Completely Worth The Calories: "The Great British Bake Off" Episode of Supernatural
Chapter Two: The Signature Challenge
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"Finally! I've been begging them to hire me an assistant for years!" Iva Vcelak, the sole domestic engineer and one-woman washing machine of The Great British Bake Off, tosses an apron and dish bin at Castiel. "We wash as the contestants are baking, in case they need additional bowls or whisks or what-have-you. And we wash when they're done baking, and clean up their benches before the judging of each challenge. And we wash while the judging is taking place, as quietly as possible. That's the only way to get it all done before the next day."
Cas accepts the apron with – if not eagerness than at least with the same sense of duty as he once acquiesced to his responsibilities as the commander of an angelic garrison.
"So we wash the dishes."
"I wash the dishes," Iva clarifies. "You go around the Tent and gather up all the used bowls and dirty pans, and bring them here to me to wash. And stay out of whatever shot the camera crew is filming. Got it?"
Cas is supposed to integrate into the production crew, after all, and keep an eye out for any magick or mischief among them that may be causing the disappearances. Scurrying around the Tent collecting cast-off mixing bowls and baking trays is the perfect excuse to be present and observe without being paid any attention. And besides, Cas has been Crowley's sous chef and Dean's dishes partner for years now. He is perfectly comfortable helping with the washing up.
"Got it."
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After dodging a number of curious production assistants, Dean manages to sneak up on his quarry.
"Mr. Hollywood! Mr. Hollywood, hey!"
The celebrity chef is on his way back from the Tent and the opening sequence, headed for the judges' tent and for once, not surrounded by his team of managers and assistants. He looks over in surprise as Dean trots over. "Hello there. And who's this, then?"
"I, uh – " Dean falters, laughs at himself. He might even be shaking a little. "Ooh, okay. Should have better prepared myself for this." It's the eyes, he thinks to himself. Those ice blue, intense eyes. Dean feels uncomfortably, deliciously seen and judged by them. "Let me start again."
"Yeah, it's alright," Paul waves away the approaching, concerned managers. "Take a breath." He's smiling and laughing a little, but Dean gets the distinct feeling it's with and not at him. "Here, what's your name?"
Did they make up aliases for this case? If they did, the name's gone entirely out of Dean's head. "Dean. Dean Winchester. And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hollywood."
"Paul, please."
Are there sudden heat waves in Northern Ireland? It feels like a heat wave is happening.
"Paul," Dean manages. Get it together, man! "I'm, uh, hoping for a moment of your time. I'm a journalist for a popular vlog based in the States, which covers regional customs concerning baking. And I'd love to do a piece on The Great British Bake Off moving here to Ireland for a season. I, uh, I know normally I'd need to go through your marketing team or whoever, but I figured…since I was already here? Maybe you could spare me a few minutes?"
"Regional customs of baking? Don't think I've heard of a vlog covering that." But he at least looks curious.
"Yeah, we're – well, I'm interested in how the show is incorporating local Irish culture. You know, recipes, ingredients." Dean hesitates. "Folklore?"
Paul's smiling eyes stare into him. Into his damned soul. "Bit last minute, isn't it?"
How can the man sound so casual and pleasant, and look as cool as if he's standing in a garden in Northern Ireland, when Dean feels like they're out in the damned Sahara? "Okay, okay. Good point." He takes a deep breath, and about to lie his ass off, feels a little bit more at ease. A little bit more in his element and the one in control.
"Truth is, Paul," – he swallows and chokes on the man's name, but perseveres, "my editor sent me to Ireland to cover something else. But I pitched that piece because I knew there'd be too many hoops to jump through with the television studio to get in here to do a piece with you. But man, I am such a big fan of yours! You have, like, no idea!"
"That so?" Paul asks, Dean having his full attention now. "You're willing to risk getting in trouble – with your editor, with my team – for busting in here like this? No press credentials or anything?"
Did Sam make him press credentials? If he did, it's too late now, because they likely won't say "Dean Winchester" on them.
"To meet with the host of License to Thrill: Paul Hollywood Meets Aston Martin?! Hell, yeah!" Dean can't help himself. "Dude, I have watched everything you've ever hosted. I own, like, half your books. When you race? Man, I know the car, I know the track, I know your competition. You're like, the king of bread!" Dean flings his arms wide, his smile about to break away from his face. "I love bread!"
Paul is laughing now, great barely-restrained belly laughs. "And you, ah, do you bake, Dean?"
"No, but I got me a car. A sweet 1967 Chevy Impala. Keep her mint condition and on the road, just me and my Baby."
"That is a nice car, good on you." One of the production assistants whispers something in Paul's ear. "Yeah, okay, alright." He turns back to Dean. "I'm needed, I'm afraid. But look, you seem – you seem really passionate, and you did come all this way. And," Paul adds, with a seriousness and sincerity that Dean's only ever heard him use when talking about proper crumb structure inside a loaf, "I think it is really important to honor a culture's customs when it comes to baking. I really appreciate the work you're doing. So – let's talk. After we film the judges' scene for the Technical. It will have to be quick, maybe five minutes. What do you say? See you in the judges' tent?"
