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The argument was stupid. Something about the library, how Sam couldn’t go alone, not until they caught whatever Dad was hunting. But the thing had a preference for young blondes with pretty green eyes and Sam was definitely not that. Dean didn’t want to hear it though, said they couldn’t risk it, but Sam knew Dean was just antsy. They’d been stuck inside all day, under lock and key per Dad’s orders, and this motel didn’t even have cable. Left to their devices, which was a low bar already, they started in on each other. It’s not uncommon for them, usually it begins with raised voices and nonsense coming out in dumb bursts of anger. But typically they end it somehow, one of them apologizing through a subtle white flag—Sam bringing Dean a bowl of cheerios, sitting down beside him on the couch with a comic for them both to reread for the fifth time. Or Dean tossing Sam his jacket, saying he’ll take him on a walk around the block, maybe rattle a soda loose from the machine out back, but only if he promises to keep his mouth shut and stick beside him like glue.
So this time, that’s what Sam was anticipating, a truce after the heat of it simmered out. But it didn’t quite go that way. Instead, Dean seemed more on edge than usual, snagging one of Dad’s beers and popping the top like he wouldn’t get caught for it. And they both knew he would when Dad came back that night, digging around the cooler and turning to them both with a narrowed brow and bloody knuckles, just itching for another fight to let some steam off.
Halfway through the beer, Dean slammed it down on the countertop. Sam caught the white foam on the corner of his mouth before he wiped it clean.
“I don’t get what’s got you so worked up. It’s just another case with a victim pool I sure as hell don’t fit.”
“Sam, leave it be,” Dean warned, yet again, hands gripped on the lip of the counter behind him.
“But why, Dean? Why can’t I go to the library, it’s barely three blocks out from here! And it’ll probably help us some! If I can dig up on what this thing is, then I can help Dad narrow-”
“Sam!” It comes out harsh, like Dean just spit his name down on the hardwood, like chewed gum—flavorless and stale. “God! You’re such-” He cuts himself off, a hand dragging over his face to clear the tension from his brow—like it’ll settle his temper.
Sam slouches back on the couch, teeth biting into his cheek, frustration climbing up his throat. “Jesus, Dean. Relax. I just don’t-” And that’s when Dean starts towards him, jaw set, eyes hard, and Sam knows he pushed too far. It’s rare that Dean gets pissed like this, never this sudden and never this wild. Dean’s got a grip on the back of his shirt, pulling him up from the couch and lugging him toward the dinette in the corner under the window. Sam pushes back against him. “Get off me, Dean, what the hell?”
“Shut your mouth, Sammy.” Dean yanks a chair from where it's tucked under the table, drags it closer to them. The legs of it scrape like a protest, and it’s the only sound in the room, save for the faint murmur of the radio they’d clicked on earlier. Dean sits and, without warning, half pushes half pulls Sam down across his lap. They wrestle for a second, Sam fighting against the way Dean’s manhandling him just on pure principle alone. But Dean’s older, stronger, and pissed. Without much struggle he gets Sam right where he wants him; over his knee, an arm pinned behind him, wrist pressed into the small of his back.
It takes Sam a moment to register what's going on, for the change in position to click. And when it does, a horrified pit starts to form in his gut.
“Dean, c’mon! Let me up!” He’s straining, using his free hand to grip at Dean’s leg, to push up from where his head hangs. “This ain’t funny, Dean!” He tries to get some leverage with his legs, to push off the ground, but, embarrassed, he realizes his feet just barely touch the floor. And all at once he’s humiliated, thrown across his brother’s lap like a rag doll—like a kid. “C’mon, Dean, just let me go!”
“I warned you, Sammy.” Dean hasn’t moved much, just keeps his grip on Sam’s pinned arm strong, lets him struggle and tire himself out. “Y’know, I forget that I can reprimand you—that, sometimes, you need it.” His voice is steady and it stills Sam in a second. “A spankin’ will do you some good, Sammy. Remind ya that you don’t always get what you want, that there’s consequences.” And finally Dean’s other hand returns from the unknown. Sam feels it resting on the back of his thigh.
“You- A spanking?” Sam’s cheeks grow hot. That pit in his gut twists and explodes, stomach churning with dread. He strains against Dean’s hold.
