Clowning Around
by Minx
NOW
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
Dean Winchester concentrated on the quiet country road before him, his hands casually gripping the unfamiliar steering wheel of the beat up minivan he was driving as he sped it along through the chill Wisconsin evening. It still griped him royally that Bobby hadn’t had any other vehicle to offer them as a loaner other than this p.o.s. A minivan! Jeez, it wasn’t bad enough he’d lost his father and his own beloved Chevy Impala only a week ago to a freaking demon driving a big rig, but now he was relegated to motoring around in a soccer mom’s castoff hunting down killer clowns. Maybe Sam was right, he thought to himself. Maybe this family was cursed...
Dean angrily shoved the memory of what had happened a week ago out of his mind for the hundredth time, burying it down deep in his subconscious. He instead tried to focus on his brother’s voice as Sam went over the details of their latest job. The older hunter shifted his gaze from the darkened road a moment to glance at his younger brother who sat in the passenger seat his nose still buried in the folder of clippings Ellen had given them at the Roadhouse.
“So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carnie in a clown suit?” he asked Sam.
Sam paused in his reading, looking up and over at Dean. “Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop - alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”
For some odd reason an image from their childhood leapt into Dean’s mind and he smirked. He just couldn’t help himself and he turned to Sam offering the younger hunter an apologetic smile.
“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam,” Dean said grinning wider feeding off of Sam’s innocent look of confusion. “Why did it have to be clowns?”
“Oh give me a break!” Sam said in disgust and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe Dean was going to bring that up after all these years.
Dean chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s unease. “You didn't think I'd remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television.”
Sam couldn’t even remember how it all had started. It was most likely something Dean had said or done that had pissed him off. Hell, he’d been only nine years old at the time, and it didn’t take much teasing from Dean to get Sam riled enough to want to fight back. Whatever it was, it had led to the stupid thing with the Oreos which had then escalated to one of the biggest prank wars the two of them had ever had. And needless to say, Sam recalled, it had had all ended rather scarily for the both of them. Sam stared out the window of the minivan a moment and cringed inwardly, remembering back to that miserable long weekend in Arizona...
THEN
Location: Spring 1992. Phoenix, Arizona. Budget Lodge off I-17.
Nine-year-old Sam Winchester smiled to himself as he pawed through the paper grocery sack his father had just set down on the scarred formica table of the little kitchenette in their motel room. He pushed aside the cans of beef-a-roni and spaghettios eagerly reaching down deeper to grab the cellophane package of Oreos near the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the cookies in triumph and knelt on the kitchen chair just staring at them, unable to keep the grin off his chubby face.
“Hey, put those back,” John Winchester nodded to the Oreo package in Sam’s hands, giving his son a look of fatherly reproach. “No cookies until after dinner, kiddo.”
Sam nodded and carefully laid the package down on the table. “I wasn’t gonna have any, Dad,” he said, his eyes refusing to leave the blue and white label on the cookies. “I just wanted to make sure you got ‘em.”
John smiled at his youngest son. It wasn’t often he could actually buy things for his kids when they asked for them. Begged for them, actually was more like it. Their nomadic life just didn’t allow room for things like slip-n-slides, hot wheels track sets or Star Wars action figures. Whatever they owned had to fit into duffel bags and a few cardboard boxes. Most of the time, his boys took it in stride, but John knew it had to be hard. He could see it on their faces whenever a commercial came on for a new toy and their eyes lit up for a brief moment before realization set in that it wasn’t something they’d ever get to play with. So, when Sam or Dean specifically asked for something as simple as Oreo cookies, John did his best to honor the request. He set down the other bag of groceries next to the first one and reached over to ruffle Sam’s thick unruly hair. Kid would be needing a haircut soon.
“I thought Dean was the chocolate fiend around here, Sammy,” John said. “I’m sort of surprised you asked for these.”
Sam shrugged, innocent green eyes lifted up to meet his father’s. “I like these ones ‘cause you can dunk them and they get all squishy.”
John chuckled, his face softening. “Yeah, they are pretty fun to eat, aren’t they?” He paused looking around the room and out past the doorway to the tiny living room area, a kernel of apprehension blooming in his gut. “Where’s your brother?”
They both heard a flush and then the bathroom door opened from across the way. John relaxed feeling somewhat foolish as his thirteen-year-old son ambled out of the bathroom zipping up his scuffed jeans as he walked. Dean’s eyes lit up when they spotted John.
“Hey, Dad, you’re back,” Dean grinned and hurried into the kitchenette area giving his dad a smile and his little brother a playful smack to the back of his head. “How’s it going there, Samantha,” Dean teased as he passed by the boy.
“Quit it!” Sam said.
He frowned at Dean then glanced to his dad to see if he’d get any back up from the man. No luck. John was busy folding up the paper bags and stuffing them in the trashcan by the fridge.
“Samaaannnttthhaaa,” Dean drawled with glee.
“Stop calling me that, Dean!” Sam tried to sound tough but his nine-year old voice came out too high pitched to be menacing.
“Hey, I can’t help it if you look like a chick…and sound like one,” Dean shot back.
He eyed the cookies sitting next to Sam’s elbow and leaned across the table to grab the package but Sam quickly hunched over it giving his older brother a determined scowl. Dean scowled back, reaching once more for the cookies a threatening glint in his eye.
“Hand ‘em over, Sammy,” Dean growled. “You don’t even like Oreos anyway.”
Sam shook his head not willing to comply with someone who had just insinuated that he was a girl. Dean, growing frustrated, shot out a hand again to snatch them away when he heard his father directly behind him.
“Let him have the cookies, Dean,” John warned his oldest child.
Dean huffed at that but dutifully pulled his hand back from across the table. Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean, who then decided his brother needed another smack to the head. But John stepped in front of his oldest son, blocking him. He offered the teenager a raised brow, daring him to push his luck, but Dean knew better. He backed away from the table trying to appear uncaring as he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave Sam a scornful look.
“Fine, crybaby. Have them,” Dean groused. “You don’t even like them.”
John shook his head in tired disbelief, running a hand through his hair. The two of them were about wearing him out lately. He didn’t know if it was Dean’s becoming a teenager a few months back or if the two were just overly restless these days, but they had been bickering and getting on one another’s nerves more than usual it seemed.
“Dean, cut your brother some slack, all right?” John said in irritation and then addressed his youngest who still had his arms wrapped protectively around the package of cookies. “And Sammy, you’re not eating all of those by yourself. You share them with Dean.”
John saw the pout coming on before it happened. Sam’s bottom lip jutted out, his brows furrowing in stubborn defiance as he stared down at the cookies on the table.
“They’re my cookies. I asked for them,” Sam sullenly stated.
John had had enough. He slowly leaned over the table, getting his eyes level with his son’s. “You will share those with your brother or you won’t be getting any at all. You understand me, Samuel?”
The pout wavered at the sound of his father’s stern voice. John held out his hand keeping his dark eyes on Sam. Sam hesitated for only a fraction of second before reluctantly handing the package over with a loud put upon sigh. Relieved that he had headed a tantrum off at the pass, John took the Oreos and walked over to the counter, plunking them down by the sink and turned to face Sam and Dean who were now making faces at one another.
“Knock it off you two!” John barked and the boys immediately straightened up and were all ears. “I’m going to be out for the next three days, boys.” John fixed his countenance on Dean. “I expect you to take care of things around here while I’m gone, Dean. That means you watch out for your brother, and you follow the rules I’ve given you.”
Dean nodded, looking about as bored as he possibly could without actually giving his dad an eye roll because that would just get him into trouble. “Yes sir, I know the drill.”
“Make sure you do,” John shot back, his tone letting Dean know he wasn’t pleased with his attitude. “Sammy, you listen to Dean.”
“Do I have to?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?” John said and Sam shrunk down in his chair, immediately regretting his words. “You want to try again, son?”
“I mean, yessir,” Sam quietly said looking down at the tabletop.
John kept his eyes on Sam a moment longer but the boy wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Dean, you and Sam put the rest of the groceries away while I get ready,” John ordered.
The boys immediately set about collecting the cans and packages from the table while John went into the small bedroom to grab the duffel of weapons and his research journal. He had taken off in the Impala not long after that. He had hugged his sons and made them recite one more time the familiar litany of rules to follow while he was gone on a hunt: don’t answer the door; don’t answer the phone unless it rings just once; keep doors and windows locked; salt the doorway and the window sills for the night; keep the loaded shotgun nearby; watch out for one another, and no fighting.
After a dinner of macaroni and cheese, Dean had stretched out on the couch, eyes glazed as he watched TV. His dad had only been gone for four hours and he was already bored out of his mind. It sucked every time. Every single freaking motel was the same. Same bland putty-colored walls, same ugly shag carpeting, same cheap television set with crappy reception. He sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that their life wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
He muted the sound on the TV and cocked an ear toward the bedroom down the little hallway. He could hear Sam in there talking to himself and he smiled. The kid was actually talking to his toy soldiers, Dean knew. The little green plastic men had been his at one time, but Dean had outgrown them at thirteen and now they were Sam’s. He’d ordered Sam to play in the other room after the two had almost come to blows over the TV remote earlier. Sam had wanted to watch some dumb cartoon and Dean preferred to watch Quantum Leap. Being older and bigger, it was no contest as to who won the argument. Sam had stomped off to the bedroom calling Dean names over his shoulder.
Dean had free reign of the TV remote after that. He looked up from the glow of the set when Sam wandered out of the bedroom awhile later. The younger boy totally ignored Dean as he slowly walked across the room towards the kitchen area, stopping deliberately in front of the TV screen. Sam leaned up against the set, making sure he blocked the screen from view. Dean just rolled his eyes and sat up.
“It’s on a commercial, you dork,” he said pointing to the set. “Like I care if you block it now.” Dean hopped off the couch and headed for the bathroom, calling back to Sam over his shoulder. “I’m just going to pee. No changing the channel because I’m coming back.”
Sam waited until his brother had shut the bathroom door and then he raced to the kitchen and quickly grabbed the Oreos off the counter where his dad had set them. He tore open the package, grabbing a handful of cookies out and then snatched a plate from the drying rack next to the sink. Peeking around the archway, Sam made sure Dean was still in the bathroom and then he hurried into the bedroom across the way and quietly shut the door.
Dean was in for a big surprise, Sam thought. He dropped the cookies and plate onto the bed and then crawled on hands and knees over to one of the duffel bags sitting on the floor. Sam unzipped the one nearest him and rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. He grinned as he pulled the tube of toothpaste out and carried it over the bed.
Jumping up onto the bed, Sam dropped the tube onto the pillow, turning his attention to the cookies. He picked one up and fussed with it a moment carefully twisting the two chocolate halves apart. With a quick glance to the door to make sure it was shut tightly, Sam raised one of the cookie halves to his mouth and scraped the white crème filling off of it with his teeth, savoring the sugary delicacy. He repeated this action with the other half until both were clean. Then, Sam reached over and picked up the toothpaste and popped off the cap. He aimed the tube and squirted a quarter-sized dollop of the minty paste onto one of the cookie halves he’d just licked clean. Satisfied that it was enough, he placed the other half of the cookie back and gently pressed them together careful not to break the cookie. Finished, Sam set the fake Oreo onto the plate and picked up another one from the coverlet. He grinned smugly, pleased with his work. This would show Dean what he got for being a butt-head while Dad was away.
Dean was a bit surprised when Sam had come to him with the peace offering of Oreos. His little brother usually wasn’t one for giving in when the two of them fought, but hey, Dean thought, as he reached for a cookie, why look a gift horse in the mouth? He had actually eaten two of the nasty things before Sam’s giggling and his own taste buds had finally registered that something wasn’t quite right.
“Sammy, what’d you do?” Dean demanded around a mouthful of cookie.
His face screwed up in repulsion as the chalky mint aftertaste of the toothpaste hit him and his eyes widened in shock. Sam just about fell off the couch in fits of laughter, his hands clutching his sides as he watched Dean quickly bend over and spit the remainder of the cookie back onto the plate, scrubbing at his tongue with his hand.
“Real funny, jerkwad!” Dean snapped as he got up and stalked over to the kitchen.
He filled a glass full of water and chugged it rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. He watched the foamy white crème and freckles of chocolate as they splashed against the stainless steel of the sink and felt his face burn red with anger. Toothpaste! The little shit had put toothpaste in the frigging Oreos!
“You are so dead, dude,” Dean hissed as he whirled around, making a grab for Sam’s shirt.
Sam, who had followed Dean into the kitchen to gloat further, jumped back still snorting and took off for the bedroom with Dean in hot pursuit. Dean banged into the archway coming out of the kitchen thereby losing the chance to overtake his brother. He made it to the bedroom just as the door slammed shut with a resonant bang in his face. Dean tried the knob, giving the worn brass a rough shake but knew Sam had already locked the door. He slapped the painted wood in front of him once hard.
“Laugh it up, Sammy,” Dean yelled through the door. “Because it is so on right now! You won’t know when, and you won’t know where, but your are toast, dude!”
Clowning Around (Supernatural Fanfic) Part 2 of ?
By Minx
Fandom: This takes place during the “Everyone Loves a Clown” episode of Season 2. Anyone else ever wonder where Sam developed his clown phobia from?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. They are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Any characters in this story are used simply for entertainment purposes, and I am not making any money from these stories.
Warning: Contains swearing and spanking of children
And that was how the whole ugly thing had started, Sam had painfully reflected later. Dean, even at the tender age of thirteen, was no slouch in the art of combat, be it against a demonic revenant or a bratty little brother. He therefore wasted no time in retaliating for the tainted cookies by hiding an unwrapped Jolly Rancher candy in the shower head before Sam got up the next morning. Dean had ordered Sam to the bathroom upon rising to take a shower, knowing that the steam and heat of the hot water would melt the candy and cover Sam in a clear sticky sheen.
Looking back, Sam realized he should have expected an immediate reprisal from Dean. He was like Dad – he hated to lose at anything, and letting Sam one up him in the practical joke department just wasn’t going to happen. But to be fair, Sam had methodically inspected the small bathroom, checking the cabinet under the sink and even making sure there wasn’t any plastic wrap or anything on the toilet. Yeah, it was stupid not to have checked the shower head, but hey, Sam reasoned, he had been only nine. And at nine, you didn’t always cover all the bases. He hadn’t even been aware that anything was amiss until later when he was clothed and the warmth of his body had reactivated the sugary residue.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, not for the first time that day, as he watched Sam pick at his usually baggy t-shirt once again in obvious irritation as it persistently clung to his skin. To Dean, this was way more fun than staring at the television all day or yawning through the boring textbooks his father had left for them to study. If he couldn’t go out on the hunt with his dad, which is what he’d have preferred hands down, then why not torment his brother for a laugh instead? To Dean it was just another form of brotherly comraderie, and as long as their father didn’t catch wind of it, he didn’t mind the silly competition.
“You okay there, buddy?” Dean asked Sam as they trudged back from the lobby of the motel where they had gone to get some sodas from the machine.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, hesitation in his young voice. He swatted at another fly as it attempted to land on his arm, cursing softly under his breath. “Man, what is with all these flies, Dean? It’s supposed to be a desert out here. There aren’t supposed to be this many flies!”
Dean had to look away a moment as he stifled a laugh. He breathed deeply, eyes crinkled in amusement as he absentmindedly scanned the half-empty parking lot of the motel, forcing himself to keep a straight face. Man, he should be getting an Oscar for this performance! Composing himself as best he could, Dean offered his younger brother a sincere shrug as the two kept walking along side by side.
“Gee, I don’t know Sammy. Maybe you just smell good to them or something,” he blurted and then bit his cheek again.
Sam scowled and brushed another fly from his hair. He continued walking but had to pause every few strides to squirm and pick his underwear from his crack. For some reason they kept sticking to him and riding up. Hearing a strangled snort escape from Dean’s lips, Sam quickly glanced over at his brother from underneath a thick fringe of lashes, his hackles rising. No. He couldn’t have...
The younger Winchester boy slowed his pace, letting Dean get ahead of him by a few steps and then Sam stopped dead in his tracks, a deep crease of suspicion forming between his brows. He studied the retinue of flies buzzing around him – just him. They weren’t bothering Dean at all. Then he looked down at his shirt that was once again glued to his chest and his back. Dean had kept walking but now stopped and turned around to check on what was holding up Sam. Seeing his brother standing on the curb looking for all intents and purposes like a human dumpster with all the flies circling was too much and Dean finally burst out laughing.
“Dean!” Sam roared and looked at the older boy in a mixture of fury and chagrin as realization sunk in.
“Dude, you should see yourself!” Dean bent over, convulsing with laughter. “Oh man, I wish I had a camera. This is priceless.” He shook his head, eyeing Sam as if he were the biggest retard ever. “I can’t believe you fell for the candy in the shower head, Sammy. So, how’s it feel to be walking around all day like a sugar-coated princess?”
Dean ducked as Sam’s soda can went whizzing by his head.
“You big donkey dick!” Sam shouted his fists clenching.
Dean saw Sam’s nostrils flare in rage and he wasted no time in high tailing it back to the room. Sam had chased Dean all the way almost catching up to him, but the running had made him sweat which only activated the sugar worse. By the time Sam had made it into the motel room, his clothing was plastered stickily against his skin and his butt cheeks felt as if they were glued together. He glared at Dean as he began to peel off his t-shirt, heading for the bathroom.
“You wait until I tell Dad, Dean!” Sam said, angrily throwing his shirt at his brother.
Dean easily side stepped the missile and quirked his brows at Sam while folding his arms across his chest. “Go ahead, smart ass – tell Dad. And then I’ll tell him what you did with the Oreos.”
A look of apprehension passed over Sam’s chubby face. Maybe telling Dad wasn’t such a good idea. In fact, it was a pretty crummy idea, he decided because the only outcome of their dad finding out that his sons were indeed fighting after he’d told them to behave was that he and Dean would end up with a couple of very sore butts.
“Fine,” Sam reluctantly humphed, refusing to look his brother in the eye.
Dean relaxed and waited until Sam finally gazed up at him. He caught the liquid glint of anger lingering in Sam’s eyes and decided to be the bigger man and attempt peace before things got out of hand.
“We even then?” he solemnly questioned the younger boy.
Sam let out a big pouty sigh, thinking a moment and then nodded sullenly. “Even.”
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He was furious at Dean and wanted desperately to get the boy into trouble just to get back at him. Never mind that he had agreed to a truce not seconds ago. And forget that it was in fact he himself that had actually started the whole thing in the first place with the Oreos. Dean may be the oldest, Sam reasoned, but he wasn’t necessarily the smartest. And that meant that Sam had a chance at winning this time.
He pulled his jeans, underwear and socks off his body, dropping the sugar-coated clothes onto the floor and reached into the tub to turn on the faucet, but he stopped before his hand touched the handle. He slowly craned his neck up, flicking his gaze to the now infamous shower head. Sam stepped up onto the narrow rim of the tub and grabbed hold of the old curtain rod for balance while with the other hand he reached up and unscrewed the shower head bringing it down to peer inside. Dean had either removed the candy or it had completely melted when he had showered earlier. Either way, the boy wasn’t taking any chances. He hopped down from his perch and set the metal head into the sink planning to thoroughly clean it out with some shampoo later. In the meantime, Sam decided it might be safer to take a bath. Dean heard the tub faucet come on full force and plunked down onto the faded plaid couch in the other room, still chortling over his brilliant ploy.
As he soaped himself, Sam’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the nondescript bathroom before settling on the little plastic shelf above the sink. His head tilted to the side as he stared at his father’s can of shaving cream sitting there. The hint of a wicked smile formed on the boy’s lips. He looked to the door of the bathroom and the smile split into a nasty grin.
“Screw being even,” Sam mumbled as he hurried to finish washing. A plan was already forming. There was no turning back now.
Dean was in the kitchen heating up some beef-a-roni when he heard Sam coming out of the steamy bathroom.
“All squeaky clean, Sam?” Dean called over his shoulder, grinning.
Sam ignored the jibe as he made his way to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dirty clothes piled in his arms. The younger boy toed the bedroom door shut and dumped his clothing on the floor by his duffel bag, but kept hold of the can of shaving cream he’d hidden underneath them. He wandered over to his brother’s bed situated near the window and stood there a moment, can in hand, smiling, before he got down to work.
Dinner was subdued, yet ripe with tension. Both boys were exhausted from being on guard and having their defenses up the entire day. And even though both had agreed to end the prank battle, Dean warily checked his chair for tacks or anything else his brother might have done to it and then ducked underneath the table to make sure there were no surprises there either.
Sam for his part refused to accept the bowl of beef-a-roni Dean offered him, insisting he had done something to the food until with a sigh of irritation, Dean had grabbed up a spoon and shoveled half the bowl into his own mouth to prove it was okay. Sam sheepishly filled a second bowl from the soup pan on the little stove and brought it back to the table, giving his chair a firm shake first before sitting down to eat.
After dinner, Dean suggested they call it an early night and for once, Sam didn’t balk. They did the dishes in silence before wearily stumbling to the bedroom. Sam shucked off his jeans and quickly pulled on a clean pair of pajama bottoms while Dean double-checked the window locks and salt line he’d lain down earlier. The older boy yawned as he stripped down and got into his own pajamas eager to get some sleep and put the day’s escapades behind him. His hazel eyes settled for a moment on Sam’s small form now huddled underneath the shabby blankets of his bed and he felt a twinge of guilt pass over him. His father had left him in charge and he was supposed to be watching out for Sam, not causing the kid more grief.
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered under his breath.
He straightened up feeling a sense of manly pride at being able to forgive and forget. That feeling lasted only until Dean tried to slide into his bed and found himself brought up short, his legs not able to unfold due to the sheet stopping him. Dean’s brows knit together in confusion as he tried once again to straighten his legs out but couldn’t. What the hell? He threw the covers off in growing frustration, suspicion now burgeoning in his mind. Dean reached across the bed to flick on the bedside lamp whereupon he caught sight of Sam shaking with silent laughter in the bed across from him, thereby confirming what he already knew. Dean jumped out of the bed and pulled the sheets all the way back to reveal that the top sheet was indeed folded in half on itself.
“Lame, Sam, totally lame,” Dean admonished his brother as the boy sat up in his bed a smug grin plastered on his young face.
Dean grabbed the folded up sheet and yanked it off the bed, snapping it out to its full size. He replaced it, tucking it back onto the bed and shook his sandy blonde head in mock disappointment.
“You can’t come up with something better than a cheesy Girl Scout prank? Dude, you don’t even qualify as a Winchester,” Dean scoffed.
The sheets now back to normal, Dean snapped off the light and crawled into bed, feeling pretty superior for showing Sam up on his latest attempt at getting even. Kid was a total amateur, he thought as he relaxed and reached up for his pillow to hug it to him. That was when he found the shaving cream. A whole freaking mess of shaving cream that had been left underneath his pillow. Dean swore as he yanked his hands back and then squinted from the glare of the lamp when Sam flicked it back on. He twisted around to see Sam shooting him a triumphant finger from across the way.
“You suck, Sammy,” Dean said giving his brother a dark look.
He looked down at his hands and arms in mounting displeasure. They were literally coated in shaving cream, the foamy white stuff dripping from his elbows down onto the bed and his pajama bottoms. Sam continued to cackle in glee until Dean snatched his pillow up and launched it at Sam’s head. It missed and landed with a wet plop against the dresser, leaving a smear of foam against the front of it.
“You are so cleaning this all up in the morning,” Dean heatedly stated, ready to clobber his brat of a brother.
He scraped as much of the shaving cream off his sheets as he could and deposited the mess into the garbage can by the door, then retrieved his pillow from the floor. With a sadistic glower, he wiped his hands and the sodden case off on Sam’s duffel bag and then chucked the pillow back onto his bed with an annoyed toss.
“Scoot over, geek boy,” Dean ordered his brother as he kneed him in the back while climbing into the other’s bed next to him. “You got company tonight since you messed up my bed.”
“So,” Sam cheerfully replied as he made room for Dean, “What was that about not qualifying as a Winchester?”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbled as he turned, putting his back to his brother and reached out to snap off the lamp. “Go to sleep, Sam, or I’ll let the chupacabra get you.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam shot back, his voice full of derision. He was silent for a moment in the darkness, thinking. “Dean?” Sam softly whimpered.
No answer.
“You won’t really let the chupacabber get me, will you?”
Still no answer.
“Dean?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dean woke up the next morning in a tangle of motel sheets with something digging uncomfortably into his spine. It turned out to be Sam. The younger child was pressed tightly against Dean’s back, one arm clamped in a death grip about his midsection. Dean shifted slightly on the mattress, trying to remove Sam’s knobby knees from where they pressed into his kidneys but the kid was like a stubborn tick and refused to budge.
“Get off me, Sammy,” Dean complained. He reached behind him in mild annoyance and elbowed his brother in the chest, pushing so that there was finally some distance between the two of them in the narrow bed. “Jeez, what’s with the girly ‘hold me’ crap?”
With a whiny moan, Sam reluctantly released his grip on Dean and slowly sat up in the bed, yawning and rubbing his sleep crusted eyes, still not fully awake.
A moment of panic swept over him as visions of a chupacabra jumped into his conscience. His dreams had been full of the fiendish monster and it had been nearly impossible to fall asleep last night until he’d crawled up close in the bed to his big brother and clamped a chubby arm around Dean’s middle as if to anchor himself to reality and away from the nightmares. Sam’s eyes popped all the way open when he felt Dean roll and move to the edge of the bed they had shared.
“Dean?” Sam called after his brother, his voice tentative.
“Yeah?” Dean tiredly answered over his shoulder. He was surveying the mess left from the shaving cream and groaning inwardly. This would all have to be cleaned up before their father got back.
“Dean, there wasn’t really a chupacabber, was there?”
A puzzled frown replaced the sleepy grimace on Dean’s face. “A what? What’re you talking about Sam?”
Sam elaborated, his tone slightly truculent. “Last night…you said the chupercabber was gonna get me, but there wasn’t really one, was there?”
Dean had to think a second before remembering the hasty threat he’d made to his little brother right before falling asleep last night. He gave a mild snort of amusement, half impressed with himself that his intimidation tactic had actually worked.
“It’s choo-pah-cah-bra, not chupercabber, genius. And no, there wasn’t one. I was just pissed at you for ambushing me last night,” Dean replied with a yawn.
“Oh.” Sam said quietly.
A long pause ensued during which Dean stretched, raising his arms high overhead to help unkink the long muscles of his back. Sleeping bunched up with Sam in a sagging twin bed had not been very comfortable to say the least.
So, you made it all up?” Sam pressed him for confirmation.
Dean shrugged. “Well there actually are chupacabras. Dad’s even bagged one before.”
The teen grinned, remembering ‘Uncle’ Bobby telling him the story about his dad’s adventure, embellishing on the details to make it gorier and more exciting. John had not been too thrilled about that and had told Bobby to lay off the Jack Daniels and stick to the normal bedtime stories next time. Dean noticed Sam had grown silent and he twisted around on the bed observing the fear blooming once again on his brother’s face at the news that the creature was indeed real. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he tried to ease Sam’s worry.
“Hey, no, Sammy, there wasn’t one last night. No chupacabras at the Budget Lodge in Phoenix, okay?” Dean watched the alarm in Sam’s eyes turn to hesitation and then finally to a reluctant acceptance. “It was a joke, dude. Man, you’re not gonna wet the bed, are you?” Dean couldn’t help teasing.
Sam glowered at Dean and smacked him in the middle of his back. “You wet the bed, jerk!” he said, reaching out to smack Dean again, but the older boy jumped off the bed and Sam’s hand caught only air.
“That’ll teach you to go back on a truce, Francis,” Dean laughed heading for the door to the bedroom.
“You’re not going to tell Dad, are you?” Sam questioned, anxiety creeping into his voice.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Do I look stupid to you?” Then just as quickly he added with a pointed finger, “Don’t even, Sammy…”
Sam shut his mouth biting back the “yes” that was on his lips. But, Dean, being Dean couldn’t let the unspoken wisecrack just hang there. He pointed at his bed, leveling a commanding look at Sam.
“Start stripping my bed down while I go make breakfast, and grab your clothes from yesterday too,” Dean ordered Sam. “We’re going to have to wash all that stuff before dad gets back tomorrow because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna try to explain to him why my sheets have Gillette Foamy shaving cream all over them or why your clothes smell like you’ve been playing in a candy factory for a month.”
Dean sauntered out of the room, but returned a moment later ducking his head into the doorway, a smirk of superiority plastered onto his face. “By the way? My chupacabra story counts in scoring, so that still makes us tied at two apiece – no win for you. Nice try though, Samantha.”
Dean disappeared as quickly as he’d shown up and Sam blew out his cheeks in exasperation, shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t fair. Dean always seemed to have the advantage. He could swim better, shoot more bulls-eyes, run faster, and even seemed to understand their father and his obsession with demon hunting better. When was it going to be his turn to be better, he silently wondered.
After breakfast, Dean was still feeling a little tired, so he decided to wait on doing the laundry until the afternoon. Lucky for them, there was a laundromat just down the block and across the street from the motel. Dean remembered seeing it when he and Sam had gone to the main motel office for sodas yesterday.
John had strict rules about the boys staying inside the room whenever he was out on a hunt, and had made it pretty clear to the both of them what the penalty for wandering about would be. It was important that he knew the boys were safe and secure while he was on a hunt because having to constantly worry whether or not they were could put his own life in danger. He had to have their trust so that he could concentrate fully on the job at hand.
Dean understood this and being the good soldier that he was, he didn’t think twice about keeping to the rules within limits. To him, walking a few feet down to the motel lobby in the middle of the day for a soda was one thing, but actually leaving the premises all together for a few hours was something he normally wouldn’t even have considered. Especially, not after the shtriga incident a few years back. He shuddered, remembering. This time though was different in Dean’s mind. He wasn’t leaving Sam back in the room by himself and it wasn’t the middle of the night, nor was there a known demon lurking in the vicinity.
Besides, the teen reasoned, there wasn’t much of a choice in the matter really. Staying put meant having to explain the messed up sheets and clothes to his dad, and that would lead to admitting about the practical jokes he and Sam had been playing on one another. Although his father did have a sense of humor, sophomoric pranking that might escalate into someone getting hurt or the authorities getting called was not something John Winchester tolerated, and Dean knew it. And at thirteen, there was just something totally and utterly humiliating about the thought of getting your butt royally blistered by your father. It had been almost two years since the last time John had spanked him, and Dean had absolutely no interest in breaking the dry spell any time soon.
Dean finished rinsing the cereal bowls and stuck them in the drying rack next to the sink. He could hear the television on in the other room and although he couldn’t make out what was actually on, some of the dialogue sounded familiar. Curious, he wandered out of the kitchen and into the small living room to spy Sam on the couch, still in his ninja turtles pajamas, gripping one of the threadbare couch pillows to himself, his big green eyes glued to the TV set. If the kid was concentrating any harder, Dean observed, there’d be drool running down his chin.
“What’re you watching?” the older boy questioned as he came into the room and gazed over at the flickering screen.
“It’s a movie about a family like us, Dean!” Sam excitedly answered, his eyes never leaving the TV. “They got a ghost and everything!”
Dean had to hide a smile. “Dude, it’s not about hunters. That’s Poltergeist.” And then Dean did chuckle as he grabbed the pillow from Sam and used it to prop himself up on the floor just underneath where Sam was sitting on the couch. “It’s a pretty good flick actually,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it, Sam.”
A guilty look came over the younger boy’s features. “Dad said I wasn’t allowed to watch it because it’s too scary.”
“Serious?” Dean shot his brother a skeptical frown. “I can’t believe Dad said that, considering our own life is pretty much off the scale on scariness most of the time. You sure you’re not just saying that so I won’t think you’re a big wuss?”
“I’m not a wuss!” Sam whined petulantly. “I’m watching it right now, aren’t I?”
“Okay, okay, chill out there, Francis,” Dean held up a hand in surrender. “It’s cool. Let’s just watch the movie.”
Sam was fascinated by the story at first. He was still too young to actually go out on hunts, so his first-hand knowledge of the supernatural was pretty much limited to what he read in books or had heard or been taught by his Dad, Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and the other hunters his father occasionally worked with. And, he had been only an infant when his mother had died and so had no real memories of that horrific incident.
Furthermore, his run in with the shtriga three years ago was only a cache of fuzzy memories, since he’d been asleep when the thing had attacked him and had been just about unconscious as it had started sucking the life force out of him. One minute he was sound asleep, the next minute he was being shaken awake by his dad, whose look of terror and worry had scared Sam more than the attack itself.
But, as the movie progressed in suspense and chills, Sam’s apprehension rose in direct proportion. The malevolent spirit seemed all too real to his nine-year-old mind, especially since he knew that such things existed not just on the movie screen.
And there was something creepily familiar about the children’s bedroom to him. It reminded him of some of the bedrooms in some of the apartments he and Dean had lived in, and he began to wonder how many of the places they’d stayed in might have had something lurking in the closet that they’d never even known about. How many times had he fallen asleep in a strange bedroom not realizing that maybe something was there, hiding...watching him...and waiting. Goosebumps dimpled his arms at that dreadful thought.
Dean was so engrossed in the movie that he didn’t catch the first tiny whimpers coming from the couch above him. The clincher was the final showdown in the children’s bedroom in the movie. Sam’s heart nearly stopped beating, his fear as palpable as the little boy’s on the screen when the camera panned over to the empty chair where the malevolent clown doll had been sitting not moments ago.
Sam watched with mounting horror as the boy in the movie slowly leaned over the edge of his bed, the background music crescendoing…No, no, no! Sam thought, his mouth gone dry. You never check for danger without a weapon in hand!
And that’s when the clown doll suddenly sprang from its hiding place to drag the poor boy screaming down underneath the bed. Sam launched himself off the couch with a bleat, landing onto Dean’s back, startling the older boy and knocking the air out of him. Dean swore but Sam ignored him as he wrestled the TV remote from Dean’s hands and quickly hit the off button, his breath coming in heaving gasps.
“Sammy! What’s wrong with you?” Dean shouted as he tried to snag the channel changer back, his face a mask of puzzled irritation.
“I don’t wanna watch anymore,” Sam firmly stated as he turtled up on the floor, hugging the remote to his stomach when Dean tried to grab it from him again.
“Why? The movie’s almost over. What’s going on?” Dean argued. “Gimme the remote.”
He tried to pry Sam’s fingers off the remote but the younger Winchester had a surprisingly strong grip on the thing. Sam shot him a wild-eyed look, nervous as a stray dog ready to bolt.
“No, Dean!” he protested, rolling away from his brother. “I don’t like this movie anymore! I don’t wanna watch it!”
Dean gave up with a chuff of disgust. He got up from the floor, brushing his jeans off and shot Sam an indignant sneer which made the younger boy wince in shame.
“I just don’t get you sometimes, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his frustration coming out in his tone. “What? Were you scared?” Sam flinched slightly and Dean picked up on the subtle body sign. “Is that it? You got scared?”
“No,” Sam said in a very unconvincing way.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean blinked in surprise, looking from the dead TV screen to his brother, who refused to look him in the face. “We hunt down werewolves and demons and stuff for a living,” he said pointing towards the general direction of the motel door, “and you freak out over a stupid doll on television?”
“It wasn’t just a doll, Dean!” Sam tried to argue, feeling that his stature as a tough member of the Winchester clan was now beginning to slip at a rather alarming rate. “It was an evil possessed clown doll...with teeth and, and...there could be possessed dolls out there too...you don’t know.”
Dean stood, mouth open but unable to think of anything to say for once. The whole thing was just so ludicrous to him that he wasn’t sure even where to start. Instead, the corners of his mouth crimped up and wavered, and then Dean burst out laughing.
“Holy crap, Sammy, it’s just a dumb movie!” Dean tried to explain, causing Sam to ball his little fists in anger. “The doll isn’t real!”
“But it could be, Dean,” Sam countered, not ready to give up the possibility. “There could be a doll like that. Ask Dad when he gets back.”
Dean shook his head, suddenly very tired. “You know what? Forget it, okay?” He motioned towards the hallway of the motel room. “Just go get dressed, Sammy. We need to get to the laundromat before it gets too late. ‘Cause you know, we wouldn’t want the evil clown doll to get us,” he added just to be a smartass.
“I hate you,” Sam spat as he turned and stomped off to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Yeah, Sammy, I know,” Dean called after him as he ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. He wandered back over to the couch and plopped down, stretching out with a huge sigh. “My little brother is afraid of dolls. Terrific.”
Still smarting over his brother’s teasing, Sam grabbed his jeans off the floor where he’d dropped them the night before and then searched in his bag for a clean t-shirt, his mouth still holding a stony pout. He gathered up the dirty laundry and turned to leave the room, but stopped and cast an anxious eye around the room, silently thankful that there was no closet anywhere in sight. As much as he hated to admit it, the movie had definitely given him the creeps, big time. It was just all too possible to him, no matter what Dean said.
And speaking of his brother, Sam reflected, he didn’t have to rub it in so bad. It seemed like Dean was always pointing out that he was older and wiser these days. Bobby had mentioned to him that Dean was going through “the terrible teens” and to just ignore the attitude for now, but it was kind of hard to do sometimes. When their Dad was around, Dean wasn’t as bad because he knew John wouldn’t put up with attitude for any reason. But, when the two boys were alone, Dean was often relentless in his teasing. Sam sighed heavily and headed down the short hallway to the living room with the laundry clutched in his arms, hoping that Dean had tired somewhat of ribbing him about the clown doll.
The young boy trudged into the living area, dropping the load of clothing and sheets onto the nearest chair and opened his mouth to ask about quarters for the washer and dryer when he spied Dean apparently asleep on the couch. Sam closed his mouth, question unasked and stood watching his brother’s chest rise and fall in a slow deep rhythm indicating deep sleep.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward the couch, wondering if Dean was just faking it and as soon as Sam got close enough, he’d jump up and try to scare him. He edged up to the side of the couch, curious but nervous and peered down at Dean. The teen was indeed asleep, eyes shut and a peaceful half smile on his lips.
Sam stood watching for a few moments, wondering if he should wake Dean up or just let him sleep. He glanced over to the little clock radio on the end table next to the couch and noted that it was only quarter to one. There was plenty of time to do the laundry before it got dark outside.
Decision made, Sam headed for the kitchenette to scam some Oreos for himself.
As he sat at the little table munching the chocolate cookies, Sam opened his vocabulary workbook he had snagged off the counter along with the cookie package and started reading where he’d left off last time. He got to the end of the chapter that had a page of exercises and stood up, looking around for a pencil or pen to do them. No luck.
Sam went back into the living room and checked the end tables but couldn’t find any writing utensils there either. Getting frustrated, the boy wandered into the bedroom and spotted his dad’s duffel next to the dresser. Surely his dad would have a pen. Sam felt funny pawing through his father’s stuff, but he really wanted to do the exercises in the workbook. His fingers touched something smooth and cylindrical in the outer pocket of the bag and smiling, Sammy pulled out the pen and then made a face. It was a sharpie marker, no good. The ink would bleed right through the thin pages of the workbook.
Sam moved to put the pen back but hesitated, a look coming into his green eyes. He gazed at the pen in his hand and then slowly over to the open doorway of the room and then back down to the pen again. He knew, absolutely positively knew he shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking. It was immature and just totally wrong. But then again, Sam reasoned standing up, pen in hand, this would so definitely put him in the winning lead of the pranks. And since their father was coming home the next day, there was a pretty good chance Dean wouldn’t have time to retaliate and even up the score again.
Sam smiled. It would be pretty awesome to be able to hold the win over Dean’s head too, like a surefire comeback whenever mister “terrible teen” got on his case. That was the deciding factor for Sam. He tiptoed back out to the living room where Dean slept, silent as a shadow.
Dean cracked open an eyelid when he felt someone shaking him hard. He peered up to spy his younger brother who stood next to the couch doing the shaking and then groaned and sat up.
“Time is it?” he blearily asked Sam.
“Almost two,” Sam replied. He pointed to the pile of laundry still mounded on top of the easy chair adjacent to where Dean sat. “We still have that to get done.”
Dean nodded solemnly and pushed himself off the couch, stretching as he went. The nap had done wonders for his mood and he grinned at Sam, the morning’s outburst all but forgotten.
Sam smiled back, although if Dean had looked closely, he would have noticed that Sam’s happy countenance only went so far as the upturned lips. The younger Winchester was holding a secret and a valuable one at that as far as he was concerned. Sam’s eyes held the glint of retribution in them, but Dean never picked up on that as he stumbled into the kitchen.
Sam heard Dean opening one of the drawers in the other room and knew he was snagging some of the emergency cash their dad had left for them. Sure enough, Dean wandered back out to the living room stuffing a twenty-dollar bill into his jeans pocket before he gathered up the sheets and clothing from the chair. As Dean headed for the door, he couldn’t help but notice Sam still grinning at him.
“You’re awful chipper,” Dean commented offhandedly and motioned with his chin for Sam to open the motel door for him since his hands were full. “Since when did washing clothes give you such a high?”
“I’m just happy to be going out with my big brother,” Sam said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah? Well...you should be,” Dean replied, his chest puffing up with pride. “Who knows, maybe my coolness will rub off a little on you and hide all that geeker joy you tend to ooze.”
Sam trailed after Dean shutting the motel room door behind them with a click.
……………………………….
No sooner had the boys left the motel, the phone on the little desk in the living area of their room rang once and then stopped. Thirty seconds later, it began to ring again and kept ringing steady for several minutes before abruptly cutting off in mid-ring.
…………………………………………………..
John Winchester stared at his cell phone in disbelief, a deep haunting panic flooding his senses as he dialed the motel room number once again, his hand now shaking and mis-dialing. Shit! He swore out loud and forced himself to calm down before redialing. The line rang once and John ended the call and counted slowly, agonizingly to thirty, sweat now beading his forehead as he hit the redial button on his cell. He heard the rings and carefully counted twenty-two of them before ending the call. His hand was now shaking harder than before. No answer. No goddamn answer.
Stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket, John quickly gathered up his journal and duffel full of weapons from the little campsite he’d been staying at and all but ran for the Impala parked just on the other side of a stand of trees. He left his other camping gear and food, not wanting to waste any more time than he had to because the drive back to Phoenix would take about seven hours as it was. His heart was up in his throat, his mind going over every single possibility for why Dean hadn’t answered the phone. The one that kept coming to the forefront though nearly drove him over the edge of what little sanity he had left.
“Please God,” John muttered tearfully as he cranked the Impala’s engine and jammed the car into gear, pressing the gas pedal flat to the floor. “Please let them be okay.”
……………………………………
Sam said nothing all the way to the laundromat even when Dean tried to bait him with the usual taunts of calling him names. This normally would have put Dean’s spidey senses on high alert, but Dean just figured his brother was feeling a bit subdued after the big ‘doll debacle’ that morning and didn’t want to provide any more fodder for Dean to use against him.
They walked along in silence for a bit, the street in front of the motel being relatively quiet in the middle of the day. Dean put out an arm to stop Sam when they hit the corner and checked for traffic before sprinting across the road to the other curb. Sam warily watched his brother as they passed several glassed storefronts, but Dean was lost in his own thoughts and again, didn’t notice anything out of the norm.
The laundromat was surprisingly empty. There was only one college age girl in tight jeans and a t-shirt that bared her belly to show a navel ring and an overweight man in his sixties who was perched on a beat up metal stool near the soap dispenser, chewing on an unlit cigar while working the crossword puzzle from the newspaper.
Dean strode into the place and over to the nearest counter to plunk down his load of laundry. He took a minute to check out the college girl as she bent to empty a nearby dryer and smiled appreciatively at how the denim of her jeans hugged the round globes of rear.
“Dean, I’m hungry,” Sam whined, breaking Dean’s concentration on the young woman’s assets. “Can I have a candy bar from the machine?”
Dean turned, frowning at the interruption and then looked over to where Sam was pointing at a dented candy machine near the restrooms. The machine didn’t look to be working as it was unplugged from the outlet.
“It’s broken, Sammy,” Dean commented, but felt obliged to feed his brother since he’d essentially slept through their lunch time. “Let me get this stuff in a washer and then I’ll get us a couple hotdogs, okay? I saw a vendor down at the other street corner from here.”
Sam nodded and hopped up onto one of the lime green vinyl chairs that were scattered around the Laundromat. He just sat and stared at Dean, fighting not to smile. For being only nine, the irony was not lost on him. Dean fished the twenty out of his pocket and ambled over to the guy with the cigar to get change for soap and the machines. The man gazed up from his paper at Dean’s approach and blinked and then let out an amused snort. His eyes flicked from Dean over to where Sam sat grinning like an idiot and then slowly panned back to Dean who now stood in front of him, holding up the money.
“You have change?” Dean asked the man.
“Sure, sonny,” the man replied as he opened a cash box on the counter next to him. “How much you want in quarters?”
“Five in quarters and the rest with whatever you have,” Dean said.
He frowned when the man kept glancing back up from the cash box to grin at him.
“Here you go,” the man said as he handed Dean his change and then chuckled, shaking his balding head. “That your brother over there?” The man nodded in the direction of Sam.
“Yeah, why?” Dean answered warily. What was with this weirdo?
“Brave kid,” was all the man would say and then he returned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, his chest rumbling with laughter.
Dean slowly turned from the man and walked back to Sam not sure what to make of that last statement. He stuffed the dollar bills back into his pocket and handed the coins to Sam to hold. Both boys then grabbed up the dirty laundry and headed for the nearest washer which just happened to be right next to the counter where the college hottie was folding her clothes.
Dean flashed the girl his most winning smile as he sauntered up beside her and was rewarded with…a look of sympathy! She was actually giving him the ‘poor thing, how pathetic’ look! Confused, Dean tried again, this time speaking up.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he said to her.
The girl smirked and let out a tiny giggle as she looked at Dean. Well, not in the eye, he realized suddenly, but more like up above his eyes. Dean casually lifted a hand to run it through his hair, nervously wondering if he had some stray locks sticking out funny or something.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” the girl asked Dean as she continued to give him a look that would normally be reserved for someone who was mentally incompetent.
“Um, I’m Dean,” Dean answered, hesitation in his voice.
The girl nodded slowly and then reached out and put her arm around Dean’s shoulder in a companionable hug. Dean could smell her vanilla perfume, and he grinned. It was nice.
“Dean?” the girl said as she slowly led him away from Sam and towards the back of the laundromat. “You seem like a nice kid.” Dean beamed at this. The girl continued. “So, that’s why I’m going to do you this favor.”
Before Dean could ask what the favor might be, the college girl grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him towards the door of the men’s room that they were now standing before. Puzzled, Dean shot her a questioning look and she pointed to the door.
“Trust me, Dean. You really need to go in there.” The girl just kept pointing, so Dean figured what the hell.
He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check on Sam, and noticed his brother had a very odd expression on his face. Dean shrugged, took one last gaze at the college girl and then shoved his way into the restroom.
The place was nothing special, he thought, as he walked down the row of urinals. He turned toward the sinks on the other wall catching his reflection in the mirror and stopped dead in his tracks. There in big black capital letters across his forehead was the word: LOSER.
“SAM!”
Sam Winchester looked up at the sound of his name echoing out from the men’s room and began laughing uncontrollably. Cigar man joined in and the college girl smiled and shook her finger at Sam in amusement as she returned to the counter where her laundry sat. Ten long minutes later, Dean emerged from the restroom, slapping the door open so hard it smacked the opposite wall with a reverberating bang. His cheeks were tinged pink with embarrassment but it was his forehead that was red and raw. It looked as if someone had taken 50 grit sandpaper to it. Dean absently swiped at his brow, which was still damp from the soap and water he had used to scrub the ink off with, and swore under his breath.
Sam rocked in his chair, gales of laughter shaking his sides as Dean stalked up to him, gave him a glare and then turned and grabbed up the sheets from the counter without a word. Sam watched in curiosity as Dean stuffed the sheets into a washer and then came back and grabbed Sam’s dirty clothes and headed back for the washer to deposit them in alongside the sheets. Sam slid off his chair, clearly confused, and trailed his brother as Dean headed for the detergent dispensing machine, still silent.
“Dean?” Sam ventured, “You mad?”
Dean turned to Sam and held out his hand. “Quarters.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Quarters,” Dean slowly repeated giving Sam an irritated look. “I need quarters for the soap.”
“Oh,” Sam said and handed over the change he’d been holding.
Dean plugged several of the coins into the machine and grabbed the package of detergent when it fell into the bin at the bottom of the machine. As he turned to head back for the washer, Dean reached over and smacked Sam hard in the back of the head, causing the younger Winchester to flinch.
“Real funny, smart ass,” Dean bit out. “You’re lucky it came off easy.”
Sam bit back a snort of amusement and raised a critical eye to his brother’s forehead. “Doesn’t look like it was that easy,” he commented under his breath.
“Bite me,” Dean sullenly shot back and proceeded to add the soap to the washer and start it.
Ten minutes later, Dean was trudging down the sidewalk towards the hotdog vendor, nursing his bruised ego as if it had just gone several rounds in a heavyweight fight before getting KO’d by a sucker punch. Taken out, no less, by a fourth grader who still thought the Thundercats was the most awesome TV show ever.
If he actually believed in a higher power, Dean thought dejectedly, he might just think that power was being unusually cruel today, just for the hell of it. And the worst part of all this? Their father would be home in less than twenty-four hours, so there wasn’t really time for him to come up with anything of any equitable value to get back at Sam and even up, no – surpass – his baby brother’s latest caper.
Dean studied the store windows in a disinterested way as he passed by them. He strode by a thrift store, giving the display a quick glance and kept walking but quickly stopped because something had caught his eye. Dean backed up, coming in line with the thrift store window again and pivoted to face the glass, leaning against it and raising his hands to shield his eyes from the midday glare of the hot Arizona sun.
“No way,” the teenager murmured, his mouth curling up into a wicked grin. “No freaking way!”
There, just beyond the main window display, was an entire shelf of stuffed animals and dolls in various states of disrepair. And right in the very middle of the shelf, a maniacal toothy grin on it ugly painted face, was a clown doll! Dean blinked not believing his luck. He hurried inside the shop and made his way over to the shelf of toys, all of which smelled of mildew and time spent rotting in basements and garages, and gazed up in wonder at the doll of Sam’s nightmares.
The doll was about two feet tall with wispy ruby red hair that sprung in tattered clumps from the side of its molded plastic head. The face, oh God, Dean thought, that face! It was painted sickly white with a red bulb of a nose and a matching blood red gash of a mouth opened to display a neat row of yellowed teeth. Dean didn’t think the teeth had started out that color, but time and abuse had made them dingy and gross looking.
