Under the Bed
by
Deanie McQueen
Chapter Three - Celebrating the Harvest
John pulls the chocolate-covered peanut clusters out of his pocket. He's back in the room and Dean's just coming out of the shower, rubbing at his wet head with one towel while holding up another around his waist and he seems sufficiently distracted in this post-shower state, but then his eyes light up. They pin almost instantly on John's treat-laden hand.
Boy has a sixth sense or something. That, or his sense of smell is simply incredible.
"Oh, man. Those things are delicious." And the kid strides forward, letting his hair towel fall onto his shoulder as he does so, and he stretches his hand to take one of the cursed little bastards, undoubtedly to consume it faster than John can blink, but that's not happening. Not under John's watch.
John's hands have years and years of war under their belt - his reflexes are practically god-like and he puts them to work now, encompassing the sugar-laden clusters in his fist and zooming his other hand out to slap the back of Dean's greedy appendage like Mary did that one time when the kid was nothing more than a baby, really, three years old with teeny tiny things for hands reaching to grab a cookie that was still hot from the oven.
"Ow."
Okay, maybe it was a little harder than the cookie incident.
"They're cursed, Dean," he informs his eldest gruffly.
Sam, who's laying down on the bed with his eyes to the ceiling, scowls. "You could have just told him, you know. You didn't have to hit him."
A familiar ire licks up like fire from the bottom of John's stomach. "I didn't hit your brother, Sam."
"You used physical force to incite pain in order to stop him from doing something you didn't like. You can call it whatever you want, Dad, but in the end, it's the same thing. You hit him." Sam pauses and gnaws on his lip, and John can pretty much see the anger grow in the pinch of his teeth. There's more heat in his voice when he continues. "Which is completely unnecessary because we understand words."
John doesn't want to fight. He doesn't. He's tired and yelling competitions with his youngest always make him more tired. And they hurt his throat, too. "Dean's fine, Sam," he says, inserting that hint of finality in his voice that always gets Dean to nod and move on.
Sam's not Dean, though. Sam's the kid who slams on the brakes in the middle of the night, who yells in his father's face in the street and doesn't back down, doesn't get back into the car, not even when John uses his god-like hands to get scary and put him back there himself.
"He's not fine," Sam snaps.
"Sam," Dean warns. He's just been standing there, letting them have it, but John sees now the line of tension in his son's jaw, the sad look in his eyes and in his lips and goddamnit. John needs to stop. John needs to stop for Dean because Dean...Dean deserves that much.
"You're not." Sam tells Dean, and then turns his head ever so slightly back in John's direction, his voice raising as he goes. "How can he be? You're a controlling sonuvabitch who orders him around all the time and he thinks he has to take it because you're his father and you know best but you don't give a fuck about him at all. He's just there for you to bark orders at and smack on the fucking nose when he brings in the paper wrong because you don't know how to use normal fucking words like a normal fucking human being-"
"You want words?" John's had it. He can't take any more of this. Not right now. Not for a little fucking slap on the back of the hand because he didn't want his son to have two fucking peanut marks on his back and, fuck knows...a fear of butterflies or something. "I'll give you fucking words. We can have words right now with your six four ass slung over my goddamn knee-"
"Dad," Dean interjects in the same warning tone he'd just given Sam, maybe with a little more ferocity, even, and it's enough to give John pause.
He can't stop there, though. "You just let me know, kiddo. I can arrange it."
And Sam sits up and backs himself against the headboard, glares a dark glare, but doesn't continue the argument, not even to point out the utter hypocrisy in John's threat.
"Well, that was fun," Dean mutters, as Sam sulks. John just wants to get moving.
"Get dressed, Dean," he says. "We have to get going."
"Where are we going?" Sam demands, because he never stays quiet for long.
John closes his eyes for a moment, counts in his head, and answers as calmly as he can:
"We're going to the peanut festival."
Peanut festivals aren't all about peanuts. John realizes this when they gain admission, and what greets them are bright colors in the form of tents and ferris wheels and other little carnival rides, the scent of funnel cake and barbecue intermingling with that of farm animals. A man who's happy enough to appear deranged slaps itinerary in their hands as soon as they walk in, and tells them to remember not to miss the Little Miss Peanut Pageant.
"The girls need a supportive audience," he says gaily, slapping Dean on the shoulder. "Pretty little things they are."
And John cringes internally and tries to wipe the creepiness of actual human beings off of him. He grabs Dean by the jacket sleeve and pulls him away from this man, whom his paternal instinct of twenty-seven years already has marked in red as a predator.
That doesn't mean he won't ask him questions.
"Are there any cooking competitions?" he asks in as even a tone as he can manage.
"There's a recipe competition!" the man tells him cheerfully, his eyes drifting to Sam even as he talks to John. Or John's pretty sure they drift to Sam. He doesn't know if he's being paranoid or not, but it doesn't matter because he hooks a finger into one of his tall son's belt loops, anyway, and tugs the boy back, nudges with a gentle boot to the side of the long leg until Sam gets the hint and stands behind him, next to his brother. "Every contestant has to use peanuts in some way because this is a peanut festival, as you must know. I assure you the outcome is always tasty."
"Great."
"It's at seven o'clock tonight."
They'll be here all day, John realizes with some trepidation, and then hopes beyond hope that they find this Mrs. Voss lady far sooner than when this peanut competition is deemed to commence.
