SPN: "Food on the Table"
Category: Supernatural
Title: Food on the Table
Word Count: 800
Rating: PG language
Summary: Making breakfast for Sam takes an unexpected turn. Season 8, somewhere after the Trials start taking their toll.
So, somebody on FB posted this picture:
My brain being the bizarre little thing that it is, it dragged it off to that mystical land where Supernatural still exists and made a silly little fic out of it.
Also, I cook all my eggs scrambled, or occasionally boiled, so pardon any egg-cooking-related goofs.
***
Dean heard Sam shuffling in somewhere behind him. "Breakfast's not ready yet!" he shouted, cracking an egg into the frying pan.
"I'm not-"
"You're eating, Sam, so shut up. It's your favorite. Eggs and fries. Sausage, too, if I can find it."
"That's your favorite, and I won't keep-"
"Sit down, shut up, and I'll be right back."
"No."
"Fine. Lean, then." He flipped the egg, slid the pan off the burner so it wouldn't burn, then headed for the walk-in. Sam looked like shit-more than usual, anyway. He definitely needed some protein. And grease. How was he supposed to finish the Trials if he didn't have the energy to stand up?
Somebody had moved the sausage-Sam, probably, since the giant box Dean had bought at the local Costco was hidden behind two equally giant bags of hash browns. What the hell did that boy have against pork, anyway?
Dean came back into the kitchen, frozen sausage in hand-not his favorite, but since Sam was up earlier than he'd expected, he'd just have to deal with microwaved patties rather than something fantastic-to find Sam leaning on the kitchen counter with one hand and plating something with the other. "Sammy, dammit, I'm fixing breakfast, I can put it on plates. Sit down!"
"But I don't want-"
"You're going to eat if I have to stuff it down your throat. Now sit."
"Fine," Sam muttered, going over to the table and collapsing into a chair. The boy could barely walk, and here he was trying to fix his own plate. What was wrong with him?
Sam had done a decent job of plating the sunny-side-up egg and some fries. Dean slid Sam's over-medium onto a second plate, piled some fries beside it, and set it down in front of Sam. Sam grimaced, like he wasn't entirely sure the supper he hadn't eaten might not come back up. "Give me five minutes and you can have some-"
"No. This is enough. Save it for later."
Dean eyed him warily. "If you promise to eat all of that, okay, no sausage. But you're going to eat meat at some point today, before you get so anemic you need a blood transfusion. Think you can handle a steak?"
Sam nodded, but didn't reach for his silverware.
Dean crossed his arms and stood there.
Finally, Sam heaved a sigh and cut into the egg. The yolk was a little runny, but not so much that Sam would complain. He'd gotten most of that out of his system when he was ten.
Dean fetched the plate Sam had made and sat down across the table.
"Dean-"
"You're welcome. Now finish-"
"Dean, you're not listening-"
"It's okay if you can't keep it down, I'll feed you again. We got plenty of food. Eat."
"But Dean-"
"Shut up, Sammy." Dean stabbed a fry with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
Sam made a funny noise.
The fry was crunchy. Severely underdone. But Sam's didn't look-
Wait a second. When did his fries turn crunchy and sweet? They didn't taste like potatoes at all, more like apples-
Dean looked down at the plate, and he felt his eyes narrow. He poked the perfectly round yolk with his fork. It didn't give the way an egg did. No yolk, runny or otherwise. Mainly because it wasn't his sunny-side-up, it was a fucking peach half. And the "white" was a cleverly spread puddle of yogurt.
"Sam, what the fuck-"
"I tried to tell you," Sam said meekly. "I was camouflaging-"
"SAM! Fruit and yogurt are not breakfast!"
"It was what I wanted."
That came out sounding way more pathetic than it should have, and Dean throttled his immediate reaction. "Really? You-wanted this?" Sam nodded. "You gonna eat it?" Another nod. "Fine. Have your camo breakfast." He slid the plate across the table. "But you damn well better eat all of it, is that clear?"
"I'll try."
Dean sighed inwardly, and watched Sam nibble at an apple "fry". "How the hell did you get an apple peeled and sliced that quick, anyway? I wasn't in the freezer that long."
"I had some in the fridge from yesterday. The peaches, too." Dean shook his head and pushed himself up. "Where are you going?"
Dean popped a couple of fries-the real fries, still crispy and warm-into his mouth. "I'm going to get the other actual egg-"
"On the platter where you left it. You would've seen it if you'd looked."
Dean chose to let that comment slide. "-and I'm not eating my perfectly good eggs and fries without some damn sausage."