The eyes were a glassy black, reminding Dean of a shark’s eyes – dead and lifeless. The white, orange and purple jester hat it wore had tiny rusted bells on its tips that gave off an eerie tinny sounding jingle. And the baggy polka dot costume the doll was dressed in had seen better days and was full of tears and stained on one side with something brown. Soda? Chocolate? Who knew? It didn’t really matter. It was a freaking clown doll!
With something akin to reverence, Dean took the doll down from the shelf, a huge shit-eating grin breaking out on his suntanned face when its nose began blinking and a creepy warped laugh issued from a little speaker set into the doll’s chest.
Holy crap! The thing had motion-activated sound and light display! Yahtzee! Dean excitedly thought as he checked and found the price tag pinned to the leg of the doll’s costume and sighed in pure happiness. It was only $2.50.
Carrying the doll over to the register, Dean slapped down a five-dollar bill, accepted his change and waited as the clerk bagged up the purchase.
“Hey, would it be all right if I left that here and came back to get it a little later?” Dean asked the spectacled woman at the register. “I’m kind of on my way somewhere and don’t have anyplace to put that right now.”
The woman smiled at Dean, her dentures clicking together. “We’re open tonight until nine, honey. I’ll put this under the counter here and you just come back and see me when you’re ready to pick it up.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Dean said and then left, his step noticeably lighter now that revenge was so close at hand. “Who’s the loser now, Samantha?” Dean crowed as he bounced down the sidewalk toward the hotdog vendor, his confidence once again returned.
The rest of the day had passed without incidence. Dean was actually able to run back to the thrift store after dinner when Sam went to take his bath. The minute the door to the bathroom shut, Dean was out the door of the motel room and racing like a marathoner for the thrift store.
He was glad for once that his dad had been so regimental with his training, including making the boys run laps and wind sprints. The whole trek took maybe ten minutes tops for the athletic teen and he was back with ‘Creepy the Clown’, as Dean had affectionately dubbed the doll, before Sam had even exited the bathtub.
“Hey, Sammy?” Dean called to his brother through the bathroom door. “I’ve got a headache so I’m gonna go lay down for awhile in our room, okay? You can watch TV after you get out of the tub, just don’t turn the sound up too loud.”
“’Kay,” came the muffled reply.
Satisfied that Sam would be otherwise occupied, Dean carried the doll into the bedroom and shut the door.
……………………………………
It was close to nine when Dean wandered back out to the living room and told Sam it was time for bed.
“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked as the two made their way down the hall to the bedroom.
Dean kept a placid look on his face despite wanting to gloat about his devious master prank about to be unveiled.
“Oh, yeah, Sammy,” he said, letting a little smile creep into his voice. “I’m feeling way better now.”
Dean waited impatiently in his bed for Sam to start to drift off to sleep. He wanted his brother to be in that fuzzy half-awake state one reached right before really falling asleep because that’s when Sam would be most susceptible to what he had planned.
Carefully reaching down along the side of his bed, Dean felt for the fishing line he’d strung there. Finding it, Dean curled his fingers around the cord and gave it a brief yank pleased when a soft tinny jingle sounded from somewhere underneath Sam’s bed. He waited a few seconds and then tugged the line once more, the jingling now more persistent and joined by what sounded like a muffled creepy chuckle.
Sam immediately sat up in his bed, a nervous frown drawing down the corners of his mouth as he squinted trying to adjust his vision to the shadowy interior of the room. He jerked his head over toward Dean’s bed, making out the lump under the sheets as his brother.
Dean appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep rhythm. Apparently, Dean hadn’t heard anything. Even so, Sam slowly panned around the darkened room concentrating and listening intently. All was silent.
Chewing on his lower lip, Sam hesitated before he lay back down. With both hands, the boy grabbed the blankets that had pooled down around his belly and yanked them up around his ears. Maybe he was just jumpy from all that had happened that day, and maybe the noise he thought he’d heard was coming from an adjacent motel room. And maybe, just maybe, there was something in the room other than himself and his brother. Sam quickly banished that last thought from his mind and hunched down deep under the covers, the first faint stirrings of butterflies swirling in his stomach.
Dean waited until Sam had settled down once again and then tugged on the fishing line a little harder this time, setting off the doll’s motion sensor once more. Its maniacal little laugh filled the darkness of the room, causing a sudden chill to scamper down Sam’s spine. Dean smirked watching with glee as Sam shot bolt upright in his bed with a scared whimper.
“Dean? Dean!” Sam whispered hoarsely, his eyes shining in fright. “Dean, there’s something under my bed!”
Dean played dumb and acted as if he were deep asleep much to Sam’s dismay.
Fighting back his terror, Sam slowly pushed the blankets off of himself intending to take a running jump into the relative safety of his brother’s bed when another horrible laugh came from directly beneath Sam. The young boy froze, his heart thudding crazily in his chest, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
“Deaaannn!” Sam’s voice was a faint whining plea as his throat tightened in mounting fear.
Still nothing from his brother and suddenly Sam had an awful thought. What if whatever was under his bed had already gotten to his brother? What if Dean wasn’t answering him because he was paralyzed or his life force had been sucked out of him and he was in a coma? Sam thought he was going to throw up.
Steeling himself, the young boy took a few deep ragged breaths willing the nausea away and tried to think despite the fact that he was beyond frightened. What would Dean do? Sam’s mind raced. Dean would have a weapon Sam suddenly decided and he looked about for one. Unfortunately, the shotgun was across the room, leaning up against a wooden chair near Dean’s bed. Just great. There was no way he’d be able to get to the gun before whatever was lurking under his bed made its move, Sam thought, despair settling over him.
He scanned the nearby nightstand but didn’t find anything more menacing than a pencil and a pair of nail clippers. Sam thought a minute, licking his suddenly dry lips and then reached over and picked up the pencil, figuring it could at least cause some damage if he used it in a stabbing motion.
Feeling totally overwhelmed and not at all prepared, Sam inched over to the edge of his mattress, cringing as he heard the laughing again, sounding louder and more menacing as he got closer. It took every bit of nerve he had, as Sam gave out a shaky breath and ever so slowly bent over the edge of his bed. All he could think about was the movie he’d seen earlier and what had happened to the boy in the movie.
Sam suddenly stopped his forward motion and reached up with one hand to grab hold of the sheets and blankets in a strong grip. He wanted to anchor himself solidly to the top of the bed so that if, God forbid, there actually was something down there, it wouldn’t be able to yank him down with it without a fight.
Steeling himself, Sam started for the edge of his bed once again, pencil gripped tightly in one sweaty hand, the bed sheets clutched in the other.
Dean waited until Sam’s head was almost touching the floor before he gave a final hard yank on the fishing line, causing creepy the clown to leap forward from the shadows under Sam’s bed, its nose flashing erratically and its crazy laugh taunting Sam.
The doll smacked the boy right in the face and Sam screamed in terror, losing his grip on the sheets and falling forward, his weight carrying him down on top of the hooting doll.
Terrified, Sam beat at the hideous thing, stabbing it over and over with the pencil so hard that the pencil broke in two. Sam continued to attack his tormentor with what was left of the pencil, his panicked shrieks filling the room until they were suddenly drowned out by Dean’s roar of laughter from above. The bedside light flicked on, abruptly banishing the darkness and Sam stared down in dazed shock at the ugly thing he knelt on top of, the demolished pencil stub still clutched in his shaking hand.
“Don’t guess you’re ever gonna want to watch that movie again, huh Sammy?” Dean stated between bouts of laughter.
Sam looked up at Dean, his mouth hung open in a mix of anger and bewilderment as he knelt there on the floor between the beds. The boy stared at Dean then flicked his gaze back down to the doll and then back up to Dean, his eyes widening. A blind rage took over as realization bloomed in Sam’s mind as to what his brother had done.
Without thought, Sam launched himself off the floor at his brother with a growl of outrage. His fists were flying from the get go and Dean barely had time to get his hands up before his brother was on top of him, punching and kicking like a crazed berserker.
“You asswipe!” Sam screamed as he continued to pummel his older brother. “You total freaking butthole, Dean! I’m gonna kill you!”
Dean, for his part, accepted the terms of endearment and tried to defend himself without actually fighting back. That lasted until Sam got in a well-aimed knee to Dean’s groin. And then the battle royale was on.
Dean swore in pain and shoved Sam hard, knocking him off the bed, but Sam took hold of his brother’s pajama leg as he went down and Dean ended up getting dragged onto the floor as well. Dean grabbed at the nightstand as he went down, jarring the table and knocking the lamp off onto the floor. The bulb smashed with a little hiss and the room was once again enveloped in darkness.
The two wrestled around on the carpeted floor in the pitch black, grunting, cussing and shouting names at one another while Creepy the Clown lay on his back grinning and laughing hysterically, it’s nose blinking away like a short-circuited Christmas light. They were so loud and so intent on doing bodily harm to one another that they didn’t even hear their father’s voice coming from down the hallway.
……………………………………..
John had floored it all the way back to the Phoenix city limits, going ninety all the way, praying no cops tried to pull him over because he’d just shoot them and keep on going.
His boys were in danger and he wasn’t stopping for the devil himself much less some highway mounty out to fill his monthly quota of speeding tickets.
He spun into the motel parking lot a little after nine-thirty, almost sideswiping a pickup as he pulled crookedly into a parking spot and killed the engine on the Impala. John grabbed up the shotgun from the passenger seat and jumped out of the car, racing for the motel room.
He didn’t knock or try his key, figuring that if someone or something was inside with Sam and Dean, then he didn’t want to give it the advantage of knowing he was there.
Raising one booted foot, John kicked open the door and charged inside, shotgun raised and ready.
“Dean! Sammy!” he called out in panic, looking around the unlit living room but sensing nothing.
John heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the bedroom and, with a worried moan, he thundered down the hallway intent on destroying whatever was menacing his children.
As he got closer, he could hear grunts and shouts and was able to make out Dean’s and Sam’s voices. He blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, suddenly relieved to know that his boys, his babies, were still alive.
Just as John reached for the doorknob to fling open the bedroom door, a deafening gunshot rang out from the room, followed by a pair of petrified shrieks and the sound of glass shattering. John’s heart skipped a beat and his blood turned cold as he fumbled for the knob, terror now wiping everything else out of his mind. He threw the door open hard. It slammed forcefully into the drywall behind it, the doorknob burying itself into the plaster.
………………………………………………….
Dean and Sam had continued the brawling fistfight, neither one willing to give way this time as two days worth of pent up agitation, stress and sibling rivalry came to an ugly head. Dean was growing tired of holding back his punches. He knew he could really hurt Sam if he wanted to, but his dad had drilled into him since he was four that Dean, being the oldest, was supposed to be the protector of his little brother, and that meant saving Sam, not hurting him.
Even so, when Dean rolled out from under Sam and ended up near the clown doll, he didn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch up the ugly toy and throw it at Sam, who was on his knees and crawling back towards Dean fists curled and ready.
Sam caught sight of the flying clown, freaked and dove for the floor. The doll sailed past the boy and hit the straight back chair against the wall, landing on top of it in an upright way as if it were standing at attention. Unfortunately, the force of creepy the clown hitting the chair jarred loose the loaded shotgun that had been propped against the chair. It started to fall sideways, the barrel of the weapon skittering along the edge of the wood seat of the chair until the shotgun bumped hard against the chair’s arm and went off.
The boom was incredibly loud in the confined space and both Sam and Dean ducked and screamed in fright. The rock salt rounds hit the mirror above the dresser with precision, shattering the glass into a million tiny shards that spilled over the dresser top and adjacent floor. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the bedroom door suddenly burst open, causing the Winchester boys to scream in unison once again.
John Winchester framed the darkened doorway, shotgun raised to his shoulder as he quickly assessed the situation. He saw his boys kneeling on the floor near the window and then saw a figure standing on the nearby chair as if getting ready to launch itself at them.
Could be a gate demon, John rapidly surmised, or possibly a possessed animal. Didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“Sammy! Dean! Down!” John barked and was relieved when Dean immediately hit the deck, dragging Sam down as well and tucking him protectively underneath his body.
John wasted no time. As soon as he saw his boys drop, he aimed and fired, the second gunshot sounding even louder than the first one had. The unknown creature flew off the chair hit square by the rock salt rounds John had fired into it. It landed with a deranged laugh onto the floor behind Sam and Dean, slid a few feet and then went silent its arms and legs splayed out in a death throe.
“Holy shit!” Dean howled in shock, not caring that he just swore in front of his dad.
John lowered the shotgun and reached behind him, fumbling on the wall for the light switch, his eyes never leaving the thing on the floor. He found the switch and the overhead light snapped on to display two cowering boys, one whimpering in tearful fright underneath his brother, and the other one peering up at John with a look of guilty surprise on his face.
John leaned the shotgun against the dresser and was over to his sons in three quick strides.
“Dean, you okay, son? Sammy?” John questioned the boys at the same time as he swooped down and gathered them both into his arms, quickly checking his sons over for blood or signs of wounds.
Tears of relief streaked down his face when he concluded that neither of them was hurt. “God, I was so scared,” he managed to choke out, hugging them tight again. “When you didn’t answer the phone...I just, God...I thought I’d lost you.”
“The phone?” Sam absently queried, poking his tearful head up from his father’s chest. “What phone?”
John felt Dean stiffen against him and the older hunter slowly released his hold on the boys, sitting back on his haunches, eyes narrowed, to contemplate the suspect looks Dean and Sam were now quickly exchanging between one another. With a calm demeanor that belied how he actually felt, John stood up and turned to survey the surrounding scene with the practiced eye of a hunter.
There were two boys on the floor, pajamas rumpled and tugged out of place, red-faced and giving him the flustered deer in the headlights look. There was a shotgun lying on the floor near the chair, its muzzle pointing toward the dresser, which now had a shattered mirror above it. The bedside lamp was lying on the carpet between the two twin beds with a broken light bulb peeking from its paper shade that was knocked askew, most likely from the fall. There was wire or maybe it was fishing line, trailing down from one of the beds and across the floor to the body of the last little item in the mystery.
And that something didn’t resemble a demon now to John’s eye, so much as a tattered doll of some sort, lying on the floor, its head pitted and cracked from the rock salt round he’d fired into it, bits of wispy stuffing leaking from the holes in what was left of its shredded body.
John’s features suddenly darkened as he targeted his two sons with a fiery glower.
“What the hell is going on here?” he angrily demanded as he looked from Dean to Sam. “I called you earlier this afternoon, but no one answered the phone. That’s why I scrapped the hunt and came racing back here. I thought something had happened to you boys.” John cast a foreboding look at his oldest son. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called, Dean?”
Dean went white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing but nothing came out. He was still trying to assimilate the fact that his dad was actually standing here, in the room, right now. He wasn’t supposed to come back until tomorrow, Dean kept thinking to himself. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I just asked you a question, mister,” John growled in warning, his voice hard and flat. “Why didn’t you answer the phone this afternoon?”
Dean instantly snapped to attention on his knees at the sound of his father’s commanding tone, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. When had the phone rung? Dean wondered in a panic. And then he knew, and his face fell. Crap. His dad had to have called while he and Sam had been at the laundromat! Just…crap.
Although Dean knew his dad was expecting an honest answer, he wasn’t ready to give one just yet. Instead, Dean let his mouth take over for his brain and he gave John a nervous laugh and a shrug.
“I was just seeing if you’d actually, you know, come back, uh, to check on us like you always say you will,” Dean offered glibly. “Just keeping you on your toes, Dad.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open, his head swiveling over to look at Dean in surprised horror as if Dean had just recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards in ancient Aramaic.
“That was one, buddy boy,” John seethed through a clenched jaw. He pointed at Dean, the anger palpable on his face. “Get up.”
Dean abruptly rose from the floor, dragging Sam up with him by his pajama sleeve. John’s mask of disapproval caused both Winchester boys to keep their eyes pinned to the floor. The teen licked his suddenly dry lips, his heart up in his throat, wishing he was anywhere else but here. He chanced a quick peek up at his dad’s face, and then quickly looked away. Man, if looks could kill, then he, Dean Winchester, would be stone cold gone on the floor right this very minute from the glare his father had targeted him with.
“Let’s try it again,” John darkly intoned. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Dean?”
Dean figured that if he could just keep from having to mention where he and Sam had actually been, then his father wouldn’t have a valid reason to draw and quarter him. But it was impossibly hard to think of a good lie under all this pressure and so, Dean said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Um, we were napping?” he blurted out and then groaned at his own stupidity.
“And that was number two, son,” John tiredly snapped. “You wanna push your luck and go for a grand slam here? Because you don’t need much more to be facing a round with my belt on top of what you’re already going to be getting.”
John’s eyes leveled on the teenager. Dean swallowed hard, registering with no small amount of anxiety what his dad had just insinuated.
“You think very carefully before you open your mouth again, buddy boy,” John quietly warned.
The older man took a step toward his eldest child to show he meant business and Dean involuntarily matched the move by taking an awkward step backwards, thereby bumping into the edge of the bed behind him.
The fight suddenly left Dean as he realized that any further lying or sarcasm would only get him a worse punishment than was already guaranteed at this point. He decided the truth, while it might end up being a lot more painful, would at least be easier to relate and would show his dad that he was taking him seriously.
“I didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t hear it...because I wasn’t here,” Dean sadly mumbled, not able to look his father in the face.
“What?” John’s tone dropped a full octave, his eyes boring into his oldest son in shocked disbelief.
Dean paled and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the room, Dad, so that’s why I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“You left Sammy alone in the-“
“No sir!” Dean choked, holding his hands up in front of him. His eyes widened in panic realizing what his father was assuming. “Sam was with me! Honest! I would never leave him alone again, ever!”
John ran a shaking hand over his bearded face, his nerves beyond frayed. This whole thing was a tangled nightmare that was wearing him out beyond his years. He fixed his two boys with a serious look.
“What’s the rule about leaving the motel room when I’m out, boys?” John sternly questioned them. Both Dean and Sam remained silent, and John stood up straighter, the drill sergeant in him now coming to the surface. “Dean, what is the rule?” he commanded.
“We’re supposed to stay in the room with the windows and door locked until you come back,” Dean quietly recited.
“Unless there’s an emergency and then we hafta call your cell phone before we leave to let you know where we are,” Sam added, not wanting to be left out.
“So, you both are aware of and understand the rule?” John demanded.
Two glum yes sirs was the reply.
John nodded, then fixed his oldest with a questioning stare. “And was this an emergency, Dean?” John asked.
Dean pondered that one long enough to get a growl out of his father before he answered in a very quiet subdued voice. “No sir, it wasn’t really an emergency.”
“Sam?” John’s gaze flicked over to his youngest standing nervously in front of him.
Sam shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment.
“So then, boys, what made you disobey a direct order from me?” John pressed them, his mouth now forming a thin angry line of displeasure.
Dean clammed up again, but Sam, being less apt at evasive tactics than his brother, and being much more intimidated by his father’s ferocious temper simply answered the question truthfully.
“We had to do the laundry on account of stuff got dirty,” Sam muttered, staring at the carpeted floor, his eyes filling with tears.
John’s brow creased in puzzlement. Laundry? This was a new twist. He caught Dean’s quick glower at Sam and knew there was more to the story than either was letting on.
“What got so dirty you couldn’t wait until I got back to wash it?” John asked.
Sam fidgeted miserably. He looked over to Dean for guidance, but his father was quick to shoot that down.
“Samuel Michael, you look at me, not your brother,” John barked and Sam instantly swung his wide-eyed puppy dog gaze up to his father.
Sam’s lower lip began to tremble and he took in a hitched breath.
“Answer the question, young man, that’s an order,” John firmly commanded.
Tears spilling from his eyes, Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean suddenly spoke up and beat him to it.
“I was playing a prank on Sammy and it got messy, dad,” Dean reluctantly volunteered. “I figured if I cleaned everything up, I wouldn’t have to mention it to you.”
John was not happy. “You were playing a joke?” he questioned, his gravelly voice rising in fury. “What have I told you about pranks, Dean?” John reached over and grabbed his oldest son by the upper arm giving him a solid shake. “What have I said about goofing around when you’re supposed to be watching out for your brother and keeping an eye on things?”
Sam couldn’t stand to see Dean taking the blame for everything. He knew Dean was doing it to protect him, but it just wasn’t right. “It wasn’t Dean, Dad!” Sam shouted as he started to cry. “I did it. It was me. I put shaving cream in Dean’s bed and that’s why we had to wash the sheets. I did it!”
John stood, surprise registering on his face. His hand still gripping Dean, John slowly turned to look at Sam as tears coursed down the young boy’s scrunched up face.
“Sammy, report,” John softly ordered.
And that was all it took for the nine-year-old to break down and sob out the entire story from the toothpaste Oreos to Creepy the Clown.
Dean closed his eyes and moaned softly in trepidation when he felt his father stiffen beside him as the tale went from bad to worse in the older man’s eyes. Finished, Sam just stood and silently wept as John pulled Dean around to stand directly in front of him.
“You have anything to add to that?” John shot Dean a raised brow, the muscle in his jaw twitching erratically.
“No sir,” Dean quietly replied, staring down at his bare feet.
John was so furious at that moment that he was speechless. A deep flush had crept up over the collar of his flannel shirt and stained his unshaven face as he tried to control his breathing and his blood pressure at the same time. He let go of Dean and looked away from his children, closing his eyes and counting to ten very slowly and then counting to ten again before letting out a deep ragged breath. I’m going to kill them, he thought. Willing his temper under control, John finally glanced back up at Dean and Sam but felt the fury instantly boil back up from inside him and with another deep breath he turned from them his head down. Nope, he thought, still want to kill the both of them.
“You two are in so much trouble, I don’t even know where to begin,” John angrily spat out in frustration. “Dean, go wait out on the couch while I have a talk with Sammy,” John tersely ordered, his back still to the boys.
“Dad,” Dean started in a panic, “This was all my fault, seriously! Sammy didn’t-“
John whirled about fixing Dean with a menacing glare, stopping the teenager from finishing his sentence. “Are you arguing with me, boy?”
Dean forgot to breathe for a moment so scared was he by the look of absolute rage on his father’s face. He quickly shook his head and whispered, “No sir.”
Wasting no time, Dean spun on his heel and quickly retreated to the living room, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, ignoring the creak of the old springs and gathered his knees up to his chest encircling them with his lean muscular arms. This was so bad, he thought as he sat there in the dimly lit room listening to his dad’s angry muffled voice coming from the bedroom. No, this wasn’t just bad. This was light years past bad and all the way up to ghastly train wreck.
He wondered in retrospect why he’d even let the pranks get as far as they had. He was the oldest and that meant he was supposed to be the more responsible one. And yet he had been anything but responsible the past two days. Cripes, he thought, if he hadn’t let his pride come into play, he never would have tried to get back at Sam for the Oreos in the first place and none of this would have ever happened. How stupid!
And seriously, what the hell had he been thinking scaring Sam with that clown doll? Poor kid. That had been over the top even for him, Dean realized. He swore to himself right then and there that he’d apologize to Sam for scaring him so badly and that he would never bring up the clown thing again. His ruminations were interrupted by the crack of hand against skin coming from the other room. The thirteen-year-old jumped and then cringed with a sick sense of dread upon hearing Sam’s high loud wail following directly behind it.
“I am so screwed,” Dean Winchester groaned and put his head into his hands trying hard to remain brave despite the sounds coming from down the hall.
------------------------------------
John watched Dean hightail it out of the bedroom and then walked over and shut the door his hand resting on the doorframe a minute while he collected his thoughts. He turned, his face a mask of grim determination, as he made his way back over to Sam who stood between the two twin beds, dark head still down, sporadic sniffles shaking his small frame.
It broke John’s heart to see his youngest so upset, but he knew he couldn’t just let this go. No way. Not after the heart stopping terror of thinking his children were hurt or in danger and racing home only to hear that shotgun go off behind the closed bedroom door just as he reached it. That had just about killed him right there. He had gone numb imagining finding either Sam or Dean, or both of them, injured or even worse, dead, in the room. The torment of guilt over what could have happened washed over the man and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes filled with tears.
Sam looked up fearfully at the sound. “Daddy? Are you okay?”
John swallowed hard and tried to put on his game face. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m okay. At least I’m okay now.” He gave a shaky little laugh that had no humor to it.
John’s mouth curled down into a serious frown and he went over to take a seat on the edge of the nearest bed across from Sam. He took his youngest son by the shoulders drawing him close.
“Do you have any idea how scared I was? How worried I was that something had happened to you and your brother?”
Sam bit his lip and shook his head, tears slowly spilling down his chubby face to splash down onto his neck and the collar of his pajamas. He knew that he was in a lot of trouble nevertheless he didn’t want the spanking that he knew was coming.
John continued. “Why did you do that to the Oreos, hmm? What was that supposed to solve, son?”
“I don’t know,” Sam pitifully mumbled, absently picking at his pajama top.
“That’s not an answer, Sammy,” John scolded, and Sam squirmed with shame. “If you had a problem with Dean, what should you have done?”
“But you told me to always stand up for myself,” Sam argued, his tone borderline petulant. “That’s what I was doing, so why are you yelling at me?”
“Samuel.”
John’s voice brooked no nonsense and Sam knew it.
The younger Winchester took a few ragged gulps before offering his father a more contrite answer. “I sh-should have t-told him to stop and then if, if he didn’t…then I sh-should have waited and told you wh-when you got h-home.”
John nodded. “That’s right, kiddo. But, instead you let your temper get the better of you, didn’t you?”
Sam’s head shot up, his watery green eyes flashing same-said temper as he shouted in frustration. “It’s not fair! Dean always gets to win! At EVERYTHING!”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Samuel Michael Winchester!” John scolded and turned the boy, swatting him twice on his pajama-clad butt.
Sam wailed reaching back to block any further shots, and John took a moment to calm down and think about how to word what he wanted to say next.
“Dean is older and bigger than you, Sammy. It’s natural for him to be better at some things than you right now. But, you’ll come into your own, son. I promise. You just have to be patient.”
John moved his hand from his son’s arm to cup Sam’s chin and raise the child’s head up so that their eyes met. “In the meantime, buddy boy, you need to learn to control your temper and to think before you act. And you and your brother seem to think lately that it’s okay to disobey orders when I’m not around, so I’m going to remind you that that’s not an option.”
Sam began to cry harder and balked as John pulled him close and lifted the boy up and placed him facedown over his lap.
“If Dean hadn’t been mean to me, then I wouldn’t have done all that,” Sam whined as John adjusted his leg to put the child’s bottom up high.
“We’re not talking about Dean right now, we’re talking about you and your misbehavior. You keep fighting me on this, Sammy, and you’re getting extra swats,” John intoned darkly. “You know darn well you’ve earned this, so just accept your punishment, son.”
Sam quickly settled down as best he could but his stomach roiled as he tensed up waiting for his father’s hand to fall. He was mad at Dean for not stopping the prank war and he was mad at himself even more for starting it in the first place. Before the first smack arrived, John reached up and grabbed the waistband of Sam’s pajama bottoms. He peeled the pajamas down to his son’s knees along with the boy’s underpants.
“Dad, no!” Sam protested in alarm when he felt the cool air caressing his bare bottom.
John ignored Sam’s protest and tightened his hold on the squirming boy bringing his solid hand down, landing a smack square onto Sam’s right side eliciting a howl of surprised pain from the child. John didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and brought it down again in almost the same spot and then repeated again on the left side. Sam cried as his father continued to spank his little bottom a dusky pink, alternating from side to side for ten more swats. John stopped a moment and addressed his son.
“Are you going to disobey any more orders, Samuel?” John inquired.
“If Dean’d told me not to do it, I wouldn’t have,” Sam hotly contested.
John let a smile steal over his careworn face. God, but the kid was stubborn. Argumentative and stubborn, even at nine years old. He'd make a great lawyer, John thought to himself, and then landed four particularly devastating swats onto the crest of his son’s behind. Sam let out a watery bawl, his chubby little legs kicking in protest and his hands grabbing the side of his father’s calf.
“You want to change your answer, young man?” John asked and Sam nodded. “Are you going to listen and do as you’re told from now on?”
“Yes s-sir,” Sam hiccuped, his breath hitching.
“Good boy,” John murmured. “Now, what’s coming next is for fighting with your brother and then lying about what happened and being so argumentative with me about it.”
John proceeded to apply his hand to Sam’s sit spot in a quick hard cadence knowing the painful sting it produced would help enforce his words in his youngest son’s mind. Sam’s sullen wailing turned into repentant sobs that shook his entire body as his butt went from a stingy ache to white hot agony.
“I need to be able to trust you, Sammy,” John lectured as he spanked. “That means you don’t lie and you don’t keep things from me. I need to know I can count on you. And I’m not even going to go into the number of times I’ve told you no fighting. You know better than to punch Dean. I don’t care what reason you think you have for doing it. He’s your brother. You two are supposed to be watching out for each other, not trying to kill one another. And the next time I ask you a direct question, Samuel Michael Winchester, you had better answer without questioning me or giving me static, is that clear?”
“I’m sorry!” Sam wailed as John’s punishing hand took its toll on the boy’s tender backside. “I won’t do it again, dad, I promise! I’ll be good!”
John finally felt his son go limp over his knees in submission. He gave Sam a few more hard swats and then stopped, letting the boy sob while he rubbed gentle circles onto Sam’s back.
“It’s okay, son. It’s over,” John said as he continued to rub his son’s back trying to comfort him.
Sam’s weeping continued as John reached down to carefully pull the boy’s pants back up over his sore reddened bottom; a howl of pain ensued when fabric met butt. Sam kicked and started to slide down off John’s lap and down onto his knees, his face a crimson snotty mess. He couldn’t stop crying because his backside was on fire, the pain singing up and down his butt in wave after throbbing wave.
John picked the emotional nine-year-old up before he sank all the way to the floor and swung him around in his muscled arms placing Sam against his broad chest resting the boy’s head up on his shoulder. Sam blubbered hysterically, burying his face into his dad’s neck, one hand rising to clutch at the plaid shirt in front of him and the other going back to rub at his screaming bottom. He had felt so guilty for disobeying orders and for being so mad at Dean. And he hated that he had disappointed his dad.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re okay,” John crooned into Sam’s ear as he gently rocked him. “Calm down, Sammy. It’s over, baby. I’m not mad at you anymore. Daddy’s not mad anymore.”
Sam slowly relaxed in the strong reassuring grip of his father’s hug, the tears giving way to sniffles and then to a few hiccuping breaths. Sam lay heavily against John, his breathing becoming deeper as exhaustion overtook his young body. John turned his head slightly to plant a kiss onto his youngest child’s sweaty temple before standing up with Sam still clutched in his arms. He bent down and with one hand John pulled the blankets and sheet down on the child’s bed and tenderly laid Sam down, careful to place him on his side to avoid contact with the boy’s sore rear.
John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a square of linen and held it in front of Sam’s reddened nose ordering him to blow. Sam complied and John folded the hanky and then tenderly swiped off the remaining tears on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes were glassy with sleep and fatigue. He let his dad tuck him in, nestling his head into the cool pillow as John smoothed the dark curls off Sam’s forehead with the hand that had only moments ago spanked him so thoroughly.
“Get some rest, kiddo,” John murmured and smiled when he received a tired grunt in reply.
John straightened up gazing down at his baby boy with love and sighed deeply. What would he do if he ever lost him? Or Dean for that matter? He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that dark possibility and headed around the bed for the door. Speaking of his oldest son…John was reaching for the doorknob when he heard Sam whimper. He stopped, concern worrying a furrow in his brow.
“What is it, Sammy?” John softly questioned as he turned back to the bed where his son lay huddled under the covers.
“Dad?” Sam said, his voice sounding tiny to John.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Um, could you…” Sam squirmed in embarrassment. He gazed over to the far corner and cringed visibly. “Can you take that away?”
Sam pointed to the mangled clown doll still lying on the floor beside the chair. John smirked but dutifully went over and snagged creepy the clown up, tucking it under his arm, some of the ratty stuffing falling out of the body of the doll as he did so.
“This guy really scared you, huh?” John asked looking down in distaste at the leering puppet he held. Sam nodded vigorously.
“He’s got yellow teeth and he looks like the one from that Poltergeist movie that got that boy,” Sam whispered, the fear shining in his eyes. “There was a real bad spirit in their closet, dad, but we don’t have a closet here, so I’m okay. But, if we stay in a place that has a closet, will you sleep with me?”
John ran a hand through his dark brown hair in consternation. While he understood Sam’s anxiety, he didn’t want to feed into it. Sam needed to learn to be strong and independent so that he’d be able to take care of himself as he got older. John knew he wasn’t always going to be able to be there for his boys and with the evil that was out there in the world, John’s only reassurance came from knowing that Sam and Dean would grow up being able to handle themselves in any situation.
“Tell you what, Sammy,” John sighed as he bent down to dig through his bag next to the dresser. “I will try to make sure there’s nothing in any of the closets going forward. But, just in case, here’s something to help keep you safe.”
With that, John turned and placed a burnished stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-automatic into his son’s small hands. Sammy stared at the gun turning the heavy weapon over in his hand and then gazed back up at his father, a wary look of puzzlement on his face.
“It’s a .45, Sammy,” John stated, nodding sagely. “It’s got a double stack mag of wrought iron rounds, and a range of about 160 feet. That baby will put down anything. You keep that near you, and you don’t ever have to worry about something in the closet.”
Too tired and way too sore to question his dad’s sense of logic for once, Sam tucked the handgun in between the mattress and the box spring of the bed and promptly forgot about it.
“Night, dad,” Sam yawned, shifting uncomfortably from the lingering sting of his bruised bottom.
“Night, Sammy,” John softly replied and headed out the door and toward the living room where his eldest was waiting.
………………..
Dean’s sandy head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living area. John appeared a second later, his stern countenance alerting Dean that he wasn’t out of the woods on this one, not by a long shot. Instead of heading straight for his son though, John made a little detour into the kitchenette grabbing up one of the chairs there and dragging it with him into the living room. He placed the padded chrome chair directly in front of the couch and took a seat on it facing Dean. Dean sat up straighter on the couch, his heart jack-hammering away in his chest and tried to maintain eye contact with his father. Not an easy task.
“So,” John began. He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting on his knees. “You got anything to say for yourself before we get started?”
“I am so sorry, dad,” Dean’s voice almost broke as he spoke, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I let stuff get out of control and, I don’t know, I guess I should have been following the rules better. I let you down.”
John listened nodding. “You have no idea how scared I was when you didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, Dean. I must have let it ring for almost two full minutes the whole time imagining that you and Sammy were hurt or worse. Worrying that I would be too late to do anything by the time I got back here.”
Dean’s eyes fell to his lap in shame as his father continued. “And then, when I got here and you didn’t answer me when I called out for you...and then hearing the gun go off...” John swallowed hard, trying to keep his rising emotions in check. “I haven’t been that frightened in a long time, son, and I don’t ever want to be again. Especially, not for something as foolish as what happened here. You didn’t just let me down, Dean. You let Sammy down. And you let yourself down too.”
Dean winced at that and fidgeted on the couch under his father’s critical stare. He felt horrible for what had happened and knew there was no way he could possibly make up for it.
“I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, honest,” Dean mumbled helplessly.
“Then why did it?” John questioned.
“I don’t know,” Dean replied in misery.
“I think you do know, son, and I want to hear you say it,” John demanded. “Look at me, Dean,” he sternly ordered and Dean’s hazel eyes slowly rose to settle with apprehension onto John’s face. “Why did you let things escalate to the point of being dangerous? And why did you think it would be okay to break the rules for the sake of pulling some idiotic pranks on one another?”
Dean remained silent not wanting to admit the truth to his father even though he’d already admitted as much to himself. He could deal with his own disappointment. It was his dad’s that was hard to take. As usual, Dean let his mouth cover for his feelings.
“We were bored?” he hedged.
John’s jaw set in anger at his son’s inappropriate sarcasm. He shot Dean an icy glower.
“I’m counting to three, buddy-boy, and then you lose the right to explain yourself and we move on to the spanking, which will be one very painful affair, I promise you. One...”
“Okay!” Dean blurted in childish irritation. “Jeez, gimme a minute, will you?”
John let that one slide, but shot his oldest son another dark warning look. Dean sighed and then answered his father’s question, his tone and attitude now much more respectful.
“I shouldn’t have been so mean to the squirt, but I was mad. And I wanted to show Sammy up...I didn’t want him to win,” Dean whispered not able to look at his father. “And then when it, you know, got out of hand and all, I uh, I didn’t want you to find out because I knew we would...‘get it’...so I broke the rules and tried to cover it up and sorta lied.”
“And what have I told you about hitting your brother, Dean?” John demanded.
“Not to do it,” Dean stated flatly, recalling the oft repeated litany John had drilled into him. “I’m older and he’s little and I could hurt him if I hit him too hard. And we are supposed to settle our differences by talking it out instead of using our fists.”
Dean’s voice faded off as he squirmed on the couch embarrassed and uncomfortable. He flicked his gaze up to his father, eyes pleading.
“Can’t you just ground me and take away privileges or something?” Dean begged John. “C’mon dad, I’m thirteen! Please don’t spank me!”
John wanted to chuckle at his son’s request. It had been quite a while since he’d had to haul Dean over his knee for an application of hand to butt behavior modification. And he could see from the pained expression on Dean’s face that this instance was proving to be a rather harsh lesson in his jump from childhood to teenager. It was obvious to John that the embarrassment and humiliation factor was what concerned his eldest at the moment more than the ‘wow, this is going to hurt’ factor.
“I’m proud of you, son, for admitting to the truth just now, but that doesn’t excuse what you did,” John advised his son. “The very fact that you don’t want me to spank you tells me that it’s a rather appropriate punishment, don’t you think? You want to avoid getting your butt paddled in the future then I suggest you start acting in a more mature way than you have in the past forty-eight hours, kiddo.”
Dean made a face at that, silently cussing. He knew it had been only a slim chance of getting out of the spanking, but he had hoped that his earnest pleading would have softened his dad up a bit. No such luck.
John straightened up and patted his knee once. “Come here,” he simply ordered.
Dean let out a huge reluctant sigh but dutifully stood up and trudged the few steps over to his father. Without even being told, Dean reached up to the waistband of his pajama bottoms and pushed them down to his knees. He bent himself over John’s lap, head and legs dangling from either side in a position he was regrettably all too familiar with.
“This really sucks, dad,” Dean sullenly stated.
John smiled at that. “Yeah, it pretty much does, Dean, for the both of us,” John said as he reached over to yank down his son’s underwear baring the teen’s upturned backside. “Too bad you didn’t think of that before you decided to play Captain Avenger on your brother. A little healthy competition isn’t a bad thing, but when it becomes hurtful and when you do it for revenge, then I draw the line.”
Dean was about to offer his own enlightened opinion on that when his father’s hand cracked down on his butt causing him to lose his train of thought. He jumped as the fresh sting and warmth settled across his skin and then grimaced when several more smacks followed in quick succession. Man, he’d forgotten how much his dad’s spankings hurt! John applied about a dozen sharp swats to his son’s bared bottom, tightening his hold as Dean began to writhe around trying to avoid the blows.
“I’m sorry, honest!” Dean pleaded as he tried his best not to cry out from the intense heat beginning to bloom across his rear end. “I get it, dad! I messed up and I won’t do it again! I’ve learned my lesson!”
“I’ve no doubt you won’t make this same mistake again, Dean,” John wryly replied as he continued to wallop his son’s reddening bottom with militaristic efficiency. “But I think you’re more sorry for getting yourself into this position than for what you actually did. And as for lesson learned, I don’t think you’ve learned anything yet other than the fact that my hand can still blister your backside pretty good. You disagree with any of that?”
Dean let out a groan of despair. “I plead the fifth,” he hissed under his breath.
John applied a dozen more forceful swats to the under curve of Dean’s bottom and was rewarded with a genuine yelp of remorse from his son. He stopped a moment, resting his hand on his son’s lower back just above his glowing butt cheeks.
“Now, you want to tell me exactly what it is you’ve learned, son?” John inquired.
Dean let out a slow ragged breath before answering. It took all he had not to just start crying like a big baby at this point. Even so, he couldn’t fully keep the tears from his voice as he answered his father.
“I shouldn’t have teased Sammy so much, and ... I should have just let it go when he gave me the Oreos instead of trying to get back at him,” Dean quietly confessed. “And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to scare him on purpose like I did...that was pretty mean, and I’m really sorry for that. And for losing my temper and punching and kicking him too.”
“Anything else, Dean?” John prodded.
“Do I have to list everything?” Dean brashly shot back over his shoulder. “Jeez, dad, even criminals get to plea bargain.”
Dean yelled in alarm when John landed several particularly well placed swats, upping the intensity of the throbbing sting in his butt from dull roar to full on agony.
“You think this is funny, Dean?” John growled at his son. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“No sir,” Dean meekly replied deciding sarcasm was probably not the best way to go at this point.
“We’re almost done here, son,” John said as he resettled Dean on his lap raising his one knee to have better access to the teen’s thighs and under crease area. “This last is for thinking that lying was better than coming clean about what happened and for not knowing when to stow the smart-ass attitude.”
This isn’t going to be good, Dean worriedly thought, and then his dad proved him right by laying down a series of increasingly painful swats all along the crease between his bottom and thighs. If that wasn’t bad enough, his father then continued the caustic application of his calloused hand downwards to cover the upper part of Dean’s thighs, turning the flesh a dark angry pink. Dean began to sob, not only from the smarting ache in his rear, but also from a deep sense of shame at what he’d done to get himself spanked in the first place. His chest heaved as he finally let all his pent up emotions out for once. And once the floodgate had opened, there was no holding back.
John listened to his son’s penitent wails and began to ease up on the strength of the swats until he stopped all together. He brought his hand up to Dean’s back and slowly, gently began to rub, letting the boy cry because he knew that if he didn’t, Dean would just bottle it all back up inside again.
“It’s okay, Dean. Let it out, son,” John comforted as he continued to rub Dean’s back.
Dean’s sobbing ebbed off a bit after a few minutes and finally became little more than sporadic gasps and hiccups. John readjusted the teen’s clothing as gently as he could before helping Dean to stand back up. Dean quickly swiped at his tear stained face with the front of his shirt, ashamed that he’d blubbered so openly and freely. John caught his hand in one of his own and bent down to get his eyes level with Dean’s. He reached up to wipe a tear from the boy’s cheek.
“There’s no shame in crying, Dean,” John softly advised his son. “It’s part of being human and it shows me you’ve got a conscience.”
Dean gave a soft snort. “Yeah, well my conscience isn’t feeling so good right now,” he sadly retorted rubbing his tender backside and wincing.
John let a brief smile play over his lips. “You paid for your mistake, son, and it’s over now. I forgive you, and I’m sure Sammy will too. So now, you need to forgive yourself.”
Dean’s head rose and he looked at his father searching the older man’s face. “How can you forgive me after I let you down?”
John’s face grew serious as he addressed Dean. “No matter what you do, son, I will always forgive you. And you may disappoint and aggravate the hell out of me from time to time, but I want you to know that above all, when everything’s said and done, I am extremely proud of you.”
John reached up a warm gentle hand to cup his son’s neck just below his jaw line. His voice was rough with emotion. “You’re my child, Dean, and I love you, beyond all time and measure. Nothing you do will ever change that.”
Dean’s jaw trembled and he choked back the tears that were trying to escape from him. “Thanks, dad,” he was able to gasp out and then John enveloped him in another heartfelt hug.
“Dad?” Dean’s muffled voice came from John’s shirtfront.
“Yeah, kiddo?” John affectionately answered back.
“Can we stop with the chick-hug thing now?”
Chuckling, John let go of his oldest son, giving the boy a wry grin. “A little too much estrogen for you, son?” he joked.
“Way too much, dad,” Dean wisecracked as he grinned back at John. “I was starting to feel like I needed a manicure and a new pair of pumps.”
John rolled his eyes at that, and then stood up putting a manly arm about Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon smart-ass, it’s time you were in bed,” John said.
He led his son down the hall and to the bedroom door. Opening it, John pushed his son in front of him, raising a finger to his lips warning Dean not to wake up Sam as they passed by the child’s bed. John pulled back the covers on Dean’s bed and Dean gingerly slid in trying his best to keep his sore butt from touching the mattress. Once settled, John covered him with the blankets, and before Dean could object, John bent down and planted a kiss onto his son’s forehead.
“Get some sleep, Dean,” John softly ordered.
John closed the door behind him as he left the bedroom but didn’t shut it all the way. He wanted to be able to hear the boys from the couch where he was planning to lay down and go comatose from exhaustion. He turned to start down the hall but stopped when he heard Sam’s voice. John came back to the door and listened at the crack a moment.
“Dean? You awake?” Sam loudly whispered across the way. “Dean, I gotta tell you something.”
Dean groaned but rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.
“What?” he tiredly questioned. “I’m kinda wanting to fall asleep as fast as possible here so I can forget about how bad my butt hurts. So, what’s so urgent, Sammy?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, Dean,” Sam apologized, his big puppy dog eyes fixed on his brother. “And I’m sorry I put toothpaste in your Oreos and stuck shaving cream in your bed and wrote on you with ink. I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, okay? I want us to be friends again.”
Dean felt like a complete jerk for acting so irritated a moment ago. “Hey, I’m really sorry I was so mean to you too, Sammy,” Dean whispered back. “I didn’t mean all that stuff I said and did, okay? And those pranks you pulled? They were pretty good ones, dude.”
Sam smiled to himself. It wasn’t often he earned his brother’s direct praise. Dean continued, his tone taking on a painful sincerity that Sam had rarely heard.
“Look, I just want you to know, Sammy...that you don’t have to worry about stuff, you know?” Dean frowned not sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I mean if that clown doll had been real, I would never have let it get you, dude. You know that, right?”
“You wouldn’t?” Sam carefully questioned his brother.
“No, Sam. I’d never let anything hurt you, ever. Not even if I was pissed off beyond at you.”
Sam thought about that for a moment and then said, “Cause dad told you to watch out for me?”
“Not just that, Sammy,” Dean felt a lump form in this throat and he swallowed hard. “Look, you might be the biggest pain in the ass ever…but you’re my kid brother, you know? It’s my job to protect you and keep you safe…always.”
Sam smiled, his throbbing rear temporarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of Dean’s brotherly reassurance. Thinking of the .45 his father had entrusted him with earlier, Sam said, “I’m gonna protect you too, Dean, okay?”
Dean chuckled. “Sure Sammy, you do that. Hey, together, there’s not a chupacabra or clown that can touch us. Cause we Winchesters are bad-ass hunters, right?”
“Right!” Sam chirped grinning and then yawned deeply. “G’night Dean.”
“Night Sammy,” Dean softly replied as he settled once more onto his stomach, flinching a little as the rough sheets and blanket pulled across his tenderized bottom.
John stood just outside the bedroom door out of sight but within earshot of his boys, tears in his eyes and his pride swelling as he listened to the conversation in the other room. As much as Dean and Sam fought, teased and harassed one another, nothing would ever break the bond of brotherhood and love they held for one another. That tie was their strength. And that was a comforting thought to the hunter as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of the motel room.
…………………………………
The following morning as an act of faith and to show Sam he really meant what he had said, Dean took the clown doll from the kitchen garbage bin where his dad had stuffed it and carried it outside with Sam trailing a respectable distance behind. John was busy loading the Impala with their belongings and so didn’t notice what the boys were doing. He had figured it would be a good time to skip out of Phoenix and avoid having to answer any questions about the gunfire and trashed mirror and lamp in the motel room.
Dean went around to the back of the building where the motel property ended and the undeveloped desert began. He dropped Creepy the Clown onto the arid ground and held out his hand toward Sam. Sam handed the canister of salt over and watched as Dean liberally sprinkled the white stuff all over the doll and then set the salt down beside him on the ground. He looked to Sam again, and the younger boy then gave Dean a little can of lighter fluid and stood back while Dean doused the clown with the flammable substance and then set the can down next to the salt. Dean then produced a box of wooden matches from his jeans pocket and solemnly handed them over to Sam.
“This is your kill, Sammy,” Dean asserted with an undertone of deference. “You earned it.”
Sam grabbed a match from the box, lit it and held it for a moment staring down with animosity at the doll. With a grunt of satisfaction, he flicked the match out of his hand and it fell and hit the doll’s chest igniting the fabric with a soft whump. Both boys watched the clown doll as it burned, its grinning face beginning to melt into a hideous whorl of paint and plastic. The doll began to laugh right then, the sound coming out wheezy and shrill as the fire scorched and consumed the wiring of the mechanism inside its smoking body.
“Oookaay, that’s just creepy. Let’s get out of here,” Dean blurted and Sam agreed.
They raced back to the Impala just as John finished loading it and slammed shut the trunk.
“Ready to go, boys?” he asked them, giving them a fatherly smile.
Dean glanced apprehensively back over his shoulder towards the motel then quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, dad. I am so ready to blow this popstand.”
Before Dean could head around to the passenger side of the car, Sam piped up. “I call shotgun!”
Dean stopped, pissed. He was about to shoot his brother a nasty retort, when he caught his dad’s look and decided to withhold the smart aleck comment he had ready.
“Sure, Sammy, you take shotgun,” Dean reluctantly agreed and was rewarded with a nod and a smile of approval from John.
Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, watching with amusement as Sam winced and shifted uncomfortably on the front seat trying to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his still sore butt. Maybe, the backseat wasn’t so bad a choice after all, Dean reasoned. He climbed in and stretched out on his side as his father gunned the engine of the muscle car putting it in reverse. Dean closed his eyes, relaxing into the rumbling rhythm of the car as John flipped on the radio to a Metallica tune and turned out onto the main road in front of the Budget Motel and headed north.
“Wake me when we get to Santa Fe,” Dean called lazily from the back seat and then laid his head back onto John’s rolled up jacket and promptly went to sleep.
NOW – PRESENT DAY
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
“Sam, are you even listening?” Dean snapped in irritation as he tore his gaze from the road to glare at his brother.
“Hmm? What?” Sam blinked and turned from the minivan’s window giving his brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
Dean’s brow creased. “What?”
Sam squirmed and gave a short embarrassed laugh. “Ah nothing.” He paused giving a half-hearted shrug. “Just that stupid clown doll. Remember? Back when we were kids?”
Dean’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he chuckled at the memory. “You talking about Creepy the Clown? Dude! That was one serious fucked up doll!” Dean peered over at Sam from the corner of his eye and grinned when he caught his younger brother wincing. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Still shake in your boots when you hear that name?”
Sam fumed at that. “Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” he sullenly retorted giving Dean a derisive look.
Dean glowered back at Sam in amazement. “Planes crash!” he hotly countered.
Not to be outdone, Sam shot back smugly, “And apparently clowns kill!”
Both men stared out the bug-spattered windshield of the borrowed minivan in silence as the miles ticked by neither wanting to admit that there were just some things in life that tended to scare the living crap out of you.
