It Never Hurts to Practice
by Minx
The pain started out as a dull knot that gradually increased, flaring into a brilliant crystal-sharp point of agony that nearly took Dean’s breath away, before ebbing back into a subtle and more manageable ache once again. The cycle seemed to follow the beat of his heart. Throbbing ache on the downbeat, followed by searing pain on the upbeat. Over and over. It made him want to puke. Good thing he was sitting on top of the toilet seat, he thought hazily. Just in case.
"Another half an inch deeper and it would’ve left a permanent scar," Sam observed quietly as he spread antibacterial ointment over his brother’s freshly stitched up shoulder. His face was pale and solemn in the washed out glow of the bathroom lights.
Dean snorted, despite the pain. "Yeah, Sam, that was my big concern back there. Dear God, please! Don’t let my pretty, unblemished skin be scarred for life!"
He rolled his eyes at his brother, chuckling softly to himself. Sam finished taping down the bandage and moved back.
"Well, that should hold it. You want something for the pain or anything? Does it hurt bad?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah. I’m good." He rotated the injured shoulder, testing it, and winced when the stitches pulled tight. "Crap, this is gonna mess up my aim when I shoot."
He bestowed Sam with a tired scowl as he tossed his bloody, ruined t-shirt into the nearby wastebasket under the counter near the sink. "What the hell happened to you back there, Sam? Since when do you screw up like that?"
Sam frowned, studiously avoiding Dean’s eyes. He sighed heavily, the sound weighted with guilt and remorse.
While their father was out scouting for their next job, he and Dean had been running some practice maneuvers with knives in the small field behind the motel. Sam had been an unwilling participant from the get go. He hated the almost daily training sessions their father required of them, preferring instead, to bury his nose in a book or use the time to catch up on sleep. At fifteen, Sam rated sleep right up there with hot chicks in short skirts and being allowed to drive the Impala. But, John had insisted, even going so far as to threaten Sam with extra training and a few licks of his belt if Sam continued complaining.
Pissed at being bullied into something he didn’t want to do, Sam had taken a rather lackadaisical approach to whole the training session. He’d let his mind wander at the wrong moment, and as a result, he hadn’t been prepared for Dean’s feint when it came. Caught off guard, Sam forgot to pull his shot and ended up catching Dean high in the shoulder with his knife. It was a stupid mistake that could have cost Dean a lot more than a nasty two-inch long gash and a few stitches, and he knew it.
"You gonna tell Dad or should I?" Sam asked, trying to calm his skittering heart.
Dean bit his lip. Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Dean, he’s gonna find out."
"Maybe he won’t."
"Dean..."
Exasperation in Sam’s tone. He knew he’d screwed up. Big time. And Sam also knew that it was always better to tell their father up front rather than have him find out later that something had gone wrong, especially when an injury was involved.
"C’mon Sammy," Dean urged. "Are you really that eager to have Dad bust our butts? You know he’ll get all freaked out and go postal. It’s just a little scratch." Dean rubbed his injured shoulder. "I washed the wound out good in the shower and you put that stingy stuff on it. It should be fine, okay?"
"What if it gets infected?" Sam challenged.
"What if what gets infected?" John demanded from just outside the bathroom doorway.
Both boys froze. John had managed to slip into the motel room unnoticed.
"Fuck," Dean swore softly. He quickly scanned the bathroom for something to cover his shoulder up with, but it was too late.
John indicated Dean’s bandaged shoulder. "You want to explain that?" he growled. He strode into the tiny bathroom, a frown of concern on his face.
"It’s nothing!"
"It’s my fault!"
Two very different answers hit John’s ears at approximately the same time. His steady gaze flicked from one boy to the other and John slowly crossed his arms, a signal to Dean and Sam that he wasn’t happy and wasn’t going anywhere soon until he got a more detailed, honest answer from them.
