A/N: Murder, Beatings, incest, dubious consent. If the last two weren't evidence enough, this chapter contains a graphic sex scene. You have been warned. Sorry to take so long to update, I recently got a full time office job, which is a bitch of a thing to keep up with. The story's about 15 chapters ahead on my Archive Of Our Own account if you want to read further.
When the rush of the successful bombing had worn off, Dean found it hard to concentrate. The idea that he had killed his own father kept running through his head, worrying at his psyche, popping up through every attempt he made to distract himself. His father had been his lifeline, the one constant in his life after Sam had left—no, not left, abandoned—the family for college. Oh, he tried to forget—he restocked their explosives materials, replenished their collection of ammo, fine-tuned the Impala and cleaned and waxed her until his hands were raw, even tried sitting on Bobby's couch watching mindless cartoons until the man was fed up with his antics and threw him out to "find a distraction and grow up, you idjit." Nothing seemed to help. Dean growled, walking along the perimeter of Bobby's property, kicking at the few rocks that he had not already sent skittering out of range. Maybe he could sweet-talk Bobby into letting him work on some of the busted, rusted old cars in his lot. True, the man had not seemed very receptive towards allowing Dean to touch the cars when he first arrived, a shaking, grieving mess, but it had been almost two weeks! Maybe Bobby would change his mind if it kept Dean from filling up the house with Ren and Stimpy.
The footsteps behind him were too far apart to be Bobby's. "What do you want, Sam?" Dean asked, not bothering to turn around. He had barely spoken a word to his brother since the adrenaline rush of the bombing had worn off. Sure, he had been the one to place the C4, but Sam was the one who had pressed the issue of honoring their father's wishes—of murdering him. Dad hadn't been a person, he had been Dad! His life had mattered where others had not, and Dean had killed him like he was just any other person, and if he was pushing the blame off onto Sam, well, he figured that he owed himself that comfort, at least.
"Stop avoiding me." Sam's words were quick, spoken in a no-nonsense tone. "Look, I get it. You blame me for Dad's death. Yeah, I'll admit, I was the one who said we should blow the place, but damnit, he asked us to! Now man the fuck up, we're going on a spree."
Dean stopped and shot Sam an incredulous look. "We're supposed to lay low until this blows over," he said accusingly, glaring at Sam. "I don't know about you, but I saw a report on the prison just two nights ago on the news. They've got the FBI after us man! Now's not the time to go on a spree!"
"Yeah, well, tough," Sam said, folding his arms over his lean, muscular chest. "Dean. You've got to stop wasting away around here. You're killing yourself, and I meant it when I said that I don't want you dead. You, Bobby—you guys and the Roadhouse crew are the only people I want to let live, and you're doing a damn good job trying to thwart me from keeping you alive. I've already stolen two fucking cars from several cities over, which I'd guess you didn't notice while you were off moping and watching cartoons like a fucking seven year old who got a blue bike instead of a red one for his birthday."
"Your metaphors suck," Dean muttered half-heartedly.
"Similies."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean sighed. Damnit, Sam was too good at winning him over when he tried. He had to admit that a spree sounded like a fantastic idea at the moment. That would be just the thing to clear his mind and get his head back where it belonged—playing with fire and dancing around the law. "Fine, we can go on a spree," he grumbled, unwilling to let Sam win too easily. "Got anywhere specific in mind, or are we just pulling up to a random gas station?"
Sam grinned, eyes lighting up with a dark glint. "Better get your ski mask, brother," he advised, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. "We're gonna hit Hogan's."
"Hogan's Hot House?" Dean said with disbelief. "You want to shoot up Dad's favorite restaurant."
Sam shrugged. "Dad's never going to eat there again. Besides, it would be a great tribute to his memory to go to his favorite places and wipe out all the people who are still there enjoying it when he can't, don't you think?"
Dean chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Sam had a point. Their dad would probably have delighted in knowing that the first kill they made after they blew up the prison and killed him was a tribute to his memory at one of his favorite places in the world. "Okay, you've got me convinced," he said, shrugging. "You're right about the ski masks, though. Too many people there know our faces." He scowled. "Man, I'm gonna need to put lifts in my shoes too, aren't I?" he asked, grimacing.
