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Shit.

Dean stared down at the pink slip in his hand. 

“What are you gonna do?” whispered Sam anxiously.

Dean scowled down at the kid. “Don’t worry about it,” he hissed. “Not your problem.”

“Deannn,” whined Sam lowly.

“Shut. Up,” Dean ordered, glaring at him until he shrank back on the hard plastic chair, kicking his feet twice before giving the secretary a guilty glance and then clutching his backpack to his chest.

Twerp was gonna get them killed.

Dean stared at the pink slip, with the damning summation of the hole he’d dug himself and the expectant signature line.

He was well and truly fucked.

The principal walked out of his office, frowned at both of them, and then said, “Well, Agatha, I think they’d better get out to the busses, or they’ll miss their ride.”

“Very well, Mr. Farland,” said the old woman with a pinched expression.

Dean lifted himself into a ready position, staring at her, gripping Sam’s elbow so the kid didn’t just pop up.

That’s not how things went, in this particular school office.

“You may go,” sniffed the old woman. “Walk! Gentlemen!”

“Yes’m,” said Sam, because that’s how they did it here. Dad had warned them the South was going to be a culture shock, but the hardest thing to drill into your head was how you had to always say sir and ma’am or people thought you were on purpose being rude.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean repeated, ducking his head. 

“Bring that back tomorrow, now!” she called.

“Yes, ma’am,” enunciated Dean crisply. 

“Dean,” hissed Sam.

“Shut. Up. Sammy,” snapped Dean, hustling the kid out of the office by his elbow. 

“He’s gonna paddle you!” Sammy squawked, as they hit the empty hallway and started fast-walking out to the busses. “He said he was gonna paddle you, Dean!”

“He said, if Dad doesn’t sign, he’s gonna paddle me,” Dean reminded the kid.

“Same thing!” gasped Sammy. “He’s- you’re not gonna- you can’t tell Dad! He’s gonna lose his mind, Dean!”

Yeah, Dean was well aware of that little out-of-the-fire, into-the-frying-pan issue. 

What was worse, being paddled with the old Board of Education they had here at the school, or being belted by Dad after showing him what the little pink slip said: Fighting with peers and disrespect to school authorities?

Dean could guess. 

He’d have to forge the signature. 

And figure out some way to get Sammy not to fucking snitch.

He stared down at the golden-blonde head as it bobbed beside him, both of them racing to get to where the busses were parked. 

Maybe it was better to leave the kid in the dark. Sammy’d already have to lie for him about the fighting.

They just made it- the driver gave them a long scolding lecture and they had to sit up front because none of Dean’s friends in the back had saved a space for them.

Dean couldn’t blame them- he’d been sure he was a goner when they’d called Sammy into the office to sit with him.

He’d been sure they were going to call Dad, make him come pick them up. 

But going home on the bus meant he could maybe get away with everything.

“What are you gonna tell him about your face,” hissed Sammy.

“Took a baseball to it, not paying attention when I was playing,” said Dean, the lie coming easily to him because he’d already thought that part through. That lie was the easy part of pulling this off.

“Deann,” drawled Sammy anxiously.

“I’ll fix it,” Dean told him. He smiled his winningest smile at his little brother, grinning with all the confidence he didn’t quite feel yet. “Don’t worry, Sammy, your big brother knows what he’s doing.”

“You’re going to get paddled,” Sammy hissed. 

“I’ll- take what’s coming to me,” Dean said, nodding.

“But you’re not telling Dad,” Sammy predicted, with all the scorn an eight-year-old could heap on the words.

“I’m telling Dad I got hurt at school, doing baseball stuff,” said Dean, shrugging. 

“That’s still a lie,” Sammy pointed out. 

“It’s not really a lie,” Dean argued, shrugging again. “I was doing baseball stuff, I got hurt-”

“He’s gonna know,” Sammy said, but he said it doubtfully.

“He can’t tell when I’m lying,” Dean said with confidence.

“Sometimes he can,” Sammy returned with that same scorn. 

“Well, don’t fucking give it away, yeah?” snapped Dean. “I’ll say I got hurt playing baseball, I’ll try not to add details or anything, if he asks I’ll say I wasn’t paying attention, what do you want from me, kid?”

Sammy huffed and glared out the window. “You shouldn’t have hit him,” he muttered. “It wasn’t- I was fine.”

“Anybody knocks you down, I knock their teeth in, that’s the deal, lil bro,” Dean swore, settling back beside Sammy.

He rolled his head on the seat back, slapped Sammy’s thigh until the kid looked up at him with those big, guilty eyes. “You’re mine to beat on, understand? And I'm not sharing.”

Sammy blew out a big breath, rolled those huge eyes, and glared out the window, but Dean could see it meant something to him, could see some of that tension and guilt fade away. 

The truth was, he’d heard about the asshole tripping his brother, knocking his lunch tray, and he’d seen red. There hadn’t been any noble protect-Sammy impulse to it, he’d just wanted to hurt the guy.

And he’d accomplished that.

Guy had never seen it coming. 

He’d be limping for a week, and hopefully his nose was busted and he needed surgery.

