Gimme Back My Bullets
by Minx
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Bobby Singer’s home
Sam reached up to rake a hand through his hair, agitatedly combing his long bangs back from his eyes and uncovering the deep worry lines that now seemed almost permanently etched across his forehead. He let out a heavy sigh full of pent up annoyance.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had been unable to hold in his frustration since arriving at Bobby’s home two days earlier and sadly, he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last either. In fact, Bobby had already commented to Sam that he had been doing the eye roll thing so much lately that Bobby wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Sam’s eyes suddenly went spinning off on their own accord like a couple of out of control roulette marbles.
Under better circumstances, Sam might have chuckled at the derisive observation, but his sense of humor had taken a sabbatical when the last hunt had gone wrong – horribly, unbelievably wrong.
Sam and Dean had liberated a hexed GI Joe action figure from its owner, a perverse collector of occult objects, without too much trouble. Unfortunately, Dean hadn’t been able to keep his immature hands off the toy, even though he knew perfectly well that it was cursed, and therefore extremely dangerous. Sam didn’t give a shit if the stupid thing had a ‘kung-fu grip’ and came with ‘super awesome’ accessories like a jungle war machete and a bolt-action sniper rifle, as Dean had so excitedly informed him. It was cursed. Moreover, it had turned Dean into a little kid. Literally.
No, not a kid really, Sam corrected himself, because a small innocent child he could have handled, no problem. No, the curse had turned his older brother into a pint-sized smart mouth with authority issues and enough teenage angst to drown the entire cast of Dawson’s Creek in pure undiluted emo.
Sam couldn’t remember Dean being quite so moody when they were younger, but he’d only been nine or ten himself when Dean was in his early teens. Maybe their father had been able to keep the drama to a bare minimum. God knew the man hadn’t ever been one to put up with outbursts and misbehavior. Both he and Dean had sported sore backsides on more than one occasion when they’d acted up.
Or maybe Sam’s memories were somewhat colored by his hero worship of Dean at that age. In nine-year-old Sam Winchester’s eyes, Dean had been the ultimate, coolest big brother ever. Sam snorted, shaking his head. Funny how some things had changed, but not others.
His brother still loved his music loud and his food as greasy as possible, for instance, but comic books and online games had replaced Dean’s normal hobby of surfing online porn – if one could actually call porn a hobby, much less normal, Sam reflected with a twinge of disgust.
In addition, Dean’s healthy sense of ego had survived the hex unscathed. Both adolescent Dean and adult Dean apparently thought they were pretty awesome. In fact, Dean’s usual glib sarcasm, which Sam had spent that past twenty-five years of his life tolerating, had now degenerated into a non‑stop series of mouthy retorts directed at anyone over the age of sixteen, Sam included.
And, of course, that was when this younger version of Dean was in a good mood. If he was feeling particularly temperamental? Well, then, all bets were off. Dean would scrunch up in the passenger seat of the car like a stone gargoyle, silent, with a black scowl on his face, eyes glaring out at the passing scenery and the earbuds of his MP3 player firmly stuffed into his ears, ignoring any of Sam’s efforts to make polite conversation.
Sam loved his brother. He really did. But, there was only so much he could take, and Sam was pretty sure that if he had to suffer one more overly dramatic sigh of contempt or flippant bit of criticism from his new “little” brother, he’d be leaving Dean on the side of the road to fend for himself, blood or no blood.
On the positive side, Dean seemed to have retained a basic knowledge of hunting. He knew certain spells, understood why they salted the doors and windows of the motel rooms they stayed in, and still displayed his almost scary passion for weaponry, but that’s as far as it went. Dean’s usual sense of duty and commitment to the job were nonexistent. He was a young hunter with no direction and no interest in doing anything other than having fun finding ways to drive Sam up a wall.
In the past few days, Sam had lost the better part of his patience and all of his sanity arguing, cajoling and pleading with his brother to behave and keep on track until he was blue in the face.
However, teen Dean proved to be quite incorrigible. Sam had gone so far as to threaten Dean with an ass beating, even though he doubted he’d ever be able to go through with it. The idea of upending “little” Dean over his knee for some disciplinary justice made Sam’s insides squirm in the worst way.
Dean had never had a problem doling out a spanking to Sam when they were younger and he felt his little brother needed it. But then again, Dean had never had a problem being the one in charge, making all the decisions and maintaining control.
Sam wasn’t used to that role. The image of Dean as the authority figure in their little dynamic was still firmly planted in his head, despite the fact that Dean was now several feet shorter in stature and less inclined to take the lead on anything, unless it involved which pizza toppings to pick or what television show to watch.
Besides, the last time Sam had tried using the threat of a possible spanking, Dean had merely laughed at Sam in that irritating devil-may-care way his brother had perfected over the years and then he had gone off to do whatever the hell he felt like doing, consequences be damned.
The list of Dean’s recent exploits included, but was by no means limited to: shoplifting junk food every single time they stopped to fill up the Impala, and then eating so much of it at once that he puked, not once, but twice all over Sam’s shoes; getting into a fistfight in a Waukesha McDonalds with some random acne-faced punk who’d had the audacity to suggest Batman was a pussy in tights, and of course, breaking into the Impala’s trunk to play around with the weapons every damn time Sam had his back turned or was otherwise occupied. Sam was quickly beginning to see why their father had kept such a tight rein on the two of them growing up.
The final straw came when they’d had to hightail it out of a Nebraska mini-mart, the Impala’s tires leaving smoking skid marks across the dirty asphalt, after Dean had accidentally shot out the glass portion of the store’s front entrance. He’d managed to get into the locked glove box where the 9mm Glock was kept for emergencies.
While Sam had been inside the store buying them Slurpees, Dean had been goofing around and the gun had discharged. His brother must’ve forgotten the gun had a hair trigger, Sam deduced. Pretty ironic really, considering Dean had bought the damn thing for that very reason. One minute Sam was subtly flirting with the cute brunette cashier across the counter as he paid for his drinks, and the next, he was ducking and running, a look of apologetic horror on his face, as chunks of glass sprayed across him and the cashier.
After that, Sam had made an abrupt decision to head for Bobby’s place. He had hoped that the more experienced hunter would have a clue on how to break the curse. Well, that and Sam figured that two adults would have a better time of keeping an eye on Dean while his brother was busy reliving his wonder years.
Yeah, right, Sam thought bitterly, how exactly do you keep an eye on a kid who can pick locks and lie through his teeth like its second nature?
“Well, I know what your daddy’d do if he was here…” Bobby carefully stated, letting his steady gaze rest on Sam.
Sam’s face scrunched up in consternation, mouth twitching in agitation. “Bobby…” he sighed heavily. “I mean, we’re talking about Dean. You know? My older brother, Dean?”
Bobby shrugged, the move understated yet full of implication. “Yeah, he’s your brother all right, but he’s also a twelve-year-old terror at the moment, Sam, and he’s not listening to either one of us.”
