fic: the con man and the piemaker
Dec. 3rd, 2012 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kasihyaTitle: The Con Man and the Piemaker
Fandom: Supernatural/Pushing Daisies
Characters: Dean, Olive, Sam, Ned, and a bit of Chuck and Emerson
Wordcount: 2.8K
Summmary: Dean Winchester, age twenty-six years, eleven months, five days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes old, had not intended to hunt for graves to desecrate when he picked up the local paper that morning.
Notes: So. Much. Fun. I narrated this in my head in Jim Dale's voice, and wrote this solely for the proposal scene.
The facts were these: Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles had died three months, twelve days, four hours and thirteen minutes before one Meriwether Mayhew reported seeing her in the kitchen of a local pie shop, removing pies from the oven. Not only had she been brutally murdered, but she had been buried, as witnessed by two aunts, three cousins, and more than three dozen curious tourists who had hoped to attend a celebrity funeral. Naturally, no one took poor Mr. Mayhew seriously, because Charlotte Charles was most definitely dead.
But there was a slight problem.
“Empty,” Dean announced, slamming his shovel into the coffin without regard for the once-pristine white lining. Above him, his brother shone the flashlight down into the newly-excavated grave. It was, as Dean had reported, vacated. Sam set down the can of gasoline in his other hand with something like regret, and reached in to help his brother back onto level ground.
Dean Winchester, age twenty-six years, eleven months, five days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes old, had not intended to hunt for graves to desecrate when he picked up the local paper that morning. He had opened a copy of the Daily Pulse intending to illustrate to his younger brother, Samuel Winchester, that the amount of time he spent in the bathroom each morning was equal to or greater than the amount of time it took to read the newspaper cover to cover. As he was perusing the paper and remarking upon his progress through the bathroom door, he came across a short, urgent letter to the editor in which Mr. Mayhew, described by many as a man for whom bottle made two, three, and four, claimed that the ghost of Charlotte Charles was haunting the pie shop in the next town over.
“Sam!” he shouted, folding the newspaper over so that the letter remained visible. He could feel a smile spreading across his face. “Think I found us a job.”
Sam stuck his head out of the bathroom door, dripping water onto the motel carpet. “What?” he asked.
Dean read him out the letter. “You remember Charlotte Charles. What d’you think?”
Sam made a face. “It doesn’t sound like much to go on.”
“We’ve gone on hunts for less.”
Sam tilted his head, considering this. Halfway through considering, he stopped, comprehension dawning on his face. He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Where did you say he saw her?”
The grin on Dean’s face grew wider. “Some place called the Pie Hole. Fifteen minute drive away, tops. Sounds like our kind of gig, don’t it?”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “The Pie Hole?”
“I’ll admit, it’s not the wittiest name I’ve ever come across …”
“And this is just about the dead girl.”
Dean waved the newspaper at him. “Of course it is. What else would it be?”
Despite Sam’s well-founded skepticism of the validity of their case, by noon that day, Dean Winchester found himself standing on the curb outside of a pie-shaped building in the middle of an otherwise geometric city. He turned to his brother and beamed at him. "Tell me that's not awesome."
Sam looked up at the roof and laughed. “Now I know how Hansel and Gretel must have felt,” he said.
Dean broke off his reverent contemplation of the display windows to scoff. “Sure you do. Samantha.” The last, he added under his breath.
Sam scowled. “Shut up. I mean, look at it. Nothing about it strikes you as weird? It’s not too …” He struggled to find the right word. Had he been able to find it, the word would have been wholesome.
Dean shook his head. “Nope. Looks fine to me.” So saying, he strode forwards with great purpose, and entered into the Pie Hole with Sam only a step behind him.
He had meant to have a look around, and search the establishment for ghostly omens before settling down to eat; but he was denied this opportunity. As soon as they entered, they were accosted by a diminutive blonde woman who would have needed to sit on her own shoulders to look either man in the eye. This did not prevent her from trying. “Hey, there!” she said, waving at them both and offering a toothy smile. “How can I be of service?”
