Lost and Found
by Minx
SINGER AUTO SALVAGE
FALL 1994
“Sam, where’re you going, son?”
John Winchester didn’t even look up from the topographical map he and Bobby Singer were studying as his eleven-year-old son stopped, one hand grasping the burnished doorknob to the front door of Bobby’s house, the other hand clutching a book.
“Out on the porch to study,” Sam replied. He held up his geography textbook, waving it as proof to the two men who were sitting at the cluttered dining room table that took up most of the front room. “Dean’s watching some stupid Godzilla movie in the other room and I can’t concentrate.”
It was Fall break from school and John had brought his family to South Dakota, hoping to spend some down time with his boys, as well as make use of Singer’s extensive library on demonology and the supernatural.
Looking up from the map, John glanced over at Sam and frowned lightly. “You’re not going outside without your jacket,” he said. “It’s barely 60 degrees out there.”
“Daaad,” Sam whined. He glanced at the jacket hanging over the banister of the nearby staircase, nose wrinkling in distaste. “It’s not that cold out, I’ll be okay. I’ll sit in the sun,” he promised.
Sam and his father had been through this argument before, ever since the ‘jacket’ had come home from the Goodwill store in Decatur two months ago.
It wasn’t even really a jacket, Sam thought with a grimace of disgust. His dad just called it that to lessen Sam’s bitter judgment of it. Bluntly put, it was a sweater. A fugly army-green monstrosity with ribbing along the bottom and cuffs, a zipper up the front, and faded leather elbow patches. To Sam it was the kind of thing an eighty-year-old senile grandpa might wear. He didn’t think his father could’ve picked out anything more embarrassing for him had he honestly tried. But, it was the only coat of any type in Sam’s size that they could find at the store, and the price was right, so that’s what he’d ended up with.
It wasn’t fair, Sam concluded. Dean had a jean jacket that, while second-hand, at least looked cool, especially when his brother wore it with the collar flipped up. Sam had tried to flip up the collar on his sweater-jacket, but it wasn’t the same. In fact, Dean said it made him look gay, and that was enough for Sam to want to salt and burn the crappy thing if he’d been able to get away with doing it. But, their father had paid good money for the sweater-jacket, and he was determined that Sam would make use of it until he outgrew it. Needless to say, Sam fervently began praying for a growth spurt while trying to devise a way to rid himself of the dreaded thing.
“Sam, put your jacket on,” John insisted, pointing to the item in question.
With a drawn out sigh of contempt, Sam stomped over to the stairway, purposely dropped his textbook onto the floor, silently rejoicing at the loud clatter it made, and yanked the offensive sweater from its resting place on the banister. He shrugged into it, shuddering, and then stooped to pick up his book, giving his dad an irritated glower from the beneath his shaggy bangs.
John watched the entire melodrama in silence, the only indication of his annoyance being a small twitch of his jaw muscle. He kept a stern eye on his youngest child as Sam stalked back towards the front door, and gave the boy props for being smart enough not to slam the door on the way out. Had that bit of childish disrespect occurred, John would have felt inclined to take his hand to his kid’s butt as future encouragement to mind his temper and his manners.
Bobby snorted. “Boy’s sure got a thorn up his ass about something,” he commented as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.
“He hates his jacket,” John stated simply.
“What? That green one he just put on?” Bobby asked. He stared at the front door a moment, frowning. “He’s all piss and vinegar over that? Hell, I know I ain’t exactly an expert on fashion, but it looked just fine to me.” Bobby looked questioningly at John. “What’s wrong with it?”
John offered his friend a tired smile. “It’s not as cool as Dean’s jacket.”
Bobby stared at John, amazement lighting up his grizzled face. It amused him mightily that Sam hated his coat for no other reason than that it was something his big brother wouldn’t be caught dead in. He put down his coffee next to the map on the table and slowly shook his head in wonder, letting one corner of his mouth lift up into a smile.
“Shit, I should tell Sammy about the eyesore of a sweater my Aunt Gertrude crocheted me for my birthday one year. Thing looked like it was made from the world’s ugliest patchwork quilt, had so many damn colors on it,” he said. “I swear, I think it actually glowed in the dark it was so gaudy. But my ma made me put it on every damn time Aunt Gertie came to visit.” Bobby wrinkled his nose. “God, but I hated that thing!”
John shot Bobby a glare of disapproval. “Don’t encourage him,” he warned.
“Wasn’t gonna encourage him,” Bobby retorted. “My point being that your boy should feel lucky he’s got a jacket to wear that don’t look like some girly-sweater made up of all the colors known to God and man.” He grinned. “And here you thought hunting down and killing demons was a dangerous and exhausting job, Johnny.” Bobby laughed softly. “I s’pose hunting’s a comparative cakewalk to raising two young’uns, isn’t it?”
John wearily scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing at the moment that there was more in his coffee cup than just coffee. “At least I can shoot a demon if it pisses me off,” he joked darkly.
He turned a serious eye onto his friend. “Sam’s beginning to push his luck with these little battles, I’ll tell you that much. I’ve had it with him constantly ‘losing’ that jacket or ‘forgetting’ to bring it along with him or making excuses for why he doesn’t need to wear it. Lucky for him, I’ve managed to sniff out wherever Sam’s hidden the thing each time so far or I’d be having an ugly little discussion with him right about now.”
“I take it that discussion would entail one Samuel Winchester getting his britches tanned?” Bobby asked with a raised brow.
John smiled ominously. “Wouldn’t be the first time he and I have had that kind of discussion,” he said. “In fact, it’s getting to be a bit of a habit these days for the two of us.”
“Hmm…can’t imagine where that boy gets his headstrong nature from,” Bobby mused aloud. With a twinkle in his eye, he rose from his chair, coffee cup in hand, and headed to the kitchen for a refill. His back turned from the table, Bobby missed the deep glower John leveled at him.
******
Sam slouched unhappily on the swing at one end of Bobby’s front porch, worrying the zipper of his jacket, angrily yanking the tab up and down the metal teeth, the harsh rasping sound of it breaking the quiet of the afternoon.
“It’s not fair,” he muttered, face scrunched into a pout. “I never get any cool stuff to wear.”
It seemed to Sam that his choices in fashion consisted of hand-me-downs from Dean, which were few and far between since his brother pretty much wore his clothing to tatters, or finds from various second-hand stores his father stopped at when they had the money to spend on ‘new’ clothes. T-shirts and jeans weren’t a problem because all the shops seemed to have an overabundance of those, so Sam could pick and choose at will. But, when it came to items such as jackets or heavy winter coats, in Sam’s opinion, the selection always seemed to be made up of stuff that even a blind person would be loathe to wear. And even though the few friends Sam had made at his school never teased him about his clothes, he was jealous of the fact that he didn’t have any of the latest fashions or popular name brands that they all wore.
“So not fair!” Sam angrily stated again.
