Bad Company
by Minx
I.
Cedarville State Forest
Prince George’s County, Maryland
November 2005
“Well, thanks so much, Sam. This is just terrific.”
The words were spat out in a harsh undertone that had Sam hunching down further against the roughened bark of the oak tree he sat under. He was making an effort to be less of a target. Not that it would help. It didn’t take a Ouija board to deduce that his older brother was royally pissed at him. If Dean’s sarcastic tone wasn’t clue enough, the malevolent glare he leveled at Sam over the top of the Impala was a dead giveaway.
“I said I was sorry,” Sam half-whined, half-muttered.
Dean could make him feel all of six years old with nothing more than a few sharp words and a look. He hated it. It was just like Dad used to do. They hadn’t been back on the road together for more than a few weeks, but it was like Sam had never left for college. He appreciated Dean being there for him, checking up on him like he had when Sam was little and Dad wasn’t around, but he was disgusted that he’d fallen back into his old ways without even being consciously aware of it. He was looking to Dean to take the lead on things, letting his big brother overrule him and backing down whenever they argued over something.
Sam let his head fall back against the tree trunk and he stared up through his dark fringe of bangs into the canopy of multi-hued leaves overhead. A ponderous sigh, full of regret, escaped his lips. It wasn’t the first time since he’d been back on the road with his brother that he wished for once, just one thing would go their way; that they would find their father, or that Dean wouldn’t lecture him to death every time he thought Sam had done something stupid, or that a hunt would go smoothly.
Sam let out a bitter laugh. He didn’t figure he’d get his wish any time soon. Their entire day had pretty much been a bust. Six hours spent scouring the dense Maryland woods for a mysterious, goat-faced creature that had been preying on local hikers had turned up little more than a handful of startled deer and one rather grumpy opossum that had chittered angrily at them before waddling off into the bushes. Sam was tired and sweaty, despite the cool fall temperatures. But most of all, he was not in the mood to deal with Dean’s harping, regardless of whether or not their current unfortunate situation was actually his fault.
Not that that stopped Dean. The older Winchester wasn’t ready or willing to let things go just yet. He angrily stuffed his cell phone back into his jacket pocket, a string of obscenities slipping from between his gritted teeth. Dean’s frustration mounted and he began to pace back and forth along the length of the Impala like an agitated jungle cat looking for a way out of its zoo cage.
“This really sucks, you know that?” Dean groused loudly.
“Yeah, Dean, I get it,” Sam shot back slowly, his voice now laced with some irritation of his own.
“The one time I let you drive my baby - the one time – Sam, and what do you do?” Dean stopped in his tracks, turning to face his brother accusingly.
Sam’s jaw clenched.
“You forget to gas her up!” Dean smacked the palm of his hand down on the trunk of the car for emphasis.
“It was an accident, jeez, could you just-“
“Accident?” Dean’s brows shot up. He strode over to where Sam was sitting to tower over the younger man. “An accident is when you spill some coffee on yourself or you trip over a shoelace. Forgetting to fill the tank up when we’re parked at a friggin’ gas station is just plain stupid!” Dean waved an arm in agitation. “I mean, did you not see me walking off towards the snack mart?” he questioned.
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Sam argued, his face reddening. “I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t know, I just figured you’d take care of the gas afteryou got your stupid candy bars. You always do whenever we stop!”
Dean shook his head. “Dude, driver takes care of the gas. Always.”
“What?” Sam stared up at Dean in confusion.
“Rules of the road, Sammy,” Dean stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh, give me a break!” Sam snorted, rolling his eyes. “And it’s Sam,” he added moodily. He shifted under the tree, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Whatever, okay? It’s not as if you’re going to let me drive again after this, anyway.”
“Damn straight!” Dean affirmed. He held out his hand. “Gimme your phone.”
Sam sat up instantly, frowning. “What? Why?”
“Just give me the damn phone,” Dean repeated a little more firmly. He sighed heavily when Sam continued to stare at him blankly. “Mine’s dead, okay? So, I need yours to call for a tow.”
“Oh, um…” Sam swallowed hard. He made no move to comply with Dean’s request. Instead, he sat beneath the tree, squirming.
Dean stood over Sam, waiting. “Dude?” He frowned and waved the hand he still held out in front of him. “Phone’s not gonna magically float out of your pocket and into my hand…”
Sam fidgeted some more, nervously playing with the wooden buttons on his corduroy jacket. Realizing that Dean wasn’t going to just walk away, he slowly trailed his eyes up from his lap to offer the older Winchester a wide, apologetic look.
Dean knew the look all too well, in fact, he had given a name - Sam’s ‘kicked puppy’ face - to it years ago. His impatient frown instantly morphed into a glower of irritation. “Sam…” he growled warily. “Tell me your phone is charged up and working.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s working fine,” Sam replied quietly. He made a face and stared down at his hands now clenched in his lap. “It’s just that…I don’t have it.”
Dean blinked. “Excuse me?”
Sam winced. “I sorta, kinda left it back in the motel room.” He waited for the explosion he knew was coming.
“SONUVABITCH!”
The crude curse reverberated loudly about the shadowed clearing, frightening a flock of birds from their roosts in the surrounding trees and driving them skyward in a flurry of flapping wings and distressed cries.
“I didn’t think we’d need both,” Sam protested. “And YOUR cell’s dead, so what are you yelling at ME for! I just –”
Turning abruptly, Dean ignored the rest of Sam’s explanation and stalked back towards the Impala, trying hard to control the sudden urge he felt to beat the holy crap out of his little brother. He stood a moment in front of the trunk, eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“Dean?” Sam called over hesitantly. “What’re you doing?”
“Trying not to kill you,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and jammed the key into the trunk lock, opening the lid with an angry jerk.
Sam slowly stood up, his demeanor apprehensive. The weapons were kept in the trunk, and while he didn’t think Dean would actually shoot him, experience had taught Sam that it was always best to keep a healthy distance between him and his brother when Dean was this annoyed, especially when he was the cause of that anger.
Although, it wasn’t totally his fault, he tried to argue. He’d been removed from the hunting lifestyle for the past four years while he’d been at Stanford. Four years of not having to remember arcane Latin incantations or how to disassemble and clean a shotgun in the dark. Four blessed years of not worrying about whether or not he’d remembered to lay down salt lines around the doors and windows before going to bed or having to constantly keep a cell phone and a weapon on his person at all times. And in those years, Sam had to admit, he’d taken some small pleasure in being able to forget.
Yeah, and look where that’s gotten you, he angrily thought. He knew exactly what his father would say. “Forgetting leads to repeating mistakes, Sam, and mistakes in our line of business are what’ll get you killed in the long run.”
Much as he hated to admit it, Sam felt he should at least offer up some sort of conciliatory gesture to Dean, for the empty gas tank if for nothing else. He carefully started towards his brother and the car.
“Need any help?” Sam inquired.
Dean’s back stiffened and Sam winced slightly. The older boy poked his head up from the cavernous depths of the Impala’s trunk to glare at his younger brother.
“Gosh, you’ve been such a big help already,” Dean stated acidly. “Thanks, but no thanks, Sam.”
Dean went back to his rummaging, ignoring Sam once again.
Sam let out a tired sigh. “Dean, I’m just trying to -”
Sam jumped back as a heavy canvas duffle nearly landed on top of his toes.
“Fine. Make yourself useful, then,” Dean shot grumpily over his shoulder as he bent back down, tugging more equipment from the trunk of the Chevy. “It’s gonna be dark in about an hour and we need to get that set up.”
Sam crouched down next to the oblong bag and reached over to unzip it. He peered inside.
“A tent?” he said, gazing up questioningly at Dean. “We’re camping?”
Dean straightened up and fixed a sour gaze on Sam. “You see a Motel 8 around here?” he asked, holding up his arms, indicating the small clearing they stood in. “’Cause if not, then, yeah – we’re camping for the night.”
“I hate camping,” Sam muttered under his breath as he pawed through the duffle’s contents.
“Not my favorite form of recreation either,” Dean replied, his brittle tone complementing the annoyed frown he wore. He jerked a thumb back behind him. “Nearest main road is about ten miles in that direction. I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to go hiking through these woods in the pitch dark and hope I make it to freedom before the homicidal goat man we’ve been tracking decides to make an appearance.”
Dean ran a hand through his short hair and took a deep cleansing breath. He was tired, pissed off and out of ideas. And Sam’s barrage of questions and complaints wasn’t helping.
Nevertheless, he tried to keep the edge out of his voice when he continued. “Look, we got no working phones, meaning no way of calling out of here, and I didn’t see a ranger station - or any other signs of civilization - the entire time we’ve been out here today. So, that means we’re on our own. Which means playing camp-out’s about the only option we really got here.”
Dean pointed down at the open duffle next to Sam. “So, get a move on and get that put up before it gets too dark to see.”
“Fine,” Sam snapped. He hadn’t meant to sound quite as petulant as he had, and in fact regretted it instantly when he caught sight of the dark look on Dean’s face.
“Dude, lose the attitude, if you know what’s good for you,” Dean warned him.
Sam dropped the tent stake in his hand onto the ground and stood up, brushing dirt and pine needles from the knees of his jeans. “You know what?” he remarked, face stony. “I’ll drop my attitude when you drop yours.”
“You really don’t wanna push me right now, Sam,” Dean advised, turning back to the car and, in effect, dismissing his younger brother.
Sam had had enough. “Stop with the stupid threats already!” he growled. “They didn’t work for Dad and they’re not going to work for you!”
Dean swung back around and glared openly at his brother, his jaw clenched as Sam stood his ground. He pointed at Sam. “It’s your fault we’re even in this situation,” he stated matter-of-factly, daring Sam to say otherwise.
Sam swallowed hard, biting back a retort and instead nodded stiffly before moving off to set up the small nylon pop-up tent.
II.
It should have been a simple job, setting up the tent, but Sam realized early on that nothing was going to be simple about that night. He began to wonder if the forest they were planning to camp in wasn’t perhaps cursed somehow to bring nothing but bad luck to anyone dumb enough to stumble into it.
He flexed his sore hand, cringing a little at the smear of blood on his knuckles where he’d managed to smash his fingers with the rock he’d used to pound the tent stakes into the cement-like ground.
“You have all those tools in your toolbox, Dean, but no hammer,” Sam complained. “What kind of toolbox doesn’t have a hammer?”
Dean glanced up at Sam from where he crouched down over the modest campfire he was tending. His look plainly broadcast exactly what he thought of his younger sibling at the moment.
“The toolbox is full of tools for the car,” Dean tiredly explained. “You use sockets and wrenches on cars, Sam, not hammers. When the hell would I ever use a hammer on my baby?”
Sam offered up a sullen half-shrug, indicating he didn’t know, or probably more the fact, he didn’t care.
Dean’s temper flared at that. “You know, this ain’t the Yankee Workshop, so I don’t have a friggin’ hammer on me, okay?” He poked angrily at the crackling fire, causing it to snap and spark. “Christ, it’s not like I was planning on building a dining room hutch some day,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m surprised you even know what a hutch is,” Sam shot back, sneering.
Dean stopped stirring the blazing coals in front of him and hit Sam with a scowl that would have knocked a wendigo on its back.
“You lookin’ to get your ass kicked tonight, Sammy? That it?” Dean’s voice was low and measured, full of warning. “’Cause that’s the direction this conversation is headed in.”
Sam heaved a weighty sigh up from the depths of his chest, then followed it with an impressive eye roll for further clarification of his feelings.
“What? You think I won’t?” Dean challenged. He dropped the stick he’d been gripping way too tightly and rose up to his full height, arms crossing over his chest.
“Wow. Like father, like son,” Sam declared quietly, letting out a short huff of disbelief.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Dean asked. His eyes narrowed.
Sam studied Dean for a long, tense minute before answering, his words shaded with a subtle anger. “Just that I guess it’s easier to gain obedience through a beating than to discuss things rationally in this family.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean retorted in mild irritation, an uneasy frown appearing on his face as he let his arms fall to his sides. “Dad never beat you, Sam.”
“Excuse me?” Sam sputtered in shock. “Are we talking about the same father here? John Winchester?”
Dean stared at his brother, a look of weary annoyance settling on his face. “Look, Dad may have handed out a few spankings when we were growing up, but he never beat either of one of us,” Dean stated firmly.
“Whatever.” Sam shrugged, rolling his eyes. He picked up the stick Dean had discarded and tossed it into the campfire, absently watching the sparks fly. “Sorry, Dean; didn’t realize you were that into semantics.”
Sam looked up in time to catch the furrow of Dean’s brow deepen as the older boy tried to decide whether or not he’d just been insulted by the new word Sam had thrown at him.
Sam looked away again, shaking his head. “You know what? I’m too tired to have this conversation with you right now,” he said tightly.
Dean gave a curt nod of his head. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Sam echoed.
The crackling of the fire competed with the night sounds of the forest to drown out the tense silence between both boys until Sam’s stomach took the opportunity to voice its opinion with a loud protracted groan.
Dean tried to cover his smirk with a hand as Sam shifted on the ground, obviously embarrassed. The younger man’s stomach let out another stentorian rumble and Dean turned now, all pretenses aside, as he observed Sam closely, brows cocked in questioning amusement.
Sam risked a quick glance over at Dean, noted the older boy’s annoyingly pleased demeanor, and immediately let his eyes drop to his lap, his cheeks flaming despite the chill temperature drop the evening had ushered in.
“We got anything to eat?” Sam finally mumbled down into the front of his jacket. He refused to meet Dean’s smug grin.
