SUMMARY: Post 10.07 Girls Girls Girls - The boys share a Thanksgiving meal. Brother fluff, short and sweet.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Usual lingo.
And...ACTION!
"What's all this?"
Sam followed the tantalizing smells wafting from the kitchen and found Dean facing the stove. He was stirring the shit out of about five simmering pots.
Dean's shoulders shrugged noncommittally.
"What's it look like? It's food," he grunted.
"Is that – did you make…?" Sam never quite got around to finishing either sentence. Instead, he opted to peer between Dean's legs into the oven so he could gape at the massive bird roasting inside.
A frown pulled at the corners of Sam's lips as he straightened.
"It's…Thanksgiving food?"
"Yeah," Dean said it like that was totally obvious and Sam was an idiot.
"But…" Sam trailed off, confused. "We don't – I mean you've never –" He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable and needing to occupy his hands. "How come?" he finally asked.
"Why not?" Dean didn't bother to look at Sam, just kept stirring his pots and testing various dishes with a wooden spoon and his finger.
"I - I don't know," Sam stuttered, sounding dumbfounded, as if he'd never considered the possibility that Dean would actually be interested in celebrating the holiday. He'd never expressed any interest in the past – in fact Dean had often shunned it. This was just way out of left field.
Or maybe, if he stopped to think about it, not so much.
Sam felt his throat tighten against an unexpected surge of emotion. Yeah…he should've seen this coming. He shook off the foreboding feeling and reached into the fridge for a beer. He popped the cap and took a long drink, watching while Dean's hands flew like magic as he masterfully chopped up an onion. He added the ingredient to one of the boiling pots and retrieved a baster from the back of the stove.
"Um, can I help?"
Dean glanced up from his crouch and momentarily held the baster suspended over the floor. The barest twitch of a smile brightened the elder's eyes for the briefest moment. Butter dripped from the tip of the baster and sizzled messily on the open oven door. Dean cursed and reached for a rag to wipe up the stain.
"Well, those potatoes ain't gonna mash themselves," he indicated a steaming pot of cubed potatoes cooling on the counter. Sam rolled up his sleeves and looked around for something to mash them with.
"Hey, Dean? Where's the –"
"Top left drawer."
"'Kay."
Sam hunted through the drawer housing a variety of kitchen utensils before locating the masher and getting to work.
"Don't forget to microwave the milk," Dean instructed over Sam's shoulder. "You pour it in cold and they'll get all grainy."
"I got it," Sam answered, mentally rolling his eyes. He hadn't realized how territorial Dean could be about the kitchen.
"And don't over-season."
"I won't."
"But don't, you know, like under-season either."
Sam ground his teeth, "I won't, Dean."
Dean took the turkey out of the oven and inhaled the delicious scent while the grease crackled pleasantly in the pan.
"Damn, that's a beauty if I say so myself."
Sam shook his head and chuckled in agreement, "Looks good enough to eat."
"You bet your ass it is," Dean made room and placed the bird on the stovetop with the tender, loving care of a mother handling her newborn child. "How's it coming on your end?"
"Done," Sam licked creamy potatoes off the masher and grinned, lowering the utensil as if he were about to place it back in the pot.
"Don't you dare," Dean growled, frantically grabbing for the masher.
Sam relinquished his grip and sucked the leftover potato off his thumb with a satisfied smack.
"Dude, relax. I was kidding."
"You're not funny," Dean pouted as if Sam had nearly ruined the entire dinner.
"I'll get some plates," Sam announced, searching the cabinet where they kept their paper plates. His hand hovered over the stack as he hesitated a moment before coming to a decision. He reached a little higher for the ancient china plates stacked in neat rows on the top shelf.
Dean didn't comment on Sam's unusual choice of dinnerware. Instead, he arranged the various dishes on the kitchen table, proudly placing the turkey in the center.
"Soup's on," Dean said.