Rambo, one of Bobby’s tamer junkyard mutts, gazed up at Sam from his resting spot next to the large ceramic flowerpot near the porch steps. He favored the boy with a detached frown, liquid brown eyes blinking up at the child with what seemed, to Sam, to be a touch of sympathy.
“You’re lucky,” Sam admonished the rottweiler mix. “You don’t have to wear a stupid, ugly coat just ‘cause your dad tells you to.” Rambo shifted, stretching his back legs out, and chuffed softly, which Sam readily accepted as a sign of agreement from the animal.
Sam looked down, contemplating his geography book sitting on the porch swing next to him. He didn’t much feel like reading about oceans anymore. He slid off the swing and wandered over to where Rambo lay on his side, eyes half-closed in semi-sleep, and knelt down to absently rub the dog’s belly. Rambo groaned happily and thumped his tail against the porch in appreciation.
“Wish I was a dog,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Standing back up, the young boy glanced over his shoulder at the front door, then bit his lip, thinking. Scanning the wide, unkempt yard, Sam came to a decision. He peeled off his jacket, shivering a little at the sudden change in temperature he felt left wearing just his tee and plaid button-down. Granted, the sweater might be butt-ass ugly, but it did tend to keep him warm. Even so, that still wasn’t reason enough for Sam to want to keep it on. He balled the jacket up in his hands and walked to the far edge of the porch with it.
Rambo yawned, jaws cracking wide. He sat up, eyeing his new friend with sudden interest. He remained by the steps, but watched in curiosity, head tilted to the side, as Sam reared back and threw his jacket as hard as he could over the porch railing and out into the cluttered side yard. The boy grinned in satisfaction when the jacket landed in a dirty puddle next to a jumbled pile of old tires.
“Guess I lost my jacket again,” Sam said, smiling to himself. His smile quickly faded though when he caught sight of Rambo leaping off the porch to gallop crazily towards the tires, eyes pinned directly on Sam’s sweater.
“No!” Sam shouted, waving frantically at the dog. “No, Rambo! Bad dog!”
Rambo ignored Sam’s shouts to stop and dove for the jacket, sliding through the muddy grass, front paws splayed wide, looking like a baseball player trying to steal home. He grabbed up Sam’s sweater in his teeth and gave it a playful shake before standing back up and turning to trot back to the porch, jacket in tow.
“You stupid, lame-ass dog,” Sam said when Rambo cheerfully dropped the sweater, now stained with mud and slobber, at Sam’s feet. “I’m not trying to play fetch, you moron. I’m trying to get rid of this dumb thing!”
Shooting the dog an exasperated glare, Sam bent down, picking up the sweater with a heavy sigh. He examined the dark stains now covering the front of it from being dragged through the dirt and scowled down at Rambo again. Great, now it would need to be washed. Normally, Sam might have considered that another possible way to rid himself of the jacket, except he’d had already tried it without success. He’d attempted to shrink the sweater in the dryer a couple weeks back, but the tightly woven knit refused even that simple courtesy. All he’d gotten for his efforts was a lecture from his dad for wasting quarters on the extra heat cycle it took to try it.
Sam pursed his lips, flicking his gaze back to Rambo, who sat panting happily in front of him. He held the sweater out, waving it in front of the big dog’s nose.
“Here. You want this piece of crap?” he asked jokingly.
Rambo barked once and chomped his teeth down onto the edge of the jacket so fast that he almost bit Sam’s hand in the process. He tugged once while eyeing Sam, testing to see if his new friend wanted to play.
A light went off for Sam and he grinned mischievously. He tugged back on his end, tentatively, and Rambo, true to his doggy nature, yanked back on his piece of the sweater a little harder this time, adding a tiny head shake along with it.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam encouraged the dog as he slowly backed up, giving his jacket another playful tug. “C’mon boy, get it! Get that ugly sweater!”
Rambo lunged forward, jaws snapping, filling his mouth full of the knit sweater, happy to oblige. Sam leaned his weight back onto his heels, giving little tugs on his jacket as Rambo yanked hard in the opposite direction. Although Sam and the dog weighed approximately the same, Rambo had more muscle mass and easily dragged the boy a few feet forward across the porch as they battled for possession of the jacket. Sam giggled, giving the sweater a firm shake. Rambo countered with a play growl and shook back. His tail was now wagging so fast it looked like a windshield wiper flapping back and forth on the highest setting.
And the dog wasn’t the only one enjoying the tug of war. Sam was ecstatic. Dirt could be washed off his jacket, but great big rips and unraveled tears in the knitting meant the sweater would have to be thrown away for sure. Sam continued to pull, yank and shake his way around the porch with the dog, who began to let out playful yips and growls, despite having a mouthful of fabric. Sam couldn’t help grinning when he heard a seam along the side of the jacket give way with a loud rip.
Neither boy nor dog heard the front door open, nor did they see the two men standing, watching them in stunned silence.
“SAMUEL MICHAEL WINCHESTER!”
Sam froze guiltily. His head snapped around to find his father and Bobby standing just inside the front doorway, one man wearing an amused smirk on his face, the other sporting a black scowl that brought Sam’s heart up into his throat. The jacket slipped from Sam’s fingers as fear flashed across his face. His dad looked beyond pissed.
Rambo, thinking he’d won the contest, gave the jacket one last hard shake before plopping down onto his haunches to chew on his prize in leisure. Bobby made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, shot John an apologetic look, and then motioned at the dog sharply.
“Rambo! Hey! Git over here!”
The dog’s head shot up, ears perked quizzically at Bobby. The sweater hung limply from the animal’s jaws.
Bobby glared back at the dog. “Git over here, ya idjit mutt!” he repeated.
Rambo obediently stood up, tail wagging, and trotted over to his master, bringing his new toy along with him.
Bobby snapped his fingers once and pointed to the floor in front of him. “Drop it,” he ordered, and Rambo immediately unclenched his jaw, dropping Sam’s jacket in a tattered heap at Bobby’s feet.
Bobby gave Rambo’s flank a little nudge with the toe of his boot and the dog took the hint and scooted away from him, heading for the porch steps and the yard beyond. “Sorry ‘bout that, John,” Bobby said quietly, indicating the torn jacket. “Rambo’s still a bit of a pup. He don’t know any better.”
John bent down, scooping up the ruined jacket from the porch, his face darkening.
“I hardly think this,” he angrily shook the sweater in his grip, “is your dog’s fault, Singer.” John turned his enraged visage onto his son. He held the jacket up to Sam and the boy winced, his eyes hastily falling to the floor. “Is it, Sam?”
Sam stared at the tops of his shoes, face pale, not able to answer. How could he possibly explain this?
John nodded curtly toward the open door behind him, his voice hard and sharp. “Get in the house.”
Sam scrambled to obey, feet moving of their own accord. He darted around the two men, careful to keep his backside out of range of his dad’s hand as he passed by. Not that it would matter in a few minutes, Sam realized sadly. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in for one hell of a spanking for this bit of stupidity. The blazing condemnation in his dad’s eyes pretty much confirmed that for him.