“Yeah, Sammy.”
“Dean, Dad never spanked us! Why would you- I don’t-”
“He never spanked you. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he’s gone too easy on you.” Dean’s hand disappears again, and in a last ditch effort Sam tries to wrangle his arm free, tries to kick his legs against the ground, the chair, anything. “You real lucky I’m ain’t takin’ the belt to you like Dad would.”
“Dean, please-” Sam chokes on his words, hot tears springing to the corners of his eyes. “I’m- I’m sorry, Dean, I won’t do it again!” He doesn’t even realize that he’s rambling, letting anything and everything out of his mouth, whatever his instinct is telling him to say, to escape, because he’s scared.
He doesn’t entirely know what he did wrong, all he knows is that he feels like a toddler right now, throwing tantrums and begging forgiveness. He knows he pushed Dean too far, but he also knows his questions weren’t crazy to ask. He had a point, he was right that he didn’t fit the victim pool, that he would be fine going to the library for a couple hours. But then again, that’s not the real reason, is it? He questioned Dean, questioned their Dad, pushed against the rules too hard, sent Dean over the edge. And Dean’s not listening to his apologies—knows that Sam would do it again if he wasn’t in this position, that he’s not really sorry.
Sam’s panting a little, heaving heavy breaths in and out, preparing himself for impact, waiting on the hurt, or the verbal berating, anything.
It comes.
The first hit lands right in the center of his jeans, solid like a thud. It doesn’t really hurt, not like he thought it would, but honestly he doesn’t think the pain would make a difference. Either way, he’s humiliated. Another hit comes, just as hard, but his pants dull the sting. Dean’s hand lingers after each one, resting for a second, like he’s giving Sam time to adjust, to breathe with the blows. It’s ironically kind of him, all things considered.
But the hits keep coming, and slow but sure, Dean’s spanking Sam. His hand lands in the same place every time, in the middle, but his palms wide enough and his fingers are long enough that it covers his whole ass. The tempo doesn’t slow, doesn’t speed up, just keeps coming one after the other, like this is easy for Dean, like he’s practiced.
After a few minutes, Sam’s crying, not from pain, because it really doesn’t even hurt, but from the shame. He’s so embarrassed, humiliated like he’s never been before, and all at the hand of his big brother.
For the first time in a long time, Sam feels reduced to nothing but a whiny kid. It feels like a confirmation he’s been afraid of—how Dean sees him, what Dean thinks Sam is to him. Just an annoying little brother. A little brother who he’s got to put over his knee and spank to keep in line. Because Sam’s not grown, he’s not an adult. At the ripe age of fifteen, somehow he’s seven again, looking up at his big brother with stars in his eyes and hoping the irritation in Dean’s attitude eases as he gets older. But it hasn’t. He hasn’t grown, matured, or become anything to Dean aside from that annoying thorn in his side, asking to tag along to the movies with the new girl Dean’s picked up.
Suddenly Dean’s hand is gone, the heavy hits stop and a dull ache throbs in their place. But Dean’s still got Sam’s arm pinned to the small of his back, and Sam starts flexing his fingers, curling them into a fist, hoping Dean just might let him go if he tries hard enough. Tendons ripple under Dean’s palm, but his hold doesn’t give.
Instead, to Sam’s utter horror, somehow, it gets worse. Dean reaches between his stomach and Sam’s side, underneath Sam to the front of his jeans. And when he pops the button open and slides the zipper down, Sam thinks he just might be sick.
“Dean, Dean, please don’t! I’m real sorry, I am!” Sam’s crying harder now, free hand gripping onto Dean’s calf, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks. “Please, please, please, don’t,” he mumbles, biting into his bottom lip, preparing himself for the worst when Dean hooks his fingers into the back of Sam’s jeans.
“Just take it like a man, Sammy.” It’s all Dean says before he pulls his jeans down, boxers too, letting them bunch around his thighs right under the swell of his ass. And Sam, all he wants is to never be this kid again, to be a man, to be strong in Dean’s eyes. He wants to be someone Dean can rely on, can trust to know the limit, to be his friend.
