"Bobby? – I need some help. We're out here in Oregon. That lamia we were hunting? Sam is laid up with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder and a broken arm, so I could use some backup. How soon can you get here?"

"Ok, Sammy, easy now, I've got you"
"I can get out of the car myself, Dean. Stop pulling at me. "
"Dean, seriously, I can walk, stop that."
"Are you ok, are you dizzy?"
"Ok, boys let's get Sam upstairs. He can use the spare room. Dean, you can take the couch in my office."
"Sure, Bobby."
"Let's get you to bed, Sasquatch."
"Stop it, Dean, I can undress myself."
"Ok, but don't keel over again, 'kay?"
"Dean? If you are done putting Sam to bed, I need your help for a moment, got some things in the yard to see to."

Dean froze for a second, a hunted look fleeing across his face, then he turned with a "Yep" and followed the older man out the door.

Bobby walked quickly around the house to the old picnic table by the workshop, where he whirled around to face Dean.
"Ok, let me see if I understand the situation correctly. You went to hunt a lamia, she dislocated Sam's shoulder, you retreated, popped it back in, and then went right back out to hunt her again, together? "
"Yeah."
"Obviously, the shoulder popped right back out first time he tried to throw a punch, so the lamia broke his arm, threw him across the room for good measure, knocking him unconscious against a wall and giving him a concussion in the process? That about sum it up?"
"Yeah, Bobby, pretty much."
"Why didn't you leave Sam at the motel and call me in right away?"
"He …uhm… he didn't want to stay, so I let him come."
"Let him come? He was injured! A shoulder like that, getting it dislocated again so soon, he could end up never getting the full range of motion back, you know that!"
"Yessir."
"But you decided to "let him" hunt anyway, because he "wanted to"?"
"Yessir, sorry sir."
"I know John taught you, that if you get an injury of that magnitude, you lose the right to make that call, you guys know that."
"Yessir. Sorry Bobby, it was my mistake, I didn't take care of Sam properly."
"Ok, kid, let's get this out of the way. I know you, so I'll just remind you of one thing: When we are done here, it's over, you are forgiven, and you will let it go, no carrying guilt around, ok? Mistakes get made, you pay the piper and you learn your lesson, then you move on. You got it?"
"Yessir. Thank you, Bobby."

Dean walked to the end of the picnic table and bent over slightly, putting his palms flat on the table.
"I'm ready, sir."
Bobby sighed deeply and slowly pulled his belt off. He didn't particularly want to do this, but someone had to try to knock some common sense into those two morons, and since he had more or less adopted them, he was sort of the obvious choice.

The first crack of worn leather hitting worn jeans had Dean move his hands to grip the edges to either side of the table. After that, he just stood like a statue, taking shallow breaths with each smack. Bobby paused after a couple of handfuls of swings.

"Lose the jeans, kid."
Dean took a few shallow breaths, then quickly opened his jeans and pushed them just off his ass, to the top of his thighs.
"Really? To the knees with them, Dean, you know better than that."
Bobby frowned when Dean, instead of pushing his jeans down with his hands, chose to move them by stamping his feet a few times to wriggle them down. But since the end result was the same, he decided not to comment.

Dean bent at the waist again, and Bobby renewed the assault on his ass and thighs. Without the protection of the jeans, Dean was unable to be quite as stoic. Even though he did his best, a few grunts and groans escaped.

Bobby put a hand on his back and shoved his chest flat on the table top to better be able to get to the crease were ass meets thighs, that sensitive area, where the strapping would be felt every time the kid sat down for the next day or two. For some reason that elicited an outright yelp of pain, a deep groan and set him into a pattern of shallow coughs. Bobby paused for a moment, laying a hand on Dean's back.
"You ok, Dean?"
"I'm fine, Bobby, just let's get this over with."
He sounded a bit wheezy and breathless, but that was understandable, nobody would sound normal in the middle of an ass-whipping.

Bobby complied with the request, and took up the chore again, laying solid whacks of the belt across Dean's ass and down his thighs, to a handspan above the knees. Dean was back to quick, shallow breaths interspersed with whimpers, when Bobby's arm was suddenly grabbed from behind in mid-swing, throwing him off balance and almost making him topple over. He whirled around, coming face to face with Sam, who was swaying on his feet, holding his left arm in it's sling pressed into his middle. But his face was almost red with fury.

"What the Hell do you think you are doing?"
He yelled, getting all the way into Bobby's face.