It was just Dean’s luck that he’d caught a clumsy elbow to the mouth, splitting his lip and giving him an ugly bruise. 

He’d made enough friends and the other guy was enough of an asshole that no one had jumped him- but not enough friends that no one ran for the playground supervisor.

If he ever found out who tattled, he’d straighten them out on being a fucking snitch, but…

He was in it now. 

They weren’t supposed to use their training to start fights.

It wasn’t fair.

Dad had a whole thing about it. 

They were hunters, they were protectors, and they learned things that could make them bullies, and he wasn’t having it. They were gonna grow up to be shields for humanity, doing all the shit that needed doing so everyone could live their happy little lives, and they weren’t going to cause problems with authorities, ever, because what they had to do for hunts caused enough fucking problems with authorities.

Not that Dad swore like that.

Not that Dad would be okay with how much Dean swore, inside his head.

Shit.

He was fucked if Dad found out. 

Dean stared at the pink slip still clutched in his fingers. 

So Dad wouldn’t find out.

-_-

The hotel door opened. Dean saw Sammy sit bolt upright on his chair. He gave the kid a glare over his shoulder, then hunched himself back over the hot plate and the pot full of canned stew. 

“Boys,” greeted Dad.

“Hi, Dad,” said Sammy unenthusiastically.

“Hey,” said Dean, not turning around. “Dinner’s almost done.”

“Good,” said Dad, heading straight for the bathroom.

When Dean looked over his shoulder, Sammy was looking at him, wide-eyed and pale.

He gave the kid a good glare, which had the effect of making Sammy startle, before rolling his eyes, shaking himself, and re-applying himself to his homework.

Yeah, Sammy’d be okay. He knew the score.

The shower kicked on, and Dean plated up dinner into the styrofoam bowls, slathering some slices of bread with butter and grabbing two chugs of milk and a beer from the mini fridge, setting it all on the table. 

He was digging in the box for spoons and forks when Dad came out, toweling himself dry.

Be cool, he reminded himself. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Dad demanded, rubbing his ear and scowling.

“Learned a lesson about not paying attention when baseballs are flying around. At recess,” chuckled Dean, leaning back and grinning, fingers tracing the bruise. “But if anyone asks, tell them they should see the other guy, yeah?”

Dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah, trying to be a tough guy here? Get yourself a little reputation?”

“Well, someone’s gotta make sure people don’t mess with the geek,” teased Dean, punching Sammy in the shoulder. 

Sammy squawked and glared, but Dad continued chuckling. “All right, boys,” he said genially. “We’re proud of your smarts, Samuel. Very useful to have a kid already reading in three languages, son. Just you make sure that reputation also says your nose stays clean, Dean.”

“Will do,” promised Dean with all his heart. 

It was just this one time.

He’d seen red, and had, technically, been defending his brother. Kids did need to know Sammy was off-limits. 

He wasn’t going to let it happen again. 

His heart was pounding until Dad said, “You put any ice on it, at school?”

“Uh, yeah,” reported Dean. “Had an icepack on it for like, half-hour. They were all worried I had a concussion, kept checking for it.”

Dad snorted, lifting his fork to poke at the stew before lowering it and saying, “Samuel, you want to say the prayer and give your brother’s jaw a rest?”

“Sure, Dad,” said Sammy, sitting up straight before bowing his head.

Dean gave him a grin and a wink as he bowed his own, braiding his fingers together for the short prayer.

His ass was gonna be fine. 

Dad didn’t have to know.

-_-

The next morning, while Dad was out on his run and Sammy was having his shower, he frantically searched through the stack of paperwork they kept in a shoebox until he found a paper with Dad’s signature scrawled across the bottom. Tongue tucked between his teeth, he copied it out as best he could on the pink slip, and slid it into his backpack where Sammy wouldn’t accidentally spy it. 

He shoved the papers back in the box and then it was done. 

It was signed, wasn’t it?

No paddling.

He’d tell Sammy the paddling hadn’t hurt that much, and then- then they’d all be okay. 

Everything would be fine.

Slate cleared, score settled. He'd be fine.

-_-

“Really, Dean?” asked Sammy, wide-eyed and impressed.

“I mean, whacked my ass off but-” Dean shrugged, “-whatever. I’ll be fine.”

“How’re you gonna hide the marks from Dad?” asked Sammy in a nervous voice.

“Like he stares at my naked ass?” snorted Dean. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Sammy. “Yeah. And it really- I mean you’re not limping or anything.”

“Nope,” confirmed Dean. He was not. He’d handed in the pink slip to the dried up old hag at the front office. She’d sniffed and sent him to class, and that was the end of it. No one had come dragging him out of class to yell at him for forging a signature, so that was that.

“Wow,” said Sammy.

Dean grinned. 

“But you’re never going to do that again,” scolded Sammy, suddenly, glaring up at Dean.

“I’ll fight whoever I gotta fight, to keep you safe,” Dean told him, glaring right back. 

“I can protect myself,” declared Sammy, in his high-pitched little-kid voice. 

Dean snorted. “Oh, yeah?” he challenged, and then he pushed the pipsqueak, hard.