Title: Food on the Table
Word Count: 800
Rating: PG language
Summary: Making breakfast for Sam takes an unexpected turn. Season 8, somewhere after the Trials start taking their toll.
So, somebody on FB posted this picture:
My brain being the bizarre little thing that it is, it dragged it off to that mystical land where Supernatural still exists and made a silly little fic out of it.
Also, I cook all my eggs scrambled, or occasionally boiled, so pardon any egg-cooking-related goofs.
***
Dean heard Sam shuffling in somewhere behind him. "Breakfast's not ready yet!" he shouted, cracking an egg into the frying pan.
"I'm not-"
"You're eating, Sam, so shut up. It's your favorite. Eggs and fries. Sausage, too, if I can find it."
"That's your favorite, and I won't keep-"
"Sit down, shut up, and I'll be right back."
"No."
"Fine. Lean, then." He flipped the egg, slid the pan off the burner so it wouldn't burn, then headed for the walk-in. Sam looked like shit-more than usual, anyway. He definitely needed some protein. And grease. How was he supposed to finish the Trials if he didn't have the energy to stand up?
Somebody had moved the sausage-Sam, probably, since the giant box Dean had bought at the local Costco was hidden behind two equally giant bags of hash browns. What the hell did that boy have against pork, anyway?
Dean came back into the kitchen, frozen sausage in hand-not his favorite, but since Sam was up earlier than he'd expected, he'd just have to deal with microwaved patties rather than something fantastic-to find Sam leaning on the kitchen counter with one hand and plating something with the other. "Sammy, dammit, I'm fixing breakfast, I can put it on plates. Sit down!"
"But I don't want-"
"You're going to eat if I have to stuff it down your throat. Now sit."
"Fine," Sam muttered, going over to the table and collapsing into a chair. The boy could barely walk, and here he was trying to fix his own plate. What was wrong with him?
Sam had done a decent job of plating the sunny-side-up egg and some fries. Dean slid Sam's over-medium onto a second plate, piled some fries beside it, and set it down in front of Sam. Sam grimaced, like he wasn't entirely sure the supper he hadn't eaten might not come back up. "Give me five minutes and you can have some-"
"No. This is enough. Save it for later."
Dean eyed him warily. "If you promise to eat all of that, okay, no sausage. But you're going to eat meat at some point today, before you get so anemic you need a blood transfusion. Think you can handle a steak?"
Sam nodded, but didn't reach for his silverware.
Dean crossed his arms and stood there.
Finally, Sam heaved a sigh and cut into the egg. The yolk was a little runny, but not so much that Sam would complain. He'd gotten most of that out of his system when he was ten.
Dean fetched the plate Sam had made and sat down across the table.
"Dean-"
"You're welcome. Now finish-"
"Dean, you're not listening-"
"It's okay if you can't keep it down, I'll feed you again. We got plenty of food. Eat."
"But Dean-"
"Shut up, Sammy." Dean stabbed a fry with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
Sam made a funny noise.
The fry was crunchy. Severely underdone. But Sam's didn't look-
Wait a second. When did his fries turn crunchy and sweet? They didn't taste like potatoes at all, more like apples-
Dean looked down at the plate, and he felt his eyes narrow. He poked the perfectly round yolk with his fork. It didn't give the way an egg did. No yolk, runny or otherwise. Mainly because it wasn't his sunny-side-up, it was a fucking peach half. And the "white" was a cleverly spread puddle of yogurt.
"Sam, what the fuck-"
"I tried to tell you," Sam said meekly. "I was camouflaging-"
"SAM! Fruit and yogurt are not breakfast!"
"It was what I wanted."
That came out sounding way more pathetic than it should have, and Dean throttled his immediate reaction. "Really? You-wanted this?" Sam nodded. "You gonna eat it?" Another nod. "Fine. Have your camo breakfast." He slid the plate across the table. "But you damn well better eat all of it, is that clear?"
"I'll try."
Dean sighed inwardly, and watched Sam nibble at an apple "fry". "How the hell did you get an apple peeled and sliced that quick, anyway? I wasn't in the freezer that long."
"I had some in the fridge from yesterday. The peaches, too." Dean shook his head and pushed himself up. "Where are you going?"
Dean popped a couple of fries-the real fries, still crispy and warm-into his mouth. "I'm going to get the other actual egg-"
"On the platter where you left it. You would've seen it if you'd looked."
Dean chose to let that comment slide. "-and I'm not eating my perfectly good eggs and fries without some damn sausage."