Working Man, SPN AU
Happy More Joy Day, everyone! Here's my contribution, because if you ask me, nothing says joy as much as delicious food. I mean, AUs. Or, heck, why pick just one?
Dean shakes the pan and gives it a toss, flipping the omelet artfully. The audience oohs and aahs. He coaxes the omelet out onto the waiting dish, sprinkles it with chopped scallions, and grins. "Bet you didn't know you could do that with tofu!" he says, the audience cheering at his signature line. "Not an egg in sight."
He sets the dish on the front of the counter, with the already plated fingerling potato home fries and the roasted red pepper and artichoke salad.
"Now that's a brunch worth waking up for, folks. You try it at home, and I'll understand if you want to kiss me." He winks, and the audience whoops.
Grabbing a glass, he pours out a fresh Bellini from the pitcher and toasts the camera. "Thanks for watching!"
***
Backstage, Dean makes his way to his dressing room, already scrubbing at the crap the stylist put into his hair.
"Dean," his assistant says. "There is someone waiting to see you."
"How hot is she?" Dean asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Castiel is unfazed. "I could not say."
It's Sam, crammed uncomfortably into one of the little plastic studio chairs.
"Dude," Dean says. "You got gargantuan. What the fuck?"
"Dean!" Sam stands up, a fucking foot taller than Dean, and nods awkwardly at him. "I heard you were…" he waves a freaking massive paw around, taking in the studio.
"Yeah well, if you answered my messages once in a while, it wouldn't be so shocking," Dean frowns. "Guess law school keeps you pretty busy."
"Um. Yeah," Sam says. "Is there someplace we could talk?"
"Sure," Dean says, leading the way to his dressing room. "You want anything to drink? Some food? We got…" He opens the door and glances around at the baskets of muffins, chocolates, booze and flowers crammed onto every surface. "Stuff. Mixed nuts somewhere too, I think. I just made some brunch, but the audience ate it all."
"That's okay," Sam says, looking around. "Dean… how did this happen?"
"What, you mean the cooking show?" Dean shrugs. "I met this chick."
Sam blinks. "You met a chick."
"Yeah," Dean smiles, nostalgic. "She liked to eat. But it was all, you know, sprouts and tofu. Wheatgrass. Crap like that. She was a freaking demon in the sack, though. She used to do this… uh, never mind. Anyway, she let me crash at her place whenever a hunt took me nearby, and one day I got sick of sprouts and saw this cookbook in her kitchen, and," he shrugs. "Let's just say every time I cooked something awesome, I got seriously rewarded. The night I invented soy-free vegan Hollandaise I have never. I mean, I'd done some kinky shit before, but this was-"
"Okay!" Sam interrupts hastily. "That's… good. You got a new hobby."
"Yeah. Learned how to cook, too," Dean smirks. "Anyway, later on I rescued a producer's husband from a poltergeist and we got to talking, and it turned out she worked for Food Network and they wanted someone to bring a little grit and…" He shrugs. "Pretty much the same skillset as hustling pool or getting into a girl's pants."
"But Dean, a cooking show? What happened to the family business? Saving people, hunting things?"
"Dude, relax. You ever hear of a little thing called a day job? The Impala is still fully loaded, and I do my public service on nights and weekends." He sprawls out on his chair, grabs a bagel from the catering platter and crams half into his mouth. "So how's law school?"
"Yeah, about that." Sam rubs the back of his neck. "After Jess…"
"I was real sorry about that, Sammy."
"Thanks," Sam says absently. "She was… well, I just couldn’t go back after that."
"Wait a minute." Dean sits up, bagel all but forgotten. "After our hunt I drove you back to fucking Stanford, took you to the funeral, packed up any of your crap that wasn't burned up, took you to your buddy Steve's apartment and stayed with you for two weeks, making you Lucky Charms and French toast. And, oh yeah, I also called the school to reschedule your fellowship interview. You just ditched all that? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't be that guy anymore."
"That guy?" Dean exclaims. "All you ever wanted to be was that guy!"
"But I'm not, Dean." Sam sighs. "I was with Jessica for years, and I never told her the truth. But none of the lying and pretending mattered, because a demon still killed her, just like Mom. Trying to be normal was nothing but a lie, and it killed the woman I loved."
Dean just stares at him. "What-you… Is this is why you haven't actually talked to me in three years?"
Sam shifts uncomfortably. "Well, yeah."
Dean leaps out of his chair and looks around for something to punch. "What the fuck, Sam? Why couldn't you tell me? Do you need money? What have you been doing with yourself?"
"Um. The family business?"
With a quick whirl, Dean viciously stabs at a button on a nearby intercom. "Cas?" he barks. "Send up some whiskey. The good stuff."