THE END
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
Dean Winchester concentrated on the quiet country road before him, his hands casually gripping the unfamiliar steering wheel of the beat up minivan he was driving as he sped it along through the chill Wisconsin evening. It still griped him royally that Bobby hadn’t had any other vehicle to offer them as a loaner other than this p.o.s. A minivan! Jeez, it wasn’t bad enough he’d lost his father and his own beloved Chevy Impala only a week ago to a freaking demon driving a big rig, but now he was relegated to motoring around in a soccer mom’s castoff hunting down killer clowns. Maybe Sam was right, he thought to himself. Maybe this family was cursed...
Dean angrily shoved the memory of what had happened a week ago out of his mind for the hundredth time, burying it down deep in his subconscious. He instead tried to focus on his brother’s voice as Sam went over the details of their latest job. The older hunter shifted his gaze from the darkened road a moment to glance at his younger brother who sat in the passenger seat his nose still buried in the folder of clippings Ellen had given them at the Roadhouse.
“So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carnie in a clown suit?” he asked Sam.
Sam paused in his reading, looking up and over at Dean. “Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop - alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”
For some odd reason an image from their childhood leapt into Dean’s mind and he smirked. He just couldn’t help himself and he turned to Sam offering the younger hunter an apologetic smile.
“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam,” Dean said grinning wider feeding off of Sam’s innocent look of confusion. “Why did it have to be clowns?”
“Oh give me a break!” Sam said in disgust and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe Dean was going to bring that up after all these years.
Dean chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s unease. “You didn't think I'd remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television.”
Sam couldn’t even remember how it all had started. It was most likely something Dean had said or done that had pissed him off. Hell, he’d been only nine years old at the time, and it didn’t take much teasing from Dean to get Sam riled enough to want to fight back. Whatever it was, it had led to the stupid thing with the Oreos which had then escalated to one of the biggest prank wars the two of them had ever had. And needless to say, Sam recalled, it had had all ended rather scarily for the both of them. Sam stared out the window of the minivan a moment and cringed inwardly, remembering back to that miserable long weekend in Arizona...
THEN
Location: Spring 1992. Phoenix, Arizona. Budget Lodge off I-17.
Nine-year-old Sam Winchester smiled to himself as he pawed through the paper grocery sack his father had just set down on the scarred formica table of the little kitchenette in their motel room. He pushed aside the cans of beef-a-roni and spaghettios eagerly reaching down deeper to grab the cellophane package of Oreos near the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the cookies in triumph and knelt on the kitchen chair just staring at them, unable to keep the grin off his chubby face.
“Hey, put those back,” John Winchester nodded to the Oreo package in Sam’s hands, giving his son a look of fatherly reproach. “No cookies until after dinner, kiddo.”
Sam nodded and carefully laid the package down on the table. “I wasn’t gonna have any, Dad,” he said, his eyes refusing to leave the blue and white label on the cookies. “I just wanted to make sure you got ‘em.”
John smiled at his youngest son. It wasn’t often he could actually buy things for his kids when they asked for them. Begged for them, actually was more like it. Their nomadic life just didn’t allow room for things like slip-n-slides, hot wheels track sets or Star Wars action figures. Whatever they owned had to fit into duffel bags and a few cardboard boxes. Most of the time, his boys took it in stride, but John knew it had to be hard. He could see it on their faces whenever a commercial came on for a new toy and their eyes lit up for a brief moment before realization set in that it wasn’t something they’d ever get to play with. So, when Sam or Dean specifically asked for something as simple as Oreo cookies, John did his best to honor the request. He set down the other bag of groceries next to the first one and reached over to ruffle Sam’s thick unruly hair. Kid would be needing a haircut soon.
“I thought Dean was the chocolate fiend around here, Sammy,” John said. “I’m sort of surprised you asked for these.”
Sam shrugged, innocent green eyes lifted up to meet his father’s. “I like these ones ‘cause you can dunk them and they get all squishy.”
John chuckled, his face softening. “Yeah, they are pretty fun to eat, aren’t they?” He paused looking around the room and out past the doorway to the tiny living room area, a kernel of apprehension blooming in his gut. “Where’s your brother?”
They both heard a flush and then the bathroom door opened from across the way. John relaxed feeling somewhat foolish as his thirteen-year-old son ambled out of the bathroom zipping up his scuffed jeans as he walked. Dean’s eyes lit up when they spotted John.
“Hey, Dad, you’re back,” Dean grinned and hurried into the kitchenette area giving his dad a smile and his little brother a playful smack to the back of his head. “How’s it going there, Samantha,” Dean teased as he passed by the boy.
“Quit it!” Sam said.
He frowned at Dean then glanced to his dad to see if he’d get any back up from the man. No luck. John was busy folding up the paper bags and stuffing them in the trashcan by the fridge.
“Samaaannnttthhaaa,” Dean drawled with glee.
“Stop calling me that, Dean!” Sam tried to sound tough but his nine-year old voice came out too high pitched to be menacing.
“Hey, I can’t help it if you look like a chick…and sound like one,” Dean shot back.
He eyed the cookies sitting next to Sam’s elbow and leaned across the table to grab the package but Sam quickly hunched over it giving his older brother a determined scowl. Dean scowled back, reaching once more for the cookies a threatening glint in his eye.
“Hand ‘em over, Sammy,” Dean growled. “You don’t even like Oreos anyway.”
Sam shook his head not willing to comply with someone who had just insinuated that he was a girl. Dean, growing frustrated, shot out a hand again to snatch them away when he heard his father directly behind him.
“Let him have the cookies, Dean,” John warned his oldest child.
Dean huffed at that but dutifully pulled his hand back from across the table. Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean, who then decided his brother needed another smack to the head. But John stepped in front of his oldest son, blocking him. He offered the teenager a raised brow, daring him to push his luck, but Dean knew better. He backed away from the table trying to appear uncaring as he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave Sam a scornful look.
“Fine, crybaby. Have them,” Dean groused. “You don’t even like them.”
John shook his head in tired disbelief, running a hand through his hair. The two of them were about wearing him out lately. He didn’t know if it was Dean’s becoming a teenager a few months back or if the two were just overly restless these days, but they had been bickering and getting on one another’s nerves more than usual it seemed.
“Dean, cut your brother some slack, all right?” John said in irritation and then addressed his youngest who still had his arms wrapped protectively around the package of cookies. “And Sammy, you’re not eating all of those by yourself. You share them with Dean.”
John saw the pout coming on before it happened. Sam’s bottom lip jutted out, his brows furrowing in stubborn defiance as he stared down at the cookies on the table.
“They’re my cookies. I asked for them,” Sam sullenly stated.
John had had enough. He slowly leaned over the table, getting his eyes level with his son’s. “You will share those with your brother or you won’t be getting any at all. You understand me, Samuel?”
The pout wavered at the sound of his father’s stern voice. John held out his hand keeping his dark eyes on Sam. Sam hesitated for only a fraction of second before reluctantly handing the package over with a loud put upon sigh. Relieved that he had headed a tantrum off at the pass, John took the Oreos and walked over to the counter, plunking them down by the sink and turned to face Sam and Dean who were now making faces at one another.
“Knock it off you two!” John barked and the boys immediately straightened up and were all ears. “I’m going to be out for the next three days, boys.” John fixed his countenance on Dean. “I expect you to take care of things around here while I’m gone, Dean. That means you watch out for your brother, and you follow the rules I’ve given you.”
Dean nodded, looking about as bored as he possibly could without actually giving his dad an eye roll because that would just get him into trouble. “Yes sir, I know the drill.”
“Make sure you do,” John shot back, his tone letting Dean know he wasn’t pleased with his attitude. “Sammy, you listen to Dean.”
“Do I have to?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?” John said and Sam shrunk down in his chair, immediately regretting his words. “You want to try again, son?”
“I mean, yessir,” Sam quietly said looking down at the tabletop.
John kept his eyes on Sam a moment longer but the boy wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Dean, you and Sam put the rest of the groceries away while I get ready,” John ordered.
The boys immediately set about collecting the cans and packages from the table while John went into the small bedroom to grab the duffel of weapons and his research journal. He had taken off in the Impala not long after that. He had hugged his sons and made them recite one more time the familiar litany of rules to follow while he was gone on a hunt: don’t answer the door; don’t answer the phone unless it rings just once; keep doors and windows locked; salt the doorway and the window sills for the night; keep the loaded shotgun nearby; watch out for one another, and no fighting.
After a dinner of macaroni and cheese, Dean had stretched out on the couch, eyes glazed as he watched TV. His dad had only been gone for four hours and he was already bored out of his mind. It sucked every time. Every single freaking motel was the same. Same bland putty-colored walls, same ugly shag carpeting, same cheap television set with crappy reception. He sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that their life wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
He muted the sound on the TV and cocked an ear toward the bedroom down the little hallway. He could hear Sam in there talking to himself and he smiled. The kid was actually talking to his toy soldiers, Dean knew. The little green plastic men had been his at one time, but Dean had outgrown them at thirteen and now they were Sam’s. He’d ordered Sam to play in the other room after the two had almost come to blows over the TV remote earlier. Sam had wanted to watch some dumb cartoon and Dean preferred to watch Quantum Leap. Being older and bigger, it was no contest as to who won the argument. Sam had stomped off to the bedroom calling Dean names over his shoulder.
Dean had free reign of the TV remote after that. He looked up from the glow of the set when Sam wandered out of the bedroom awhile later. The younger boy totally ignored Dean as he slowly walked across the room towards the kitchen area, stopping deliberately in front of the TV screen. Sam leaned up against the set, making sure he blocked the screen from view. Dean just rolled his eyes and sat up.
“It’s on a commercial, you dork,” he said pointing to the set. “Like I care if you block it now.” Dean hopped off the couch and headed for the bathroom, calling back to Sam over his shoulder. “I’m just going to pee. No changing the channel because I’m coming back.”
Sam waited until his brother had shut the bathroom door and then he raced to the kitchen and quickly grabbed the Oreos off the counter where his dad had set them. He tore open the package, grabbing a handful of cookies out and then snatched a plate from the drying rack next to the sink. Peeking around the archway, Sam made sure Dean was still in the bathroom and then he hurried into the bedroom across the way and quietly shut the door.
Dean was in for a big surprise, Sam thought. He dropped the cookies and plate onto the bed and then crawled on hands and knees over to one of the duffel bags sitting on the floor. Sam unzipped the one nearest him and rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. He grinned as he pulled the tube of toothpaste out and carried it over the bed.
Jumping up onto the bed, Sam dropped the tube onto the pillow, turning his attention to the cookies. He picked one up and fussed with it a moment carefully twisting the two chocolate halves apart. With a quick glance to the door to make sure it was shut tightly, Sam raised one of the cookie halves to his mouth and scraped the white crème filling off of it with his teeth, savoring the sugary delicacy. He repeated this action with the other half until both were clean. Then, Sam reached over and picked up the toothpaste and popped off the cap. He aimed the tube and squirted a quarter-sized dollop of the minty paste onto one of the cookie halves he’d just licked clean. Satisfied that it was enough, he placed the other half of the cookie back and gently pressed them together careful not to break the cookie. Finished, Sam set the fake Oreo onto the plate and picked up another one from the coverlet. He grinned smugly, pleased with his work. This would show Dean what he got for being a butt-head while Dad was away.
Dean was a bit surprised when Sam had come to him with the peace offering of Oreos. His little brother usually wasn’t one for giving in when the two of them fought, but hey, Dean thought, as he reached for a cookie, why look a gift horse in the mouth? He had actually eaten two of the nasty things before Sam’s giggling and his own taste buds had finally registered that something wasn’t quite right.
“Sammy, what’d you do?” Dean demanded around a mouthful of cookie.
His face screwed up in repulsion as the chalky mint aftertaste of the toothpaste hit him and his eyes widened in shock. Sam just about fell off the couch in fits of laughter, his hands clutching his sides as he watched Dean quickly bend over and spit the remainder of the cookie back onto the plate, scrubbing at his tongue with his hand.
“Real funny, jerkwad!” Dean snapped as he got up and stalked over to the kitchen.
He filled a glass full of water and chugged it rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. He watched the foamy white crème and freckles of chocolate as they splashed against the stainless steel of the sink and felt his face burn red with anger. Toothpaste! The little shit had put toothpaste in the frigging Oreos!
“You are so dead, dude,” Dean hissed as he whirled around, making a grab for Sam’s shirt.
Sam, who had followed Dean into the kitchen to gloat further, jumped back still snorting and took off for the bedroom with Dean in hot pursuit. Dean banged into the archway coming out of the kitchen thereby losing the chance to overtake his brother. He made it to the bedroom just as the door slammed shut with a resonant bang in his face. Dean tried the knob, giving the worn brass a rough shake but knew Sam had already locked the door. He slapped the painted wood in front of him once hard.
“Laugh it up, Sammy,” Dean yelled through the door. “Because it is so on right now! You won’t know when, and you won’t know where, but your are toast, dude!”
Clowning Around (Supernatural Fanfic) Part 2 of ?
By Minx
Fandom: This takes place during the “Everyone Loves a Clown” episode of Season 2. Anyone else ever wonder where Sam developed his clown phobia from?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. They are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Any characters in this story are used simply for entertainment purposes, and I am not making any money from these stories.
Warning: Contains swearing and spanking of children
And that was how the whole ugly thing had started, Sam had painfully reflected later. Dean, even at the tender age of thirteen, was no slouch in the art of combat, be it against a demonic revenant or a bratty little brother. He therefore wasted no time in retaliating for the tainted cookies by hiding an unwrapped Jolly Rancher candy in the shower head before Sam got up the next morning. Dean had ordered Sam to the bathroom upon rising to take a shower, knowing that the steam and heat of the hot water would melt the candy and cover Sam in a clear sticky sheen.
Looking back, Sam realized he should have expected an immediate reprisal from Dean. He was like Dad – he hated to lose at anything, and letting Sam one up him in the practical joke department just wasn’t going to happen. But to be fair, Sam had methodically inspected the small bathroom, checking the cabinet under the sink and even making sure there wasn’t any plastic wrap or anything on the toilet. Yeah, it was stupid not to have checked the shower head, but hey, Sam reasoned, he had been only nine. And at nine, you didn’t always cover all the bases. He hadn’t even been aware that anything was amiss until later when he was clothed and the warmth of his body had reactivated the sugary residue.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, not for the first time that day, as he watched Sam pick at his usually baggy t-shirt once again in obvious irritation as it persistently clung to his skin. To Dean, this was way more fun than staring at the television all day or yawning through the boring textbooks his father had left for them to study. If he couldn’t go out on the hunt with his dad, which is what he’d have preferred hands down, then why not torment his brother for a laugh instead? To Dean it was just another form of brotherly comraderie, and as long as their father didn’t catch wind of it, he didn’t mind the silly competition.
“You okay there, buddy?” Dean asked Sam as they trudged back from the lobby of the motel where they had gone to get some sodas from the machine.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, hesitation in his young voice. He swatted at another fly as it attempted to land on his arm, cursing softly under his breath. “Man, what is with all these flies, Dean? It’s supposed to be a desert out here. There aren’t supposed to be this many flies!”
Dean had to look away a moment as he stifled a laugh. He breathed deeply, eyes crinkled in amusement as he absentmindedly scanned the half-empty parking lot of the motel, forcing himself to keep a straight face. Man, he should be getting an Oscar for this performance! Composing himself as best he could, Dean offered his younger brother a sincere shrug as the two kept walking along side by side.
“Gee, I don’t know Sammy. Maybe you just smell good to them or something,” he blurted and then bit his cheek again.
Sam scowled and brushed another fly from his hair. He continued walking but had to pause every few strides to squirm and pick his underwear from his crack. For some reason they kept sticking to him and riding up. Hearing a strangled snort escape from Dean’s lips, Sam quickly glanced over at his brother from underneath a thick fringe of lashes, his hackles rising. No. He couldn’t have...
The younger Winchester boy slowed his pace, letting Dean get ahead of him by a few steps and then Sam stopped dead in his tracks, a deep crease of suspicion forming between his brows. He studied the retinue of flies buzzing around him – just him. They weren’t bothering Dean at all. Then he looked down at his shirt that was once again glued to his chest and his back. Dean had kept walking but now stopped and turned around to check on what was holding up Sam. Seeing his brother standing on the curb looking for all intents and purposes like a human dumpster with all the flies circling was too much and Dean finally burst out laughing.
“Dean!” Sam roared and looked at the older boy in a mixture of fury and chagrin as realization sunk in.
“Dude, you should see yourself!” Dean bent over, convulsing with laughter. “Oh man, I wish I had a camera. This is priceless.” He shook his head, eyeing Sam as if he were the biggest retard ever. “I can’t believe you fell for the candy in the shower head, Sammy. So, how’s it feel to be walking around all day like a sugar-coated princess?”
Dean ducked as Sam’s soda can went whizzing by his head.
“You big donkey dick!” Sam shouted his fists clenching.
Dean saw Sam’s nostrils flare in rage and he wasted no time in high tailing it back to the room. Sam had chased Dean all the way almost catching up to him, but the running had made him sweat which only activated the sugar worse. By the time Sam had made it into the motel room, his clothing was plastered stickily against his skin and his butt cheeks felt as if they were glued together. He glared at Dean as he began to peel off his t-shirt, heading for the bathroom.
“You wait until I tell Dad, Dean!” Sam said, angrily throwing his shirt at his brother.
Dean easily side stepped the missile and quirked his brows at Sam while folding his arms across his chest. “Go ahead, smart ass – tell Dad. And then I’ll tell him what you did with the Oreos.”
A look of apprehension passed over Sam’s chubby face. Maybe telling Dad wasn’t such a good idea. In fact, it was a pretty crummy idea, he decided because the only outcome of their dad finding out that his sons were indeed fighting after he’d told them to behave was that he and Dean would end up with a couple of very sore butts.
“Fine,” Sam reluctantly humphed, refusing to look his brother in the eye.
Dean relaxed and waited until Sam finally gazed up at him. He caught the liquid glint of anger lingering in Sam’s eyes and decided to be the bigger man and attempt peace before things got out of hand.
“We even then?” he solemnly questioned the younger boy.
Sam let out a big pouty sigh, thinking a moment and then nodded sullenly. “Even.”
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He was furious at Dean and wanted desperately to get the boy into trouble just to get back at him. Never mind that he had agreed to a truce not seconds ago. And forget that it was in fact he himself that had actually started the whole thing in the first place with the Oreos. Dean may be the oldest, Sam reasoned, but he wasn’t necessarily the smartest. And that meant that Sam had a chance at winning this time.
He pulled his jeans, underwear and socks off his body, dropping the sugar-coated clothes onto the floor and reached into the tub to turn on the faucet, but he stopped before his hand touched the handle. He slowly craned his neck up, flicking his gaze to the now infamous shower head. Sam stepped up onto the narrow rim of the tub and grabbed hold of the old curtain rod for balance while with the other hand he reached up and unscrewed the shower head bringing it down to peer inside. Dean had either removed the candy or it had completely melted when he had showered earlier. Either way, the boy wasn’t taking any chances. He hopped down from his perch and set the metal head into the sink planning to thoroughly clean it out with some shampoo later. In the meantime, Sam decided it might be safer to take a bath. Dean heard the tub faucet come on full force and plunked down onto the faded plaid couch in the other room, still chortling over his brilliant ploy.
As he soaped himself, Sam’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the nondescript bathroom before settling on the little plastic shelf above the sink. His head tilted to the side as he stared at his father’s can of shaving cream sitting there. The hint of a wicked smile formed on the boy’s lips. He looked to the door of the bathroom and the smile split into a nasty grin.
“Screw being even,” Sam mumbled as he hurried to finish washing. A plan was already forming. There was no turning back now.
Dean was in the kitchen heating up some beef-a-roni when he heard Sam coming out of the steamy bathroom.
“All squeaky clean, Sam?” Dean called over his shoulder, grinning.
Sam ignored the jibe as he made his way to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dirty clothes piled in his arms. The younger boy toed the bedroom door shut and dumped his clothing on the floor by his duffel bag, but kept hold of the can of shaving cream he’d hidden underneath them. He wandered over to his brother’s bed situated near the window and stood there a moment, can in hand, smiling, before he got down to work.
Dinner was subdued, yet ripe with tension. Both boys were exhausted from being on guard and having their defenses up the entire day. And even though both had agreed to end the prank battle, Dean warily checked his chair for tacks or anything else his brother might have done to it and then ducked underneath the table to make sure there were no surprises there either.
Sam for his part refused to accept the bowl of beef-a-roni Dean offered him, insisting he had done something to the food until with a sigh of irritation, Dean had grabbed up a spoon and shoveled half the bowl into his own mouth to prove it was okay. Sam sheepishly filled a second bowl from the soup pan on the little stove and brought it back to the table, giving his chair a firm shake first before sitting down to eat.
After dinner, Dean suggested they call it an early night and for once, Sam didn’t balk. They did the dishes in silence before wearily stumbling to the bedroom. Sam shucked off his jeans and quickly pulled on a clean pair of pajama bottoms while Dean double-checked the window locks and salt line he’d lain down earlier. The older boy yawned as he stripped down and got into his own pajamas eager to get some sleep and put the day’s escapades behind him. His hazel eyes settled for a moment on Sam’s small form now huddled underneath the shabby blankets of his bed and he felt a twinge of guilt pass over him. His father had left him in charge and he was supposed to be watching out for Sam, not causing the kid more grief.
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered under his breath.
He straightened up feeling a sense of manly pride at being able to forgive and forget. That feeling lasted only until Dean tried to slide into his bed and found himself brought up short, his legs not able to unfold due to the sheet stopping him. Dean’s brows knit together in confusion as he tried once again to straighten his legs out but couldn’t. What the hell? He threw the covers off in growing frustration, suspicion now burgeoning in his mind. Dean reached across the bed to flick on the bedside lamp whereupon he caught sight of Sam shaking with silent laughter in the bed across from him, thereby confirming what he already knew. Dean jumped out of the bed and pulled the sheets all the way back to reveal that the top sheet was indeed folded in half on itself.
“Lame, Sam, totally lame,” Dean admonished his brother as the boy sat up in his bed a smug grin plastered on his young face.
Dean grabbed the folded up sheet and yanked it off the bed, snapping it out to its full size. He replaced it, tucking it back onto the bed and shook his sandy blonde head in mock disappointment.
“You can’t come up with something better than a cheesy Girl Scout prank? Dude, you don’t even qualify as a Winchester,” Dean scoffed.
The sheets now back to normal, Dean snapped off the light and crawled into bed, feeling pretty superior for showing Sam up on his latest attempt at getting even. Kid was a total amateur, he thought as he relaxed and reached up for his pillow to hug it to him. That was when he found the shaving cream. A whole freaking mess of shaving cream that had been left underneath his pillow. Dean swore as he yanked his hands back and then squinted from the glare of the lamp when Sam flicked it back on. He twisted around to see Sam shooting him a triumphant finger from across the way.
“You suck, Sammy,” Dean said giving his brother a dark look.
He looked down at his hands and arms in mounting displeasure. They were literally coated in shaving cream, the foamy white stuff dripping from his elbows down onto the bed and his pajama bottoms. Sam continued to cackle in glee until Dean snatched his pillow up and launched it at Sam’s head. It missed and landed with a wet plop against the dresser, leaving a smear of foam against the front of it.
“You are so cleaning this all up in the morning,” Dean heatedly stated, ready to clobber his brat of a brother.
He scraped as much of the shaving cream off his sheets as he could and deposited the mess into the garbage can by the door, then retrieved his pillow from the floor. With a sadistic glower, he wiped his hands and the sodden case off on Sam’s duffel bag and then chucked the pillow back onto his bed with an annoyed toss.
“Scoot over, geek boy,” Dean ordered his brother as he kneed him in the back while climbing into the other’s bed next to him. “You got company tonight since you messed up my bed.”
“So,” Sam cheerfully replied as he made room for Dean, “What was that about not qualifying as a Winchester?”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbled as he turned, putting his back to his brother and reached out to snap off the lamp. “Go to sleep, Sam, or I’ll let the chupacabra get you.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam shot back, his voice full of derision. He was silent for a moment in the darkness, thinking. “Dean?” Sam softly whimpered.
No answer.
“You won’t really let the chupacabber get me, will you?”
Still no answer.
“Dean?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dean woke up the next morning in a tangle of motel sheets with something digging uncomfortably into his spine. It turned out to be Sam. The younger child was pressed tightly against Dean’s back, one arm clamped in a death grip about his midsection. Dean shifted slightly on the mattress, trying to remove Sam’s knobby knees from where they pressed into his kidneys but the kid was like a stubborn tick and refused to budge.
“Get off me, Sammy,” Dean complained. He reached behind him in mild annoyance and elbowed his brother in the chest, pushing so that there was finally some distance between the two of them in the narrow bed. “Jeez, what’s with the girly ‘hold me’ crap?”
With a whiny moan, Sam reluctantly released his grip on Dean and slowly sat up in the bed, yawning and rubbing his sleep crusted eyes, still not fully awake.
A moment of panic swept over him as visions of a chupacabra jumped into his conscience. His dreams had been full of the fiendish monster and it had been nearly impossible to fall asleep last night until he’d crawled up close in the bed to his big brother and clamped a chubby arm around Dean’s middle as if to anchor himself to reality and away from the nightmares. Sam’s eyes popped all the way open when he felt Dean roll and move to the edge of the bed they had shared.
“Dean?” Sam called after his brother, his voice tentative.
“Yeah?” Dean tiredly answered over his shoulder. He was surveying the mess left from the shaving cream and groaning inwardly. This would all have to be cleaned up before their father got back.
“Dean, there wasn’t really a chupacabber, was there?”
A puzzled frown replaced the sleepy grimace on Dean’s face. “A what? What’re you talking about Sam?”
Sam elaborated, his tone slightly truculent. “Last night…you said the chupercabber was gonna get me, but there wasn’t really one, was there?”
Dean had to think a second before remembering the hasty threat he’d made to his little brother right before falling asleep last night. He gave a mild snort of amusement, half impressed with himself that his intimidation tactic had actually worked.
“It’s choo-pah-cah-bra, not chupercabber, genius. And no, there wasn’t one. I was just pissed at you for ambushing me last night,” Dean replied with a yawn.
“Oh.” Sam said quietly.
A long pause ensued during which Dean stretched, raising his arms high overhead to help unkink the long muscles of his back. Sleeping bunched up with Sam in a sagging twin bed had not been very comfortable to say the least.
So, you made it all up?” Sam pressed him for confirmation.
Dean shrugged. “Well there actually are chupacabras. Dad’s even bagged one before.”
The teen grinned, remembering ‘Uncle’ Bobby telling him the story about his dad’s adventure, embellishing on the details to make it gorier and more exciting. John had not been too thrilled about that and had told Bobby to lay off the Jack Daniels and stick to the normal bedtime stories next time. Dean noticed Sam had grown silent and he twisted around on the bed observing the fear blooming once again on his brother’s face at the news that the creature was indeed real. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he tried to ease Sam’s worry.
“Hey, no, Sammy, there wasn’t one last night. No chupacabras at the Budget Lodge in Phoenix, okay?” Dean watched the alarm in Sam’s eyes turn to hesitation and then finally to a reluctant acceptance. “It was a joke, dude. Man, you’re not gonna wet the bed, are you?” Dean couldn’t help teasing.
Sam glowered at Dean and smacked him in the middle of his back. “You wet the bed, jerk!” he said, reaching out to smack Dean again, but the older boy jumped off the bed and Sam’s hand caught only air.
“That’ll teach you to go back on a truce, Francis,” Dean laughed heading for the door to the bedroom.
“You’re not going to tell Dad, are you?” Sam questioned, anxiety creeping into his voice.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Do I look stupid to you?” Then just as quickly he added with a pointed finger, “Don’t even, Sammy…”
Sam shut his mouth biting back the “yes” that was on his lips. But, Dean, being Dean couldn’t let the unspoken wisecrack just hang there. He pointed at his bed, leveling a commanding look at Sam.
“Start stripping my bed down while I go make breakfast, and grab your clothes from yesterday too,” Dean ordered Sam. “We’re going to have to wash all that stuff before dad gets back tomorrow because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna try to explain to him why my sheets have Gillette Foamy shaving cream all over them or why your clothes smell like you’ve been playing in a candy factory for a month.”
Dean sauntered out of the room, but returned a moment later ducking his head into the doorway, a smirk of superiority plastered onto his face. “By the way? My chupacabra story counts in scoring, so that still makes us tied at two apiece – no win for you. Nice try though, Samantha.”
Dean disappeared as quickly as he’d shown up and Sam blew out his cheeks in exasperation, shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t fair. Dean always seemed to have the advantage. He could swim better, shoot more bulls-eyes, run faster, and even seemed to understand their father and his obsession with demon hunting better. When was it going to be his turn to be better, he silently wondered.
After breakfast, Dean was still feeling a little tired, so he decided to wait on doing the laundry until the afternoon. Lucky for them, there was a laundromat just down the block and across the street from the motel. Dean remembered seeing it when he and Sam had gone to the main motel office for sodas yesterday.
John had strict rules about the boys staying inside the room whenever he was out on a hunt, and had made it pretty clear to the both of them what the penalty for wandering about would be. It was important that he knew the boys were safe and secure while he was on a hunt because having to constantly worry whether or not they were could put his own life in danger. He had to have their trust so that he could concentrate fully on the job at hand.
Dean understood this and being the good soldier that he was, he didn’t think twice about keeping to the rules within limits. To him, walking a few feet down to the motel lobby in the middle of the day for a soda was one thing, but actually leaving the premises all together for a few hours was something he normally wouldn’t even have considered. Especially, not after the shtriga incident a few years back. He shuddered, remembering. This time though was different in Dean’s mind. He wasn’t leaving Sam back in the room by himself and it wasn’t the middle of the night, nor was there a known demon lurking in the vicinity.
Besides, the teen reasoned, there wasn’t much of a choice in the matter really. Staying put meant having to explain the messed up sheets and clothes to his dad, and that would lead to admitting about the practical jokes he and Sam had been playing on one another. Although his father did have a sense of humor, sophomoric pranking that might escalate into someone getting hurt or the authorities getting called was not something John Winchester tolerated, and Dean knew it. And at thirteen, there was just something totally and utterly humiliating about the thought of getting your butt royally blistered by your father. It had been almost two years since the last time John had spanked him, and Dean had absolutely no interest in breaking the dry spell any time soon.
Dean finished rinsing the cereal bowls and stuck them in the drying rack next to the sink. He could hear the television on in the other room and although he couldn’t make out what was actually on, some of the dialogue sounded familiar. Curious, he wandered out of the kitchen and into the small living room to spy Sam on the couch, still in his ninja turtles pajamas, gripping one of the threadbare couch pillows to himself, his big green eyes glued to the TV set. If the kid was concentrating any harder, Dean observed, there’d be drool running down his chin.
“What’re you watching?” the older boy questioned as he came into the room and gazed over at the flickering screen.
“It’s a movie about a family like us, Dean!” Sam excitedly answered, his eyes never leaving the TV. “They got a ghost and everything!”
Dean had to hide a smile. “Dude, it’s not about hunters. That’s Poltergeist.” And then Dean did chuckle as he grabbed the pillow from Sam and used it to prop himself up on the floor just underneath where Sam was sitting on the couch. “It’s a pretty good flick actually,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it, Sam.”
A guilty look came over the younger boy’s features. “Dad said I wasn’t allowed to watch it because it’s too scary.”
“Serious?” Dean shot his brother a skeptical frown. “I can’t believe Dad said that, considering our own life is pretty much off the scale on scariness most of the time. You sure you’re not just saying that so I won’t think you’re a big wuss?”
“I’m not a wuss!” Sam whined petulantly. “I’m watching it right now, aren’t I?”
“Okay, okay, chill out there, Francis,” Dean held up a hand in surrender. “It’s cool. Let’s just watch the movie.”
Sam was fascinated by the story at first. He was still too young to actually go out on hunts, so his first-hand knowledge of the supernatural was pretty much limited to what he read in books or had heard or been taught by his Dad, Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and the other hunters his father occasionally worked with. And, he had been only an infant when his mother had died and so had no real memories of that horrific incident.
Furthermore, his run in with the shtriga three years ago was only a cache of fuzzy memories, since he’d been asleep when the thing had attacked him and had been just about unconscious as it had started sucking the life force out of him. One minute he was sound asleep, the next minute he was being shaken awake by his dad, whose look of terror and worry had scared Sam more than the attack itself.
But, as the movie progressed in suspense and chills, Sam’s apprehension rose in direct proportion. The malevolent spirit seemed all too real to his nine-year-old mind, especially since he knew that such things existed not just on the movie screen.
And there was something creepily familiar about the children’s bedroom to him. It reminded him of some of the bedrooms in some of the apartments he and Dean had lived in, and he began to wonder how many of the places they’d stayed in might have had something lurking in the closet that they’d never even known about. How many times had he fallen asleep in a strange bedroom not realizing that maybe something was there, hiding...watching him...and waiting. Goosebumps dimpled his arms at that dreadful thought.
Dean was so engrossed in the movie that he didn’t catch the first tiny whimpers coming from the couch above him. The clincher was the final showdown in the children’s bedroom in the movie. Sam’s heart nearly stopped beating, his fear as palpable as the little boy’s on the screen when the camera panned over to the empty chair where the malevolent clown doll had been sitting not moments ago.
Sam watched with mounting horror as the boy in the movie slowly leaned over the edge of his bed, the background music crescendoing…No, no, no! Sam thought, his mouth gone dry. You never check for danger without a weapon in hand!
And that’s when the clown doll suddenly sprang from its hiding place to drag the poor boy screaming down underneath the bed. Sam launched himself off the couch with a bleat, landing onto Dean’s back, startling the older boy and knocking the air out of him. Dean swore but Sam ignored him as he wrestled the TV remote from Dean’s hands and quickly hit the off button, his breath coming in heaving gasps.
“Sammy! What’s wrong with you?” Dean shouted as he tried to snag the channel changer back, his face a mask of puzzled irritation.
“I don’t wanna watch anymore,” Sam firmly stated as he turtled up on the floor, hugging the remote to his stomach when Dean tried to grab it from him again.
“Why? The movie’s almost over. What’s going on?” Dean argued. “Gimme the remote.”
He tried to pry Sam’s fingers off the remote but the younger Winchester had a surprisingly strong grip on the thing. Sam shot him a wild-eyed look, nervous as a stray dog ready to bolt.
“No, Dean!” he protested, rolling away from his brother. “I don’t like this movie anymore! I don’t wanna watch it!”
Dean gave up with a chuff of disgust. He got up from the floor, brushing his jeans off and shot Sam an indignant sneer which made the younger boy wince in shame.
“I just don’t get you sometimes, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his frustration coming out in his tone. “What? Were you scared?” Sam flinched slightly and Dean picked up on the subtle body sign. “Is that it? You got scared?”
“No,” Sam said in a very unconvincing way.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean blinked in surprise, looking from the dead TV screen to his brother, who refused to look him in the face. “We hunt down werewolves and demons and stuff for a living,” he said pointing towards the general direction of the motel door, “and you freak out over a stupid doll on television?”
“It wasn’t just a doll, Dean!” Sam tried to argue, feeling that his stature as a tough member of the Winchester clan was now beginning to slip at a rather alarming rate. “It was an evil possessed clown doll...with teeth and, and...there could be possessed dolls out there too...you don’t know.”
Dean stood, mouth open but unable to think of anything to say for once. The whole thing was just so ludicrous to him that he wasn’t sure even where to start. Instead, the corners of his mouth crimped up and wavered, and then Dean burst out laughing.
“Holy crap, Sammy, it’s just a dumb movie!” Dean tried to explain, causing Sam to ball his little fists in anger. “The doll isn’t real!”
“But it could be, Dean,” Sam countered, not ready to give up the possibility. “There could be a doll like that. Ask Dad when he gets back.”
Dean shook his head, suddenly very tired. “You know what? Forget it, okay?” He motioned towards the hallway of the motel room. “Just go get dressed, Sammy. We need to get to the laundromat before it gets too late. ‘Cause you know, we wouldn’t want the evil clown doll to get us,” he added just to be a smartass.
“I hate you,” Sam spat as he turned and stomped off to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Yeah, Sammy, I know,” Dean called after him as he ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. He wandered back over to the couch and plopped down, stretching out with a huge sigh. “My little brother is afraid of dolls. Terrific.”
Still smarting over his brother’s teasing, Sam grabbed his jeans off the floor where he’d dropped them the night before and then searched in his bag for a clean t-shirt, his mouth still holding a stony pout. He gathered up the dirty laundry and turned to leave the room, but stopped and cast an anxious eye around the room, silently thankful that there was no closet anywhere in sight. As much as he hated to admit it, the movie had definitely given him the creeps, big time. It was just all too possible to him, no matter what Dean said.
And speaking of his brother, Sam reflected, he didn’t have to rub it in so bad. It seemed like Dean was always pointing out that he was older and wiser these days. Bobby had mentioned to him that Dean was going through “the terrible teens” and to just ignore the attitude for now, but it was kind of hard to do sometimes. When their Dad was around, Dean wasn’t as bad because he knew John wouldn’t put up with attitude for any reason. But, when the two boys were alone, Dean was often relentless in his teasing. Sam sighed heavily and headed down the short hallway to the living room with the laundry clutched in his arms, hoping that Dean had tired somewhat of ribbing him about the clown doll.
The young boy trudged into the living area, dropping the load of clothing and sheets onto the nearest chair and opened his mouth to ask about quarters for the washer and dryer when he spied Dean apparently asleep on the couch. Sam closed his mouth, question unasked and stood watching his brother’s chest rise and fall in a slow deep rhythm indicating deep sleep.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward the couch, wondering if Dean was just faking it and as soon as Sam got close enough, he’d jump up and try to scare him. He edged up to the side of the couch, curious but nervous and peered down at Dean. The teen was indeed asleep, eyes shut and a peaceful half smile on his lips.
Sam stood watching for a few moments, wondering if he should wake Dean up or just let him sleep. He glanced over to the little clock radio on the end table next to the couch and noted that it was only quarter to one. There was plenty of time to do the laundry before it got dark outside.
Decision made, Sam headed for the kitchenette to scam some Oreos for himself.
As he sat at the little table munching the chocolate cookies, Sam opened his vocabulary workbook he had snagged off the counter along with the cookie package and started reading where he’d left off last time. He got to the end of the chapter that had a page of exercises and stood up, looking around for a pencil or pen to do them. No luck.
Sam went back into the living room and checked the end tables but couldn’t find any writing utensils there either. Getting frustrated, the boy wandered into the bedroom and spotted his dad’s duffel next to the dresser. Surely his dad would have a pen. Sam felt funny pawing through his father’s stuff, but he really wanted to do the exercises in the workbook. His fingers touched something smooth and cylindrical in the outer pocket of the bag and smiling, Sammy pulled out the pen and then made a face. It was a sharpie marker, no good. The ink would bleed right through the thin pages of the workbook.
Sam moved to put the pen back but hesitated, a look coming into his green eyes. He gazed at the pen in his hand and then slowly over to the open doorway of the room and then back down to the pen again. He knew, absolutely positively knew he shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking. It was immature and just totally wrong. But then again, Sam reasoned standing up, pen in hand, this would so definitely put him in the winning lead of the pranks. And since their father was coming home the next day, there was a pretty good chance Dean wouldn’t have time to retaliate and even up the score again.
Sam smiled. It would be pretty awesome to be able to hold the win over Dean’s head too, like a surefire comeback whenever mister “terrible teen” got on his case. That was the deciding factor for Sam. He tiptoed back out to the living room where Dean slept, silent as a shadow.
Dean cracked open an eyelid when he felt someone shaking him hard. He peered up to spy his younger brother who stood next to the couch doing the shaking and then groaned and sat up.
“Time is it?” he blearily asked Sam.
“Almost two,” Sam replied. He pointed to the pile of laundry still mounded on top of the easy chair adjacent to where Dean sat. “We still have that to get done.”
Dean nodded solemnly and pushed himself off the couch, stretching as he went. The nap had done wonders for his mood and he grinned at Sam, the morning’s outburst all but forgotten.
Sam smiled back, although if Dean had looked closely, he would have noticed that Sam’s happy countenance only went so far as the upturned lips. The younger Winchester was holding a secret and a valuable one at that as far as he was concerned. Sam’s eyes held the glint of retribution in them, but Dean never picked up on that as he stumbled into the kitchen.
Sam heard Dean opening one of the drawers in the other room and knew he was snagging some of the emergency cash their dad had left for them. Sure enough, Dean wandered back out to the living room stuffing a twenty-dollar bill into his jeans pocket before he gathered up the sheets and clothing from the chair. As Dean headed for the door, he couldn’t help but notice Sam still grinning at him.
“You’re awful chipper,” Dean commented offhandedly and motioned with his chin for Sam to open the motel door for him since his hands were full. “Since when did washing clothes give you such a high?”
“I’m just happy to be going out with my big brother,” Sam said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah? Well...you should be,” Dean replied, his chest puffing up with pride. “Who knows, maybe my coolness will rub off a little on you and hide all that geeker joy you tend to ooze.”
Sam trailed after Dean shutting the motel room door behind them with a click.
……………………………….
No sooner had the boys left the motel, the phone on the little desk in the living area of their room rang once and then stopped. Thirty seconds later, it began to ring again and kept ringing steady for several minutes before abruptly cutting off in mid-ring.
…………………………………………………..
John Winchester stared at his cell phone in disbelief, a deep haunting panic flooding his senses as he dialed the motel room number once again, his hand now shaking and mis-dialing. Shit! He swore out loud and forced himself to calm down before redialing. The line rang once and John ended the call and counted slowly, agonizingly to thirty, sweat now beading his forehead as he hit the redial button on his cell. He heard the rings and carefully counted twenty-two of them before ending the call. His hand was now shaking harder than before. No answer. No goddamn answer.
Stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket, John quickly gathered up his journal and duffel full of weapons from the little campsite he’d been staying at and all but ran for the Impala parked just on the other side of a stand of trees. He left his other camping gear and food, not wanting to waste any more time than he had to because the drive back to Phoenix would take about seven hours as it was. His heart was up in his throat, his mind going over every single possibility for why Dean hadn’t answered the phone. The one that kept coming to the forefront though nearly drove him over the edge of what little sanity he had left.
“Please God,” John muttered tearfully as he cranked the Impala’s engine and jammed the car into gear, pressing the gas pedal flat to the floor. “Please let them be okay.”
……………………………………
Sam said nothing all the way to the laundromat even when Dean tried to bait him with the usual taunts of calling him names. This normally would have put Dean’s spidey senses on high alert, but Dean just figured his brother was feeling a bit subdued after the big ‘doll debacle’ that morning and didn’t want to provide any more fodder for Dean to use against him.
They walked along in silence for a bit, the street in front of the motel being relatively quiet in the middle of the day. Dean put out an arm to stop Sam when they hit the corner and checked for traffic before sprinting across the road to the other curb. Sam warily watched his brother as they passed several glassed storefronts, but Dean was lost in his own thoughts and again, didn’t notice anything out of the norm.
The laundromat was surprisingly empty. There was only one college age girl in tight jeans and a t-shirt that bared her belly to show a navel ring and an overweight man in his sixties who was perched on a beat up metal stool near the soap dispenser, chewing on an unlit cigar while working the crossword puzzle from the newspaper.
Dean strode into the place and over to the nearest counter to plunk down his load of laundry. He took a minute to check out the college girl as she bent to empty a nearby dryer and smiled appreciatively at how the denim of her jeans hugged the round globes of rear.
“Dean, I’m hungry,” Sam whined, breaking Dean’s concentration on the young woman’s assets. “Can I have a candy bar from the machine?”
Dean turned, frowning at the interruption and then looked over to where Sam was pointing at a dented candy machine near the restrooms. The machine didn’t look to be working as it was unplugged from the outlet.
“It’s broken, Sammy,” Dean commented, but felt obliged to feed his brother since he’d essentially slept through their lunch time. “Let me get this stuff in a washer and then I’ll get us a couple hotdogs, okay? I saw a vendor down at the other street corner from here.”
Sam nodded and hopped up onto one of the lime green vinyl chairs that were scattered around the Laundromat. He just sat and stared at Dean, fighting not to smile. For being only nine, the irony was not lost on him. Dean fished the twenty out of his pocket and ambled over to the guy with the cigar to get change for soap and the machines. The man gazed up from his paper at Dean’s approach and blinked and then let out an amused snort. His eyes flicked from Dean over to where Sam sat grinning like an idiot and then slowly panned back to Dean who now stood in front of him, holding up the money.
“You have change?” Dean asked the man.
“Sure, sonny,” the man replied as he opened a cash box on the counter next to him. “How much you want in quarters?”
“Five in quarters and the rest with whatever you have,” Dean said.
He frowned when the man kept glancing back up from the cash box to grin at him.
“Here you go,” the man said as he handed Dean his change and then chuckled, shaking his balding head. “That your brother over there?” The man nodded in the direction of Sam.
“Yeah, why?” Dean answered warily. What was with this weirdo?
“Brave kid,” was all the man would say and then he returned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, his chest rumbling with laughter.
Dean slowly turned from the man and walked back to Sam not sure what to make of that last statement. He stuffed the dollar bills back into his pocket and handed the coins to Sam to hold. Both boys then grabbed up the dirty laundry and headed for the nearest washer which just happened to be right next to the counter where the college hottie was folding her clothes.
Dean flashed the girl his most winning smile as he sauntered up beside her and was rewarded with…a look of sympathy! She was actually giving him the ‘poor thing, how pathetic’ look! Confused, Dean tried again, this time speaking up.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he said to her.
The girl smirked and let out a tiny giggle as she looked at Dean. Well, not in the eye, he realized suddenly, but more like up above his eyes. Dean casually lifted a hand to run it through his hair, nervously wondering if he had some stray locks sticking out funny or something.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” the girl asked Dean as she continued to give him a look that would normally be reserved for someone who was mentally incompetent.
“Um, I’m Dean,” Dean answered, hesitation in his voice.
The girl nodded slowly and then reached out and put her arm around Dean’s shoulder in a companionable hug. Dean could smell her vanilla perfume, and he grinned. It was nice.
“Dean?” the girl said as she slowly led him away from Sam and towards the back of the laundromat. “You seem like a nice kid.” Dean beamed at this. The girl continued. “So, that’s why I’m going to do you this favor.”
Before Dean could ask what the favor might be, the college girl grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him towards the door of the men’s room that they were now standing before. Puzzled, Dean shot her a questioning look and she pointed to the door.
“Trust me, Dean. You really need to go in there.” The girl just kept pointing, so Dean figured what the hell.
He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check on Sam, and noticed his brother had a very odd expression on his face. Dean shrugged, took one last gaze at the college girl and then shoved his way into the restroom.
The place was nothing special, he thought, as he walked down the row of urinals. He turned toward the sinks on the other wall catching his reflection in the mirror and stopped dead in his tracks. There in big black capital letters across his forehead was the word: LOSER.
“SAM!”
Sam Winchester looked up at the sound of his name echoing out from the men’s room and began laughing uncontrollably. Cigar man joined in and the college girl smiled and shook her finger at Sam in amusement as she returned to the counter where her laundry sat. Ten long minutes later, Dean emerged from the restroom, slapping the door open so hard it smacked the opposite wall with a reverberating bang. His cheeks were tinged pink with embarrassment but it was his forehead that was red and raw. It looked as if someone had taken 50 grit sandpaper to it. Dean absently swiped at his brow, which was still damp from the soap and water he had used to scrub the ink off with, and swore under his breath.
Sam rocked in his chair, gales of laughter shaking his sides as Dean stalked up to him, gave him a glare and then turned and grabbed up the sheets from the counter without a word. Sam watched in curiosity as Dean stuffed the sheets into a washer and then came back and grabbed Sam’s dirty clothes and headed back for the washer to deposit them in alongside the sheets. Sam slid off his chair, clearly confused, and trailed his brother as Dean headed for the detergent dispensing machine, still silent.
“Dean?” Sam ventured, “You mad?”
Dean turned to Sam and held out his hand. “Quarters.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Quarters,” Dean slowly repeated giving Sam an irritated look. “I need quarters for the soap.”
“Oh,” Sam said and handed over the change he’d been holding.
Dean plugged several of the coins into the machine and grabbed the package of detergent when it fell into the bin at the bottom of the machine. As he turned to head back for the washer, Dean reached over and smacked Sam hard in the back of the head, causing the younger Winchester to flinch.
“Real funny, smart ass,” Dean bit out. “You’re lucky it came off easy.”
Sam bit back a snort of amusement and raised a critical eye to his brother’s forehead. “Doesn’t look like it was that easy,” he commented under his breath.
“Bite me,” Dean sullenly shot back and proceeded to add the soap to the washer and start it.
Ten minutes later, Dean was trudging down the sidewalk towards the hotdog vendor, nursing his bruised ego as if it had just gone several rounds in a heavyweight fight before getting KO’d by a sucker punch. Taken out, no less, by a fourth grader who still thought the Thundercats was the most awesome TV show ever.
If he actually believed in a higher power, Dean thought dejectedly, he might just think that power was being unusually cruel today, just for the hell of it. And the worst part of all this? Their father would be home in less than twenty-four hours, so there wasn’t really time for him to come up with anything of any equitable value to get back at Sam and even up, no – surpass – his baby brother’s latest caper.
Dean studied the store windows in a disinterested way as he passed by them. He strode by a thrift store, giving the display a quick glance and kept walking but quickly stopped because something had caught his eye. Dean backed up, coming in line with the thrift store window again and pivoted to face the glass, leaning against it and raising his hands to shield his eyes from the midday glare of the hot Arizona sun.
“No way,” the teenager murmured, his mouth curling up into a wicked grin. “No freaking way!”
There, just beyond the main window display, was an entire shelf of stuffed animals and dolls in various states of disrepair. And right in the very middle of the shelf, a maniacal toothy grin on it ugly painted face, was a clown doll! Dean blinked not believing his luck. He hurried inside the shop and made his way over to the shelf of toys, all of which smelled of mildew and time spent rotting in basements and garages, and gazed up in wonder at the doll of Sam’s nightmares.
The doll was about two feet tall with wispy ruby red hair that sprung in tattered clumps from the side of its molded plastic head. The face, oh God, Dean thought, that face! It was painted sickly white with a red bulb of a nose and a matching blood red gash of a mouth opened to display a neat row of yellowed teeth. Dean didn’t think the teeth had started out that color, but time and abuse had made them dingy and gross looking.
