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The bakery section in Whole Foods offers a treasure trove of delicious, sugary concoctions.
Cupcakes, tarts, pies, and cakes galore sit out on display, like saccharine sirens. From the coolers to the display stands to the self-serve cases, there’s something for everyone.
Gluten-free? No problem.
Vegan? Sure.
Gluten-free, vegan, and made with fair trade chocolate? Duh.
But the real prize—the real glory—is the glistening, mouthwatering gelato bar. Swirling waves of creamy gelato lie in wait for the next poor sailor caught under their wicked spell. The case holds twenty flavors, each of them of excellent quality and stylishly decorated.
Unfortunately, life is a cruel mistress.
After tax, two large scoops of heaven come out to almost ten dollars. Anyone who forks over ten bucks for glorified frozen milk needs a serious kick in the ass.
But samples are free.
Dean asks Abril for another sample of salted caramel gelato.
“That’s the last one,” Abril scolds, terrible at hiding her smile. “Don’t ask again.”
In retaliation, Dean unleashes a subtle, yet powerful pout.
“You know, the customer is always right.”
“You’re not a customer.” Her Puerto Rican accent shines through with every rolling R. “You have to buy something to be a customer.”
“I’m waiting for someone to share their employee discount.”
“Cha—it’s not even a good discount. Go wait somewhere else.”
“I can’t, I want gelato.”
“Nope,” she volleys back. “I’m cutting you off.”
“I haven’t even sampled Tahitian Vanilla Bean!”
“Don’t make me get the broom.”
“Ugh, and would you look at that? There’s fresh Mediterranean Mint.”
Aside from her position as World’s Cruelest Bakery Employee, Abril goes to school at one of the fancy universities in the Loop downtown. A Poli-Sci student, she’s no stranger to cutting a man to shreds by the sheer force of her words. She runs on a combination of Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and spite.
Her sharp, blue eyes meet Dean’s.
Over the curved, metallic, gelato cooler, Abril thrusts a sample of Mediterranean Mint towards Dean.
“Here,” she says, offering up the tiny spoon. “You got something stuck on your shoe.”
Should he ever find himself betting on either Abril or a level ten poltergeist, he’d put all his money on Abril. Never mess with a Dunkin Drinker. Dean leans against his cane with his right hand and takes the spoon with his left. He waits a beat before he devours the sample.
“You mean tofu jerk?”
Abril sighs and shakes her head. She starts reloading the pricing gun, cracking the gun open like a lobster.
“Watch me stamp a whole roll of these clearance stickers all over your ass.”
“Go for it,” Dean rumbles. He licks the spoon clean and gingerly places it into the trash bin conveniently nearby. “But I wanna know what you’re clearancing. Anything worth it?”
“Prune pie.”
“Yech, no thanks.”
“You should go.”
“Why?”
“Because I got enough problems.”
Dean brings his right hand to his chin, taps once, then rubs his jaw. He clicks his teeth, deep in thought. Abril continues reloading more guns. Her fingers work with the dexterity of someone used to writing papers at two in the morning while cursing the spirit of James Madison.
The store is practically empty tonight. Customers are few and far between, most of them milling around by the deli and in produce. Dean arrived at seven thirty, eager to begin his rounds. He stopped by to see Leonie at the customer service desk and talked cars with her for a spell.
His second stop was Abril.
He wanted to ask about her James Madison paper, because he’d heard enough about it over the past two weeks that it felt like his own paper.
Maybe he should have cut to the chase earlier. He never meant to cause her trouble.
Then, a near carbon copy of Cary Grant steps up to the gelato case.
Only the long, twisting scar over his right eye and the broken angle of his nose separate him from a career in celebrity impersonation.
The whole store seems to fall silent.
Dean glances over to the ghost of Cary Grant, one eyebrow raised. With ease, Dean slips into the kind of body language and posture afforded to those who woke up every morning at dawn to an ex-Marine shouting to drop and give him twenty. Dean doesn’t bristle, doesn’t flinch, only his upper lip curls.
He rumbles out the first verbal punch.
“You look like shit, Cary.”