“Sure, Sam.”
Dean reached behind him to drag a knapsack from where it was sitting on the other side of the small log he was perched upon. He rummaged through the bag a moment, the wide smirk never leaving his face.
Sam looked up just in time to barely catch the silver flask tossed at him. It slapped against his chest with a dull thwap, and Sam offered up a pissed scowl at Dean.
“What’s this?” He glanced suspiciously down at the flask and then over to Dean, who held a similar one in his own hand.
Dean smiled, unscrewed the cap on his flask and took a long pull, smacking his lips for dramatic effect.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You really think this is a good time to be getting drunk, Dean?” he questioned.
“Relax. It’s just water,” Dean stated.
Now it was Sam’s turn to stare in exasperation. “Holy water? You’re drinking the holy water we have with us?”
Dean shrugged. He took another sip and then re-capped the flask and set it down next to him. “Hey, maybe it’ll bring us some luck since it’s blessed,” he suggested brightly. “What d’you think?”
“I think maybe you’ve lost your mind,” Sam said. “That’s blessed water, Dean, meaning it can possibly save our asses if we don’t drink it all!” Dean appeared nonplussed, and Sam felt his patience slip. “What if whatever we’re hunting is nearby and we need that water to fend it off?” he admonished.
Dean blinked, then snorted loudly. “Dude, unless what we’re hunting is a demon that decided, for some weird kinky reason, that it’d be fun to possess a goat, I think we’re okay.” His smile tightened. “Besides, it’s the only water we got left since you scarfed down the last of the bottled stuff putting up the tent.”
Sam’s anger evaporated. “Oh,” he muttered.
Much as he wanted to, Sam couldn’t really argue with Dean about that, so he uncapped his flask and took a swallow from it in resignation. He glared across the fire at his brother. “So, you got any communion wafers to go with the holy water?” he asked while waving the flask in front of him. “M’ still hungry.”
Chuckling lightly, Dean rummaged in the knapsack once more and then tossed a half-eaten jumbo bag of peanut M&Ms at Sam, along with a couple of Slim Jims.
“That’s it? That’s all we have?” Sam frowned down at the meager offerings in his lap. “What happened to the candy bars, the bag of Doritos and the two packages of mini-donuts you bought at the gas station this morning?” He flicked his gaze back up to Dean.
Dean grew quiet. Sam stared at his brother a moment before realization dawned on him. His glare hardened.
“You’re kidding. You ate it all?” Sam’s mouth fell open in dismay. “All of it?”
“Well, we missed lunch and I didn’t know how long we’d be out here…” Dean’s voice faded off at the look of disappointed disgust being thrown at him. He gave a little defensive shrug. “You hate snack food anyways, Sam, so what’re you bitching about?”
Sam gave a little chuff of disbelief, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, tightly. He began to unwrap one of the Slim Jims, sighing loudly as he eyed the unappetizing, dried meat stick in his hand.
“Bullshit, nothing,” Dean shot back, sitting up now, his eyes flashing in the dim glow of the campfire. “You got something to say to me? Then say it.”
Sam carefully rewrapped the Slim Jim and set it down on the ground next to him. He met Dean’s expectant stare with a cold one of his own.
“Look. Ever since we’ve been back together, you’ve been on my case constantly about, well, about everything, pretty much, and it’s…I’m just getting a little tired of it is all,” Sam snapped.
“Yeah? Well, I’m getting tired of it too,” Dean replied angrily. “Hey, here’s a thought,” he continued, sarcasm lending a bite to his words. “Maybe if you pull your head out of your ass and remember what you’ve been taught, I won’t have to be coming down on you all the time.”
Sam glowered at his brother. “I’m not stupid, Dean! You know, I did get into Stanford - on a full ride.”
“I know that, Sam,” Dean answered, his voice softening a little. “I know you’re not stupid.”
“Then could you maybe stop treating me like I am?” Sam pleaded.
Dean slowly ran a hand over the back of his neck, letting a frustrated puff of air escape his lips. “Look, I’m just trying to watch out for you -”
“I don’t need babysitting, Dean!” Sam erupted.
Dean reacted as if he’d been slapped, his eyes snapping up to Sam in shock for a few crucial seconds before he managed to recover enough to hide his surprised hurt behind a stoic wall of anger and sarcasm.
“Really?” Dean retorted. “You think you’re mister responsible adult now, Sammy? Because you’re average, responsible adult would know that when the needle on the gas gauge is pointing to the big red ‘E”, it means it’s time to put more freaking gas in the car.”
Sam scrubbed a palm across his face. “Jesus, Dean, how long are you gonna beat that one to death?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean replied offhandedly, “I guess for as long as it takes us to get out of this crap-ass forest.”
Sam rolled his eyes at that and Dean bristled.
“Dude,” Dean leveled a finger at his brother, his words coming out clipped and angry. “You roll your eyes at me one. more. time…”
“At least I would have shared the Doritos and donuts instead of hogging them all…jerk,” Sam admonished half-heartedly.
Dean’s smile reached his eyes this time. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that,” he said with a nod. He raised a hesitant eyebrow at Sam. “So, we done with the caring and sharing session here, or do you need a hug or something to finish this up?”
Sam’s reply was anything, but civil. “Bite me,” he snarled.
“Getting a little testy there, Ranger Rick,” Dean commented, his wry tone grating on Sam. “Sounds like maybe somebody’s a little tired and cranky. Hmm?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning to a tight line of displeasure as he tried to control his temper. He knew Dean could keep it up all night long, especially if he was ramped up for it, and he was. So, instead of fueling the flames with another barb of his own, Sam got up, ignoring Dean’s look of puzzlement, and stomped over to the tent. He reached in, grabbed one of the two sleeping bags from inside the structure, and dragged it back over to the fire.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked.
“I’m gonna get some shuteye, Dean. You should do the same,” Sam said.
Dean frowned. He looked at Sam, then cast an eye over his shoulder at the tent, and then looked back to Sam again, clearly perplexed. “Okay, the whole point of putting up the tent was so we’d have some place to sleep and not freeze our asses off out in the open where that thing we’re hunting might mistake us for a midnight snack offering.”
“So, use it. Nobody’s stopping you.” Sam gestured sharply at the tent, not looking up from the sleeping bag he had draped across his knees. He unzipped the nylon bag with enough force to practically rip the zipper off its tracks.
Dean’s features hardened. “Sam, I’m not letting you sleep out here by yourself. It’s too dangerous,” he declared. “And cold,” he added, rubbing his hands together for emphasis. He pointed. “Just, get in the tent.”
“I’m fine right where I am, thanks,” Sam replied huffily.
A sullen pout pulled the corners of his mouth downward. He yanked his sleeping bag up firmly around his shoulders as he lay down, shuffling noisily around on the leaf-strewn ground just enough to put his back to both Dean and the campfire.
Dean reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginning of a pounding headache coming on, and its name was Sam “I’m gonna throw a tantrum now” Winchester. Images of staking his stubborn ass of a brother to a tree for the goat man to come and take flitted briefly through his head, but he knew he’d never be able to explain that one to their dad when they eventually caught up with him. Speaking of Dad, Dean thought…
He suddenly drew himself up, and using his best ‘John Winchester no-more-bullshit’ voice, Dean addressed his brother. “Sammy,” he barked. “Quit foolin’ around and get in the damn tent!”
“No.”
Dean’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding together at the continued defiance. He leveled an ominous glare at the back of Sam’s head. “If you don’t get your ass up and in that tent in the next few seconds, Sam, I swear I’m gonna-”
Sam sat back up, turning and presenting Dean with his best bitch-face. “Gonna what, Dean?” he questioned acidly.
Dean stood perfectly still, brows knitting into a deep scowl. Good question, he thought. What was he going to do?
Sam let his anger and frustration flow out into his words. “Just because I put your crappy tent up doesn’t mean I have to bunk down in it. Especially, if it means sharing close quarters with you right now,” he barked.
Dean, his temper already at a steamy simmer, now felt it kick up to a full boil.
“You got to the count of five, smart ass, and then…” he looked around the clearing a moment as if searching for inspiration, and then a nasty smile crawled across his lips. He fixed his gaze back on Sam, eyes flinty. “And then, I cut a switch and beat the crap out of you with it until you decide to follow orders,” he finished smugly.
Sam blinked. That was a new one. Sure, Dean had spanked him a few times growing up, especially when Dad had left Dean in charge and Sam had been bratty enough to piss Dean off, but his brother had never hit him with anything but his hand. The last time Sam had been spanked was over five years ago when he’d mouthed off to his father and had gotten his butt paddled raw to prove to him who was still the boss in the Winchester household.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sam said tentatively. Dean remained staring darkly at him, and Sam squirmed uncomfortably. “Dean, c’mon, you -”
“One…” Dean announced.
“Dude, do not start counting at me!”
Dean ignored Sam. “TWO…”
“This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered indignantly. He threw his sleeping bag off and quickly stood up, but didn’t make a move for the tent.
“Comin’ up on three, Sammy…” Dean growled. He fumbled his buck knife out of his jacket pocket, flicking the three-inch-long blade open, readying to make good on his threat of cutting a switch.
“Okay. Alright!” Sam held his hands up in front of him, hoping to stall the count. He licked his lips, trying to think fast. God, he’d forgotten how determined his brother could be when he was in full on ‘bossy’ mode.
“Would you put the knife away, please?” Sam requested, indicating the weapon in Dean’s hand.
Dean casually glanced down at the buck knife, face impassive. “You gonna get in the tent?” he asked carefully, looking back up at Sam with raised brows.
Sam let out a pained growl of frustration. This was going nowhere fast. He decided to try a different tact. “Look, Dean, one of us has to stay out here and keep watch, right? So, it might as well be me since you seem to think it’s my fault we’re stuck out here in the first place anyway.”
Dean couldn’t suppress the exaggerated sigh that escaped his pursed lips. He stood, arms crossed, thinking a moment. Finally, he let his shoulders slump, his sign of giving in. He nodded once, the anger still visible in the taut muscles of his jaw and neck as he clicked his knife shut and shoved it back into his pocket.
“Fine. Whatever. You stay up and take first watch then,” Dean said, throwing up his hands in tired defeat. “Wake me in a couple hours and we’ll trade places.” He headed toward the tent, but stopped before going in. He turned to give his brother a serious look. “You hear or see anything funny, you come get me. And whatever you do? Don’t. Wander. Off.”
“I’m not gonna wander off, alright?” Sam snapped. “Jeez, I’m not a little kid!”
“Could’a fooled me,” Dean replied under his breath and then ducked into the tent, zipping it shut behind him.
III.
Dean rolled over in his sleep, squirming restlessly inside the confines of his flannel-lined sleeping bag. His eyelids fluttered as he rode the tide between not quite awake and the deep unconsciousness of REM. Part of his mind was aware that the muscles in his back, legs and shoulders were protesting against the hard, unforgiving ground underneath them, and yet his brain was too far gone into slumber to really do anything more than shift his body every so often to ease the pressure when it got to be too much.
Dean muttered something under his breath as he shifted again. A small pout marred his otherwise placid features. His right arm flopped out from underneath the warmth of the covers and his hand brushed up against something. Dean’s pout deepened. His muzzy brain tried hard to acknowledge what his fingers were touching. Warmth, heartbeat… and fur. Fur?! What the hell??
Heart leaping up into his throat, Dean wrenched up and out of his sleeping bag with a panicked shout, eyes wide, instantly awake. He grabbed for the gun he’d stuffed underneath his bedding earlier and swung it wildly about in the dim light of the tent. Something was in there with him! Something not Sam.
A frantic scuffling near the head of his sleeping bag had Dean quickly scrambling to the opposite side of the tent, his .45 Colt aimed towards the noise, even though he couldn’t see a damn thing in the murky shadows surrounding him. Keeping the gun trained out in front of him, Dean used his other hand to quickly dig his lighter out of his jeans pocket and, with shaky fingers, he thumbed the strike wheel hard and then squinted against the sudden flare of light that ensued.
His eyes caught movement and Dean immediately homed in on it, instinctively flicking off the safety of his .45 as he sited down the crosshairs. He stopped and stared. A look of mild bewilderment melted the tired scowl off his face.
Staring back at him, nose twitching, was a little brown bunny about the size of a chihuahua. Dean leaned in for a closer look and the animal trembled with fear, eyes glassy and wide in the flame’s glow. Dean slowly lowered his gun with a grimace of embarrassment, and the rabbit, sensing a reprieve, took the opportunity to make a mad dash for the opening of the tent. Dean watched silently as the animal quickly squirmed out of the hole where the zippered tent fly didn’t quite close all the way at the bottom. He shook his head, snapping his lighter closed with a low groan.
“I fucking hate camping,” Dean murmured, as he tried to get his skittering heart rate back down to a more normal level.
He glanced down at the gun in his hand, and made a face, feeling more than a little foolish, before lying back down and shoving the weapon back under the sleeping bag. He lay there, staring at the thin nylon ceiling of the tent overhead, knowing he wasn’t going to be falling back asleep anytime soon. He brought his watch up to his face to peer at the illuminated dial. Four A.M. He’d been asleep for almost five hours.
Frowning, Dean sat back up, reaching for his gun once more, his heart beginning to hammer uneasily all over again. Sam should’ve woken him up over an hour ago to switch places outside. Even more important, Sam would have definitely heard the commotion with br’er rabbit just now and would have come running to see what was up, and yet, he hadn’t. Dean tried to tamp down the slick worry that was flooding through him as he kicked off his covers, snagged a flashlight out his duffle and made his way over to the zippered opening of the tent.