The eyes were a glassy black, reminding Dean of a shark’s eyes – dead and lifeless. The white, orange and purple jester hat it wore had tiny rusted bells on its tips that gave off an eerie tinny sounding jingle. And the baggy polka dot costume the doll was dressed in had seen better days and was full of tears and stained on one side with something brown. Soda? Chocolate? Who knew? It didn’t really matter. It was a freaking clown doll!
With something akin to reverence, Dean took the doll down from the shelf, a huge shit-eating grin breaking out on his suntanned face when its nose began blinking and a creepy warped laugh issued from a little speaker set into the doll’s chest.
Holy crap! The thing had motion-activated sound and light display! Yahtzee! Dean excitedly thought as he checked and found the price tag pinned to the leg of the doll’s costume and sighed in pure happiness. It was only $2.50.
Carrying the doll over to the register, Dean slapped down a five-dollar bill, accepted his change and waited as the clerk bagged up the purchase.
“Hey, would it be all right if I left that here and came back to get it a little later?” Dean asked the spectacled woman at the register. “I’m kind of on my way somewhere and don’t have anyplace to put that right now.”
The woman smiled at Dean, her dentures clicking together. “We’re open tonight until nine, honey. I’ll put this under the counter here and you just come back and see me when you’re ready to pick it up.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Dean said and then left, his step noticeably lighter now that revenge was so close at hand. “Who’s the loser now, Samantha?” Dean crowed as he bounced down the sidewalk toward the hotdog vendor, his confidence once again returned.
The rest of the day had passed without incidence. Dean was actually able to run back to the thrift store after dinner when Sam went to take his bath. The minute the door to the bathroom shut, Dean was out the door of the motel room and racing like a marathoner for the thrift store.
He was glad for once that his dad had been so regimental with his training, including making the boys run laps and wind sprints. The whole trek took maybe ten minutes tops for the athletic teen and he was back with ‘Creepy the Clown’, as Dean had affectionately dubbed the doll, before Sam had even exited the bathtub.
“Hey, Sammy?” Dean called to his brother through the bathroom door. “I’ve got a headache so I’m gonna go lay down for awhile in our room, okay? You can watch TV after you get out of the tub, just don’t turn the sound up too loud.”
“’Kay,” came the muffled reply.
Satisfied that Sam would be otherwise occupied, Dean carried the doll into the bedroom and shut the door.
……………………………………
It was close to nine when Dean wandered back out to the living room and told Sam it was time for bed.
“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked as the two made their way down the hall to the bedroom.
Dean kept a placid look on his face despite wanting to gloat about his devious master prank about to be unveiled.
“Oh, yeah, Sammy,” he said, letting a little smile creep into his voice. “I’m feeling way better now.”
Dean waited impatiently in his bed for Sam to start to drift off to sleep. He wanted his brother to be in that fuzzy half-awake state one reached right before really falling asleep because that’s when Sam would be most susceptible to what he had planned.
Carefully reaching down along the side of his bed, Dean felt for the fishing line he’d strung there. Finding it, Dean curled his fingers around the cord and gave it a brief yank pleased when a soft tinny jingle sounded from somewhere underneath Sam’s bed. He waited a few seconds and then tugged the line once more, the jingling now more persistent and joined by what sounded like a muffled creepy chuckle.
Sam immediately sat up in his bed, a nervous frown drawing down the corners of his mouth as he squinted trying to adjust his vision to the shadowy interior of the room. He jerked his head over toward Dean’s bed, making out the lump under the sheets as his brother.
Dean appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep rhythm. Apparently, Dean hadn’t heard anything. Even so, Sam slowly panned around the darkened room concentrating and listening intently. All was silent.
Chewing on his lower lip, Sam hesitated before he lay back down. With both hands, the boy grabbed the blankets that had pooled down around his belly and yanked them up around his ears. Maybe he was just jumpy from all that had happened that day, and maybe the noise he thought he’d heard was coming from an adjacent motel room. And maybe, just maybe, there was something in the room other than himself and his brother. Sam quickly banished that last thought from his mind and hunched down deep under the covers, the first faint stirrings of butterflies swirling in his stomach.
Dean waited until Sam had settled down once again and then tugged on the fishing line a little harder this time, setting off the doll’s motion sensor once more. Its maniacal little laugh filled the darkness of the room, causing a sudden chill to scamper down Sam’s spine. Dean smirked watching with glee as Sam shot bolt upright in his bed with a scared whimper.
“Dean? Dean!” Sam whispered hoarsely, his eyes shining in fright. “Dean, there’s something under my bed!”
Dean played dumb and acted as if he were deep asleep much to Sam’s dismay.
Fighting back his terror, Sam slowly pushed the blankets off of himself intending to take a running jump into the relative safety of his brother’s bed when another horrible laugh came from directly beneath Sam. The young boy froze, his heart thudding crazily in his chest, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
“Deaaannn!” Sam’s voice was a faint whining plea as his throat tightened in mounting fear.
Still nothing from his brother and suddenly Sam had an awful thought. What if whatever was under his bed had already gotten to his brother? What if Dean wasn’t answering him because he was paralyzed or his life force had been sucked out of him and he was in a coma? Sam thought he was going to throw up.
Steeling himself, the young boy took a few deep ragged breaths willing the nausea away and tried to think despite the fact that he was beyond frightened. What would Dean do? Sam’s mind raced. Dean would have a weapon Sam suddenly decided and he looked about for one. Unfortunately, the shotgun was across the room, leaning up against a wooden chair near Dean’s bed. Just great. There was no way he’d be able to get to the gun before whatever was lurking under his bed made its move, Sam thought, despair settling over him.
He scanned the nearby nightstand but didn’t find anything more menacing than a pencil and a pair of nail clippers. Sam thought a minute, licking his suddenly dry lips and then reached over and picked up the pencil, figuring it could at least cause some damage if he used it in a stabbing motion.
Feeling totally overwhelmed and not at all prepared, Sam inched over to the edge of his mattress, cringing as he heard the laughing again, sounding louder and more menacing as he got closer. It took every bit of nerve he had, as Sam gave out a shaky breath and ever so slowly bent over the edge of his bed. All he could think about was the movie he’d seen earlier and what had happened to the boy in the movie.
Sam suddenly stopped his forward motion and reached up with one hand to grab hold of the sheets and blankets in a strong grip. He wanted to anchor himself solidly to the top of the bed so that if, God forbid, there actually was something down there, it wouldn’t be able to yank him down with it without a fight.
Steeling himself, Sam started for the edge of his bed once again, pencil gripped tightly in one sweaty hand, the bed sheets clutched in the other.
Dean waited until Sam’s head was almost touching the floor before he gave a final hard yank on the fishing line, causing creepy the clown to leap forward from the shadows under Sam’s bed, its nose flashing erratically and its crazy laugh taunting Sam.
The doll smacked the boy right in the face and Sam screamed in terror, losing his grip on the sheets and falling forward, his weight carrying him down on top of the hooting doll.
Terrified, Sam beat at the hideous thing, stabbing it over and over with the pencil so hard that the pencil broke in two. Sam continued to attack his tormentor with what was left of the pencil, his panicked shrieks filling the room until they were suddenly drowned out by Dean’s roar of laughter from above. The bedside light flicked on, abruptly banishing the darkness and Sam stared down in dazed shock at the ugly thing he knelt on top of, the demolished pencil stub still clutched in his shaking hand.
“Don’t guess you’re ever gonna want to watch that movie again, huh Sammy?” Dean stated between bouts of laughter.
Sam looked up at Dean, his mouth hung open in a mix of anger and bewilderment as he knelt there on the floor between the beds. The boy stared at Dean then flicked his gaze back down to the doll and then back up to Dean, his eyes widening. A blind rage took over as realization bloomed in Sam’s mind as to what his brother had done.
Without thought, Sam launched himself off the floor at his brother with a growl of outrage. His fists were flying from the get go and Dean barely had time to get his hands up before his brother was on top of him, punching and kicking like a crazed berserker.
“You asswipe!” Sam screamed as he continued to pummel his older brother. “You total freaking butthole, Dean! I’m gonna kill you!”
Dean, for his part, accepted the terms of endearment and tried to defend himself without actually fighting back. That lasted until Sam got in a well-aimed knee to Dean’s groin. And then the battle royale was on.
Dean swore in pain and shoved Sam hard, knocking him off the bed, but Sam took hold of his brother’s pajama leg as he went down and Dean ended up getting dragged onto the floor as well. Dean grabbed at the nightstand as he went down, jarring the table and knocking the lamp off onto the floor. The bulb smashed with a little hiss and the room was once again enveloped in darkness.
The two wrestled around on the carpeted floor in the pitch black, grunting, cussing and shouting names at one another while Creepy the Clown lay on his back grinning and laughing hysterically, it’s nose blinking away like a short-circuited Christmas light. They were so loud and so intent on doing bodily harm to one another that they didn’t even hear their father’s voice coming from down the hallway.
……………………………………..
John had floored it all the way back to the Phoenix city limits, going ninety all the way, praying no cops tried to pull him over because he’d just shoot them and keep on going.
His boys were in danger and he wasn’t stopping for the devil himself much less some highway mounty out to fill his monthly quota of speeding tickets.
He spun into the motel parking lot a little after nine-thirty, almost sideswiping a pickup as he pulled crookedly into a parking spot and killed the engine on the Impala. John grabbed up the shotgun from the passenger seat and jumped out of the car, racing for the motel room.
He didn’t knock or try his key, figuring that if someone or something was inside with Sam and Dean, then he didn’t want to give it the advantage of knowing he was there.
Raising one booted foot, John kicked open the door and charged inside, shotgun raised and ready.
“Dean! Sammy!” he called out in panic, looking around the unlit living room but sensing nothing.
John heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the bedroom and, with a worried moan, he thundered down the hallway intent on destroying whatever was menacing his children.
As he got closer, he could hear grunts and shouts and was able to make out Dean’s and Sam’s voices. He blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, suddenly relieved to know that his boys, his babies, were still alive.
Just as John reached for the doorknob to fling open the bedroom door, a deafening gunshot rang out from the room, followed by a pair of petrified shrieks and the sound of glass shattering. John’s heart skipped a beat and his blood turned cold as he fumbled for the knob, terror now wiping everything else out of his mind. He threw the door open hard. It slammed forcefully into the drywall behind it, the doorknob burying itself into the plaster.
………………………………………………….
Dean and Sam had continued the brawling fistfight, neither one willing to give way this time as two days worth of pent up agitation, stress and sibling rivalry came to an ugly head. Dean was growing tired of holding back his punches. He knew he could really hurt Sam if he wanted to, but his dad had drilled into him since he was four that Dean, being the oldest, was supposed to be the protector of his little brother, and that meant saving Sam, not hurting him.
Even so, when Dean rolled out from under Sam and ended up near the clown doll, he didn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch up the ugly toy and throw it at Sam, who was on his knees and crawling back towards Dean fists curled and ready.
Sam caught sight of the flying clown, freaked and dove for the floor. The doll sailed past the boy and hit the straight back chair against the wall, landing on top of it in an upright way as if it were standing at attention. Unfortunately, the force of creepy the clown hitting the chair jarred loose the loaded shotgun that had been propped against the chair. It started to fall sideways, the barrel of the weapon skittering along the edge of the wood seat of the chair until the shotgun bumped hard against the chair’s arm and went off.
The boom was incredibly loud in the confined space and both Sam and Dean ducked and screamed in fright. The rock salt rounds hit the mirror above the dresser with precision, shattering the glass into a million tiny shards that spilled over the dresser top and adjacent floor. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the bedroom door suddenly burst open, causing the Winchester boys to scream in unison once again.
John Winchester framed the darkened doorway, shotgun raised to his shoulder as he quickly assessed the situation. He saw his boys kneeling on the floor near the window and then saw a figure standing on the nearby chair as if getting ready to launch itself at them.
Could be a gate demon, John rapidly surmised, or possibly a possessed animal. Didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“Sammy! Dean! Down!” John barked and was relieved when Dean immediately hit the deck, dragging Sam down as well and tucking him protectively underneath his body.
John wasted no time. As soon as he saw his boys drop, he aimed and fired, the second gunshot sounding even louder than the first one had. The unknown creature flew off the chair hit square by the rock salt rounds John had fired into it. It landed with a deranged laugh onto the floor behind Sam and Dean, slid a few feet and then went silent its arms and legs splayed out in a death throe.
“Holy shit!” Dean howled in shock, not caring that he just swore in front of his dad.
John lowered the shotgun and reached behind him, fumbling on the wall for the light switch, his eyes never leaving the thing on the floor. He found the switch and the overhead light snapped on to display two cowering boys, one whimpering in tearful fright underneath his brother, and the other one peering up at John with a look of guilty surprise on his face.
John leaned the shotgun against the dresser and was over to his sons in three quick strides.
“Dean, you okay, son? Sammy?” John questioned the boys at the same time as he swooped down and gathered them both into his arms, quickly checking his sons over for blood or signs of wounds.
Tears of relief streaked down his face when he concluded that neither of them was hurt. “God, I was so scared,” he managed to choke out, hugging them tight again. “When you didn’t answer the phone...I just, God...I thought I’d lost you.”
“The phone?” Sam absently queried, poking his tearful head up from his father’s chest. “What phone?”
John felt Dean stiffen against him and the older hunter slowly released his hold on the boys, sitting back on his haunches, eyes narrowed, to contemplate the suspect looks Dean and Sam were now quickly exchanging between one another. With a calm demeanor that belied how he actually felt, John stood up and turned to survey the surrounding scene with the practiced eye of a hunter.
There were two boys on the floor, pajamas rumpled and tugged out of place, red-faced and giving him the flustered deer in the headlights look. There was a shotgun lying on the floor near the chair, its muzzle pointing toward the dresser, which now had a shattered mirror above it. The bedside lamp was lying on the carpet between the two twin beds with a broken light bulb peeking from its paper shade that was knocked askew, most likely from the fall. There was wire or maybe it was fishing line, trailing down from one of the beds and across the floor to the body of the last little item in the mystery.
And that something didn’t resemble a demon now to John’s eye, so much as a tattered doll of some sort, lying on the floor, its head pitted and cracked from the rock salt round he’d fired into it, bits of wispy stuffing leaking from the holes in what was left of its shredded body.
John’s features suddenly darkened as he targeted his two sons with a fiery glower.
“What the hell is going on here?” he angrily demanded as he looked from Dean to Sam. “I called you earlier this afternoon, but no one answered the phone. That’s why I scrapped the hunt and came racing back here. I thought something had happened to you boys.” John cast a foreboding look at his oldest son. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called, Dean?”
Dean went white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing but nothing came out. He was still trying to assimilate the fact that his dad was actually standing here, in the room, right now. He wasn’t supposed to come back until tomorrow, Dean kept thinking to himself. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I just asked you a question, mister,” John growled in warning, his voice hard and flat. “Why didn’t you answer the phone this afternoon?”
Dean instantly snapped to attention on his knees at the sound of his father’s commanding tone, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. When had the phone rung? Dean wondered in a panic. And then he knew, and his face fell. Crap. His dad had to have called while he and Sam had been at the laundromat! Just…crap.
Although Dean knew his dad was expecting an honest answer, he wasn’t ready to give one just yet. Instead, Dean let his mouth take over for his brain and he gave John a nervous laugh and a shrug.
“I was just seeing if you’d actually, you know, come back, uh, to check on us like you always say you will,” Dean offered glibly. “Just keeping you on your toes, Dad.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open, his head swiveling over to look at Dean in surprised horror as if Dean had just recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards in ancient Aramaic.
“That was one, buddy boy,” John seethed through a clenched jaw. He pointed at Dean, the anger palpable on his face. “Get up.”
Dean abruptly rose from the floor, dragging Sam up with him by his pajama sleeve. John’s mask of disapproval caused both Winchester boys to keep their eyes pinned to the floor. The teen licked his suddenly dry lips, his heart up in his throat, wishing he was anywhere else but here. He chanced a quick peek up at his dad’s face, and then quickly looked away. Man, if looks could kill, then he, Dean Winchester, would be stone cold gone on the floor right this very minute from the glare his father had targeted him with.
“Let’s try it again,” John darkly intoned. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Dean?”
Dean figured that if he could just keep from having to mention where he and Sam had actually been, then his father wouldn’t have a valid reason to draw and quarter him. But it was impossibly hard to think of a good lie under all this pressure and so, Dean said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Um, we were napping?” he blurted out and then groaned at his own stupidity.
“And that was number two, son,” John tiredly snapped. “You wanna push your luck and go for a grand slam here? Because you don’t need much more to be facing a round with my belt on top of what you’re already going to be getting.”
John’s eyes leveled on the teenager. Dean swallowed hard, registering with no small amount of anxiety what his dad had just insinuated.
“You think very carefully before you open your mouth again, buddy boy,” John quietly warned.
The older man took a step toward his eldest child to show he meant business and Dean involuntarily matched the move by taking an awkward step backwards, thereby bumping into the edge of the bed behind him.
The fight suddenly left Dean as he realized that any further lying or sarcasm would only get him a worse punishment than was already guaranteed at this point. He decided the truth, while it might end up being a lot more painful, would at least be easier to relate and would show his dad that he was taking him seriously.
“I didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t hear it...because I wasn’t here,” Dean sadly mumbled, not able to look his father in the face.
“What?” John’s tone dropped a full octave, his eyes boring into his oldest son in shocked disbelief.
Dean paled and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the room, Dad, so that’s why I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“You left Sammy alone in the-“
“No sir!” Dean choked, holding his hands up in front of him. His eyes widened in panic realizing what his father was assuming. “Sam was with me! Honest! I would never leave him alone again, ever!”
John ran a shaking hand over his bearded face, his nerves beyond frayed. This whole thing was a tangled nightmare that was wearing him out beyond his years. He fixed his two boys with a serious look.
“What’s the rule about leaving the motel room when I’m out, boys?” John sternly questioned them. Both Dean and Sam remained silent, and John stood up straighter, the drill sergeant in him now coming to the surface. “Dean, what is the rule?” he commanded.
“We’re supposed to stay in the room with the windows and door locked until you come back,” Dean quietly recited.
“Unless there’s an emergency and then we hafta call your cell phone before we leave to let you know where we are,” Sam added, not wanting to be left out.
“So, you both are aware of and understand the rule?” John demanded.
Two glum yes sirs was the reply.
John nodded, then fixed his oldest with a questioning stare. “And was this an emergency, Dean?” John asked.
Dean pondered that one long enough to get a growl out of his father before he answered in a very quiet subdued voice. “No sir, it wasn’t really an emergency.”
“Sam?” John’s gaze flicked over to his youngest standing nervously in front of him.
Sam shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment.
“So then, boys, what made you disobey a direct order from me?” John pressed them, his mouth now forming a thin angry line of displeasure.
Dean clammed up again, but Sam, being less apt at evasive tactics than his brother, and being much more intimidated by his father’s ferocious temper simply answered the question truthfully.
“We had to do the laundry on account of stuff got dirty,” Sam muttered, staring at the carpeted floor, his eyes filling with tears.
John’s brow creased in puzzlement. Laundry? This was a new twist. He caught Dean’s quick glower at Sam and knew there was more to the story than either was letting on.
“What got so dirty you couldn’t wait until I got back to wash it?” John asked.
Sam fidgeted miserably. He looked over to Dean for guidance, but his father was quick to shoot that down.
“Samuel Michael, you look at me, not your brother,” John barked and Sam instantly swung his wide-eyed puppy dog gaze up to his father.
Sam’s lower lip began to tremble and he took in a hitched breath.
“Answer the question, young man, that’s an order,” John firmly commanded.
Tears spilling from his eyes, Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean suddenly spoke up and beat him to it.
“I was playing a prank on Sammy and it got messy, dad,” Dean reluctantly volunteered. “I figured if I cleaned everything up, I wouldn’t have to mention it to you.”
John was not happy. “You were playing a joke?” he questioned, his gravelly voice rising in fury. “What have I told you about pranks, Dean?” John reached over and grabbed his oldest son by the upper arm giving him a solid shake. “What have I said about goofing around when you’re supposed to be watching out for your brother and keeping an eye on things?”
Sam couldn’t stand to see Dean taking the blame for everything. He knew Dean was doing it to protect him, but it just wasn’t right. “It wasn’t Dean, Dad!” Sam shouted as he started to cry. “I did it. It was me. I put shaving cream in Dean’s bed and that’s why we had to wash the sheets. I did it!”
John stood, surprise registering on his face. His hand still gripping Dean, John slowly turned to look at Sam as tears coursed down the young boy’s scrunched up face.
“Sammy, report,” John softly ordered.
And that was all it took for the nine-year-old to break down and sob out the entire story from the toothpaste Oreos to Creepy the Clown.
Dean closed his eyes and moaned softly in trepidation when he felt his father stiffen beside him as the tale went from bad to worse in the older man’s eyes. Finished, Sam just stood and silently wept as John pulled Dean around to stand directly in front of him.
“You have anything to add to that?” John shot Dean a raised brow, the muscle in his jaw twitching erratically.
“No sir,” Dean quietly replied, staring down at his bare feet.
John was so furious at that moment that he was speechless. A deep flush had crept up over the collar of his flannel shirt and stained his unshaven face as he tried to control his breathing and his blood pressure at the same time. He let go of Dean and looked away from his children, closing his eyes and counting to ten very slowly and then counting to ten again before letting out a deep ragged breath. I’m going to kill them, he thought. Willing his temper under control, John finally glanced back up at Dean and Sam but felt the fury instantly boil back up from inside him and with another deep breath he turned from them his head down. Nope, he thought, still want to kill the both of them.
“You two are in so much trouble, I don’t even know where to begin,” John angrily spat out in frustration. “Dean, go wait out on the couch while I have a talk with Sammy,” John tersely ordered, his back still to the boys.
“Dad,” Dean started in a panic, “This was all my fault, seriously! Sammy didn’t-“
John whirled about fixing Dean with a menacing glare, stopping the teenager from finishing his sentence. “Are you arguing with me, boy?”
Dean forgot to breathe for a moment so scared was he by the look of absolute rage on his father’s face. He quickly shook his head and whispered, “No sir.”
Wasting no time, Dean spun on his heel and quickly retreated to the living room, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, ignoring the creak of the old springs and gathered his knees up to his chest encircling them with his lean muscular arms. This was so bad, he thought as he sat there in the dimly lit room listening to his dad’s angry muffled voice coming from the bedroom. No, this wasn’t just bad. This was light years past bad and all the way up to ghastly train wreck.
He wondered in retrospect why he’d even let the pranks get as far as they had. He was the oldest and that meant he was supposed to be the more responsible one. And yet he had been anything but responsible the past two days. Cripes, he thought, if he hadn’t let his pride come into play, he never would have tried to get back at Sam for the Oreos in the first place and none of this would have ever happened. How stupid!
And seriously, what the hell had he been thinking scaring Sam with that clown doll? Poor kid. That had been over the top even for him, Dean realized. He swore to himself right then and there that he’d apologize to Sam for scaring him so badly and that he would never bring up the clown thing again. His ruminations were interrupted by the crack of hand against skin coming from the other room. The thirteen-year-old jumped and then cringed with a sick sense of dread upon hearing Sam’s high loud wail following directly behind it.
“I am so screwed,” Dean Winchester groaned and put his head into his hands trying hard to remain brave despite the sounds coming from down the hall.
------------------------------------
John watched Dean hightail it out of the bedroom and then walked over and shut the door his hand resting on the doorframe a minute while he collected his thoughts. He turned, his face a mask of grim determination, as he made his way back over to Sam who stood between the two twin beds, dark head still down, sporadic sniffles shaking his small frame.
It broke John’s heart to see his youngest so upset, but he knew he couldn’t just let this go. No way. Not after the heart stopping terror of thinking his children were hurt or in danger and racing home only to hear that shotgun go off behind the closed bedroom door just as he reached it. That had just about killed him right there. He had gone numb imagining finding either Sam or Dean, or both of them, injured or even worse, dead, in the room. The torment of guilt over what could have happened washed over the man and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes filled with tears.
Sam looked up fearfully at the sound. “Daddy? Are you okay?”
John swallowed hard and tried to put on his game face. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m okay. At least I’m okay now.” He gave a shaky little laugh that had no humor to it.
John’s mouth curled down into a serious frown and he went over to take a seat on the edge of the nearest bed across from Sam. He took his youngest son by the shoulders drawing him close.
“Do you have any idea how scared I was? How worried I was that something had happened to you and your brother?”
Sam bit his lip and shook his head, tears slowly spilling down his chubby face to splash down onto his neck and the collar of his pajamas. He knew that he was in a lot of trouble nevertheless he didn’t want the spanking that he knew was coming.
John continued. “Why did you do that to the Oreos, hmm? What was that supposed to solve, son?”
“I don’t know,” Sam pitifully mumbled, absently picking at his pajama top.
“That’s not an answer, Sammy,” John scolded, and Sam squirmed with shame. “If you had a problem with Dean, what should you have done?”
“But you told me to always stand up for myself,” Sam argued, his tone borderline petulant. “That’s what I was doing, so why are you yelling at me?”
“Samuel.”
John’s voice brooked no nonsense and Sam knew it.
The younger Winchester took a few ragged gulps before offering his father a more contrite answer. “I sh-should have t-told him to stop and then if, if he didn’t…then I sh-should have waited and told you wh-when you got h-home.”
John nodded. “That’s right, kiddo. But, instead you let your temper get the better of you, didn’t you?”
Sam’s head shot up, his watery green eyes flashing same-said temper as he shouted in frustration. “It’s not fair! Dean always gets to win! At EVERYTHING!”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Samuel Michael Winchester!” John scolded and turned the boy, swatting him twice on his pajama-clad butt.
Sam wailed reaching back to block any further shots, and John took a moment to calm down and think about how to word what he wanted to say next.
“Dean is older and bigger than you, Sammy. It’s natural for him to be better at some things than you right now. But, you’ll come into your own, son. I promise. You just have to be patient.”
John moved his hand from his son’s arm to cup Sam’s chin and raise the child’s head up so that their eyes met. “In the meantime, buddy boy, you need to learn to control your temper and to think before you act. And you and your brother seem to think lately that it’s okay to disobey orders when I’m not around, so I’m going to remind you that that’s not an option.”
Sam began to cry harder and balked as John pulled him close and lifted the boy up and placed him facedown over his lap.
“If Dean hadn’t been mean to me, then I wouldn’t have done all that,” Sam whined as John adjusted his leg to put the child’s bottom up high.
“We’re not talking about Dean right now, we’re talking about you and your misbehavior. You keep fighting me on this, Sammy, and you’re getting extra swats,” John intoned darkly. “You know darn well you’ve earned this, so just accept your punishment, son.”
Sam quickly settled down as best he could but his stomach roiled as he tensed up waiting for his father’s hand to fall. He was mad at Dean for not stopping the prank war and he was mad at himself even more for starting it in the first place. Before the first smack arrived, John reached up and grabbed the waistband of Sam’s pajama bottoms. He peeled the pajamas down to his son’s knees along with the boy’s underpants.
“Dad, no!” Sam protested in alarm when he felt the cool air caressing his bare bottom.
John ignored Sam’s protest and tightened his hold on the squirming boy bringing his solid hand down, landing a smack square onto Sam’s right side eliciting a howl of surprised pain from the child. John didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and brought it down again in almost the same spot and then repeated again on the left side. Sam cried as his father continued to spank his little bottom a dusky pink, alternating from side to side for ten more swats. John stopped a moment and addressed his son.
“Are you going to disobey any more orders, Samuel?” John inquired.
“If Dean’d told me not to do it, I wouldn’t have,” Sam hotly contested.
John let a smile steal over his careworn face. God, but the kid was stubborn. Argumentative and stubborn, even at nine years old. He'd make a great lawyer, John thought to himself, and then landed four particularly devastating swats onto the crest of his son’s behind. Sam let out a watery bawl, his chubby little legs kicking in protest and his hands grabbing the side of his father’s calf.
“You want to change your answer, young man?” John asked and Sam nodded. “Are you going to listen and do as you’re told from now on?”
“Yes s-sir,” Sam hiccuped, his breath hitching.
“Good boy,” John murmured. “Now, what’s coming next is for fighting with your brother and then lying about what happened and being so argumentative with me about it.”
John proceeded to apply his hand to Sam’s sit spot in a quick hard cadence knowing the painful sting it produced would help enforce his words in his youngest son’s mind. Sam’s sullen wailing turned into repentant sobs that shook his entire body as his butt went from a stingy ache to white hot agony.
“I need to be able to trust you, Sammy,” John lectured as he spanked. “That means you don’t lie and you don’t keep things from me. I need to know I can count on you. And I’m not even going to go into the number of times I’ve told you no fighting. You know better than to punch Dean. I don’t care what reason you think you have for doing it. He’s your brother. You two are supposed to be watching out for each other, not trying to kill one another. And the next time I ask you a direct question, Samuel Michael Winchester, you had better answer without questioning me or giving me static, is that clear?”
“I’m sorry!” Sam wailed as John’s punishing hand took its toll on the boy’s tender backside. “I won’t do it again, dad, I promise! I’ll be good!”
John finally felt his son go limp over his knees in submission. He gave Sam a few more hard swats and then stopped, letting the boy sob while he rubbed gentle circles onto Sam’s back.
“It’s okay, son. It’s over,” John said as he continued to rub his son’s back trying to comfort him.
Sam’s weeping continued as John reached down to carefully pull the boy’s pants back up over his sore reddened bottom; a howl of pain ensued when fabric met butt. Sam kicked and started to slide down off John’s lap and down onto his knees, his face a crimson snotty mess. He couldn’t stop crying because his backside was on fire, the pain singing up and down his butt in wave after throbbing wave.
John picked the emotional nine-year-old up before he sank all the way to the floor and swung him around in his muscled arms placing Sam against his broad chest resting the boy’s head up on his shoulder. Sam blubbered hysterically, burying his face into his dad’s neck, one hand rising to clutch at the plaid shirt in front of him and the other going back to rub at his screaming bottom. He had felt so guilty for disobeying orders and for being so mad at Dean. And he hated that he had disappointed his dad.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re okay,” John crooned into Sam’s ear as he gently rocked him. “Calm down, Sammy. It’s over, baby. I’m not mad at you anymore. Daddy’s not mad anymore.”
Sam slowly relaxed in the strong reassuring grip of his father’s hug, the tears giving way to sniffles and then to a few hiccuping breaths. Sam lay heavily against John, his breathing becoming deeper as exhaustion overtook his young body. John turned his head slightly to plant a kiss onto his youngest child’s sweaty temple before standing up with Sam still clutched in his arms. He bent down and with one hand John pulled the blankets and sheet down on the child’s bed and tenderly laid Sam down, careful to place him on his side to avoid contact with the boy’s sore rear.
John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a square of linen and held it in front of Sam’s reddened nose ordering him to blow. Sam complied and John folded the hanky and then tenderly swiped off the remaining tears on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes were glassy with sleep and fatigue. He let his dad tuck him in, nestling his head into the cool pillow as John smoothed the dark curls off Sam’s forehead with the hand that had only moments ago spanked him so thoroughly.
“Get some rest, kiddo,” John murmured and smiled when he received a tired grunt in reply.
John straightened up gazing down at his baby boy with love and sighed deeply. What would he do if he ever lost him? Or Dean for that matter? He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that dark possibility and headed around the bed for the door. Speaking of his oldest son…John was reaching for the doorknob when he heard Sam whimper. He stopped, concern worrying a furrow in his brow.
“What is it, Sammy?” John softly questioned as he turned back to the bed where his son lay huddled under the covers.
“Dad?” Sam said, his voice sounding tiny to John.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Um, could you…” Sam squirmed in embarrassment. He gazed over to the far corner and cringed visibly. “Can you take that away?”
Sam pointed to the mangled clown doll still lying on the floor beside the chair. John smirked but dutifully went over and snagged creepy the clown up, tucking it under his arm, some of the ratty stuffing falling out of the body of the doll as he did so.
“This guy really scared you, huh?” John asked looking down in distaste at the leering puppet he held. Sam nodded vigorously.
“He’s got yellow teeth and he looks like the one from that Poltergeist movie that got that boy,” Sam whispered, the fear shining in his eyes. “There was a real bad spirit in their closet, dad, but we don’t have a closet here, so I’m okay. But, if we stay in a place that has a closet, will you sleep with me?”
John ran a hand through his dark brown hair in consternation. While he understood Sam’s anxiety, he didn’t want to feed into it. Sam needed to learn to be strong and independent so that he’d be able to take care of himself as he got older. John knew he wasn’t always going to be able to be there for his boys and with the evil that was out there in the world, John’s only reassurance came from knowing that Sam and Dean would grow up being able to handle themselves in any situation.
“Tell you what, Sammy,” John sighed as he bent down to dig through his bag next to the dresser. “I will try to make sure there’s nothing in any of the closets going forward. But, just in case, here’s something to help keep you safe.”
With that, John turned and placed a burnished stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-automatic into his son’s small hands. Sammy stared at the gun turning the heavy weapon over in his hand and then gazed back up at his father, a wary look of puzzlement on his face.
“It’s a .45, Sammy,” John stated, nodding sagely. “It’s got a double stack mag of wrought iron rounds, and a range of about 160 feet. That baby will put down anything. You keep that near you, and you don’t ever have to worry about something in the closet.”
Too tired and way too sore to question his dad’s sense of logic for once, Sam tucked the handgun in between the mattress and the box spring of the bed and promptly forgot about it.
“Night, dad,” Sam yawned, shifting uncomfortably from the lingering sting of his bruised bottom.
“Night, Sammy,” John softly replied and headed out the door and toward the living room where his eldest was waiting.
………………..
Dean’s sandy head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living area. John appeared a second later, his stern countenance alerting Dean that he wasn’t out of the woods on this one, not by a long shot. Instead of heading straight for his son though, John made a little detour into the kitchenette grabbing up one of the chairs there and dragging it with him into the living room. He placed the padded chrome chair directly in front of the couch and took a seat on it facing Dean. Dean sat up straighter on the couch, his heart jack-hammering away in his chest and tried to maintain eye contact with his father. Not an easy task.
“So,” John began. He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting on his knees. “You got anything to say for yourself before we get started?”
“I am so sorry, dad,” Dean’s voice almost broke as he spoke, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I let stuff get out of control and, I don’t know, I guess I should have been following the rules better. I let you down.”
John listened nodding. “You have no idea how scared I was when you didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, Dean. I must have let it ring for almost two full minutes the whole time imagining that you and Sammy were hurt or worse. Worrying that I would be too late to do anything by the time I got back here.”
Dean’s eyes fell to his lap in shame as his father continued. “And then, when I got here and you didn’t answer me when I called out for you...and then hearing the gun go off...” John swallowed hard, trying to keep his rising emotions in check. “I haven’t been that frightened in a long time, son, and I don’t ever want to be again. Especially, not for something as foolish as what happened here. You didn’t just let me down, Dean. You let Sammy down. And you let yourself down too.”
Dean winced at that and fidgeted on the couch under his father’s critical stare. He felt horrible for what had happened and knew there was no way he could possibly make up for it.
“I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, honest,” Dean mumbled helplessly.
“Then why did it?” John questioned.
“I don’t know,” Dean replied in misery.
“I think you do know, son, and I want to hear you say it,” John demanded. “Look at me, Dean,” he sternly ordered and Dean’s hazel eyes slowly rose to settle with apprehension onto John’s face. “Why did you let things escalate to the point of being dangerous? And why did you think it would be okay to break the rules for the sake of pulling some idiotic pranks on one another?”
Dean remained silent not wanting to admit the truth to his father even though he’d already admitted as much to himself. He could deal with his own disappointment. It was his dad’s that was hard to take. As usual, Dean let his mouth cover for his feelings.
“We were bored?” he hedged.
John’s jaw set in anger at his son’s inappropriate sarcasm. He shot Dean an icy glower.
“I’m counting to three, buddy-boy, and then you lose the right to explain yourself and we move on to the spanking, which will be one very painful affair, I promise you. One...”
“Okay!” Dean blurted in childish irritation. “Jeez, gimme a minute, will you?”
John let that one slide, but shot his oldest son another dark warning look. Dean sighed and then answered his father’s question, his tone and attitude now much more respectful.
“I shouldn’t have been so mean to the squirt, but I was mad. And I wanted to show Sammy up...I didn’t want him to win,” Dean whispered not able to look at his father. “And then when it, you know, got out of hand and all, I uh, I didn’t want you to find out because I knew we would...‘get it’...so I broke the rules and tried to cover it up and sorta lied.”
“And what have I told you about hitting your brother, Dean?” John demanded.
“Not to do it,” Dean stated flatly, recalling the oft repeated litany John had drilled into him. “I’m older and he’s little and I could hurt him if I hit him too hard. And we are supposed to settle our differences by talking it out instead of using our fists.”
Dean’s voice faded off as he squirmed on the couch embarrassed and uncomfortable. He flicked his gaze up to his father, eyes pleading.
“Can’t you just ground me and take away privileges or something?” Dean begged John. “C’mon dad, I’m thirteen! Please don’t spank me!”
John wanted to chuckle at his son’s request. It had been quite a while since he’d had to haul Dean over his knee for an application of hand to butt behavior modification. And he could see from the pained expression on Dean’s face that this instance was proving to be a rather harsh lesson in his jump from childhood to teenager. It was obvious to John that the embarrassment and humiliation factor was what concerned his eldest at the moment more than the ‘wow, this is going to hurt’ factor.
“I’m proud of you, son, for admitting to the truth just now, but that doesn’t excuse what you did,” John advised his son. “The very fact that you don’t want me to spank you tells me that it’s a rather appropriate punishment, don’t you think? You want to avoid getting your butt paddled in the future then I suggest you start acting in a more mature way than you have in the past forty-eight hours, kiddo.”
Dean made a face at that, silently cussing. He knew it had been only a slim chance of getting out of the spanking, but he had hoped that his earnest pleading would have softened his dad up a bit. No such luck.
John straightened up and patted his knee once. “Come here,” he simply ordered.
Dean let out a huge reluctant sigh but dutifully stood up and trudged the few steps over to his father. Without even being told, Dean reached up to the waistband of his pajama bottoms and pushed them down to his knees. He bent himself over John’s lap, head and legs dangling from either side in a position he was regrettably all too familiar with.
“This really sucks, dad,” Dean sullenly stated.
John smiled at that. “Yeah, it pretty much does, Dean, for the both of us,” John said as he reached over to yank down his son’s underwear baring the teen’s upturned backside. “Too bad you didn’t think of that before you decided to play Captain Avenger on your brother. A little healthy competition isn’t a bad thing, but when it becomes hurtful and when you do it for revenge, then I draw the line.”
Dean was about to offer his own enlightened opinion on that when his father’s hand cracked down on his butt causing him to lose his train of thought. He jumped as the fresh sting and warmth settled across his skin and then grimaced when several more smacks followed in quick succession. Man, he’d forgotten how much his dad’s spankings hurt! John applied about a dozen sharp swats to his son’s bared bottom, tightening his hold as Dean began to writhe around trying to avoid the blows.
“I’m sorry, honest!” Dean pleaded as he tried his best not to cry out from the intense heat beginning to bloom across his rear end. “I get it, dad! I messed up and I won’t do it again! I’ve learned my lesson!”
“I’ve no doubt you won’t make this same mistake again, Dean,” John wryly replied as he continued to wallop his son’s reddening bottom with militaristic efficiency. “But I think you’re more sorry for getting yourself into this position than for what you actually did. And as for lesson learned, I don’t think you’ve learned anything yet other than the fact that my hand can still blister your backside pretty good. You disagree with any of that?”
Dean let out a groan of despair. “I plead the fifth,” he hissed under his breath.
John applied a dozen more forceful swats to the under curve of Dean’s bottom and was rewarded with a genuine yelp of remorse from his son. He stopped a moment, resting his hand on his son’s lower back just above his glowing butt cheeks.
“Now, you want to tell me exactly what it is you’ve learned, son?” John inquired.
Dean let out a slow ragged breath before answering. It took all he had not to just start crying like a big baby at this point. Even so, he couldn’t fully keep the tears from his voice as he answered his father.
“I shouldn’t have teased Sammy so much, and ... I should have just let it go when he gave me the Oreos instead of trying to get back at him,” Dean quietly confessed. “And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to scare him on purpose like I did...that was pretty mean, and I’m really sorry for that. And for losing my temper and punching and kicking him too.”
“Anything else, Dean?” John prodded.
“Do I have to list everything?” Dean brashly shot back over his shoulder. “Jeez, dad, even criminals get to plea bargain.”
Dean yelled in alarm when John landed several particularly well placed swats, upping the intensity of the throbbing sting in his butt from dull roar to full on agony.
“You think this is funny, Dean?” John growled at his son. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“No sir,” Dean meekly replied deciding sarcasm was probably not the best way to go at this point.
“We’re almost done here, son,” John said as he resettled Dean on his lap raising his one knee to have better access to the teen’s thighs and under crease area. “This last is for thinking that lying was better than coming clean about what happened and for not knowing when to stow the smart-ass attitude.”
This isn’t going to be good, Dean worriedly thought, and then his dad proved him right by laying down a series of increasingly painful swats all along the crease between his bottom and thighs. If that wasn’t bad enough, his father then continued the caustic application of his calloused hand downwards to cover the upper part of Dean’s thighs, turning the flesh a dark angry pink. Dean began to sob, not only from the smarting ache in his rear, but also from a deep sense of shame at what he’d done to get himself spanked in the first place. His chest heaved as he finally let all his pent up emotions out for once. And once the floodgate had opened, there was no holding back.
John listened to his son’s penitent wails and began to ease up on the strength of the swats until he stopped all together. He brought his hand up to Dean’s back and slowly, gently began to rub, letting the boy cry because he knew that if he didn’t, Dean would just bottle it all back up inside again.
“It’s okay, Dean. Let it out, son,” John comforted as he continued to rub Dean’s back.
Dean’s sobbing ebbed off a bit after a few minutes and finally became little more than sporadic gasps and hiccups. John readjusted the teen’s clothing as gently as he could before helping Dean to stand back up. Dean quickly swiped at his tear stained face with the front of his shirt, ashamed that he’d blubbered so openly and freely. John caught his hand in one of his own and bent down to get his eyes level with Dean’s. He reached up to wipe a tear from the boy’s cheek.
“There’s no shame in crying, Dean,” John softly advised his son. “It’s part of being human and it shows me you’ve got a conscience.”
Dean gave a soft snort. “Yeah, well my conscience isn’t feeling so good right now,” he sadly retorted rubbing his tender backside and wincing.
John let a brief smile play over his lips. “You paid for your mistake, son, and it’s over now. I forgive you, and I’m sure Sammy will too. So now, you need to forgive yourself.”
Dean’s head rose and he looked at his father searching the older man’s face. “How can you forgive me after I let you down?”
John’s face grew serious as he addressed Dean. “No matter what you do, son, I will always forgive you. And you may disappoint and aggravate the hell out of me from time to time, but I want you to know that above all, when everything’s said and done, I am extremely proud of you.”
John reached up a warm gentle hand to cup his son’s neck just below his jaw line. His voice was rough with emotion. “You’re my child, Dean, and I love you, beyond all time and measure. Nothing you do will ever change that.”
Dean’s jaw trembled and he choked back the tears that were trying to escape from him. “Thanks, dad,” he was able to gasp out and then John enveloped him in another heartfelt hug.
“Dad?” Dean’s muffled voice came from John’s shirtfront.
“Yeah, kiddo?” John affectionately answered back.
“Can we stop with the chick-hug thing now?”
Chuckling, John let go of his oldest son, giving the boy a wry grin. “A little too much estrogen for you, son?” he joked.
“Way too much, dad,” Dean wisecracked as he grinned back at John. “I was starting to feel like I needed a manicure and a new pair of pumps.”
John rolled his eyes at that, and then stood up putting a manly arm about Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon smart-ass, it’s time you were in bed,” John said.
He led his son down the hall and to the bedroom door. Opening it, John pushed his son in front of him, raising a finger to his lips warning Dean not to wake up Sam as they passed by the child’s bed. John pulled back the covers on Dean’s bed and Dean gingerly slid in trying his best to keep his sore butt from touching the mattress. Once settled, John covered him with the blankets, and before Dean could object, John bent down and planted a kiss onto his son’s forehead.
“Get some sleep, Dean,” John softly ordered.
John closed the door behind him as he left the bedroom but didn’t shut it all the way. He wanted to be able to hear the boys from the couch where he was planning to lay down and go comatose from exhaustion. He turned to start down the hall but stopped when he heard Sam’s voice. John came back to the door and listened at the crack a moment.
“Dean? You awake?” Sam loudly whispered across the way. “Dean, I gotta tell you something.”
Dean groaned but rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.
“What?” he tiredly questioned. “I’m kinda wanting to fall asleep as fast as possible here so I can forget about how bad my butt hurts. So, what’s so urgent, Sammy?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, Dean,” Sam apologized, his big puppy dog eyes fixed on his brother. “And I’m sorry I put toothpaste in your Oreos and stuck shaving cream in your bed and wrote on you with ink. I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, okay? I want us to be friends again.”
Dean felt like a complete jerk for acting so irritated a moment ago. “Hey, I’m really sorry I was so mean to you too, Sammy,” Dean whispered back. “I didn’t mean all that stuff I said and did, okay? And those pranks you pulled? They were pretty good ones, dude.”
Sam smiled to himself. It wasn’t often he earned his brother’s direct praise. Dean continued, his tone taking on a painful sincerity that Sam had rarely heard.
“Look, I just want you to know, Sammy...that you don’t have to worry about stuff, you know?” Dean frowned not sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I mean if that clown doll had been real, I would never have let it get you, dude. You know that, right?”
“You wouldn’t?” Sam carefully questioned his brother.
“No, Sam. I’d never let anything hurt you, ever. Not even if I was pissed off beyond at you.”
Sam thought about that for a moment and then said, “Cause dad told you to watch out for me?”
“Not just that, Sammy,” Dean felt a lump form in this throat and he swallowed hard. “Look, you might be the biggest pain in the ass ever…but you’re my kid brother, you know? It’s my job to protect you and keep you safe…always.”
Sam smiled, his throbbing rear temporarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of Dean’s brotherly reassurance. Thinking of the .45 his father had entrusted him with earlier, Sam said, “I’m gonna protect you too, Dean, okay?”
Dean chuckled. “Sure Sammy, you do that. Hey, together, there’s not a chupacabra or clown that can touch us. Cause we Winchesters are bad-ass hunters, right?”
“Right!” Sam chirped grinning and then yawned deeply. “G’night Dean.”
“Night Sammy,” Dean softly replied as he settled once more onto his stomach, flinching a little as the rough sheets and blanket pulled across his tenderized bottom.
John stood just outside the bedroom door out of sight but within earshot of his boys, tears in his eyes and his pride swelling as he listened to the conversation in the other room. As much as Dean and Sam fought, teased and harassed one another, nothing would ever break the bond of brotherhood and love they held for one another. That tie was their strength. And that was a comforting thought to the hunter as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of the motel room.
…………………………………
The following morning as an act of faith and to show Sam he really meant what he had said, Dean took the clown doll from the kitchen garbage bin where his dad had stuffed it and carried it outside with Sam trailing a respectable distance behind. John was busy loading the Impala with their belongings and so didn’t notice what the boys were doing. He had figured it would be a good time to skip out of Phoenix and avoid having to answer any questions about the gunfire and trashed mirror and lamp in the motel room.
Dean went around to the back of the building where the motel property ended and the undeveloped desert began. He dropped Creepy the Clown onto the arid ground and held out his hand toward Sam. Sam handed the canister of salt over and watched as Dean liberally sprinkled the white stuff all over the doll and then set the salt down beside him on the ground. He looked to Sam again, and the younger boy then gave Dean a little can of lighter fluid and stood back while Dean doused the clown with the flammable substance and then set the can down next to the salt. Dean then produced a box of wooden matches from his jeans pocket and solemnly handed them over to Sam.
“This is your kill, Sammy,” Dean asserted with an undertone of deference. “You earned it.”
Sam grabbed a match from the box, lit it and held it for a moment staring down with animosity at the doll. With a grunt of satisfaction, he flicked the match out of his hand and it fell and hit the doll’s chest igniting the fabric with a soft whump. Both boys watched the clown doll as it burned, its grinning face beginning to melt into a hideous whorl of paint and plastic. The doll began to laugh right then, the sound coming out wheezy and shrill as the fire scorched and consumed the wiring of the mechanism inside its smoking body.
“Oookaay, that’s just creepy. Let’s get out of here,” Dean blurted and Sam agreed.
They raced back to the Impala just as John finished loading it and slammed shut the trunk.
“Ready to go, boys?” he asked them, giving them a fatherly smile.
Dean glanced apprehensively back over his shoulder towards the motel then quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, dad. I am so ready to blow this popstand.”
Before Dean could head around to the passenger side of the car, Sam piped up. “I call shotgun!”
Dean stopped, pissed. He was about to shoot his brother a nasty retort, when he caught his dad’s look and decided to withhold the smart aleck comment he had ready.
“Sure, Sammy, you take shotgun,” Dean reluctantly agreed and was rewarded with a nod and a smile of approval from John.
Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, watching with amusement as Sam winced and shifted uncomfortably on the front seat trying to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his still sore butt. Maybe, the backseat wasn’t so bad a choice after all, Dean reasoned. He climbed in and stretched out on his side as his father gunned the engine of the muscle car putting it in reverse. Dean closed his eyes, relaxing into the rumbling rhythm of the car as John flipped on the radio to a Metallica tune and turned out onto the main road in front of the Budget Motel and headed north.
“Wake me when we get to Santa Fe,” Dean called lazily from the back seat and then laid his head back onto John’s rolled up jacket and promptly went to sleep.
NOW – PRESENT DAY
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
“Sam, are you even listening?” Dean snapped in irritation as he tore his gaze from the road to glare at his brother.
“Hmm? What?” Sam blinked and turned from the minivan’s window giving his brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
Dean’s brow creased. “What?”
Sam squirmed and gave a short embarrassed laugh. “Ah nothing.” He paused giving a half-hearted shrug. “Just that stupid clown doll. Remember? Back when we were kids?”
Dean’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he chuckled at the memory. “You talking about Creepy the Clown? Dude! That was one serious fucked up doll!” Dean peered over at Sam from the corner of his eye and grinned when he caught his younger brother wincing. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Still shake in your boots when you hear that name?”
Sam fumed at that. “Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” he sullenly retorted giving Dean a derisive look.
Dean glowered back at Sam in amazement. “Planes crash!” he hotly countered.
Not to be outdone, Sam shot back smugly, “And apparently clowns kill!”
Both men stared out the bug-spattered windshield of the borrowed minivan in silence as the miles ticked by neither wanting to admit that there were just some things in life that tended to scare the living crap out of you.
