Yeah, so, my Beta!Bitch is back... so... I finally get to post this. :-)
Title: Five Ways Dean Likes Gravy: Well, Okay... Four Ways Dean Likes Gravy and One Way Sam Does.
Author: mgbutterfly
Rating: PG (there's some cussin')
Pairings: Dean/Food, Sam/Food.
Disclaimer: Uh, I wish I owned these boys. If I did, I'd cook for them ALL THE TIME. And I don't cook. So... not mine, I make no money, just for fun, please don't sue.
Summary: He gave the idea some serious consideration because, honestly, that gravy was better than sex. Well, better than bad sex.
Beta!Bitch:barkeep
Author's Notes: Let me tell you the thing about barkeep. Dean lives in her head. No. Seriously. She is the Dean to my Sam. So, I wrote this and went, "Yo, barkeep! Beta Bitch!" and she went, "Yeah, yeah... oooh.... Dean and gravy. I am *SO* on this. Like Oprah on a baked ham.... or Dean on biscuits 'n' gravy. Mmmmmm.... biscuits 'n' gravy and Dean."
Well, okay, maybe it didn't go quite like that. But what you need to know is that all the stuff that's really, I mean really Dean... that's all barkeep. I love her.
~ I ~
Dean's pretty sure he's been to every diner in the lower forty-eight. Every mom and pop joint, every greasy spoon, every Waffle House, Denny's, Stuckey's, Shoney's and IHOP. And regarding those last five, he much prefers Waffle House. And regarding Waffle house, he knows that they're all supposed to be indistinguishable but he swears that the ones in the South are better than the ones out West. Seriously, seeing the blocky yellow Waffle House sign nestled in amongst the adobe and Spanish tile of Tuscon is just wrong.
Dean's not the settling down type, but if he were, he'd settle in the South. Maybe somewhere in Georgia, out in the country, nice plot of land all to himself. Maybe in the Appalachian foothills. Preferably far away from the two-toothed banjo players. But he's not the settling down type.
He and Sam have been on the road for about eight hours, stopping only for fuel. The ethanol kind for the car and the food kind for themselves. Gas station hot dogs and Ho-Hos get old after a while, (actually, they were old before Dean ever laid a hand on them) and Dean's stomach was telling him it was time for dinner. They could stop at the next exit and find a little diner. Dean was craving some pot roast and gravy.
He can't remember the last time he had a nice pot roast. Of course, nothing could ever compare to what he remembers of his mom's pot roast. He remembers how it smelled, cooking in the crock pot. He remembers how smooth the gravy always turned out. He remembers having (what seemed like) a gigantic plate of mashed potatoes and roast covered in the thick, brown sauce and making a mess of his face as he shoveled in forkful after forkful.
Yeah, pot roast sounded like just the thing.
~ II ~
So, this one time, in Lodi....
Dean had just come off one hell of a night. He and Sam had been out until the wee hours of morning in one of the local wine-yards trying to track down what they thought was an imp. Turned out, the god damned thing was a gremlin. Fucker put up one helluva fight, too.
They got back to their motel, some hole-in-the-wall joint with pictures of squirrels and blueberry pie on the walls. The pictures were hideous but at least they covered up the actual holes in the walls. They washed the grime from their bodies then caught a couple hours sleep. If it had been up to Dean, they would have just stayed in town the following day to catch up on some much needed rest.
But Sam had other plans. The freak. That was okay though, Dean got his revenge by playing CCR, figuring it would make Sam crazy or possibly make Sam's brain explode. Of course, if his brain had exploded, Dean would've been cleaning the Impala for weeks. He was pretty sure Sam's brain was larger than your average brain.
So, when Dean woke up, if you can really call it waking up, he insisted that they go to that little diner they had seen advertised in one of the Come get stuck in wonderful Lodi flyers. I mean, it wasn't like they really had anywhere to be right away. And if Dean couldn't sleep in just one freakin' morning, then at least he could have a good breakfast before they got back on the road. It wasn't like the diner was too far from the motel, and it boasted the best coffee in town.
