Dean Winchester had always had a complicated relationship with food. There was the comfort of a well-cooked meal after a tough hunt, the adrenaline rush of greasy diner fare on the road, and of course, the endless stream of pie. He was a simple man with simple pleasures, and nothing brought him more joy than a slice of warm, gooey pie, especially if it came after a particularly grueling case.
It all started with a routine hunt in a small town in Ohio, where the locals whispered of a curse involving a ghostly baker. Dean and Sam had investigated, discovering that a poltergeist had taken up residence in the old bakery, haunting the place with its spectral flour and ghostly pastries. After a few rounds of tossing salt and reciting incantations, they had managed to send the spirit packing. As a reward, the townspeople had invited the brothers to indulge in the shop's signature treat—pie.
"There's nothing like homemade pie," Dean declared as he plopped down at the counter with Sam. The waitress, a kindly older woman named Myrtle, had set down a slice of the shop's famous apple pie topped with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream.
As Dean devoured slice after slice, he felt a warm happiness spread through him. His usual appetite for food, especially pie, seemed heightened as he savored the flaky crust and sweet filling. Each forkful was a battle against restraint, but between the adrenaline of the hunt and the comforting embrace of sugar and spice, he lost to temptation.
After the fifth slice, Sam finally interjected, “You might want to pump the brakes a little there, Dean. We have to hit the road soon.”
“Just one more,” Dean replied, licking pie crumbs from his lips. "I can’t leave without trying the cherry pie too."
Days turned to weeks, and what had started as a binge in Ohio evolved into a full-blown obsession. Dean couldn’t stop thinking about pie. When they hit the next town, it was always the first thing on his mind. From blueberry to pecan, each sweet flavor eased the burden of hunting just a fraction more. The fact that they were often on the road with little time to rest only fueled his growing appetite.
But it wasn’t just the constant eating that took a toll; before long, Dean noticed something strange. The jeans he once wore so comfortably were quickly becoming tighter, and he had to unbutton them at the diner, hoping Sam wouldn’t comment. He found himself staring in shock at his reflection in the bathroom mirror one morning, his shirt snugger than it used to be, a bit of a belly poking out.
“Man, you’ve really embraced that pie monster theory,” Sam teased during one of their many pit stops. Dean shot him a glare, but deep down, he knew the joke had more than a grain of truth.
The turning point came one cold night in a town with an annual pie festival. A rogue spirit had been causing the local bakers to compete for the best pie, and the brothers had to intervene. But before they could start the exorcism, Dean couldn’t resist sampling every single entry—except for the ones that looked suspiciously like they had exorcised the cakes of childhood nightmares.
“Oh, come on,” Sam groaned as Dean went for another sample. “Even the spirit of pie can’t be that intoxicating.”
It wasn’t just the competition that caught Dean’s attention. The townspeople adored their pie and often begged him to try “just one more slice” in a show of gratitude. Caught up in the excitement (and the sugar), Dean surrendered, losing track of how many dessert plates had passed his lips.
After the festival, as the weight of every pie began to settle into his bones and impede his usual swagger, Dean had a moment of clarity. He could feel the heaviness in his gut and the tiredness in his muscles, and somehow, it didn’t feel right. He had to confront his indulgences.
A few days later, back at the bunker, Dean stood in front of the fridge, staring at the last slice of homemade cherry pie. He toyed with the idea of devouring it, but instead, he closed the door and sighed. A slice or two was one thing, but he couldn't let pie turn him into something he didn’t want to be.
In the coming weeks, with Sam’s playful encouragement, the brothers began to run together—a challenge not only to get Dean back in shape but to leave behind the savory echoes of pie and gluttony. It wasn’t easy at first; the first few blocks were exhausting, but soon Dean found the rhythm, and every day he felt lighter.
As the weeks turned into months, Dean learned that balance was key. He could enjoy a slice—just not the entire pie. And as they continued their hunting adventures, Dean understood that while pie would always be his guilty pleasure, there was much more to cherish in life, from smaller meals to meaningful moments shared with family.
Walking into a diner one late afternoon, Dean grinned at the pie display. He ordered a slice of pumpkin pie, but as he waited, he turned to Sam, “How about we share it? You know, for moderation?”
With a smirk, Sam raised an eyebrow, “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
Dean chuckled. “Pie can be delicious in moderation, Sammy. Besides, I’ll save room for more—after all, who can resist a good pie?”
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