The Men's Kitchen
Commentfic, in answer to the prompt: Sam is sick (flu, pneumonia, whatever). He hasn't felt well enough to eat over the past few days, but now all he wants in the world is a milkshake. Only problem? It's Christmas. Milkshake-selling places are closed. Dean is creative and/or goes to great lengths to be an awesome big brother.
Three days. Sam hadn't put a thing in his mouth but water and a bit of apple juice. The mere suggestion of soup the day before made his already pale face turn a bit green. So, Dean kept him sipping water, added a few pills if Sam would take it, and made sure the fever didn't cook his little brother's brain.
That was that, until he woke two hours earlier, hoarse and exhausted but with the fever finally down. And insisting that the one thing he could possibly eat was a milkshake. Not some awful imitation from a fast-food joint, a real one made with just milk and chocolate ice cream.
It wasn't a terribly complicated request, and under normal circumstances Dean would be able to come up with one, even in this bumfuck town.
Unfortunately, Sam's stomach had chosen to wake up on Christmas Day. After an exhaustive search of the town's 13 commercial establishments, Dean found a single convenience store that was open. And, wonder of wonders, it carried milk and ice cream.
Still, he needed some kind of blender. Dumping a scoop of ice cream into a plastic cup of milk was not going to cut it.
He hauled the food back to the motel and buried the ice cream in the snow, then went looking for a blender. On Christmas morning, in a no-tel motel. The owner had collected advanced payment from him the previous day, and Dean was fairly certain the guy had locked up the office and left directly afterward.
The office door was far too prominent to risk picking the lock, but he went around the back and peered in the window. The owner had a bedroom there, but no kitchen of any kind.
Next to the window, though, there was a second door, labeled, "Utilities." This lock yielded to Dean's fingers quickly.
**************
It was a peculiar whirring sound that woke Sam from his morning nap. He blinked, knocking the sleep from his eyes, then coughed a few times, trying to clear the gunk out of his throat.
He was still feverish, that had to be it.. He couldn't possibly be seeing his brother nailing a bowl to the top of the dresser with a power drill.
At the sound of his coughing, Dean looked up. "Woke up just in time for breakfast. At noon. Well done, Sammy!"
"Dean," he whispered, trying to be heard over the drill, "What are you doing?" Trying to talk was a mistake, apparently, as it set off another bout of coughing.
"Making a milkshake. You wanted one, remember?"
Sam managed to quit coughing and tilted his head, not daring to speak again.
"I couldn't find a blender, but I managed to find this power drill and build a mixer attachment."
The whirring shut off. Dean poured the bowl's contents into a coffee mug and handed it to Sam.
Sam eyed it uncertainly. It looked like a milkshake. It even smelled like a milkshake. But it was made with a beat-up old power drill.
"I washed the mixer," Dean said defensively.
Sam lifted the mug.
"Remember that Home Improvement episode?" Sam croaked. "With the Man's Kitchen?"
Dean grinned. "Shut up, save your voice and drink your damned milkshake."
Sam followed orders. It felt really good going down.
Three days. Sam hadn't put a thing in his mouth but water and a bit of apple juice. The mere suggestion of soup the day before made his already pale face turn a bit green. So, Dean kept him sipping water, added a few pills if Sam would take it, and made sure the fever didn't cook his little brother's brain.
That was that, until he woke two hours earlier, hoarse and exhausted but with the fever finally down. And insisting that the one thing he could possibly eat was a milkshake. Not some awful imitation from a fast-food joint, a real one made with just milk and chocolate ice cream.
It wasn't a terribly complicated request, and under normal circumstances Dean would be able to come up with one, even in this bumfuck town.
Unfortunately, Sam's stomach had chosen to wake up on Christmas Day. After an exhaustive search of the town's 13 commercial establishments, Dean found a single convenience store that was open. And, wonder of wonders, it carried milk and ice cream.
Still, he needed some kind of blender. Dumping a scoop of ice cream into a plastic cup of milk was not going to cut it.
He hauled the food back to the motel and buried the ice cream in the snow, then went looking for a blender. On Christmas morning, in a no-tel motel. The owner had collected advanced payment from him the previous day, and Dean was fairly certain the guy had locked up the office and left directly afterward.
The office door was far too prominent to risk picking the lock, but he went around the back and peered in the window. The owner had a bedroom there, but no kitchen of any kind.
Next to the window, though, there was a second door, labeled, "Utilities." This lock yielded to Dean's fingers quickly.
**************
It was a peculiar whirring sound that woke Sam from his morning nap. He blinked, knocking the sleep from his eyes, then coughed a few times, trying to clear the gunk out of his throat.
He was still feverish, that had to be it.. He couldn't possibly be seeing his brother nailing a bowl to the top of the dresser with a power drill.
At the sound of his coughing, Dean looked up. "Woke up just in time for breakfast. At noon. Well done, Sammy!"
"Dean," he whispered, trying to be heard over the drill, "What are you doing?" Trying to talk was a mistake, apparently, as it set off another bout of coughing.
"Making a milkshake. You wanted one, remember?"
Sam managed to quit coughing and tilted his head, not daring to speak again.
"I couldn't find a blender, but I managed to find this power drill and build a mixer attachment."
The whirring shut off. Dean poured the bowl's contents into a coffee mug and handed it to Sam.
Sam eyed it uncertainly. It looked like a milkshake. It even smelled like a milkshake. But it was made with a beat-up old power drill.
"I washed the mixer," Dean said defensively.
Sam lifted the mug.
"Remember that Home Improvement episode?" Sam croaked. "With the Man's Kitchen?"
Dean grinned. "Shut up, save your voice and drink your damned milkshake."
Sam followed orders. It felt really good going down.