"Dad? It's Dean. Please. I need you. Dad? It's… it's Sammy… I'm sorry Dad… I... I ... I lost him... I can't find him. Please come back… I need help…." Click.

The door banged open, the handle leaving a dent in the wall, when John barged into the shabby motel room.
Dean just barely had time to turn towards his dad before he was grabbed and slammed into the wall. John twisted a fist into Dean's ratty T-shirt, tearing the seams below the arms, as he pushed his fist up under his son's chin, forcing his head upwards in an awkward angle.
"What happened?"

Dean couldn't see anything beyond his father's face – they were nose to nose, so close that he couldn't even focus on his dad's eyes.
He gulped, whispering: "I'm sorry. He sneaked out. I don't know where he went. I've looked everywhere for him."

John backed up just enough to shake his son and slam him back into the wall.
"I told you to look after Sammy! Did you salt the doors and windows? Where were you?"

"I did, I did… I was asleep... he packed his things… he was just gone."
"When?"

No answer, Dean's eyes sliding away, staring at his feet.
Shake. Slam.
"When?!"
The word a hissing threat.

Barely audible came the answer: "Ten days ago."
A wordless roar. John hurled Dean towards the door.
"You. Go. Outside. Pick a switch and get your ass back inhere."
"Dad…please."
"Go!"

Pale as a ghost Dean slipped out the door, already reaching for his knife. His dad had never used a switch on him, but he knew enough to make his stomach do a slow somersault at the thought. Dean wasn't gone long. He slipped reluctantly back into the motel room to face the storm of his father's temper.

"Drop your jeans and bend over the couch."
"Dad? Please, don't… please… can't you just use your belt like …"

A growl interrupted him, so Dean turned to the couch, pushed his jeans to his knees and reached down to grab onto the sagging couch stuffing as best he could.

"Going commando now, are we?"

Dean never got a chance to explain that he had run out of clean clothes, the search for Sam taking precedence over such mundane tasks as doing the laundry.

He heard the switch whistle through the air. Heard the thwack as it landed across his ass. A moment later the pain registered, forcing the air out of his lungs in a wheeze.
The next strike followed immediately, not giving him time to haul any air back in. Then he was caught in a flurry of pain as the switch flew like a tornado, moving with no pattern across his ass and thighs.
He didn't scream, he didn't cry out – not for lack of trying, but from lack of breath. There was no air to make any sound. There was just desperate gasping as lightheadedness engulfed him.
A viscous slash caught him low on his thighs, making his legs buckle.

He was halfway on his knees now, frantically grabbing the back of the couch, trying to get up, but the pain never ceased, not for a second. A line of fire was drawn across his shoulders making his hands give up.
Falling to the floor, trying to curl into fetal position, banging his knee on the leg of the couch, hard enough to numb.
Twisting, rolling, ending up on his belly, halfway under the heavy couch, legs and lower body trapped.
Helplessly he folded his arms over his head and closed his eyes, gasping for air, getting mainly dust, couldn't even cough. Pain. Pain. Pain. The switch like icy fire dancing over his back.

Dean just gave up, hoping against hope that the pain would carry him away from this world. To just die. Be at rest… no more pain, no more fighting, not having to look at his father's face after this, seeing only anger and disappointment. He had one job, and he couldn't even do that. Sammy. Gone.

As suddenly as he had started, John stopped, turned on his heel and walked away. Dean heard the door open and close.
So. He would live to see another dawn. Oh, well.
He rested his cheek on the dirty carpet and struggled to get his breath under control.
His entire body was throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

After a while, his breathing even out, and the throbbing gathered itself at his upper back, ass and thighs.
His face was sticky. The carpet stank of dust and mildew. His knee was swelling up. Why was his face sticky?
Slowly, he managed to get an arm in front of himself, rubbing his face across his forearm. Oh. A mixture of sweat, tears, saliva, and a little blood – he realized that his lip was swollen and bleeding, but he had no memory of why. Did he bite it? Hit it when he fell off the couch? It didn't matter, it was just one more insignificant point of discomfort in a body wracked with much more immediate distress.

As the sweat started to dry on his skin, shivers of cold set in.
He didn't want to move, but he did it anyway. Pulling himself out from under the damn couch was pain and more pain.
Kicking his boots and jeans off was agony. Getting to his feet was pure torture.
He stopped for a moment on his knees, resting he head on the stupid couch, sobbing a little, just quietly to himself, while he rocked back and forth for a bit.

When he finally got to his feet, he stopped and stared at the old clock-radio on the corner counter. That couldn't be true, could it?
He would have sworn that it had been hours since Dad crashed through the door. Hours, days, years, decades… so why did the clock insist that it had been less than 15 minutes ago?
The beating itself must have taken only a few minutes. It didn't feel that way. It felt like a lifetime.