“We’re just looking,” — began Sam.
“We’d like to see some menus,” Dean interrupted him.
Olive Snook nodded. She tore her gaze away from the two new customers long enough to gather menus from behind the counter, then returned post-haste. Though her heart had long belonged to the Piemaker, her eyes had made no such promises. She led them over to the counter. “Coffee?” she asked. “It’s a little late for coffee, don’t you think, but you look like you’ve been driving a ways, you've just got that look, and I know I always need coffee when I’m on the road, otherwise I just nod right off! Almost cost me my head, once.” She laughed. The man who had led the charge into the shop laughed with her, not quite as heartily but a small and slightly confused smile was better than none at all.
“I’ll have coffee, no milk, and a slice of the triple-berry pie,” he said.
“Nothing for me,” said his companion.
He was rewarded with an elbow to the side. Olive winced in sympathy. He rolled his eyes. “I’ll have … the lemon,” he said, glancing at the menu.
Olive beamed at him, taking the menu from his limp hand. “You won’t regret it,” she promised, as she whisked herself off to the coffee machine.
Sam looked around the Pie Hole as soon as the waitress had left. Save for one or two other customers, it was empty. An old man sat by the window with a sock puppet on one hand and a fork in the other; at the far end, a large man in a suit sat knitting what looked like a holster for a revolver. Sam nudged his brother in order to bring this to his attention. Dean raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
They both watched the man as he purled. After a moment, the man looked up at them. The corners of his mouth turned down. Both brothers decided it would be in their best interests to turn around and become interested in the kitchen.
As it turned out, there would shortly be no need for them to feign interest in other things; for at this moment, Olive returned, pies stacked on one arm and coffee in the other. She placed them onto the counter with great aplomb. “There you go. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything else.” She winked at Dean, whose smile grew.
“Thanks. You too,” he said, leaning in. On his other side, Sam wished that he were far, far away — perhaps in a library or a mysteriously abandoned house. He tapped his fork on the side of his china plate, in order to ensure that his displeasure was known.
“Oh, come on,” said Dean, as Olive sauntered over to the man knitting in the corner. He tilted his head after her, gaze laden with unsubtle suggestion.
Sam snorted. “Seriously? Now?” he asked, looking around at the brightly lit pie shop. Though there were no children there at the moment, the atmosphere still exuded a certain stubbornly maintained purity.
Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned his attention to the pie on his plate, and cut a large triangle off the end. He sized it up. Then he took a bite.
In that instant, as the triple-berry pie hit his tongue, time seemed to slow. Every thought of Olive Snook was wiped clean from his mind. So, too, was the mystery of Charlotte Charles, and the ghost for which they had come. For a moment, he forgot that he was a murderer, a con man, an orphan who did not think he deserved to live. He forgot that he lived in a world of cruel people who drowned children, summoned demons, and didn’t remember birthdays. He was only aware of the taste of the pie and the shifting of fabric to his left that meant his brother was there with him.
In short, Dean Winchester was happy.
He opened his eyes, which in his contemplation of the dessert he had inadvertently closed, and found Sam watching him. He looked as though he expected him to keel over, or start bleeding out his ears. It wasn’t an unfounded concern when one considered their line of work, but the hard drive of Dean’s brain had momentarily been overwritten by the contents of his plate. Unable to verbalize his momentary burst of contentment, he gestured at the pie with his fork.
“This is the best goddamn pie I have ever eaten,” he announced.
Sam nodded. “I can see that.” Had he been asked to elaborate, he would have explained that as he watched Dean eat the pie, he could see his features smooth over, his brow un-knitting until he had lost the last five years of worry. The effect was all the more astonishing because over the course of their travels, he had yet to see a baked pastry that could produce this effect on his elder brother. Sam tried his own pie, curiosity piqued, and almost immediately disappointed. His taste buds rejoiced, but though the weight of the world lessened, it did not lift completely off his shoulders. It could have been that he wasn’t in the proper frame of mind that day. It could have been that lemon just didn’t do it for him. But in all likelihood, the taste and texture of pie simply did not affect him in the same manner.
