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Montana, 1997
***
Sam glared bleakly out of the rattling window onto the mountainous crags and whirling snow and pines; or, what he had affectionately dubbed "fuck all". Fucking Montana, with it's stupid snowstorms.
Since there was nothing to see, he turned back to the single room pretending to be two; Dean sprawled on the plaid couch of the implied living room and John claiming the kitchenette, hunched over his journal with the Jack sitting open on the maroon placemat.
After four days couped up in a cabin remote from civilisation, with barely a satellite signal strong enough to satiate Dean's cokehead need to tune into the latest episode of Baywatch, Sam had decided that the only thing worse than being stranded in the middle of nowhere with his brother while dad was on a hunting trip was being stranded in the middle of nowhere with his brother and his dad while John planned said hunting trip.
Sam glared distastefully in his dad's direction, the too-yellow camping lamp offering an unflattering pallor to John's furrowed brow and stubbled jaw. He looked so... bearish, and that pissed Sam off. His dad had no right to look so surly when he did this to himself... to all of them. How was it so impossible for his dad to hunt from a white house with a porch and a golden retriever and one high school? Sam knew himself to be a diplomat — if John wanted to hunt, then he should hunt, he just didn't think it had to be everybody's funeral.
"You hearing me, Sam?" John drawled from the table. His youngest looked to be off in his own world yet again — a world where puppies were used as crash test dummies, for which John was solely responsible. John knew he was no ray of sunshine — not by a long shot, but a fifteen-year-old kid had no right to look so damn desolate.
It appeared to piss his youngest off even more to be ripped from his reverie, because all John got in response was a haughty "Not really." John couldn't help but bristle at the tone.
"Well, you're gonna. I told you before — you got nothing better to do, you practise your bowhunting with the cans outside," He barely thought before adding "since you took it upon yourself to skip last week's session for soccer try-outs.".
The memory of last week's argument boiled inside the teenager, along with every other fight of a similar nature that had occurred between the pair in recent years. John regretted the soccer jibe, hating that his youngest had made it so difficult to forget the what ifs. Dean understood. Yes, looking at his nineteen-year-old, who was intently focused on Stacy Kamano's rack, it was clear to John that for Dean the desire for a normal life had been extinguished with the flames.
John had to stop himself from wincing as the muscle in Sam's jaw jumped in frustration at losing his autonomy in his free time too. He could tell from the tension newly summoned to the room that Dean was now listening in as well. Sam didn't disappoint.
"Wow, Dad, you're so subtle at wanting rid of me these days.". When the comment didn't permeate John's gameface, Sam tried, throwing his hands out extravagantly to the sides, "What, you seriously want me to go out in sub-zero temperatures to shoot at fuckin' soda cans?".
Sam knew he'd fucked up the second he said it. He cursed himself for not just saying yes sir, like Dean would have done to avoid this, and for letting himself be so perceptibly moody in the first place. John wished about the same.
As silence settled thinly between them, the angry light in Sam's eyes dimmed as if John had thrown an ice bucket over him. He felt mostly limp and defeated anyway, his last spark of defiance challenging John to clap back with a category four ass-beating.
In the moments after, John had time to take Sam in, as he slumped gloomily back against the windowsill, feeling the paint flake away beneath his hands, cheek bitten from the inside.
John's mind reeled back to Mary and parenting books and "lashing out as a means of seeking attention", but more than that, he felt his heart tug at memories of Sammy then; who yes, had fussed like the best of them and thrown passionate tantrums that could be transformed to gentle tears by a swat to the behind, but who had been such a light; full of laughter, silly notions and hero-worship for the men in his family.
Looking at Sam now, coltish teenager that he was, John noticed how his son slumped into his flannel, damn bangs hanging in his eyes; eyes so full of misery and infernal desperation, always staring at John in moments like these, begging him to know something. John had always been acutely aware of Sam's telepathic attempts, but he could never squint his eyes hard enough to understand.
Returning to more practical matters, John's first instinct was to refute his youngest's unspoken claim that either of John Winchester's boys could speak to him like that and sit another day. But, softening at the resignation moulding his son's tall frame, John did the unheard of.
Turning over a rusted drachma in his hand, John levelled a calculating look at his son and ground out "On you go, Samuel. Take your coat.". And Sam peeled himself away from the window in relief to do just that.
John's exhausted sigh was enough for the both of them left in the room. And, against all logic he missed his youngest son already and had half a mind to call him back in. But it was too late, and surely Sammy only wanted space.
***
Sam was bent over digging another spindly arrow that had went wide out of the snow when Dean shouldered the cabin door open.
"Sammy! That's dinner — get your ass in here, it's freezing.". Sam starts to shout over his shoulder that he's Sam now, but Dean's already closed the door.
By the time Sam had slung himself into the wooden chair, Dean was chauffeuring plates from the counter where John had portioned out last night's reheated spaghetti. Spaghetti was probably one of the only dishes beside barbeque (snowball's chance with the weather being the way it was) that John was comfortable making. And recently, since everything he or his youngest did resulted in them coming to blows, then at least he could offer a silent peace offering by means of feeding Sam his favourite childhood meal. John smiled nostalgically, though, like all his nostalgia, it was accompanied by a bitterness in the back of his throat, remembering the tins of "Besgettios" he used to leave for Dean to feed to his brother so he could just imagine that his dad was making him dinner instead of a fourth grader.
