we're going to pretend i didn't almost forget to upload this.

title: cooking/baking (a.k.a. brotherly love means forgetting birthdays)

The first thing I do when I enter the house is check the mail. In doing that, I remember the date. "Oh. Hey, Dean, what did you get for Sam's birthday?"

"What? Wait, shit, when's that?"

"Tomorrow?"

He pauses. "Hey, do you want to go shopping? Like, now, maybe?"

I laugh. "Sure, why not?"

"Okay. Um, plan: I get changed; you check what we have in the kitchen. We go out. I go look for presents; you buy the stuff we need for a cake, which you'll know because you've just checked the kitchen. You then come meet me to make sure what I'm buying isn't too stupid. We come home, bake a cake and wrap the present. Voilà, Sammy never has to know I forgot his birthday!"

"There's something inherently wrong in that I have to check what you want to buy him."

"There've been too many birthdays in which I accidentally got him a Barbie, no one wants another repeat."

"Point taken. Now get dressed, shops will start closing soon."

###

"Cas… have I ever told you I can't wrap things?"

"Learn. I've already wrapped a present this year, I'm not doing it again." I pat him on the head. "Good try at making me do everything, though."

"Worth a shot."

###

"Okay… step 1: preheat the oven to… 190˚C."

"Done."

"Okay, we're supposed to… butter the two 20cm sandwich tins. Sandwich tins? We're baking cake!"

"That's these, I believe." I hold up the two circular metal pans.

"How do we butter them? I don't think taking a buttered knife to them would work."

"No, much more fun. Cut out some butter and rub it in with your hands. I believe this would be your area of expertise, Dean."

"Sounds about right, yeah." He grins at me, and gets right at it. "Okay, the instruction after that is… 'in a large bowl, beat all the cake ingredients together until you have a smooth, soft batter'. Apparently, that's all you get."

"All of them?"

"That's what it says."

"At once? No order?"

He shrugs. "Apparently."

"I swear there was an order when I used to do them."

"Then give it an order. I guess it doesn't really matter."

"Um… sugar and butter, first, I think. Wait, this butter is supposed to be softened."

"How do you soften butter?"

"Leave it out for half an hour, I think."

"I'm not waiting that long."

I glance at the microwave. "How long do you think would soften the butter?"

"Like… half a minute?"

"Would that melt it, though?"

"Our microwave does either no time or half a minute. Watch it carefully."

I laugh. "I'll try." I put it in, set it to half a minute, and watch like a hawk. It starts to melt pretty early, so I take it out.

"That still looks pretty solid."

"It's either that or liquid butter."

"That could be fun."

"No."

"Aw, fine."

"Okay, did you finish buttering the pans?"

"Yeah."

"Mix the butter with the sugar until it's… fluffy, I think that's the terminology… until it looks like it's properly mixed and it isn't too grainy."

"Okie dokie."

I supervise. He's the muscle man of the relationship.

"That do, boss?"

"Yeah, should do. Okay, now I guess we could sieve in the flour."

"Not sure on this one?"

"Can't remember whether it's eggs or flour first. I'm just going with flour."

"It'd get pretty solid."

"Yeah, you make a good point. Okay, why don't you just… mix in the baking powder with the flour? That's what makes the cake rise, by the way. I'll mix the eggs in."

He nods, and I get on, adding the eggs little by little.

"Shit."

"What?" Dean peers over my shoulder.

"I should have beaten the eggs."

He pauses. "Domestic abuse?"

"Not quite. It's just more difficult with the butter and sugar present."

"Yeah, don't beat the spouse in front of the kids – hey, don't threaten me with a whisk!"

"We don't have kids."

"Spousal abuse is wrong regardless of whether kids are witnessing it." He pouts.

"Fine." I've always been bad at beating eggs, and trying to mix it in with the butter and sugar is pretty difficult as well.

When Dean next tries to see what's happening with me, and whether it looks like a cake yet or not, he gets egg in the face. "Hey!"

I pull a face. "Unintentional, I'm sorry."

"Well, that's okay, as long as I get a free pass." He flicks flour into my face.

"Hey, not only was the egg unintentional, but I've helped you not only remember your brother's birthday, but also to prepare for it. You could show a bit more love, here." When Dean is focused on my face, I dip my finger in the slightly buttery egg mixture.

"I love you, but you also look great with flour on your face, so there's that."

"I wish you hadn't made me do this." I shake my head, and put the egg mixture on his nose. It drips down slowly over his mouth. I bite my lips to keep from laughing. "If you retort, this cake will never be made and Sam will hate you forever. Also, don't lick your mouth – I'm not kissing you if you get salmonella, and it won't taste nice."

"I hate you."

"I love you, too."

I eventually get the eggs sufficiently whisked and mixed with the sugar and butter.

"Okay, now I'm going to need you to – no, let's swap roles. Grab a spoon… I can't remember if it's supposed to be metal or wooden."

"I vote metal."

"Yeah, okay. With it, you fold in the flour."

"I what?"

"Just do this." I demonstrate the movement. "You're trying to trap air in so the cake will rise."

"Okay."

"I'll sieve in the flour little by little, because otherwise it gets really difficult. It starts really runny, like it is now, but it gets thicker really quickly. Ready to show off your arm muscles?"

