Completely Worth The Calories: "The Great British Bake Off" Episode of Supernatural
Chapter Five: And This Week's Star Baker Is…
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The entire batch of bakers pour out of the Tent, equally exhausted and exhilarated. There are high-fives and hugs, back slapping and not a few tears. In a heady rush, they make for the picnic cloths set up on set up for them out on the green, fortunately on the opposite side of the Tent from where Sam so valiantly fought the faerie. Rest and refreshments and between-scene interviews await them there.
Dean and Castiel linger at the entrance of the Tent. Sam jogs over to join them.
"Well?"
"It worked," Sam gasps, still badly out of breath. He must be getting old, if that was enough to knock the wind out of him. "The fae agreed to the arrangements, and the missing bakers are all safely at the hotel. Most are still a little spell-bound, so I don't think they'll wander out while the filming is still going on. I have no idea what they'll remember when the magick wears off, though."
"Yeah, well, fortunately we've got people for that," Dean says, referencing the response teams Mother Mary's provides families to help them deal with the aftermath of a supernatural experience, good or bad.
Crowley drifts away from his fellow contestants and ambles over to the boys. He looks a little worse for wear than usual. His hair is slightly disheveled, there is crepe batter on his normally pristine apron, and he seems entirely unaware that there is a smear of white chocolate ganache across his forehead.
"Hello, boys. Everything well in hand?"
"Just about." Sam replies. "We just need to know if – "
"Oh, Fergus! Look at you!" Rowena has appeared as if out of thin air from the production tent. She turns Crowley around by his shoulders, looks him up and down, and swats uselessly at his apron. "What a sight you are," she says, almost tenderly. And then licks her thumb and reaches up to wipe off the ganache.
Crowley rears back like she's a stovetop burner that he wasn't aware was hot.
"Bloody Hell, woman!"
"Now, stop making a fuss. Just hold still."
"Am I interrupting something?" The five turn at the familiar yet unexpected voice. Paul Hollywood ambles out the Tent entrance and approaches their little group. His usual stoic expression melts like butter.
Dean makes a garbled attempt at a greeting, but stutters to a standstill when Paul's hand lands on his shoulder and gives the "journalist" a shake.
"Dean, I've given your proposal some consideration, and I love the idea! I've spoken with the producer, and the director, and the researcher, and the floor manager – I'm sure you know how these things are – " Mouth open, Dean bobs his head like he absolutely knows everything there is to know about how a television crew works – "and for the remainder of the season, we'll put together a Baker's Basket for the – what did you call them? – fae folk of Northern Ireland."
"That's – " Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. At his shoulder, Cas can't withhold an eye roll. "That's great news, Paul!"
"Good." The celebrity pats him on the shoulder twice, and steps back smiling. "The rest of the day is booked, as I'm sure you know, with the judging and the final scenes. But we can get together tomorrow, maybe over a pint. Do a piece for your vlog. I might even be able to wrangle some footage of me and Prue leaving a basket at the Dark Hedges for you. How does that sounds?"
"Generous. Very generous. My – uh, my editor will be absolutely thrilled."
"Right. Well, then." Paul claps his hands together, and asks in an almost sensual tone, "Shall we?"
Dean can't get his mouth to work. His jaw seems to have unhinged itself and is just hanging open like an oven door. "Sh-shall we…?"
There is the lightest pressure of a hand on his arm.
"Absolutely," Rowena replies sweetly, pulling herself in front of Dean all the while smiling up at Paul. "We've got to get you all done up for the filming of the judging, now don't we? Though," she says, as she takes the celebrity chef by the elbow and leads him away to the make-up station in the tent, "I have no idea what we could possibly do to make you any more handsome and…desirable than you already are."
She casts a wink over her shoulder at the boys.
With about an hour before filming resumes, and the bakers' Showstoppers are presented to the judges, Cas gets called away to help with clean up. Crowley cleans the ganache off his face – with a damp hand towel provided by a passing production assistant – and lowers himself down among the picnicking bakers to gladly accept a much-needed cuppa.
