nose - hard.
“I can look how I want, and I like this form,” she said, striking an attitude. “I can look however I want, and this pleases me.”
“It’s pretty hot,” murmured Sam. “Just don’t bring Kanye in here, and we’ll be fine.”
“A bwbachod does not invite others into its space,” announced Beyoncé. “I do not share.”
“Well, that’s something.” Dean grinned. “Glad you didn’t bring all your brothers and sisters. The place would be a wreck.” He frowned again. “So why were you throwing my dishes around? I think I missed that part of the conversation.”
For a moment it looked as if she wasn’t going to answer, but finally she huffed a long-suffering sigh. “Do you not know that the bwbachod requires tribute?”
“Oh, really?” Dean looked interested. “And what if I don’t really want a resident boobybod?” he asked. “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“I was confined for many the year,” she announced, rising to stand on Dean’s shoulder and striking an attitude as if she was about to orate.
“I must have let you out when the jar broke,” said Sam.
“Then you are my hero, and I will not deal ill with you,” she said. Turning to Dean, she put her hands on her hips. “You, however, owe me tribute.”
“What?” Dean gaped. “What tribute? Why”
“You gave me no pie,” she said with a pout.
“I didn’t know you wanted any.”
“It might be in the best interests of continuing domestic peace if you were to offer some of your confection to her.” Castiel seemed not to change his vocal inflections, but Sam noticed that he was almost cracking a smile.
“I guess I need a new piece myself, too,” Dean grumbled, turning back to the fridge to bring out the remaining pie. Beyoncé perked up at that, and watched avidly as Dean cut himself a new piece, then put a much smaller piece onto a plate. “I suppose you want ice cream as well.”
“Your supposition is correct,” responded the small creature. “You have a brain after all!” Poking her finger into the filling that was spilling out of the pastry on Dean’s plate, she licked it. “In return for your tribute I will assist you in the restoration of your kitchen, but don’t forget that I require tribute for my work.”
Sam had moved over to the sink to rinse as much of the sticky residue of pie from his head and neck as he could, but Castiel had waved a hand to clean himself, and now studied Sam. “I see you have pie on you,” he announced.
“Bravo, Mr. Perceptive,” snarked Sam.
“Would you like me to take care of it?” The angel didn’t wait for a response, but Sam soon found himself back to his previously unsticky state.
“Can we eat now?” Beyoncé had jumped down onto the worktop next to her plate and was already devouring her portion in a most indelicate, unladylike manner. As the other two began to eat their pieces, while the angel stood by, it became very apparent that this actually was the Best Pie Ever!
...well, so far, anyway. Flushed with success, Dean was already mentally listing the other pies he would craft once this one was a memory. It would take him some time, but everyone needs a hobby, right?
I picked up just-ruth's prompts, and decided to see what I could do with her desire for b. Apple pie, ice cream and a poltergeist. Together with the deliciously multitalented dizzojay, we set out to produce a multimedia delight for her delectation.
That sounds so good, doesn't it. All praise to dizzojay, who wasn't even slightly phased by the cracky nature of my offering and who produced an adorable piece of art for it, so here is:
Title: "The Life of Pie"
Word Count: 3,534
Beta: spoonlessone
Artist: dizzojay
Rating: gen
Featuring: Sam, Dean, Castiel, and The Pie
When Dean was a little boy he was often left to feed both his little brother and himself. By the age of seven, he'd become adept at heating up pans of spaghetti or beans, and by the age of ten he was all about experimentation. Sam, growing like a weed, rarely refused to eat his concoctions, although he had rebelled when they had only a can of tuna left in the cupboard, and Dean, who knew Sam hated it, had tried to disguise it by covering it with aerosol whipped cream. They had both been prepared to go to bed hungry, because Dean wasn't going to eat tuna anyway, cream or no cream, but fortunately Dad had turned up from his five-day hunting trip and ordered in a pizza when he'd seen their woebegone faces.
