Sam was in bed when his dad unexpectedly came home.
He was lying very quietly under the warm blankets, because there was a monster under his bed.

And he really hoped his dad wouldn't find it.

Dean was in a graveyard when his dad finally found him.
He was lying very quietly in the cold mud, because a monster had just beaten the hell out of him, before he managed to dispatch it.

And he'd really hoped his dad wouldn't find out.

But let's back up a bit and go back to the beginning:

John was in his car, when it all started.
He was sitting very quietly in the gathering dark, trying to calm himself down, because he'd just found a note from his eldest son, simply saying: "Be right back."

It had been a hellish week already.
He had been hunting a monster with Dean, while Sam had been left behind to go to school and do their research.
As usual, Sam had been complaining whenever they had him on the phone, but at least he had figured out what they where hunting and how to kill it.
A sort of were-fox of all things. A "kitsune".

At least it should be easy enough to dispatch, just a knife through the heart. It should have been a milk-run job from that point, but the problem was… they couldn't find the damn thing.
And the kitsune seemed to be killing in a line along the highway, but in this town, there was a conglomerate of killings, that didn't fit the pattern at all. No missing pituitary glands, more like animal mauling.
John was starting to wonder whether they had stumbled into another hunt mid-hunt.

He cursed under his breath. It had seemed like the only thing to do was to drive back to Sam and wait to see whether the kitsune-killings started up again. And start researching this town's killings.
More innocents would be dead, but John couldn't see any way around that. And now his eldest son had gallivanted off for some godforsaken reason. Even though he had clearly told the kid to go wait in the car while he grabbed some groceries.
Dean almost never disobeyed. And to do so in a town where people disappeared only to turn up very, very dead? Worry rolled in his gut, heavy and slick as oil, as he set off to track down his wayward son.

Dean rolled his head experimentally from side to side. It seemed to be attached at the neck as usual. For now, at least.
He wasn't sure it would stay that way once Dad caught up with him. He stretched his arms out in front of him and moved his legs a bit. Hm… seemed to be in working order too.
He sat halfway up and groaned. His muscles were already starting to stiffen.

That girl had looked so nice. Tall and slender, with bulges in all the right places. She had flirted with him shamelessly until his head felt all weird and woolen. Then she had asked him to help her get home.
"Please walk me home"
Of course he had agreed. He had assumed the detour through the graveyard was an invitation to a little smooching in the privacy afforded by the gathering dusk.
He hadn't expected her to suddenly grow fangs and try to eat him. Literally.

Dean flopped back down in the mud, wondering idly what the hell kind of monster it had been anyway? Whatever it was, a knife through the throat seemed to have done the trick. The monster-girl-thing had bled a lot and then dissolved into goo.
While it had been pretty disgusting, the lack of debris to clean up afterwards was, in Dean's mind, very appreciated. Lugging corpses around had little to no appeal in his experience.

He realized that the sun had set as the last drops of light drained out of the churchyard. A black silhouette against the dusky sky was steadily coming closer and closer.
Dean groped for his knife, but the ominous figure was already there, bending over him and growling:
"You better tell me what the hell is going on right now."

"Dad?"
Dean blinked slowly as he lay there in the mud, blood, fear and goo, trying to think of any kind of answer that would satisfy the dark figure, but his train of thoughts was interrupted by the church-bells starting to toll, counting out the last seconds of the day, the sound soaring over the living, dead and damned as an echo from another dimension.

John frowned, concern and annoyance warring in his face.
"Are you hurt? Can you stand?"
He reached down a hand, and as Dean grabbed on, helped his son up, keeping a grip on him until he stopped swaying.
"You hit your head or something?"

John hauled out a flash-light and shone it into Dean's eyes, one after the other.
Then he started a quick, pretty rough, triage, which Dean submitted to without complaint, knowing from experience that the fastest way to get it over with, was to just let the old man reassure himself that everything was ok.

