Under the Bed, [PG-13] 8/12, John, Sam, Dean
Title: Under the Bed
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,211
Spoilers/Warnings:Spoilers through S1, just to be safe.
Summary:In which the boys find themselves unnaturally fearful of childish things, like monsters under the bed and inside closets. Set in S1. Limp!Sam, Limp!Dean, Protective!Daddy John.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
______________________________
Chapter Eight - Warm Cookies
______________________________
"I'll have a small portion of the chef salad, please," Sam says, smiling his polite smile at the waitress. "With turkey. And a cup of your Very Vegetable Soup would be great, thanks."
John feels better. Not great, but better. He has about five hours of restless sleep under his belt and a cup of steaming diner coffee in his hand. He'll be good to go after they eat, and the boys are looking slightly perkier, too. Sam has just the barest hint of a fever now and Dean's getting there, he's functioning, even if his blinks are slower than usual and he's not at all alert.
John tried to leave him in bed, but Dean wouldn't have it. Sam wouldn't have it. And after some thought, John wouldn't have it, either.
"And what can I get for you, sir?" The waitress smiles prettily at John. She's plump and wholesome and middle-aged, her happy hospitality seemingly genuine, and John appreciates her just like he's appreciated hundreds of waitresses over the years. Diners, more often than not, are a safe place where the staff smiles at you and you eat and then you're satisfied.
"I'll have the BLT with a side of chili. Thanks, darlin'," he says, and he keeps his voice smooth and warm, like honey in hot tea. She reacts to it, like they always do. She giggles and then blushes, looks away in a matter of two seconds, takes up his menu and tries to pretend that it never happened, and John feels...well, John feels nothing, really. He's glad he's still charming, though. Charm can be a strategically important quality to possess.
"And you, baby?" she asks Dean, who's dazed and rubbing a hand over his face. The grin he unleashes in return is sleepy, but, much like his father, charming. "You okay?"
"M'good," Dean says. His menu has been laying in front of him for the past three minutes and just now does he pull it down with a finger and skim it over, deciding quickly. "Uh...I'll have the Double Meat Monster Burger with a side of onion rings."
Dean always eats the worst things.
The waitress scribbles it down quickly, but her eyes float to John. He doesn't know if he made a noise in protest, because he's thinking of Mary again, of how she would be displeased, of how that fruit cup yesterday was a small triumph in a lifetime full of parental failures. Or maybe it's just something she knows, being a waitress, having seen it thousands of times before - parents countermanding their children's food choices.
"Everything okay, hon?" she asks.
So it was the noise. John made a noise. That's fine. John has authority. John can do this.
"Yeah, uh...no onion rings. He'll have a small dinner salad on the side."
Or maybe it's both, because she immediately crosses out the onion rings without looking to Dean for confirmation, though she does ask him, "What kind of dressing would you like, sweetheart?"
Dean's eyes are knives stabbing John into a bleeding mess, but he's not Sam. Dean's never been Sam, and he goes with it without making a scene or arguing on the spot. "Ranch."
Sam's got that smug look about him again as the waitress scribbles the preference down and walks away, his teeth biting down on his lip as he tries not to laugh. Dean elbows him quick and sharp in the gut and mutters, "Shut up."
But then he goes quiet.
No "who the fuck do you think you are?" or "you've gotta be fucking kidding me", just acquiescence and silent seething.
John did this to him.
John doesn't apologize for it, just watches as Dean crosses his arms on the table and lays his feverish head down on them. John sighs and reaches his hand across the table to skim it over the top of the boy's head. He asks, "How're you feeling, dude?"
"I feel wonderful, Dad," Dean replies testily. "How do you feel?"
"Like maybe I should have left you in bed."
That was unfair. John knows that was unfair. Dean has every right and reason to be irritated right now... it's just John's reactions to such petulant tones are swift and hard to quell.
Dean lifts his shoulders in a sulky shrug.
John lets it go.
Sam doesn't. "We're not children, Dad. Stop treating us like we are."
John's not going to give Sam the satisfaction of another argument. They already had one this morning. One a day seems reasonable. Not two, though. Of course, back in the day, it was no less than three. He says, "We'll see. Maybe when this whole shitty ordeal is over with, I'll let you wear your big boy pants again."
