Completely Worth The Calories: "The Great British Bake Off" Episode of Supernatural
Chapter 1: On Your Marks, Get Set…
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Summary: There's something more upsetting than the occasional soggy bottom happening on the set of The Great British Bake Off. Contestants are disappearing, and the British Men of Letters are ill-equipped to handle the job. The Winchesters, Dean in particular, are only too happy to take the case. While the others work behind the scenes, inside the tent Crowley puts his culinary skills to the test to potentially claim an entirely new crown for himself – that of Star Baker. Written for the April 2021 SPN Coldest Hits crack fic challenge. Complete.
Author's Note: Completely Worth The Calories is set in the canon-divergent reality of Bergamot & Sulphur, but can be read as a stand-alone. To summarize the series: after closing the Gates of Hell, Crowley joined the Winchesters permanently and occasionally works cases alongside them. iIn this alternative reality, Rowena is Fergus' ex-wife. Mark Sheppard has stated that's how he would have preferred their relationship to be written, and I agree./i
This fic could only ever be dedicated to ThayerKerbasy, who first introduced me to The Great British Bake Off, and who shares an affinity for Crowley as a baker. Thayer's influence is further evident in the number of innuendos in this fic, none of which were intentional and all of which wrote themselves. We both know Crowley would never consider actually being a contestant, but I am absolutely convinced that this version of the character watches and immensely enjoys the show.
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"Well, doesn't this case sound 'absolutely scrumptious'?"
After all, what else can Crowley say about the British Men of Letters contacting the boys about working a case involving The Great British Bake Off.
A special season of the baking competition television show is being filmed in Northern Ireland, with the Tent pitched in a beautiful field within sight of the Dark Hedges in County Antrim. And they've run into a spot of trouble.
The show has to keep replacing bakers and re-filming the first episode, because after the final Showstopper Challenge, a contestant will somehow disappear. There are twelve bakers leaving the Tent at the end of the last challenge, and no matter how well the production crew looks after them, there are only eleven bakers walking back into the Tent to shoot the finale scene. And whichever baker vanishes, their baked goods vanish with them.
Someone at the production studio contacted the British Men of Letters. There is a suspicion of dark witchcraft, as it's always the baker whose Showstopper did the best that vanishes. Jealousy made manifest with magic, perhaps. A team is needed to investigate. The British Men of Letters can get the Winchesters onto the set, as well as arrange for one of them to be the newest contestant in the Tent, to keep an eye on the other bakers.
"Definitely sounds like our sorta thing," Dean agrees, after Sam hangs up with their liaison with the British Men of Letters. "But, uh, Northern Ireland kinda falls outside our jurisdiction. Why aren't they handling it?"
"Because," Sam clears his throat, "while they've got plenty of people on their team who could work the case, spot witchcraft on the sly, and are comfortable being on television – " The moose fails to wrangle a grin as he looks deliberately at Crowley, " – none of them can bake."
The demon-turned-demonologist looks around the room at all the expectant faces, and sighs. "Bollocks."
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But as Crowley, Castiel and the Winchesters prepare to take on the case, Crowley admits to himself he is rather looking forward to trying his hand at claiming a new crown for himself – that of Star Baker. Since joining Team Free Will, he's discovered a latent talent for cooking, finds it to be both relaxing and fulfilling, and allows him to express in some small measure his appreciation and affection for the others. He sees no reason his little hobby shouldn't prove to be of professional assistance. And besides, the four of them are already quite familiar with the show.
Watching The Great British Bake Off began as a guilty pleasure. Occasionally, it seems all there is to Crowley's new life as the Director of Mother Mary's Home for Wayward Sons & Daughters is administrative tasks, casework, research, and keeping two idiot hunters and a fallen angel from inadvertently causing the next apocalypse. Indulging in the show offers him the perfect combination of escapism and culinary exploration.
Nights when the others are occupied elsewhere and Crowley needs a bit of alone time, he will bake a small batch of cookies, fix himself a proper cuppa, and settle into the common room in front of the television to watch Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry put England's top amateur bakers to the test in the Tent. The show was something that belonged just to Crowley, and existed entirely separate of the supernatural and his everyday life.
That is, until Dean caught him watching it.
"Dude, what are you watching? Is that – is that guy's baked ham actually a cake?!"
"Shhh! Do I barrage you with questions during the multiple hours of 'Metallica Hour' on road trips?"
The hunter made some further belittling comments about the acceptability of the show's content – too much fuss over something as ridiculous as iced buns and grown men cutting flower petals out of fondant. But it wasn't long before Dean stopped hovering behind the couch with his arms crossed, and joined Crowley on the couch.