"This is between your brother and me."
Dean looked over his shoulder at the shouting.
"Sammy? What are you doing out of bed? Get back in bed!"
"Hell, no! Dean. This is wrong! He can't do that. He could kill you, this is dangerous!"
Bobby looked from one brother to the other, completely confused.
"It's a strapping, Sam. I know it hurts, but it's not like it'll damage him, and I sure as Hell ain't gonna kill him by putting a belt across his ass!"
Sam stopped mid-yell to stare at Bobby, then at Dean.
"You mean, you don't know? He didn't tell you?"
Bobby's voice went low and dangerous.
"Tell me what?"
"Nothing, it's nothing, I'm fine."
"No, you are not, I saw the lamia throw you into that kitchen counter. I saw you after, you got at least a couple of broken ribs from that. This? You could puncture a lung!"
Bobby hurled the belt at the nearest wall. It was his turn to yell.
While he was yelling, Dean slowly straightened up, his face an interesting pale greenish color, which made Bobby stop his tirade.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit, you moron. Idjit! Get those jeans back on. No, wait, don't bent over, just stand still."
"Hey, Bobby, stop, I can dress myself. Ow."
That last in response to the open-handed slap, Bobby laid across the front of his thigh.
"Stand still."
Dean did. Bobby pulled his jeans back up and fastened them with quick, surprisingly gentle, hands.

Afterwards he stared into Deans face for a long time. Long enough to have the young man fidget and drop his head. Bobby sighed.
"Let's get Sam back in the house before we have to carry him. You ok to walk?"
Dean nodded, and the three men slowly walked back into the dilapidated house, ending up in the cluttered office.

"Sam, sit down or something, if you are not going back to bed. Dean take off your shirt. T shirt too"
"I'm fine, Bobby."
"Shut up, do as I say. I want to see your ribs."
"Come on Bobby, I'm fine, I've had cracked ribs before and…"
"Dean! Stop talking! The adult is in charge now! Just shut up and do as I say!"
Dean and Sam both stared openmouthed at Bobby, then Dean quickly pulled his shirt off, and, more carefully, the T-shirt too."
"On the couch, on your back."

Dean winced as he sat on his striped ass, but didn't complain, just laid down as directed.
Bobby's hands were firm and sure. Getting broken ribs examined hurts. It really isn't the kind of thing you can be gentle about, but you can make it fast, getting it over with quickly. And Bobby did. He sat back on his heels.

"Yep. You've got three or four broken ribs, but I don't think there are any internal injuries. When did this happen? Wasn't on our hunt, Sam wasn't with us, and he says, he saw it happen?"
"First hunt, when Sam's arm got dislocated the first time."
Dean's voice was very low, he couldn't make himself meet Bobby's eyes as he admitted putting his own life in jeopardy by hunting when his ribs were all jacked up. He flinched in anticipation of the yelling that would surely come. But Bobby was just real quiet. For a long while, he just sat there. Then he went to his desk, poured and downed a double shot of whisky.
"Well, then. I see."
"Bobby?"
"Neither one of you has any thoughts or regards for yourself, your life and health, or for me."
He sat down heavily, suddenly looking very old and tired.
"Bobby? What?"
"You could have called me, or any other hunter, as soon as you both were injured that first time around. I would have been glad to help, and there is plenty of other hunters, who would too. But, no. Both of you decided that going in with crippling injuries were the best idea. I really can't… I just … I… "
"Ah, come on Bobby, It's the job, and we are fine. No harm done."
"No harm? Well, yeah, you were lucky, but just because your dad didn't play well with others doesn't mean you two have to go it alone all the time. Ask for help, dammit! Or do you actually not care what impact your actions have on everyone who loves you, even if you have no respect for yourselves?"
"Loves us?"
"Me, Jody… there are plenty folks out there who see you as friends, or as family. Family doesn't end in blood, you idjit."

The resigned tone, the disappointed look on Bobby's face was so much worse than any amount of yelling would have been. Dean found himself wishing he was back to being bent over the table outside, that had been less painful than this conversation.
There was silence in the room. Bobby drank more whisky, Dean closed his eyes, fighting off the tears, waiting for Bobby to tell them to get lost, maybe even to lose his number. Sam sat very still, staring at his knees, good hand fiddling with the threads in a ragged hole in his jeans.