"We should get back to the hotel," Sam says, at a loss for what else to do onsite now that the case has been solved. This is normally when the two Winchester brothers load up into the Impala and drive off down the road.
"Dude, we can't leave!" Dean's look says his brother might have just suggested opening up Lucifer's cage and releasing the archangel back into the world. "Crowley's gotta present his Showstopper! None of us even know what he made – he never shared his sketches or recipes with us."
"You do remember that he can't actually win it, right?"
"Man, that's beside the point!" Dean gives his brother the tried-and-true puppy dog eyes. "We got family competing in The Great British Bake Off! Don't tell me that's not one of the coolest things to ever happen!"
Sam is smiling even as he gestures behind himself and Dean. "We've met – and defeated – God."
"Sam, meeting God? Not exactly something that falls in the 'cool' category."
"We've been to both Heaven and Hell. And made it back."
"And I'm super grateful for the making-it-back part. Still not cool."
"Dean. We've been turned into cartoon characters."
Dean thinks about that for a moment. "Okay, yeah, that was kinda cool. But come on, Sammy!" He swings his arms to encompass the massive white tent behind them. "It's The Great British Bake Off!"
Sam sighs, then laughs at them both. "Yeah. Okay. Besides, considering this episode is never going to actually air, I kinda get the feeling Crowley would kill us if we didn't stick around to see the judges taste his Showstopper."
"Dude. If they hate it? Crowley's going to kill us for being witnesses."
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"Fergus, would you like to bring up your Showstopper?"
As he lifts the metal sheet and carries his creation up to the judges' table, Crowley reminds himself that this is a silly little baking competition, and one that won't even air on television. He's not about to face Lilith or Lucifer. He's not staring down the smiting power of an angel. He's not being confronted by someone who, in the life he lived before this, he harmed through demonic dealings. It's just a cake.
And yet, how grand would it be if Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith approved of his baking?
Still, Crowley does what he always does when he's nervous - offers up a smile of smug indifference. He sets the cake down in front of the judges, steps back to his mark, crosses his arms, and waits.
"It…certainly is original,"Prue says, not unkindly.
"You can certainly tell what it is," Paul admits, with laughter in his voice, "But this challenge was about baking something that, to you, embodies a new beginning. So I have to ask – why a car tire?"
Why a car tire, indeed?
The cake is comprised of deliciously crisp crepes, staked twenty high. In between each layer is a rich, thinly-spread layer of coffee-flavored pastry crème, drizzled with honey. A round hole, cut in the middle of the cake, creates the requisite donut shape. The charcoal-colored, whiskey-flavored white chocolate ganache covers the entirety of the crepe cake. To give it the appearance of a tire, Crowley rolled the pattern roller around the intentionally uneven edges of the crepes, and then sprayed a slightly lighter shade of food coloring on the raised treads.
A caramel nest in the shape of a tire rim sits perfectly in the inside of the "tire." The entire presentation is accompanied atop the metal sheet by a marzipan lug wrench and screwdriver, and a white sheet of fondant carefully sculpted and painted to look like a well-used oil rag.
The judges are waiting. Crowley hesitates.
He glances over the shoulders of Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith, to where Dean and Castiel and Sam are standing behind the camera crew, watching. Dean's got one arm crossed over and the other in a fist, tapping against his chin, nervous on Crowley's behalf. Sam looks expectant. Cas' head is tilted in that frustratingly adorable way. Even standing off to the sidelines, even in a silly baking competition, this strange little family of his has his back.
Crowley raises an eyebrow and with weary, affectionate exasperation says, "Let's just say, I never would have guessed a new beginning would involve so much engine oil and grease. Somehow, I've earned the honor of claiming a seat in a particular 1967 Chevy Impala. And no crown, even that of Star Baker, could ever compare."
