Not entirely sure where this came from, although I have my suspicions *frowns at elf*.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing from Supernatural is mine. I'm cool with that. The cost of running that car alone would put a serious dent in my chocolate money.
TITLE: Piening For The Ones We Can't Save
RATING: T to be safe, until such time as Dean takes to using sign language.
SUMMARY: Dean is devastated by what they have to do to finish a job. Sam tries to be supportive - "You can't save them all." If he can save just one, though, maybe that will make this devout Student Of Pie feel better.
SETTING: Set in the Jimiverse, anytime after Zan and Tiem the gargoyles have arrived to guard Singer Salvage.
FAULT: Blame for all my fanfics lies completely with the Denizens, Visitors and Casual Dropper-Inerers of the Jimiverse, who keep leaving kind reviews, helpful critiques and strident demands for more gargoyles, G.W.N. (Gratuitous Winchester Nudity), scientifically enquiring nerd angels and cranky prudish werewolves. Honestly, don't you people have homes to go to?
"I can't do it." The statement was flat, final, and defeated. Dean's voice was broken, barely a whisper. "Don't ask me to do this, Sammy. Not this."
"We have to Dean, we have to," Sam told him softly, putting a hand on his big brother's shoulder, feeling the wretched misery wash off him, "There's no reason you have to be here to see this. If you want to go wait in the car, I'll… finish here."
Jimi whined, sensing his Alpha's distress, then butted his big, square head reassuringly against Dean's leg with a gentle woof of support. Your Pack is here. You are not alone.
"No." Dean looked up, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but face determined. That ridiculous streak of macho in him wouldn't let him walk away, no matter how much distress he was in. "I can't just run screaming like a whiny little bitch. Give me the lighter."
Sam hesitated, on the verge of telling his brother, his big, overprotective, idiot brother that he was okay, it was okay, it was all right to be, well, not all right, and that he understood (well really no, he didn't, but that wasn't what Dean needed to hear right now), and it didn't make him think any less of his lifelong protector… he saw his brother's expression again, and thought better of it, wordlessly handing over the lighter.
"We can't save them all," he said instead. Numbly, Dean nodded, flicked the lighter, and tossed it.
The flame was a bright, cheerful blue and orange flicker in the darkness, racing quickly along the liberal trail of fuel, and moving greedily on to the rest of the small shop. They'd burn. In brilliant, cleansing fire, they'd all burn. And it would be over.
Dean drew a shuddering breath, and Sam put an arm around him, risking an accusation of chick-flickery to steer his brother back towards the Impala. "Come on," he urged, "We gotta get out of here now. The job's done."
"Yeah," agreed Dean in a detached voice, "It's done. It's over." He stood with his hand on the car door, unable to tear his eyes away from the cheerful dart and dance of flames behind the windows of Grandma Gracie's Perfect Pies & Pastries. He was sure he could already smell nutmeg and cinnamon in the air.
"I hope she burns in Hell," he rumbled dangerously, "For what she did, she deserves to spend eternity in the Pit."
"Damn straight," agreed Sam. That was something that they definitely agreed on: dear old Grandma Gracie, the witch who had been using her pie shop to distribute cursed pastries, did indeed deserve to be held accountable for her actions.
Her pies had been good, too, seriously good; the Winchesters had visited the establishment a number of times during their research into the case, and each time, she'd dished up something better than the last. Pecan, key lime, apple and cinnamon, apricot, cherry, culminating with the most wonderful lemon curd pie Dean had ever tasted. He'd been ready to fall to his knees, and beg to sit at her feet, be allowed to listen to her teachings so that he, a humble Student Of Pie, might learn to better worship that most heavenly of pastries.
Sam thought that she deserved Hell because she'd deployed evil spells that had turned men into statues, sculptures, garden gnomes and tasteful coffee table ornaments, out of vindictiveness for perceived slights or just for her own vicious amusement at their expense.
Dean thought that she deserved Hell because she'd used pie – she'd used pie! – to dispense her various curses. She'd taken pie – such pie! – perfect, delicious, wonderful pie, and perverted it, desecrated it, profaned, corrupted, prostituted it, to evil ends. As a rule, he was in favour of prostitution in general terms, but not if it involved violating pie. Well, except for that one particularly interesting House of Ill Repute he'd visited in Nevada once, it had been cherry pie, too, but that wasn't the point, the point was, the point was, she'd taken innocent, marvellous pastries and used them in the most evil, depraved, perverse, sick way anyone could imagine. Although the place in Nevada probably counted as just a bit depraved, not quite depraved enough to be kinky, not that he minded kinky, but the point was, the point was, okay, the point was that witch had fucked with pie and deserved to die for it. The whole turning guys into decorations did nothing to help her case.
