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It was exactly like that time in Broward with Gabriel all over again—the food tasting funny; the drop in Dean’s lower lip.
Except they weren’t in Florida, there was no archangel in sight, and though Dean insisted it was the cheese on his double bacon cheeseburger causing him grief, it was in fact the half pound of gingerbread he’d eaten before it. Sam was certain.
What remained of Dean’s sample haul from a local Minnesotan bakery now sat before them in the white cardboard tray he’d taken too because he refused to understand that “please take one” referred to a single cookie, not one tray of six on the Wicked Whisk’s main counter.
He thumped his fist on his sternum, swallowing the “ginger-bombs” he’d been gifting Sam since they’d returned. Their motel room, the same as any other they frequented. Two beds, a fridge, questionable stains all round.
The table was rickety. Its orange laminate matched the sliver of bench space and the bathroom door. The more Dean grumbled and fussed, the more it shook from his squirming. As did Sam’s head, again.
“Just eat the burger or don’t,” he said, having already finished his chicken salad.
He pushed the bowl to the side to open his laptop, giving Dean one last glance before he typed in his password. “We’ve got work to do.”
And they did—murders to solve because Sam wanted to keep busy.
This time of year was worse now they lived in the bunker and Dean had the chance to remind him of childhood’s past with cooking and decorations.
The second Sam’d found this case, he’d enticed Dean with a guaranteed white Christmas, and all the trimmings of a Biggerson’s turkey sandwich come Christmas Day—and only on Christmas Day—just so they could leave.
He was agreeable then. Now, Dean didn’t respond. Pulling a duck-face, rather. Giving Sam some silent lip. He dropped the cheeseburger into its wrapper and rolled it up, aiming but missing the trash four feet away from him. Sam rubbed his neck instead of rolling his eyes, saving that for when Dean stood up and collected the mess.
Nothing felt more like a Winchester Christmas than a brotherly feud and an overstuffed Dean. Mediocre food. A lack of conversation. The gas.
Bending over like that must’ve got things rolling for him, because the next second, Dean was racing to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. It served him right, though Sam’s brow soon folded at the noises on the other side.
“What the hell was in those cookies?” he mumbled.
That’s what Dean wanted to know, too.
He knew it was the cookies the second the “ginger bombs” started, calling them that because of the way they bit at his throat. Of course, he refused to give Sam the satisfaction of being right, but man, he felt more sick because of it.
His stomach churned, and while the cheese wasn’t at fault, it plus the extra bacon and onions weren’t helping.
He felt heavy. Bloated even. His belt buckle strained against the food swirling around a few inches below it.
Luckily, the water was cool and soothing on his throat as he washed the bad taste away. He was still queasy, but a few more burps seemed to do the trick until he swallowed something large and pointy, that caught and dragged multiple times on the way down.
“What the?”
If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he’d swallowed one of the cookie pieces whole, having had plenty of experience in that department of late.
Somehow Dean split the single syllable of Sam’s name into two, even without using the endearment he hated. But if that startled him, the actual “Sammy!” that followed a few seconds later tore up Sam’s spine like Dean’s ginger bombs had blasted right against it, causing his knees to jerk up into the table.
His laptop shook. He pressed his palms down to steady it, just as Dean burst back into the room, red faced and wide-eyed.
“Dean?”
Dean strode towards him, the quickest he’d ever been, arms and hands pressed together like he was praying or drew his colt to fire it. With the stance and his cries, Sam would’ve expected something to be chasing him, but it was his, “It broke off,” said in such a pained way that Sam sat tall on alert for.
“It?” His brow raised when he saw the flesh-coloured object in Dean’s right hand.
It was cylindrical, lengthy, and, with Dean having just been in the bathroom, Sam’s first thought was the last thing he wanted to think about.
“Dude. Uh-uh, what, ah...” Sam’s eyes travelled the length of Dean’s body, preparing to find the worst, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Dean’s clothes were in all the right places. No blood, no fly undone.