They walked into the place and found a little two-seater table by a window. Glancing over the menu, it didn't take Dean long to find his morning meal.
Home fries covered in white gravy.
Dean's not a huge fan of home fries. Seriously, what the hell? It's like they're trying to be hash browns and failing miserably. And sometimes, people call them hash browns, and you get all worked up about finally finding some hash browns, but when they're delivered to your table you're disappointed to discover that they're not hash browns at all but freaking home fries. But dude, potatoes (even if they are home fries) covered in white gravy. Oh, hell yeah.
Needless to say, it was the best breakfast he'd had in a loooooong time. And the coffee? Like manna from heaven.
~ III ~
The thing you need to realize about Georgia, well, the Atlanta area anyway, is that every street is called Peachtree. Peachtree Creek Road, Peachtree Lane, Peachtree Avenue, Peachtree Circle, Peachtree Drive, Peachtree Plaza, Peachtree Way, Peachtree Memorial Drive, New Peachtree Road, Peachtree Walk, Peachtree Valley Road, West Peachtree Street, Peachtree Battle Avenue, Peachtree-Dunwoody Road, Old Peachtree Road. Some of these streets intersect with Peachtree Street or are extensions of it, and some are nowhere near it. And if you weren't confused enough, those aren't even all the Peachtree Streets in the Atlanta area. Oh yeah, there's more.
So, getting lost looking for the right Peachtree street is easy to do.
And that's exactly what happened that time they found the place with the red-eye gravy. Dean and Sam had been driving around one of the suburbs, looking for Peachtree Circle/Street/Drive/whatthefuckever, when they passed a kitschy-looking diner. Dean was hungry enough and while Sam hardly ever suggested that they stop to eat, when a blue plate special was set in front of him the kid really packed it away. Sometimes he looked so pathetic they even brought seconds on the house. Sometimes, when Sam was banged up from a bad hunt, they brought pie. He could be a pain in the ass but the kid had his uses. And besides, they needed to ask for directions.
What? Yes, sometimes a guy has to ask for directions.
They walked in and stopped for a minute to absorb the sheer kitsch. The place looked like it had swallowed a time capsule from the 1950's... and then projectile vomited. Red and white checked table cloths, black and white checkered floor, turquoise bar with chrome railing and red topped bar stools, and every piece of 1950's art you could imagine, and some you couldn't. The female wait staff all wore little white dresses with red aprons and the cooks behind the bar were decked in white trousers and shirts with red bow ties and those cheap white paper hats that looked like they'd been folded by a class of first graders.
The place looked like kitschy hell, but smelled like southern heaven. Sam and Dean sat themselves in one of the booths along the wall furthest from the door and opened their menus. Unsurprisingly, they discovered basic diner fare; burgers, melts, fried this and fried that. But really? The only thing that really mattered was the red-eye gravy.
Man, Dean hadn't had red-eye gravy since he was twenty-two, in some little burg outside of Charleston. So when Dean spotted fried chicken smothered in red-eye gravy, he nearly fell out of the booth. And when he started eating it he made a noise so lewd that Sam asked him if he wanted to take it to go and get a room.
He gave the idea some serious consideration because, honestly, that gravy was better than sex.
Well, better than bad sex.
~ IV ~
They're back in Georgia. Again. This time in a tiny little town called Waverly Hall. Honestly? You blink and you miss the damn place. But one of the locals had been having a problem with a poltergeist, so, you gotta go where the work takes ya. The lady was nice enough to offer up a spare room for Dean and Sam to stay in that evening. She also offered to cook dinner.
A real, homemade meal. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had a real home cooked meal. Neither could Sam.
And, miracle of miracles, the woman had an internet connection. Who knew you could get internet in Bumfuck, GA? After the woman chased them out of the kitchen, threatening them with a rolling pin, they holed themselves up in the spare room for a while, doing some research on-line and waiting for the call down to dinner. The smells that wafted up to them were torturous on their empty stomachs.
