Fudgesicles and Hugs
by Minx
Dean poked his head into the small bedroom he shared with Sam, worry creasing his teenage brow. Sam lay on his side atop his unmade bed, facing the wall, his shoulders hunched in towards his knees in almost a fetal position.
“Hey, you okay?” Dean ventured softly.
He entered the room, tentative, not wanting to intrude on Sam’s privacy but also not wanting to leave his brother alone when he was obviously upset. He sighed, wondering how Sam and their father could be so alike in character and yet so far apart in mindsets.
Once again, the two of them had gotten into it after dinner. Sam had let his mouth override his common sense, and Dad had seen red and immediately took action to put a stop to what he believed was insubordination. He’d taken a paddle to Sam’s butt when Sam obstinately refused to apologize for calling Dad an obtuse, militaristic, Nazi troglodyte. Dean’s lips quirked into a smile at that. Only Sam could come up with such a ridiculously complex insult in the heat of a verbal battle. Dean preferred the good-old, blue-collar standbys of ‘motherfucker’, ‘shithead’, and ‘asshole’ himself. Easier to spit out and there was never any confusion as to what the words meant.
“Sammy?” Dean tried again, taking a few measured steps towards his brother’s bed.
“Dad gone?”
“Yeah, he took off a little while ago,” Dean said. He looked down at the floor, suddenly uncomfortable. “He said he probably wouldn’t be back until the end of the week.”
“Good,” Sam spat out, the hurt and bitterness in his voice all too obvious to Dean.
“So…you doing all right?” Dean asked again.
Sam stirred, but kept himself facing the wall. “M’okay,” he mumbled sullenly, his voice rough with tears.
Dean’s heart clenched. “Dude, don’t lie to me. You’re not okay,” he argued. He closed the distance and took a seat on the edge of Sam’s bed. “Hey, talk to me, Sammy.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Sam stated with a shrug, refusing to turn and face Dean. “Dad’s a jerk and I hate him, and I wish I was old enough to just leave here and never come back.”
Dean frowned deeply. “Don’t say stuff like that, Sam.” He reached out, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You don’t hate Dad.”
“Yes I do,” Sam challenged.
Dean began rubbing Sam’s back, moving his palm in a slow, gentle pattern the way Sam liked him to do when he was a baby. Sam immediately relaxed into the touch, the tension unwinding from his rigid muscles.
“You don’t hate Dad,” Dean repeated, more firmly this time. “And you can’t leave, because then who’d I have to keep me company when Dad’s off on a hunt?”
“You’ve got your skin mags to keep you company,” Sam shot back dryly, and Dean stopped rubbing Sam’s back to give him a playful shove.
“Wrong kind of company, smart ass,” Dean said. “And how do you know about my skin mags?” he questioned defensively. Dean gave Sam another shove. “Stay outta my stuff, brat boy. Besides, I thought you preferred beating off to your trig homework.”
Sam let out an indignant chuff and rolled over, wincing as his tender backside pressed into the mattress. He was quick to readjust himself, blushing slightly under Dean’s scrutinizing stare.
“Dad got you pretty good this time, huh?” Dean asked, indicating Sam’s sore bottom. “That friggin paddle oughta be outlawed. Hurts like a motherfucker.”
“I’m fine,” Sam stubbornly insisted, despite the fact that he was speaking through a jaw clenched in pain.
“You’re not fine, Sam,” Dean pointed out. “Here, roll over and lemme have a look,” he ordered. He reached for the waistband of Sam’s sweatpants.
“No!” Sam barked, horrified at the thought of his brother inspecting his sore, naked butt. He angrily batted Dean’s hand away. “Get away from me, you perv!”
Dean’s countenance took on a hardened edge. “Sam, quit being such a whiny bitch and turn over! I just wanna make sure you’re not bruised or anything.” He made a grab for Sam’s waistband again, caught it with his fingertips, and used his other hand to push Sam down onto his belly. “Christ, it’s not like I haven’t seen your scrawny little ass before, you moron. Who do you think changed your stupid diapers when you were little? Mary Poppins?”
“Dean,” Sam whined, but he acquiesced and went limp, letting Dean carefully tug down his sweats.