Outside, all was still and relatively silent, the early gray shadows of dawn lending a delicate, almost ethereal, quality to the air. The trees were nothing more than stark silhouettes. They stood sentinel around the encampment like silent soldiers, their clusters of branches creating false whispers as they swayed against each other in the chill breeze, their gnarled roots blanketed by a thin silvery mist that would burn off as the sun rose overhead.
Dean shivered in the brisk cold that immediately hit him as he exited the tent. He reached back inside for his leather jacket and shrugged into it, then flicked on the flashlight, sweeping the beam over the nearby campfire where Sam had been sitting when Dean had gone to bed earlier. The fire was nothing more than rosy glowing embers now and Sam’s sleeping bag lay spread out beside it, empty.
“Sam?” Dean called out. He swept his gaze around the clearing, eyes straining to catch motion in the dim pre-dawn, ears honed for the sound of Sam’s voice. “Sammy?” he tried again, a little louder this time, but still no response. “Dammit!” Dean growled as his senses came to full alert.
He crept toward Sam’s sleeping bag, flashlight beam roving across the tree line in front of him before Dean trained it downwards, checking the ground for signs of a possible struggle and - he swallowed hard - any traces of blood. His stomach did a queasy little flip-flop at that thought, but it settled when he found nothing out of the usual. No extra sets of prints in the dirt or drag marks leading from Sam’s bedding off into the woods.
Dean reached down to place a palm on top of the sleeping bag, and noted, with a little flare of hope, that it was still warm. Sam hadn’t been gone long then.
“SAM!” Dean chanced a full out yell into the misty gray dawn. There was no reply.
IV.
Sam went stock still in the early morning gloom of the forest, watching his breath ascend in a frosty plume of air before his face, his eyes the only thing moving as they slowly scanned the dense wooded foliage around him. His feet, clad in his favorite brown Skechers, were freezing and soaking wet from splashing along the edges of a murky, leaf-cluttered pond a few yards back, but he ignored the minor discomfort, focusing instead on the shadowy collage of vegetation in front of him.
The various trees and plants in the forest still had most of their leaves, despite it being mid-November, and the rich patchwork of scarlet, green, yellow and blazing orange colors around him only served to camouflage his adversary. It didn’t matter. Sam could be patient. His father had taught him that skill – in more ways than one.
So, he stood, senses alert, waiting for the creature to move again, to show itself. Five tense minutes later, Sam was rewarded with the faint sound of snapping twigs behind him and off to his left. Shit. It had somehow managed to circle back on him while he’d been picking his way through the underbrush.
He quickly swung his gun around in a controlled arc, trailing after the noise. Combat instincts kicking in, Sam crouched down slightly, to make himself a smaller target, and let his finger curl around the trigger of his Beretta, making ready.
Earlier, he’d stumbled out to the edge of the shadowy clearing, half-asleep and badly needing to relieve himself. Apparently, holy water ran through him just as quickly as ordinary tap water. He’d been peeing against one of the enormous pine trees ringing the campsite, his mind wandering absently, when the hairs on the back of his neck had stood straight up and a chill had rippled down his spine. Sam immediately knew he was being watched. He had finished his business as quickly as possible and then had carefully reached for the gun snugged into the back waistband of his pants.
Picking up movement in front of him, Sam had been stunned to discover a pair of golden eyes staring back at him at about the same height as an average man’s would be. They blinked once, twice. Sam noticed that the pupils were oddly rectangular in shape, the creature’s stare penetrating him to the core. The rank smell of wet wool mixed with the tangy odor of sour sweat and decay abruptly assaulted Sam’s nostrils, and he grimaced, raising a hand to his nose in disgust.
Whatever it was, let out a low, guttural grunt. The sound made Sam’s skin crawl. Nevertheless, he’d dutifully raised his weapon, but the thing had spun on its feet, its speed surprising Sam, as it loped deeper into the heavy growth of bushes and overhanging trees. Sam had had only a few seconds to make a decision as to whether he should call out to Dean and wait for backup or take off after the creature himself and deal with Dean afterwards. He chose the latter.
Which was how Sam currently found himself alone in the middle of three thousand acres of heavily forested swampland, unsure of his bearings, and with only a clip full of bullets for protection from what he was pretty darn sure was the heretofore-unseen goat man. Dean was going to kill him. Well, he reasoned, that is if whatever was now stalking him didn’t take him out first.
V.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Dean stated simply.
He’d picked up Sam’s trail just south of the campsite easily enough.All he had to do was follow the swath of broken branches and crushed plants left behind by whatever the hell was chasing after his brother. He paused, considering. Or maybe Sam was chasing it? Dean wanted to think that it was the creature, and not Sam, that had started the pursuit and been so sloppy in creating such an obvious roadmap through the woods for anyone to follow. Because if this was Sam’s doing? Well, then that would be just one more bullet point to add to the laundry list of infractions that Dean now felt obligated to blister his baby brother’s ass for as soon as he caught up with him.
He hadn’t laid a hand on Sam in years, not counting the various smacks he had delivered to the back of the other boy’s head in the scant month since they’d buried Sam’s girlfriend, Jessica. But, those had been more a gauge of Dean’s frustration level at the time they’d occurred rather than a means of discipline per se. All things considered, Dean thought he’d been pretty lenient so far with Sam’s temper tantrums, hidden agendas and bucking of orders. He knew deep down that his father would never have let the insubordination get so out of hand, regardless of what Sam might be going through emotionally over what had happened back in Palo Alto.
Dean felt a kernel of guilt twist in his gut. He was supposed to be watching out for his little brother and he’d obviously been slacking. Now, Sammy could very well be in danger because of it. Well, that was going to change, starting now, Dean decided. No more feeling sorry for his brother and letting things slide.
“Kid’s not gonna be sitting easy for a week,” Dean muttered angrily.
He shoved aside another waist-high cluster of shiny, leafy plants that seemed to be everywhere and pushed forward, a foreboding expression of determination on his face. And that was when he heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot coming from somewhere nearby. He jumped, startled.
Dean’s head swiveled around, trying to locate the exact direction from which the shot had come. He no sooner had concluded that it was just northeast of him when three more shots, fired in rapid succession, echoed through the greenery followed by an inhuman bellow of rage. Dean broke into a dead run. Fuck! Sam was in trouble.
VI.
Well, it definitely wasn’t a shape-shifter, Sam hastily concluded. The silver bullet hit the thing dead center in its massive chest with little to no effect. Just to be on the safe side, Sam fired three more rounds rapidly into the stunned creature. It staggered back a few steps on its scuffed hooves from the hits but remained stubbornly upright. Only the creature’s torso and arms appeared human-like, both covered in a dark downy fuzz that became shaggier and more matted around hip level until merging into a pair of substantial goat legs, complete with tail.
Sam watched in dismay as the beast’s large horned head reared back, nostrils flaring as its long muzzle stretched wide to deliver an eerie deep-throated howl of anger or pain at the quartet of bleeding holes in its chest. Sam wasn’t sure which emotion was forefront in the creature’s mind and he didn’t really care at that point. All he did care about was that the ammo in his gun couldn’t take down the big bad monster, and that was bad. Really, really bad. Because all he’d managed to do by shooting the creature was piss it off, tremendously. All this ran through Sam’s overwhelmed mind as the goat man lumbered towards him, roaring angrily, a glint of murder in its yellow eyes.
Sam quickly got into a fighting stance, keeping most of his weight on the balls of his feet, his long, wiry arms up in front of him, pistol still aimed at the creature because he wasn’t sure what else to do. He supposed he could run, but that would only make him tired and eventually slow him down enough for the thing to pounce on him. He could call out for help, but hell, who knew how far away from the campsite he was? Even if Dean did hear him, by the time he found him, Sam would most likely be in bits and pieces scattered around the forest floor. So, it came down to making a stand and hoping for the best in Sam’s mind.
That was all the time he had to ponder the situation before the snarling wall of muscled fur and hooves slammed into him like an express train, carrying Sam to the icy ground and knocking the wind out of his startled lungs. Sam felt strong fingers clamp around his bared throat, and he wheezed as they tightened and cut off his air supply. He struggled, trying to pry the claw-like hands from around his neck, but they were locked solid like a vice grip with fingers long enough that they almost spanned their way completely around his throat.
Sam tried rolling and kicking next to buck the creature off him, but to no avail. The goat man was heavier than he was by at least seventy-five pounds of pure muscle and it had him pinned flat to the ground as if he weighed nothing. It had him pinned and was slowly choking him to death, Sam realized with alarm.
When the black dots began to swim into his vision, Sam grew desperate. He tried to suck a breath, any breath at all, into his constricted airway, but it was no use. Soon, his punches grew weaker and with a vague sense of embarrassed defeat, Sam stopped struggling altogether as he had no choice but to sink down into the dark uncertain depths of unconsciousness…
VII.
“Sammy, damn it, wake up!”
Sam groaned, recognizing the sound of the pleading voice in his ears but not fully able to acknowledge it.
Someone slapped him across his left cheek. The harsh sting made him flinch and brought him further out of the thick blanket of darkness surrounding him.
“C’mon, Sam, you gotta wake up now. Please. Okay?”
Dean, Sam thought blearily. That’s Dean talking. Sam suddenly drew in an enormous gulp of air and choked violently on it, coughing hard enough to make his head throb. He groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, eyes still unfocused but clearing little by little. He tried to sit up. Dean helped his brother, one arm around Sam’s shoulders, supporting him.
“Welcome back to the light, Frodo,” Dean said, grinning.
Sam normally would have called his brother on the cheesy pop reference, but he was just too tired. Instead, he slowly rolled his head around on his neck, trying to get rid of the stiffness, and did a quick mental check of his health. His throat hurt like hell when he swallowed, his back and ribs were sore from getting tackled to the ground, and his ass felt like a giant ice cube from being in contact with the freezing, damp forest floor for who knew how long. Other than that, he was super. Hell, he was better than super. He was still alive and in one piece.
“You okay? You bleeding? Anything broken?” Dean asked in rapid succession.
Sam shook his head, nevertheless, he submitted, almost thankfully, to his big brother’s worried poking and prodding. Dean’s eyes and fingers roamed over his brother’s body, assessing him for contusions, limbs twisted out of shape, bones poking out where they shouldn’t be.
“Here, lemme take a look,” Dean coaxed, as his hands gently peeled back Sam’s coat and Dean cast a clinical eye down Sam’s torso checking for signs of blood on the boy’s plaid shirt and cotton tee.
With a grunt, Sam finally batted Dean’s hands away, having had enough of the smothering examination.
“I’m fine, Dean,” he rasped, then swallowed, grimacing, and tried again, his voice coming out clearer the second time. “I’m okay. Seriously. It just knocked the wind out of me is all.” Sam scrambled onto his knees and grabbed a handful of Dean’s jacket front to help hoist himself up to his feet.
“Did it get away?” he asked.
“Nope,” Dean replied. “Baa baa black sheep may have been built like a mack truck, but his fighting style sucked big time.”
Sam directed his gaze to where Dean now pointed. “Whoa,” he gulped, staring. He edged closer to the body, studying it. Sam’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t sure at first, but now, yeah. It’s a faun,” he said, his voice full of awe.
Dean frowned at Sam. “Dude, what kinda scary ass Bambi would that have to be?”
“No, not a fawn like a deer, I meant an f-a-u-n type of faun,” Sam explained, chuckling a little. “A satyr from ancient mythology. You know, like the Greek god, Pan.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Dean said, clearing his throat and casting a sheepish glance over at his brother. He shrugged and slapped the lifeless creature on the shoulder. “Well, whatever it was, it’s shish-ka-bob now,” he stated, his eyes lighting up with a hint of pride.
Both boys studied the satyr impaled on the tree limb in front of them. The four-foot length of branch, half-buried in the ground next to the tree from which it had fallen, stuck up at a rather sharp angle, providing a natural spear upon which the creature had fallen backwards on and skewered itself. The jagged end protruded grotesquely from the satyr’s abdomen; its head lolled silently against its left shoulder, eyes sightless.
Sam shook his head, forehead wrinkling in thought. “So, consecrated silver rounds don’t put a dent in it, but a stake through the chest does? I don’t get it.”
“If it bleeds, we can kill it,” Dean replied, grinning crazily at his bad impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Huh?” Sam lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Dude…Predator...” Dean said with a huge knowing smile on his face.
Sam stared at him some more, his baffled expression causing Dean to frown slightly. “The movie? You know, Arnie?” he added, hoping to jog Sam’s memory. Sam remained confused and Dean shot him a disgusted look. “Seriously, Sam, did your dorm room not have cable or what?”
Sam let out a disgruntled chuff. “I’m sorry I wasted my time in school studying instead of spending it in front of the TV all day, Dean,” he muttered. “What was I thinking?”
“Forget it,” Dean said. “Anyways, it’s not so much the stake itself that ganked our goat-boy, but the type of wood it was made from.” He gestured toward the tree in question. “Oak. One of the most sacred trees known in ancient lore.”
“Of course.” Sam nodded excitedly. “The Celts and Druids worshipped the oak. It was supposed to bring protection, strength and success,” he said. “And from what I’ve seen, this forest is predominantly oak, hickory and pine. It’s no wonder the faun made its home here. All three of those woods are known to have magical properties.”