"Always."

"Let's go."

Dean whisks impressively fast, and though we both end up splattered in little bits of egg and flour, he's done within 5 minutes so I abstain from complaint.

"Nice."

"Thank you. What's next?"

"Apparently some milk. I don't actually know when to put that in, so I guess we should just put that in now and hope for the best."

"Sounds like my type of baking." Dean says, and I grin.

"Okay, is it 'soft and smooth'?"

He looks at it critically, pulls some up on the wooden spoon. "No. But this is probably as close as we'll get." He grins charmingly. "Plus, if it sucks, then he has Jess to bake him great pies as recompense."

"I was meaning to ask, actually; pies seem much more your speed. Why are we baking a cake?"

"He doesn't deserve the awesomeness of pies?"

I shrug. "Fair enough."

He laughs. "No, actually, it was more that I heard pies are harder to make than cakes."

I consider that. "I've only ever baked cakes, not pies before. This may have been a good call."

"Okay, now we divide the cake between the two tins, smooth it with a spatula or the back of a spoon, then bake for about 20 minutes until golden and the cake springs back when pressed. You got that?"

"Uh, sure. Do we just… tip it into the bases?"

"I guess so? Moving it spoon by spoon would take a while."

I sigh. "You're cleaning the kitchen."

"As if. I roped you in so you could help with the clean-up; I'm pretty sure I could have figured out how to make this myself."

"I dunno, the instructions are pretty crap."

"Yeah, I should have been worried when I saw there were only three steps. That's always a worry."

"It should be, yes. Okay, quiet; adults are concentrating." I start to pour the mix carefully into one of the tins, then to the next, and back until they're roughly equal. "Okay, put them in the oven and set the timer for 20 minutes."

"Done, boss. Now what?"

"Butter cream frosting."

"I prefer the water kind."

"That won't hold the cake together."

"You make a compelling point."

"We need more softened butter. You're watching the microwave this time."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine."

"What are you waiting for?"

"You're in front of the fridge."

"Sh. I'll go sieve the icing sugar."

Dean removes the butter from the microwave and brings it over. "Now what?"

"You're mixing more sugar and butter. Have fun!"

"I hate you."

"Don't be so hasty; this time, there's vanilla extract in there."

The look he gives me would exorcise demons.

"Okay, now what?"

"Cover it with cling film and stick it in the fridge; we need to wait for the cake to cook first, and then for it to cool, else the icing will just melt."

"Okay…"

"And now we start clean-up."

"Um… I need to go to the toilet?"

"You're an idiot. Start the water running in the sink, you're doing the washing."

He pouts. "Fine."

I pile the assorted dirty bowls and spoons next to him, then dip a rag into the basin to start wiping down the surfaces – probably a bad idea, as we still have some preparation to do, but I'm an optimist.

When I go back over to Dean with my tea towel, he leans over with soapy hands to bat at my face. "Hey, you have a little bit of flour there."

"Thanks ever so much for your help." I reply, wiping my face with the tea towel.

He nods solemnly. "You're welcome."

Most of the kitchenware gets cleaned in relative peace. Whilst Dean may complain about the washing up, I know he enjoys it – I can tell by the fact that he hums and shakes his hips a little as he does it. That treatment is only reserved for when he's not sulking over an activity he'd rather not do.

When he's done, instead of going in search of a towel, he waits for use of the already soggy tea towel.

"Dean, it's illogical – you won't dry your hands properly."

"So?"

"A towel would."

"But a towel is in a different room. The tea towel is here."

"If you don't dry your hands properly, germs will settle there again."

"But I just washed them."

"Yeah, but warm and damp is a favourite condition."

"Ew."

"Yes, so go get a towel."

"No."

"Dean."

"I haven't died yet."

"There's always a first time."

"And the first would be the only, I get it. I also doubt this will cause my death."

"It could, though."

"Give me the damn tea towel, okay?"

"No."

"You're no fun."

"I do try."

He pouts on his way to the bathroom, and the oven timer goes off, so I fling the tea towel over my shoulder and grab the oven mitts to get the cakes out. "Nice and golden brown," I say to Dean as he returns.

He doesn't reply, and as soon as the cakes are down on the side, he whips the tea towel off my shoulder and spanks my ass with it. "That's all I wanted with the tea towel."

"You're like a 13-year-old."

"What does that say about you?"

"That I'm more of a babysitter than anything else?"

"I wish my babysitters had acted like you with me."

"I don't want to know."

"No, you don't."

"Okay, these are done, so we just need to wait for them to cool."

He looks at them musingly.

"How long does that take?"

"I don't know. I usually do the cleaning up, feel them, decide they're too hot, then forget about them for a few hours. I'm not a very diligent baker."

"Evidently." He thinks. "Well, I know a way to pass some of the time."

"Let me hear it."

"Nah, I think I'll show you."

He leans down and kisses me. With the smell of cake wafting around the kitchen, and flour probably still on my face, it might just be one of the best kisses I've had.

baking with friends is a really bad idea. I'm not the best baker to start with, but when I bake with other people, somehow the baked goods always end up blue or green - thankfully, food colouring, but it doesn't look the most appealing...

plus i always have to tidy the kitchen after ;c