"Sammy? Sam!" Dean's gravel-edged voice filled the darkness.
"Dean! I'm—" Sam didn't know where he was. It was dark. It was heavy.
It smelled like…French fries?
They'd been working a case in an after-hours kitchen, where a chef had died in one of those freak-but-not-freak-if-you-knew-what-you-were-looking-at accidents.
But that didn't matter right now.
Sam felt like he was going to puke.
"Holy…" He heard Dean's inhalation of breath as he spotted whatever it was that had buried him. "Sam!"
"Yes, Dean." Sam tried to move; it was impossible. Whatever he was under had him pinned. And it was greasy. Like battered and fried in saturated fats greasy. "I feel disgusting!"
"Oh, Sammy." Dean's voice was full of awe. "Oh. Sammy!" Like nirvana-awe. Like, look! Twin porno stars are in my bed!-awe. Like—
"Waffle fries, Sammy."
"I'm buried under a pile of waffle fries?" He shifted; something greasy and somewhat rectangular plopped onto his forehead and sat there. "But…why can't I get out?"
"The question is, why would you want to?"
"Because it's gross, you ass. That's why." He tried shaking his head; whatever it was-a wafflefry, he supposed, and gagged-sat there, perched above his brows and oozing fat.
"It's beautiful, Sammy. It's a big mountain of crispy, salty, greasy—"
"I'm gonna hurl—"
"Waffle fries. I think I've died and gone to heaven."
"Yeah, well, I haven't died and I'm in Hell. Could you please get me out? They must be cursed or something, Dean. It's like I'm pinned. I can't move." I can barely breathe.
There was the sound of…well, waffle fries being moved around. Sam hoped. "Dean?"
"I'm trying, Sam. But every time I try to move them, more take their place. They're multiplying like tribbles up here, Sammy!"
"If we had a transporter, we could beam 'em all out of here. Or beam you out and leave them. That would be better." Dean giggled.
"Dude. Stop channeling your inner geek and say something useful."
"I don't have an inner geek!"
"Whatever. Just get me out. I think I'm starting to congeal."
"Are you eating them?"
"Dean! You can't eat them!"
"Mphm mm mn!"
"Dude! They're cursed. And they're full of carbs and saturated fats. You're going to bloat up and..." There was a sudden, additional weight pressing over him; it moved. "Dean. Please tell me you're not lying on them."
The weight continued to wiggle.
"Tell me you're not making a snow angel."
"All right. A waffle-fry angel."
"Mmm mm-" spit-"Shut up, Sammy. This is like a wish come true and you're ruining it for me with your girly, diet-y whining."
"It's your wish that your little brother is suffocated and crushed under a mass of waffle-fries?"
"Meeme memma me. Blehblehbleh waffle fries." Dean mimicked.
"Shut up and get me out of here! I can feel zits forming as we speak!"
"Memememna zits. Memeh. I'm gonna go find some ketchup."
"Urp. Sammy. I can't do it. Urrrp!"
"Like I'm surprised." Sam murmured. Either it was a lack of oxygen or an overload of fats but he was sleepy. Plus, it was kind of warm in his little cocoon of carbs. He'd gotten used to the feeling of dripping grease.
Dean started digging. "It's not working, Sam. I've tried digging you out, sliding you out, and eating you out. Hey..."
"Not funny, Dean. Don't even go there. Please."
"You're such a girl. I suppose I could try burning you out."
"And that would work how?"
"Well, they'd burn and when you could stand up and run-"
"I'd catch fire. I'm covered with a highly flammable substance. Lard."
"Besides, I think I'd slip. My shoes are probably coated with it."
Sigh. "I'd salt them but they're already salted."
"Can we use iron on them?"
"I dunno. Wait a minute. Urp."
Sam lay in the warm darkness and dreamed of salads and fresh fruit. Strawberries, mostly. Sweet, fragrant, strawberries. And melons...
"All righty, Sammy! Hang on little-urp!-bro! I'm gonna get you out!" Whap. Whap. Whap!
There were vibrations.
"What? What happened?"
"The cast iron frying pan didn't work. I made mess, though. They're all squished. Oh...and then they multiply by making more smooshed waffle fries...eeewwwgh. I won't do that again."
"Yeah. Please don't."
"Dude...I don't-urp. I'm outta ideas here, Sammy."
Normally, Sam would use this as an opportunity to lecture Dean on the degenerative effects of a carb overload on the mental processes of the human brain, but he was too swamped in saturated fats to bother. Even a "see, I told you so" was too much work.
"It's getting light out. We've been here all night. The staff's gonna be here soon."
"Get out, Dean. Save yourself! There's nothing you can do for me, now..." So be it. Sam was going to die a Hunter's death. An embarrassingly pathetic Hunter's death, but at least he'd died on the job, literally under the influence of a cursed object...
"The hell there isn't! I'm calling Cas."
What? Wait a minute... "How come you didn't do that to begin with?"
"Dude! One word! Waffle fries!"
"That's two words."
"Stop being such a freaking nerd."
"Carbs make you cranky."
"I hate you so much right now, Dean."
"Stop being such a bitch."
Several months later, in a motel room in Colorado...
"Dean! I think I found a case." Sam looked up from his laptop.
"Of course, you did."
"Oh. Never mind."
Dean sat up on his bed. He still had a few zits, but overall, his complexion had gradually cleared after the Waffle Fry Case. "What? What do you mean, never mind? People are dying? We're there. What is it?"
"It's in Idaho."
Dean lay back down. "I was thinking about going to the Northeast. But-not to Maine."
"Yeah...it's nice there, this time of year. In Massachusetts. It's cranberry season. You know, bogs."
"Yep. No potatoes in bogs, right?"
"Not at all." Sam brushed his fingers through his crew cut. Finally, his hair didn't feel greasy. Much. They were spending a fortune on shampoo. But Dean's hair product consumption was at an all time low. Whatever shape his brushed his hair into, it stayed. And looked greased.
Of course, his own formerly glorious man-mane was beyond redemption. He hoped it would normalize eventually. Because he looked like Giant Forehead Man with no hair.
Or a gym teacher.
Dean bounced to his feet. It had taken him a few months to lose the bloat. And the gas. But finally, he was spry again. "Good then. We're on it. To the bogs! There's bound to be something going on where ever there are bogs. I mean, just the word. 'Bogs'. Sounds like Monster Central."
And from his vantage point in one corner of the Winchester's hotel room, Gabriel, still, silent and invisible, grinned. Because he knew there was soon to be a case involving a "haunted" salt water taffy factory...