When they were finally called down for the evening meal, Dean's eyes went wide with sheer, foodgasmic delight. The woman had gone all out with dinner. There were collard greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread, and not that kind you get out of a box, but real, honest to god cornbread, cooked (and still sitting in) a cast iron skillet. There were mashed potatoes, sweet potato pie and (Dean barely contained the lewd noise as he caught sight of the main dish) country fried steak in gravy.
You gotta love that southern hospitality.
~ V ~
It's not that Sam doesn't like gravy, it's just the he doesn't seek it out at every opportunity like Dean. He's just a take it or leave it kind of guy when it comes to gravy on his food. But Dean, if Dean could have gravy with every meal, he probably would.
But there was this one time... Sam can't even remember where they were. He knows they were in the South somewhere, it could have been Tennessee, hell, it could have been Kentucky. It doesn't really matter. What matters is it was the first time Sam had ever had true southern biscuits and gravy.
They were at yet another little diner, and honestly, how Dean managed to find these little hole-in-the-wall places, Sam would never know. It was like he had some kind of diner mojo or diner-fu. Whatever, Sam wasn't complaining. They always turned out to have the best freaking food. This one was no exception.
They were both strung out from the road and the hunt and just needed food and coffee to feel alive again. Dean walked in first, casually holding the door open for Sam to follow. Dean lead the way to a booth against the far wall and took the seat facing the door. It was quite possibly the most boring diner they'd ever seen. The booths had boring green seats with boring wood tables, the walls were a boring off-white, the art was boring landscape pictures. Even the serving staff was boring.
Sam picked up his menu, saw Mama D's True Southern Biscuits 'n' Gravy and asked Dean, "So, what do you think makes them true southern biscuits 'n' gravy?"
Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother and pondered a moment before saying, "They probably fry the biscuits in Coke."
When their waitress came around they both ordered coffee. Sam leaned back in the booth and watched as Dean ordered a breakfast big enough to feed an army. If Dean could finish all that food and not get sick, Sam promised (to himself, you understand) he would never make fun of Dean's eating habits again. The waitress turned her attention on Sam and he asked, "I've never had biscuits and gravy. Do you recommend Mama D's?"
Both the waitress and Dean looked at Sam like he'd just grown two more heads. The waitress, "Tawni, with an 'i'," gave Sam a smile and drawled, "Best you'll find this side of the Mason-Dixon. You'll love 'em, honey."
After she left, Dean kept staring. "What, Dean? I've never had biscuits and gravy. So what? Dude, it's not like, I don't know, sex, or anything."
Dean just shook his head and muttered under his breath, "It's like I don't even know you."
When their meals came, Dean's practically overflowing the plate, Sam stared at the mass of white blobs in front of him. He made a face and started poking the mounds of what he could only assume were biscuits. You see, he couldn't actually see anything even remotely resembling biscuits. It was all just white, pepper speckled gravy.
"Sam, don't play with your food. Just eat it, man. That's gonna be the best shit you've ever put in your mouth. Trust me," Dean displayed his best I'm-your-brother-and-I'd-never-lie-to-you-especially-not-about-food smile.
Sam poked at the mass-o-food one more time before cutting into it with his fork. He put the bite in his mouth, leaned back against the booth and just sat there with a kind of shocked, but in a really good way, look on his face.
Dean grinned at him from across the table and said, "See? Told ya, so," and winked. The fucker. Sam hated that wink.
Sam was silent for the rest of the meal. He took small bites and chewed so slowly that Dean thought maybe Sam had gone a little afflicted. Dean'd stated his concern later in the car and was rewarded with a slap to the back of the head.
Sam smiled contentedly as Dean grumbled and reached for a Motorhead tape in retaliation. But not even Motorhead could destroy Sam's contented lethargy. He leaned against the door, one hand resting on his pleasantly full belly, one hand dangling out the window, fingers absently stroking the sun-warmed side of the Impala.
Dean looked over and snickered. "Dude, enjoying the afterglow?"
"Yes, and you're ruining the moment." Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Shut up and drive."
