Don't you love it when you set out to write a one-shot and it metastasizes into a full-blown novel?

YEAH ME NEITHER.

In retrospect, it probably hadn't been the pie that'd set Sam off. Not the pie alone, at least. It'd been just kind of a crappy day in general, one thing after another, and while that definitely wasn't anything new for the two of them, it still sucked. Even Sam wasn't anywhere near bitchy enough to completely lose his shit over something as small as one piece of pie. But it definitely hadn't helped.

They were doing a hunt on the Eastern seaboard, an area neither of them liked all that much. It was too wet, too cold, too woodsy. And too old. Dean had come to think of the whole region as just one big graveyard, full of ghosts dating all the way back to the 1600s (and way earlier, if you counted the rare Native American spirit). The living people around here were intruders, basically. No wonder they had so many problems with the dead. Never mind that it wasn't actually a ghost they were after this time, despite all the evidence having pointed to it.

It was raining. It was always freaking raining here, in fall, in rural Massachusetts, right next to the ocean. It'd been raining since they'd got here, a whole week ago, which meant that every patch of ground that wasn't paved over was roughly the consistency of a cheesecake that'd been left out on the counter all night. That included the four-hundred-year-old (give or take) cemetery where they'd spent most of the previous evening, and made salting and burning human remains a total pain in the ass.

So they'd had to tarp up the bones of a teenage suicide from two centuries ago and hump them back to their motel so they could take care of things in the bathtub and completely ruin the preformed fiberglass in the process. After Sam had slipped and fallen into the muddy pit of despair that the open grave had turned into. It'd kinda been his own damn fault; he'd tried to jog around it and he knew he didn't corner well, even when the whole world wasn't an inch underwater. He hadn't gotten hurt, on account of all the mud, but he did wind up soaking wet and filthy. Hair, clothes, skin, everything. He couldn't take a shower because of the grisly mess they'd made in the tub, so he'd had to settle for changing and sponging himself off as best he could in the sink. It hadn't done much good.

Then, on top of that, it turned out the house they'd been trying to purify was still haunted, so all the shit they'd been through had been for nothing, and Sam had gotten the worst of it.

It went without saying that neither of them had been in a great mood even before all of this had gone down. They were four months out of the breakup, and they were both still smarting. Dean had planned to be nice to Sam when they went for breakfast, but he was dead-set on picking a fight over the definition of the word "poltergeist," so...it was out of Dean's hands.

"Technically speaking, it's not even a ghost." Sam testily stirred his muesli. Dean had never heard of it before he'd ordered it, but it just looked like raisin bran to him. He'd tried to get Sam to get something more substantial, not to mention hotter, after his freezing-cold mud bath, but he'd dug his heels in.

"Translates to 'noisy ghost.'" Dean speared a sausage link.

"Yeah, but technically, it's, like a teenage girl. Involuntary telekinesis brought on by emotional turmoil." Dean resisted the urge to point out that Sam would know, when it came to that. "C'mon. They talked about this in the movie."

"Pretty much the only thing I took away from that movie was the creepy dwarf lady," Dean replied, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a long pull from it.

"It's 'little person,' Dean."

Dean ignored him, much like he had when Sam had raised a stink over him saying "Siamese twins." Being PC while he was alone with his brother was not a major concern for him. "Surprised you noticed anything besides the clown puppet. Or doll, or whatever it was."

Sam's fingers tightened on the spoon.

"Not eating much of that," Dean observed, nodding to his bowl.

"Milk's cold," Sam responded tightly.

"Well, no shit." Dean exaggeratedly raised both eyebrows, then reached for the ketchup. It was on Sam's side of the table, and he didn't miss the muscle in his jaw that started jumping when he put his hand over there. "I tried to tell you, didn't I? But you wouldn't listen." He drizzled ketchup over his hashbrowns, the half-empty bottle making a loud squelching noise, then set it aside and scooped up a heaping forkful. "Bet you wish you had some of this."

Sam's nose wrinkled slightly, the precursor to Bitchface #17. There were a lot more now than there'd been, say, ten years ago, so Dean had taken to numbering them.

That was probably a very clear indication that they spent way too much time together, especially for a couple of exes. But, hey, what was he supposed to do?

"I can see the grease dripping off it from here," Sam stated.

"My point exactly." Dean shoved the fork into his mouth, eyes involuntarily shutting in bliss. Goddamn, these were good hashbrowns: crispy, salty, piping hot. It was a pleasant surprise after a truly awful night. They were at their usual sort of diner, and the food these places served was rarely of this quality. He might've moaned a little.

Sam coughed once to clear his throat. "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?"

Ouch. There were a lot of equally-hurtful things that Dean could have said back to Sam, but he went with "Sorry." He spoke through a full mouth, shoving the soggy mess of ketchup and half-chewed hashbrowns into one cheek with his tongue. "Forgot you're literally friggin' twelve."

"You mean figuratively."

Dean swallowed and fixed his younger brother with a dead-on glare. "Eat me, Sam."