Olive, meanwhile, wandered over with a half-filled coffee pot in her hand. “How are you enjoying yourselves?” she asked, leaning on the counter with one elbow.
“Delicious,” said Sam.
“I want,” said Dean, swallowing another bite as he spoke, “to marry whoever made these. Do you think you could make some introductions?”
Olive’s smile slipped — though to her credit, she retrieved it speedily. “Sure thing. You wait here just a tic.”
Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam. Sam smiled, shook his head, and recommenced eating his slice of pie. As Dean watched him consume the pastry with enthusiasm, warmth filled his chest: for in this shop, it seemed they had found common culinary ground at last.
Olive coughed to announce her return, interrupting his moment of sentiment. She stood on the other side of the counter with a man about his own age, whose apprehension could not have been more clear if he had worn it on his apron. “Hi,” he said, lifting a hand. “Olive tells me that one or both of you have asked to be introduced, but I thought you should know that while I’m flattered by the, um, the compliment. Unfortunately at this time and for all future times, barring unforeseen catastrophe or mutual agreement to go our separate ways, I am not available. Um. I’m Ned, by the way.” He held out his hand.
Three thoughts went through the mind of Dean Winchester, as he shook the Piemaker’s hand. The first was that he needed to remember that he lived in a world of evolving gender roles, and the kitchen was no longer the exclusive realm of women. The second thought was that if the Piemaker could bake pies like this one on a regular basis, then perhaps it was time to consider expanding his interests. The third was a sense of disappointment that the second thought was nipped in the bud by the Piemaker’s words.
He concealed his disappointment well. “Dean,” he said, shaking the offered hand. “And this is my brother, Sam. I’m a huge fan of yours.”
The Piemaker gave him an uncertain smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Or ever.”
“Oh, no, we haven’t — we’re just passing through,” said Sam, kicking Dean under the table.
The Piemaker frowned.
Dean ignored the covert reprimand from his left in favor of looking the Piemaker in the eye. “And we just might have to start passing through more often. This is some damned good pie. Trust me — I know my pie.”
“Ah. Well, thank you.” The Piemaker swallowed, and bobbed his head. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Sam made several frantic faces at his brother, determined to derail the train of the conversation and move it onto tracks which would lead them to the alleged sightings of the late Charlotte Charles. They went unnoticed as Dean contemplated the crumbs on his plate and the man who stood before him.
“You’re sure you won’t let me at least buy you a drink,” Dean asked, sounding wistful.
The Piemaker’s eyes widened, and Sam allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in his hands. At that moment, a young woman emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cup pies between two candy-striped oven mitts.
“Ned, Mr. Lanzello’s taking up the bottom shelf where I normally keep the raspberry cup pies, do you want me to move — oh!” She stopped short as she rounded the corner, leaping back from the Piemaker as from the gates of Hell itself. “Don’t mind me,” she said to the brothers Winchester.
“I think you’d better just put them on the counter for now,” said the Piemaker, eyes fixed on Dean. “And yes, to answer your question, I’m absolutely certain.”
“What question?” asked Chuck, for it was she who held the tray of pies.
“Nothing. There’s been a misunderstanding, but it’s all cleared up now, honey,” said the Piemaker. To Dean, he added, “It’s been interesting meeting you. Olive will take care of you, I have a thing I need to do. In the kitchen, with baking, and preparing fruits.” His right eye twitched. He fled. Chuck followed him, speaking in lowered tones
Silence descended upon the trio who remained. Dean tapped his fingers on the counter, looking at nobody in particular. “Who was that?” he asked Olive, when it became clear that Sam was too caught in the throes of mortification to mock him (for now). “The brunette chick.”
Olive picked up a coffee cup, seemingly out of nowhere, and began to wipe it clean with a wet rag. “Her? Oh, she’s his girlfriend. She’s nobody important.”
Dean looked at Sam. Sam lifted his head and looked at Dean. The same thought crossed both of their minds. Dean turned back to Olive. “Does his girlfriend have a name?”