Since Dad was going to be pretty pissed off when he got the whole story, Dean was careful to be extra respectful, trying to earn a few brownie point before the proverbial midden hit the windmill.
"No, Sir, no headache. Yes, Sir, I see three fingers. No Sir, my back is a bit sore, but not bad. Yes Sir, I can feel all my fingers and toes." On and on, until John was finally satisfied that his son was just a bit sore, but not broken. He leaned back and looked him in the eyes.
"Spill it."
Dean straightened up; a soldier giving a report to his superior officer.
He kept it short and – well, not sweet - but at least short.
John's eyebrows gradually lifted, and Dean was unhappy to see that *that* particular vein in Dad's temple was starting to throb steadily.

When the silence became oppressive, Dean rolled his shoulders, swallowed once and asked:
"So, how much trouble am I in here, Sir?"
"You disobeyed a direct order back there, and almost got yourself killed as a result, so what do you think, son?"
Dean sighed.
"I'm thinking your belt is gonna come off, Sir."
"Good guess. So, you want it now or when we get back?"
"We driving all the way back to Sam tonight, Sir?"
"Yep."

Dean stared into nothing while he deliberated.
On the one hand, getting it over with was always, in his opinion, better than having to wait for it.
On the other hand – sitting on a belted ass half the night while they drove back to Sam….
Then again, Dad seemed to have a pretty good hold on his temper right now, maybe he should let the old man have at it while the relief of Dean not being seriously injured was still fresh – but then again, once they got back Dad would be tired and ready for bed and might keep things short and quick.
Short a quick being Deans preferred type of ass-kicking, when such a one was unavoidable… then again…

Dad cleared his throat meaningfully.
"We can do both, if you are unable to decide."

Dean shot to attention. Dad never made idle threats.
"No, Sir, that won't be necessary. I'll take it now, Sir."
He looked around.
"Uhm… where do you want me?"

John looked around too, suddenly realizing that a church-yard after sunset might not be the optimal place for administrating parental discipline of a physical nature.
"Come on. Back to the car."
Walking back to the car, John unexpectedly put a hand on Dean's shoulder.
"That was a damn fool move, son. But I'm glad, you're ok."
Then the hand disappeared again, making Dean's shoulder feel cold where the warmth had been.

They drove in silence, and not very far.
On a lonely American country road under a starry sky, the black Impala rolled onto the gravel to let out two tired humans.
The younger quickly stripped off his jacket, folded it up and put it on the hood of the car. Then he took a deep breath, undid his belt and jeans, and pushed them to his knees as he bent over the hood, using his jacket as a cushion. He folded his arms and rested his head on them, face buried in the crook of an elbow.

The older man slipped his old worn leather-belt off, saw his son tense up at the sound, and put a steadying hand on his back, before he brought the folded belt down across the backside in front of him.

Dean gasped at the first stroke, and scooted as far forward as he could in an unconscious attempt to escape the pain, but there was no relief.
His dad brought the belt down in a quick beat, more fox-trot than waltz.
After the first couple of strokes they found their rhythm: The belt swinging, the boy grunting and the man gritting his teeth.
John never left things half done and he painted his son's backside bright red from the top of the ass to the middle of the thighs. At the end, Dean had stopped the involuntary wriggling and was just lying exhausted across the hood of the car.

When John patted his back and said, "Ok, let's get back to Sam," it took Dean a moment to get back to reality. But he got up, unsteadily, and put his clothes in order.
John gazed at him all the while, until he suddenly opened the back door of the Impala.
"Get in, get some sleep while I drive. "

Dean accepted the offer gratefully. He had learned at an early age to grab sleep when he could, and the old man offering to let him out of sitting on his ass right now? That was an unexpected mercy…

Just before he drifted off to sleep, he asked:
"How'd ya find me anyway?"
Dad grunted.
"I'll always find your ass when it needs a good kicking, ya can be sure of that"

Dad and Dean had left Sam in a pretty ok motel room for once.
It had a main room, with a tv and couch, a dinner table and a kitchenette, and a back bedroom with two beds.
The bathroom was next to the bedroom and had a shower which actually had water-pressure enough that you could feel clean after your bath.

After the fight at Amy's house, and her mother's dead, he had brought Amy back here, to stay the night until the bus left in the morning. They had been lying on each their own bed, chatting for a couple of hours, before slowly dozing off when suddenly the outer door to the motel-room opened.
Amy, with the reflexes of a fox, dove under Sam's bed and Sam froze up.

