Angels We Have Heard On High
by Minx
December 24, 2009
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Singer’s Auto Salvage
“Bullshit,” Dean declared. His voice rose with the howling gale of the winter storm outside the shuttered windows of Bobby Singer’s home; both were equally biting.
Sam remained silent, not necessarily ignoring his brother’s heated response, yet not having anything further to say to counter it. Instead, he offered up a flippant shrug that spoke louder than words.
It was enough to set Dean off, though. The older Winchester instantly straightened from his slouched position in the ancient desk chair across from Sam, his back a stiff line of indignation, eyes narrowing to slits. The look suggested that death might follow if Sam so much as opened his mouth at this point.
Sam kept his gaze trained on the crackling flames in the fireplace; a wide smirk curving his lips upwards. He couldn’t help it. Pressing Dean’s buttons was just too much fun.
Dean slammed his beer bottle down hard enough to make foam erupt from the lip and rattle the half dozen or so empties sitting on the scarred desktop between him and his brother. He slowly leaned forward across the desk, sending Sam a disapproving scowl.
“Quit tryin’ to screw up Christmas, Sam!”
Sam looked up at his brother in mild surprise.
Dean gave a terse nod. “Yeah, that’s right. You heard me,” he said, his lips thinning into a tight line. “This may be the last time we get to celebrate this holiday - hell any holiday – and you’re taking potshots at it!” Dean sat back and sighed, his eyes softening as he studied his brother. “You used to love Christmas, Sammy,” he said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Dean insisted. He frowned. “You’d get all excited about Santa and presents and candy canes and stuff.”
Sam quirked a brow at his brother. “When I was four, maybe, but I’m a big boy now, Dean.”
Dean’s scowl returned.
“Look, I just think there are larger issues to concentrate on than decking the halls right now,” Sam said. He let out a breath. “Besides, Christmas is nothing more than an appropriation by the church of an old pagan solstice celebration. We learned that the hard way last year,” he added with a sour look.
“Okay, right, whatever, Grinch-apotamous.” Dean let his angry toe tapping speak for him.
“I’m not trying to screw up Christmas,” Sam argued.
“The hell you aren’t,” Dean muttered. “You’re always pouring salt on the good times. Isn’t that right, Cas?” Dean glanced over to Castiel, hoping for some affirmation.
Castiel sat on the battered couch across Bobby’s cluttered living room from the brothers, his upper lip sporting a foamy eggnog mustache. He carefully set his drink down on the napkin placed over his knee, brows drawn together as he pondered the question.
Dean waited expectantly as Sam ignored his companions in favor of draining the last of his beer. It didn’t matter to him whether Castiel backed him on this or not. Sam knew he was right.
It wasn’t the first time he and Dean had had this argument, albeit they were usually a bit more sober when the topic had come up in the past. Sam knew he should have just shut up and let Dean have the last word. Knew correcting his brother would only lead to this – a semi-drunk quarrel on Christmas Eve – but the lawyer in Sam couldn’t help it and the little brother in him felt a small stab of victory at being one up on Dean for a change.
Castiel brought his attention back to the two Winchesters, a confused smile ghosting over his face. “The large quantity of alcohol you put in this beverage, Dean, apparently seems to have distorted my cognitive abilities somewhat. What was the question again?”
Dean scrubbed at his face, rolling his eyes. “Great. Just what we need. A tipsy angel.”
“I didn’t think angels could get drunk,” Sam murmured. Maybe it was the eggnog or something; they’d seen Cas drink before to little effect. He was mulling that over when his brother interrupted his train of thought.
“Whatever.” Dean gave the angel a dismissive wave. “Thanks, Cas. Never mind. Go back to your eggnog.”
Castiel nodded, his face once again taking on the semi-serious mask it usually wore. “Thank you. I will.”
“For the record,” Sam announced with determination, “I was just stating a fact earlier.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought to himself. Dean wouldn’t leave it alone, maybe he could get in a little of his own.