“Is that?” Sam asked, pointing at Dean’s crotch. He could understand the alarm if “it” broke off, if it were even possible, but Dean really didn’t need to show him. He’d believe anything without the evidence, having seen Dean’s junk enough times by accident already.
Dean looked down. His cheeks flashed redder. “No! It’s my finger, Sam! My finger broke off.” He held out both hands, leaving Sam to do a double take.
“Your finger?” He could’ve just said that without the theatrics, but Sam counted, and the fifth one? Dean’s pinky was indeed held by his other hand.
“Yes, my finger. My dick’s not—that damn cheese. It—”
“That’s your finger?”
“Yes.”
“From your hand?”
“Yes!” Dean shoved it at him until he took it; Sam turned it ‘round and round.
The texture of what would’ve been Dean’s skin became sticky and golden brown under his touch, but a whiff of ginger, unmistakable, caught his attention the most.
“Huh,” he said.
“What?” Dean looked on, chin in his neck, chest rising, obvious against his burly stance.
“It looks like—” Sam reached for his haul of samples still on the table. He picked up a piece and held it closer to his nose.
Sure enough, Dean’s finger had the same spiced smell. A touch of lemon, something sweet. The texture was soft and doughy, like the samples, crumbly at the edges, leaving a powdery residue on his hands.
“Sammy? Am I a cookie?” He straightened.
But Sam was too busy tipping out all the remaining cookie pieces onto the table to answer straight away. It wasn’t hard to spot the small leather bag tied with gold twine sitting amongst the leftovers. Its shape and size matched most of the chunks he was yet to devour.
“No, Dean. I think you’re gingerbread.” Sam couldn’t help but snicker. He should’ve known something was up the second Dean mentioned something tasted funny.
Dean needed a drink. A stiff one, but all they had was beer, and he wasn’t going out in the cold to get one. Maybe once they’d fixed him.
The situation was ludicrous, even for them. But besides his broken finger, which had since sprouted icing on the nail and down the sides like a real gingerbread cookie, he didn’t feel any different.
It didn’t hurt when it broke, nor did it hurt then, either. It was more a matter of shock until they’d found the cause, and they’d found it, so why worry?
As Sam collected the ingredients to burn the hex bag, thus reversing the spell, Dean pulled a beer out of the fridge, taking a moment to contemplate the ice in the icebox.
“Nah.” He shook his head. What good was a finger on ice once the spell broke? It’d grow back—right?
…
On second thought, he fetched his finger and placed it delicately on the ice, away from the questionable orange stains and chunkier bits because he needed it clean.
What if it remained detached even after the spell was complete? He’d need to go to the hospital. Sam was good at stitches, but Dean doubted he’d be able to re-attach the bone or anything else.
He kicked the door closed, his finger out of sight, out of mind, and went to open his beer—with his bare hands.
Sam opened the door to see Dean standing there, hands splayed, legs spread like a cookie cutout, only without the cute face to go with it.
Dean was looking mighty suspicious, however. There was a wet patch on his leg. The way it trailed down his pants, also suspicious, looking like he’d wet himself.
“Dude?” Sam said. “I told you not to move.”
“Yeah, well—” Dean’s cheeks bolstered through his chuckle. He looked down at the floor, and Sam followed—to Dean’s thumb? lying on the ground near his feet in a puddle.
“What happened?” Sam dumped his burdens on the table—the room’s ice bucket, herbs and matches. He stepped over to Dean to retrieve the appendage, sitting nail down in the bubbles, not yet iced, but soggy on account of the swill.
“I wanted a beer.” Dean shrugged.
“And it couldn’t wait til after? What if they don’t grow back?”
“I got the other one on ice.” Dean pointed his good thumb at the refrigerator.
“You iced it?” Sam blinked. Was that a good thing? It made sense for something amputated, but this was gingerbread. Did gingerbread belong in the freezer?
“Yeah. You can put cookies in the freezer, right?”
Sam shrugged himself. “I guess.”
“Right?” Dean beamed at his own genius. “I’m just gonna,” he pointed at his thumb and took it, taking his first step towards the fridge.
