#dean's pie

[zepskies]

does anyone remember dean ever specifying his favorite pie? or does he just like 🥧 in general

lol I genuinely don't think Dean discriminates, but my HC is cherry. 😝🍒🥧

(Blueberry is a close second.)

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: What He Needs to Think

Part 27.5 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: You've come from here, a world where Supernatural is a TV Show. Now you're in their world. You meet Chuck and he knows he didn't create you. So you find out how he explains it.

Chuck is God. At least in this universe. But, he didn't create you. A conversation about creation, existence, and Dean's emergency pie. Takes place during S11 E21 All in the Family between the canon scenes.

What He Needs to Think

Meeting God turns out to be a lot less majestic than expected.

Technically, you met Chuck earlier that day in Hope Springs, Idaho, after the Samulet started glowing in Dean’s hand and he revealed that he wasn’t just a prophet. He was God, or at least the closest thing this universe has to one.

He rewrote reality around you, Sam, and Dean like he was changing sets, then brought Kevin back just long enough to send him somewhere better.

You remembered some of what happens later, but not all of it. After this point, it gets blurrier. Amara. Casifer. Chuck making choices that leave Sam and Dean carrying the fallout.

Sam looked like someone had been handed every question he’d ever prayed over. Dean looked like someone had been handed the person who owed him answers and then dared him to ask.

And now God is in the bunker.

Using the bunker shower, wearing Dean’s robe, eating Dean’s food and wandering around like he owns the place.

Maybe he thinks he does.

You find him in the kitchen eating what appears to be leftover pie at the table. Dean’s pie, probably. You file that away as a separate problem.

He doesn’t look up when you come in.

“Chuck?”

"You have questions." He takes another bite.

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit. “Yeah.”

"You want to know why you're here."

"Yes." You wrap your hands around your coffee mug. "That's one of them."

He sets down the fork and looks at you for the first time. That same half-second of assessment from the war room, except now there's no one else in the room to move on to.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he says. "It might be hard to hear."

"Why?"

"You might be disappointed."

Something in his tone is almost gentle. The gentleness of someone delivering bad news they've already made peace with on your behalf.

You look at him. At his robe, still Dean's. At the leftover pie and the expression of patient, preemptive sympathy.

“Oh, I can take it,” you say. “Please. Tell me all about myself.”

Chuck studies you for another second, then picks up his fork again. Your eyes drift to the pie tin. Then back to him. “Was that Dean’s?”

Chuck glances down at it. “Probably.”

“You ate Dean Winchester’s emergency pie?”

Chuck blinks once. “I wasn’t aware it was emergency pie.”

“You’re God.” There it is, something the supposed omniscient being didn't know. Just one thing of many.

“Yeah,” he says and takes another bite. “And this seemed like a survivable risk.” Something almost smiles at the corner of Chuck’s mouth.

Then he says, “I think your world was one of the side realities.”

"Side realities?" you ask.

He explains it the way someone explains something to a person who probably won't fully grasp it. Measured. Careful. You are, he tells you, downstream. A creation of a creation. He makes worlds, he says. Small ones, quiet ones. No magic, no supernatural forces, nothing cosmically significant. He makes them the way someone sets a stage. A backdrop. 

Sometimes a story needs a world that exists just long enough to brush up against the important one. A place for his Sam and Dean to land for a story, look around, go home. One of them, he says, was made for a story where they ended up somewhere without monsters, angels, or magic of any kind. Just people who thought they were acting out their lives A place where everyone thought this world was fictional.

You know exactly which one he means but you don't say so.

When the story moved on, he moved on with it. He didn't give those worlds another thought. But something in one of them kept going without him. It kept creating, the way a process continues after the one who started it has left the room. That created thing grew into something that made its own creations, developed its own will, its own judgments. Like a mind building another mind, which builds another. At some point that chain produced something that made you and then looked at you and decided you belonged here. It pushed you across.

He says it like he's explaining where a stray cat probably came from.

You sit with it. You keep your hands still on the table and listen to him tell you that you are a footnote in a footnote, a ripple from a stone he threw and forgot, and you think: 

He actually believes this.