“No, what you were doing was trying to kill what little Christmas spirit there is around here,” Dean stated testily.
Sam snorted.
Dean glared at Sam. “What?”
“Like you haven’t done the same.”
“Oh, really?” Dean took a swig of his beer, belched and settled a questioning look on Sam. “And when, exactly, did I ever keep an angel from getting his wings?”
Castiel’s head bobbed up.
“Shut up,” both Winchesters chimed in unison, pointing at the angel, and then went back to their argument.
“Seriously, Sammy, when have I ever crapped on Christmas?” Dean wanted to know.
Sam was ready with an answer, as usual. “What about the time you told me Santa Claus wasn’t real? And then tried to prove the fact by attacking that poor mall Santa?”
They heard a chuckle coming from the kitchen. “Your daddy just about skinned you alive, boy,” Bobby said, poking his head into the living room, a huge grin on his whiskered face. “Lucky I saved your ass, though,” he teased. “Again,” Bobby added for the hell of it.
Dean’s eyes fell to the desk and he played agitatedly with the edge of the label on his beer bottle. Bobby might have saved Dean from being murdered by his dad outright, but it sure as hell hadn’t saved him from the spanking his father had doled out. Figures Sam would pull that embarrassing stunt out of the hat.
“I was ten, okay?” Dean said. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair..“I had issues…”
Sam choked and took a long draw off his new beer to cover the laugh that was so desperately wanting to escape. Understatement of the year, he thought.
“So maybe I was a little bit of a dick when I was younger,” Dean muttered. Why the hell should he feel guilty about it now? He’d taken the ass-whipping Dad had handed out-
Sam opened his mouth, and Dean pointed at him. “Dude, I swear…if you say one word…” He gave Sam a withering glare.
Sam clapped his mouth shut, but let his lips roll up into a grin to bear witness to his thoughts.
“Would you two chowder heads give it a rest?” Bobby growled. “It’s Christmas Eve, for crying out loud.” Shaking his head in disgust, he turned and went back into the kitchen to finish making dinner.
“Exactly,” Dean said, nodding emphatically at Bobby’s back. “Meaning it’s almost Jesus’ birthday and we should be celebrating and all that jazz.”
Sam folded his arms across his chest, his jaw set stubbornly. “Jesus wasn’t born on December 25th,” he insisted quietly, but not quietly enough because Dean heard him.
“Sam.” A warning. Dean’s stern glare was ominous. “Enough. Next you’ll be telling me the dude wasn’t even real.”
The bait was just too tempting to resist. Sam couldn’t help himself, despite the niggling feeling of guilt over possibly stepping over the line between having a little fun and poking holes in Dean’s already shaky faith. “Maybe he wasn’t,” Sam airily suggested.
To Dean’s ear, the taunt held a touch of vague smugness that Sam used only when he wanted to irritate his brother for fun. It was akin to flapping a red cape in a bull’s face, only the cape, in this instance, was Sam’s college educated mind and the bull was Dean. With a low growl, Dean was up and over the desk, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt.
Sam grunted as they both toppled backwards off Sam’s chair and onto the cluttered floor, cussing and pummeling one another.
“He was real!” Dean demanded as he grabbed at one of Sam’s flailing hands to keep it in check. “Say it!”
“No!”
“Say it, Sammy!”
“Nuh uh,” Sam taunted, trying to wriggle out from under Dean. “You say it,” he said.
Dean caught Sam’s long legs in a scissor lock and flipped the younger man over, landing him atop and across Dean’s lap. Dean let out a triumphant whoop.
“Hey!” Sam bellowed when he realized he was pinned face down across Dean’s lap. “Lemme up, Dean!”
“Not happening, Sammy. Not until you admit Jesus was real,” Dean demanded, feeling the first rush of satisfaction beginning.