Sammy came up swinging, the excited light of sparring in his eyes. 

Dean laughed, and they fucked around for a bit, waiting for the bus doors to open and the line ahead of them to go down.

“Are y’all ninjas or somethin’?” asked Dirk from Dean’s language arts class. 

Dean laughed. “Yeah, or something,” he huffed, sliding under Sammy’s chop, showing off his little brother’s speed just a bit.

Couldn’t hurt, if people knew they could fight. 

If people knew they could both fight.

Word had spread and everyone already knew Dean could fight. 

He’d heard more than one batshit insane spat behind him, and he didn’t mind the reputation boost at all. 

The girls were acting different around him, too, now that he’d beat up Brett for fucking with Sammy. He’d made it clear when kids asked that he only did it because someone had fucked with Sammy and he could tell it was scoring points. 

Couldn’t hurt, for everyone in the bus line to see that Sammy could fight his own fights, too. 

He was starting to think seeing red and going after Brett was actually the best thing that could have happened for either one of them. And now he knew he could forge Dad’s signature if he needed to, it took a lot of weight off his shoulders. He wouldn’t tell Sammy he could, not right away, but if the kid forgot to get a paper signed, well. Now Dean could do that for him, too. 

Everything was working out great, and his ass hadn’t been put in the line of fire. 

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

-_-

“Mr. Winchester?” said the principal. “I’m so sorry to disturb you at work.”

He even sounded apologetic, like he really meant it. 

Fuck him.

He didn’t have to call Dad.

“We’ll need you to come collect your son, Dean,” said the principal. “We’d like to have a short conference, when you arrive, to ensure we’re on the same page about expectations, moving forward.”

He could hear Dad’s, “What did he do now?” and it made him flinch.

The principal looked across his paper-covered desk and sighed. “Well, as you know, Dean’s been having some… integration issues, we’ll call them. Fighting with peers.”

Dad said something Dean couldn’t make out and the principal’s eyebrows flew, turning his disappointed frown into an almost-funny look of shocked surprise. Dean wasn’t laughing, though. 

“Yes, we’ll- we’ll want to talk about that as another issue, then, sir,” he told Dad. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. We’ll keep him here, under close supervision, until you arrive. … no, no, suspension is what we’re trying to avoid, here. Just out for the rest of the day. Yes, you can- of course, that makes sense, I’ll inform Samuel’s teacher. Thank you for responding so promptly, I assure you we’ll work to get this all resolved with a minimum of inconvenience. … …now that is what I like to hear from a father of one of my students, sir. You’re absolutely right, he’s worth maximum inconvenience, I agree. See you soon. Thank you again for being so accommodatin’.”

He replaced the phone on the hook and stared at Dean. “Any reason why your history of fighting at our institution should come as a surprise to your father, Dean Winchester?’ he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

Dean shrugged, and shifted his gaze to the wall, holding the icepack to his cheekbone and glowering. 

Fucking Brett. 

The principal sighed gustily, shook his head, clucked his tongue a couple of times, and then went digging in his desk. He called out to Agatha at the front desk, who trotted in, gave Dean a frosty glare, before sniffing and trotting back out. She came back in a minute with two files and slid them onto his desk, giving Dean another sharp look, and left the office again. 

Dean had been in enough principal’s offices to know you just sat there while they worked. If you made noise or complained or tried to leave, it was always worse than just sitting there.

So there he sat, while the man made boring telephone calls and dug through paperwork, and didn’t touch the two files on his desk. 

The school nurse came in after a bit, had Dean balance on one foot, walk a little way, follow her finger with his eyes and shined a light in his ear, which turned out had bled a little bit from getting socked like that, but she said it wasn’t coming from the inside so it wasn’t the big concern the principal had been all worried about, calling her in from the high school where she worked. She swabbed at everything with some shit that stung on a little cotton ball, plastered his cheek with a bandaid, and called him good enough.

Then she turned around and asked the principal about the others. 

“No one else was injured,” reported the principal evenly. 

Dean scowled, and added yet in his head. He’d get Brett, and his little fucking friends, too. 

“No one?” asked the nurse in disbelief. 

“He’s not in trouble,” the principal said passively. “Unless you think he should be? For being attacked?”

“I think they should be,” snapped the nurse promptly.

“Can you tell me their names?” asked the principal politely. “Everyone else who witnessed or was involved can’t remember who else might have been involved.”

She looked at Dean, lips twisted with exasperation. “One of those, is it?”

“One of those,” agreed the principal. “Unless, Dean, are you remembering anything about the incident, yet, son?”

“It all happened so fast,” Dean repeated, flashing the nice nurse his best I’m-the-good-guy-here smile. “And I’m still awfully new, ma’am. Sir. I don’t know everyone yet.”

“I offered him a glance at our yearbook but he said he didn’t get a good look at his attackers,” murmured the principal.

“Ah,” said the nurse. “Well, best of luck to you,” she said sympathetically to Dean. “You’re all cleaned up, and I don’t think you’re in any danger. Unless you don’t know the president?”