John turned on his heel, eyes tracking Sam until the boy came to a hesitant stop near the table in the front room where his dad and Bobby had been working on their research.
“Kitchen,” John ordered curtly.
Sam gave a brief nod, and made for the kitchen, shoulders slumping.
“I think I’ll hang out here for a bit,” Bobby said, giving John a knowing look. He didn’t have a problem with his friend disciplining his kids when they needed it, but he preferred not to have to sit and listen to it while it was going on. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to hit the maps again,” Bobby commented as he headed towards the porch swing where Sam’s book still lay, unopened.
With a heavy sigh, John strode back into the house, Sam’s torn sweater-jacket still in his fist. He tossed the jacket onto a chair in the front room as he passed by it, anger and disappointment welling up in his chest. If Sam had had a valid reason for not wanting to wear the jacket, John would have been willing to consider buying his son a new one. But, stubbornness, jealousy and pride were not valid reasons, in John’s mind. There was a huge difference between wanting something and needing something, and he’d impressed upon both his sons that sometimes they had to make do with what they had because money was tight. This latest bit of destructive defiance from his youngest was the final straw.
*****
Sam’s head shot up as he heard his dad enter the kitchen. He flinched at the firm set of his father’s jaw and the stiff, angry way he stood, brows knit in parental disapproval.
“Why?” John asked, almost spitting the word out.
It was a simple question really, Sam knew. But, answering it to his father’s satisfaction would require more than Sam had to give. He wasn’t really sure why he’d done it, other than that he just didn’t like the sweater and he was mad at his dad for making him wear it.
“I just asked you a question, Samuel,” John growled in rising irritation. “Why did you purposely ruin your jacket?”
Sam managed a weak shrug, his eyes downcast. “I dunno,” he mumbled, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of his long-sleeved shirt.
“That’s not an answer, and you know it,” John snapped, fixing Sam with a stern glare. “Did the dog grab the jacket from you?”
“No sir,” Sam whispered, shaking his head.
“Did you take your jacket off yourself after I told you not to?”
Sam’s head shot up, a glint in his emerald eyes. “You didn’t say I couldn’t take it off,” he countered hotly.
“I told you, you couldn’t go outside without putting your jacket on. And you know damn well that meant you were supposed to wear it the entire time you were outside, Sam,” John stated, feeling his temper ratchet up a notch. “So, I’m going to ask you one more time – did you take your jacket off and give it to the dog?”
“No,” Sam said, his jaw jutting out stubbornly.
John’s voice was positively glacial. “Come again?” he said slowly.
“No, sir,” Sam repeated, this time sounding a bit more sullen.
John blinked, his face darkening. He hadn’t expected Sam to be quite so obstinate, especially not when he’d been caught red-handed.
John leaned into his child’s personal space, his face a stony mask as he pinned his son with a look that was all business. “I want to be very clear here, Samuel. You lie to me about this and I will not hesitate to blister your little butt with my belt. Do you understand me?”
Sam nodded slowly, fear seeping back into his widened eyes. Although it was rare for his dad to use his belt on either him or Dean, he knew it wasn’t an empty threat.
“Now, you think very carefully before you answer again,” John stated emphatically. “And don’t you dare lie.”
“M’not lying,” Sam insisted, although he took a nervous step backwards. “I didn’t give my jacket to Uncle Bobby’s dog. I took it off and…and I threw it over the railing into the yard…” his voice trailed off, cheeks flushing. “Rambo was the one that decided to go after the stupid thing and chew on it,” he added.
“Don’t get smart with me,” John snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to!” Sam retorted.
John’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got about two seconds to lose that attitude or I’m going to help you lose it the hard way.” Sam held his tongue, scowling. “What you did was very immature and wrong,” John said. He reached over to cup Sam’s chin in his hand, lifting until Sam was forced to look him in the eye. “You willfully disobeyed me, and you ruined a perfectly good piece of clothing for no other reason than to spite me and get your own way. If you’d had a legitimate reason for not wanting to wear that -”
“It’s ugly!” Sam interrupted, voice rising in objection.
John’s lips thinned. “That is not a valid objection, Sam.”
Sam stiffened in indignation. “I don’t care!” he spat sulkily. “I hated it and I’m glad it’s all torn up ‘cause now I don’t have to wear it anymore!”
John had heard enough. “We’re done talking,” he stated coldly.
He grabbed Sam while at the same time using his other hand to snatch a chair from beside the kitchen table. Turning the chair around to face him, John sat down heavily and tossed Sam over his lap, restraining the boy with an arm.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, buddy, but I guarantee I’m going to put a stop to it right now,” John stated with determination. He reached underneath his squirming child to undo Sam’s jeans and then yanked them down, along with the boy’s briefs, baring Sam’s bottom.
“Nooo!” Sam wailed, suddenly changing his tune at the prospect of an impending spanking. “Dad, m’sorry!” he hastily blurted out, not knowing what else to say.
John snorted. “Yeah, I just bet you are,” he replied. He brought his hand down on Sam’s rear end, connecting solidly, the crack loud and painful.
Sam jumped and gasped sharply at the sudden burn that arose and traveled across his bare bottom. The sting hadn’t even begun to fade when he felt two more hard swats, in rapid succession, land along the upper crest of his rear on either side, setting the area on fire.
“Ow!” Sam yelped, “I’m really, really sorry!” He grimaced as tears quickly filled his eyes. His dad wasn’t holding back.
John ignored his son’s wails and continued spanking, laying down smack after blistering smack, going from the top of Sam’s backside to the top of the boy’s thighs, making sure to overlap every few swats for good measure until Sam’s bottom was a uniform cherry red in color.
“What are you sorry for?” John questioned. He swatted Sam’s sit spots over and over again, causing Sam to buck and sob from the smarting sting.
“M’sorry I t-tore up my j-jacket – OW, DAD!” Sam bawled, face red and tear-stained. “Ow, ow, ow! An’ I’m s-sorry I didn’t l-listen to you! I won’t do it again! I PROMISE!”
John stopped the spanking, resting his warm palm on Sam’s lower back. “You understand now that when I tell you to do something, you’re expected to do it, without giving me lip about it or trying to go behind my back?”
“Yes, sir!” Sam sobbed.
“We going to have any more problems like this again?” John asked.
Sam shook his head. “No, sir!”
“Good, then let’s finish this up,” John replied. He gave Sam a dozen more hard swats along the crease between the boy’s thighs and bottom, snapping his wrist to create maximum sting and then stopped.
Sam lay limply over his dad’s lap, his entire body shaking as he sobbed uncontrollably, tears and snot mixing on his face. His butt ached and stung, and his head hurt from crying so hard. He wished he’d never laid eyes on that stupid sweater jacket!
John carefully lifted his son from his lap, setting him down on shaky legs so that he could reach over and gently pull the boy’s pants back up. Sam whimpered as the fabric scraped over his sore behind. His hands instantly flew back to cradle the seat of his jeans as fresh tears arose. John gave his child a sympathetic smile before he pulled Sam in close, nestling him between his legs, broad arms encircling the sobbing boy in a protective hug.
