Regretful Renegade
by Minx
Willow Springs, Missouri
April 1996
John Winchester wasn’t a novice when it came to dealing with the local law enforcement in any given town - quite the opposite, in fact. Having spent the past decade and half hunting down demons and sending them packing back to hell, he’d definitely had his fair share of run-ins with the boys in blue. And whether it was talking an officer out of giving him a speeding ticket as he raced down the highway to a job, or whether he was infiltrating a crime scene disguised as one of their own, John never felt particularly worried about the possible dangers involved. He knew he could easily handle himself in any situation. His tour of duty in ‘Nam had shown him that.
No, what made John squirm with more than a touch of fatherly anxiety was the fact that, sooner or later, he’d have to deal with the unpleasant task of his son’s running afoul of the law.
Being a realist, John had tried to mentally prepare himself for it. He knew, without a doubt, that there would come a time when he’d get a call from some police station somewhere, asking him to come down to bail out one of his kids. That was to be expected with their outlaw lifestyle, he reasoned. Never mind the normal lame-brain antics most kids pulled, like fist fighting or vandalizing street signs. Being demon hunters meant adding such crimes as fraud, larceny and even grave desecration to the usual mix.
John knew it wasn’t an ‘if’ but a ‘when’, especially when his oldest child, Dean, wore his rebelliousness like a badge of honor these days. The kid had even begun snagging John’s leather jacket when he wasn’t looking, wearing it to school with the collar turned up, like some modern day James Dean or something. Smart ass punk, John thought with more than a hint of affection - had to try and impress the chicks, just like his old man used to do at his age.
That being said, John was totally caught off guard when he got a call from the Willow Springs sheriff’s department, letting him know that his son had just been picked up for shoplifting. And yet, the shock wasn’t due to the charge of theft. No, John’s bewilderment came from the fact that they were holding Sam, rather than Dean. John slowly hung up the phone in the kitchen and stood a moment, trying to collect his scattered thoughts.
Dean had dropped Sam off at the public library around 3:30pm, along with a couple of Sam’s new friends from school. That was not quite two hours ago, John noted, peering down at his wristwatch. Sam had claimed he needed to work on a book report for his English class, and needed use of some reference materials to do it. No big deal, John figured, until he’d gotten the call.
Apparently, his youngest son hadn’t been totally honest about his after school activities. Either that, or Sam had been arrested for trying to steal a book, and that premise was just too absurd for John to even consider. Who the hell pressed charges for swiping a library book? That led to the only possibility John could logically come to. Sam had lied about the library, using it as a cover story for whatever mischief he’d actually been carrying out.
John’s mouth curled into a deep, scowling frown at that thought. He headed for the doorway leading into the other room, his chest tight with fury. Well, he knew one little boy who was going to be sleeping on his stomach tonight, that was for damn sure! And as angry as John felt, he could pretty much also guarantee that that same boy would, in fact, be regretting his foolish choice for the next several days, every time he tried to sit down in his chair at school.
Dean glanced up from the flickering glow of the TV, concern shining in his eyes, as his dad stalked through the living room of their small rental house. Angry curses spilling from his lips, John breezed by Dean, as if his son wasn’t even there.
“Dad?” Dean questioned, his voice full of caution, “Everything okay?”
John said nothing as he pushed aside his journal and the stack of reports he’d been working on at the cluttered dining room table, searching for the keys to the Impala. Eyes widening, Dean sat up on the couch, worry now wrinkling his youthful brow.
“Is it Sam?” Dean pressed, his heart now thudding painfully. “Did something happen to Sammy?”
“Dean, what’d you do with the car keys?” John demanded, looking up from the table and over to Dean who was now standing up, posture rigid with worry, the TV pretty much forgotten.
“Son,” John said a little harsher than he wanted. “The keys.”
Dean blinked, confused for a moment, before he dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out a set of keys and tossing them across the room to his dad. John caught them one-handed with ease. He picked up his leather jacket from the nearby chair, shooting Dean a reproachful stare upon discovering that his coat now reeked of some sickly sweet girly perfume.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dean mumbled, his cheeks flaming, as his dad shrugged into the jacket and headed for the door. “Dad!” he called out after John, his voice now full of apprehension. “Is Sammy okay?”
John stopped, sighing deeply. He turned to face Dean, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt. He’d been so caught up with going to retrieve Sam that he’d completely neglected to brief Dean on the situation. Dean stood by the sagging leatherette couch, a look of pained disquiet on his face that made John twinge.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” John quietly apologized, reaching for the door. “Sam’s fine. He’s just gotten himself into a little bit of trouble -”
“Trouble?” Dean echoed, swallowing hard. “What kind of trouble?”
John quirked an eyebrow at his oldest, his expression full of annoyance. “Shoplifting,” he said, a note of wryness to his tone.
For the second time in as many moments, Dean blinked in surprise as he let his father’s statement sink in.
“Huh,” the seventeen-year-old huffed in bemused wonder. “Funny. I always figured I’d be the one to get nailed for that.”
“So did I,” John flatly announced.
Dean shot his dad an acidic look as John yanked open the front door.
“Stay here,” John added, pointing a warning finger at his son for emphasis. “I don’t want to have to be out all night hunting down your ass too, you got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean dutifully replied, watching his dad exit the house, a look of cool determination set on John’s grim features.
Dean plopped back down onto the couch and began absently flipping through the channels with the remote. “Jeez, Sammy,” he muttered with amused disgust, shaking his head. “Busted for shoplifting…totally lame…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was cold in the room, Sam realized, as he slouched down on the hard metal bench bolted to the cement floor, trying to make his tall gangly frame as small as possible. He glanced forlornly around the cramped holding area where he was sitting, his nose wrinkling in distaste. It stank of sweat and vomit, two visceral scents he could have done without just now. His stomach was churning away just fine without those added incentives, thank you very much. The knowledge that his father was on his way to pick him up was bad enough. But, when his dad found out what he’d tried to steal? Yeah...hell couldn’t possibly devise a worse torture for him than what his overactive brain was already imagining. This just sucked beyond, he thought miserably.
Sam let out a bitter snort of regret at his plight. It was hard to believe that only a few short hours ago, he’d been sitting in Mr. Stanford’s civics class, learning about the privileges and duties of the American citizen, and now, here he was, Mr. Straight ‘A’ Model Student, cuffed to a bench in a police station, arrested for trying to walk off with a six-pack of Budweiser. The irony was certainly not lost on him.
And what was worse, was that he’d been the only one caught out of the group! Seriously, how fucked up was that? The one guy that probably had the most experience of all of them on how to make a quick, unobtrusive getaway, and he got nabbed by the idiot store clerk. Add to that the fact that he hadn’t even really wanted the stupid beer in the first place, and the whole thing became almost laughable if not for the note of impending doom hanging over his head.
The door to the room suddenly opened, and Sam’s head shot up, trepidation flickering in his dark emerald eyes.
