untitled [spn][one-shot]
Title: Untitled
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean
Word Count: 1550
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean and pies.
Dean's always loved pie. Dad was more of a cupcake fan and Sam's some race of alien that comes without a sweet tooth; he'll eat something sweet if it's put in front of him, but he never has cravings, and well. When you're lacking a basic human function, that's when you know you're in trouble is all Dean's saying.
Anyway - pie is where it's at. It doesn't even matter what kind, not even if it's not one of the sweet types, though Dean definitely prefers those; if it looks like a pie and smells like a pie and has 'pie' in its name, he's going to love it. He's going to have a slice and then he's going to have seconds and maybe even thirds and he's going to get Sam to eat some of it, and later, when he goes to bed, he'll be warm and full and being warm and full is never something Dean complains about.
He likes making pies too, when he has the time. Which is usually when Sam's injured enough that they need to take a couple of weeks off, which should take away from the activity but doesn't. Personally, Dean thinks it's because nothing can tarnish the awesomeness of pies.
He made his first pie for girlfriend, actually. Her name was Martha and she was the sweetest girl Dean had ever met. He was all of fifteen and madly in love. There was something about her that made Dean feel like he needed to impress her, something in the way she spoke or the way her hair fell or the way she smiled at him. So he'd gone over to her house one day, and he'd made her dinner. Sam had helped him plan it, eleven and eager to help Dean with anything and everything. Dean didn't know much about cooking a proper dinner, aside from plain old boiled rice and spaghetti and meatballs, so they'd gone to the library and found recipes of everything Dean thought he wanted to try. Pie was on the list before anything else, and Martha loved apples, so apple pie it was. He'd ruined his first two tries at the apartment - the first had burnt and the second one looked fine, but sent Sam rushing to the bathroom with tears in his eyes - but the one at Martha's house was perfect.
Dean's made hundreds of pies since then, but he'll always remember the look on Martha's face when she took her first bite. And also how she'd tried to suck his tongue right out of his throat fifteen minutes later on her couch. But mostly the look.
Mom used to make pies all the time. Dean loved watching her roll the dough out herself. She'd cut lattices and sometimes, if Dean asked, squares and stars and dinosaurs. When Dean would go over to her, tired of entertaining Sammy, or just bored enough to go find his mom, she'd peel away a mound of dough for him and they'd knead it together. Mom would make the filling while the dough cooled in the fridge, and Dean would stick his finger into the batter until she chased him around the house with a spoon. She'd always catch him and heave him over her shoulders, both of them laughing wildly, while Sam watched from his playpen on the carpet, wide-eyed.
They'd have the pie for desert at dinner, and Dad would say that Mom's pies were the best he ever tasted and Mom would say that's because Dad never used to eat pies before he met her. It was the only time Dad didn't make fun of Mom's cooking, because pies were the one thing Mom could have made a business out of, they were that good. The rest of her cooking, well… Dean used to pray to God to protect the house from burning down after that one time Mom tried to make meatloaf.
The first time Dean decided to make Sam a pie, Sam was sixteen and drunk. And because Sam never does things halfway, he was as wasted as he could possibly be. Dean's still not sure who took Sam to the bar or how they got in, but the fact of the matter is, there was a bar and Sam was in it. He was a sad drunk from day one; when Dean found him, he was staring into his bottle of god-knows-what and looking so woebegone that Dean was glad he and his friends hadn't decided to go swimming in the beach across the bar, because Sam probably would have let himself drown.
By the time Dean got him home, Sam had gone from morose to full-on sobbing. Most of it was incoherent, and while Dean hadn't been paying attention to Sam's slurred ramblings, amusing himself with the possibilities awaiting him in the morning - greasy breakfast, hungover brother - the crying didn't sit right with him. Even Dad didn't get this bad. Dean tried talking to Sam, asking him what had happened, because he was beginning to suspect this hadn't simply been a night for Sam and his friends to test their boundaries, that something had happened to set Sam off, but no amount of cajoling would get Sam to talk. Dean had just set a glass of water on the nightstand and was about to leave when Sam rolled over onto his stomach and said-
Mom.
And went right on saying it, just that, just - Mom. It made Dean freeze. In sixteen years, Dean had never once heard Sam cry out for Mom. Dad, sure. Dean, yeah. But never Mom. But here he was, drunk off his ass and crying and calling for a mother he never knew.
Dean spent that night not sleeping, staring at his ceiling like it would suddenly spit out all the answers, tell him if something had happened to Sam, something he felt he needed Mom for, or if this was just the alcohol speaking.