THE END
Clowning Around
by Minx
NOW
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
Dean Winchester concentrated on the quiet country road before him, his hands casually gripping the unfamiliar steering wheel of the beat up minivan he was driving as he sped it along through the chill Wisconsin evening. It still griped him royally that Bobby hadn’t had any other vehicle to offer them as a loaner other than this p.o.s. A minivan! Jeez, it wasn’t bad enough he’d lost his father and his own beloved Chevy Impala only a week ago to a freaking demon driving a big rig, but now he was relegated to motoring around in a soccer mom’s castoff hunting down killer clowns. Maybe Sam was right, he thought to himself. Maybe this family was cursed...
Dean angrily shoved the memory of what had happened a week ago out of his mind for the hundredth time, burying it down deep in his subconscious. He instead tried to focus on his brother’s voice as Sam went over the details of their latest job. The older hunter shifted his gaze from the darkened road a moment to glance at his younger brother who sat in the passenger seat his nose still buried in the folder of clippings Ellen had given them at the Roadhouse.
“So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carnie in a clown suit?” he asked Sam.
Sam paused in his reading, looking up and over at Dean. “Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop - alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”
For some odd reason an image from their childhood leapt into Dean’s mind and he smirked. He just couldn’t help himself and he turned to Sam offering the younger hunter an apologetic smile.
“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam,” Dean said grinning wider feeding off of Sam’s innocent look of confusion. “Why did it have to be clowns?”
“Oh give me a break!” Sam said in disgust and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe Dean was going to bring that up after all these years.
Dean chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s unease. “You didn't think I'd remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television.”
Sam couldn’t even remember how it all had started. It was most likely something Dean had said or done that had pissed him off. Hell, he’d been only nine years old at the time, and it didn’t take much teasing from Dean to get Sam riled enough to want to fight back. Whatever it was, it had led to the stupid thing with the Oreos which had then escalated to one of the biggest prank wars the two of them had ever had. And needless to say, Sam recalled, it had had all ended rather scarily for the both of them. Sam stared out the window of the minivan a moment and cringed inwardly, remembering back to that miserable long weekend in Arizona...
THEN
Location: Spring 1992. Phoenix, Arizona. Budget Lodge off I-17.
Nine-year-old Sam Winchester smiled to himself as he pawed through the paper grocery sack his father had just set down on the scarred formica table of the little kitchenette in their motel room. He pushed aside the cans of beef-a-roni and spaghettios eagerly reaching down deeper to grab the cellophane package of Oreos near the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the cookies in triumph and knelt on the kitchen chair just staring at them, unable to keep the grin off his chubby face.
“Hey, put those back,” John Winchester nodded to the Oreo package in Sam’s hands, giving his son a look of fatherly reproach. “No cookies until after dinner, kiddo.”
Sam nodded and carefully laid the package down on the table. “I wasn’t gonna have any, Dad,” he said, his eyes refusing to leave the blue and white label on the cookies. “I just wanted to make sure you got ‘em.”
John smiled at his youngest son. It wasn’t often he could actually buy things for his kids when they asked for them. Begged for them, actually was more like it. Their nomadic life just didn’t allow room for things like slip-n-slides, hot wheels track sets or Star Wars action figures. Whatever they owned had to fit into duffel bags and a few cardboard boxes. Most of the time, his boys took it in stride, but John knew it had to be hard. He could see it on their faces whenever a commercial came on for a new toy and their eyes lit up for a brief moment before realization set in that it wasn’t something they’d ever get to play with. So, when Sam or Dean specifically asked for something as simple as Oreo cookies, John did his best to honor the request. He set down the other bag of groceries next to the first one and reached over to ruffle Sam’s thick unruly hair. Kid would be needing a haircut soon.
“I thought Dean was the chocolate fiend around here, Sammy,” John said. “I’m sort of surprised you asked for these.”
Sam shrugged, innocent green eyes lifted up to meet his father’s. “I like these ones ‘cause you can dunk them and they get all squishy.”
John chuckled, his face softening. “Yeah, they are pretty fun to eat, aren’t they?” He paused looking around the room and out past the doorway to the tiny living room area, a kernel of apprehension blooming in his gut. “Where’s your brother?”
They both heard a flush and then the bathroom door opened from across the way. John relaxed feeling somewhat foolish as his thirteen-year-old son ambled out of the bathroom zipping up his scuffed jeans as he walked. Dean’s eyes lit up when they spotted John.
“Hey, Dad, you’re back,” Dean grinned and hurried into the kitchenette area giving his dad a smile and his little brother a playful smack to the back of his head. “How’s it going there, Samantha,” Dean teased as he passed by the boy.
“Quit it!” Sam said.
He frowned at Dean then glanced to his dad to see if he’d get any back up from the man. No luck. John was busy folding up the paper bags and stuffing them in the trashcan by the fridge.
“Samaaannnttthhaaa,” Dean drawled with glee.
“Stop calling me that, Dean!” Sam tried to sound tough but his nine-year old voice came out too high pitched to be menacing.
“Hey, I can’t help it if you look like a chick…and sound like one,” Dean shot back.
He eyed the cookies sitting next to Sam’s elbow and leaned across the table to grab the package but Sam quickly hunched over it giving his older brother a determined scowl. Dean scowled back, reaching once more for the cookies a threatening glint in his eye.
“Hand ‘em over, Sammy,” Dean growled. “You don’t even like Oreos anyway.”
Sam shook his head not willing to comply with someone who had just insinuated that he was a girl. Dean, growing frustrated, shot out a hand again to snatch them away when he heard his father directly behind him.
“Let him have the cookies, Dean,” John warned his oldest child.
Dean huffed at that but dutifully pulled his hand back from across the table. Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean, who then decided his brother needed another smack to the head. But John stepped in front of his oldest son, blocking him. He offered the teenager a raised brow, daring him to push his luck, but Dean knew better. He backed away from the table trying to appear uncaring as he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave Sam a scornful look.
“Fine, crybaby. Have them,” Dean groused. “You don’t even like them.”
John shook his head in tired disbelief, running a hand through his hair. The two of them were about wearing him out lately. He didn’t know if it was Dean’s becoming a teenager a few months back or if the two were just overly restless these days, but they had been bickering and getting on one another’s nerves more than usual it seemed.
“Dean, cut your brother some slack, all right?” John said in irritation and then addressed his youngest who still had his arms wrapped protectively around the package of cookies. “And Sammy, you’re not eating all of those by yourself. You share them with Dean.”
John saw the pout coming on before it happened. Sam’s bottom lip jutted out, his brows furrowing in stubborn defiance as he stared down at the cookies on the table.
“They’re my cookies. I asked for them,” Sam sullenly stated.
John had had enough. He slowly leaned over the table, getting his eyes level with his son’s. “You will share those with your brother or you won’t be getting any at all. You understand me, Samuel?”
The pout wavered at the sound of his father’s stern voice. John held out his hand keeping his dark eyes on Sam. Sam hesitated for only a fraction of second before reluctantly handing the package over with a loud put upon sigh. Relieved that he had headed a tantrum off at the pass, John took the Oreos and walked over to the counter, plunking them down by the sink and turned to face Sam and Dean who were now making faces at one another.
“Knock it off you two!” John barked and the boys immediately straightened up and were all ears. “I’m going to be out for the next three days, boys.” John fixed his countenance on Dean. “I expect you to take care of things around here while I’m gone, Dean. That means you watch out for your brother, and you follow the rules I’ve given you.”
Dean nodded, looking about as bored as he possibly could without actually giving his dad an eye roll because that would just get him into trouble. “Yes sir, I know the drill.”
“Make sure you do,” John shot back, his tone letting Dean know he wasn’t pleased with his attitude. “Sammy, you listen to Dean.”
“Do I have to?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?” John said and Sam shrunk down in his chair, immediately regretting his words. “You want to try again, son?”
“I mean, yessir,” Sam quietly said looking down at the tabletop.
John kept his eyes on Sam a moment longer but the boy wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Dean, you and Sam put the rest of the groceries away while I get ready,” John ordered.
The boys immediately set about collecting the cans and packages from the table while John went into the small bedroom to grab the duffel of weapons and his research journal. He had taken off in the Impala not long after that. He had hugged his sons and made them recite one more time the familiar litany of rules to follow while he was gone on a hunt: don’t answer the door; don’t answer the phone unless it rings just once; keep doors and windows locked; salt the doorway and the window sills for the night; keep the loaded shotgun nearby; watch out for one another, and no fighting.
After a dinner of macaroni and cheese, Dean had stretched out on the couch, eyes glazed as he watched TV. His dad had only been gone for four hours and he was already bored out of his mind. It sucked every time. Every single freaking motel was the same. Same bland putty-colored walls, same ugly shag carpeting, same cheap television set with crappy reception. He sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that their life wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
He muted the sound on the TV and cocked an ear toward the bedroom down the little hallway. He could hear Sam in there talking to himself and he smiled. The kid was actually talking to his toy soldiers, Dean knew. The little green plastic men had been his at one time, but Dean had outgrown them at thirteen and now they were Sam’s. He’d ordered Sam to play in the other room after the two had almost come to blows over the TV remote earlier. Sam had wanted to watch some dumb cartoon and Dean preferred to watch Quantum Leap. Being older and bigger, it was no contest as to who won the argument. Sam had stomped off to the bedroom calling Dean names over his shoulder.
Dean had free reign of the TV remote after that. He looked up from the glow of the set when Sam wandered out of the bedroom awhile later. The younger boy totally ignored Dean as he slowly walked across the room towards the kitchen area, stopping deliberately in front of the TV screen. Sam leaned up against the set, making sure he blocked the screen from view. Dean just rolled his eyes and sat up.
“It’s on a commercial, you dork,” he said pointing to the set. “Like I care if you block it now.” Dean hopped off the couch and headed for the bathroom, calling back to Sam over his shoulder. “I’m just going to pee. No changing the channel because I’m coming back.”
Sam waited until his brother had shut the bathroom door and then he raced to the kitchen and quickly grabbed the Oreos off the counter where his dad had set them. He tore open the package, grabbing a handful of cookies out and then snatched a plate from the drying rack next to the sink. Peeking around the archway, Sam made sure Dean was still in the bathroom and then he hurried into the bedroom across the way and quietly shut the door.
Dean was in for a big surprise, Sam thought. He dropped the cookies and plate onto the bed and then crawled on hands and knees over to one of the duffel bags sitting on the floor. Sam unzipped the one nearest him and rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. He grinned as he pulled the tube of toothpaste out and carried it over the bed.
Jumping up onto the bed, Sam dropped the tube onto the pillow, turning his attention to the cookies. He picked one up and fussed with it a moment carefully twisting the two chocolate halves apart. With a quick glance to the door to make sure it was shut tightly, Sam raised one of the cookie halves to his mouth and scraped the white crème filling off of it with his teeth, savoring the sugary delicacy. He repeated this action with the other half until both were clean. Then, Sam reached over and picked up the toothpaste and popped off the cap. He aimed the tube and squirted a quarter-sized dollop of the minty paste onto one of the cookie halves he’d just licked clean. Satisfied that it was enough, he placed the other half of the cookie back and gently pressed them together careful not to break the cookie. Finished, Sam set the fake Oreo onto the plate and picked up another one from the coverlet. He grinned smugly, pleased with his work. This would show Dean what he got for being a butt-head while Dad was away.
Dean was a bit surprised when Sam had come to him with the peace offering of Oreos. His little brother usually wasn’t one for giving in when the two of them fought, but hey, Dean thought, as he reached for a cookie, why look a gift horse in the mouth? He had actually eaten two of the nasty things before Sam’s giggling and his own taste buds had finally registered that something wasn’t quite right.
“Sammy, what’d you do?” Dean demanded around a mouthful of cookie.
His face screwed up in repulsion as the chalky mint aftertaste of the toothpaste hit him and his eyes widened in shock. Sam just about fell off the couch in fits of laughter, his hands clutching his sides as he watched Dean quickly bend over and spit the remainder of the cookie back onto the plate, scrubbing at his tongue with his hand.
“Real funny, jerkwad!” Dean snapped as he got up and stalked over to the kitchen.
He filled a glass full of water and chugged it rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. He watched the foamy white crème and freckles of chocolate as they splashed against the stainless steel of the sink and felt his face burn red with anger. Toothpaste! The little shit had put toothpaste in the frigging Oreos!
“You are so dead, dude,” Dean hissed as he whirled around, making a grab for Sam’s shirt.
Sam, who had followed Dean into the kitchen to gloat further, jumped back still snorting and took off for the bedroom with Dean in hot pursuit. Dean banged into the archway coming out of the kitchen thereby losing the chance to overtake his brother. He made it to the bedroom just as the door slammed shut with a resonant bang in his face. Dean tried the knob, giving the worn brass a rough shake but knew Sam had already locked the door. He slapped the painted wood in front of him once hard.
“Laugh it up, Sammy,” Dean yelled through the door. “Because it is so on right now! You won’t know when, and you won’t know where, but your are toast, dude!”
Clowning Around (Supernatural Fanfic) Part 2 of ?
By Minx
Fandom: This takes place during the “Everyone Loves a Clown” episode of Season 2. Anyone else ever wonder where Sam developed his clown phobia from?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. They are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Any characters in this story are used simply for entertainment purposes, and I am not making any money from these stories.
Warning: Contains swearing and spanking of children
And that was how the whole ugly thing had started, Sam had painfully reflected later. Dean, even at the tender age of thirteen, was no slouch in the art of combat, be it against a demonic revenant or a bratty little brother. He therefore wasted no time in retaliating for the tainted cookies by hiding an unwrapped Jolly Rancher candy in the shower head before Sam got up the next morning. Dean had ordered Sam to the bathroom upon rising to take a shower, knowing that the steam and heat of the hot water would melt the candy and cover Sam in a clear sticky sheen.
Looking back, Sam realized he should have expected an immediate reprisal from Dean. He was like Dad – he hated to lose at anything, and letting Sam one up him in the practical joke department just wasn’t going to happen. But to be fair, Sam had methodically inspected the small bathroom, checking the cabinet under the sink and even making sure there wasn’t any plastic wrap or anything on the toilet. Yeah, it was stupid not to have checked the shower head, but hey, Sam reasoned, he had been only nine. And at nine, you didn’t always cover all the bases. He hadn’t even been aware that anything was amiss until later when he was clothed and the warmth of his body had reactivated the sugary residue.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, not for the first time that day, as he watched Sam pick at his usually baggy t-shirt once again in obvious irritation as it persistently clung to his skin. To Dean, this was way more fun than staring at the television all day or yawning through the boring textbooks his father had left for them to study. If he couldn’t go out on the hunt with his dad, which is what he’d have preferred hands down, then why not torment his brother for a laugh instead? To Dean it was just another form of brotherly comraderie, and as long as their father didn’t catch wind of it, he didn’t mind the silly competition.
“You okay there, buddy?” Dean asked Sam as they trudged back from the lobby of the motel where they had gone to get some sodas from the machine.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, hesitation in his young voice. He swatted at another fly as it attempted to land on his arm, cursing softly under his breath. “Man, what is with all these flies, Dean? It’s supposed to be a desert out here. There aren’t supposed to be this many flies!”
Dean had to look away a moment as he stifled a laugh. He breathed deeply, eyes crinkled in amusement as he absentmindedly scanned the half-empty parking lot of the motel, forcing himself to keep a straight face. Man, he should be getting an Oscar for this performance! Composing himself as best he could, Dean offered his younger brother a sincere shrug as the two kept walking along side by side.
“Gee, I don’t know Sammy. Maybe you just smell good to them or something,” he blurted and then bit his cheek again.
Sam scowled and brushed another fly from his hair. He continued walking but had to pause every few strides to squirm and pick his underwear from his crack. For some reason they kept sticking to him and riding up. Hearing a strangled snort escape from Dean’s lips, Sam quickly glanced over at his brother from underneath a thick fringe of lashes, his hackles rising. No. He couldn’t have...
The younger Winchester boy slowed his pace, letting Dean get ahead of him by a few steps and then Sam stopped dead in his tracks, a deep crease of suspicion forming between his brows. He studied the retinue of flies buzzing around him – just him. They weren’t bothering Dean at all. Then he looked down at his shirt that was once again glued to his chest and his back. Dean had kept walking but now stopped and turned around to check on what was holding up Sam. Seeing his brother standing on the curb looking for all intents and purposes like a human dumpster with all the flies circling was too much and Dean finally burst out laughing.
“Dean!” Sam roared and looked at the older boy in a mixture of fury and chagrin as realization sunk in.
“Dude, you should see yourself!” Dean bent over, convulsing with laughter. “Oh man, I wish I had a camera. This is priceless.” He shook his head, eyeing Sam as if he were the biggest retard ever. “I can’t believe you fell for the candy in the shower head, Sammy. So, how’s it feel to be walking around all day like a sugar-coated princess?”
Dean ducked as Sam’s soda can went whizzing by his head.
“You big donkey dick!” Sam shouted his fists clenching.
Dean saw Sam’s nostrils flare in rage and he wasted no time in high tailing it back to the room. Sam had chased Dean all the way almost catching up to him, but the running had made him sweat which only activated the sugar worse. By the time Sam had made it into the motel room, his clothing was plastered stickily against his skin and his butt cheeks felt as if they were glued together. He glared at Dean as he began to peel off his t-shirt, heading for the bathroom.
“You wait until I tell Dad, Dean!” Sam said, angrily throwing his shirt at his brother.
Dean easily side stepped the missile and quirked his brows at Sam while folding his arms across his chest. “Go ahead, smart ass – tell Dad. And then I’ll tell him what you did with the Oreos.”
A look of apprehension passed over Sam’s chubby face. Maybe telling Dad wasn’t such a good idea. In fact, it was a pretty crummy idea, he decided because the only outcome of their dad finding out that his sons were indeed fighting after he’d told them to behave was that he and Dean would end up with a couple of very sore butts.
“Fine,” Sam reluctantly humphed, refusing to look his brother in the eye.
Dean relaxed and waited until Sam finally gazed up at him. He caught the liquid glint of anger lingering in Sam’s eyes and decided to be the bigger man and attempt peace before things got out of hand.
“We even then?” he solemnly questioned the younger boy.
Sam let out a big pouty sigh, thinking a moment and then nodded sullenly. “Even.”
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He was furious at Dean and wanted desperately to get the boy into trouble just to get back at him. Never mind that he had agreed to a truce not seconds ago. And forget that it was in fact he himself that had actually started the whole thing in the first place with the Oreos. Dean may be the oldest, Sam reasoned, but he wasn’t necessarily the smartest. And that meant that Sam had a chance at winning this time.
He pulled his jeans, underwear and socks off his body, dropping the sugar-coated clothes onto the floor and reached into the tub to turn on the faucet, but he stopped before his hand touched the handle. He slowly craned his neck up, flicking his gaze to the now infamous shower head. Sam stepped up onto the narrow rim of the tub and grabbed hold of the old curtain rod for balance while with the other hand he reached up and unscrewed the shower head bringing it down to peer inside. Dean had either removed the candy or it had completely melted when he had showered earlier. Either way, the boy wasn’t taking any chances. He hopped down from his perch and set the metal head into the sink planning to thoroughly clean it out with some shampoo later. In the meantime, Sam decided it might be safer to take a bath. Dean heard the tub faucet come on full force and plunked down onto the faded plaid couch in the other room, still chortling over his brilliant ploy.
As he soaped himself, Sam’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the nondescript bathroom before settling on the little plastic shelf above the sink. His head tilted to the side as he stared at his father’s can of shaving cream sitting there. The hint of a wicked smile formed on the boy’s lips. He looked to the door of the bathroom and the smile split into a nasty grin.
“Screw being even,” Sam mumbled as he hurried to finish washing. A plan was already forming. There was no turning back now.
Dean was in the kitchen heating up some beef-a-roni when he heard Sam coming out of the steamy bathroom.
“All squeaky clean, Sam?” Dean called over his shoulder, grinning.
Sam ignored the jibe as he made his way to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dirty clothes piled in his arms. The younger boy toed the bedroom door shut and dumped his clothing on the floor by his duffel bag, but kept hold of the can of shaving cream he’d hidden underneath them. He wandered over to his brother’s bed situated near the window and stood there a moment, can in hand, smiling, before he got down to work.
Dinner was subdued, yet ripe with tension. Both boys were exhausted from being on guard and having their defenses up the entire day. And even though both had agreed to end the prank battle, Dean warily checked his chair for tacks or anything else his brother might have done to it and then ducked underneath the table to make sure there were no surprises there either.
Sam for his part refused to accept the bowl of beef-a-roni Dean offered him, insisting he had done something to the food until with a sigh of irritation, Dean had grabbed up a spoon and shoveled half the bowl into his own mouth to prove it was okay. Sam sheepishly filled a second bowl from the soup pan on the little stove and brought it back to the table, giving his chair a firm shake first before sitting down to eat.
After dinner, Dean suggested they call it an early night and for once, Sam didn’t balk. They did the dishes in silence before wearily stumbling to the bedroom. Sam shucked off his jeans and quickly pulled on a clean pair of pajama bottoms while Dean double-checked the window locks and salt line he’d lain down earlier. The older boy yawned as he stripped down and got into his own pajamas eager to get some sleep and put the day’s escapades behind him. His hazel eyes settled for a moment on Sam’s small form now huddled underneath the shabby blankets of his bed and he felt a twinge of guilt pass over him. His father had left him in charge and he was supposed to be watching out for Sam, not causing the kid more grief.
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered under his breath.
He straightened up feeling a sense of manly pride at being able to forgive and forget. That feeling lasted only until Dean tried to slide into his bed and found himself brought up short, his legs not able to unfold due to the sheet stopping him. Dean’s brows knit together in confusion as he tried once again to straighten his legs out but couldn’t. What the hell? He threw the covers off in growing frustration, suspicion now burgeoning in his mind. Dean reached across the bed to flick on the bedside lamp whereupon he caught sight of Sam shaking with silent laughter in the bed across from him, thereby confirming what he already knew. Dean jumped out of the bed and pulled the sheets all the way back to reveal that the top sheet was indeed folded in half on itself.
“Lame, Sam, totally lame,” Dean admonished his brother as the boy sat up in his bed a smug grin plastered on his young face.
Dean grabbed the folded up sheet and yanked it off the bed, snapping it out to its full size. He replaced it, tucking it back onto the bed and shook his sandy blonde head in mock disappointment.
“You can’t come up with something better than a cheesy Girl Scout prank? Dude, you don’t even qualify as a Winchester,” Dean scoffed.
The sheets now back to normal, Dean snapped off the light and crawled into bed, feeling pretty superior for showing Sam up on his latest attempt at getting even. Kid was a total amateur, he thought as he relaxed and reached up for his pillow to hug it to him. That was when he found the shaving cream. A whole freaking mess of shaving cream that had been left underneath his pillow. Dean swore as he yanked his hands back and then squinted from the glare of the lamp when Sam flicked it back on. He twisted around to see Sam shooting him a triumphant finger from across the way.
“You suck, Sammy,” Dean said giving his brother a dark look.
He looked down at his hands and arms in mounting displeasure. They were literally coated in shaving cream, the foamy white stuff dripping from his elbows down onto the bed and his pajama bottoms. Sam continued to cackle in glee until Dean snatched his pillow up and launched it at Sam’s head. It missed and landed with a wet plop against the dresser, leaving a smear of foam against the front of it.
“You are so cleaning this all up in the morning,” Dean heatedly stated, ready to clobber his brat of a brother.
He scraped as much of the shaving cream off his sheets as he could and deposited the mess into the garbage can by the door, then retrieved his pillow from the floor. With a sadistic glower, he wiped his hands and the sodden case off on Sam’s duffel bag and then chucked the pillow back onto his bed with an annoyed toss.
“Scoot over, geek boy,” Dean ordered his brother as he kneed him in the back while climbing into the other’s bed next to him. “You got company tonight since you messed up my bed.”
“So,” Sam cheerfully replied as he made room for Dean, “What was that about not qualifying as a Winchester?”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbled as he turned, putting his back to his brother and reached out to snap off the lamp. “Go to sleep, Sam, or I’ll let the chupacabra get you.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam shot back, his voice full of derision. He was silent for a moment in the darkness, thinking. “Dean?” Sam softly whimpered.
No answer.
“You won’t really let the chupacabber get me, will you?”
Still no answer.
“Dean?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dean woke up the next morning in a tangle of motel sheets with something digging uncomfortably into his spine. It turned out to be Sam. The younger child was pressed tightly against Dean’s back, one arm clamped in a death grip about his midsection. Dean shifted slightly on the mattress, trying to remove Sam’s knobby knees from where they pressed into his kidneys but the kid was like a stubborn tick and refused to budge.
“Get off me, Sammy,” Dean complained. He reached behind him in mild annoyance and elbowed his brother in the chest, pushing so that there was finally some distance between the two of them in the narrow bed. “Jeez, what’s with the girly ‘hold me’ crap?”
With a whiny moan, Sam reluctantly released his grip on Dean and slowly sat up in the bed, yawning and rubbing his sleep crusted eyes, still not fully awake.
A moment of panic swept over him as visions of a chupacabra jumped into his conscience. His dreams had been full of the fiendish monster and it had been nearly impossible to fall asleep last night until he’d crawled up close in the bed to his big brother and clamped a chubby arm around Dean’s middle as if to anchor himself to reality and away from the nightmares. Sam’s eyes popped all the way open when he felt Dean roll and move to the edge of the bed they had shared.
“Dean?” Sam called after his brother, his voice tentative.
“Yeah?” Dean tiredly answered over his shoulder. He was surveying the mess left from the shaving cream and groaning inwardly. This would all have to be cleaned up before their father got back.
“Dean, there wasn’t really a chupacabber, was there?”
A puzzled frown replaced the sleepy grimace on Dean’s face. “A what? What’re you talking about Sam?”
Sam elaborated, his tone slightly truculent. “Last night…you said the chupercabber was gonna get me, but there wasn’t really one, was there?”
Dean had to think a second before remembering the hasty threat he’d made to his little brother right before falling asleep last night. He gave a mild snort of amusement, half impressed with himself that his intimidation tactic had actually worked.
“It’s choo-pah-cah-bra, not chupercabber, genius. And no, there wasn’t one. I was just pissed at you for ambushing me last night,” Dean replied with a yawn.
“Oh.” Sam said quietly.
A long pause ensued during which Dean stretched, raising his arms high overhead to help unkink the long muscles of his back. Sleeping bunched up with Sam in a sagging twin bed had not been very comfortable to say the least.
So, you made it all up?” Sam pressed him for confirmation.
Dean shrugged. “Well there actually are chupacabras. Dad’s even bagged one before.”
The teen grinned, remembering ‘Uncle’ Bobby telling him the story about his dad’s adventure, embellishing on the details to make it gorier and more exciting. John had not been too thrilled about that and had told Bobby to lay off the Jack Daniels and stick to the normal bedtime stories next time. Dean noticed Sam had grown silent and he twisted around on the bed observing the fear blooming once again on his brother’s face at the news that the creature was indeed real. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he tried to ease Sam’s worry.
“Hey, no, Sammy, there wasn’t one last night. No chupacabras at the Budget Lodge in Phoenix, okay?” Dean watched the alarm in Sam’s eyes turn to hesitation and then finally to a reluctant acceptance. “It was a joke, dude. Man, you’re not gonna wet the bed, are you?” Dean couldn’t help teasing.
Sam glowered at Dean and smacked him in the middle of his back. “You wet the bed, jerk!” he said, reaching out to smack Dean again, but the older boy jumped off the bed and Sam’s hand caught only air.
“That’ll teach you to go back on a truce, Francis,” Dean laughed heading for the door to the bedroom.
“You’re not going to tell Dad, are you?” Sam questioned, anxiety creeping into his voice.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Do I look stupid to you?” Then just as quickly he added with a pointed finger, “Don’t even, Sammy…”
Sam shut his mouth biting back the “yes” that was on his lips. But, Dean, being Dean couldn’t let the unspoken wisecrack just hang there. He pointed at his bed, leveling a commanding look at Sam.
“Start stripping my bed down while I go make breakfast, and grab your clothes from yesterday too,” Dean ordered Sam. “We’re going to have to wash all that stuff before dad gets back tomorrow because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna try to explain to him why my sheets have Gillette Foamy shaving cream all over them or why your clothes smell like you’ve been playing in a candy factory for a month.”
Dean sauntered out of the room, but returned a moment later ducking his head into the doorway, a smirk of superiority plastered onto his face. “By the way? My chupacabra story counts in scoring, so that still makes us tied at two apiece – no win for you. Nice try though, Samantha.”
Dean disappeared as quickly as he’d shown up and Sam blew out his cheeks in exasperation, shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t fair. Dean always seemed to have the advantage. He could swim better, shoot more bulls-eyes, run faster, and even seemed to understand their father and his obsession with demon hunting better. When was it going to be his turn to be better, he silently wondered.
After breakfast, Dean was still feeling a little tired, so he decided to wait on doing the laundry until the afternoon. Lucky for them, there was a laundromat just down the block and across the street from the motel. Dean remembered seeing it when he and Sam had gone to the main motel office for sodas yesterday.
John had strict rules about the boys staying inside the room whenever he was out on a hunt, and had made it pretty clear to the both of them what the penalty for wandering about would be. It was important that he knew the boys were safe and secure while he was on a hunt because having to constantly worry whether or not they were could put his own life in danger. He had to have their trust so that he could concentrate fully on the job at hand.
Dean understood this and being the good soldier that he was, he didn’t think twice about keeping to the rules within limits. To him, walking a few feet down to the motel lobby in the middle of the day for a soda was one thing, but actually leaving the premises all together for a few hours was something he normally wouldn’t even have considered. Especially, not after the shtriga incident a few years back. He shuddered, remembering. This time though was different in Dean’s mind. He wasn’t leaving Sam back in the room by himself and it wasn’t the middle of the night, nor was there a known demon lurking in the vicinity.
Besides, the teen reasoned, there wasn’t much of a choice in the matter really. Staying put meant having to explain the messed up sheets and clothes to his dad, and that would lead to admitting about the practical jokes he and Sam had been playing on one another. Although his father did have a sense of humor, sophomoric pranking that might escalate into someone getting hurt or the authorities getting called was not something John Winchester tolerated, and Dean knew it. And at thirteen, there was just something totally and utterly humiliating about the thought of getting your butt royally blistered by your father. It had been almost two years since the last time John had spanked him, and Dean had absolutely no interest in breaking the dry spell any time soon.
Dean finished rinsing the cereal bowls and stuck them in the drying rack next to the sink. He could hear the television on in the other room and although he couldn’t make out what was actually on, some of the dialogue sounded familiar. Curious, he wandered out of the kitchen and into the small living room to spy Sam on the couch, still in his ninja turtles pajamas, gripping one of the threadbare couch pillows to himself, his big green eyes glued to the TV set. If the kid was concentrating any harder, Dean observed, there’d be drool running down his chin.
“What’re you watching?” the older boy questioned as he came into the room and gazed over at the flickering screen.
“It’s a movie about a family like us, Dean!” Sam excitedly answered, his eyes never leaving the TV. “They got a ghost and everything!”
Dean had to hide a smile. “Dude, it’s not about hunters. That’s Poltergeist.” And then Dean did chuckle as he grabbed the pillow from Sam and used it to prop himself up on the floor just underneath where Sam was sitting on the couch. “It’s a pretty good flick actually,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it, Sam.”
A guilty look came over the younger boy’s features. “Dad said I wasn’t allowed to watch it because it’s too scary.”
“Serious?” Dean shot his brother a skeptical frown. “I can’t believe Dad said that, considering our own life is pretty much off the scale on scariness most of the time. You sure you’re not just saying that so I won’t think you’re a big wuss?”
“I’m not a wuss!” Sam whined petulantly. “I’m watching it right now, aren’t I?”
“Okay, okay, chill out there, Francis,” Dean held up a hand in surrender. “It’s cool. Let’s just watch the movie.”
Sam was fascinated by the story at first. He was still too young to actually go out on hunts, so his first-hand knowledge of the supernatural was pretty much limited to what he read in books or had heard or been taught by his Dad, Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and the other hunters his father occasionally worked with. And, he had been only an infant when his mother had died and so had no real memories of that horrific incident.
Furthermore, his run in with the shtriga three years ago was only a cache of fuzzy memories, since he’d been asleep when the thing had attacked him and had been just about unconscious as it had started sucking the life force out of him. One minute he was sound asleep, the next minute he was being shaken awake by his dad, whose look of terror and worry had scared Sam more than the attack itself.
But, as the movie progressed in suspense and chills, Sam’s apprehension rose in direct proportion. The malevolent spirit seemed all too real to his nine-year-old mind, especially since he knew that such things existed not just on the movie screen.
And there was something creepily familiar about the children’s bedroom to him. It reminded him of some of the bedrooms in some of the apartments he and Dean had lived in, and he began to wonder how many of the places they’d stayed in might have had something lurking in the closet that they’d never even known about. How many times had he fallen asleep in a strange bedroom not realizing that maybe something was there, hiding...watching him...and waiting. Goosebumps dimpled his arms at that dreadful thought.
Dean was so engrossed in the movie that he didn’t catch the first tiny whimpers coming from the couch above him. The clincher was the final showdown in the children’s bedroom in the movie. Sam’s heart nearly stopped beating, his fear as palpable as the little boy’s on the screen when the camera panned over to the empty chair where the malevolent clown doll had been sitting not moments ago.
Sam watched with mounting horror as the boy in the movie slowly leaned over the edge of his bed, the background music crescendoing…No, no, no! Sam thought, his mouth gone dry. You never check for danger without a weapon in hand!
And that’s when the clown doll suddenly sprang from its hiding place to drag the poor boy screaming down underneath the bed. Sam launched himself off the couch with a bleat, landing onto Dean’s back, startling the older boy and knocking the air out of him. Dean swore but Sam ignored him as he wrestled the TV remote from Dean’s hands and quickly hit the off button, his breath coming in heaving gasps.
“Sammy! What’s wrong with you?” Dean shouted as he tried to snag the channel changer back, his face a mask of puzzled irritation.
“I don’t wanna watch anymore,” Sam firmly stated as he turtled up on the floor, hugging the remote to his stomach when Dean tried to grab it from him again.
“Why? The movie’s almost over. What’s going on?” Dean argued. “Gimme the remote.”
He tried to pry Sam’s fingers off the remote but the younger Winchester had a surprisingly strong grip on the thing. Sam shot him a wild-eyed look, nervous as a stray dog ready to bolt.
“No, Dean!” he protested, rolling away from his brother. “I don’t like this movie anymore! I don’t wanna watch it!”
Dean gave up with a chuff of disgust. He got up from the floor, brushing his jeans off and shot Sam an indignant sneer which made the younger boy wince in shame.
“I just don’t get you sometimes, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his frustration coming out in his tone. “What? Were you scared?” Sam flinched slightly and Dean picked up on the subtle body sign. “Is that it? You got scared?”
“No,” Sam said in a very unconvincing way.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean blinked in surprise, looking from the dead TV screen to his brother, who refused to look him in the face. “We hunt down werewolves and demons and stuff for a living,” he said pointing towards the general direction of the motel door, “and you freak out over a stupid doll on television?”
“It wasn’t just a doll, Dean!” Sam tried to argue, feeling that his stature as a tough member of the Winchester clan was now beginning to slip at a rather alarming rate. “It was an evil possessed clown doll...with teeth and, and...there could be possessed dolls out there too...you don’t know.”
Dean stood, mouth open but unable to think of anything to say for once. The whole thing was just so ludicrous to him that he wasn’t sure even where to start. Instead, the corners of his mouth crimped up and wavered, and then Dean burst out laughing.
“Holy crap, Sammy, it’s just a dumb movie!” Dean tried to explain, causing Sam to ball his little fists in anger. “The doll isn’t real!”
“But it could be, Dean,” Sam countered, not ready to give up the possibility. “There could be a doll like that. Ask Dad when he gets back.”
Dean shook his head, suddenly very tired. “You know what? Forget it, okay?” He motioned towards the hallway of the motel room. “Just go get dressed, Sammy. We need to get to the laundromat before it gets too late. ‘Cause you know, we wouldn’t want the evil clown doll to get us,” he added just to be a smartass.
“I hate you,” Sam spat as he turned and stomped off to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Yeah, Sammy, I know,” Dean called after him as he ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. He wandered back over to the couch and plopped down, stretching out with a huge sigh. “My little brother is afraid of dolls. Terrific.”
Still smarting over his brother’s teasing, Sam grabbed his jeans off the floor where he’d dropped them the night before and then searched in his bag for a clean t-shirt, his mouth still holding a stony pout. He gathered up the dirty laundry and turned to leave the room, but stopped and cast an anxious eye around the room, silently thankful that there was no closet anywhere in sight. As much as he hated to admit it, the movie had definitely given him the creeps, big time. It was just all too possible to him, no matter what Dean said.
And speaking of his brother, Sam reflected, he didn’t have to rub it in so bad. It seemed like Dean was always pointing out that he was older and wiser these days. Bobby had mentioned to him that Dean was going through “the terrible teens” and to just ignore the attitude for now, but it was kind of hard to do sometimes. When their Dad was around, Dean wasn’t as bad because he knew John wouldn’t put up with attitude for any reason. But, when the two boys were alone, Dean was often relentless in his teasing. Sam sighed heavily and headed down the short hallway to the living room with the laundry clutched in his arms, hoping that Dean had tired somewhat of ribbing him about the clown doll.
The young boy trudged into the living area, dropping the load of clothing and sheets onto the nearest chair and opened his mouth to ask about quarters for the washer and dryer when he spied Dean apparently asleep on the couch. Sam closed his mouth, question unasked and stood watching his brother’s chest rise and fall in a slow deep rhythm indicating deep sleep.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward the couch, wondering if Dean was just faking it and as soon as Sam got close enough, he’d jump up and try to scare him. He edged up to the side of the couch, curious but nervous and peered down at Dean. The teen was indeed asleep, eyes shut and a peaceful half smile on his lips.
Sam stood watching for a few moments, wondering if he should wake Dean up or just let him sleep. He glanced over to the little clock radio on the end table next to the couch and noted that it was only quarter to one. There was plenty of time to do the laundry before it got dark outside.
Decision made, Sam headed for the kitchenette to scam some Oreos for himself.
As he sat at the little table munching the chocolate cookies, Sam opened his vocabulary workbook he had snagged off the counter along with the cookie package and started reading where he’d left off last time. He got to the end of the chapter that had a page of exercises and stood up, looking around for a pencil or pen to do them. No luck.
Sam went back into the living room and checked the end tables but couldn’t find any writing utensils there either. Getting frustrated, the boy wandered into the bedroom and spotted his dad’s duffel next to the dresser. Surely his dad would have a pen. Sam felt funny pawing through his father’s stuff, but he really wanted to do the exercises in the workbook. His fingers touched something smooth and cylindrical in the outer pocket of the bag and smiling, Sammy pulled out the pen and then made a face. It was a sharpie marker, no good. The ink would bleed right through the thin pages of the workbook.
Sam moved to put the pen back but hesitated, a look coming into his green eyes. He gazed at the pen in his hand and then slowly over to the open doorway of the room and then back down to the pen again. He knew, absolutely positively knew he shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking. It was immature and just totally wrong. But then again, Sam reasoned standing up, pen in hand, this would so definitely put him in the winning lead of the pranks. And since their father was coming home the next day, there was a pretty good chance Dean wouldn’t have time to retaliate and even up the score again.
Sam smiled. It would be pretty awesome to be able to hold the win over Dean’s head too, like a surefire comeback whenever mister “terrible teen” got on his case. That was the deciding factor for Sam. He tiptoed back out to the living room where Dean slept, silent as a shadow.
Dean cracked open an eyelid when he felt someone shaking him hard. He peered up to spy his younger brother who stood next to the couch doing the shaking and then groaned and sat up.
“Time is it?” he blearily asked Sam.
“Almost two,” Sam replied. He pointed to the pile of laundry still mounded on top of the easy chair adjacent to where Dean sat. “We still have that to get done.”
Dean nodded solemnly and pushed himself off the couch, stretching as he went. The nap had done wonders for his mood and he grinned at Sam, the morning’s outburst all but forgotten.
Sam smiled back, although if Dean had looked closely, he would have noticed that Sam’s happy countenance only went so far as the upturned lips. The younger Winchester was holding a secret and a valuable one at that as far as he was concerned. Sam’s eyes held the glint of retribution in them, but Dean never picked up on that as he stumbled into the kitchen.
Sam heard Dean opening one of the drawers in the other room and knew he was snagging some of the emergency cash their dad had left for them. Sure enough, Dean wandered back out to the living room stuffing a twenty-dollar bill into his jeans pocket before he gathered up the sheets and clothing from the chair. As Dean headed for the door, he couldn’t help but notice Sam still grinning at him.
“You’re awful chipper,” Dean commented offhandedly and motioned with his chin for Sam to open the motel door for him since his hands were full. “Since when did washing clothes give you such a high?”
“I’m just happy to be going out with my big brother,” Sam said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah? Well...you should be,” Dean replied, his chest puffing up with pride. “Who knows, maybe my coolness will rub off a little on you and hide all that geeker joy you tend to ooze.”
Sam trailed after Dean shutting the motel room door behind them with a click.
……………………………….
No sooner had the boys left the motel, the phone on the little desk in the living area of their room rang once and then stopped. Thirty seconds later, it began to ring again and kept ringing steady for several minutes before abruptly cutting off in mid-ring.
…………………………………………………..
John Winchester stared at his cell phone in disbelief, a deep haunting panic flooding his senses as he dialed the motel room number once again, his hand now shaking and mis-dialing. Shit! He swore out loud and forced himself to calm down before redialing. The line rang once and John ended the call and counted slowly, agonizingly to thirty, sweat now beading his forehead as he hit the redial button on his cell. He heard the rings and carefully counted twenty-two of them before ending the call. His hand was now shaking harder than before. No answer. No goddamn answer.
Stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket, John quickly gathered up his journal and duffel full of weapons from the little campsite he’d been staying at and all but ran for the Impala parked just on the other side of a stand of trees. He left his other camping gear and food, not wanting to waste any more time than he had to because the drive back to Phoenix would take about seven hours as it was. His heart was up in his throat, his mind going over every single possibility for why Dean hadn’t answered the phone. The one that kept coming to the forefront though nearly drove him over the edge of what little sanity he had left.
“Please God,” John muttered tearfully as he cranked the Impala’s engine and jammed the car into gear, pressing the gas pedal flat to the floor. “Please let them be okay.”
……………………………………
Sam said nothing all the way to the laundromat even when Dean tried to bait him with the usual taunts of calling him names. This normally would have put Dean’s spidey senses on high alert, but Dean just figured his brother was feeling a bit subdued after the big ‘doll debacle’ that morning and didn’t want to provide any more fodder for Dean to use against him.
They walked along in silence for a bit, the street in front of the motel being relatively quiet in the middle of the day. Dean put out an arm to stop Sam when they hit the corner and checked for traffic before sprinting across the road to the other curb. Sam warily watched his brother as they passed several glassed storefronts, but Dean was lost in his own thoughts and again, didn’t notice anything out of the norm.
The laundromat was surprisingly empty. There was only one college age girl in tight jeans and a t-shirt that bared her belly to show a navel ring and an overweight man in his sixties who was perched on a beat up metal stool near the soap dispenser, chewing on an unlit cigar while working the crossword puzzle from the newspaper.
Dean strode into the place and over to the nearest counter to plunk down his load of laundry. He took a minute to check out the college girl as she bent to empty a nearby dryer and smiled appreciatively at how the denim of her jeans hugged the round globes of rear.
“Dean, I’m hungry,” Sam whined, breaking Dean’s concentration on the young woman’s assets. “Can I have a candy bar from the machine?”
Dean turned, frowning at the interruption and then looked over to where Sam was pointing at a dented candy machine near the restrooms. The machine didn’t look to be working as it was unplugged from the outlet.
“It’s broken, Sammy,” Dean commented, but felt obliged to feed his brother since he’d essentially slept through their lunch time. “Let me get this stuff in a washer and then I’ll get us a couple hotdogs, okay? I saw a vendor down at the other street corner from here.”
Sam nodded and hopped up onto one of the lime green vinyl chairs that were scattered around the Laundromat. He just sat and stared at Dean, fighting not to smile. For being only nine, the irony was not lost on him. Dean fished the twenty out of his pocket and ambled over to the guy with the cigar to get change for soap and the machines. The man gazed up from his paper at Dean’s approach and blinked and then let out an amused snort. His eyes flicked from Dean over to where Sam sat grinning like an idiot and then slowly panned back to Dean who now stood in front of him, holding up the money.
“You have change?” Dean asked the man.
“Sure, sonny,” the man replied as he opened a cash box on the counter next to him. “How much you want in quarters?”
“Five in quarters and the rest with whatever you have,” Dean said.
He frowned when the man kept glancing back up from the cash box to grin at him.
“Here you go,” the man said as he handed Dean his change and then chuckled, shaking his balding head. “That your brother over there?” The man nodded in the direction of Sam.
“Yeah, why?” Dean answered warily. What was with this weirdo?
“Brave kid,” was all the man would say and then he returned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, his chest rumbling with laughter.
Dean slowly turned from the man and walked back to Sam not sure what to make of that last statement. He stuffed the dollar bills back into his pocket and handed the coins to Sam to hold. Both boys then grabbed up the dirty laundry and headed for the nearest washer which just happened to be right next to the counter where the college hottie was folding her clothes.
Dean flashed the girl his most winning smile as he sauntered up beside her and was rewarded with…a look of sympathy! She was actually giving him the ‘poor thing, how pathetic’ look! Confused, Dean tried again, this time speaking up.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he said to her.
The girl smirked and let out a tiny giggle as she looked at Dean. Well, not in the eye, he realized suddenly, but more like up above his eyes. Dean casually lifted a hand to run it through his hair, nervously wondering if he had some stray locks sticking out funny or something.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” the girl asked Dean as she continued to give him a look that would normally be reserved for someone who was mentally incompetent.
“Um, I’m Dean,” Dean answered, hesitation in his voice.
The girl nodded slowly and then reached out and put her arm around Dean’s shoulder in a companionable hug. Dean could smell her vanilla perfume, and he grinned. It was nice.
“Dean?” the girl said as she slowly led him away from Sam and towards the back of the laundromat. “You seem like a nice kid.” Dean beamed at this. The girl continued. “So, that’s why I’m going to do you this favor.”
Before Dean could ask what the favor might be, the college girl grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him towards the door of the men’s room that they were now standing before. Puzzled, Dean shot her a questioning look and she pointed to the door.
“Trust me, Dean. You really need to go in there.” The girl just kept pointing, so Dean figured what the hell.
He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check on Sam, and noticed his brother had a very odd expression on his face. Dean shrugged, took one last gaze at the college girl and then shoved his way into the restroom.
The place was nothing special, he thought, as he walked down the row of urinals. He turned toward the sinks on the other wall catching his reflection in the mirror and stopped dead in his tracks. There in big black capital letters across his forehead was the word: LOSER.
“SAM!”
Sam Winchester looked up at the sound of his name echoing out from the men’s room and began laughing uncontrollably. Cigar man joined in and the college girl smiled and shook her finger at Sam in amusement as she returned to the counter where her laundry sat. Ten long minutes later, Dean emerged from the restroom, slapping the door open so hard it smacked the opposite wall with a reverberating bang. His cheeks were tinged pink with embarrassment but it was his forehead that was red and raw. It looked as if someone had taken 50 grit sandpaper to it. Dean absently swiped at his brow, which was still damp from the soap and water he had used to scrub the ink off with, and swore under his breath.
Sam rocked in his chair, gales of laughter shaking his sides as Dean stalked up to him, gave him a glare and then turned and grabbed up the sheets from the counter without a word. Sam watched in curiosity as Dean stuffed the sheets into a washer and then came back and grabbed Sam’s dirty clothes and headed back for the washer to deposit them in alongside the sheets. Sam slid off his chair, clearly confused, and trailed his brother as Dean headed for the detergent dispensing machine, still silent.
“Dean?” Sam ventured, “You mad?”
Dean turned to Sam and held out his hand. “Quarters.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Quarters,” Dean slowly repeated giving Sam an irritated look. “I need quarters for the soap.”
“Oh,” Sam said and handed over the change he’d been holding.
Dean plugged several of the coins into the machine and grabbed the package of detergent when it fell into the bin at the bottom of the machine. As he turned to head back for the washer, Dean reached over and smacked Sam hard in the back of the head, causing the younger Winchester to flinch.
“Real funny, smart ass,” Dean bit out. “You’re lucky it came off easy.”
Sam bit back a snort of amusement and raised a critical eye to his brother’s forehead. “Doesn’t look like it was that easy,” he commented under his breath.
“Bite me,” Dean sullenly shot back and proceeded to add the soap to the washer and start it.
Ten minutes later, Dean was trudging down the sidewalk towards the hotdog vendor, nursing his bruised ego as if it had just gone several rounds in a heavyweight fight before getting KO’d by a sucker punch. Taken out, no less, by a fourth grader who still thought the Thundercats was the most awesome TV show ever.
If he actually believed in a higher power, Dean thought dejectedly, he might just think that power was being unusually cruel today, just for the hell of it. And the worst part of all this? Their father would be home in less than twenty-four hours, so there wasn’t really time for him to come up with anything of any equitable value to get back at Sam and even up, no – surpass – his baby brother’s latest caper.
Dean studied the store windows in a disinterested way as he passed by them. He strode by a thrift store, giving the display a quick glance and kept walking but quickly stopped because something had caught his eye. Dean backed up, coming in line with the thrift store window again and pivoted to face the glass, leaning against it and raising his hands to shield his eyes from the midday glare of the hot Arizona sun.
“No way,” the teenager murmured, his mouth curling up into a wicked grin. “No freaking way!”
There, just beyond the main window display, was an entire shelf of stuffed animals and dolls in various states of disrepair. And right in the very middle of the shelf, a maniacal toothy grin on it ugly painted face, was a clown doll! Dean blinked not believing his luck. He hurried inside the shop and made his way over to the shelf of toys, all of which smelled of mildew and time spent rotting in basements and garages, and gazed up in wonder at the doll of Sam’s nightmares.
The doll was about two feet tall with wispy ruby red hair that sprung in tattered clumps from the side of its molded plastic head. The face, oh God, Dean thought, that face! It was painted sickly white with a red bulb of a nose and a matching blood red gash of a mouth opened to display a neat row of yellowed teeth. Dean didn’t think the teeth had started out that color, but time and abuse had made them dingy and gross looking.