Sam let out a sharp chuff, shaking his head as he gave the older hunter a look full of uneasy censure.
“This is the guy who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to dump itching powder into my shorts or drop my toothbrush in the toilet when he’s pissed at me for getting ketchup on his car seat. What d’you think he’ll do to me if I …” Sam stumbled over the next words, his mouth contorting, lips pursing as if the utterance had as unsavory a taste as meaning to him. “…if I spank him?” he hissed.
“You’re the one that’s stuck with him like this if we can’t break the hex,” Bobby asserted. He shook his head, eyes darkening. “I’m too damn old to be raisin’ that mouthy little hellion, and I sure as hell ain’t looking to get in the way of that fist of his again,” he added sourly.
Sam winced. Dean had mouthed off to Bobby within hours of their arrival.
He had refused to help clear the supper dishes on the principal that he was just a kid, whereas Bobby was a very capable, if not bossy, adult. Dean had gone on to smugly explain that it was Bobby’s house anyway, so why shouldn’t he do the clean up work while Dean – the houseguest – be left to catch the last half of The Simpsons on TV.
This had led to a war of words that had escalated into a physical altercation when Bobby had ‘helped’ Dean out of his seat at the kitchen table and propelled him towards the sink with a sharp pop to his backside.
Dean, ever the hot head, had retaliated without thinking, his little fist a blur, as he’d pivoted and driven it into Bobby’s conveniently located groin. Bobby had hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, loudly cussing the Winchester name back to the beginning of time.
Sam took it upon himself, at that point, to quickly hustle Dean upstairs for a scorching verbal reprimand, praying the entire time that Bobby wouldn’t be waiting for him, with his shotgun primed, when he came back downstairs.
Bobby let a sly grin play over his lips. “You tellin’ me you aren’t the least bit interested in exacting some good old-fashioned revenge for all the times your brother leathered your backside growing up?”
“No! Well, yes…but, no!” Sam whined in exasperation. “I can’t.”
“He’s getting to be a big problem,” Bobby observed sternly.
Sam winced inwardly at the accusation. He knew that Dean was a bit out of hand, sure, but it was hard not to feel for the guy, hell, even sympathize a little, considering the circumstances.
His brother had always been the reliable one. Dean was the one their father looked to as his trusted right hand, his corporal in charge when he was away on a hunt. It hadn’t been easy, but Dean had steadfastly shouldered the responsibility thrust on him with as much grace as was possible for someone his age, keeping his complaints to the utmost minimum. Following orders and pleasing Dad had been Dean’s primary goals growing up.
His brother had lost any chance for a childhood or any kind of life for himself, the day their dad had placed baby Sam in four-year-old Dean’s arms and told him to watch out for his little brother. Was it so hard to understand then, why Dean was acting out so much now that he was free of his usual burdens?
Sam shuffled awkwardly. “It’s not that big of a problem,” he quietly insisted to Bobby.
“No?” Bobby questioned. He pointedly looked past Sam’s shoulder, head cocked, and then flicked his sharp gaze back to the younger man, brows raised skeptically.
Frowning, Sam swiveled around in curiosity, eyes widening.
“Sonuvabitch,” he groaned under his breath.
Fury slowly mixed with his astonishment. “Little” Dean Winchester stood in the doorway to the room, wide crooked grin splitting his freckled face, the chrome plated Colt 1911 semi-automatic he usually favored on hunts, now clutched in his under-sized hands.
Hands, Sam belatedly realized that were coated with smears of chocolate, no doubt from the Whoppers candy Dean had been told not to touch until after lunch. Sam’s frown deepened. The chocolate had melted and was dirtying the once pristine ivory grips of the pistol – the pistol Sam had spent the past half hour carefully cleaning before stowing it away in the Impala’s trunk to wait for Dean to ‘grow’ back into again.
Sam absently patted the front pockets of his jeans; lips thinning in anger when he realized the Impala’s keys were no longer where he’d last put them. Great, he’s picking my pockets now, Sam thought in growing irritation.
He shot Dean a nasty scowl, which quickly melted into a pained grimace, followed by an indignant whine as he surveyed the muddy brown streaks of candy that decorated the front of Dean’s last clean t-shirt. His t-shirt, actually.
They hadn’t had time to go clothes shopping for adolescent Dean, and while Bobby was able to scrounge a pair of jeans a half size too big off of a neighbor’s son for use, this younger version of Dean seemed to gain a certain smug pleasure in raiding Sam’s modest collection of tees to wear.
Sam’s teeth clenched. He’d have to do laundry. Again. Fucking couldn’t wipe his hands off on a towel. Had to use my shirt instead.
“Hey, who am I?” Dean chirped. He squinted, peering through the sites on the gun at the two hunters across the room. “Feel lucky, punk?” he growled.
“Jesus Christ!” Bobby exhaled sharply.
He and Sam instinctually flinched and dropped into protective crouches.
Dean snorted with laughter. He glanced down at the Colt in his hands and back up at his brother and Bobby, a bemused grin on his youthful face.
“It’s not loaded,” he softly explained, as if that little tidbit of information reconciled his having just scared the living crap out of the two hunters in front of him. Dean shook his head. “Jeez, you think I’d be stupid enough to aim a loaded gun at you guys? C’mon!”
Bobby looked like he was ready to strangle Dean. His eyes bugged, mouth working but no sounds came out other than frustrated grunts of dismay. That worried Sam. In all the years he’d known the man, Bobby was anything but easily flummoxed.
Dean, for his part, either didn’t notice or didn’t care that their family friend looked to be having an aneurysm right there in the middle of his living room. He pointed a finger at the gun and shot a questioning glance at his brother.
“Where’dja put the bullets, Sammy? I couldn’t find any in the trunk or your duffle to fit the mag and I wanna do some target practice before lunch,” Dean said, casually.
“Bullets? What?” Sam stuttered, still trying to wrap his head around the situation. He blinked. “Wait. You went through my duffle?” That was something familiar and simple. Sam’s brows sloped into a tired scowl. “Dean, man, how many times do I hafta tell you not to paw through my stuff?”
Dean looked at his brother with something akin to irritation on his freckled face. “Relax, dude. I didn’t take anything of yours. Not that there was anything worth taking,” he added derisively. “I’m just lookin’ for bullets. For this.” He waved the Colt at Sam once more, and Sam flinched and then let out an angry sigh at Dean. And also, truth be told, at himself.
“Dean you’re not supposed to be playing with the weapons,” Sam tiredly scolded. “That’s why they’re in the trunk. Locked up.”
Dean’s brows rose. “Really?” he asked, tone dry.
Sam ignored the implied sarcasm. “They’re not toys…” he tried again.
“No shit,” Dean replied shortly. He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. “Look, I just wanna see how good my aim is, so can you maybe unknot your panties for a while? I’m not planning on calling the neighborhood kids over to play GI Joe or anything.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed at the reference. “No,” he stated flatly.
