I leaned forward as I sat on the counter, watching every move he made. Sam was stressbaking.

You can just

hear the pattern of the oven dinging, the whisk scraping the bowl, the hisses of pain when his hand would brush against the cooling pan, and Air Supply lightly drumming on the walls;

smell stray chocolate chips burning, home emanating from just a single pastry;

see the smoke coupled with flying particles of flour, as Sam thumbs over the pattern Gabriel had sown on the apron just over his chest (the anti-possession mark- a reference to the Winchester's occupation), teasing the thread that stuck out due to Gabriel's abilities (rather, lack thereof), comforted by the

feel of it between his fingers; catch a whiff, and

taste the diabetes already.

Of course, Sam would not be the one to feast on whatever it was he'd baked- what with his insistence to stay fit. Rather, it would be for his angelic beloved and his brother. (He was sure that those two shared two similarities- appreciation of frisky women and the desire to have their teeth sunk in food every second.) He only baked for the tranquility the hobby provided him and preferred the result of being one with the whisk than the result of using an electric mixer. (He'd told me once that he feared it made the handmade, homemade food look and taste too artificially done.)

I watch as Sam eases the first three cookies off the parchment and onto a plate. He strode to the living room where both Gabriel and Dean sat watching Doctor Sexy, M.D., and offered them a cookie each. I stared intently as Dean's mood evidently improved just by the simple act. I do wish Sam could teach me to make his brother as happy as he does.

Sam approached me, carrying the plate with a cookie. "Here, Cas. Why don't you try it?"

I decided to humor him and picked the cookie from the plate, stuffing it in my mouth whole. Sam raised both his eyebrows at the action. Obviously, I had done something wrong. Nevertheless, I chewed and swallowed, continuing the process of ingestion.

Sam looked at me expectantly, as if the cookie would no longer taste like molecules to me. I decided to apply a little something called sarcasm.

"Why, Sam," I feigned delight, widening my eyes and making a little smile, (he looks so pleasantly surprised, I might feel guilty for this later), "It still does taste like molecules." I deadpanned.

I heard distant laughter as Sam threw me a "bitch face." (I believe this one is Bitch Face #215.) I flashed a charming half-apologetic smile at him, to kinda ease the light teasing.

He rolled his eyes with an easy smile and turned to return to the kitchen to which I hurriedly hopped off the counter to follow. I caught him in the middle of the kitchen, reached for his arm and tugged him back. "Sam, please. I have to ask for something."

"Well, what is it, Cas?" He stared down at me with question in his eyes.

"I realize how easy it is to please Dean, yet I cannot seem to." I started, lowering my voice to avoid having either Dean or Gabriel overhear.

"I see that with a simple pastry, you have definitely improved his mood.." I trailed off, and he ushered for me to continue. "I wish you'd teach me to make your brother as happy. That you'd teach me to.. bake."

Sam's mood twisted happily. It bordered terrifying.

"You know I bake often. It wouldn't be a problem, actually. Sure, Cas! If it's for my brother.." He trailed off, his eyes catching a mischievous glint. "Yeah, I'll teach you!"