The Road So Far

[Late December 2013 - 8.5 Months Pregnant - Bunker Kitchen - It’s the Great Bunker Bake Off Charlie Brown!]

On nights I couldn’t sleep, I went to the kitchen for a snack. That was most nights. It’s tough to sleep when you’re nearly nine months pregnant and carrying around a watermelon strapped to your abdomen. Between the heartburn and the bowling ball crushing your internal organs, there are no comfortable positions. Christmas Eve–though I guess technically Christmas morning–was no different. Except, when I woke up, Dean wasn’t lying in bed next to me. His side was cold, it had clearly been a while since he’d gotten up and I hadn’t even noticed. What I did notice was how badly I needed to use the bathroom. Again.

A faint echo of Metallica carried down the stone walls and through our bedroom door as I came out of the bathroom. So Dean was in the kitchen. Metallica was his baking music. Lynyrd Skynyrd was his barbeque music. And, strangely, he saved Asia for making his own pasta. I never asked about that one. I slipped into my fleece robe and tip-toed down the hallway. I liked catching him in the kitchen and he didn’t know I was watching.

Sure enough, there he was, covered head to toe in flour and, I think, fruit compote of some kind. It looked like blood though. While he was facing the door working on the island, the hallway lights were off and he was concentrating on assembling a pie crust. Slowly, I approached so my movement wouldn’t catch his eye. Dean’s laser-like focus, usually reserved for sweeping and clearing a room full of spooks, was honed in on an intricate lattice pattern. He bit his tongue as he gingerly wove the strips of dough–hand rolled of course–between each other. I saw a single bead of sweat trace its way from his hairline and down his temple, dusted with a thin layer of flour. Likely from swiping away the last bead of sweat.

He straightened when he finished the lattice, putting his hands on his hips and smiling as he admired his work. I smiled too. It was an incredible feeling to see him proud of something that didn’t involve guns or rock salt. There was a bittersweet element too, because he should have been able to do this sooner. He should have been able to do this with his parents.

“Come look at this, Kate,” he said.

I blinked then waddled over to the island opposite him.

“How’d you know I was watching?” I asked, leaning over to peer at his pie.

Cherry. Perfect crimped edges. It could have been on the cover of a magazine.

“The air pressure changed when you opened the bedroom door to come out.”

“Really?”

“No, I heard you in the bathroom.”

He flashed me a big grin and I flicked a piece of dough at him as I laughed. One of the kitchen timers started going off and Dean’s eyes widened. He frantically looked for the oven mitts under pieces of parchment paper and pie pans. Giving up, he grabbed the towel that had been slung over his shoulder and pulled open the oven door. The aroma of baked fruit and butter wafted through the air on sweet plumes of heat. Dean quickly grabbed a blueberry pie and placed it on the stove before going back for a strawberry rhubarb. He kicked the oven door shut with his leg and it slammed just as Nothing Else Matters finished.

“How many pies are you making?”

I scraped my finger around the edge of the cherry compote bowl and licked it slowly, savoring the flavor. Tart at first but then it had a subtle sweetness underneath. Just like Dean.

“Well, the cherry needs to go in next and I take requests,” he said, throwing the towel back over his shoulder, leaning on the island, and holding my gaze.

“Teach me?”

It was his turn to blink. The surprise didn’t last long, the impish grin returned.

“Gladly.”

Dean grabbed my favorite stool from the corner and placed it next to where he’d been standing for the lattice work. He kept a light hand on my elbow to steady me as I sat down and adjusted my position. I’m not even sure he realized he was doing it.

“Now first,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “you gotta decide what crust you want to use.”

“What are my options?”

“I’m glad you asked.”

Dean pulled over three bowls with different contents. He took my hand in his, placed a small dough ball in my open palm, and closed my fingers around it.

“This is a shortcrust. See how it feels in your hand, soft but a little crumbly?”

I nodded.