So it was that Dean had learned to cook and became good at it, into the bargain. He had never really had any opportunity to experiment with haute cuisine, but he made a mean burger, and his steaks were always perfectly done, moist and mouth-wateringly juicy.
For the record, let it be stated that Dean loved to cook. The day that the Winchesters stumbled on the bunker that had been occupied by the Men of Letters, Dean found his home. He walked into that kitchen and fell in love for the second time. To this day he's never confided in the Impala about his second love. Guilty much? But I digress.
Cooking was one thing, but baking was quite another. Dean had never really had the opportunity to learn to bake, and, at last, tired of banging his head against one brick wall after another as he and Sam tried to find some way of neutralizing The Darkness, he decided that now was the time, and come hell or high water he would learn to do so. His stated ambition to Sam was that he was going to bake the perfect pie.
"Seriously, Sammy, the pie that I'm gonna bake will be the most perfect pie ever. Just you see."
"Yeah. Okay, Dean. I'll wait right here. Call me when it's ready." And with that, Sam returned to his perusal of the illuminated Latin text that he believed would perfectly describe how to pull their half-brother, Adam, out of the Pit - he didn’t really expect ever to find a way, but at this late stage in the game there was no pressure on him to actually succeed, so it was kinda relaxing, and Sam treated it rather like you or I would treat Sudoku or a crossword.
Dean had amassed a collection of woman's magazines, (for the recipes, of course! If he happened to read the agony column from time to time, well, he occasionally got bored.) He had his laptop with him in the kitchen for guidance, and he was making a list of all the ingredients he would need in order to create shortcrust pastry.
"Sammy?" Dean's hair had flour in it as he stuck his head around the door into the study. "Have you heard of this stuff called shortening? You eat it, you know. Think that would help you any, Gigantor?"
"Busy here, Dean. Go play with your little friends." Sam waved his hand at Dean in a dismissive gesture, and Dean snorted.
"See if you get any of my pie," he huffed as he returned to the depths from whence he had emerged.
~*~
As previously mentioned, Dean loved his kitchen, and so it was that he prepared to make the most delicious pie the world had ever seen. He had cherries, sugar, and the tiniest drop of port wine for flavor, simmering in a pot. He'd bought the cherries from the local farmers' market and carefully washed them, pitted them - it was amazing the utilities one found on a Swiss Army Knife - and placed them tenderly into the pot to cook.
Turning to the pastry, he measured out what he'd need and prepared to rub the fat into the flour as detailed in "Woman's World".
~*~
Meanwhile, Sam had gone back into the storage rooms to find some of the items he would need to craft his ninety-fifth attempt at a release spell for Adam. He knew he'd seen a can of holy oil somewhere. He just couldn't remember where, but he figured that if he kept searching, sooner or later he'd come across what he needed. It didn't help that, unlike the other storage rooms in the bunker, items in this room had just been stacked on top of each other in no particular order.
He was about to give up, when he spied the elusive jerry can with its Enochian inscription peeking out at him from the topmost shelf in one corner of the room. Sam was tall, but he wasn't quite tall enough, and even standing on tippy toes wasn't helping him. His fingers brushed the side of the can, but he couldn't grasp it, and, grumbling, he turned to go find something to stand on.
As luck would have it, there was an orange box in one corner of the room, and he smiled. "Well, that was easy!" Lugging the box, which was heavier than it looked, away from its place beside one set of shelving to the shelves on the other side of the room took him very little time. Unfortunately, there was a bunch of items that had been wedged behind it, stacked in an unsteady pile, and as he turned to shove the crate, his heel caught the edge of the bottom-most container and brought the entire pile crashing down.
Too late to do anything about it at that moment, Sam swiftly climbed onto the box and lifted down his holy oil can and then turned to restore order to the mess he'd made. There seemed to be a mix of cartons and boxes that had toppled when he'd disturbed them. There was one container that had fallen on its side and spilled its contents, which appeared to be assorted charts and maps, so he stuffed them back and made a note to peruse them later to see if there was anything they might find useful in their fight against the things that insisted on going bump in the night.
