A/N: Born from delirium in Malkon05's mind, comes an epic tale that is so familiar and yet...completely redone. Mostly. We don't own anything except all the stuff we do own, which are 100% not these characters or situations unless Malkon05 isn't telling me some serious shit. That would be super messed up. We give you...what would happen if the characters from Supernatural were thrown into the world of Pushing Daisies? Well think about it for a second. There's pie and longing glances...seems like the same show to us! -WittyXtina & Malkon05
Chapter 1: Pie-lette
At this very moment in the town of Lawrence, Kansas, young Castiel Novak was 9 years, 27 days, 5 hours and 9 minutes old and not a minute older. Horrorstruck, Castiel could only watch as his beloved dog, Raphael, was slammed into by a speeding semi truck, that continued on as if nothing had happened. Walking through a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, Castiel's body trembled as he knelt beside his best friend. Holding back tears, his hand, controlled similar to that of a puppeteer's string, rested between his dear friend's eyes. With a static shock, Castiel fell back, hands scraping against the pavement. As the blood welled into the tiny cracks in his palms, the nightmare was over. Raphael rolled over, tail wagging, and looked up to his owner with puppy dog eyes. This was the moment that young Castiel discovered he wasn't like the other children. Or anything else for that matter. Castiel could touch dead things and bring them back to life.
This gift was given to him, but not by anyone in particular. There was no box, no instructions, no manufacturer's warranty: it just was. The terms of use weren't immediately clear, nor were they of immediate concern: young Castiel was in love. His name was Dean and he lived next door with his brother and his father. At this very moment, Dean was 8 years, 42 weeks, 3 hours and 2 minutes old. His brother Sam was 4 years, 30 weeks, 1 hour and 5 minutes old which meant he was too young to play with Dean. Castiel was happy to volunteer. As for Dean, young Castiel did not think of him as being born or hatched or conceived in any way: Dean came ready-made from a hex bag designed for love and only true, devoted, selfless love. Not that Castiel was a witch, because that would be wrong.
"Cas! Look! I'm a merman!" Dean splashed in the kiddie pool, spraying young Castiel with the hose. "Cas...is it okay if I call you Cas?" His eyes flashed upwards, meeting young Castiel's azure gaze. Castiel nodded innocently, holding Dean's stare….and returning fire with a Super Soaker he had been hiding behind his back.
Long after their play date was over, young Castiel remained under Dean's spell...until a blood vessel in his mother's head burst, killing her instantly. The rolling pin fell from her hand, crashing to the kitchen tile with a ceramic splatter, the cherry sour cream pie she had been meticulously baking forgotten on the counter, eternally waiting for its egg washed lattice top.
Just like the instance with Raphael, young Castiel's trembling hands brushed the cheek of his fallen mother.
"Must've slipped," she sat up with a jolt. "Did the timer go off?"
Young Castiel's random gift that was given, came with a caveat or two. No sooner did the one minute timer go off, did a loud thud followed by the wails of two young children echo outside.
"Daddy?" Sam's eyes began to water.
"Look away Sammy," Dean crouched next to his brother, shielding his eyes from the sight, tears welling up in his own emerald eyes.
Young Castiel turned his attention to the window and saw John Winchester, Dean and Sam's father, lying motionless on the ground. It was a gift that not only gave, it took. Young Castiel discovered that he could only bring the dead back to life for one minute without consequence; any longer, and someone else had to die.
In the grand universal scheme of things, young Castiel had traded his mother's life for Dean's father. But there was one more thing about touching dead things that young Castiel didn't know, and he learned it in the most unfortunate way.
"C'mon, my angel, into bed." That night, his mother sat next to his bed. She bent down to kiss his forehead and with the same static sensation, went lifeless and flopped to the floor. First touch: life. Second touch: dead again, forever.
After a brief mourning period, young Castiel's oldest and most responsible (on paper) brother, Michael, would hustle him off to boarding school, never to be seen again. Dean and Sam would be fostered by Aunts Ellen and Jody, a renowned synchronized skeet shooting duo: they shared a love for fine handcrafted firearms and made killer cheeseburgers that were rumored to have the power to stop global warming.
At their respective parents' funerals, dizzy with grief, curiosity, and hormones, young Castiel and a boy named Dean had their first and only kiss. Small lips met, in a confusing whirl of uneasy adult anxiety and boyhood innocence.