"Suck it up. Makes me look shorter and us both look closer in height," Sam said, smirking. "So, here's the plan. We're both going to put on non-descript clothing and wear ski-masks. We're going to drive the cars I took separately out to the next town over, and then take one to shoot the place up. When we've finished, we'll take that car, go back to the other car, take both cars over to the next town, and then take the car we left back to Bobby's. Then we'll use the Impala to separate again and ditch that car a few towns over in the other direction."
"So in other words, 'use the bathroom now Dean, we're going to be driving all day.' Yeah, I see how that is Sammy." Dean made a face at him, but knew that his amusement showed through in his eyes. "Fine, but I lead. You always run red lights when you make me follow."
"Lies and slander," Sam retorted, heading back to the house. Dean followed him into the guest room, where Sam had taken the liberty of laying out two black, long-sleeved shirts and two pairs of dark sweatpants that Dean had never seen before.
"You go thrift shopping?" he asked, stripping down to his boxers and settling on one of the shirts. He pulled it over his head and slid the sweatpants over his narrow hips, before kneeling to look under the bed for his shoe lifts.
"Yeah, shopping. We'll go with that," Sam replied, stripping off his own clothing, his torso several shades paler than his arms, evidence to the amount of time he had spent outside looking for those cars, Dean guessed. The shirt sleeves did not quite touch his wrists, and the sweatpants showed just a little much ankle, but with a ski mask, the effect would be suitably intimidating. Dean shook his head; other people were so easy to frighten, if black clothing and a covered face could scare them before a gun was even drawn.
With the shoe lifts placed in his thick black boots, Dean nearly matched Sam in height. His brother pulled on boots of his own and tossed a ski-mask at Dean, who caught it easily. "Let's get the automatics from the car and get going," he said, grinning at his little brother.
Dean had to cram himself into the cramped little yellow Volvo, a tight fit even with the seat shoved all the way back. "Damnit Sam, couldn't have picked a real car?" he muttered, fumbling to reach the car's controls. He guided the rickety little thing off of Bobby's property and sped off down the open road, the feeling not nearly as fine and comfortable as it would have been had he been in the Impala, an unfortunately distinctive car.
It was an hour's drive to the town closest to the restaurant. Dean parked the car in an abandoned back lot—praise his father for having taught him to spot abandoned but unobtrusive parking places—and exited the car, stretching gratefully. He did not pull his automatic out of the car just yet—that would be difficult to explain if anyone walked by, and he would rather not waste bullets on some random passerby, who was not guaranteed to get close enough for him to snap his or her neck.
Sam pulled in behind him a moment later, perfectly ordinary and inconspicuous in a beige colored sedan—the type of car that no one would give a second glance to on the road. Dean glanced around, and then grabbed his gun, slamming and locking the door to the Volvo and sliding into the passenger's seat of Sam's vehicle. "I'll have your ass for giving me such a cramped piece of shit car," he muttered, glaring at his brother and slipping his gun under a casually placed tarp on the floor of the backseat of the car, next to Sam's. "If these go off while you're driving, that's not all I'll have," he warned.
"They won't go off," Sam replied casually, driving nonchalantly out of the old lot, merging seamlessly back onto the road. Dean shook his head, casting the occasional glance back at the weapons.
The drive seemed to drag on for hours, even though Dean knew it could not have lasted longer than forty-five minutes. He was tense, jittery—he had not pulled off a kill this risky in years, and never without his father by his side, directing him and covering for him. Sam was good and all, but he got too caught up in the killing to actually be of any help in keeping a look-out for anyone who might slip away, or come in behind them. Dean shook his head, steeling his nerves. Dad was gone, and there was no bringing him back; it was time to honor his memory and prove that he could handle himself without his father.
Sam parked right up against the building and ducked down to roll his ski mask over his face. Dean followed suit, and reached back to the backseat to grab his gun, hard and comforting in his hand. "Ready to go shoot some pretentious sons of bitches?" he asked, watching as Sam reached back to pick up his own gun, long torso arching elegantly with the movement.
"Always am," Sam replied, positively cheerful.
"Awesome. Remember to watch your back, and mine too. Don't want anything getting out of hand," he replied, exiting the car and slamming the door behind him, Sam following closely behind him as he strode powerfully to the door of the restaurant.