When the next hit comes, dead center, it sends Sam lurching forward on Dean’s lap. He lets his head fall, lets his pinned arm go lax in Dean’s grip, and his body just rocks with each hit as Dean gives them. He’s still crying, doesn’t know how to stop, but he’s biting his lip hard and swallowing each hiccup. He doesn’t want Dean to hear, to know he’s hurting, because he’s going to take it like a man, like Dean wants him to.
Dean spanks him for a long time. He can’t count the minutes like he usually can when they’re on the road, but he knows a whiles gone by because of how his skin starts to warm. The bare spanking didn’t hurt too much more—he thinks Dean’s being gentle with him—but it stings a little, and either way, the humiliation is what he can’t shake. Sam’s still crying, silent tears rolling down, and his lip is worked raw and bloody between his teeth. His face feels thick and wet, like he’s been underwater for too long and the air is slowly seeping from his lungs.
Dean’s hand comes down one last time, a little harsher than the rest, like a punctuation to the punishment. He lets it rest there, weighted and laden. Sam realizes he’s shaking a little. His legs are trembling, probably masked by the way the spanking had him see-sawing over Dean’s knee. But now with the sudden stillness he can feel the way they’re wobbling, toes just touching the floor. Sam starts to cry a little harder now, his body leaking embarrassment he was desperately holding back. And almost like he feels bad, Dean starts to smooth the warmth from Sam’s ass.
His palm rubs circles over his bare skin, easing the sting and striking a match to a whole new wave of tears. A sob claws its way out of Sam’s throat, rough and raw, and even though his eyes are squeezed shut, the tears keep coming.
Sam tries to pull his arm free, but Dean’s hold on his wrist still won’t give. His other hand is rubbing soft and gentle, and Sam thinks he just might die right here and now.
Sam’s waiting for Dean to say something, or push him off his lap, anything, but nothing comes. He remembers his own unpinned arm, fingers still clenched tight in the jean around Dean’s calf, and he lets the worn denim go. His palm is sweaty and red, shaking just a bit, but he brings it up to wipe his face with the back of his hand.
Dean’s hand pauses on his ass, just resting there, fingers splayed and palm cool against his skin.
They stay like that for a while. Dean still doesn’t let him up when Sam tries to pull his arm free, or when he huffs with the effort, or even when he starts crying all over again. He just keeps them there, little brother across his lap, and lets Sam sob and shake until he can’t anymore.
Not until Sam’s drained, exhausted and limp—feels like he’s on the verge of sleep in the aftermath of tears, over his brother's knee with his jeans and boxers still bunched around his thighs—does Dean start to move. He lets go of Sam’s wrist, the hand disappears from his heated skin, and then Dean’s leaning forward. He grabs Sam’s upper arms, guiding him backwards, down onto the floor. Sam’s knees buckle and his legs fold under him, but he keeps his head down, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. There’s a moment where neither of them move to speak, hustled silence creeping between them, and among it odd sniffles from Sam. From beneath the shag of his bangs and through the blur of unshed tears, he can see Dean’s hand rested, fingers curved down over the knee of his jeans. That hand, so casual now, lax and scar-clad, and so familiar.
Sam reaches for the hem of his t-shirt—an old Zeppelin hand-me-down that Dean grew out of, loose threads, stretched collar and all—and pulls it down towards his thighs to cover himself, to protect what's left of his dignity.
Dean sighs, and somehow it makes Sam feel even worse. He scratches the back of his neck, the chair creaks under his weight. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He stands, makes his way toward the bathroom, and after a second, water starts chugging through the old motel pipes. Sam’s still crumpled on the ground, on his knees, skin sore against his heels. Each breath feels like a punch to the gut, tears still slipping down his cheeks. And all Sam can think about is how much he wishes he could sink right there into the ground, melt into chipped tile.
In the corner of his eye, Dean appears in the doorframe. “Sammy.” The water’s still running. Sam lifts up and tugs his boxers and pants up in one move, doesn’t bother buttoning them, and stands on wobbly legs. He keeps his head down, eyes hidden, shoulders hunched, and pushes past Dean into the bathroom. He starts stripping his shirt off. “Lemme see how bad it is,” Dean says, voice low and smooth, like he’s trying to comfort him. It makes Sam’s blood boil, slick heat in his veins. He turns around and chucks his balled shirt hard at Dean’s chest. Dean catches it, brows furrowed, and stumbles back a step. Sam slams the door shut before Dean has the chance to ask what the hell. The lock clicks.