He took one last look at the small shop, burning cheerfully, and tried not to imagine the rows of pies, plump and heavy with generous filling, as they burned, their light, flaky, golden pastry scorching and cracking, their flavoursome, tangy, home-made fillings with no canned ingredients bubbling, boiling, curdling, bursting out of their cases to dribble and clot and be seared away by the flames…
"I know you didn't want to torch the shop, bro," Sam broke into his thoughts, "But it was the best way to make sure we got everything, and destroyed any evidence." He hefted the books he'd taken from the witch's altar before they'd fired the place. "I think Bobby will be interested in these."
"I don't suppose one of them is a recipe book?" Dean asked hopefully. "How the hell she got that cheesecake pie like that…"
" 'Fraid not," answered Sam, flipping through one of the volumes. "Although you'll have to check with Bobby. We should get moving."
Dean stared wistfully at the flames. "I hope they didn't suffer," he sighed, starting the car.
"Dean?" said Sam gently.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
"Dean, they're just pies, bro, and I think you might be over-reacting just a bit."
Dean put the car into drive, and pulled out onto the tar. "Sam," he growled, "I do not think it would be possible, in a single lifetime, for me to tell you exactly how much is so very, very wrong with the statement you just made."
However, for the two hours they drove before he deemed them far enough away to stop, he tried.
By the time the Impala pulled off the road and into the lot of a motel of their usual cruddy standard, Sam was ready to agree with anything Dean said. He was ready to agree that pie was indeed a divine foodstuff, pie was clearly created by a Higher Intelligence, pie was not just a snack but a way of life, pie was in charge of the universe, Hail Holy Pie (he crossed himself to show willing), pie could probably fix most of the political upheaval in the world if the key players would just sit down together and eat enough, pie had the power to fix anything from a seized engine to bubonic plague, pie is love and love is pie, it doesn't count as a cult because there's no chanting or orgies or poisoned Kool-Aid although it would be a worthy cause for instigating an orgy like that place in Nevada, he would willingly devote his life to pie, there is no Sam, only pie…
"Dean! Shut! Up!" he finally burst out, one eye twitching, "Shut up about PIE!"
"Whoa, you on your man-period, Sam?" asked Dean, apparently recovered from the gut-wrenching experience of having to set fire to a shop full of pies. "You know, pie can help with that – it's comfort food, and it satisfies the cravings for carbohydrate, in fact a piece of pumpkin pie may…"
"Just… can you just not talk about pie any more?" pleaded Sam.
Dean looked surprisingly understanding. "Sure thing, Sam," he agreed, hefting his bag out of the car, "I understand. What we had to do tonight was pretty traumatic. But if you don't want to talk about it yet, that's fine. When you do, I'll be right here for you, bro." He clapped Sam on the back with a compassionate smile, and headed into their room.
Sam blinked twice, and sighed. Jimi hovered by his leg, whuffing sympathetically. Sam patted the dog on the head.
"You're going to miss him when I have to murder Dean, aren't you?" he said to Jimi, "When I am tragically forced to stick an apple in his mouth, and shove cloves into every orifice, then stab him fatally with a dessert fork. I'll need your help to dig a hole to get rid of the evidence, because it will really mess with any poor coroner who's forced to try to figure out what happened…"
They settled into their room for the night with the usual bickering about everything from shower access, hot water usage and doing laundry. ("You agreed half an hour ago that you'd do the laundry." "Dean, you were brainwashing me with your stupid cult of pie indoctrination, I would have agreed to shave my head and commit a suicide bombing on a sushi bar if I'd thought it would have made you shut up.")
When Sam finally disappeared into the bathroom with a parting shot of Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), Dean carefully extracted something from his bag. He hadn't had time to pack it as carefully as he would have liked, and he hoped it hadn't suffered any real damage…
He sat the box on the small counter top, and opened it. His face lit up with a smile.
The family-sized blackberry and apple pie sat there, intact and looking delicious.
He couldn't save them all, he knew that. But he'd saved this one. If he was feeling generous, he might even share it with his brother.
He put the pie into the small refrigerator, and climbed into bed, feeling just a little happier about the state of things.
I think it stands as a one-shot, but if the Update Inspiration Fairy gets back from holidays, I might even try to do something with it. The name may change accordingly. Nudity, gargoyles and angels, oh my...
Reviews are the Big Globs Of Double Cream on the Blueberry Pie Of Life!