Sam tried to push himself off Dean’s thighs, but Dean had anticipated the move and grabbed one of Sam’s wrists, pinning it to the small of his brother’s back. Sam stiffened and swore loudly.
Dean grinned. “Now, apologize for being a little bitch on Christmas Eve, Sam.”
Sam snorted as he unsuccessfully lunged, trying to break his brother’s grip. “Who’s being the bitch here, dude?”
Dean’s reply was in the form of a solid smack to Sam’s upturned rear end.
“Ow! Hey!” Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, a look of shock on his face. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“What?” Dean peered down at his brother innocently.
“A little too old to be spanked, Dean,” Sam grumpily shot back.
Dean grinned. “Really? You think so?” He raised his hand and brought it down again on Sam’s backside, eyes lighting up in amusement as Sam bucked and let out a string of curses. “Hmm, I’m thinking that potty mouth is gonna put you on Santa’s naughty list, Sammy. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to kill you when I get out of this,” Sam replied through gritted teeth. “Fucking let me up, Dean!”
Dean’s smile widened. He laid down a volley of swats across Sam’s ass, concentrating on his brother’s sit spots after Sam yelped extra loud at getting spanked in that particular area. His hand was starting to burn from the friction on Sam’s jeans, but the reaction he was getting from his little brother more than made up for the discomfort, especially when he knew Sam’s ass had to be hurting more than his hand.
“You gonna admit the big J was real?” Dean asked as he continued the spanking.
“Fuck you!” Sam angrily replied.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Dean questioned. He picked up the tempo of the swats, much to Sam’s dismay. “C’mon, Sammy, you know you’re gonna lose here, so just admit it.”
Shifting over Dean’s lap, trying to avoid the stinging spanks peppering his rear end, Sam scowled, trying not to yelp, and finally barked, “Fine! Ow, Dean - dammit! Yes! Jesus was real! Ow! Okay? Are you happy now, you sadistic bastard?”
“Thank you, Sam,” Dean said, smiling and ending the punishment. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Sam’s ominous over-the-shoulder glare pretty much said otherwise, but Dean was willing to overlook that fact.
Sam’s face was flushed from both the struggle to get off of Dean’s lap and the utter degradation of having just gotten his ass handed to him at his age, and in front of a freaking angel, no less. He glanced up and spotted Bobby standing at the doorway, smug grin on his face and groaned. Great. Bobby had witnessed him getting his butt whipped as well.
“You wanna let me up now?” Sam snapped in irritation. The sooner this humiliation was over the better. But, his brother had other ideas.
“There’s still the issue of you being the bitch who stole Christmas,” Dean cheerily commented.
“What?!” He squirmed and tried to roll, but was still unsuccessful.
“You know,” Dean encouraged, resting his tingling hand on Sam’s warm butt. “Trying to ruin the holiday cheer –“
“Oh, give me a break…”
“By saying it’s not Jesus’ birthday –“
“It’s not.”
Dean sighed, shaking his head sadly. He gave Sam’s sore rear a little pat. “Sammy, Sammy…you’d think all those years of Dad paddling your ass for stubbornness would have taught you something.”
Sam’s snort was full of brotherly contempt. “Why? His beating your butt obviously didn’t seem to make you any smarter.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed at the chafing remark. He shrugged, tsking. “Guess we’ll have to repeat this lesson all over again,” he said.
Sam had had enough. “A little help here?” he whined, looking over to Castiel hopefully, not quite sure if the angel was willing to get into the middle of this brotherly altercation.
“Christ was born unto a human mother in Bethlehem as was written,” Castiel uttered, his matter-of-fact tone giving credence to the statement.
Dean turned a speculative eye on the angel. Castiel stared back at him, blandly.
“And?” Dean encouraged, waving impatiently at the angel.
Castiel frowned. “And what?”
Dean rolled his eyes, licking his lower lip in impatience. “And he was born on Christmas Day, right?”