The eyes were a glassy black, reminding Dean of a shark’s eyes – dead and lifeless. The white, orange and purple jester hat it wore had tiny rusted bells on its tips that gave off an eerie tinny sounding jingle. And the baggy polka dot costume the doll was dressed in had seen better days and was full of tears and stained on one side with something brown. Soda? Chocolate? Who knew? It didn’t really matter. It was a freaking clown doll!
With something akin to reverence, Dean took the doll down from the shelf, a huge shit-eating grin breaking out on his suntanned face when its nose began blinking and a creepy warped laugh issued from a little speaker set into the doll’s chest.
Holy crap! The thing had motion-activated sound and light display! Yahtzee! Dean excitedly thought as he checked and found the price tag pinned to the leg of the doll’s costume and sighed in pure happiness. It was only $2.50.
Carrying the doll over to the register, Dean slapped down a five-dollar bill, accepted his change and waited as the clerk bagged up the purchase.
“Hey, would it be all right if I left that here and came back to get it a little later?” Dean asked the spectacled woman at the register. “I’m kind of on my way somewhere and don’t have anyplace to put that right now.”
The woman smiled at Dean, her dentures clicking together. “We’re open tonight until nine, honey. I’ll put this under the counter here and you just come back and see me when you’re ready to pick it up.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Dean said and then left, his step noticeably lighter now that revenge was so close at hand. “Who’s the loser now, Samantha?” Dean crowed as he bounced down the sidewalk toward the hotdog vendor, his confidence once again returned.
The rest of the day had passed without incidence. Dean was actually able to run back to the thrift store after dinner when Sam went to take his bath. The minute the door to the bathroom shut, Dean was out the door of the motel room and racing like a marathoner for the thrift store.
He was glad for once that his dad had been so regimental with his training, including making the boys run laps and wind sprints. The whole trek took maybe ten minutes tops for the athletic teen and he was back with ‘Creepy the Clown’, as Dean had affectionately dubbed the doll, before Sam had even exited the bathtub.
“Hey, Sammy?” Dean called to his brother through the bathroom door. “I’ve got a headache so I’m gonna go lay down for awhile in our room, okay? You can watch TV after you get out of the tub, just don’t turn the sound up too loud.”
“’Kay,” came the muffled reply.
Satisfied that Sam would be otherwise occupied, Dean carried the doll into the bedroom and shut the door.
……………………………………
It was close to nine when Dean wandered back out to the living room and told Sam it was time for bed.
“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked as the two made their way down the hall to the bedroom.
Dean kept a placid look on his face despite wanting to gloat about his devious master prank about to be unveiled.
“Oh, yeah, Sammy,” he said, letting a little smile creep into his voice. “I’m feeling way better now.”
Dean waited impatiently in his bed for Sam to start to drift off to sleep. He wanted his brother to be in that fuzzy half-awake state one reached right before really falling asleep because that’s when Sam would be most susceptible to what he had planned.
Carefully reaching down along the side of his bed, Dean felt for the fishing line he’d strung there. Finding it, Dean curled his fingers around the cord and gave it a brief yank pleased when a soft tinny jingle sounded from somewhere underneath Sam’s bed. He waited a few seconds and then tugged the line once more, the jingling now more persistent and joined by what sounded like a muffled creepy chuckle.
Sam immediately sat up in his bed, a nervous frown drawing down the corners of his mouth as he squinted trying to adjust his vision to the shadowy interior of the room. He jerked his head over toward Dean’s bed, making out the lump under the sheets as his brother.
Dean appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep rhythm. Apparently, Dean hadn’t heard anything. Even so, Sam slowly panned around the darkened room concentrating and listening intently. All was silent.
Chewing on his lower lip, Sam hesitated before he lay back down. With both hands, the boy grabbed the blankets that had pooled down around his belly and yanked them up around his ears. Maybe he was just jumpy from all that had happened that day, and maybe the noise he thought he’d heard was coming from an adjacent motel room. And maybe, just maybe, there was something in the room other than himself and his brother. Sam quickly banished that last thought from his mind and hunched down deep under the covers, the first faint stirrings of butterflies swirling in his stomach.
Dean waited until Sam had settled down once again and then tugged on the fishing line a little harder this time, setting off the doll’s motion sensor once more. Its maniacal little laugh filled the darkness of the room, causing a sudden chill to scamper down Sam’s spine. Dean smirked watching with glee as Sam shot bolt upright in his bed with a scared whimper.
“Dean? Dean!” Sam whispered hoarsely, his eyes shining in fright. “Dean, there’s something under my bed!”
Dean played dumb and acted as if he were deep asleep much to Sam’s dismay.
Fighting back his terror, Sam slowly pushed the blankets off of himself intending to take a running jump into the relative safety of his brother’s bed when another horrible laugh came from directly beneath Sam. The young boy froze, his heart thudding crazily in his chest, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
“Deaaannn!” Sam’s voice was a faint whining plea as his throat tightened in mounting fear.
Still nothing from his brother and suddenly Sam had an awful thought. What if whatever was under his bed had already gotten to his brother? What if Dean wasn’t answering him because he was paralyzed or his life force had been sucked out of him and he was in a coma? Sam thought he was going to throw up.
Steeling himself, the young boy took a few deep ragged breaths willing the nausea away and tried to think despite the fact that he was beyond frightened. What would Dean do? Sam’s mind raced. Dean would have a weapon Sam suddenly decided and he looked about for one. Unfortunately, the shotgun was across the room, leaning up against a wooden chair near Dean’s bed. Just great. There was no way he’d be able to get to the gun before whatever was lurking under his bed made its move, Sam thought, despair settling over him.
He scanned the nearby nightstand but didn’t find anything more menacing than a pencil and a pair of nail clippers. Sam thought a minute, licking his suddenly dry lips and then reached over and picked up the pencil, figuring it could at least cause some damage if he used it in a stabbing motion.
Feeling totally overwhelmed and not at all prepared, Sam inched over to the edge of his mattress, cringing as he heard the laughing again, sounding louder and more menacing as he got closer. It took every bit of nerve he had, as Sam gave out a shaky breath and ever so slowly bent over the edge of his bed. All he could think about was the movie he’d seen earlier and what had happened to the boy in the movie.
Sam suddenly stopped his forward motion and reached up with one hand to grab hold of the sheets and blankets in a strong grip. He wanted to anchor himself solidly to the top of the bed so that if, God forbid, there actually was something down there, it wouldn’t be able to yank him down with it without a fight.
Steeling himself, Sam started for the edge of his bed once again, pencil gripped tightly in one sweaty hand, the bed sheets clutched in the other.
Dean waited until Sam’s head was almost touching the floor before he gave a final hard yank on the fishing line, causing creepy the clown to leap forward from the shadows under Sam’s bed, its nose flashing erratically and its crazy laugh taunting Sam.
The doll smacked the boy right in the face and Sam screamed in terror, losing his grip on the sheets and falling forward, his weight carrying him down on top of the hooting doll.
Terrified, Sam beat at the hideous thing, stabbing it over and over with the pencil so hard that the pencil broke in two. Sam continued to attack his tormentor with what was left of the pencil, his panicked shrieks filling the room until they were suddenly drowned out by Dean’s roar of laughter from above. The bedside light flicked on, abruptly banishing the darkness and Sam stared down in dazed shock at the ugly thing he knelt on top of, the demolished pencil stub still clutched in his shaking hand.
“Don’t guess you’re ever gonna want to watch that movie again, huh Sammy?” Dean stated between bouts of laughter.
Sam looked up at Dean, his mouth hung open in a mix of anger and bewilderment as he knelt there on the floor between the beds. The boy stared at Dean then flicked his gaze back down to the doll and then back up to Dean, his eyes widening. A blind rage took over as realization bloomed in Sam’s mind as to what his brother had done.
Without thought, Sam launched himself off the floor at his brother with a growl of outrage. His fists were flying from the get go and Dean barely had time to get his hands up before his brother was on top of him, punching and kicking like a crazed berserker.
“You asswipe!” Sam screamed as he continued to pummel his older brother. “You total freaking butthole, Dean! I’m gonna kill you!”
Dean, for his part, accepted the terms of endearment and tried to defend himself without actually fighting back. That lasted until Sam got in a well-aimed knee to Dean’s groin. And then the battle royale was on.
Dean swore in pain and shoved Sam hard, knocking him off the bed, but Sam took hold of his brother’s pajama leg as he went down and Dean ended up getting dragged onto the floor as well. Dean grabbed at the nightstand as he went down, jarring the table and knocking the lamp off onto the floor. The bulb smashed with a little hiss and the room was once again enveloped in darkness.
The two wrestled around on the carpeted floor in the pitch black, grunting, cussing and shouting names at one another while Creepy the Clown lay on his back grinning and laughing hysterically, it’s nose blinking away like a short-circuited Christmas light. They were so loud and so intent on doing bodily harm to one another that they didn’t even hear their father’s voice coming from down the hallway.
……………………………………..
John had floored it all the way back to the Phoenix city limits, going ninety all the way, praying no cops tried to pull him over because he’d just shoot them and keep on going.
His boys were in danger and he wasn’t stopping for the devil himself much less some highway mounty out to fill his monthly quota of speeding tickets.
He spun into the motel parking lot a little after nine-thirty, almost sideswiping a pickup as he pulled crookedly into a parking spot and killed the engine on the Impala. John grabbed up the shotgun from the passenger seat and jumped out of the car, racing for the motel room.
He didn’t knock or try his key, figuring that if someone or something was inside with Sam and Dean, then he didn’t want to give it the advantage of knowing he was there.
Raising one booted foot, John kicked open the door and charged inside, shotgun raised and ready.
“Dean! Sammy!” he called out in panic, looking around the unlit living room but sensing nothing.
John heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the bedroom and, with a worried moan, he thundered down the hallway intent on destroying whatever was menacing his children.
As he got closer, he could hear grunts and shouts and was able to make out Dean’s and Sam’s voices. He blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, suddenly relieved to know that his boys, his babies, were still alive.
Just as John reached for the doorknob to fling open the bedroom door, a deafening gunshot rang out from the room, followed by a pair of petrified shrieks and the sound of glass shattering. John’s heart skipped a beat and his blood turned cold as he fumbled for the knob, terror now wiping everything else out of his mind. He threw the door open hard. It slammed forcefully into the drywall behind it, the doorknob burying itself into the plaster.
………………………………………………….
Dean and Sam had continued the brawling fistfight, neither one willing to give way this time as two days worth of pent up agitation, stress and sibling rivalry came to an ugly head. Dean was growing tired of holding back his punches. He knew he could really hurt Sam if he wanted to, but his dad had drilled into him since he was four that Dean, being the oldest, was supposed to be the protector of his little brother, and that meant saving Sam, not hurting him.
Even so, when Dean rolled out from under Sam and ended up near the clown doll, he didn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch up the ugly toy and throw it at Sam, who was on his knees and crawling back towards Dean fists curled and ready.
Sam caught sight of the flying clown, freaked and dove for the floor. The doll sailed past the boy and hit the straight back chair against the wall, landing on top of it in an upright way as if it were standing at attention. Unfortunately, the force of creepy the clown hitting the chair jarred loose the loaded shotgun that had been propped against the chair. It started to fall sideways, the barrel of the weapon skittering along the edge of the wood seat of the chair until the shotgun bumped hard against the chair’s arm and went off.
The boom was incredibly loud in the confined space and both Sam and Dean ducked and screamed in fright. The rock salt rounds hit the mirror above the dresser with precision, shattering the glass into a million tiny shards that spilled over the dresser top and adjacent floor. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the bedroom door suddenly burst open, causing the Winchester boys to scream in unison once again.
John Winchester framed the darkened doorway, shotgun raised to his shoulder as he quickly assessed the situation. He saw his boys kneeling on the floor near the window and then saw a figure standing on the nearby chair as if getting ready to launch itself at them.
Could be a gate demon, John rapidly surmised, or possibly a possessed animal. Didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“Sammy! Dean! Down!” John barked and was relieved when Dean immediately hit the deck, dragging Sam down as well and tucking him protectively underneath his body.
John wasted no time. As soon as he saw his boys drop, he aimed and fired, the second gunshot sounding even louder than the first one had. The unknown creature flew off the chair hit square by the rock salt rounds John had fired into it. It landed with a deranged laugh onto the floor behind Sam and Dean, slid a few feet and then went silent its arms and legs splayed out in a death throe.
“Holy shit!” Dean howled in shock, not caring that he just swore in front of his dad.
John lowered the shotgun and reached behind him, fumbling on the wall for the light switch, his eyes never leaving the thing on the floor. He found the switch and the overhead light snapped on to display two cowering boys, one whimpering in tearful fright underneath his brother, and the other one peering up at John with a look of guilty surprise on his face.
John leaned the shotgun against the dresser and was over to his sons in three quick strides.
“Dean, you okay, son? Sammy?” John questioned the boys at the same time as he swooped down and gathered them both into his arms, quickly checking his sons over for blood or signs of wounds.
Tears of relief streaked down his face when he concluded that neither of them was hurt. “God, I was so scared,” he managed to choke out, hugging them tight again. “When you didn’t answer the phone...I just, God...I thought I’d lost you.”
“The phone?” Sam absently queried, poking his tearful head up from his father’s chest. “What phone?”
John felt Dean stiffen against him and the older hunter slowly released his hold on the boys, sitting back on his haunches, eyes narrowed, to contemplate the suspect looks Dean and Sam were now quickly exchanging between one another. With a calm demeanor that belied how he actually felt, John stood up and turned to survey the surrounding scene with the practiced eye of a hunter.
There were two boys on the floor, pajamas rumpled and tugged out of place, red-faced and giving him the flustered deer in the headlights look. There was a shotgun lying on the floor near the chair, its muzzle pointing toward the dresser, which now had a shattered mirror above it. The bedside lamp was lying on the carpet between the two twin beds with a broken light bulb peeking from its paper shade that was knocked askew, most likely from the fall. There was wire or maybe it was fishing line, trailing down from one of the beds and across the floor to the body of the last little item in the mystery.
And that something didn’t resemble a demon now to John’s eye, so much as a tattered doll of some sort, lying on the floor, its head pitted and cracked from the rock salt round he’d fired into it, bits of wispy stuffing leaking from the holes in what was left of its shredded body.
John’s features suddenly darkened as he targeted his two sons with a fiery glower.
“What the hell is going on here?” he angrily demanded as he looked from Dean to Sam. “I called you earlier this afternoon, but no one answered the phone. That’s why I scrapped the hunt and came racing back here. I thought something had happened to you boys.” John cast a foreboding look at his oldest son. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called, Dean?”
Dean went white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing but nothing came out. He was still trying to assimilate the fact that his dad was actually standing here, in the room, right now. He wasn’t supposed to come back until tomorrow, Dean kept thinking to himself. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I just asked you a question, mister,” John growled in warning, his voice hard and flat. “Why didn’t you answer the phone this afternoon?”
Dean instantly snapped to attention on his knees at the sound of his father’s commanding tone, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. When had the phone rung? Dean wondered in a panic. And then he knew, and his face fell. Crap. His dad had to have called while he and Sam had been at the laundromat! Just…crap.
Although Dean knew his dad was expecting an honest answer, he wasn’t ready to give one just yet. Instead, Dean let his mouth take over for his brain and he gave John a nervous laugh and a shrug.
“I was just seeing if you’d actually, you know, come back, uh, to check on us like you always say you will,” Dean offered glibly. “Just keeping you on your toes, Dad.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open, his head swiveling over to look at Dean in surprised horror as if Dean had just recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards in ancient Aramaic.
“That was one, buddy boy,” John seethed through a clenched jaw. He pointed at Dean, the anger palpable on his face. “Get up.”
Dean abruptly rose from the floor, dragging Sam up with him by his pajama sleeve. John’s mask of disapproval caused both Winchester boys to keep their eyes pinned to the floor. The teen licked his suddenly dry lips, his heart up in his throat, wishing he was anywhere else but here. He chanced a quick peek up at his dad’s face, and then quickly looked away. Man, if looks could kill, then he, Dean Winchester, would be stone cold gone on the floor right this very minute from the glare his father had targeted him with.
“Let’s try it again,” John darkly intoned. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Dean?”
Dean figured that if he could just keep from having to mention where he and Sam had actually been, then his father wouldn’t have a valid reason to draw and quarter him. But it was impossibly hard to think of a good lie under all this pressure and so, Dean said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Um, we were napping?” he blurted out and then groaned at his own stupidity.
“And that was number two, son,” John tiredly snapped. “You wanna push your luck and go for a grand slam here? Because you don’t need much more to be facing a round with my belt on top of what you’re already going to be getting.”
John’s eyes leveled on the teenager. Dean swallowed hard, registering with no small amount of anxiety what his dad had just insinuated.
“You think very carefully before you open your mouth again, buddy boy,” John quietly warned.
The older man took a step toward his eldest child to show he meant business and Dean involuntarily matched the move by taking an awkward step backwards, thereby bumping into the edge of the bed behind him.
The fight suddenly left Dean as he realized that any further lying or sarcasm would only get him a worse punishment than was already guaranteed at this point. He decided the truth, while it might end up being a lot more painful, would at least be easier to relate and would show his dad that he was taking him seriously.
“I didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t hear it...because I wasn’t here,” Dean sadly mumbled, not able to look his father in the face.
“What?” John’s tone dropped a full octave, his eyes boring into his oldest son in shocked disbelief.
Dean paled and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the room, Dad, so that’s why I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“You left Sammy alone in the-“
“No sir!” Dean choked, holding his hands up in front of him. His eyes widened in panic realizing what his father was assuming. “Sam was with me! Honest! I would never leave him alone again, ever!”
John ran a shaking hand over his bearded face, his nerves beyond frayed. This whole thing was a tangled nightmare that was wearing him out beyond his years. He fixed his two boys with a serious look.
“What’s the rule about leaving the motel room when I’m out, boys?” John sternly questioned them. Both Dean and Sam remained silent, and John stood up straighter, the drill sergeant in him now coming to the surface. “Dean, what is the rule?” he commanded.
“We’re supposed to stay in the room with the windows and door locked until you come back,” Dean quietly recited.
“Unless there’s an emergency and then we hafta call your cell phone before we leave to let you know where we are,” Sam added, not wanting to be left out.
“So, you both are aware of and understand the rule?” John demanded.
Two glum yes sirs was the reply.
John nodded, then fixed his oldest with a questioning stare. “And was this an emergency, Dean?” John asked.
Dean pondered that one long enough to get a growl out of his father before he answered in a very quiet subdued voice. “No sir, it wasn’t really an emergency.”
“Sam?” John’s gaze flicked over to his youngest standing nervously in front of him.
Sam shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment.
“So then, boys, what made you disobey a direct order from me?” John pressed them, his mouth now forming a thin angry line of displeasure.
Dean clammed up again, but Sam, being less apt at evasive tactics than his brother, and being much more intimidated by his father’s ferocious temper simply answered the question truthfully.
“We had to do the laundry on account of stuff got dirty,” Sam muttered, staring at the carpeted floor, his eyes filling with tears.
John’s brow creased in puzzlement. Laundry? This was a new twist. He caught Dean’s quick glower at Sam and knew there was more to the story than either was letting on.
“What got so dirty you couldn’t wait until I got back to wash it?” John asked.
Sam fidgeted miserably. He looked over to Dean for guidance, but his father was quick to shoot that down.
“Samuel Michael, you look at me, not your brother,” John barked and Sam instantly swung his wide-eyed puppy dog gaze up to his father.
Sam’s lower lip began to tremble and he took in a hitched breath.
“Answer the question, young man, that’s an order,” John firmly commanded.
Tears spilling from his eyes, Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean suddenly spoke up and beat him to it.
“I was playing a prank on Sammy and it got messy, dad,” Dean reluctantly volunteered. “I figured if I cleaned everything up, I wouldn’t have to mention it to you.”
John was not happy. “You were playing a joke?” he questioned, his gravelly voice rising in fury. “What have I told you about pranks, Dean?” John reached over and grabbed his oldest son by the upper arm giving him a solid shake. “What have I said about goofing around when you’re supposed to be watching out for your brother and keeping an eye on things?”
Sam couldn’t stand to see Dean taking the blame for everything. He knew Dean was doing it to protect him, but it just wasn’t right. “It wasn’t Dean, Dad!” Sam shouted as he started to cry. “I did it. It was me. I put shaving cream in Dean’s bed and that’s why we had to wash the sheets. I did it!”
John stood, surprise registering on his face. His hand still gripping Dean, John slowly turned to look at Sam as tears coursed down the young boy’s scrunched up face.
“Sammy, report,” John softly ordered.
And that was all it took for the nine-year-old to break down and sob out the entire story from the toothpaste Oreos to Creepy the Clown.
Dean closed his eyes and moaned softly in trepidation when he felt his father stiffen beside him as the tale went from bad to worse in the older man’s eyes. Finished, Sam just stood and silently wept as John pulled Dean around to stand directly in front of him.
“You have anything to add to that?” John shot Dean a raised brow, the muscle in his jaw twitching erratically.
“No sir,” Dean quietly replied, staring down at his bare feet.
John was so furious at that moment that he was speechless. A deep flush had crept up over the collar of his flannel shirt and stained his unshaven face as he tried to control his breathing and his blood pressure at the same time. He let go of Dean and looked away from his children, closing his eyes and counting to ten very slowly and then counting to ten again before letting out a deep ragged breath. I’m going to kill them, he thought. Willing his temper under control, John finally glanced back up at Dean and Sam but felt the fury instantly boil back up from inside him and with another deep breath he turned from them his head down. Nope, he thought, still want to kill the both of them.
“You two are in so much trouble, I don’t even know where to begin,” John angrily spat out in frustration. “Dean, go wait out on the couch while I have a talk with Sammy,” John tersely ordered, his back still to the boys.
“Dad,” Dean started in a panic, “This was all my fault, seriously! Sammy didn’t-“
John whirled about fixing Dean with a menacing glare, stopping the teenager from finishing his sentence. “Are you arguing with me, boy?”
Dean forgot to breathe for a moment so scared was he by the look of absolute rage on his father’s face. He quickly shook his head and whispered, “No sir.”
Wasting no time, Dean spun on his heel and quickly retreated to the living room, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, ignoring the creak of the old springs and gathered his knees up to his chest encircling them with his lean muscular arms. This was so bad, he thought as he sat there in the dimly lit room listening to his dad’s angry muffled voice coming from the bedroom. No, this wasn’t just bad. This was light years past bad and all the way up to ghastly train wreck.
He wondered in retrospect why he’d even let the pranks get as far as they had. He was the oldest and that meant he was supposed to be the more responsible one. And yet he had been anything but responsible the past two days. Cripes, he thought, if he hadn’t let his pride come into play, he never would have tried to get back at Sam for the Oreos in the first place and none of this would have ever happened. How stupid!
And seriously, what the hell had he been thinking scaring Sam with that clown doll? Poor kid. That had been over the top even for him, Dean realized. He swore to himself right then and there that he’d apologize to Sam for scaring him so badly and that he would never bring up the clown thing again. His ruminations were interrupted by the crack of hand against skin coming from the other room. The thirteen-year-old jumped and then cringed with a sick sense of dread upon hearing Sam’s high loud wail following directly behind it.
“I am so screwed,” Dean Winchester groaned and put his head into his hands trying hard to remain brave despite the sounds coming from down the hall.
------------------------------------
John watched Dean hightail it out of the bedroom and then walked over and shut the door his hand resting on the doorframe a minute while he collected his thoughts. He turned, his face a mask of grim determination, as he made his way back over to Sam who stood between the two twin beds, dark head still down, sporadic sniffles shaking his small frame.
It broke John’s heart to see his youngest so upset, but he knew he couldn’t just let this go. No way. Not after the heart stopping terror of thinking his children were hurt or in danger and racing home only to hear that shotgun go off behind the closed bedroom door just as he reached it. That had just about killed him right there. He had gone numb imagining finding either Sam or Dean, or both of them, injured or even worse, dead, in the room. The torment of guilt over what could have happened washed over the man and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes filled with tears.
Sam looked up fearfully at the sound. “Daddy? Are you okay?”
John swallowed hard and tried to put on his game face. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m okay. At least I’m okay now.” He gave a shaky little laugh that had no humor to it.
John’s mouth curled down into a serious frown and he went over to take a seat on the edge of the nearest bed across from Sam. He took his youngest son by the shoulders drawing him close.
“Do you have any idea how scared I was? How worried I was that something had happened to you and your brother?”
Sam bit his lip and shook his head, tears slowly spilling down his chubby face to splash down onto his neck and the collar of his pajamas. He knew that he was in a lot of trouble nevertheless he didn’t want the spanking that he knew was coming.
John continued. “Why did you do that to the Oreos, hmm? What was that supposed to solve, son?”
“I don’t know,” Sam pitifully mumbled, absently picking at his pajama top.
“That’s not an answer, Sammy,” John scolded, and Sam squirmed with shame. “If you had a problem with Dean, what should you have done?”
“But you told me to always stand up for myself,” Sam argued, his tone borderline petulant. “That’s what I was doing, so why are you yelling at me?”
“Samuel.”
John’s voice brooked no nonsense and Sam knew it.
The younger Winchester took a few ragged gulps before offering his father a more contrite answer. “I sh-should have t-told him to stop and then if, if he didn’t…then I sh-should have waited and told you wh-when you got h-home.”
John nodded. “That’s right, kiddo. But, instead you let your temper get the better of you, didn’t you?”
Sam’s head shot up, his watery green eyes flashing same-said temper as he shouted in frustration. “It’s not fair! Dean always gets to win! At EVERYTHING!”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Samuel Michael Winchester!” John scolded and turned the boy, swatting him twice on his pajama-clad butt.
Sam wailed reaching back to block any further shots, and John took a moment to calm down and think about how to word what he wanted to say next.
“Dean is older and bigger than you, Sammy. It’s natural for him to be better at some things than you right now. But, you’ll come into your own, son. I promise. You just have to be patient.”
John moved his hand from his son’s arm to cup Sam’s chin and raise the child’s head up so that their eyes met. “In the meantime, buddy boy, you need to learn to control your temper and to think before you act. And you and your brother seem to think lately that it’s okay to disobey orders when I’m not around, so I’m going to remind you that that’s not an option.”
Sam began to cry harder and balked as John pulled him close and lifted the boy up and placed him facedown over his lap.
“If Dean hadn’t been mean to me, then I wouldn’t have done all that,” Sam whined as John adjusted his leg to put the child’s bottom up high.
“We’re not talking about Dean right now, we’re talking about you and your misbehavior. You keep fighting me on this, Sammy, and you’re getting extra swats,” John intoned darkly. “You know darn well you’ve earned this, so just accept your punishment, son.”
Sam quickly settled down as best he could but his stomach roiled as he tensed up waiting for his father’s hand to fall. He was mad at Dean for not stopping the prank war and he was mad at himself even more for starting it in the first place. Before the first smack arrived, John reached up and grabbed the waistband of Sam’s pajama bottoms. He peeled the pajamas down to his son’s knees along with the boy’s underpants.
“Dad, no!” Sam protested in alarm when he felt the cool air caressing his bare bottom.
John ignored Sam’s protest and tightened his hold on the squirming boy bringing his solid hand down, landing a smack square onto Sam’s right side eliciting a howl of surprised pain from the child. John didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and brought it down again in almost the same spot and then repeated again on the left side. Sam cried as his father continued to spank his little bottom a dusky pink, alternating from side to side for ten more swats. John stopped a moment and addressed his son.
“Are you going to disobey any more orders, Samuel?” John inquired.
“If Dean’d told me not to do it, I wouldn’t have,” Sam hotly contested.
John let a smile steal over his careworn face. God, but the kid was stubborn. Argumentative and stubborn, even at nine years old. He'd make a great lawyer, John thought to himself, and then landed four particularly devastating swats onto the crest of his son’s behind. Sam let out a watery bawl, his chubby little legs kicking in protest and his hands grabbing the side of his father’s calf.
“You want to change your answer, young man?” John asked and Sam nodded. “Are you going to listen and do as you’re told from now on?”
“Yes s-sir,” Sam hiccuped, his breath hitching.
“Good boy,” John murmured. “Now, what’s coming next is for fighting with your brother and then lying about what happened and being so argumentative with me about it.”
John proceeded to apply his hand to Sam’s sit spot in a quick hard cadence knowing the painful sting it produced would help enforce his words in his youngest son’s mind. Sam’s sullen wailing turned into repentant sobs that shook his entire body as his butt went from a stingy ache to white hot agony.
“I need to be able to trust you, Sammy,” John lectured as he spanked. “That means you don’t lie and you don’t keep things from me. I need to know I can count on you. And I’m not even going to go into the number of times I’ve told you no fighting. You know better than to punch Dean. I don’t care what reason you think you have for doing it. He’s your brother. You two are supposed to be watching out for each other, not trying to kill one another. And the next time I ask you a direct question, Samuel Michael Winchester, you had better answer without questioning me or giving me static, is that clear?”
“I’m sorry!” Sam wailed as John’s punishing hand took its toll on the boy’s tender backside. “I won’t do it again, dad, I promise! I’ll be good!”
John finally felt his son go limp over his knees in submission. He gave Sam a few more hard swats and then stopped, letting the boy sob while he rubbed gentle circles onto Sam’s back.
“It’s okay, son. It’s over,” John said as he continued to rub his son’s back trying to comfort him.
Sam’s weeping continued as John reached down to carefully pull the boy’s pants back up over his sore reddened bottom; a howl of pain ensued when fabric met butt. Sam kicked and started to slide down off John’s lap and down onto his knees, his face a crimson snotty mess. He couldn’t stop crying because his backside was on fire, the pain singing up and down his butt in wave after throbbing wave.
John picked the emotional nine-year-old up before he sank all the way to the floor and swung him around in his muscled arms placing Sam against his broad chest resting the boy’s head up on his shoulder. Sam blubbered hysterically, burying his face into his dad’s neck, one hand rising to clutch at the plaid shirt in front of him and the other going back to rub at his screaming bottom. He had felt so guilty for disobeying orders and for being so mad at Dean. And he hated that he had disappointed his dad.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re okay,” John crooned into Sam’s ear as he gently rocked him. “Calm down, Sammy. It’s over, baby. I’m not mad at you anymore. Daddy’s not mad anymore.”
Sam slowly relaxed in the strong reassuring grip of his father’s hug, the tears giving way to sniffles and then to a few hiccuping breaths. Sam lay heavily against John, his breathing becoming deeper as exhaustion overtook his young body. John turned his head slightly to plant a kiss onto his youngest child’s sweaty temple before standing up with Sam still clutched in his arms. He bent down and with one hand John pulled the blankets and sheet down on the child’s bed and tenderly laid Sam down, careful to place him on his side to avoid contact with the boy’s sore rear.
John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a square of linen and held it in front of Sam’s reddened nose ordering him to blow. Sam complied and John folded the hanky and then tenderly swiped off the remaining tears on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes were glassy with sleep and fatigue. He let his dad tuck him in, nestling his head into the cool pillow as John smoothed the dark curls off Sam’s forehead with the hand that had only moments ago spanked him so thoroughly.
“Get some rest, kiddo,” John murmured and smiled when he received a tired grunt in reply.
John straightened up gazing down at his baby boy with love and sighed deeply. What would he do if he ever lost him? Or Dean for that matter? He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that dark possibility and headed around the bed for the door. Speaking of his oldest son…John was reaching for the doorknob when he heard Sam whimper. He stopped, concern worrying a furrow in his brow.
“What is it, Sammy?” John softly questioned as he turned back to the bed where his son lay huddled under the covers.
“Dad?” Sam said, his voice sounding tiny to John.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Um, could you…” Sam squirmed in embarrassment. He gazed over to the far corner and cringed visibly. “Can you take that away?”
Sam pointed to the mangled clown doll still lying on the floor beside the chair. John smirked but dutifully went over and snagged creepy the clown up, tucking it under his arm, some of the ratty stuffing falling out of the body of the doll as he did so.
“This guy really scared you, huh?” John asked looking down in distaste at the leering puppet he held. Sam nodded vigorously.
“He’s got yellow teeth and he looks like the one from that Poltergeist movie that got that boy,” Sam whispered, the fear shining in his eyes. “There was a real bad spirit in their closet, dad, but we don’t have a closet here, so I’m okay. But, if we stay in a place that has a closet, will you sleep with me?”
John ran a hand through his dark brown hair in consternation. While he understood Sam’s anxiety, he didn’t want to feed into it. Sam needed to learn to be strong and independent so that he’d be able to take care of himself as he got older. John knew he wasn’t always going to be able to be there for his boys and with the evil that was out there in the world, John’s only reassurance came from knowing that Sam and Dean would grow up being able to handle themselves in any situation.
“Tell you what, Sammy,” John sighed as he bent down to dig through his bag next to the dresser. “I will try to make sure there’s nothing in any of the closets going forward. But, just in case, here’s something to help keep you safe.”
With that, John turned and placed a burnished stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-automatic into his son’s small hands. Sammy stared at the gun turning the heavy weapon over in his hand and then gazed back up at his father, a wary look of puzzlement on his face.
“It’s a .45, Sammy,” John stated, nodding sagely. “It’s got a double stack mag of wrought iron rounds, and a range of about 160 feet. That baby will put down anything. You keep that near you, and you don’t ever have to worry about something in the closet.”
Too tired and way too sore to question his dad’s sense of logic for once, Sam tucked the handgun in between the mattress and the box spring of the bed and promptly forgot about it.
“Night, dad,” Sam yawned, shifting uncomfortably from the lingering sting of his bruised bottom.
“Night, Sammy,” John softly replied and headed out the door and toward the living room where his eldest was waiting.
………………..
Dean’s sandy head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living area. John appeared a second later, his stern countenance alerting Dean that he wasn’t out of the woods on this one, not by a long shot. Instead of heading straight for his son though, John made a little detour into the kitchenette grabbing up one of the chairs there and dragging it with him into the living room. He placed the padded chrome chair directly in front of the couch and took a seat on it facing Dean. Dean sat up straighter on the couch, his heart jack-hammering away in his chest and tried to maintain eye contact with his father. Not an easy task.
“So,” John began. He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting on his knees. “You got anything to say for yourself before we get started?”
“I am so sorry, dad,” Dean’s voice almost broke as he spoke, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I let stuff get out of control and, I don’t know, I guess I should have been following the rules better. I let you down.”
John listened nodding. “You have no idea how scared I was when you didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, Dean. I must have let it ring for almost two full minutes the whole time imagining that you and Sammy were hurt or worse. Worrying that I would be too late to do anything by the time I got back here.”
Dean’s eyes fell to his lap in shame as his father continued. “And then, when I got here and you didn’t answer me when I called out for you...and then hearing the gun go off...” John swallowed hard, trying to keep his rising emotions in check. “I haven’t been that frightened in a long time, son, and I don’t ever want to be again. Especially, not for something as foolish as what happened here. You didn’t just let me down, Dean. You let Sammy down. And you let yourself down too.”
Dean winced at that and fidgeted on the couch under his father’s critical stare. He felt horrible for what had happened and knew there was no way he could possibly make up for it.
“I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, honest,” Dean mumbled helplessly.
“Then why did it?” John questioned.
“I don’t know,” Dean replied in misery.
“I think you do know, son, and I want to hear you say it,” John demanded. “Look at me, Dean,” he sternly ordered and Dean’s hazel eyes slowly rose to settle with apprehension onto John’s face. “Why did you let things escalate to the point of being dangerous? And why did you think it would be okay to break the rules for the sake of pulling some idiotic pranks on one another?”
Dean remained silent not wanting to admit the truth to his father even though he’d already admitted as much to himself. He could deal with his own disappointment. It was his dad’s that was hard to take. As usual, Dean let his mouth cover for his feelings.
“We were bored?” he hedged.
John’s jaw set in anger at his son’s inappropriate sarcasm. He shot Dean an icy glower.
“I’m counting to three, buddy-boy, and then you lose the right to explain yourself and we move on to the spanking, which will be one very painful affair, I promise you. One...”
“Okay!” Dean blurted in childish irritation. “Jeez, gimme a minute, will you?”
John let that one slide, but shot his oldest son another dark warning look. Dean sighed and then answered his father’s question, his tone and attitude now much more respectful.
“I shouldn’t have been so mean to the squirt, but I was mad. And I wanted to show Sammy up...I didn’t want him to win,” Dean whispered not able to look at his father. “And then when it, you know, got out of hand and all, I uh, I didn’t want you to find out because I knew we would...‘get it’...so I broke the rules and tried to cover it up and sorta lied.”
“And what have I told you about hitting your brother, Dean?” John demanded.
“Not to do it,” Dean stated flatly, recalling the oft repeated litany John had drilled into him. “I’m older and he’s little and I could hurt him if I hit him too hard. And we are supposed to settle our differences by talking it out instead of using our fists.”
Dean’s voice faded off as he squirmed on the couch embarrassed and uncomfortable. He flicked his gaze up to his father, eyes pleading.
“Can’t you just ground me and take away privileges or something?” Dean begged John. “C’mon dad, I’m thirteen! Please don’t spank me!”
John wanted to chuckle at his son’s request. It had been quite a while since he’d had to haul Dean over his knee for an application of hand to butt behavior modification. And he could see from the pained expression on Dean’s face that this instance was proving to be a rather harsh lesson in his jump from childhood to teenager. It was obvious to John that the embarrassment and humiliation factor was what concerned his eldest at the moment more than the ‘wow, this is going to hurt’ factor.
“I’m proud of you, son, for admitting to the truth just now, but that doesn’t excuse what you did,” John advised his son. “The very fact that you don’t want me to spank you tells me that it’s a rather appropriate punishment, don’t you think? You want to avoid getting your butt paddled in the future then I suggest you start acting in a more mature way than you have in the past forty-eight hours, kiddo.”
Dean made a face at that, silently cussing. He knew it had been only a slim chance of getting out of the spanking, but he had hoped that his earnest pleading would have softened his dad up a bit. No such luck.
John straightened up and patted his knee once. “Come here,” he simply ordered.
Dean let out a huge reluctant sigh but dutifully stood up and trudged the few steps over to his father. Without even being told, Dean reached up to the waistband of his pajama bottoms and pushed them down to his knees. He bent himself over John’s lap, head and legs dangling from either side in a position he was regrettably all too familiar with.
“This really sucks, dad,” Dean sullenly stated.
John smiled at that. “Yeah, it pretty much does, Dean, for the both of us,” John said as he reached over to yank down his son’s underwear baring the teen’s upturned backside. “Too bad you didn’t think of that before you decided to play Captain Avenger on your brother. A little healthy competition isn’t a bad thing, but when it becomes hurtful and when you do it for revenge, then I draw the line.”
Dean was about to offer his own enlightened opinion on that when his father’s hand cracked down on his butt causing him to lose his train of thought. He jumped as the fresh sting and warmth settled across his skin and then grimaced when several more smacks followed in quick succession. Man, he’d forgotten how much his dad’s spankings hurt! John applied about a dozen sharp swats to his son’s bared bottom, tightening his hold as Dean began to writhe around trying to avoid the blows.
“I’m sorry, honest!” Dean pleaded as he tried his best not to cry out from the intense heat beginning to bloom across his rear end. “I get it, dad! I messed up and I won’t do it again! I’ve learned my lesson!”
“I’ve no doubt you won’t make this same mistake again, Dean,” John wryly replied as he continued to wallop his son’s reddening bottom with militaristic efficiency. “But I think you’re more sorry for getting yourself into this position than for what you actually did. And as for lesson learned, I don’t think you’ve learned anything yet other than the fact that my hand can still blister your backside pretty good. You disagree with any of that?”
Dean let out a groan of despair. “I plead the fifth,” he hissed under his breath.
John applied a dozen more forceful swats to the under curve of Dean’s bottom and was rewarded with a genuine yelp of remorse from his son. He stopped a moment, resting his hand on his son’s lower back just above his glowing butt cheeks.
“Now, you want to tell me exactly what it is you’ve learned, son?” John inquired.
Dean let out a slow ragged breath before answering. It took all he had not to just start crying like a big baby at this point. Even so, he couldn’t fully keep the tears from his voice as he answered his father.
“I shouldn’t have teased Sammy so much, and ... I should have just let it go when he gave me the Oreos instead of trying to get back at him,” Dean quietly confessed. “And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to scare him on purpose like I did...that was pretty mean, and I’m really sorry for that. And for losing my temper and punching and kicking him too.”
“Anything else, Dean?” John prodded.
“Do I have to list everything?” Dean brashly shot back over his shoulder. “Jeez, dad, even criminals get to plea bargain.”
Dean yelled in alarm when John landed several particularly well placed swats, upping the intensity of the throbbing sting in his butt from dull roar to full on agony.
“You think this is funny, Dean?” John growled at his son. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“No sir,” Dean meekly replied deciding sarcasm was probably not the best way to go at this point.
“We’re almost done here, son,” John said as he resettled Dean on his lap raising his one knee to have better access to the teen’s thighs and under crease area. “This last is for thinking that lying was better than coming clean about what happened and for not knowing when to stow the smart-ass attitude.”
This isn’t going to be good, Dean worriedly thought, and then his dad proved him right by laying down a series of increasingly painful swats all along the crease between his bottom and thighs. If that wasn’t bad enough, his father then continued the caustic application of his calloused hand downwards to cover the upper part of Dean’s thighs, turning the flesh a dark angry pink. Dean began to sob, not only from the smarting ache in his rear, but also from a deep sense of shame at what he’d done to get himself spanked in the first place. His chest heaved as he finally let all his pent up emotions out for once. And once the floodgate had opened, there was no holding back.
John listened to his son’s penitent wails and began to ease up on the strength of the swats until he stopped all together. He brought his hand up to Dean’s back and slowly, gently began to rub, letting the boy cry because he knew that if he didn’t, Dean would just bottle it all back up inside again.
“It’s okay, Dean. Let it out, son,” John comforted as he continued to rub Dean’s back.
Dean’s sobbing ebbed off a bit after a few minutes and finally became little more than sporadic gasps and hiccups. John readjusted the teen’s clothing as gently as he could before helping Dean to stand back up. Dean quickly swiped at his tear stained face with the front of his shirt, ashamed that he’d blubbered so openly and freely. John caught his hand in one of his own and bent down to get his eyes level with Dean’s. He reached up to wipe a tear from the boy’s cheek.
“There’s no shame in crying, Dean,” John softly advised his son. “It’s part of being human and it shows me you’ve got a conscience.”
Dean gave a soft snort. “Yeah, well my conscience isn’t feeling so good right now,” he sadly retorted rubbing his tender backside and wincing.
John let a brief smile play over his lips. “You paid for your mistake, son, and it’s over now. I forgive you, and I’m sure Sammy will too. So now, you need to forgive yourself.”
Dean’s head rose and he looked at his father searching the older man’s face. “How can you forgive me after I let you down?”
John’s face grew serious as he addressed Dean. “No matter what you do, son, I will always forgive you. And you may disappoint and aggravate the hell out of me from time to time, but I want you to know that above all, when everything’s said and done, I am extremely proud of you.”
John reached up a warm gentle hand to cup his son’s neck just below his jaw line. His voice was rough with emotion. “You’re my child, Dean, and I love you, beyond all time and measure. Nothing you do will ever change that.”
Dean’s jaw trembled and he choked back the tears that were trying to escape from him. “Thanks, dad,” he was able to gasp out and then John enveloped him in another heartfelt hug.
“Dad?” Dean’s muffled voice came from John’s shirtfront.
“Yeah, kiddo?” John affectionately answered back.
“Can we stop with the chick-hug thing now?”
Chuckling, John let go of his oldest son, giving the boy a wry grin. “A little too much estrogen for you, son?” he joked.
“Way too much, dad,” Dean wisecracked as he grinned back at John. “I was starting to feel like I needed a manicure and a new pair of pumps.”
John rolled his eyes at that, and then stood up putting a manly arm about Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon smart-ass, it’s time you were in bed,” John said.
He led his son down the hall and to the bedroom door. Opening it, John pushed his son in front of him, raising a finger to his lips warning Dean not to wake up Sam as they passed by the child’s bed. John pulled back the covers on Dean’s bed and Dean gingerly slid in trying his best to keep his sore butt from touching the mattress. Once settled, John covered him with the blankets, and before Dean could object, John bent down and planted a kiss onto his son’s forehead.
“Get some sleep, Dean,” John softly ordered.
John closed the door behind him as he left the bedroom but didn’t shut it all the way. He wanted to be able to hear the boys from the couch where he was planning to lay down and go comatose from exhaustion. He turned to start down the hall but stopped when he heard Sam’s voice. John came back to the door and listened at the crack a moment.
“Dean? You awake?” Sam loudly whispered across the way. “Dean, I gotta tell you something.”
Dean groaned but rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.
“What?” he tiredly questioned. “I’m kinda wanting to fall asleep as fast as possible here so I can forget about how bad my butt hurts. So, what’s so urgent, Sammy?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, Dean,” Sam apologized, his big puppy dog eyes fixed on his brother. “And I’m sorry I put toothpaste in your Oreos and stuck shaving cream in your bed and wrote on you with ink. I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, okay? I want us to be friends again.”
Dean felt like a complete jerk for acting so irritated a moment ago. “Hey, I’m really sorry I was so mean to you too, Sammy,” Dean whispered back. “I didn’t mean all that stuff I said and did, okay? And those pranks you pulled? They were pretty good ones, dude.”
Sam smiled to himself. It wasn’t often he earned his brother’s direct praise. Dean continued, his tone taking on a painful sincerity that Sam had rarely heard.
“Look, I just want you to know, Sammy...that you don’t have to worry about stuff, you know?” Dean frowned not sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I mean if that clown doll had been real, I would never have let it get you, dude. You know that, right?”
“You wouldn’t?” Sam carefully questioned his brother.
“No, Sam. I’d never let anything hurt you, ever. Not even if I was pissed off beyond at you.”
Sam thought about that for a moment and then said, “Cause dad told you to watch out for me?”
“Not just that, Sammy,” Dean felt a lump form in this throat and he swallowed hard. “Look, you might be the biggest pain in the ass ever…but you’re my kid brother, you know? It’s my job to protect you and keep you safe…always.”
Sam smiled, his throbbing rear temporarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of Dean’s brotherly reassurance. Thinking of the .45 his father had entrusted him with earlier, Sam said, “I’m gonna protect you too, Dean, okay?”
Dean chuckled. “Sure Sammy, you do that. Hey, together, there’s not a chupacabra or clown that can touch us. Cause we Winchesters are bad-ass hunters, right?”
“Right!” Sam chirped grinning and then yawned deeply. “G’night Dean.”
“Night Sammy,” Dean softly replied as he settled once more onto his stomach, flinching a little as the rough sheets and blanket pulled across his tenderized bottom.
John stood just outside the bedroom door out of sight but within earshot of his boys, tears in his eyes and his pride swelling as he listened to the conversation in the other room. As much as Dean and Sam fought, teased and harassed one another, nothing would ever break the bond of brotherhood and love they held for one another. That tie was their strength. And that was a comforting thought to the hunter as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of the motel room.
…………………………………
The following morning as an act of faith and to show Sam he really meant what he had said, Dean took the clown doll from the kitchen garbage bin where his dad had stuffed it and carried it outside with Sam trailing a respectable distance behind. John was busy loading the Impala with their belongings and so didn’t notice what the boys were doing. He had figured it would be a good time to skip out of Phoenix and avoid having to answer any questions about the gunfire and trashed mirror and lamp in the motel room.
Dean went around to the back of the building where the motel property ended and the undeveloped desert began. He dropped Creepy the Clown onto the arid ground and held out his hand toward Sam. Sam handed the canister of salt over and watched as Dean liberally sprinkled the white stuff all over the doll and then set the salt down beside him on the ground. He looked to Sam again, and the younger boy then gave Dean a little can of lighter fluid and stood back while Dean doused the clown with the flammable substance and then set the can down next to the salt. Dean then produced a box of wooden matches from his jeans pocket and solemnly handed them over to Sam.
“This is your kill, Sammy,” Dean asserted with an undertone of deference. “You earned it.”
Sam grabbed a match from the box, lit it and held it for a moment staring down with animosity at the doll. With a grunt of satisfaction, he flicked the match out of his hand and it fell and hit the doll’s chest igniting the fabric with a soft whump. Both boys watched the clown doll as it burned, its grinning face beginning to melt into a hideous whorl of paint and plastic. The doll began to laugh right then, the sound coming out wheezy and shrill as the fire scorched and consumed the wiring of the mechanism inside its smoking body.
“Oookaay, that’s just creepy. Let’s get out of here,” Dean blurted and Sam agreed.
They raced back to the Impala just as John finished loading it and slammed shut the trunk.
“Ready to go, boys?” he asked them, giving them a fatherly smile.
Dean glanced apprehensively back over his shoulder towards the motel then quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, dad. I am so ready to blow this popstand.”
Before Dean could head around to the passenger side of the car, Sam piped up. “I call shotgun!”
Dean stopped, pissed. He was about to shoot his brother a nasty retort, when he caught his dad’s look and decided to withhold the smart aleck comment he had ready.
“Sure, Sammy, you take shotgun,” Dean reluctantly agreed and was rewarded with a nod and a smile of approval from John.
Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, watching with amusement as Sam winced and shifted uncomfortably on the front seat trying to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his still sore butt. Maybe, the backseat wasn’t so bad a choice after all, Dean reasoned. He climbed in and stretched out on his side as his father gunned the engine of the muscle car putting it in reverse. Dean closed his eyes, relaxing into the rumbling rhythm of the car as John flipped on the radio to a Metallica tune and turned out onto the main road in front of the Budget Motel and headed north.
“Wake me when we get to Santa Fe,” Dean called lazily from the back seat and then laid his head back onto John’s rolled up jacket and promptly went to sleep.
NOW – PRESENT DAY
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
“Sam, are you even listening?” Dean snapped in irritation as he tore his gaze from the road to glare at his brother.
“Hmm? What?” Sam blinked and turned from the minivan’s window giving his brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
Dean’s brow creased. “What?”
Sam squirmed and gave a short embarrassed laugh. “Ah nothing.” He paused giving a half-hearted shrug. “Just that stupid clown doll. Remember? Back when we were kids?”
Dean’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he chuckled at the memory. “You talking about Creepy the Clown? Dude! That was one serious fucked up doll!” Dean peered over at Sam from the corner of his eye and grinned when he caught his younger brother wincing. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Still shake in your boots when you hear that name?”
Sam fumed at that. “Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” he sullenly retorted giving Dean a derisive look.
Dean glowered back at Sam in amazement. “Planes crash!” he hotly countered.
Not to be outdone, Sam shot back smugly, “And apparently clowns kill!”
Both men stared out the bug-spattered windshield of the borrowed minivan in silence as the miles ticked by neither wanting to admit that there were just some things in life that tended to scare the living crap out of you.