“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten everything you learned,” Dean said. He continued to stare at Sam a moment longer, studying him, his mind coming to a decision. “You sure you’re all right?” Dean asked once again.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam reiterated, growing annoyed. “Let’s just get this thing salted and burned and get out of here, okay?”
“In a minute,” Dean replied. His face was unreadable as he strode over to a nearby hickory tree, snagged one its low-hanging branches and yanked down hard, snapping the supple limb from the tree.
“What are you doing?” Sam irritably questioned his brother.
“I need a switch,” Dean replied. He began to strip the branch in his hand of leaves and smaller offshoots.
“A switch?” Sam’s mind cautioned him as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “For what?” he stupidly asked.
Dean’s smile grew cold, his eyes darkening. “Like I said, you seemed to have retained a lot of the stuff Dad taught us, but apparently your short-term memory could stand some improvement. What was the last thing I told you before I went to bed, Sam?”
“Uh…” Sam racked his tired brain, trying to remember.
“Don’t wander off,” Dean reminded him.
“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam said. “I’m real sorry about that, Dean.” The words came out small and hollow, even to Sam’s ears.
“It coming back to you now, Sammy?” Dean continued, his tone dry. He took a step toward his brother, and Sam unconsciously matched the move, taking a step backward. “Remember what I said I’d do if you didn’t listen to me?”
Sam froze. He couldn’t believe Dean was seriously thinking of hitting him with a tree branch. “No way, man,” he blurted out, taking another step back, shaking his head. “I admit it was totally stupid to go off after the satyr by myself, but there is no way in hell I’m letting you whack me with that for it!”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. He flexed the switch in his hand. “That’s funny,” he said. “You seem to think you have a choice in the matter.”
There was no give in the older boy’s expression, no hint of possible leniency that Sam could detect.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” Sam tried, his shaky voice conveying his rising panic. “I totally understand – I need to pay more attention and not go off half-cocked and all. I get it, Dean.”
“You get it?” Dean echoed angrily, his eyes turning flinty in the early dawn light. “Was that before or after our horned bad boy over there tried to kill you, Sam? Hm?”
Sam sighed, letting his eyes drop to the ground. “You’re right,” he quietly said.
“What? I’m right?” Dean asked. He was taken aback by the unexpected admission from his little brother.
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Much as I hate to admit it,” he muttered. “When I looked up and saw that thing in the clearing, I knew I should have woken you up. But then it took off.” Sam shrugged, his look sheepish. “And well, I guess I figured it’d be easier to just go after it right then and tell you…after.”
Dean nodded mockingly. “Cause that turned out good, didn’t it?” he chided. Dean tapped the switch against the leg of his jeans. “You admit you made a bad decision, a really bad one?”
Sam nodded again, with a little less fervor this time.
Dean raised the switch. “Well, now you gotta pay the consequences, Sammy.”
Sam’s face screwed up in distaste at the switch gripped in Dean’s hand. He flicked his gaze up to meet his brother’s expectant stare and licked his lips. “C’mon, you really think spanking me is the answer here?” he asked.
A mischievous smile ghosted across Dean’s face. “Might not be the best solution, but it’ll sure make me feel better,” Dean said cheerfully.
Sam glowered. “Well, as long as you’re happy, Dean,” he replied tartly, and Dean’s smug grin widened.
With a loud put upon sigh, Sam trudged reluctantly over to Dean, resigned to the utter indignity of receiving his first – and ONLY in his mind - whipping as an adult. It won’t be so bad, Sam thought. Sure, the switch would probably sting a little; but hell, he was a Winchester. Tolerance to pain was practically in his blood. And at least once it was over, he’d be forgiven - for everything, including the empty gas tank - and things would return to normal between him and Dean, which is what Sam really wanted after all.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Sam declared, rolling his eyes. “How do you wanna do this?”
Dean indicated a nearby fallen log. “Over there,” he ordered, pointing. Sam strode over to the log and waited for Dean’s further instructions. Dean smirked. “Assume the position, Sammy,” he stated gleefully.
“It’s Sam,” Sam snapped, putting on his bitch face once more as he carefully placed himself over the mossy log, his backside upturned, facing the older Winchester. “I’m not gonna forget this, Dean,” he growled, squirming in embarrassment.
“That’s the whole point,” Dean responded brightly as he raised the hickory switch and brought it down with a blurring whistle, smacking Sam right across the meatiest part of his bottom.
Sam gasped loudly, eyes widening at the searing pain spreading beneath his jeans in a white hot line across his butt cheeks. “FUCK!” he hollered, his voice cracking.
Sam had no time to recover as he heard and then felt the switch come down again, in rapid succession, this time branding twin stripes of fire across the crease between his ass and thighs. The pain brought tears to his tightly shut eyes. With a panicked shout, Sam shot up off the log, like a crazed jack-in-the-box, his hands immediately going behind him to protect his backside from further assault. He glared balefully at his brother.
“Jesus CHRIST, Dean! That really fucking HURT!”
“Oh, c’mon, ya big baby,” Dean scoffed, brandishing the switch and making Sam flinch back. “I didn’t hit ya that -”
Sam lunged, surprising Dean. He yanked the switch out of Dean’s grasp and before the older boy could fully register what had happened, Sam smacked him several times with the strip of wood, nailing him solidly on his upper thigh and left butt cheek.
“OW! Hey, FUCK!” Dean howled, dancing away from the stinging weapon, his face contorted in pain. “What the hell, Sam?!” He shot the younger boy a dirty scowl as he gingerly rubbed his smarting rear end.
“I’m sorry, did that hurt?” Sam asked, his voice full of bitter sarcasm. It was his turn to offer up a smug look as Dean leveled a death glare at him.
“We’re done with this,” Sam announced curtly, indicating the switch and giving both it and Dean a nasty sneer. He used both hands to snap the branch in two before letting it fall to the ground.
“Fine,” Dean countered evenly, “then we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”
Sam didn’t have time to offer a rebuttal as Dean struck like a coiled snake. He grabbed Sam, wrapping his fingers tightly around his brother’s wrist and dragged the younger boy off his feet as he took a seat on the log, quickly pulling Sam over his lap.
“Hey!” Sam yelped as Dean snugged him up tight against his abdomen. He tilted Sam further forward, so that Sam’s feet were off the ground and his ass was sticking straight up, in prime position. Sam’s mouth went dry. “Dean! No! You can’t -”
“The hell I can’t,” Dean stated as he began to spank his brother, fast and hard, his open palm connecting solidly with Sam’s denimed rear over and over again. “You’ve had this coming since this morning, and I’m not letting it go with just a couple licks!”
Sam fumed, but bore the spanking in silence until the steady, rhythmic slaps began to add up on his tender flesh, creating an intense heat and ache that he couldn’t ignore any longer.
“Okay! Stop!” Sam yelped, squirming in discomfort after Dean laid down a barrage of particularly blistering smacks to his sit spot.
“Nuh uh, Sam,” Dean firmly countered. “Not until you tell me what you’re getting this spanking for.”
“What?!” Sam choked, incredulous. “Screw you, Dean!” he snarled. “Let me up! Now!”
Dean tightened his hold on his brother and used his other hand to reach down and under Sam to undo the boy’s baggy jeans, dragging both them and Sam’s boxers down to his knees in one forceful yank.
“Let’s try again,” Dean said. “Why am I sitting here beating your lame ass, Sammy?”
Sam stubbornly clamped his lips shut, refusing to give in, which in hindsight, was probably not the best thing to do since Dean merely started spanking him again. Only this time, Dean’s hand was able to get up close and personal with Sam’s bare ass, and the marked difference in sting and intensity did not go unnoticed by Sam. He gritted his teeth, trying hard to keep his legs from kicking, but the powerful swats Dean delivered all over his butt and thighs with unerring precision were doing their job, and soon Sam was biting his lower lip in pain and letting little grunts and whimpers escape with each and every sharp smack.
“OKAY!” Sam howled miserably. His butt and upper thighs were on fire with a prickly, uncomfortable burn that he knew would make sitting down an unpleasant task for quite awhile.
Dean stopped in mid-swing. “Okay, what?”
Sam sighed heavily. This truly sucked. “Okay, I’m getting this stupid spanking because I didn’t listen to you and I wandered off by myself after the faun and almost got killed,” he responded sullenly.
“And?” Dean urged. He rested his sore hand on the small of Sam’s back, close enough to Sam’s reddened, hot rear end to pick up where he’d left off if needed.
The move didn’t go unnoticed by Sam. “And, I should’ve slept in the tent and not gotten so pissed off at you when you tried to warn me,” Sam quickly added with a little less attitude than before.
“Aaannnd?” Dean prodded, smiling to himself. He knew he was pushing it, but didn’t care. For the moment, he held all the cards.
Sam stiffened over his brother’s lap, knowing what Dean was looking for, but hating to admit it, especially aloud to his brother. He let out a frustrated growl. It was either say it or settle for another round of painful swats to his already throbbing ass, because Dean wasn’t fooling around here - that much was obvious.
“And I’m sorry I forgot to fill the freaking gas tank up on your crummy car earlier because if I’d filled it up like I was supposed to, then we never would’ve had to spend the night out here in this shit-hole of a forest,” Sam grudgingly confessed. “And most of all, I’m really, really sorry that I have a royal jerk for a brother,” he finished moodily.
“Thank you, Sam,” Dean replied softly, then brought his hand down twice, as hard as he could, on Sam’s bare ass, leaving two distinct handprints on top of the already blushing red skin. Sam squeaked and Dean smiled. “That was for calling my baby crummy and calling me a jerk. Bitch.”
Dean eased Sam’s pants and boxers back up until Sam managed to grab hold of them with one hand and wiggled his way off Dean’s lap, quickly yanking his jeans all the way back up, ignoring the raw scrape of the fabric against his sore bottom.
“You okay?” Dean questioned, his tone sincere.
Sam wanted to yell at him, or offer up something completely snarky, but somehow he couldn’t. He nodded instead, eyes fixed on the ground. “Yeah. Just smarts a little,” he said, and Dean understood that Sam was talking about more than just his rear end.
Sam rubbed his backside carefully, trying to ease the stinging throb there that kept tempo in time to his heartbeat. He’d completely forgotten how hard Dean could spank; it was right up their with their father’s mean swing, and Sam made a mental note not to piss Dean off in the future if this was going to be the end result. He felt the warmth of a blush crawl across his face at the thought. Apparently twenty-two wasn’t past the cut-off age for getting your butt roasted in the Winchester family. Especially when you did something as stupid as almost getting yourself killed because you weren’t thinking like a hunter. And Sam was a hunter, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He was born and raised into the life and he knew better. He’d let his stubbornness and pride run roughshod over his instincts and training. The blush on his cheeks deepened.
He looked up into Dean’s concerned face. “I’m sorry,” Sam said quietly.
Dean nodded, his eyes softening as he offered up a sad smile. “I know, Sammy, and we’re good.” He hopped off the log he had used for a makeshift chair, and reached up to scratch at his jaw. “Let’s just put this night behind us and call it a lesson learned, whad’you say?”
“Agreed,” Sam said. He reached out to offer Dean a conciliatory hug but stopped at the deadpan look on his brother’s face.
“Dude, what have I said about the hugging?” Dean teasingly admonished.
Sam laughed. “Yeah. Right, forgot, sorry.”
Dean slapped Sam on the back, adding his own laughter to Sam’s and then gazed behind him at the dead satyr now bathed in a swathe of pale morning sunlight filtering in through the trees.
“What say we put that bad boy to rest and then head out to the main road and see if we can’t find someone to give us a lift to a gas station?” Dean said as he scratched furiously at the back of his neck. He frowned. “Jeez, something must have bit me while I was chasing after your sorry ass,” he said. He reached up again, this time to attack his left ear, scratching until his fingers came away bloody.
Sam watched his brother a moment, and then stepped closer to the older boy, suddenly crowding into Dean’s personal space.
“Uh, dude, a little too close,” Dean groused, leaning away from Sam with an anxious look on his face.
“Shut up a minute,” Sam ordered curtly.
Dean complied with a scowl and Sam reached out and took hold of Dean’s jaw, turning it toward the light, studying it intently. Sam’s lips curved up in amusement.
“What?” Dean frowned at him, yanking his head from Sam’s grasp.
“Holy crap, Dean, you’re covered in poison sumac!” Sam announced, breaking into snorts of laughter.
“What!” Dean’s eyes widened.
“Your neck and ears are totally covered in little red bumps,” Sam explained after he’d managed to stop laughing. “You must have brushed through a stand of the stuff when you were following after me.”
“No way!” Dean said in disbelief. “What does poison sumac look like?” He moved to touch his face, but Sam stopped him, batting his hand away.
“Uh, you don’t want to be touching your face unless you want to spread the plant’s oils over even more of you,” Sam asserted. “Did you pass by any tall, full bushes with leaf points clustered in threes?”
Dean offered up a nasty glare. “You have noticed we’re in a forest, right? When didn’t I brush up against bushes with leaves?”
Sam tried not to smirk. “Right. How about bushes with very shiny yellow or deep purple leaves and red stems?”
Dean made a face. “Those were sumac, huh?”
Sam nodded, smiling. “Yep.”
“Just great,” Dean snarled, reaching up to scratch at his forehead and then stopping when he realized what he was doing. His brows knitted together in a frustrated scowl. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, Sam. I HATE camping.”
A grin on his face, Sam chuckled and reached back to palm his still sore butt, eyeing his brother ruefully. “Yeah, I’m right there with you on that, Dean.”