He thought he'd got everything back into its pile and in a somewhat more stable formation too, but when he stepped back to admire his handiwork he heard the crunch of glass and jumped in horror when he saw that he'd stepped on a small jar and shattered it.
There was a kind of breathless, popping sound - the kind that's almost a silence, and then nothing. Shrugging, Sam went off to find a dustpan and brush.
~*~
Things were going well for Dean in his kitchen - it was his kitchen, dammit, no matter what Sam might say. His cherries were cooling in a dish. His pastry lining was rolled out and waiting to be added to the pie plate, and the oven was heating up in preparation for receiving the finest pie the world had ever seen. He was marking time by creating little pastry leaves to put on the piecrust. Never let it be said that Chef Dean ever did things half-assed. His pie would be perfect. Sammy would weep and beg for a slice when it was done.
He had ice cream in the freezer, and his mouth was watering at the thought of pie a la mode. Carefully, he placed the cherry filling into the case and painted around the edge of it with milk so the top would stick to the bottom and seal it. He carved the vents into the top of the pastry crust and then put his ornamental leaves around to decorate it. Finally, he painted on an egg-wash glaze, made a note of the time and then popped his creation - Superpie - into the oven.
As the dish went into the oven, there was that almost sound that seemed as if everything in the world had frozen in its tracks for just one moment and then continued as usual. Dean, busily concentrating on his pie, didn't even notice.
He was washing his dirty dishes and making sure that there were no traces of the war he'd waged with his pastry, when Sam came into the kitchen clutching the fragments of what seemed to Dean to be a glass jar or possibly an old-fashioned light bulb.
"Wassup?" Dean wasn't really paying attention still, since three quarters of his brain was occupied with thoughts of dessert.
"I broke something, and I don't know what it was. There doesn't seem to be any damage, but I wanted to check, because in this place you never know. Everything okay in here?" Sam dropped the dustpan full of fragments onto the worktop to show his brother. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the Batcave, there was a distant crashing sound, and both men frowned.
"You let some kind of creature escape, Sammy?"
"I think I'd have noticed a creature. Nope. It was an empty jar. I don't think... wait, I did knock over a pile of stuff. Maybe when I restacked it, it wasn't as secure as I thought. I don't think that it's anything else."
Somewhere, a door began to bang.
"Oh, Jeez," grumped Dean. "Don't tell me you let a poltergeist out."
"Come on, Dean, whoever heard of a poltergeist imprisoned in a glass jar?" Sam frowned. It did sound like a poltergeist. Another door, somewhat closer to them, joined in the chorus and Dean could see Sam thinking hard.
"First time for everything, Sammy-boy," smirked Dean and came across to the counter to study the pieces of the container that had been broken. "Hmmm... Just looks like a jam jar to me."
"Maybe something in one of the other containers I knocked over had something in it. There was a box with a bunch of charts and stuff as well as this." Sam shrugged. "I guess since I started it, I'd better go try and put it down."
Dean checked his watch. "Hold on, Sammy. I've got 35 minutes. I'll come with. It won't take the two of us too long to banish a stupid poltergeist. Let's go back to where that jar thingie was."
The two of them made their way back to the room Sam had been exploring, and the door slammed shut then opened again a couple of times before they reached it. It didn't move at all once they arrived, but as Sam stepped into the room, he groaned. Instead of haphazard stacks and piles of boxes and cans on the shelves around the room, everything had been tossed into the center of it. The contents of at least half of the containers had been spilled, and it was impossible to tell what went where.
"Oh, no," said Sam, horrified.
"Where do we even start?" Dean scratched his head, and behind him the door slammed, bumping against his behind just as he was leaning forward, off balance, to take a look and propelling him into the room in a rush to save himself from falling flat onto his face. "Hey! Cut that out!"
"I guess we start with a banishing ritual and then get busy tidying up this mess." Sam pulled a box up from out of the heap and set it onto a shelf, and immediately the box was tossed off it again, back onto the pile of debris.
