Whiskey Bent and Lickin' Bound
Summary: Dean has always liked to drink. Sometimes though, not a good idea. Parental spanking, please don't read if that offends you. I own nothing. Not getting paid.
XXX
The first time Dean gets drunk it's with his father's complete approval. Dean's thirteen at the time, with a gash up his leg that goes almost to the bone. Old Number Seven, Dad says and Dean doesn't get it then. Dad feeds him that amber fire and Dean slowly sinks into a drunken stupor. Dad sews up his leg with 25 neat and meticulous stitches.
Dean remembers the bright sharp pinch of the needle above the agony in his leg. But the alcohol does its job and eventually everything is muted. The edges get softer and grayer. Dean didn't think he was going to like the feeling but he does. There's comfort in the whiskey – the slow sweet ride into the dark. He allows himself to sink into oblivion and it's a beautiful thing.
The next time Dean gets drunk he's hanging with some kids at a place called The Crypt. It's nothing like any crypt he's ever seen and he'd probably do something stupid and say that if he wasn't so sloshed. He is drinking Colt 45 and Southern Comfort. Dean finds the Colt 45 taste worse than the whisky. But the girl he's with is drinking some fruity pink wine and she seems to like that just fine. Fine enough for Dean to feel her up. She tastes like strawberry lip-gloss and her hair smells like flowers. Dean makes it home before his father does and ignores Sam's pointed glare.
Sammy's just a kid but he knows the score so Dean doesn't worry – Sammy's not a rat.
So Dean thinks he has a pretty good track record with getting drunk and keeping it from his father. That's pretty impressive if you think about it. Dad is like a fucking pit bull when it comes to his boys, watching, protecting, guarding. Well, when he's home that is, but when he's gone, the boys are on their own. It doesn't bother Dean most of the time, sure he'd rather have Dad around but without Dad there, things are more relaxed. There is no oh five hundred runs (Dean is more than happy to wait for seven) Sparring is sprinkled with fun fights and dinner is mostly macaroni and cheese. There is freedom when Dad leaves. Plus, for some reason, Dad trusts Dean not to get into to much trouble. Dean's pretty sure that means getting drunk. Well, he's never told him not to drink but Dean knows he shouldn't. Dean's not so sure if it's 'cause he trusts Dean to do the right thing or is it something else.
Dean ponders that for a moment.
No. His father knows that Dean can and does push the envelope on most things and he is far from a cherub. The truth is, his Dad trusts Dean not to get drunk because Dad can and will kick his ass into next week if he gets caught.
Dean's aware. He's aware his butt will be blistered if Dad finds out. He's aware that he's walking a thin line but sometimes his brain just doesn't engage or something. Besides, Dean likes getting drunk. He likes the muzzy way it makes him feel. He likes how all those sharp edges blur, but mostly he just likes letting go.
Letting it all go.
The next time, though, Dean's not so lucky.
He's not even really drunk and Dad notices the missing beer. Dean get's off lucky, he supposes. He listens to the lecture. He throws in a lot of yes, sirs. Dad talks about responsibility and Dean knows he's responsible so he kind of blanks out on that one. Dad says that sneaking a beer isn't the end of the world but he doesn't like his boys lying. Sneaking and lying is the same thing as far as John Winchester is concerned. Dean nods and yes, sirs again because he knows this too. For some reason his Dad lets it go as some kind of right of passage. Stealing your old man's beer seems to be oddly acceptable. But he makes it clear it's not to happen again and Dean agrees.
Dean's young but he's not stupid. His father drinks too much sometimes. Dean has had to help pour him into bed. Dad's not really a mean drunk, but he can be cranky and you would think that knowing that would make Dean want to avoid any chance to get sloshed. It doesn't though. Maybe for the same reason his father drinks. It's just easier with a buzz. .
Dean watches Dad's every move. It's not an excuse really and Dean knows that but why should Dean be any different than his Dad?
XXX
So they have a job in New Mexico.
Land of Enchantment, my ass, he thinks. New fucking Mexico sucks.
He' s not sure what pisses him off more, the heat, Sammy's incessant whining or his father. And shit, doesn't that sound like a recipe for disaster.