“Your father’s here to take you home, son,” the sheriff’s deputy said as he bent down to remove the handcuff from Sam’s slim wrist.
Sam didn’t say a word as he was led out of the room and down the noisy hallway toward the front booking area. His steps were slow and reluctant. He was pretty sure he forgot how to breathe for one long, ugly moment when he caught sight of his father, standing in front of the sheriff’s desk, all thunder and black clouds like a gale force hurricane ready to knock him on his ass.
“Hey, Dad,” Sam squeaked, refusing to meet his dad’s seething glower.
John didn’t say a word. He just clamped a firm hand around one of Sam’s biceps, reeling his son in to stand almost hip to hip with him.
“Anything else I need to do here?” John gruffly asked the sheriff’s deputy.
The deputy shook his head. “No, sir. The owner of the store isn’t pressing charges as long as your son, here, keeps his nose clean and doesn’t come back.”
“Not a problem,” John replied tightly, biting off every word. His icy tone contrasted with the barely restrained wrath painted over his rigid features.
The deputy smirked a little, flicking his gaze from John’s infuriated scowl over to the subdued look of terror on Sam’s face. Kid was probably going to get his ass beaten something fierce when he got home, the man silently concluded. Too bad more parents didn’t believe in the judicious use of corporal punishment these days, he thought. There’d be a heck of a lot less teens showing up in this office, if that were the case.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Sam began but a fiery glare from John quickly shut him up.
“Not. One. Word.” John growled caustically.
Sam bit his lower lip, pulling his eyes down to the floor as John dragged him out to the car.
The ride home was sheer torture. Sam sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, crowding the door as if John were pestilence incarnate and any contact, accidental or otherwise, would cause Sam to shrivel up and die. John remained reticent, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles almost glowed white. By the time they finally pulled up into the driveway of their modest rental home, Sam wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He glanced up and saw, with a groan, that Dean was sitting on the front porch, waiting for them. Just freaking great, Sam bemoaned silently. The last thing he needed right now was his big brother gloating over his predicament and tossing off snarky one-liners at him.
John threw the car in park and killed the engine. Without even looking at Sam, he opened his own door, his voice so hard and loaded with venom that Sam actually flinched. “Get your butt in the house. NOW.”
Sam just about fell over himself slinging the car door open so hard and fast that it ricocheted back on him. He scrambled out of the Impala as if it was on fire, and with a panicky glance cast back at his dad, Sam double timed it down the overgrown walkway and up the porch steps. He didn’t even spare Dean a cursory look as he raced into the house, making straight for his and Dean’s bedroom.
Dean carefully watched John from the safety of the porch. He let out a slow, measured breath from between his lips, watching as the turbulent storm clouds of displeasure amassed around his dad. John was still sitting in the car, a living statue, frozen behind the steering wheel. He had the car door open and one leg slung out of it but didn’t move to go any further. Just as Dean decided he might need to go over and check to see if his dad was all right, John finally eased himself out of the car with a low grunt, shutting the door with a firm slam. He strode up to the house, a combination of resignation and exasperation warring on his tired face, and drawing his brows down into a stern vee.
“They pressing charges?” Dean quietly asked as his dad came abreast of him on the porch.
John gave a brief shake of his head, reaching for the doorknob. “No. Store owner dropped ‘em. Lucky for us, I guess.”
Yeah, right…luck, Dean reflected doubtfully. That was one thing this family had never seen much of and never would. He licked his lips, fidgeting.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Dean murmured, his tone contrite.
John’s hand dropped away from the door and he twisted around, fixing Dean with a perplexed frown. “Sorry? For what?”
“I should have been there,” Dean stated, the self-reproach in his voice plainly evident to John. “I should have stayed with Sammy at the library. None of this would have - ”
“Whoa, Dean,” John said, holding a hand up to interrupt his eldest’s guilt trip before it built up a full head of steam. “You had nothing to do with this, buddy. This whole mess sits squarely on Sam’s shoulders and no one else’s. He knows it, and I know it.” John reached over, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s broad shoulder. “Lose the guilt, son,” he softly ordered, giving the shoulder beneath his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s not yours to bear this time.”
Dean relaxed a little and nodded, offering up a sad half-smile that tugged at John’s heart. It was a smile of fragile relief. One that told John that even though Dean accepted that this wasn’t his fault or even his problem, he still felt obligated somehow to bear a part of the blame. Jesus, when had his kid become such a hardcore martyr, John wondered sadly. He tried to lighten the mood a little by reaching up and ruffling Dean’s short, sandy hair. It earned him an unhappy grumble from Dean, but beneath that was a broader, more genuine smile this time.
“You mind hanging out here for a bit while I go deal with your brother?” John inquired.
“Uh, no problem, Dad,” Dean attested, holding up his hands in front of him. “You couldn’t get me in there right now even if you offered me a million dollars and a date with Heather Locklear.”
John cracked a tired smile at that. He flipped the car keys at Dean, who caught them in both hands and gave his dad a quizzical look.
“Go fill her up,” John said. “There should be a couple tens in the glove compartment you can use.”
Dean grinned, happy to take the Impala out for a spin on his own. He hopped off the porch, plans formulating in his mind, but he was brought up short by his father’s voice calling after him.
“No cruising the main drag, Dean,” John stated firmly, as if reading his son’s mind. “Gas her up and come right back, we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, a note of disappointment overlaying his short-lived hopes of going for a joyride.
John watched his oldest child carefully back the car out of the driveway and then winced when Dean peeled rubber down the empty street, the tires squealing and smoking in protest.
“Smart ass...” he uttered under his breath, but there was little if any real annoyance in his tone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam sat on the edge of Dean’s unmade bed, one leg unconsciously bouncing up and down in nervousness, like a jittery pogo stick. He didn’t know why he’d chosen to sit on his brother’s bed rather than his own neatly made one, other than for some odd reason he couldn’t exactly explain, it gave him a sense of comfort and boosted his courage a little. And boy, did he need courage right now. As if proving that point, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin upon catching the unmistakable footfalls of his father coming down the hall towards the room.
John stepped through the open doorway, not bothering to shut the door behind him since Dean wasn’t around. Sam took notice of it and his mouth went dry. This was going to be really, really bad. Usually, his dad closed the door to maintain a modicum of privacy for the condemned when he was doling out an ass whipping. But, this time, Dad must have actually sent Dean off premises, giving his older brother a reprieve from the mental torture of having to listen to Sam being killed by their father. So not good, Sam whimpered to himself, and his leg began to boogie up and down even faster.
John stood directly in front of Sam, his piercing look boring into the boy, making Sam hunch down in shame until his ears were almost on a level with his shoulders. John let him stew a minute more before speaking.
“So,” John said, his voice calm and carefully measured. “You want to tell me the real reason why I had to take time away from my research this afternoon and go downtown to bail my twelve-year-old son out of jail?”
Sam paled at his father’s words, his leg bouncing coming to a dead stop. “Dad!” he spluttered, tripping over his words in a sudden, unexpected eagerness to explain. “It wasn’t like that…we were just…I was trying…they said…it was stupid, I know…” Sam finished lamely, his eyes falling to the thighs of his jeans to stare at an old, faded rip in the left one.
