Warning... spanking

Dean's Point of View (POV)

I was double Sammy's age. I'd turned 10 in January. Sammy would be 5 for a few more months.

We were living in an apartment, like with actual rooms! One living room. One kitchen. One bathroom. One bedroom. Still cramped, but we weren't all in each other's spaces like we were when we were trapped in the car, a tent, or a motel room.

On the negative side, no bed. Dad had splurged on an air mattress for the bedroom, but you had to blow your lungs empty each night to filler' up and just deal when your butt started scraping the floor at 3 in the morning. But it was that, or no TV. We voted that a TV-VCR combo was more important than a boring mattress.

We rotated out who was on the air-mat. Most nights, Sammy and I shared it and Dad camped out on the couch (a $15 yard-sale deal). But if Dad got back from a hunt near or after sunrise, he'd move Sammy to the couch and order me, "Take care of your brother." Then Dad would shut the bedroom door and sleep the day away.

It had been a year since the shtriga incident. With most things, if I'd screwed up, Dad would have whaled on my ass, or gone full on drill sergeant with things like, 'Drop and give me 50.' Or, 'Your tail better get running down that road. 3 miles. Now, run.'

But the butt busting would end with a hug and the extra exercise would morph into a normal day of training. Either way, the air would be cleared and neither of us would be pissed, stressed, scared, or guilty.

But I wasn't to be forgiven for failing to pull the trigger on the shtriga. There could be no forgiveness for choosing video games over watching over and protecting Sammy.

Doing nothing was about the harshest punishment Dad could have given in that case. Sammy had almost died because I'd been bored and then I'd been too chicken shit to pull the trigger. If Dad hadn't shown up Sam would be gone.

I had nightmares about it. Wake up shaking and trembling nightmares. Sammy started to wake up during one and I bit down on the inside of my check to keep my fears from spewing out. I'd rubbed his back, the way I wanted mine rubbed in that moment, urging him back to dream world.

The guilt kicked me into gear, demanding that I beat back the fear by being better. I took orders. I followed them. I did the best damn job I could at improving my shooting and fighting skills.

Though it hadn't been spoken, I guess I'd sort of been grounded from babysitting duty for 4 months or so, but there were only so many people for Dad to dump us with and only so long that he was willing to impose on their charity.

Bobby's was the best.

He basically owned a museum of cars, but not the boring 'Don't touch' sort of museum. Pretty much everything was fair game, as long as you followed Bobby's rules, which boiled down to, 'Don't be an idjit.' Bobby taught me the names of all the things under the hood and how they worked together to make the car go. He even let me help fix 'em up!

I'd been keepin' secrets since I was 4, mostly from Sammy. My job was to protect Sammy. And one of the things I needed to protect was how much being at Bobby's felt like having a home. Dad had gotten pissed when Bobby had taken us to the park and played catch with me instead of having me continue my weapons' training. Bobby had gotten pissed right back.

I knew better than to lie to Dad. But I also knew enough to keep my damn mouth shut and enough to keep the phone out of Sammy's hands if I thought he might blab too much about our day to Dad.

It was vital that Dad not catch on to how much down time Bobby gave us.

Don't get me wrong, Bobby still had us practicing tracking skills, and still had plenty of days where he had me practicing my aim with various types of guns. And the two of us had chores to do, typical stuff like making the bed, clearing the table, and not leaving Legos scattered about on the floor.

But we also had outings for pie or ice cream and nearly every night we rented a movie to watch together.

I'd had one of the nightmares when I was at Bobby's. I'd been quiet about it, I think. So maybe Bobby just made a habit of checking on us in the middle of the night.

Anyhow, I'd been laying there, staring at the ceiling, not really seeing the ceiling, but seeing a continuation of the nightmare/memory of that monster sinking down towards the bed. I don't remember grabbing it, but the knife I kept under my pillow was in my hand.

Normally, Bobby would've said something snarky like, 'You planning on slicing up the air with that thing.' But this time, he didn't. He just looked at me until that itch in your neck that tells you that you're being stared at got my attention and I glanced his way.

He was leaned up against the doorway, legs crossed at the ankles. He just gave a small jerk of his head toward the hallway and I understood it to mean that I was to follow. We went downstairs. He flipped on the TV, clicked play on the VCR, kicking Back to the Future into gear for the 2nd time that night, then patted the sofa, indicating I was to sit. I obeyed. A few minutes later he stuck a mug of hot cocoa in my palms, popped the top on a beer for himself, slung an arm across the couch above my shoulders, and settled in for the film.