But he stumbled—on nothing. Sam’s first thought was to check. He looked straight down, expecting to find more than Dean’s boots and the spilt beer he’d already seen, but nope. No pulls in the carpet. No shoes or clothes there either.
Even if Dean’s remaining fingers housed more cholesterol in them than a stick of butter, Dean was still an agile man. He couldn’t trip over nothing. Sam trusted Dean’s abilities daily to have his back.
“What happened?” Sam asked. It seemed to be the in thing as of late.
“I dunno.” Dean shook his head. “My knee gave way.” And it gave way again because Dean grabbed Sam’s arm to steady himself.
He raised his right heel in the air, swinging the leg in wide circles, putting the bow further into his bowed legs. “Well, the good thing is it still feels like it’s there.” Dean snickered, but it lacked his usual pep. “Help me to the bed, would ya?”
Before Sam could say no, Dean’s arm wrapped ‘round his neck for further support, weighing him down, bending him at the waist. “Dean?” It was damn awkward. It would’ve been nice if he’d warned him before breaking his back, but—
“Bed.” Dean pointed his chin in its direction, and together, Dean hopping, they made their way over for him and his broken thumb to flop down onto the edge.
As much as it had already pained his pride, Dean needed more of Sam’s help. How the hell was he supposed to get his gear off otherwise? He only had one thumb, and leaning over to pull at his bootlaces seemed more risky than Dean cared to admit.
When he tested his knee, he was certain he felt something press along his shin. Again—it didn’t hurt. Just a quick prickle and it was over. Now, his legs felt like regular legs, aside from the sticky beer trapped within his jeans.
But something didn’t bode well for him. First his fingers, then his thumb.
The ginger bombs.
The hex bag.
There’s no way his knee wasn’t connected.
Without hesitation, “Help me take these off,” he said, lying back, stretching so that his shirt pulled back from his waist to reveal his belt.
“No,” Sam huffed.
“No? Why?” Was he really denying him help?
“Just wait for me to do the spell.” Sam motioned behind him, to where the ingredients lay on the table, leaving Dean with no choice but to voice his fears.
“What happens when you dump cookies in milk, Sam? When I washed my hands?” He looked down at the wet patches on his jeans. “I can live without a finger, but not my leg, man.”
Nor could he live junkless, either.
There was a lewd joke to be made about being thrown into the ocean with no arms and no legs that came to mind, but it wasn’t funny if it was literal. Dean was screwed and literally falling apart.
His right calf had cracked a few inches further when they removed his jeans. He felt it and made it known. There was a golf ball-sized chunk missing from his shin, and the bonier bit of his knee Sam found in his socks.
Of course, he insisted he was fine. Even shooing Sam away against his better judgement once he was down to his boxers as if Sam were the one bothering him.
All Sam’d said was, “Don’t move,” again, and it was a fair call, having experienced similar bad luck himself.
That comforter Dean sat on looked flammable, what with the AC three feet away. There was a neighbourhood dog wandering ‘round earlier who’d seemed interested in Dean’s gingerbread when it was merely samples. What could a dog do now that Dean was a giant sample himself?
Plus, the cheese tasted funny. There were two axes in Baby’s trunk. If it weren’t for the hex bag, or if it were a Tuesday, Sam would’ve considered a trickster or Gabriel himself.
But Gabe was dead, right? Dean had already died from sausage and tacos tasting funny—could he really die à la gingerbread, too?
No. No—not on Sam’s watch. There was no way he was going through all that crap again. This was a hex bag. They could overcome a hex bag. It was child’s play. He could do it with both eyes closed.
Sam scraped it and the leftovers into the ice bucket. He threw in the herbs—basil, mugwort, sage and salt—the cardboard tray and some more paper for extra good measure. “Do you think we should—?” He cut himself off.
Burning Dean’s fingers was too risky. He’d try one next if this first spell didn’t work, settling for a crumb that he’d taken from Dean’s leg and the lock of hair embedded in it into the mix.