There's a chupacabra that's been terrorizing the locals and of course Dad needs to check it out. Which is fine. More than fine, but Dean wants to help and Dad is being a dick about it.
"Can I come, Dad?" Dean is cleaning one of the shotguns. Salt rounds are hell on the metal and cleaning their weaponry is almost a fulltime job itself.
His father looks thoughtfully at Dean, seems to consider the question. "No, son. Not this time. I won't need backup, chupacabras tend to be solitary hunters and from what I've heard about this one isn't breaking the pattern."
Dean takes a deep breath. He needs to get out of this dump they are living in. He needs to do something, anything.
"But Dad…"
"No buts, kiddo." His father says firmly, "You need to make sure Sammy is taken care of. Plus, there's a boatload of weapons that need cleaning. That's not a lot of fun but it's as important as the hunt itself."
Its true, clean weapons are important but what good is a spotless weapon if you are never allowed to use it. Besides, Dean cares for his guns in a way that probably borderlines on obsession. His old man taught him that too. "Take care of your weapon, boy and she'll take care of you."
Dean puts that little tidbit in the back of his mind, "Dad, I'm sure I can give you a hand." Dean grits is out, tries not to let the edge of anger flow through.
"I'm sure you can – and you will. Stay here. Watch your brother." Although he says it mildly enough, Dean knows there's no wiggle room in the order.
Sam slumps into the room, the eleven year old is the perfect combination of defiance and indifference, "C'mon Dean, it'll be fun. We'll clean guns, watch the dirt devils swirl around what passes for a front yard of this trailer." Sam turns to his father, "Can't call it a trailer park huh, Dad? That would imply there is another trailer within, let's say within 50 miles."
John tightens his mouth into a line, takes a deep breath.
"It's just temporary, Sam. A couple of days."
"It's always temporary, Dad." Sam straightens his shoulders.
The warning bells go off in Dean's head like the klaxon from a Star Trek episode but Sam is obviously unconcerned.
"Dad, it's kinda boring, really we could help. Even if it's just another set of eyes." Dean interjects hopefully.
John pins a hard look at Dean.
"That's it. Fifty and count 'em off."
Dean drops to the ground and executes a classic Marine push up.
John points to Sam. "You too, smart ass but your doing 75."
Sam drops to the ground next to his brother. "Why more?"
"Because you gotta smart mouth and I'm sick of it. Out loud, Sam."
Dean offers a low shut up to Sam. Sam, for his part mutters back…can't I'm counting off. John hears the exchange and for whatever reason decides not to respond.
Dean's five push ups ahead of Sam. It makes it hard for him to count off which pisses him off because counting is counting and Sam being behind shouldn't matter. It's not like he's four years old.
The anger rolls off him in black waves that Dad doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does notice, he doesn't say and Dean's not sure which is worse.
Dad leaves as quickly as possible saying he wants to hit the 'cabra's trail before it gets dark. Whatever. He doesn't even wait till they are done their punishment push ups. Both Sam and Dean continue despite the fact that Dad isn't there to make sure they do.
Neither one is really out of breath and neither Sam nor Dean is particularly mad at each other so they settle morosely at the kitchen table. They each have their favorite guns and knives – they usually clean them first.
The soft rasp of a well oiled knife on a sharpening stone usually tends to be relaxing to Dean. It's easy and comfortable but right now all it does irritate Dean a little more. Then because he's not paying attention, he slips, "Shit!" Dean drops the knife with a rattle on the kitchen table. It hurts like a motherfucker – stupid boy, knife handling one oh one, pay attention dickhead. Dean grabs a dishtowel and covers his bleeding hand. "Shit shit shit shit". The mantra does little to make his throbbing hand feel better and Sam arches his brow at Dean's slip. Dean doesn't fuck up with weapons. Never. So it's easy enough to see that his brother is tense and pissed. Sometimes that is the perfect opportunity for Sam to torment Dean even more but right now – either it's self preservation or brotherly kindness but he decides not to.
"You okay?"
"Do I look okay?" Dean glares at Sam and pushes the dishtowel harder over his sliced hand.
"Let me take a look." Sam reaches for the towel and Dean's hand.
Dean rumbles a low warning and Sam stops before he touches him.