That definitely needled him. Sam leaned forward and opened his mouth to reply, making that obnoxious little popping noise that he seemed to think made him sound smarter or something. Dean braced himself for whatever witty comeback he'd cooked up. He was spared, though, by the arrival of their waitress. Sam shut his trap and flopped back against the red Naugahyde of the booth, looking just as irritated as he had since about four p.m. yesterday. When they'd realized they were going to have to dig.

"How're we doing over here? Can I get you boys anything else, or are you ready for the check?" their waitress asked with a bright smile. Her bottle-blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail so tight it looked painful, showing off mousy roots, and she was way too goddamn perky for just after seven in the morning, even taking into account the fact that she was probably around nineteen and had just started her shift. Her nametag read Krystal. If it was her real name, Dean wasn't sure if her parents had been stupid, cruel, or both.

He liked her anyway. Mostly because she seemed to annoy the hell out of Sam.

Speaking of Sam, he was opening his mouth again, and Dean knew he was going to tell Krystal they were ready to go. He jumped in before he could: "Yeah, actually. Could you tell me what time you guys start serving pie?"

He flicked the laminated advert that'd been set up behind the salt and pepper shakers. In slightly off-center text, it proclaimed this specific diner to have the best pie in the county. Dean was skeptical, but the picture looked good. He also ignored Sam's incredulously-raised eyebrows. One of them was still crusted through with mud.

Krystal grinned widely. "You're in luck; we're actually just taking today's batch out of the oven right now. You want apple or cherry?"

"Ooh, well, those both sound good," Dean commented, sitting back in his seat. It took about two seconds for him to concede to himself that he'd had a rough night and could use a reward. "Hell, I'm not even gonna try to choose." He glanced up at Krystal, who already had her pen and little pad at the ready. "How 'bout you bring me one of each?"

That triggered a loud snort from Sam. Dean ignored him; Krystal's eyes flicked towards him, but otherwise, she did the same.

"Can do!" She finished scribbling, put pen and pad back in her apron, and headed for the kitchen. Dean waited until she was gone to look at Sam.

"Got something you wanna say to me, Samantha?" he asked, laying his drawl on a little thicker than usual, which he knew Sam hated. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that, despite the two of them practically having grown up in each other's pockets, they'd somehow wound up with different accents. Sam had stated on more than one occasion, even while they were still together, that he thought Dean's was "contrived." Dean was pretty sure Sam's was.

"Yeah, actually." Sam shifted, then picked up his mug of coffee, which was really the only part of his breakfast he'd touched. Probably because it was hot. "You're gonna die of a heart attack before you're forty."

"Why's that?" Dean arched an eyebrow.

"Well, you ordered, uh, two breakfasts." Sam gestured to the mostly-empty plates on Dean's side of the table, and Dean looked down at them. "Bacon and eggs, and sausage and hashbrowns. One had a side of toast, one had a side of pancakes, and you drowned both of them in butter." Dean shrugged; all of that was true. "You asked for extra bacon, plus you had the waitress bring you another plate of pancakes." Sam eyed him over the rim of his coffee cup. "And now you're gonna have pie. Two whole slices."

Dean shrugged again, a little defensively this time. "Gimme a break. I burned a lotta calories last night."

"Right," Sam said, nodding. "So you're replacing them with empty ones. Smart." He pointed to one of Dean's plates, the one that'd held the bacon and eggs. All that was left were smears of ketchup and a yellow mixture of yolk and grease. "That is what the inside of your arteries looks like."

"Are you calling me fat?" Dean demanded, gesturing to himself with one hand. "You're calling me fat, aren't you?" He was suddenly aware of just how full he was, stomach bloated and pressing almost painfully against the waistband of his jeans. It would've been a relief to at least pop his button, maybe even unzip his fly, but he was sure that Sam would notice if he did.

The pie might've been a bad idea. He'd be damned (again) before he'd admit that, though.

"No," Sam replied. "I'm calling you unhealthy." He snorted again, shaking his head. "Pie for breakfast."

"Y'know, when it comes to health, exercise is actually way more important than diet," Dean pointed out. Sam seemed surprised, but he shouldn't've been. This was a common argument for the two of them. It wasn't that much of a leap for Dean to start doing his own background research. "And I get plenty of exercise."

"Not regular exercise, though," Sam was quick to mention. Apparently Dean hadn't tripped him up like he'd wanted to. "And not nearly as much as me. I jog every day. I lift weights in our gym - yes, Dean, we've got a gym." His surprise must've showed on his face. "Fifth level, over by the main armory. We can go weeks between hunts, though, which means you spend weeks sitting on your ass."

"Right," Dean said. "'Cause that's what I'm doing while you're off prancing around the forest like giant fucking Bambi every morning. Sitting on my ass. Not cleaning the bathrooms, not taking care of the guns, not picking up groceries, not doing the cooking - "

"Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Sam interrupted, and Dean had to wrestle with the first stirrings of real anger. "Maybe we should switch off. I'd kinda like to eat something green every once in a while."

"You know what..." Resting his back against the booth, Dean threw up his hands. "It ain't my fault you hate everything delicious. Like pie." He dropped his hands and squinted across the table at Sam. "What the hell've you got against pie, man? Seriously."