***
"I can't believe you went and turned into Dad," Dean says. He's not drunk yet, not by a long shot, but the edges are just a little softer on everything, and that can't be anything other than good right now. "After all that shit when we were growing up."
"Yeah, well, I can't believe you got a cooking show, Dean. A cooking show?"
"You don't have to keep saying it that way!" Dean snaps.
"Sorry!" Sam puts his hands up. "It's just..."
"Whatever," Dean says. "I make good money, hot people throw their underwear at me all the time, and if a network suit pisses me off I can just go shoot things on the weekend. I'm pretty much set. Why did you come see me, anyway? It's been ages."
Sam takes a deep breath, and turns those practiced earnest eyes on Dean. "It's about Dad. He's-"
"Dad hasn't returned any of my calls in years, Sam. I am done chasing after people who don't want me around."
"What if he was trying to protect us?"
"What if he's fucking dead? What if he doesn't give a shit?" Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "I honestly don't know which is worse. At least you'd fucking text me once in a while."
"Well, this time, I think he's in danger. I want to go after him, and I need you to come with me."
"Whoa. I don't think so."
"Dean," Sam said. "Whatever he may or may not have done, he's still our dad. He raised us."
"I raised us," Dean snarls.
"He did his best," Sam insists. "I didn't see it at the time, but he did. I know that now. And I think he's in trouble. He's Dad."
"Yeah." The fight drains out of Dean, and he scrubs a hand through his hair wearily. "Yeah, I know." He stands up. "I'll get my stuff."
::
"Seriously, dude, you do not want to come with us," Dean says, loading the last of his things into the Impala's trunk, in the corner out of the way of the weapons cache.
"I insist," Castiel says firmly. "I am going with you, Dean."
"You are my assistant for the show, Cas," Dean says, probably for the millionth time. "You do not need to be my assistant for life."
Castiel simply opens the car door, climbs into the backseat and sits, hands neatly clasped in his lap. His suit is rumpled and his tie askew, but he looks as calm and composed as ever.
"We are probably going to see some serious shit, Cas."
"Dean," Castiel says, his gravelly tone as close to gentle as it ever gets. "It will be all right."
And for a moment, Dean almost believes him.
Sam clears his throat pointedly, and Dean backs away long enough to let Sam get into the passenger seat. Dean walks around to the driver's side, opens the door and climbs in.
Rush is in the cassette player, so Dean hits play, cranks up the volume, and they hit the road.
Hey, at least he gets to pick the soundtrack.
Dean shakes the pan and gives it a toss, flipping the omelet artfully. The audience oohs and aahs. He coaxes the omelet out onto the waiting dish, sprinkles it with chopped scallions, and grins. "Bet you didn't know you could do that with tofu!" he says, the audience cheering at his signature line. "Not an egg in sight."
He sets the dish on the front of the counter, with the already plated fingerling potato home fries and the roasted red pepper and artichoke salad.
"Now that's a brunch worth waking up for, folks. You try it at home, and I'll understand if you want to kiss me." He winks, and the audience whoops.
Grabbing a glass, he pours out a fresh Bellini from the pitcher and toasts the camera. "Thanks for watching!"
***
Backstage, Dean makes his way to his dressing room, already scrubbing at the crap the stylist put into his hair.
"Dean," his assistant says. "There is someone waiting to see you."
"How hot is she?" Dean asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Castiel is unfazed. "I could not say."
It's Sam, crammed uncomfortably into one of the little plastic studio chairs.
"Dude," Dean says. "You got gargantuan. What the fuck?"
"Dean!" Sam stands up, a fucking foot taller than Dean, and nods awkwardly at him. "I heard you were…" he waves a freaking massive paw around, taking in the studio.
"Yeah well, if you answered my messages once in a while, it wouldn't be so shocking," Dean frowns. "Guess law school keeps you pretty busy."
"Um. Yeah," Sam says. "Is there someplace we could talk?"
"Sure," Dean says, leading the way to his dressing room. "You want anything to drink? Some food? We got…" He opens the door and glances around at the baskets of muffins, chocolates, booze and flowers crammed onto every surface. "Stuff. Mixed nuts somewhere too, I think. I just made some brunch, but the audience ate it all."
"That's okay," Sam says, looking around. "Dean… how did this happen?"
"What, you mean the cooking show?" Dean shrugs. "I met this chick."
Sam blinks. "You met a chick."
"Yeah," Dean smiles, nostalgic. "She liked to eat. But it was all, you know, sprouts and tofu. Wheatgrass. Crap like that. She was a freaking demon in the sack, though. She used to do this… uh, never mind. Anyway, she let me crash at her place whenever a hunt took me nearby, and one day I got sick of sprouts and saw this cookbook in her kitchen, and," he shrugs. "Let's just say every time I cooked something awesome, I got seriously rewarded. The night I invented soy-free vegan Hollandaise I have never. I mean, I'd done some kinky shit before, but this was-"
"Okay!" Sam interrupts hastily. "That's… good. You got a new hobby."