Okay, maybe that wasn't the best way to deter a fight.
The anger springs up, the color in Sam's face rises. He opens his mouth, ready to let John have it, but then Dean snorts.
"Heh. Big boy pants."
Sam's ire is quick to switch directions, whips around until its spitting on his big brother like sparks from a fire. "He just ordered you a salad, Dean."
Dean lifts his head from his arms, considers Sam with a fond sort of amusement. "S'okay. He's paying for it." His eyes shift to John. "You do know you're paying for it, right?"
"I'm paying for it," John agrees. He doesn't know if he should be pleased or saddened by the fact that Dean knows how to diffuse the epic Dad vs. Sam battle before it even starts, but he's glad his son knows how to do it.
"Can I have some pie, too?"
John almost tells him he's pushing it, but Dean's eyes are honestly hopeful at the moment so he checks his watch. They can still make it to the festival today. The second round of the Little Miss Peanut Pageant is at eight and if they leave in the next twenty-five minutes, they'll be right on time. Maybe the enthusiast will be there. John hopes so. He has some questions to ask that creepy fuck.
"You can have one slice, but you have to eat it in the car."
"Deal." Dean instantly snatches the dessert menu away from the napkin holder, runs his eyes over it in lust. "Sammy, you want some pie?"
Sam sighs, slouches in his seat. "No, Dean. I don't want any pie."
"They have warm cookies."
"Dude, you're so..." Sam trails off, his eyes catching something on the menu. "Wow. It really does say 'warm cookies'."
"Yep. And look, they have your favorite! Oatmeal raisin."
Sam slides the menu over to his side of the table with a single finger. Dean looks up while his little brother is distracted and smirks at John. He's been pacifying Sam since he was six and Sam was two and John will never cease to be silently amazed.
They eat their dinner when it arrives. Dean chokes down half the salad and all of the burger, looking far more alive when they exit the diner than when they entered it. John drives to the peanut festival in a classic car that's filled with the smells of warm cookies and delicious pastries, and the sounds of the sons who eat them.
Next
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,211
Spoilers/Warnings:Spoilers through S1, just to be safe.
Summary:In which the boys find themselves unnaturally fearful of childish things, like monsters under the bed and inside closets. Set in S1. Limp!Sam, Limp!Dean, Protective!Daddy John.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
______________________________
Chapter Eight - Warm Cookies
______________________________
"I'll have a small portion of the chef salad, please," Sam says, smiling his polite smile at the waitress. "With turkey. And a cup of your Very Vegetable Soup would be great, thanks."
John feels better. Not great, but better. He has about five hours of restless sleep under his belt and a cup of steaming diner coffee in his hand. He'll be good to go after they eat, and the boys are looking slightly perkier, too. Sam has just the barest hint of a fever now and Dean's getting there, he's functioning, even if his blinks are slower than usual and he's not at all alert.
John tried to leave him in bed, but Dean wouldn't have it. Sam wouldn't have it. And after some thought, John wouldn't have it, either.
"And what can I get for you, sir?" The waitress smiles prettily at John. She's plump and wholesome and middle-aged, her happy hospitality seemingly genuine, and John appreciates her just like he's appreciated hundreds of waitresses over the years. Diners, more often than not, are a safe place where the staff smiles at you and you eat and then you're satisfied.
"I'll have the BLT with a side of chili. Thanks, darlin'," he says, and he keeps his voice smooth and warm, like honey in hot tea. She reacts to it, like they always do. She giggles and then blushes, looks away in a matter of two seconds, takes up his menu and tries to pretend that it never happened, and John feels...well, John feels nothing, really. He's glad he's still charming, though. Charm can be a strategically important quality to possess.
"And you, baby?" she asks Dean, who's dazed and rubbing a hand over his face. The grin he unleashes in return is sleepy, but, much like his father, charming. "You okay?"
"M'good," Dean says. His menu has been laying in front of him for the past three minutes and just now does he pull it down with a finger and skim it over, deciding quickly. "Uh...I'll have the Double Meat Monster Burger with a side of onion rings."