THE END
Cedarville State Forest
Prince George’s County, Maryland
November 2005
“Well, thanks so much, Sam. This is just terrific.”
The words were spat out in a harsh undertone that had Sam hunching down further against the roughened bark of the oak tree he sat under. He was making an effort to be less of a target. Not that it would help. It didn’t take a Ouija board to deduce that his older brother was royally pissed at him. If Dean’s sarcastic tone wasn’t clue enough, the malevolent glare he leveled at Sam over the top of the Impala was a dead giveaway.
“I said I was sorry,” Sam half-whined, half-muttered.
Dean could make him feel all of six years old with nothing more than a few sharp words and a look. He hated it. It was just like Dad used to do. They hadn’t been back on the road together for more than a few weeks, but it was like Sam had never left for college. He appreciated Dean being there for him, checking up on him like he had when Sam was little and Dad wasn’t around, but he was disgusted that he’d fallen back into his old ways without even being consciously aware of it. He was looking to Dean to take the lead on things, letting his big brother overrule him and backing down whenever they argued over something.
Sam let his head fall back against the tree trunk and he stared up through his dark fringe of bangs into the canopy of multi-hued leaves overhead. A ponderous sigh, full of regret, escaped his lips. It wasn’t the first time since he’d been back on the road with his brother that he wished for once, just one thing would go their way; that they would find their father, or that Dean wouldn’t lecture him to death every time he thought Sam had done something stupid, or that a hunt would go smoothly.
Sam let out a bitter laugh. He didn’t figure he’d get his wish any time soon. Their entire day had pretty much been a bust. Six hours spent scouring the dense Maryland woods for a mysterious, goat-faced creature that had been preying on local hikers had turned up little more than a handful of startled deer and one rather grumpy opossum that had chittered angrily at them before waddling off into the bushes. Sam was tired and sweaty, despite the cool fall temperatures. But most of all, he was not in the mood to deal with Dean’s harping, regardless of whether or not their current unfortunate situation was actually his fault.
Not that that stopped Dean. The older Winchester wasn’t ready or willing to let things go just yet. He angrily stuffed his cell phone back into his jacket pocket, a string of obscenities slipping from between his gritted teeth. Dean’s frustration mounted and he began to pace back and forth along the length of the Impala like an agitated jungle cat looking for a way out of its zoo cage.
“This really sucks, you know that?” Dean groused loudly.
“Yeah, Dean, I get it,” Sam shot back slowly, his voice now laced with some irritation of his own.
“The one time I let you drive my baby - the one time – Sam, and what do you do?” Dean stopped in his tracks, turning to face his brother accusingly.
Sam’s jaw clenched.
“You forget to gas her up!” Dean smacked the palm of his hand down on the trunk of the car for emphasis.
“It was an accident, jeez, could you just-“
“Accident?” Dean’s brows shot up. He strode over to where Sam was sitting to tower over the younger man. “An accident is when you spill some coffee on yourself or you trip over a shoelace. Forgetting to fill the tank up when we’re parked at a friggin’ gas station is just plain stupid!” Dean waved an arm in agitation. “I mean, did you not see me walking off towards the snack mart?” he questioned.
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Sam argued, his face reddening. “I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t know, I just figured you’d take care of the gas afteryou got your stupid candy bars. You always do whenever we stop!”
Dean shook his head. “Dude, driver takes care of the gas. Always.”
“What?” Sam stared up at Dean in confusion.
“Rules of the road, Sammy,” Dean stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh, give me a break!” Sam snorted, rolling his eyes. “And it’s Sam,” he added moodily. He shifted under the tree, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Whatever, okay? It’s not as if you’re going to let me drive again after this, anyway.”
“Damn straight!” Dean affirmed. He held out his hand. “Gimme your phone.”
Sam sat up instantly, frowning. “What? Why?”
“Just give me the damn phone,” Dean repeated a little more firmly. He sighed heavily when Sam continued to stare at him blankly. “Mine’s dead, okay? So, I need yours to call for a tow.”
“Oh, um…” Sam swallowed hard. He made no move to comply with Dean’s request. Instead, he sat beneath the tree, squirming.
Dean stood over Sam, waiting. “Dude?” He frowned and waved the hand he still held out in front of him. “Phone’s not gonna magically float out of your pocket and into my hand…”
Sam fidgeted some more, nervously playing with the wooden buttons on his corduroy jacket. Realizing that Dean wasn’t going to just walk away, he slowly trailed his eyes up from his lap to offer the older Winchester a wide, apologetic look.
Dean knew the look all too well, in fact, he had given a name - Sam’s ‘kicked puppy’ face - to it years ago. His impatient frown instantly morphed into a glower of irritation. “Sam…” he growled warily. “Tell me your phone is charged up and working.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s working fine,” Sam replied quietly. He made a face and stared down at his hands now clenched in his lap. “It’s just that…I don’t have it.”
Dean blinked. “Excuse me?”
Sam winced. “I sorta, kinda left it back in the motel room.” He waited for the explosion he knew was coming.
“SONUVABITCH!”
The crude curse reverberated loudly about the shadowed clearing, frightening a flock of birds from their roosts in the surrounding trees and driving them skyward in a flurry of flapping wings and distressed cries.
“I didn’t think we’d need both,” Sam protested. “And YOUR cell’s dead, so what are you yelling at ME for! I just –”
Turning abruptly, Dean ignored the rest of Sam’s explanation and stalked back towards the Impala, trying hard to control the sudden urge he felt to beat the holy crap out of his little brother. He stood a moment in front of the trunk, eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“Dean?” Sam called over hesitantly. “What’re you doing?”
“Trying not to kill you,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and jammed the key into the trunk lock, opening the lid with an angry jerk.
Sam slowly stood up, his demeanor apprehensive. The weapons were kept in the trunk, and while he didn’t think Dean would actually shoot him, experience had taught Sam that it was always best to keep a healthy distance between him and his brother when Dean was this annoyed, especially when he was the cause of that anger.
Although, it wasn’t totally his fault, he tried to argue. He’d been removed from the hunting lifestyle for the past four years while he’d been at Stanford. Four years of not having to remember arcane Latin incantations or how to disassemble and clean a shotgun in the dark. Four blessed years of not worrying about whether or not he’d remembered to lay down salt lines around the doors and windows before going to bed or having to constantly keep a cell phone and a weapon on his person at all times. And in those years, Sam had to admit, he’d taken some small pleasure in being able to forget.
Yeah, and look where that’s gotten you, he angrily thought. He knew exactly what his father would say. “Forgetting leads to repeating mistakes, Sam, and mistakes in our line of business are what’ll get you killed in the long run.”
Much as he hated to admit it, Sam felt he should at least offer up some sort of conciliatory gesture to Dean, for the empty gas tank if for nothing else. He carefully started towards his brother and the car.
“Need any help?” Sam inquired.
Dean’s back stiffened and Sam winced slightly. The older boy poked his head up from the cavernous depths of the Impala’s trunk to glare at his younger brother.
“Gosh, you’ve been such a big help already,” Dean stated acidly. “Thanks, but no thanks, Sam.”
Dean went back to his rummaging, ignoring Sam once again.
Sam let out a tired sigh. “Dean, I’m just trying to -”
Sam jumped back as a heavy canvas duffle nearly landed on top of his toes.
“Fine. Make yourself useful, then,” Dean shot grumpily over his shoulder as he bent back down, tugging more equipment from the trunk of the Chevy. “It’s gonna be dark in about an hour and we need to get that set up.”
Sam crouched down next to the oblong bag and reached over to unzip it. He peered inside.
“A tent?” he said, gazing up questioningly at Dean. “We’re camping?”
Dean straightened up and fixed a sour gaze on Sam. “You see a Motel 8 around here?” he asked, holding up his arms, indicating the small clearing they stood in. “’Cause if not, then, yeah – we’re camping for the night.”
“I hate camping,” Sam muttered under his breath as he pawed through the duffle’s contents.
“Not my favorite form of recreation either,” Dean replied, his brittle tone complementing the annoyed frown he wore. He jerked a thumb back behind him. “Nearest main road is about ten miles in that direction. I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to go hiking through these woods in the pitch dark and hope I make it to freedom before the homicidal goat man we’ve been tracking decides to make an appearance.”
Dean ran a hand through his short hair and took a deep cleansing breath. He was tired, pissed off and out of ideas. And Sam’s barrage of questions and complaints wasn’t helping.
Nevertheless, he tried to keep the edge out of his voice when he continued. “Look, we got no working phones, meaning no way of calling out of here, and I didn’t see a ranger station - or any other signs of civilization - the entire time we’ve been out here today. So, that means we’re on our own. Which means playing camp-out’s about the only option we really got here.”
Dean pointed down at the open duffle next to Sam. “So, get a move on and get that put up before it gets too dark to see.”
“Fine,” Sam snapped. He hadn’t meant to sound quite as petulant as he had, and in fact regretted it instantly when he caught sight of the dark look on Dean’s face.
“Dude, lose the attitude, if you know what’s good for you,” Dean warned him.
Sam dropped the tent stake in his hand onto the ground and stood up, brushing dirt and pine needles from the knees of his jeans. “You know what?” he remarked, face stony. “I’ll drop my attitude when you drop yours.”
“You really don’t wanna push me right now, Sam,” Dean advised, turning back to the car and, in effect, dismissing his younger brother.
Sam had had enough. “Stop with the stupid threats already!” he growled. “They didn’t work for Dad and they’re not going to work for you!”
Dean swung back around and glared openly at his brother, his jaw clenched as Sam stood his ground. He pointed at Sam. “It’s your fault we’re even in this situation,” he stated matter-of-factly, daring Sam to say otherwise.
Sam swallowed hard, biting back a retort and instead nodded stiffly before moving off to set up the small nylon pop-up tent.
II.
It should have been a simple job, setting up the tent, but Sam realized early on that nothing was going to be simple about that night. He began to wonder if the forest they were planning to camp in wasn’t perhaps cursed somehow to bring nothing but bad luck to anyone dumb enough to stumble into it.
He flexed his sore hand, cringing a little at the smear of blood on his knuckles where he’d managed to smash his fingers with the rock he’d used to pound the tent stakes into the cement-like ground.
“You have all those tools in your toolbox, Dean, but no hammer,” Sam complained. “What kind of toolbox doesn’t have a hammer?”
Dean glanced up at Sam from where he crouched down over the modest campfire he was tending. His look plainly broadcast exactly what he thought of his younger sibling at the moment.
“The toolbox is full of tools for the car,” Dean tiredly explained. “You use sockets and wrenches on cars, Sam, not hammers. When the hell would I ever use a hammer on my baby?”
Sam offered up a sullen half-shrug, indicating he didn’t know, or probably more the fact, he didn’t care.
Dean’s temper flared at that. “You know, this ain’t the Yankee Workshop, so I don’t have a friggin’ hammer on me, okay?” He poked angrily at the crackling fire, causing it to snap and spark. “Christ, it’s not like I was planning on building a dining room hutch some day,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m surprised you even know what a hutch is,” Sam shot back, sneering.
Dean stopped stirring the blazing coals in front of him and hit Sam with a scowl that would have knocked a wendigo on its back.
“You lookin’ to get your ass kicked tonight, Sammy? That it?” Dean’s voice was low and measured, full of warning. “’Cause that’s the direction this conversation is headed in.”
Sam heaved a weighty sigh up from the depths of his chest, then followed it with an impressive eye roll for further clarification of his feelings.
“What? You think I won’t?” Dean challenged. He dropped the stick he’d been gripping way too tightly and rose up to his full height, arms crossing over his chest.
“Wow. Like father, like son,” Sam declared quietly, letting out a short huff of disbelief.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Dean asked. His eyes narrowed.
Sam studied Dean for a long, tense minute before answering, his words shaded with a subtle anger. “Just that I guess it’s easier to gain obedience through a beating than to discuss things rationally in this family.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean retorted in mild irritation, an uneasy frown appearing on his face as he let his arms fall to his sides. “Dad never beat you, Sam.”
“Excuse me?” Sam sputtered in shock. “Are we talking about the same father here? John Winchester?”
Dean stared at his brother, a look of weary annoyance settling on his face. “Look, Dad may have handed out a few spankings when we were growing up, but he never beat either of one of us,” Dean stated firmly.
“Whatever.” Sam shrugged, rolling his eyes. He picked up the stick Dean had discarded and tossed it into the campfire, absently watching the sparks fly. “Sorry, Dean; didn’t realize you were that into semantics.”
Sam looked up in time to catch the furrow of Dean’s brow deepen as the older boy tried to decide whether or not he’d just been insulted by the new word Sam had thrown at him.
Sam looked away again, shaking his head. “You know what? I’m too tired to have this conversation with you right now,” he said tightly.
Dean gave a curt nod of his head. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Sam echoed.
The crackling of the fire competed with the night sounds of the forest to drown out the tense silence between both boys until Sam’s stomach took the opportunity to voice its opinion with a loud protracted groan.
Dean tried to cover his smirk with a hand as Sam shifted on the ground, obviously embarrassed. The younger man’s stomach let out another stentorian rumble and Dean turned now, all pretenses aside, as he observed Sam closely, brows cocked in questioning amusement.
Sam risked a quick glance over at Dean, noted the older boy’s annoyingly pleased demeanor, and immediately let his eyes drop to his lap, his cheeks flaming despite the chill temperature drop the evening had ushered in.
“We got anything to eat?” Sam finally mumbled down into the front of his jacket. He refused to meet Dean’s smug grin.