“No?” Dean echoed. He smirked. “You keeping your panties bunched then, Sammy?”
Sam’s jaw clenched.
“He’s a kid, Sam. You gotta deal with him like one,” Bobby urged once more.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dean asked testily. He turned to glare at Bobby. “I’m not a kid.”
“Yes, you are,” Sam countered.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not!”
Sam threw up his arms, letting out a short chuff of annoyance. His temper began to climb as his fried patience slipped a little further over the thin edge upon which it wavered.
“Yeah, Dean, you ARE.”
“Am not,” Dean argued, crossing his arms.
“Yes, you -”
“Nuh uh. I ain’t wearin’ diapers or drinking from a sippy cup, so stop calling me a little kid. I’m a teenager,” Dean stated proudly.
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head before speaking again. “Dean, you’re like…I don’t know, twelve.”
“And a half,” Dean insisted tightly.
Sam carefully licked his lips. “Whatever, okay? Compared to what you were a few days ago, you’re a kid now.”
“Yeah? Well, so what? I’m old enough to handle a freaking gun,” Dean stated snottily.
He glared from Bobby to Sam, and when no answer was forthcoming from either of them, Dean waved a dismissive hand at them both and turned to leave with a disgusted sigh, the Colt swinging from his hand as if it were a toy rather than a serious weapon.
“I got better things to do than stand around here watching you two trading stares,” Dean shot over his shoulder. “Lemme know when lunch is ready. I’ve gotta go figure out where you hid the stupid bullets for this thing.”
The disdainful eye roll and pursed lips Dean shot at Sam reminded him uncomfortably of himself at that age, or maybe a few years older. It was the exact same contemptuous disrespectful look he’d leveled at his father so many times, all those years ago.
Sam started at the sudden realization of what it felt like to be on the other side of that insolent glare. How his dad must have hated it. A sudden clarity swept over him and he straightened to his full height, his anger evident.
“You know what? That’s it,” he stated icily.
Sam was on top of his brother in two strides, hand shooting out to grab a fistful of the back of Dean’s t-shirt. He whirled the surprised boy around in his tracks.
Sam’s hand quickly shifted from Dean’s shirt over to the boy’s wrist, clamping on tightly. He gave it a warning squeeze when Dean tried to pull away. With his free hand, Sam quickly yanked the weapon out of Dean’s grip, careful to keep it pointed at the floor.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Dean complained.
Sam ignored the protest and carefully laid the gun down on top of some dusty books piled atop a beat up file cabinet next to the doorway and then smiled at Dean, eyes glinting dangerously.
Without a word, Sam dragged Dean over to the nearest chair, Bobby’s sagging leather recliner as it turned out, and took a seat, hand still firmly attached to his brother’s small wrist.
Before Dean could fully comprehend what was happening, Sam easily swept his brother off his feet and over his lap in one smooth motion so that Dean was sprawled, face down, staring at the scuffed hardwood floor of Bobby’s living room, his legs sticking straight out while his ass jutted up in the air.
“Sam? What’re you doing?” Dean squeaked, eyes widening in apprehension.
“What I should have done about two days ago,” Sam answered stiffly. He wrapped an arm around Dean’s squirming form, clamping him in place.
“Dude! Seriously? You’re gonna spank me?” Dean choked in disbelief.
“Oh yeah,” Sam said, smiling nastily, and to prove it, he did just that, smacking Dean’s rear end several times, his large hand easily covering both small butt cheeks at the same time.
However, instead of the cry of anguish Sam half expected, Dean snickered and actually relaxed over Sam’s lap. Sam’s hand stuttered to a hesitant stop. Wasn’t this supposed to be painful or embarrassing or something? Was he doing it wrong? How the hell could he be doing it wrong?
Frowning, Sam shot a puzzled look over to Bobby for an explanation. Bobby seemed surprised that Sam was looking to him for advice on this subject. He chuffed and shrugged, giving Sam his best ‘how the hell should I know?’ face.
Slightly miffed, Sam’s gaze flicked back down to Dean, confusion swimming in his eyes.
“We done here?” Dean’s muffled voice broke the uncomfortable stillness. “”Cause I think I’m getting a neck cramp. Oh and uh thanks, Dad,” he snidely added. “I’m sure I’ve learned my lesson now.”
Sam didn’t need to see Dean’s face to know the words were followed by an insolent eye roll.
It was like waving a red cloth in front of an incensed bull. Sam’s features instantly hardened, eyes narrowing as his temper reached its boiling point. He reacted without thinking and reached down to grab the waistband of Dean’s jeans, yanking the baggy denim pants down his brother’s thighs without bothering to unzip or unbutton them.
Dean’s outrage was instantaneous. “WHAT THE FUCK!” he hollered, clearly embarrassed by the sudden de-pantsing.
Dean was going commando. His adult-sized boxer briefs were currently too big to wear. Dean’s pale ass clenched in scared anticipation over Sam’s lap and Sam chuckled softly to himself. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Dean yelped in pain at the first hard swat delivered to his bare butt. He gaped over a shoulder, in stunned surprise, at his brother.
“That hurt!” he gasped.
“Really?” Sam shot back, his tone mocking.
“Not funny, Sammy,” Dean admonished.
“Nope,” Sam agreed. “It’s not meant to be.”
Sam brought his hand down solidly several more times across Dean’s rear end, satisfaction blooming when Dean yelped again, louder this time, and gave a little kick.
“It’s meant to teach you a lesson, Dean,” Sam stated as he spanked his brother.
“Sam!” Dean whined. “Quit it!”
Sam’s hand continued to rise and fall in a steady cadence across Dean’s heated backside. His hand was beginning to sting, and he could only imagine how much worse Dean’s rear end must be feeling from the blows.
Dean felt like his ass was on fire, and the pain was getting to be more than he could conceal from Sam. Pride at stake, Dean struggled to push himself off his brother’s lap, his head popping up to throw a pleading look over to Bobby.
“Bobby, c’mon, help me!”
Bobby did no such thing. Instead, the older man gave an amused snort, pushing his trucker’s cap back on his head with the tips of his oil-stained fingers, his grin wide and honest. “Looks to me like you’re getting exactly what you deserve, boy.”
Dean tried to offer up a scathing retort, but all that came out was an indignant squeak as his vocal chords decided to pick that moment to go haywire. It brought an unexpected chuckle bubbling up from Bobby’s chest that sent a mortified blush flaming across Dean’s neck and face to match the blush Sam had already brought to his backside.
Damn puberty! Dean thought angrily.
“My advice to you, Dean, is to pray your brother shows some mercy, though I sure as hell wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t after the crap you’ve pulled the last few days,” Bobby observed with a wry smile on his careworn face. The smile vanished as he fixed the teen with a sober look. “But, if it was me doing the rump roastin?” He snorted, giving a sad shake of his head. “Hell, son, you wouldn’t be sitting easy for a month of Sundays.”