—
After Dean had reamed Sammy out, thrown him over his knee and took to him like he sworn he never would—like Dad used to rough him up after a few beers and a hard hunt—Sammy’d slammed the bathroom door shut and locked Dean out, swift and harsh. He supposes maybe he deserved that for what he’d done, but it still stung. The shower kept on running and he heard the metal rings of the curtain scrape against the bar. At least Sammy was getting cleaned up, scrubbing the floor from his knees and the tears from his face.
And when he finally came out his hair was still dripping, hanging down, covering his eyes. From where Dean was sat at the kitchenette, in that same chair, beer empty and a soda popped open, he could see Sammy clearly. Bringing the can to his lips, he took a swig and eyed his brother, watching him make quick work of digging out a new shirt and boxers from his duffle. How clean they were, Dean wasn’t too sure. They haven’t gone to the laundromat in a long while, his own jeans holding tight to the smell of dirt and fire from the last salt and burn he’d gone on with Dad. But Sammy didn’t seem to care how his clothes smelt.
The stark white towel he was clutching tight to his front dropped to the floor, and Dean’s eyes trailed down from the sharp bones of Sammy’s shoulders and spine, down to the root where dimples framed his tailbone, where the curve of his red, hand-printed ass melted into thigh, then down down down over Sammy’s legs, all lithe muscles and pale and littered with bruises from all their running, fighting, and wrestling. He watches Sammy step into his green plaid boxers, frayed at the edges and threadbare, watches them slide up his claves, the back of his thighs, over that pink skin, and snap against his hip bones, tight ribbed sinch biting in just a little. He’s grown, Dean realizes, almost through this bout of clothes, worn them thin and rugged, and now he’s nearly too big to fit into ‘em.
And he says as much. “Gotta get ya some new clothes, Sammy.” Sammy’s head snaps towards him, eyes wide behind wet, stringy bangs, and that familiar scowl playing at his lips. Dean smiles real gentle, lifts the can to his mouth. Shirt forgotten, Sammy just glares. “Looks like you’re gettin’ to big for the ones you got. Even my hand-me-downs seem a little snug, huh?” A moment, no response, and then Sammy just averts his eyes, shakes his head, and tugs the shirt on. Dean’s working his lip between his teeth, worrying the soda can in his palm, and he watches as Sammy yanks the sheets back and slides into bed. Curled up on his side, back to Dean and face buried in the pillow, the rising and falling lump of Sammy evens out soon enough, and Dean knows he’s asleep.
He waits for Dad to get home, helps him clean up the guns and knives, tosses a beer to him, and Dad makes a show of clapping Dean on the shoulder, nodding his approval. They work in silence, Sammy fast asleep across the room, stripping the guns and reloading them for the next hunt. Dean’s sharpening the machete when Dad grumbles somethin’ low and annoyed from behind him, and without any prodding he goes on to complain about the hunt he’d been on.
Sammy stirs in bed, and Dean watches him shuffle and roll over, sees his eyes flutter open and catch the lamplight. But he shuts them quick when he sees Dean, or more rather when he sees Dad. Something in him wishes Sam would’ve kept them open, met his gaze just a little longer. But Dean’s almost done and Dad’s just about drunk enough to drift to sleep soon, so he keeps his hands busy and finishes his work.
—
Since then Sammy’s been quiet. At least, more quiet than usual. Dad notices too, asks what’s up with the kid when Sammy starts up the dirt path ahead of them, kicking rocks out of his way as they come closer, head slung low and one hand jammed deep in the front pocket of his jeans, the other gripped tight on the strap of his shotgun.
Dean just shrugs, mutters something witty about teenage boys and their tempers. But Dad shoots him a look, like he knows Dean’s fibbing through his teeth.
“I think he’s just angry,” Dean says, eyes squinting from the sunlight, watching Sammy’s shoes scuff the ground with each step.
“Well, that ain’t much, now, is it? That boy’s always angry these days.” Dean knows it’s supposed to be a sorta joke, but he’s not laughing. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he could find humor in. “So, why he angry now?”