John shook the thoughts of his sad children out of his head, returning his gaze to the sad teenagers who sat across from him — Dean dutifully shovelling the oily strands, Sam... fussing at his pasta with a furrowed brow not unlike his own.
Sam felt John's penetrating eyes on him and his fork stilled. He looked up almost bashfully before remembering that he was freezing, dripping wet and pissed off. He was expecting a reprimand and John didn't disappoint;
"Eat your dinner, Sam."
He clipped his youngest's real name in this family short, honestly wanting to avoid the fight even he, as imperceptive as he was, knew to be brewing.
Sam gave him a "huh?" squint before stabbing a meatball, popping it in his mouth and mming acidly. Dean had about finished, so leapt away from the table and began scrubbing his plate, in cold, soapless water, with much more vigour than was necessary. For John, this was simply too much — Sam was clearly asking for it and he had half a mind to-
But Sam was cold, and wet (the cuffs of his flannel with snow still melting on them, creating puddles on the table) and had had a tough few weeks — the smudges under his eyes told John that. He honestly didn't want this to be just another day that turned into another bad memory for his little family — there'd been too many of those. So John did the only thing he could think of to diffuse the situation and avoid going postal on his son.
"Get to bed, Sam. Now.", rubbing his tired eyes on his palms. After a pause;
"Are you kidding? It's eight PM?"
"Just go.", John couldn't anymore with this tonight. And his defeated tone worked for something, since Sam sighed contemptuously and his boots squeaked through the door into the bedroom.
Sam felt relief at escaping the claustrophobic environment. There was something lately about being in close quarters with his dad that made him feel like he's a match to a gas cannister.
The warmth of the shower water stung on his chilled skin until it felt good, and Sam rested his forehead against the tile, letting the warmth seep into his bones and wash away every bitter feeling and bitten-off word inside him. By the time he towelled off he was cold again. Not his body, but the deep-seated loneliness he'd been fending off was encroaching upon him again. The loneliness of never putting roots down anywhere, not really existing, not even in his legal documentation, just a memory or an anecdote to every kid he'd ever met on this Kerouac roadtrip that had been his life so far. His whole life, he'd clung even harder to Dean and his dad to compensate, but in recent months, difficult winter months where John had been away for long stretches and Dean's attention had been increasingly held by the lure of whatever local dive was within range, Sam was beginning to feel like the only way to happiness was out. California would be nice this time of year, he thought, no snow-storms to speak of there.
***
John knew Sam wasn't asleep. Obviously; it was eight PM, like he'd so politely pointed out. And now that Baywatch was over and A New Hope was scheduled to come on, John wanted to do at least something right for his youngest.
"Sammy?", he called over his shoulder.
"What, Dad?", Sam replied, unfolding his pyjamas.
"Come through here!"
Sam rolled his eyes and stifled a groan, refraining from answering with the favourable "yes, sir" like Dean would have flung out by now, which did not go unnoticed by his waiting father.
Pyjamas now on, Sam stalked to the side of the couch and folded his arms, waiting. After getting no response, he bit out, "What is it, Dad."
John's eyebrows lifted at the tone — boy wasn't even trying for subtlety anymore! But seeing his lanky son, wearing his "pyjamas", aka Dean's old plaid pyjama pants and one of his own U.S. marine shirts, hair still damp but from the shower instead of the snow this time; he just melted.
Though cute, his son's whole bitch routine was becoming a problem, one that he just could not ignore anymore. Pieces fell into place in John's mind, stemming from deep affection and frustration at his son.
"I told you to come here, kid." John says, motioning Sam to come right to him where he sat on the couch.
Sam fucking knew it. Knew he couldn't get through this day without getting his ass handed to him, and here he was being proven right, again. He groaned aloud and stalked the last few paces to his father's side. John was mildly shocked when Sam yanked down his ratty pyjamas, leaving himself in just his boxers, but understood when Sam pretty much threw himself over his dad's lap. It wasn't difficult to infer the unspoken "get it over with, old man".
John felt the moment had passed to tell the kid he wasn't planning to spank him, or, hadn't been planning to spank him, not tonight. So instead, he dropped an arm comfortably around Sammy's waist and rested the other on the bare back of his thigh, thinking.
Dean had taken up Sam's arrows from earlier and was now polishing them meticulously. The poor kid had always been a stress-cleaner.
Turning back to the child that had quite literally fallen into his lap and was quite literally asking for it, John reached the arm that had been restraining Sam's waist up to his head, stroking his hair and giving his neck a warm squeeze. Sam had just turned his head to look quizzically at his father who was for sure going senile, when the heavily muscled arm dropped back around his torso, holding him firmly, and the other hand clapped down hard on his left ass cheek.
Fuck, that hurt, Sam found himself thinking as he jolted forward. He had only a few seconds to contemplate before his father slapped his hand down heavily again.