Sam watched while his brother served out a helping of each dish for both of them and topped off the plates with generous drizzles of gravy.
Sam picked up his fork, eager to dig in, but was interrupted by Dean's disapproving glare.
"What?" Sam asked.
"Shouldn't we…um, you know," now Dean looked somewhat uncomfortable. Sam raised both eyebrows in anticipation.
"Yeah?"
"You know," Dean repeated. "Shouldn't we, like, I don't know…say grace or something? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"
"Seriously?" Sam couldn't help the incredulous snort that climbed out of his throat. Was his brother for real?
"I don't know," Dean's voice rose defensively. "Isn't it like tradition or something? Part of the playbook?"
"I doubt there's a Thanksgiving Day playbook, Dean."
"Look, I know better than anybody that it's a bunch of bullshit but I just thought we'd try the whole...I don't know - normal thing for a change."
"You know, Dean," Sam narrowed his gaze, studying his brother intently as if he were a spanking new specimen. "Sometimes I really don't get you."
"Forget it."
"Hey," Sam shrugged. "You go right ahead."
"I said forget it."
"No really," Sam said earnestly. "If you wanna say grace, go for it. I think it's a nice tradition. Really."
"Nah, I'm good," Dean looked sheepish. "I thought you liked that shit is all."
Sam winced, suddenly understanding.
"Fuck tradition, right?" Dean poked at his plate.
"Yeah, well," Sam sighed apologetically. "Kinda shot that horse in the mouth a while back, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"But…" Sam hesitated. "Thanks."
"Food's getting cold," Dean grunted, picking up his fork and spearing a slice of turkey.
Sam followed suit and the brothers ate quietly for several minutes.
"This is actually really good," Sam finally broke the silence around an appreciative mouthful.
"Yeah," Dean answered, once more beaming with satisfaction. "I know."
"I think you missed your true calling, Betty Crocker."
"Shut up," Dean retorted, but he was smiling. "Potatoes aren't half bad either."
"Eh," Sam shrugged his shoulders as if disinterested. "I still think it's missing a certain…ingredient."
"Sam, I swear, if you stick your fork anywhere near the general vicinity of my plate I'll skin you alive."
Sam grinned mischievously and settled with licking his fork.
"You're gross," Dean grimaced.
Sam ignored him and started in on his pile of stuffing. "How's the eye?" he asked, indicating the swollen, purplish skin mottling Dean's eye and cheekbone.
"I'll live. How's the arm?"
"Fine. Pretty much healed."
"Good."
"Yeah."
They both took a swig of beer.
"Well," Dean leaned back and let out a satisfied burp. "I guess you're on dish duty."
"Wow. Thanks," Sam intoned as he watched his brother shuffle into the living room and switch on the football game.
"Welcome," Dean waved from his sprawled position on the couch.
Sam joined his brother, abandoning the dishes for the time being. Dean glanced suspiciously at the paper bag Sam was toting.
"What's that?"
"Picked up a little something this morning."
Sam proceeded to pull out two individual pumpkin pie slices. He offered one to Dean along with a fork he'd brought from the kitchen.
"I mean…I know it's not homemade or anything. But there's some Cool Whip in the fridge if you want it."
Dean bit the inside of his lip as he accepted the piece of pie. He opened the packaging slowly, as if he were afraid of damaging it.
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean gulped. The fact that Sam had been thinking about him – it was…well, he hadn't been expecting it. After thirty-some-odd years, his little brother hadn't really changed all that much.
Sam seemed pleased. His dimples made a brief appearance as he rose from the couch.
"I'll grab the whip."
"Hey, grab me another beer while you're at it."
"Seriously," Sam grouched good-naturedly. "When the hell did I get demoted to the maid around here?"
"While I was slaving over your dinner."
"Uh-huh," Sam tossed his brother the fresh beer and settled himself on the sofa to watch the game. "Next year I get to play Betty and you're on dish duty."
Dean scoffed, "In your dreams, Cinderelly."
END