Olive shoved her hand into the coffee mug to reach the very bottom. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious," said Dean, pasting on a smile. "I’ll bet she’s a Shirley, she looks like a Sharon. Wouldn’t you say so, Sam?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Oh, definitely a Shirley. Or something like that. Sharon, Shirley … Charlotte …”
“What makes you say that?” asked Olive. She began to back up towards the kitchen.
Sam shrugged. “No reason.”
This was, of course, not true. The brothers saw that pursuing their current witness would leave them with more questions than answers, so they resolved, by means of exchanging several significant glances, to come back another time. They finished eating in silence and paid for their pies.Then they waited for Olive to give them the correct change, as she initially handed them back fifty dollars extra in a fit of nerves.
As they left, Dean looked over his shoulder at the marvelous pie shop. In the kitchen, the young woman and the Piemaker were bent over something unseen behind a large countertop, while Olive looked on. A feeling of great weight, banished only temporarily by the triple-berry pie, crept back over him. “I’m going to be pissed if it turns out that I’ve been passed over for a ghost,” he said.
Sam glanced back at the Pie Hole. “Definitely not a ghost. And too lively for a zombie. I’d say a gjenganger, but she seemed pretty non-violent to me. I mean, working in a pie shop?”
They crossed the street and headed for the car, leaving the bright pie-shaped building behind them. Dean let out a sigh. In another part of the world, a yellow-eyed demon roamed; a hundred feet away from him, a woman who should have been dead baked small but delicious pies; and seven inches away stood his brother, a man whose forays into the realm of the psychic grew ever more troubling. But right now, the sun shone down on the city; pigeons cooed on the window ledges above their heads; pie sat rich and satisfying in his stomach; and his burdens seemed just a little lighter. He opened the door to the car. “Either way, looks like we’ve got ourselves a grave to find. Come on, Sammy,” he said. "Work to do."
END
Epilogue: ... and they did eventually discover that Chuck was formerly deceased, but after a long philosophical argument between Sam'n'Dean they decide to let it be, and everyone lives happily ever after.
Fandom: Supernatural/Pushing Daisies
Characters: Dean, Olive, Sam, Ned, and a bit of Chuck and Emerson
Wordcount: 2.8K
Summmary: Dean Winchester, age twenty-six years, eleven months, five days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes old, had not intended to hunt for graves to desecrate when he picked up the local paper that morning.
Notes: So. Much. Fun. I narrated this in my head in Jim Dale's voice, and wrote this solely for the proposal scene.
The facts were these: Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles had died three months, twelve days, four hours and thirteen minutes before one Meriwether Mayhew reported seeing her in the kitchen of a local pie shop, removing pies from the oven. Not only had she been brutally murdered, but she had been buried, as witnessed by two aunts, three cousins, and more than three dozen curious tourists who had hoped to attend a celebrity funeral. Naturally, no one took poor Mr. Mayhew seriously, because Charlotte Charles was most definitely dead.
But there was a slight problem.
“Empty,” Dean announced, slamming his shovel into the coffin without regard for the once-pristine white lining. Above him, his brother shone the flashlight down into the newly-excavated grave. It was, as Dean had reported, vacated. Sam set down the can of gasoline in his other hand with something like regret, and reached in to help his brother back onto level ground.
Dean Winchester, age twenty-six years, eleven months, five days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes old, had not intended to hunt for graves to desecrate when he picked up the local paper that morning. He had opened a copy of the Daily Pulse intending to illustrate to his younger brother, Samuel Winchester, that the amount of time he spent in the bathroom each morning was equal to or greater than the amount of time it took to read the newspaper cover to cover. As he was perusing the paper and remarking upon his progress through the bathroom door, he came across a short, urgent letter to the editor in which Mr. Mayhew, described by many as a man for whom bottle made two, three, and four, claimed that the ghost of Charlotte Charles was haunting the pie shop in the next town over.
“Sam!” he shouted, folding the newspaper over so that the letter remained visible. He could feel a smile spreading across his face. “Think I found us a job.”