"Le'me alone, Sam." And Sam does, he backs up, hands raised in the universal sign of submission and the backs out of the kitchen.
Dean thinks the kid is pretty smart.
For a little while, it's okay. Sammy busy reading, some kind of guide for hitchhikers or some dumb shit. It's especially dumb since if Dad ever caught either one of them hitching he would probably kick their ass into next week.
Sam peaks his head into what passes for the kitchen. "So – you done your little hissy fit?"
"Me? You're the dickhead who started with Dad. Fifty fucking pushups just 'cause you can't keep your mouth shut."
Sam snarls, "No 75 fucking pushups because I can't keep my mouth shut…your 50 were because you always gotta throw your two cents in."
"Well, I wouldn't have to if you didn't do stupid shit like that anyway."
"Don't do me any favors, Dean. I don't need your help."
Course not. Sam doesn't need his help. Dad doesn't need his help. Fuck them both.
And with that, Dean strides through the kitchen out the front of the trailer door and slams it as hard as he can. There is no place to go. Just dirt and scrub but he taps the inside of his jacket pocket. Always a great place for a flask holy water or a bottle of Jack. There's Jack there now. It's been slowly stolen from Dad's stash. It wasn't that hard, less difficult than the beer that got him in hot water. It's almost full and Dean figures he can walk to the closest cover he can find. It's not much, just some rocks and one of the most pathetic looking trees he has ever seen. He can still see the trailer – he's not really leaving Sammy. Since the Striga, he would sooner rip out his own heart than leave his brother unprotected.
He slides behind the rock his back resting on the warm granite? Sandstone? Who the hell knows? It's hard and warm and that's good enough right now. He slides the flask out, unscrews the top and takes a deep gulp. The first swallow is always the worse, it feels like fire going down his throat but he doesn't do more than grimace once and shake his head a bit. Dean drinks with a purpose. He wants to get drunk. Dad won't be home at least until tomorrow. Sam is reading his fucking hitchhiking book. The weapons are clean and besides his damn hand hurts. A few belts of Jack and he should be feeling no pain.
Maybe.
Instead he just gets angrier. It's hot, the whiskey isn't soothing him but agitating him, plus the damn rock he is leaning against is hard as well…a rock. His hand throbs. He takes another swallow and it feels a little more pleasant this time. A slow warm burn. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and drinks another deep slug. With each swallow it gets better. He can feel the heaviness in his chest back off. He can't be having a heart attack at fifteen can he? If so, does Jack Daniels stop heart attacks? It doesn't sound likely. Then he closes his eyes to the late afternoon sun. Suddenly there is a shadow over his head.
Fucking Sam.
Sam is standing arms crossed and scowling as Dean casually screws the cap back on the flask.
"I doubt you are feeling that you need some holy water, Dean." Sam narrows his eyes and gives Dean that holier than thou look which never ceases to piss him off.
"You're right." Dean knows his voice is a little slurred. Between the heat and the whiskey he feels drunk far faster than he should have. "Fuck off, Sam."
Suddenly Sam sounds quieter. "C'mon Dean, let's get you inside – maybe a cool shower."
"Don't wanna shower. Le'me alone."
Sam lean's down and tries to pull Dean up from his sitting position against the rock. The kid is little but strong and he manages to drag Dean up to a stand. He's not, however, ready for the wicked left hook that Dean nails him with though. The impact spins Sam hard to the right but he is still holding onto Dean so when he falls, and he does fall, he drags Dean down on top of him. There is a mutual grunt, both boys loosing their breaths for a moment. Dean's larger body laying directly on top of Sam.
"Jesus, Dean." Sam mumbles. Dean is finding it hard to understand why his brother sounds so muffled and why he is suddenly finding it hard to breath. It hits him a moment later that Sam's shirt is almost blocking off his inspiration. Then it occurs to him that if he can't breath, Sam is probably in a worse shape.
Sam is.
When Dean rolls himself off Sam's body, he can feel the heat from the blazing New Mexico sun instantly cause sweat to drip into his eyes. He turns his head toward Sam and notices that Sam's right eye is already almost swollen shut and there is a trickle of blood on his cheek. Sam's panting from the weight of Dean body landing on his and he moans low. The kid tries to shake himself a bit and pull himself into a sitting position but Dean's punch had been wicked hard and Sam was unprepared. Sam lays back down in the dirt and whimpers just a bit.