“It gives you a sturdy base. It’s good for tarts or anything that might get mushy in the middle. Believe me, I’d rather arm wrestle a Jefferson Starship than eat a pie with a soggy bottom. Next–”

He switched out the shortcrust in my hand for a different, more smooth ball of dough. Taking my hand again, he lifted it to the light. The heat from his palm soaked through the back of my hand, my breath caught and I had to remind myself to breathe.

“Can you see these tiny streaks?” he said, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing my neck.

“Yes.”

“Butter. This is a rough puff pastry. It gives you a flakey-ish crust, but you lose some of the delicate, crispy layers of a full puff. Think of it like a rock salt shotgun shell–it’ll do the job quick, but it’s no substitute for a good salt circle.”

I turned my head slightly, my lips brushed the tip of his ear.

“If I do anything, I want to do it all the way,” I said.

Dean stood up, trying to hide the heat flushing up his neck, and reached for the third bowl.

“Full puff it is. This one takes a lot of patience, but it’s worth the effort.”

Now the heat was flushing up my neck and it had nothing to do with the oven.

---

Sam found a tree. Not a plastic thing with bendy branches. A real, living, smells-like-Christmas fir tree. I don’t know how he managed to get it to the bunker–or inside by himself–but when Dean and I came out of the kitchen, the sun had risen and there was a tree in the library. He stood next to it proudly and I squealed when I saw it, rushing over to squeeze him in a big hug. When I’d suggested the night before that we try to have “a real Christmas”, and when neither of the boys seemed enthusiastic about the idea, I assumed we’d just listen to some music and drink hot cocoa. Now there was a tree and enough pies to feed every hunter this side of the Mississippi. Jody walked in carrying two ancient cardboard boxes labeled “XMAS” in the clinical, Men of Letters, block handwriting. My eyes went wide and I couldn’t stop grinning. We were going to have a real Christmas after all.

After an hour of decorating, I sat to take a break. Not because I was tired, but because I needed to “recharge” under an electric blanket. The baby still needed more heat than my body could produce, but he was satisfied with things like the kitchen ovens, fires in the fireplace, and an electric blanket with 1950’s wiring that made Dean nervous. Sam and Jody were putting finishing touches on the tree as we all hummed along with the Christmas playlist Sam had put on a Bluetooth speaker nearby. I was slowly working my way through a luscious piece of cherry pie that Dean had brought me, savoring every bite of the tart compote and buttery, flakey crust.

There was a slight movement in the corner of my eye and when I turned, I saw Dean leaning against the doorway. He’d put on a clean henley but there was still flour on his nose where I’d playfully smudged him as we baked. His hands were loosely tucked in the pockets of his jeans and he smiled as he watched Sam and Jody. Not his usual, prankster grin or flirtatious smile, an actual, genuine smile. For once in his life, he was basking in the moment. My fork rattled as I set my plate in my lap and when he looked over, we locked eyes. It felt like time had stopped and, for a brief second, we were the only two people in the room. No worry lines creased Dean’s face, no pain or fear. Just pure, unadulterated happiness.

Suddenly the melodic Carol of the Bells was interrupted by a screaming rock guitar bridge. Cherry Pie blasted over the speaker. When Sam looked around quickly and spotted Dean, I thought I saw steam coming out of his ears.

“Really Dean? Warrant?”

Dean looked just as surprised as Sam and shrugged his shoulders.

“It wasn’t me, I swear!” he cried.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he shuffled over to the speaker to change the song. As soon as his back was turned, Dean winked at me and put his hands back in his pockets.

---

The lights on the tree sparkled and the Perry Como Christmas vinyl crooned from the other room. Sam had switched to vinyl to keep Dean from hijacking another playlist. I was seated comfortably in my highback chair, wrapped in my electric blanket, and the firewood crackled behind me. My eyelids started getting heavy, but popped right open again when Dean cleared his throat. Everyone stopped their chatter and looked at him.