With that, Bobby ambled out of the room, his amused chortles ringing in Dean’s ears, adding insult to injury.
“Why are you getting this spanking, Dean?” Sam sternly inquired, taking a page from his Dad’s book of discipline tactics.
Dean stiffened underneath him, not so much at the familiar question as to who was asking it this time.
“Are you – OW - freaking kidding me?” Dean spat.
Sam decided to increase the tempo of the spanking, something their dad would have done as well had he received the same irreverent reply from Dean.
The swats covering his brother’s bared backside became a little harder, the loud cracks and subsequent squawks of dismay from Dean proving to be quite rewarding to Sam. It hadn’t been nearly as hard or as traumatic as he thought it would be to paddle his older brother’s ass. In fact, it felt pretty good after the bullshit Dean had put him through lately. Dean grunted and hissed, his hands like a vice grip around Sam’s left calf as much to steady himself as to keep from throwing said hands behind him in a desperate attempt to block Sam’s punishing hand. Only little bitches showed fear. And he was no little bitch, dammit.
“Answer the question,” Sam demanded, pitching his voice as close as he could to the low growl their father used to employ when he wanted immediate compliance from his sons. It worked.
“OW! Okay!” Dean automatically squealed as he bucked miserably over his brother’s lap. “I took the car – OW - keys from you –“
“Without permission,” Sam added.
“Without permission,” Dean repeated gloomily amidst the grunts of pain, “And I – OW – I was playing with the guns – Jeez, OW! – when I wasn’t s’posed to, okay?”
“And?” Sam challenged.
Dean let out a small whine. “C’mon, Sam! I’m sorry!”
“I bet you’re sorry,” Sam responded tartly, again using one of their dad’s favorite comebacks during a spanking. “You want this over with? Then, you better start answering me, Dean.”
Dean groaned. “Aw, man…I gave you and – OW – Bobby lip…“
“More so than usual,” Sam commented.
“Yeah,” Dean grudgingly admitted. “And, I haven’t been – OW - listening to you and – OW, Sam! - I’ve been a jerk – OW – all right?” Dean finished, his voice rising thinly.
“Thank you,” Sam replied quietly. He stopped the spanking and rested his sore hand on the small of Dean’s back.
Dean squirmed, anxious to be out of the vulnerable and completely humiliating position he was currently in. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to the raw feeling his jeans would create on his tender behind when he finally got to pull them back up, but it sure beat having his naked glowing ass on display over his brother’s knee.
“Hold up,” Sam said, stilling Dean’s movements. His lips curved up in a tiny smirk as Dean let loose a deep sigh that ended with a frustrated whine. “Am I going to have any more problems with you, Dean?” Sam asked.
“No,” Dean muttered.
“We clear on the rules, then?”
Dean made a face. “Rules?”
“No more mouthing off to me and Bobby, no more snaking the weapons to play with, and you do what we tell you,” Sam stated. “Got it?”
There was a long pause. Sam moved his hand down to brush lightly over Dean’s heated rear end. Dean gasped and flinched.
“Dean? We clear?”
“Yes,” Dean hastily replied. He swallowed. “Can I get up now?”
Sam let him up and Dean bent down immediately to grab for his pants. He turned away from Sam, quickly dragging them up over his aching red backside with a rueful grumble. He sniffed loudly, surprised and somewhat alarmed to find himself on the verge of tears.
“Hey? Hey, Dean? You okay?”
Sam’s gentle voice, full of concern, only served to encourage the floodgates to open and Dean’s tears spilled unchecked down his freckled cheeks.
“Aw, dammit,” Dean softly swore. This is getting ridiculous, he concluded in irritation. He’d never been this big a pussy when he’d been younger the first time. He stood, back to Sam, and furiously swiped at his wet face.
“C’mere, man,” Sam insisted. He snagged the collar of Dean’s dirty t-shirt and pulled the boy backwards into his arms, twisting Dean around and encircling him in a gentle bear hug.
Dean let himself be comforted, both hating it and yet, feeling strangely in need of it. His hands fisted into the back of Sam’s flannel shirt as he held on tightly and tried to calm the wave of strange emotions crashing over him.
“M’scared, Sam,” Dean mumbled into Sam’s neck.
“Me too,” Sam said. “But we’ll get through this, Dean. I promise. Bobby’ll figure something out. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Yeah, ‘kay, sure,” Dean replied, his voice hitching a little.
He took a deep breath, stood up straight and pushed himself away from Sam’s shirtfront.
“I just, uh…well, you know…” Dean stared at the floor a moment before raising his eyes to meet Sam’s. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, squirming.
Sam nodded, smiling. “I’m sorry too, Dean.”
“What? For hitting me?” Dean asked.
“No,” Sam said, giving Dean’s right shoulder a teasing shove. “For not putting my foot up your ass when you first started fooling around with that stupid doll.”
“Action figure,” Dean corrected.
“It’s a doll, Dean. Just accept it.”
“Whatever,” Dean said, waving a dismissive hand at his brother. He was quiet for a moment, and then peered up at Sam, brows raised. “So, you’re not sorry for hitting me?”
“Um, no,” Sam said, shaking his head. His eyes danced with uncompromised glee. “That actually felt pretty good, to be honest,” he said, laughing.
Dean matched his brother’s grin. “Well then, I guess I don’t feel so bad about your pants,” he smugly stated as he pointed down at his brother’s legs.
Sam glanced down at his jeans.
“Oh, real nice,” he growled, lips pursing as he surveyed the damage. The legs of his jeans were streaked with muddy chocolate fingerprints where Dean’s unwashed candy-coated hands had grabbed his legs during the spanking.
Sam shot Dean a withering glare. “You’re doing laundry after dinner, pal.”
The cocky smile slid off Dean’s face. He opened his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off with a warning look.
“You need another reminder about what we just talked about?” Sam asked, leaning forward, his eyes darkening.
Dean’s brows nearly shot off his forehead. Seriously? Who was this guy and what had he done with Sammy? Realizing the battle was lost, Dean gave a sullen shake of his head to indicate reluctant compliance.
“Bitch…” he grumbled under his breath, his pride not fully ready to concede a total defeat.
The corners of Sam’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Jerrrrk,” he drawled affectionately. He stood up, motioning for Dean to follow him. “C’mon, let’s get an icepack for that ass of yours. I think I saw a bag of frozen peas in Bobby’s freezer yesterday.”
“Peas?” Dean sputtered, his face scrunching up in displeasure. “You know I hate peas, Sam!”