Match lit, incantation spoken, he watched the tin light up and crackle from the heat.
And all was well. The paper burned; the small chunks of gingerbread blackened. No more golden brown or soft and sticky. The sugar ate the flame like Dean had devoured it. The ginger, fragrant against the smoke.
And then Dean’s cry turned Sam’s name into three syllables, with a rather long “mm” on the end.
He was told not to move, and he didn’t—move his legs. He sat upright and smashed both hands against the comforter like the ghastly thing had caught on fire.
It hadn’t though.
Dean had. Smoking. Turning red.
“You’re baking me! Put it out!” he cried, and Sam had no choice but to throw water onto the flames.
It was lucky he always came prepared.
Unfortunately for Dean, he hadn’t just baked. His fingers had burnt, not quite to a crisp, but charred on the ends and thinner bits.
It wasn’t a good look. It wasn’t a good feeling either. He moaned about bubbling sensations in his stomach. The gas had returned. The ginger bombs with a vengeance. It was lucky the flames had been put out, because they were lethal. Even his sweat smelt of ginger.
Still, he was a trooper, as was Sam through the toxic fumes. “Just hold still,” he said to Dean’s cry of pain some twenty minutes later, as he bound and wrapped him up.
The gauze pulled on Dean’s forearm, cutting into what remained of the underside, but he’d been the one to insist even as crumbs and a few larger pieces of himself continued to fall onto the table.
How else were they supposed to leave the motel room whole without something to hold Dean in place? They’d have cut his clothes off for no reason if they stayed.
Of course, Dean had also insisted he deal with the witch, even with char-grilled nubs for fingers and toes.
After a call to her, Rowena had insisted on it, too.
“First you burned me, now you’re breaking me.” He picked at the loose bits of himself, wincing—again—as Sam wound another layer around him.
“For the spell,” Sam supplied. “Someone had to burn the hex bag.”
“And did the hex bag burn?” Dean’s chin raised to the bucket, still smoking before them like an incense burner might.
The leather pouch had blackened, but the gold twine attached was immaculate, having grown a small note from thin air—much like the icing on Dean’s finger.
“Did you want me to keep trying?”
Dean’d made it sound like he wasn’t on board with the plan, but they always burned the hex bags. He’d said nothing against it when he offered to get the materials, nor as he was lighting it all up.
“No.” Dean pouted and amply changed the subject. “Who leaves a calling card on their hex bag, anyway? Pay your debt, and she’ll set you free?” Dean recalled the note as if Rowena had cast the hex on him and he was mocking her for it. “What witch advertises they’re a witch by naming their bakery after one?”
Who takes a whole tray of samples? is what Sam wanted to say, but he’d already asked that plenty of times. “And what would you call it?” he tried.
“I dunno. Park Rapids Bakery?” Dean wagged his brow like no one had ever named a business after the town they lived in before.
If Sam stuffed his ears with pieces of Dean, would it afford him some silence just until they made it to said bakery? He pulled extra tight when he tied off the bandage, for more extra measure, of course.
“Ow,” Dean cried—again—but Sam ignored him to look at his legs. They were no longer their usual pasty white, but tanned and forming bubbles near the crack.
“Maybe I should get the Scotch-tape,” he said.
Being behind the wheel of Baby was surreal. Sam’d driven her before, but whenever he did, it was because of Dean being incapacitated or not there. While his current status was debatable, the way he sat in the passenger seat was a sight to see. Arms splayed out at his sides, at the same awkward angle to his body.
He’d rolled his head back, resting it on the vinyl, the pose suiting a fashion magazine if they were styling a gym inside a psych ward.
The gauze on his arms ran all the way up, but you wouldn’t know that on account of the motel’s robe covering him. He wore his coat over that, too, but it sat on his shoulders. His hands, like boxers’ gloves if it weren’t for the colour, and wonky padding.
“Would ya quit staring?” He opened his left eye to peek back at Sam.
“Sorry. I just. You look like shit.” Sam snickered.
