Title: Settle, Then Rise
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Family
Rating: T (language)
Summary: It was cathartic, baking. Knowing you could do something that would be hard to screw up.
Notes: Seems I'm incapable of writing anything other than angsty brotherly feels. Hmm, anyway, Enjoy!
It was cathartic, the simple actions of cooking with low music on in the background while your brother slept soundly down the hall at six in the morning.
Creating something from nothing, mere ingredients he could mold under his hands. Kneading the dough with strong hands to release any pent up aggression, yet still requiring a delicate touch to finish the crust.
A haze of flour dusted the kitchen, looking as if snow had fell during the undisturbed hours of the night, but parts had been smudged by the man amongst the storm – tiny snow angels inhabiting the fingerprints he left on the counter.
Bowls filled with different coloured fillings littered the edges, staining the ancient porcelain mixing bowls the Men of Letters had stashed away in their cupboards. The oven creaked and cackled as the gas struggled to heat up and cook the pastries. The appliance, if applicable to call it that, sounded like shit but fulfilled its purpose.
Dean was in the middle of the chaos; creating a cosmos that wouldn't break or fracture. Baking was…safe. Something he could do knowing he wouldn't screw it up. Kneading the dough with his palm, he halted as the sound of an opening door could be heard, the slight click as it was closed once more.
Rolling his shoulders, he prepared for the entrance of his brother, trying to release any apprehension hanging in the expanse of back. Returning to his early motions, Dean heard the soft footfalls coming closer, but didn't turn around as they stopped in the kitchen doorway.
It was silent for a moment, the only noise coming from the radio and he bit his tongue still rolling the dough against the counter as Sam ventured inside the room.
"You're baking."
The words were poised as a statement, but there was an underlining question prevalent in the voice. Dean swerved his head around to glance at his brother and nod in favor of the unasked question.
"Yeah, I found an old cookbook of Mom's while digging through a box I brought back from one of dad's storage lockers. S'when me and Crowley were searching for a lead on a blade to kill Abaddon."
He quickly refocused his gaze on the dough and roughly pressed his palm into the pastel pastry as Sam snorted, eyeing the box settled on the kitchen table. Dean exhaled in relief as his brothers oblivious attempts to try and ignore the fact that he had worked with Crowley; another demon, had acquired the Mark of Cain and trusted someone other than themselves. Because when the hell did that ever turn out well for them. It's what caused this mess in the first place; his inability to let his brother go and willingness to trust anyone to accomplish the seemingly impossible: keeping Sam safe.
Roughly finishing the dough, Dean rolled it into a tight ball and set it in one of the bowls, placing a dishtowel over the top to let the dough settle before making the crust - instructions he remembered from what his mom taught him when he was young.
Setting the timer for twenty minutes, he checked the pie already in the oven and was content that it would be ready around the same time as the dough. Wiping his hands on the dish towel he'd stuck in his jeans pocket, Dean sighed lightly before turning to witness Sam routing through the box on the small kitchen table.
Years ago, he would have commented on how tiny the furniture was compared to his brother's gigantic stature. Sam would have laughed back then. Now, his joke would've just had his brother send him a sour frown.
Dean swallowed roughly, raking a hand through his now likely flour covered hair. Grabbing the mug of coffee from its space on the counter, he joined Sam at the table with stiff and conscious movements, hoping his brother wouldn't bristle as he sat down.
But Sam was occupied with the contents of the box, still looking slightly groggy. He pulled the cookbook out of the jagged box with a puzzled expression.
"Shouldn't you have the recipe while you're baking?"
Dean shrugged, trying not to jostle the cup in his hands, "Don't need it."
Sam raised an eyebrow, looking back down at the recipe book and flipped through the pages, pausing to run his fingers over places where their mother had written in changes or added ingredients.
His heart constricted at the wonderment on his brothers face for the woman he'd never met, at least not the woman she grew to be. The simple action caused him to sag wearily. But he perked a moment later, remembering the sheet he'd found in the box days before. Setting the mug onto the table, Dean reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out an old Polaroid.