“Dude! They’re for your butt, not your mouth -”
Dean trailed into the kitchen after Sam, gingerly reaching back to rub his sore bottom. “No peas, Sam. I don’t do peas. Aren’t there any…I don’t know, Klondike Bars or something? Or hey! Like frozen hash browns, maybe? ‘Cause, yeah, you know, hash browns would…”
THE END
Bobby Singer’s home
Sam reached up to rake a hand through his hair, agitatedly combing his long bangs back from his eyes and uncovering the deep worry lines that now seemed almost permanently etched across his forehead. He let out a heavy sigh full of pent up annoyance.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had been unable to hold in his frustration since arriving at Bobby’s home two days earlier and sadly, he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last either. In fact, Bobby had already commented to Sam that he had been doing the eye roll thing so much lately that Bobby wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Sam’s eyes suddenly went spinning off on their own accord like a couple of out of control roulette marbles.
Under better circumstances, Sam might have chuckled at the derisive observation, but his sense of humor had taken a sabbatical when the last hunt had gone wrong – horribly, unbelievably wrong.
Sam and Dean had liberated a hexed GI Joe action figure from its owner, a perverse collector of occult objects, without too much trouble. Unfortunately, Dean hadn’t been able to keep his immature hands off the toy, even though he knew perfectly well that it was cursed, and therefore extremely dangerous. Sam didn’t give a shit if the stupid thing had a ‘kung-fu grip’ and came with ‘super awesome’ accessories like a jungle war machete and a bolt-action sniper rifle, as Dean had so excitedly informed him. It was cursed. Moreover, it had turned Dean into a little kid. Literally.
No, not a kid really, Sam corrected himself, because a small innocent child he could have handled, no problem. No, the curse had turned his older brother into a pint-sized smart mouth with authority issues and enough teenage angst to drown the entire cast of Dawson’s Creek in pure undiluted emo.
Sam couldn’t remember Dean being quite so moody when they were younger, but he’d only been nine or ten himself when Dean was in his early teens. Maybe their father had been able to keep the drama to a bare minimum. God knew the man hadn’t ever been one to put up with outbursts and misbehavior. Both he and Dean had sported sore backsides on more than one occasion when they’d acted up.
Or maybe Sam’s memories were somewhat colored by his hero worship of Dean at that age. In nine-year-old Sam Winchester’s eyes, Dean had been the ultimate, coolest big brother ever. Sam snorted, shaking his head. Funny how some things had changed, but not others.
His brother still loved his music loud and his food as greasy as possible, for instance, but comic books and online games had replaced Dean’s normal hobby of surfing online porn – if one could actually call porn a hobby, much less normal, Sam reflected with a twinge of disgust.
In addition, Dean’s healthy sense of ego had survived the hex unscathed. Both adolescent Dean and adult Dean apparently thought they were pretty awesome. In fact, Dean’s usual glib sarcasm, which Sam had spent that past twenty-five years of his life tolerating, had now degenerated into a non‑stop series of mouthy retorts directed at anyone over the age of sixteen, Sam included.
And, of course, that was when this younger version of Dean was in a good mood. If he was feeling particularly temperamental? Well, then, all bets were off. Dean would scrunch up in the passenger seat of the car like a stone gargoyle, silent, with a black scowl on his face, eyes glaring out at the passing scenery and the earbuds of his MP3 player firmly stuffed into his ears, ignoring any of Sam’s efforts to make polite conversation.
Sam loved his brother. He really did. But, there was only so much he could take, and Sam was pretty sure that if he had to suffer one more overly dramatic sigh of contempt or flippant bit of criticism from his new “little” brother, he’d be leaving Dean on the side of the road to fend for himself, blood or no blood.
On the positive side, Dean seemed to have retained a basic knowledge of hunting. He knew certain spells, understood why they salted the doors and windows of the motel rooms they stayed in, and still displayed his almost scary passion for weaponry, but that’s as far as it went. Dean’s usual sense of duty and commitment to the job were nonexistent. He was a young hunter with no direction and no interest in doing anything other than having fun finding ways to drive Sam up a wall.
In the past few days, Sam had lost the better part of his patience and all of his sanity arguing, cajoling and pleading with his brother to behave and keep on track until he was blue in the face.
However, teen Dean proved to be quite incorrigible. Sam had gone so far as to threaten Dean with an ass beating, even though he doubted he’d ever be able to go through with it. The idea of upending “little” Dean over his knee for some disciplinary justice made Sam’s insides squirm in the worst way.
Dean had never had a problem doling out a spanking to Sam when they were younger and he felt his little brother needed it. But then again, Dean had never had a problem being the one in charge, making all the decisions and maintaining control.
Sam wasn’t used to that role. The image of Dean as the authority figure in their little dynamic was still firmly planted in his head, despite the fact that Dean was now several feet shorter in stature and less inclined to take the lead on anything, unless it involved which pizza toppings to pick or what television show to watch.
Besides, the last time Sam had tried using the threat of a possible spanking, Dean had merely laughed at Sam in that irritating devil-may-care way his brother had perfected over the years and then he had gone off to do whatever the hell he felt like doing, consequences be damned.
The list of Dean’s recent exploits included, but was by no means limited to: shoplifting junk food every single time they stopped to fill up the Impala, and then eating so much of it at once that he puked, not once, but twice all over Sam’s shoes; getting into a fistfight in a Waukesha McDonalds with some random acne-faced punk who’d had the audacity to suggest Batman was a pussy in tights, and of course, breaking into the Impala’s trunk to play around with the weapons every damn time Sam had his back turned or was otherwise occupied. Sam was quickly beginning to see why their father had kept such a tight rein on the two of them growing up.
The final straw came when they’d had to hightail it out of a Nebraska mini-mart, the Impala’s tires leaving smoking skid marks across the dirty asphalt, after Dean had accidentally shot out the glass portion of the store’s front entrance. He’d managed to get into the locked glove box where the 9mm Glock was kept for emergencies.
While Sam had been inside the store buying them Slurpees, Dean had been goofing around and the gun had discharged. His brother must’ve forgotten the gun had a hair trigger, Sam deduced. Pretty ironic really, considering Dean had bought the damn thing for that very reason. One minute Sam was subtly flirting with the cute brunette cashier across the counter as he paid for his drinks, and the next, he was ducking and running, a look of apologetic horror on his face, as chunks of glass sprayed across him and the cashier.
After that, Sam had made an abrupt decision to head for Bobby’s place. He had hoped that the more experienced hunter would have a clue on how to break the curse. Well, that and Sam figured that two adults would have a better time of keeping an eye on Dean while his brother was busy reliving his wonder years.
Yeah, right, Sam thought bitterly, how exactly do you keep an eye on a kid who can pick locks and lie through his teeth like its second nature?
“Well, I know what your daddy’d do if he was here…” Bobby carefully stated, letting his steady gaze rest on Sam.
Sam’s face scrunched up in consternation, mouth twitching in agitation. “Bobby…” he sighed heavily. “I mean, we’re talking about Dean. You know? My older brother, Dean?”
Bobby shrugged, the move understated yet full of implication. “Yeah, he’s your brother all right, but he’s also a twelve-year-old terror at the moment, Sam, and he’s not listening to either one of us.”
