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The night air was nice – chilly, but Dean wouldn't have felt the cold even if the temperature was fifty degrees lower than it was. His flannel and leather jacket helped, of course, and the fact that he was walking. But neither of those things kept him warm as much as the sunny feeling inside his chest. Getting to first base with a girl will do that to you.
He hadn't even considered Raine when he had started working at that burger joint – first targeting the blond easy-going cashier, and then the brunette, not-so-easy-going waitress. But they weren't a real challenge, and worse – they were kind of dumb. He had had some fun, but got tired of them pretty fast.
He had stayed on good terms with them both, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to keep working in the same place with them; bussing tables wasn't his first career choice, but there wasn't much of a second choice in this little Iowa town and they needed the money.
Dad had left them two credit cards and a wad of cash before leaving, but Dean was hesitant about using the cards. The town was small, any trouble with the cards and they would be done for, so cash it was. But cash had this habit of running out, and Dad couldn't tell them how long he would be out on that particular hunt.
"It's a tricky one, Dean," he had said when Dean helped him load the car. "I'll need to take my time, make sure I do everything right and tie up all the loose ends."
"Then take me with you," Dean had said, again, and Dad shook his head, again.
"I'll be with other hunters. I want you here with Sammy, to watch out for him. Keep him safe."
"He's fifteen, he's trained, he can take care of himself."
Dad sighed. "He can, if he pays attention, which he doesn't always do. The civilian world is more important to him; he likes to pretend that there's nothing out there but school and friends and soccer and libraries. Like there aren't things that lurk behind it, beyond it. And sometimes he believes his own act, he really forgets about what I taught him. You understand?"
Dean nodded. Dad was right; Sam was the smartest kid Dean knew, but he wanted an ordinary life, wanted it bad enough to become careless sometimes.
So Dad was gone, which was bad, but not more than usual. What was worse than usual was that he had taken the Impala. He had gotten them a GMC that was older than Sam and practically made of rust; it brought them from point A to point B, but Dean kept expecting it to croak on them at any minute, not to mention that it had zero appeal for the ladies.
Luckily, they didn't need the car all that much; the town was really small. The house Dad had rented wasn't located smack in the middle of it, but they could reach pretty much anywhere important by foot, which the weather allowed easily.
Dean also didn't want their cash wasted on gas or repairs, so he opted to walk if he could; it was good exercise, since with the double shifts he had been pulling, he hadn't had much time for his usual practice routine.
Work was a bitch, but Dean could eat as many hamburgers as he wanted – he didn't care if they were the burned, discarded ones, a free burger was a free burger – and got to take home plenty of leftover food at the end of the day, even enough vegetables to satisfy Sam.
And there was Raine. Dean hadn't thought much of her at first: a quiet, mousy thing that barely set foot outside the kitchen. He was nice to her because he was a nice guy, but he had hardly paid attention to her otherwise.
Until he saw her smiling.
She hadn't even been smiling at him. He had just happened to walk into the kitchen with his tub of dirty dishes while Raine was talking with the short-order cook. Dean had nearly dropped the tub right then and there, because Raine's smile was radiant, it made her plain face light up from within, made it more beautiful than the dumb, makeup-laden cashiers.
Dean had had the good sense to look away before she noticed he was staring, and realized at that very moment that he was going to make her smile like that for him, no matter what it took.
As it turned out, he managed much more than just a smile.
So now he was walking home from their first date – nothing fancy, just strolling around the park – with the memory of Raine's smile keeping him warm. The kiss hadn't been too bad, either; he could tell that Raine didn't have a lot of experience, but it was okay, he would gladly teach her.
There were hardly any cars in the street at this time of night. A delivery truck was coming from up ahead, going slowly with the thunder of its exhaust lingering in the quiet of the street. Dean wondered if that much noise was even legal; it could have made the storefront windows crack.
Dean turned his head to follow the truck until it was far enough that its roar finally died down. When he turned back, Dad was standing right in front of him.
