Dean’s been acting very mysterious lately, ever since he brought back that package from the post office. He’s been sneaking chemistry and botany texts out of the library. He’s been bringing torches and welding masks into the kitchen. There’s been sizzling noises, clanking noises, and once even a strange sort of bouncing noise.
Sam doesn’t even want to begin to describe the smells that come wafting through the ventilation system. But Castiel turns his face toward the kitchen from time to time, catching a scent that leaves him looking puzzled but intrigued.
Finally, six days later, Dean calls them into the kitchen. There’s three martini glasses lined up on the counter. Each is filled with an artsy arrangement of tan foam, sprinkled with small purple spheres. Long, spindly breadsticks are stuck in the foam at angles. Dean is grinning like a fool.
“What’s all this?” Sam asks.
“Deconstructed peanut butter and jelly,” Dean answers. He points to each element. “Peanut butter foam, spherified grape jelly, and white bread crostini sticks.”
Sam is genuinely puzzled, but Castiel is smiling. He picks up a spoon and scoops up some of the foam and puts it in his mouth. His smile quickly turns to disappointment, though he tries to hide it from Dean. “It’s good Dean. I can really taste the C57H104O6.”
It’s then that Sam spots the instruction manual that’s layed out on the counter, burned in some spots, soggy in others. Ah. That explains everything.
Molecular Gastronomy Kit for Beginners
“No thanks, Dean,” Sam said, eyeing the cheeseburger that appeared to be fifty percent grease, twenty percent sopping bread, twenty percent melted cheese, nine point nine percent onions, and point one percent semi-healthy courtesy of one miserable piece of wilted lettuce. “I still don’t know how you can eat that.”
Dean took a huge, noisy bite, chewing almost with his mouth open. “It’s good. Better than the rabbit food you eat.”
“Natural things are better for you.”
“How’d you like a sack of dirt?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “No more Taxi marathons, Dean. You’re too tall to be Louie anyway.”
He checked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed. The street was empty, parked cars dotting the street, none of them the one he feared. He ran from the light, clutching his treasure to his chest. Every sound was an occasion to brace himself to fight or flee, every moment a reminder that he was closer to being discovered. Finally he reached a safe place; an alley empty even of the obligatory cat.
If Dean ever found out about his brother’s secret craving for Charley’s chicken California sub with ranch dressing, he’d never hear the end of it.
What Dean doesn’t get is that there’s lore on the subject, just like anything else. Sam’s read it, and he’s just trying to do what he needs to do to protect Dean. Statistically, this is the most deadly enemy they've ever faced, killing more people than all the others combined.
“I don’t get it Dean,” Sam says. “If there was a demon after you, or a reaper, you’d do what it took to protect yourself, no matter how hard it was. This is no different then putting up wards or our anti-possession tattoos. Live to fight another day and all that. “
Dean is unmoved. “I don’t care what the American Heart Association says, I’m not eating anything that starts with a Q and rhymes with schmeen-wah.”
Clearly, Sam had missed his calling.
Dean had a similar body type, but he'd never been the type to try out for anything organized, unless it was for a hunt. Hunting definitely didn't count.
Dad hadn't encouraged them getting attached or having them attention from anyone.
Today, Sam was going to change that.
They'd taken one look at him and told him he was on the basketball team. He'd been thrilled until the first game where he realized a very simple fact.
He had no idea how to play the game.
Retrospectively, he should have learned the rules before playing.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean tried to be casual. “How's it hanging?”
“Har de har,” Sam replied sarcastically. “That joke was so damn funny the first time too.”
“Got anything better to do?” Dean asked, trying for some sarcasm of his own. “'Cause I've got nothing.”
“What, like pretend we're doing this for our health?” Sam asked incredulously.
“It's better than remembering the dominatrix we were investigating found out and strung us up.” Dean paused. “It's definitely doing wonders for my abs.”
Judging from the words Sam was spitting, Dean figured Sam disagreed.
Sam successfully finished lacing his skates, grinned and got out onto the ice, quickly picking up speed and passing several of the slower skaters. It felt good to get back into it after such a long time. It was also great knowing he still had the knack.
He watched Dean as he sped along the ice. It wasn't hard. Dean had only managed to move a few feet in the time it took Sam to do two laps, mostly by virtue of having to constantly pick himself off the ice.
Maybe it was time to offer lessons.
Or maybe not.
“Daddy, can have some?”
I really shouldn’t. Mary would kill me; probably will when she sees what it is, whether or not I give him any. But there are two things in the world I can’t resist. A big messy cheeseburger with onions and pickles on a big toasted bun with a side of steak fries, and my three year-old son.
Maybe just a bite. It won’t hurt him, I don’t think. Just the part here without any onions, and where the cheese isn’t so thick. And just a couple of the fries, the least greasy. There’s my little man.