“Actually, Jesus was born in the spring,” Castiel declared. Observing the pinched scowl on Dean’s face, he added. “I was there.”
Sam exploded into a gale of laughter, his snorts shaking his entire body until Dean huffily shoved him off his lap and onto the dusty floor.
“I think you owe me an apology” Sam managed between chuckles. He rubbed at his behind, grimacing a bit at the lingering sting. “Or at least a payback beat down or something, because I was right,” he said, sitting up. “Sam pointed at Castiel, grinning widely. “He’s an actual witness to the birth, dude. You going to refute an angel’s word?” he teased.
“Shut up,” Dean mumbled, refusing to look his brother in the eye. His gaze traveled instead over to Castiel, eyes darkening in accusation. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “What happened to you having my back and all that?”
“I was there, Dean,” Castiel repeated, offering a conciliatory shrug to the older Winchester even as a whisper of a smile ghosted across his face. “I cannot change the fact of what was.”
“Oh yeah, sure, you can zap me back and forth in time like a freaking human ping-pong ball, but you can’t fudge a little on a date!” Dean grumped.
Grinning mischievously, Bobby reached behind him, pulling something down off the wall in the kitchen. He cleared his throat loudly and bent down to hand the item to Sam. “Here. As I recall, your brother’s backside is as hard as his head, so you’ll need a little ‘extra’ help.”
Sam accepted the infamous spanking spoon with relish. Smirk on his face, he tested the implement by slapping it into the palm of his hand a few times, enjoying the uneasy expression Dean now sported.
“What the hell?” Dean questioned. His eyes traveled slowly from the spoon, up to Bobby and then back to Sam. He let out a loud chuff of disbelief, pushing himself back away from his brother until he bumped into a chair leg.
Dean eyed Sam suspiciously. “Dude, what d’you think you’re gonna do with that?”
Sam’s devious smile was almost Grinch-like. “I believe it’s called justice, Dean. Or maybe it’s retribution,” he replied, beaming. “Who cares?” He twirled the spoon in his hand. “I get to smack your ass with this and that’s all that counts as far as I’m concerned.”
Castiel spoke up. “I believe spare the rod and spoil the child would apply here,” he announced belatedly. Smiling, he sat back on the couch, ignoring the blatant glower Dean shot at him. He took a sip of his eggnog. “Or perhaps an eye for an eye…” he speculated thoughtfully.
“More like a butt for a butt,” Bobby chimed in, enjoying the turn of events almost as much as Sam.
“One of Christ’s favorite sayings, Dean, was ‘do unto others as you would they do unto you’. That might work in this situation as well.” The angel mused for another moment, sipping thoughtfully from his mug again. “Your father was fond of saying that he would eventually spank the bullshit out of you. You have just attempted to do the same with your brother; I should think that turnabout is fair play, here, unless you would choose to promote either Bobby or myself as a stand in for your father.”
Dean glanced around the room in mild disapproval at how quickly the tables had been turned. It was quite obvious that he wasn’t getting out of the spanking, not with both Bobby and Cas siding with Sam. Traitors, he complained to himself.
With a growl of resignation and feeling like his father was looking down at him, Dean slowly got to his feet, turned toward the desk laden with beer bottles, and gave one last sour glare over his shoulder at his comrades before leaning over and planting his elbows onto the desktop.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean said, widening his stance and bending low over the desk. “Gimme your best shot. And hurry up, ‘cause I’m hungry and Bobby’s stew smells awesome.”
A chorus of snickers was the reply.
Dean felt Sam come up behind him and he clenched his ass automatically in anticipation of the first blow. He knew Sam wasn’t going to go easy on him after what he’d done.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Sam announced as he swung back his arm, spoon in hand.
Dean closed his eyes, face scrunching up in pain as the first blow of Bobby’s damned spanking spoon cracked down on the seat of his jeans with a loud THWACK!
