Under the Bed, [PG-13] 6/12, John, Sam, Dean
Title: Under the Bed
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,556
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
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Chapter Six - Butterscotch Chips
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She comes in third. A balding man in his forties makes his way down the line, and upon reaching her, lays a shimmering, gold ribbon out in front of the heaping plate of chocolate-covered peanut clusters.
She smiles. John can tell its not a genuine smile. Those peanut clusters are made of children's fears, and this Voss woman undoubtedly believes children's fears to be the most delicious things to ever grace this plane of existence.
He's going to stab her in the fucking throat.
He waits to make his move, waits for the crowd to get distracted by the treats, waits for Mrs. Voss to smile so hard that she can't smile anymore so she backs up and makes her way behind the tent to let out the disappointment of defeat where no one can see her.
John follows, pushing through and past masses of people until the crowds thin out and then he's behind the tent, too, and the only people around are in the distance, moving past them, not paying attention, and Voss isn't either. She's distracted by nothing in particular as she absently wipes her hands on her immaculate blouse.
And then her eyes start to rain like it's April in Indiana, one hand moves up to her mouth while the other rests on her abdomen. She chokes on a sob.
John doesn't know what the fuck this is and he doesn't care.
He's going to stab her in the fucking throat.
He's quick and quiet on his feet, moves with grace with his hand up and out and then it's slammed against her mouth, silencing her as he pushes her against a sturdy aluminum tent pole.
"What did you do?" he growls. "What did you put in the fucking peanuts?"
She's screaming against his hand. John can tell. Her breath is warm and desperate and full and she's writhing helplessly.
John gives her a shake. "Calm the fuck down! Tell me what you did to them. My kid is puking his goddamn guts out, for chrissakes."
And just like that, she stops screaming. Her horrified eyes are still horrified, but not in that way that she's fearing for her life. He relaxes his hold, she pulls away from his hand.
"Your son is sick?" she asks, her voice surprisingly calm, though tinted with some small amount of concern. "He's throwing up?"
"Yes. What did you-"
"Is that why I lost?" she asks. There's some kind of odd realization blooming in her quickly drying eyes. A realization that John suspects has absolutely nothing to do with why his monster-killing sons are suddenly terrified of things that are completely imaginary. "Goodness me, I knew I shouldn't have borrowed those butterscotch chips from Sandra Levingston." Her face hardens. Her eyes narrow. "That crafty whore."
"What-"
But Voss is done with John apparently, and she walks away with purpose. John follows her on suddenly clumsy feet, completely taken off-guard by this woman's sudden change in demeanor, her deliberate charge towards the front of the tent.
A slightly younger blond woman with a statuesque figure and a blue ribbon pinned to her low-cut, black sweater smiles prettily when she sees Voss coming.
"Abigail!" she exclaims in a forced tone of friendly greeting.
"Sandra!" Abigail Voss replies in a similar tone. Then she slams her small, clean fist into Sandra Levingston's face.
"What the-!" Sandra's hand is clutching her nose. John can already see hints of blood.
"You slut! You sabotaged me! Tainted butterscotch chips? Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"What are you talking about, you crazy bitch? Those were my best fucking butterscotch chips!"
Hair pulling ensues. John stays around only long enough to determine that neither woman has any idea about his sons' current ailment, and that if he brought it up with either of them, he'd be arrested or shipped off to a mental asylum within the blink of an eye.
The only thing John knows now is that he's back to square one.
And that Sam and Dean aren't sitting on the bench where he left them.
It takes all of his will power not to start yelling out their names like they're five and lost and he's frantic. Even though that's what it feels like and why the fuck didn't they just stay where he told them to?
He feels feverish himself now, scanning the area with near-panic-stricken eyes because why the fuck did he leave them? This is his fault. This is all John's fault. He's a bad father and a bad man and he deserves all the nightmares he still has, he deserves to be drunk and alone and covered in that fine mixture of monster and human blood he's come to acquire over the years.
There are two girls at the face-painting stand, maybe a little younger than Sam, and John shuffles up to them, words tumbling out of his mouth in ways he can't control, "Did you girls happen to see two boys here? They're in their twenties, one of them was real sick-"
"The unnaturally pretty ones?" one girl interrupts him, and then they both giggle in that way that girls do when they have a secret joke that's painfully obvious.
"I...yes," John says, because his sons...they are. They're good-looking kids.
"Are you their dad?" the other girl asks.
"Yes," John replies. "Do you know where they-"
"Oh my god, Bernice, that so explains it!" They burst into giggles.
Bernice? John wonders, and then shakes his head. He doesn't have the time to ponder other parents' name choices. "Look, can you just tell me if you saw where they-"
"I think they went to the bathroom," the girl who isn't Bernice says. "The adorable one in the leather jacket started looking like he was about to hurl."
"Thanks," John says brusquely, and he whirls around, moves in steadfast strides in the direction of the restroom, tries to ignore the "Fuck, Doris, what I'd give to take a dip into that gene pool."