“Well, you got that part right, bud,” John snapped dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was definitely stupid, to say the least.” He stared at Sam, disappointment broadcast across his face. “Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?”
“I was just…I don’t know,” Sam muttered in defeat, burying his face in his hands. “But, it wasn’t about the beer,” he added quietly.
John snorted, and Sam looked up in dismay. “I’m not stupid, Samuel. Your old man kinda figured that one out all on his own. Yeah, last time I checked, you weren’t much of a beer aficionado. Am I mistaken?”
“No, sir,” Sam whispered.
“Good. So then, what I’d like to know is why?” John demanded, his chest heaving in irritation. “Why does my responsible, intelligent, head-of-the-class son suddenly decide to become so totally irresponsible?”
A single tear slowly slid down Sam’s left cheek.
“What was so damn important that you’d risk putting yourself and your family in danger like that, Samuel?”
Sam mumbled something, but it was too low to make out. John leaned forward, attention focused on his son.
“What was that?” he growled.
With a hitch of his breath, Sam set his jaw, and forced himself to look up into John’s eyes. “I said I was trying to fit in,” Sam answered, his voice shaking.
John blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?” he demanded.
Sam swiped at the tears now streaming down his face, his lower lip trembling as he tried to explain. “The guys said if I didn’t…you know, go along with it…then I was a wuss, and they didn’t want to hang with me anymore…”
“So basically,” John said, a thoughtful frown on his face, “what you’re telling me is that you knowingly lied to me about your whereabouts and risked getting a juvenile criminal record filed against you, all for the sake of being popular with your school buddies. Is that what you’re telling me, son?”
“You don’t understand,” Sam heatedly whined, his eyes full of frustration. “You don’t know what it’s like, being the new kid...having to try to make new friends every few months...”
John raised his brows, giving Sam a caustic glare. “I’m not liking your tone too much right now, buddy boy,” he warned, and Sam immediately ducked his head. “And what I understand, Samuel, is that you chose to throw your good judgment and your personal safety out the window in order to impress a few losers who don’t know their collective asses from a hole in the ground. Am I wrong?”
Sam hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, sir,” He finally choked out, his face reddening from both the crying and the avalanche of shame he suddenly felt buried under.
John didn’t need to hear anymore. “Stand up and get those jeans down,” John commanded, his tone carrying the full weight of his parental authority.
Sam slowly rose to comply, sniffling, as he unzipped his pants and pushed them down around his knees. Without a word, John took the seat on the bed vacated by Sam. He clamped his fingers around the boy’s wrist, hauling him close. With his other hand, John cupped Sam’s dimpled chin, forcing his son to look up directly into his eyes.
“Words can’t even begin to describe how disappointed I am in you right now,” John sternly lectured. “All the time I’ve spent training you and teaching you...trying to keep you boys safe...and you turn around and do something like this?”
Sam remained silent save for a few hitches of breath as he struggled not to cry harder. John studied his emotional son, wanting badly to just gather him up and comfort him, but knowing that that would have to come later...after.
“I don’t expect you and Dean to be perfect little angels,” John stated dryly. “But, what I do insist on is that you respect my orders at all times. And that means you don’t lie to me, EVER, and you don’t put yourself in danger when it can easily be avoided by following common sense!”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper.
John continued. “What you did this afternoon was just plain dumb, son. And dumb isn’t a word I ever thought I’d have to use in the same sentence with your name.”
Sam’s eyes registered mild surprise at the offhand compliment, but he wasn’t allowed to ponder it further because John chose that moment to pull Sam face down over his lap. He tucked Sam firmly against his muscled abs as he wrapped his left arm securely around his child’s waist.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Sam gulped, whimpering when he felt his dad’s fingers at the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down around his knees to join his jeans.
“Trust me, Samuel, you’re gonna be a whole lot sorrier in a minute,” John stated matter-of-factly, raising his right hand. “I’m gonna make damn sure your little butt reminds you, loud and clear, that this kind of reckless behavior is and always will be unacceptable!”
John began spanking Sam hard, the smacks raining down fast and hot, covering the creamy soft skin of Sam’s bare bottom in a florid pattern of angry splotches. Sam hissed and groaned as his father’s solid hand rose and fell in a steady cadence, the stinging heat building upon itself until he could no longer keep still.
“Dad, please!” Sam howled over the noise of the lusty smacks. He squirmed in growing discomfort, grabbing up a fistful of the bed sheets in front of him and squeezing hard. “I - OW! I won’t ever – OUCH - do it again! Please - OWW! I promise!”
“I know you won’t ever do it again,” John atoned unsympathetically while moving his hand down a few inches lower to hammer the tender area between his son’s cheeks and thighs with a flurry of blazing swats. “And this little ass blistering you’re getting will serve as a reminder of that for a long, long time, Samuel.”
Sam yelped, eyes squeezing shut in distress, the pain quite palpable now. He couldn’t remember the last time his dad had lit into him with such intensity, but then again, he thought with newfound regret, he couldn’t remember doing anything quite as idiotic as trying to shoplift alcohol from a Seven-Eleven before, either.
“Am I gonna be getting any more calls from the Sheriff’s department?” John questioned.
“No, sir!” Sam hissed in misery, hot tears cascading down his face.
“You plan on pulling any more dumb-ass stunts just to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd?” John asked, laying down several thunderous swats across the full crest of Sam’s roasted red bottom as Sam jerked and bawled in protest.
“No, s-sir. No m-more,” Sam stammered, his anguish now breaking from him in loose wracking sobs that shook his entire body.
Satisfied that Sam had learned his lesson, and cognizant of the simmering heat now radiating off his son’s glowing behind, John ended the punishment with a trio of ringing smacks to the center of each butt cheek. He stopped, letting Sam hang limply over his lap for awhile and sob deeply. John’s heart ached at having been so harsh with his youngest, but he knew Sam more than deserved it. And if a sore butt would help Sam remember to stay smart and safe, then John was more than willing to put his boy over his knee every single day if that’s what it took.
Mindful of the tenderness, John carefully pulled Sam’s pants and underwear up to just below his crease, and then gently eased his son up from his prone position. Sam quickly reached down to tug his pants all the way up, caring more about his modesty than the stinging pain the move caused him. He left his jeans undone, though, instead sliding his hands around behind him to rub at the throbbing ache there.
John let out a jagged sigh and cupped the back of Sam’s head, drawing him close. Sam willingly allowed his dad to envelop him in a warm, comforting hug, all anger, guilt and hurt forgotten. He snuffled into John’s shoulder, hands clutching at his dad’s shirtfront as John gently rubbed Sam’s back.
“M’sorry,” Sam mumbled into John’s shirt, his voice watery with tears.
“I’m sorry too, kiddo,” John whispered into Sam’s hair, continuing to console his son with the back rub. “I’m sorry I had to be so hard on you this time, Sammy. But I need you to understand, truly understand, just how dangerous this world is we live in.”