THE END
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
Dean Winchester concentrated on the quiet country road before him, his hands casually gripping the unfamiliar steering wheel of the beat up minivan he was driving as he sped it along through the chill Wisconsin evening. It still griped him royally that Bobby hadn’t had any other vehicle to offer them as a loaner other than this p.o.s. A minivan! Jeez, it wasn’t bad enough he’d lost his father and his own beloved Chevy Impala only a week ago to a freaking demon driving a big rig, but now he was relegated to motoring around in a soccer mom’s castoff hunting down killer clowns. Maybe Sam was right, he thought to himself. Maybe this family was cursed...
Dean angrily shoved the memory of what had happened a week ago out of his mind for the hundredth time, burying it down deep in his subconscious. He instead tried to focus on his brother’s voice as Sam went over the details of their latest job. The older hunter shifted his gaze from the darkened road a moment to glance at his younger brother who sat in the passenger seat his nose still buried in the folder of clippings Ellen had given them at the Roadhouse.
“So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carnie in a clown suit?” he asked Sam.
Sam paused in his reading, looking up and over at Dean. “Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop - alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”
For some odd reason an image from their childhood leapt into Dean’s mind and he smirked. He just couldn’t help himself and he turned to Sam offering the younger hunter an apologetic smile.
“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam,” Dean said grinning wider feeding off of Sam’s innocent look of confusion. “Why did it have to be clowns?”
“Oh give me a break!” Sam said in disgust and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe Dean was going to bring that up after all these years.
Dean chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s unease. “You didn't think I'd remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television.”
Sam couldn’t even remember how it all had started. It was most likely something Dean had said or done that had pissed him off. Hell, he’d been only nine years old at the time, and it didn’t take much teasing from Dean to get Sam riled enough to want to fight back. Whatever it was, it had led to the stupid thing with the Oreos which had then escalated to one of the biggest prank wars the two of them had ever had. And needless to say, Sam recalled, it had had all ended rather scarily for the both of them. Sam stared out the window of the minivan a moment and cringed inwardly, remembering back to that miserable long weekend in Arizona...
THEN
Location: Spring 1992. Phoenix, Arizona. Budget Lodge off I-17.
Nine-year-old Sam Winchester smiled to himself as he pawed through the paper grocery sack his father had just set down on the scarred formica table of the little kitchenette in their motel room. He pushed aside the cans of beef-a-roni and spaghettios eagerly reaching down deeper to grab the cellophane package of Oreos near the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the cookies in triumph and knelt on the kitchen chair just staring at them, unable to keep the grin off his chubby face.
“Hey, put those back,” John Winchester nodded to the Oreo package in Sam’s hands, giving his son a look of fatherly reproach. “No cookies until after dinner, kiddo.”
Sam nodded and carefully laid the package down on the table. “I wasn’t gonna have any, Dad,” he said, his eyes refusing to leave the blue and white label on the cookies. “I just wanted to make sure you got ‘em.”
John smiled at his youngest son. It wasn’t often he could actually buy things for his kids when they asked for them. Begged for them, actually was more like it. Their nomadic life just didn’t allow room for things like slip-n-slides, hot wheels track sets or Star Wars action figures. Whatever they owned had to fit into duffel bags and a few cardboard boxes. Most of the time, his boys took it in stride, but John knew it had to be hard. He could see it on their faces whenever a commercial came on for a new toy and their eyes lit up for a brief moment before realization set in that it wasn’t something they’d ever get to play with. So, when Sam or Dean specifically asked for something as simple as Oreo cookies, John did his best to honor the request. He set down the other bag of groceries next to the first one and reached over to ruffle Sam’s thick unruly hair. Kid would be needing a haircut soon.
“I thought Dean was the chocolate fiend around here, Sammy,” John said. “I’m sort of surprised you asked for these.”
Sam shrugged, innocent green eyes lifted up to meet his father’s. “I like these ones ‘cause you can dunk them and they get all squishy.”
John chuckled, his face softening. “Yeah, they are pretty fun to eat, aren’t they?” He paused looking around the room and out past the doorway to the tiny living room area, a kernel of apprehension blooming in his gut. “Where’s your brother?”
They both heard a flush and then the bathroom door opened from across the way. John relaxed feeling somewhat foolish as his thirteen-year-old son ambled out of the bathroom zipping up his scuffed jeans as he walked. Dean’s eyes lit up when they spotted John.
“Hey, Dad, you’re back,” Dean grinned and hurried into the kitchenette area giving his dad a smile and his little brother a playful smack to the back of his head. “How’s it going there, Samantha,” Dean teased as he passed by the boy.
“Quit it!” Sam said.
He frowned at Dean then glanced to his dad to see if he’d get any back up from the man. No luck. John was busy folding up the paper bags and stuffing them in the trashcan by the fridge.
“Samaaannnttthhaaa,” Dean drawled with glee.
“Stop calling me that, Dean!” Sam tried to sound tough but his nine-year old voice came out too high pitched to be menacing.
“Hey, I can’t help it if you look like a chick…and sound like one,” Dean shot back.
He eyed the cookies sitting next to Sam’s elbow and leaned across the table to grab the package but Sam quickly hunched over it giving his older brother a determined scowl. Dean scowled back, reaching once more for the cookies a threatening glint in his eye.
“Hand ‘em over, Sammy,” Dean growled. “You don’t even like Oreos anyway.”
Sam shook his head not willing to comply with someone who had just insinuated that he was a girl. Dean, growing frustrated, shot out a hand again to snatch them away when he heard his father directly behind him.
“Let him have the cookies, Dean,” John warned his oldest child.
Dean huffed at that but dutifully pulled his hand back from across the table. Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean, who then decided his brother needed another smack to the head. But John stepped in front of his oldest son, blocking him. He offered the teenager a raised brow, daring him to push his luck, but Dean knew better. He backed away from the table trying to appear uncaring as he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave Sam a scornful look.
“Fine, crybaby. Have them,” Dean groused. “You don’t even like them.”
John shook his head in tired disbelief, running a hand through his hair. The two of them were about wearing him out lately. He didn’t know if it was Dean’s becoming a teenager a few months back or if the two were just overly restless these days, but they had been bickering and getting on one another’s nerves more than usual it seemed.
“Dean, cut your brother some slack, all right?” John said in irritation and then addressed his youngest who still had his arms wrapped protectively around the package of cookies. “And Sammy, you’re not eating all of those by yourself. You share them with Dean.”
John saw the pout coming on before it happened. Sam’s bottom lip jutted out, his brows furrowing in stubborn defiance as he stared down at the cookies on the table.
“They’re my cookies. I asked for them,” Sam sullenly stated.
John had had enough. He slowly leaned over the table, getting his eyes level with his son’s. “You will share those with your brother or you won’t be getting any at all. You understand me, Samuel?”
The pout wavered at the sound of his father’s stern voice. John held out his hand keeping his dark eyes on Sam. Sam hesitated for only a fraction of second before reluctantly handing the package over with a loud put upon sigh. Relieved that he had headed a tantrum off at the pass, John took the Oreos and walked over to the counter, plunking them down by the sink and turned to face Sam and Dean who were now making faces at one another.
“Knock it off you two!” John barked and the boys immediately straightened up and were all ears. “I’m going to be out for the next three days, boys.” John fixed his countenance on Dean. “I expect you to take care of things around here while I’m gone, Dean. That means you watch out for your brother, and you follow the rules I’ve given you.”
Dean nodded, looking about as bored as he possibly could without actually giving his dad an eye roll because that would just get him into trouble. “Yes sir, I know the drill.”
“Make sure you do,” John shot back, his tone letting Dean know he wasn’t pleased with his attitude. “Sammy, you listen to Dean.”
“Do I have to?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?” John said and Sam shrunk down in his chair, immediately regretting his words. “You want to try again, son?”
“I mean, yessir,” Sam quietly said looking down at the tabletop.
John kept his eyes on Sam a moment longer but the boy wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Dean, you and Sam put the rest of the groceries away while I get ready,” John ordered.
The boys immediately set about collecting the cans and packages from the table while John went into the small bedroom to grab the duffel of weapons and his research journal. He had taken off in the Impala not long after that. He had hugged his sons and made them recite one more time the familiar litany of rules to follow while he was gone on a hunt: don’t answer the door; don’t answer the phone unless it rings just once; keep doors and windows locked; salt the doorway and the window sills for the night; keep the loaded shotgun nearby; watch out for one another, and no fighting.
After a dinner of macaroni and cheese, Dean had stretched out on the couch, eyes glazed as he watched TV. His dad had only been gone for four hours and he was already bored out of his mind. It sucked every time. Every single freaking motel was the same. Same bland putty-colored walls, same ugly shag carpeting, same cheap television set with crappy reception. He sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that their life wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
He muted the sound on the TV and cocked an ear toward the bedroom down the little hallway. He could hear Sam in there talking to himself and he smiled. The kid was actually talking to his toy soldiers, Dean knew. The little green plastic men had been his at one time, but Dean had outgrown them at thirteen and now they were Sam’s. He’d ordered Sam to play in the other room after the two had almost come to blows over the TV remote earlier. Sam had wanted to watch some dumb cartoon and Dean preferred to watch Quantum Leap. Being older and bigger, it was no contest as to who won the argument. Sam had stomped off to the bedroom calling Dean names over his shoulder.
Dean had free reign of the TV remote after that. He looked up from the glow of the set when Sam wandered out of the bedroom awhile later. The younger boy totally ignored Dean as he slowly walked across the room towards the kitchen area, stopping deliberately in front of the TV screen. Sam leaned up against the set, making sure he blocked the screen from view. Dean just rolled his eyes and sat up.
“It’s on a commercial, you dork,” he said pointing to the set. “Like I care if you block it now.” Dean hopped off the couch and headed for the bathroom, calling back to Sam over his shoulder. “I’m just going to pee. No changing the channel because I’m coming back.”
Sam waited until his brother had shut the bathroom door and then he raced to the kitchen and quickly grabbed the Oreos off the counter where his dad had set them. He tore open the package, grabbing a handful of cookies out and then snatched a plate from the drying rack next to the sink. Peeking around the archway, Sam made sure Dean was still in the bathroom and then he hurried into the bedroom across the way and quietly shut the door.
Dean was in for a big surprise, Sam thought. He dropped the cookies and plate onto the bed and then crawled on hands and knees over to one of the duffel bags sitting on the floor. Sam unzipped the one nearest him and rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. He grinned as he pulled the tube of toothpaste out and carried it over the bed.
Jumping up onto the bed, Sam dropped the tube onto the pillow, turning his attention to the cookies. He picked one up and fussed with it a moment carefully twisting the two chocolate halves apart. With a quick glance to the door to make sure it was shut tightly, Sam raised one of the cookie halves to his mouth and scraped the white crème filling off of it with his teeth, savoring the sugary delicacy. He repeated this action with the other half until both were clean. Then, Sam reached over and picked up the toothpaste and popped off the cap. He aimed the tube and squirted a quarter-sized dollop of the minty paste onto one of the cookie halves he’d just licked clean. Satisfied that it was enough, he placed the other half of the cookie back and gently pressed them together careful not to break the cookie. Finished, Sam set the fake Oreo onto the plate and picked up another one from the coverlet. He grinned smugly, pleased with his work. This would show Dean what he got for being a butt-head while Dad was away.
Dean was a bit surprised when Sam had come to him with the peace offering of Oreos. His little brother usually wasn’t one for giving in when the two of them fought, but hey, Dean thought, as he reached for a cookie, why look a gift horse in the mouth? He had actually eaten two of the nasty things before Sam’s giggling and his own taste buds had finally registered that something wasn’t quite right.
“Sammy, what’d you do?” Dean demanded around a mouthful of cookie.
His face screwed up in repulsion as the chalky mint aftertaste of the toothpaste hit him and his eyes widened in shock. Sam just about fell off the couch in fits of laughter, his hands clutching his sides as he watched Dean quickly bend over and spit the remainder of the cookie back onto the plate, scrubbing at his tongue with his hand.
“Real funny, jerkwad!” Dean snapped as he got up and stalked over to the kitchen.
He filled a glass full of water and chugged it rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. He watched the foamy white crème and freckles of chocolate as they splashed against the stainless steel of the sink and felt his face burn red with anger. Toothpaste! The little shit had put toothpaste in the frigging Oreos!
“You are so dead, dude,” Dean hissed as he whirled around, making a grab for Sam’s shirt.
Sam, who had followed Dean into the kitchen to gloat further, jumped back still snorting and took off for the bedroom with Dean in hot pursuit. Dean banged into the archway coming out of the kitchen thereby losing the chance to overtake his brother. He made it to the bedroom just as the door slammed shut with a resonant bang in his face. Dean tried the knob, giving the worn brass a rough shake but knew Sam had already locked the door. He slapped the painted wood in front of him once hard.
“Laugh it up, Sammy,” Dean yelled through the door. “Because it is so on right now! You won’t know when, and you won’t know where, but your are toast, dude!”
Clowning Around (Supernatural Fanfic) Part 2 of ?
By Minx
Fandom: This takes place during the “Everyone Loves a Clown” episode of Season 2. Anyone else ever wonder where Sam developed his clown phobia from?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. They are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Any characters in this story are used simply for entertainment purposes, and I am not making any money from these stories.
Warning: Contains swearing and spanking of children
And that was how the whole ugly thing had started, Sam had painfully reflected later. Dean, even at the tender age of thirteen, was no slouch in the art of combat, be it against a demonic revenant or a bratty little brother. He therefore wasted no time in retaliating for the tainted cookies by hiding an unwrapped Jolly Rancher candy in the shower head before Sam got up the next morning. Dean had ordered Sam to the bathroom upon rising to take a shower, knowing that the steam and heat of the hot water would melt the candy and cover Sam in a clear sticky sheen.
Looking back, Sam realized he should have expected an immediate reprisal from Dean. He was like Dad – he hated to lose at anything, and letting Sam one up him in the practical joke department just wasn’t going to happen. But to be fair, Sam had methodically inspected the small bathroom, checking the cabinet under the sink and even making sure there wasn’t any plastic wrap or anything on the toilet. Yeah, it was stupid not to have checked the shower head, but hey, Sam reasoned, he had been only nine. And at nine, you didn’t always cover all the bases. He hadn’t even been aware that anything was amiss until later when he was clothed and the warmth of his body had reactivated the sugary residue.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, not for the first time that day, as he watched Sam pick at his usually baggy t-shirt once again in obvious irritation as it persistently clung to his skin. To Dean, this was way more fun than staring at the television all day or yawning through the boring textbooks his father had left for them to study. If he couldn’t go out on the hunt with his dad, which is what he’d have preferred hands down, then why not torment his brother for a laugh instead? To Dean it was just another form of brotherly comraderie, and as long as their father didn’t catch wind of it, he didn’t mind the silly competition.
“You okay there, buddy?” Dean asked Sam as they trudged back from the lobby of the motel where they had gone to get some sodas from the machine.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, hesitation in his young voice. He swatted at another fly as it attempted to land on his arm, cursing softly under his breath. “Man, what is with all these flies, Dean? It’s supposed to be a desert out here. There aren’t supposed to be this many flies!”
Dean had to look away a moment as he stifled a laugh. He breathed deeply, eyes crinkled in amusement as he absentmindedly scanned the half-empty parking lot of the motel, forcing himself to keep a straight face. Man, he should be getting an Oscar for this performance! Composing himself as best he could, Dean offered his younger brother a sincere shrug as the two kept walking along side by side.
“Gee, I don’t know Sammy. Maybe you just smell good to them or something,” he blurted and then bit his cheek again.
Sam scowled and brushed another fly from his hair. He continued walking but had to pause every few strides to squirm and pick his underwear from his crack. For some reason they kept sticking to him and riding up. Hearing a strangled snort escape from Dean’s lips, Sam quickly glanced over at his brother from underneath a thick fringe of lashes, his hackles rising. No. He couldn’t have...
The younger Winchester boy slowed his pace, letting Dean get ahead of him by a few steps and then Sam stopped dead in his tracks, a deep crease of suspicion forming between his brows. He studied the retinue of flies buzzing around him – just him. They weren’t bothering Dean at all. Then he looked down at his shirt that was once again glued to his chest and his back. Dean had kept walking but now stopped and turned around to check on what was holding up Sam. Seeing his brother standing on the curb looking for all intents and purposes like a human dumpster with all the flies circling was too much and Dean finally burst out laughing.
“Dean!” Sam roared and looked at the older boy in a mixture of fury and chagrin as realization sunk in.
“Dude, you should see yourself!” Dean bent over, convulsing with laughter. “Oh man, I wish I had a camera. This is priceless.” He shook his head, eyeing Sam as if he were the biggest retard ever. “I can’t believe you fell for the candy in the shower head, Sammy. So, how’s it feel to be walking around all day like a sugar-coated princess?”
Dean ducked as Sam’s soda can went whizzing by his head.
“You big donkey dick!” Sam shouted his fists clenching.
Dean saw Sam’s nostrils flare in rage and he wasted no time in high tailing it back to the room. Sam had chased Dean all the way almost catching up to him, but the running had made him sweat which only activated the sugar worse. By the time Sam had made it into the motel room, his clothing was plastered stickily against his skin and his butt cheeks felt as if they were glued together. He glared at Dean as he began to peel off his t-shirt, heading for the bathroom.
“You wait until I tell Dad, Dean!” Sam said, angrily throwing his shirt at his brother.
Dean easily side stepped the missile and quirked his brows at Sam while folding his arms across his chest. “Go ahead, smart ass – tell Dad. And then I’ll tell him what you did with the Oreos.”
A look of apprehension passed over Sam’s chubby face. Maybe telling Dad wasn’t such a good idea. In fact, it was a pretty crummy idea, he decided because the only outcome of their dad finding out that his sons were indeed fighting after he’d told them to behave was that he and Dean would end up with a couple of very sore butts.
“Fine,” Sam reluctantly humphed, refusing to look his brother in the eye.
Dean relaxed and waited until Sam finally gazed up at him. He caught the liquid glint of anger lingering in Sam’s eyes and decided to be the bigger man and attempt peace before things got out of hand.
“We even then?” he solemnly questioned the younger boy.
Sam let out a big pouty sigh, thinking a moment and then nodded sullenly. “Even.”
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He was furious at Dean and wanted desperately to get the boy into trouble just to get back at him. Never mind that he had agreed to a truce not seconds ago. And forget that it was in fact he himself that had actually started the whole thing in the first place with the Oreos. Dean may be the oldest, Sam reasoned, but he wasn’t necessarily the smartest. And that meant that Sam had a chance at winning this time.
He pulled his jeans, underwear and socks off his body, dropping the sugar-coated clothes onto the floor and reached into the tub to turn on the faucet, but he stopped before his hand touched the handle. He slowly craned his neck up, flicking his gaze to the now infamous shower head. Sam stepped up onto the narrow rim of the tub and grabbed hold of the old curtain rod for balance while with the other hand he reached up and unscrewed the shower head bringing it down to peer inside. Dean had either removed the candy or it had completely melted when he had showered earlier. Either way, the boy wasn’t taking any chances. He hopped down from his perch and set the metal head into the sink planning to thoroughly clean it out with some shampoo later. In the meantime, Sam decided it might be safer to take a bath. Dean heard the tub faucet come on full force and plunked down onto the faded plaid couch in the other room, still chortling over his brilliant ploy.
As he soaped himself, Sam’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the nondescript bathroom before settling on the little plastic shelf above the sink. His head tilted to the side as he stared at his father’s can of shaving cream sitting there. The hint of a wicked smile formed on the boy’s lips. He looked to the door of the bathroom and the smile split into a nasty grin.
“Screw being even,” Sam mumbled as he hurried to finish washing. A plan was already forming. There was no turning back now.
Dean was in the kitchen heating up some beef-a-roni when he heard Sam coming out of the steamy bathroom.
“All squeaky clean, Sam?” Dean called over his shoulder, grinning.
Sam ignored the jibe as he made his way to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dirty clothes piled in his arms. The younger boy toed the bedroom door shut and dumped his clothing on the floor by his duffel bag, but kept hold of the can of shaving cream he’d hidden underneath them. He wandered over to his brother’s bed situated near the window and stood there a moment, can in hand, smiling, before he got down to work.
Dinner was subdued, yet ripe with tension. Both boys were exhausted from being on guard and having their defenses up the entire day. And even though both had agreed to end the prank battle, Dean warily checked his chair for tacks or anything else his brother might have done to it and then ducked underneath the table to make sure there were no surprises there either.
Sam for his part refused to accept the bowl of beef-a-roni Dean offered him, insisting he had done something to the food until with a sigh of irritation, Dean had grabbed up a spoon and shoveled half the bowl into his own mouth to prove it was okay. Sam sheepishly filled a second bowl from the soup pan on the little stove and brought it back to the table, giving his chair a firm shake first before sitting down to eat.
After dinner, Dean suggested they call it an early night and for once, Sam didn’t balk. They did the dishes in silence before wearily stumbling to the bedroom. Sam shucked off his jeans and quickly pulled on a clean pair of pajama bottoms while Dean double-checked the window locks and salt line he’d lain down earlier. The older boy yawned as he stripped down and got into his own pajamas eager to get some sleep and put the day’s escapades behind him. His hazel eyes settled for a moment on Sam’s small form now huddled underneath the shabby blankets of his bed and he felt a twinge of guilt pass over him. His father had left him in charge and he was supposed to be watching out for Sam, not causing the kid more grief.
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered under his breath.
He straightened up feeling a sense of manly pride at being able to forgive and forget. That feeling lasted only until Dean tried to slide into his bed and found himself brought up short, his legs not able to unfold due to the sheet stopping him. Dean’s brows knit together in confusion as he tried once again to straighten his legs out but couldn’t. What the hell? He threw the covers off in growing frustration, suspicion now burgeoning in his mind. Dean reached across the bed to flick on the bedside lamp whereupon he caught sight of Sam shaking with silent laughter in the bed across from him, thereby confirming what he already knew. Dean jumped out of the bed and pulled the sheets all the way back to reveal that the top sheet was indeed folded in half on itself.
“Lame, Sam, totally lame,” Dean admonished his brother as the boy sat up in his bed a smug grin plastered on his young face.
Dean grabbed the folded up sheet and yanked it off the bed, snapping it out to its full size. He replaced it, tucking it back onto the bed and shook his sandy blonde head in mock disappointment.
“You can’t come up with something better than a cheesy Girl Scout prank? Dude, you don’t even qualify as a Winchester,” Dean scoffed.
The sheets now back to normal, Dean snapped off the light and crawled into bed, feeling pretty superior for showing Sam up on his latest attempt at getting even. Kid was a total amateur, he thought as he relaxed and reached up for his pillow to hug it to him. That was when he found the shaving cream. A whole freaking mess of shaving cream that had been left underneath his pillow. Dean swore as he yanked his hands back and then squinted from the glare of the lamp when Sam flicked it back on. He twisted around to see Sam shooting him a triumphant finger from across the way.
“You suck, Sammy,” Dean said giving his brother a dark look.
He looked down at his hands and arms in mounting displeasure. They were literally coated in shaving cream, the foamy white stuff dripping from his elbows down onto the bed and his pajama bottoms. Sam continued to cackle in glee until Dean snatched his pillow up and launched it at Sam’s head. It missed and landed with a wet plop against the dresser, leaving a smear of foam against the front of it.
“You are so cleaning this all up in the morning,” Dean heatedly stated, ready to clobber his brat of a brother.
He scraped as much of the shaving cream off his sheets as he could and deposited the mess into the garbage can by the door, then retrieved his pillow from the floor. With a sadistic glower, he wiped his hands and the sodden case off on Sam’s duffel bag and then chucked the pillow back onto his bed with an annoyed toss.
“Scoot over, geek boy,” Dean ordered his brother as he kneed him in the back while climbing into the other’s bed next to him. “You got company tonight since you messed up my bed.”
“So,” Sam cheerfully replied as he made room for Dean, “What was that about not qualifying as a Winchester?”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbled as he turned, putting his back to his brother and reached out to snap off the lamp. “Go to sleep, Sam, or I’ll let the chupacabra get you.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam shot back, his voice full of derision. He was silent for a moment in the darkness, thinking. “Dean?” Sam softly whimpered.
No answer.
“You won’t really let the chupacabber get me, will you?”
Still no answer.
“Dean?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dean woke up the next morning in a tangle of motel sheets with something digging uncomfortably into his spine. It turned out to be Sam. The younger child was pressed tightly against Dean’s back, one arm clamped in a death grip about his midsection. Dean shifted slightly on the mattress, trying to remove Sam’s knobby knees from where they pressed into his kidneys but the kid was like a stubborn tick and refused to budge.
“Get off me, Sammy,” Dean complained. He reached behind him in mild annoyance and elbowed his brother in the chest, pushing so that there was finally some distance between the two of them in the narrow bed. “Jeez, what’s with the girly ‘hold me’ crap?”
With a whiny moan, Sam reluctantly released his grip on Dean and slowly sat up in the bed, yawning and rubbing his sleep crusted eyes, still not fully awake.
A moment of panic swept over him as visions of a chupacabra jumped into his conscience. His dreams had been full of the fiendish monster and it had been nearly impossible to fall asleep last night until he’d crawled up close in the bed to his big brother and clamped a chubby arm around Dean’s middle as if to anchor himself to reality and away from the nightmares. Sam’s eyes popped all the way open when he felt Dean roll and move to the edge of the bed they had shared.
“Dean?” Sam called after his brother, his voice tentative.
“Yeah?” Dean tiredly answered over his shoulder. He was surveying the mess left from the shaving cream and groaning inwardly. This would all have to be cleaned up before their father got back.
“Dean, there wasn’t really a chupacabber, was there?”
A puzzled frown replaced the sleepy grimace on Dean’s face. “A what? What’re you talking about Sam?”
Sam elaborated, his tone slightly truculent. “Last night…you said the chupercabber was gonna get me, but there wasn’t really one, was there?”
Dean had to think a second before remembering the hasty threat he’d made to his little brother right before falling asleep last night. He gave a mild snort of amusement, half impressed with himself that his intimidation tactic had actually worked.
“It’s choo-pah-cah-bra, not chupercabber, genius. And no, there wasn’t one. I was just pissed at you for ambushing me last night,” Dean replied with a yawn.
“Oh.” Sam said quietly.
A long pause ensued during which Dean stretched, raising his arms high overhead to help unkink the long muscles of his back. Sleeping bunched up with Sam in a sagging twin bed had not been very comfortable to say the least.
So, you made it all up?” Sam pressed him for confirmation.
Dean shrugged. “Well there actually are chupacabras. Dad’s even bagged one before.”
The teen grinned, remembering ‘Uncle’ Bobby telling him the story about his dad’s adventure, embellishing on the details to make it gorier and more exciting. John had not been too thrilled about that and had told Bobby to lay off the Jack Daniels and stick to the normal bedtime stories next time. Dean noticed Sam had grown silent and he twisted around on the bed observing the fear blooming once again on his brother’s face at the news that the creature was indeed real. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he tried to ease Sam’s worry.
“Hey, no, Sammy, there wasn’t one last night. No chupacabras at the Budget Lodge in Phoenix, okay?” Dean watched the alarm in Sam’s eyes turn to hesitation and then finally to a reluctant acceptance. “It was a joke, dude. Man, you’re not gonna wet the bed, are you?” Dean couldn’t help teasing.
Sam glowered at Dean and smacked him in the middle of his back. “You wet the bed, jerk!” he said, reaching out to smack Dean again, but the older boy jumped off the bed and Sam’s hand caught only air.
“That’ll teach you to go back on a truce, Francis,” Dean laughed heading for the door to the bedroom.
“You’re not going to tell Dad, are you?” Sam questioned, anxiety creeping into his voice.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Do I look stupid to you?” Then just as quickly he added with a pointed finger, “Don’t even, Sammy…”
Sam shut his mouth biting back the “yes” that was on his lips. But, Dean, being Dean couldn’t let the unspoken wisecrack just hang there. He pointed at his bed, leveling a commanding look at Sam.
“Start stripping my bed down while I go make breakfast, and grab your clothes from yesterday too,” Dean ordered Sam. “We’re going to have to wash all that stuff before dad gets back tomorrow because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna try to explain to him why my sheets have Gillette Foamy shaving cream all over them or why your clothes smell like you’ve been playing in a candy factory for a month.”
Dean sauntered out of the room, but returned a moment later ducking his head into the doorway, a smirk of superiority plastered onto his face. “By the way? My chupacabra story counts in scoring, so that still makes us tied at two apiece – no win for you. Nice try though, Samantha.”
Dean disappeared as quickly as he’d shown up and Sam blew out his cheeks in exasperation, shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t fair. Dean always seemed to have the advantage. He could swim better, shoot more bulls-eyes, run faster, and even seemed to understand their father and his obsession with demon hunting better. When was it going to be his turn to be better, he silently wondered.
After breakfast, Dean was still feeling a little tired, so he decided to wait on doing the laundry until the afternoon. Lucky for them, there was a laundromat just down the block and across the street from the motel. Dean remembered seeing it when he and Sam had gone to the main motel office for sodas yesterday.
John had strict rules about the boys staying inside the room whenever he was out on a hunt, and had made it pretty clear to the both of them what the penalty for wandering about would be. It was important that he knew the boys were safe and secure while he was on a hunt because having to constantly worry whether or not they were could put his own life in danger. He had to have their trust so that he could concentrate fully on the job at hand.
Dean understood this and being the good soldier that he was, he didn’t think twice about keeping to the rules within limits. To him, walking a few feet down to the motel lobby in the middle of the day for a soda was one thing, but actually leaving the premises all together for a few hours was something he normally wouldn’t even have considered. Especially, not after the shtriga incident a few years back. He shuddered, remembering. This time though was different in Dean’s mind. He wasn’t leaving Sam back in the room by himself and it wasn’t the middle of the night, nor was there a known demon lurking in the vicinity.
Besides, the teen reasoned, there wasn’t much of a choice in the matter really. Staying put meant having to explain the messed up sheets and clothes to his dad, and that would lead to admitting about the practical jokes he and Sam had been playing on one another. Although his father did have a sense of humor, sophomoric pranking that might escalate into someone getting hurt or the authorities getting called was not something John Winchester tolerated, and Dean knew it. And at thirteen, there was just something totally and utterly humiliating about the thought of getting your butt royally blistered by your father. It had been almost two years since the last time John had spanked him, and Dean had absolutely no interest in breaking the dry spell any time soon.
Dean finished rinsing the cereal bowls and stuck them in the drying rack next to the sink. He could hear the television on in the other room and although he couldn’t make out what was actually on, some of the dialogue sounded familiar. Curious, he wandered out of the kitchen and into the small living room to spy Sam on the couch, still in his ninja turtles pajamas, gripping one of the threadbare couch pillows to himself, his big green eyes glued to the TV set. If the kid was concentrating any harder, Dean observed, there’d be drool running down his chin.
“What’re you watching?” the older boy questioned as he came into the room and gazed over at the flickering screen.
“It’s a movie about a family like us, Dean!” Sam excitedly answered, his eyes never leaving the TV. “They got a ghost and everything!”
Dean had to hide a smile. “Dude, it’s not about hunters. That’s Poltergeist.” And then Dean did chuckle as he grabbed the pillow from Sam and used it to prop himself up on the floor just underneath where Sam was sitting on the couch. “It’s a pretty good flick actually,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it, Sam.”
A guilty look came over the younger boy’s features. “Dad said I wasn’t allowed to watch it because it’s too scary.”
“Serious?” Dean shot his brother a skeptical frown. “I can’t believe Dad said that, considering our own life is pretty much off the scale on scariness most of the time. You sure you’re not just saying that so I won’t think you’re a big wuss?”
“I’m not a wuss!” Sam whined petulantly. “I’m watching it right now, aren’t I?”
“Okay, okay, chill out there, Francis,” Dean held up a hand in surrender. “It’s cool. Let’s just watch the movie.”
Sam was fascinated by the story at first. He was still too young to actually go out on hunts, so his first-hand knowledge of the supernatural was pretty much limited to what he read in books or had heard or been taught by his Dad, Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and the other hunters his father occasionally worked with. And, he had been only an infant when his mother had died and so had no real memories of that horrific incident.
Furthermore, his run in with the shtriga three years ago was only a cache of fuzzy memories, since he’d been asleep when the thing had attacked him and had been just about unconscious as it had started sucking the life force out of him. One minute he was sound asleep, the next minute he was being shaken awake by his dad, whose look of terror and worry had scared Sam more than the attack itself.
But, as the movie progressed in suspense and chills, Sam’s apprehension rose in direct proportion. The malevolent spirit seemed all too real to his nine-year-old mind, especially since he knew that such things existed not just on the movie screen.
And there was something creepily familiar about the children’s bedroom to him. It reminded him of some of the bedrooms in some of the apartments he and Dean had lived in, and he began to wonder how many of the places they’d stayed in might have had something lurking in the closet that they’d never even known about. How many times had he fallen asleep in a strange bedroom not realizing that maybe something was there, hiding...watching him...and waiting. Goosebumps dimpled his arms at that dreadful thought.
Dean was so engrossed in the movie that he didn’t catch the first tiny whimpers coming from the couch above him. The clincher was the final showdown in the children’s bedroom in the movie. Sam’s heart nearly stopped beating, his fear as palpable as the little boy’s on the screen when the camera panned over to the empty chair where the malevolent clown doll had been sitting not moments ago.
Sam watched with mounting horror as the boy in the movie slowly leaned over the edge of his bed, the background music crescendoing…No, no, no! Sam thought, his mouth gone dry. You never check for danger without a weapon in hand!
And that’s when the clown doll suddenly sprang from its hiding place to drag the poor boy screaming down underneath the bed. Sam launched himself off the couch with a bleat, landing onto Dean’s back, startling the older boy and knocking the air out of him. Dean swore but Sam ignored him as he wrestled the TV remote from Dean’s hands and quickly hit the off button, his breath coming in heaving gasps.
“Sammy! What’s wrong with you?” Dean shouted as he tried to snag the channel changer back, his face a mask of puzzled irritation.
“I don’t wanna watch anymore,” Sam firmly stated as he turtled up on the floor, hugging the remote to his stomach when Dean tried to grab it from him again.
“Why? The movie’s almost over. What’s going on?” Dean argued. “Gimme the remote.”
He tried to pry Sam’s fingers off the remote but the younger Winchester had a surprisingly strong grip on the thing. Sam shot him a wild-eyed look, nervous as a stray dog ready to bolt.
“No, Dean!” he protested, rolling away from his brother. “I don’t like this movie anymore! I don’t wanna watch it!”
Dean gave up with a chuff of disgust. He got up from the floor, brushing his jeans off and shot Sam an indignant sneer which made the younger boy wince in shame.
“I just don’t get you sometimes, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his frustration coming out in his tone. “What? Were you scared?” Sam flinched slightly and Dean picked up on the subtle body sign. “Is that it? You got scared?”
“No,” Sam said in a very unconvincing way.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean blinked in surprise, looking from the dead TV screen to his brother, who refused to look him in the face. “We hunt down werewolves and demons and stuff for a living,” he said pointing towards the general direction of the motel door, “and you freak out over a stupid doll on television?”
“It wasn’t just a doll, Dean!” Sam tried to argue, feeling that his stature as a tough member of the Winchester clan was now beginning to slip at a rather alarming rate. “It was an evil possessed clown doll...with teeth and, and...there could be possessed dolls out there too...you don’t know.”
Dean stood, mouth open but unable to think of anything to say for once. The whole thing was just so ludicrous to him that he wasn’t sure even where to start. Instead, the corners of his mouth crimped up and wavered, and then Dean burst out laughing.
“Holy crap, Sammy, it’s just a dumb movie!” Dean tried to explain, causing Sam to ball his little fists in anger. “The doll isn’t real!”
“But it could be, Dean,” Sam countered, not ready to give up the possibility. “There could be a doll like that. Ask Dad when he gets back.”
Dean shook his head, suddenly very tired. “You know what? Forget it, okay?” He motioned towards the hallway of the motel room. “Just go get dressed, Sammy. We need to get to the laundromat before it gets too late. ‘Cause you know, we wouldn’t want the evil clown doll to get us,” he added just to be a smartass.
“I hate you,” Sam spat as he turned and stomped off to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Yeah, Sammy, I know,” Dean called after him as he ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. He wandered back over to the couch and plopped down, stretching out with a huge sigh. “My little brother is afraid of dolls. Terrific.”
Still smarting over his brother’s teasing, Sam grabbed his jeans off the floor where he’d dropped them the night before and then searched in his bag for a clean t-shirt, his mouth still holding a stony pout. He gathered up the dirty laundry and turned to leave the room, but stopped and cast an anxious eye around the room, silently thankful that there was no closet anywhere in sight. As much as he hated to admit it, the movie had definitely given him the creeps, big time. It was just all too possible to him, no matter what Dean said.
And speaking of his brother, Sam reflected, he didn’t have to rub it in so bad. It seemed like Dean was always pointing out that he was older and wiser these days. Bobby had mentioned to him that Dean was going through “the terrible teens” and to just ignore the attitude for now, but it was kind of hard to do sometimes. When their Dad was around, Dean wasn’t as bad because he knew John wouldn’t put up with attitude for any reason. But, when the two boys were alone, Dean was often relentless in his teasing. Sam sighed heavily and headed down the short hallway to the living room with the laundry clutched in his arms, hoping that Dean had tired somewhat of ribbing him about the clown doll.
The young boy trudged into the living area, dropping the load of clothing and sheets onto the nearest chair and opened his mouth to ask about quarters for the washer and dryer when he spied Dean apparently asleep on the couch. Sam closed his mouth, question unasked and stood watching his brother’s chest rise and fall in a slow deep rhythm indicating deep sleep.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward the couch, wondering if Dean was just faking it and as soon as Sam got close enough, he’d jump up and try to scare him. He edged up to the side of the couch, curious but nervous and peered down at Dean. The teen was indeed asleep, eyes shut and a peaceful half smile on his lips.
Sam stood watching for a few moments, wondering if he should wake Dean up or just let him sleep. He glanced over to the little clock radio on the end table next to the couch and noted that it was only quarter to one. There was plenty of time to do the laundry before it got dark outside.
Decision made, Sam headed for the kitchenette to scam some Oreos for himself.
As he sat at the little table munching the chocolate cookies, Sam opened his vocabulary workbook he had snagged off the counter along with the cookie package and started reading where he’d left off last time. He got to the end of the chapter that had a page of exercises and stood up, looking around for a pencil or pen to do them. No luck.
Sam went back into the living room and checked the end tables but couldn’t find any writing utensils there either. Getting frustrated, the boy wandered into the bedroom and spotted his dad’s duffel next to the dresser. Surely his dad would have a pen. Sam felt funny pawing through his father’s stuff, but he really wanted to do the exercises in the workbook. His fingers touched something smooth and cylindrical in the outer pocket of the bag and smiling, Sammy pulled out the pen and then made a face. It was a sharpie marker, no good. The ink would bleed right through the thin pages of the workbook.
Sam moved to put the pen back but hesitated, a look coming into his green eyes. He gazed at the pen in his hand and then slowly over to the open doorway of the room and then back down to the pen again. He knew, absolutely positively knew he shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking. It was immature and just totally wrong. But then again, Sam reasoned standing up, pen in hand, this would so definitely put him in the winning lead of the pranks. And since their father was coming home the next day, there was a pretty good chance Dean wouldn’t have time to retaliate and even up the score again.
Sam smiled. It would be pretty awesome to be able to hold the win over Dean’s head too, like a surefire comeback whenever mister “terrible teen” got on his case. That was the deciding factor for Sam. He tiptoed back out to the living room where Dean slept, silent as a shadow.
Dean cracked open an eyelid when he felt someone shaking him hard. He peered up to spy his younger brother who stood next to the couch doing the shaking and then groaned and sat up.
“Time is it?” he blearily asked Sam.
“Almost two,” Sam replied. He pointed to the pile of laundry still mounded on top of the easy chair adjacent to where Dean sat. “We still have that to get done.”
Dean nodded solemnly and pushed himself off the couch, stretching as he went. The nap had done wonders for his mood and he grinned at Sam, the morning’s outburst all but forgotten.
Sam smiled back, although if Dean had looked closely, he would have noticed that Sam’s happy countenance only went so far as the upturned lips. The younger Winchester was holding a secret and a valuable one at that as far as he was concerned. Sam’s eyes held the glint of retribution in them, but Dean never picked up on that as he stumbled into the kitchen.
Sam heard Dean opening one of the drawers in the other room and knew he was snagging some of the emergency cash their dad had left for them. Sure enough, Dean wandered back out to the living room stuffing a twenty-dollar bill into his jeans pocket before he gathered up the sheets and clothing from the chair. As Dean headed for the door, he couldn’t help but notice Sam still grinning at him.
“You’re awful chipper,” Dean commented offhandedly and motioned with his chin for Sam to open the motel door for him since his hands were full. “Since when did washing clothes give you such a high?”
“I’m just happy to be going out with my big brother,” Sam said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah? Well...you should be,” Dean replied, his chest puffing up with pride. “Who knows, maybe my coolness will rub off a little on you and hide all that geeker joy you tend to ooze.”
Sam trailed after Dean shutting the motel room door behind them with a click.
……………………………….
No sooner had the boys left the motel, the phone on the little desk in the living area of their room rang once and then stopped. Thirty seconds later, it began to ring again and kept ringing steady for several minutes before abruptly cutting off in mid-ring.
…………………………………………………..
John Winchester stared at his cell phone in disbelief, a deep haunting panic flooding his senses as he dialed the motel room number once again, his hand now shaking and mis-dialing. Shit! He swore out loud and forced himself to calm down before redialing. The line rang once and John ended the call and counted slowly, agonizingly to thirty, sweat now beading his forehead as he hit the redial button on his cell. He heard the rings and carefully counted twenty-two of them before ending the call. His hand was now shaking harder than before. No answer. No goddamn answer.
Stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket, John quickly gathered up his journal and duffel full of weapons from the little campsite he’d been staying at and all but ran for the Impala parked just on the other side of a stand of trees. He left his other camping gear and food, not wanting to waste any more time than he had to because the drive back to Phoenix would take about seven hours as it was. His heart was up in his throat, his mind going over every single possibility for why Dean hadn’t answered the phone. The one that kept coming to the forefront though nearly drove him over the edge of what little sanity he had left.
“Please God,” John muttered tearfully as he cranked the Impala’s engine and jammed the car into gear, pressing the gas pedal flat to the floor. “Please let them be okay.”
……………………………………
Sam said nothing all the way to the laundromat even when Dean tried to bait him with the usual taunts of calling him names. This normally would have put Dean’s spidey senses on high alert, but Dean just figured his brother was feeling a bit subdued after the big ‘doll debacle’ that morning and didn’t want to provide any more fodder for Dean to use against him.
They walked along in silence for a bit, the street in front of the motel being relatively quiet in the middle of the day. Dean put out an arm to stop Sam when they hit the corner and checked for traffic before sprinting across the road to the other curb. Sam warily watched his brother as they passed several glassed storefronts, but Dean was lost in his own thoughts and again, didn’t notice anything out of the norm.
The laundromat was surprisingly empty. There was only one college age girl in tight jeans and a t-shirt that bared her belly to show a navel ring and an overweight man in his sixties who was perched on a beat up metal stool near the soap dispenser, chewing on an unlit cigar while working the crossword puzzle from the newspaper.
Dean strode into the place and over to the nearest counter to plunk down his load of laundry. He took a minute to check out the college girl as she bent to empty a nearby dryer and smiled appreciatively at how the denim of her jeans hugged the round globes of rear.
“Dean, I’m hungry,” Sam whined, breaking Dean’s concentration on the young woman’s assets. “Can I have a candy bar from the machine?”
Dean turned, frowning at the interruption and then looked over to where Sam was pointing at a dented candy machine near the restrooms. The machine didn’t look to be working as it was unplugged from the outlet.
“It’s broken, Sammy,” Dean commented, but felt obliged to feed his brother since he’d essentially slept through their lunch time. “Let me get this stuff in a washer and then I’ll get us a couple hotdogs, okay? I saw a vendor down at the other street corner from here.”
Sam nodded and hopped up onto one of the lime green vinyl chairs that were scattered around the Laundromat. He just sat and stared at Dean, fighting not to smile. For being only nine, the irony was not lost on him. Dean fished the twenty out of his pocket and ambled over to the guy with the cigar to get change for soap and the machines. The man gazed up from his paper at Dean’s approach and blinked and then let out an amused snort. His eyes flicked from Dean over to where Sam sat grinning like an idiot and then slowly panned back to Dean who now stood in front of him, holding up the money.
“You have change?” Dean asked the man.
“Sure, sonny,” the man replied as he opened a cash box on the counter next to him. “How much you want in quarters?”
“Five in quarters and the rest with whatever you have,” Dean said.
He frowned when the man kept glancing back up from the cash box to grin at him.
“Here you go,” the man said as he handed Dean his change and then chuckled, shaking his balding head. “That your brother over there?” The man nodded in the direction of Sam.
“Yeah, why?” Dean answered warily. What was with this weirdo?
“Brave kid,” was all the man would say and then he returned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, his chest rumbling with laughter.
Dean slowly turned from the man and walked back to Sam not sure what to make of that last statement. He stuffed the dollar bills back into his pocket and handed the coins to Sam to hold. Both boys then grabbed up the dirty laundry and headed for the nearest washer which just happened to be right next to the counter where the college hottie was folding her clothes.
Dean flashed the girl his most winning smile as he sauntered up beside her and was rewarded with…a look of sympathy! She was actually giving him the ‘poor thing, how pathetic’ look! Confused, Dean tried again, this time speaking up.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he said to her.
The girl smirked and let out a tiny giggle as she looked at Dean. Well, not in the eye, he realized suddenly, but more like up above his eyes. Dean casually lifted a hand to run it through his hair, nervously wondering if he had some stray locks sticking out funny or something.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” the girl asked Dean as she continued to give him a look that would normally be reserved for someone who was mentally incompetent.
“Um, I’m Dean,” Dean answered, hesitation in his voice.
The girl nodded slowly and then reached out and put her arm around Dean’s shoulder in a companionable hug. Dean could smell her vanilla perfume, and he grinned. It was nice.
“Dean?” the girl said as she slowly led him away from Sam and towards the back of the laundromat. “You seem like a nice kid.” Dean beamed at this. The girl continued. “So, that’s why I’m going to do you this favor.”
Before Dean could ask what the favor might be, the college girl grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him towards the door of the men’s room that they were now standing before. Puzzled, Dean shot her a questioning look and she pointed to the door.
“Trust me, Dean. You really need to go in there.” The girl just kept pointing, so Dean figured what the hell.
He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check on Sam, and noticed his brother had a very odd expression on his face. Dean shrugged, took one last gaze at the college girl and then shoved his way into the restroom.
The place was nothing special, he thought, as he walked down the row of urinals. He turned toward the sinks on the other wall catching his reflection in the mirror and stopped dead in his tracks. There in big black capital letters across his forehead was the word: LOSER.
“SAM!”
Sam Winchester looked up at the sound of his name echoing out from the men’s room and began laughing uncontrollably. Cigar man joined in and the college girl smiled and shook her finger at Sam in amusement as she returned to the counter where her laundry sat. Ten long minutes later, Dean emerged from the restroom, slapping the door open so hard it smacked the opposite wall with a reverberating bang. His cheeks were tinged pink with embarrassment but it was his forehead that was red and raw. It looked as if someone had taken 50 grit sandpaper to it. Dean absently swiped at his brow, which was still damp from the soap and water he had used to scrub the ink off with, and swore under his breath.
Sam rocked in his chair, gales of laughter shaking his sides as Dean stalked up to him, gave him a glare and then turned and grabbed up the sheets from the counter without a word. Sam watched in curiosity as Dean stuffed the sheets into a washer and then came back and grabbed Sam’s dirty clothes and headed back for the washer to deposit them in alongside the sheets. Sam slid off his chair, clearly confused, and trailed his brother as Dean headed for the detergent dispensing machine, still silent.
“Dean?” Sam ventured, “You mad?”
Dean turned to Sam and held out his hand. “Quarters.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Quarters,” Dean slowly repeated giving Sam an irritated look. “I need quarters for the soap.”
“Oh,” Sam said and handed over the change he’d been holding.
Dean plugged several of the coins into the machine and grabbed the package of detergent when it fell into the bin at the bottom of the machine. As he turned to head back for the washer, Dean reached over and smacked Sam hard in the back of the head, causing the younger Winchester to flinch.
“Real funny, smart ass,” Dean bit out. “You’re lucky it came off easy.”
Sam bit back a snort of amusement and raised a critical eye to his brother’s forehead. “Doesn’t look like it was that easy,” he commented under his breath.
“Bite me,” Dean sullenly shot back and proceeded to add the soap to the washer and start it.
Ten minutes later, Dean was trudging down the sidewalk towards the hotdog vendor, nursing his bruised ego as if it had just gone several rounds in a heavyweight fight before getting KO’d by a sucker punch. Taken out, no less, by a fourth grader who still thought the Thundercats was the most awesome TV show ever.
If he actually believed in a higher power, Dean thought dejectedly, he might just think that power was being unusually cruel today, just for the hell of it. And the worst part of all this? Their father would be home in less than twenty-four hours, so there wasn’t really time for him to come up with anything of any equitable value to get back at Sam and even up, no – surpass – his baby brother’s latest caper.
Dean studied the store windows in a disinterested way as he passed by them. He strode by a thrift store, giving the display a quick glance and kept walking but quickly stopped because something had caught his eye. Dean backed up, coming in line with the thrift store window again and pivoted to face the glass, leaning against it and raising his hands to shield his eyes from the midday glare of the hot Arizona sun.
“No way,” the teenager murmured, his mouth curling up into a wicked grin. “No freaking way!”
There, just beyond the main window display, was an entire shelf of stuffed animals and dolls in various states of disrepair. And right in the very middle of the shelf, a maniacal toothy grin on it ugly painted face, was a clown doll! Dean blinked not believing his luck. He hurried inside the shop and made his way over to the shelf of toys, all of which smelled of mildew and time spent rotting in basements and garages, and gazed up in wonder at the doll of Sam’s nightmares.
The doll was about two feet tall with wispy ruby red hair that sprung in tattered clumps from the side of its molded plastic head. The face, oh God, Dean thought, that face! It was painted sickly white with a red bulb of a nose and a matching blood red gash of a mouth opened to display a neat row of yellowed teeth. Dean didn’t think the teeth had started out that color, but time and abuse had made them dingy and gross looking.
The eyes were a glassy black, reminding Dean of a shark’s eyes – dead and lifeless. The white, orange and purple jester hat it wore had tiny rusted bells on its tips that gave off an eerie tinny sounding jingle. And the baggy polka dot costume the doll was dressed in had seen better days and was full of tears and stained on one side with something brown. Soda? Chocolate? Who knew? It didn’t really matter. It was a freaking clown doll!