Sam let out a sharp chuff, shaking his head as he gave the older hunter a look full of uneasy censure.
“This is the guy who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to dump itching powder into my shorts or drop my toothbrush in the toilet when he’s pissed at me for getting ketchup on his car seat. What d’you think he’ll do to me if I …” Sam stumbled over the next words, his mouth contorting, lips pursing as if the utterance had as unsavory a taste as meaning to him. “…if I spank him?” he hissed.
“You’re the one that’s stuck with him like this if we can’t break the hex,” Bobby asserted. He shook his head, eyes darkening. “I’m too damn old to be raisin’ that mouthy little hellion, and I sure as hell ain’t looking to get in the way of that fist of his again,” he added sourly.
Sam winced. Dean had mouthed off to Bobby within hours of their arrival.
He had refused to help clear the supper dishes on the principal that he was just a kid, whereas Bobby was a very capable, if not bossy, adult. Dean had gone on to smugly explain that it was Bobby’s house anyway, so why shouldn’t he do the clean up work while Dean – the houseguest – be left to catch the last half of The Simpsons on TV.
This had led to a war of words that had escalated into a physical altercation when Bobby had ‘helped’ Dean out of his seat at the kitchen table and propelled him towards the sink with a sharp pop to his backside.
Dean, ever the hot head, had retaliated without thinking, his little fist a blur, as he’d pivoted and driven it into Bobby’s conveniently located groin. Bobby had hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, loudly cussing the Winchester name back to the beginning of time.
Sam took it upon himself, at that point, to quickly hustle Dean upstairs for a scorching verbal reprimand, praying the entire time that Bobby wouldn’t be waiting for him, with his shotgun primed, when he came back downstairs.
Bobby let a sly grin play over his lips. “You tellin’ me you aren’t the least bit interested in exacting some good old-fashioned revenge for all the times your brother leathered your backside growing up?”
“No! Well, yes…but, no!” Sam whined in exasperation. “I can’t.”
“He’s getting to be a big problem,” Bobby observed sternly.
Sam winced inwardly at the accusation. He knew that Dean was a bit out of hand, sure, but it was hard not to feel for the guy, hell, even sympathize a little, considering the circumstances.
His brother had always been the reliable one. Dean was the one their father looked to as his trusted right hand, his corporal in charge when he was away on a hunt. It hadn’t been easy, but Dean had steadfastly shouldered the responsibility thrust on him with as much grace as was possible for someone his age, keeping his complaints to the utmost minimum. Following orders and pleasing Dad had been Dean’s primary goals growing up.
His brother had lost any chance for a childhood or any kind of life for himself, the day their dad had placed baby Sam in four-year-old Dean’s arms and told him to watch out for his little brother. Was it so hard to understand then, why Dean was acting out so much now that he was free of his usual burdens?
Sam shuffled awkwardly. “It’s not that big of a problem,” he quietly insisted to Bobby.
“No?” Bobby questioned. He pointedly looked past Sam’s shoulder, head cocked, and then flicked his sharp gaze back to the younger man, brows raised skeptically.
Frowning, Sam swiveled around in curiosity, eyes widening.
“Sonuvabitch,” he groaned under his breath.
Fury slowly mixed with his astonishment. “Little” Dean Winchester stood in the doorway to the room, wide crooked grin splitting his freckled face, the chrome plated Colt 1911 semi-automatic he usually favored on hunts, now clutched in his under-sized hands.
Hands, Sam belatedly realized that were coated with smears of chocolate, no doubt from the Whoppers candy Dean had been told not to touch until after lunch. Sam’s frown deepened. The chocolate had melted and was dirtying the once pristine ivory grips of the pistol – the pistol Sam had spent the past half hour carefully cleaning before stowing it away in the Impala’s trunk to wait for Dean to ‘grow’ back into again.
Sam absently patted the front pockets of his jeans; lips thinning in anger when he realized the Impala’s keys were no longer where he’d last put them. Great, he’s picking my pockets now, Sam thought in growing irritation.
He shot Dean a nasty scowl, which quickly melted into a pained grimace, followed by an indignant whine as he surveyed the muddy brown streaks of candy that decorated the front of Dean’s last clean t-shirt. His t-shirt, actually.
They hadn’t had time to go clothes shopping for adolescent Dean, and while Bobby was able to scrounge a pair of jeans a half size too big off of a neighbor’s son for use, this younger version of Dean seemed to gain a certain smug pleasure in raiding Sam’s modest collection of tees to wear.
Sam’s teeth clenched. He’d have to do laundry. Again. Fucking couldn’t wipe his hands off on a towel. Had to use my shirt instead.
“Hey, who am I?” Dean chirped. He squinted, peering through the sites on the gun at the two hunters across the room. “Feel lucky, punk?” he growled.
“Jesus Christ!” Bobby exhaled sharply.
He and Sam instinctually flinched and dropped into protective crouches.
Dean snorted with laughter. He glanced down at the Colt in his hands and back up at his brother and Bobby, a bemused grin on his youthful face.
“It’s not loaded,” he softly explained, as if that little tidbit of information reconciled his having just scared the living crap out of the two hunters in front of him. Dean shook his head. “Jeez, you think I’d be stupid enough to aim a loaded gun at you guys? C’mon!”
Bobby looked like he was ready to strangle Dean. His eyes bugged, mouth working but no sounds came out other than frustrated grunts of dismay. That worried Sam. In all the years he’d known the man, Bobby was anything but easily flummoxed.
Dean, for his part, either didn’t notice or didn’t care that their family friend looked to be having an aneurysm right there in the middle of his living room. He pointed a finger at the gun and shot a questioning glance at his brother.
“Where’dja put the bullets, Sammy? I couldn’t find any in the trunk or your duffle to fit the mag and I wanna do some target practice before lunch,” Dean said, casually.
“Bullets? What?” Sam stuttered, still trying to wrap his head around the situation. He blinked. “Wait. You went through my duffle?” That was something familiar and simple. Sam’s brows sloped into a tired scowl. “Dean, man, how many times do I hafta tell you not to paw through my stuff?”
Dean looked at his brother with something akin to irritation on his freckled face. “Relax, dude. I didn’t take anything of yours. Not that there was anything worth taking,” he added derisively. “I’m just lookin’ for bullets. For this.” He waved the Colt at Sam once more, and Sam flinched and then let out an angry sigh at Dean. And also, truth be told, at himself.
“Dean you’re not supposed to be playing with the weapons,” Sam tiredly scolded. “That’s why they’re in the trunk. Locked up.”
Dean’s brows rose. “Really?” he asked, tone dry.
Sam ignored the implied sarcasm. “They’re not toys…” he tried again.
“No shit,” Dean replied shortly. He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. “Look, I just wanna see how good my aim is, so can you maybe unknot your panties for a while? I’m not planning on calling the neighborhood kids over to play GI Joe or anything.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed at the reference. “No,” he stated flatly.