A huff, a hand dragging down his chin, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. Dean’s stomach churns. “I had to discipline him. Last night. Think maybe he’s just tryin’ to be a bitch about it to get me mad.”
Dad’s quiet for a second, and Dean rolls the skin of his cheek between his teeth, tears a chunk off to chew on. “What’d he do? What’d you do?”
“Kept pushin’ to go to the library alone, even after I told him no. He just wouldn’t let it be, in that stubborn way he’s got. So I- I put ‘em over my knee. Didn’t really know how else to go about it.”
Dad slows his step beside Dean for a second, but he doesn’t say nothing. He just hums, and after a bit, picks his pace back up. He adjusts the gun slung over his shoulder and keeps his stare straight ahead. Dean eyes him, the lack of expression on his face and the way he seems so unfazed—unbothered—makes Dean a little uneasy.
They keep on down the dirt road. Branches overhead sway with the evening breeze, picking up as the day goes on and the sun starts to set behind the treeline. Sammy stays ahead of them, and when Dad finally calls him back, tells him to stick close as it gets dark, he chooses Dad’s other side instead of his usual place next to Dean. It rubs him a little rough, makes his gut twist and his chest ache. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither does Dad.
—
Days go by and Sammy eases up. He starts lingering near Dean again, scoffing at the sly remarks and stupid jokes he cracks at the old man’s expense—the one working the Gas-n-Sip down the road. That’s been a frequent stop for them both, stalking up and down the aisles to snag a couple candies or snack bars and leaving with a five finger discount and a smirk plastered on their faces. Sometimes they’d go just to read the magazines, even if they were nearly a decade old, it was nice to have something other than Dad’s company for a change.
The tension between them melts, but not all the way. There’s still something stiff and avoidant in the way Sammy talks to Dean, the way he never initiates much conversation any more, the way he always starts out sleeping with his back turned to him now, right up on the mattress’ edge. A couple times Dean woke up to Sammy nestled into his side real close, and he wouldn’t move, would feign sleep until Sammy started out of his dreams and shuffled as far away as the bed would allow.
He never used to, though. More often than not Sammy would purposely curl up right in the middle, nose tucked down in the sheets, forehead pressed to Dean’s side, knees bumping his hips. Or when the night didn’t seem to cool down well enough, and the sweat slick heat of summer made its way in, he’d sprawl out, lips parted and breath coming real soft and heavy. Dean would have to shove him over just to lay down, and Sammy’d budge just a bit, only to drape an arm across Dean’s chest anyway. Dean quit pushing him off after a while, familiar weight giving into something like comfort.
Dean misses it, now. The simple touch, the contact, the presence of his little brother close and warm.
On his back, he turns his head and stares long at Sammy’s silhouette. “Hey,” he whispers, nudges his back with an elbow. “Sammy?”
It’s quiet for a second, and then a rustle of thick sheets and Sammy’s rolling over to face him. He doesn’t say nothing, just stares expectantly, eyes half lidded and dark beneath his bangs.
Dean chews on his words. “You okay? You been sulkin’ all day like someone nicked your nerd books.” It’s been longer than just today, and it’s clearly way more than what a couple missing books would do. Part of him knows it's his fault, that he shouldn’t have done what he did. And as much as he wants Sammy to quit pouting and move on, he knows deep down that he broke something between them. What they got, it broke that night, and try as he might to piece it back together, slather it in crazy-glue and hope to God it sticks, Dean knows they won’t be the same again.
Sammy huffs a breath and his bangs flutter. “I’m not sulkin’, Dean. Mind your business and go to sleep.”
“Yeah right. You are my business.” At that, Sammy just stares. He’s clearly annoyed but Dean ain’t done pushing. “Dad noticed, too. Asked what was up with you, earlier, back on down that trail. I know somethin’s been buggin’ you, Sammy.”
“Yeah, Dean, you’re buggin’ me.” He turns over, back to his brother again. “Now quit it, an’ go to bed. You know Dad’ll have us up with the sun, and I want my rest.”
Dean rolls the skin of his lip between his teeth, traces the line of Sammy’s shoulder in the dark. Little brother, always the priss. “C’mon, Sammy. I ain’t leavin’ it be, so spit it out already.”