There are some scary females in this world, John has decided. Or maybe it's just at peanut festivals. He doesn't really know for sure.
He's glad this place has real restrooms, though, and not Porta-Potties, even if the reek is close to being just as awful. It's nice not to have to knock on door to door to find his sons, but instead just to walk into this one hellhole and hear his eldest heaving in one of the stalls while Sam stands outside, holding the broken door closed, grey in the face as he tries to comfort his brother with a softly-spoken story about this outrageous porno he saw once in college.
John pretends he didn't hear that. "Sammy?"
Sam's head turns, his green eyes at first wide and startled, then relieved. "Dad? Dean, Dad's-"
"Dad?" Dean's voice is weak, but hopeful. "Did you get the bitch?"
John swallows. "No...no, son, it wasn't her."
A pause follows. John shifts, ashamed. He should have fixed this. This should be fixed by now.
"Well, that explains why I'm still on the verge of pissing myself, I guess."
"I'm..." Sorry. John is sorry. John won't say he's sorry and he does't know why. Because he's an ass, maybe, which would explain what he says next: "Next time I tell you to stay put, you stay the fuck put."
Sam's eyes narrow. "We were fucking sick, Dad."
"There was a trashcan three feet away."
"And there were people everywhere!"
John's not going to continue this argument. He waits until Dean's stomach has calmed down before nudging Sam out of the way and heading into the stall. He leans down and puts his hands gently around Dean's sides, stands the boy on his feet. Dean leans heavily against him all the way to the car.
John drives back to the motel with Sam riding shotgun, or sleeping shotgun, his head lolling over to rest on John's shoulder and Dean in the backseat with his eyes closed, his face tense and his arms crossed tightly around his stomach. John hopes this sickness is just another passing phase, like the cuts on their backs, because he doesn't know how long its going to take to find the real culprit behind this curse.
Once back at the motel, he gets them out of the car one by one, gets them settled on the bed furthest from the closet, helps them out of their jackets, pulls the heavy boots off their feet.
"Dad..."
Dean's hand shoots out and he grabs a fistful of his father's shirt before John can get up from the side of the bed he's sitting on, squeezes it so tight his knuckles are pale as blades. Big, green eyes move down towards the mattress, indicating that the fear is still there.
Something's under the bed.
John ghosts a hand over his son's spiky head.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promises, and it's a promise he keeps. He settles on the bed for the night with his back against the headboard, Dean's arm unconsciously draped over his legs. Sleep plays with his eyes, but John tries his best not to give in to the game. He keeps watch over his sleeping sons as the night lingers on.
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Next
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,556
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 Six - Butterscotch Chips
____________________________________
She comes in third. A balding man in his forties makes his way down the line, and upon reaching her, lays a shimmering, gold ribbon out in front of the heaping plate of chocolate-covered peanut clusters.
She smiles. John can tell its not a genuine smile. Those peanut clusters are made of children's fears, and this Voss woman undoubtedly believes children's fears to be the most delicious things to ever grace this plane of existence.
He's going to stab her in the fucking throat.
He waits to make his move, waits for the crowd to get distracted by the treats, waits for Mrs. Voss to smile so hard that she can't smile anymore so she backs up and makes her way behind the tent to let out the disappointment of defeat where no one can see her.
John follows, pushing through and past masses of people until the crowds thin out and then he's behind the tent, too, and the only people around are in the distance, moving past them, not paying attention, and Voss isn't either. She's distracted by nothing in particular as she absently wipes her hands on her immaculate blouse.
And then her eyes start to rain like it's April in Indiana, one hand moves up to her mouth while the other rests on her abdomen. She chokes on a sob.
John doesn't know what the fuck this is and he doesn't care.
He's going to stab her in the fucking throat.
He's quick and quiet on his feet, moves with grace with his hand up and out and then it's slammed against her mouth, silencing her as he pushes her against a sturdy aluminum tent pole.
"What did you do?" he growls. "What did you put in the fucking peanuts?"
She's screaming against his hand. John can tell. Her breath is warm and desperate and full and she's writhing helplessly.
John gives her a shake. "Calm the fuck down! Tell me what you did to them. My kid is puking his goddamn guts out, for chrissakes."
And just like that, she stops screaming. Her horrified eyes are still horrified, but not in that way that she's fearing for her life. He relaxes his hold, she pulls away from his hand.
"Your son is sick?" she asks, her voice surprisingly calm, though tinted with some small amount of concern. "He's throwing up?"
"Yes. What did you-"
"Is that why I lost?" she asks. There's some kind of odd realization blooming in her quickly drying eyes. A realization that John suspects has absolutely nothing to do with why his monster-killing sons are suddenly terrified of things that are completely imaginary. "Goodness me, I knew I shouldn't have borrowed those butterscotch chips from Sandra Levingston." Her face hardens. Her eyes narrow. "That crafty whore."
"What-"
But Voss is done with John apparently, and she walks away with purpose. John follows her on suddenly clumsy feet, completely taken off-guard by this woman's sudden change in demeanor, her deliberate charge towards the front of the tent.