“George Bush, ma’am,” offered Dean. “And it’s October 2, 1991. And the alphabet backwards is, Z-Y-X-W-uh-V, U- and, um, T, I think and then-”

“No concussion, no sign of tympanic rupture, but keep that ice pack on,” said the nurse. “I’ll write up a note for his family.”

“Thank you, Nurse Adelaide,” said the principal, flipping over another paper and making a few quick marks with his pen. 

Dean was gonna die of boredom.

It was better than dying of whatever Dad was going to do to him, when he got here.

He was going to go ballistic about the forging, Dean could feel it, his ass already clenching up about it. 

He was going to go apeshit. 

Dying of boredom was a much better fate, if he could figure out how to do it before Dad got here.

Dean closed his eyes and prayed harder than he ever had before in his life. He even tried it in Latin, on the off chance sucking up worked with God.

“Right that way, Mr. Winchester,” said the disapproving voice of Agatha the ancient and bitter secretary.

Dean opened his eyes just in time to catch the angry expression on Dad’s face as he opened the office door.

“Please have Samuel sent to the office,” called the principal, standing to shake Dad’s hand. “He can come directly inside when he arrives, we won’t be long. Nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester, sir.”

“Likewise,” said Dad, settling himself into the chair beside Dean. “Let’s get this straightened out.”

“Straight to the point, yes, sir,” said the principal, leaning forward. “The main thing I wanted to talk to you about was how Dean’s settling in- or not settling in, to my way of seeing it.”

“I thought he was doing fine,” answered Dad, glaring down at Dean.

“Oh, the teachers report he’s making friends, doing well enough in his studies. We’re aware you move around for work and he’s- well, we’re getting him up to speed where he’s a little behind his peers,” said the principal.

Dean scowled. So he didn’t already know every fucking state capital, sue him! Most of the kids in this shitty little town wouldn’t ever even leave it, and he’d at least been to most of them! No one needed to know that shit, not really- you only needed to know where you’d been and where you were going to be!

“Sounds good so far, but he’s sporting a black eye and a busted cheek,” said Dad in that way he had when he was calling you on your shit and sounding like it made him want to laugh.

He wasn’t going to be laughing, Dean knew. 

Dean was basically already dead.

“Ye-es,” breathed the principal, sitting back and staring at Dean. “Well. You’ll remember, a couple of weeks back, the incident with the fighting with peers and disrespecting authority? The note we sent home?”

Dad turned, then, and glared down at Dean. “No, I don’t remember that. Why do I remember a couple of weeks ago a baseball clipped you, son?”

Dean dropped his gaze to the carpet, throat too tight to talk. He shook his head.

“Well, it’s funny that you say that,” said the principal, and Dean’s eyes darted up to stare in horror at the file the man slid across the desk and slowly opened. 

The pink slip sat on top, and Dean couldn’t help himself. He darted forward and reached for it.

Dad’s hand closed around his wrist. “One minute, Dean,” he said, still in that fake-happy I’m-laughing-here tone, “I want to read what it says.”

“Dad,” gasped Dean, but the hand only tightened on his wrist, holding him half-stretched between the chair and the desk while Dad’s other hand lifted the pink slip. 

“Ah,” said Dad. “That’s… a very good forgery of my signature.”

“I thought that might be the case, after we spoke,” said the principal with satisfaction, leaning back and looking between father and son. 

“Dad,” said Dean again, aware his voice was pleading and not quite sure what he was going to say next.

“You’re going to sit,” said Dad. “And if you’re very smart, you’re going to enjoy sitting comfortably, while we sort this out.”

“Dad,” breathed Dean, shaking his head.

Dad’s hand released his wrist, and he sat back in the chair as fast as he could.

He knew an order when he heard it. 

And the threat didn’t go over his head, either. 

He was fucked.

“Now, two weeks back, Dean started a fight with another boy- you’ll understand I can’t share that name with you, sir, confidentiality being what it is,” apologized the principal. “He tore into him fairly well, according to the witnesses. Boy ended up with a broken nose, bruised bone in his knee, he’s been out of school the last couple of weeks, healing up enough to return. On crutches, you understand.”

Dean flinched when his dad turned to look at him. 

“Is that so,” said Dad, all the humor out of his voice, now.

 “And today, Dean was dragged in by the playground supervisor, and you’ll agree, he looks pretty rough, sir. I don’t like the look of him now, but he was looking worse, earlier, before our nurse got at him,” said the principal. 

Sammy’s knock at the door interrupted that line of thought. Dean scowled at him, but the kid was clearly already nervous, biting his lip anxiously. 

“Come on in,” said the principal, waving Sammy in.

Dean glared at the kid as he slipped inside, his backpack falling to the floor as he stretched and handed a paper to the principal. “Sorry,” said Sammy, wide eyed. “She said- give this to you? Hi, Dad.”

“Come sit over here, bring your backpack,” said Dad shortly, patting the chair on his other side. 

Sammy stared wide-eyed at Dean as he slunk over and settled himself gingerly on the chair. 

“You were saying he got beat up today,” Dad told the principal. “Probably for beating up the kid two weeks ago?”

“Well, we don’t know that,” said the principal heavily, shaking his head. “Because no one will confirm for us the identities of the other children involved.”