A few days later, in a fit of naiveté, Dean had a blackberry pie waiting for Sam after school. There was fresh homemade whipped cream too, and Sam gave Dean a wary look, like maybe Dean had been possessed by Martha Stewart while he'd been at school.
It didn't make anything better, not really. Sam loved the pie, sure, did that thing later that night, where he tried to psychoanalyze Dean and tell him he was awesome at the same time, which had required a swift pillow to the face - but he didn't suddenly understand what it was like to have a mom and he didn't magically decide to tell Dean what, if anything, had happened the other day and he still fought with Dad and wasn't really happier. And honestly, even for a pie those are ridiculously high expectations. But still.
Dad told Dean once that there are things Sam can't understand, won't ever understand. Dean's pretty sure Dad meant it like he said it - like there was something he and Dean had that Sam just didn't, and that's true enough if you think about it. But in Dean's head, it's not that Sam can't or won't, it's that Sam was never given the chance. He was robbed of it, like he was robbed of so many other things. It's not something he was born without. And there's a difference in that, there is. Because all those things he's missing, the little things, Sam doesn't even know he's missing them until they smack him in the face. It's not really fair that Sam should know so many other things that most people never experience, but not know what it feels like to look at your mom and love her.
Anyway. Dean still makes Sam pies, and watches him eat out of the corner of his eye and wishes Sam could remember Mom for everything she was, instead of how she died or what killed her. He still wishes a silly little piece of pie could transport Sam to a time when he had a mother who told him she loved him every single day, not because his guts were spilling out onto the floor and last chance, buddy, better say it, but because she felt like it. It's the warmest, softest, most beautiful thing Dean can imagine. It's a feeling that comes from a warm palm on the back of your neck and a honey-sweet voice and all the love you could ask for. It's the feeling a piece of pie brings Dean, solid and supple and home, and it's the feeling he wants it to bring Sam too.
You know, sometimes? When Dean looks up at the right moment, as Sam's leaning away from his clean plate, his eyes clear and on Dean, Dean thinks he gets it. Really, really gets it. And, who knows, right? Maybe he does. Maybe, sometimes, it is just that simple and a piece of pie can give you everything you never knew you were missing, for the tiniest moment, in a run-down motel off the highway, with bruises on your face and a busted up leg.
Hell, the world owes them that much. And if there's one thing Dean's learned from this life, it's that anything's possible. Sometimes, that's not a bad thing at all.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean
Word Count: 1550
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean and pies.
Dean's always loved pie. Dad was more of a cupcake fan and Sam's some race of alien that comes without a sweet tooth; he'll eat something sweet if it's put in front of him, but he never has cravings, and well. When you're lacking a basic human function, that's when you know you're in trouble is all Dean's saying.
Anyway - pie is where it's at. It doesn't even matter what kind, not even if it's not one of the sweet types, though Dean definitely prefers those; if it looks like a pie and smells like a pie and has 'pie' in its name, he's going to love it. He's going to have a slice and then he's going to have seconds and maybe even thirds and he's going to get Sam to eat some of it, and later, when he goes to bed, he'll be warm and full and being warm and full is never something Dean complains about.
He likes making pies too, when he has the time. Which is usually when Sam's injured enough that they need to take a couple of weeks off, which should take away from the activity but doesn't. Personally, Dean thinks it's because nothing can tarnish the awesomeness of pies.
He made his first pie for girlfriend, actually. Her name was Martha and she was the sweetest girl Dean had ever met. He was all of fifteen and madly in love. There was something about her that made Dean feel like he needed to impress her, something in the way she spoke or the way her hair fell or the way she smiled at him. So he'd gone over to her house one day, and he'd made her dinner. Sam had helped him plan it, eleven and eager to help Dean with anything and everything. Dean didn't know much about cooking a proper dinner, aside from plain old boiled rice and spaghetti and meatballs, so they'd gone to the library and found recipes of everything Dean thought he wanted to try. Pie was on the list before anything else, and Martha loved apples, so apple pie it was. He'd ruined his first two tries at the apartment - the first had burnt and the second one looked fine, but sent Sam rushing to the bathroom with tears in his eyes - but the one at Martha's house was perfect.
Dean's made hundreds of pies since then, but he'll always remember the look on Martha's face when she took her first bite. And also how she'd tried to suck his tongue right out of his throat fifteen minutes later on her couch. But mostly the look.
Mom used to make pies all the time. Dean loved watching her roll the dough out herself. She'd cut lattices and sometimes, if Dean asked, squares and stars and dinosaurs. When Dean would go over to her, tired of entertaining Sammy, or just bored enough to go find his mom, she'd peel away a mound of dough for him and they'd knead it together. Mom would make the filling while the dough cooled in the fridge, and Dean would stick his finger into the batter until she chased him around the house with a spoon. She'd always catch him and heave him over her shoulders, both of them laughing wildly, while Sam watched from his playpen on the carpet, wide-eyed.