“Sure, Sam.”
Dean reached behind him to drag a knapsack from where it was sitting on the other side of the small log he was perched upon. He rummaged through the bag a moment, the wide smirk never leaving his face.
Sam looked up just in time to barely catch the silver flask tossed at him. It slapped against his chest with a dull thwap, and Sam offered up a pissed scowl at Dean.
“What’s this?” He glanced suspiciously down at the flask and then over to Dean, who held a similar one in his own hand.
Dean smiled, unscrewed the cap on his flask and took a long pull, smacking his lips for dramatic effect.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You really think this is a good time to be getting drunk, Dean?” he questioned.
“Relax. It’s just water,” Dean stated.
Now it was Sam’s turn to stare in exasperation. “Holy water? You’re drinking the holy water we have with us?”
Dean shrugged. He took another sip and then re-capped the flask and set it down next to him. “Hey, maybe it’ll bring us some luck since it’s blessed,” he suggested brightly. “What d’you think?”
“I think maybe you’ve lost your mind,” Sam said. “That’s blessed water, Dean, meaning it can possibly save our asses if we don’t drink it all!” Dean appeared nonplussed, and Sam felt his patience slip. “What if whatever we’re hunting is nearby and we need that water to fend it off?” he admonished.
Dean blinked, then snorted loudly. “Dude, unless what we’re hunting is a demon that decided, for some weird kinky reason, that it’d be fun to possess a goat, I think we’re okay.” His smile tightened. “Besides, it’s the only water we got left since you scarfed down the last of the bottled stuff putting up the tent.”
Sam’s anger evaporated. “Oh,” he muttered.
Much as he wanted to, Sam couldn’t really argue with Dean about that, so he uncapped his flask and took a swallow from it in resignation. He glared across the fire at his brother. “So, you got any communion wafers to go with the holy water?” he asked while waving the flask in front of him. “M’ still hungry.”
Chuckling lightly, Dean rummaged in the knapsack once more and then tossed a half-eaten jumbo bag of peanut M&Ms at Sam, along with a couple of Slim Jims.
“That’s it? That’s all we have?” Sam frowned down at the meager offerings in his lap. “What happened to the candy bars, the bag of Doritos and the two packages of mini-donuts you bought at the gas station this morning?” He flicked his gaze back up to Dean.
Dean grew quiet. Sam stared at his brother a moment before realization dawned on him. His glare hardened.
“You’re kidding. You ate it all?” Sam’s mouth fell open in dismay. “All of it?”
“Well, we missed lunch and I didn’t know how long we’d be out here…” Dean’s voice faded off at the look of disappointed disgust being thrown at him. He gave a little defensive shrug. “You hate snack food anyways, Sam, so what’re you bitching about?”
Sam gave a little chuff of disbelief, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, tightly. He began to unwrap one of the Slim Jims, sighing loudly as he eyed the unappetizing, dried meat stick in his hand.
“Bullshit, nothing,” Dean shot back, sitting up now, his eyes flashing in the dim glow of the campfire. “You got something to say to me? Then say it.”
Sam carefully rewrapped the Slim Jim and set it down on the ground next to him. He met Dean’s expectant stare with a cold one of his own.
“Look. Ever since we’ve been back together, you’ve been on my case constantly about, well, about everything, pretty much, and it’s…I’m just getting a little tired of it is all,” Sam snapped.
“Yeah? Well, I’m getting tired of it too,” Dean replied angrily. “Hey, here’s a thought,” he continued, sarcasm lending a bite to his words. “Maybe if you pull your head out of your ass and remember what you’ve been taught, I won’t have to be coming down on you all the time.”
Sam glowered at his brother. “I’m not stupid, Dean! You know, I did get into Stanford - on a full ride.”
“I know that, Sam,” Dean answered, his voice softening a little. “I know you’re not stupid.”
“Then could you maybe stop treating me like I am?” Sam pleaded.
Dean slowly ran a hand over the back of his neck, letting a frustrated puff of air escape his lips. “Look, I’m just trying to watch out for you -”
“I don’t need babysitting, Dean!” Sam erupted.
Dean reacted as if he’d been slapped, his eyes snapping up to Sam in shock for a few crucial seconds before he managed to recover enough to hide his surprised hurt behind a stoic wall of anger and sarcasm.
“Really?” Dean retorted. “You think you’re mister responsible adult now, Sammy? Because you’re average, responsible adult would know that when the needle on the gas gauge is pointing to the big red ‘E”, it means it’s time to put more freaking gas in the car.”
Sam scrubbed a palm across his face. “Jesus, Dean, how long are you gonna beat that one to death?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean replied offhandedly, “I guess for as long as it takes us to get out of this crap-ass forest.”
Sam rolled his eyes at that and Dean bristled.
“Dude,” Dean leveled a finger at his brother, his words coming out clipped and angry. “You roll your eyes at me one. more. time…”
“At least I would have shared the Doritos and donuts instead of hogging them all…jerk,” Sam admonished half-heartedly.
Dean’s smile reached his eyes this time. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that,” he said with a nod. He raised a hesitant eyebrow at Sam. “So, we done with the caring and sharing session here, or do you need a hug or something to finish this up?”
Sam’s reply was anything, but civil. “Bite me,” he snarled.
“Getting a little testy there, Ranger Rick,” Dean commented, his wry tone grating on Sam. “Sounds like maybe somebody’s a little tired and cranky. Hmm?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning to a tight line of displeasure as he tried to control his temper. He knew Dean could keep it up all night long, especially if he was ramped up for it, and he was. So, instead of fueling the flames with another barb of his own, Sam got up, ignoring Dean’s look of puzzlement, and stomped over to the tent. He reached in, grabbed one of the two sleeping bags from inside the structure, and dragged it back over to the fire.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked.
“I’m gonna get some shuteye, Dean. You should do the same,” Sam said.
Dean frowned. He looked at Sam, then cast an eye over his shoulder at the tent, and then looked back to Sam again, clearly perplexed. “Okay, the whole point of putting up the tent was so we’d have some place to sleep and not freeze our asses off out in the open where that thing we’re hunting might mistake us for a midnight snack offering.”
“So, use it. Nobody’s stopping you.” Sam gestured sharply at the tent, not looking up from the sleeping bag he had draped across his knees. He unzipped the nylon bag with enough force to practically rip the zipper off its tracks.
Dean’s features hardened. “Sam, I’m not letting you sleep out here by yourself. It’s too dangerous,” he declared. “And cold,” he added, rubbing his hands together for emphasis. He pointed. “Just, get in the tent.”
“I’m fine right where I am, thanks,” Sam replied huffily.
A sullen pout pulled the corners of his mouth downward. He yanked his sleeping bag up firmly around his shoulders as he lay down, shuffling noisily around on the leaf-strewn ground just enough to put his back to both Dean and the campfire.
Dean reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginning of a pounding headache coming on, and its name was Sam “I’m gonna throw a tantrum now” Winchester. Images of staking his stubborn ass of a brother to a tree for the goat man to come and take flitted briefly through his head, but he knew he’d never be able to explain that one to their dad when they eventually caught up with him. Speaking of Dad, Dean thought…
He suddenly drew himself up, and using his best ‘John Winchester no-more-bullshit’ voice, Dean addressed his brother. “Sammy,” he barked. “Quit foolin’ around and get in the damn tent!”
“No.”
Dean’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding together at the continued defiance. He leveled an ominous glare at the back of Sam’s head. “If you don’t get your ass up and in that tent in the next few seconds, Sam, I swear I’m gonna-”
Sam sat back up, turning and presenting Dean with his best bitch-face. “Gonna what, Dean?” he questioned acidly.
Dean stood perfectly still, brows knitting into a deep scowl. Good question, he thought. What was he going to do?
Sam let his anger and frustration flow out into his words. “Just because I put your crappy tent up doesn’t mean I have to bunk down in it. Especially, if it means sharing close quarters with you right now,” he barked.
Dean, his temper already at a steamy simmer, now felt it kick up to a full boil.
“You got to the count of five, smart ass, and then…” he looked around the clearing a moment as if searching for inspiration, and then a nasty smile crawled across his lips. He fixed his gaze back on Sam, eyes flinty. “And then, I cut a switch and beat the crap out of you with it until you decide to follow orders,” he finished smugly.
Sam blinked. That was a new one. Sure, Dean had spanked him a few times growing up, especially when Dad had left Dean in charge and Sam had been bratty enough to piss Dean off, but his brother had never hit him with anything but his hand. The last time Sam had been spanked was over five years ago when he’d mouthed off to his father and had gotten his butt paddled raw to prove to him who was still the boss in the Winchester household.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sam said tentatively. Dean remained staring darkly at him, and Sam squirmed uncomfortably. “Dean, c’mon, you -”
“One…” Dean announced.
“Dude, do not start counting at me!”
Dean ignored Sam. “TWO…”
“This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered indignantly. He threw his sleeping bag off and quickly stood up, but didn’t make a move for the tent.
“Comin’ up on three, Sammy…” Dean growled. He fumbled his buck knife out of his jacket pocket, flicking the three-inch-long blade open, readying to make good on his threat of cutting a switch.
“Okay. Alright!” Sam held his hands up in front of him, hoping to stall the count. He licked his lips, trying to think fast. God, he’d forgotten how determined his brother could be when he was in full on ‘bossy’ mode.
“Would you put the knife away, please?” Sam requested, indicating the weapon in Dean’s hand.
Dean casually glanced down at the buck knife, face impassive. “You gonna get in the tent?” he asked carefully, looking back up at Sam with raised brows.
Sam let out a pained growl of frustration. This was going nowhere fast. He decided to try a different tact. “Look, Dean, one of us has to stay out here and keep watch, right? So, it might as well be me since you seem to think it’s my fault we’re stuck out here in the first place anyway.”
Dean couldn’t suppress the exaggerated sigh that escaped his pursed lips. He stood, arms crossed, thinking a moment. Finally, he let his shoulders slump, his sign of giving in. He nodded once, the anger still visible in the taut muscles of his jaw and neck as he clicked his knife shut and shoved it back into his pocket.
“Fine. Whatever. You stay up and take first watch then,” Dean said, throwing up his hands in tired defeat. “Wake me in a couple hours and we’ll trade places.” He headed toward the tent, but stopped before going in. He turned to give his brother a serious look. “You hear or see anything funny, you come get me. And whatever you do? Don’t. Wander. Off.”
“I’m not gonna wander off, alright?” Sam snapped. “Jeez, I’m not a little kid!”
“Could’a fooled me,” Dean replied under his breath and then ducked into the tent, zipping it shut behind him.
III.
Dean rolled over in his sleep, squirming restlessly inside the confines of his flannel-lined sleeping bag. His eyelids fluttered as he rode the tide between not quite awake and the deep unconsciousness of REM. Part of his mind was aware that the muscles in his back, legs and shoulders were protesting against the hard, unforgiving ground underneath them, and yet his brain was too far gone into slumber to really do anything more than shift his body every so often to ease the pressure when it got to be too much.
Dean muttered something under his breath as he shifted again. A small pout marred his otherwise placid features. His right arm flopped out from underneath the warmth of the covers and his hand brushed up against something. Dean’s pout deepened. His muzzy brain tried hard to acknowledge what his fingers were touching. Warmth, heartbeat… and fur. Fur?! What the hell??
Heart leaping up into his throat, Dean wrenched up and out of his sleeping bag with a panicked shout, eyes wide, instantly awake. He grabbed for the gun he’d stuffed underneath his bedding earlier and swung it wildly about in the dim light of the tent. Something was in there with him! Something not Sam.
A frantic scuffling near the head of his sleeping bag had Dean quickly scrambling to the opposite side of the tent, his .45 Colt aimed towards the noise, even though he couldn’t see a damn thing in the murky shadows surrounding him. Keeping the gun trained out in front of him, Dean used his other hand to quickly dig his lighter out of his jeans pocket and, with shaky fingers, he thumbed the strike wheel hard and then squinted against the sudden flare of light that ensued.
His eyes caught movement and Dean immediately homed in on it, instinctively flicking off the safety of his .45 as he sited down the crosshairs. He stopped and stared. A look of mild bewilderment melted the tired scowl off his face.
Staring back at him, nose twitching, was a little brown bunny about the size of a chihuahua. Dean leaned in for a closer look and the animal trembled with fear, eyes glassy and wide in the flame’s glow. Dean slowly lowered his gun with a grimace of embarrassment, and the rabbit, sensing a reprieve, took the opportunity to make a mad dash for the opening of the tent. Dean watched silently as the animal quickly squirmed out of the hole where the zippered tent fly didn’t quite close all the way at the bottom. He shook his head, snapping his lighter closed with a low groan.
“I fucking hate camping,” Dean murmured, as he tried to get his skittering heart rate back down to a more normal level.
He glanced down at the gun in his hand, and made a face, feeling more than a little foolish, before lying back down and shoving the weapon back under the sleeping bag. He lay there, staring at the thin nylon ceiling of the tent overhead, knowing he wasn’t going to be falling back asleep anytime soon. He brought his watch up to his face to peer at the illuminated dial. Four A.M. He’d been asleep for almost five hours.
Frowning, Dean sat back up, reaching for his gun once more, his heart beginning to hammer uneasily all over again. Sam should’ve woken him up over an hour ago to switch places outside. Even more important, Sam would have definitely heard the commotion with br’er rabbit just now and would have come running to see what was up, and yet, he hadn’t. Dean tried to tamp down the slick worry that was flooding through him as he kicked off his covers, snagged a flashlight out his duffle and made his way over to the zippered opening of the tent.