Sam was going commando and Dean chuckled at that. “I’m guessing we need to do laundry soon?” he teased as he lowered the sweatpants down past Sam’s upper thighs.
Dean’s smile faltered and then disappeared completely as he gazed down at Sam’s punished butt. It was a splotchy dull pink all the way down to where Sam’s bottom met his thighs. The centers of each cheek glowed a deeper color than the rest of Sam’s rear, reminding Dean of an old granny who had put too much rouge on her face and hadn’t taken the time to blend it in. They were two little ovals of deep crimson.
Dad had been in a hurry to get Sam to break and had concentrated the majority of swats to the dead center of Sam’s butt, instead of spreading them out over ass and thigh. It created an instant sting and heat that grew in rapid intensity until it became unbearable after only a few short minutes of paddling.
Dean tried to be optimistic for Sam’s sake. “Well, no bruising, so that’s good,” he offered, keeping his tone upbeat. He took another look at Sam’s rear end and sighed. “But, you sure as hell ain’t gonna be sitting on that fugly ass any time soon, Sam,” Dean stated matter-of-factly.
Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s statement of the obvious. He reached back to yank up his sweatpants in mild annoyance. “Wow, your powers of detection are amazing. Move over Magnum, P.I., here comes Dean Winchester – the wonder boy.” The words dripped with a caustic derision Sam had managed to perfect over the years.
The smile returned to Dean’s lips. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor along with the use of your ass,” he quipped. He ruffled Sam’s messy hair, earning a curse and a half-hearted punch in the shoulder for his effort.
“Hey, there’s still a couple of fudgesicles in the freezer,” Dean commented as he rose from the bed. “You want one?”
Sam’s eyes lit up. Chocolate was an instant emotional pick-me-up for the teenager. “Yeah, I want one,” he replied, jumping off the bed to eagerly follow Dean out to the kitchen. “I thought you ate ‘em all?” he questioned.
Dean shook his head. “Nah, I always keep a few hidden for emergencies,” he replied.
“Emergencies?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, offering Sam a tender smile as he slung an arm around the teen’s shoulders. “You never know when your kid brother’s gonna get his ass handed to him and then need a little something to make it all better.”
“Hey, you okay?” Dean ventured softly.
He entered the room, tentative, not wanting to intrude on Sam’s privacy but also not wanting to leave his brother alone when he was obviously upset. He sighed, wondering how Sam and their father could be so alike in character and yet so far apart in mindsets.
Once again, the two of them had gotten into it after dinner. Sam had let his mouth override his common sense, and Dad had seen red and immediately took action to put a stop to what he believed was insubordination. He’d taken a paddle to Sam’s butt when Sam obstinately refused to apologize for calling Dad an obtuse, militaristic, Nazi troglodyte. Dean’s lips quirked into a smile at that. Only Sam could come up with such a ridiculously complex insult in the heat of a verbal battle. Dean preferred the good-old, blue-collar standbys of ‘motherfucker’, ‘shithead’, and ‘asshole’ himself. Easier to spit out and there was never any confusion as to what the words meant.
“Sammy?” Dean tried again, taking a few measured steps towards his brother’s bed.
“Dad gone?”
“Yeah, he took off a little while ago,” Dean said. He looked down at the floor, suddenly uncomfortable. “He said he probably wouldn’t be back until the end of the week.”
“Good,” Sam spat out, the hurt and bitterness in his voice all too obvious to Dean.
“So…you doing all right?” Dean asked again.
Sam stirred, but kept himself facing the wall. “M’okay,” he mumbled sullenly, his voice rough with tears.
Dean’s heart clenched. “Dude, don’t lie to me. You’re not okay,” he argued. He closed the distance and took a seat on the edge of Sam’s bed. “Hey, talk to me, Sammy.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Sam stated with a shrug, refusing to turn and face Dean. “Dad’s a jerk and I hate him, and I wish I was old enough to just leave here and never come back.”
Dean frowned deeply. “Don’t say stuff like that, Sam.” He reached out, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You don’t hate Dad.”
“Yes I do,” Sam challenged.