"I won't forget you Cas," Dean said as the pair split and walked into the shimmering sunset with their parting families. After his mother's death, Castiel avoided social attachments, fearing what he'd do if someone else he loved so dearly died.
And he became obsessed with pies much like his mother. All kinds, all flavors.
19 years, 34 weeks, 1 day and 59 minutes later, young Castiel became known as The Pie Maker, and his shop The Pie Hole was where he made his pies; the peaches never browned, the dead fruit in his hands became ripe with everlasting flavor and delectable scent, as long as he only touched it once.
"Everyday I come in," A woman in a black, skintight pants and a crimson blouse cut to amplify her cleavage sauntered around the shop. "I pick a pie. I concentrate all my love on that pie." She approached the customer to whom she was addressing, who gave her a pained look as if she was the largest elephant in the room. "Cuz if I love it, someone else is gonna love it…you don't give a rat's ass about me or what I'm saying do you?"
"What pie do you love today?" The man asked with a sarcastic British tone. He scowled and wrinkled his uncharacteristically button nose. She snorted derisively.
"Rhubarb." The waitress rested her hand on her hip, annoyed, and blowing a wisp of black hair from in front of her eyes. Tres chic, or so she liked to think.
"I'll stick with Three Plum. A la mode." The man crisply snapped the newspaper he was reading, indicating his dismissal of her. Burying his nose in the latest gossip, his eyes wandered to her shapely legs, nearly obscured by the newsprint.
Fergus Crowley was the sole keeper of Castiel's secret. A private investigator, specialising in murder most foul, Mr. Crowley met our Pie Maker when the shop was on the verge of financial ruin. Mr. Crowley proposed a partnership: murders are much easier to solve when you can ask the victim who killed them. Castiel reluctantly agreed, the cash was needed, and it felt good to have someone who knew what he dealt with day in and day out, even if they were only in it for the money.
"Pardon me." Castiel passed the waitress in the body-contouring black. As he passed, she gave him a look of sultry desire. The Pie Maker, though noticing it, chose to ignore the look and instead, sat next to Mr. Crowley, who immediately began to talk about a case and treating the deceased person in question, as if they were a member of the living dead.
"I asked you not to use the word 'zombie.' It's disrespectful," Castiel frowned. "Stumbling around squawking for brains, it's not what they do. And 'undead,'" he scoffed, "Nobody wants to be un-anything. Why begin a statement with the negative? It's like saying 'I don't disagree': just say 'you agree.'"
Mr. Crowley rolled his eyes. "Are you comfortable with 'living dead'? You seem maybe a little too comfortable. Secret fetish?" He waggled his eyebrows at Castiel.
"Are you implying that I'm a necrophiliac because I prefer to call them alive again?" Castiel blushed.
"Maaaaaaybe," Mr. Crowley smirked. The virginal Piemaker would have no such knowledge of carnal deviance.
"Speaking of fetishes. I used to think masturbation meant chewing your food." The waitress walked up, uninvited. She had the slice of pie with the sloppily placed ice cream next to it. Placing her body in a 'come hither' position, she suggestively placed the pie in front of Mr. Crowley.
"Thanks Meg," an oblivious Castiel nodded in her direction. "Mind locking the door behind you before you leave?" he asked.
Meg sighed, threw her hands in the air, and walked off, hips swinging.
"So? You in or not?" Mr. Crowley asked. Before Castiel could give a response, Crowley began digging into the pie. After a minute, he added, "a dog is involved."
"What kind of dog?" Castiel tensed up. Ever since his "accident" with Raphael, he'd been wary of dogs in general.
"Dead, of course." Mr. Crowley paused and took another bite. "They're putting her down. Quite a shame really. Apparently did her owner in."
"When you say 'apparently'…" Castiel raised an eyebrow.
"Probably framed." Mr. Crowley finished and wiped his face. "I mean, it's pretty easy to stuff part of the victim into a dog's mouth after all." He shrugged, brushing crumbs from the lapels on his black suit.
"You know there are such things as feral animals." Castiel pointed out, his face remaining non-objective.
"That's the thing." Mr. Crowley said, finally finished scraping at his pie plate. "He's perfectly harmless. Never harmed a hair on anyone's head." He pulled out a picture of the happiest, cutest dog that Castiel had ever seen. It was a Chow.
"You do realize this breed is the most likely to turn on it's owner, right?" Castiel sighed. He felt like this was a dead end.