“Dean, this man asks you a question, you answer it,” ordered Dad.

“But, Dad-” spluttered Dean. That wasn’t cool! That wasn’t how you did things! You didn’t fucking tattle or rat people out!

“Now, Dean!” snapped Dad, and the glare he gave Dean made Dean swallow every protest he hadn’t voiced.

Dad was super pissed.

“Dean, who beat you up, today, son?” prompted the principal gently. 

“I- I don’t-” began Dean, his heart quaking as he stared up at his dad, Dad glaring back down at him with real anger there, in his eyes. 

Dad’s hand slapped the principal’s desk loud enough to make everyone in the room jump. Sammy even squeaked. 

“Now! Dean!” thundered Dad.

“Brett!” confessed Dean, the name falling out of him as he stared up at the red face that meant certain doom. “And Kevin! Michael, too, they- they held me and Brett-”

Horrifically, his voice broke and he wasn’t going to fucking cry, so he shut his mouth. 

“That’s about who I expected,” sighed the principal. “I’ll deal with them. We do not condone violence on the grounds of this institution, sir. We will not support it- revenge and retaliation lead to escalation and brutality and we do not support it here, sir!”

“Glad to hear it,” said Dad shortly. “Do you support forgery?” 

“Forgery,” whispered Sammy, and if he could shut his brother up with the power of his mind, Dean would smother him. As it was, he tightened his own jaw and pressed his lips together, glaring at the edge of the desk in front of them.

“We do not,” said the principal, shaking his head.

“Neither do I,” lied Dad hypocritically, because he was all the time forging papers and things for hunting! “And I don’t support starting fights- unless, Dean, were you just defending yourself?”

Yes, thought Dean eagerly. Yes, I was just defending myself! I’m the poor little victim here, and this is clear bullying and-

Sammy leaned forward and stared at him around Dad’s bulk, wide-eyed and clearly alarmed, waiting to hear what he’d say. 

If he said yes…

Anybody knocks you down, I knock their teeth in, that’s the deal, he’d promised Sammy. I’ll take what’s coming to me.

A man didn’t make promises like that, to his brother, unless he meant them.

I’ll take what’s coming to me.

“No, sir,” he said, lifting his chin. He stared right at the principal and repeated, “I beat up Brett, I started that fight, sir.”

“Hot-headed idiot,” muttered Dad, shifting his weight. “I told you boys, it’s not a fair fight. We’re here to protect people, not hurt them!”

“He was!” piped up Sammy, making Dean shoot forward and give him the best imitation of Dad’s shut-up glare that he could. Sammy shrank back a little, but then swallowed and rallied, offering, “He was protecting me, Dad! That guy- the one he beat up, he tripped me at lunch because I took the last strawberry cake and they only had chocolate left, then, and my tray went flying and he stepped over me and laughed and Dean was just- making sure it didn’t happen again!”

“Young man,” said the principal in a stern voice, making Dean roll his eyes and blow out his breath, hunching under his Dad’s glare, “did you report the incident at the time?”

“I’m not a snitch!” said Sammy hotly.

Dean couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Hadn’t the kid seen the way no adult in this room cared about that?

Dad shifted his weight and his disapproval, staring down at Sammy, and Dean watched his brother wilt.

“I knew it was wrong,” Dean said quickly. “Dad. Mr. Farland. I knew it. I knew beating up Brett was wrong, when I did it.”

He’d do it again. 

Fuck them. They didn’t know how it was, how you had to handle these things, every new town you moved to.

Both men, each of them twice his size, turned to stare at him, and the full weight of their combined disapproval made his mouth dry up in fear. 

“I knew it was wrong,” he repeated, since he’d already admitted it. “And, uh, so. I did it anyway. Doesn’t. Matter, I guess.”

“It does matter,” said Dad in that deep voice he got, when you’d really fucked up. “It matters, that you broke a kid’s nose and busted his knee so bad he’s on crutches, and he- what- did they not give you another lunch, buddy?”

Sam sniffed and then whispered, “I got another lunch.”

“You break your knee? Have to hobble around on crutches, buddy?” asked Dad in a really mean tone of voice. 

Sam shook his head, his face bursting into bright-red color, and Dean’s throat tightened.

“Yeah, I- I messed up,” said Dean eagerly. “I- it does matter. What I did was way out of line. Brett-” he put the ice pack down. “Brett and his friends, they didn’t even- what I did to him. I don’t- I really messed him up.”

“Just like I said,” agreed Dad, sounding angry and disappointed. “Just like I said you would, if you were ever idiot enough to get into fights, Dean. And what did I say would happen then, if you were ever stupid enough to fight another kid with the skills I’m teaching you?”

Dean opened his mouth and closed it, and then picked up the ice pack and put it back on his cheek. His eyes slid to the paddle hanging from the little leather cord on the nail in the wall. 

“I’m glad you take the responsibilities of martial arts training seriously, sir,” said the principal in a warm tone of voice. 

“I do,” said Dad. “I do take it seriously. I want them to be able to defend themselves and protect others, but you can’t teach a boy that without also being aware you’re giving them a tool they can misuse, if they’re stupid enough. I can’t believe he broke that kid’s face and knee over a spilled lunch.”