With something akin to reverence, Dean took the doll down from the shelf, a huge shit-eating grin breaking out on his suntanned face when its nose began blinking and a creepy warped laugh issued from a little speaker set into the doll’s chest.
Holy crap! The thing had motion-activated sound and light display! Yahtzee! Dean excitedly thought as he checked and found the price tag pinned to the leg of the doll’s costume and sighed in pure happiness. It was only $2.50.
Carrying the doll over to the register, Dean slapped down a five-dollar bill, accepted his change and waited as the clerk bagged up the purchase.
“Hey, would it be all right if I left that here and came back to get it a little later?” Dean asked the spectacled woman at the register. “I’m kind of on my way somewhere and don’t have anyplace to put that right now.”
The woman smiled at Dean, her dentures clicking together. “We’re open tonight until nine, honey. I’ll put this under the counter here and you just come back and see me when you’re ready to pick it up.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Dean said and then left, his step noticeably lighter now that revenge was so close at hand. “Who’s the loser now, Samantha?” Dean crowed as he bounced down the sidewalk toward the hotdog vendor, his confidence once again returned.
The rest of the day had passed without incidence. Dean was actually able to run back to the thrift store after dinner when Sam went to take his bath. The minute the door to the bathroom shut, Dean was out the door of the motel room and racing like a marathoner for the thrift store.
He was glad for once that his dad had been so regimental with his training, including making the boys run laps and wind sprints. The whole trek took maybe ten minutes tops for the athletic teen and he was back with ‘Creepy the Clown’, as Dean had affectionately dubbed the doll, before Sam had even exited the bathtub.
“Hey, Sammy?” Dean called to his brother through the bathroom door. “I’ve got a headache so I’m gonna go lay down for awhile in our room, okay? You can watch TV after you get out of the tub, just don’t turn the sound up too loud.”
“’Kay,” came the muffled reply.
Satisfied that Sam would be otherwise occupied, Dean carried the doll into the bedroom and shut the door.
……………………………………
It was close to nine when Dean wandered back out to the living room and told Sam it was time for bed.
“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked as the two made their way down the hall to the bedroom.
Dean kept a placid look on his face despite wanting to gloat about his devious master prank about to be unveiled.
“Oh, yeah, Sammy,” he said, letting a little smile creep into his voice. “I’m feeling way better now.”
Dean waited impatiently in his bed for Sam to start to drift off to sleep. He wanted his brother to be in that fuzzy half-awake state one reached right before really falling asleep because that’s when Sam would be most susceptible to what he had planned.
Carefully reaching down along the side of his bed, Dean felt for the fishing line he’d strung there. Finding it, Dean curled his fingers around the cord and gave it a brief yank pleased when a soft tinny jingle sounded from somewhere underneath Sam’s bed. He waited a few seconds and then tugged the line once more, the jingling now more persistent and joined by what sounded like a muffled creepy chuckle.
Sam immediately sat up in his bed, a nervous frown drawing down the corners of his mouth as he squinted trying to adjust his vision to the shadowy interior of the room. He jerked his head over toward Dean’s bed, making out the lump under the sheets as his brother.
Dean appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep rhythm. Apparently, Dean hadn’t heard anything. Even so, Sam slowly panned around the darkened room concentrating and listening intently. All was silent.
Chewing on his lower lip, Sam hesitated before he lay back down. With both hands, the boy grabbed the blankets that had pooled down around his belly and yanked them up around his ears. Maybe he was just jumpy from all that had happened that day, and maybe the noise he thought he’d heard was coming from an adjacent motel room. And maybe, just maybe, there was something in the room other than himself and his brother. Sam quickly banished that last thought from his mind and hunched down deep under the covers, the first faint stirrings of butterflies swirling in his stomach.
Dean waited until Sam had settled down once again and then tugged on the fishing line a little harder this time, setting off the doll’s motion sensor once more. Its maniacal little laugh filled the darkness of the room, causing a sudden chill to scamper down Sam’s spine. Dean smirked watching with glee as Sam shot bolt upright in his bed with a scared whimper.
“Dean? Dean!” Sam whispered hoarsely, his eyes shining in fright. “Dean, there’s something under my bed!”
Dean played dumb and acted as if he were deep asleep much to Sam’s dismay.
Fighting back his terror, Sam slowly pushed the blankets off of himself intending to take a running jump into the relative safety of his brother’s bed when another horrible laugh came from directly beneath Sam. The young boy froze, his heart thudding crazily in his chest, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
“Deaaannn!” Sam’s voice was a faint whining plea as his throat tightened in mounting fear.
Still nothing from his brother and suddenly Sam had an awful thought. What if whatever was under his bed had already gotten to his brother? What if Dean wasn’t answering him because he was paralyzed or his life force had been sucked out of him and he was in a coma? Sam thought he was going to throw up.
Steeling himself, the young boy took a few deep ragged breaths willing the nausea away and tried to think despite the fact that he was beyond frightened. What would Dean do? Sam’s mind raced. Dean would have a weapon Sam suddenly decided and he looked about for one. Unfortunately, the shotgun was across the room, leaning up against a wooden chair near Dean’s bed. Just great. There was no way he’d be able to get to the gun before whatever was lurking under his bed made its move, Sam thought, despair settling over him.
He scanned the nearby nightstand but didn’t find anything more menacing than a pencil and a pair of nail clippers. Sam thought a minute, licking his suddenly dry lips and then reached over and picked up the pencil, figuring it could at least cause some damage if he used it in a stabbing motion.
Feeling totally overwhelmed and not at all prepared, Sam inched over to the edge of his mattress, cringing as he heard the laughing again, sounding louder and more menacing as he got closer. It took every bit of nerve he had, as Sam gave out a shaky breath and ever so slowly bent over the edge of his bed. All he could think about was the movie he’d seen earlier and what had happened to the boy in the movie.
Sam suddenly stopped his forward motion and reached up with one hand to grab hold of the sheets and blankets in a strong grip. He wanted to anchor himself solidly to the top of the bed so that if, God forbid, there actually was something down there, it wouldn’t be able to yank him down with it without a fight.
Steeling himself, Sam started for the edge of his bed once again, pencil gripped tightly in one sweaty hand, the bed sheets clutched in the other.
Dean waited until Sam’s head was almost touching the floor before he gave a final hard yank on the fishing line, causing creepy the clown to leap forward from the shadows under Sam’s bed, its nose flashing erratically and its crazy laugh taunting Sam.
The doll smacked the boy right in the face and Sam screamed in terror, losing his grip on the sheets and falling forward, his weight carrying him down on top of the hooting doll.
Terrified, Sam beat at the hideous thing, stabbing it over and over with the pencil so hard that the pencil broke in two. Sam continued to attack his tormentor with what was left of the pencil, his panicked shrieks filling the room until they were suddenly drowned out by Dean’s roar of laughter from above. The bedside light flicked on, abruptly banishing the darkness and Sam stared down in dazed shock at the ugly thing he knelt on top of, the demolished pencil stub still clutched in his shaking hand.
“Don’t guess you’re ever gonna want to watch that movie again, huh Sammy?” Dean stated between bouts of laughter.
Sam looked up at Dean, his mouth hung open in a mix of anger and bewilderment as he knelt there on the floor between the beds. The boy stared at Dean then flicked his gaze back down to the doll and then back up to Dean, his eyes widening. A blind rage took over as realization bloomed in Sam’s mind as to what his brother had done.
Without thought, Sam launched himself off the floor at his brother with a growl of outrage. His fists were flying from the get go and Dean barely had time to get his hands up before his brother was on top of him, punching and kicking like a crazed berserker.
“You asswipe!” Sam screamed as he continued to pummel his older brother. “You total freaking butthole, Dean! I’m gonna kill you!”
Dean, for his part, accepted the terms of endearment and tried to defend himself without actually fighting back. That lasted until Sam got in a well-aimed knee to Dean’s groin. And then the battle royale was on.
Dean swore in pain and shoved Sam hard, knocking him off the bed, but Sam took hold of his brother’s pajama leg as he went down and Dean ended up getting dragged onto the floor as well. Dean grabbed at the nightstand as he went down, jarring the table and knocking the lamp off onto the floor. The bulb smashed with a little hiss and the room was once again enveloped in darkness.
The two wrestled around on the carpeted floor in the pitch black, grunting, cussing and shouting names at one another while Creepy the Clown lay on his back grinning and laughing hysterically, it’s nose blinking away like a short-circuited Christmas light. They were so loud and so intent on doing bodily harm to one another that they didn’t even hear their father’s voice coming from down the hallway.
……………………………………..
John had floored it all the way back to the Phoenix city limits, going ninety all the way, praying no cops tried to pull him over because he’d just shoot them and keep on going.
His boys were in danger and he wasn’t stopping for the devil himself much less some highway mounty out to fill his monthly quota of speeding tickets.
He spun into the motel parking lot a little after nine-thirty, almost sideswiping a pickup as he pulled crookedly into a parking spot and killed the engine on the Impala. John grabbed up the shotgun from the passenger seat and jumped out of the car, racing for the motel room.
He didn’t knock or try his key, figuring that if someone or something was inside with Sam and Dean, then he didn’t want to give it the advantage of knowing he was there.
Raising one booted foot, John kicked open the door and charged inside, shotgun raised and ready.
“Dean! Sammy!” he called out in panic, looking around the unlit living room but sensing nothing.
John heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the bedroom and, with a worried moan, he thundered down the hallway intent on destroying whatever was menacing his children.
As he got closer, he could hear grunts and shouts and was able to make out Dean’s and Sam’s voices. He blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, suddenly relieved to know that his boys, his babies, were still alive.
Just as John reached for the doorknob to fling open the bedroom door, a deafening gunshot rang out from the room, followed by a pair of petrified shrieks and the sound of glass shattering. John’s heart skipped a beat and his blood turned cold as he fumbled for the knob, terror now wiping everything else out of his mind. He threw the door open hard. It slammed forcefully into the drywall behind it, the doorknob burying itself into the plaster.
………………………………………………….
Dean and Sam had continued the brawling fistfight, neither one willing to give way this time as two days worth of pent up agitation, stress and sibling rivalry came to an ugly head. Dean was growing tired of holding back his punches. He knew he could really hurt Sam if he wanted to, but his dad had drilled into him since he was four that Dean, being the oldest, was supposed to be the protector of his little brother, and that meant saving Sam, not hurting him.
Even so, when Dean rolled out from under Sam and ended up near the clown doll, he didn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch up the ugly toy and throw it at Sam, who was on his knees and crawling back towards Dean fists curled and ready.
Sam caught sight of the flying clown, freaked and dove for the floor. The doll sailed past the boy and hit the straight back chair against the wall, landing on top of it in an upright way as if it were standing at attention. Unfortunately, the force of creepy the clown hitting the chair jarred loose the loaded shotgun that had been propped against the chair. It started to fall sideways, the barrel of the weapon skittering along the edge of the wood seat of the chair until the shotgun bumped hard against the chair’s arm and went off.
The boom was incredibly loud in the confined space and both Sam and Dean ducked and screamed in fright. The rock salt rounds hit the mirror above the dresser with precision, shattering the glass into a million tiny shards that spilled over the dresser top and adjacent floor. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the bedroom door suddenly burst open, causing the Winchester boys to scream in unison once again.
John Winchester framed the darkened doorway, shotgun raised to his shoulder as he quickly assessed the situation. He saw his boys kneeling on the floor near the window and then saw a figure standing on the nearby chair as if getting ready to launch itself at them.
Could be a gate demon, John rapidly surmised, or possibly a possessed animal. Didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“Sammy! Dean! Down!” John barked and was relieved when Dean immediately hit the deck, dragging Sam down as well and tucking him protectively underneath his body.
John wasted no time. As soon as he saw his boys drop, he aimed and fired, the second gunshot sounding even louder than the first one had. The unknown creature flew off the chair hit square by the rock salt rounds John had fired into it. It landed with a deranged laugh onto the floor behind Sam and Dean, slid a few feet and then went silent its arms and legs splayed out in a death throe.
“Holy shit!” Dean howled in shock, not caring that he just swore in front of his dad.
John lowered the shotgun and reached behind him, fumbling on the wall for the light switch, his eyes never leaving the thing on the floor. He found the switch and the overhead light snapped on to display two cowering boys, one whimpering in tearful fright underneath his brother, and the other one peering up at John with a look of guilty surprise on his face.
John leaned the shotgun against the dresser and was over to his sons in three quick strides.
“Dean, you okay, son? Sammy?” John questioned the boys at the same time as he swooped down and gathered them both into his arms, quickly checking his sons over for blood or signs of wounds.
Tears of relief streaked down his face when he concluded that neither of them was hurt. “God, I was so scared,” he managed to choke out, hugging them tight again. “When you didn’t answer the phone...I just, God...I thought I’d lost you.”
“The phone?” Sam absently queried, poking his tearful head up from his father’s chest. “What phone?”
John felt Dean stiffen against him and the older hunter slowly released his hold on the boys, sitting back on his haunches, eyes narrowed, to contemplate the suspect looks Dean and Sam were now quickly exchanging between one another. With a calm demeanor that belied how he actually felt, John stood up and turned to survey the surrounding scene with the practiced eye of a hunter.
There were two boys on the floor, pajamas rumpled and tugged out of place, red-faced and giving him the flustered deer in the headlights look. There was a shotgun lying on the floor near the chair, its muzzle pointing toward the dresser, which now had a shattered mirror above it. The bedside lamp was lying on the carpet between the two twin beds with a broken light bulb peeking from its paper shade that was knocked askew, most likely from the fall. There was wire or maybe it was fishing line, trailing down from one of the beds and across the floor to the body of the last little item in the mystery.
And that something didn’t resemble a demon now to John’s eye, so much as a tattered doll of some sort, lying on the floor, its head pitted and cracked from the rock salt round he’d fired into it, bits of wispy stuffing leaking from the holes in what was left of its shredded body.
John’s features suddenly darkened as he targeted his two sons with a fiery glower.
“What the hell is going on here?” he angrily demanded as he looked from Dean to Sam. “I called you earlier this afternoon, but no one answered the phone. That’s why I scrapped the hunt and came racing back here. I thought something had happened to you boys.” John cast a foreboding look at his oldest son. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called, Dean?”
Dean went white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing but nothing came out. He was still trying to assimilate the fact that his dad was actually standing here, in the room, right now. He wasn’t supposed to come back until tomorrow, Dean kept thinking to himself. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I just asked you a question, mister,” John growled in warning, his voice hard and flat. “Why didn’t you answer the phone this afternoon?”
Dean instantly snapped to attention on his knees at the sound of his father’s commanding tone, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. When had the phone rung? Dean wondered in a panic. And then he knew, and his face fell. Crap. His dad had to have called while he and Sam had been at the laundromat! Just…crap.
Although Dean knew his dad was expecting an honest answer, he wasn’t ready to give one just yet. Instead, Dean let his mouth take over for his brain and he gave John a nervous laugh and a shrug.
“I was just seeing if you’d actually, you know, come back, uh, to check on us like you always say you will,” Dean offered glibly. “Just keeping you on your toes, Dad.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open, his head swiveling over to look at Dean in surprised horror as if Dean had just recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards in ancient Aramaic.
“That was one, buddy boy,” John seethed through a clenched jaw. He pointed at Dean, the anger palpable on his face. “Get up.”
Dean abruptly rose from the floor, dragging Sam up with him by his pajama sleeve. John’s mask of disapproval caused both Winchester boys to keep their eyes pinned to the floor. The teen licked his suddenly dry lips, his heart up in his throat, wishing he was anywhere else but here. He chanced a quick peek up at his dad’s face, and then quickly looked away. Man, if looks could kill, then he, Dean Winchester, would be stone cold gone on the floor right this very minute from the glare his father had targeted him with.
“Let’s try it again,” John darkly intoned. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Dean?”
Dean figured that if he could just keep from having to mention where he and Sam had actually been, then his father wouldn’t have a valid reason to draw and quarter him. But it was impossibly hard to think of a good lie under all this pressure and so, Dean said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Um, we were napping?” he blurted out and then groaned at his own stupidity.
“And that was number two, son,” John tiredly snapped. “You wanna push your luck and go for a grand slam here? Because you don’t need much more to be facing a round with my belt on top of what you’re already going to be getting.”
John’s eyes leveled on the teenager. Dean swallowed hard, registering with no small amount of anxiety what his dad had just insinuated.
“You think very carefully before you open your mouth again, buddy boy,” John quietly warned.
The older man took a step toward his eldest child to show he meant business and Dean involuntarily matched the move by taking an awkward step backwards, thereby bumping into the edge of the bed behind him.
The fight suddenly left Dean as he realized that any further lying or sarcasm would only get him a worse punishment than was already guaranteed at this point. He decided the truth, while it might end up being a lot more painful, would at least be easier to relate and would show his dad that he was taking him seriously.
“I didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t hear it...because I wasn’t here,” Dean sadly mumbled, not able to look his father in the face.
“What?” John’s tone dropped a full octave, his eyes boring into his oldest son in shocked disbelief.
Dean paled and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the room, Dad, so that’s why I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“You left Sammy alone in the-“
“No sir!” Dean choked, holding his hands up in front of him. His eyes widened in panic realizing what his father was assuming. “Sam was with me! Honest! I would never leave him alone again, ever!”
John ran a shaking hand over his bearded face, his nerves beyond frayed. This whole thing was a tangled nightmare that was wearing him out beyond his years. He fixed his two boys with a serious look.
“What’s the rule about leaving the motel room when I’m out, boys?” John sternly questioned them. Both Dean and Sam remained silent, and John stood up straighter, the drill sergeant in him now coming to the surface. “Dean, what is the rule?” he commanded.
“We’re supposed to stay in the room with the windows and door locked until you come back,” Dean quietly recited.
“Unless there’s an emergency and then we hafta call your cell phone before we leave to let you know where we are,” Sam added, not wanting to be left out.
“So, you both are aware of and understand the rule?” John demanded.
Two glum yes sirs was the reply.
John nodded, then fixed his oldest with a questioning stare. “And was this an emergency, Dean?” John asked.
Dean pondered that one long enough to get a growl out of his father before he answered in a very quiet subdued voice. “No sir, it wasn’t really an emergency.”
“Sam?” John’s gaze flicked over to his youngest standing nervously in front of him.
Sam shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment.
“So then, boys, what made you disobey a direct order from me?” John pressed them, his mouth now forming a thin angry line of displeasure.
Dean clammed up again, but Sam, being less apt at evasive tactics than his brother, and being much more intimidated by his father’s ferocious temper simply answered the question truthfully.
“We had to do the laundry on account of stuff got dirty,” Sam muttered, staring at the carpeted floor, his eyes filling with tears.
John’s brow creased in puzzlement. Laundry? This was a new twist. He caught Dean’s quick glower at Sam and knew there was more to the story than either was letting on.
“What got so dirty you couldn’t wait until I got back to wash it?” John asked.
Sam fidgeted miserably. He looked over to Dean for guidance, but his father was quick to shoot that down.
“Samuel Michael, you look at me, not your brother,” John barked and Sam instantly swung his wide-eyed puppy dog gaze up to his father.
Sam’s lower lip began to tremble and he took in a hitched breath.
“Answer the question, young man, that’s an order,” John firmly commanded.
Tears spilling from his eyes, Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean suddenly spoke up and beat him to it.
“I was playing a prank on Sammy and it got messy, dad,” Dean reluctantly volunteered. “I figured if I cleaned everything up, I wouldn’t have to mention it to you.”
John was not happy. “You were playing a joke?” he questioned, his gravelly voice rising in fury. “What have I told you about pranks, Dean?” John reached over and grabbed his oldest son by the upper arm giving him a solid shake. “What have I said about goofing around when you’re supposed to be watching out for your brother and keeping an eye on things?”
Sam couldn’t stand to see Dean taking the blame for everything. He knew Dean was doing it to protect him, but it just wasn’t right. “It wasn’t Dean, Dad!” Sam shouted as he started to cry. “I did it. It was me. I put shaving cream in Dean’s bed and that’s why we had to wash the sheets. I did it!”
John stood, surprise registering on his face. His hand still gripping Dean, John slowly turned to look at Sam as tears coursed down the young boy’s scrunched up face.
“Sammy, report,” John softly ordered.
And that was all it took for the nine-year-old to break down and sob out the entire story from the toothpaste Oreos to Creepy the Clown.
Dean closed his eyes and moaned softly in trepidation when he felt his father stiffen beside him as the tale went from bad to worse in the older man’s eyes. Finished, Sam just stood and silently wept as John pulled Dean around to stand directly in front of him.
“You have anything to add to that?” John shot Dean a raised brow, the muscle in his jaw twitching erratically.
“No sir,” Dean quietly replied, staring down at his bare feet.
John was so furious at that moment that he was speechless. A deep flush had crept up over the collar of his flannel shirt and stained his unshaven face as he tried to control his breathing and his blood pressure at the same time. He let go of Dean and looked away from his children, closing his eyes and counting to ten very slowly and then counting to ten again before letting out a deep ragged breath. I’m going to kill them, he thought. Willing his temper under control, John finally glanced back up at Dean and Sam but felt the fury instantly boil back up from inside him and with another deep breath he turned from them his head down. Nope, he thought, still want to kill the both of them.
“You two are in so much trouble, I don’t even know where to begin,” John angrily spat out in frustration. “Dean, go wait out on the couch while I have a talk with Sammy,” John tersely ordered, his back still to the boys.
“Dad,” Dean started in a panic, “This was all my fault, seriously! Sammy didn’t-“
John whirled about fixing Dean with a menacing glare, stopping the teenager from finishing his sentence. “Are you arguing with me, boy?”
Dean forgot to breathe for a moment so scared was he by the look of absolute rage on his father’s face. He quickly shook his head and whispered, “No sir.”
Wasting no time, Dean spun on his heel and quickly retreated to the living room, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, ignoring the creak of the old springs and gathered his knees up to his chest encircling them with his lean muscular arms. This was so bad, he thought as he sat there in the dimly lit room listening to his dad’s angry muffled voice coming from the bedroom. No, this wasn’t just bad. This was light years past bad and all the way up to ghastly train wreck.
He wondered in retrospect why he’d even let the pranks get as far as they had. He was the oldest and that meant he was supposed to be the more responsible one. And yet he had been anything but responsible the past two days. Cripes, he thought, if he hadn’t let his pride come into play, he never would have tried to get back at Sam for the Oreos in the first place and none of this would have ever happened. How stupid!
And seriously, what the hell had he been thinking scaring Sam with that clown doll? Poor kid. That had been over the top even for him, Dean realized. He swore to himself right then and there that he’d apologize to Sam for scaring him so badly and that he would never bring up the clown thing again. His ruminations were interrupted by the crack of hand against skin coming from the other room. The thirteen-year-old jumped and then cringed with a sick sense of dread upon hearing Sam’s high loud wail following directly behind it.
“I am so screwed,” Dean Winchester groaned and put his head into his hands trying hard to remain brave despite the sounds coming from down the hall.
------------------------------------
John watched Dean hightail it out of the bedroom and then walked over and shut the door his hand resting on the doorframe a minute while he collected his thoughts. He turned, his face a mask of grim determination, as he made his way back over to Sam who stood between the two twin beds, dark head still down, sporadic sniffles shaking his small frame.
It broke John’s heart to see his youngest so upset, but he knew he couldn’t just let this go. No way. Not after the heart stopping terror of thinking his children were hurt or in danger and racing home only to hear that shotgun go off behind the closed bedroom door just as he reached it. That had just about killed him right there. He had gone numb imagining finding either Sam or Dean, or both of them, injured or even worse, dead, in the room. The torment of guilt over what could have happened washed over the man and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes filled with tears.
Sam looked up fearfully at the sound. “Daddy? Are you okay?”
John swallowed hard and tried to put on his game face. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m okay. At least I’m okay now.” He gave a shaky little laugh that had no humor to it.
John’s mouth curled down into a serious frown and he went over to take a seat on the edge of the nearest bed across from Sam. He took his youngest son by the shoulders drawing him close.
“Do you have any idea how scared I was? How worried I was that something had happened to you and your brother?”
Sam bit his lip and shook his head, tears slowly spilling down his chubby face to splash down onto his neck and the collar of his pajamas. He knew that he was in a lot of trouble nevertheless he didn’t want the spanking that he knew was coming.
John continued. “Why did you do that to the Oreos, hmm? What was that supposed to solve, son?”
“I don’t know,” Sam pitifully mumbled, absently picking at his pajama top.
“That’s not an answer, Sammy,” John scolded, and Sam squirmed with shame. “If you had a problem with Dean, what should you have done?”
“But you told me to always stand up for myself,” Sam argued, his tone borderline petulant. “That’s what I was doing, so why are you yelling at me?”
“Samuel.”
John’s voice brooked no nonsense and Sam knew it.
The younger Winchester took a few ragged gulps before offering his father a more contrite answer. “I sh-should have t-told him to stop and then if, if he didn’t…then I sh-should have waited and told you wh-when you got h-home.”
John nodded. “That’s right, kiddo. But, instead you let your temper get the better of you, didn’t you?”
Sam’s head shot up, his watery green eyes flashing same-said temper as he shouted in frustration. “It’s not fair! Dean always gets to win! At EVERYTHING!”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Samuel Michael Winchester!” John scolded and turned the boy, swatting him twice on his pajama-clad butt.
Sam wailed reaching back to block any further shots, and John took a moment to calm down and think about how to word what he wanted to say next.
“Dean is older and bigger than you, Sammy. It’s natural for him to be better at some things than you right now. But, you’ll come into your own, son. I promise. You just have to be patient.”
John moved his hand from his son’s arm to cup Sam’s chin and raise the child’s head up so that their eyes met. “In the meantime, buddy boy, you need to learn to control your temper and to think before you act. And you and your brother seem to think lately that it’s okay to disobey orders when I’m not around, so I’m going to remind you that that’s not an option.”
Sam began to cry harder and balked as John pulled him close and lifted the boy up and placed him facedown over his lap.
“If Dean hadn’t been mean to me, then I wouldn’t have done all that,” Sam whined as John adjusted his leg to put the child’s bottom up high.
“We’re not talking about Dean right now, we’re talking about you and your misbehavior. You keep fighting me on this, Sammy, and you’re getting extra swats,” John intoned darkly. “You know darn well you’ve earned this, so just accept your punishment, son.”
Sam quickly settled down as best he could but his stomach roiled as he tensed up waiting for his father’s hand to fall. He was mad at Dean for not stopping the prank war and he was mad at himself even more for starting it in the first place. Before the first smack arrived, John reached up and grabbed the waistband of Sam’s pajama bottoms. He peeled the pajamas down to his son’s knees along with the boy’s underpants.
“Dad, no!” Sam protested in alarm when he felt the cool air caressing his bare bottom.
John ignored Sam’s protest and tightened his hold on the squirming boy bringing his solid hand down, landing a smack square onto Sam’s right side eliciting a howl of surprised pain from the child. John didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and brought it down again in almost the same spot and then repeated again on the left side. Sam cried as his father continued to spank his little bottom a dusky pink, alternating from side to side for ten more swats. John stopped a moment and addressed his son.
“Are you going to disobey any more orders, Samuel?” John inquired.
“If Dean’d told me not to do it, I wouldn’t have,” Sam hotly contested.
John let a smile steal over his careworn face. God, but the kid was stubborn. Argumentative and stubborn, even at nine years old. He'd make a great lawyer, John thought to himself, and then landed four particularly devastating swats onto the crest of his son’s behind. Sam let out a watery bawl, his chubby little legs kicking in protest and his hands grabbing the side of his father’s calf.
“You want to change your answer, young man?” John asked and Sam nodded. “Are you going to listen and do as you’re told from now on?”
“Yes s-sir,” Sam hiccuped, his breath hitching.
“Good boy,” John murmured. “Now, what’s coming next is for fighting with your brother and then lying about what happened and being so argumentative with me about it.”
John proceeded to apply his hand to Sam’s sit spot in a quick hard cadence knowing the painful sting it produced would help enforce his words in his youngest son’s mind. Sam’s sullen wailing turned into repentant sobs that shook his entire body as his butt went from a stingy ache to white hot agony.
“I need to be able to trust you, Sammy,” John lectured as he spanked. “That means you don’t lie and you don’t keep things from me. I need to know I can count on you. And I’m not even going to go into the number of times I’ve told you no fighting. You know better than to punch Dean. I don’t care what reason you think you have for doing it. He’s your brother. You two are supposed to be watching out for each other, not trying to kill one another. And the next time I ask you a direct question, Samuel Michael Winchester, you had better answer without questioning me or giving me static, is that clear?”
“I’m sorry!” Sam wailed as John’s punishing hand took its toll on the boy’s tender backside. “I won’t do it again, dad, I promise! I’ll be good!”
John finally felt his son go limp over his knees in submission. He gave Sam a few more hard swats and then stopped, letting the boy sob while he rubbed gentle circles onto Sam’s back.
“It’s okay, son. It’s over,” John said as he continued to rub his son’s back trying to comfort him.
Sam’s weeping continued as John reached down to carefully pull the boy’s pants back up over his sore reddened bottom; a howl of pain ensued when fabric met butt. Sam kicked and started to slide down off John’s lap and down onto his knees, his face a crimson snotty mess. He couldn’t stop crying because his backside was on fire, the pain singing up and down his butt in wave after throbbing wave.
John picked the emotional nine-year-old up before he sank all the way to the floor and swung him around in his muscled arms placing Sam against his broad chest resting the boy’s head up on his shoulder. Sam blubbered hysterically, burying his face into his dad’s neck, one hand rising to clutch at the plaid shirt in front of him and the other going back to rub at his screaming bottom. He had felt so guilty for disobeying orders and for being so mad at Dean. And he hated that he had disappointed his dad.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re okay,” John crooned into Sam’s ear as he gently rocked him. “Calm down, Sammy. It’s over, baby. I’m not mad at you anymore. Daddy’s not mad anymore.”
Sam slowly relaxed in the strong reassuring grip of his father’s hug, the tears giving way to sniffles and then to a few hiccuping breaths. Sam lay heavily against John, his breathing becoming deeper as exhaustion overtook his young body. John turned his head slightly to plant a kiss onto his youngest child’s sweaty temple before standing up with Sam still clutched in his arms. He bent down and with one hand John pulled the blankets and sheet down on the child’s bed and tenderly laid Sam down, careful to place him on his side to avoid contact with the boy’s sore rear.
John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a square of linen and held it in front of Sam’s reddened nose ordering him to blow. Sam complied and John folded the hanky and then tenderly swiped off the remaining tears on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes were glassy with sleep and fatigue. He let his dad tuck him in, nestling his head into the cool pillow as John smoothed the dark curls off Sam’s forehead with the hand that had only moments ago spanked him so thoroughly.
“Get some rest, kiddo,” John murmured and smiled when he received a tired grunt in reply.
John straightened up gazing down at his baby boy with love and sighed deeply. What would he do if he ever lost him? Or Dean for that matter? He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that dark possibility and headed around the bed for the door. Speaking of his oldest son…John was reaching for the doorknob when he heard Sam whimper. He stopped, concern worrying a furrow in his brow.
“What is it, Sammy?” John softly questioned as he turned back to the bed where his son lay huddled under the covers.
“Dad?” Sam said, his voice sounding tiny to John.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Um, could you…” Sam squirmed in embarrassment. He gazed over to the far corner and cringed visibly. “Can you take that away?”
Sam pointed to the mangled clown doll still lying on the floor beside the chair. John smirked but dutifully went over and snagged creepy the clown up, tucking it under his arm, some of the ratty stuffing falling out of the body of the doll as he did so.
“This guy really scared you, huh?” John asked looking down in distaste at the leering puppet he held. Sam nodded vigorously.
“He’s got yellow teeth and he looks like the one from that Poltergeist movie that got that boy,” Sam whispered, the fear shining in his eyes. “There was a real bad spirit in their closet, dad, but we don’t have a closet here, so I’m okay. But, if we stay in a place that has a closet, will you sleep with me?”
John ran a hand through his dark brown hair in consternation. While he understood Sam’s anxiety, he didn’t want to feed into it. Sam needed to learn to be strong and independent so that he’d be able to take care of himself as he got older. John knew he wasn’t always going to be able to be there for his boys and with the evil that was out there in the world, John’s only reassurance came from knowing that Sam and Dean would grow up being able to handle themselves in any situation.
“Tell you what, Sammy,” John sighed as he bent down to dig through his bag next to the dresser. “I will try to make sure there’s nothing in any of the closets going forward. But, just in case, here’s something to help keep you safe.”
With that, John turned and placed a burnished stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-automatic into his son’s small hands. Sammy stared at the gun turning the heavy weapon over in his hand and then gazed back up at his father, a wary look of puzzlement on his face.
“It’s a .45, Sammy,” John stated, nodding sagely. “It’s got a double stack mag of wrought iron rounds, and a range of about 160 feet. That baby will put down anything. You keep that near you, and you don’t ever have to worry about something in the closet.”
Too tired and way too sore to question his dad’s sense of logic for once, Sam tucked the handgun in between the mattress and the box spring of the bed and promptly forgot about it.
“Night, dad,” Sam yawned, shifting uncomfortably from the lingering sting of his bruised bottom.
“Night, Sammy,” John softly replied and headed out the door and toward the living room where his eldest was waiting.
………………..
Dean’s sandy head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living area. John appeared a second later, his stern countenance alerting Dean that he wasn’t out of the woods on this one, not by a long shot. Instead of heading straight for his son though, John made a little detour into the kitchenette grabbing up one of the chairs there and dragging it with him into the living room. He placed the padded chrome chair directly in front of the couch and took a seat on it facing Dean. Dean sat up straighter on the couch, his heart jack-hammering away in his chest and tried to maintain eye contact with his father. Not an easy task.
“So,” John began. He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting on his knees. “You got anything to say for yourself before we get started?”
“I am so sorry, dad,” Dean’s voice almost broke as he spoke, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I let stuff get out of control and, I don’t know, I guess I should have been following the rules better. I let you down.”
John listened nodding. “You have no idea how scared I was when you didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, Dean. I must have let it ring for almost two full minutes the whole time imagining that you and Sammy were hurt or worse. Worrying that I would be too late to do anything by the time I got back here.”
Dean’s eyes fell to his lap in shame as his father continued. “And then, when I got here and you didn’t answer me when I called out for you...and then hearing the gun go off...” John swallowed hard, trying to keep his rising emotions in check. “I haven’t been that frightened in a long time, son, and I don’t ever want to be again. Especially, not for something as foolish as what happened here. You didn’t just let me down, Dean. You let Sammy down. And you let yourself down too.”
Dean winced at that and fidgeted on the couch under his father’s critical stare. He felt horrible for what had happened and knew there was no way he could possibly make up for it.
“I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, honest,” Dean mumbled helplessly.
“Then why did it?” John questioned.
“I don’t know,” Dean replied in misery.
“I think you do know, son, and I want to hear you say it,” John demanded. “Look at me, Dean,” he sternly ordered and Dean’s hazel eyes slowly rose to settle with apprehension onto John’s face. “Why did you let things escalate to the point of being dangerous? And why did you think it would be okay to break the rules for the sake of pulling some idiotic pranks on one another?”
Dean remained silent not wanting to admit the truth to his father even though he’d already admitted as much to himself. He could deal with his own disappointment. It was his dad’s that was hard to take. As usual, Dean let his mouth cover for his feelings.
“We were bored?” he hedged.
John’s jaw set in anger at his son’s inappropriate sarcasm. He shot Dean an icy glower.
“I’m counting to three, buddy-boy, and then you lose the right to explain yourself and we move on to the spanking, which will be one very painful affair, I promise you. One...”
“Okay!” Dean blurted in childish irritation. “Jeez, gimme a minute, will you?”
John let that one slide, but shot his oldest son another dark warning look. Dean sighed and then answered his father’s question, his tone and attitude now much more respectful.
“I shouldn’t have been so mean to the squirt, but I was mad. And I wanted to show Sammy up...I didn’t want him to win,” Dean whispered not able to look at his father. “And then when it, you know, got out of hand and all, I uh, I didn’t want you to find out because I knew we would...‘get it’...so I broke the rules and tried to cover it up and sorta lied.”
“And what have I told you about hitting your brother, Dean?” John demanded.
“Not to do it,” Dean stated flatly, recalling the oft repeated litany John had drilled into him. “I’m older and he’s little and I could hurt him if I hit him too hard. And we are supposed to settle our differences by talking it out instead of using our fists.”
Dean’s voice faded off as he squirmed on the couch embarrassed and uncomfortable. He flicked his gaze up to his father, eyes pleading.
“Can’t you just ground me and take away privileges or something?” Dean begged John. “C’mon dad, I’m thirteen! Please don’t spank me!”
John wanted to chuckle at his son’s request. It had been quite a while since he’d had to haul Dean over his knee for an application of hand to butt behavior modification. And he could see from the pained expression on Dean’s face that this instance was proving to be a rather harsh lesson in his jump from childhood to teenager. It was obvious to John that the embarrassment and humiliation factor was what concerned his eldest at the moment more than the ‘wow, this is going to hurt’ factor.
“I’m proud of you, son, for admitting to the truth just now, but that doesn’t excuse what you did,” John advised his son. “The very fact that you don’t want me to spank you tells me that it’s a rather appropriate punishment, don’t you think? You want to avoid getting your butt paddled in the future then I suggest you start acting in a more mature way than you have in the past forty-eight hours, kiddo.”
Dean made a face at that, silently cussing. He knew it had been only a slim chance of getting out of the spanking, but he had hoped that his earnest pleading would have softened his dad up a bit. No such luck.
John straightened up and patted his knee once. “Come here,” he simply ordered.
Dean let out a huge reluctant sigh but dutifully stood up and trudged the few steps over to his father. Without even being told, Dean reached up to the waistband of his pajama bottoms and pushed them down to his knees. He bent himself over John’s lap, head and legs dangling from either side in a position he was regrettably all too familiar with.
“This really sucks, dad,” Dean sullenly stated.
John smiled at that. “Yeah, it pretty much does, Dean, for the both of us,” John said as he reached over to yank down his son’s underwear baring the teen’s upturned backside. “Too bad you didn’t think of that before you decided to play Captain Avenger on your brother. A little healthy competition isn’t a bad thing, but when it becomes hurtful and when you do it for revenge, then I draw the line.”
Dean was about to offer his own enlightened opinion on that when his father’s hand cracked down on his butt causing him to lose his train of thought. He jumped as the fresh sting and warmth settled across his skin and then grimaced when several more smacks followed in quick succession. Man, he’d forgotten how much his dad’s spankings hurt! John applied about a dozen sharp swats to his son’s bared bottom, tightening his hold as Dean began to writhe around trying to avoid the blows.
“I’m sorry, honest!” Dean pleaded as he tried his best not to cry out from the intense heat beginning to bloom across his rear end. “I get it, dad! I messed up and I won’t do it again! I’ve learned my lesson!”
“I’ve no doubt you won’t make this same mistake again, Dean,” John wryly replied as he continued to wallop his son’s reddening bottom with militaristic efficiency. “But I think you’re more sorry for getting yourself into this position than for what you actually did. And as for lesson learned, I don’t think you’ve learned anything yet other than the fact that my hand can still blister your backside pretty good. You disagree with any of that?”
Dean let out a groan of despair. “I plead the fifth,” he hissed under his breath.
John applied a dozen more forceful swats to the under curve of Dean’s bottom and was rewarded with a genuine yelp of remorse from his son. He stopped a moment, resting his hand on his son’s lower back just above his glowing butt cheeks.
“Now, you want to tell me exactly what it is you’ve learned, son?” John inquired.
Dean let out a slow ragged breath before answering. It took all he had not to just start crying like a big baby at this point. Even so, he couldn’t fully keep the tears from his voice as he answered his father.
“I shouldn’t have teased Sammy so much, and ... I should have just let it go when he gave me the Oreos instead of trying to get back at him,” Dean quietly confessed. “And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to scare him on purpose like I did...that was pretty mean, and I’m really sorry for that. And for losing my temper and punching and kicking him too.”
“Anything else, Dean?” John prodded.
“Do I have to list everything?” Dean brashly shot back over his shoulder. “Jeez, dad, even criminals get to plea bargain.”
Dean yelled in alarm when John landed several particularly well placed swats, upping the intensity of the throbbing sting in his butt from dull roar to full on agony.
“You think this is funny, Dean?” John growled at his son. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“No sir,” Dean meekly replied deciding sarcasm was probably not the best way to go at this point.
“We’re almost done here, son,” John said as he resettled Dean on his lap raising his one knee to have better access to the teen’s thighs and under crease area. “This last is for thinking that lying was better than coming clean about what happened and for not knowing when to stow the smart-ass attitude.”
This isn’t going to be good, Dean worriedly thought, and then his dad proved him right by laying down a series of increasingly painful swats all along the crease between his bottom and thighs. If that wasn’t bad enough, his father then continued the caustic application of his calloused hand downwards to cover the upper part of Dean’s thighs, turning the flesh a dark angry pink. Dean began to sob, not only from the smarting ache in his rear, but also from a deep sense of shame at what he’d done to get himself spanked in the first place. His chest heaved as he finally let all his pent up emotions out for once. And once the floodgate had opened, there was no holding back.
John listened to his son’s penitent wails and began to ease up on the strength of the swats until he stopped all together. He brought his hand up to Dean’s back and slowly, gently began to rub, letting the boy cry because he knew that if he didn’t, Dean would just bottle it all back up inside again.
“It’s okay, Dean. Let it out, son,” John comforted as he continued to rub Dean’s back.
Dean’s sobbing ebbed off a bit after a few minutes and finally became little more than sporadic gasps and hiccups. John readjusted the teen’s clothing as gently as he could before helping Dean to stand back up. Dean quickly swiped at his tear stained face with the front of his shirt, ashamed that he’d blubbered so openly and freely. John caught his hand in one of his own and bent down to get his eyes level with Dean’s. He reached up to wipe a tear from the boy’s cheek.
“There’s no shame in crying, Dean,” John softly advised his son. “It’s part of being human and it shows me you’ve got a conscience.”
Dean gave a soft snort. “Yeah, well my conscience isn’t feeling so good right now,” he sadly retorted rubbing his tender backside and wincing.
John let a brief smile play over his lips. “You paid for your mistake, son, and it’s over now. I forgive you, and I’m sure Sammy will too. So now, you need to forgive yourself.”
Dean’s head rose and he looked at his father searching the older man’s face. “How can you forgive me after I let you down?”
John’s face grew serious as he addressed Dean. “No matter what you do, son, I will always forgive you. And you may disappoint and aggravate the hell out of me from time to time, but I want you to know that above all, when everything’s said and done, I am extremely proud of you.”
John reached up a warm gentle hand to cup his son’s neck just below his jaw line. His voice was rough with emotion. “You’re my child, Dean, and I love you, beyond all time and measure. Nothing you do will ever change that.”
Dean’s jaw trembled and he choked back the tears that were trying to escape from him. “Thanks, dad,” he was able to gasp out and then John enveloped him in another heartfelt hug.
“Dad?” Dean’s muffled voice came from John’s shirtfront.
“Yeah, kiddo?” John affectionately answered back.
“Can we stop with the chick-hug thing now?”
Chuckling, John let go of his oldest son, giving the boy a wry grin. “A little too much estrogen for you, son?” he joked.
“Way too much, dad,” Dean wisecracked as he grinned back at John. “I was starting to feel like I needed a manicure and a new pair of pumps.”
John rolled his eyes at that, and then stood up putting a manly arm about Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon smart-ass, it’s time you were in bed,” John said.
He led his son down the hall and to the bedroom door. Opening it, John pushed his son in front of him, raising a finger to his lips warning Dean not to wake up Sam as they passed by the child’s bed. John pulled back the covers on Dean’s bed and Dean gingerly slid in trying his best to keep his sore butt from touching the mattress. Once settled, John covered him with the blankets, and before Dean could object, John bent down and planted a kiss onto his son’s forehead.
“Get some sleep, Dean,” John softly ordered.
John closed the door behind him as he left the bedroom but didn’t shut it all the way. He wanted to be able to hear the boys from the couch where he was planning to lay down and go comatose from exhaustion. He turned to start down the hall but stopped when he heard Sam’s voice. John came back to the door and listened at the crack a moment.
“Dean? You awake?” Sam loudly whispered across the way. “Dean, I gotta tell you something.”
Dean groaned but rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.
“What?” he tiredly questioned. “I’m kinda wanting to fall asleep as fast as possible here so I can forget about how bad my butt hurts. So, what’s so urgent, Sammy?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, Dean,” Sam apologized, his big puppy dog eyes fixed on his brother. “And I’m sorry I put toothpaste in your Oreos and stuck shaving cream in your bed and wrote on you with ink. I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, okay? I want us to be friends again.”
Dean felt like a complete jerk for acting so irritated a moment ago. “Hey, I’m really sorry I was so mean to you too, Sammy,” Dean whispered back. “I didn’t mean all that stuff I said and did, okay? And those pranks you pulled? They were pretty good ones, dude.”
Sam smiled to himself. It wasn’t often he earned his brother’s direct praise. Dean continued, his tone taking on a painful sincerity that Sam had rarely heard.
“Look, I just want you to know, Sammy...that you don’t have to worry about stuff, you know?” Dean frowned not sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I mean if that clown doll had been real, I would never have let it get you, dude. You know that, right?”
“You wouldn’t?” Sam carefully questioned his brother.
“No, Sam. I’d never let anything hurt you, ever. Not even if I was pissed off beyond at you.”
Sam thought about that for a moment and then said, “Cause dad told you to watch out for me?”
“Not just that, Sammy,” Dean felt a lump form in this throat and he swallowed hard. “Look, you might be the biggest pain in the ass ever…but you’re my kid brother, you know? It’s my job to protect you and keep you safe…always.”
Sam smiled, his throbbing rear temporarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of Dean’s brotherly reassurance. Thinking of the .45 his father had entrusted him with earlier, Sam said, “I’m gonna protect you too, Dean, okay?”
Dean chuckled. “Sure Sammy, you do that. Hey, together, there’s not a chupacabra or clown that can touch us. Cause we Winchesters are bad-ass hunters, right?”
“Right!” Sam chirped grinning and then yawned deeply. “G’night Dean.”
“Night Sammy,” Dean softly replied as he settled once more onto his stomach, flinching a little as the rough sheets and blanket pulled across his tenderized bottom.
John stood just outside the bedroom door out of sight but within earshot of his boys, tears in his eyes and his pride swelling as he listened to the conversation in the other room. As much as Dean and Sam fought, teased and harassed one another, nothing would ever break the bond of brotherhood and love they held for one another. That tie was their strength. And that was a comforting thought to the hunter as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of the motel room.
…………………………………
The following morning as an act of faith and to show Sam he really meant what he had said, Dean took the clown doll from the kitchen garbage bin where his dad had stuffed it and carried it outside with Sam trailing a respectable distance behind. John was busy loading the Impala with their belongings and so didn’t notice what the boys were doing. He had figured it would be a good time to skip out of Phoenix and avoid having to answer any questions about the gunfire and trashed mirror and lamp in the motel room.
Dean went around to the back of the building where the motel property ended and the undeveloped desert began. He dropped Creepy the Clown onto the arid ground and held out his hand toward Sam. Sam handed the canister of salt over and watched as Dean liberally sprinkled the white stuff all over the doll and then set the salt down beside him on the ground. He looked to Sam again, and the younger boy then gave Dean a little can of lighter fluid and stood back while Dean doused the clown with the flammable substance and then set the can down next to the salt. Dean then produced a box of wooden matches from his jeans pocket and solemnly handed them over to Sam.
“This is your kill, Sammy,” Dean asserted with an undertone of deference. “You earned it.”
Sam grabbed a match from the box, lit it and held it for a moment staring down with animosity at the doll. With a grunt of satisfaction, he flicked the match out of his hand and it fell and hit the doll’s chest igniting the fabric with a soft whump. Both boys watched the clown doll as it burned, its grinning face beginning to melt into a hideous whorl of paint and plastic. The doll began to laugh right then, the sound coming out wheezy and shrill as the fire scorched and consumed the wiring of the mechanism inside its smoking body.
“Oookaay, that’s just creepy. Let’s get out of here,” Dean blurted and Sam agreed.
They raced back to the Impala just as John finished loading it and slammed shut the trunk.
“Ready to go, boys?” he asked them, giving them a fatherly smile.
Dean glanced apprehensively back over his shoulder towards the motel then quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, dad. I am so ready to blow this popstand.”
Before Dean could head around to the passenger side of the car, Sam piped up. “I call shotgun!”
Dean stopped, pissed. He was about to shoot his brother a nasty retort, when he caught his dad’s look and decided to withhold the smart aleck comment he had ready.
“Sure, Sammy, you take shotgun,” Dean reluctantly agreed and was rewarded with a nod and a smile of approval from John.
Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, watching with amusement as Sam winced and shifted uncomfortably on the front seat trying to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his still sore butt. Maybe, the backseat wasn’t so bad a choice after all, Dean reasoned. He climbed in and stretched out on his side as his father gunned the engine of the muscle car putting it in reverse. Dean closed his eyes, relaxing into the rumbling rhythm of the car as John flipped on the radio to a Metallica tune and turned out onto the main road in front of the Budget Motel and headed north.
“Wake me when we get to Santa Fe,” Dean called lazily from the back seat and then laid his head back onto John’s rolled up jacket and promptly went to sleep.
NOW – PRESENT DAY
Location: just outside Medford, Wisconsin, night time, somewhere along the interstate.
“Sam, are you even listening?” Dean snapped in irritation as he tore his gaze from the road to glare at his brother.
“Hmm? What?” Sam blinked and turned from the minivan’s window giving his brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
Dean’s brow creased. “What?”
Sam squirmed and gave a short embarrassed laugh. “Ah nothing.” He paused giving a half-hearted shrug. “Just that stupid clown doll. Remember? Back when we were kids?”
Dean’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he chuckled at the memory. “You talking about Creepy the Clown? Dude! That was one serious fucked up doll!” Dean peered over at Sam from the corner of his eye and grinned when he caught his younger brother wincing. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Still shake in your boots when you hear that name?”
Sam fumed at that. “Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” he sullenly retorted giving Dean a derisive look.
Dean glowered back at Sam in amazement. “Planes crash!” he hotly countered.
Not to be outdone, Sam shot back smugly, “And apparently clowns kill!”
Both men stared out the bug-spattered windshield of the borrowed minivan in silence as the miles ticked by neither wanting to admit that there were just some things in life that tended to scare the living crap out of you.
THE END