"I accidentally stabbed Dean," Sam announced, matter-of-factly, almost coldly. He shrugged, eyes downcast. "I wasn’t paying attention while we were training and I screwed up, okay? It shouldn’t come as any big surprise to you."
Dean gaped at Sam, speechless. What was the little idiot doing?
John uncrossed his arms, pointing a warning finger at Sam. "You better watch that mouth, buddy boy," he snapped.
He crossed over to Dean in silence, and reached down, carefully peeling the tape and bandage away from the wound to have a look. He probed Dean’s shoulder gently.
"Stitches look nice and even," John observed. "How many?"
"Twelve," Sam said, then added almost grudgingly, "And, thanks."
"Don’t thank me just yet," John shot back. He turned, leaving Dean to tape his bandage back in place and squared off with his youngest child, disapproval and irritation burning in his eyes. "What’s the first rule in training, Samuel?" he demanded.
"Don’t stab your brother?"
Dean fell back limply against the tank of the toilet, shutting his eyes and shaking his head at Sam’s apparent desire to commit suicide by way of their dad.
"That just earned you ten laps around the motel perimeter when we’re done here," John stated flatly. "And you’re on lockdown until further notice."
Sam snorted. "What? You mean I’m grounded?" He raised a brow in disbelief. "You’re kidding, right? I mean we’re gonna be hitting the road in the morning, so what? I’m not allowed to leave the car when we stop at a gas station?" He huffed to himself, the derision apparent. "Guess I’m s’posed to pee out the window, then?"
John was livid. "You think this is funny?" he growled.
He took a step toward Sam. Dean half rose from the toilet seat directly behind his dad, ready to run interference. John reached back, without taking his eyes from Sam, to place a callused hand on Dean’s uninjured arm, giving it a tight squeeze. Dean quickly plopped back down onto the toilet, message delivered. His eyes fell to his lap in a submissiveness John had rarely been able to get from either boy unless it was over his lap with their bare little ass bright red from his hand.
"Let’s go," John said to Sam. He headed out of the bathroom and motioned for his youngest son to follow him. "Dean, you stay where you are," John shot over his shoulder, slamming the bathroom door closed after him.
Dean flinched when he heard the first loud smack of flesh hitting flesh coming from the other side of the bathroom door. Sam was getting it on the bare. Dean sat, staring at the empty towel rack directly across from him, listening to the heavy slaps coming pretty regularly, one after the other, in a steady, rhythmic cadence. At least Dad wasn’t using his belt he tried to reason as the spanking went on.
Sam began to make loud "ow" noises, and Dean shifted on the toilet, empathizing with his brother’s obvious discomfort. He knew Sam’s butt would soon be aching almost as bad as Dean’s wounded shoulder.
The whimpers from the other room soon turned into pleas to "stop", which were interspersed with a few "yessirs" and "nossirs". Despite Sam's apparent begging, the ringing smacks continued which then led to a spate of frustrated curses quickly followed by a harsh sob as the spanking seemed to increase in tempo and force.
Dean ran a shaky hand through his spiky hair, wishing with all his heart that it was him out there instead of Sammy. Damn it. But, he understood what Sam had done. He actually got why his kid brother had played disrespectful smart ass in front of their dad instead of keeping his mouth shut and letting Dean call the shots and take the heat as usual.
Dean knew Sam felt horrible about injuring him, even though the knifing hadn’t been intentional, and even though Dean had forgiven Sam already. It didn't matter; Sam still felt guilty as hell and was using the ass beating he was getting as a means to assuage that guilt. He’d jumped in with his mouth before Dean could first, in order to keep Dean from catching any of their dad’s anger. Stupid kid. Dean's heart swelled with a mixture of pride and sympathy.
Dean sat there, head down, listening to his father’s hand connect solidly with Sam’s ass over and over again, Sam yelping in misery. Next town they got to, Dean decided he was going to take Sam out to the movies and let him pick which one they went to – chick flick or whatever – it didn’t matter. It’d be Sammy’s choice all the way. Then he was going to go the nearest library and snag some mystery and action novels for his brother, so Sam would have something to read in the car while Dad drove them from one job to the next. Yup, he nodded, as a single tear slowly traveled down his left cheek, that’s exactly what he was going to do.