Cary Grant—more commonly and accurately known as Ben Bishop—gifts Dean the world’s deadliest sneer. The sneer matches the rest of Bishop and whatever debonair con he’s trying to pull. He’s got the whole look down pat: coiffed hair, impeccably tailored, single-breasted, gray flannel suit, and a pair of immaculate leather brogues.
Handsome bastard.
And just like his Hollywood overlord, Bishop speaks with a heavy transatlantic accent. Dean must have wandered through a wormhole and ended up on the set of a reboot for North By Northwest or Frasier .
“Dean Winchester,” Bishop grits through his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “Of all… people.”
If he’s honest with himself, which he tries to be these days, Dean would much rather be on the set of a reboot for His Girl Friday. But that’s asking way too much from a universe that charges five bucks for a scoop of Mediterranean Mint.
He loosens up his shoulders, then bestows upon Bishop the honor and privilege of a thousand watt grin, finished with a click of his tongue, a wink, and finger guns.
“That’s right,” Dean snaps. “And I don’t look a day over thirty.”
From behind the counter, Abril laughs in a series of snorts and giggles. Dean shoots her a glare.
Bishop carries a green basket filled with what looks like cilantro, carrots, and some kind of pasta that was probably handmade by Italian nuns. He refuses to make eye contact with Dean.
But he does look over at the arrival of tofu jerk.
“Sam,” Bishop says, his tone of voice suddenly as soft as melting gelato.
And the look in his eyes? A complete one-eighty. Suddenly, they’re affectionate, dewey eyes—the kind old ladies get when Sam grabs something off a tall shelf for them.
Sam smiles, and fucking runs a hand through his hair, accentuating the long, silky locs like some Vidal Sasoon model.
“Bishop. What a small world.”
“Incredibly small,” Bishop echoes, with a glance at Dean. “Less than average size.”
“You don’t scare me,” Dean grumbles. “I’ll throw down with you right the fuck now. Pants off. We’ll use my phone as a ruler.”
Sam sighs. “Dean!”
“What? Like you’ve never measured up to some competition.”
“There’s no competition.”
“Like fuck there’s not.”
“Why don’t you go wait by the eggs?”
“Good idea.” He turns and addresses Bishop. “Would you prefer that I egg you with organic or conventional eggs?”
If you don’t leave now , Sam threatens, without moving his mouth, then you’re not leaving here with anything sweet.
I got plenty of sweet stuff at home.
On the couch?
I don’t mind the couch.
Good, because I have plans for an empty bed.
You wouldn’t dare.
That’s why I stocked up on AAA batteries, Dean.
“Eggs!” Dean shouts. “We need eggs! So many eggs. Abril, point me in the direction of the eggs!”
Abril briefly contemplates her existence on this planet as she stares at Dean. She looks up at the ceiling and grumbles a small prayer for locusts to rain down upon the man who couldn’t bother to ask her about James Madison.
Dean quickly, and quietly, apologizes. He really did want to hear about Jimmy Mads. He just got caught up in the gelato-moment.
“If I escort him there,” Abril says to Sam, “will you hold down the fort?”
“If you escort him there,” Sam says to Abril, “I will make sure you get a generous tip.”
“How generous are we talking?”
“If you keep him there for at least a minute, I will personally pay for your textbooks next semester.”
The ultimate betrayal comes at the cost of textbooks. Abril switches from gelato employee to egg warden on a dime. She grabs Dean by the wrist and marches him over to the dairy case. Her hand feels cold and clammy against Dean’s.
At the case, Abril keeps her voice at a whisper. She speaks and points at eggs at random.
“That guy swings in here a lot.”
“Duh, we’re here a lot,” Dean quips.
“Not you guys,” she hisses. “GQ dude. He usually gets two scoops of pistachio.”
“Huh. He’s one of those. ”
“No,” Abril says, shaking her head. “He’s not. He always tips a five. And look, now he’s flirting with your man.”
Dean tries his best to pretend to look at eggs. Oh, he’s fascinated by the carton of eggs in his hands. What wonders. What miracles. What—is Sam flirting back ?
There’s the trademark toss of the hair. The head turned to the side, tilted down. The rumbling laugh. The nod of agreement to whatever dipstick is saying. And…
The flash of dimples.
Take it down from an eight to a one, Sammy.
