The Mechanic and the Lemon Baker

There were times when Dean Winchester found himself out of his element. He knew cars, he knew pie. He even knew that the ghosts in people’s attics, basements, and under their beds were real, but generally needed to approach them as one would a spider: if you left them alone, they’d leave you alone. If not, blowtorch the little bastards.

But in this shop of sweets, cakes, and baked goods, he was adrift. The lingering heat stroke from a couple days ago was still making him loopy. A cute bakery had opened in an industrial zone of car repair shops, plumbing companies, and empty industrial buildings, and it was just pushing him right over that edge.

A very good bakery.

It had been successful its first day, the first month. Bringing in hipsters, grease monkeys, and even some upper middle class mothers. They all came, ate, and exclaimed how great it was. That many diverse people in Dean’s corner of the world was not healthy.

After the third month, Darrell had come back to the garage reeking of strawberries and cinnamon. He had ordered, for god's sakes, a latte. Dean, right then, decided to go on a reconnaissance mission.

Not to scare or intimidate, but to just get a feel on the successful bakery that didn’t even face the street. Dean carefully picked his away around a Prius, Camries, beatup trucks, Oldsmobiles, and three 1990s VWs.

The interior was not what he expected. Something French and cute. Like the 1980s bathrooms designed in English country décor of his childhood. Doilies and pictures of vintage soap and crazy large wall paper.

No, the baker was a Moose Lodge. Wooden paneling on the walls, antiseptic white paint mildewed to a grey tint. Broken bits of furniture. Some old Chess Records blues playing on a CD player in the background.

“What’ll you have?” asked a teenager with a tip jar asking for band trip funds. Dean pointedly ignored it. Looked at the board. “Bowl of chili. Cinnamon roll.”

“Yup,” the boy replied, keyed the order into an IPad, swiveled it around for Dean to pay.

Dean wiped his hands down, feeling self conscious of the oil under his nails, and scrawled out his name.

Plonked down in a chair, he snatched the Topeka Capitol Journal’s sports page, skimmed the results for boys’ wrestling and girls’ fastpitch softball.

“Chili and cinnamon roll?” a waiter interrupted, placing the dishes on the table.

Dean took a bite, smiled at the taste, and dug in.

“Okay, I have to ask.”

Dean looked up over the pillow of frosting and cinnamon.

“Why do most people order a cinnamon roll with their chili? It’s bizarre.”

“People don’t order them together?” Dean said, feeling the rare moment of friendliness as he crumbled five packets of crackers into the bowl.

“I’d never seen it before I moved here.”

“People seriously don’t eat chili and cinnamon rolls? You should try it. Wait, you’re the owner?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Eh,” the man replied. “I like to help with the staff and meet my customers. And if you ever see a cat floating around, he’s not here. Like health inspector not here.”

Dean thought for a second, pushed out a chair. “Grab a bowl and try it.”

Three minutes later, the owner returned with his own bowl and dug in.

--

Dean started to take lunches at the little bakery several times a week. Sometimes he’d buy something, sometimes he’d just sneak in a sandwich. The cat would visit, the owner would visit, but mostly he just read the news and magazines off by himself. The customer base grew to where even his shop got new customers, but the crowd was still mixed enough to not make him cranky or put out by the influx of new money.

“I made something new.”

Dean looked up, saw the baker in front of him.

“It’s pie.”

Dean agreed that it was a pie.

“I mean, a lemon pie. It’s a new kind, so I need a tester.”

“Okay.”

“Cas.”

“What?”

“My name’s Cas.”

“Dean.” He added his own, took a big bite of lemon and curd.

---

The memories overwhelmed him, being four and helping his mother cook. Being eight, and trying to cook his own pies and cakes. Being eight, and discovering the joys of snack cakes. This pie, suddenly a new memory to treasure forever and ever. It was everything he wanted out of life.

---

“It’s good?”

“Whatever you’re charging, double it.”

“Really?”

Dean nodded sagely, knowing people would pay far more for the crown jewel of Cas’s bakery. “How do you make it?”

“Trade secret.” Cas said slowly, smiling a little.

“Uh huh.” Dean wolfed down the rest.

--

The lemon pies were a smash. They were back ordered by three weeks, and it was straining the bakery. Cas had to hire a part time baker just to catch up, leaving him uncharacteristically grumpy.

Dean didn’t care. Always pre-ordered an entire pie every other Monday, and then ate it piece by piece over the next couple of weeks. Word got round that Dean had invented the pie tab, and soon other customers were buying “buy-a-pie” punch cards. But Dean always got preferential lemon pie while everyone else had to go with whatever was left.

He suddenly felt like he partly owned the bakery after that. Not financially, but emotionally. He started sending his own customers to the shop while they waited for repairs (it also got them out of his hair), and then a small trickle of Cas’s customers started going to him. It wasn’t anything official, just more of an ad hoc symbiotic business plan developing.

--

And then Cas’s POS car broke down. Some rusted out AMC Oldsmobile that blew a water gasket or maybe a hose. Cas didn’t know, and Dean nodded sagely at Cas’s description of the chain link cylinder drive clunking every thirty miles.

Dean just let Cas talk, opened the hood, eyed it for a few minutes. “I'm going to need a couple days to fix it.”

“Oh.”

“And it might be expensive.”

Cas sucked in air. “Do you accept pie?”

Dean shrugged. “We’ll work something out.”

Cas smiled. "Just bring it over to the place any time when you're done."

'That's not how that works,' Dean was about to say, thought about it, and decided to personally drop it off anyway.

-

Working late into the night, Dean got the car going again, drove it over to the bakery, and found the lights still on.