Paul stares at him in that excessively intense way of his. He looks like he wants to glance off-set, but knows he can't. Then, after a moment, he smiles. "Right." He says, "Well, let's see if your taste in cake is as good as your taste in cars."
The judges compliment him on the various baking skills on display in his Showstopper. On the crispness of his crepes, even under the ganache. They adore the work of the caramel rim. The fondant oil rag, with his attention to detail in painting the creases and various shades of grease, and the entirely life-like quality of his lug wrench and screwdriver. But he can already tell from their observations that his Showstopper is not their favorite. As well-thought out and detailed as it is, as much skill as it shows, a tire is, as Prue points out, rather unappetizing.
When they cut into the cake, the layers are perfectly even. The ganache is an even thickness between the layers and not too thick on the edge. The texture of the crepes is pronounced to be utter perfection.
"But," Prue continues, almost apologetically, "your flavors are a little unbalanced."
"The coffee and the honey and the whiskey," Paul explains, "they compliment each other nicely. But they needed something else. A fourth flavor, to add some contrast, to bring out the full potential of the others."
"It is an excellent cake," Prue summarizes, "If, perhaps, the design is a little odd."
From out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Dean explode in silent exultation. The hunter throws his arms up into the air in a victory cheer, veering wildly from Sam to Cas with a mad look of delight on his face. Over the other bakers' applause and whispered congratulations, Crowley can almost hear the "Duuuude! That was awesome!" that Dean mouths to him. Sam is clapping right along with his brother, while Cas has the utter indecency to give him a full finger gun salute. Crowley can only be grateful none of this footage will actually be used, or the whole world would seem him turning red with embarrassment and pleasure.
Because, ultimately, Crowley doesn't care what the judges of The Great British Bake Off think of his cake. It's not for them. It's not even for Crowley.
The coffee is for Sam, who enjoys the dark, bitter brew. Who every morning makes himself a cup of it, and sets to work making things easier, better, for the people impacted by the supernatural. The honey is for Castiel, the eternal optimist who still communes with the bees, and the only angel to ever truly appreciate this world for all its beauty and its failings. The whiskey is for Dean, the man who offered him that seat in the Impala. Who believed that Crowley deserved that new beginning. The cake is for the people he loves, as all baking should be.
And if there is a fourth flavor missing – well. That just goes to show how muddled and dull those three morons would be without him.
Crowley thanks the judges, takes his cake, and returns to his bench, smiling.
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The return of the missing bakers becomes a bit of a kerfuffle for the production team and the judges. Ultimately, it's decided the best course of action is to – politely – ask Crowley to relinquish his position to the original twelfth baker, and the final scene will be shot with her. The judges will issue their original decision from before the bakers and baked goods started mysteriously vanishing, and the filming will continue on as if nothing happened. Just as the hunters and their contact at the studio intended.
Crowley, of course, magnanimously agrees.
He receives the thanks and compliments of all the production crew and executives, and then to his surprise and pleasure, Paul and Prue come over to offer their own appreciations, shake his hand, and wish him well.
"It's really unfortunate," Paul adds, "You're such a good baker. And I think you have it in you to have gone all the way."
And of course, Crowley can't help himself.
"For you, Paul," he says with a wink and smile, "I'd definitely have been willing to go all the way."
The blonde mess of a farm girl, in her rumpled overalls and no-nonsense approach to baking, is announced as the first Star Baker of this season of The Great British Bake Off. And it's announced that this week, no one is going home. Which, all things considered, seems fair, though it does mean that next week the risk that two of the bakers will be sent home is even greater.
The contestants, including the rescued bakers led by the lass in the lemon-printed dress, gather around their Star Baker. There are hugs and handshakes and applause. In a rare break from the norm, there are no post-baking interviews with the bakers. Everyone agrees that the unexpected return of the vanished bakers has left them a little too rattled for any of that.