"Nothing." Sam set his coffee down, hard enough to make some slosh out onto the table even though the mug was less than half full. "It's not about the pie. It's about your diet in general - and your lifestyle. You've got no self-control whatsoever."

"Oh. I don't, huh?" That actually stung, partially because it was so damn familiar, but Dean did his best to hide it. "For your information, I've got loads of self-control. You can bet that, if I actually wanted to eat like a rabbit and spend six hours a day making myself abso-freaking-lutely miserable, I'd be doing it. No sweat."

"Sure you would," Sam agreed, nodding just a little too hard and fast. "You just keep telling yourself that. And keeping an eye out for pain in your left arm or your jaw, tightness in your chest, shortness of breath...all that good stuff." He finally scooped up a spoonful of muesli, which was probably more like mush-li by this point, and shoved it into his mouth. He made way too big a point of fully chewing and swallowing before he spoke. "And I will brush up on my CPR."

Dean folded his hands on the table in front of him and just stared at Sam for a while, pushing his tongue into one cheek again. Sam kept eating, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. Eventually, Dean stated, "You don't think I could do it."

"Nope," Sam agreed shortly.

"How 'bout if I said you couldn't do what I do?" Dean asked, and Sam snorted once again. Maybe he wasn't doing it on purpose; maybe he was just getting a cold after wallowing in freezing graveyard mud.

"Right," he said. "Gorging on junk food and wasting half the day zoning out to Styx. Sounds real hard, Dean."

"Please," Dean almost snapped. "You go one day without your kale fix or your cardio, and you're gonna have a breakdown. You're like some sort of - of pain addict!"

"Better than being prediabetic," Sam answered in what was nearly a mumble. Dean leaned forward, his aggression driving him more than conscious thought, and Sam leaned back, shaking his head. "Fine. Fine. You wanna do this? We'll do this." He spread his hands towards Dean's empty plates. "I'll eat and act like you, and vice-versa. For a week."

"A week?" Dean barked out an incredulous laugh. "Oh, hell, no. You ain't getting off that easy. We do this, we do it right." Leaning forward again, he folded one arm under his chest and used the other to stab at the laminate tabletop with an index finger. "A month, at least. No - six weeks. And if you pussy out early, which, trust me, is definitely gonna happen, I get to shave your head."

For a second, Sam looked like he was about to protest. He raised a protective hand halfway to his long hair, which, to be blunt, was not in great shape at the moment. It was messy from the hard night, frizzing slightly in the humidity, and still matted with mud in some places. Dean waited smugly. He knew those stakes would be too high for him.

Sam surprised him, though. "Fine. And when you pussy out early, I'm taking the car to get a new paint job." He raised his eyebrows. "Bubblegum pink."

Dean blinked. High stakes indeed.

"Deal," he said, and reached a hand across the table. He could do this. He had to do this, now - for Baby, so she could keep her dignity. Sam took his hand, and Dean grimaced as they shook on it. "Fuck. Your hands are freezing."

Sam just grunted in response. Their waitress turned up again a little bit later, a plate of pie in each hand. Dean flashed the best smile he could muster at her as she set both down in front of him, having to stack a couple of his empty plates in order to make room, and resolved to give her a nice, big tip when it came time to pay the bill. She deserved it for having had to deal with Sam in his current mood.

As soon as she left again (actually, she only made it a couple of steps before she apparently realized that she could take those empty plates with her, and returned to clear off their table), Dean slid both of the small plates across the table towards Sam. Who stared down at them and their contents for a long time, then looked back up at Dean. He bounced his eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh," Sam said. "So we're starting, like...right now?"

"Yep," Dean replied, reaching over to the other side of the table in order to snag Sam's bowl. "Unless you've got a problem with that, Pigpen?" He widened his eyes innocently as he pulled the bowl over to himself.

"Of course not." As Dean gave the bowl's contents an experimental stir with the spoon that was still in there, Sam picked up his fork and stabbed one of the pie slices. The apple. The flaky crust broke apart and steam escaped into the air as the golden-brown filling oozed out on either side. Dean swallowed reflexively when he heard the soft crunch of the fork tines passing through a slice of baked apple. He was kind of regretting shoving the pie at Sam now, especially since that would've been the last pie he had for six weeks. But it wasn't like he could ask for it back. Sam would interpret that as an attempt to welch.

Sam approached eating both slices of pie about the same as he did dismembering a body: eyes fixed and face set, grim but determined to get through it. Dean internally shook his head. He'd never understood how anybody - especially his blood relative - could find pie anything other than delicious. It was just about causing him physical pain to watch somebody not enjoying it so much, so he turned his attention back to the muesli.

When he took a bite, it actually wasn't anywhere near as bad as he'd expected it to be. Soggy? Yeah. Full of oats and other boring grains? Definitely. But there was also a lot of dried fruit in it. Raisins and cherries and blueberries, and he thought he tasted shredded coconut, too. So not great, but not horrible. Much easier on his packed stomach than the pie would've been, too.

Sam had momentarily abandoned that pie in favor of watching Dean eat what had been his breakfast. When Dean noticed him staring, he stated, "That's just gross."

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, dredged up another spoonful. "We're brothers. We've got the same germs."