Dumb Ways to Pie

"Hey, man, Cas and I are running to the store to restock some supplies. You need anything?" Sam yells towards the kitchen, shrugging on his jacket.

"Bring home some ice cream. I'm making apple pie." I yell back. Suddenly, Cas appears right behind me.

"That sounds most agreeable, Dean." I let out a shaky breath, removing my hand from the handle of my knife.

"Cas, we talked about this. Personal space, remember?" Cas nods, backing up.

"I am sorry. Is this a more appropriate distance?" I nod.

"Go on, now, before Sam leaves you. Don't let him hurt Baby!"

"I will protect your car with my life," Cas solemnly swears. I roll my eyes, turning to preheat the oven.

"Go on, now. This pie isn't going to make itself." Cas disappears, followed by an angry sounding huff from Sam. He's the only person that I know that can make his Bitchface audible.

"Cas, we've had this discussion before. If you don't want to get ganked, don't pop up behind me." Sam's voice fades as he and Cas walk out to the Impala. I turn back to the counter and look at the recipe that I laid there earlier. According to Bobby, it's a famous Campbell recipe, the same one that my mom used to use.

"Okay, so I need 6 apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, and lemon juice." I quickly gather all of the needed ingredients, setting them on the counter. I take the pre-made pie crusts and pat them into the pie pan, before beginning to chop up the apples. I hum Metallica while I work, throwing all of the needed ingredients in a bowl. That done, I begin looking for the handheld mixer that Sam insisted that we buy.

After locating it and putting it together, I plug it in and prepare to mix together the ingredients. My thumb clicks the switch up to the lowest setting, and immediately, the beaters whir to life. "That's the lowest setting?" I ask myself incredulously. With a shrug, I lower the beaters into the mixture in the bowl. Not a second later, and a cloud of sweet smelling powder is covering every available surface, including myself. "Son of a bitch!" I swear, coughing. I catch a glimpse of myself in the microwave door and do a double take.

My entire face is white, covered with a sticky mixture of apple, sugar, and flour. My hair is matted down, sticking up in random spikes. I groan. Sticky stuff is harder to wash out than blood. Still, Sam and Cas are expecting a pie, and I can't let them down. Sam would give me the puppy eyes, and it'd all go downhill from there.

With a washcloth, I wipe down my face and try to get as much of the filling out of my hair as I can, before wiping down the countertop. "Okay, let's try this again." I pick the mixer up and cautiously click it to the lowest setting. It jolts to life, looking just as menacing as before. Cautiously, I lower it into the bowl.

Almost immediately, I am covered with filling again. "That's it!" I explode, shutting the mixer off and slamming it down on the counter. I've faced demons that were easier to deal with than this thing! I storm out of the kitchen, still covered in filling, and go to find my bag.

I push open the front door, my arms full of the groceries that Cas and I just bought. I take a deep breath, hoping to catch a whiff of apple pie. Dean's always been the better cook out of the two of us. "Huh, that's strange," I remark.

"What is strange?" Cas asks, coming up behind me.

"Dean is supposed to be making pie, but I don't smell anything." Suddenly, I hear Dean's voice coming from the kitchen.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica." I instantly set my bags of groceries on the couch and draw my knife, motioning for Cas to be quiet. Slowly, we creep out to the kitchen, where Dean is chanting. The sight that meets my eyes is certainly not the one that I'm expecting.

Dean is standing on top of the counter, covered head to toe with what looks like apple pie filling. His hair is matted down, except for a few random strands that are sticking straight up. The counter and surrounding space is also completely covered with the mixture. On the floor, in the middle of a bright red Devil's Trap, is the handheld mixer that I bought a few weeks ago. "Dean, what the heck is going on here?" Dean turns to me, a terrified and wild look in his eyes.

"Those Chinese people are trapping demons in mixers and shipping them off to America. The whole situation is crazy! Like, "dingo ate my baby" crazy! That thing is possessed, I tell you! Possessed!" I cross the kitchen, careful not to step in the sticky mess.

"Hey, man, it's okay. It's not possessed. With a little practice, you'll be able to use it like a pro, I promise. Suddenly, the mixer whirs to life. I shoot Dean a panicked look.

"The damn thing isn't even plugged in!"

"Maybe it is possessed," I mutter, beginning to chant the exorcism spell with Dean.

In the midst of the confusion, neither brother notices that Cas is nowhere to be seen. Cas sits on the counter, invisible, chuckling as he makes the mixer run. And Dean thought that angels don't have a sense of humor.