"Dad!" Dean stepped forward, arms already starting to rise for a hug, but stopped mid-motion. Dad's face was dark, his eyes stormy. "Dad? You okay?"
"Where the hell have you been?" Dad's voice sent a slight shiver down Dean's spine.
"On a date. I was just getting back."
"A date," Dad practically spat the word out, and a tiny flame of anger bubbled inside Dean's gut.
"Yeah, a date. You know, where I meet a girl and we go have a good time? Because I could fucking use some damned fun, with you stranding us in this godforsaken shithole with a rust bucket for a car and-"
Dad slapped him.
Dean's head was flung to the side, the words he was about to utter reduced into a sharp exhale as white pain stung the side of his face. He twisted his head back slowly.
"You weren't answering your phone," Dad said.
Dean pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. It was still set to silent mode. The bubble of anger in his gut turned ice-cold.
24 MISSED CALLS FROM DAD
3 NEW VOICEMAILS
Fuck
Dean looked up from the phone.
"I tried the landline, nobody picked up."
"The ringer's busted, I was gonna…" Dean was going to take care of it, except he forgot. Because nobody ever called the damned landline. And because of Raine. "Sir, what-"
"I told you to watch out for Sam, didn't I? I told you to keep him safe."
Dean's insides turned even colder. "Yes, sir."
"When I called the other day, I told you to make sure you're available at all times, didn't I?"
"Yes, sir," Sam oh God oh God Sam
Dad turned, and Dean noticed for the first time the Impala parked less than a dozen feet away. The truck's noise must have masked its distinctive purr.
Legs rigid, Dean followed Dad. "W-what happened?"
Dad had already opened the driver's side door. He paused and looked at Dean over the Impala's roof. "Werewolf happened. Get in the car."
The ride home was a blur. Dean's heart was pounding hard, his vision was hazy. He could hardly feel the car seat underneath him, the vibrations of the vehicle. The only thing anchoring him down was Dad's voice.
"There was a whole fucking pack. We got the drop on them, but a few got away, so we split up to hunt them down. And then Phil called me, saying a contact of his got a word on one of them heading this way. It picked up my scent and was coming after you."
"Sam?" Dean's tongue felt numb, wood-dry.
"I got here just in time. It was in the house, Sam was fighting it off," Dad paused for a moment. "He got hurt, Dean."
The air seemed to vanish around Dean and darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision.
"Got scratched and knocked around, but no bites. He'll be fine. The creature wasn't very strong and already wounded, and as I said, I got here on time. But you should've been there to wait for it and take it down before it could get in the house. You could've been there, if you'd answered your damned phone so I could warn you."
He could have been there. He could have ganked the werewolf, protected Sam, made sure he was safe. But he wasn't, because ogling some chick's smile was more important than doing his job, more important than his little brother.
The car didn't have enough fucking air in it.
Dad turned onto their street. The house had a garage, but Dean hadn't bothered getting old Rusty inside. Dad used his remote to open the garage door, backed the Impala up the driveway and into the garage, then clicked the close button on the remote.
Dad climbed out of the car, and so did Dean. He shut the creaking door and turned, only to find Dad in his way again.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To see Sam," it amazed him somewhat that Dad would even ask that. Wasn't it obvious the first place Dean would want to be?
"Not right now."
Dean stared at Dad's face, at the cold, hard expression. "Whaddaya mean? I wanna check on him."
"You're staying right here."
Dean almost started laughing, because this was fucking ridiculous, but he didn't. Instead, he took a step forward.
Dad pushed him back.
Dean rocked a little on his feet and then started forward again. "What the fuck, Dad? Lemme-"
This time Dad pushed him hard enough for his back to slam into the car frame. With his big hand pressed flat on Dean's chest, Dad leaned and growled into Dean's face, "I said, you're staying here."
A different kind of panic started to flood Dean. He could see the deep, dark, dangerous rage in Dad's face. He should have shut the fuck up now, he knew that; shut up, do as the old man said and take whatever was coming to him. But Sam.
"Please," his voice sounded teary and wavering and small. "Please just lemme see him. Lemme see he's okay. I just wanna see him for a minute, Dad, please, just lemme take a look at him. Please."