John pulled Sam from him until he could look into Sam’s stormy eyes. Mary’s eyes, he thought with a sudden pang, and then just as quickly, he shoved that image out of his mind.
“Because of who we are and what we do, we have to live outside the norm,” John continued, his voice soft, regretful. “And, because of who we are and what we do, a lot of people get to live long, healthy lives that wouldn’t otherwise get to. That’s important, Sammy. It’s something to be proud of, not hide from. Remember that the next time you want to ‘fit in’ with the crowd.”
John pulled Sam close once again for a heartfelt hug and a kiss to the top of Sam’s head. Sam returned the display of affection with a tight hug back before letting go and straightening up.
“I hope I won’t ever have to repeat this lesson with you, Samuel,” John warned, cocking an eyebrow at his son. “But just to make sure, you’re grounded for the rest of the month as well. You come straight home from school with Dean and to your room.”
Sam’s face fell, but he didn’t complain out loud. He knew from past experience that offering up a challenge to a punishment only brought on more of the same from his dad.
“I also don’t want you hanging around those boys anymore,” John firmly stated, eyes narrowing when Sam opened his mouth, against his better judgment to protest. “Uh uh, son. No middle ground on that one. Not only did they involve you in a risky situation but they also left you hanging and took off when things went sour.”
Sam had stubbornly refused to give the names of the other boys to the police, not wanting to be a tattle tale. But, John planned to do a little research of his own to make sure the clowns involved got their just desserts, although he doubted they’d suffer the same fate as Sam had.
“Any good hunter knows his circle of trust is a small one,” John said. “It’s made up of family and close friends. And those people are one’s he’s willing to trust with his life. You want to put your life into your friends’ hands?” John quietly asked Sam.
Sam shook his head, albeit reluctantly. He understood what his dad was trying to say, nevertheless, it was a hard message to come to grips with at the ripe old age of twelve.
“I’m thinking you still have a book report to finish,” John said, rising from the bed. He brushed the bangs from Sam’s eyes, smiling into their emerald depths. “Why don’t you stay in here and work on that until I call you for dinner. Okay, champ?”
“’Kay, Dad,” Sam replied.
John left to go see about dinner and Sam dug his English book and a notebook out of his backpack and stretched out, stomach down, on his bed to do his homework. Flipping to the correct page in the book, Sam hummed to himself, pausing in his writing every so often to reach behind him and rub at his stinging butt. He wondered if his dad would let him eat in his room tonight instead of forcing him to sit at the table in one the hard, wooden kitchen chairs. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, he mused, as he put pencil to paper once more.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam never got the chance to ask about having dinner in his room because it was Dean that ultimately came to get him rather than John. Dean gazed over at Sam with hooded eyes, trying hard not give away his amusement as he shut the bedroom door behind him and wandered over to take a seat next to Sam on his bed. The two boys looked at each other in silence, Sam tensing a little, knowing Dean was just waiting for the right moment. And it wasn’t a long wait either.
“So...Sammy,” Dean finally spoke, pretending to be casual as he leaned in close to Sam, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile. “How was prison? You meet anyone while inside?”
“Real funny, Dean,” Sam snapped irritably. “I’m so glad I was able to provide you with some amusement today. Wouldn’t want you to get bored or anything.”
Dean chuckled, his hazel eyes crinkling in humor. “Dude, you should have seen the look on Dad’s face when he hung up the phone earlier – full on reaper mode, I’m telling ya.”
Sam offered up a resentful glare at the news. “Yeah, I kinda got that Dad was pissed, Sherlock. Sort of hard to miss when he was whaling on my ass.”
“You mean this ass?” Dean innocently questioned.
“DUDE. Don’t EVEN.” Sam hissed in warning. He blocked Dean’s hand from actually connecting with his sore butt.
Dean obediently removed his hand from the vicinity of his little brother’s rear end, his face growing sober. “Dad said you tried to make off with a six-pack. Seriously?”
Sam nodded, ears tingeing pink in admittance. “Yeah. Scott and Danny said they’d done it a bunch of times before. They’d just go in and one of ‘em would distract the clerk while the other one slipped the beer underneath his coat.”
“And you fucked that up, how?” Dean questioned, a hint of brotherly retribution in his voice.
Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t fuck it up,” he retorted. “Thanks so much for your vote of confidence, by the way.” He rolled off his stomach, slowly sitting up, wincing as his butt made solid contact with the mattress. “The clerk must have been on to them, because I didn’t even make it to the front of the store before he was on me. The guy grabbed me and Danny and Scott took off,” Sam finished with a shrug.
“Nice friends you got there, Sammy,” Dean commented sarcastically.
“Hey, at least I’ve got friends,” Sam countered, the color rising to his cheeks.
“I don’t know why you care so much about making friends anyway,” Dean said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “It’s not like we’re gonna be staying here long enough for it to matter. Besides, what do you tell them?”
“About what?” Sam snarled, his jaw going rigid at having to explain himself to Dean.
“About us, dude,” Dean shot back in tired irritation. “About why you’re busy almost every weekend or why Dad’s always gone or why they can’t just come over and hang out here with you whenever.” Dean’s eyes softened. “The more you get to know people, Sammy, and the closer you try to get to them? …The more they just start asking questions you can’t answer.”
Sam looked crestfallen. Dean began to absently rub Sam’s back, trying to offer what little comfort he could.
“Hey, you know what?” Dean offered, “You don’t need friends…you got me.”
“Oh, yay, lucky me,” Sam sarcastically quipped, earning him a playful smack to the back of his head.
“Cheer up, Sammy,” Dean urged. “As long as you, me and Dad are together, we don’t need anybody else.”
With that, Dean hunched over, reaching underneath his sweatshirt to pull out a can of beer, a wide grin of triumph plastered over his handsome face. He popped the top on the can, muffling the noise of the small explosion as best he could in the front of his sweatshirt.
“Here, jailbird.” He offered Sam the foaming can, a wicked grin on his lips. “You deserve to have a chug or two for all your troubles.”
Sam accepted the beer with an embarrassed roll of his eyes, tilting the can to his mouth and gulping down two big swigs. He let out a loud, satisfied belch before passing the beer back to Dean.
“Thanks,” Sam said, his throbbing butt momentarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of brotherly camaraderie.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean replied. He tossed back what was left of the beer in the can in one long chug, looking more experienced than he had a right to.
Dean stifled a deep belch, chuckling when Sam also popped out another solid beer burp to match his.
“Uh, you might wanna go brush your teeth really good before coming to the table,” Dean advised, rising from the bed and heading for the bedroom door. “’Cause if Dad smells the beer on your breath, you’re not gonna be the only one sleeping face down tonight.” He gave Sam a parting grin over his shoulder. “And you know, if that happens? I’ll have to kill you, Sammy.”
“Jerk,” Sam softly declared.
“Bitch,” Dean fondly answered back.