It was nice. No being told to man up. No barraging questions about why I'd had a knife poised to slash the air. Just two guys making a night of it. And knowing, that if I need it, I could scootch a bit closer to him and that arm would drop down to around my shoulders, letting me know he's got this, that for now, I could be protected instead of being the protector.

That had been a few months ago. Now we were living in a po-dunk town in New Hampshire. Dad had a real day-job as a mechanic. Can't use scammed credit cards or hustle pool for every meal when you plant yourself in one spot for a length of time. So Dad had a regular 9 to 5. Sammy was in full-day kindergarten, with naptime after lunch.

I harped on him about it, making cracks about it, like, "Time for Beddie-Byes," while he was under my care on Saturdays and Sundays.

He'd respond with something oh, so clever, like, "I'm too old for naps, you jerk!"

Then he'd prove himself wrong by conking out in the middle of the 10th re-play of the Transformers VHS that we'd failed to return that last time we'd ditched town in the middle of the night.

This was such a day. Per S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure), Dad was off hunting for the weekend and I was left in charge. Sammy was still young enough to believe everything he was told, so still bought into the idea that Dad was off selling insurance door-to-door.

Thank god Sammy's gullible. Dad and I had made a pact to keep Sammy in the dark about all that goes bump in the night. My childhood may have been snatched from my grasp, but that didn't mean Sammy's had to be.

I carted his snoozing form to the air mattress, covered him up, and shut the door.

Then I popped out Transformers and popped in Police Academy. Dad had covered our eyes during a couple scenes and I wanted to find out why.

Turns out boobs were the reason, and oh, they were glorious! The whole film was hysterical. Too bad we were going to have to return it after the squirt finished beddie-byes. But it was due back to the rental store tonight, and tonight meant middle of the afternoon, because neither of us were allowed out the door once the sun started to sink.

Click-click. My body froze. Sure there were guns being cocked on screen, there was a full on riot going on between the locals and the cops. But that sound hadn't manifested from the TV. It had come from the bedroom.

I don't remember leaving the couch. I don't remember running to the bedroom. I do have a frozen image of a loaded, cocked gun in my baby brother's clumsy hands. Next thing I become aware of was my hand smacking down on his bare backside.

I don't recall starting the spanking, but the pink prints indicate I'm a few smacks in. He's crying, my hand's stinging, and unbidden, it keeps landing, turning pink skin red. "Don't you dare put your hands on a gun."

Sam blubbered out, "You do."

Smack! "I've had training." Smack! "I have rules I have to follow." Smack! "Until you've learned them…"

"I know them, Dean!"

Getting his ass tanned, and still doesn't have the self-preservation to know when to shut up.

Smack! "Not well enough to follow them. 'Sides, you didn't let me finish. Until Dad's trained you and given you permission, your hands stay," I smacked the sit spots "off," and again, "the" and again, "guns," adding one last tremendous slap.

Sammy was quivering and crying and, god, what had I just done! Yeah, I had permission to take Sammy in hand when I needed to. But I'd never done more than given him a swat or two for failing to follow orders. This was an honest-to-god, full blown spanking that I'd just delivered to my little Sam.

A tear started to spill. I wiped it off. I wanted to apologize and be forgiven. But that wasn't an option. That would take away from what I'd just done and I couldn't go through another time of walking in on Sammy fumbling around with a gun.

But I could make him feel better. I gathered him up and held him to my chest, rocking back and forth, rubbing his back, while repeating, "Shhh, ssshhh" I continued until he drifted back into his second nap of the day, this time, with his thumb in his mouth.

I settled him under the blanket. Sammy's breath had a bit of a hitch to it, and his cheeks were still stained with tear tracks. I felt my own breath hitching and the tears re-starting.

I wanted to call Bobby, to get re-assurance, or chastised, for what I'd done, and to see if he thought I should tell Dad.

The tears were like rain by the time I heard his, "Hello."

Bobby's POV

The phone rang. Both I and Brutus headed that way. "Dab nab, dog, quit tripping me. Get outside." I opened the kitchen door and shooed him out. I got to the phone by the third ring. "Hello."

"B-B-obby."

My heart jumped into my throat. That was Dean and he was crying. I patted my pocket to check for my knife. Stretched the phone cord to the gun cabinet so I could pick which I should take with me. And was doing whatever else I could think of to come to the Winchesters' rescue.

Then my brain halted long enough to conclude I needed more information.

"Dean? What's going on?"

"I…I…I…sp…spanked Sammy."

