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The park, this cloudy Tuesday afternoon, is sparsely filled. From the bench where he sits, Dean can see a couple small families of tourists strolling the paths and no other souls within view. Sammy and his little middle school friends had vanished as soon as they'd gotten their entrance passes punched, a single reedy “thanks, D!” hanging in the air behind them.
The lonely life of the chauffeur, Dean muses. They only love me for my car. He shrugs, shakes his head a little. Can't blame 'em, though, she is a nice fuckin' car...
So now he has the afternoon and evening to kill before his brother and his posse have thoroughly nauseated themselves on fair food and rickety rides. He looks over the schedule of shows on the back of the park map he'd grabbed on the way in. Princess tea party at 2:00 and 5:00, no thanks... Magic shows every 45 minutes, ehh, maybe if I get bored enough... Dive show at 3:00 and 6:00, mmm, swimmer's bodies... Fireworks at dusk, free hot dogs and sparklers, wonder if the kids'll wanna stick around for that...
Making a mental note to wander closer to the dive pool around 2:45, he stands and strikes off in a random direction, looking for something to catch his eye. Two random turns on the path later, and his eye is absolutely seized.
The grounds of the park are scattered with little kiosks and pop-ups – a stand selling cheap plastic jewelry here, a wobbly table with sand art for the kiddies there. Directly in front of Dean is a vendor with a compactly stacked set-up: bottom to top there's a speaker, a signage-wrapped crate, and a cotton candy machine. The vendor looks like he's around Dean's age, and lord, he is cute, with a gangly build, fluffy brown hair, cheekbones that could cut a man, and blue blue blue eyes. He glances Dean's way and flashes him a little smile, then turns his attention to his work.
The boy taps a hidden button and cranks up a generic 80's pop song. He sprays some sort of liquid into the brass bowl of the machine, then takes a few steps back, shakes himself out a bit and... He starts to dance.
Dean's jaw drops to his chest. This kid can move. Those lanky legs seem to float him above the cobblestones. He cops a few poses, does a nice moonwalk, some tight spins, a bit of the Robot... It's like he inherited all of Michael Jackson's best secrets. Dean can't take his eyes off him.
The vendor, meanwhile, keeps his eyes trained on his machine. Wisps of sugar begin to gather in and above the bowl, and without missing a beat the kid grabs a thin paper cone and starts to gather the strands around it. He keeps dancing, grabbing a second cone to better direct the cloud of sweetness exactly where he wants it.
The cottony ball is the size of Dean's head, then bigger still. The boy walks a full circuit around his station, twirling and twisting the mass into a perfect pastel-colored globe, then hits the button to kill the tunes. He struts to a stop in front of Dean and presents the treat with a flourish and a smirk.
Dean never makes it to the magic show that day, or the dive pool. He doesn't even go on any rides. He has a fantastic time at the park, though. The only thing sweeter than that cotton candy is the taste of it in his new friend Cas's mouth.