Dean always eats the worst things.
The waitress scribbles it down quickly, but her eyes float to John. He doesn't know if he made a noise in protest, because he's thinking of Mary again, of how she would be displeased, of how that fruit cup yesterday was a small triumph in a lifetime full of parental failures. Or maybe it's just something she knows, being a waitress, having seen it thousands of times before - parents countermanding their children's food choices.
"Everything okay, hon?" she asks.
So it was the noise. John made a noise. That's fine. John has authority. John can do this.
"Yeah, uh...no onion rings. He'll have a small dinner salad on the side."
Or maybe it's both, because she immediately crosses out the onion rings without looking to Dean for confirmation, though she does ask him, "What kind of dressing would you like, sweetheart?"
Dean's eyes are knives stabbing John into a bleeding mess, but he's not Sam. Dean's never been Sam, and he goes with it without making a scene or arguing on the spot. "Ranch."
Sam's got that smug look about him again as the waitress scribbles the preference down and walks away, his teeth biting down on his lip as he tries not to laugh. Dean elbows him quick and sharp in the gut and mutters, "Shut up."
But then he goes quiet.
No "who the fuck do you think you are?" or "you've gotta be fucking kidding me", just acquiescence and silent seething.
John did this to him.
John doesn't apologize for it, just watches as Dean crosses his arms on the table and lays his feverish head down on them. John sighs and reaches his hand across the table to skim it over the top of the boy's head. He asks, "How're you feeling, dude?"
"I feel wonderful, Dad," Dean replies testily. "How do you feel?"
"Like maybe I should have left you in bed."
That was unfair. John knows that was unfair. Dean has every right and reason to be irritated right now... it's just John's reactions to such petulant tones are swift and hard to quell.
Dean lifts his shoulders in a sulky shrug.
John lets it go.
Sam doesn't. "We're not children, Dad. Stop treating us like we are."
John's not going to give Sam the satisfaction of another argument. They already had one this morning. One a day seems reasonable. Not two, though. Of course, back in the day, it was no less than three. He says, "We'll see. Maybe when this whole shitty ordeal is over with, I'll let you wear your big boy pants again."
Okay, maybe that wasn't the best way to deter a fight.
The anger springs up, the color in Sam's face rises. He opens his mouth, ready to let John have it, but then Dean snorts.
"Heh. Big boy pants."
Sam's ire is quick to switch directions, whips around until its spitting on his big brother like sparks from a fire. "He just ordered you a salad, Dean."
Dean lifts his head from his arms, considers Sam with a fond sort of amusement. "S'okay. He's paying for it." His eyes shift to John. "You do know you're paying for it, right?"
"I'm paying for it," John agrees. He doesn't know if he should be pleased or saddened by the fact that Dean knows how to diffuse the epic Dad vs. Sam battle before it even starts, but he's glad his son knows how to do it.
"Can I have some pie, too?"
John almost tells him he's pushing it, but Dean's eyes are honestly hopeful at the moment so he checks his watch. They can still make it to the festival today. The second round of the Little Miss Peanut Pageant is at eight and if they leave in the next twenty-five minutes, they'll be right on time. Maybe the enthusiast will be there. John hopes so. He has some questions to ask that creepy fuck.
"You can have one slice, but you have to eat it in the car."
"Deal." Dean instantly snatches the dessert menu away from the napkin holder, runs his eyes over it in lust. "Sammy, you want some pie?"
Sam sighs, slouches in his seat. "No, Dean. I don't want any pie."
"They have warm cookies."
"Dude, you're so..." Sam trails off, his eyes catching something on the menu. "Wow. It really does say 'warm cookies'."
"Yep. And look, they have your favorite! Oatmeal raisin."
Sam slides the menu over to his side of the table with a single finger. Dean looks up while his little brother is distracted and smirks at John. He's been pacifying Sam since he was six and Sam was two and John will never cease to be silently amazed.
They eat their dinner when it arrives. Dean chokes down half the salad and all of the burger, looking far more alive when they exit the diner than when they entered it. John drives to the peanut festival in a classic car that's filled with the smells of warm cookies and delicious pastries, and the sounds of the sons who eat them.
Next