Five Things Dean Winchester Will Never Eat
Yesterday I was bitching complaining about being bored, and sick and well, just bored and schneestern said, okay, let’s play a game…
And she prompted me with:
Five Things Dean Winchester Will Never Eat
And I may have cheated a little because, well it’s Dean and dude, Dean Winchester and food?
Five Things Dean Winchester Will Never Eat, Again.
And I think it only fair to warn you that these were written sometime in the early hours and are totally unbetaed.
Why Dean Will Never Eat Strawberry Syrup with his Pancakes…
Dean always ordered his pancakes with syrup, lots and lots of syrup. Preferably honey or any kind of syrup which didn’t come in shades of red or anything which looked even remotely red or even pink for that matter.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like strawberry syrup or a hint of raspberry with his pancakes, it was just, well he’d learned a long time ago that sometimes pancakes aren’t always as innocent as they seem.
Dean edged the strawberry syrup across the table toward Sam and reached for his coffee.
“What?” Sam mumbled around another mouthful as Dean tried to hide his grimace.
“Dean you’re not still… dude that was sixteen years ago,” Sam laughed. Strawberry syrup escaping his mouth to trace a path down his chin, the same way it had when he was eight years old and trying to make up for the fact that once again Dean was celebrating yet another birthday cooped up in a dingy motel room. Caring for his little brother and wondering if their father would make it back, or remember to call.
Only it hadn’t been strawberry syrup, not really.
Sam what are you doing?
Dean had tried to hide his smile as he’d watched his baby brother, hair still ruffled from sleep, the sleeves of his pyjamas rolled up to his elbows as he banged about the small kitchen area. Opening and closing one cupboard door after another and coming away empty handed. An open packet of ready made, store bought pancakes spread out neatly on two plates, next to the homemade birthday card Dean had spent days pretending he didn’t know Sam was making.
Sammy, you don’t have to…
Coffee’s almost ready; you should grab a shower before Dad gets back and steals all the hot water.
And that’s exactly what he’d done, grabbed a towel and left his little brother to it, to whatever it was he needed to do to make it up to Dean that their Dad wasn’t coming. Would probably call later from a call box along his route, careful not use his cell phone in case whatever he was hunting was smarter than your average, random act of evil. He’d check in as soon as he could, check that Dean was taking care of Sam. Ring once, put the phone down and call straight back. Check that Dean had remembered to lock the doors, salt the windows. That Dean’s gun was loaded…
Wish him happy birthday and promise to make it up to him as soon as he got back.
Dean had showered, listened to Sam bang about in the kitchen, mumbling to himself as he slammed another cupboard door shut in frustration.
Sam, Dad could be back any minute. Watch the fuckin’ language, dude.
Sorry, you almost done ‘cause the pancakes are almost ready.
Dean sipped his coffee as Sam grinned around another mouthful of pancake smothered in strawberry syrup.
“Oh, come on Dean. It was inventive,” Sam laughed.
“Dude it was disgusting.”
The coffee had been good, even if Sam hadn’t bothered to read the instructions on the back of the pancake packet and had just removed the contents and slapped them on a plate, still cold and…
Sam, what’s that?
The red stuff all over the pancakes.
Ketchup. I looked, there’s no syrup and I know how you like strawberry syrup and well, we only had ketchup…
And what are those?
Sprinkles. I thought they’d make the ketchup taste less like… I don’t know, uhm, ketchup.
Dean, did I do it wrong?
Don’t you like them?
Come to think of it the coffee had been pretty disgusting too but it had helped rid his mouth of the taste of ketchup covered, cold pancake dough.
And Sammy’s smile as he’d finished both helpings had been enough to brighten even the crappiest of motel rooms. The way his fingers squeezed Dean’s slightly as he handed him the birthday card he’d spent days working on…
The catch in his little brother’s voice, the words that meant everything because they weren’t just words, they were all the things Dean needed. The only thing Dean needed. They were Sam’s words, Sam’s warmth, his closeness, his love…
Happy birthday Dean…
His Sam, smiling and safe and sitting across from Dean at a makeshift table, in a crappy motel room in the middle of nowhere and it was perfect.
“Okay, so they were disgusting,” Sam said.
“You know, Sam. Come to think of it, they weren’t all that bad.” Dean grinned as he snatched Sam’s fork and used it to spear one of the remaining pancakes from Sam’s plate.