Bobby was on his third whisky, when Sam spoke in a whisper.
"Bobby?"
Bobby grunted.
"Can we stay just one night, please? We'll be gone first thing tomorrow, I promise, just… I can't drive, I'm too dizzy, and I don't think Dean should be sitting behind the wheel anymore today, either… and… and…"
"Stay one night?! STAY ONE NIGHT?"
Bobby was roaring the words, Sam curled into himself, slumping his shoulders, looking like a scared six-year-old kid. Dean flinched, he looked over at Bobby, then quickly away, and closed his eyes tightly, as if not being able to see, would make his ears not hear the words, he was now very sure was coming.
"You want to know if you can stay the night? After pulling a stunt like that? After both having to be dragged in here injured?"
Sam curled up even more, biting his lip hard.
"NO! You damn well CANNOT stay just one night."
Sam looked up at this, then quickly back down, his eyes sliding from side to side.
"Yesssir, Sorry, sir. We'll be going then, sir."
Sam started to stand up.

"SIT!"
Sam dropped back into the chair as if his legs had instantly lost connection to his brain.
"When is that cast coming off?"
"Six weeks, sir." His voice almost too low to be heard.
"Very well, then. You are, both of you idjits, are, grounded. You hear me? Grounded. For those six weeks. Neither one of you are going anywhere, you are staying here, and you are damnwell going to let me take care of you. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"

Sam's head jerked up, and Dean's eyes flew open. Two jaws dropped simultaneously.
Great. We were back at the openmouthed staring now. Perfect. Sometimes it was hard to believe that those two were the best hunters out there and were frankly quite brilliant too.
"Christ almighty. How can someone so intelligent be so damn stupid at the same time? Dean, you've had broken ribs before, right?"
"Uhm. Mmmhmm, yessir."
"You know what to expect?"
"Yeah, pain will get worse for a week, then quickly better, I 'll be fine in 3-4 weeks' time."
"Good. Sam?"
"Shoulder needs to be kept fairly still for a couple of weeks, then retrained, should be back to normal in about 3 months. Head will be fine sooner, and the break is no bother, when the cast comes off, I'll have to get it back in shape, though."
"Yep. Sounds about right. So, this is what is going to happen. You are grounded and will do as I say for those first six weeks. Then we will revisit the subject of you both deciding to hunt injured. "

"Grounded? Bobby. Come on, I'm an adult, you can't ground me!"
"Hey, I'm an adult too."
"Yeah? Well, I'm adulterer than both of you. Oh, stop that, you know, what I mean. Anyway. You both acted like irresponsible kids on this one, so that is how I'll treat you. Get that?"
"Uhm… Bobby?"
"Yes, Sam?"
"What did you mean, "revisit the subject?" You mean … uhmmm?"
"Yeah, I mean "uhhmmm" I mean you, both of you, and my belt. Belt will be doing most of the talking. You both will be shutting up and thinking about why it's happening. Or, well, I imagine, not shutting up per se, but definitely not speaking."

"But Bobby, you just spanked me for that, you gonna do that again?"
"No, that was for letting Sam hunt injured. In six weeks we will discuss you, both of you, hunting injured yourselves. Actually. Come to think of it. Not only did you both hunt injured… As you let Sam do it, so did he let you do it. Sam, we'll have to discuss that too, and Dean, you didn't let me know you were hurt, Sam was right, you could have punctured a lung, being bent over the table for a strapping like that. We better discuss that too. Thanks for reminding me."

"Wait, what?"
"Wha'? You're gonna s…s…spank us both *twice* in six weeks? Come on, Bobby, please?"
"Hm… no, I don't think that will be the most effective way… no, I've got another idea. Let's put those six weeks to good use. Make sure you really consider the issue of safety…. Yes… For those six weeks, we'll start each day out with a little talk with my belt."

"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"

"A whipping each day for six weeks?"
"While we are injured? How is that not worse than what we did today?"
"Oh, no, not a whipping. Just one smack. One single stroke of the belt each morning for those six weeks. I'm sure that will help the lesson sink in. And then, as promised, we will celebrate the end of those six weeks with a proper strapping, once you are both well enough to take it. Yes, that should do nicely. Now. Time to get some rest. Shut up and go to bed!"
"But…"
"But…"
"No more "buts." Go. To. Bed. "
"Yessir."
"Yessir."