“Shut up, Dean. I’m sick of you botherin’ me.”
“Hey,” Dean says, voice rough like concrete. “Don’t gimme that attitude. I’m just tryin’ to help-”
Sammy sits up quick, eyes glaring hard and accusing. “Oh yeah? Help what?” Dean props up on his elbow. “You ain’t helped me one bit, you know. All you done is make shit worse!”
“Jesus, Sammy, keep it down!” He throws a glance over his shoulder. “You gonna wake Dad if you keep with that tone.” They both know Dad slammed back five outta six Miller’s before he’d crashed like a sack of rocks in a riverbed, done in for the night and surely out until the sunrise. But Sammy gets up anyway, all irritated like and pissy. He rips the sheets off and snags his zip-up off the ground. One arm in a sleeve and he tugs the door open, not so hard it could slam though, and leaves it wide for Dean to follow.
In spite of the obvious invitation, Dean falls back against his pillow and sighs real heavy. He’s in for it, now. Sammy hasn’t shown that much emotion in a while, hasn’t spoken his mind quite like that in a dog's age.
Room key in hand, Dean makes his way outside onto the breezeway where Sammy’s leaned up against the post. He shuts the door behind him real soft, waits for the click of the latch. Sammy’s eyeing him, jaw set and arms crossed over his bare chest where his zip-up hangs open.
“Alright, what is it, Sammy? Care to tell me what the hell you were gabbin’ about in there? ” No response, just eyes darting back and forth between Dean’s own. Night owls call in the distance, in the tall pines overhead. “C’mon, you got me out here, what is it? I ain’t got time for no games-”
“I’m not playin’ games, Dean. And you’re the one who wanted me to spill-”
Dean scoffs, lighthearted. “Yeah, well, get it out then! What’s buggin’ you so much?”
Sammy doesn’t hesitate. “You are.”
“Me?” Own thumb pointed towards his chest, Dean leans forward, eyes wide. “I’m buggin’ you? Sammy, what’re you talkin’ about, I’m your damn brother, I-”
“Yeah, exactly! You’re my brother ! Ain’t you s‘pposed to look out for me? Ain’t we supposed to have each other's backs! Not whatever that- that shit was back in Altus!”
“Woah, woah,” Dean’s got his own arms crossed now, brows raised like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. But it’s a front. Sammy don’t know but Dean’s heart is hammering, ears flush from the cold and his own inner turmoil. Dean knew this’d come up again—knew Sammy wasn’t the forgive and forget type. He’s a stubborn kid, never one to let much go. “You mean the other day when you wouldn’t quit askin’ ‘bout the library?” Sammy’s still now, ridgid where he’s leaned up against the wood. He’s fiddling with his hoodie string and Dean has half the mind to bat it outta his hand, tell him to quit pickin’ or it’ll fray. “So what, you upset about that, still?”
“Yeah, Dean, I am-”
“You really makin’ a fuss now ‘cause I had to discipline you? That’s what this is?” Sammy huffs, looks away from Dean’s prying eyes. “You think because I had to put you in your place that I ain’t lookin’ out for you? That I don’t have your back no more?”
“You didn’t have to do anything! You didn’t have to do what you did, and you know it! Dad ain’t never done that to me, and brothers don’t-”
“Yeah, Sammy, that's the problem! Dad don’t ever handle you and your attitude right, and someone ought to-”
“Fuck you! You shouldn’t of done that to me, Dean! It wasn’t your place, and- and it wasn’t fair!” Sammy’s throwing his arms around, words clattering out of his mouth like bullet fire. “That wasn’t you bein’ a brother! This gonna be your new thing? Should I start callin’ you Sir now, too?” Sammy’s coming forward, every step loaded with anger and resentment. He’s got an arm up, accusing finger pointed at Dean, and at every move closer, Dean fights the urge to back away. Sammy’s nothing if not scary when he’s mad like this. “Is this some kinda power trip for you? Acting like Dad—you get off on makin’ me feel like this? I swear to Jesus, if you think-”
Before Dean can think about what he’s doing, he reaches forward and snags Sammy’s wrist—that damn finger he’s got all up in his face—and gets a steady hold on his arm. His other hand comes up and grips his jaw, fingers pressing deep and cutting off his ramble in a second. Sammy goes stiff, his eyes blow wide and he pulls back, tries to shake Dean off him.