“It’s no secret that Christmas is a mixed bag for Sam and me,” he indicated with his beer bottle then placed it on the mantel next to the stockings, “hell, most of our Christmases sucked. But, over the years, the people in this room made a hundred tiny moments feel better than Christmas.”

Dean lifted my stocking from its hook and slowly walked towards my chair.

“Whether it’s driving hours through the night after a panicked call from Sam.”

Jody smiled.

“Putting up with my terrible—I mean awesome—jokes.”

Sam chuckled.

“Even making a really, really gross deal.”

Rowena raised her wine glass.

“Or having my six on the most terrifying job I’ve ever worked.”

He looked at me and I blushed. It wasn’t like Dean to make speeches or public shows of, well, anything really. I looked down at the napkin I was twisting into pieces in my lap and when I looked up again he was sinking to his knee in front of me, pulling something out of my stocking. Jody made a small gasp, but I kept my eyes on Dean.

“Kate, I have one last present for you.”

The record player stopped. I could tell that Dean had pulled something small from my stocking but I kept my eyes locked on his. I never dared to even hope for this.

"Will you have my six forever?"

I couldn't make my mouth form the word.

He cleared his throat and asked, barely above a whisper, "Kate, will you marry me?"

I threw my arms around his neck, nearly taking both of us to the floor, and he pulled me close.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, absolutely yes!” I cried, finally, tears spilling down my cheeks.

Dean helped me to my feet and kept an arm around my waist as Jody, Sam, and Rowena closed in for hugs and congratulations.

“Do you think we can get married before the baby comes?” I asked and Dean looked surprised.

“You–you want to do it that fast?”

I nodded and squeezed his hand at my waist. His face softened into a smile.

“Yeah, I don’t want to wait.”

“I think it’s a little late to find an officiant on Christmas,” Jody said, “But we’ll figure out a way to get you guys hitched.”

“Oh I can help with that,” Rowena crooned. “Scots have been handfasting without officiants for centuries.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“What’s it gonna cost me?”

“It’s not so much a ‘cost’ as the ceremony requires certain–” she paused to eye Dean up and down, “--traditional elements.”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably under her gaze. He looked at me, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Fine. What do we have to do?”

Rowena clapped her hands.

“Excellent! I’ll make a list for Kate and, Dean, you’re coming with me.”

Dean raised both eyebrows in surprise and looked between me and Rowena. I shrugged. He sighed and, reluctantly, allowed himself to be led out of the room by his arm.

After finding the materials Rowena requested, I waited in front of the fireplace with Sam and Jody. The overhead lights were off and at least a hundred candles lit, per Rowena’s instructions, casting a warm glow over the room. Suddenly, the candles and fire all blazed at once and Rowena appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a long black gown and carried an old tome–older than anything we had in the library–as she walked towards us. I tried to peek behind her but didn’t see Dean. At first, the only sound was the soft popping of the fire, but then a low, mournful sound came on the Bluetooth speaker. Bagpipes.

On cue, Dean rounded the corner when the music started playing. My jaw dropped. He was wearing full highland dress. Cropped formal jacket, a sporran around his waist, a blue plaid kilt, and knee-high socks–kilt hose. I had to remind myself to breathe, he looked so handsome and distinguished. I felt out of place in my maternity dress, at least it was a red and green Christmas plaid. We locked eyes and he smiled, holding my gaze as he walked towards me.

Rowena stood next to me in front of the fire and when Dean reached me, he took both my hands in his.

“Sammy,” he didn’t take his eyes off me as he lifted one hand to his lips for a quick kiss, “if you say one word about my knees I’ll gank you in your sleep.”

Sam chuckled.

“I was just gonna ask what you’re wearing under the kilt.”

“Angel blade, what else?”

Rowena tutted and we looked at her.

“Do you have the materials?” she asked.