Sam made his unsteady way upstairs, while Dean gratefully accepted the plaid Bobby tossed over him.
"Bobby?"
"Yes, son?"
"You don't plan on waking me, us, up with the belt, do you?"
"Ain't stupid, or suicidal, kid. I know you. I'll make sure you are both awake first. Don't worry, I got this. Just relax, kid, let me take over for the next six weeks."
At those words, a sense of peace suddenly and unexpectedly rolled over Dean. To let someone else take over for six weeks? To not be making any decisions? Not being in charge? It sounded heavenly. Even if the price would be a sore ass. He rolled carefully over on his good side and fell into sleep.

Now, of course a single slap of a belt across the ass isn't that bad. Not a big deal. But one every day for six weeks? They start to add up. The soreness just never really goes away completely.

"'Morning, son. Roll over on your stomach, please"
Twack!
"Oww. 'Morning Bobby."

"Morning already? Wait... ok... ok… owww…"

"'Morning, kid, on your belly, please."
"Yessir."
Thwack.
"Thank you sir, good morning to you too."

"Up already? Lay back down, Dean, come on."
"Sorry, sir. Ready, sir. Ow. Thank you, sir"

"Come on Bobby, please, not today… oooowwww... sorry, sir."

"Please, please, please, can't you hit another spot? Please not right there again… owww. Geeez."

"The sit spots again? Damn, man, where did you get such a great aim?"

"Up early, eh?"
"'Morning Bobby, we made you breakfast! There are pancakes!"
"How nice of you. Now bend over."

"What on Earth is going on here?"
Thwack.
Thwack.
"'Morning Bobby. We decided to spare you the effort and took care of it ourselves."
"How very considerate of you. Bend back over, Dean. Sam, bend over next to him, please."

"Please Bobby, I've got the lesson, please can we not… ok... sorry… Auch… Son of a bitch!"

"Dean! Stop that, come back here!"
Crash!
Bang!
"Damn stupid couch… Ow! My toe. Dean, I said come here… Sam, if you don't stop laughing like a loon, I'll just give you Dean's whack too."
"Ok, ok, Bobby, don't give Sam extra, I'll be good."
"'Bout time. I'm too damn old to chase you round the room. Get on the couch!"
"OW. OW… that was two, Bobby!"
"I know. I can count."
"Was that tomorrow's too?"
"Nope, that was for making me stub my toe. Tomorrow, just stay in bed until I've dealt with you."

"Morning. Turn over."
Thwack!
"'Morning. Are there coffee?"

"Time to get up, turn over."
Thunk!
"What the Hell?"
*Giggles*
"Is that a damn book down your pants? It is. It is! You've actually stuffed a first edition King James' Bible down your pants! Idjt!"

On the day they went to the hospital to get the cast pulled, Dean almost felt sad that they would soon be out on the road again. The last six weeks had been kind of fun. The whacking had been worth it for the feeling of being a family, puttering around the house, helping Bobby with chores. Whatever they could help with as the injuries slowly, but surely, healed, helped on the way by rest, semi-healthy food, and the strong constitution of young, healthy males in good overall physical shape.

Returning to Bobby's house, they found him waiting in the office, belt dangling from his hand.
There was no lecture this time. They just bend over the back of the couch, side by side, jeans around their ankles and gritted their teeth.

Bobby took his time. One stroke for Dean, then one for Sam. Back and forth. Painting first their asses, then their thighs bright red.

Sam grabbed the pillow, Dean had been using for his head, and straight out bit down on it. He couldn't help the tears that started up as soon as Bobby reached the sit spots for the first time. After six weeks of getting regular, daily welts that whole area was sore as a fresh bruise already, and having fresh stripes liberally applied on top of that soreness was a whole new level of pain.

Dean was twisting one hand into the plaid, his face pressing into his other elbow.
As soon as the first stripe was laid across his ass, the realization of what Bobby had been trying to tell them that first day, six weeks ago, sunk in like a stone hitting a lake. He pressed his face into his elbow, sobbing quietly, rocked on the waves of pain Bobby was applying to his ass and thighs.

Bobby was right, again. The belt did the speaking. The boys did the yelping, the gasping and in the end even the whispered begging, but no speaking as such. It was over soon, and not soon enough. They heard the rustling of clothes as Bobby put the belt back on. He walked over to his desk, and the whisky, giving his boys time to collect themselves, and get their jeans in order.

There was still not much speaking, but there were hugs, forgiveness, family. And after that, there was movie night. With Chuck Norris. With beers. With popcorn and even with licorice. A night to be remembered fondly in years to come.