Operation: Sam's Birthday Cake
Title: Operation: Sam's Birthday Cake
Rating: R (language)
Pairing: Gen, Sam/Dean overtones
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Spoilers: Start of season 4.
Summary: Dean decides to bake a cake for Sam's birthday. He kind of fails at it, but battles on.
Word count: 1, 337
Author's Notes: This kind of wrote itself in my head while I baked the other night. The events described may or may not have been inspired by some of my own fail. Thanks very much to tygers for the beta! All remaining mistakes are my own. Oh! Bonus sketch included, too.
The first cake did not make it past conception.
“Fuck. That was icing sugar, wasn’t it? Oh, fuckin’ A. Maybe it’s salvageable...” Dean stepped away from the counter in the tiny kitchenette, flour already covering his clothes and hands and probably his face. Like hell he was going to wear an apron, though. He would show evidence of the fact he was baking and like it before he’d ever allow himself to look like Susie Homemaker.
But yeah. Dean crossed the room, looking for Sam’s laptop to see if he could find out if icing sugar was okay instead of granulated sugar in cake. He stopped when he remembered that Sam had taken his laptop when he’d left in a huff that morning.
Oh, right. Yes. Dean’d told him that he was sick (a lie) and that Sam was being a pain in the ass (not a lie) and that Dean would throw up on him then waste him if he didn’t get the hell away from him for the day (lie).
It was a pretty good cover, if Dean did say so himself. And he did. Because it was an awesome cover.
For the one reason; that come hell or high water, Sam must never see him baking a birthday cake.
Because that shit was messed up.
Sighing, Dean decided that it was best to get rid of the cake and start over again. This time he’d drink a little less while he put the stuff in the bowl thing and read the recipe a bit more carefully.
-
Birthday Cake: Attempt Two was a bowl of goo and a mountain of white powder in the sink next to an empty beer can back at the motel. It had been murdered due to a little too much all-purpose flour.
Okay. Way too much all-purpose flour. But there was a goddamn hole in the bag. What else was a guy to do? So it was back to the store to re-stock his ingredients. Which sucked because he’d been here two times already today. In the last hour.
He made a beeline for aisle three, again feeling a little self-conscious being in the baking aisle (again). There was an old lady bustling ahead of him, who he bypassed easily, stopping in front of the all-purpose flour. He wasn’t going to buy the same stupid brand again. Pillsbury was officially blacklisted for killing Dean’s cake.
He stood there for a few moments, staring at all the different brands before he felt a hand on his arm. He jumped slightly, glancing beside him in alarm. It was that old lady. “Uh, yeah?” Dean’s arm twitched and she took her hand off it, reaching up for a bag of flour. She turned and handed it to Dean.
“Best flour,” she smiled at him.
Dean looked down at it. “Oh. Um, okay. Thanks, man-I mean, old lady.”
She raised an eyebrow at him before she turned and trotted off back down the aisle. Dean followed a few moments later.
-
Mission: Sam’s Birthday Cake, Take Three was successful until cooking, with only a few minor dramas. Dean had only accidentally added too much sugar - doesn’t matter, he figured, that shit was good - and he’d flicked a huge spoonful of that squishy stuff that wasn’t really dough yet at the wall by accident, because, goddamn, that stuff was hard to get off. Oh, and he’d also oiled the cake tray too much. But he figured too much was better than not enough. Or, like, none.
The only problem with Mission: Sam’s Birthday Cake, Take Three, was that said birthday cake came out charred and black. And Dean may enjoy his coffee like that, but for cakes he supposed that was a no-no.
He cracked a piece off and put it in his mouth. His eyes watered almost immediately and he gagged.
Yeah. A huge no-no.
-
“Dean? What is wrong? Why did you summon me? Are you hurt?”
“Goddamnit. Can you help me bake this cake? You’re an angel and girly and shit. You should be good at this.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I have bigger issues than baking cakes right now, Dean, in case that has escaped you. Do not call me for such trivial problems in the future.”
Castiel was gone in less than a blink.
Well, it was worth a shot.
-
So, this wasn’t exactly working out.
-
So, Dean was pretty much a fucking genius.
-
Sam returned late, his laptop tucked under his arm, the scowl he’d been wearing that morning less dreadful. Dean was in the kitchenette, Sam’s gift held behind his back. His heart was racing. Jesus, he didn’t know why he was so nervous about this. “Sammy,” said Dean.
Sam glanced over at him. “You feeling better?”
Dean stared at him blankly for a few moments. “Uh. Yeah,” he coughed. “So, um, think you could come over here for a sec?”
Sam put his laptop on the table before he turned to face Dean. “Sure. What d’you - hey. What’s that horrible smell?”
Dean subtly moved in front of the stove. “Uh, what smell? I don’t -” Dean sniffed the air, “yeah, I don’t smell anything. You smell something? ‘Cause I totally don’t. It’s probably just you. Anyway, I have something for you.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another of your special drinks, I don’t want it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “No. It isn’t. Come the fuck here, bitch, and get your stupid birthday present.”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t getting each other presents.”