“And he tripped him,” Dean felt compelled to add.

Dad’s silent sneer reminded him Sammy had walked away from that little fall without even a bruise.

“Well, Mr. Winchester, I always defer to the parents,” said the principal after a long silence had fallen. “The school would normally have provided corporal punishment deterrent if the child returned with an unsigned note- I know of more than one father who has refused to sign the note so the child had to receive such punishment.”

“Well, I didn’t sign that note,” said Dad firmly. “You go on and do what you’re going to do about it. Sammy, you come outside and wait with me.”

He stood, and Dean stared up at him, shocked. 

Sammy gulped audibly, before standing and placing his hand in Dad’s outstretched palm. 

“I can assure you,” Dad said in a heavy tone of voice, “you can defer to me the problem of Dean breaking a kid’s nose and his knee.”

“I feel certain I can, sir,” said the principal, standing as well and offering Dad his hand.

They shook, and Dean stared straight ahead in shock as Dad pulled Sammy from the room. 

He couldn’t watch them leave, even though he caught Sammy turning around to stare back at him, eyes probably wide and shocked. 

“I add strikes if I need to get you up out of your chair and bend you over the desk,” said the principal grimly. 

“No, I- yes, sir,” gasped Dean, standing up. 

“Let us mete out the consequences of lying, forging, deception, and trying to get out of the trouble that is due you, son,” said the principal. 

“Y-yessir,” agreed Dean, shuffling to the desk. “I- I don’t- I’ve never-”

“I’m aware you’re new,” said the principal. His hand came down and grasped Dean’s shoulder, giving it a little shake before bending him down until his chest rested on the desk. “That’s most of the problem, at the moment. Your integration into your peer group. Hopefully this will be a time of learning for you, and you will walk away understanding what is expected of you, in our institution.”

Institution? It was a fucking school! 

What an asshole, trying to make it sound like a church, like a courtroom, like the Declaration of Independence or Constitution or Congress or whatever, when it was just a school!

It was just a fucking- he’d just signed a note!

The principal pushed the pink slip so that it was directly under Dean’s face. “Pay attention. We do not accept disciplinary notes that have not been signed by your parent or guardian, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah,” wheezed Dean. “Got that.”

“You will,” agreed the principal, and then he unhooked the paddle and cracked it five times in quick succession across Dean’s ass.

He didn’t cry out!

It took clenching his teeth until he saw stars, but he didn’t shout, and he didn’t groan or moan.

Sammy was right outside, listening.

He hissed, though, and stayed put until the man moved away, rehanging the paddle.

“It’s ten, if I catch you at it again,” said the principal. “And it doubles, until you learn your lesson.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Dean promised him.

“Glad to hear it,” said the principal. “I believe your father is waiting for you outside. Go set a better example to that bright young brother of yours. I know he thinks the world of you, and will follow your good example, if you choose to give him one.”

“Yeah, will do,” Dean hissed, straightening. He wasn’t going to rub his ass in front of the jerk, he really wasn’t. 

He opened the door and Dad grunted, “Let’s go.”

“But it’s not the end of school,” said Sammy uncertainly.

“You’re both excused, because you’re going to learn a hell of a lot more at home this afternoon,” said Dad. He added, “Sorry for the language, ma’am.”

The dried up old hag actually smiled at Dad, before picking up the phone.

“Walk,” ordered Dad.

Wincing, Dean obeyed.

This was not his best day.

Not by a longshot.

-_-

Dad toed off his boots and spat, “Whole day shot to hell, you hear me?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Dean immediately, shoving Sammy ahead of him and toeing off his own tennies.

“I was getting close today, Dean! I was-” Dad let out a breath. Then he snorted. “Well, you don’t give a shit, do you?”

“I do, Dad,” protested Dean. He’d seen the things Dad put down! He’d heard the stories, seen the looks people gave Dad after they’d lost their kids or their dogs or their husbands or wives or moms or whatever- it was important, what Dad was doing!

“If you gave a shit about those people, what they were going through, you wouldn’t be punching up some kid at school, Dean!” shouted Dad.

Jesus.

Dean swallowed. “I screwed up,” he admitted. “I- I lost my temper, I guess. I just- I just wanted Sammy to be safe!”

“Did you ever think about what this kid’s friends might have done to your kid brother when you couldn’t be there, for what you did to their friend?” demanded Dad, shaking a finger in Dean’s face.

Dean stared at the finger. “No, sir,” he said, finally. 

“No, sir, you did not,” agreed Dad. “Your ass hurting you? He give you any kind of lasting impression?”

Dean swallowed again, staring at the buttons on Dad’s shirt.

It felt like a trap. 

“Hands on the wall, Dean,” said Dad, low and angry.

Behind them, Sammy gasped.

Dean blinked, and turned, putting his hands up. 

“Sammy, buddy, you’re smart enough to learn from someone else’s lesson, yeah?” demanded Dad.

“Y-yeah, Dad,” swore Sammy, sounding shocked. 

“Good. Don’t beat up kids at school. I’m not teaching you to fight kids, I’m teaching you to fight evil, son.”

