Title: (Minor Tremor 1) - (Minor Tremor 2) - (Minor Tremor 3) - (Minor Tremor 4) - (Minor Tremor 5) - (Minor Tremor 6) - (Minor Tremor 7) - (Minor Tremor 8) - (Minor Tremor 9) - (Minor Tremor 10) - (Minor Tremor 11)
accompaniment(s) to: With a Bang
Rating: ♥Humor♥ SPN/DA Crossover - PG - Gen – AU in the year 2020
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & DA characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Alec POV. Lots and lots of meatballs.
“15,000 of them, Sam?”
“That’s what I said, Dean.”
“Is that even… possible?”
“Not sure,” Sam sighed. “But I guess you’ll find out.”
Alec was looking around with mild awe at all the boxes filled with frozen cow stacked everywhere in their little kitchen. It was a hot end to August and the aroma reminded him of a battle zone a few days after the corpses had gotten a real chance to sit out in the sun. Hefting one of the heavy packages, he considered how many boxes it would require were he to be ground up and parceled pound for pound.
But his uncle interrupted him before he could venture the thought aloud.
“15,000 meatballs?” Dean’s shock was moving along nicely into outrage. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Look Dean, I told you all about this a week ago and left a reminder on the fridge.”
Alec also wanted to know how the hell you made olive oil extra virginal but he was slightly worried the question might be offensive. The pictures on the bottles were pretty. Looking at the serene vistas of the olive groves, he wondered if anything in the world actually still looked like that.
“B-But why 15,000?!”
“Because that’s the amount I promised the Women’s Club for their big luncheon on Autism Awareness.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the part that’s getting me all confused,” Dean said. “Because if YOU are the idiot who volunteered, then why am I the guy stuck makin’ ‘em?”
“I can’t predict when I’m needed at a funeral,” Sam shrugged. “Besides you've got plenty of help.”
Rolling up his sleeves, Alec wondered why they didn’t make haz-mat suits for the average home owner. After all, he was about to potentially come into contact with at least one hundred types of lively bacteria that enjoyed doing the backstroke in raw meat. Escherichia coli, Salmonella and some gnarly strains of Streptococcus just to name a few…
“Yeah, about that,” Dean glared at the stainless steel bowls already arranged neatly on the table. “What’s with all the smiles, Alec?”
“Huh?” He’d actually been trying not to laugh at the word Streptococcus but he wasn’t about to let Dean in on that one. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I dunno,” Alec tested the ice cream scoop for approximate meatball circumference and set the oven on the correct temperature. “I’ve never made meat into balls before. Mixing up ground muscle with my bare hands, tossing in raw eggs and then sculpting it back into another shape? It‘s so disgusting.”
“Ya hear that?” Dean asked Sam. “The kid thinks it’s as gross as I do.”
“No, no, not like that,“ Alec examined their old cheese grater and deemed it adequate. “I think it’s gross but you know, in a beautiful way. Kinda like child actors. Can you pass the basil, Dean?”
“I don’t know what recipe you’re reading but MINE clearly states freshly chopped basil." Alec handed him the typed index card. “Of course you have re-calibrate the serving size from 10 to 10,000.”
“What is this?“ Dean squinted at the flowing script font. “Organic egg whites. Homemade herb bread crumbs. And what’s this about… braising?”
“On each side for ten minutes.”
Dean sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands.
“I think it will work out really nicely,“ Alec told him. “This particular recipe has not only been voted members favorite on LOVESTOCOOK.COM but had gotten over 2,500,034 positive reviews with only minor revisions in cooking times due to heat variation in ovens which is really not the fault of the recipe’s author but the--”
“No way, man,“ Dean shook his head. “Chef Boyardee never braised a goddamn meatball and neither am I. End of story!”
“Do you know what Dr. Sarah says during times like this?”
“Who the hell is Dr. Sarah?”
“She’s a celebrated psychoanalyst with her own syndicated column, radio hour and now an afternoon talk show,” Alec explained. “And she always says you should be part of the solution, not the problem.”
“I’ll bet my new carburetor that you found this stupid recipe on her website too?” Dean asked.
“Yeah! How’d you know?”
“It sounds great, Alec,” Sam shrugged on his coat. “And that doctor sounds like a smart lady.”
Dean crumpled the index card in his fist. “She sounds like a fucking c-”
Sam let the door slam loudly behind him before his brother could finish the heart felt sentiment.
“She also has her own line of designer kitchen ware?” Alec offered. “And she’s only been to jail twice for tax invasion.”
“Can we just get this thing started?” Dean stood up and resolutely pushed in his chair. “Faster we get goin’, the faster all this dead cow ends up in ball form right?”
“That’s the spirit!” Alec pulled on an oven mitt shaped like a happy chicken. “All the parmesan is ready to be grated and the tomato paste is ready to go!”
“Okay,” Dean said. “I’ll supervise.”
“That’s a good idea but will you be able to see what I’m doing from all the way over there…. Hey, you won’t even be able to hear me with the television on,” Alec gnawed at his lip. “Should I bring in the timer so you’ll know when to monitor my progress? Oh wait! I get it now! You aren’t into micro-managing. You think it will kill my individual motivational style by being a presence in my creative work-zone. I get it! That’s a really smooth move on your part by the way. Very Bill Gates--”
“Alec, those meatballs aren’t gonna go braisin’ themselves.”
Alec felt a little lonely when the television volume went up high enough to drown out any questions or comments he might have felt like making as he worked. But when he spotted the flow chart he’d designed to document all the recipe revisions (and to point out all the inevitable errors in the original) he got back into his good mood.
His cheer even doubled after he shaped his very first meatball in the palm of his hand.
Only another 14,999 to go.