“You’re okay, Sammy,” John softly crooned. “C’mon kiddo, calm down,” John murmured. He gave Sam’s neck a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s all over. We’re good.”
Sam clung to his father, face buried in his dad’s flannel shirtfront as he cried softly. John continued to hold and comfort Sam, rubbing the boy’s back until Sam’s tears subsided to nothing more than an occasional hiccup.
“I’m not trying to make your life miserable, Sammy, but I need you to understand that life isn’t always fair,” John spoke quietly, a hint of sadness to his tone. “In fact, it’s rarely that, and you have to make do and be thankful for what you’ve got instead of bitching and moaning about what you don’t or can’t have.”
“I know,” Sam said, his voice muffled against his dad’s shirt. “But how come we always have to make do? Why can’t we get new stuff at the mall like everybody else does?”
“Because we’re not like everybody else, Sammy. You know that.” John said with a twinge of guilt. “I don’t have a regular job somewhere bringing in a steady paycheck.” He sat back so that he could see his son’s face. He reached up and thumbed the last few tears from Sam’s cheeks, eyes softening. “The work I do may not be fancy or earn me the big bucks, Sam, but it’s no less important. I hunt down things that hurt people. Things that ruin lives and tear families apart. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s something I have to do. And sometimes we have to make sacrifices so that I can keep doing that job. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied reluctantly. He rubbed his aching backside, wincing. “I still don’t like it though.”
John cocked an eyebrow at Sam. “You don’t have to like it, bud. You just have to behave and watch the mouth, we clear?”
Sam nodded, laying his head back down onto his father’s shoulder. “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I getting a new jacket?”
The wry look his father leveled at him, made Sam grin a little.
“What do you think?” John asked dryly. “You think you’re old man’s gonna make you go through the winter in just shirt sleeves? How ‘bout I make you walk to school through the snowdrifts barefoot too?”
“Dad!” Sam complained against the side of his father’s neck. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” John said, but chuckled and dropped a kiss onto the top of Sam’s head. He stood up, Sam still clutched tight to his chest. “We’ll check out what the local shops in Sioux Falls have to offer while we’re here, how’s that?”
“’Kay,” Sam replied sleepily. He scrubbed at his puffy eyes. “But, can I have final say on which coat I get?”
John raised a brow. “You paying for it?”
“Daad!”
“We’ll see,” John said. He guided his boy toward the doorway, heading out of the kitchen and for the stairs. “Right now, you’re going upstairs for a bit.”
Sam frowned. “How come?”
“Because you’re tired and you’re cranky, and you’re going to lie down and take a nap,” John firmly stated.
“I don’t wanna take a nap, Dad,” Sam whined, fresh tears appearing in his eyes.
John stopped half-way up the stairs. “You want another spanking instead?” he asked, fixing Sam with a no-nonsense stare.
“No, sir,” Sam muttered despondently.
“Didn’t think so,” John replied and continued up the stairs with his youngest as Sam tried hard to keep the sulky pout off his face.
***
Sam awoke to the sound of plastic crinkling next to his ear. He looked over and spotted a cellophane-wrapped package beside his head and then over further to see Dean standing by the bed, grinning down at him.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, indicating the package on the pillow next to him.
“What’s it look like?” Dean scoffed. “They’re Twinkies. Food of the gods. I was saving ‘em for later, but I figured you needed them more than me.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, snagging the Twinkies off the pillow. A small pleased smile ghosted across his lips.
Blinking tiredly, Sam sat up, then just as quickly rolled onto his side, grimacing as his bottom woke up and alerted him to its presence. He reached back to offer it a brief rub of condolence.
“Yeah, you’re gonna be feeling that for awhile, Samantha,” Dean commented as he watched his little brother wincing and rubbing. “Dad musta beat your ass ten kinds of black and blue.” He shook his head, a glint of amazed admiration in his hazel eyes as he took a seat on the bed opposite Sam. “Dude, what were you thinking?”
Sam offered the older boy a sheepish look and a shrug. “I guess I wasn’t,” he said. “But, you saw that jacket, Dean. Even you thought it looked gross.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. “True. It was pretty gag-inducing, but still, Sammy, there are better ways to get rid of stuff than trying to feed it to the dog.” He snorted. “Rule of thumb, dude? If you can’t get rid of the evidence completely? It ain’t a good plan. ‘Specially when you’re trying to hide something from Dad.”
“I kinda got that figured out now, thanks,” Sam shot back, rolling his eyes. He tore open the package of oblong snack cakes and handed one of them to his brother who promptly stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, moaning in pleasure.
“Bes’ snahk-foo ever,” Dean managed around the mouthful of cream and cake, his eyes glazing over.
Sam offered up a critical stare but said nothing. His brother’s atrocious eating habits were practically famous.
“At least I won’t have to wear that crappy sweater thing ever again,” Sam commented as he took a bite of his own Twinkie.
“And you can borrow my jacket until Dad gets you a new one,” Dean added, using a thumb to wipe a smear of cream filling off the corner of his lip.
Sam’s astonished gaze flicked up to Dean. “Really? You mean it? You’re not just kidding?”
“Yeah, I mean it, squirt,” Dean said. “You can use it whenever I don’t need it.” Dean bounced up off his bed and went over to where his jean jacket hung on the doorknob of the closet. He grabbed it and took it over to Sam, tossing it into the younger boy’s lap. He pointed a warning finger at Sam. “Just don’t spill anything on it, all right?”
Sam nodded, eyes shining. “I won’t,” he said. He carefully put the jacket on, grinning happily despite it being a few sizes too large, and held out his arms. “How’s it look?”
Dean frowned. “I think we might have to roll the sleeves up a little…here, hold on.” He grabbed one of the sleeves and proceeded to roll up the cuff until Sam’s hand finally appeared. “There, that should do it.” He pointed at the other sleeve. “Do the other one.”
Sam rolled up the second cuff to match the first and looked up at Dean. “Okay?”
Dean stood back, studying his brother and then gave a nod. “Yup. Look almost as cool as me now, Sammy.”
Sam beamed at Dean.
Dean grinned back and reached over to tousle Sam’s hair. “C’mon, dinner’s almost ready and Uncle Bobby made one of my faves – Hamburger Helper beef stroganoff.”
Dean paused at the doorway. “Better leave my jacket up here,” he announced. “Just ‘cause I like beef stroganoff doesn’t mean I want to be wearing it later.”
“Very funny,” Sam retorted. “But, I’m not the slob around here, you are.” He dutifully removed Dean’s jacket and laid it down on his bed, before getting up, careful to keep his sore butt clear of the mattress and trotted after Dean, his mood definitely improved. “You eat like a pig, Dean,” Sam stated in disapproval.
Dean’s eyes danced in amusement. “And you cry like a little girl,” he shot back over his shoulder as they headed down the stairs.
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he gave Dean a mock shove. “Jerk.”