“No?” Dean echoed. He smirked. “You keeping your panties bunched then, Sammy?”
Sam’s jaw clenched.
“He’s a kid, Sam. You gotta deal with him like one,” Bobby urged once more.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dean asked testily. He turned to glare at Bobby. “I’m not a kid.”
“Yes, you are,” Sam countered.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not!”
Sam threw up his arms, letting out a short chuff of annoyance. His temper began to climb as his fried patience slipped a little further over the thin edge upon which it wavered.
“Yeah, Dean, you ARE.”
“Am not,” Dean argued, crossing his arms.
“Yes, you -”
“Nuh uh. I ain’t wearin’ diapers or drinking from a sippy cup, so stop calling me a little kid. I’m a teenager,” Dean stated proudly.
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head before speaking again. “Dean, you’re like…I don’t know, twelve.”
“And a half,” Dean insisted tightly.
Sam carefully licked his lips. “Whatever, okay? Compared to what you were a few days ago, you’re a kid now.”
“Yeah? Well, so what? I’m old enough to handle a freaking gun,” Dean stated snottily.
He glared from Bobby to Sam, and when no answer was forthcoming from either of them, Dean waved a dismissive hand at them both and turned to leave with a disgusted sigh, the Colt swinging from his hand as if it were a toy rather than a serious weapon.
“I got better things to do than stand around here watching you two trading stares,” Dean shot over his shoulder. “Lemme know when lunch is ready. I’ve gotta go figure out where you hid the stupid bullets for this thing.”
The disdainful eye roll and pursed lips Dean shot at Sam reminded him uncomfortably of himself at that age, or maybe a few years older. It was the exact same contemptuous disrespectful look he’d leveled at his father so many times, all those years ago.
Sam started at the sudden realization of what it felt like to be on the other side of that insolent glare. How his dad must have hated it. A sudden clarity swept over him and he straightened to his full height, his anger evident.
“You know what? That’s it,” he stated icily.
Sam was on top of his brother in two strides, hand shooting out to grab a fistful of the back of Dean’s t-shirt. He whirled the surprised boy around in his tracks.
Sam’s hand quickly shifted from Dean’s shirt over to the boy’s wrist, clamping on tightly. He gave it a warning squeeze when Dean tried to pull away. With his free hand, Sam quickly yanked the weapon out of Dean’s grip, careful to keep it pointed at the floor.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Dean complained.
Sam ignored the protest and carefully laid the gun down on top of some dusty books piled atop a beat up file cabinet next to the doorway and then smiled at Dean, eyes glinting dangerously.
Without a word, Sam dragged Dean over to the nearest chair, Bobby’s sagging leather recliner as it turned out, and took a seat, hand still firmly attached to his brother’s small wrist.
Before Dean could fully comprehend what was happening, Sam easily swept his brother off his feet and over his lap in one smooth motion so that Dean was sprawled, face down, staring at the scuffed hardwood floor of Bobby’s living room, his legs sticking straight out while his ass jutted up in the air.
“Sam? What’re you doing?” Dean squeaked, eyes widening in apprehension.
“What I should have done about two days ago,” Sam answered stiffly. He wrapped an arm around Dean’s squirming form, clamping him in place.
“Dude! Seriously? You’re gonna spank me?” Dean choked in disbelief.
“Oh yeah,” Sam said, smiling nastily, and to prove it, he did just that, smacking Dean’s rear end several times, his large hand easily covering both small butt cheeks at the same time.
However, instead of the cry of anguish Sam half expected, Dean snickered and actually relaxed over Sam’s lap. Sam’s hand stuttered to a hesitant stop. Wasn’t this supposed to be painful or embarrassing or something? Was he doing it wrong? How the hell could he be doing it wrong?
Frowning, Sam shot a puzzled look over to Bobby for an explanation. Bobby seemed surprised that Sam was looking to him for advice on this subject. He chuffed and shrugged, giving Sam his best ‘how the hell should I know?’ face.
Slightly miffed, Sam’s gaze flicked back down to Dean, confusion swimming in his eyes.
“We done here?” Dean’s muffled voice broke the uncomfortable stillness. “”Cause I think I’m getting a neck cramp. Oh and uh thanks, Dad,” he snidely added. “I’m sure I’ve learned my lesson now.”
Sam didn’t need to see Dean’s face to know the words were followed by an insolent eye roll.
It was like waving a red cloth in front of an incensed bull. Sam’s features instantly hardened, eyes narrowing as his temper reached its boiling point. He reacted without thinking and reached down to grab the waistband of Dean’s jeans, yanking the baggy denim pants down his brother’s thighs without bothering to unzip or unbutton them.
Dean’s outrage was instantaneous. “WHAT THE FUCK!” he hollered, clearly embarrassed by the sudden de-pantsing.
Dean was going commando. His adult-sized boxer briefs were currently too big to wear. Dean’s pale ass clenched in scared anticipation over Sam’s lap and Sam chuckled softly to himself. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Dean yelped in pain at the first hard swat delivered to his bare butt. He gaped over a shoulder, in stunned surprise, at his brother.
“That hurt!” he gasped.
“Really?” Sam shot back, his tone mocking.
“Not funny, Sammy,” Dean admonished.
“Nope,” Sam agreed. “It’s not meant to be.”
Sam brought his hand down solidly several more times across Dean’s rear end, satisfaction blooming when Dean yelped again, louder this time, and gave a little kick.
“It’s meant to teach you a lesson, Dean,” Sam stated as he spanked his brother.
“Sam!” Dean whined. “Quit it!”
Sam’s hand continued to rise and fall in a steady cadence across Dean’s heated backside. His hand was beginning to sting, and he could only imagine how much worse Dean’s rear end must be feeling from the blows.
Dean felt like his ass was on fire, and the pain was getting to be more than he could conceal from Sam. Pride at stake, Dean struggled to push himself off his brother’s lap, his head popping up to throw a pleading look over to Bobby.
“Bobby, c’mon, help me!”
Bobby did no such thing. Instead, the older man gave an amused snort, pushing his trucker’s cap back on his head with the tips of his oil-stained fingers, his grin wide and honest. “Looks to me like you’re getting exactly what you deserve, boy.”
Dean tried to offer up a scathing retort, but all that came out was an indignant squeak as his vocal chords decided to pick that moment to go haywire. It brought an unexpected chuckle bubbling up from Bobby’s chest that sent a mortified blush flaming across Dean’s neck and face to match the blush Sam had already brought to his backside.
Damn puberty! Dean thought angrily.
“My advice to you, Dean, is to pray your brother shows some mercy, though I sure as hell wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t after the crap you’ve pulled the last few days,” Bobby observed with a wry smile on his careworn face. The smile vanished as he fixed the teen with a sober look. “But, if it was me doing the rump roastin?” He snorted, giving a sad shake of his head. “Hell, son, you wouldn’t be sitting easy for a month of Sundays.”