Dean yanks him closer, shows Sammy he ain’t getting loose unless Dean wants him to. “Now, listen here, and listen good.” A gust of air comes in up the dogtrot, rustles Sammy’s hair where it curls around his ears, pushes his hoodie open, and the metal zip clinks when it falls back together. “I am your big brother, and my job is to keep you safe. My job is to look out for you—to have your back. And I know you think I was outta line, but I’ll tell you right now, kiddo, I wasn’t. Dad didn’t so much as bat an eye when I told him I put you over my knee. It ain’t no damned power trip, Sammy, it’s- it’s- I don’t know what, but I had to.” There’s tears pricking the corners of Sammy’s eyes now, glossy and wet, and his nose is turning pink from more than just the breeze. “If the only way I can get you to settle is a spankin’ then so be it. What would I had done if you’d gone to the library and didn’t come back? Huh? You think that’s a risk I wanna take? You think your life ain’t the first thing on my mind the second I wake up?”
“Dean,” Sammy mumbles, cheeks squished beneath Dean’s grip. His other hand comes up and holds onto Dean’s wrist, gentle and pleading. His eyes are red-rimmed.
“All I ever do is to protect you, Sammy. I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I done it, but someone’s gotta keep you in line, for your own sake. And I think we both know Dad ain’t been doin’ much of that lately—if ever.”
Something small shatters in Sammy’s eyes, the way he’s looking up at Dean like he’s somehow scared and hurt, yet the understanding that passes through his gaze makes Dean’s heart calm down where it’s pumping hard against his ribs. Sammy heard him, understood him just then. It puts him oddly at ease.
“I know,” Sammy says, sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth to gnaw at it. “Alright,” he relents, eyes cast down, and he tries to pull Dean’s hold off his jaw. “C’mon, Dean, lemme go.” And Dean lets his grip loosen, both jaw and arm free now. Sammy rubs his fingers over his cheek, then digs a thumb into the inside of his wrist, works the skin there. He looks back up, catches Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry, D. I know you’re doin’ your best.”
A frown pulls at Dean’s lips, his heart sinks just a little. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m tryin’.”
“I know. I know, and I don’t mean to give you a hard time. Really, I don’t.”
“I know, Sammy. Hell, you’re just a kid, anyhow, you shouldn't have to be worryin’ ‘bout monsters and things.” And if Dean saw the way Sammy’s face fell, he didn’t bring it up. “Sometimes I just get so scared for you that I don’t know what to do.” There’s that adoring, little brother look in Sammy’s stare. Where he’s standing the moonlight filters in through the splits in the pine awning and it glitters in his doe eyes. Dean’s chin quivers, but he draws a hand up to rub and hide it from Sammy. For a second he hesitates, breathes in real deep and lets the fresh Birdsong air fill his lungs and settle like a stone. “Maybe I- Maybe I shouldn’t have spanked you. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing.” An exhale. “I don’t- I don’t know, anymore.”
He cards a hand through his hair, drags it back down over his face, then moves past Sammy and sits down on the edge of the porch. He lets his feet hang over the edge where the brush sways in the wind, and it tickles his ankles like bug bites in the summer heat.
Sammy comes over slowly, sits down next to him and lets himself press up against Dean, from hip to knee. “It’s alright,” he says, gentle like Sammy rarely is anymore. It’s a special kind of soft that only Dean’s privy to nowadays, when Sammy feels like being sweet. It makes his heart ache something warm and bright. He misses his sweet Sammy, little ten year old Sammy who used to tug on his sleeve and plead for him to just play one more game of hide n’ go seek, please D, please! “I just…” Sammy breathes, shaky and heavy, and it jolts Dean back to the moment. “I just hate bein’ a kid. I hate bein’ your kid. Not ‘cause I don’t- Not that I think you’re bad at bein’ a dad, I just- I just hate bein’ a kid to you.”