Dean limped into the bathroom, dragging his jeans behind him like a small child with a favorite blankie. Leaning on the sink he pulled his knife from his pocket and slashed his t shirt. Not even going to try to pull it over his head, couldn't even bear to think about lifting his arms that high.

Cringing in anticipation Dean turned his back to the mirror and twisted as best he could to look at the damage.
Welts, most of them turning into ugly black-blue-purple bruises, crisscrossed his shoulder blades and upper back in a chessboard of pain. He shuffled a step away from the mirror to inspect his ass and thighs. The welts were farther apart, not as deep, fewer of them would bruise, but he could feel everyone as a separate line of misery.

Dean dragged himself into the shower and shuddered under the deluge of freezing water. It took his breath away, again, but it also carried part of the pain with it down the drain, so that was a fair bargain. He dapped at his split lip, rubbed his face and turned the water off. Toweling dry wasn't really an option, but he patted at himself with the frayed towel before he made his wobbly way to his bed. Climbing in wasn't pleasant at all, but once he was face down on the thin mattress, exhaustion took over, carrying him into blessed oblivion.

He was woken by a hand shaking his shoulder gently.
"Dean? Dean?"
Dad. Dad was back. Dean struggled to get up, but the hand pressed down on his shoulder.
"No, son, just stay there, ok?"
"Da'? Wha'?"
"It's ok, Dean. It's ok. I've got a bead on Sammy."
"He's ok?"

Dean renewed his attempts to get up, but his dad kept him down easily.
"Stay here, Dean. I've got to go. I think Sam's in Flagstaff, got a call from a hunter passing through. You just rest up, I'll go find Sam."
"I can g-", Dean was interrupted with:
"No, you stay, rest. I've left some cash, there a pizza in the fridge, you can heat it up."

John looked silently down his son's long body before he added. "Uhm … I'm… I…Well. I've left a six-pack and an apple-pie in the fridge too…. Uhm… you…are… you… just … it's for you."

Surprised, Dean finally found the courage to look up at his dad. He looked away quickly. Was that regret rather than anger and disappointment, he had seen? No. How could it be?

John patted Deans hair clumsily. "Ok, then… keep the salt lines intact and take care, son". John moved briskly towards the door. Just as he was pulling it open, he heard Deans voice: "Dad?"
He stopped but didn't turn back.
"Dad? Just bring Sam home? Please? Don't… don't give him a reason to run again, please?"

John walked out the door. He still didn't turn around, but as he closed the door, he said: "I'll never use a switch again, ever. I promise."
Relived, Dean sank back into the lumpy pillow. Dad usually kept his promises. He really hoped, he would keep this one.

Four days later Dean was moving almost normally again, youthfulness and boredom in combination acting as efficient healers.

When John returned with a sulking Sam late in the evening, Dean was polishing off a cheeseburger and was able to get up to greet his family without obvious signs of discomfort. Sam did take a long look and frowned thoughtfully, but Dean distracted him with a light punch to the shoulder.

"Bitch."
A quick smile. "Jerk."

John headed for the shower, shouting over his shoulder: "We roll out at dawn, get some shuteye."

Sam tossed his duffel on the floor. Sat on the bed. "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Dad spanked me!" – Oh, the world of teenage outrage in those words.
A flash of worry – "Oh, he did?"
"Yeah, he hugged me, then he grabbed my arm, and then he smacked my ass. A bunch of times. Really hard too." A pause. "And then he hugged me again, really hard."

Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Shook him slightly. "You scared him, Sammy. Scared me too. Don't ever do something like that again. Or I promise, I'll smack you too!"
Sam gaped at Dean, dropped his eyes, hunched his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I really did scare you, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did. Please, don't run off like that again. Ok?"
Sam nodded and threw himself into Dean' arms. Dean suppressed a wince. He let Sam hug him briefly, then gently pushed him back. "Now, now Sammy, no chick-flick moments, ok?"
A flash of a grin from Sam.
"Let's just turn in, Sam, we'll be on the road early tomorrow."

As darkness fell over a dingy motel-room, a man sat quiet watch over his sleeping sons. They were safe, for now. Safe. It was all he ever wanted – to keep his boys safe. His thoughts went to those he hadn't been able to keep safe. To loss. To friends lost in war in a far away jungle. To a lost wife. To lost dreams. A lost life.
From the battered radio on the corner-counter a song slid into the air.

"And he was talking 'fore I knew it, and as he grew
He'd say, I'm gonna be like you, dad
You know, I'm gonna be like you

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man on the moon.
"When you comin' home, Dad?"
"I don't know when.
We'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

The street light outside the window blinked on. A stray ray of light reflected in the tear sliding down the man's face.
No-one heard him whisper: "I'm sorry. I'll do better. I promise"