“Christmas sucks,” he announced.
THE END
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Singer’s Auto Salvage
“Bullshit,” Dean declared. His voice rose with the howling gale of the winter storm outside the shuttered windows of Bobby Singer’s home; both were equally biting.
Sam remained silent, not necessarily ignoring his brother’s heated response, yet not having anything further to say to counter it. Instead, he offered up a flippant shrug that spoke louder than words.
It was enough to set Dean off, though. The older Winchester instantly straightened from his slouched position in the ancient desk chair across from Sam, his back a stiff line of indignation, eyes narrowing to slits. The look suggested that death might follow if Sam so much as opened his mouth at this point.
Sam kept his gaze trained on the crackling flames in the fireplace; a wide smirk curving his lips upwards. He couldn’t help it. Pressing Dean’s buttons was just too much fun.
Dean slammed his beer bottle down hard enough to make foam erupt from the lip and rattle the half dozen or so empties sitting on the scarred desktop between him and his brother. He slowly leaned forward across the desk, sending Sam a disapproving scowl.
“Quit tryin’ to screw up Christmas, Sam!”
Sam looked up at his brother in mild surprise.
Dean gave a terse nod. “Yeah, that’s right. You heard me,” he said, his lips thinning into a tight line. “This may be the last time we get to celebrate this holiday - hell any holiday – and you’re taking potshots at it!” Dean sat back and sighed, his eyes softening as he studied his brother. “You used to love Christmas, Sammy,” he said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Dean insisted. He frowned. “You’d get all excited about Santa and presents and candy canes and stuff.”
Sam quirked a brow at his brother. “When I was four, maybe, but I’m a big boy now, Dean.”
Dean’s scowl returned.
“Look, I just think there are larger issues to concentrate on than decking the halls right now,” Sam said. He let out a breath. “Besides, Christmas is nothing more than an appropriation by the church of an old pagan solstice celebration. We learned that the hard way last year,” he added with a sour look.
“Okay, right, whatever, Grinch-apotamous.” Dean let his angry toe tapping speak for him.
“I’m not trying to screw up Christmas,” Sam argued.
“The hell you aren’t,” Dean muttered. “You’re always pouring salt on the good times. Isn’t that right, Cas?” Dean glanced over to Castiel, hoping for some affirmation.
Castiel sat on the battered couch across Bobby’s cluttered living room from the brothers, his upper lip sporting a foamy eggnog mustache. He carefully set his drink down on the napkin placed over his knee, brows drawn together as he pondered the question.
Dean waited expectantly as Sam ignored his companions in favor of draining the last of his beer. It didn’t matter to him whether Castiel backed him on this or not. Sam knew he was right.
It wasn’t the first time he and Dean had had this argument, albeit they were usually a bit more sober when the topic had come up in the past. Sam knew he should have just shut up and let Dean have the last word. Knew correcting his brother would only lead to this – a semi-drunk quarrel on Christmas Eve – but the lawyer in Sam couldn’t help it and the little brother in him felt a small stab of victory at being one up on Dean for a change.
Castiel brought his attention back to the two Winchesters, a confused smile ghosting over his face. “The large quantity of alcohol you put in this beverage, Dean, apparently seems to have distorted my cognitive abilities somewhat. What was the question again?”
Dean scrubbed at his face, rolling his eyes. “Great. Just what we need. A tipsy angel.”
“I didn’t think angels could get drunk,” Sam murmured. Maybe it was the eggnog or something; they’d seen Cas drink before to little effect. He was mulling that over when his brother interrupted his train of thought.
“Whatever.” Dean gave the angel a dismissive wave. “Thanks, Cas. Never mind. Go back to your eggnog.”
Castiel nodded, his face once again taking on the semi-serious mask it usually wore. “Thank you. I will.”
“For the record,” Sam announced with determination, “I was just stating a fact earlier.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought to himself. Dean wouldn’t leave it alone, maybe he could get in a little of his own.