Well, was that all? I'd seen him give his kid brother a smack to the rump to save him from a harsher smacking from their Pa. What the hell was he freaked out about?

I wasn't going to get much more than blubbering out of him unless I snapped him out of it. "I'll hold while you locate your balls."

I listened. Heard him suck in his breath and take in a few longer, calmer ones, then I started in with the most pertinent questions. "Would your Daddy have spanked him for what he'd done?"

"Yes."

"Did you over do it? Give him harsher than he deserved?"

"I…I…"

"Yes or no, son."

"No, sir."

"Did you under-do it? Any worries that he's going to disobey you the same way again?"

"N-No, sir."

"Then what you fretting for?" My gut twisted with that one. I knew exactly why the kid was fretting. He was a kid. Or he was supposed to be one. But the way those two were being raised, Dean was doing half the raising of the both of them.

When they were in my care, I did what I could to let them be kids. I sighed, "Kid, life's often not fair. But you're doing a fare better than most at making do with what you got. You do what you got to do to raise him right. But do me a favor,"

"Anything, Bobby."

"Do something 10."

"Huh?"

"Stay a kid, Dean. At least in part."

"I'll try, Bobby."

Dean's POV (after the call)

Do what you gotta do. What I'd done sucked. Big time. But I wasn't wrong to have done it.

Do what you gotta do. I needed to check the gun. I found it back in its space, tucked under my duffle by my side of the bed. I must have put it there out of habit before laying into Sam. I took it with me to the living room, un-cocked it, fully removed every bullet, counted them to make sure none were missing, re-loaded her, and put her back.

The next gotta do was dinner. I needed to feed Sam before we made the trek to the video store, otherwise he'd whine. I headed to the kitchen. We had a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of grape jelly, 'cause it had been Sammy's turn to choose, and about 10 boxes of knock-off brand mac-and-cheese. PB&J had been lunch, so I put water onto boil for mac-and-cheese.

Do something 10. I smiled at my brilliant idea. I set aside the cheese packet for popcorn. Then I took a big glop of peanut butter and put it on the warm noodles. I rifled through our stash of restaurant topping packets and found a few that said syrup on the side. The syrup went on top of the peanut butter and I stirred it all together.

I got Sammy up from his nap. He whimpered and whined a little, and kept repeating, "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

"Do you promise not to touch the guns until Dad and I say you're ready?"

He nodded repeatedly.

"Alright, then." I pecked a kiss on his forehead. "Soups on!"

"What kind?"

"Peanut butter noodle."

"Ewww! You try it first."

"Sure thing, kiddo." It was the smarter choice. A big no-no was wasting food. If Sammy refused to eat one of my concoctions I was stuck eating it on my own for the next few meals. But I was pretty sure this one was going to be a good one.

I got Sammy fed (he loved it!), then we made the walk to exchange Police Academy for Willow.

Part way through the film I made him put on PJs and brush his teeth. He started to bitch, as is his modus-operandi, so I put on mine and brushed my teeth. Sammy likes to mimic me, and unlike the gun, this is something I needed him to mimic me on.

I was supposed to have Sammy under the covers by 8:30, and I was supposed to follow suit by 9:15. Instead, I let him drift to sleep by my side during the movie. Don't know when I fell asleep, but the screen had switched to that solid blue that it does when a tape ends.

My heart started a rapid drum roll. Never fall asleep without protection. I slipped my hand between the couch cushion and the edge of the couch, finding the knife Dad had stashed there. My heart slowed, but still stuttered until I went to the bedroom and retrieved the .45. Linus had a blanket. I had a Glock. I know which one I'd rather take into a fight.

I checked the salt lines and made sure every window and door was locked.

I don't know how a kid gains 50 pounds the moment their eyelids are glued shut, but they do. When I'd carried him to bed for naptime, he'd clung to me with arms and legs. I couldn't dead-lift him to the air mattress. And I didn't much feel like spending the next 20 minutes pumping my breath into it to re-filler up.

I maneuvered Sammy to make room for both of us to lay on the couch. I pointed the gun at each doorway and window, practicing in my head the positions to point it if it became needed. Ignorance is fear. Knowledge is safety. I put the gun down within reach. Sammy was tucked in between me and the part of the couch backs lean up against. With my body acting as his shield, I was able to rest.

I'd been an adult since I was 4 and Dad put Sammy in my arms and ordered me to carry him to safety, away from the fire that was consuming our mother and home. While Dad grieved, I cared for Sammy. While Dad hunted, I was Sammy's parent.

He's 5. I'm 10. But I'm only double his age in numbers.