THE END
April 1996
John Winchester wasn’t a novice when it came to dealing with the local law enforcement in any given town - quite the opposite, in fact. Having spent the past decade and half hunting down demons and sending them packing back to hell, he’d definitely had his fair share of run-ins with the boys in blue. And whether it was talking an officer out of giving him a speeding ticket as he raced down the highway to a job, or whether he was infiltrating a crime scene disguised as one of their own, John never felt particularly worried about the possible dangers involved. He knew he could easily handle himself in any situation. His tour of duty in ‘Nam had shown him that.
No, what made John squirm with more than a touch of fatherly anxiety was the fact that, sooner or later, he’d have to deal with the unpleasant task of his son’s running afoul of the law.
Being a realist, John had tried to mentally prepare himself for it. He knew, without a doubt, that there would come a time when he’d get a call from some police station somewhere, asking him to come down to bail out one of his kids. That was to be expected with their outlaw lifestyle, he reasoned. Never mind the normal lame-brain antics most kids pulled, like fist fighting or vandalizing street signs. Being demon hunters meant adding such crimes as fraud, larceny and even grave desecration to the usual mix.
John knew it wasn’t an ‘if’ but a ‘when’, especially when his oldest child, Dean, wore his rebelliousness like a badge of honor these days. The kid had even begun snagging John’s leather jacket when he wasn’t looking, wearing it to school with the collar turned up, like some modern day James Dean or something. Smart ass punk, John thought with more than a hint of affection - had to try and impress the chicks, just like his old man used to do at his age.
That being said, John was totally caught off guard when he got a call from the Willow Springs sheriff’s department, letting him know that his son had just been picked up for shoplifting. And yet, the shock wasn’t due to the charge of theft. No, John’s bewilderment came from the fact that they were holding Sam, rather than Dean. John slowly hung up the phone in the kitchen and stood a moment, trying to collect his scattered thoughts.
Dean had dropped Sam off at the public library around 3:30pm, along with a couple of Sam’s new friends from school. That was not quite two hours ago, John noted, peering down at his wristwatch. Sam had claimed he needed to work on a book report for his English class, and needed use of some reference materials to do it. No big deal, John figured, until he’d gotten the call.
Apparently, his youngest son hadn’t been totally honest about his after school activities. Either that, or Sam had been arrested for trying to steal a book, and that premise was just too absurd for John to even consider. Who the hell pressed charges for swiping a library book? That led to the only possibility John could logically come to. Sam had lied about the library, using it as a cover story for whatever mischief he’d actually been carrying out.
John’s mouth curled into a deep, scowling frown at that thought. He headed for the doorway leading into the other room, his chest tight with fury. Well, he knew one little boy who was going to be sleeping on his stomach tonight, that was for damn sure! And as angry as John felt, he could pretty much also guarantee that that same boy would, in fact, be regretting his foolish choice for the next several days, every time he tried to sit down in his chair at school.
Dean glanced up from the flickering glow of the TV, concern shining in his eyes, as his dad stalked through the living room of their small rental house. Angry curses spilling from his lips, John breezed by Dean, as if his son wasn’t even there.
“Dad?” Dean questioned, his voice full of caution, “Everything okay?”
John said nothing as he pushed aside his journal and the stack of reports he’d been working on at the cluttered dining room table, searching for the keys to the Impala. Eyes widening, Dean sat up on the couch, worry now wrinkling his youthful brow.
“Is it Sam?” Dean pressed, his heart now thudding painfully. “Did something happen to Sammy?”
“Dean, what’d you do with the car keys?” John demanded, looking up from the table and over to Dean who was now standing up, posture rigid with worry, the TV pretty much forgotten.
“Son,” John said a little harsher than he wanted. “The keys.”
Dean blinked, confused for a moment, before he dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out a set of keys and tossing them across the room to his dad. John caught them one-handed with ease. He picked up his leather jacket from the nearby chair, shooting Dean a reproachful stare upon discovering that his coat now reeked of some sickly sweet girly perfume.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dean mumbled, his cheeks flaming, as his dad shrugged into the jacket and headed for the door. “Dad!” he called out after John, his voice now full of apprehension. “Is Sammy okay?”
John stopped, sighing deeply. He turned to face Dean, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt. He’d been so caught up with going to retrieve Sam that he’d completely neglected to brief Dean on the situation. Dean stood by the sagging leatherette couch, a look of pained disquiet on his face that made John twinge.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” John quietly apologized, reaching for the door. “Sam’s fine. He’s just gotten himself into a little bit of trouble -”
“Trouble?” Dean echoed, swallowing hard. “What kind of trouble?”
John quirked an eyebrow at his oldest, his expression full of annoyance. “Shoplifting,” he said, a note of wryness to his tone.
For the second time in as many moments, Dean blinked in surprise as he let his father’s statement sink in.
“Huh,” the seventeen-year-old huffed in bemused wonder. “Funny. I always figured I’d be the one to get nailed for that.”
“So did I,” John flatly announced.
Dean shot his dad an acidic look as John yanked open the front door.
“Stay here,” John added, pointing a warning finger at his son for emphasis. “I don’t want to have to be out all night hunting down your ass too, you got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean dutifully replied, watching his dad exit the house, a look of cool determination set on John’s grim features.
Dean plopped back down onto the couch and began absently flipping through the channels with the remote. “Jeez, Sammy,” he muttered with amused disgust, shaking his head. “Busted for shoplifting…totally lame…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was cold in the room, Sam realized, as he slouched down on the hard metal bench bolted to the cement floor, trying to make his tall gangly frame as small as possible. He glanced forlornly around the cramped holding area where he was sitting, his nose wrinkling in distaste. It stank of sweat and vomit, two visceral scents he could have done without just now. His stomach was churning away just fine without those added incentives, thank you very much. The knowledge that his father was on his way to pick him up was bad enough. But, when his dad found out what he’d tried to steal? Yeah...hell couldn’t possibly devise a worse torture for him than what his overactive brain was already imagining. This just sucked beyond, he thought miserably.
Sam let out a bitter snort of regret at his plight. It was hard to believe that only a few short hours ago, he’d been sitting in Mr. Stanford’s civics class, learning about the privileges and duties of the American citizen, and now, here he was, Mr. Straight ‘A’ Model Student, cuffed to a bench in a police station, arrested for trying to walk off with a six-pack of Budweiser. The irony was certainly not lost on him.
And what was worse, was that he’d been the only one caught out of the group! Seriously, how fucked up was that? The one guy that probably had the most experience of all of them on how to make a quick, unobtrusive getaway, and he got nabbed by the idiot store clerk. Add to that the fact that he hadn’t even really wanted the stupid beer in the first place, and the whole thing became almost laughable if not for the note of impending doom hanging over his head.
The door to the room suddenly opened, and Sam’s head shot up, trepidation flickering in his dark emerald eyes.
“Your father’s here to take you home, son,” the sheriff’s deputy said as he bent down to remove the handcuff from Sam’s slim wrist.