“No, what you were doing was trying to kill what little Christmas spirit there is around here,” Dean stated testily.
Sam snorted.
Dean glared at Sam. “What?”
“Like you haven’t done the same.”
“Oh, really?” Dean took a swig of his beer, belched and settled a questioning look on Sam. “And when, exactly, did I ever keep an angel from getting his wings?”
Castiel’s head bobbed up.
“Shut up,” both Winchesters chimed in unison, pointing at the angel, and then went back to their argument.
“Seriously, Sammy, when have I ever crapped on Christmas?” Dean wanted to know.
Sam was ready with an answer, as usual. “What about the time you told me Santa Claus wasn’t real? And then tried to prove the fact by attacking that poor mall Santa?”
They heard a chuckle coming from the kitchen. “Your daddy just about skinned you alive, boy,” Bobby said, poking his head into the living room, a huge grin on his whiskered face. “Lucky I saved your ass, though,” he teased. “Again,” Bobby added for the hell of it.
Dean’s eyes fell to the desk and he played agitatedly with the edge of the label on his beer bottle. Bobby might have saved Dean from being murdered by his dad outright, but it sure as hell hadn’t saved him from the spanking his father had doled out. Figures Sam would pull that embarrassing stunt out of the hat.
“I was ten, okay?” Dean said. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair..“I had issues…”
Sam choked and took a long draw off his new beer to cover the laugh that was so desperately wanting to escape. Understatement of the year, he thought.
“So maybe I was a little bit of a dick when I was younger,” Dean muttered. Why the hell should he feel guilty about it now? He’d taken the ass-whipping Dad had handed out-
Sam opened his mouth, and Dean pointed at him. “Dude, I swear…if you say one word…” He gave Sam a withering glare.
Sam clapped his mouth shut, but let his lips roll up into a grin to bear witness to his thoughts.
“Would you two chowder heads give it a rest?” Bobby growled. “It’s Christmas Eve, for crying out loud.” Shaking his head in disgust, he turned and went back into the kitchen to finish making dinner.
“Exactly,” Dean said, nodding emphatically at Bobby’s back. “Meaning it’s almost Jesus’ birthday and we should be celebrating and all that jazz.”
Sam folded his arms across his chest, his jaw set stubbornly. “Jesus wasn’t born on December 25th,” he insisted quietly, but not quietly enough because Dean heard him.
“Sam.” A warning. Dean’s stern glare was ominous. “Enough. Next you’ll be telling me the dude wasn’t even real.”
The bait was just too tempting to resist. Sam couldn’t help himself, despite the niggling feeling of guilt over possibly stepping over the line between having a little fun and poking holes in Dean’s already shaky faith. “Maybe he wasn’t,” Sam airily suggested.
To Dean’s ear, the taunt held a touch of vague smugness that Sam used only when he wanted to irritate his brother for fun. It was akin to flapping a red cape in a bull’s face, only the cape, in this instance, was Sam’s college educated mind and the bull was Dean. With a low growl, Dean was up and over the desk, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt.
Sam grunted as they both toppled backwards off Sam’s chair and onto the cluttered floor, cussing and pummeling one another.
“He was real!” Dean demanded as he grabbed at one of Sam’s flailing hands to keep it in check. “Say it!”
“No!”
“Say it, Sammy!”
“Nuh uh,” Sam taunted, trying to wriggle out from under Dean. “You say it,” he said.
Dean caught Sam’s long legs in a scissor lock and flipped the younger man over, landing him atop and across Dean’s lap. Dean let out a triumphant whoop.
“Hey!” Sam bellowed when he realized he was pinned face down across Dean’s lap. “Lemme up, Dean!”
“Not happening, Sammy. Not until you admit Jesus was real,” Dean demanded, feeling the first rush of satisfaction beginning.
