Random neurotic warnings:

1. Possible OOCness considering Sam eats more in this fic than we've ever seen him eat on screen.
2. This is not a kitchen manual and I therefore strongly advise you not to copy Sam's cooking behaviour.
3. Contains enough food talk and sugary sweet fluff you might want to brush your teeth afterwards.

Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

The Ways to Sam's Heart

The third time it happens, Sam knows something's up.

On Monday, Dean made his favorite variation of mac 'n' cheese. On Tuesday, Dean surprised him with self-made pizza with all of Sam's favorite toppings, pineapple included, even though Dean hates pineapple with a passion.

"What's this?" Sam had asked around a mouthful of truly delicious pizza.

Dean shrugged. "Food."

Sam would probably have pursued the matter further, but he was distracted by the smear of flour across Dean's cheekbone. The sight made Sam's mouth water with another kind of hunger and he barely resisted the temptation to straddle Dean and lick it off. Instead he devoured every last crumb of pizza until his stomach threatened to burst, and stored away the image of Dean's flour-coated face for a more opportune time, preferably when he was alone in the shower.

Today a large bowl of salad materializes in front of him on the table, complete with juicy pieces of chicken and a raspberry vinaigrette that tastes nothing short of heavenly. There's something downright frightening about the notion that Dean even knows how to make raspberry vinaigrette, and Sam stares at his salad in suspicion.

"Think it needs more salt?" Dean asks him from across the table, brows furrowed uncertainly.

"No, 's good," Sam assures him and watches Dean's shoulders relax. As he looks back down at his own portion of salad, a pleased little smile hovers around the corners of Dean's mouth that goes straight to Sam's loins.

Sam shifts in his seat and wolfs down the remains of his salad in silence.

The rest of the day he then spends trying to figure out what's going on. Usually, Dean cooks his favorite dishes when Sam's sick or when Dean's trying to apologize for something.

Sam's never felt better. Unless he's secretly dying and Dean's shoved another angel inside him without Sam's knowledge, there's no way he's sick. And he doesn't think Dean would do it again, not after what happened last time.

So clearly Dean's trying to make something up to him – the only question is: What? They haven't been fighting, at least not more than they do on a daily basis, bickering over the toothbrushes, the latest addition to their DVD collection or whose turn it is to take out the trash. As far as he can tell, Dean hasn't done anything disgusting to his room in his absence, and even though he keeps grumbling about it, Dean hasn't neglected the refiling duties in the Men of Letters' archives Sam assigned to him either. In fact, Dean even went so far as to bring him random spellbooks he'd discovered down there over the past few weeks – maybe to poke fun at what a nerd Sam is, maybe as part of an elaborate prank Sam hasn't unraveled yet, but either way Sam found them genuinely engrossing to read, particularly the one which described how a dead werewolf's entrails can be used for powerful banishing and healing spells.

Which means that whatever it is that has sent Dean into this wild cooking spree must be something different, something bigger.

Sam's heart clenches painfully.

In his experience, bigger is never a good thing. (He can hear Dean's cackling voice in his head, turning it into a dirty joke.) Bigger means making deals with the devil, selling your soul, starting the Apocalypse, releasing the Darkness…

Their lives have been relatively quiet ever since they defeated the Darkness, so he's not sure why Dean would have done anything cosmically stupid now, like selling his soul for Sam or taking on the Mark of Cain, but still he must have, somehow.

Now that he pays attention, Sam also notices that Dean keeps shooting him furtive little glances whenever he thinks Sam isn't looking – and every time Sam catches him in the act, Dean averts his eyes and a guilty blush spreads over his cheeks.

Sam didn't even know Dean could blush! Whatever it is he's done, it must be really, really bad.

By the time Dean serves him a steaming plate of lasagna the next day, Sam's ready to crawl out of his skin with worry and anger.

"Dean, what the hell?"

Confusion flits over Dean's face, followed by wariness. "What are you on about?"

"This!" Sam waves his hand at the dish. The anxiousness that's accumulated inside him in the past twenty-four hour boils over, spilling into his movements, and before he knows it, he's knocked his plate off the table, an unsavory mash of lasagna and porcelain shards at his feet.

For a moment Dean's face cracks wide open, as though Sam had smashed it onto the ground along with his plate, revealing raw, bottle-green hurt. The next, his features shutter again, and Dean leaves in the direction of the garage without another word, the line of his shoulders stiff and foreboding.

As he cleans up the mess he made, Sam's stomach lurches uncomfortably. Dean's expression reminded him of the time Dean gave him a bag of candy poorly wrapped in an old newspaper for his sixth birthday, and Sam threw a tantrum because he didn't get a birthday cake and a party like his classmates. At least then Sam had the excuse of being young and not knowing better.

Sam feels terrible for never even considering that Dean might just have been trying to do something nice.

