Summary: A short little one-shot where Sam bakes Dean a pie, but of course things don't go quite as expected. It's the Winchesters - nothing's ever easy! Also features a side dish of Baby Winchesters :) This could be read as something of a follow up to my story Just Like We Always Do, as it does take place after the S8 finale.

Disclaimer: I haven't finished devising my grand kidnapping scheme so the boys still aren't mine. Anyone with a brilliant idea is welcome to chime in on said scheme. The boys haven't washed out their dirty mouths yet either...

Now, go read!

"What's all this?"

Dean stares incredulously at the dizzying array of pots, dirty bowls and utensils scattered haphazardly around the kitchen.

When Dean left, Sam was taking nap. Now the kitchen looks like a tornado blew through and Sam's not resting like he's supposed to be. Moron. Leave him alone for an hour and he decides he's gonna be freaking Rachel Ray.

Sam's standing over the stove, vigorously stirring something in a saucepan. He startles when he hears Dean's voice behind him.

"Dean, hey!"

"Hey, yourself." Dean places his hands on his hips and does another survey of the destroyed kitchen. "So uh, what's up?"

"Um, baking." Sam grins sheepishly and looks marginally embarrassed when he says, "I didn't think you were going to be back for like another hour."

"Huh," Dean grunts. The whole scene is just entirely bizarre and he's not really sure what to think. And Sam's a mess. He has flour smeared on his arms and cheeks, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He ignores his older brother's scrutiny and continues frantically stirring the concoction in the pot. Small drops of dark purple dot his neck and one of his cheeks. Dean's sorry he missed the explosion.

He walks around the counter to glance over his brother's shoulder and sniff at the mushy, dark purple contents. "So, uh…whatcha makin'?"

"Black Eye pie," Sam replies and at first he doesn't notice Dean hiding his mouth behind his hand.

It's church service quiet and when Sam looks up, all serious and eyebrows creased in concentration, Dean can't help it.

"What?" Sam looks genuinely confused and that just makes Dean laugh harder.

"I'm sorry, man its just-"

"Dean," Understanding dawns on Sam's face and suddenly he's turning a bitchy glare on his older brother. "It's the title of the recipe, jackass. I didn't name it."

And Dean is still trying to get himself under control when Sam gripes, "It's your damn cookbook!"

"I'm sorry, Sam." Dean wipes tears from his eyes. Sam doesn't look convinced in the slightest and just turns back to his pot.

"No, no, really." He slaps Sammy on the shoulder. "So what goes in a Black Eye pie, Master Chef?"

"Blackberries and blueberries," Sam huffs.

"Ah, I get it!" Dean announces triumphantly, chuckling again.

Sam rolls his eyes and dumps the contents of the pot into a waiting dish already molded with dough. Sam's even made an attempt at thumb-printing to create the crust.

"So what's the occasion, Betty?"

Dean swears he sees Sam's shoulders tense just a fraction before rolling them into a careless shrug - And he suspects it has nothing to do with his 'Betty' dig.

"I don't know," Sam carefully lays another thin circle of dough across the top of the dish and starts pressing. "I just figured, you know, you're always making meals and everything. I thought it was time for me to get in on the action. Return the favor."

"Sammy, it's a not a favor. I like it. I mean, you know...cooking and shit."

Dean catches a brief flash of dimples. "Yeah, I know. I also know pie is a notch below sex on your list of top three's."

Dean snorts, "Try neck and neck." He sighs longingly. "No, no…you know what's even better? Sex and pie."

"Oh God," Sam moans.

"Like at the same time! You know, lick some cool whip and pop a cherry." Dean's doing a really good impression of a Cheshire cat.

"Okay, enough with the mind numbing visuals, Dean. I'm sorry I brought it up."

Even after all these years, Sam still gets flustered and his cheeks flush when Dean talks crap like that. And after all these years, it's still hilarious.

"Would you go away now so I can finish your stupid pie?"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, princess. I'm leaving." He grabs a beer from the fridge before heading for the living room.

"I'll get you when it's ready," Sam calls after him.

"Yes, dear!" Dean hollers back in a high pitched falsetto as he settles himself on the couch.

Thirty minutes later Dean strolls back into the kitchen and finds Sam carefully slicing his creation.

"Smells good, Sammy."