Christ, did he just hit his brother?
Dean shakes his head. It doesn't really clear the whisky but he is able to put two and two together. He has just punched Sammy. Hard. Not sparring, not a playful slap but a strong punch. Enough to drop his eleven year old brother like a sack of grain.
"How many fingers am I holdin' up, Sammy?" Dean rolls toward Sam and shows him two and Sam mumbles two.
Good, good.
Dean braces himself on the dirt and then struggles to his feet. He reaches down and the world spins just a bit as he grabs Sam's arm and hauls him to his feet as well. They rest there, forehead to forehead for a moment and then Dean drops his arm around Sammy and they limp their way toward the trailer.
"M'sorry, Sammy. M'sorry, Sammy. M'sorry, Sammy." It's a litany that seems to do little to help anyone. They step into the trailer. It's cooler there and Dean leads Sam to the kitchen and opens the fridge. There's a moment when he uses the fridge to keep his body upright and how in the hell did he get so fucking off balance? He carefully pulls out a pack of peas and if he felt he could toss them with any kind of accuracy he would have. Then again, Sam might not have been able to catch them so instead he sits his brother on the chair and gently lays the peas on his eye.
"M'sorry, Sammy."
"I heard you the first three times, Dean. Just…just leave me alone." Sam stands a little shakily and walks toward the living area and collapses on the raggedy couch.
Dean sits on the kitchen chair and Christ, how did this happen? Sure he was mad, but not that mad and now? Now he has really hurt his little brother. How could he have done that to Sam? Sam was a pain in the ass, he was always a pain in the ass but he didn't deserve to have Dean clean his clock.
Sam and Dean fought. They did and sometimes it got out of hand but despite the haze of whisky, Dean realizes this is not a normal Winchester tussle; he clobbered Sam just because Sam was trying to help him up. No provocation – just Dean being pissed.
And drunk.
Dean lays his head on the kitchen table long enough to fall asleep. It's uncomfortable but he doesn't seem to be able to navigate anywhere else and Sam might need him.
XXX
Dean wakes to the sound of his father's voice in the living room.
"Jesus, Sam, what the hell happened?"
"Nothing, Dad. Should've bobbed instead of weaved."
Dean stands, shakes the cobwebs from his brain and is instantly regretful of the head action. Damn he's sick. Sick and his head hurts like a sonofabitch but Sammy's gonna get himself in hot water and Dean owns up to his mistakes.
Dean steps into the living room and his father takes one look at him and Dean can see he already knows the score.
"You did this to your brother?" John nods at Sam's black eye, barely a slit now despite the peas.
"Yes, sir. It was an accident."
"An accident? How can this…" John gently slides his forefinger under Sam's chin and tips his head back just a bit. Sam can't help but grimace."…be an accident."
"I was mad, Dad. And not thinking straight."
"Would that have to do with the bloodshot eyes and the fact that you smell like you fell in a vat of Jack?"
Dean eyes the grungy floor. He hates disappointing his father. He hates looking him in the eye when he's wrong.
"Dean."
Dean snaps his head up, green eyes meeting brown.
"Yes, sir."
"Were you drunk last night and did you punch your brother?"
There's no way around it and Dean doesn't think he rates leniency anyway. He was a dick. He deserves whatever his father dishes out. And then some.
"Yes, sir."
"Go sleep it off, I'll take care of Sam. "
"It's okay, Dad….I got him."
"Dean hit the rack, I want you awake and aware when we discuss this later on."
John glares at Dean. Hard. Shuffles a hand through Sam's thick unruly hair. "I think you've done enough for the day."
XXX
Dean awakes to the glare of sun. Bright New Mexico fucking sun that blazes through the window. He feels like what a vamp would feel like…that is, if vamps were real. The sun burns and even opening his eyes to the merest of slits feels like someone is throwing fire in his eyes. That instantly migrates to his head. Oh dear God, his head feels like a jackhammer is pounding on it from the inside and his stomach? Dean rolls off the bed, hits the floor hard and makes a half crawl, half run to the head where he promptly hurls up everything he ate yesterday. Or whatever. Then dry heaves, over and over and Dean just finally stops and settles his ass against the tub. He drags his sleeve across his mouth, spittle, vomit and God it stinks and he stinks and then leans over to the tiled floor.
