Food For Thought
Fandom: Supernatural
Category/Rated: Gen/G
Year/Length: 2009/~1673 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Author's Notes: This was written for the zine "Rooftop Confessions 1"
Dean Winchester reclined on the couch, awaiting Sam's arrival, watching a Transformers cartoon on TV and drinking a beer. They'd just exterminated a particularly vicious haunting, and for once they'd been paid by a grateful hotel owner. For tonight at least, they had the penthouse suite and were reveling in the unaccustomed luxury.
Sam fumbled with the bags he was holding as he tried to open the door. He cursed when he almost dropped the tiramisu he'd bought as a treat for their dessert, but he finally managed to get the keycard to work and stumbled into the suite.
"Thanks for the help," he shouted towards the couch before going into the kitchen to drop the bags on the counter. "You wouldn't believe how busy the takeout was," he called out as he shucked the tattered denim jacket he'd been wearing. "Bet there's a whole bunch of cats missing in this neighborhood before morning." He shrugged out of his hoodie, rolled up his sleeves and started for the living room.
He stopped when he saw Dean. "Dude, what the hell?"
Optimus Prime was just kicking ass. Dean watched with great interest as the heroic Autobot wasted a few bad guys, and then languidly turned to survey Sam. "Transformers, dude. Don't knock it. It's cool."
As the show cut to commercial, Dean rose and made his way into the kitchen to see what Sam had brought. He'd already collected plates and he began to dish out the food spooning some from each foil dish onto the two fine bone china plates.
Sam smiled as he watched his brother at his self-appointed task. "If I see you snag a single extra shrimp, you're dead meat, man," he announced, folding his arms and assuming a stern expression.
"You think you can take me? You're deluding yourself, Sammy. However, I can arrange for us to find out, if you like. Let's live dangerously." Dean speared a particularly delectable shrimp and carried it to his mouth, smirking as he awaited Sam's response.
Glowering at him, Sam took a serving spoon and began to dole out rice from one of the containers that sat on the counter. "I'm counting the shrimp, dude. You're not gonna eat them all before I get any, so don't think it." He raised his head suddenly and inhaled. "Man, that smells good." Reaching out, he grabbed a shrimp of his own, sucking it greedily before devouring it.
Grinning wickedly, Dean went to snag another, and as Sam's hand shot out to grip his wrist, he whined a little, his facial expression that of a man who had just run over his own dog. Sam was apparently unmoved, his grip of iron preventing his brother from the pilfering he'd intended.
"Aww, c'mon, Sam," he murmured. "Don't be like that. There's plenty to go round."
"I don't care; share it out evenly, or there's gonna be trouble." Sam was looking stern, and Dean wisely backed off, looking for something to divert his brother with.
"Dude, check it out. It's almost time for The Simpsons."
"Oh yeah," Sam grinned, releasing the grip he still held on Dean. He started humming the Simpsons' theme song as he helped Dean finish filling their plates "Grab the food and meet me on the couch," he murmured, turning to fetch a couple of bottles of beer out of the fridge. "It's been years since I've seen the Simpsons."
"Eat my shorts!" muttered Dean, but he picked up the two laden plates and followed him out.
The two men sat on the couch, eating and bickering amicably. As they hotly debated Marge Simpson's desirability as a mate, Dean finished his dinner and laid the plate down on the floor beside his feet with a contented sigh and a small belch.
"I'm telling you, Sam, she's got everything. Brains, beauty, patience... Why she should be stuck with that dweeb, Homer, I have no idea."
"It's called loyalty, Dean," Sam sighed, finishing the last of his meal. "She vowed to stick by Homer's side, and that's exactly what she's doing. Though I do think she'd be entitled to step out on him sometimes. Too bad there's no one in town who deserves her."
He got up, collected the empty beer bottles and headed out, thinking only of dessert. "I think Troy McClure could have been good for her if it wasn't for that fish fetish," he yelled from the kitchen as he took the dessert out of its container and stole a bite. "But since Selma married him that would awkward."
He debated grabbing them another couple of beers or just going back out with the tiramisu. "Do you want dessert or something to drink? Or both?"
"Grab me another beer, Sam?" called his brother. "Dessert will be good in a few minutes, once my dinner settles. Damn, that spicy shrimp thing was good."