Sam relaxed as they sped down the rural road, feeling sleepy and content. He'd never tell him so but Dean was right. Food could be as good as sex.
Well, bad sex, anyway.
Author: mgbutterfly
Rating: PG (there's some cussin')
Pairings: Dean/Food, Sam/Food.
Disclaimer: Uh, I wish I owned these boys. If I did, I'd cook for them ALL THE TIME. And I don't cook. So... not mine, I make no money, just for fun, please don't sue.
Summary: He gave the idea some serious consideration because, honestly, that gravy was better than sex. Well, better than bad sex.
Beta!Bitch:barkeep
Author's Notes: Let me tell you the thing about barkeep. Dean lives in her head. No. Seriously. She is the Dean to my Sam. So, I wrote this and went, "Yo, barkeep! Beta Bitch!" and she went, "Yeah, yeah... oooh.... Dean and gravy. I am *SO* on this. Like Oprah on a baked ham.... or Dean on biscuits 'n' gravy. Mmmmmm.... biscuits 'n' gravy and Dean."
Well, okay, maybe it didn't go quite like that. But what you need to know is that all the stuff that's really, I mean really Dean... that's all barkeep. I love her.
~ I ~
Dean's pretty sure he's been to every diner in the lower forty-eight. Every mom and pop joint, every greasy spoon, every Waffle House, Denny's, Stuckey's, Shoney's and IHOP. And regarding those last five, he much prefers Waffle House. And regarding Waffle house, he knows that they're all supposed to be indistinguishable but he swears that the ones in the South are better than the ones out West. Seriously, seeing the blocky yellow Waffle House sign nestled in amongst the adobe and Spanish tile of Tuscon is just wrong.
Dean's not the settling down type, but if he were, he'd settle in the South. Maybe somewhere in Georgia, out in the country, nice plot of land all to himself. Maybe in the Appalachian foothills. Preferably far away from the two-toothed banjo players. But he's not the settling down type.
He and Sam have been on the road for about eight hours, stopping only for fuel. The ethanol kind for the car and the food kind for themselves. Gas station hot dogs and Ho-Hos get old after a while, (actually, they were old before Dean ever laid a hand on them) and Dean's stomach was telling him it was time for dinner. They could stop at the next exit and find a little diner. Dean was craving some pot roast and gravy.
He can't remember the last time he had a nice pot roast. Of course, nothing could ever compare to what he remembers of his mom's pot roast. He remembers how it smelled, cooking in the crock pot. He remembers how smooth the gravy always turned out. He remembers having (what seemed like) a gigantic plate of mashed potatoes and roast covered in the thick, brown sauce and making a mess of his face as he shoveled in forkful after forkful.
Yeah, pot roast sounded like just the thing.
~ II ~
So, this one time, in Lodi....
Dean had just come off one hell of a night. He and Sam had been out until the wee hours of morning in one of the local wine-yards trying to track down what they thought was an imp. Turned out, the god damned thing was a gremlin. Fucker put up one helluva fight, too.
They got back to their motel, some hole-in-the-wall joint with pictures of squirrels and blueberry pie on the walls. The pictures were hideous but at least they covered up the actual holes in the walls. They washed the grime from their bodies then caught a couple hours sleep. If it had been up to Dean, they would have just stayed in town the following day to catch up on some much needed rest.
But Sam had other plans. The freak. That was okay though, Dean got his revenge by playing CCR, figuring it would make Sam crazy or possibly make Sam's brain explode. Of course, if his brain had exploded, Dean would've been cleaning the Impala for weeks. He was pretty sure Sam's brain was larger than your average brain.
So, when Dean woke up, if you can really call it waking up, he insisted that they go to that little diner they had seen advertised in one of the Come get stuck in wonderful Lodi flyers. I mean, it wasn't like they really had anywhere to be right away. And if Dean couldn't sleep in just one freakin' morning, then at least he could have a good breakfast before they got back on the road. It wasn't like the diner was too far from the motel, and it boasted the best coffee in town.
They walked into the place and found a little two-seater table by a window. Glancing over the menu, it didn't take Dean long to find his morning meal.