Not as a cruelty. That's almost the funniest part. He's not trying to diminish you. He genuinely, completely, with the full weight of his considerable ego, has filed you into the only category his worldview has room for. 

Because the alternative is a door he doesn't have the architecture to open. The idea that the order of things runs in the opposite direction he's describing. That there is something above him so far beyond his understanding of godhood that he wouldn't even have the language for it. That the writers who made him live in a world completely outside of his creation. That he is the creation of someone else.

Anger moves through you, quiet and controlled. Underneath it sits something steadier.

Certainty.

Whatever the real reason is that you ended up here, in this bunker, in this world, it isn't because a lesser creation's lesser creation drifted over by accident. You don't know the reason. But you know it isn't that. You know the order of things isn’t what he thinks it is and the real creator of everything isn't the man eating Dean's pie in Dean's robe.

"How did I get here?" you say, when he's finished. "If I'm a creation of a creation, how does something like that end up in this world?"

Chuck considers this with the mild interest of someone who finds a question technically engaging but not particularly urgent.

"The thing that made you," he says, "was made from my creative force. And when it evolved enough to make its own choices, when it decided you were supposed to exist, it pushed you toward the story. The way a current moves things downstream. You were made adjacent to this world, aimed at it." He picks up the fork. "You just happened to arrive in person."

"Hmm," you say.

He looks faintly pleased with himself. Magnanimous. He has given you the gift of the truth and you are welcome for it.

"Most people find it difficult," he says, with great patience, "discovering they're not quite what they assumed."

You look at him.

You look at him for a long moment and it takes everything you have to keep your expression where it is. Because he just said that. Out loud. With complete sincerity. The god who forgot the worlds he made, who lost track of what his own creations built in the dark, who is standing in a borrowed robe after eating another man's pie, telling you that most people struggle to discover they aren't what they thought they were.

Buddy, you think. You have NO idea.

"Good talk," you say.

You get up, pour yourself another cup of coffee, and go.

You're barely out of the kitchen when you hear Sam behind you.

"Hey." He keeps his voice low. "Were you just talking to Chuck?"

You glance back toward the kitchen, then at him. "Let's talk in our room."

He follows you and closes the door.

You sit on the edge of the bed, coffee still in hand. You think that an omniscient God could hear it anyway. Sam turns his desk chair toward you and sits.

"What happened?"

You tell him what Chuck said. The throwaway worlds. The backdrop theory. The chain of creation that somehow ended with you here. You leave out the part where Chuck practically called you a cosmic clerical error. You keep your voice even. Just what he said, in order.

Sam sits quietly for a moment, turning the whole thing over. “So he thinks the world you’re from is one of his?”

“Yeah. Probably the same one Balthazar sent you to before.”

Something uncomfortable shifts across Sam’s face at that. “Do you think he’s right?”

“I think it’s the only answer he’s capable of coming up with.”

Sam looks at you steadily. “You don’t believe him.”

“No, I don't. He thinks what he needs to think,” you say.

He waits.

You look at your coffee and don’t say anything else, and he nods and lets it sit.

After a moment he says, “Did he really eat Dean’s pie?”

You look up at him and nod. “His emergency pie.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “I’m not telling him.”

"Me neither." 

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[mary-magizoologist]

Imagine... Eating Dean’s Pie

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Words: 197

Warning: none

Imagine... Eating Dean’s Pie

You were sitting in the kitchen eating some pie leftovers you've found in the fridge. When you've finished eating it, you left the plate at a side of the sink. You were cleaning the rest of the dirty plates when Dean got into the room. He stood next to you and kissed your cheek. "Hey," you smiled at him. "Hey, gorgeous," he smiled back at you. He walked over to the fridge and opened it, he frowned and closed it. "Sweetheart, I had some pie left in the fridge, did Sammy eat it?" he frowned making you stop your chore. You turned around with a guilty look on your face. "Sorry, babe... I ate the last piece," you apologized. "You... That was my pie," he said. You knew how much Dean loved his pie. "I'm sorry, Dean," you repeated. "But you wanna know the silver lining?" You smiled walking to stand in front of him, and hug him by the waist. "What?" He whispered looking down at you. "I made a new pie, it's in the oven," you smiled. "God, I love you," he shook his head and leaned to kiss your lips.    