"I don't know, man. I don't think that upside down tart is gonna be as good with rough puff as it would have been with a proper puff pastry. Janet may be the one going home this week."
Castiel eventually joined them out of curiosity. Sam was known to pass through the room and pretend like he wasn't snatching glances. The boys binge-watched all eleven seasons together.
And now, Crowley is actually going to compete in the Tent.
Well, not so much compete as bake alongside the contestants, until the case is solved. Mustn't forget there are lives at stake, blah, blah, blah. No bit of fun goes unruined around here.
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Working a case overseas requires a bit of prep work, to ensure that Mother Mary's continues to run efficiently without him. Crowley finishes up any immediate administrative tasks, lets contacts for projects in development know he will be out of touch for a while, and asks Kevin to step in to manage the caseload and research aspect of the organization. Thankfully, the demonologist-in-training elected not to take yet another summer internship in between semesters at Harvard. Charlie is on hand to provide backup, and if things get dicey, Jody or Meg or Benny or Donna or any of the others of their extended network of friends and family are only a phone call away.
Which really only leaves one – crucial – loose end.
The afternoon before they fly out, Crowley makes a dozen dazzlingly decorated iced buns, and invites his ex-wife to tea.
Rowena arrives with all the usual regalia, gliding into the bunker command room in a long midnight blue velvet dress and matching hooded cape that claspes ornately at the neck. As grand witch of Mother Mary's coven, Rowena has all the power and prestige that she could ever want at her fingertips, and she likes for people – especially her former lover and one-time co-ruler of Hell – to know it.
Their relationship has significantly improved over the years, and tea together is not an uncommon occurrence. Even if it does primarily happen when one or the other is looking to either negotiate new working arrangements or obtain something from the other.
"Fergus! How lovely! Pray tell, luv, what's the special occasion?"
Crowley sits her down, and explains to Rowena his upcoming absence. He goes over the particulars of the case. And because he knows the witch and the woman, regrettably, as well as he does, Crowley makes clear in no uncertain terms that Rowena is not to interfere in the competition, either against or on his behalf.
"I'm not actually competing anyway, so it would be a waste of your considerable talent for troublemaking."
"Really, Fergus!" Rowena bats her eyelashes and looks suitably hurt over being falsely accused before taking a sensual sip of her tea. "You don't even have your first cake in the oven! That is what you'll be doing in this bake off of yours, isn't it? Baking wee, little cakes?"
Crowley smiles patiently, and simply replies, "Just a precaution."
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And yet, as their teatime comes to a close and Rowena kisses him dismissively on the cheek and wishes the lot of them well, Crowley has the strangest notion that the reformed witch and former paramour would be more than happy to intercede on his behalf in the bake off. The woman is tiresome, but at least she is no longer out to kill him.
As difficult as it is for Crowley to set aside his workload and leave the organization in someone else's hands, even if only for a few days, it is much more difficult getting Dean Winchester on an international flight.
There is a great deal of bargaining, of bribery, of fingernails clawing at the carpet of the terminal, and ultimately, an entire bottle of one of Rowena's stronger sleeping potions. But they manage it.
"That wasn't so bad," Dean admits, as they disembark in the Dublin airport, looking practically jaunty and ready to take on the city's nightlife. The rumpled and beleaguered trio of hunter, fallen angel and reformed demon trail after him.
From there it is a train ride north to Belfast, a bus to Ballymena, and a taxi ride out to the village of Armoy, where the studio has a car waiting to take them out to the Dark Hedges and the site of filming. All paid for, including the first-class airfare, by the British Men of Letters. Normally, Crowley would make a big fuss about demonstrating the financial solvency of their own fledgling organization – almost entirely thanks to him and three centuries of very good investments, plus the moon – but this is the Winchesters et al. doing their UK cousins a favor, so he's convinced to allow Dr. Hess' more open-minded and cooperative successor foot the bill.
Crowley and his entourage will be staying in the Hedges Hotel, along with the other bakers and the show's production crew. He enjoys watching Dean's face light up as they pull up to the gates of the estate, with stone eagles in mid-lift atop the pillars and a family crest on the gate. Their rooms are entirely modern, but the pub on the ground floor is all dark wood with gothic inlay and embellishments. It's a touch too touristy for Crowley's liking, but Dean is clearly having the time of his life.
"Right," Dean sets down two pairs of pints and scooches into the dark corner booth in the pub. Crowley shimmies over to make room for him. Across from them, Sam and Cas accept the glasses of dark beer. "To our first night in Ireland, and our first real pint of Guinness!"