Dad's eyes were drilling into him, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pinched into a tight line. And then the hand on Dean's chest vanished and Dad stepped back.
"He's out cold on pain meds. Don't you fucking wake him."
"Yes, sir," Dean was out the door and in the kitchen before he remembered to breathe again.
The door to their bedroom was left open; Dad probably wanted to be able to check on Sam during the night. Like it wasn't a thing Dean would do, like it wasn't Dean's job.
Yeah, because you're so fucking awesome at doing your job
Sam was indeed out cold. Dean moved as close to the bed as he dared, but didn't try to touch his brother. Sam's face seemed uninjured, his features calm and smooth. There was a thin strand of hair resting over his brow, and Dean ached to brush it away, but didn't. He just stood there and watched Sam sleep.
"I'm sorry," he whispered at last. "I'm sorry, Sammy."
Sam shifted the tiniest bit and Dean froze, but then Sam settled back with a sigh. Dean turned, the simple action demanding more effort than he deemed possible, and walked slowly back to the kitchen, where he took off his leather jacket and left it on the back of a chair, then went out to the garage.
That he was nineteen years old was beside the point; Dad had no problem whipping his ass regardless of his age whenever he thought Dean had earned it. Dean never fought it, never disobeyed when Dad told him to drop trou and bend over, because he was honest enough to admit it was the easy way out.
Not because Dad's whippings were a piece of cake – Jesus, the old man could make him feel like he sat directly on a heap of smoldering coals – but because he was getting what he deserved, he was paying for what he had done wrong in the most basic and substantial way, having it taken out of his ass, literally. And he could work with that. He could let his guilt and shame and remorse wash away, burn in the fire Dad's belt lit in his backside.
None of this meant Dean was bouncing with joy at the prospect of getting an ass whooping. Truth was, he was fucking terrified.
Dean thought he had heard Dad moving around in the hall while he was in the bedroom. When he entered the garage and saw what Dad was there to get, his knees nearly buckled.
The house had remnants of previous tenants, which Sam and Dean had their share of fun discovering and speculating about their owners. Some of those belongings they had found in the hall closet – there was a pair of humongous overshoes, a hat that came down to Dean's shoulders when he tried it on, and a belt the size of a razor strop. Sam had argued that Bigfoot in disguise must have rented the house at one point or another, and Dean would have reminded him there was no Bigfoot, except the sheer enormity of the items made him doubt that.
The belt seemed neither intriguing nor amusing held in Dad's hand as he stood in the garage under the yellow overhead light. It just looked fucking huge.
"Come here," Dad's voice made Dean wince. He looked up from the belt into Dad's face, immediately regretting it; Dad's expression was hard-set, his brows drawn together. He should walk up to Dad, he was given an order, but his legs felt like they were cast in cement.
Dad's brows drew even further. "Dean."
The worst Dean would get wouldn't come close to what Dad would do to him if he didn't move his ass right now. He made himself take a step forward, then one more, then another, until he came to stand in front of Dad by the trunk of the Impala.
Dad didn't lecture; no reprimand was necessary for Dean to know exactly in which manner and to what extent he had fucked up. Dad simply said, "Pants."
Dean unbuttoned his jeans while turning to face the car, unzipped and pushed them down along with his boxers to mid-thigh. He started to straighten up when Dad said, "Down past your knees."
Dean froze for a second before grabbing at his clothes again to follow the order. Dad normally didn't care how far down Dean's pants were pushed as long as his ass was accessible. That he would take any notice of it now could only mean that he was going to roast the backs of Dean's thighs as well.
Having tucked the jeans below his knees, Dean bent over the trunk and leaned on his forearms. Dad took a step forward and his heavy hand forced Dean down until he was lying with his upper body flat on the trunk and his racing heart beating against the cool black metal. First the pants, now the position – this was heading downhill so fast, Dean's head was almost spinning.
He had his face turned away from Dad, but he could hear the rustles of his movements, the jingle of the buckle, the swish of the belt through the air and then the solid slap it made when it hit across the center of his ass.