Feedback is very welcome!

[zepskies]

Question. Would Dean still love those pies that has meat instead of fruit? Meatpies, like the ones from Australia and Great Britain. Might be mince pies, meat pies, Shepard's pie. That stuff.

Or maybe Pineapple pie, Buko Pie (Coconut, it's from my country The Philippines).

Personally, I only tried meat pies, the authentic kind from Australia. And of course Pineapple Pie and Buko Pie

imo Dean doesn't discriminate when it comes to good pie lmao. It might take him some mental adjustment with meat pies, because that's not really as much of a thing in the U.S., but he's such a foodie that he's open to trying pretty much anything if it looks good and smells good and is pie shaped.

Dean's very Joey coded in most respects lol

As much as I'm obsessed with The Great British Bake-Off, I've never actually had a minced pie or other meat pie yet, but most Hispanic/Latino cultures have empanadas, which are similar (smaller pastries filled with meat, cheese, and/or fruit). I just looked them up, and both Pineapple Pie and Buko Pie sound delicious too!

[zepskies]

Home Cooking

Summary: Now that you and Dean have a daughter, living at the bunker with Sam means you get to be more domestic, to varying degrees of success. Dean learns to enjoy your attempts at cooking.  

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader  Word Count: 1,200 Warnings: Implied sexy times, mostly fluff

Sure, Sam’s got the whole brooding nerd thing covered.

He could tell you about a piece of art modeled off some technique people came up with centuries ago, and come up with math in his head faster than Dean can eat a Snickers (and Dean proudly owns a record of 3.6 seconds).

Hell, between Sam and Charlie, they could probably hack into the Pentagon if you give them twenty-four hours.

So yeah, the guy knows a lot of shit about a lot of shit. But Dean likes to think he knows some shit too.

He may not have his brother’s IQ, but he knows how to read people. He knows when something’s not on the up and up, can watch people lie and maneuver them right where he needs them to get a breakthrough on a job.

He’s seen a couple hundred species of monster in his life, and he’s cut up a few hundred. Maybe a thousand.

He sees more blood and gruesome gore than he cares for.

Maybe that’s why he stops, and can’t help but watch you cook. 

It’s part of the reason why Dean is glad they moved more permanently into the bunker, that they have the time to make actual food. He thinks you do it out of habit, from when it was just the two of you, plus your infant daughter in that house for a year. When he thought Sam was in Hell.

It still feels kind of like that now, just with the addition of Sam (not soulless), and now Kevin in their makeshift family.

Dean thinks, by the way you concentrate when you’re measuring—pouring water exactly to the little blue line on the measuring cup, sucking in your lower lip until he’s sure you must be hurting yourself—that you’re an absolute perfectionist. Which is what’s getting you so frustrated.

It’s also what makes you their sniper shot on the hunt, and damn-near elegant at carving up monsters.  

But when it comes to food (bless your heart), Dean knows you’re trying your best. Even though the meals are pretty hit or miss (especially breakfast), he’s no chef, so he really can’t judge. He also doesn’t have the heart to tell you when the pancakes are so burnt they smell a bit like sulfur.

(Actually, it’s really because he can’t afford any more bruises.)

But it’s also kind of adorable that you try so hard to give him what he loves. And what he loves is good food, and you.

However.

Dean likes to sit from his chair at the kitchen table with a newspaper and uses his mug of coffee (or a beer) to supervise when you fry things.

“Fuck you, Dean. I know what the hell I’m doing!” you gripe at him, pretending to be annoyed by his presence while scooping a burger patty out of the boiling oil.

“Pay attention to what you’re doing,” he reminds you while flipping the page, and almost sighs when he hears a pained squeak and a string of colorful, muttered curses.

“Let me know when to break out the ice,” he adds, hiding a grin behind his newspaper.

“Shut up,” you grouse. “I’m trying to meat-flip here!”

