Blueberry Pancakes by walking_tornado for <user site="livejourn

[springflingmod.livejournal.com]

Title: Blueberry Pancakes
Pairing: Sam, Dean (Gen)
Rating: G
Any warnings: none

"Dean!" Sam shouted from the kitchen doorway. "Food in five!"

Sam paused, listening to the ringing echo down the empty Men of Letters corridor until he heard Dean's hollered affirmative, and then he hurried back to the stove before the pancakes burned. He already had a stack piled up on a platter and he only had a bit of batter left. A slightly smaller pile of blackened pancakes lay off to the side, and the burnt smell had mostly dissipated.

Pancakes, Sam reflected, might be too generous a designation. Without milk or eggs, Sam had pretty much ended up with bannock like their dad used to make. It was a far cry from the light fluffy pancakes that he'd been attempting to recreate, the ones Dean enjoyed so much at that one place just outside of Louisville. They'd been covered in syrup, strawberry sauce and whipped cream —the real kind, not the generic canned version that now sat on the table.

Sam was cooking—admittedly not his strength—since otherwise he thought Dean wouldn't bother eating. Dean was tying himself in knots, worried both that they would fail and about the cost of success. Sam had left him in the map room, trying to anticipate unforeseen problems, which by its very definition was futile. Either tomorrow would succeed or the world would be consumed, destroyed in a void of darkness.

They'd need to go grocery shopping if the world didn't end. Most of the perishables were gone. They'd finished the last of the meat yesterday, so burgers were out. Bread was gone, as was the peanut butter, and if Sam ever saw canned chicken again it would be too soon. From the furthest corner of the freezer, he'd uncovered leftovers from his morning smoothies—an almost empty, snow-encased bag of blueberries which he discarded, but also a bag of strawberries that had been forgotten but weren't that old.

Sam poured the last pancake and put the batter bowl beside the sink to wash. He thought of the pristine counter he and Dean had encountered when they first entered the bunker, and wondered, not for the first time, who had come in to tidy up before closing up the place. Sam intended to do the same; he'd leave the room clean, just in case it was a while before anyone set foot in the bunker again.

"Yo, Dean!" Sam called.

Sam's smile felt out of place given the situation, but he couldn't wait to see Dean's face. Sam placed the pancakes on the table beside the whipped cream and returned to give the strawberry sauce a quick stir before he took it off the stove.

"What's—holy shit, Sam!" The surprised smile in Dean's voice was all Sam could have asked for. "That whipped cream?"

"You remember that place outside of—" As Sam turned to bring the pot of steaming strawberry sauce to the table, his little finger accidentally curled against the hot metal. Sam hissed and his hand automatically jerked away. The jerk caused the sauce to spill down the front of his shirt, and he hopped backwards, letting the pot fall to the ground, sending a spray of scalding strawberry sauce everywhere.

"Aah!" Sam hunched his shoulders forward and held his shirt away from his skin, to avoid a burn. "Dammit. Dean, can you . . . Dean?"

Dean stared at him with too-wide eyes, frozen.

"Dean?" Sam looked down at himself. The cooling sauce had painted his shirt crimson, and as he watched a gob dripped off and splattered against the strawberry covered floor. Sam looked up at his brother's stricken expression, pulled off his shirt, and then balled it and tossed it away from him. In two strides Sam had crossed the distance over the blood-colored floor to Dean, and put a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Just sauce. I'm fine," Sam said. Dean scanned Sam's bare chest, and then clasped Sam in a hug tight enough to take away his breath. "Just strawberries," he repeated. Sam tucked his head down and returned the embrace. Dean trembled with the force of unspoken emotion, and Sam swallowed.

"Let me grab another shirt and I'll clean this up." Sam said as they broke apart and he waved to the mess on the floor.

"I'll help," Dean said, and he seemed subdued. When Sam returned, to the kitchen, Dean had already started. As they wiped, the stark contrast of red against the white paper towels brought up unwanted memories for Sam as well, and he gladly stood back when Dean brought out the mop and washed away the remaining streaks.

The pancakes weren't fluffy and some were a bit too dark, but, drowned in syrup and mounded with whipped cream, Sam thought they were at okay.

"Tastes like Dad's," Dean said with his mouth full. Sam accepted Dean's compliment with a rueful nod. They finished in silence, neither particularly hungry.

"Thanks Sam. Really. It was awesome." Dean pushed the chair back and the scrape of the chair legs against the floor broke the quiet. "I . . . I guess I'll go to check the gear again then try to grab a couple hours sleep."

"Do you think Cas will. . ." Sam didn't finish his question, regretting the pinched, locked-down expression it put on Dean's face.

"He'll be there," Dean said shortly, but it sounded to Sam more like hope than belief.

"And Jody?"

"Took the girls someplace safe," Dean said, though they both knew that any 'safety' was questionable. "She checked-in an hour ago."

"So we're all set."

"Yeah." Dean's gaze was drawn again to where the red strawberry had stained Sam's shirt. They wouldn't talk about it. It was too much.

Dean's voice shook a bit, but they both ignored it, and Dean flashed Sam his best grin. Forced calm, fake it 'til you make it, and pretend it's all okay: the Winchester way.

"Blueberry pancakes next time, okay?" Dean said.

Sam cleared his throat. "Next time," he agreed.

Dean looked away with a single nod and strode out of the room to check their gear again. Sam remained motionless, watching Dean's determined walk. Then Sam looked around the kitchen and turned off the lights. He intentionally left the dirty dishes on the counter, to clean up when they came back.