Outside, all was still and relatively silent, the early gray shadows of dawn lending a delicate, almost ethereal, quality to the air. The trees were nothing more than stark silhouettes. They stood sentinel around the encampment like silent soldiers, their clusters of branches creating false whispers as they swayed against each other in the chill breeze, their gnarled roots blanketed by a thin silvery mist that would burn off as the sun rose overhead.
Dean shivered in the brisk cold that immediately hit him as he exited the tent. He reached back inside for his leather jacket and shrugged into it, then flicked on the flashlight, sweeping the beam over the nearby campfire where Sam had been sitting when Dean had gone to bed earlier. The fire was nothing more than rosy glowing embers now and Sam’s sleeping bag lay spread out beside it, empty.
“Sam?” Dean called out. He swept his gaze around the clearing, eyes straining to catch motion in the dim pre-dawn, ears honed for the sound of Sam’s voice. “Sammy?” he tried again, a little louder this time, but still no response. “Dammit!” Dean growled as his senses came to full alert.
He crept toward Sam’s sleeping bag, flashlight beam roving across the tree line in front of him before Dean trained it downwards, checking the ground for signs of a possible struggle and - he swallowed hard - any traces of blood. His stomach did a queasy little flip-flop at that thought, but it settled when he found nothing out of the usual. No extra sets of prints in the dirt or drag marks leading from Sam’s bedding off into the woods.
Dean reached down to place a palm on top of the sleeping bag, and noted, with a little flare of hope, that it was still warm. Sam hadn’t been gone long then.
“SAM!” Dean chanced a full out yell into the misty gray dawn. There was no reply.
IV.
Sam went stock still in the early morning gloom of the forest, watching his breath ascend in a frosty plume of air before his face, his eyes the only thing moving as they slowly scanned the dense wooded foliage around him. His feet, clad in his favorite brown Skechers, were freezing and soaking wet from splashing along the edges of a murky, leaf-cluttered pond a few yards back, but he ignored the minor discomfort, focusing instead on the shadowy collage of vegetation in front of him.
The various trees and plants in the forest still had most of their leaves, despite it being mid-November, and the rich patchwork of scarlet, green, yellow and blazing orange colors around him only served to camouflage his adversary. It didn’t matter. Sam could be patient. His father had taught him that skill – in more ways than one.
So, he stood, senses alert, waiting for the creature to move again, to show itself. Five tense minutes later, Sam was rewarded with the faint sound of snapping twigs behind him and off to his left. Shit. It had somehow managed to circle back on him while he’d been picking his way through the underbrush.
He quickly swung his gun around in a controlled arc, trailing after the noise. Combat instincts kicking in, Sam crouched down slightly, to make himself a smaller target, and let his finger curl around the trigger of his Beretta, making ready.
Earlier, he’d stumbled out to the edge of the shadowy clearing, half-asleep and badly needing to relieve himself. Apparently, holy water ran through him just as quickly as ordinary tap water. He’d been peeing against one of the enormous pine trees ringing the campsite, his mind wandering absently, when the hairs on the back of his neck had stood straight up and a chill had rippled down his spine. Sam immediately knew he was being watched. He had finished his business as quickly as possible and then had carefully reached for the gun snugged into the back waistband of his pants.
Picking up movement in front of him, Sam had been stunned to discover a pair of golden eyes staring back at him at about the same height as an average man’s would be. They blinked once, twice. Sam noticed that the pupils were oddly rectangular in shape, the creature’s stare penetrating him to the core. The rank smell of wet wool mixed with the tangy odor of sour sweat and decay abruptly assaulted Sam’s nostrils, and he grimaced, raising a hand to his nose in disgust.
Whatever it was, let out a low, guttural grunt. The sound made Sam’s skin crawl. Nevertheless, he’d dutifully raised his weapon, but the thing had spun on its feet, its speed surprising Sam, as it loped deeper into the heavy growth of bushes and overhanging trees. Sam had had only a few seconds to make a decision as to whether he should call out to Dean and wait for backup or take off after the creature himself and deal with Dean afterwards. He chose the latter.
Which was how Sam currently found himself alone in the middle of three thousand acres of heavily forested swampland, unsure of his bearings, and with only a clip full of bullets for protection from what he was pretty darn sure was the heretofore-unseen goat man. Dean was going to kill him. Well, he reasoned, that is if whatever was now stalking him didn’t take him out first.
V.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Dean stated simply.
He’d picked up Sam’s trail just south of the campsite easily enough.All he had to do was follow the swath of broken branches and crushed plants left behind by whatever the hell was chasing after his brother. He paused, considering. Or maybe Sam was chasing it? Dean wanted to think that it was the creature, and not Sam, that had started the pursuit and been so sloppy in creating such an obvious roadmap through the woods for anyone to follow. Because if this was Sam’s doing? Well, then that would be just one more bullet point to add to the laundry list of infractions that Dean now felt obligated to blister his baby brother’s ass for as soon as he caught up with him.
He hadn’t laid a hand on Sam in years, not counting the various smacks he had delivered to the back of the other boy’s head in the scant month since they’d buried Sam’s girlfriend, Jessica. But, those had been more a gauge of Dean’s frustration level at the time they’d occurred rather than a means of discipline per se. All things considered, Dean thought he’d been pretty lenient so far with Sam’s temper tantrums, hidden agendas and bucking of orders. He knew deep down that his father would never have let the insubordination get so out of hand, regardless of what Sam might be going through emotionally over what had happened back in Palo Alto.
Dean felt a kernel of guilt twist in his gut. He was supposed to be watching out for his little brother and he’d obviously been slacking. Now, Sammy could very well be in danger because of it. Well, that was going to change, starting now, Dean decided. No more feeling sorry for his brother and letting things slide.
“Kid’s not gonna be sitting easy for a week,” Dean muttered angrily.
He shoved aside another waist-high cluster of shiny, leafy plants that seemed to be everywhere and pushed forward, a foreboding expression of determination on his face. And that was when he heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot coming from somewhere nearby. He jumped, startled.
Dean’s head swiveled around, trying to locate the exact direction from which the shot had come. He no sooner had concluded that it was just northeast of him when three more shots, fired in rapid succession, echoed through the greenery followed by an inhuman bellow of rage. Dean broke into a dead run. Fuck! Sam was in trouble.
VI.
Well, it definitely wasn’t a shape-shifter, Sam hastily concluded. The silver bullet hit the thing dead center in its massive chest with little to no effect. Just to be on the safe side, Sam fired three more rounds rapidly into the stunned creature. It staggered back a few steps on its scuffed hooves from the hits but remained stubbornly upright. Only the creature’s torso and arms appeared human-like, both covered in a dark downy fuzz that became shaggier and more matted around hip level until merging into a pair of substantial goat legs, complete with tail.
Sam watched in dismay as the beast’s large horned head reared back, nostrils flaring as its long muzzle stretched wide to deliver an eerie deep-throated howl of anger or pain at the quartet of bleeding holes in its chest. Sam wasn’t sure which emotion was forefront in the creature’s mind and he didn’t really care at that point. All he did care about was that the ammo in his gun couldn’t take down the big bad monster, and that was bad. Really, really bad. Because all he’d managed to do by shooting the creature was piss it off, tremendously. All this ran through Sam’s overwhelmed mind as the goat man lumbered towards him, roaring angrily, a glint of murder in its yellow eyes.
Sam quickly got into a fighting stance, keeping most of his weight on the balls of his feet, his long, wiry arms up in front of him, pistol still aimed at the creature because he wasn’t sure what else to do. He supposed he could run, but that would only make him tired and eventually slow him down enough for the thing to pounce on him. He could call out for help, but hell, who knew how far away from the campsite he was? Even if Dean did hear him, by the time he found him, Sam would most likely be in bits and pieces scattered around the forest floor. So, it came down to making a stand and hoping for the best in Sam’s mind.
That was all the time he had to ponder the situation before the snarling wall of muscled fur and hooves slammed into him like an express train, carrying Sam to the icy ground and knocking the wind out of his startled lungs. Sam felt strong fingers clamp around his bared throat, and he wheezed as they tightened and cut off his air supply. He struggled, trying to pry the claw-like hands from around his neck, but they were locked solid like a vice grip with fingers long enough that they almost spanned their way completely around his throat.
Sam tried rolling and kicking next to buck the creature off him, but to no avail. The goat man was heavier than he was by at least seventy-five pounds of pure muscle and it had him pinned flat to the ground as if he weighed nothing. It had him pinned and was slowly choking him to death, Sam realized with alarm.
When the black dots began to swim into his vision, Sam grew desperate. He tried to suck a breath, any breath at all, into his constricted airway, but it was no use. Soon, his punches grew weaker and with a vague sense of embarrassed defeat, Sam stopped struggling altogether as he had no choice but to sink down into the dark uncertain depths of unconsciousness…
VII.
“Sammy, damn it, wake up!”
Sam groaned, recognizing the sound of the pleading voice in his ears but not fully able to acknowledge it.
Someone slapped him across his left cheek. The harsh sting made him flinch and brought him further out of the thick blanket of darkness surrounding him.
“C’mon, Sam, you gotta wake up now. Please. Okay?”
Dean, Sam thought blearily. That’s Dean talking. Sam suddenly drew in an enormous gulp of air and choked violently on it, coughing hard enough to make his head throb. He groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, eyes still unfocused but clearing little by little. He tried to sit up. Dean helped his brother, one arm around Sam’s shoulders, supporting him.
“Welcome back to the light, Frodo,” Dean said, grinning.
Sam normally would have called his brother on the cheesy pop reference, but he was just too tired. Instead, he slowly rolled his head around on his neck, trying to get rid of the stiffness, and did a quick mental check of his health. His throat hurt like hell when he swallowed, his back and ribs were sore from getting tackled to the ground, and his ass felt like a giant ice cube from being in contact with the freezing, damp forest floor for who knew how long. Other than that, he was super. Hell, he was better than super. He was still alive and in one piece.
“You okay? You bleeding? Anything broken?” Dean asked in rapid succession.
Sam shook his head, nevertheless, he submitted, almost thankfully, to his big brother’s worried poking and prodding. Dean’s eyes and fingers roamed over his brother’s body, assessing him for contusions, limbs twisted out of shape, bones poking out where they shouldn’t be.
“Here, lemme take a look,” Dean coaxed, as his hands gently peeled back Sam’s coat and Dean cast a clinical eye down Sam’s torso checking for signs of blood on the boy’s plaid shirt and cotton tee.
With a grunt, Sam finally batted Dean’s hands away, having had enough of the smothering examination.
“I’m fine, Dean,” he rasped, then swallowed, grimacing, and tried again, his voice coming out clearer the second time. “I’m okay. Seriously. It just knocked the wind out of me is all.” Sam scrambled onto his knees and grabbed a handful of Dean’s jacket front to help hoist himself up to his feet.
“Did it get away?” he asked.
“Nope,” Dean replied. “Baa baa black sheep may have been built like a mack truck, but his fighting style sucked big time.”
Sam directed his gaze to where Dean now pointed. “Whoa,” he gulped, staring. He edged closer to the body, studying it. Sam’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t sure at first, but now, yeah. It’s a faun,” he said, his voice full of awe.
Dean frowned at Sam. “Dude, what kinda scary ass Bambi would that have to be?”
“No, not a fawn like a deer, I meant an f-a-u-n type of faun,” Sam explained, chuckling a little. “A satyr from ancient mythology. You know, like the Greek god, Pan.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Dean said, clearing his throat and casting a sheepish glance over at his brother. He shrugged and slapped the lifeless creature on the shoulder. “Well, whatever it was, it’s shish-ka-bob now,” he stated, his eyes lighting up with a hint of pride.
Both boys studied the satyr impaled on the tree limb in front of them. The four-foot length of branch, half-buried in the ground next to the tree from which it had fallen, stuck up at a rather sharp angle, providing a natural spear upon which the creature had fallen backwards on and skewered itself. The jagged end protruded grotesquely from the satyr’s abdomen; its head lolled silently against its left shoulder, eyes sightless.
Sam shook his head, forehead wrinkling in thought. “So, consecrated silver rounds don’t put a dent in it, but a stake through the chest does? I don’t get it.”
“If it bleeds, we can kill it,” Dean replied, grinning crazily at his bad impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Huh?” Sam lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Dude…Predator...” Dean said with a huge knowing smile on his face.
Sam stared at him some more, his baffled expression causing Dean to frown slightly. “The movie? You know, Arnie?” he added, hoping to jog Sam’s memory. Sam remained confused and Dean shot him a disgusted look. “Seriously, Sam, did your dorm room not have cable or what?”
Sam let out a disgruntled chuff. “I’m sorry I wasted my time in school studying instead of spending it in front of the TV all day, Dean,” he muttered. “What was I thinking?”
“Forget it,” Dean said. “Anyways, it’s not so much the stake itself that ganked our goat-boy, but the type of wood it was made from.” He gestured toward the tree in question. “Oak. One of the most sacred trees known in ancient lore.”
“Of course.” Sam nodded excitedly. “The Celts and Druids worshipped the oak. It was supposed to bring protection, strength and success,” he said. “And from what I’ve seen, this forest is predominantly oak, hickory and pine. It’s no wonder the faun made its home here. All three of those woods are known to have magical properties.”
