Title: Chocolate Gash Tortoise
Characters: Dean, Sam, another one
Category: Gen, Humor, Crack?
Rating: PG13 (language)
Warning: (skip) May induce cravings for chocolate. POV issues
Spoilers: Season 5 general
Summary: Mysterious pastries begin to appear. Dean is delighted. Sam is not.
Word Count: 1600
Disclaimer: This is my Father's world, but it's Kripke's playground.
Author's Note: For roque_clasique for the prompt "non-metaphorical cupcakes." Dude. I don't even know. The images just got into my head and wouldn't leave.
Chocolate Gash Tortoise
"Dude. What the hell is this?"
There was something sitting in a muffin wrapper on the motel room's small table when they came in the door. It was shaped like a skewed rectangle, only a flaky, glazed tan crust visible above the soaked white paper. Dean hefted it in his hand, felt the weight of it, and lifted it to his nose for a sniff. Smelled like honey and nuts and spices, weird and exotic and sweet.
Sam came over to give it the stink-eye. "It's baklava."
"What is it doing in our room? Did you buy it?"
"No, man, this is a tiny town in north Missouri. I don't think you're gonna find baklava anywhere around— Dean! Don'teat it! We don't know where it came from!"
Dean looked blandly back into his brother's shocked eyes and took another crispy, flaky, spicy, nutty, honey-sweet bite. "S'good," he said. and held out the half that was left. "Wanna bite?"
Sam jerked his head back. "Dude, that could've been sitting there for ages. Who knows how long it's been since they cleaned this room! What if there had been maggots or something? Or germs?"
Dean shrugged. "Tastes fresh enough." He licked some crumbs off his bottom lip and uttered an obnoxious little moan. "You sure you don't want any?"
"No, no, it's all yours."
Dean cheerfully horked it down and licked the last scrim of honey off his palm. Then they got down to the case.
At the next motel room, they found a small, dense piece of what looked like cake on the table. It came with a tiny porcelain plate and a fork, and smelled very strongly of rich, rich chocolate. Sam studied it from all angles, then said thoughtfully, "I think it's a chocolate ganache torte."
Dean stared at him. "Dude, the only word I understood of that was 'chocolate.' Is it chocolate?"
"Uh. Yeah. It's chocolate."
"And is it safe enough for you, Sammy the Health Inspector?"
He horked it down. This time Sam had a couple of bites.
The thing in the next room looked kinda like an orange haystack with a sugary syrup poured over it. Sam did some internet stuff and found out that it was kunafa, an Arabic dessert. It was absolutely delicious.
Next were a couple of totally perfect coconut macaroons.
And this thing called Pavlova, which was Australian, apparently, despite the Russian-sounding name. Dean ignored most of Sam's explanation, busy searching around with the tip of his finger for more crumbs.
And, finally, a box of perfectly normal, undeniably recognizable, and utterly wonderful cupcakes that were so distinctly and obviously American that some of them had Muppets on them done in icing.
After devouring half of the cupcakes, it finally occurred to Dean to wonder where all of this mysterious pastry was coming from.
"You didn't wonder about that before this very instant?" Sam asked.
"It never occurred to you that a series of international desserts appearing in our motel rooms before we get there, fresh and delicious and sometimes even still warm, might be something to worry about?"
"Not until just now," Dean said impatiently.
"You never questioned whether it might be some weird kind of curse or spell, that we might be followed by some sort of supernatural creature with a fetish for pastry, or that they could even be coming from a witch who has been lacing them with poison all along?"
"No! Dude! Why would you think that? That is messed up!"
Sam pulled his mouth down in a frown and squinted at him and in all other ways appeared to be giving Dean one of his very most polished and practiced bitchfaces. "Why, yes. Yes, it is. It is quite messed up that we are apparently being followed by a...a cake fairy."
Dean winced. "Fuck, Sammy, don't put it like that. It's free food. It's good. Why the hell would I question that? And it looks like I didn't need to worry about it, since you were doing plenty for the both of us."
They glared at each other for a couple of seconds. Then Dean relented, all of his potential indignation deflated by the existence of cupcakes. He really wanted to eat another one. "Well, since you've been so worried, have you done any research on this new and interesting freakiness in our lives? Found anything out? Are they being poisoned or something like that?"
"Not that I've found," Sam admitted unhappily, looking away. "So far they've all been perfeftly normal pastries. None of my tests have revealed anything."