“Do you kiss Mom with that mouth? So do you.” Dean smirked, as did Sam. Though it quickly pulled into a frown—just not because of Dean’s smart ass response.
He could admit his comment made him worse for starting it, but the truth is, Dean did look like shit. It wasn’t just the bandages or the odd bits of splotchy skin now appearing on his face. Dean was subdued, and literally—stiff as a board.
On the phone call, Rowena seemed to think the witch would fix him right back up with little convincing. That she’d left a calling card on her hex bag was proof enough. Merely just to get their attention? For what, though?
It didn’t make any sense.
She’d been cooperative in their investigation. Gave them an address, and a name that checked out. And when they left, she said nothing at all. Just gave Dean a scornful smile.
“What do you think she wants?” Sam asked aloud.
“I dunno.” Only Dean’s mouth moved.
“I mean, do you think she has something to do with the case?”
Dean sat up then, but he didn’t shuffle back to sit against the seat, remaining on the edge, awkwardly leaning forward. “I dunno, Sam. And I don’t care. I’ll do whatever she wants to turn me back—then I’ll gank the bitch.”
“For turning you back?” Sam took his eyes off the road. “Dean, it’s probably best to let it lie. What good are you if she makes this permanent?”
“I’d like to see her try.”
Dean’s confidence was admirable, but Sam couldn’t forget the way he’d called his name out of his head. There was real panic there. He was definitely scared.
But so was Sam. At least he could admit it.
He focused back on the road, though, because Dean shut himself off. He hadn’t folded his arms, but Sam knew him well enough to know he would’ve, had it not been for the bandages and the crumbs.
The Wicked Whisk Bakery is your pride and joy. Each fixture, fitting and flourish, crafted to the highest standards with warm wood and shiny brass. You were picturing cottage-core crosses Kiki’s Delivery Service when you set everything up, but you’re really not that kind of witch.
You bake sure, though you don’t make anything by hand. Why would you do that when a flick of your wrist does the trick?
It’s how you light the ovens every morning. It’s how you baked twenty pies, down to the crust, that morning. You mightn’t have turned the spoon by hand, but things taste better when they’re given time to marinate.
You had ten cakes atop the flames, and five dozen cookies cooling by the window, all mixed by the same magic. New samples needed to be made, and quickly, as well as those ready to sell—-all thanks to Agent Plant.
“Hello boys,” you said to the monotone image of him and Page at the front door. They were out of their suits now, dressed in ordinary clothes.
Well…Page was. Plant appeared to be wearing nothing under his winter coat besides flip-flops and some bandages. Though it was hard to tell with such a grainy image on the monitor.
The white balls on the screen where his hands should be looked like cotton buds or lollipops at the end of their tether. In truth, they were probably shattered, broken and crumbly underneath, just as all good cookies should be.
“Serves you right.” You untied your apron strings and placed the apron on the bench beside your dough. You left it to knead itself as you intercepted them before they broke your lock or worse. The last thing you needed was for the mahogany panes to splinter. You might’ve fixed it, but it would never be the same.
Stepping out into the shopfront from the back room, you heard metal scraping against metal as “Agent Page” continued his attempts at the lock.
It only flared your temper more—what if he damaged the bolt? You didn’t bother to flick on the light. Rather, you chose to pull the baking sheet right out from under Plant, startling his and Page’s scheming faces with a wicked grin and a welcoming stance when you opened your front door.
“Gentlemen,” you said, stepping back from the stoop to shield yourself from the cold. “Bakers start extra early, don’t you know?”
The large cabinet was bare when Sam and Dean stepped inside the store behind you. The glass frosted over from the cold, even though the surrounding room was toasty from your baking.
Sam was more concerned when you walked behind it, however. In normal circumstances, a normal human might have a gun back there.
Of course, he had his weapon, too, loaded with witch killing bullets on Dean’s insistence, but you went straight to your cash register, powering it on, punching in numbers. Your eyes focused on what was before you and not the two hunters that’d paid you a visit.
“Ahhh—” Sam began, walking towards you, putting his hands on the polished counter like he was waiting to be served.