It was wider and heavier than any of Dad's belts, and the force of the blow drove Dean's thighs forward into the fender. He gasped as the sting set in and his hands moved, trying to find something to grab onto. There was nothing – he should have known that, he had been over the trunk with his ass being handed to him more times than he cared to remember – so he just folded his arms, each hand gripping the opposite sleeve, and buried his face in them.
Dad kept going, steady and hard. With the size of the belt, it took no time at all for it to cover all of Dean's ass and move down to the backs of his thighs. Dad didn't always bother working that particular part of Dean's backside, but he did now. And not just a swat or two on the tops of the thighs, either; the belt whipped lower and lower, almost to Dean's knees, then back up toward the curve of his ass.
The pain was scathing, maddening, and Dean barely kept himself still as his body wanted to twist away from the biting leather. Except he had nowhere to go – he was tightly and effectively pinned over the trunk, his torso flat over it and his thighs pressed against the fender, the constant lashes of the heavy belt pounding him harder into place.
The sting of the leather made Dean's eyes tear up quickly enough, but he wasn't crying, not yet. He pressed his face further into his arms, stifling the groans he could feel himself making. He had to hang on, had to keep quiet and still and take whatever Dad dished out because if he had ever earned an ass-beating, it was this one. What the hell had he been thinking, silencing his phone? Sam could have been calling him. Even if it was for something as stupid as getting the stove to work, it was still Dean's job to solve it for him, to take care of his pain-in-the-ass little brother. And missing those calls from Dad…
And now he was weeping, because it had been so close, so fucking close. If Dad had taken just a few minutes longer to reach the house, Sam would have been done for, and it would have been Dean's fault. Sammy could have died, and it would have been on Dean. On Dean, and nobody else. It was his job, and he screwed it up, and now he couldn't even take the lousy whipping he rightly deserved without crying like a pathetic little boy.
Not that Dean's crying made Dad ease up; the Bigfoot belt was falling in a steady rhythm, packing on layer upon layer of blazing pain from the crown of Dean's ass down to just above the backs of his knees. It didn't seem like it was going to stop, ever, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted it to stop. Not before the score was fully settled, not before he paid good and proper for abandoning his little brother.
When Dad did stop, Dean wanted to scream in frustration; it shouldn't be over, not even close. It didn't matter that his ass burned so bad it felt like he might need a skin transplant. It didn't matter that he was crying so hard he was barely breathing; he only knew it wasn't enough, couldn't be enough for almost getting Sammy killed.
But it wasn't his choice to make, and anyway, he hadn't the strength to do anything other than lie there over the trunk and sob. He could feel Dad's hand in his hair, stroking gently, the thumb rubbing his scalp. It trailed down some to rub the back of his neck and then Dad's other hand was slipping under Dean's armpit, across his chest and lifting him up.
Dad propped himself against the trunk and maneuvered Dean to lean on him with his head on Dad's shoulder. Dean grabbed Dad's shirt with both hands; his legs felt too shaky to support him. But there was no danger of him falling over – Dad had his arms around him, holding him up.
He was still crying. He couldn't stop. The pain in his backside was horrific, but the pain in his chest was worse. The image of the werewolf charging at Sam played over and over in his mind's eye and he curled deeper into Dad, trying to make it go away. Sam was safe; no thanks to Dean, but he was. Yet the sobs kept coming.
After what seemed like hours, Dean finally calmed down. He didn't try to move. He didn't want to. Dad's body was big and firm and warm, his arms strong and reassuring, and all Dean wanted was to stay engulfed in that embrace with Dad's hand rubbing slow circles on his back, to feel Dad's heart beating steadily.
Dad didn't rush him, just held Dean while he sniffled quietly into the crook of Dad's neck, and Dean couldn't help recalling the vague memory of Dad holding him like this a long time ago, before Mom died. Dad held him after, too, of course, but it was never the same; there was some quality that had been lost, some level of tenderness that seemed to have existed only when Mom was with them.