Dean smiled. “Bitch.”
THE END
FALL 1994
“Sam, where’re you going, son?”
John Winchester didn’t even look up from the topographical map he and Bobby Singer were studying as his eleven-year-old son stopped, one hand grasping the burnished doorknob to the front door of Bobby’s house, the other hand clutching a book.
“Out on the porch to study,” Sam replied. He held up his geography textbook, waving it as proof to the two men who were sitting at the cluttered dining room table that took up most of the front room. “Dean’s watching some stupid Godzilla movie in the other room and I can’t concentrate.”
It was Fall break from school and John had brought his family to South Dakota, hoping to spend some down time with his boys, as well as make use of Singer’s extensive library on demonology and the supernatural.
Looking up from the map, John glanced over at Sam and frowned lightly. “You’re not going outside without your jacket,” he said. “It’s barely 60 degrees out there.”
“Daaad,” Sam whined. He glanced at the jacket hanging over the banister of the nearby staircase, nose wrinkling in distaste. “It’s not that cold out, I’ll be okay. I’ll sit in the sun,” he promised.
Sam and his father had been through this argument before, ever since the ‘jacket’ had come home from the Goodwill store in Decatur two months ago.
It wasn’t even really a jacket, Sam thought with a grimace of disgust. His dad just called it that to lessen Sam’s bitter judgment of it. Bluntly put, it was a sweater. A fugly army-green monstrosity with ribbing along the bottom and cuffs, a zipper up the front, and faded leather elbow patches. To Sam it was the kind of thing an eighty-year-old senile grandpa might wear. He didn’t think his father could’ve picked out anything more embarrassing for him had he honestly tried. But, it was the only coat of any type in Sam’s size that they could find at the store, and the price was right, so that’s what he’d ended up with.
It wasn’t fair, Sam concluded. Dean had a jean jacket that, while second-hand, at least looked cool, especially when his brother wore it with the collar flipped up. Sam had tried to flip up the collar on his sweater-jacket, but it wasn’t the same. In fact, Dean said it made him look gay, and that was enough for Sam to want to salt and burn the crappy thing if he’d been able to get away with doing it. But, their father had paid good money for the sweater-jacket, and he was determined that Sam would make use of it until he outgrew it. Needless to say, Sam fervently began praying for a growth spurt while trying to devise a way to rid himself of the dreaded thing.
“Sam, put your jacket on,” John insisted, pointing to the item in question.
With a drawn out sigh of contempt, Sam stomped over to the stairway, purposely dropped his textbook onto the floor, silently rejoicing at the loud clatter it made, and yanked the offensive sweater from its resting place on the banister. He shrugged into it, shuddering, and then stooped to pick up his book, giving his dad an irritated glower from the beneath his shaggy bangs.
John watched the entire melodrama in silence, the only indication of his annoyance being a small twitch of his jaw muscle. He kept a stern eye on his youngest child as Sam stalked back towards the front door, and gave the boy props for being smart enough not to slam the door on the way out. Had that bit of childish disrespect occurred, John would have felt inclined to take his hand to his kid’s butt as future encouragement to mind his temper and his manners.
Bobby snorted. “Boy’s sure got a thorn up his ass about something,” he commented as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.
“He hates his jacket,” John stated simply.
“What? That green one he just put on?” Bobby asked. He stared at the front door a moment, frowning. “He’s all piss and vinegar over that? Hell, I know I ain’t exactly an expert on fashion, but it looked just fine to me.” Bobby looked questioningly at John. “What’s wrong with it?”
John offered his friend a tired smile. “It’s not as cool as Dean’s jacket.”
Bobby stared at John, amazement lighting up his grizzled face. It amused him mightily that Sam hated his coat for no other reason than that it was something his big brother wouldn’t be caught dead in. He put down his coffee next to the map on the table and slowly shook his head in wonder, letting one corner of his mouth lift up into a smile.
“Shit, I should tell Sammy about the eyesore of a sweater my Aunt Gertrude crocheted me for my birthday one year. Thing looked like it was made from the world’s ugliest patchwork quilt, had so many damn colors on it,” he said. “I swear, I think it actually glowed in the dark it was so gaudy. But my ma made me put it on every damn time Aunt Gertie came to visit.” Bobby wrinkled his nose. “God, but I hated that thing!”
John shot Bobby a glare of disapproval. “Don’t encourage him,” he warned.
“Wasn’t gonna encourage him,” Bobby retorted. “My point being that your boy should feel lucky he’s got a jacket to wear that don’t look like some girly-sweater made up of all the colors known to God and man.” He grinned. “And here you thought hunting down and killing demons was a dangerous and exhausting job, Johnny.” Bobby laughed softly. “I s’pose hunting’s a comparative cakewalk to raising two young’uns, isn’t it?”
John wearily scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing at the moment that there was more in his coffee cup than just coffee. “At least I can shoot a demon if it pisses me off,” he joked darkly.
He turned a serious eye onto his friend. “Sam’s beginning to push his luck with these little battles, I’ll tell you that much. I’ve had it with him constantly ‘losing’ that jacket or ‘forgetting’ to bring it along with him or making excuses for why he doesn’t need to wear it. Lucky for him, I’ve managed to sniff out wherever Sam’s hidden the thing each time so far or I’d be having an ugly little discussion with him right about now.”
“I take it that discussion would entail one Samuel Winchester getting his britches tanned?” Bobby asked with a raised brow.
John smiled ominously. “Wouldn’t be the first time he and I have had that kind of discussion,” he said. “In fact, it’s getting to be a bit of a habit these days for the two of us.”
“Hmm…can’t imagine where that boy gets his headstrong nature from,” Bobby mused aloud. With a twinkle in his eye, he rose from his chair, coffee cup in hand, and headed to the kitchen for a refill. His back turned from the table, Bobby missed the deep glower John leveled at him.
******
Sam slouched unhappily on the swing at one end of Bobby’s front porch, worrying the zipper of his jacket, angrily yanking the tab up and down the metal teeth, the harsh rasping sound of it breaking the quiet of the afternoon.
“It’s not fair,” he muttered, face scrunched into a pout. “I never get any cool stuff to wear.”
It seemed to Sam that his choices in fashion consisted of hand-me-downs from Dean, which were few and far between since his brother pretty much wore his clothing to tatters, or finds from various second-hand stores his father stopped at when they had the money to spend on ‘new’ clothes. T-shirts and jeans weren’t a problem because all the shops seemed to have an overabundance of those, so Sam could pick and choose at will. But, when it came to items such as jackets or heavy winter coats, in Sam’s opinion, the selection always seemed to be made up of stuff that even a blind person would be loathe to wear. And even though the few friends Sam had made at his school never teased him about his clothes, he was jealous of the fact that he didn’t have any of the latest fashions or popular name brands that they all wore.
“So not fair!” Sam angrily stated again.
Rambo, one of Bobby’s tamer junkyard mutts, gazed up at Sam from his resting spot next to the large ceramic flowerpot near the porch steps. He favored the boy with a detached frown, liquid brown eyes blinking up at the child with what seemed, to Sam, to be a touch of sympathy.