Sam, Dean and Kevin stay out of the literal hot zone that is the four-foot perimeter around the stove when you fry things.

And more often than not, it’s the three of them that get stuck with the mess of exploded oil afterward, when you so conveniently pull the “our baby girl wants me to read to her before bed” card, when they all know the four-year-old reserves that role almost exclusively for Sam.

But Dean would be lying if he said he doesn’t stare when you dance to the radio, spatula in one hand and a salt canister in the other. You bounce to the beat long enough to season what might turn out to be a good meal (you do pretty good on spaghetti), then lose track of yourself trying to stir sauce at the same time.

Dean watches you practically skip to each of your stations—stove, cutting counter for vegetables, and the cherry pie in the oven that you don’t know he knows you’re baking—until you pause, glancing over your shoulder.

You quirk a brow at him, curiosity in your eyes.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask.

Dean catches himself and goes back to scanning the news.

“Food smells good.”

“Well, you asked for chicken parm, so that’s what you’re getting,” you reply, and you check the meat to see if it’s cooked through yet.

“…Probably. Shit,” you mutter quietly, so you think Dean doesn’t hear you panicking. “Looked different on Pinterest.”

Dean unconsciously smiles as he watches you test the tomato sauce out of the corner of his eye.

“Can’t wait,” he says.

“And there’s a surprise dessert…just promise you won’t steal any from your daughter’s plate this time.” You send him a pointed look. “She’s just as sensitive as you are with your food.”

This time, Dean has to chuckle and can’t help but tease you a little. “No promises.”

He’s not surprised when you bring out the pie after dinner. The candle on top throws him off, though. He didn’t even remember…

“Happy Birthday,” your lips whisper against his after you kiss him thoroughly, despite complaints in the background from both your daughter and Kevin. Sam just smiles a small, contented smile.

Dean pulls you onto his lap. He feels warm, complete in a way he never thought possible again. His grip on your hips tighten, and he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” is all he can say.

The pie is actually pretty fucking delicious. The crust is all buttery and the filling is rich and melty at the same time. Dean hates to be cliché, but it’s a small piece of literal heaven on a goddamn plate.

Then he has to kiss you again, properly, because even with all your mishaps, Dean knows you just want to give him and Sam a good home-cooked meal every time they’re home. Because for once they have a home. No one’s missing their soul and they’re finally getting to live like a family.

So, maybe Dean doesn’t catch everything.

But eventually his surprise birthday dinner comes to an end. Kevin disappears into his room and Sam ushers your little girl upstairs to get ready for bed.

Dean realizes how domestic he looks, is, while washing the army of pots and pans you used for cooking while you put away the leftovers. He doesn’t mind doing these kinds of chores, because it gives him quiet moments like these with you.

And you’re fucking beautiful to him, even now, with a piece of crusty tomato in your hair from when it splattered in the pan earlier. (And shit, is that another oil burn on your neck?)

“Dean,” you call him quietly, rousing him from his bout of staring at you.

“Yeah?”

A sly smile spreads across your face as you slowly pull a can of whipped cream from behind your back, along with the last slice of pie.

“Ready for your real present?”

Dean’s brows shoot up, a smirk curving his lips. Well, he always has room for his two favorite desserts.

The suggestive sway of your hips while Dean follows you up the stairs to your shared room is all he needs to really appreciate your cooking.   

Here’s another lil’ oneshot for Dean. Let me know what you think!

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Supernatural Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[littlebrothersammy]

My facebook decided to kill me today with a TALKING PIE. I HAVENT SEEN THE EPISODE YET AND ITS KILLING ME. DONT TALK TO ME YOU SILLY PIE.

[the-tardis-impala-at-221bbakerst]

One day Sam is going to wake up with really short hair and Dean will set the clippers down on the table and shrug "short hair or long hair, cake or pie, what's the difference right?"

[deepdarkfandom]

Parent: we're having pie for dinner

Me: I INVOKE THE PIE GOD DEAN. OH MIGHTY SQUIRREL PLEASE COME DOWN FROM HEAVEN AND ACCEPT THIS OFFERING UNTO YOU

Parent: *slowly backs away*