Hindsight being 20/20, Sam can see exactly where he went wrong now that he’s looking at the final product. The final, smoking, overflowing, burnt (and not just around the edges) product.
‘Easy as pie’. What a fucking misnomer.
Things might have gone better if Sam hadn’t forgotten to set a timer, letting himself get distracted in the library until he could actually smell the smoke. Though it still would have cracked open and spit molten pie filling all over the oven walls like some kind of Alien chestburster in pastry form since he sort of skimmed over the note about venting the top crust to release steam. And the woeful attempt at crimping he’d done around the edges still would have fallen apart, allowing even more filling to bubble out and down all sides of the pan.
He’d been pretty confident he couldn’t fuck up a pre-made pie crust and canned pie filling, but there’s a reason Dean does all the cooking.
The smoke is mostly cleared--thanks to a lot of frantic cursing and fanning with a kitchen towel to keep it away from the smoke detector--but the oven is a disaster. Sam’s not sure if the black, congealed mass on the bottom is ever going to fully come out, and the top and walls haven’t fared much better.
He’s poking at the largest portion of charcoal-like destruction with a butter knife--it doesn’t so much as crack under the pressure--when he hears Dean coughing as he comes around the corner. He drops the knife with a clatter and closes the door, turning around to lean against it before Dean can see around him. Dean’s waving a hand in front of his face, eyes squinted where the smoke is stinging at them.
“What the hell, Sam?” he says, only slightly choked.
“I, uh. Wanted to try something.”
“Yeah? Was that somethin’ burning the whole place down?”
Sam rolls his eyes, even as he rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly.
“It’s just smoke, no fire.”
He’s pretty sure there wasn’t a fire.
He thinks about the interior of the oven.
Maybe just a small fire.
“Uh huh,” Dean drawls, walking over to take a look at the tin full of what just barely resembles pie by shape alone. He stares at it for a long moment before continuing. “What temperature did you--”
“And how long did--”
Dean taps the tip of one finger against the top crust, which crumbles easily. He brushes it out of the way and lifts some of the rest so he can peer inside. The filling that somehow didn’t ooze or explode out to blacken and burn in the oven with the rest is still the happy, glossy red it had looked in the can.
“Supposed to be,” Sam responds, vaguely skeptical that it’s even still cherry-flavoured under all the charring.
“Nice,” Dean says, rummaging around in the silverware drawer until he finds the pie server.
A few years ago, they were living out of duffel bags and eating nothing but fast food. Now they have their own kitchen, complete with a pie server. It still feels surreal sometimes.
“You’re not actually gonna eat that?” Sam asks, even though the answer’s pretty obvious in the way Dean grabs a small plate and cuts himself a slice from the least burnt part of the pie.
“C’mon, Sammy, didn’t I teach you anything? A little ice cream’ll fix this right up.”
Sam’s not so sure, especially not when Dean lifts his portion out of the dish and the entire slice seems to collapse in on itself, slipping onto the plate in one sticky, malformed mess.
“Huh,” Dean says, tilting his head.
He cuts a chunk off of the bottom crust with his fork. It doesn’t look much more cooked than it did before the pie went in the oven.
“You uh… gotta par-bake it with a wet filling like cherry.”
Dean shrugs and eats the soggy bite anyway, and well, at least some things stay the same.
“Y’know my birthday’s not until tomorrow, right?” he says as he goes over to dig through the freezer.
“It’s, er. National Pie Day. Figured two birds, one stone.”
“Gotcha,” Dean says, emerging victorious with a pint of vanilla in his hand. “Now that’s a holiday I can get behind. The rest I could take or leave, but pie? That’s worth celebrating.”
Dean drops a scoop of ice cream at least half as large as the slice of pie on his plate. It starts to melt from the heat, softening the burnt edges and pooling on the plate, and it actually does look at least marginally more appetizing.
“See?” Dean says, shoveling a large, drippy scoop into his mouth. “Fixed.”
Sam shoots a pained look at Dean’s full mouth and the slick of pie filling and melted ice cream at the corner of his lips. Dean rolls his eyes and exaggerates a swallow before he continues.
“Tell you what, though,” he says, pulling open the oven door Sam forgot he was meant to be guarding. “Ain’t gonna be me on my knees fixing this mess.”
Sam looks inside and winces when it somehow looks even worse.
“Y’know, Dean,” Sam says, putting on his best ‘take me to bed’ voice as he presses in close and pulls Dean’s attention away from the oven, one hand on his waist and the other sliding slow over his belt buckle and down the front of his jeans, fingers teasing at the buttons. He curls his tongue over his bottom lip and smirks as he watches Dean’s eyes follow the movement. “There are better things I can do on my knees.”
“Mm,” Dean murmurs, leaning in to steal a kiss, licking into Sam’s mouth with the taste of cherry pie à la mode on his tongue.
Sam melts into it, lets Dean pull him closer and makes one of those soft, little brother sounds that he still knows how to pitch just right to make Dean forget that Sam is technically the bigger of the two of them now--those sweet, gentle noises that usually get him pressed face-down and pounded until he’s practically non-verbal, gasping some fucked-out version of Dean’s name.
Dean nips at his lower lip as he pulls back.
“You’re right, there are way better reasons for you to get on your knees.”
The hand that’s not holding a plate of pie drops to Sam’s ass, squeezing, and Sam thinks he’s got him.
Until that hand lifts up and delivers a swift smack to his ass as Dean grins.
“And I’ll get to those just as soon as you’re done cleaning my oven.”
Dean chuckles around another mouthful of pie as he walks off, leaving Sam just a bit hard and flustered, glaring down at the oven like the situation is somehow its fault.
Next time, he’ll just buy a damn pie.