"You've been doing tests on my baked goods?" Dean turned away, waving a hand. "You know what, never mind. Any idea how we can catch whatever it is in the act?"
"Stakeout?" Sam said, with a twist of the lips that suggested he already knew how ridiculous that sounded.
"It always arrives before we get there. How do we stakeout somewhere we haven't been yet?"
"Yeah, isn't that the thing." Sam rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "It doesn't leave any traces and we can't be there at the same time and there's no way to track it and damn it, Dean, this is frustrating. We're under the radar with our hex bags, and we only ever tell Bobby and Castiel where we are and that's not until we get there, so unless Bobby has a DeLorean tucked somewhere back in that junkyard..."
"DeLorean..." Dean held absolutely still for about five seconds, and then he broke into a broad, goofy grin, the kind that lit up his whole face and sparkled in his eyes. "Oh, dude. Time travel! I can't believe..." He laughed, loud and surprised. "That little sneak..."
Sam opened his mouth to ask what was so funny, but before he made a sound the answer hit him like a brick to the head. "Oh. Dude."
Dean held up one finger, already opening his phone and dialing. "Hey, Cas? Yeah, we need to talk. Yeah, we're still in the same motel. Come soon."
"You wanted me to keep in touch," Castiel said blankly.
"I said postcards. Send us postcards."
"Many of the places I go do not sell postcards. I assumed that you would appreciate samples of local desserts more, given your ridiculous affinity for pie."
Dean would never, ever say that anyone could do better bitchfaces than Sam. Sammy had the lock on that event, had had it since he was just a tyke. But Castiel was trying his best. Oh, he really, really was.
"He appreciates them," Sam told him with a serious nod. "Don't let Dean fool you. He really, really, really appreciates baked goods. Really, really, really, really, really..."
"Dude, shut up!"
"It's disgusting, how much he appreciates them," Sam finished, ducking Dean's slap to the head. "For real, man, he loves it. He loves it so much."
"I will end you!" The irritation in Dean's voice was extremely unconvincing. He was still laughing inside, and having a lot of trouble keeping it in.
Castiel tilted his head, watching them.
"He didn't even stop to think about where they were coming from. Every time we got to a motel room and there was another one..." Sam went on to do some super obnoxious impressions of Dean's eating faces, complete with porn noises and O mouth. Dean shoved him down on the nearest bed and sat on him to make him quit.
"But you scared Sam," Dean told the angel, a bit more seriously. "He thought maybe a witch was trying to poison us. So maybe next time... Just let us know what you're up to, okay? But don't stop. I like them."
Sam shoved Dean partly off him so he could get up on one elbow and see Castiel's face. "No, really, it was very thoughtful. Going back in time to make sure Dean had something nice waiting for him at every stop. That's...sweet of you."
Castiel frowned prodigiously, fixing Sam with an icy blue stare. "I'm still an angel of the Lord. We are not exactly...sweet."
"Kind," Sam amended hastily. "Compassionate. The mark of a true friend. Don't stop. Dean will be very sad if you stop."
Castiel nodded, mollified. "If that will be all...?"
Dean waved a hand. "Sure, yeah, that's all we wanted. Go back to hunting God in South America or wherever you were."
A flutter of wings, and the angel vanished from the room.
Dean heaved a sigh and flopped backward onto the bed. Sam grunted when his brother landed half on top of him, and they wrestled for position, ending up laying side by side, panting and staring at the ceiling.
"You know," Sam said thoughtfully, "if Cas had any real understanding of human customs, I would say he was trying to court you."
"Dude! What the hell!" Dean flailed around in indignation and managed to shove Sam off the bed. "I don't even! What! No!"
"I'm just saying," Sam grumbled, sitting up and rubbing the bump on his head.
Dean stared at him from the bed, wide-eyed and still. "Do you think he'll stop?"
"No. No, I don't think he will." Sam couldn't help smiling fondly at the panic on Dean's face at this idea. Yeah, he really, really, really appreciated the mysterious pastries.
"Oh. Good." Dean looked back to the ceiling. "I hope he brings that chocolate gash tortoise thing again. That was fucking awesome."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam grumbled, hauling himself off the floor.
He had to silently admit, though, that he hoped the same thing. The chocolate ganache torte was, indeed, fucking awesome.