"My, my." Mr. Crowley grinned wickedly. "Are you judging before getting to know it? Tsk, tsk Castiel." He waggled a finger. "Regardless, if we can prove it's murder, we get paid."
The facts were these: one Ned Crust, 39 years, 42 weeks, 5 days, 3 hours and 26 minutes old, was found mauled to death in his home office. His dog, Digby, was the sole witness and only suspect in the murder. Convinced of the beloved dog's innocence, the Crust family offered a significant reward to find the real killer.
And so, the unlikely pair arrived at the Coroner's office and approached the front desk, as their protocol dictated. They hoped to gain the audience of Ned the Very Dead (for now) with little to no resistance.
"I swear a Dog expert came by earlier. Isn't that right Mr. Fizzles?" The coroner pulled up the ugliest looking sock puppet either man had ever seen.
"That's right Garth!" Garth moved the sock with his hand so it appeared like it was talking, while he, in a high pitched voice, narrated. "These men seem suspicious, yes they dooooooo." Crowley's already ruddy color deepened in frustration.
"Nothing wrong with a second opinion." Castiel said, stoically. He wanted to react another way, maybe a laugh, maybe a worried look with Mr. Crowley. But they'd done this so many times he was just annoyed, and chose professionalism instead.
"I don't knooooow…" chimed Mr. Fizzles via Garth the Coroner's hand.
"I have a can of bleach with your name on it if you don't." Mr. Crowley shrugged, a shade of purple that Castiel had never seen him turn.
"Fine." Garth waved his hand and the two men entered the room.
The two men approached the drawer marked "Ned Crust." With a quick assuring nod from Mr. Crowley, Castiel opened the door. The body slid out, covered by the sheet.
"How does he look?" Mr. Crowley asked.
Castiel lifted the sheet. "Fine, but my threshold's pretty high, so you have to take what I say with a grain of salt."
Mr. Crowley peered and groaned. "Forget the grain. This is like a fucking block." He waved his hand in front of his nose, clearly nauseated by the putrid smell.
"He can't help how he is." Castiel took a shallow breath. He was going to have to do the deed soon.
"Right. Well I can see I'm not needed, I'll just be…" He didn't bother to finish as he walked outside of the room, purple facing to a sickly green.
Castiel rolled his eyes and poked the body with this index finger, feeling the familiar jolt.
"Hello." Ned said. His brown hair was combed and styled, at least where a chunk hadn't been torn from the side. His fleshy skin was tender, red, and rent on the left side of his face.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Crust. Or, do you prefer Ned or-
"Ned!" The man interrupted. He flashed a gory grin with what teeth he had left.
"Ned, right, um, your current condition…" Castiel brought his finger and scratched the side of his face to indicate that Ned should do the same.
"Oh right, the dog." Ned sighed.
"Digby?" Castiel asked.
"God no. Digby's docile as a kitten. It's that Rottweiler: my secretary sicced her dog on me. She's been upset since last year's Christmas party. Y'know funny story, I-"
Castiel poked him once again. The minute had almost expired and he wasn't about to risk someone else dying over a story about a mishap involving a photocopy machine at Christmas party. Passe.
"So, was it the Chow?" Mr. Crowley approached, his facial coloring had returned to a perturbed reddish tint.
"The secretary. With a Rottweiler." Castiel said.
His good name cleared, Digby was freed. Olive Snook, the secretary, and her Rottweiler were hauled to justice shortly after. An anonymous tip led to solving the murder of the Michigan entrepreneur thought to be mauled to death by the family pet, and the handsome reward was distributed to the innovative private investigators involved.
Meg Masters watched the story unfold on the news from her comfortable couch 17 hours, 12 minutes and 32 seconds after. Meg had abandoned the tight-fitting black and red ensemble for a silky kimono style robe, complete with floral print. She enjoyed her time with her canine friend Raphael, given to her by The Pie Maker. Raphael was a surrogate for the human connection she wanted with Castiel. Her desperate attempts to connect with him ended in futility, but that didn't stop her from trying.
Just as the news ended, there was a knock on her door. She answered, and a subtle, sexy grin spread across her luscious lips.
"How was your...convention?" she purred, letting her silk robe slide off a shoulder. Castiel occasionally said he was going to pie making conventions, which gave her a topic starter after he returned. She wasn't entirely convinced this was what he was doing, however.