Dean can't breathe. He can't breathe! Something resembling words tumble out of his mouth, his head bobs maybe twenty times too many, and then Paul Hollywood rejoins his entourage to make his way to the production tent.
Leaving Dean alone, attempting not to faint in the middle of the open green.
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Even knowing the entire purpose of being in the Tent is to draw the attention and ire or discern the identity of whomever is making the bakers disappear, Crowley is determined to shine in the Signature Challenge.
It's Eggs Week, and for this first bake, the contestants are asked to create three uniquely flavored soufflés. Each baker must produce three individual soufflés, using any combination of flavors the bakers want, but they must be uniform in height and cooked to perfection. Crowley can make a soufflé at the drop of a hat, so it's really just a matter of making three individually flavored ones in a severely limited amount of time.
"Hello, Fergus!"
Paul and Prue come round to inquire about his recipe, and Crowley is fully prepared for the challenge in Paul's eyes when he describes one of his intended soufflés.
"That sounds a bit risky," the judge warns him, those steel blue eyes attempting to bore into him.
Crowley meets the challenge with a sly smile and a wink. "Something tells me you know all about risqué baking, Paul."
The remark sets the judge back on his heels in a way that boosts Crowley's confidence and makes everyone else laugh. Nothing like a bit of old crossroads charm. Shame that with the closing of Hell and the cancellation of all contracts, there is no way to know whether a certain Mr. Hollywood might have made a crossroads deal, something which Crowley might have used to his advantage.
But that would be cheating, and that's what the boys are here to put an end to, after all. No magic, no manipulation. And preferably, no one else vanishing from the competition.
Still, it feels damn good to get a rise, figuratively, out of Paul Hollywood.
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After a pleasant walk from the hotel near the Dark Hedges and the site of filming, Sam arrives at the village of Armoy. According to his research, there is a small historical society attached to the public records office in the town. The society's focus is on Irish and Irish diaspora genealogy, but it seems like a good enough place to start.
The white-washed, gabled building housing the archives is easy enough to locate in the small village. A bronze placard attached to the low stone wall proudly boasts that the society has been archiving village life since 1848. Sam knocks expectantly and waits.
There's a cough and a creak as the door opens.
A great big woolly green sheep of a man in a traditional Irish sweater fills up the doorway. Like Sam, he would need to duck to fit through the frame. There are biscuit crumbs in his impressive bush of a beard, and a half empty tea cup in his huge hand. He meets Sam's surprised express straight on.
"Can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, I hope so," Sam starts. He lights up the Winchester charm, reaches into his satchel for his notebook and a pen. "I'm uh, a writer, working on a book."
"Mm." The man raises the comparatively dainty cup to his lips, takes a sip, like this is not the least bit out of the ordinary for him.
"And, uh, I was hoping maybe to speak with someone? Take a look at your records. I understand there's been a lot of disappearances in the area. People going missing? I'm wondering if it goes back further than the more recent cases?"
"Aye," the man replies, "it does."
"Great! I mean – " Sam laughs at himself, smiles apologetically, "I mean, not great. But great that you'd have records of it in your archives. Something that I could use in – in my research?"
The Armoy man continues to stare straight at Sam, thinking. His beard bobs a little as he ponders.
"So. You're here about the Troubles, then."
Sam falters. The Troubles in Ireland aren't really something he knows a lot about, and Eileen is never particularly keen to talk about that part of her homeland's history. He understands it was a sectarian conflict between those in Northern Ireland who wanted to remain a part of the United Kingdom and those who wanted Northern Ireland to break off from the United Kingdom to form a united country with the rest of Ireland. There were thirty years of violence, plenty of bloody shed, and yes, people disappeared. Sam has the sudden, terrible feeling he might have just poked a hornet's nest of trouble himself.
"Ah," he manages, awkwardly. "Actually…I wanted to ask more about…local legends and lore?"
There is an extended pause.
The man steps back into the building housing the village's historical society, wishes him a gruff good day, and firmly shut the door in Sam's face.
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The Signature Bake goes well enough.
Crowley's cheddar and sorrel soufflés are a triumph of fluffy texture and rich umami flavor. The secret ingredient is a teaspoon of sesame oil. For the second soufflé, he makes a bacon and parsley soufflé with eggs "en surprise." Nestled into the midst of the perfectly baked soufflé lies a rich, runny yoke of a poached egg. Not as risky as Paul implied, not for as seasoned a baker as Crowley. He whips up tomato coulis to go on the side. And for the final soufflé, something a little simpler. A rich dark chocolate soufflé, topped with a crystalized, candied orange peel and a light dusting of powdered sugar.
From the dossier given to them by the British Men of Letters, Crowley knows that neither the judges nor the hosts are aware this episode is really an attempt to lure out whomever is responsible for the disappearances. And having surreptitiously ensured that during the judging of his soufflés, they all came into contact with silver, Crowley is certain none of them have been replaced with shifters or anything. Which can mean only one thing.