Sam tried to push himself off Dean’s thighs, but Dean had anticipated the move and grabbed one of Sam’s wrists, pinning it to the small of his brother’s back. Sam stiffened and swore loudly.
Dean grinned. “Now, apologize for being a little bitch on Christmas Eve, Sam.”
Sam snorted as he unsuccessfully lunged, trying to break his brother’s grip. “Who’s being the bitch here, dude?”
Dean’s reply was in the form of a solid smack to Sam’s upturned rear end.
“Ow! Hey!” Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, a look of shock on his face. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“What?” Dean peered down at his brother innocently.
“A little too old to be spanked, Dean,” Sam grumpily shot back.
Dean grinned. “Really? You think so?” He raised his hand and brought it down again on Sam’s backside, eyes lighting up in amusement as Sam bucked and let out a string of curses. “Hmm, I’m thinking that potty mouth is gonna put you on Santa’s naughty list, Sammy. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to kill you when I get out of this,” Sam replied through gritted teeth. “Fucking let me up, Dean!”
Dean’s smile widened. He laid down a volley of swats across Sam’s ass, concentrating on his brother’s sit spots after Sam yelped extra loud at getting spanked in that particular area. His hand was starting to burn from the friction on Sam’s jeans, but the reaction he was getting from his little brother more than made up for the discomfort, especially when he knew Sam’s ass had to be hurting more than his hand.
“You gonna admit the big J was real?” Dean asked as he continued the spanking.
“Fuck you!” Sam angrily replied.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Dean questioned. He picked up the tempo of the swats, much to Sam’s dismay. “C’mon, Sammy, you know you’re gonna lose here, so just admit it.”
Shifting over Dean’s lap, trying to avoid the stinging spanks peppering his rear end, Sam scowled, trying not to yelp, and finally barked, “Fine! Ow, Dean - dammit! Yes! Jesus was real! Ow! Okay? Are you happy now, you sadistic bastard?”
“Thank you, Sam,” Dean said, smiling and ending the punishment. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Sam’s ominous over-the-shoulder glare pretty much said otherwise, but Dean was willing to overlook that fact.
Sam’s face was flushed from both the struggle to get off of Dean’s lap and the utter degradation of having just gotten his ass handed to him at his age, and in front of a freaking angel, no less. He glanced up and spotted Bobby standing at the doorway, smug grin on his face and groaned. Great. Bobby had witnessed him getting his butt whipped as well.
“You wanna let me up now?” Sam snapped in irritation. The sooner this humiliation was over the better. But, his brother had other ideas.
“There’s still the issue of you being the bitch who stole Christmas,” Dean cheerily commented.
“What?!” He squirmed and tried to roll, but was still unsuccessful.
“You know,” Dean encouraged, resting his tingling hand on Sam’s warm butt. “Trying to ruin the holiday cheer –“
“Oh, give me a break…”
“By saying it’s not Jesus’ birthday –“
“It’s not.”
Dean sighed, shaking his head sadly. He gave Sam’s sore rear a little pat. “Sammy, Sammy…you’d think all those years of Dad paddling your ass for stubbornness would have taught you something.”
Sam’s snort was full of brotherly contempt. “Why? His beating your butt obviously didn’t seem to make you any smarter.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed at the chafing remark. He shrugged, tsking. “Guess we’ll have to repeat this lesson all over again,” he said.
Sam had had enough. “A little help here?” he whined, looking over to Castiel hopefully, not quite sure if the angel was willing to get into the middle of this brotherly altercation.
“Christ was born unto a human mother in Bethlehem as was written,” Castiel uttered, his matter-of-fact tone giving credence to the statement.
Dean turned a speculative eye on the angel. Castiel stared back at him, blandly.
“And?” Dean encouraged, waving impatiently at the angel.
Castiel frowned. “And what?”
Dean rolled his eyes, licking his lower lip in impatience. “And he was born on Christmas Day, right?”