"Yeah. Learned how to cook, too," Dean smirks. "Anyway, later on I rescued a producer's husband from a poltergeist and we got to talking, and it turned out she worked for Food Network and they wanted someone to bring a little grit and…" He shrugs. "Pretty much the same skillset as hustling pool or getting into a girl's pants."
"But Dean, a cooking show? What happened to the family business? Saving people, hunting things?"
"Dude, relax. You ever hear of a little thing called a day job? The Impala is still fully loaded, and I do my public service on nights and weekends." He sprawls out on his chair, grabs a bagel from the catering platter and crams half into his mouth. "So how's law school?"
"Yeah, about that." Sam rubs the back of his neck. "After Jess…"
"I was real sorry about that, Sammy."
"Thanks," Sam says absently. "She was… well, I just couldn’t go back after that."
"Wait a minute." Dean sits up, bagel all but forgotten. "After our hunt I drove you back to fucking Stanford, took you to the funeral, packed up any of your crap that wasn't burned up, took you to your buddy Steve's apartment and stayed with you for two weeks, making you Lucky Charms and French toast. And, oh yeah, I also called the school to reschedule your fellowship interview. You just ditched all that? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't be that guy anymore."
"That guy?" Dean exclaims. "All you ever wanted to be was that guy!"
"But I'm not, Dean." Sam sighs. "I was with Jessica for years, and I never told her the truth. But none of the lying and pretending mattered, because a demon still killed her, just like Mom. Trying to be normal was nothing but a lie, and it killed the woman I loved."
Dean just stares at him. "What-you… Is this is why you haven't actually talked to me in three years?"
Sam shifts uncomfortably. "Well, yeah."
Dean leaps out of his chair and looks around for something to punch. "What the fuck, Sam? Why couldn't you tell me? Do you need money? What have you been doing with yourself?"
"Um. The family business?"
With a quick whirl, Dean viciously stabs at a button on a nearby intercom. "Cas?" he barks. "Send up some whiskey. The good stuff."
***
"I can't believe you went and turned into Dad," Dean says. He's not drunk yet, not by a long shot, but the edges are just a little softer on everything, and that can't be anything other than good right now. "After all that shit when we were growing up."
"Yeah, well, I can't believe you got a cooking show, Dean. A cooking show?"
"You don't have to keep saying it that way!" Dean snaps.
"Sorry!" Sam puts his hands up. "It's just..."
"Whatever," Dean says. "I make good money, hot people throw their underwear at me all the time, and if a network suit pisses me off I can just go shoot things on the weekend. I'm pretty much set. Why did you come see me, anyway? It's been ages."
Sam takes a deep breath, and turns those practiced earnest eyes on Dean. "It's about Dad. He's-"
"Dad hasn't returned any of my calls in years, Sam. I am done chasing after people who don't want me around."
"What if he was trying to protect us?"
"What if he's fucking dead? What if he doesn't give a shit?" Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "I honestly don't know which is worse. At least you'd fucking text me once in a while."
"Well, this time, I think he's in danger. I want to go after him, and I need you to come with me."
"Whoa. I don't think so."
"Dean," Sam said. "Whatever he may or may not have done, he's still our dad. He raised us."
"I raised us," Dean snarls.
"He did his best," Sam insists. "I didn't see it at the time, but he did. I know that now. And I think he's in trouble. He's Dad."
"Yeah." The fight drains out of Dean, and he scrubs a hand through his hair wearily. "Yeah, I know." He stands up. "I'll get my stuff."
::
"Seriously, dude, you do not want to come with us," Dean says, loading the last of his things into the Impala's trunk, in the corner out of the way of the weapons cache.
"I insist," Castiel says firmly. "I am going with you, Dean."
"You are my assistant for the show, Cas," Dean says, probably for the millionth time. "You do not need to be my assistant for life."
Castiel simply opens the car door, climbs into the backseat and sits, hands neatly clasped in his lap. His suit is rumpled and his tie askew, but he looks as calm and composed as ever.
"We are probably going to see some serious shit, Cas."
"Dean," Castiel says, his gravelly tone as close to gentle as it ever gets. "It will be all right."
And for a moment, Dean almost believes him.
Sam clears his throat pointedly, and Dean backs away long enough to let Sam get into the passenger seat. Dean walks around to the driver's side, opens the door and climbs in.
Rush is in the cassette player, so Dean hits play, cranks up the volume, and they hit the road.
Hey, at least he gets to pick the soundtrack.