THE GOOD SON

CHAPTER 2: DEAN POV

"Sammy, go take a bath." His father's voice betrayed his anger.

Dean moved toward the bed, knowing what was coming next.

"But, Dad, I'm too big for baths! I take showers now, remember?"

"Just go, Sammy," Dean muttered, too low for anyone to hear. He wanted his brother out of the room before this started.

"Bath, Sam. Now!" Their dad was already yanking his belt off as he stalked across the room to turn the TV on.

Sam was staring at Dean, eyes wide. He knew what was coming, too, and Dean was pretty sure Sam was trying to think of a way to help him.

Dean shook his head, mouthing the word "Go".

Sam went.

As soon as the bathroom door closed, Dean sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots off.

"Good," John snarled. "I see you remember the drill."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on his boots. "Strip, face down on the bed, don't move, stay quiet."

John snorted. "If you'd listened that well out there, we wouldn't be doing this right now."

Dean pulled his shirt off, trying to slow his heart rate by force of will. "I know, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"Hurry up," was his father's reply, and he began wrapping one end of his belt around his fist.

Humiliation warred with fear as Dean shimmied hurriedly out of his jeans and boxers, then quickly lay on his stomach on the bed. From past experience he knew that keeping quiet would be hard, and he pulled a pillow over his head, wrapping his arms around it and locking his fingers together.

The first blows came without warning, raining down on his unprotected backside like molten lava. He gasped, crossing his ankles as his body went taught in silent protest at the onslaught.

The lecture began, each word accompanied by a blow, now spreading out to cover Dean's thighs and back.

"You. Disobeyed. A. Direct. Order."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dean gasped, voice muffled. Couldn't tell his father that he froze. Some things were worse than being punished for disobedience.

"I. Command. You. Obey. Immediately. No. Questions. No. Hesitation."

"Yessir." It was difficult to breathe, but even harder to keep from crying. He clutched the pillow tighter.

"You. Almost. Got. Sammy. Killed."

Now his back was on fire, and his thoughts were becoming sluggish.

"Sorry, Sir."

"You. Could've. Gotten. Yourself. Killed."

"Sorry!" It came out in a high pitch, sounding so young that Dean almost didn't recognize his own voice.

"I. Can't. Lose. You. Two."

There was a pause in the torment, and Dean dared to hope that his punishment had neared its end.

"Yessir. I'm sorry, Sir." He rushed to get the words out, voice strained, breathless. "I'll listen next time, I swear. Please..." No more, he wanted to add, but knew better.

And then the blows rained down, rage-fueled, fast, hard, on every exposed inch of flesh, too close together for Dean to apologize, or beg, or recover, and the pain was so intense, he couldn't breathe, and inside his head he was screaming, begging his father to stop, please please stop-

Abruptly he lunged for the side of the bed, abdomen convulsing.

John dropped the belt just in time to thrust a waste basket under his son's heaving face. Bile mixed with mucus and saliva spilled into the can.

Dean pushed himself weakly back into position, wiping his mouth on the sheet as he dragged his face across it.

Through slitted eyes he watched John stoop, rising with the bloodied belt in his hand.

Dean knew he couldn't take any more. Not without screaming. Or blacking out. "Please Dad, please!" He heard the tears in his voice, and hated it. "I-I'm suh-sorry."

John dropped the belt, and Dean choked back a sob.

"I'm s-sorry, Dad." He couldn't stop shaking, but needed his father to know how grateful he was that the punishment was over. "I'm r-really, really suh-sorry."

And suddenly John was on his knees, one hand on Dean's hair, forehead pressed to his son's temple. "I'm sorry Dean. I hate doing this to you. I was so afraid for you two, and when parents are scared they get angry….but I can't….I can't risk losing you. Or Sam. And I don't know how else to get you to…."

His voice trailed off, and Dean realized that his father was crying.

"I'm sorry, D-Dad. I'm sorry I m-made you d-do this. It's okay. I'll do b-better. I p-promise."

And in that moment, Dean hated himself for what he'd put his father through.