"Conventional." Castiel walked past her, as if she wasn't even there. "How was Raphael?"
He walked over and smiled at the dog.
"Neurotic. He's a very needy dog. Do you pet him?" She walked over to Castiel and ran a hand along his shoulder. He flinched and shook her off. "Maybe if you pet him once in awhile, he wouldn't be so…neurotic." She made sure to drag out the last word, running her fingers along the edges of his shirtsleeves.
"I pet him." Castiel said. The confused look once again dressing his face, clearly not catching on to the subtle seduction. "I'm allergic, so I can't actually touch him, but I pet him."
"How the hell do you pet him if you don't touch him?" Meg blinked. It sounded so stupid. "With a stick?"
"A stick is involved, but it's a…" Castiel couldn't finish. Meg was starting to walk towards him, her shoulders pressed back to draw attention to her ample bosom as she approached. She placed her hands on his arms. "…a petting device."
"A dog needs to be touched." Meg ran her finger along the trace of his bicep. "All bitches need to be touched." She batted her lashes at him. For a moment, she had him. He was all hers. She could see it in his eyes. Then the moment passed.
"You touch him though." Castiel broke the embrace and walked to the other side of the room.
Meg needed that moment back. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began to rub. "Do you…" her hands began to run down his waist. "Touch…" from his waist to his leg. "Anything?" Now her hands found their way to his inner thigh. She added pressure.
"I uhh." She could hear Castiel breathing heavy. "I touch lots of things."
"When was the last time, someone else touched you." She added emphasis as her hand started to get dangerously close to the place she desperately wanted to touch.
"I get touched." Castiel wriggled out of her grip. "Can you get Raphael's leash now?"
Meg folded her arms and walked over.
Castiel was unsure what to make of the interaction. On one hand, Meg was very attractive, but on the other…he just hadn't felt the way he did the first time he'd fallen in love.
"You don't mind that I don't touch you." He looked over at Raphael who looked up at him with large, sappy puppy dog eyes. "Do you?"
Before the dog could respond, Castiel heard the TV in the background. Though it had probably been on the whole time, he just now noticed it with Meg not running her hands all over him.
"In other news, the body of a young man allegedly murdered aboard a cruise ship has been recovered from the sea. The victim's identity is being withheld-"
Castiel looked at the arms and sandy brown hair dangling from a stretcher as it lifted from the ocean in the tiny box above the news anchors head. Something about this made him quiver, as if lingering from the after effects of a bad movie.
Castiel couldn't pry himself away from the story. He listened intently to the news, unaware that he stopped breathing. He was haunted by the name of the man who had met his end on the high seas.
"Here's your leash." Meg handed him a length of tightly wound cord. But he barely noticed.
The story played over the next few days, but still the name of the victim was being withheld. Castiel was kneading the dough from the kitchen in The Pie Hole when next he heard the newscaster.
"Very little is known about the victim. Apparently, he was traveling alone when he was murdered aboard the passenger ship. It was returning from a tropical cruise. The death was initially dismissed as an accident, suggesting the passenger had fallen over from a late night out…"
"Been watching this one too?" Mr. Crowley sat at the bar that faced the kitchen. Several empty stools lined the counter next to him.
"What else is there to watch?" Castiel asked. "It's not like there's been much else going on."
"Actually," Mr. Crowley leaned in as if about to expose the world's greatest secret. "There's loads going on with the dead man."
"That so?" Castiel asked.
"Mhm. $50,000 worth of 'that so.' Interested?"
"I could be persuaded." The idea of $50,000 tempted The Pie Maker. He was suddenly more interested than ever.
"Well, you'd better be quick. He's about to go into the ground."
"But they just pulled him out of the water a day or two ago."
"Hunters." Mr. Crowley said. "Most leave 'em lying around; Hunters want their damn symbolic burnings," He stood up.
"Where are we going?" Castiel asked. He put up his apron, Meg could handle the shops affairs for a bit.
"Lawrence. Ever been there?"
"I grew up there. Sort of. Does the man have a name?"
"Dean Winchester."
Castiel stopped. He felt cold as numbness began to sweep all over his body. He recalled the tender kiss from the funeral, playing with hex bags when they were kids, and the tears streaming down his childhood friends' face as his father lay dead on the ground.
"Dean." Castiel said in a tone barely above a whisper. No…