“You’re lucky,” Sam admonished the rottweiler mix. “You don’t have to wear a stupid, ugly coat just ‘cause your dad tells you to.” Rambo shifted, stretching his back legs out, and chuffed softly, which Sam readily accepted as a sign of agreement from the animal.
Sam looked down, contemplating his geography book sitting on the porch swing next to him. He didn’t much feel like reading about oceans anymore. He slid off the swing and wandered over to where Rambo lay on his side, eyes half-closed in semi-sleep, and knelt down to absently rub the dog’s belly. Rambo groaned happily and thumped his tail against the porch in appreciation.
“Wish I was a dog,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Standing back up, the young boy glanced over his shoulder at the front door, then bit his lip, thinking. Scanning the wide, unkempt yard, Sam came to a decision. He peeled off his jacket, shivering a little at the sudden change in temperature he felt left wearing just his tee and plaid button-down. Granted, the sweater might be butt-ass ugly, but it did tend to keep him warm. Even so, that still wasn’t reason enough for Sam to want to keep it on. He balled the jacket up in his hands and walked to the far edge of the porch with it.
Rambo yawned, jaws cracking wide. He sat up, eyeing his new friend with sudden interest. He remained by the steps, but watched in curiosity, head tilted to the side, as Sam reared back and threw his jacket as hard as he could over the porch railing and out into the cluttered side yard. The boy grinned in satisfaction when the jacket landed in a dirty puddle next to a jumbled pile of old tires.
“Guess I lost my jacket again,” Sam said, smiling to himself. His smile quickly faded though when he caught sight of Rambo leaping off the porch to gallop crazily towards the tires, eyes pinned directly on Sam’s sweater.
“No!” Sam shouted, waving frantically at the dog. “No, Rambo! Bad dog!”
Rambo ignored Sam’s shouts to stop and dove for the jacket, sliding through the muddy grass, front paws splayed wide, looking like a baseball player trying to steal home. He grabbed up Sam’s sweater in his teeth and gave it a playful shake before standing back up and turning to trot back to the porch, jacket in tow.
“You stupid, lame-ass dog,” Sam said when Rambo cheerfully dropped the sweater, now stained with mud and slobber, at Sam’s feet. “I’m not trying to play fetch, you moron. I’m trying to get rid of this dumb thing!”
Shooting the dog an exasperated glare, Sam bent down, picking up the sweater with a heavy sigh. He examined the dark stains now covering the front of it from being dragged through the dirt and scowled down at Rambo again. Great, now it would need to be washed. Normally, Sam might have considered that another possible way to rid himself of the jacket, except he’d had already tried it without success. He’d attempted to shrink the sweater in the dryer a couple weeks back, but the tightly woven knit refused even that simple courtesy. All he’d gotten for his efforts was a lecture from his dad for wasting quarters on the extra heat cycle it took to try it.
Sam pursed his lips, flicking his gaze back to Rambo, who sat panting happily in front of him. He held the sweater out, waving it in front of the big dog’s nose.
“Here. You want this piece of crap?” he asked jokingly.
Rambo barked once and chomped his teeth down onto the edge of the jacket so fast that he almost bit Sam’s hand in the process. He tugged once while eyeing Sam, testing to see if his new friend wanted to play.
A light went off for Sam and he grinned mischievously. He tugged back on his end, tentatively, and Rambo, true to his doggy nature, yanked back on his piece of the sweater a little harder this time, adding a tiny head shake along with it.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam encouraged the dog as he slowly backed up, giving his jacket another playful tug. “C’mon boy, get it! Get that ugly sweater!”
Rambo lunged forward, jaws snapping, filling his mouth full of the knit sweater, happy to oblige. Sam leaned his weight back onto his heels, giving little tugs on his jacket as Rambo yanked hard in the opposite direction. Although Sam and the dog weighed approximately the same, Rambo had more muscle mass and easily dragged the boy a few feet forward across the porch as they battled for possession of the jacket. Sam giggled, giving the sweater a firm shake. Rambo countered with a play growl and shook back. His tail was now wagging so fast it looked like a windshield wiper flapping back and forth on the highest setting.
And the dog wasn’t the only one enjoying the tug of war. Sam was ecstatic. Dirt could be washed off his jacket, but great big rips and unraveled tears in the knitting meant the sweater would have to be thrown away for sure. Sam continued to pull, yank and shake his way around the porch with the dog, who began to let out playful yips and growls, despite having a mouthful of fabric. Sam couldn’t help grinning when he heard a seam along the side of the jacket give way with a loud rip.
Neither boy nor dog heard the front door open, nor did they see the two men standing, watching them in stunned silence.
“SAMUEL MICHAEL WINCHESTER!”
Sam froze guiltily. His head snapped around to find his father and Bobby standing just inside the front doorway, one man wearing an amused smirk on his face, the other sporting a black scowl that brought Sam’s heart up into his throat. The jacket slipped from Sam’s fingers as fear flashed across his face. His dad looked beyond pissed.
Rambo, thinking he’d won the contest, gave the jacket one last hard shake before plopping down onto his haunches to chew on his prize in leisure. Bobby made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, shot John an apologetic look, and then motioned at the dog sharply.
“Rambo! Hey! Git over here!”
The dog’s head shot up, ears perked quizzically at Bobby. The sweater hung limply from the animal’s jaws.
Bobby glared back at the dog. “Git over here, ya idjit mutt!” he repeated.
Rambo obediently stood up, tail wagging, and trotted over to his master, bringing his new toy along with him.
Bobby snapped his fingers once and pointed to the floor in front of him. “Drop it,” he ordered, and Rambo immediately unclenched his jaw, dropping Sam’s jacket in a tattered heap at Bobby’s feet.
Bobby gave Rambo’s flank a little nudge with the toe of his boot and the dog took the hint and scooted away from him, heading for the porch steps and the yard beyond. “Sorry ‘bout that, John,” Bobby said quietly, indicating the torn jacket. “Rambo’s still a bit of a pup. He don’t know any better.”
John bent down, scooping up the ruined jacket from the porch, his face darkening.
“I hardly think this,” he angrily shook the sweater in his grip, “is your dog’s fault, Singer.” John turned his enraged visage onto his son. He held the jacket up to Sam and the boy winced, his eyes hastily falling to the floor. “Is it, Sam?”
Sam stared at the tops of his shoes, face pale, not able to answer. How could he possibly explain this?
John nodded curtly toward the open door behind him, his voice hard and sharp. “Get in the house.”
Sam scrambled to obey, feet moving of their own accord. He darted around the two men, careful to keep his backside out of range of his dad’s hand as he passed by. Not that it would matter in a few minutes, Sam realized sadly. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in for one hell of a spanking for this bit of stupidity. The blazing condemnation in his dad’s eyes pretty much confirmed that for him.
