Dean has done this more times than he cares to recount. All the places they squatted, dusty cans in the cabinets, rotten food in the fridge. Too many temporary jobs in greasy diners with their due-for-a-change fry-o-lators. Lisa’s place with her juicers and fifty dollar rice steamer.
But this is the first time that he feels like the place is his. Like he can set it up how he wants. The kitchen the Men of Letters left behind is sterile, cold, orderly. That’s fine, it’s a good foundation to work with, a place for everything, and everything in its place.
He opens a few cabinets, peeks in a few drawers, tests the edge on the knives in the knife block. There’s a walk-in pantry and a one foot thick butcher block. He pulls open another drawer and finds what he’s looking for.
A rolling pin.
Yeah, he’s got this.
"It so counts." Dean grinned at his brother and glanced around for his pants.
Sam sighed and crossed his arms. "No, it doesn't. You know better than this. Running, swimming, biking, that's Cardio."
"Toss me my jeans." Dean sat up and the blankets fell, draping around his waist. "I don't know how you do it dude, it's an intense workout."
Sam made the little huff sound, the one that annoyed Dean. "You can't count a sex marathon as a workout! Honestly Dean."
"Try being on top next time." Dean yawned and stretched, the kinks in his back slowly pulling apart.
“Sam, what is that?” Dean nodded to the bright pink drink at his brother’s forearm.
“Don’t know. I couldn’t decide so I asked the bartender to surprise me.”
“So you’re drinking something and you don’t know what it IS?”
Sam shrugged. “What could go wrong?”
Dean sniffed the glass. “How many of these have you had?”
“Three, four. They’re good.” Sam’s grin was 28.4 percent more loopy than usual.
“Three or FOUR?”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”
“Sam, dude, this is schnapps.”
“We need to get you outta here before you turn into the Tazmanian Devil in the car.”
(Based on a real life unfortunate experience of mine along with the obligatory Denis Leary references.)
Drawn by the scent, Sam walked into the Bunker's kitchen – and stared.
Dean was bustling around, throwing things onto a plate – meat that smelled amazing, rice and ... wait, was that really vegetables?
For a moment, Sam considered saying "Christo," but then he noticed the open laptop. He heard the crowd count down, and Dean throw his hands into the air – beaming grin on his face – as chef Michael Symon said, "And that's another successful five-minute meal!"
Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head and chuckling. Dean wasn't possessed.
He was just watching "The Chew" online.
(Based on my husband's ongoing addiction. We eat very well now, but I never dreamed my husband would get addicted to a daytime TV show. Figures it would be about cooking, right?)
“Come on, Bobby, you’re making me nervous. What are you hiding behind your back?”
Bobby doesn’t know how it’s come to this; staring down the barrel of a gun pointed at him by a suspicious Dean Winchester. All the steps that led him here seemed so reasonable at the time.
It had all started innocently enough. One day, he’d needed some rosemary for a spell, and remembered that Karen used to grow it in her little herb garden out back. He’d had to hack through some weeds to get at it, but it was still there, gamely surviving without Karen. Other useful things were there too: sage and yarrow, silverweed and damiana.
It had taken a few days to pull up all the weeds, but before he knew it, he had a serviceable herb garden, and he was making far fewer trips into town for supplies. Plus, having a few chives to put on his potatoes, or thyme to season his stew with, that was always nice too.
“Dean, just calm down. This is Bobby here, give him a chance to explain.” Thank God for Sam, although Bobby notices that Sam’s hand is hovering around the pocket in his jacket where he keeps his vials of holy water.
Bobby needs a moment here to decide which would be worse, taking a bullet or revealing what’s behind his back.
“Bobby, I’m serious,” Dean says. “I don’t want to hurt you, you know that, but if you can’t put your hands where I can see them, I’m not going to have a choice.”
Balls. He was the one here with no choice. “Okay,” he says. He closes his eyes, the humiliation is just too great. Slowly, brings his hand forward, revealing what he’d been holding when Dean walked in on him.
Martha Stewart Living, Gardening Edition.
He’s never going to live this down.
TITLE: Cabin Fever
CHARACTER: Sam and Dean
WARNINGS: A leetle swearing.
SPOILERS: Uh, up to mid-season 8-ish?
Sam set down the book he had been reading and stretched in his chair. The Men of Letters were apparently not that big on comfortable furniture. His toe bumped something small, which fell over with a clink, followed rapidly by more.
He looked down to see a trail of fallen dominoes, which he decided to follow, suspecting what he might find at the end.
The sound of falling dominoes preceded him down the halls until a voice cried out, “Dammit, Sam! Now I have to start all over! I didn’t even get to see it...”
Dean should get out more.
TITLE: Hair Don't
CHARACTER: Sam and Dean
WARNINGS: Ludicrous curse
A forty-eight hour curse that made Dean think he was a six-year-old girl had sounded like it would be hilarious and provide endless blackmail fodder, but the reality was just kind of annoying. Take now for instance, where Sam found himself letting Dean twist his hair into about a hundred tiny braids. He sighed and slouched.
“Hold still!” Dean scolded.
Sam scowled and stood up. “No! I’m done with this!”
He turned to find Dean’s bottom lip quivering and big, green eyes brimming with tears.
“Uh... How about a tea party?”
“With pretty dresses?”
Stupid curse! “Fine...”
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: don't own them!
When the waiter comes back and tells you your stupid, friggin' Mastercard was declined, what can you do?
You can't exactly give the goods back; well you could but … no, maybe not!
There's always the bathroom window; but last time we tried that, Sam got himself wedged. Hardly surprising with those friggin' great sasquatch shoulders of his...
Cash? The grand total of seven bucks fifty between us; don't think that's gonna cover a cajun chicken salad and an eighteen ounce T-bone; spicy fries, blue-cheese sauce and all the trimmings.
Winchesters in the kitchen; washin' dishes?
Just friggin' priceless!
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: don't own them
Dean's doing shots - this won't end well ...
Holy friggin' hell, that was intense.
Closing his eyes, he pulled his knees under him in an attempt to stand.
Leaning heavily on the table for support, he ignored the rush of blood that the sudden movement caused.
He opened his eyes again and swallowed back a wave of nausea as blurred images swirled and spun before him, aggravating the throbbing, oh the throbbing of his poor head.
Taking a shuddering breath, he steadied himself on trembling legs, as he braced himself for the next hit ...
Man, he was definitely sticking to the purple nurples after tonight!