A slightly younger blond woman with a statuesque figure and a blue ribbon pinned to her low-cut, black sweater smiles prettily when she sees Voss coming.
"Abigail!" she exclaims in a forced tone of friendly greeting.
"Sandra!" Abigail Voss replies in a similar tone. Then she slams her small, clean fist into Sandra Levingston's face.
"What the-!" Sandra's hand is clutching her nose. John can already see hints of blood.
"You slut! You sabotaged me! Tainted butterscotch chips? Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"What are you talking about, you crazy bitch? Those were my best fucking butterscotch chips!"
Hair pulling ensues. John stays around only long enough to determine that neither woman has any idea about his sons' current ailment, and that if he brought it up with either of them, he'd be arrested or shipped off to a mental asylum within the blink of an eye.
The only thing John knows now is that he's back to square one.
And that Sam and Dean aren't sitting on the bench where he left them.
It takes all of his will power not to start yelling out their names like they're five and lost and he's frantic. Even though that's what it feels like and why the fuck didn't they just stay where he told them to?
He feels feverish himself now, scanning the area with near-panic-stricken eyes because why the fuck did he leave them? This is his fault. This is all John's fault. He's a bad father and a bad man and he deserves all the nightmares he still has, he deserves to be drunk and alone and covered in that fine mixture of monster and human blood he's come to acquire over the years.
There are two girls at the face-painting stand, maybe a little younger than Sam, and John shuffles up to them, words tumbling out of his mouth in ways he can't control, "Did you girls happen to see two boys here? They're in their twenties, one of them was real sick-"
"The unnaturally pretty ones?" one girl interrupts him, and then they both giggle in that way that girls do when they have a secret joke that's painfully obvious.
"I...yes," John says, because his sons...they are. They're good-looking kids.
"Are you their dad?" the other girl asks.
"Yes," John replies. "Do you know where they-"
"Oh my god, Bernice, that so explains it!" They burst into giggles.
Bernice? John wonders, and then shakes his head. He doesn't have the time to ponder other parents' name choices. "Look, can you just tell me if you saw where they-"
"I think they went to the bathroom," the girl who isn't Bernice says. "The adorable one in the leather jacket started looking like he was about to hurl."
"Thanks," John says brusquely, and he whirls around, moves in steadfast strides in the direction of the restroom, tries to ignore the "Fuck, Doris, what I'd give to take a dip into that gene pool."
There are some scary females in this world, John has decided. Or maybe it's just at peanut festivals. He doesn't really know for sure.
He's glad this place has real restrooms, though, and not Porta-Potties, even if the reek is close to being just as awful. It's nice not to have to knock on door to door to find his sons, but instead just to walk into this one hellhole and hear his eldest heaving in one of the stalls while Sam stands outside, holding the broken door closed, grey in the face as he tries to comfort his brother with a softly-spoken story about this outrageous porno he saw once in college.
John pretends he didn't hear that. "Sammy?"
Sam's head turns, his green eyes at first wide and startled, then relieved. "Dad? Dean, Dad's-"
"Dad?" Dean's voice is weak, but hopeful. "Did you get the bitch?"
John swallows. "No...no, son, it wasn't her."
A pause follows. John shifts, ashamed. He should have fixed this. This should be fixed by now.
"Well, that explains why I'm still on the verge of pissing myself, I guess."
"I'm..." Sorry. John is sorry. John won't say he's sorry and he does't know why. Because he's an ass, maybe, which would explain what he says next: "Next time I tell you to stay put, you stay the fuck put."
Sam's eyes narrow. "We were fucking sick, Dad."
"There was a trashcan three feet away."
"And there were people everywhere!"
John's not going to continue this argument. He waits until Dean's stomach has calmed down before nudging Sam out of the way and heading into the stall. He leans down and puts his hands gently around Dean's sides, stands the boy on his feet. Dean leans heavily against him all the way to the car.
John drives back to the motel with Sam riding shotgun, or sleeping shotgun, his head lolling over to rest on John's shoulder and Dean in the backseat with his eyes closed, his face tense and his arms crossed tightly around his stomach. John hopes this sickness is just another passing phase, like the cuts on their backs, because he doesn't know how long its going to take to find the real culprit behind this curse.
Once back at the motel, he gets them out of the car one by one, gets them settled on the bed furthest from the closet, helps them out of their jackets, pulls the heavy boots off their feet.
"Dad..."
Dean's hand shoots out and he grabs a fistful of his father's shirt before John can get up from the side of the bed he's sitting on, squeezes it so tight his knuckles are pale as blades. Big, green eyes move down towards the mattress, indicating that the fear is still there.
Something's under the bed.
John ghosts a hand over his son's spiky head.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promises, and it's a promise he keeps. He settles on the bed for the night with his back against the headboard, Dean's arm unconsciously draped over his legs. Sleep plays with his eyes, but John tries his best not to give in to the game. He keeps watch over his sleeping sons as the night lingers on.
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