John turned on his heel, eyes tracking Sam until the boy came to a hesitant stop near the table in the front room where his dad and Bobby had been working on their research.
“Kitchen,” John ordered curtly.
Sam gave a brief nod, and made for the kitchen, shoulders slumping.
“I think I’ll hang out here for a bit,” Bobby said, giving John a knowing look. He didn’t have a problem with his friend disciplining his kids when they needed it, but he preferred not to have to sit and listen to it while it was going on. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to hit the maps again,” Bobby commented as he headed towards the porch swing where Sam’s book still lay, unopened.
With a heavy sigh, John strode back into the house, Sam’s torn sweater-jacket still in his fist. He tossed the jacket onto a chair in the front room as he passed by it, anger and disappointment welling up in his chest. If Sam had had a valid reason for not wanting to wear the jacket, John would have been willing to consider buying his son a new one. But, stubbornness, jealousy and pride were not valid reasons, in John’s mind. There was a huge difference between wanting something and needing something, and he’d impressed upon both his sons that sometimes they had to make do with what they had because money was tight. This latest bit of destructive defiance from his youngest was the final straw.
*****
Sam’s head shot up as he heard his dad enter the kitchen. He flinched at the firm set of his father’s jaw and the stiff, angry way he stood, brows knit in parental disapproval.
“Why?” John asked, almost spitting the word out.
It was a simple question really, Sam knew. But, answering it to his father’s satisfaction would require more than Sam had to give. He wasn’t really sure why he’d done it, other than that he just didn’t like the sweater and he was mad at his dad for making him wear it.
“I just asked you a question, Samuel,” John growled in rising irritation. “Why did you purposely ruin your jacket?”
Sam managed a weak shrug, his eyes downcast. “I dunno,” he mumbled, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of his long-sleeved shirt.
“That’s not an answer, and you know it,” John snapped, fixing Sam with a stern glare. “Did the dog grab the jacket from you?”
“No sir,” Sam whispered, shaking his head.
“Did you take your jacket off yourself after I told you not to?”
Sam’s head shot up, a glint in his emerald eyes. “You didn’t say I couldn’t take it off,” he countered hotly.
“I told you, you couldn’t go outside without putting your jacket on. And you know damn well that meant you were supposed to wear it the entire time you were outside, Sam,” John stated, feeling his temper ratchet up a notch. “So, I’m going to ask you one more time – did you take your jacket off and give it to the dog?”
“No,” Sam said, his jaw jutting out stubbornly.
John’s voice was positively glacial. “Come again?” he said slowly.
“No, sir,” Sam repeated, this time sounding a bit more sullen.
John blinked, his face darkening. He hadn’t expected Sam to be quite so obstinate, especially not when he’d been caught red-handed.
John leaned into his child’s personal space, his face a stony mask as he pinned his son with a look that was all business. “I want to be very clear here, Samuel. You lie to me about this and I will not hesitate to blister your little butt with my belt. Do you understand me?”
Sam nodded slowly, fear seeping back into his widened eyes. Although it was rare for his dad to use his belt on either him or Dean, he knew it wasn’t an empty threat.
“Now, you think very carefully before you answer again,” John stated emphatically. “And don’t you dare lie.”
“M’not lying,” Sam insisted, although he took a nervous step backwards. “I didn’t give my jacket to Uncle Bobby’s dog. I took it off and…and I threw it over the railing into the yard…” his voice trailed off, cheeks flushing. “Rambo was the one that decided to go after the stupid thing and chew on it,” he added.
“Don’t get smart with me,” John snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to!” Sam retorted.
John’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got about two seconds to lose that attitude or I’m going to help you lose it the hard way.” Sam held his tongue, scowling. “What you did was very immature and wrong,” John said. He reached over to cup Sam’s chin in his hand, lifting until Sam was forced to look him in the eye. “You willfully disobeyed me, and you ruined a perfectly good piece of clothing for no other reason than to spite me and get your own way. If you’d had a legitimate reason for not wanting to wear that -”
“It’s ugly!” Sam interrupted, voice rising in objection.
John’s lips thinned. “That is not a valid objection, Sam.”
Sam stiffened in indignation. “I don’t care!” he spat sulkily. “I hated it and I’m glad it’s all torn up ‘cause now I don’t have to wear it anymore!”
John had heard enough. “We’re done talking,” he stated coldly.
He grabbed Sam while at the same time using his other hand to snatch a chair from beside the kitchen table. Turning the chair around to face him, John sat down heavily and tossed Sam over his lap, restraining the boy with an arm.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, buddy, but I guarantee I’m going to put a stop to it right now,” John stated with determination. He reached underneath his squirming child to undo Sam’s jeans and then yanked them down, along with the boy’s briefs, baring Sam’s bottom.
“Nooo!” Sam wailed, suddenly changing his tune at the prospect of an impending spanking. “Dad, m’sorry!” he hastily blurted out, not knowing what else to say.
John snorted. “Yeah, I just bet you are,” he replied. He brought his hand down on Sam’s rear end, connecting solidly, the crack loud and painful.
Sam jumped and gasped sharply at the sudden burn that arose and traveled across his bare bottom. The sting hadn’t even begun to fade when he felt two more hard swats, in rapid succession, land along the upper crest of his rear on either side, setting the area on fire.
“Ow!” Sam yelped, “I’m really, really sorry!” He grimaced as tears quickly filled his eyes. His dad wasn’t holding back.
John ignored his son’s wails and continued spanking, laying down smack after blistering smack, going from the top of Sam’s backside to the top of the boy’s thighs, making sure to overlap every few swats for good measure until Sam’s bottom was a uniform cherry red in color.
“What are you sorry for?” John questioned. He swatted Sam’s sit spots over and over again, causing Sam to buck and sob from the smarting sting.
“M’sorry I t-tore up my j-jacket – OW, DAD!” Sam bawled, face red and tear-stained. “Ow, ow, ow! An’ I’m s-sorry I didn’t l-listen to you! I won’t do it again! I PROMISE!”
John stopped the spanking, resting his warm palm on Sam’s lower back. “You understand now that when I tell you to do something, you’re expected to do it, without giving me lip about it or trying to go behind my back?”
“Yes, sir!” Sam sobbed.
“We going to have any more problems like this again?” John asked.
Sam shook his head. “No, sir!”
“Good, then let’s finish this up,” John replied. He gave Sam a dozen more hard swats along the crease between the boy’s thighs and bottom, snapping his wrist to create maximum sting and then stopped.
Sam lay limply over his dad’s lap, his entire body shaking as he sobbed uncontrollably, tears and snot mixing on his face. His butt ached and stung, and his head hurt from crying so hard. He wished he’d never laid eyes on that stupid sweater jacket!
John carefully lifted his son from his lap, setting him down on shaky legs so that he could reach over and gently pull the boy’s pants back up. Sam whimpered as the fabric scraped over his sore behind. His hands instantly flew back to cradle the seat of his jeans as fresh tears arose. John gave his child a sympathetic smile before he pulled Sam in close, nestling him between his legs, broad arms encircling the sobbing boy in a protective hug.
