It’s finally Lemon Meringue Pie, and the leaves are starting to turn.
Sam always gives him a funny look when he says things like that. He looks at Dean like he’s crazy, and well, after forty years of Hell, give or take, and that year in Purgatory, and some time travel, alternate time lines, and the times he’s tried to exist without his brother (because he never really ‘lives’ without his brother), he’s probably not what one would call ‘sane’.
But their lives aren’t conventional – they don’t judge things by normal dates. They don’t really mark their birthdays, and the main date they know is the date of their mom’s death, and later Jess’ as well, and they mark that with alcohol and regret. They don’t do the big holidays, not really, and the seasons go on without them as they do what they’ve always done – hunt, fight, make up, fight some more, and try to keep the world from ending. That’s really just any given Wednesday for them.
Few things are consistent in Dean’s world, but pies are something he can depend on. The seasons change, and the pie flavours cycle with them, like the phases of the moon, except pies don’t awaken werewolves and he doesn’t have to put the chains on his tires when the flavours change.
“Lemon meringue month, Sammy!” Dean has fresh lemons and a brand-new pie dish – because apparently the Men of Letters weren’t much into pastry – and he grins at his brother, the grumpy Sasquatch eyeing him with suspicion as he pours himself a morning coffee.
“It’s September already?”
Dean can’t help his sunny grin. This is the first time he’s been able to make his own pie to ring in the new month. It’s a ritual he’s developed over the years, one he sticks to when he can. He can’t always – sometimes it’s a little late, sometimes he just can’t get the right pie.
Sometimes he’s still stupid enough to send Sam out for it. He remembers one April, sending Sammy out in search of chocolate cream pie, only for the little bitch to come back with Boston cream pie, looking ridiculously proud of himself.
They’d spent several hours arguing over why, no Sam, Boston cream pie is a cake, not a pie, I don’t care what its name is, it’s not about the name, it’s about the pastry Sammy, haven’t I taught you anything?
Dean is so sure his brother does this deliberately, because, while the kid doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth any more, he somehow always manages to get the strawberry rhubarb pie when his birthday rocks around.
“We should go to New England,” Sam says as he boots up his laptop, “I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”
Dean hums and nods, thinking of the tree-lined streets with falling leaves, the quaint little houses, the shadowy creatures that prowl around them, waiting to take down unsuspecting suburbanites.
“We could go to Salem,” Sam says, “maybe take a break.”
“Sure,” Dean says sarcastically, crouching in front of the oven, “I mean, no witches any more, right? They all got wiped out.”
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branchandroot
So, uh, pie fic!
Date: 2016-09-05 04:52 am (UTC)Sam always gives him a funny look when he says things like that. He looks at Dean like he’s crazy, and well, after forty years of Hell, give or take, and that year in Purgatory, and some time travel, alternate time lines, and the times he’s tried to exist without his brother (because he never really ‘lives’ without his brother), he’s probably not what one would call ‘sane’.
But their lives aren’t conventional – they don’t judge things by normal dates. They don’t really mark their birthdays, and the main date they know is the date of their mom’s death, and later Jess’ as well, and they mark that with alcohol and regret. They don’t do the big holidays, not really, and the seasons go on without them as they do what they’ve always done – hunt, fight, make up, fight some more, and try to keep the world from ending. That’s really just any given Wednesday for them.
Few things are consistent in Dean’s world, but pies are something he can depend on. The seasons change, and the pie flavours cycle with them, like the phases of the moon, except pies don’t awaken werewolves and he doesn’t have to put the chains on his tires when the flavours change.
“Lemon meringue month, Sammy!” Dean has fresh lemons and a brand-new pie dish – because apparently the Men of Letters weren’t much into pastry – and he grins at his brother, the grumpy Sasquatch eyeing him with suspicion as he pours himself a morning coffee.
“It’s September already?”
Dean can’t help his sunny grin. This is the first time he’s been able to make his own pie to ring in the new month. It’s a ritual he’s developed over the years, one he sticks to when he can. He can’t always – sometimes it’s a little late, sometimes he just can’t get the right pie.
Sometimes he’s still stupid enough to send Sam out for it. He remembers one April, sending Sammy out in search of chocolate cream pie, only for the little bitch to come back with Boston cream pie, looking ridiculously proud of himself.
They’d spent several hours arguing over why, no Sam, Boston cream pie is a cake, not a pie, I don’t care what its name is, it’s not about the name, it’s about the pastry Sammy, haven’t I taught you anything?
Dean is so sure his brother does this deliberately, because, while the kid doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth any more, he somehow always manages to get the strawberry rhubarb pie when his birthday rocks around.
“We should go to New England,” Sam says as he boots up his laptop, “I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”
Dean hums and nods, thinking of the tree-lined streets with falling leaves, the quaint little houses, the shadowy creatures that prowl around them, waiting to take down unsuspecting suburbanites.
“We could go to Salem,” Sam says, “maybe take a break.”
“Sure,” Dean says sarcastically, crouching in front of the oven, “I mean, no witches any more, right? They all got wiped out.”