“Y-yeah, Dad,” agreed Sammy.

Dean swallowed and ducked his head. 

“Now let’s see if we can teach you something, Dean,” said Dad.

Dean breathed heavily so he could keep the tears in, praying he wouldn’t lose his damn mind and start sobbing in front of Sammy. 

“You got any questions, before we start?” asked Dad, his hand coming down heavily on Dean’s shoulder.

“No, sir,” huffed Dean. 

“You feel like apologizing, you can apologize to that kid, Brad or whatever his name was,” Dad told him, “because I don’t want to hear it, Dean. Apologies aren’t actions. They’re nothing but hot air, especially when they’re preceded by lying right to my face, son.”

Dean shifted his weight, staring at the wall and praying it’d all be over soon. 

Now would be a good time to just keel over of a heart attack, in fact. 

The quiet rasp of Dad’s belt as he pulled it from the loops made Dean shiver, sink into a steadier stance, brace his arms against the wall. 

There wasn’t much he could do as the first few cracks broke the absolute silence- letting his whole body rock with each blow and not shout out and scare Sammy about took his whole concentration. 

Dad had him hopping soon enough, hissing and gasping and trying his best not to make any other noises, freak out Sammy.

And then he couldn’t help yelping a little, as it went on and on- Dad was pissed about him fighting, and he could kind of see why, Brett was pretty fucked up and Sammy was fine and that had been a shitty thing to do, it wasn’t a fair fight, him against any kid, and-

“Ahh!” 

The shout slipped from his chest, he couldn’t hold it back.

“There we go,” said Dad with satisfaction. “Nineteen it is. When you start sitting comfortably before that kid’s off his crutches, we’ll do nineteen again, you hear me, Dean?”

Dean blew out a breath, blinked his eyes, and nodded.

“Sorry, what?” asked Dad, like he blind.

“Yes, sir,” gasped Dean. 

“Go lay down,” said Dad. “Sammy, get your butt over here.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Dean protested, turning around.

“I’m not talking to you, unless you want more,” Dad told him, dismissing him with a glance. “Sammy, here. Now!”

Sammy ran over, tripping over the shoes he’d left on the floor, skidding to a stop in front of Dad. “Sir?” he asked.

“You knew your brother had been in a fight, and you let him lie to me, and you didn’t say anything,” said Dad. 

“I made him lie about it,” Dean interjected, stepping forward to stand beside Sammy. “He’s- I told him he had to. I said-”

“Dean, if I have to tell you to get on that bed, you’ll get an escort and an encore,” Dad shouted.

“I’m good,” said Sammy, lifting his chin. “I did lie. I- I d-did lie. Go- go lie down, D-dean.”

“Sammy, I-” began Dean.

“DEAN WINCHESTER,” shouted Dad. “BED!”

Dean jumped, and ran, burying his head under the pillow as Dad made Sammy drop his shorts and bend over Dad’s lap, and thank God Sammy was still young enough it was just a spanking, but Dean couldn’t listen to it, he couldn’t!

Sammy was only getting spanked because Dean had made him lie!

He’d promised the kid he’d take care of it, and the kid had trusted him, and- and-

Eventually Dad sent Sammy crawling onto the bed bawling, and the kid buried his own head beside Dean’s, under his pillow.

Dean choked back the crying he’d been trying to hide anyway. 

He reached out, rubbed Sammy’s shoulders until the kid calmed down a bit. 

Dad said, “I’m heading out, Dean. I come back, you better have dinner on the table. Buddy, if there’s homework in that backpack of yours, it better be done.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

Dean hated to hear Sammy’s voice, all choked like it was. 

“I hear about any more fighting- or lying- and there’ll be hell to pay, is that clear?” demanded Dad.

“Yes, sir,” they said again, in unison. 

“And, Dean, if you think this self-injury gets you out of training, you’re working on faulty logic of how consequences play out around here,” said Dad.

“No, I- I know that,” said Dean, lifting his head to look the man in the eye. “I know- I understand.”

“I think you do,” said Dad, standing there, framed in the doorway. “Learn fast, Dean. You’re meant for bigger fights than schoolyard spats.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dean, forcing the words out.

“Make sure he does his work,” Dad said.

“Yes, sir, of course,” promised Dean.

He always did.

It seemed like Dad hesitated, like maybe he had second thoughts about leaving them there, but there was something out there killing people’s teenagers. 

Dean knew that. He knew that’s why they were in town. Dad had real work to do- important work. 

Saving people from demons or vampires or- or whatever was killing all those teens. 

He knew that.

The door closed and Dean breathed deep in the silence. 

“Dean?” asked Sammy in a quiet voice. “My butt hurts, Dean.”

A sharp stab of guilt, straight directly into the Dean’s chest. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. 

“You didn’t make me lie,” said Sammy, all the stubborn of an eight-year-old know-it-all idiot in his voice. 

Dean sighed and peeled himself off the bed, aware he was flinching and wincing and he’d definitely be limping. Although even with as hard as they’d gone on him, he still wasn’t using crutches, was he? “You got any homework?”

“Just extra credit,” sighed Sammy. “I don’t want to do it.”