Dean began rubbing Sam’s back, moving his palm in a slow, gentle pattern the way Sam liked him to do when he was a baby. Sam immediately relaxed into the touch, the tension unwinding from his rigid muscles.
“You don’t hate Dad,” Dean repeated, more firmly this time. “And you can’t leave, because then who’d I have to keep me company when Dad’s off on a hunt?”
“You’ve got your skin mags to keep you company,” Sam shot back dryly, and Dean stopped rubbing Sam’s back to give him a playful shove.
“Wrong kind of company, smart ass,” Dean said. “And how do you know about my skin mags?” he questioned defensively. Dean gave Sam another shove. “Stay outta my stuff, brat boy. Besides, I thought you preferred beating off to your trig homework.”
Sam let out an indignant chuff and rolled over, wincing as his tender backside pressed into the mattress. He was quick to readjust himself, blushing slightly under Dean’s scrutinizing stare.
“Dad got you pretty good this time, huh?” Dean asked, indicating Sam’s sore bottom. “That friggin paddle oughta be outlawed. Hurts like a motherfucker.”
“I’m fine,” Sam stubbornly insisted, despite the fact that he was speaking through a jaw clenched in pain.
“You’re not fine, Sam,” Dean pointed out. “Here, roll over and lemme have a look,” he ordered. He reached for the waistband of Sam’s sweatpants.
“No!” Sam barked, horrified at the thought of his brother inspecting his sore, naked butt. He angrily batted Dean’s hand away. “Get away from me, you perv!”
Dean’s countenance took on a hardened edge. “Sam, quit being such a whiny bitch and turn over! I just wanna make sure you’re not bruised or anything.” He made a grab for Sam’s waistband again, caught it with his fingertips, and used his other hand to push Sam down onto his belly. “Christ, it’s not like I haven’t seen your scrawny little ass before, you moron. Who do you think changed your stupid diapers when you were little? Mary Poppins?”
“Dean,” Sam whined, but he acquiesced and went limp, letting Dean carefully tug down his sweats.
Sam was going commando and Dean chuckled at that. “I’m guessing we need to do laundry soon?” he teased as he lowered the sweatpants down past Sam’s upper thighs.
Dean’s smile faltered and then disappeared completely as he gazed down at Sam’s punished butt. It was a splotchy dull pink all the way down to where Sam’s bottom met his thighs. The centers of each cheek glowed a deeper color than the rest of Sam’s rear, reminding Dean of an old granny who had put too much rouge on her face and hadn’t taken the time to blend it in. They were two little ovals of deep crimson.
Dad had been in a hurry to get Sam to break and had concentrated the majority of swats to the dead center of Sam’s butt, instead of spreading them out over ass and thigh. It created an instant sting and heat that grew in rapid intensity until it became unbearable after only a few short minutes of paddling.
Dean tried to be optimistic for Sam’s sake. “Well, no bruising, so that’s good,” he offered, keeping his tone upbeat. He took another look at Sam’s rear end and sighed. “But, you sure as hell ain’t gonna be sitting on that fugly ass any time soon, Sam,” Dean stated matter-of-factly.
Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s statement of the obvious. He reached back to yank up his sweatpants in mild annoyance. “Wow, your powers of detection are amazing. Move over Magnum, P.I., here comes Dean Winchester – the wonder boy.” The words dripped with a caustic derision Sam had managed to perfect over the years.
The smile returned to Dean’s lips. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor along with the use of your ass,” he quipped. He ruffled Sam’s messy hair, earning a curse and a half-hearted punch in the shoulder for his effort.
“Hey, there’s still a couple of fudgesicles in the freezer,” Dean commented as he rose from the bed. “You want one?”
Sam’s eyes lit up. Chocolate was an instant emotional pick-me-up for the teenager. “Yeah, I want one,” he replied, jumping off the bed to eagerly follow Dean out to the kitchen. “I thought you ate ‘em all?” he questioned.
Dean shook his head. “Nah, I always keep a few hidden for emergencies,” he replied.
“Emergencies?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, offering Sam a tender smile as he slung an arm around the teen’s shoulders. “You never know when your kid brother’s gonna get his ass handed to him and then need a little something to make it all better.”