Sam doesn't glance up from his task.

Dean's not quite sure how, but there's even more flour. A dab on Sam's nose, a swash across the crotch of his jeans, and even a patch of white in his hair.

"Well it should. Took long enough," Sam says as he hunts down a couple of plates and forks.

"You sure you used enough flour?"

"Huh? Yeah, I just follo-"

Sam glares - completely unamused - while Dean snickers.

"Sit down," Sam orders wearily.

Dean does as he's told, folding his hands patiently on the table. Sam balances two plates laden with enormous slices of pie and places the first in front of Dean before sitting down with his own.

Dean picks up his fork.

"Oh, hang on. I almost forgot!" Sam bounces up from the table and heads for the fridge. He produces a bowl of fluffy white whipped cream, grabs a giant spoon and heaps a generous helping on top of Dean's slice of pie.

"Homemade and everything." And his proud grin makes him look exactly like a ginormous kid.

Dean smiles back, "Looks great, Sammy."

He takes his first bite, chews and nearly chokes on a fucking mouthful of salt.

Holy crap. It's like someone just shoved an entire salt lick down his throat. His tongue is actually stinging. He wonders how the deer do it.

Sam's attempt at subtlety fails miserably as he keeps sneaking glances in Dean's direction while he cuts his own bite. And he looks so freaking hopeful that Dean forces himself to swallow his mouthful of ocean and prays he doesn't start gagging. He plasters on a pained smile and nods in one quick, jerky motion.

"Yeah…" He manages and gives Sam a thumbs up before gulping down a blessed swallow of beer.

Sam sits there looking understandably confused. Before Dean can say anything else he shoves a bite in his own mouth and chews experimentally.

His face contorts and he gurgles around a mouthful of salty berries, "What the hell?" Before quickly racing to the sink to spit out the offending contents.

He swishes around a mouthful of tap water and wipes a sleeve across his lips.

"I don't understand," Sam moans. "I only used a teaspoon of salt, and it was for the crust!"

Dean's trying really hard to not smile.

"Um, Sammy? Did you get the sugar out of the small jar or the bigger one?"

"The big one," Sam replies, still looking bewildered.

"Yeah, that's the salt, genius. I organized our dry storage a while back."

"Dean, why the hell would you put the sugar in the small jar?"

"Because we only had a little bit of sugar and a ton of salt," Dean answers defensively.

Sam sighs and just stands there looking miserable. He's pouting down at the remainder of the pie like he can magically make it delicious by glaring at it.

"Man, I just can't get anything right. You're stuff always tastes gourmet." He gestures accusingly down at the pastry. "I try to make one freaking pie and it tastes like a deer lick because I can't tell salt from sugar."

Dean's mouth twitches at the exact comparison he mentally made a second ago. Still, he feels kinda sorry for the kid. After all, Sam had worked on the pastry practically the entire afternoon.

"Nah, that's not true. The whipped cream tastes awesome." Dean pokes a finger in the pile of cream on his plate and licks off a giant dollop, smacking his lips to prove his point.

Sam slumps dejectedly in his chair. "Oh, great," he mutters bitterly.

"Dude," Dean chuckles. "You're such a girl. It's really not a big deal. So you're first try wasn't perfect…so what?"

"Dean, I basically dumped two cups of salt on a bunch of berries and baked it. I'd say that qualifies as an epically shitty first."

Dean stifles a grin and Sam's bitch glare has leveled up or something because he really shouldn't be that good at it. Dean's actually kind of scared that Sam's going to lunge over the table and wallop him.

"Sorry," He waves both hands defensively, trying to pacify. "I was just thinking…that time you dumped an entire can of salt into Dad's cake."

"What?" Sam's forehead wrinkles in confusion, his current pie woes momentarily forgotten. "I didn't…when did I do that?"

"Ah, yeah, you were really little," Dean's laughter is decidedly unreserved this time. "-I don't know, like two or three. Dad had left us at Missouri's for the weekend. The day he was supposed to get back was his birthday and I decided I wanted to make a cake."

Dean scrubs a hand along the back of his neck, remembering.

"And I wanted to do everything myself. Read the instructions, measure the ingredients. So I waited until Missouri was taking her nap, 'cause I knew she'd never let me start up a mixer by myself. Actually, you were supposed to be napping too…"

"Wha' doing, De?"