"Another half an inch deeper and it would’ve left a permanent scar," Sam observed quietly as he spread antibacterial ointment over his brother’s freshly stitched up shoulder. His face was pale and solemn in the washed out glow of the bathroom lights.
Dean snorted, despite the pain. "Yeah, Sam, that was my big concern back there. Dear God, please! Don’t let my pretty, unblemished skin be scarred for life!"
He rolled his eyes at his brother, chuckling softly to himself. Sam finished taping down the bandage and moved back.
"Well, that should hold it. You want something for the pain or anything? Does it hurt bad?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah. I’m good." He rotated the injured shoulder, testing it, and winced when the stitches pulled tight. "Crap, this is gonna mess up my aim when I shoot."
He bestowed Sam with a tired scowl as he tossed his bloody, ruined t-shirt into the nearby wastebasket under the counter near the sink. "What the hell happened to you back there, Sam? Since when do you screw up like that?"
Sam frowned, studiously avoiding Dean’s eyes. He sighed heavily, the sound weighted with guilt and remorse.
While their father was out scouting for their next job, he and Dean had been running some practice maneuvers with knives in the small field behind the motel. Sam had been an unwilling participant from the get go. He hated the almost daily training sessions their father required of them, preferring instead, to bury his nose in a book or use the time to catch up on sleep. At fifteen, Sam rated sleep right up there with hot chicks in short skirts and being allowed to drive the Impala. But, John had insisted, even going so far as to threaten Sam with extra training and a few licks of his belt if Sam continued complaining.
Pissed at being bullied into something he didn’t want to do, Sam had taken a rather lackadaisical approach to whole the training session. He’d let his mind wander at the wrong moment, and as a result, he hadn’t been prepared for Dean’s feint when it came. Caught off guard, Sam forgot to pull his shot and ended up catching Dean high in the shoulder with his knife. It was a stupid mistake that could have cost Dean a lot more than a nasty two-inch long gash and a few stitches, and he knew it.
"You gonna tell Dad or should I?" Sam asked, trying to calm his skittering heart.
Dean bit his lip. Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Dean, he’s gonna find out."
"Maybe he won’t."
"Dean..."
Exasperation in Sam’s tone. He knew he’d screwed up. Big time. And Sam also knew that it was always better to tell their father up front rather than have him find out later that something had gone wrong, especially when an injury was involved.
"C’mon Sammy," Dean urged. "Are you really that eager to have Dad bust our butts? You know he’ll get all freaked out and go postal. It’s just a little scratch." Dean rubbed his injured shoulder. "I washed the wound out good in the shower and you put that stingy stuff on it. It should be fine, okay?"
"What if it gets infected?" Sam challenged.
"What if what gets infected?" John demanded from just outside the bathroom doorway.
Both boys froze. John had managed to slip into the motel room unnoticed.
"Fuck," Dean swore softly. He quickly scanned the bathroom for something to cover his shoulder up with, but it was too late.
John indicated Dean’s bandaged shoulder. "You want to explain that?" he growled. He strode into the tiny bathroom, a frown of concern on his face.
"It’s nothing!"
"It’s my fault!"
Two very different answers hit John’s ears at approximately the same time. His steady gaze flicked from one boy to the other and John slowly crossed his arms, a signal to Dean and Sam that he wasn’t happy and wasn’t going anywhere soon until he got a more detailed, honest answer from them.
"I accidentally stabbed Dean," Sam announced, matter-of-factly, almost coldly. He shrugged, eyes downcast. "I wasn’t paying attention while we were training and I screwed up, okay? It shouldn’t come as any big surprise to you."
Dean gaped at Sam, speechless. What was the little idiot doing?