Sam stuck his head out of the bathroom door, dripping water onto the motel carpet. “What?” he asked.
Dean read him out the letter. “You remember Charlotte Charles. What d’you think?”
Sam made a face. “It doesn’t sound like much to go on.”
“We’ve gone on hunts for less.”
Sam tilted his head, considering this. Halfway through considering, he stopped, comprehension dawning on his face. He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Where did you say he saw her?”
The grin on Dean’s face grew wider. “Some place called the Pie Hole. Fifteen minute drive away, tops. Sounds like our kind of gig, don’t it?”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “The Pie Hole?”
“I’ll admit, it’s not the wittiest name I’ve ever come across …”
“And this is just about the dead girl.”
Dean waved the newspaper at him. “Of course it is. What else would it be?”
Despite Sam’s well-founded skepticism of the validity of their case, by noon that day, Dean Winchester found himself standing on the curb outside of a pie-shaped building in the middle of an otherwise geometric city. He turned to his brother and beamed at him. "Tell me that's not awesome."
Sam looked up at the roof and laughed. “Now I know how Hansel and Gretel must have felt,” he said.
Dean broke off his reverent contemplation of the display windows to scoff. “Sure you do. Samantha.” The last, he added under his breath.
Sam scowled. “Shut up. I mean, look at it. Nothing about it strikes you as weird? It’s not too …” He struggled to find the right word. Had he been able to find it, the word would have been wholesome.
Dean shook his head. “Nope. Looks fine to me.” So saying, he strode forwards with great purpose, and entered into the Pie Hole with Sam only a step behind him.
He had meant to have a look around, and search the establishment for ghostly omens before settling down to eat; but he was denied this opportunity. As soon as they entered, they were accosted by a diminutive blonde woman who would have needed to sit on her own shoulders to look either man in the eye. This did not prevent her from trying. “Hey, there!” she said, waving at them both and offering a toothy smile. “How can I be of service?”
“We’re just looking,” — began Sam.
“We’d like to see some menus,” Dean interrupted him.
Olive Snook nodded. She tore her gaze away from the two new customers long enough to gather menus from behind the counter, then returned post-haste. Though her heart had long belonged to the Piemaker, her eyes had made no such promises. She led them over to the counter. “Coffee?” she asked. “It’s a little late for coffee, don’t you think, but you look like you’ve been driving a ways, you've just got that look, and I know I always need coffee when I’m on the road, otherwise I just nod right off! Almost cost me my head, once.” She laughed. The man who had led the charge into the shop laughed with her, not quite as heartily but a small and slightly confused smile was better than none at all.
“I’ll have coffee, no milk, and a slice of the triple-berry pie,” he said.
“Nothing for me,” said his companion.
He was rewarded with an elbow to the side. Olive winced in sympathy. He rolled his eyes. “I’ll have … the lemon,” he said, glancing at the menu.
Olive beamed at him, taking the menu from his limp hand. “You won’t regret it,” she promised, as she whisked herself off to the coffee machine.
Sam looked around the Pie Hole as soon as the waitress had left. Save for one or two other customers, it was empty. An old man sat by the window with a sock puppet on one hand and a fork in the other; at the far end, a large man in a suit sat knitting what looked like a holster for a revolver. Sam nudged his brother in order to bring this to his attention. Dean raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
They both watched the man as he purled. After a moment, the man looked up at them. The corners of his mouth turned down. Both brothers decided it would be in their best interests to turn around and become interested in the kitchen.
As it turned out, there would shortly be no need for them to feign interest in other things; for at this moment, Olive returned, pies stacked on one arm and coffee in the other. She placed them onto the counter with great aplomb. “There you go. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything else.” She winked at Dean, whose smile grew.
“Thanks. You too,” he said, leaning in. On his other side, Sam wished that he were far, far away — perhaps in a library or a mysteriously abandoned house. He tapped his fork on the side of his china plate, in order to ensure that his displeasure was known.