Dean stared around the hotel room. “Then let’s see what’s on the four channels,” he sighed, reaching for the remote.

“I’m not sitting up,” Sammy announced, pouting.

“Lay on your stomach, then, see if I care,” snapped Dean. 

Sammy glowered at him as he turned on the TV.

“Oh, hey!” said Sammy with excitement. “Roseanne!”

“It’s a rerun,” sighed Dean. “We’ve seen this one a thousand times, Sammy.”

“I don’t care,” said Sammy eagerly. “Please, Dean? Please?”

His eyes were still red from crying, and he was shifting uncomfortably on the bed, like his butt was still hurting him.

Dean sighed. “Yeah, sure, kid,” he conceded. “Let’s watch it again.”

“Yesss,” hissed Sammy, hunching up on the bed to get closer. 

No way was Dean sitting on his ass. 

He got himself in roughly the same position as Sammy, knocking their shoulders together after he’d settled. 

“Hey, seriously, Sammy, I’m sorry I got your ass beat,” he said.

Sammy rolled his eyes. “I told you, I decided to lie,” he said, shrugging. “I can take what’s coming to me.”

He looked adorable, the little frown on his face, the serious way he looked up at Dean. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when you start getting the belt,” said Dean gruffly, reaching out and fucking with the brat’s hair. “That’s a whole nuclear deterrent, you know?”

“It didn’t stop you,” Sammy pointed out. “I told you he was going to do it, and you just went ahead-”

“Yeah, well, be smarter than me,” said Dean forcefully. 

“Not hard to do that,” snorted Sammy.

Dean growled, but he wasn’t up to a wrestling match, so he didn’t start one.

Instead, he laid beside his baby brother while the idiot laughed his ass off at the same stupid jokes they’d heard hundreds of times before.

The news did a quick special report on the missing teens during one of the commercial breaks, and Dean tried to figure out if there was any new information he could pass on to Dad. 

He had a bigger purpose than beating up jerks.

Maybe focusing on that bigger purpose would keep his ass out of a sling. 

“How long do you think it’s gonna take Brett’s knee to heal up?” asked Sammy when the report was done.

Dean was trying not to do that math, actually. 

“Because if Dad’s gonna keep belting you for like, weeks, that’s gonna suck,” Sammy pointed out.

“Thanks, Sammy, couldn’t figure that out without you, brainiac,” mocked Dean.

“I’m just saying,” said Sammy, looking at him with those wide, awed eyes. “That’s gonna suck, Dean!”

“Yeah,” sighed Dean, shaking his head. “Yeah, it is.”

“It’s cool that you can forge Dad’s signature, though,” said Sammy, looking around like Dad was going to pop in the room and spank him again.

Dean grinned. “Yeah, I think that’s gonna come in handy at some point.”

Sammy grinned back before turning his attention back to the screen as Roseanne started the next segment shouting irritably for her husband.

“Dean!” mimicked Sammy, throwing his head back like the comedian did, perfectly imitating her annoying shrieking. “Dean!”

“Shut up, weirdo,” Dean told him, knocking their shoulders together. 

“Dean!” shouted Sammy one last time, laughing hard when Dean barged into him and almost flipped him over. 

They both groaned as the wrestling pulled at their battered backsides, and then they started snickering about that, too. 

Even though the kid was a major pest and annoyance and the number one source of most of the whuppings Dean had ever taken, he still wouldn’t want to do any of this without Sammy. 

Even if trying to defend the dweeb half-killed him. 

Still totally the best call. 

No one got to beat on Sammy but him.

...And Dad, although spankings couldn’t really be called beatings, could they?

Dean reached a hand down and rubbed his own bruised and aching ass.

No, he’d definitely jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire like a dumbass.

Best outcome would be if Dad figured out what was up and dealt with it, quick.

He eyed up Dad’s nightstand, with the pile of reference books he’d pulled from Uncle Bobby’s library. 

Sammy laughed again at some of the dumb shit playing out on the screen.

Dean stood gingerly and flopped himself across Dad’s bed, stretching for the first book on the pile.

The sooner they got out of this town, the sooner he’d be out of hot water, probably. 

Time to put some elbow grease on the wheel, see if he could help Dad.

Dean had a higher calling, he was being trained to protect and serve.

And maybe he could serve himself and protect his own ass, for once, by following that higher calling. 

“Whatcha doing?” asked Sammy, not taking his eyes off the screen. 

“Research,” said Dean.

“Boring,” teased Sammy.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Dean snorted.

Anything was better than jumping back and forth between frying pan and fire. 

He wasn’t up to any jumping at the moment, anyway.

No, he was focused on his higher purpose, his mission, and taking his ass out of the firing range for a bit.

“Veni in pace, virtute et potentia Creatoris tui…” sighed Dean, frowning as he tried to work through the little Latin Dad had been able to drum into his head. Go in peace, that part was easy, lots of prayers had that, but the rest…

This research shit was hard.

Dean hunched his shoulders, furrowed his brow, and dug in. 

Anything, to get them out of this podunk backwater town, and end his butt-burning sentence early.

Anything.

Even Latin.