He raises his pint, and an amused Crowley, obliging Castiel, and impatient Sam clink their glasses together.
"You have had Guinness before, Dean."
"Oh, Sammy. Sammy, Sammy. Not real Guinness. The stuff they sell in America isn't actually made in Ireland. It's made in a distillery in Malaysia. Entirely different water! This! This is made with true, proper Irish spring water." Dean takes a great, big gulp, slams his pint down on to the table. He wipes at the foam left across his lip and then, in a terrible imitation of an Irish accent, declares, "D'is here be the true gold of the Irish Isles!"
Sam's face scrunches at the cultural manslaughter happening in front of him. "Please don't do that."
"Perhaps," Cas offers, ever the peacemaker, "we should discuss the case."
While Crowley's role is pre-established as one of the bakers, the British Men of Letter's contact at the television studio responsible for The Great British Bake Off has managed to get Cas assigned as a member of the production crew, clean up department. Dean selects for himself the role of American journalist, there to do a story about the show's temporary relocation to Northern Ireland, giving him access to the judges and studio executives. And Sam, ever in research mode, will look into local lore and legends in the guise of a visiting American author.
"And remember," Sam advises Crowley, not unkindly but definitely a little too authoritatively for his liking, "We're here to figure out what or who is causing these disappearances before another baker goes missing. Hopefully, we'll also manage to find the missing bakers alive. Either way, this episode filmed with you in it won't air. They'll use the original footage and the original baker from before everyone went missing. The point isn't to win the competition."
"Yes, thank you, Sam. I'd entirely forgotten there are innocent lives at stake," Crowley drawls sarcastically. Moose always seems to forget the reformed demon has been working cases and saving people for years now. About time the damn training wheels come off.
Early the next morning, after a fine Irish breakfast – bacon rashers, bubble and squeak, baked beans, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, black pudding, sausage, eggs, scone, and the requisite cuppa tea – Sam sets out to talk with the locals and dig into the county lore, and Dean, Cas and Crowley cross the short distance to the sight of filming.
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The Dark Hedges are a sight to behold. The twisted archway of beech trees lurk along the darkened avenue of a grand, Georgian estate. The limbs form pale ash and molted green crowns rising up out of the earth. To walk under them is to taste the magic of the Irish countryside in the air itself.
Not far away, in the midst of a large open green, sits the Tent of The Great British Bake Off. A smaller tent for the production crew and another for the judges are pitched nearby. The crew is already hard at work, running cables from the tent to the generators, futzing with the stage lights, carrying in the baking ingredients and setting up the bakers' benches. An entire team is dedicated to testing the ovens every morning, baking a cake in each one to ensure the ovens are operating properly and are consistent across the Tent in temperature.
"Okay, I'll admit I love this show, but this is a lot of fuss," Dean observes as they skirt the edges of the preparations, seeking out their individual stations, "over a bunch of baked goods. I'm not sure there's a cake in the world worth all this."
"What about pie?" Crowley asks him teasingly.
"Well, I mean, obviously pie."
Dean freezes in his tracks, almost causing a production assistant carrying a towering stack of plates to run into them. He grabs Cas' arm, hard, and points. "Dude."
There, near the entrance to the production tent, chatting and smiling a little flirtatiously with what appears to be a make-up artist, is one of the judges.
"That's Paul Hollywood!"
"Dean. You're hurting my arm."
"Dude! That is the Paul Hollywood!"
"Yes, Dean," Crowley says cajoling and absently. Nothing around the exterior of the Tent or the immediate area suggests any witchcraft or demonic activity. No visible sigils, no smell of sulphur. Nothing out of the ordinary except Dean's star-struck expression in the midst of so much purposeful activity. "Some TV people do exist in real life as well."
"Yeah, I know! But – " Dean does his best to get ahold of himself. The last comes out a pitch higher than normal, " – that's Paul Hollywood! I'm going to get to meet the host of Paul Hollywood's Pies and Puds! Did you know he also competes in luxury sports car racing?!"
"Dean. You are seriously beginning to cause undue damage to my arm."
The celebrity chef concludes whatever conversation he's having with the lass in make-up, and begins making his way over to the Tent. A number of other people have gathered around the entrance as well, including the woman Crowley instantly recognizes as the other judge, Prue Leith, and a dozen or so individuals in aprons who must be the baking contestants.
Right. Time to make the necessary introductions. Crowley wonders to himself why his stomach seems to have taken up residence underneath his borrowed breastbone.