It's blessedly cool. Like ice. He just wants to lay here in this God awful bathroom that smells vaguely of piss but more of puke and he's okay with that.
Until he senses more than sees the shadow of his father fill the doorway. Literally fill the doorway. The man is like a gorilla or something because it's a normal doorway and shouldn't some kind of light get through? Not that Dean wants the light but at the moment the burn of the light would be better than the thought of a pissed off John Winchester and even from his vantage point, cheek to the floor he can see that his father is so far beyond pissed that he can't even wrap his head around it.
"You stink." John growls low and Dean doesn't even have the wherewithal to acknowledge it with a yes, sir. He nods as slowly as he looks up at his father.
"Clean yourself up and meet me in the kitchen in ten."
Dean nods again and slowly pulls himself up leaning on the tub for support. He hears his dad leave the bathroom and Dean steps into the shower clothes and all. Then once he thinks the puke has been washed down the drain he slowly strips and washes himself, leaving the clothes in the tub. He can get them later.
The shower helps a bit. Not a helluva lot but a bit so he steps out wraps a towel around his waist and brushes his teeth for what feels like an hour. Then gargles with Listerine because anything else just couldn't cut through the taste that still seems like a cross between dead animals and piss in his mouth.
He lingers for a moment at the bathroom mirror. His eyes are red and he's only fifteen so there's nothing more than faint peach fuzz on his face but he would swear there is a shadow there. Maybe it's just the dark circles under his eyes that kind of make him feel older than he is. Certainly not older than he feels because he feels old. Like twenty. And maybe near death.
He stumbles to the bedroom, which still smells of vomit, and it almost makes him want to hurl again but he grabs a duffle with his clean clothes and throws on sweatpants and a t shirt. The quicker he gets out of the bedroom, the quicker he gets away from the smell.
It's disturbing that it means he will meet his fate quicker too but that can't be helped.
John is in the kitchen leaning on the counter with a cup of coffee. He looks far from relaxed, despite his loose limbed posture. The coffee should smell like heaven but it doesn't and Dean swallows hard. How bad must it be when God's gift to hunters smells like shit instead of ambrosia.
"You're ten minutes late."
"Sorry."
"Do you wanna tell me about what happened yesterday?" John takes a deceptively quiet sip of coffee and then gently sits it on the counter.
"Will it matter?"
John shakes his head. "Nope…not at all, but I'm interested. Because really, Dean? I can't for the life of me figure this one out. Plus, I wanna hear it from the horse's mouth so to speak. Although right now, I'm thinking horse's ass would be a better analogy."
Dean slumps against the corresponding counter, a mirror of his father except that John looks determined and Dean looks like he has just seen a puppy kicked.
"I got bored. I was mad. I wasn't thinking and I decided to drink some of your Jack. That's it. I drank too much."
"Mmmm. You weren't thinking? As I recall, there was no Jack in this house when I left. So where did you get it?"
Dean sighed. "I've been sort of sneaking a little at a time. Just a bit you know. I figured you wouldn't notice."
"So really, you were thinking. Thinking far enough ahead to have been sneakin' my booze. In fact, you've been thinking long enough to have created a personal flask of Jack Daniels to use at your disposal when you felt the time was right."
Dean shakes his head. "That wasn't it, Dad. I just…figured…."
"Dean you knew exactly what you were doing. It was premeditated. This was planned. This was you stealing from me for a while and just waiting for the opportunity to drink enough whiskey to knock you on your ass. Or shall I say, knock your brother on his ass."
"Dad, that was a mistake - Really, I never meant to hit Sammy. I would never…never hurt Sam."
"But you did, Dean. And if it wasn't for the fact that your brother has just enough reflexes to somehow avoid that punch full force, he'd probably have a concussion. As it is, that shiner's going to be with him a while. "
Dean nods. It's true, he laid Sammy down hard.