“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten everything you learned,” Dean said. He continued to stare at Sam a moment longer, studying him, his mind coming to a decision. “You sure you’re all right?” Dean asked once again.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam reiterated, growing annoyed. “Let’s just get this thing salted and burned and get out of here, okay?”
“In a minute,” Dean replied. His face was unreadable as he strode over to a nearby hickory tree, snagged one its low-hanging branches and yanked down hard, snapping the supple limb from the tree.
“What are you doing?” Sam irritably questioned his brother.
“I need a switch,” Dean replied. He began to strip the branch in his hand of leaves and smaller offshoots.
“A switch?” Sam’s mind cautioned him as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “For what?” he stupidly asked.
Dean’s smile grew cold, his eyes darkening. “Like I said, you seemed to have retained a lot of the stuff Dad taught us, but apparently your short-term memory could stand some improvement. What was the last thing I told you before I went to bed, Sam?”
“Uh…” Sam racked his tired brain, trying to remember.
“Don’t wander off,” Dean reminded him.
“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam said. “I’m real sorry about that, Dean.” The words came out small and hollow, even to Sam’s ears.
“It coming back to you now, Sammy?” Dean continued, his tone dry. He took a step toward his brother, and Sam unconsciously matched the move, taking a step backward. “Remember what I said I’d do if you didn’t listen to me?”
Sam froze. He couldn’t believe Dean was seriously thinking of hitting him with a tree branch. “No way, man,” he blurted out, taking another step back, shaking his head. “I admit it was totally stupid to go off after the satyr by myself, but there is no way in hell I’m letting you whack me with that for it!”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. He flexed the switch in his hand. “That’s funny,” he said. “You seem to think you have a choice in the matter.”
There was no give in the older boy’s expression, no hint of possible leniency that Sam could detect.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” Sam tried, his shaky voice conveying his rising panic. “I totally understand – I need to pay more attention and not go off half-cocked and all. I get it, Dean.”
“You get it?” Dean echoed angrily, his eyes turning flinty in the early dawn light. “Was that before or after our horned bad boy over there tried to kill you, Sam? Hm?”
Sam sighed, letting his eyes drop to the ground. “You’re right,” he quietly said.
“What? I’m right?” Dean asked. He was taken aback by the unexpected admission from his little brother.
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Much as I hate to admit it,” he muttered. “When I looked up and saw that thing in the clearing, I knew I should have woken you up. But then it took off.” Sam shrugged, his look sheepish. “And well, I guess I figured it’d be easier to just go after it right then and tell you…after.”
Dean nodded mockingly. “Cause that turned out good, didn’t it?” he chided. Dean tapped the switch against the leg of his jeans. “You admit you made a bad decision, a really bad one?”
Sam nodded again, with a little less fervor this time.
Dean raised the switch. “Well, now you gotta pay the consequences, Sammy.”
Sam’s face screwed up in distaste at the switch gripped in Dean’s hand. He flicked his gaze up to meet his brother’s expectant stare and licked his lips. “C’mon, you really think spanking me is the answer here?” he asked.
A mischievous smile ghosted across Dean’s face. “Might not be the best solution, but it’ll sure make me feel better,” Dean said cheerfully.
Sam glowered. “Well, as long as you’re happy, Dean,” he replied tartly, and Dean’s smug grin widened.
With a loud put upon sigh, Sam trudged reluctantly over to Dean, resigned to the utter indignity of receiving his first – and ONLY in his mind - whipping as an adult. It won’t be so bad, Sam thought. Sure, the switch would probably sting a little; but hell, he was a Winchester. Tolerance to pain was practically in his blood. And at least once it was over, he’d be forgiven - for everything, including the empty gas tank - and things would return to normal between him and Dean, which is what Sam really wanted after all.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Sam declared, rolling his eyes. “How do you wanna do this?”
Dean indicated a nearby fallen log. “Over there,” he ordered, pointing. Sam strode over to the log and waited for Dean’s further instructions. Dean smirked. “Assume the position, Sammy,” he stated gleefully.
“It’s Sam,” Sam snapped, putting on his bitch face once more as he carefully placed himself over the mossy log, his backside upturned, facing the older Winchester. “I’m not gonna forget this, Dean,” he growled, squirming in embarrassment.
“That’s the whole point,” Dean responded brightly as he raised the hickory switch and brought it down with a blurring whistle, smacking Sam right across the meatiest part of his bottom.
Sam gasped loudly, eyes widening at the searing pain spreading beneath his jeans in a white hot line across his butt cheeks. “FUCK!” he hollered, his voice cracking.
Sam had no time to recover as he heard and then felt the switch come down again, in rapid succession, this time branding twin stripes of fire across the crease between his ass and thighs. The pain brought tears to his tightly shut eyes. With a panicked shout, Sam shot up off the log, like a crazed jack-in-the-box, his hands immediately going behind him to protect his backside from further assault. He glared balefully at his brother.
“Jesus CHRIST, Dean! That really fucking HURT!”
“Oh, c’mon, ya big baby,” Dean scoffed, brandishing the switch and making Sam flinch back. “I didn’t hit ya that -”
Sam lunged, surprising Dean. He yanked the switch out of Dean’s grasp and before the older boy could fully register what had happened, Sam smacked him several times with the strip of wood, nailing him solidly on his upper thigh and left butt cheek.
“OW! Hey, FUCK!” Dean howled, dancing away from the stinging weapon, his face contorted in pain. “What the hell, Sam?!” He shot the younger boy a dirty scowl as he gingerly rubbed his smarting rear end.
“I’m sorry, did that hurt?” Sam asked, his voice full of bitter sarcasm. It was his turn to offer up a smug look as Dean leveled a death glare at him.
“We’re done with this,” Sam announced curtly, indicating the switch and giving both it and Dean a nasty sneer. He used both hands to snap the branch in two before letting it fall to the ground.
“Fine,” Dean countered evenly, “then we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”
Sam didn’t have time to offer a rebuttal as Dean struck like a coiled snake. He grabbed Sam, wrapping his fingers tightly around his brother’s wrist and dragged the younger boy off his feet as he took a seat on the log, quickly pulling Sam over his lap.
“Hey!” Sam yelped as Dean snugged him up tight against his abdomen. He tilted Sam further forward, so that Sam’s feet were off the ground and his ass was sticking straight up, in prime position. Sam’s mouth went dry. “Dean! No! You can’t -”
“The hell I can’t,” Dean stated as he began to spank his brother, fast and hard, his open palm connecting solidly with Sam’s denimed rear over and over again. “You’ve had this coming since this morning, and I’m not letting it go with just a couple licks!”
Sam fumed, but bore the spanking in silence until the steady, rhythmic slaps began to add up on his tender flesh, creating an intense heat and ache that he couldn’t ignore any longer.
“Okay! Stop!” Sam yelped, squirming in discomfort after Dean laid down a barrage of particularly blistering smacks to his sit spot.
“Nuh uh, Sam,” Dean firmly countered. “Not until you tell me what you’re getting this spanking for.”
“What?!” Sam choked, incredulous. “Screw you, Dean!” he snarled. “Let me up! Now!”
Dean tightened his hold on his brother and used his other hand to reach down and under Sam to undo the boy’s baggy jeans, dragging both them and Sam’s boxers down to his knees in one forceful yank.
“Let’s try again,” Dean said. “Why am I sitting here beating your lame ass, Sammy?”
Sam stubbornly clamped his lips shut, refusing to give in, which in hindsight, was probably not the best thing to do since Dean merely started spanking him again. Only this time, Dean’s hand was able to get up close and personal with Sam’s bare ass, and the marked difference in sting and intensity did not go unnoticed by Sam. He gritted his teeth, trying hard to keep his legs from kicking, but the powerful swats Dean delivered all over his butt and thighs with unerring precision were doing their job, and soon Sam was biting his lower lip in pain and letting little grunts and whimpers escape with each and every sharp smack.
“OKAY!” Sam howled miserably. His butt and upper thighs were on fire with a prickly, uncomfortable burn that he knew would make sitting down an unpleasant task for quite awhile.
Dean stopped in mid-swing. “Okay, what?”
Sam sighed heavily. This truly sucked. “Okay, I’m getting this stupid spanking because I didn’t listen to you and I wandered off by myself after the faun and almost got killed,” he responded sullenly.
“And?” Dean urged. He rested his sore hand on the small of Sam’s back, close enough to Sam’s reddened, hot rear end to pick up where he’d left off if needed.
The move didn’t go unnoticed by Sam. “And, I should’ve slept in the tent and not gotten so pissed off at you when you tried to warn me,” Sam quickly added with a little less attitude than before.
“Aaannnd?” Dean prodded, smiling to himself. He knew he was pushing it, but didn’t care. For the moment, he held all the cards.
Sam stiffened over his brother’s lap, knowing what Dean was looking for, but hating to admit it, especially aloud to his brother. He let out a frustrated growl. It was either say it or settle for another round of painful swats to his already throbbing ass, because Dean wasn’t fooling around here - that much was obvious.
“And I’m sorry I forgot to fill the freaking gas tank up on your crummy car earlier because if I’d filled it up like I was supposed to, then we never would’ve had to spend the night out here in this shit-hole of a forest,” Sam grudgingly confessed. “And most of all, I’m really, really sorry that I have a royal jerk for a brother,” he finished moodily.
“Thank you, Sam,” Dean replied softly, then brought his hand down twice, as hard as he could, on Sam’s bare ass, leaving two distinct handprints on top of the already blushing red skin. Sam squeaked and Dean smiled. “That was for calling my baby crummy and calling me a jerk. Bitch.”
Dean eased Sam’s pants and boxers back up until Sam managed to grab hold of them with one hand and wiggled his way off Dean’s lap, quickly yanking his jeans all the way back up, ignoring the raw scrape of the fabric against his sore bottom.
“You okay?” Dean questioned, his tone sincere.
Sam wanted to yell at him, or offer up something completely snarky, but somehow he couldn’t. He nodded instead, eyes fixed on the ground. “Yeah. Just smarts a little,” he said, and Dean understood that Sam was talking about more than just his rear end.
Sam rubbed his backside carefully, trying to ease the stinging throb there that kept tempo in time to his heartbeat. He’d completely forgotten how hard Dean could spank; it was right up their with their father’s mean swing, and Sam made a mental note not to piss Dean off in the future if this was going to be the end result. He felt the warmth of a blush crawl across his face at the thought. Apparently twenty-two wasn’t past the cut-off age for getting your butt roasted in the Winchester family. Especially when you did something as stupid as almost getting yourself killed because you weren’t thinking like a hunter. And Sam was a hunter, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He was born and raised into the life and he knew better. He’d let his stubbornness and pride run roughshod over his instincts and training. The blush on his cheeks deepened.
He looked up into Dean’s concerned face. “I’m sorry,” Sam said quietly.
Dean nodded, his eyes softening as he offered up a sad smile. “I know, Sammy, and we’re good.” He hopped off the log he had used for a makeshift chair, and reached up to scratch at his jaw. “Let’s just put this night behind us and call it a lesson learned, whad’you say?”
“Agreed,” Sam said. He reached out to offer Dean a conciliatory hug but stopped at the deadpan look on his brother’s face.
“Dude, what have I said about the hugging?” Dean teasingly admonished.
Sam laughed. “Yeah. Right, forgot, sorry.”
Dean slapped Sam on the back, adding his own laughter to Sam’s and then gazed behind him at the dead satyr now bathed in a swathe of pale morning sunlight filtering in through the trees.
“What say we put that bad boy to rest and then head out to the main road and see if we can’t find someone to give us a lift to a gas station?” Dean said as he scratched furiously at the back of his neck. He frowned. “Jeez, something must have bit me while I was chasing after your sorry ass,” he said. He reached up again, this time to attack his left ear, scratching until his fingers came away bloody.
Sam watched his brother a moment, and then stepped closer to the older boy, suddenly crowding into Dean’s personal space.
“Uh, dude, a little too close,” Dean groused, leaning away from Sam with an anxious look on his face.
“Shut up a minute,” Sam ordered curtly.
Dean complied with a scowl and Sam reached out and took hold of Dean’s jaw, turning it toward the light, studying it intently. Sam’s lips curved up in amusement.
“What?” Dean frowned at him, yanking his head from Sam’s grasp.
“Holy crap, Dean, you’re covered in poison sumac!” Sam announced, breaking into snorts of laughter.
“What!” Dean’s eyes widened.
“Your neck and ears are totally covered in little red bumps,” Sam explained after he’d managed to stop laughing. “You must have brushed through a stand of the stuff when you were following after me.”
“No way!” Dean said in disbelief. “What does poison sumac look like?” He moved to touch his face, but Sam stopped him, batting his hand away.
“Uh, you don’t want to be touching your face unless you want to spread the plant’s oils over even more of you,” Sam asserted. “Did you pass by any tall, full bushes with leaf points clustered in threes?”
Dean offered up a nasty glare. “You have noticed we’re in a forest, right? When didn’t I brush up against bushes with leaves?”
Sam tried not to smirk. “Right. How about bushes with very shiny yellow or deep purple leaves and red stems?”
Dean made a face. “Those were sumac, huh?”
Sam nodded, smiling. “Yep.”
“Just great,” Dean snarled, reaching up to scratch at his forehead and then stopping when he realized what he was doing. His brows knitted together in a frustrated scowl. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, Sam. I HATE camping.”
A grin on his face, Sam chuckled and reached back to palm his still sore butt, eyeing his brother ruefully. “Yeah, I’m right there with you on that, Dean.”
THE END