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Cooking With Dean - A Supernatural Fanfiction by JustBeStill, literature

Literature

Cooking With Dean - A Supernatural Fanfiction

Dean Winchester stood in front of the grimy old mirror in the bunker’s bathroom, adjusting a chef’s hat that still had the tag on it from the novelty store in Lebanon. He took a breath, looked at himself, and said, “You are not just a hunter. You’re the next Martha frickin’ Stewart.” His reflection didn’t argue, so he took that as a good sign. See, Dean had a dream. A dream of becoming a TV chef. Not just any chef—the chef. The one who would bring “home-style” horror-hunter comfort food to the world. A mix of meat, grease, whiskey, and flair. He already had the name picked out: “Kitchen Killa with Dean Winchester.” It was going to be amazing. People were going to cry tears of joy from the flavor explosions. The Food Network was going to beg for his show. Michelin stars would rain from the sky. There was just one teensy little problem. Dean Winchester couldn’t cook. At all. Not even a little. He once tried to “bake” a steak by wrapping it in foil and leaving it on the dashboard in the sun. His idea of a gourmet meal was microwaving three Hot Pockets at once and stacking them like a meat tower. But that wasn’t going to stop him. Dreams were meant to be chased. Even if they smelled like burnt bologna and failure. ⸻ Day 1 of Dean’s Culinary Journey: “The Eggstravaganza” The first thing he decided to make was eggs. Simple. Classic. Can’t go wrong, right? Wrong. Dean didn’t scramble the eggs. He assaulted them. Beat them within an inch of their life, added God knows what—sriracha, grape jelly, some crusty “Italian seasoning” he found in the back of the cabinet—and then tried to cook them in a skillet he forgot to grease. The eggs fused to the metal like cement. He plated the mutant omelet with artistic flair, tossing on a few sprigs of parsley and drizzling chocolate syrup around the plate for “aesthetic.” He proudly marched into the bunker’s dining room. “Gentlemen,” Dean announced, grinning ear to ear, “prepare to have your taste buds rocked.” Sam was already hyped. The promise of food and Dean’s ego had him pumped. He was dancing on the table, yelling, “CHEF DEAN IN THE HOUSE! WHOOOO!” Bobby sat calmly with a beer in one hand and a skeptical look in his eye. “This better not be like the time you tried to ‘infuse’ bourbon into pancakes and set the stove on fire.” Dean ignored him and presented the dish with a flourish. “I call this: Eggstravaganza Surprise.” Sam took the first bite. There was silence. Then a wet, heaving sound. Sam’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. He staggered back, mouth agape, gagged once, and projectile vomited across the table—right on the map of U.S. ghost sightings. He stumbled, eyes rolling back, and collapsed to the floor with a thud, out cold. Dean blinked. “Okay, maybe eggs aren’t his thing.” Bobby grimaced. “It can’t be that bad.” He took a forkful. He chewed once. Then stared into the void like he’d just seen his own death. “It’s… It’s got character,” Bobby choked out, eyes watering. “Unique texture. The jelly really… surprises ya.” Then he bolted from his chair, hand over mouth, and puked into an old bucket they used to keep rock salt in. ⸻ Dean’s Response: More Food “Okay, okay,” Dean said, already cooking again. “First one was just a warm-up! I got more! Don’t you worry, boys!” Bobby, still wiping puke from his beard, whispered, “Lord help us.” ⸻ Dish #2: “Mac ‘n’ Yeast” Dean attempted homemade mac and cheese. He used four types of cheese, none of which were meant to be melted, and for some reason, added yeast “to make it fluffier.” The result was a dense, yellow sludge that smelled like hot socks and depression. Sam, having regained consciousness, groggily tried a spoonful. He threw up before swallowing. He just gagged and hurled all over the floor again, crying, “WHY IS IT FIZZY?!” Bobby tried to hold it together but lost it after two bites and ran outside to retch in the grass. ⸻ Dish #3: “Mystery Chili” Dean’s chili was a war crime. It had six kinds of beans, no seasoning, an entire can of corn (can included), and a splash of Jack Daniels for “soul.” It also may have had ghost pepper flakes, but Dean couldn’t remember. They didn’t even get through one bite. Sam took a sniff and passed out. Bobby hurled the bowl into the wall and shouted, “You tryin’ to poison us, boy?!” ⸻ Dish #4: “Steak à la Fireball” This was steak flambéed in cinnamon whiskey. Dean didn’t have a blowtorch, so he used a flamethrower he found in the bunker’s armory. The steak was blackened on the outside. Raw on the inside. And somehow sticky. Nobody tried it. Sam just got up and left the room sobbing. Bobby locked himself in the panic room. ⸻ Dean’s Final Words That Night Standing in the bunker’s kitchen surrounded by smoke, burnt pans, and what may have once been a ham but now resembled cursed driftwood, Dean muttered to himself: “Maybe… Maybe Martha Stewart had a rough start too.” He pulled out a box of frozen taquitos, microwaved them, and sighed. “Now this is cooking.” (To be continued… on Hell’s Kitchen: Purgatory Edition)