“You think this place has any sprinkles?”
Who the Fuck Eats Raw Beef Anyway?
Dean hated restaurants. He hated anywhere were he couldn’t just pull up and shout his order through a window and collect it at the next. It saved time, that way he could always keep the engine running and his father’s truck in sight. And when they had time, he’d rather sit himself down at a linoleum table, near Sam. Dean’s booted feet sliding easily between the space Sam created for him as he slouched in the booth opposite, his legs splayed. Smiling as the waitress approached, hastily moving aside Dad’s notes and papers to make room for their food and the ice-cream Dean always managed to persuade the waitress to add to their order.
Not struggling to figure out where to put his feet because the girl--woman sitting across from him wouldn’t know a slouch if it crept up on her and hit her in the face. Okay maybe that was unfair but Dean had spent the best part of his starter trying to figure out where to put his feet without kicking her in her perfectly crossed, perfectly formed, delicate ankles.
It was worse knowing that Dad and Sam were probably sitting comfortably in the burger place around the corner. Sam chatting a mile a minute, while Dad smiled, went over the recent spate of killings until he found a pattern. Waited for Dean to get whatever information he thought this woman--Celia had that could help them.
Dean refilled her glass, smiled the way John had told him too, leaned in, a little closer as she continued to talk about her life. How lonely it was being widowed at such a young age, the long nights, all alone in such a large house. Dean only half listened as he picked at his food and waited for the perfect opportunity to ask about her deceased husband and whether or not she’d seen him lately.
Looking anything other than dead.
Wondered whether it was socially acceptable to ask her about the ever growing list of missing persons between courses or whether he should wait until dessert.
It was the main course that did it, steak tartare, who the fuck ate raw beef anyway?
Dean was torn between making his excuses and just leaving and debating the etiquette of stabbing his date with his silver shrimp fork.
As it was he bolted, as he heard the rumble of the Impala’s engine, its tyres screeching to halt outside the restaurant seconds before his cell phone began to continually vibrate in his pocket.
“Werewolf!” Dean and John shouted in unison as Dean threw himself into the back seat of the Impala beside Sam.
“Dad, I can’t believe you set me up with a werewolf,” Dean yelled as John gunned the engine…
“Dean what was it like?” Sam asked.
“Sam, dude. Werewolf!”
“I know but what was the food like,” Sam repeated.
“Sammy, if anyone offers you steak tartare, don’t hesitate, you pick up the first piece of fancy cutlery available and you stab them with it you hear me?”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam laughed.
“Sam not funny,” Dean hissed.
“Come on Dean, it is a little funny,” John admitted.
“And Sam, if Dad ever tries to get you to cosy up to a woman for information… run. Or hit him,” Dean demanded as he folded his arm and scowled in his father’s direction.
“You got it,” Sam promised as he reached across the back seat and handed Dean the cheeseburger he’d charmed the waitress at the burger bar into wrapping up for him.
Why Lucky Charms Just Aren’t as Lucky Anymore…
Dean had picked up the box automatically while stocking up on supplies. He hadn’t really thought about it, just thrown the grocery bag in the trunk of the Impala alongside the rock salt and the extra can of gasoline. It wasn’t until three days later, sunlight creeping in through the curtains which were neither use nor ornament, seeing as how they didn’t meet in the middle and made the ugliest looking ornament Dean had ever seen. Exhausted from lack of sleep, shoulders stiff from too many hours on the road, the coarseness of the extra blanket irritating his skin but at least it helped him forget, for a moment. Even if it couldn’t make up for the lack of body heat, the heavy weight pressed close to his back.
Still he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know which was worse. Tossing and turning, reaching for the extra blanket when he couldn’t get warm, feeling the rough scratch of the material instead of the comfort of soft skin. Or finally sleeping, only to wake minutes later, arms wrapped tight around the extra pillow. Face pressed close to its softness, breathing in the harsh scent of disinfectant and cheap soap instead of the familiar, clean smell of shampoo. Fresh sweat which spoke of bodies pressed too close, tangled limbs and shared breath, familiarity which spoke of comfort and not the emptiness of a bed that was too large for just one person.
Dean threw back the covers when he heard movement in the other room, shoved both feet into his jeans at the same time as John pushed open the door.
“Breakfast’s up. Half an hour and we’re leaving.”