Home fries covered in white gravy.
Dean's not a huge fan of home fries. Seriously, what the hell? It's like they're trying to be hash browns and failing miserably. And sometimes, people call them hash browns, and you get all worked up about finally finding some hash browns, but when they're delivered to your table you're disappointed to discover that they're not hash browns at all but freaking home fries. But dude, potatoes (even if they are home fries) covered in white gravy. Oh, hell yeah.
Needless to say, it was the best breakfast he'd had in a loooooong time. And the coffee? Like manna from heaven.
~ III ~
The thing you need to realize about Georgia, well, the Atlanta area anyway, is that every street is called Peachtree. Peachtree Creek Road, Peachtree Lane, Peachtree Avenue, Peachtree Circle, Peachtree Drive, Peachtree Plaza, Peachtree Way, Peachtree Memorial Drive, New Peachtree Road, Peachtree Walk, Peachtree Valley Road, West Peachtree Street, Peachtree Battle Avenue, Peachtree-Dunwoody Road, Old Peachtree Road. Some of these streets intersect with Peachtree Street or are extensions of it, and some are nowhere near it. And if you weren't confused enough, those aren't even all the Peachtree Streets in the Atlanta area. Oh yeah, there's more.
So, getting lost looking for the right Peachtree street is easy to do.
And that's exactly what happened that time they found the place with the red-eye gravy. Dean and Sam had been driving around one of the suburbs, looking for Peachtree Circle/Street/Drive/whatthefuckever, when they passed a kitschy-looking diner. Dean was hungry enough and while Sam hardly ever suggested that they stop to eat, when a blue plate special was set in front of him the kid really packed it away. Sometimes he looked so pathetic they even brought seconds on the house. Sometimes, when Sam was banged up from a bad hunt, they brought pie. He could be a pain in the ass but the kid had his uses. And besides, they needed to ask for directions.
What? Yes, sometimes a guy has to ask for directions.
They walked in and stopped for a minute to absorb the sheer kitsch. The place looked like it had swallowed a time capsule from the 1950's... and then projectile vomited. Red and white checked table cloths, black and white checkered floor, turquoise bar with chrome railing and red topped bar stools, and every piece of 1950's art you could imagine, and some you couldn't. The female wait staff all wore little white dresses with red aprons and the cooks behind the bar were decked in white trousers and shirts with red bow ties and those cheap white paper hats that looked like they'd been folded by a class of first graders.
The place looked like kitschy hell, but smelled like southern heaven. Sam and Dean sat themselves in one of the booths along the wall furthest from the door and opened their menus. Unsurprisingly, they discovered basic diner fare; burgers, melts, fried this and fried that. But really? The only thing that really mattered was the red-eye gravy.
Man, Dean hadn't had red-eye gravy since he was twenty-two, in some little burg outside of Charleston. So when Dean spotted fried chicken smothered in red-eye gravy, he nearly fell out of the booth. And when he started eating it he made a noise so lewd that Sam asked him if he wanted to take it to go and get a room.
He gave the idea some serious consideration because, honestly, that gravy was better than sex.
Well, better than bad sex.
~ IV ~
They're back in Georgia. Again. This time in a tiny little town called Waverly Hall. Honestly? You blink and you miss the damn place. But one of the locals had been having a problem with a poltergeist, so, you gotta go where the work takes ya. The lady was nice enough to offer up a spare room for Dean and Sam to stay in that evening. She also offered to cook dinner.
A real, homemade meal. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had a real home cooked meal. Neither could Sam.
And, miracle of miracles, the woman had an internet connection. Who knew you could get internet in Bumfuck, GA? After the woman chased them out of the kitchen, threatening them with a rolling pin, they holed themselves up in the spare room for a while, doing some research on-line and waiting for the call down to dinner. The smells that wafted up to them were torturous on their empty stomachs.