"Standing around gawking at celebrities isn't going to help us save lives," Crowley snaps. "Cas – "
"I will locate the floor manager and receive my assigned post." The angel interrupts, gently prying his arm out of Dean's grasp. Before making for the production tent, Cas pauses, looks to Crowley, and pats his friend on the shoulder. "If I had not already fallen from grace out of a love for humanity and a belief in the right of all beings to possess free will, I would have done so over your savory sausage plaits. You will do just fine."
And with that, Castiel strides away.
Crowley watches him go, eyes narrowed and chewing at the inside of his cheek. Bloody sentimental fool – the both of them!
"And you!" He turns to the hunter and gives him a good jab in the shoulder. Dean rocks back on his heels and glares at him.
"What the hell was that for? Alright, alright." He holds up his hands in defeat, gives his jacket a quick tug and straighten, and is back in professional hunting mode. "I'll go talk with the producer and director, see what I can find out. After that, I'll see if I can't arrange for an interview with Leith and Hollywood."
"Good." That should mollify Crowley, but there is still this uncomfortable fluttery feeling inside, like his demonic essence has broken loose from his physical form and is battering around inside his body. He takes a moment to compose himself, and offers one final warning before making his way over to his fellow contestants. "And don't go eating anything you're not certain I baked. We don't know what's happening doesn't somehow involve the bakes themselves. Last thing we need is for one of us to disappear."
He cannot, thankfully, see the face Dean makes behind his back.
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And then, it's just Crowley in the Tent, with twelve other bakers and an entire film crew.
Introductions are made – a bit swiftly, since all the other contestants filmed the first episode a number of times now and have gotten to know one another.
Among the lot of them is an awkward bookworm of a lass from the Highlands, dressed in an oversized grey sweater, who's already convinced herself she's out of the competition. There's a sharply-dressed, impatient fellow originally from Iran, who clearly holds himself to strict standards and has the tendency to click his tongue in disapproval at himself. And a blonde mess of a lass in crinkled overalls, who looks like she'd rather be back on her farm on the island of Anglesey than here in the Tent.
Then there's a dark-haired Disney princess of Black Irish origin who specializes in pyrotechnic special effects. And a petite, auburn-haired librarian from Yorkshire, with the requisite bun and winged glasses, with a cheerful penchant for antiquities and baklava. And a tall lady with an almost disturbingly bright smile, excessive chandelier earrings, and a love of all things chocolate, also from Yorkshire. And a middle-aged dumpling of a woman, also from Yorkshire, who curses like a sailor, calls everyone 'sugar', and seems to be constantly in motion, even when standing somewhat-patiently behind her bench.
There is an older, composed Vietnamese gentleman who learned French cooking under the occupation. And a twitchy young lass from Soho, who has yet to speak a complete sentence and has the habit of twirling her glasses by the ear piece when listening to someone else speak – which is always. And a congenial, red-bearded muscle of a fellow originally from Canada. And a teacher from Wales, wearing rather fashionable maroon Vans with gold laces, with a disturbing curiosity about the consequences of strapping knives to roombas.
And then there's Crowley, to make a full dozen bakers.
They're all rather likeable people. Any one of them might harbor ill intent. Every one of them might be completely harmless and in terrible danger. They are all talented bakers – they have to be, to be accepted onto the show – and they immediately accept Crowley as one of their own.
Amateur baker Fergus MacLeod's backstory is a touch fabricated – he can hardly introduce himself as a reformed demon and former King of Hell who now runs an international organization that assists people in times of supernatural-related crisis. Instead, he settles on being a retired INTERPOL agent originally from Leeds, who moved to the States to work alongside family at a non-disclosed non-profit. If all goes according to plan, Crowley's little intro piece will never air on the actual show anyway.
Which is perfectly fine with him. As much as he enjoys the thought of pitting himself against other talented bakers in the competition, he'd rather not imagine everyone who knows or knows of him – hunters, colleagues, allies, former and current nemeses – gathering around the television to cheer every show-stopping masterpiece and mourn every soggy bottom. Crowley very much has a reputation to maintain.
With one final sweep of his assigned bench – supposedly familiarizing himself with the space but actually doing a search for hexbags or sigils – Crowley takes his place, and the judges and hosts enter the Tent. They give their usual introductory spiel, which all of the bakers except Crowley have heard four times already. And then Crowley ascends about as close to Heaven as he'll ever get as Noel and Sandi pronounce those most glorious and anticipated of words:
"On your marks, get set… BAKE!"
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