He hadn’t noticed as he’d swallowed the first mouthful of cereal, or the second, too busy trying not to linger over the fact that there were only two cups on the table, two bowls. Two chairs pulled out at odd angles while the third remained neatly tucked beneath the table’s edge, unused, no longer needed.
“You want the prize?”
He didn’t even realise he’d dropped his spoon until he heard it clatter against the side of the cereal bowl. The sound shattering the silence which had lingered for days, broken only by the occasional sentence, orders handed out with the bare minimum of words.
Your brother’s gone. Best get used to it son.
Replies even shorter.
The only words Dean trusted himself to say.
He knew his father was only trying to help, trying to reach across the space between them but how could he?
Sam was gone. There was no prize. Not now, not anymore. John had sent him away, told him to never come back.
Dean scraped his chair back from the table, threw the cereal, bowl and all into the trash can and reached for his bag, turning his back on his father as made for the door.
“I’ll be outside.”
Dean paused, fingers fisted tight around the door handle. Back stiffening as he took a deep breath and then walked out, cutting off his father’s attempt to reach out to him.
Sam was gone.
There was nothing to reach for. Not anymore.
Why Chocolate Ice-Cream is bad idea, possibly, maybe…
There was no way Dean was ever eating chocolate ice-cream again.
His favourite shirt was ruined. It had taken forever to get it out of his hair, even longer to wash it out of Sam’s. By the time he’d finished the shower had been cold, he’d had whisker burn and his muscles ached… in all the right places.
Okay so maybe ‘never’ was a strong word.
But there was no way Dean was ever letting Sam climb onto the back seat of the Impala ever again, especially if he was naked.
And offering Dean chocolate ice-cream.
Dude, he was never going to be able to scrub the upholstery clean or his brain of the image of Sam. Sprawled naked, all long limbs and tanned skin, hands caressing soft, black leather as he eased back against the seat and grinned up at Dean, impatient, all want and desperation and now Dean, please…
Dean swallowed, yeah so ‘never’ was definitely too strong a word.
Just never in the Impala.
Or maybe just now and again… possibly later…
I Hope Your Freaking Apple Pie was Worth it…
Apple pie, it’s as close to home as you can get outside of your own back yard. Dean couldn’t really remember the back yard back home. Sure there was grass, a few toys scattered here and there but there were also flames and heat and looking skyward at the night as it blazed crimson red.
But there was always pie.
And there was always Sam.
The last time Dean had a hankering for apple pie was the time he’d opened their post office box and found the letter, saw the way Sam’s face lit up for a brief second as Dean handed it over to Sam. Before Sam shoved it in his back pocket and looked anywhere but at Dean.
Dean had made some excuse and left only to return an hour or so later from the diner, all thoughts of apple pie soon forgotten amid their father’s angry shouts and harsh words. Sam’s tears as he’d shoved the college acceptance letter in Dean’s hands by way of explanation and walked out the door, leaving Dean behind.
He’d never eaten pie again.
But then Sam came back.
And Dad was gone, forever this time.
It wasn’t until the motel room in West Texas; Sam had only gone out to grab some burgers and an apple pie for Dean.
And then he was gone, again.
A whole week later, fear and uncertainty, the not knowing and then….
I tried to wash it off…
Sam pleading with Dean, begging Dean…
I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to hurt you.
Promises Dean couldn’t keep, wouldn’t keep...
I can’t. I’d rather die…
It was a long time before Dean could even think about apple pie or any kind of pie without his stomach knotting up with fear.
But it was over, and Sam was safe, until…
Whoever said, apple pie was as close to home as you can get outside of your own back yard had never visited the Sunnyside Diner…
Bring me back some pie…
Whoever said, apple pie was as close to home as you can get outside of your own back yard had never had to contemplate burying his brother.
His only brother.
Never had to think about torching his corpse.
Never knew what being alone in the world truly meant.
Whoever said, apple pie was as close to home as you can get outside of your own back yard and never had to live in a world without Sam.
Sam was as close to home as Dean was ever going to get, Sam was home and without him…
There was no without Sam.
There was nothing without Sam.
And Dean was never eating apple pie ever again.
Dean was never… there was no never without Sam.
There was just nothing.
And you should check out the prompt I gave schneestern too because they’re a pocket of Winchester warmth in an otherwise weary world :)