Dean threw out an arm, directing his brother to stop, and kicked open the door theatrically. "Everyone up!" he shouted into the single room of the cheap diner, striding in, gun at the ready. Sam followed, arms clearly tense under his shirt—eagerness, no doubt. Dean took a moment to admire the shock and terror that graced every face in the suddenly silent room. "I am not fucking joking, everyone stand the fuck up!" he roared, laughing inwardly at the shrieks and whimpers that came from several of the customers, most of whom stumbled to their feet. Dean grinned, savoring the rush of power that coursed through his body. Gun still trained on the diners, he jerked his head at Sam. "Round them up into the kitchen," he ordered, advancing on the few diners who remained stubbornly in their seats. "Last warning. Stand the fuck up or I start shooting," he ordered, as Sam shouted and gestured the terrified crowd into the kitchen area.
"No," an old woman said stubbornly, her accented voice regal and stern. Dean's head snapped around; this crazy broad thought that there was something to be gained in defying him? "I didn't come all the way to this country to be ordered about by a bully with—"
Dean opened fire, gunning down the old woman and the defiant customers still sitting near her. The others shrieked and stood, some running to join the group being herded into the kitchen, others struggling to reach the back door. Dean casually blew through the would-be escapees, marveling at the power of automatic weapons. Black market connections had some damn good purposes; he would have to find an excuse to send flowers to the Roadhouse soon. The stragglers dead, Dean took a moment to take in the scene before heading to the kitchen to meet up with Sam.
A good thirty customers and ten staff members stood, trembling in the kitchen under Sam's predatory gaze. "How do you want to handle this?" his younger brother asked eagerly, hands shaking with anticipation. "Just go for it, or what?"
"I think we can show a little bit of mercy," Dean grinned, eyes lighting on a young woman who stood at the back, clutching a child barely out of infancy to her chest. "Hey there princess, how about you hand over the kid?" he called, shoving people out of the way and striding over to the woman. "Don't want your spawn getting caught up in anything messy now, do you?"
The young woman whimpered, her dark brown eyes wide, terrified. "Please," she whispered, tightening her grip on the child, who fussed at the pressure. "Please, please don't hurt her, she's not even one—"
Dean backhanded the woman, who fell limply to the ground. "Hand over the kid, sweetheart. I don't like having to ask you twice," he growled, wrenching the child out of her arms. He strode back over to Sam, and nodded at his brother. "All yours. I'll pick up the stragglers." He caught the flash of delight in Sam's eyes before heading out of the room, placing the child on the table as Sam opened fire, the screams of the dying prisoners echoing throughout the confined space.
Dean knew that it would be only moments before the police arrived; he would have to work quickly. He grabbed a sharpie from the hostess's counter and quickly scrawled "we showed mercy" on the baby's forehead, taking care to write in sloppy cursive very different from his ordinary handwriting. "Pack it up, we've got two minutes tops to get out of here!" he shouted at Sam as the gunfire ended. He strode out to the car and slammed the door, his brother arriving quickly behind him. Sam tossed his gun into the back and Dean followed suit, leaning over to cover the weapons with a tarp as Sam shrugged on a bright jacket and tossed his ski mask in the back. Dean pulled his own mask off and covered the masks with the weapons, before shrugging on a bright jacket of his own, pleased that Sam had thought that far ahead—he certainly had not. Boots came off as Sam drove, followed by sweatpants that he replaced with acid-washed jeans, slightly too long for him. He buried the sweats with the guns and went to work lacing his boots up again.
"We did good back there," Sam crowed, speeding onto the highway. "Either no one in the area thought to call the cops, or their police force needs to get their ass in gear. I didn't even hear sirens as we were leaving, much less before!"
"Yeah, well, still have to be pretty careful for the time being," Dean said, glancing out the back window. It did not look like they were being followed, but it would still be a good idea to check periodically. "Man, I'm starving. Let's finish the business of ditching these cars and get back to Bobby's."
"Always so practical," Sam laughed, throwing his brother a mocking glance before turning his attention back to the road. "Take some time to live a little! Enjoy the moment!"
The words snapped something inside of Dean. "Practical? Enjoy the moment? Don't get me started, Sam," he growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"Jesus, what's up your ass?" Sam asked, merging over a lane to speed past the driver in front of them.