I nodded and looked at Sam, who pulled out a length of rope, a long strip of flannel, and a long strip of white cotton. I’d braided them together into a single cord while we waited for Dean and Rowena. Dean looked at it. His fingers traced the rough strands of the rope, the soft flannel, and stopped at the stark white cotton. A strange look crossed his face, gone just as quickly as it appeared. Recognition maybe?

“Is that from my favorite shirt?” he asked, touching the flannel again.

“Yes, and that’s from my nightgown,” I said, pointing at the cotton, “We needed pieces of us. I grabbed the rope from Baby’s trunk.”

He nodded, approving.

“Let’s get this done so I can change.”

I grinned.

“You look amazing,” I whispered and he relaxed a little.

“Did you translate the vows I gave you, Samuel?” Rowena asked, “Of course, they’re more romantic in Gaelic but we can make do.”

Sam handed Rowena a piece of paper and she placed it in her open tome along with the cord.

“Clasp wrists please,” she instructed.

Dean held his hands palm up and I placed mine palm down over his wrists. It felt incredibly vulnerable and intimate, feeling each other’s pulses, despite having done even more intimate acts together before.

“Repeat after me as Samuel ties the cord, ‘blood of my blood,’”

“Blood of my blood,” I said.

“Blood of my blood,” Dean said.

Sam wrapped the cord around our wrists once.

“Bone of my bone.”

As we repeated her words, Sam wrapped the cord around a second time.

“I give you my body, that we two might be one.”

Creating a loose knot, Sam pulled the ends of the cord through each other.

“I give you my spirit, until our life shall be done.”

Rowena placed her hand atop the knot.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself,” she finished.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself,” I said.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself,” Dean said.

“Katherine, you may kiss your groom.”

I blushed and leaned forward, Dean met me halfway and gave me the sweetest, most romantic kiss of my life. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

Because it had.

The candles and fireplace extinguished in a huge rush of cold air. The emergency lights jolted on, but flickered so much it was a wonder they could stay on at all. The Bluetooth speaker cut out and the only sound any of us heard were footsteps. A figure was slowly making its way towards us from the doorway.

Dean, in one motion, smoothly stepped in front of me and reached into his kilt hose for the angel blade. He stood, blade in one hand and curling the other into a fist, never mind the kilt, never mind the cropped jacket. This was the time to protect his family with weapons and the warrior was activated.

“Dean, it’s me,” said a familiar voice.

“Cas?”

The figure stepped into a pool of light cast by one of the emergency lights. It was, indeed, Cas, and he looked pissed.

“Dean, there’s a beacon coming from this bunker, it’s calling all manner of agents–”

He stopped and stared at my stomach.

“It’s coming from her.”

Cas’ voice dripped with hatred. My stomach flipped and I started to feel light headed. I reached out as my knees buckled and Sam caught my arm, wrapping one of his under my shoulder for support. Dean glanced back at me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher before turning his eyes back to Cas. He lowered the angel blade, but kept it in his hand, and walked towards Cas.

“What do you mean ‘beacon’?” he asked.

“That’s not your child Dean, she’s carrying a Cambion and needs to be stopped before she delivers it.”

“What?” Dean cried, looking back at me while still moving towards Cas, his blade hand twitching, “Katie, how long have you been lying to me?”

He’d never once called me Katie. He knew I hated it.

“The whole time,” I said, pulling away from Sam and standing up straight.

“You swore that was my baby, and I believed you! How could you betray me and for what?”

I summoned my cockiest voice, my most arrogant attitude.

“I needed a place to hide, to deliver the baby.”

The best lies are rooted in truth.

At that, Cas closed the gap between himself and Dean, standing next to him and both of them facing me. Before Cas could do anything else though, Dean swung his arm around Cas’ neck and held the blade against it–close enough we could see tiny flashes of his grace trickling out. I fell back into Sam, who caught me as if on cue.

“If you don’t bring the heat back right now I swear to Chuck I’ll end you,” Dean growled.