Sam didn’t say a word as he was led out of the room and down the noisy hallway toward the front booking area. His steps were slow and reluctant. He was pretty sure he forgot how to breathe for one long, ugly moment when he caught sight of his father, standing in front of the sheriff’s desk, all thunder and black clouds like a gale force hurricane ready to knock him on his ass.
“Hey, Dad,” Sam squeaked, refusing to meet his dad’s seething glower.
John didn’t say a word. He just clamped a firm hand around one of Sam’s biceps, reeling his son in to stand almost hip to hip with him.
“Anything else I need to do here?” John gruffly asked the sheriff’s deputy.
The deputy shook his head. “No, sir. The owner of the store isn’t pressing charges as long as your son, here, keeps his nose clean and doesn’t come back.”
“Not a problem,” John replied tightly, biting off every word. His icy tone contrasted with the barely restrained wrath painted over his rigid features.
The deputy smirked a little, flicking his gaze from John’s infuriated scowl over to the subdued look of terror on Sam’s face. Kid was probably going to get his ass beaten something fierce when he got home, the man silently concluded. Too bad more parents didn’t believe in the judicious use of corporal punishment these days, he thought. There’d be a heck of a lot less teens showing up in this office, if that were the case.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Sam began but a fiery glare from John quickly shut him up.
“Not. One. Word.” John growled caustically.
Sam bit his lower lip, pulling his eyes down to the floor as John dragged him out to the car.
The ride home was sheer torture. Sam sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, crowding the door as if John were pestilence incarnate and any contact, accidental or otherwise, would cause Sam to shrivel up and die. John remained reticent, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles almost glowed white. By the time they finally pulled up into the driveway of their modest rental home, Sam wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He glanced up and saw, with a groan, that Dean was sitting on the front porch, waiting for them. Just freaking great, Sam bemoaned silently. The last thing he needed right now was his big brother gloating over his predicament and tossing off snarky one-liners at him.
John threw the car in park and killed the engine. Without even looking at Sam, he opened his own door, his voice so hard and loaded with venom that Sam actually flinched. “Get your butt in the house. NOW.”
Sam just about fell over himself slinging the car door open so hard and fast that it ricocheted back on him. He scrambled out of the Impala as if it was on fire, and with a panicky glance cast back at his dad, Sam double timed it down the overgrown walkway and up the porch steps. He didn’t even spare Dean a cursory look as he raced into the house, making straight for his and Dean’s bedroom.
Dean carefully watched John from the safety of the porch. He let out a slow, measured breath from between his lips, watching as the turbulent storm clouds of displeasure amassed around his dad. John was still sitting in the car, a living statue, frozen behind the steering wheel. He had the car door open and one leg slung out of it but didn’t move to go any further. Just as Dean decided he might need to go over and check to see if his dad was all right, John finally eased himself out of the car with a low grunt, shutting the door with a firm slam. He strode up to the house, a combination of resignation and exasperation warring on his tired face, and drawing his brows down into a stern vee.
“They pressing charges?” Dean quietly asked as his dad came abreast of him on the porch.
John gave a brief shake of his head, reaching for the doorknob. “No. Store owner dropped ‘em. Lucky for us, I guess.”
Yeah, right…luck, Dean reflected doubtfully. That was one thing this family had never seen much of and never would. He licked his lips, fidgeting.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Dean murmured, his tone contrite.
John’s hand dropped away from the door and he twisted around, fixing Dean with a perplexed frown. “Sorry? For what?”
“I should have been there,” Dean stated, the self-reproach in his voice plainly evident to John. “I should have stayed with Sammy at the library. None of this would have - ”
“Whoa, Dean,” John said, holding a hand up to interrupt his eldest’s guilt trip before it built up a full head of steam. “You had nothing to do with this, buddy. This whole mess sits squarely on Sam’s shoulders and no one else’s. He knows it, and I know it.” John reached over, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s broad shoulder. “Lose the guilt, son,” he softly ordered, giving the shoulder beneath his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s not yours to bear this time.”
Dean relaxed a little and nodded, offering up a sad half-smile that tugged at John’s heart. It was a smile of fragile relief. One that told John that even though Dean accepted that this wasn’t his fault or even his problem, he still felt obligated somehow to bear a part of the blame. Jesus, when had his kid become such a hardcore martyr, John wondered sadly. He tried to lighten the mood a little by reaching up and ruffling Dean’s short, sandy hair. It earned him an unhappy grumble from Dean, but beneath that was a broader, more genuine smile this time.
“You mind hanging out here for a bit while I go deal with your brother?” John inquired.
“Uh, no problem, Dad,” Dean attested, holding up his hands in front of him. “You couldn’t get me in there right now even if you offered me a million dollars and a date with Heather Locklear.”
John cracked a tired smile at that. He flipped the car keys at Dean, who caught them in both hands and gave his dad a quizzical look.
“Go fill her up,” John said. “There should be a couple tens in the glove compartment you can use.”
Dean grinned, happy to take the Impala out for a spin on his own. He hopped off the porch, plans formulating in his mind, but he was brought up short by his father’s voice calling after him.
“No cruising the main drag, Dean,” John stated firmly, as if reading his son’s mind. “Gas her up and come right back, we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, a note of disappointment overlaying his short-lived hopes of going for a joyride.
John watched his oldest child carefully back the car out of the driveway and then winced when Dean peeled rubber down the empty street, the tires squealing and smoking in protest.
“Smart ass...” he uttered under his breath, but there was little if any real annoyance in his tone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam sat on the edge of Dean’s unmade bed, one leg unconsciously bouncing up and down in nervousness, like a jittery pogo stick. He didn’t know why he’d chosen to sit on his brother’s bed rather than his own neatly made one, other than for some odd reason he couldn’t exactly explain, it gave him a sense of comfort and boosted his courage a little. And boy, did he need courage right now. As if proving that point, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin upon catching the unmistakable footfalls of his father coming down the hall towards the room.
John stepped through the open doorway, not bothering to shut the door behind him since Dean wasn’t around. Sam took notice of it and his mouth went dry. This was going to be really, really bad. Usually, his dad closed the door to maintain a modicum of privacy for the condemned when he was doling out an ass whipping. But, this time, Dad must have actually sent Dean off premises, giving his older brother a reprieve from the mental torture of having to listen to Sam being killed by their father. So not good, Sam whimpered to himself, and his leg began to boogie up and down even faster.
John stood directly in front of Sam, his piercing look boring into the boy, making Sam hunch down in shame until his ears were almost on a level with his shoulders. John let him stew a minute more before speaking.
“So,” John said, his voice calm and carefully measured. “You want to tell me the real reason why I had to take time away from my research this afternoon and go downtown to bail my twelve-year-old son out of jail?”
Sam paled at his father’s words, his leg bouncing coming to a dead stop. “Dad!” he spluttered, tripping over his words in a sudden, unexpected eagerness to explain. “It wasn’t like that…we were just…I was trying…they said…it was stupid, I know…” Sam finished lamely, his eyes falling to the thighs of his jeans to stare at an old, faded rip in the left one.
