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The connection between you two had always been something special. You didn’t just share the burden of the hunt, but also those little pleasures that kept you sane: the love for good food and the joy of savoring it without rushing. Between monsters and cheap motels, you had found in those moments a refuge—a complicity that went beyond work.
As always, your table companion was Dean. If there was time to eat, he made the most of it. A double cheeseburger, lots of bacon, fries all that junk food made you both happy in the middle of your traveling routines. But when the days of action were null and you stayed in the bunker, you usually went for something quieter, almost like a homemade meal.
You never imagined he could cook. To you, he was the kind of man who barely knew how to hold a pot and burned everything around him, so you nearly fell on your back when, one Saturday at noon, you woke up to a delicious smell that made your stomach growl, reminding you just how empty it was after skipping dinner the day before. You got up as fast as you could and headed straight for the kitchen.
The first thing you saw was his back. He was focused, moving with surprising skill as he prepared what seemed to be lunch.
“I can’t believe it Dean Winchester can cook. It’s a miracle from God. This must be the end of the world,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe.
Dean turned his head just slightly, a lopsided grin on his face.
“Ouch… that hurts my feelings, sweetheart,” he replied in his usual teasing tone.
Dean set the wooden spoon aside and raised an eyebrow at your amused expression.
“Did you know it’s rude to mock the chef while he’s working?” he said, keeping his playful tone.
“Chef?” you arched a brow and walked toward the counter, trying to peek at what he was making. “Don’t exaggerate, Winchester. If this doesn’t land me in the hospital, I’ll consider it a win.”
Dean scoffed, giving you a playful nudge with his elbow to push you back a little.
“Trust me, I’ve got more skills than just pulling triggers and driving Baby,” he replied as he stirred the contents of the pan.
“And why haven’t you shown me this before?” you asked, leaning on the counter as if interrogating him.
“Because I didn’t want you to think I’m a multi-talented man,” he joked, turning for a moment to give you a proud smile. “But now… surprise.”
“Surprise, indeed,” you said, sniffing the air. “What is it? Because it smells like someone hired an actual chef.”
Dean raised the plate in front of you with a dramatic flair.
“Potato pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs. Classic, simple and lethally good.”
“Well, if I die of food poisoning, at least it’ll be with a good breakfast.”
“Or lunch. Technically, you woke up at noon,” he pointed out, giving you an amused look. “You know, people who sleep until midday are the hardest to cook for.”
“Oh, what a shame. I don’t remember asking for a lecture with my meal,” you shot back, giving him a friendly nudge as you took the plate he offered.
Dean watched you with satisfaction as you tasted the first bite.
“So… verdict?” he asked, crossing his arms as if expecting a professional review.
You made a dramatic pause, staring at him intently.
“It’s edible.”
Dean rolled his eyes with a laugh.
“You’re the worst food critic in the world.”
“And yet” you said, taking another bite with a grin, “I’m helping myself to more.”
Dean just shook his head, smiling proudly.
“Knew you’d like it.”
“Hope you know you’re trapped now,” you said, pointing at the plate with your fork. “I’m not letting a chef like you go to waste.”
Dean sighed in mock defeat, collecting the dishes.
“Great… now I’ve got two jobs: hunter and personal cook.”
Dean didn’t know that, with that improvised lunch, he had sealed his own fate. From that day on, his companion would seize every chance to make him cook whenever possible—just for the pleasure of tasting his food and filling her stomach. At first, he refused firmly, insisting that once was enough. But in time, he gave in. Why? Because hearing you praise him, repeating how good he was in the kitchen, fed his ego in a way he secretly loved. And though he’d never admit it out loud, he liked knowing that someone other than Sam enjoyed his cooking.