As the cartoon came to an end, Sam came back in toting a couple of bottles of beer, and the container with the tiramisu. Putting down the dessert, he was about to turn and call Dean, when his brother appeared at his side, staring at the dessert, and in particular at the very obvious dent in the top where Sam had scooped some away with his finger.
"Dude, after all you said to me about sneaking bits in advance." Dean sounded outraged.
"Yeah? So what? That was shrimp. This right here is tiramisu." Sam fixed Dean with a smug smile, and Dean frowned, fine eyebrows drawing together in a truly monumental scowl.
"Oh yeah?" He reached forward deliberately and scooped up a fingerful of the creamy dessert. "Well, so is this," he growled, reaching forward to wipe his finger over Sam's cheek.
"You shit!" Sam's eyes were wide, his mouth agape as Dean snickered and went to turn away. "Here! Have some yourself." Three fingers dipped in, scooped, flicked, and Sam's aim was true. Creamy white splattered onto Dean's forehead, slowly oozed its way down between those magnificently frowning brows and stopped as if Dean's nose were the perfect perch.
There was a moment's silence. Sam's mouth was a perfect ‘O' of shocked astonishment. He almost cracked a smile, realized that Dean's expression boded no good whatsoever and then turned to flee.
Too late.
Dean's right hand shot out to catch hold of Sam's hair, tangling into the mop and yanking him back at the same time as his left reached to scoop a handful of tiramisu. Off balance, Sam could only windmill his arms and attempt to regain an upright position. He failed.
The squishy mess in Dean's hand was suddenly and creatively applied to Sam's face. When Dean was done, he was apparently wearing a facemask from which his eyes glared like windows into hell. Dean, who had released his brother's hair, was doubled up with laughter.
Sam grabbed at the cake, took a handful – a very large handful, of course – and flung it. Dean, agile and alert, ducked, turned to see it land on the silk wallpaper of the penthouse suite and his laughter stopped. The next handful hit him behind his left ear with a squelch that made Sam crow with delight. "Take that, evil-doer," he squealed, backing away.
Reaching for the foil dish, Dean began to pursue Sam around the coffee table, finally flinging the dish so that the contents adhered to Sam's fleeing butt. It wasn't his fault, Dean reflected afterwards, that Sam had put his half empty plate on the floor. As he rounded the table, his foot landed squarely in the middle of the plate that Sam had only partly finished. Dean slipped, skidding backwards and the plate shot forward, rose into the air and crashed into the television. The food that had remained on the plate rose in a spray of rice, sauce and sundry vegetables to spread itself over the extremely expensive, cream colored carpet. The tiramisu that had been on Dean's face slid down to add its own embellishment to it, and Dean could only watch in horror as the plate shattered, the TV fizzed to a smoky halt and his brother gave a girly scream and clapped both hands to his mouth.
Backing up, Sam hadn't allowed for the two partly consumed bottles of beer standing on the floor immediately behind him. As he kicked them over, he swore, lost his balance and, flailing, landed on the couch, his cream-covered ass touching down and adding its own special mark to the handsome brocade that covered it.
"Oh, fuck," he said.
"Double fuck," growled his still supine brother. "With a cherry on top."
"Better not," said Sam. "It'd end up on the floor."
Looking around at the scene of devastation, the two men moved as one, a team forged in the fires of their battle with hell.
As the Impala pulled away from the hotel, Sam heaved a heavy sigh. "Dude, do you think they got the registration number of the car?"
"We'll find out before too long, won't we?" Dean didn't sound too concerned. He suddenly gave a snort of laughter. "Your face when that cream splatted all over it," he snickered. "Too funny."
"Not as funny as yours, when you put your foot right in the sweet and sour," said Sam, looking slightly huffy. "And up until then, we could've still stayed. Those beds were really comfortable, dude."
"One glass of wine is better spilt, Sammy." Dean smiled as the Impala passed the city limits. "Better you don't know how good it could've been, because you'd always know what you were missing."
"Dude, you SUCK!" Sam looked mutinous.
"Maybe so, bro, but I'm all you've got, so you'd better learn to love it." And as they drove into the distance, the tranquil night was disturbed only by the full-throated roar of the car, and the bickering of the brothers Winchester.
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