When Talking Just Doesn't Work
Chapter 1
"Dean! Get down!"
The moment Dean dropped to the floor, Sam raised the Colt and shot the vampire right behind him in the head. The vampire fell backwards, skin turning black around the bullet hole. Dean looked at the vampire, mere inches beside him, and shuddered.
"Hey!" Sam said, jogging over to Dean and holding out his hand. "You okay?"
"Fine," Dean growled, ignoring the hand and pushing himself up. "Come on, let's get out of this crap hole. Can't freaking believe it. Vampires and witches teaming up together. What the hell, man?" He stalked away. Sam frowned, cocking his head, but followed.
They reached the Impala, and Dean threw his machete and pearl-handled gun into the trunk, still muttering. It was only when he pulled his keys out of the lock that Sam realized his brother's hands were shaking.
Odd.
They'd been on many hunts together, and hunts almost never shook up Dean. Except for lately. Ever since Eve had emerged from Purgatory, all sorts of new shit had been popping up all over the place. Not to mention rather odd alliances, such as vampires and witches, changelings and shape shifters, etc. They were still hunting like normal, but it had become significantly more difficult as of late. And after each hunt, Dean seemed closer and closer to snapping.
"Hey," Sam said, trying like hell to make his voice sound gentle but not pitying. "Do you think I could drive?"
"Why?" Dean rounded on Sam, fists clenched and tone aggressive. "Don't think I can do it?"
"Dude. Chill," Sam said. "I'm just in the mood to drive. That's all."
"Whatever, Sam. Get in the damn car." Dean got behind the wheel and slammed his door so hard that his windows rattled. Sam's throat tightened. Something was definitely not right if Dean was willing to slam the door on his baby. He nearly killed Sam once for slamming his trunk lid too hard.
Sam got in the car and struggled to not stare at Dean. After a few moments, he gave up and indulged. Dean's jaw was clenched and his knuckles were white on the wheel as they squealed out onto the freeway.
"Dean. Dean!"
"What, Sam?" Dean snapped.
"You're pushing 110. Come on. Isn't that a bit much, even for you?"
"I just want to get back to the fucking motel. Is that okay with you, Mr. Safety?"
"Fine." Sam was now ready for some jaw clenching of his own. He turned and face the road, and tried to ignore the worry clenching the pit of his stomach.
"Bobby?" Sam whispered into his phone. Dean was busy in the shower. It had been three weeks and two hunts since the vampire and witches team up, and Dean had gotten steadily worse and worse.
"Yeah, Sam? What is it?"
"I'm worried about Dean," Sam confessed. "Our hunts have been becoming more and more difficult, and he's been getting more and more erratic after them, and I'm afraid that—"
"You idgit!" Bobby said crankily. "Just talk to him. Don't talk to me. What in the bloody hell do you think I can do? Do you think I've got some kind of private intel on him? You're the one who's with him 24/7. You deal with his little hissy fits."
"Don't you think I've already tried that?" Sam said angrily, starting to lose his temper. "He won't talk to me, Bobby, and he storms out or turns the music up louder if I even suggest something's wrong."
Bobby sighed. "That's just the way he is. Nothing you can do about it. I swear, if he was my boy, I'd have taken a strap to his behind a long time ago. Most guys aren't like you, Sam. They don't do well with all that touchy-feely, talking shit out crap. Just leave him be. He'll come around, and learn to adjust to the change in the hunts. You just have to wait it out. You can't talk him down from this one, kid."
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said bitterly. "Huge help, thanks."
But after he hung up the phone, Sam realized that, in a way Bobby never could have guessed, he had been very, very helpful.
Dean stretched out his muscles as he followed Sam into the hotel room. He could feel his skin crawling. He and Sam had just eliminated a parasite that ate kids from the inside out. They'd watched three kids die before finally figuring out how to kill it.
"Dean?" Sam's voice. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean snarled. He was so fucking sick of Sam's touchy-feely crap, as if talking could burn away the image of that little girl weeping while that…thing…ate her heart.
"You're clearly not fine, Dean. I'm not fine. How could anyone be fine dealing with what we deal with every day?" Sam's voice rose on each word, and in a way, it was a relief. Dean could deal with angry Sam. It was gentle Sam that he found so infuriating, because when Sam was gentle, it gave him no excuse in his mind to be so angry with him.
"What the hell, Sam? Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone and let it go?" Dean turned and headed for the bathroom, intent on scrubbing himself until he bled. He was not quite prepared for the yank on his shirt collar. He would have completely fallen backwards if Sam hadn't caught him.
"Sam? What the fuck are you doing?" Dean demanded.
"If you won't respond to my words, maybe you'll respond to this." Sam's voice was oddly calm, and he gripped Dean by the back of the neck and dragged him over to the bed. Sam sat down and threw Dean over his lap, still gripping his neck hard. Dean fought, but it was a very strange position, and Sam had him pinned. "You can't go on behaving in this manner, so I'm going to teach you that there will be repercussions other than me talking you to death."
Dean continued to struggle, but felt an odd thrill race through his body. Sam grabbed the back of Dean's jeans, and yanked them down hard. Dean cursed his lack of a belt. Sam also pulled down his boxers, and, before Dean knew what was happening, one of Sam's impossibly large hands came down on his ass with a deafening smack!
"Are—are you spanking me?" Dean's tone was incredulous, and he hadn't even paused to register the pain caused by Sam's hand.
"Yes." Sam's voice was curt, and the hand holding Dean's neck pushed his face into the mattress. Sam spanked his other cheek, harder this time, and went back and forth unrelentingly, while Dean's ass began to feel like fire was licking it. But, something strange began to happen while Sam punished him. It felt like a tightness in his chest, one that he carried around constantly, was starting to loosen. He knew when Sam's hand would land, he knew how much it would hurt, and he also knew, without a doubt in his mind, that Sam was completely in control of the situation. He knew that he wouldn't be allowed up until Sam decided he could get up, and knew that Sam was doing what he thought was best for Dean in that moment. Dean could feel himself unraveling under Sam's hard hand, and felt, for the first time since his Dad had died, as if he had someone to follow. Someone who would lead him, guide him, and make sure everything was okay. And in a way, it was almost better, because he trusted Sam more.
Dean was vaguely aware of tears falling uncontrollably from his eyes, his hands clenching the material of Sam's jeans, and he shook as all of his pain, frustration, and fear escaped from him with each blow.
The hits began to slow down, and gradually stopped, replaced by firm rubbing. Sam released the back of his neck, and Dean slid to the ground in front of Sam, pants still around his ankles. On his knees, Dean pressed his face into Sam's thigh, still shaking and sobbing as he knelt at Sam's feet. Sam gently stroked Dean's short hair, and there was something oddly comforting about the vulnerability of the position, Dean half naked, on his knees on the floor in front of Sam, fully dressed and sitting on the bed.
After a few moments, Sam leaned down to Dean's ear. "Go take a shower." It wasn't a request, or a suggestion. It was an order. Dean shuddered.
"Yes, sir," he whispered, and it was automatic.
"Good boy."
Dean's heart clenched, and he felt proud, in that moment. Content and happy, for reasons he didn't dare admit to himself. He stood up, stepping out of his jeans and underwear, and pulling off his shoes and socks. He took his shirt off as well, and limped to the bathroom, feeling more relaxed than he had in years.
Sam watched him go with a small smile. Bobby was right. For some people, talking just didn't work.
A/N: I'll probably continue this, depending upon the response. I, for one, really enjoy stories like this. This one has been floating around in my head for some time. Tell me what you think?
-CatJetRat