"He's eleven Dean. He shouldn't have to worry that his asshole drunk brother is going to slug him hard enough knock him on his ass. And if what Sam says is true, all he was trying to do was give you a hand."
Dean nods again.
"Can't hear your head rattle, Son."
Dean looks at his father. "Yes, sir."
"So what are we going to do about this?"
Dean looks quizzically at his father. "You're askin' me?"
"I don't know…maybe…I mean you think you are man enough to drink my fuckin' whiskey. Maybe you are man enough to figure out a punishment too." It's not really a question. I mean John says it's a question but Dean knows there's no real answer for it. It's a segue to something Dean doesn't want to deal with.
"Dad. I was wrong. I was wrong to steal your booze. Wrong to drink like that and man, I was wrong to punch Sammy. There's no punishment hard enough, there's nothing you can do that will make me feel worse than I do right now."
John looks hard at Dean. Dean knows he looks like shit. He's not drunk anymore but there is nothing in him that feels good. Between his head and his stomach and now that horrible clenching guilt that makes him want to puke again, he has to look like death on a cracker.
"Maybe not, but I can't let you off. You know it, Dean. Despite how shitty you feel, I'm not going to cut you any slack."
"Yes, sir…I got it." Dean nods and once again the movement makes his head pound a little more.
John reaches over to Dean's t shirt and pulls him to a kitchen chair. He settles himself over the chair and then Dean over his lap. He doesn't pull off his belt and for that Dean is grateful. He deserves the lick of leather on ass but John seems to feel that his hand will be more than enough.
Dean can't really be too excited about Dad whooping his ass with just his hand though 'cause Dad is a killer hand spanker. His hand is hard and flexible enough. Some kind of weird wrist action that probably can't be duplicated anywhere at all. It hurts like hell. Right over his sweats. The position makes his head hurt even more and Christ if he throws up on his father? Well, that will be the first time he has ever thrown up on his dad while getting a spanking. There was that horrible night when he puked spaghetti all over Dad when he was sick but that didn't count.
This would count.
Puking on your father 'cause you are six and sick is one thing. Puking on him 'cause you are hung over and getting your ass beat is something totally different.
Dean hates crying while getting spanked but he almost always does. He can't help it. And that just seems to make him sicker. Oh God – if there is a God, please let him get through this without barfing on his father.
Whether or not, Dad thinks that may happen or not, Dean's not sure but he finishes up quickly and Dean pulls himself up as fast as possible. He runs toward the head and makes it in time. Dry heaving and blowing snot into the toilet. He never, ever remembers feeling this bad. Never. Not even the spaghetti incident. His ass is burning, his head is throbbing and the puking has just made it worse. His stomach is rolling and once again he just leans over the john, crying and gagging.
It takes him ten minutes to get himself together. Wash his face. Brush his teeth. Again. Rub his scorched ass. But he manages to do it. He looks at his face again in the mirror. He still looks like shit but oddly enough feels a little better.
Dean leaves the bathroom, stops by the kitchen.
"Sorry, Dad…really."
John nods. "Maybe you should talk to Sammy."
Dean takes a step toward his father and John gives him a brief hug. "Go, on. Get outa here and see Sammy."
Dean does, he walks into the living room where Sam is watching TV. He sits next to Sam, his hip nudging Sam's. "Why not reading that hitch hiking book?"
"Reading with one eye gives me a headache." Sam sounds a little sullen and a little mad but both are understandable.
"I know I said I was sorry yesterday, kiddo…but you gotta know. I really am sorry. You got a free shot – any time any where, any reason. Hell, no reason. Promise – no retaliation. "
Sam squints with his bad eye and opens his good one wide. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Any time. "
"What if I wanna show off to some cheerleaders or something – like I can kick my big brother's ass?"
"You got it."
"What if I'm just having a bad day and you happen to be there."
Dean juts his chin out. "Yup…this mug is all yours."
Sam settles his arms behind his head. "Okay…you got a deal."
"Good. We good? Really?"
"Yeah, I'm just going to be really careful next time you tell me to leave you alone."
"Nah, don't worry, Sammy. I'm not gonna do that again. Promise."
Sam holds him to it and Dean doesn't expect anything else.
End.