"We will have this conversation back at Bobby's," Dean replied firmly, "after I have eaten and we can sit down like civilized adults and have this talk. Right now, shut up and let me re-live shooting those bitches who tried to escape."
"Anything for my big brother," Sam said with a shrug, falling silent and focusing on the road.
It was several hours before they had properly hidden the cars, and another hour or so before they got back to Bobby's. The man asked mercifully few questions, choosing to focus mostly on feeding them and gruffly commenting that Dean seemed much better for their little excursion. Dean was silent; he would not deny that the tribute to their father had felt fantastic, had been one hell of an adrenaline rush, but there were some things that he needed to discuss with Sam before he felt that he could really move on. Old wounds needed attention, and he fully intended to take that attention out of Sam's ass, for all the transgressions he had made and now seemed to think he could just put aside.
Bobby seemed to realize that the two brothers needed space to work things out. "I'm going into town for a drink or ten," he said as the boys finished eating, placing his own bowl and spoon by the edge of the sink. "Do the dishes, earn your keep, and pick me up from the bar if I call you plastered, got it?"
"Course, Bobby," Sam replied, rising and placing his own dishes in the sink, starting the water as he searched for a sponge.
Bobby grunted in response. "You idjits break anything and I'll open a can of whoop-ass on both of you. If I'm not back by three you can assume that I need you to come down to the station and pay my bail."
"Emergency bail money's in the envelope under your pillow, I know," Dean said, finishing his last few bites of stew and joining Sam at the sink.
Sam was silent as they washed the dishes. Dean was both grateful for the silence and angry; he wanted his brother to say something, start the conversation, spare him the trouble of bringing up his sudden burst of anger in the car, but instead Sam quietly stood over the sink, scrubbing remnants of stew from the pot like a proper little domestic college boy.
Dean couldn't take it. When Sam had put the last dish away, Dean grabbed him by the collar, spinning him around and slamming his back into the counter-top. "You want to explain where the hell you get off telling me to stop being practical and enjoy the moment?" he snarled, shaking Sam roughly. "You want to explain it? Because last time I checked, you decided to be practical and quit enjoying yourself by walking out on this family so you could go prance around being a good little law-bitch! Where the hell do you get off telling me to quit being careful when you were so scared for your dumb ass that you abandoned us? What the hell?"
"Dude!" Sam spread his arms widely, annoyance spreading across his strong features. Dean felt the boiling urge to slap the look of indignation from his brother's face. "I thought we were past this. I missed my interview for law school for this family. I gave up everything helping you look for Dad and then helping you get over yourself when you decided to just give up and go into a funk! I ruined every chance I ever had at practical or normal for this family—don't you tell me I walked out on you guys!"
Furiously, Dean gave into his urge and slapped him. "No, that's exactly what you did!" Dean screamed, seizing Sam and bodily throwing him to the floor, where he lay, splayed out gracefully, seemingly boneless with the lack of fight he gave Dean. It was infuriating, the way he just took Dean's punishment without fighting back. "It's your fault Dad's dead! Your fault! He always listened to you best, he always cared about you the most, and if he'd still had you around he would never have used his real identity, he'd have taken more care about not getting caught, hell he'd probably even have had you there as back-up to make sure that damn security guard died and couldn't give a description of him!" He reared back and punched Sam, fist connecting hard with his cheekbone, bruising his knuckles in the process. "It's your fault! It's all your fault!" he raged, almost incoherent, dizzy from the fury and adrenaline. "You did this! Your fault! And you have the fucking balls to get on me for being practical when it was you being practical that left Dad open for the cops! You ruined this family! You might as well have killed him yourself!" His fist slammed into Sam's nose, letting loose a torrent of blood over Sam's face.
Sam spat blood from his mouth, the rich red liquid splattering over Dean's neck and jaw. "So what, you want revenge on me?" he growled, glaring up at Dean with murderous hazel eyes. "Then take it! Do it! Get it the fuck out of your system, then get the fuck over yourself and move on! Dad's dead from his own carelessness, and that's not on me!"