"Found this the other day. Thought you might want it," he ground out, sliding it faced down towards Sam.
His brother abandoned the cookbook to glance at the square, reaching out to cautiously peel at the edges and flip the photograph over. Dean watched Sam freeze, his hand suspended above the glossy photo as his eyes widened.
It was a picture of him, Dean and Mary. They were in the kitchen, Mary sitting on the floor with him in her lap and Dean was standing on his tip toes behind her, chin resting on her head and hands on her shoulders. The photo was an epitome of a happy family; a once happy family.
Dean watched his brothers face soften and fought back the guilt trying to rise. Gathering a handle on his emotions, he solidified the words that had been residing within his mouth for the last few weeks.
"I'm sorry."
It came out in a rush, blurted shakily into the silent space. Sam's head flew up from the photo, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.
"What for, the photo? Dean this is amazing…"
Dean shook his head with a dry laugh. "No not the photo. Just…everything. I'm sorry for everything." He closed his eyes in a flash, not wanting to see the rejection in his brother's face. Leaning his elbows on the table, he laid his chin against a palm and exhaled sharply.
"I'm sorry I never told you more about her…Mom." Dean admitted, smiling sadly before continuing.
"It was hard you know? We were both so young and when you started asking questions about why we didn't have a Mom, if she would have liked or hated you…it broke me. Even now, I feel like shit that I never did, 'cause you were only a kid and it was normal for you to ask questions. But Sam, you wouldn't believe how much you're like her, that raw compassion, strength and patience. She would've been proud of you…just like I am."
He ran a hand over his mouth, about to speak before Sam could interject, but the recognizable blare of the timer interrupted him. Dean pried open his eyes and hastily jumped to his feet to avoid the gaze of his brother, rushing over to the stove. Though he missed the sad face Sam shot him, accompanied by a glance at the photo resting on the table.
Taking the dish towel out of his pocket, he wrapped draped it over his hand and yanked the oven door open with a creak. Sliding the glass dish from the middle rack, Dean set it on top of the appliance, cursing as he did so.
"Dammit."
The pie had burnt, the edges a crisp black, surrounding a deep caramel centre. There was a slight puff of smoke coming from the flat surface, turning the air hazy. Shutting the over door with a nudge, Dean threw the towel onto the counter in anger, running a hand over his face in agitation.
He could have laughed; looks like he couldn't even bake a pie right. Sort of fitting though, nothing else in his life ever turned out right, why should he have expected this would?
"Whoa man, calm down. You can always bake another pie."
He turned to face Sam and there must have been an indication of distress on his features for the concern lingering in his brother's eyes.
"Yeah, but this wasn't supposed to happen! It–I…" Dean stuttered to a stop, taking a few deep breaths to calm down like Sam had told him to do earlier. I can't rebuild the broken trust of a brother.
"Well, I'm pretty sure you made enough to bake another one," Sam remarked with a small smirk, casting a glance towards the counter and the abundance of ingredients lining it.
"Come on," he urged, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, "We can bake another one."
Dean felt the urge to laugh hysterically make a return as he listened to Sam.
"You serious?" He asked with incredulity, eyebrows raised.
His brother shrugged, "Why not? I'm sure mom would have taught me anyway, so…next best thing."
Dean was slightly taken aback by Sam's words, but took the offered olive branch without reluctance, as small as it was.
"Well, okay." He responded, gathering his wits. "Uh…first thing: wash those grimy paws you call hands, there will be no contaminating the pie."
Sam rolled his eyes, but ventured over to the sink as Dean busied himself with getting the right ingredients and filling together. Relief flooded the air, from both brothers. Things may not have been totally settled between the both of them, but it was better than the oppressive rut they had fallen into.
"I think the dough's fully settled, so you can work on rolling it out for the crust. Hopefully it rises better than the last one…"