But it was still Dad, and it still felt incredibly good to be hugged by him, so Dean stayed motionless and Dad let him rest there against him.
As much as Dean wished to remain like this all night long, he couldn't. He took a deep breath and slowly started straightening up, with Dad's hands supporting him until he was standing on his own.
Dean wiped an arm over his face, suddenly unable to meet Dad's gaze. "I'm sorry," he mumbled at Dad's chest. "I'm so sorry for everything."
Dad reached his hand out and cupped Dean's jaw, his thumb tracing gently along Dean's cheek. "You're forgiven, son."
It was so wrong. He shouldn't be forgiven, not so easily, anyway. Couldn't Dad see it? Sammy was as good as dead because of him, and the throb in his ribcage just wouldn't ease off. "Dad, don't-"
"Dean," Dad's hand lifted his face. Dean tried to keep his eyes down, but Dad forced his chin up a little more, and Dean finally looked up at him. "Did you hear me? I said you are forgiven, and in this family, what I say goes."
The tone was calm, almost gentle, but there was a steel edge to it. Yet there was nothing of the sort in his eyes, and looking into them the clench in Dean's chest started to melt away.
He took a shaky breath, then another one, while Dad wiped the last of the tears off his face and finally let go of Dean and pushed off the trunk. Dean stepped back to let Dad through, and watched him stroll out of the garage, leaving the door open.
Dean looked down at his jeans; there was no way in hell he was going to wear those over the scorched earth that was his ass and the backs of his thighs. He pulled his boxers up – Jesus, even that made him whimper miserably – unlaced his boots and shucked off the jeans.
Dad was lowering a tumbler of whiskey he had just downed as Dean toddled into the kitchen, jeans and boots in hand. Dean put his load on a chair and when he glanced up again, Dad was holding out the glass to him.
Dean looked at it, at Dad, and then reached for the whiskey. He knocked it back, letting the rich liquid burn its way down his throat and into his stomach. He coughed a little and put the tumbler down on the table, and Dad gave him a smile and a light pat as he walked out of the kitchen with the whiskey bottle.
Dean turned the faucet on and splashed some water on his face. It was cold, but it felt good, revitalizing. He hadn't even realized how exhausted he was. He reached for the dish towel and wiped his face, then leaned for a minute over the sink.
"Dean?"
Dean spun around to see Sam standing at the entryway. The kid's eyelids were sleep-heavy, his too-long hair tousled. His right forearm was bandaged, and more gauze showed where the collar of his t-shirt was pulled aside some.
"Sammy," Dean took a step forward and then stopped short; he had no fucking right to touch his brother, he wasn't the one to save him tonight.
"You didn't come," Sam said, and Dean bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "I was scared the werewolf got you."
Dean raised his eyes again. "What?"
Sam took another step forward. "Dad called you and you weren't answering, and I thought maybe… maybe the werewolf found you before it came here, and I-"
Sam's voice choked and now Dean did move; not because he deserved to hold Sam, but because Sam needed him to. He wrapped his arms carefully around his little brother, mindful of his injuries, and Sam rested his head on Dean's shoulder.
"Shhh, it's okay, Sammy, I'm here," but he wasn't here before, when it mattered. The guilt started slinking its way back in, clenching his ribs and disturbing his stomach. But his ass was still throbbing, and the pain grounded him; he had fucked up, but he paid for it. Dad said he was forgiven, and what Dad said went.
Dean let out a breath and leaned his head against his brother's, running his fingers through Sam's shaggy hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't here, but I am now. I'll take care of you, everything's gonna be okay."
Sam snuggled a little closer and Dean closed his eyes. Sam was safe, that was all that mattered, really; and if Dean needed his ass whipped from time to time to get his priorities straight, it was fine by him.
He had his priorities as sorted as could be right now. The lingering heat of the whipping in his backside and the warmth of Sam's body against his front were both comforting in their familiarity, soothing his mind and his heart.
"I'm here, Sammy," he whispered again, and he was. Completely and utterly there, where he belonged. Where it mattered.