They'd have the pie for desert at dinner, and Dad would say that Mom's pies were the best he ever tasted and Mom would say that's because Dad never used to eat pies before he met her. It was the only time Dad didn't make fun of Mom's cooking, because pies were the one thing Mom could have made a business out of, they were that good. The rest of her cooking, well… Dean used to pray to God to protect the house from burning down after that one time Mom tried to make meatloaf.
The first time Dean decided to make Sam a pie, Sam was sixteen and drunk. And because Sam never does things halfway, he was as wasted as he could possibly be. Dean's still not sure who took Sam to the bar or how they got in, but the fact of the matter is, there was a bar and Sam was in it. He was a sad drunk from day one; when Dean found him, he was staring into his bottle of god-knows-what and looking so woebegone that Dean was glad he and his friends hadn't decided to go swimming in the beach across the bar, because Sam probably would have let himself drown.
By the time Dean got him home, Sam had gone from morose to full-on sobbing. Most of it was incoherent, and while Dean hadn't been paying attention to Sam's slurred ramblings, amusing himself with the possibilities awaiting him in the morning - greasy breakfast, hungover brother - the crying didn't sit right with him. Even Dad didn't get this bad. Dean tried talking to Sam, asking him what had happened, because he was beginning to suspect this hadn't simply been a night for Sam and his friends to test their boundaries, that something had happened to set Sam off, but no amount of cajoling would get Sam to talk. Dean had just set a glass of water on the nightstand and was about to leave when Sam rolled over onto his stomach and said-
Mom.
And went right on saying it, just that, just - Mom. It made Dean freeze. In sixteen years, Dean had never once heard Sam cry out for Mom. Dad, sure. Dean, yeah. But never Mom. But here he was, drunk off his ass and crying and calling for a mother he never knew.
Dean spent that night not sleeping, staring at his ceiling like it would suddenly spit out all the answers, tell him if something had happened to Sam, something he felt he needed Mom for, or if this was just the alcohol speaking.
A few days later, in a fit of naiveté, Dean had a blackberry pie waiting for Sam after school. There was fresh homemade whipped cream too, and Sam gave Dean a wary look, like maybe Dean had been possessed by Martha Stewart while he'd been at school.
It didn't make anything better, not really. Sam loved the pie, sure, did that thing later that night, where he tried to psychoanalyze Dean and tell him he was awesome at the same time, which had required a swift pillow to the face - but he didn't suddenly understand what it was like to have a mom and he didn't magically decide to tell Dean what, if anything, had happened the other day and he still fought with Dad and wasn't really happier. And honestly, even for a pie those are ridiculously high expectations. But still.
Dad told Dean once that there are things Sam can't understand, won't ever understand. Dean's pretty sure Dad meant it like he said it - like there was something he and Dean had that Sam just didn't, and that's true enough if you think about it. But in Dean's head, it's not that Sam can't or won't, it's that Sam was never given the chance. He was robbed of it, like he was robbed of so many other things. It's not something he was born without. And there's a difference in that, there is. Because all those things he's missing, the little things, Sam doesn't even know he's missing them until they smack him in the face. It's not really fair that Sam should know so many other things that most people never experience, but not know what it feels like to look at your mom and love her.
Anyway. Dean still makes Sam pies, and watches him eat out of the corner of his eye and wishes Sam could remember Mom for everything she was, instead of how she died or what killed her. He still wishes a silly little piece of pie could transport Sam to a time when he had a mother who told him she loved him every single day, not because his guts were spilling out onto the floor and last chance, buddy, better say it, but because she felt like it. It's the warmest, softest, most beautiful thing Dean can imagine. It's a feeling that comes from a warm palm on the back of your neck and a honey-sweet voice and all the love you could ask for. It's the feeling a piece of pie brings Dean, solid and supple and home, and it's the feeling he wants it to bring Sam too.
You know, sometimes? When Dean looks up at the right moment, as Sam's leaning away from his clean plate, his eyes clear and on Dean, Dean thinks he gets it. Really, really gets it. And, who knows, right? Maybe he does. Maybe, sometimes, it is just that simple and a piece of pie can give you everything you never knew you were missing, for the tiniest moment, in a run-down motel off the highway, with bruises on your face and a busted up leg.
Hell, the world owes them that much. And if there's one thing Dean's learned from this life, it's that anything's possible. Sometimes, that's not a bad thing at all.