“You’re okay, Sammy,” John softly crooned. “C’mon kiddo, calm down,” John murmured. He gave Sam’s neck a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s all over. We’re good.”
Sam clung to his father, face buried in his dad’s flannel shirtfront as he cried softly. John continued to hold and comfort Sam, rubbing the boy’s back until Sam’s tears subsided to nothing more than an occasional hiccup.
“I’m not trying to make your life miserable, Sammy, but I need you to understand that life isn’t always fair,” John spoke quietly, a hint of sadness to his tone. “In fact, it’s rarely that, and you have to make do and be thankful for what you’ve got instead of bitching and moaning about what you don’t or can’t have.”
“I know,” Sam said, his voice muffled against his dad’s shirt. “But how come we always have to make do? Why can’t we get new stuff at the mall like everybody else does?”
“Because we’re not like everybody else, Sammy. You know that.” John said with a twinge of guilt. “I don’t have a regular job somewhere bringing in a steady paycheck.” He sat back so that he could see his son’s face. He reached up and thumbed the last few tears from Sam’s cheeks, eyes softening. “The work I do may not be fancy or earn me the big bucks, Sam, but it’s no less important. I hunt down things that hurt people. Things that ruin lives and tear families apart. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s something I have to do. And sometimes we have to make sacrifices so that I can keep doing that job. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied reluctantly. He rubbed his aching backside, wincing. “I still don’t like it though.”
John cocked an eyebrow at Sam. “You don’t have to like it, bud. You just have to behave and watch the mouth, we clear?”
Sam nodded, laying his head back down onto his father’s shoulder. “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I getting a new jacket?”
The wry look his father leveled at him, made Sam grin a little.
“What do you think?” John asked dryly. “You think you’re old man’s gonna make you go through the winter in just shirt sleeves? How ‘bout I make you walk to school through the snowdrifts barefoot too?”
“Dad!” Sam complained against the side of his father’s neck. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” John said, but chuckled and dropped a kiss onto the top of Sam’s head. He stood up, Sam still clutched tight to his chest. “We’ll check out what the local shops in Sioux Falls have to offer while we’re here, how’s that?”
“’Kay,” Sam replied sleepily. He scrubbed at his puffy eyes. “But, can I have final say on which coat I get?”
John raised a brow. “You paying for it?”
“Daad!”
“We’ll see,” John said. He guided his boy toward the doorway, heading out of the kitchen and for the stairs. “Right now, you’re going upstairs for a bit.”
Sam frowned. “How come?”
“Because you’re tired and you’re cranky, and you’re going to lie down and take a nap,” John firmly stated.
“I don’t wanna take a nap, Dad,” Sam whined, fresh tears appearing in his eyes.
John stopped half-way up the stairs. “You want another spanking instead?” he asked, fixing Sam with a no-nonsense stare.
“No, sir,” Sam muttered despondently.
“Didn’t think so,” John replied and continued up the stairs with his youngest as Sam tried hard to keep the sulky pout off his face.
***
Sam awoke to the sound of plastic crinkling next to his ear. He looked over and spotted a cellophane-wrapped package beside his head and then over further to see Dean standing by the bed, grinning down at him.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, indicating the package on the pillow next to him.
“What’s it look like?” Dean scoffed. “They’re Twinkies. Food of the gods. I was saving ‘em for later, but I figured you needed them more than me.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, snagging the Twinkies off the pillow. A small pleased smile ghosted across his lips.
Blinking tiredly, Sam sat up, then just as quickly rolled onto his side, grimacing as his bottom woke up and alerted him to its presence. He reached back to offer it a brief rub of condolence.
“Yeah, you’re gonna be feeling that for awhile, Samantha,” Dean commented as he watched his little brother wincing and rubbing. “Dad musta beat your ass ten kinds of black and blue.” He shook his head, a glint of amazed admiration in his hazel eyes as he took a seat on the bed opposite Sam. “Dude, what were you thinking?”
Sam offered the older boy a sheepish look and a shrug. “I guess I wasn’t,” he said. “But, you saw that jacket, Dean. Even you thought it looked gross.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. “True. It was pretty gag-inducing, but still, Sammy, there are better ways to get rid of stuff than trying to feed it to the dog.” He snorted. “Rule of thumb, dude? If you can’t get rid of the evidence completely? It ain’t a good plan. ‘Specially when you’re trying to hide something from Dad.”
“I kinda got that figured out now, thanks,” Sam shot back, rolling his eyes. He tore open the package of oblong snack cakes and handed one of them to his brother who promptly stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, moaning in pleasure.
“Bes’ snahk-foo ever,” Dean managed around the mouthful of cream and cake, his eyes glazing over.
Sam offered up a critical stare but said nothing. His brother’s atrocious eating habits were practically famous.
“At least I won’t have to wear that crappy sweater thing ever again,” Sam commented as he took a bite of his own Twinkie.
“And you can borrow my jacket until Dad gets you a new one,” Dean added, using a thumb to wipe a smear of cream filling off the corner of his lip.
Sam’s astonished gaze flicked up to Dean. “Really? You mean it? You’re not just kidding?”
“Yeah, I mean it, squirt,” Dean said. “You can use it whenever I don’t need it.” Dean bounced up off his bed and went over to where his jean jacket hung on the doorknob of the closet. He grabbed it and took it over to Sam, tossing it into the younger boy’s lap. He pointed a warning finger at Sam. “Just don’t spill anything on it, all right?”
Sam nodded, eyes shining. “I won’t,” he said. He carefully put the jacket on, grinning happily despite it being a few sizes too large, and held out his arms. “How’s it look?”
Dean frowned. “I think we might have to roll the sleeves up a little…here, hold on.” He grabbed one of the sleeves and proceeded to roll up the cuff until Sam’s hand finally appeared. “There, that should do it.” He pointed at the other sleeve. “Do the other one.”
Sam rolled up the second cuff to match the first and looked up at Dean. “Okay?”
Dean stood back, studying his brother and then gave a nod. “Yup. Look almost as cool as me now, Sammy.”
Sam beamed at Dean.
Dean grinned back and reached over to tousle Sam’s hair. “C’mon, dinner’s almost ready and Uncle Bobby made one of my faves – Hamburger Helper beef stroganoff.”
Dean paused at the doorway. “Better leave my jacket up here,” he announced. “Just ‘cause I like beef stroganoff doesn’t mean I want to be wearing it later.”
“Very funny,” Sam retorted. “But, I’m not the slob around here, you are.” He dutifully removed Dean’s jacket and laid it down on his bed, before getting up, careful to keep his sore butt clear of the mattress and trotted after Dean, his mood definitely improved. “You eat like a pig, Dean,” Sam stated in disapproval.
Dean’s eyes danced in amusement. “And you cry like a little girl,” he shot back over his shoulder as they headed down the stairs.
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he gave Dean a mock shove. “Jerk.”
Dean smiled. “Bitch.”
THE END