When they were finally called down for the evening meal, Dean's eyes went wide with sheer, foodgasmic delight. The woman had gone all out with dinner. There were collard greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread, and not that kind you get out of a box, but real, honest to god cornbread, cooked (and still sitting in) a cast iron skillet. There were mashed potatoes, sweet potato pie and (Dean barely contained the lewd noise as he caught sight of the main dish) country fried steak in gravy.
You gotta love that southern hospitality.
~ V ~
It's not that Sam doesn't like gravy, it's just the he doesn't seek it out at every opportunity like Dean. He's just a take it or leave it kind of guy when it comes to gravy on his food. But Dean, if Dean could have gravy with every meal, he probably would.
But there was this one time... Sam can't even remember where they were. He knows they were in the South somewhere, it could have been Tennessee, hell, it could have been Kentucky. It doesn't really matter. What matters is it was the first time Sam had ever had true southern biscuits and gravy.
They were at yet another little diner, and honestly, how Dean managed to find these little hole-in-the-wall places, Sam would never know. It was like he had some kind of diner mojo or diner-fu. Whatever, Sam wasn't complaining. They always turned out to have the best freaking food. This one was no exception.
They were both strung out from the road and the hunt and just needed food and coffee to feel alive again. Dean walked in first, casually holding the door open for Sam to follow. Dean lead the way to a booth against the far wall and took the seat facing the door. It was quite possibly the most boring diner they'd ever seen. The booths had boring green seats with boring wood tables, the walls were a boring off-white, the art was boring landscape pictures. Even the serving staff was boring.
Sam picked up his menu, saw Mama D's True Southern Biscuits 'n' Gravy and asked Dean, "So, what do you think makes them true southern biscuits 'n' gravy?"
Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother and pondered a moment before saying, "They probably fry the biscuits in Coke."
When their waitress came around they both ordered coffee. Sam leaned back in the booth and watched as Dean ordered a breakfast big enough to feed an army. If Dean could finish all that food and not get sick, Sam promised (to himself, you understand) he would never make fun of Dean's eating habits again. The waitress turned her attention on Sam and he asked, "I've never had biscuits and gravy. Do you recommend Mama D's?"
Both the waitress and Dean looked at Sam like he'd just grown two more heads. The waitress, "Tawni, with an 'i'," gave Sam a smile and drawled, "Best you'll find this side of the Mason-Dixon. You'll love 'em, honey."
After she left, Dean kept staring. "What, Dean? I've never had biscuits and gravy. So what? Dude, it's not like, I don't know, sex, or anything."
Dean just shook his head and muttered under his breath, "It's like I don't even know you."
When their meals came, Dean's practically overflowing the plate, Sam stared at the mass of white blobs in front of him. He made a face and started poking the mounds of what he could only assume were biscuits. You see, he couldn't actually see anything even remotely resembling biscuits. It was all just white, pepper speckled gravy.
"Sam, don't play with your food. Just eat it, man. That's gonna be the best shit you've ever put in your mouth. Trust me," Dean displayed his best I'm-your-brother-and-I'd-never-lie-to-you-especially-not-about-food smile.
Sam poked at the mass-o-food one more time before cutting into it with his fork. He put the bite in his mouth, leaned back against the booth and just sat there with a kind of shocked, but in a really good way, look on his face.
Dean grinned at him from across the table and said, "See? Told ya, so," and winked. The fucker. Sam hated that wink.
Sam was silent for the rest of the meal. He took small bites and chewed so slowly that Dean thought maybe Sam had gone a little afflicted. Dean'd stated his concern later in the car and was rewarded with a slap to the back of the head.
Sam smiled contentedly as Dean grumbled and reached for a Motorhead tape in retaliation. But not even Motorhead could destroy Sam's contented lethargy. He leaned against the door, one hand resting on his pleasantly full belly, one hand dangling out the window, fingers absently stroking the sun-warmed side of the Impala.
Dean looked over and snickered. "Dude, enjoying the afterglow?"
"Yes, and you're ruining the moment." Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Shut up and drive."
Sam relaxed as they sped down the rural road, feeling sleepy and content. He'd never tell him so but Dean was right. Food could be as good as sex.
Well, bad sex, anyway.