And if Dean could pause time to process what he’d just heard, by God he would. A million thoughts fly through his mind, one after the other whizzing around like skeeters on that old swamp dock back in Florida. And for a moment he can’t quite find what he wants to say, yank it down from his head and tongue it outta his mouth.
Sammy beats him to it though, settles his temple against Dean’s shoulder and sinks into his side some more. “I wanna be your brother. I wanna be equal. Like- Like a friend. I wanna be your friend. Not just some kid you gotta keep safe.”
And, oh, does that hurt something good. “Oh, Sammy,” Dean whispers, and he wraps an arm around his brother. “Sammy, no, God no. You’re not- You’re not ‘just some kid’ to me. You- You said it, you’re my kid.”
Sammy whines, tucks his forehead into Dean’s shoulder and pounds a fist against Dean’s chest.
“Sammy, c’mon,” Dean bites down into his bottom lip, watches Sammy writhe against him, like he’s trying to crawl inside Dean to get away. “You are my friend. You’re my brother- my little brother, a built in friend!”
Another whine, like he’s sick of Dean. But they both know he’s not. Dean thinks this might be what’ll heal them.
“And, I mean, we’re not equal, not really. You’re fifteen, Sammy. You’re not quite old enough yet to be my equal. But that don’t mean you ain’t my friend. And that don’t mean that one day you won’t be- that we won’t be equal eventually. It’s not your fault you were born the little brother. That’s just how the dice roll, sometimes.”
Dean’s smiling, can hear the pouty smile on Sammy when he laughs a little, muffled in Dean’s shirt. He brings his hand up to run through Sammy’s hair, scratches just a bit at his scalp, then at the base of his neck. Another whine and Sammy’s practically trying to meld into one, shuffling around and gripping onto Dean’s arm.
“It’s alright, Sammy,” Dean says. He keeps his hold on him loose, lets him squirm and move around. And then Sammy’s swinging his leg over, straddling Dean’s thighs and sitting small in his lap. He’s got his head tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck, arms slung over his shoulders, holding on tight. Dean brings his arms around Sammy’s waist and tugs him in close.
It takes a second for Dean to catch it, the whimpers and quiet hiccups. Sammy’s crying, he can feel the tears rolling down the side of his neck where he’s pressed up. His back is trembling, shaking with little breaths. The crickets are chirping loud, reminding them how late it is, and then there's a break in the nature sounds—a big heave and Sammy outright sobs. Dean’s heart clenches, chest aches, and all he can do is hold Sammy close. “You’re alright, kiddo. I got you.”
“D, ‘m sorry,” Sammy cries, all frustrated and bothered, he can hear it in his voice.
Dean brings a hand up to cradle the back of Sammy’s head, pets gently at the curls there. “It’s okay, Sammy, I ain’t upset. It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re alright. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”
He starts rubbing his back again, easing the tears out of him, hoping this is what Sammy needs. And Sammy just holds on tighter, like he never wants to let go.
Dean’s wrapping his arm around Sammy’s middle, rocking him softly side to side when he hears it. A quiet, whimpered, “Daddy,” followed by a hiccup, and another sob. Dean tenses for a second, feels his stomach roll deep in his guts. Sammy sniffles, and Dean’s heart swells with adoration, and he just hums real gentle, holds on tight and sways them back and forth with the wind. Sammy’s still crying, still clutching on tight, and it comes again, so little and wet, but clear against Arkansas’ white noise. “Daddy,” slips off Sammy’s tongue like a prayer, falls between them like drizzling rain, and Dean knows he heard it this time for sure, knows it wasn’t a mistake.
“I’m here, Sammy,” he says, whispers it into his ear. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head, daddy’s got you, kiddo. You’re okay. Daddy’s here, sweetheart. Go on an’ let it out.”
Another heavy breath, and Daddy comes out again, broken up in the middle by a harsh sob, and for a second it sounds like Sammy’s in pain, like he’s crying out for help. But Dean knows Sammy just needs him here—just needs to be held, to be told he’s gonna be okay. So that’s what he does, rocks him real light, presses a kiss to his boy’s hair. It was late when they came out here, and now the very start of dawn’s peeking out from the woods, casting a tender glow over the overgrown grass at the base of the porch. Birds sound their morning call, and Sammy’s sniffles against his shoulder.
They’ll be alright.