"And just where are you off to?" Sandi inquires, as Crowley is gathering up his Bakers' Basket, full of slices of egg-enriched Showstopper creations, and about to duck out of the Tent. "There are some people in here who want to give you a proper goodbye!"
And before he knows it, Crowley is being dragged back into the batch of bakers. The bookworm in the over-sized grey sweater tugs at his sleeve, asks softly if she can hug him goodbye. Touched, Crowley complies. The tall lady's dangerously bright smile falters as she fights back tears. The twitchy lass from Soho twirls her glasses by the ear piece and plucks absently as his lapels, looking for the right words to say. The Canuck actually lifts him up into a hug, until his oxfords dangle precariously above the ground. The middle-aged woman affectionately slaps his cheek, drags him into a hearty hug, and warns him "Don't go being a wankstain, sugar. Stay in touch."
And with that, Crowley's time on The Great British Bake Off is over.
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Outside the Tent, Sam is on the phone with their contact at the British Men of Letters, informing them that the case has been solved, and that the filming of the show will continue as planned. As Crowley begins to make his way over to the hunter, Rowena approaches and wraps her arm around his. They walk side by side, congenial enough, across the sunlit garden.
"I have to say, I'm rather proud of you, Fergus." She says.
"And?" Crowley can't help but ask, more suspicious out of habit than from any real apprehension.
"And," Rowena thinks about it as they make their way across the green. In the distance, a lamb baas. "And, by all accounts, you should be proud of yourself, as well." She gives his arm a squeeze, and Crowley relents, allows himself to accept that she really means it.
They're just reaching Sam as Dean bow-leggedly trots down the estate's garden steps to join them. "Please tell me those stiff upper lips are springing for first class on the flight home. With in-flight service."
Sam rolls his eyes at his brother. "Where have you been?"
"What? I had my own call to make."
"Uh huh. And where's Cas?"
"I believe," Crowley half smiles and half grimaces at his friend's plight, "Castiel is still required in the Tent. Washing up duty."
Sam opens his mouth to say something in reply when a large, sleek black car pulls up just above them on the path. The driver's side door opens, and Paul Hollywood steps out. "Hey, mate. Good to see you again. We still on for tomorrow?" he blithely asks a blushing Dean as he takes the steps two at a time down onto the green.
"Well," Rowena says, sweetly, "I'll leave you boys to it, then."
And with absolute grace and charm, she relinquishes Crowley's arm to accept that of Paul Hollywood's, and regally ascends the stairs. The perfect gentleman, Paul holds open the car door for Rowena, offers a slight wave to the three men staring in exasperation and amusement, slips into his own seat, and drives away.
It's hardly the first time Rowena has left him for another man, and it likely won't be the last, but Crowley can't help but blow out a breath and mutter, "Bollocks."
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The four of them spend the night at the pub, ordering far too much whiskey and belting out old Irish drinking songs at the top of their lungs. Dean and Crowley dine on rabbit, and bacon and cabbage soup. Castiel and Sam order creamy leek and potato soup, and rich Kerrygold cheese, and they all share the pumpernickel and marbled rye loaves Sam bought at the bakery.
They sing "Rum Runners," and "Me & the Moon," "Courtin' in the Kitchen," and "Copper Kettle" – which they are loudly told by the locals present that Copper Kettle is Scottish, ya bunch of tourists. And then the entire pub sings "On the One Road," and endless verses of "The Irish Rover," taking a drink any time one of them muddles a line.
It's pure misery dragging themselves out of bed the next morning. Dean has his "interview" with Paul Hollywood, while Sam, Cas and Crowley enjoy a late breakfast of tea and pastries at the Fluffloaf Factory.
Then it's back in the taxi to the train station. They dawdle a few days in Dublin. Why not? It's on the British Men of Letter's tab, and when's the last time any of them had anything resembling a real vacation? They have a drink and eat oysters at the famous Temple Bar, tour the Guinness and Jameson distillery – Dean loads them all down with plenty of souvenirs to bring home, some of which will be a little difficult to sneak through customs – and comb through the catacombs of St. Michan's Cathedral. Sam insists on visiting Trinity College Library. They all marvel at the Book of Kells. "Though," Sam says, "I guess we've all seen equally impressive spellbooks."