“Well, you got that part right, bud,” John snapped dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was definitely stupid, to say the least.” He stared at Sam, disappointment broadcast across his face. “Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?”
“I was just…I don’t know,” Sam muttered in defeat, burying his face in his hands. “But, it wasn’t about the beer,” he added quietly.
John snorted, and Sam looked up in dismay. “I’m not stupid, Samuel. Your old man kinda figured that one out all on his own. Yeah, last time I checked, you weren’t much of a beer aficionado. Am I mistaken?”
“No, sir,” Sam whispered.
“Good. So then, what I’d like to know is why?” John demanded, his chest heaving in irritation. “Why does my responsible, intelligent, head-of-the-class son suddenly decide to become so totally irresponsible?”
A single tear slowly slid down Sam’s left cheek.
“What was so damn important that you’d risk putting yourself and your family in danger like that, Samuel?”
Sam mumbled something, but it was too low to make out. John leaned forward, attention focused on his son.
“What was that?” he growled.
With a hitch of his breath, Sam set his jaw, and forced himself to look up into John’s eyes. “I said I was trying to fit in,” Sam answered, his voice shaking.
John blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?” he demanded.
Sam swiped at the tears now streaming down his face, his lower lip trembling as he tried to explain. “The guys said if I didn’t…you know, go along with it…then I was a wuss, and they didn’t want to hang with me anymore…”
“So basically,” John said, a thoughtful frown on his face, “what you’re telling me is that you knowingly lied to me about your whereabouts and risked getting a juvenile criminal record filed against you, all for the sake of being popular with your school buddies. Is that what you’re telling me, son?”
“You don’t understand,” Sam heatedly whined, his eyes full of frustration. “You don’t know what it’s like, being the new kid...having to try to make new friends every few months...”
John raised his brows, giving Sam a caustic glare. “I’m not liking your tone too much right now, buddy boy,” he warned, and Sam immediately ducked his head. “And what I understand, Samuel, is that you chose to throw your good judgment and your personal safety out the window in order to impress a few losers who don’t know their collective asses from a hole in the ground. Am I wrong?”
Sam hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, sir,” He finally choked out, his face reddening from both the crying and the avalanche of shame he suddenly felt buried under.
John didn’t need to hear anymore. “Stand up and get those jeans down,” John commanded, his tone carrying the full weight of his parental authority.
Sam slowly rose to comply, sniffling, as he unzipped his pants and pushed them down around his knees. Without a word, John took the seat on the bed vacated by Sam. He clamped his fingers around the boy’s wrist, hauling him close. With his other hand, John cupped Sam’s dimpled chin, forcing his son to look up directly into his eyes.
“Words can’t even begin to describe how disappointed I am in you right now,” John sternly lectured. “All the time I’ve spent training you and teaching you...trying to keep you boys safe...and you turn around and do something like this?”
Sam remained silent save for a few hitches of breath as he struggled not to cry harder. John studied his emotional son, wanting badly to just gather him up and comfort him, but knowing that that would have to come later...after.
“I don’t expect you and Dean to be perfect little angels,” John stated dryly. “But, what I do insist on is that you respect my orders at all times. And that means you don’t lie to me, EVER, and you don’t put yourself in danger when it can easily be avoided by following common sense!”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper.
John continued. “What you did this afternoon was just plain dumb, son. And dumb isn’t a word I ever thought I’d have to use in the same sentence with your name.”
Sam’s eyes registered mild surprise at the offhand compliment, but he wasn’t allowed to ponder it further because John chose that moment to pull Sam face down over his lap. He tucked Sam firmly against his muscled abs as he wrapped his left arm securely around his child’s waist.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Sam gulped, whimpering when he felt his dad’s fingers at the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down around his knees to join his jeans.
“Trust me, Samuel, you’re gonna be a whole lot sorrier in a minute,” John stated matter-of-factly, raising his right hand. “I’m gonna make damn sure your little butt reminds you, loud and clear, that this kind of reckless behavior is and always will be unacceptable!”
John began spanking Sam hard, the smacks raining down fast and hot, covering the creamy soft skin of Sam’s bare bottom in a florid pattern of angry splotches. Sam hissed and groaned as his father’s solid hand rose and fell in a steady cadence, the stinging heat building upon itself until he could no longer keep still.
“Dad, please!” Sam howled over the noise of the lusty smacks. He squirmed in growing discomfort, grabbing up a fistful of the bed sheets in front of him and squeezing hard. “I - OW! I won’t ever – OUCH - do it again! Please - OWW! I promise!”
“I know you won’t ever do it again,” John atoned unsympathetically while moving his hand down a few inches lower to hammer the tender area between his son’s cheeks and thighs with a flurry of blazing swats. “And this little ass blistering you’re getting will serve as a reminder of that for a long, long time, Samuel.”
Sam yelped, eyes squeezing shut in distress, the pain quite palpable now. He couldn’t remember the last time his dad had lit into him with such intensity, but then again, he thought with newfound regret, he couldn’t remember doing anything quite as idiotic as trying to shoplift alcohol from a Seven-Eleven before, either.
“Am I gonna be getting any more calls from the Sheriff’s department?” John questioned.
“No, sir!” Sam hissed in misery, hot tears cascading down his face.
“You plan on pulling any more dumb-ass stunts just to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd?” John asked, laying down several thunderous swats across the full crest of Sam’s roasted red bottom as Sam jerked and bawled in protest.
“No, s-sir. No m-more,” Sam stammered, his anguish now breaking from him in loose wracking sobs that shook his entire body.
Satisfied that Sam had learned his lesson, and cognizant of the simmering heat now radiating off his son’s glowing behind, John ended the punishment with a trio of ringing smacks to the center of each butt cheek. He stopped, letting Sam hang limply over his lap for awhile and sob deeply. John’s heart ached at having been so harsh with his youngest, but he knew Sam more than deserved it. And if a sore butt would help Sam remember to stay smart and safe, then John was more than willing to put his boy over his knee every single day if that’s what it took.
Mindful of the tenderness, John carefully pulled Sam’s pants and underwear up to just below his crease, and then gently eased his son up from his prone position. Sam quickly reached down to tug his pants all the way up, caring more about his modesty than the stinging pain the move caused him. He left his jeans undone, though, instead sliding his hands around behind him to rub at the throbbing ache there.
John let out a jagged sigh and cupped the back of Sam’s head, drawing him close. Sam willingly allowed his dad to envelop him in a warm, comforting hug, all anger, guilt and hurt forgotten. He snuffled into John’s shoulder, hands clutching at his dad’s shirtfront as John gently rubbed Sam’s back.
“M’sorry,” Sam mumbled into John’s shirt, his voice watery with tears.
“I’m sorry too, kiddo,” John whispered into Sam’s hair, continuing to console his son with the back rub. “I’m sorry I had to be so hard on you this time, Sammy. But I need you to understand, truly understand, just how dangerous this world is we live in.”