Dean just said, "Be back in a minute," and went to find a marker pen, salt and holy water. Returning a moment later, he narrowly missed the door slamming on him once more, but handed the holy water to Sam and began to sprinkle salt around them both in a circle. Sam drew a series of runes on the floor and began the banishing ritual. As he reached the last few lines, the door slammed furiously, but finally, as Sam pronounced the final exorcism, it became still.
"Well, that didn't take too long," said Dean, pleased. "And I've got ten minutes to go before it's time."
"Time for what?" Sam was carefully gathering up fallen items and putting them back into their stacks on the shelves that lined the room.
"Time to unveil my creation," said Dean, his eyes alight with anticipation. "The finest cherry pie the world has ever seen. I call it Superpie."
"You actually managed to bake a pie?" Sam looked up, surprise on his face.
"Oh, ye of little faith! Just wait ‘til you see it, Sammy. It's gonna be a thing of beauty."
Gathering up a bunch of robes from where they were spreading out from a wicker basket, Dean folded them and put them back into their container, then set the basket onto a shelf.
There was still stuff lying untidily on the floor when Dean went to take his creation out of the oven, but Sam left it where it lay and followed his brother, dying to see what sort of creation would emerge from the oven.
There was a delicious, slightly spicy smell coming from the kitchen, and both paused on the threshold to inhale it before stepping inside.
"It certainly smells like a pie," said Sam, giving his brother a smile.
"Told you," murmured Dean. "When did I ever lie to you?"
"Well..."
"I mean about food," said Dean, hastily. He pulled the oven door open and grabbed a couple of pot holders, then reached in. As the pie came into view, Sam gaped. Golden brown and delicious looking, scent rose from it in tantalizing waves of sugary richness, and his mouth watered.
"I've got to hand it to you, dude. That looks like a pie."
"Yeah." Dean's smile was that of a little kid who just received a puppy. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yeah," breathed Sam. "It… er… she's pretty close to perfect."
"You wanna try it?" Dean had forgotten completely about withholding his creation from his brother. Lost in ecstasy at the fragrance from it, he reached for a couple of plates and cut two slices from the still steaming pie. Scooping them onto the plates, he directed Sam to go fetch the ice cream.
A moment later, both had plates of pie a la mode. Sam found spoons and forks and then picked up his plate, turning to go to the library, and Dean had gone to put the balance of the pie into the fridge, when there was that moment of negative sound again. Sam noticed it this time, was turning back to see what was happening, when Dean's plate rose from the worktop and flew at him.
"Oh, you JERK!" roared Sam, scooping a handful of the sticky pie filling as it slowly meandered down his cheek to drip off his chin onto his last clean T-shirt. He took the handful and wound up his throwing arm, aimed and fired it straight at Dean, who was standing with his mouth open in horror.
Unfortunately, just at that point in the proceedings, Castiel winked into being, directly in the line of fire.
"Dean..." he said, as ever, his utterance pregnant with meaning, and then was silent but for gagging, squelching sounds as the missile filled his mouth, his nose and slithered down his forehead to get in his eyes.
Dean, having put away the rest of his pie and his ice cream, had turned back to grab his own plate and devour the fruits of his labor, and as Sam let out his yell he veered around to see Castiel get his face full of pie. His pie.
"Hey!" he bellowed, and when Dean bellowed, things in cupboards rattled. They rattled rather more at this particular point in the proceedings, and Sam didn't think that it was because of Dean's loud voice.
This was confirmed a moment later when the cupboard behind Dean’s head flew open and a cascade of china plates and cups poured down onto his head and shoulders. Dean growled, a deep rumbling growl that promised mayhem to follow. Castiel, fingers covered with gourmet cherry filling, blinked at him owlishly, limpid blue surrounded by pastry.
“Dean?” This time his tone was questioning. “Did I do something to offend your brother?”
“You got in the way,” said Sam. “No offense meant.”