"Alright," John says, and leads his sons away from this unsavory individual and towards the sounds of joyful trumpets and screaming children.
"I spy meatball subs," Dean says, almost immediately, for the vast majority of the venders are towards the entrance, advertising their food for an exorbitant price.
Three dollars for a bottle of water. They have to be joking.
Dean pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and shuffles through his poker winnings. "Sammy, you want a meatball sub?"
"No, Dean, I do not want a meatball sub," Sam drones. It sounds like they've had this conversation before, like Dean should know better.
"You want a fruit cup?" Dean asks, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "I'll buy you a fruit cup."
Sam glares and he doesn't say he wants a fruit cup. But he doesn't say he doesn't want one, either, and Dean just seems to know as he turns on his heel to head for the tent.
"Dean." John, of course, stops him before he gets too far on his journey towards a simple pleasure. The stop is abrupt, dust rises around Dean's boots, up from the earth, throwing it like a brick in John's face that he's holding Dean back. Again.
"He just wants a fucking sandwich..." Sam mutters.
And Dean can have his sandwich. And Sam can have his fruit cup. All John asks is, "Make sure there's no peanuts, alright?"
And the cheer reenters Dean's green eyes as he nods and gives John a, "Yessir" before sauntering off to the vendor with a slight spring in his step.
John scopes the area, realizes he's surrounded by food, but it's not going to be here. The recipe competition. No, that'll be further down past the rigged carnival games, before the farm animals. Probably right next to the Little Miss Peanut Pageant. There's a map in the itinerary that tells him he's right, and he starts unconsciously moving in that direction until his son's nervous voice stops him.
"Dad, don't go."
The belligerence is gone. Sam's biting the nail of his right thumb like he used to when he was little and it was the first day of a new school, one of the many first days, when he was afraid his teacher wouldn't like him, or he'd get lost on his way to his classroom and it tugs at what's left of John's heartstrings, a little, remembering Sam when he was just a wisp of a boy. The morning's fight seems universes away.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Sammy," he says.
Sam shifts on his feet. John reaches up and takes the boy gently about the wrist, pries the hand away from the mouth.
"I just..." the kid looks at the ground, embarrassed. "It feels like I'm gonna get lost if you leave, or you'll get lost, and we'll never find each other again. And it makes zero sense because I went without you for years. What's even going on?"
"We're gonna find out," John tells him. "We'll make it stop."
Sam nods and shifts closer, until his arm is just barely touching John's. Some tension seems to seep out of his long frame at the faint contact, but now his eyes are skittering over to where Dean walked off to.
"Where's Dean?" he asks.
There's a large crowd of people around the meatball sub tent, some of them more well-fed than others and John's sure Dean's just hidden in the mass.
"What if he got lost?" Sam asks, and there's a tremor in his voice that John remembers from last night, from this morning, even, when John left for not even ten minutes. "Dad, what if we lost Dean?"
This would be the end of the world. John can hear it in his son's voice, an apocalypse of burning buildings and screaming innocents, homes and families crumbling to the ground under a sky red with fire.
Or maybe that was the war before this one. Sometimes it all gets muddled in John's head, people and demons. All he sees is the tragedy.
"We didn't lose Dean, Sammy," he says, and taps the boy's elbow. "Stay close."
Sam stays close. They find Dean tense and wild-eyed with a fruit cup in his hand.
"Oh, thank fuck," he says, and that's all he says, but John can tell the separation had him freaked out, too. Dean pushes the fruit cup and a plastic spoon into one of Sam's big hands. "Dude, they take forever with these sandwiches. I expect sheer excellence."
He gets it, John thinks three minutes later. The kid looks like he's in heaven rolling the meat and bread around in his mouth, savoring it as his brother picks chunks of pineapple and grapes out of his cup.
"Hey," Sam says as they walk, calm and even good-humored now that they're all together again. He points to a children's ride with his plastic spoon, the tiny airplanes smoothly cascading through the air all bright and jolly in their primary colors. Little tykes squeal happily, clap their hands, giggle. "Tiny Tots Air Adventure. Wanna go for a ride, Dean?"
"Shut up."
"You know you want to."
"I see clowns up ahead," Dean replies, and Sam stops in his tracks.
There are clowns up ahead. Several of them, even. Holding up a sign that advertises "Clown College. Only the naturally funny need apply."
"You wanna apply to clown college, geek? I'll pay your first semester's tuition."
"We're turning around," Sam replies, and he spins on his heel and starts walking in the opposite direction only to stop ten steps later. "Dad? Make Dean turn around." Hysteria. John hears it in Sam's voice.
"Sammy-"
"If a clown comes near me, I swear to God I will stab him in the heart."
Shit. They're turning around.
John grabs Dean by the elbow and drags him along until he walks by himself, at which point he leads both of his sons to an empty area behind the restrooms.
"It reeks back here," Dean says, crinkling his nose. "Dad, what are we-"
"I need all of your weapons," he says tersely.
"But-"
"Now."
They both grumble, but obey. John can't let them have any weaponry while they're under the influence of...whatever this is. An innocent clown might get killed, a child's airplane ride might get shot down, who the fuck knows what awful thing might happen.
He doesn't know how he's going to fit three more guns and five more knives on his person, though.
"Really?"
Sam shrugs. "You told us always to be prepared."
John did tell them that. He sighs, shoves another handgun in one of his jacket pockets, and hopes the day isn't going to be as long as it seems.