Johns voice could be heard from outside the bedroom door:
"Dean, get into bed with Sam, I'll take the other bed, that couch is not worth trying to sleep on."

Shit. Sam knew that there was no way the two older hunters could spend the night while he had Amy hidden under the bed. They would find her, and she would be dead.
He had to do something.
He leaned over the side of the bed and whispered carefully.
"Sorry, I didn't think they would be back yet. You have to get away. I'm gonna go distract them, you get out the window and run, I'll meet you at the bus-stop tomorrow morning."
"They'll hear!"
"Don't worry, I'll make sure they don't, just promise me that you'll run, no matter what you hear – I promise, I'll be fine"
"Are… Are you sure?"
"Yes! Just go, please. See you tomorrow."

Sam got out of bed, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, stomped determinedly through the bedroom door, slammed it behind him and yelled:
"I'm so sick of this bullshit"

Dad whirled around. Behind him, Dean dropped his jaw, staring at Sam as if he had just grown a second head.
"Why can't you ever just let me be normal for once? All that I want is to go to school and not be a freak. But no, you have to have your macho hunter bullshit! You're not thinking about anybody but yourself, it's the same selfish obsession every time!"

As John grabbed him by the arm, Sam heard the snick of the window opening in the bedroom.
He raised his voice again to drown out any sounds from in there:
"Leave me alone! You just want to control me. You leave me behind, and you still want to control everything I do! Why don't you just leave me alone altogether?"

Dean took a half step forward, "Dad… Sam…" his voice petered out, what could he say? Nothing. Usually he would try to do something, anything, to stop the explosion, but this time?
Sam had basically walked into the center of a thunderstorm and yelled defiance at the top of his lungs. Dean saw no way to stop the lightening which was about to strike.
He could try to put himself at ground zero in stead of Sam, but for one thing, his own ass was still throbbing and secondly – Sam had decided to invite this – Dean had no idea why, but if the little idiot was so determined to get his ass skinned, Dean tended to think he should let his brother have his way.

"I have no idea what is going on with the two of you today," John growled, "but it stops right here and right now."
He dragged Sam, who was still yelling, the last two steps to the couch, pushed him over the armrest, and held him down with one hand, while he pulled his belt free with the other.

John was tired, frustrated and angry.
Dean had scared the bejeezsus out of him earlier and now his younger son acted as if he was possessed. Enough.
He smacked the belt down with more frustration than control and heard Sam's voice change from yelling curses to just…yelling.

After that, he got a better grip on his temper, sending the belt down quickly, hard enough to be felt, but without actually bruising the boy.

Sam went in quick succession from yelling and struggling through yelping and kicking to sobbing helplessly lying in a boneless heap of misery as the belt thudded it's agony into his backside.

Dean watched helplessly, his fists opening and closing convulsively as his Dad laid into his brother.
His protective instincts were screaming at him to do something, to interfere. At the same time he was still reeling from Sam's unexpected outburst and couldn't help feeling a tinge of anger himself – the kid had really asked for it this time…

Just as the protectiveness got the upper hand and Dean finally took a tentative step towards his dad, the belt stopped it's thunderous dance.
John slapped Sam on the rear with an open hand, eliciting a yelp, and said:
"Ok, get up, Sammy."

A deep shudder ran through Sam's body, then he slowly pushed himself up and turned around, wiping his face in his sleeve.

His dad shook him by the shoulders and said:
"I have no idea, what just got into you, but don't ever talk to me like that again. Understand?"
Sam sniffed: "Yes Sir."
He answered, miserably.
John drew him into a hug.
"Ok, then. Let's get to bed, it'll be dawn soon enough."

They all trundled into the bedroom.
John grumbled about salt-lines and shut the window with a click.
Sam "yes-sirred" him about it and dived under the blankets before he got into even more trouble.
His entire backside was throbbing with a line of deep dull pain where that first smack of the belt had left a welt across the center of his ass.

As John's snores filled the room, Dean whispered:
"You ok, Sammy?"
"I'm fine. You?"
"I'm fine."
"G'night, Bitch"
"G'night, Jerk"

And as the two brothers laid their weary heads to rest, peace descended over the lonely motel-room in the middle of nowhere.