Dean was not picky. There wasn't anything on this earth, human or otherwise, that could claim he was anything other than a living garbage disposal. But he was pretty sure - 90 sure - if he had to choke down one more soggy, over-salted tater tot, he was going to blow chunks.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah?" Sam tore his gaze away from the grainy TV long enough to glance at his brother.
"You got any chicken nuggets left?" Dean craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of dark brown on the paper plate.
"No...I ate them all already. Why? Are you still hungry?" Sam blinked wide, dark eyes at his brother, his forehead instantly creasing with concern.
"Nah, just asking," Dean mumbled.
"Why didn't you eat your tater tots? Is there something wrong with them?" Sam crawled over his bed to Dean's, reaching for the pile of barely-touched tots.
"No, don't-!" Dean cried as Sam popped one in his mouth. Dean watched in horror as Sam chewed slowly, waiting for the inevitable scream. Sam's face morphed from one of thoughtful concern to one of abject disgust, his eyes widening as he fought to swallow the cold, mushed potato-like substance.
"Dean!" he wailed, pointing accusingly at the remaining tots. "Those are nasty! You can't eat those!"
Dean ground his teeth together. "No duh," he grumbled. "But you know what Dad says about wasting food."
Sam was quiet for a minute as he finished off the rest of his Gatorade, swishing the bright red liquid around his mouth to get rid of the awful tot taste. Finally he said, "But it's not wasted if a spirit burns it."
"No, Sam," Dean said, sighing in exasperation. At five, Sam was still coming to grips with the concept of spirits and the other creatures their father hunted. "That's not wasting. But spirits don't come into motel rooms and burn up tater tots."
"Spirits of kids who died in fires that were started by tater tots their parents forgot about do," the youngest Winchester said solemnly, focusing his big dark eyes on Dean's face.
Dean frowned. "Sam, where did you hear about that?"
"I didn't. I saw it. A little kid came in here and burned up all your tater tots because he hates all tater tots because that's what made him die," Sam said pointedly.
"But there aren't any-" Dean began, but he stopped dead as Sam's words finally sank in. A slow grin crept across his face. "Riiight. That tater-tot-burning kid."
Sam's eyes sparkled as he scrambled off the bed. "Where does Daddy keep the matches?" he demanded, pawing through their dad's old duffel bag.
"Right here, doofus." Dean dug the box out of the bottom of the bag. "Fill up that cup with water, will ya? And stay back."
Sam nodded and darted to the bathroom. Dean waited until he heard the water running in the sink, then he struck a match and laid it carefully on the plate of tater tots.
For a moment, the match flame was content to eat up the tiny wooden stick, avoiding the tater tots all together. "Oh, come on," Dean muttered. "They're not possessed, you stupid fire."
As if in response, the flame leapt from the match to the tater tots. Dean grinned.
"Is it working?" Sam appeared at his elbow, peering at the plate.
"Didn't I tell you to stay back?" Dean barked, but he didn't push Sam away. He just took the cup of water from his little brother and eyed the flame nervously. It was eating through the tater tots awfully quick, and he was pretty sure paper plates weren't fire-proof.
"Um...Dean?" Sam tugged at his sleeve, his forehead creasing with worry again.
"Shut up!" Dean barked, edging toward the plate. The tater tots were a pile of charred mush, but the fire wasn't dying away.
"Dean, the plate's on fire!" Sam exclaimed fearfully.
"I noticed!" Dean roared. His heart was pounding in his ears. Though most of what Dad told him involved the supernatural and keeping his little brother safe, there was one normal thing that Dad harped on: don't play with matches. What would Dad think if he came back and the motel had burnt down? Dean tossed the cup of water on the fire, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
Nothing happened.
"Dean!" Sam shouted, backing up.
"Get me more water!" Dean yelled, not taking his eyes off the plate. It was shrinking quickly, and it wouldn't be long before-
"The bed's on fire!"
"Dammit!" Dean shoved the cup into Sam's hands. "Fill that up, hurry!"
"Daddy says you're not supposed to say-" Sam began sternly.