“Fingers were crossed.”
“Ah,” Sam stepped forward cautiously.
Dean pulled out the cake he was hiding behind his back. It looked fucking delicious-vanilla with blue frosting, sprinkles and some candles stuck haphazardly into it. Sam was into girly shit like that. He offered it up to Sam, feeling stupidly nervous for no reason other than he really hoped Sam’d like it.
“Wow,” said Sam, “you made that?”
“Yeah.”
“All by yourself?” That annoying eyebrow of Sam’s was raised again.
“Yes, dickwad. Now, d’you wanna fucking eat this thing or keep asking stupid questions?”
“Uh, I-”
“What? You a fucking cake elitist now or something? Did you want pink frosting?”
“No, it’s not that-the uh. There’s smoke coming from the oven...”
“Fuck!”
-
“That was kinda sweet, y’know. That store-bought cake.”
“Fuck you, don’t call me sweet, I’m not a goddamn girl.”
Sam chuckled, putting another piece of the half-burnt cake in his mouth. Dean grimaced. He had no clue why Sam was insisting he eat the failed Fucking Stupid Cake I Give Up I’m Going To The Store. And not to mention, he was insisting he eat all of Dean’s goddamn awful cake. Granted, he’d drowned the thing in cream first, but, anyway, the gesture kind of made Dean want to grin and maybe hug himself.
Still, it was fucking disgusting.
“You’re gonna get sick,” sighed Dean, “food poisoning. I can see it now. Castiel’ll be all ‘oh dear, Sam appears to be motionless’ and I’ll be like ‘yeah, it’s his own damn fault, too. He ate devil cake. Anyway, let’s go to the bar, it’s what Sam would’ve wanted,’ ‘but Dean-”
“Dean, shut the hell up.”
He did. Sam was smiling, though, and there was no heat in his words. Dean swallowed, his stomach fluttering. “But, yeah, uh. Food poisoning. You know it, dude.”
Sam took another huge bite of his cake. “You don’t gotta put down everything you do. This cake is pretty good. It’s moist on the inside.”
“Bitch, don’t lie to me.”
“Yeah, okay. It’s pretty bad. The cream kinda neutralises the burnt-ness, though.”
“You wound me with your lies.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
“You’re the drama-shut up.”
“So how many cakes were victims of your cake genocide before I valiantly saved this one?” Sam took another gross bite.
“Four.”
Sam whistled. “Nice.”
“Yeah, well, eat your cake, bitch.”
“Jerk. I am.”
“Gross.”
-
hopeful!Dean offers Sam his cake.
Rating: R (language)
Pairing: Gen, Sam/Dean overtones
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Spoilers: Start of season 4.
Summary: Dean decides to bake a cake for Sam's birthday. He kind of fails at it, but battles on.
Word count: 1, 337
Author's Notes: This kind of wrote itself in my head while I baked the other night. The events described may or may not have been inspired by some of my own fail. Thanks very much to tygers for the beta! All remaining mistakes are my own. Oh! Bonus sketch included, too.
The first cake did not make it past conception.
“Fuck. That was icing sugar, wasn’t it? Oh, fuckin’ A. Maybe it’s salvageable...” Dean stepped away from the counter in the tiny kitchenette, flour already covering his clothes and hands and probably his face. Like hell he was going to wear an apron, though. He would show evidence of the fact he was baking and like it before he’d ever allow himself to look like Susie Homemaker.
But yeah. Dean crossed the room, looking for Sam’s laptop to see if he could find out if icing sugar was okay instead of granulated sugar in cake. He stopped when he remembered that Sam had taken his laptop when he’d left in a huff that morning.
Oh, right. Yes. Dean’d told him that he was sick (a lie) and that Sam was being a pain in the ass (not a lie) and that Dean would throw up on him then waste him if he didn’t get the hell away from him for the day (lie).
It was a pretty good cover, if Dean did say so himself. And he did. Because it was an awesome cover.
For the one reason; that come hell or high water, Sam must never see him baking a birthday cake.
Because that shit was messed up.
Sighing, Dean decided that it was best to get rid of the cake and start over again. This time he’d drink a little less while he put the stuff in the bowl thing and read the recipe a bit more carefully.
-
Birthday Cake: Attempt Two was a bowl of goo and a mountain of white powder in the sink next to an empty beer can back at the motel. It had been murdered due to a little too much all-purpose flour.
Okay. Way too much all-purpose flour. But there was a goddamn hole in the bag. What else was a guy to do? So it was back to the store to re-stock his ingredients. Which sucked because he’d been here two times already today. In the last hour.
He made a beeline for aisle three, again feeling a little self-conscious being in the baking aisle (again). There was an old lady bustling ahead of him, who he bypassed easily, stopping in front of the all-purpose flour. He wasn’t going to buy the same stupid brand again. Pillsbury was officially blacklisted for killing Dean’s cake.
He stood there for a few moments, staring at all the different brands before he felt a hand on his arm. He jumped slightly, glancing beside him in alarm. It was that old lady. “Uh, yeah?” Dean’s arm twitched and she took her hand off it, reaching up for a bag of flour. She turned and handed it to Dean.
