Okay, he threw the grocery bag down on the counter with a huff, starring into it with a mounting panic, what do I make first? He eyed the pie filling and the pie crusts, does pie take longer? He began lining all the cans out on the counter, starring over the flavours, I’ll start with these so I have time to perfect them for Dean. He grabbed one of the cans, placing it inside one of the shells, looking confused, that’s not how the picture looks… He picked the can up to inspect it. Upon shaking it, he heard a squishing, cheeks going red at his embarrassment even though he was alone, of course… it’s inside the can! He pulled a knife from a drawer, stabbing the top of the can – frowning when it didn’t open. He tapped the knife on the lid of the can again, sound of metal clinking against metal filling the air, how the hell…?
His eyes drifted slightly downward, toward the paper on the middle, he smirked as he turned the can on its’ side, taking the knife to the paper. The paper fell away from the can in a few slices, only to reveal more metal underneath, much to Cas’ dismay. The whole can is metal?
Huffing in rage, he grasped the can firmly in one hand and began sawing into it with the knife, using all the strength he could muster, “I… don’t…have…time…for…this.”
The Winchester brothers’ made their way through the bunker door, ears perking at the struggling noises coming from inside. Dean wiped blood from his eye as he nodded to his brother, the pair separating with their guns drawn, preparing to sweep the bunker. Fresh from a hunt, they were both still on high alert for any threats – even on Thanksgiving they didn’t get a break.
They moved into the hallway, where the grunting noises were getting louder. They stopped on either side of the kitchen doorway. Sam looked to his brother, holding his breath. At his brothers’ nod, they entered the room, raising their guns and startling the ex-angel.
They lowered their weapons as they saw the kitchen island, full of food. There were about ten pies lining the kitchen island, used as a make-shift boarder around different dishes holding vegetables, and a giant hole, assumed to be the place for the bird in the ex-angels’ arms.
Cas put the roasting pan on the table, giant smile splitting his face, what’s on his face? before he threw his hands up in the air like an over-excited five year old, “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Cas,” Deans’ voice was careful, hand out like he wasn’t sure what to expect, “What uh, what is all this?”
“I made you Thanksgiving dinner!” The raven-haired man took the oven-mitts off and untied his apron, gesturing to the stools set at the island.
The brothers’ shared a look as they approached the island cautiously. Sam took a stool, eyes roaming over the holiday spread, “Why uh… what made you decide to cook?”
“I thought you could use a good holiday memory,” he smiled as he handed each of them a beer, “y’know, instead of having somebody die.”
Dean snorted, taking a seat only when the youngest shot him a look, “Well it, uh, smells… great.”
Sams’ stomach grumbled almost as if on cue, cheeks going red as he looked over the table with a small smile, “What would you recommend we start with?”
Cas gestured to the bird in the middle of the table, “The main event, of course.”
Dean looked skeptical – it’s still pink for Christ sake – but made his way around the other side of the island to grab the carving knife.
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