Two-year old Sammy stood in the doorway, tugging on his oversized sleep shirt with a thumb stuck in his mouth. Brown tufts of downy hair sticking out all over his head.

Dean stood on a stool at the counter, carefully mixing the chocolate batter.

"Sammy," Dean warns, using his most adult voice. "You're supposed to be taking your nap."

"No," the toddler declares stubbornly, (his favorite word these days). "Not seepy, De."

Dean tries again. "Sammy, get back in your bed."

"No!" Sam's thumb pops out of his mouth and he scurries out of the kitchen as quickly as his little legs will carry him, intent on escaping his big brother who he's certain is only seconds behind.

Dean, who hasn't moved from the stool, watches Sam crawl under the dining room table and plunk his diapered butt into the air, face down into the carpet, and arms covering his curly head.

Dean can't help but smile at his little brother's futile attempt at hiding and decides he doesn't feel like starting World War III. He let's Sammy think he's safe under the table and goes to grab the cinnamon from Missouri's pantry.

He's gone for less than a minute but when he returns, he finds Sam perched atop the counter beside the bowl with chocolate smeared across his face.

"I help!" The baby laughs.

He smacks the gooey chocolate off his lips, smiling at Dean through brown teeth. He then proceeds to pick up the container of salt Dean set down earlier with all the other ingredients. Sam gives it a violent shake and of course the top doesn't hold. He dumps half the container into the batter, then sticks his fists into the bowl and stirs happily.

He's buried arms deep in a salty, chocolate mess.

"Sammy, no!" Dean pulls Sam off the counter, catches the little wrists and wrestles his sticky brother over to the sink.

He grabs a wet rag and begins wiping Sam's face and hands.

After making sure Missouri's carpet and tablecloth are out of danger, Dean returns to his batter.

It's completely unsalvageable and Dad's supposed to be home in an hour.

Dean feels his eyes well up with tears. He worked so hard, followed all the directions perfectly, and now everything's ruined.

He glares at his little brother, "Sammy, why did you do that? Now Dad won't have a birthday cake! There's not enough time." He sniffles and wipes two stray tears from his face.

"I helpee De?" The baby tries. Sam looks up at Dean with terrified eyes. He's never seen his big brother cry.

"No Sammy, you just ruined it." Dean tosses the bowl and other utensils into the sink.

He wipes the last of the tears from his eyes and feels a small tug on his shorts.

Sam's own eyes are full and scared, "De, no crwy."

Dean sighs, he didn't mean to upset his little brother. He realizes Sammy only wanted to help. After all, the kid follows him everywhere, tries to do everything he sees Dean doing. It's not really his fault. Besides, Dean shouldn't have left him by himself.

He kneels down and opens his arms for a hug. Sam immediately runs into them and wraps his own little arms around Dean's neck. "De, be happy," Sammy pleads.

De do this, De do that. His little brother's become pretty bossy lately. He ruffles Sam's hair.

"Hey, Sammy I know what," He pries the baby off his chest and Sam blinks up at him. "We can make Dad cards! Cards don't take long at all."

"Cawrrds?" Sam tries out the new word and looks up with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah," Dean says excitedly. "It's like a picture with words. You can draw Dad a picture for his birthday."

Sam's face brightens and he claps his hands. "De an' Sammy do pictwure for Daddy!"

"Okay, good. Sammy, you go get the colors and I'll get some paper."

And Sam happily scampers off to fetch the crayons.

"You had your hands full," Sam laughs as he tosses the plates and ruined pie into the trash.

"Yeah," Dean takes another swig of beer, smiling at the memory. "Still do."

Sam is quiet for a moment. But just when Dean's beginning to squirm uncomfortably, wondering if he maybe he should've kept that last part to himself, he hears another huff of laughter.

"Man, I can't believe you actually swallowed that shit!"

"Well, I didn't want to hurt your girly feelings."

"Oh, shut up."

"See what I mean, bitch?"

"Whatever." But Sammy's smiling and he looks more relaxed than Dean's seen him in a long time. In fact, he looks almost healthy.

"But yeah, I think I'll stick to laundry."

"Whatever milks your goat, little brother."

The End! In addition to brilliant schemes, I'd also appreciate a review if you can spare a moment :) Thanks for reading!