"Hey! You guys wanna see something cool? This is me, interviewing Paul Hollywood." Everywhere they go, every pub, every castle, every bartender suffered to service tourists, Dean shares with everyone they exchange more than two words with the video on his phone of him interviewing Paul Hollywood.
"Didn't they make you, like, sign a copyright contact or anything?" Sam wonders.
"Sammy, please." Dean says, like he's a bigshot talking to a rookie in the television industry. "Friends don't require contracts for this sort of thing."
"Oh, so, now you're friends with Paul Hollywood?"
"Hell, yeah! He's going to call me up, next time he's in the States for a race." Dean looks like he's trying incredibly hard and utterly failing to hide just how excited he is at the prospect. "Said he might even have me over for a private baking tutorial. Teach me how to properly roll baguettes. That's his favorite bread, you know."
Crowley opens his mouth to offer an unsolicited observation on the matter, but Castiel places a weary hand on the demon's arm. "Please. Do not encourage him."
For the angel's sake, Crowley reluctantly agrees to let the matter lie.
To Dean's complete disappointment, Crowley flat out refuses to go on the double-decker live storytelling bus, with its tales of pirates, rebellions and the Black Plague. They also can't talk him into a tour of a replica Irish famine ship. "Been there, done that." Crowley points out. "Refused to pay the 50 quid for a t-shirt."
He is more than happy, however, to attend a live performance by the band Gaelic Storm. And then Enter the Haggis. And when they shout for everyone – everyone – to get up out of their seats and dance along to "One Last Drink," even Crowley lays down a step or two.
And while the drinking and the dancing never ends in the Temple Bar District, eventually, the boys get on a plane and fly back to the States.
And when Crowley arrives home at the bunker and walks into the kitchen for the first time since being back, not only is his "King of the Kitchen" apron waiting for him – so is a wooden, engraved cake stand. Winchester Star Baker, it reads. So that's what Dean's phone call had been about.
Smiling to himself, Crowley slips on his apron, pulls out flour and butter for a pie crust, and says softly to himself:
"On your marks, get set – bake!"
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The April 2021 SPN Coldest Hits challenge was crack, and the best I can do is "crack taken seriously."
Since this fic had already wandered into Real Person Fiction territory with Paul Hollywood, I cannot tell you how tempted I was to write a sixth chapter as a gag reel of Mark, Misha, Jared and Jensen "filming" – or attempting to film – this episode of spn. It would have to be a very, very long gag reel. Scenes would have needed to include Mark failing to drop the crepe he's supposed to drop during the Showstopper challenge – he just keeps catching it on instinct, and everyone is yelling at him to "drop it, damn it!". And Jensen and Misha joining Mark to watch Jared pretend to fight an invisible faerie outside the Tent. And of course, all the scenes between Jensen and Paul. I need to stop now, before I actually write any more of this.
Everything about Dublin and the County Antrim of Ireland, with the exception of the Fluffloaf Factory, are true to real life. And everything referenced here about Paul Hollywood and The Great British Bake Off, including the Baker's Baskets and Iva the one woman dish washing machine, are all true as well. Guinness sold in America was made in Malaysia and Nigeria until 2018, when the first Guinness brewery since 1954 opened in the state of Maryland. Which means Guinness sold in America still doesn't taste as good as the Guinness brewed in Ireland.
All the bakers referenced in this fic are guest performances by fellow Tumblrs. Thank you all for providing such fun self-inserts or fictionalized self-inserts, and limiting the number of original characters I had to write. Only the owner of the Fluffloaf Factory and the Star Baker are original characters, as I was wary of showing favoritism.
As always, thanks for reading, and for leaving a review.