“Why is there a small brown person who looks like Beyoncé throwing china at you? Did you offend her in some way?” Both Sam and Dean gaped at him, and he continued to stare for a moment before waving his hand in the air. Sam blinked, and all of a sudden he could see the creature the angel was pointing out.
“What the hell?” he said. It certainly looked like Beyoncé, if indeed Beyoncé had been around twelve inches tall and wearing a costume that looked like something an extra from Star Wars might wear. The small creature chattered her teeth at the angel, grimacing in fury.
“Meddling fool,” she hissed. “I was having fun.”
“I am sorry,” said Castiel. “However, my friends, Sam and Dean, were not.”
“What… What are you?” Sam was the first of the brothers to find his voice.
“Call yourself hunters,” snorted Mini-Beyoncé. “Don’t you recognise a bwbachod when you see one?”
“A what?” Dean was still gaping.
The little creature drew itself up to its full height. “I am a bwbachod.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Dean, smirking a little as he recovered whatever savoir faire he might have had. “So you’re this… this whatever you call it with boobies. Why do you look like Beyoncé, and why are you throwing things at me?”
The little creature moved very swiftly and before Dean realized what was happening, she was sitting on his shoulder. When he turned his head to look at her, she tweaked his nose - hard.
“I can look how I want, and I like this form,” she said, striking an attitude. “I can look however I want, and this pleases me.”
“It’s pretty hot,” murmured Sam. “Just don’t bring Kanye in here, and we’ll be fine.”
“A bwbachod does not invite others into its space,” announced Beyoncé. “I do not share.”
“Well, that’s something.” Dean grinned. “Glad you didn’t bring all your brothers and sisters. The place would be a wreck.” He frowned again. “So why were you throwing my dishes around? I think I missed that part of the conversation.”
For a moment it looked as if she wasn’t going to answer, but finally she huffed a long-suffering sigh. “Do you not know that the bwbachod requires tribute?”
“Oh, really?” Dean looked interested. “And what if I don’t really want a resident boobybod?” he asked. “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“I was confined for many the year,” she announced, rising to stand on Dean’s shoulder and striking an attitude as if she was about to orate.
“I must have let you out when the jar broke,” said Sam.
“Then you are my hero, and I will not deal ill with you,” she said. Turning to Dean, she put her hands on her hips. “You, however, owe me tribute.”
“What?” Dean gaped. “What tribute? Why”
“You gave me no pie,” she said with a pout.
“I didn’t know you wanted any.”
“It might be in the best interests of continuing domestic peace if you were to offer some of your confection to her.” Castiel seemed not to change his vocal inflections, but Sam noticed that he was almost cracking a smile.
“I guess I need a new piece myself, too,” Dean grumbled, turning back to the fridge to bring out the remaining pie. Beyoncé perked up at that, and watched avidly as Dean cut himself a new piece, then put a much smaller piece onto a plate. “I suppose you want ice cream as well.”
“Your supposition is correct,” responded the small creature. “You have a brain after all!” Poking her finger into the filling that was spilling out of the pastry on Dean’s plate, she licked it. “In return for your tribute I will assist you in the restoration of your kitchen, but don’t forget that I require tribute for my work.”
Sam had moved over to the sink to rinse as much of the sticky residue of pie from his head and neck as he could, but Castiel had waved a hand to clean himself, and now studied Sam. “I see you have pie on you,” he announced.
“Bravo, Mr. Perceptive,” snarked Sam.
“Would you like me to take care of it?” The angel didn’t wait for a response, but Sam soon found himself back to his previously unsticky state.
“Can we eat now?” Beyoncé had jumped down onto the worktop next to her plate and was already devouring her portion in a most indelicate, unladylike manner. As the other two began to eat their pieces, while the angel stood by, it became very apparent that this actually was the Best Pie Ever!
...well, so far, anyway. Flushed with success, Dean was already mentally listing the other pies he would craft once this one was a memory. It would take him some time, but everyone needs a hobby, right?