“Best flour,” she smiled at him.
Dean looked down at it. “Oh. Um, okay. Thanks, man-I mean, old lady.”
She raised an eyebrow at him before she turned and trotted off back down the aisle. Dean followed a few moments later.
-
Mission: Sam’s Birthday Cake, Take Three was successful until cooking, with only a few minor dramas. Dean had only accidentally added too much sugar - doesn’t matter, he figured, that shit was good - and he’d flicked a huge spoonful of that squishy stuff that wasn’t really dough yet at the wall by accident, because, goddamn, that stuff was hard to get off. Oh, and he’d also oiled the cake tray too much. But he figured too much was better than not enough. Or, like, none.
The only problem with Mission: Sam’s Birthday Cake, Take Three, was that said birthday cake came out charred and black. And Dean may enjoy his coffee like that, but for cakes he supposed that was a no-no.
He cracked a piece off and put it in his mouth. His eyes watered almost immediately and he gagged.
Yeah. A huge no-no.
-
“Dean? What is wrong? Why did you summon me? Are you hurt?”
“Goddamnit. Can you help me bake this cake? You’re an angel and girly and shit. You should be good at this.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I have bigger issues than baking cakes right now, Dean, in case that has escaped you. Do not call me for such trivial problems in the future.”
Castiel was gone in less than a blink.
Well, it was worth a shot.
-
So, this wasn’t exactly working out.
-
So, Dean was pretty much a fucking genius.
-
Sam returned late, his laptop tucked under his arm, the scowl he’d been wearing that morning less dreadful. Dean was in the kitchenette, Sam’s gift held behind his back. His heart was racing. Jesus, he didn’t know why he was so nervous about this. “Sammy,” said Dean.
Sam glanced over at him. “You feeling better?”
Dean stared at him blankly for a few moments. “Uh. Yeah,” he coughed. “So, um, think you could come over here for a sec?”
Sam put his laptop on the table before he turned to face Dean. “Sure. What d’you - hey. What’s that horrible smell?”
Dean subtly moved in front of the stove. “Uh, what smell? I don’t -” Dean sniffed the air, “yeah, I don’t smell anything. You smell something? ‘Cause I totally don’t. It’s probably just you. Anyway, I have something for you.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another of your special drinks, I don’t want it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “No. It isn’t. Come the fuck here, bitch, and get your stupid birthday present.”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t getting each other presents.”
“Fingers were crossed.”
“Ah,” Sam stepped forward cautiously.
Dean pulled out the cake he was hiding behind his back. It looked fucking delicious-vanilla with blue frosting, sprinkles and some candles stuck haphazardly into it. Sam was into girly shit like that. He offered it up to Sam, feeling stupidly nervous for no reason other than he really hoped Sam’d like it.
“Wow,” said Sam, “you made that?”
“Yeah.”
“All by yourself?” That annoying eyebrow of Sam’s was raised again.
“Yes, dickwad. Now, d’you wanna fucking eat this thing or keep asking stupid questions?”
“Uh, I-”
“What? You a fucking cake elitist now or something? Did you want pink frosting?”
“No, it’s not that-the uh. There’s smoke coming from the oven...”
“Fuck!”
-
“That was kinda sweet, y’know. That store-bought cake.”
“Fuck you, don’t call me sweet, I’m not a goddamn girl.”
Sam chuckled, putting another piece of the half-burnt cake in his mouth. Dean grimaced. He had no clue why Sam was insisting he eat the failed Fucking Stupid Cake I Give Up I’m Going To The Store. And not to mention, he was insisting he eat all of Dean’s goddamn awful cake. Granted, he’d drowned the thing in cream first, but, anyway, the gesture kind of made Dean want to grin and maybe hug himself.
Still, it was fucking disgusting.
“You’re gonna get sick,” sighed Dean, “food poisoning. I can see it now. Castiel’ll be all ‘oh dear, Sam appears to be motionless’ and I’ll be like ‘yeah, it’s his own damn fault, too. He ate devil cake. Anyway, let’s go to the bar, it’s what Sam would’ve wanted,’ ‘but Dean-”
“Dean, shut the hell up.”
He did. Sam was smiling, though, and there was no heat in his words. Dean swallowed, his stomach fluttering. “But, yeah, uh. Food poisoning. You know it, dude.”
Sam took another huge bite of his cake. “You don’t gotta put down everything you do. This cake is pretty good. It’s moist on the inside.”
“Bitch, don’t lie to me.”
“Yeah, okay. It’s pretty bad. The cream kinda neutralises the burnt-ness, though.”
“You wound me with your lies.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
“You’re the drama-shut up.”
“So how many cakes were victims of your cake genocide before I valiantly saved this one?” Sam took another gross bite.
“Four.”
Sam whistled. “Nice.”
“Yeah, well, eat your cake, bitch.”
“Jerk. I am.”
“Gross.”
-
hopeful!Dean offers Sam his cake.