With that, Bobby ambled out of the room, his amused chortles ringing in Dean’s ears, adding insult to injury.
“Why are you getting this spanking, Dean?” Sam sternly inquired, taking a page from his Dad’s book of discipline tactics.
Dean stiffened underneath him, not so much at the familiar question as to who was asking it this time.
“Are you – OW - freaking kidding me?” Dean spat.
Sam decided to increase the tempo of the spanking, something their dad would have done as well had he received the same irreverent reply from Dean.
The swats covering his brother’s bared backside became a little harder, the loud cracks and subsequent squawks of dismay from Dean proving to be quite rewarding to Sam. It hadn’t been nearly as hard or as traumatic as he thought it would be to paddle his older brother’s ass. In fact, it felt pretty good after the bullshit Dean had put him through lately. Dean grunted and hissed, his hands like a vice grip around Sam’s left calf as much to steady himself as to keep from throwing said hands behind him in a desperate attempt to block Sam’s punishing hand. Only little bitches showed fear. And he was no little bitch, dammit.
“Answer the question,” Sam demanded, pitching his voice as close as he could to the low growl their father used to employ when he wanted immediate compliance from his sons. It worked.
“OW! Okay!” Dean automatically squealed as he bucked miserably over his brother’s lap. “I took the car – OW - keys from you –“
“Without permission,” Sam added.
“Without permission,” Dean repeated gloomily amidst the grunts of pain, “And I – OW – I was playing with the guns – Jeez, OW! – when I wasn’t s’posed to, okay?”
“And?” Sam challenged.
Dean let out a small whine. “C’mon, Sam! I’m sorry!”
“I bet you’re sorry,” Sam responded tartly, again using one of their dad’s favorite comebacks during a spanking. “You want this over with? Then, you better start answering me, Dean.”
Dean groaned. “Aw, man…I gave you and – OW – Bobby lip…“
“More so than usual,” Sam commented.
“Yeah,” Dean grudgingly admitted. “And, I haven’t been – OW - listening to you and – OW, Sam! - I’ve been a jerk – OW – all right?” Dean finished, his voice rising thinly.
“Thank you,” Sam replied quietly. He stopped the spanking and rested his sore hand on the small of Dean’s back.
Dean squirmed, anxious to be out of the vulnerable and completely humiliating position he was currently in. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to the raw feeling his jeans would create on his tender behind when he finally got to pull them back up, but it sure beat having his naked glowing ass on display over his brother’s knee.
“Hold up,” Sam said, stilling Dean’s movements. His lips curved up in a tiny smirk as Dean let loose a deep sigh that ended with a frustrated whine. “Am I going to have any more problems with you, Dean?” Sam asked.
“No,” Dean muttered.
“We clear on the rules, then?”
Dean made a face. “Rules?”
“No more mouthing off to me and Bobby, no more snaking the weapons to play with, and you do what we tell you,” Sam stated. “Got it?”
There was a long pause. Sam moved his hand down to brush lightly over Dean’s heated rear end. Dean gasped and flinched.
“Dean? We clear?”
“Yes,” Dean hastily replied. He swallowed. “Can I get up now?”
Sam let him up and Dean bent down immediately to grab for his pants. He turned away from Sam, quickly dragging them up over his aching red backside with a rueful grumble. He sniffed loudly, surprised and somewhat alarmed to find himself on the verge of tears.
“Hey? Hey, Dean? You okay?”
Sam’s gentle voice, full of concern, only served to encourage the floodgates to open and Dean’s tears spilled unchecked down his freckled cheeks.
“Aw, dammit,” Dean softly swore. This is getting ridiculous, he concluded in irritation. He’d never been this big a pussy when he’d been younger the first time. He stood, back to Sam, and furiously swiped at his wet face.
“C’mere, man,” Sam insisted. He snagged the collar of Dean’s dirty t-shirt and pulled the boy backwards into his arms, twisting Dean around and encircling him in a gentle bear hug.
Dean let himself be comforted, both hating it and yet, feeling strangely in need of it. His hands fisted into the back of Sam’s flannel shirt as he held on tightly and tried to calm the wave of strange emotions crashing over him.
“M’scared, Sam,” Dean mumbled into Sam’s neck.
“Me too,” Sam said. “But we’ll get through this, Dean. I promise. Bobby’ll figure something out. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Yeah, ‘kay, sure,” Dean replied, his voice hitching a little.
He took a deep breath, stood up straight and pushed himself away from Sam’s shirtfront.
“I just, uh…well, you know…” Dean stared at the floor a moment before raising his eyes to meet Sam’s. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, squirming.
Sam nodded, smiling. “I’m sorry too, Dean.”
“What? For hitting me?” Dean asked.
“No,” Sam said, giving Dean’s right shoulder a teasing shove. “For not putting my foot up your ass when you first started fooling around with that stupid doll.”
“Action figure,” Dean corrected.
“It’s a doll, Dean. Just accept it.”
“Whatever,” Dean said, waving a dismissive hand at his brother. He was quiet for a moment, and then peered up at Sam, brows raised. “So, you’re not sorry for hitting me?”
“Um, no,” Sam said, shaking his head. His eyes danced with uncompromised glee. “That actually felt pretty good, to be honest,” he said, laughing.
Dean matched his brother’s grin. “Well then, I guess I don’t feel so bad about your pants,” he smugly stated as he pointed down at his brother’s legs.
Sam glanced down at his jeans.
“Oh, real nice,” he growled, lips pursing as he surveyed the damage. The legs of his jeans were streaked with muddy chocolate fingerprints where Dean’s unwashed candy-coated hands had grabbed his legs during the spanking.
Sam shot Dean a withering glare. “You’re doing laundry after dinner, pal.”
The cocky smile slid off Dean’s face. He opened his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off with a warning look.
“You need another reminder about what we just talked about?” Sam asked, leaning forward, his eyes darkening.
Dean’s brows nearly shot off his forehead. Seriously? Who was this guy and what had he done with Sammy? Realizing the battle was lost, Dean gave a sullen shake of his head to indicate reluctant compliance.
“Bitch…” he grumbled under his breath, his pride not fully ready to concede a total defeat.
The corners of Sam’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Jerrrrk,” he drawled affectionately. He stood up, motioning for Dean to follow him. “C’mon, let’s get an icepack for that ass of yours. I think I saw a bag of frozen peas in Bobby’s freezer yesterday.”
“Peas?” Dean sputtered, his face scrunching up in displeasure. “You know I hate peas, Sam!”
“Dude! They’re for your butt, not your mouth -”
Dean trailed into the kitchen after Sam, gingerly reaching back to rub his sore bottom. “No peas, Sam. I don’t do peas. Aren’t there any…I don’t know, Klondike Bars or something? Or hey! Like frozen hash browns, maybe? ‘Cause, yeah, you know, hash browns would…”
THE END