“Actually, Jesus was born in the spring,” Castiel declared. Observing the pinched scowl on Dean’s face, he added. “I was there.”
Sam exploded into a gale of laughter, his snorts shaking his entire body until Dean huffily shoved him off his lap and onto the dusty floor.
“I think you owe me an apology” Sam managed between chuckles. He rubbed at his behind, grimacing a bit at the lingering sting. “Or at least a payback beat down or something, because I was right,” he said, sitting up. “Sam pointed at Castiel, grinning widely. “He’s an actual witness to the birth, dude. You going to refute an angel’s word?” he teased.
“Shut up,” Dean mumbled, refusing to look his brother in the eye. His gaze traveled instead over to Castiel, eyes darkening in accusation. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “What happened to you having my back and all that?”
“I was there, Dean,” Castiel repeated, offering a conciliatory shrug to the older Winchester even as a whisper of a smile ghosted across his face. “I cannot change the fact of what was.”
“Oh yeah, sure, you can zap me back and forth in time like a freaking human ping-pong ball, but you can’t fudge a little on a date!” Dean grumped.
Grinning mischievously, Bobby reached behind him, pulling something down off the wall in the kitchen. He cleared his throat loudly and bent down to hand the item to Sam. “Here. As I recall, your brother’s backside is as hard as his head, so you’ll need a little ‘extra’ help.”
Sam accepted the infamous spanking spoon with relish. Smirk on his face, he tested the implement by slapping it into the palm of his hand a few times, enjoying the uneasy expression Dean now sported.
“What the hell?” Dean questioned. His eyes traveled slowly from the spoon, up to Bobby and then back to Sam. He let out a loud chuff of disbelief, pushing himself back away from his brother until he bumped into a chair leg.
Dean eyed Sam suspiciously. “Dude, what d’you think you’re gonna do with that?”
Sam’s devious smile was almost Grinch-like. “I believe it’s called justice, Dean. Or maybe it’s retribution,” he replied, beaming. “Who cares?” He twirled the spoon in his hand. “I get to smack your ass with this and that’s all that counts as far as I’m concerned.”
Castiel spoke up. “I believe spare the rod and spoil the child would apply here,” he announced belatedly. Smiling, he sat back on the couch, ignoring the blatant glower Dean shot at him. He took a sip of his eggnog. “Or perhaps an eye for an eye…” he speculated thoughtfully.
“More like a butt for a butt,” Bobby chimed in, enjoying the turn of events almost as much as Sam.
“One of Christ’s favorite sayings, Dean, was ‘do unto others as you would they do unto you’. That might work in this situation as well.” The angel mused for another moment, sipping thoughtfully from his mug again. “Your father was fond of saying that he would eventually spank the bullshit out of you. You have just attempted to do the same with your brother; I should think that turnabout is fair play, here, unless you would choose to promote either Bobby or myself as a stand in for your father.”
Dean glanced around the room in mild disapproval at how quickly the tables had been turned. It was quite obvious that he wasn’t getting out of the spanking, not with both Bobby and Cas siding with Sam. Traitors, he complained to himself.
With a growl of resignation and feeling like his father was looking down at him, Dean slowly got to his feet, turned toward the desk laden with beer bottles, and gave one last sour glare over his shoulder at his comrades before leaning over and planting his elbows onto the desktop.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean said, widening his stance and bending low over the desk. “Gimme your best shot. And hurry up, ‘cause I’m hungry and Bobby’s stew smells awesome.”
A chorus of snickers was the reply.
Dean felt Sam come up behind him and he clenched his ass automatically in anticipation of the first blow. He knew Sam wasn’t going to go easy on him after what he’d done.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Sam announced as he swung back his arm, spoon in hand.
Dean closed his eyes, face scrunching up in pain as the first blow of Bobby’s damned spanking spoon cracked down on the seat of his jeans with a loud THWACK!
“Christmas sucks,” he announced.
THE END