Chapter Text
“Darn motherfucking fucks. You serious? Gotta fuck you and~”
“Dean, what?” Sam was just about to enter the bunker’s kitchen when he heard Dean cursing, baking supplies splattered around the countertop. “What happened?”
He stood there, watching an angry Dean staring at his hands, then the huge bag of flour and back.
“What happened, Dean?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing, really.”
“Nothing? You are attracting the Men of Letter’s ghosts with your curses.” Sam raised an amused eyebrow, watching Dean’s hand sink into the flour to let the white powder sift through his fingers. Dean was feeling more at home than ever and had started to enjoy the ordinary things in life, and of course Dean Winchester was not able to do anything the normal way at all. That’s why the bunker’s pantry was now filled with heavy bags of flour and sugar. He had even introduced Sam to his plan to keep chickens – “fresh eggs make the dough invaluable, Sammy.”
Sam had shrugged and asked Dean if a bunker was the right place to keep chickens, and after some serious consideration, Dean had agreed to buy eggs at the local farmer’s market. However, his current obsession was Lebanon’s pie competition.
Sam had rolled his eyes first, but when Dean Winchester got invested, he was unstoppable. So by now Dean had spent a ridiculous amount of time in the kitchen to create the perfect pie, and he was willing to share his creations with Sam, whose secret favourite was Dean’s cherry pie, with cranberries coming close. Dean’s goal was, of course, the first prize at the baking competition on Lebanon’s annual harvest market.
That meant everyone in Lebanon had to deal with Dean’s pies, not that anyone was complaining, the lady in the post office flashed her brightest smile whenever Dean dropped by to pick up their latest orders – these days it were mostly baking supplies. And rather often she got one or two slices of pie “as an exchange for my orders,” Dean used to say and the lady smiled even wider – and Sam stood in the background, desperately trying not to roll his eyes, because “seriously, Dean, it does not work like that, there’s no exchange, you just show your fake-ID and receive your parcel, it’s easy.”
However, Dean loved it, everyone in Lebanon loved it and Sam thought there was not that much of a real competition, no need for Dean to work that hard on improving with his hobby, but yeah, in the end it made Dean happy, and seeing his happy face whenever he served Sam his next creation – it was totally worth it, like really.
Dean was still shuffling around in the flour, face distorted in desperate concentration.
“Have you lost something?” Sam asked and in exactly that moment it hit him and he was not sure if he wanted to laugh or give Dean’s shoulder an annoyed smack.
“You’ve lost the ring, haven’t you?”
Dean looked up at him with his most desperate expression. “It’s gone. The fuckin’ flour ate it up, I swear. It’s cursed. Maybe Rowena …”
For a moment Sam feared Dean was going to get his gun to show the ‘darn bag in front of him who was in charge here, in their home, in his kitchen, of all things’.
“It’s a ring, Dean.”
Dean stared at Sam with his eyes wide, almost as upset as during the time when they found out about Chuck and God.
“Our ring. You’ve got it for us.”
“But it won’t change anything between us.” Sam shook his head. “Besides, I am sure it won’t disappear that easily, Dean. It is still there. Why should Rowena send us a bag of cursed flour? It would be easier to play games with us … Do you need help?”
A low growl was rumbling from Dean’s chest, sign of his annoyance. But he nodded.
Sam tucked up his sleeves, fingers sliding into the flour. It felt odd, so much softer than sand and for a moment he was sure to understand why baking gave Dean so much peace. It was comforting, finding peace in the ordinary things.
Dean stepped back to watch Sam, tip of his tongue wetting his lips at the sight of Sam’s arm working inside the bag. Why was Sammy so hot, even while doing stuff like that? It was simply unfair. And now he had even lost~
“Got it!” Sam proudly exclaimed. And indeed, he held the ring in his hand, the usual silver surface now covered white with flour. “May I?” he asked and took Dean’s hand in his.
Dean seemed to be too confused to react, so Sam slipped the ring on Dean’s finger. “You still wanna marry me?” he asked and Dean seemed to melt under his touch, freckles disappearing under his blush. “‘course, bitch,” he breathed out and let Sam pull him into a kiss.