When Paul reaches out his hand, Crowley really has earned himself that handshake.
Not that Crowley can properly bask in his well-earned glory – even as Paul and Prue are scooping helpings of his eggs "en surprise" and proclaiming their delight, Crowley is carefully observing the other bakers in the Tent. Watching for envy, for malice, for gestures that might be the beginnings of a curse, the moving of lips that might signal an incantation, anything.
He's got his eye on the twitchy miss with the whirling eyewear and the lady with the dangerously bright smile. The Welsh woman obsessed with weaponizing roombas is likely more of a threat to herself than anyone else, and certainly not with magick. And considering the red-bearded Canuck can't seem to stop offering to help everyone else, even when he's running behind himself, he hardly strikes Crowley as the type to do anything other than applaud another baker's success.
But as the judges offer up their reviews and advice for the last Signature among the twelve bakers, a creeping sense of impending calamity begins to prickle at the edges of Crowley's lingering demonic intuition.
Something is coming, and it does not bode well.
A quick sweep of the Tent locates Castiel. The reformed demon catches the eye of the fallen angel. Cas reaches into his jacket for the beginnings of a counter spell. Both members of Team Free Will tense, searching, trying to ascertain the origin of the disturbance. But after a moment, Cas relaxes, glances back at Crowley, smiles apologetically and shakes his head.
Because sashaying into the entrance of the Tent, impeccably dressed in a white blouse and cherry-red satin skirt, and smiling that sly, infuriating little smile of hers is Rowena.
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"I just thought you lads could use a little help, that's all!"
Just inside the entrance to the Tent, as the bakers break between challenges for tea, Crowley, Dean and Cas coalesce to touch base and discuss how to handle this unexpected arrival.
"Rowena, please," Crowley sighs and rolls his eyes, "this pretense is neither believable nor becoming. Why are you here?"
"I'm here," she insists, "to help you work the case! And besides," she draws out, "can you blame me for wanting to be here to cheer you on, Fergus? I've nibbled on a bite or two of your baking since you gave up the throne, and absolutely everything you make is completely worth the calories! I just know you'll do splendidly!" She affectionately pats the breast of his apron.
The praise is almost as unsettling as the idea of Rowena having nibbled on his anything.
"And you couldn't have mentioned any of this," Dean asks, more annoyed than suspicious, "before we all left the States for the land of leprechauns?"
Rowena's brightly painted lips dip into a saucy little pout. "To be entirely fair to me, I wasn't sure I'd be welcome to come along."
"Wonder where you would have gotten that idea from?" Crowley mutters, but it's too late now. The witch has gotten herself assigned to the make-up team in the production tent, thanks to her own contacts in the British television industry. And while that will keep her out of the way and hopefully out of mischief, it will also mean that she can directly observe the judges and bakers in between filming without raising any suspicions.
"And in the meantime," Rowena says cheerfully, looping her arm around Dean's, "I can join my boys on their break from filming!"
"I'm not so sure it's a good idea for us all to be seen togeth – "
Cas is interrupted by the sudden arrival of one of the production assistants. "Mr. MacLeod." He hands Crowley a wicker basket brimming with something neatly tucked under a red and white gingham cloth. "Your Baker's Basket."
Crowley absently accepts the basket, more concerned with his ex-wife at the moment than his supposed participation in the competition.
"Whoa, hey! Whatcha got there?" Dean asks eagerly, as if he can smell the soufflés hidden away beneath the cloth.
But the production assistant isn't finished.
"Mr. Winchester?" At Dean's look of surprise, the assistant holds up a second basket. "For you, curtesy of Mr. Hollywood." And then he's off to deliver more delicacies elsewhere.
Dean's eyes are the size of pizza stones.
"That," Crowley replies with a smug smile, "is a Baker's Basket. Each contestant's bakes are divvied up and distributed among the competition's hopefuls, so we might all get a chance to savor and judge each other's creations. That way, the bakes don't go to waste, and we also learn from one another. But I've never heard of a basket going to a non-baker before."
Rowena turns wide, inquiring eyes on her second favorite Winchester brother. "And what, pray tell, happened between you and Paul Hollywood that he graced you with this particular honor?"
Torn between looking flustered by her insinuation and pleased as punch about his basket, Dean looks back and forth between the two, at a loss for words.
Crowley decides to take pity on the man. "Alright then, come along. Let's join the others before everyone begins to wonder what the three of us are up to. Ta, Cas," Crowley calls over his shoulder as he drags a beaming Dean by the elbow out of the tent, Rowena following closely behind.
As the production crew and bakers empty out of the tent to share in their feast of Signatures and have a cuppa before filming resumes, Cas looks around at the utter mayhem of the bakers' benches. The overturned mixing bowl of unbaked batter. The caramel crystalizing on the countertop. The jar of marmalade splatted across the flooring. The brume of flour from a mixer turned up too high now settling across every conceivable surface.
"I guess I'll just…clean up then."
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