“Oh, come on,” said Dean, as Olive sauntered over to the man knitting in the corner. He tilted his head after her, gaze laden with unsubtle suggestion.
Sam snorted. “Seriously? Now?” he asked, looking around at the brightly lit pie shop. Though there were no children there at the moment, the atmosphere still exuded a certain stubbornly maintained purity.
Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned his attention to the pie on his plate, and cut a large triangle off the end. He sized it up. Then he took a bite.
In that instant, as the triple-berry pie hit his tongue, time seemed to slow. Every thought of Olive Snook was wiped clean from his mind. So, too, was the mystery of Charlotte Charles, and the ghost for which they had come. For a moment, he forgot that he was a murderer, a con man, an orphan who did not think he deserved to live. He forgot that he lived in a world of cruel people who drowned children, summoned demons, and didn’t remember birthdays. He was only aware of the taste of the pie and the shifting of fabric to his left that meant his brother was there with him.
In short, Dean Winchester was happy.
He opened his eyes, which in his contemplation of the dessert he had inadvertently closed, and found Sam watching him. He looked as though he expected him to keel over, or start bleeding out his ears. It wasn’t an unfounded concern when one considered their line of work, but the hard drive of Dean’s brain had momentarily been overwritten by the contents of his plate. Unable to verbalize his momentary burst of contentment, he gestured at the pie with his fork.
“This is the best goddamn pie I have ever eaten,” he announced.
Sam nodded. “I can see that.” Had he been asked to elaborate, he would have explained that as he watched Dean eat the pie, he could see his features smooth over, his brow un-knitting until he had lost the last five years of worry. The effect was all the more astonishing because over the course of their travels, he had yet to see a baked pastry that could produce this effect on his elder brother. Sam tried his own pie, curiosity piqued, and almost immediately disappointed. His taste buds rejoiced, but though the weight of the world lessened, it did not lift completely off his shoulders. It could have been that he wasn’t in the proper frame of mind that day. It could have been that lemon just didn’t do it for him. But in all likelihood, the taste and texture of pie simply did not affect him in the same manner.
Olive, meanwhile, wandered over with a half-filled coffee pot in her hand. “How are you enjoying yourselves?” she asked, leaning on the counter with one elbow.
“Delicious,” said Sam.
“I want,” said Dean, swallowing another bite as he spoke, “to marry whoever made these. Do you think you could make some introductions?”
Olive’s smile slipped — though to her credit, she retrieved it speedily. “Sure thing. You wait here just a tic.”
Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam. Sam smiled, shook his head, and recommenced eating his slice of pie. As Dean watched him consume the pastry with enthusiasm, warmth filled his chest: for in this shop, it seemed they had found common culinary ground at last.
Olive coughed to announce her return, interrupting his moment of sentiment. She stood on the other side of the counter with a man about his own age, whose apprehension could not have been more clear if he had worn it on his apron. “Hi,” he said, lifting a hand. “Olive tells me that one or both of you have asked to be introduced, but I thought you should know that while I’m flattered by the, um, the compliment. Unfortunately at this time and for all future times, barring unforeseen catastrophe or mutual agreement to go our separate ways, I am not available. Um. I’m Ned, by the way.” He held out his hand.
Three thoughts went through the mind of Dean Winchester, as he shook the Piemaker’s hand. The first was that he needed to remember that he lived in a world of evolving gender roles, and the kitchen was no longer the exclusive realm of women. The second thought was that if the Piemaker could bake pies like this one on a regular basis, then perhaps it was time to consider expanding his interests. The third was a sense of disappointment that the second thought was nipped in the bud by the Piemaker’s words.
He concealed his disappointment well. “Dean,” he said, shaking the offered hand. “And this is my brother, Sam. I’m a huge fan of yours.”
The Piemaker gave him an uncertain smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Or ever.”
“Oh, no, we haven’t — we’re just passing through,” said Sam, kicking Dean under the table.
The Piemaker frowned.
Dean ignored the covert reprimand from his left in favor of looking the Piemaker in the eye. “And we just might have to start passing through more often. This is some damned good pie. Trust me — I know my pie.”