“Cas?” He yelled softly.

“In the back,” echoed the reply over Nina Simone.

Dean entered the door to the kitchen, saw the baker peeling a lemon with twenty other half peeled lemons in a bucket.

“Getting them ready for that chain link cylinder drive baking?”

“No, I- Oh, you were using sarcasm… I don’t know much about cars.”

“I don’t know much about pies, but I don’t think most people like the skin.”

“Part of my technique. First I peel the bottom half, add a couple of inches of sugar to the bottom of cupcake tins, prop the lemons over the sugar, and roast them for ten minutes. Then I make the pies with the cooked sugar and the lemon juice and burnt lemon zest.”

“Wow. I had no idea they were that complex.”

“Just an experiment I did a few months ago. Worked out better than I thought they would. They’re quickly outselling my cinnamon rolls and chili meals.”

“Cute.”

“You’re up late.”

“Eh, insomnia. Some of my best work gets done after 2 AM.”

“I know the feeling.”

Cas peeled two more lemons, sugared the tins, and slid the whole thing into the fridge. “Thanks for fixing the car... I gotta eat something.”

Dean surveyed the room.

“I gotta eat something I didn’t make.”

Dean shrugged, understanding. “Hamburger Patty’s, it is.”

--

“I’m going to contract a stomach virus here,” Cas mock grumbled over his cheeseburger and onion rings.

Dean laughed over his own half-eaten meal, “totally worth it.”

“I can tell. There’s green sludge in the soda fountain caps.”

“You checked?”

Cas shrugged, ate the rest of the burger in three bites. “This is my job. You’d know if a mechanic shop was lousy too. There’d be tells like that."

Dean thought it over, ate another bloody bite of half cooked burger, and smiled.

“Gonna order another,” Cas stated. “You want another?”

“Beer?”

“Burger.”

“Really?”

“I am starving.”

Dean nodded, somehow ate the second one, lost himself in the haze of beer pitchers, Led Zeppelin, and either won $150 playing pool or lost $30. Cas laughed with him throughout the whole time.

--

Dean woke up in a fog of pain and screeching.

“What?” he grogged up, wondering if he could kill himself temporarily.

“Dean, there’s this weird guy in the front room!”

Dean had to think. About this new person in front of him, and then who the other new person was.

“Sam?”

Sam curled his forehead, “Yes, Dean. There’s a guy on the couch.”

“I think that’s Cas. He’s cool. If it’s not him, that’s not cool.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam stomped off, making loud noises on purpose as Dean rolled over, thought about vomiting, decided to make that decision later. Got up to his feet, and looked out into the living room.

The other man sprawled on his stomach, one shoe off, hair askew, his cheek red and imprinted with the couch’s fabric pattern.

“Yeah, that’s Cas,” Dean decided, struggled into the kitchen, plonked on the coffee maker, and forced himself to wake up entirely.

Heard a zombie lumber in from behind him. “Where am I?”

“My place,” Dean said as Sam looked up at the two of them over his toast. “Don’t mind him. He’s 17 going on 13 and still in that weird angry, hormonal dick to the world stage.”

“I am not.” Sam pouted.

“He’s a good kid. Just pouty.” Dean amended. “You got someone opening your store?”

Cas had to think. “No… yes. Benjamin should be there, but he’s like 20, so I don’t know at this point. You?”

“Darrell’s there. He’s an idiot, but he can at least unlock the front door.” Dean poured two cups of coffee, put one in front of Cas.

“This your first real day playing hookie?”

“You have no idea.”

Dean grinned, then turned to Sam. “You need to get to school!” he yelped good naturedly. “And brush your teeth. Girls like good dental hygiene.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, put his homework into his bag, took off. “Have fun with your boyfriend.” He got out over his shoulder.

“Oh, I will, Sam. I’ll text you all the steamy details.” Dean hit back, easing into Sam’s chair.

Beet red, Cas stammered, hemmed. “Oh, I had no idea this was like that.”

“This was like 'what?' No! I was just giving Sam shit. That’s all.”

The two dropped back into silence, happy and hungover as the morning passed slowly.

Starving, Dean got up, fried up some bacon and eggs. Cas looked it over, ignored the slightly wilted bacon, the overly dried eggs, and devoured the entire thing. For a hungover fried breakfast made by a mechanic, it was fantastic.

==

Dean looked around the garage. He knew he was almost too young to run it, but his dad had left it to him in the will, and he'd managed to keep enough old timers employed to keep things up and running. It’d been rough a few times, but Dean had been working on cars since he was five while holding the flashlight for his dad. Was the shop’s gopher at twelve. His accountant was a huge expense, but Sheila had really bent over backwards teaching him how to manage books and taxes until he finally got a real understanding of how to run a business.

Sam was Sam, and he didn’t always help matters, but they both worked through it, figured out how to live together without anyone to referee them. Sam was just starting to get out of his angry phase, and started to recognize what Dean had done for them in the past year.

Cas somehow felt right too to Dean. A guy he could shoot pool with, drink beer, and eat pie together.

==

Cas went back to the bakery around noon. Somewhat more alive than dead, able to ponder his future. The place was packed, chaotic, and the orders were forty minutes late. Groaning, he sprinted into the kitchen, washed his hands up to his elbows, and played short order cook with his hair all up and out for the next three hours until some semblance of order had been established.

Even then, he knew he’d lost a couple customers, but suddenly.

Instantly.

Realized that his bakery was going to survive. His lemon pies and tarts and chili and cinnamon rolls and soup were going to keep his store open and successful. And that he’d somehow managed to get a best friend even in all of the chaos.