Buy more eggs, Dean. Leave me alone.
I can and will sing “Henry the Eighth I Am.”
Do it and you’ll be eating those eggs raw in two seconds.
“This fucker,” Dean mutters and puts the eggs back, before they boil in his hands. “I think he’s flirting back.”
“GQ is a nice guy. He could do a lot worse.” Abril eyes Dean up and down. “A lot worse.”
Dean straightens up and sticks his chin out. “You were gonna tell me about Jimmy Mads, remember? Not pass judgment on a poor, defenseless old man getting cheated on at Whole Foods.”
“I don’t think GQ is serious.”
“Oh?”
“Yup.”
“Why not?”
Abril hands Dean another carton of eggs, then begins to walk towards a pair of doors to the backroom. She stretches out her arms, turns, and takes her final steps backwards before she disappears into the abyss.
“Because he’s married.”
Cary Grant? Married?
One quick look over to the nerdy pair and yep, there it is, a wedding ring. Huh. What poor, unfortunate soul consented to such a thing?
Dean looks down at his own hand and admires the ring on his finger.
Sam started a garden last summer. Out of cedar, Dean made a garden bed. He worked on it in the garage and brought it out to Sam as an early birthday present.
This year, in the middle of Chicago’s fifth fake spring, shoots have started to appear in the dense soil behind their small home off of 19th and Hoyne.
Collard greens, butterhead lettuce, spinach, Swiss chard, and cabbage occupy one side. Potatoes, radishes, carrots, and garlic occupy another. Tomatoes, zucchini, snap beans, navy beans, peppers, butternut squash, basil, and thyme round it all out.
Whole Foods should be jealous of the green tendrils and young sprouts Sam cultivates into salads, soups, stews, smoothies, and raw, crunchy platters.
During peak harvest, Dean eats his fill of freshly made pesto over handmade pasta.
He never thought he’d eat like this—shopping for tofu and chicken sausage at Whole Foods, while snipping squash from their vines at a place called home .
There were countless seasons in their youth where sustenance didn’t come from food—it came from clinging to each other. Through cans of generic brand Spaghetti-O’s, loaves of white bread, jars of oily peanut butter, and boxes of stale cereal, they kept themselves fed.
Food served the purpose of survival.
The intimacy of sharing motel beds served the purpose of living.
Dean walks from the dairy case to the bread station. He admires a round loaf of French bread, with its crisp crust and perfect rise. He imagines the sensation of cutting into it, the sound—the crackle, the crunch, and the bite. Lightly toasted, it would be perfect with tonight’s tuna salad.
On Sam’s thirteenth birthday, Dean kissed him slow and deep—a gift.
Sam ate it up, all eagerness and want. He’d been waiting for it. From there, Dean let go of the reins and Sam took over. In a motel room called The Blue Swallow somewhere in New Mexico, Sam took whatever he needed from Dean, who freely gave it to him.
They were all push and pull. The strawberry Jolly Ranchers Dean swiped from a gas station gave Sam’s mouth an even sweeter taste. And under the pomegranate glow of neon lights, in the middle of the night, Sam took Dean inside himself for the very first time.
No part of that memory remains unclear to Dean after all these years.
Yesterday, he bought Sam a honeycrisp apple tree—a surprise that awaits him on his fiftieth birthday next week.
From crinkled motel sheets to salads made with balsamic vinegar and beets, desire hasn’t faded. From long spells of anger, silence, and isolation over the years, Dean taught Sam how to make meatloaf last week.
The ring on his finger reminds him of two poems Sam read aloud to him yesterday evening.
He longs to be an orange
to feel fingernails
Run a seam through him. *
Dean speaks without speaking.
I want to remember us this way—
late September sun streaming through
the window, bread loaves and golden
bunches of grapes on the table,
spoonfuls of hot soup rising
to our lips, filling us
with what endures.**
Dean collects the biggest loaf of French bread and holds it in his hands for a moment. His ring presses against the crust.
Let Cary have some momentary smiles. The real prize, the real glory in this Whole Foods is not the gelato, the tofu, or the French bread.
It’s Sam Winchester, alive and well, trading pesto recipes with an old friend while his partner waits beside him.