“Ah. Well, thank you.” The Piemaker swallowed, and bobbed his head. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Sam made several frantic faces at his brother, determined to derail the train of the conversation and move it onto tracks which would lead them to the alleged sightings of the late Charlotte Charles. They went unnoticed as Dean contemplated the crumbs on his plate and the man who stood before him.
“You’re sure you won’t let me at least buy you a drink,” Dean asked, sounding wistful.
The Piemaker’s eyes widened, and Sam allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in his hands. At that moment, a young woman emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cup pies between two candy-striped oven mitts.
“Ned, Mr. Lanzello’s taking up the bottom shelf where I normally keep the raspberry cup pies, do you want me to move — oh!” She stopped short as she rounded the corner, leaping back from the Piemaker as from the gates of Hell itself. “Don’t mind me,” she said to the brothers Winchester.
“I think you’d better just put them on the counter for now,” said the Piemaker, eyes fixed on Dean. “And yes, to answer your question, I’m absolutely certain.”
“What question?” asked Chuck, for it was she who held the tray of pies.
“Nothing. There’s been a misunderstanding, but it’s all cleared up now, honey,” said the Piemaker. To Dean, he added, “It’s been interesting meeting you. Olive will take care of you, I have a thing I need to do. In the kitchen, with baking, and preparing fruits.” His right eye twitched. He fled. Chuck followed him, speaking in lowered tones
Silence descended upon the trio who remained. Dean tapped his fingers on the counter, looking at nobody in particular. “Who was that?” he asked Olive, when it became clear that Sam was too caught in the throes of mortification to mock him (for now). “The brunette chick.”
Olive picked up a coffee cup, seemingly out of nowhere, and began to wipe it clean with a wet rag. “Her? Oh, she’s his girlfriend. She’s nobody important.”
Dean looked at Sam. Sam lifted his head and looked at Dean. The same thought crossed both of their minds. Dean turned back to Olive. “Does his girlfriend have a name?”
Olive shoved her hand into the coffee mug to reach the very bottom. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious," said Dean, pasting on a smile. "I’ll bet she’s a Shirley, she looks like a Sharon. Wouldn’t you say so, Sam?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Oh, definitely a Shirley. Or something like that. Sharon, Shirley … Charlotte …”
“What makes you say that?” asked Olive. She began to back up towards the kitchen.
Sam shrugged. “No reason.”
This was, of course, not true. The brothers saw that pursuing their current witness would leave them with more questions than answers, so they resolved, by means of exchanging several significant glances, to come back another time. They finished eating in silence and paid for their pies.Then they waited for Olive to give them the correct change, as she initially handed them back fifty dollars extra in a fit of nerves.
As they left, Dean looked over his shoulder at the marvelous pie shop. In the kitchen, the young woman and the Piemaker were bent over something unseen behind a large countertop, while Olive looked on. A feeling of great weight, banished only temporarily by the triple-berry pie, crept back over him. “I’m going to be pissed if it turns out that I’ve been passed over for a ghost,” he said.
Sam glanced back at the Pie Hole. “Definitely not a ghost. And too lively for a zombie. I’d say a gjenganger, but she seemed pretty non-violent to me. I mean, working in a pie shop?”
They crossed the street and headed for the car, leaving the bright pie-shaped building behind them. Dean let out a sigh. In another part of the world, a yellow-eyed demon roamed; a hundred feet away from him, a woman who should have been dead baked small but delicious pies; and seven inches away stood his brother, a man whose forays into the realm of the psychic grew ever more troubling. But right now, the sun shone down on the city; pigeons cooed on the window ledges above their heads; pie sat rich and satisfying in his stomach; and his burdens seemed just a little lighter. He opened the door to the car. “Either way, looks like we’ve got ourselves a grave to find. Come on, Sammy,” he said. "Work to do."
END
Epilogue: ... and they did eventually discover that Chuck was formerly deceased, but after a long philosophical argument between Sam'n'Dean they decide to let it be, and everyone lives happily ever after.