John pulled Sam from him until he could look into Sam’s stormy eyes. Mary’s eyes, he thought with a sudden pang, and then just as quickly, he shoved that image out of his mind.
“Because of who we are and what we do, we have to live outside the norm,” John continued, his voice soft, regretful. “And, because of who we are and what we do, a lot of people get to live long, healthy lives that wouldn’t otherwise get to. That’s important, Sammy. It’s something to be proud of, not hide from. Remember that the next time you want to ‘fit in’ with the crowd.”
John pulled Sam close once again for a heartfelt hug and a kiss to the top of Sam’s head. Sam returned the display of affection with a tight hug back before letting go and straightening up.
“I hope I won’t ever have to repeat this lesson with you, Samuel,” John warned, cocking an eyebrow at his son. “But just to make sure, you’re grounded for the rest of the month as well. You come straight home from school with Dean and to your room.”
Sam’s face fell, but he didn’t complain out loud. He knew from past experience that offering up a challenge to a punishment only brought on more of the same from his dad.
“I also don’t want you hanging around those boys anymore,” John firmly stated, eyes narrowing when Sam opened his mouth, against his better judgment to protest. “Uh uh, son. No middle ground on that one. Not only did they involve you in a risky situation but they also left you hanging and took off when things went sour.”
Sam had stubbornly refused to give the names of the other boys to the police, not wanting to be a tattle tale. But, John planned to do a little research of his own to make sure the clowns involved got their just desserts, although he doubted they’d suffer the same fate as Sam had.
“Any good hunter knows his circle of trust is a small one,” John said. “It’s made up of family and close friends. And those people are one’s he’s willing to trust with his life. You want to put your life into your friends’ hands?” John quietly asked Sam.
Sam shook his head, albeit reluctantly. He understood what his dad was trying to say, nevertheless, it was a hard message to come to grips with at the ripe old age of twelve.
“I’m thinking you still have a book report to finish,” John said, rising from the bed. He brushed the bangs from Sam’s eyes, smiling into their emerald depths. “Why don’t you stay in here and work on that until I call you for dinner. Okay, champ?”
“’Kay, Dad,” Sam replied.
John left to go see about dinner and Sam dug his English book and a notebook out of his backpack and stretched out, stomach down, on his bed to do his homework. Flipping to the correct page in the book, Sam hummed to himself, pausing in his writing every so often to reach behind him and rub at his stinging butt. He wondered if his dad would let him eat in his room tonight instead of forcing him to sit at the table in one the hard, wooden kitchen chairs. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, he mused, as he put pencil to paper once more.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam never got the chance to ask about having dinner in his room because it was Dean that ultimately came to get him rather than John. Dean gazed over at Sam with hooded eyes, trying hard not give away his amusement as he shut the bedroom door behind him and wandered over to take a seat next to Sam on his bed. The two boys looked at each other in silence, Sam tensing a little, knowing Dean was just waiting for the right moment. And it wasn’t a long wait either.
“So...Sammy,” Dean finally spoke, pretending to be casual as he leaned in close to Sam, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile. “How was prison? You meet anyone while inside?”
“Real funny, Dean,” Sam snapped irritably. “I’m so glad I was able to provide you with some amusement today. Wouldn’t want you to get bored or anything.”
Dean chuckled, his hazel eyes crinkling in humor. “Dude, you should have seen the look on Dad’s face when he hung up the phone earlier – full on reaper mode, I’m telling ya.”
Sam offered up a resentful glare at the news. “Yeah, I kinda got that Dad was pissed, Sherlock. Sort of hard to miss when he was whaling on my ass.”
“You mean this ass?” Dean innocently questioned.
“DUDE. Don’t EVEN.” Sam hissed in warning. He blocked Dean’s hand from actually connecting with his sore butt.
Dean obediently removed his hand from the vicinity of his little brother’s rear end, his face growing sober. “Dad said you tried to make off with a six-pack. Seriously?”
Sam nodded, ears tingeing pink in admittance. “Yeah. Scott and Danny said they’d done it a bunch of times before. They’d just go in and one of ‘em would distract the clerk while the other one slipped the beer underneath his coat.”
“And you fucked that up, how?” Dean questioned, a hint of brotherly retribution in his voice.
Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t fuck it up,” he retorted. “Thanks so much for your vote of confidence, by the way.” He rolled off his stomach, slowly sitting up, wincing as his butt made solid contact with the mattress. “The clerk must have been on to them, because I didn’t even make it to the front of the store before he was on me. The guy grabbed me and Danny and Scott took off,” Sam finished with a shrug.
“Nice friends you got there, Sammy,” Dean commented sarcastically.
“Hey, at least I’ve got friends,” Sam countered, the color rising to his cheeks.
“I don’t know why you care so much about making friends anyway,” Dean said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “It’s not like we’re gonna be staying here long enough for it to matter. Besides, what do you tell them?”
“About what?” Sam snarled, his jaw going rigid at having to explain himself to Dean.
“About us, dude,” Dean shot back in tired irritation. “About why you’re busy almost every weekend or why Dad’s always gone or why they can’t just come over and hang out here with you whenever.” Dean’s eyes softened. “The more you get to know people, Sammy, and the closer you try to get to them? …The more they just start asking questions you can’t answer.”
Sam looked crestfallen. Dean began to absently rub Sam’s back, trying to offer what little comfort he could.
“Hey, you know what?” Dean offered, “You don’t need friends…you got me.”
“Oh, yay, lucky me,” Sam sarcastically quipped, earning him a playful smack to the back of his head.
“Cheer up, Sammy,” Dean urged. “As long as you, me and Dad are together, we don’t need anybody else.”
With that, Dean hunched over, reaching underneath his sweatshirt to pull out a can of beer, a wide grin of triumph plastered over his handsome face. He popped the top on the can, muffling the noise of the small explosion as best he could in the front of his sweatshirt.
“Here, jailbird.” He offered Sam the foaming can, a wicked grin on his lips. “You deserve to have a chug or two for all your troubles.”
Sam accepted the beer with an embarrassed roll of his eyes, tilting the can to his mouth and gulping down two big swigs. He let out a loud, satisfied belch before passing the beer back to Dean.
“Thanks,” Sam said, his throbbing butt momentarily forgotten as he basked in the glow of brotherly camaraderie.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean replied. He tossed back what was left of the beer in the can in one long chug, looking more experienced than he had a right to.
Dean stifled a deep belch, chuckling when Sam also popped out another solid beer burp to match his.
“Uh, you might wanna go brush your teeth really good before coming to the table,” Dean advised, rising from the bed and heading for the bedroom door. “’Cause if Dad smells the beer on your breath, you’re not gonna be the only one sleeping face down tonight.” He gave Sam a parting grin over his shoulder. “And you know, if that happens? I’ll have to kill you, Sammy.”
“Jerk,” Sam softly declared.
“Bitch,” Dean fondly answered back.
THE END