John uncrossed his arms, pointing a warning finger at Sam. "You better watch that mouth, buddy boy," he snapped.
He crossed over to Dean in silence, and reached down, carefully peeling the tape and bandage away from the wound to have a look. He probed Dean’s shoulder gently.
"Stitches look nice and even," John observed. "How many?"
"Twelve," Sam said, then added almost grudgingly, "And, thanks."
"Don’t thank me just yet," John shot back. He turned, leaving Dean to tape his bandage back in place and squared off with his youngest child, disapproval and irritation burning in his eyes. "What’s the first rule in training, Samuel?" he demanded.
"Don’t stab your brother?"
Dean fell back limply against the tank of the toilet, shutting his eyes and shaking his head at Sam’s apparent desire to commit suicide by way of their dad.
"That just earned you ten laps around the motel perimeter when we’re done here," John stated flatly. "And you’re on lockdown until further notice."
Sam snorted. "What? You mean I’m grounded?" He raised a brow in disbelief. "You’re kidding, right? I mean we’re gonna be hitting the road in the morning, so what? I’m not allowed to leave the car when we stop at a gas station?" He huffed to himself, the derision apparent. "Guess I’m s’posed to pee out the window, then?"
John was livid. "You think this is funny?" he growled.
He took a step toward Sam. Dean half rose from the toilet seat directly behind his dad, ready to run interference. John reached back, without taking his eyes from Sam, to place a callused hand on Dean’s uninjured arm, giving it a tight squeeze. Dean quickly plopped back down onto the toilet, message delivered. His eyes fell to his lap in a submissiveness John had rarely been able to get from either boy unless it was over his lap with their bare little ass bright red from his hand.
"Let’s go," John said to Sam. He headed out of the bathroom and motioned for his youngest son to follow him. "Dean, you stay where you are," John shot over his shoulder, slamming the bathroom door closed after him.
Dean flinched when he heard the first loud smack of flesh hitting flesh coming from the other side of the bathroom door. Sam was getting it on the bare. Dean sat, staring at the empty towel rack directly across from him, listening to the heavy slaps coming pretty regularly, one after the other, in a steady, rhythmic cadence. At least Dad wasn’t using his belt he tried to reason as the spanking went on.
Sam began to make loud "ow" noises, and Dean shifted on the toilet, empathizing with his brother’s obvious discomfort. He knew Sam’s butt would soon be aching almost as bad as Dean’s wounded shoulder.
The whimpers from the other room soon turned into pleas to "stop", which were interspersed with a few "yessirs" and "nossirs". Despite Sam's apparent begging, the ringing smacks continued which then led to a spate of frustrated curses quickly followed by a harsh sob as the spanking seemed to increase in tempo and force.
Dean ran a shaky hand through his spiky hair, wishing with all his heart that it was him out there instead of Sammy. Damn it. But, he understood what Sam had done. He actually got why his kid brother had played disrespectful smart ass in front of their dad instead of keeping his mouth shut and letting Dean call the shots and take the heat as usual.
Dean knew Sam felt horrible about injuring him, even though the knifing hadn’t been intentional, and even though Dean had forgiven Sam already. It didn't matter; Sam still felt guilty as hell and was using the ass beating he was getting as a means to assuage that guilt. He’d jumped in with his mouth before Dean could first, in order to keep Dean from catching any of their dad’s anger. Stupid kid. Dean's heart swelled with a mixture of pride and sympathy.
Dean sat there, head down, listening to his father’s hand connect solidly with Sam’s ass over and over again, Sam yelping in misery. Next town they got to, Dean decided he was going to take Sam out to the movies and let him pick which one they went to – chick flick or whatever – it didn’t matter. It’d be Sammy’s choice all the way. Then he was going to go the nearest library and snag some mystery and action novels for his brother, so Sam would have something to read in the car while Dad drove them from one job to the next. Yup, he nodded, as a single tear slowly traveled down his left cheek, that’s exactly what he was going to do.