"Would you shut up and listen to me!"
Sam obeyed with a tiny squeak of fear. Dean turned back to the fire, panic racing through his brain. The bed was definitely on fire now; the mattress looked okay, but the covers were quickly becoming ash. Tongues of flame reached for the ceiling, high over Dean's head.
Of course this was the one motel in the state that didn't have smoke detectors, Dean thought furiously as he looked around.
Sam ran back out of the bathroom, the cup of water in his hand looking pathetically small next to the flames on the bed. He yelped as he threw the entire cup on the bed with all his might.
"Sam!" Dean groaned. "What are we supposed to use now!"
Sam bit his lip, his eyes round. "I'm sorry!" he wailed over the crackle of fire.
Dean rolled his eyes and hit his knees. "Just help me look for a fire extinguisher!" he shouted.
Sam nodded and scurried under his bed. Dean dared to stick his arm out and lift the flaming bedskirt. A single sweeping glance revealed nothing but a dead rat and a layer of dust thicker than Dean's hand. "Dammit," he moaned again.
"Dean!" Something thumped, and Dean shot to his feet as Sam dragged a heavy red canister out from the bathroom. "I found it!"
"Why was it - never mind." Dean grabbed the extinguisher from Sam and pulled the pin, aiming the funnel at the bed. Sam clung to his waist as he coated the entire bed in the thick white foam, spraying the ceiling and floor around the bed for good measure.
Finally, the extinguisher was empty. Dean dropped it, panting. The bed was a mess, too big for even Sam and Dean to try to hide. He looked down at Sam. "Tater-tot-burning spirit, huh?"
Sam nodded, giggling. "Mmhmm."
The motel room was dark when John pushed the door open. He glanced at his watch. Three a.m. Both his boys were on Sam's bed, asleep. Sam's head was resting on Dean's chest, his dark hair ruffling as Dean snored. John smiled slightly as he turned to lock the door.
A flash of white caught his eye. His hand instantly found his gun as he spun. He pointed the barrel, scowling ferociously at...the bed. He narrowed his eyes at the white foam for a moment, then he slowly laid the gun down on the dresser. The entire top of the bed was charred, flame-suppressant foam soaking the mattress. The spent extinguisher was lying by the bed, apparently untouched since its use. In the middle of the bed, pale against the black, was a twisted, melted thing that only vaguely resembled a plastic cup.
John walked slowly over to the boys, his temper mounting. Sam was still sleeping hard, his breathing deep and even. But Dean's eyes were opening a little as his eldest stirred. "Hey, Dad," Dean mumbled.
"Dean," John said through his teeth. "What happened to the bed?"
Dean grunted and buried his face in Sam's hair. "Tater-tot-burning spirit. Not our fault."
"A tater-tot-burning spirit," John said flatly, "came in here and burned the bed?"
Dean nodded. "Yes, sir. Came in here 'nd burned the tater tots. Then it left. Me 'nd Sammy put the fire out."
John fixed his son with his best glare, but Dean's eyes were already closing. "You expect me to believe that?" he snapped.
"Yes, sir. It's true." Dean yawned. "Little kid who burned up after his parents forgot about the tater tots. Hates 'em. Nasty. It burned up mine, but tha's okay 'cause they were all soggy anyway."
John sighed and scrubbed at his face with one hand. "All right, son. Go back to sleep."
Dean smiled and hugged his brother closer. John eyed the remains of the bed, grumbling under his breath. After a few minutes of cursing, he fell into the uncomfortable motel chair. The room was quiet for a long moment, until finally John's snores began to rumble through the darkness.
"Way to go, Dean," Sam whispered.
Dean grinned. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam lifted his head from Dean's chest, frowning slightly. "You don't think there really is a tater-tot-burning spirit out there, do you?"
"No, doofus." Dean yawned and let his head drop back to the pillow. "Now shut up and go to sleep." Sam smiled and nestled his face in Dean's chest, his thin arms tight around his brother's neck. The two drifted to sleep quickly, losing themselves in dreams of angry spirits, flaming beds, and soggy tater tots.