There's nothing for it but to apologize and show Dean how much he appreciates his cooking – and a nice home-cooked meal waiting for Dean when he comes back seems the perfect way to do just that.

Of course, once he's actually standing in the kitchen, trying to stir-fry onion rings, Sam remembers why he never does the cooking. Anything more complicated than grilled cheese sandwiches is beyond him.

All too soon, the entire room is filled with a cloud of thick grey smoke and a nasty smell of burnt meat and tomatoes, and Sam has to shift his priorities from making a nice please-forgive-me burger for Dean to trying not to burn down the entire bunker.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he curses, switching off the stove and desperately prodding the exhaust hood with his fingers. He can't seem to get it working properly, and he doesn't have the time to figure it out in peace, because now one of the pans sizzles dangerously. He picks it up and carries it to the sink –

"What are you doing?" comes Dean's voice from behind him.

Startled, Sam burns his hand on the pan before he manages to drop it into the sink. "Fuck!"

In a swift move, Dean is by his side and holds his hand under a cold stream of water. "Keep that there. Don't move!" Dean tells him, and disappears.

A second later a loud whirring fills the air behind Sam – Dean must have switched on the exhaust hood. When Dean appears at his side again, brandishing their first-aid kit, the smoke in the kitchen has already lifted considerably.

Dean sits him down at the table, rubs ointment onto the burn and then wraps his hand in gauze, his fingers incredibly gentle. They both sustain far graver injuries on a regular basis, and don't treat them with half the care, but still it's nice and Sam wishes Dean would never stop touching him like that, so tender and considerate.

When Dean's finished and rises from where he was crouched over Sam's hand, Sam grasps his wrist. "Dean. I'm sorry."

"For making a mess of my kitchen?"

"Yeah, that too. And before… the food, it really freaked me out, man."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and he looks at Sam like he's certified. "The food freaked you out? Did it remind you of clowns or something?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

"It freaked me out that you were being so nice."

"I'm always nice," Dean answers automatically. But a faint blush begins to cover his cheeks and he tries to get away, so Sam tightens his hold on Dean's wrist. Beneath his fingers he can feel Dean's pulse, fast and erratic.

"Why did you cook my favorite foods this week?"

Dean sighs in obvious frustration. "I just thought – you've always wanted this. More than hunting. A real life, with a real home, and with real farmer's market food, and now's the first time in forever I can even offer you that…"

"So what, you decided to bribe me with food to stay? Are you insane? What's next, sexual favors?"

Dean fixes him with a defiant glare. "I like cooking," he says slowly, as though he's talking to a small child. He takes a deep breath and adds, his expression near-mutinous, "I like sex, too."

The words hang between them for a long beat. Overwhelmed by gratitude, tenderness, and awe, Sam can only stare at Dean, his stupid brave big brother.

"Me too," he confesses as soon as he's recovered enough to speak. "Not the cooking, but, you know… the sex," he finishes somewhat lamely, waving his undamaged hand between them, the other one still clasped loosely around Dean's wrist.

"What are you saying, Sammy?" Dean asks him, face carefully blank.

"I'm just saying…" He extends his hand to Dean's cheek, trails a thumb over warm skin and soft stubble. "You can channel your inner Julia Child and woo me with another thirty awesome dishes, or we can go to your room and skip straight to the main course."

"Woo you?" Dean sounds scandalized even as he leans into Sam's touch. "I wasn't – who the hell even says that anym–mpfh!"

Before Dean can work himself up into a full-blown rant at Sam's choice of words, Sam shuts him up with a kiss. Dean's lips are soft and taste faintly of salt, bacon and onions. He must have had a burger while he was out. Sam's stomach growls appreciatively.

Dean draws back and laughs, his breath hitting Sam's face. "Well, you sure know how to romance a guy, Sammy. And here I thought the book thing was pathetic."

"Sorry," Sam says meekly. "Wait, what book thing?" He tears his eyes away from Dean's unfairly distracting shiny red mouth and tugs on Dean's belt loops. The memory of Dean bringing him random books from the Men of Letters' archives resurfaces in his mind. He can't stop grinning. "Did you – Dean, did you try to romance me with books on werewolf decomposition?"

Dean shrugs, one corner of his still insanely distracting mouth tugging up in a wry smile. "Whatever gets your rocks off, little brother."

"You wanna know a secret?" Sam leans closer and whispers, "Mostly, it's just you."

"Sap." Dean shoves him away, the tips of his ears turning pink.

"You wanna know another secret? Right now I'd kill for a burger."

Dean lets his eyes wander around the warzone Sam created in his kitchen and winces, before he straightens his shoulders in an almost military stance.

"Here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna pick us up some grub, while you," he points a stern finger at Sam, "are gonna clean up the kitchen. And then," Dean dials up the no-nonsense tone a notch and stabs his finger repeatedly into Sam's chest for emphasis, "then we're gonna have awesome sex."

Sam laughs. "I think I can get behind that."