John ironically felt pretty comfortable in this position. Not just because Sam's warm weight was slumped against him, but because in this position, and probably this position only, he knew just what to do for his youngest — he knew how to read him, how to control him and how to hold him when it was done. It was the only sure-fire way to dispel his youngest's moods.
Plus, John thought, the kid really did need his ass kicked. And with that, John hefted down a few more strokes, hard.
Sam was now feeling it and absolutely regretted making this so easy for his dad. His whole ass stung and he'd only been smacked a few times. He wrapped a hand over his mouth to stop from yelling out for leniency.
John saw this and laid down ten more punishing smacks, really putting his shoulder into it. Sam for his part snarled his fingers into the plaid Velcro couch cover and yelled out a passionate "Ow!" that sounded at least partially offended and angry, stoicism be damned. It was nowhere near the blistering Sam had expected to receive at some point today; hell, he'd only been walloped twenty times max, but he'd be damned if it didn't sting like a bitch anyway. A begrudging respect for his father's effectiveness pervaded his reproachfulness about this spanking.
Before he had time to think about it, John flipped Sam right way up on his lap, half-spanked, and pulled him close. Sam floundered, utterly bamboozled that the spanking, though painful, was over already, and that he now found himself sitting on his dad's lap like he hadn't since he was thirteen. An unexplainable sense of panic overcame him and he went to stand up, swiftly remove himself from his insane situation, but found his dad's arm still looped close round his waist, keeping him close.
Dumbly, Sam pushed at the arm, just wanting to curl up on the bed and be alone with his smarting behind and lonely thoughts, but it wouldn't budge. Suddenly, John's voice rumbled down from somewhere above him, whiskey warm;
"C'mere sweetheart."
John didn't know what he'd said wrong, since his son looked up at him imploringly, hazel eyes filling, and slumped down against him immediately, done fighting. Instinct came flooding back to John now, now with his kid safe and pliable in his lap, looking at him like he held Sam's whole heart in his hands.
John couldn't bear it, so he pulled Sam's torso right into him, kissing his citrus-scented hair before resting that big brain on his chest, neatly under his chin. His kid was so skinny, he thought, he'd pack more Besgettios into the kid tomorrow.
Sam just felt like crying forever. He'd been so lonely for so long, and now he was forced into his dad's lap like it was nothing, nothing to receive the affection he'd been craving since he became too difficult for his dad to handle, since Dean became embarrassed by their "chick-flick" moments.
His dad must have been more intuitive than he seemed, since John began to feel something to this effect; that this affection was alien between he and his son, at least since Sam was still calling him "Daddy" on the regular. Both of them actually, he thought ruefully, looking at his eldest who had turned away from the sink but seemed glued to the surface, hands still wrapped under the lip of the counter, gripping the faux marble while gazing distantly at the linoleum.
John beckoned Dean over with a no-nonsense "You gonna come over here on your own or do you need your own spanking?", followed by murmuring sweet everythings into Sam's ear, so that his youngest could hear everything he needed to hear from his dad after his spanking with some veil of privacy.
Dean smiled ruefully and shook his head, embarrassed by the gentle threat. Nevertheless, he rushed over to his dad and took a seat at the other end of the couch by Sam's feet.
This kid. John had to repress an eyeroll at Dean's fear of intimacy; how different his boys were. Well, like it or not his boys were both receiving some much-needed attention. With that thought he swiftly grabbed his boy's lightly muscled arm and hefted him up, close and personal. John felt rather than saw Dean open his mouth to comment on the lack of personal space and before his son could get a word out John cuffed his eldest on the head, effectively stifling him, before hugging his son right into his side. A rough kiss to the temple had Dean flaming red, officially too bewildered to respond.
After a few moments of charged silence, John spoke;
"Both of you listenin' to me?", with affirmative nods, "I know it's been tough lately... with the hunting and the location and..." he trailed off. "Anyway, things are gonna be different now. The chimera we're hunting will've moved on by the time this storm blows over, so we're all off hunting for the next few days. And we're gonna spend them here. Together."
A collective sigh of relief relaxed the room as John took in the present moment; both his boys safe and fed and warm, too warm with the fire blazing thanks to Dean's enthusiastic wood-chopping pastime. But he wouldn't have moved for the world.
He cleared his throat, "But if either of you two boys cop an attitude like certain parties have been..." he squeezed his arm around Sam in specification, "I will well and truly blister whoever that happens to be. Am I understood?". Both boys had tensed up at the return of their dad's familiar stony tone, and Dean gave the required "Yes, sir.". Sam, reproachful of the lecture despite his behind's proximity to his dad's hand said nothing. John reached down and smacked what he could reach of his son's boxer-clad behind, getting a muffled squeak and Sam's arms thrown round his neck in lieu of the hoped for courtesy. John decided to let it go, opting to rub his hand up and down Sam's exposed back.
As John William's sweeping composition filled the cosy room, John thanked whatever deity there may possibly be that all of them had survived this long; long enough to eat reheated spaghetti and argue and make up.
***
The End