Dean followed, of course, though he was rather slow. Sam looked at him with a frown when he pulled in beside him, but he simply raised his brow and shrugged stiffly. If it weren’t for the lack of one, Sam’d swear he was wearing a neck brace. His body twisted, head to toe, rotisserie style.
“Are you okay?” he wanted to ask, but you beat him to the punch before he could open his mouth.
“One pound of gingerbread pieces, ten cookies,” you said, punching more buttons. “But I’ll minus two for the ones eaten before you arrived. The cardboard tray. The paper lining. Napkins.”
Wait. “What are we minus-ing?” Sam looked you straight in the eye. The register. The produce. It almost sounded like—
“Your bill.”
“My bill?” Sam jerked toward you to hear better.
“No. Not yours. His.” Your lips twitched when you nodded at Dean.
“Dean’s debt?” Sam scoffed.
“If that’s his real name.” You placed your hands on your hips, looking Dean up and down.
“But they were samples,” he said, much like he’d said to Sam earlier that day, and every other time this argument came up. “They’re supposed to be free.”
“Dude,” Sam hissed, shaking his head, before he turned back to you waiting. “Is that what this is all about?”
“What else would it be about? You got my note on the hex bag, didn’t you?”
That hex bag was in Sam’s pocket, along with what pieces he could collect of Dean. His finger, his thumb, some crumbs he’d saved from his leg, in the paper bag from dinner that once held the dreaded cheese.
“What if we weren’t hunters?” Sam pulled it from his jacket and placed it on the counter before you. “Dean’s fingers and leg are in there,” he groused, but you looked down your nose at it.
“I doubt that very much,” you said.
Dean’d had enough. Being spoken about when he was right there didn’t do too well for his ego. “You do this to regular people?” he spat, though it was hard for even Dean to take himself seriously when his voice was grainy and high pitched.
“Do what?” you said.
“Turn them into cookies?” He tried to flag his hands as he spoke, but his arms didn’t bend at the elbows like they were supposed to, staying a little out by his side no matter how hard he tried.
“Gingerbread, agent.”
“Right, gingerbread.” He covered his distress with the usual cockiness, but his tone came out more like a whine.
“Only when they take more than they should. I have a business to run.”
“But the sign said—” He looked around for the same one he’d seen earlier to prove it was misleading. His whole body moved with his shuffling feet. Only somehow he lost his balance, and nosediving, beached himself onto the solid wood and under your piercing gaze.
“Do you want to stay a cookie forever, Agent Plant?”
“No,” Dean muttered.
“Well then. Pay your debt.”
But when Sam reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, you shook your head. “Not you. Him.”
Just as he’d forked over the cash to you once Sam had straightened him, Dean forked over the cash at Biggerson’s later that morning, too.
Stuffed full of turkey, with no more ginger in his system, he was all better now, strutting with a full pair of legs and a huge grin to match his restored vigour.
“Cheer up, Sammy. It’s Christmas.” He slapped him on the back as he pulled on the door handle to leave.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Sam scoffed, allowing Dean to step ahead of him.
“Yeah, well. Close enough.”
The ground outside was covered with a layer of sloshy snow. It didn’t faze Dean, no longer in a robe, but in a fresh pair of jeans and a flannel. He was back to normal temperatures—or so he said, wearing his coat securely over his arms.
Sam thought nothing of it when he shoved his hands in the pockets, intact aside from the usual scars. But when they returned to their room, prickles ran down Sam’s spine at the sight of a dozen or more little jam and honey packets Dean emptied onto that same rickety table.
“Dude, seriously?” he said, but Dean still wasn’t fazed.
“They were complimentary.” He poked his tongue out through his teeth.
“That means you take one.”
“No, it means they’re free.”
Sam rolled his eyes in a wide circle, giving up before it could really begin again.
It still wasn’t Tuesday. He doubted Biggerson’s could ever be run by a witch when they charged ten dollars for a turkey sandwich on Christmas. Still, he double checked Dean’s newest haul for any hex bags before turning away, considering making his own.