Dean seized Sam by the hair and raised his head, slamming it down hard on the tile floor. "You little bitch, you think you can just shove off all the responsibility you have in this?" he screamed, slamming his brother's head down again. Sam reached up and wrapped his hands around Dean's wrists, but Dean hung on, wrenching strands of hair from his brother's head. "Everything would have been fine if you" he slammed Sam's head into the tile "hadn't" and again "walked" Sam's eyes were sliding out of focus "out" was that blood in his brother's hair? "on" good, it was just the light "this" Sam's hair was slipping through his fingers "family!" He brought Sam's head down into the floor one more time, and his brother's eyes slid out of focus, dazed from the onslaught.
"Get up," he snarled, rolling off Sam and grabbing him by the collar, dragging him to his feet. "You have a fucking lesson to learn, and I'm not fucking up Bobby's kitchen when he's one of the only people who actually stuck with this damn family when we needed him."
"So, it's gonna be the old fashioned way, then?" Sam slurred, stumbling after Dean as his brother dragged him up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.
"Oh you wish it was only gonna be that," Dean growled, slamming the door to the bedroom behind them and locking it. He dropped Sam, who crumpled to the floor, and seized his braided leather belt from the corner. "I'll teach you what happens for running away from this family!" he hissed, crouching and ripping Sam's shirt off over his head, slamming him face first into the ground, exposing the long lines of muscle that ran elegantly down his back.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Sam replied, voice muffled by the worn carpet. "I'll give you a free pass on this one."
That made Dean's blood boil even hotter. He grabbed Sam by the hair and dragged him up, slamming him bent over on the bed. He stood back and raised the belt, bring it down hard and fast on Sam's back, the braided weave of the belt leaving a long, patterned stripe across Sam's back. Sam made no noise; infuriated, Dean lashed him again, and again, until his brother finally broke down and screamed. Encouraged, Dean brought the belt down on him until Sam was clutching at the bedspread, feebly scratching, trying in vain to pull himself away from Dean's punishment. "God, just get it over with already!" he screamed, his voice thick and barely comprehensible with pain.
"I don't owe you that," Dean snapped, bringing another blow down on his brother's back. Sam screamed and arched away from the pain, throwing his head back beautifully. Dean knew his brother and his tricks; he was purposefully going into begging, submissive mode in order to speed things along, get to the still unpleasant but ultimately less painful part of his punishment. Dean felt his blood rush through his veins, but no, he did not owe it to Sam to end this yet. "Whose fault is it that Dad is dead?" he shouted, bringing the belt down onto Sam's shoulders.
"Mine!" Sam screamed, his voice rough and scratchy from his cries.
"How is it your fault?"
"Because I left!" Tears were starting to leak out of Sam's eyes; as far as Dean could tell, they were real, brought on by pain rather than simple theatrics. Dean smirked bitterly; finally they were getting somewhere.
"Then tell me why I should stop?" he demanded. It was the final question; if Sam responded with some sort of pithy comeback, or half-assed reason, then he would keep going. This was about getting his rage out, after all, but even more importantly, it was about teaching Sam a lesson; leaving a family was as good as killing it, and Sam deserved everything he got and more for the death of their father.
Sam's breath hitched; he was making a valiant effort to not break down and sob from the pain, but Dean knew from experience that even the strongest man could only take so many lashes. "Because I've learned my lesson. I was wrong, I was wrong, it's my fault, and if you keep doing this it's going to start bleeding and get infected and I'll die too," he gasped, clutching feebly at the bed sheets.
Dean smirked, but there was no real satisfaction behind the expression. "Good enough," he said, his own voice hoarse from yelling. He grabbed Sam by a welt covered shoulder, producing a yelp from his younger brother as he dragged him off the bed and to his knees before Dean. "You know what comes next," Dean whispered, wrapping the belt around Sam's neck and wrenching it tight with one hand, undoing his pants with the other.
Sam opened his mouth to gasp for breath, struggling to bring air through constricted passages, and Dean plunged his crotch forward, trying to will himself into hardness. It was hardly a punishment if he simply shoved a soft penis into Sam's mouth, after all. He thought about his rage, his fury, his bloodlust; he thought about Sam, whipped skinless, smeared with the remains of a kill, blood dripping from his eyelashes, and he felt his own blood rush downwards, until finally he was hard enough to thrust into Sam's gasping mouth.
Dean did not bother allowing Sam to adjust or control his pace. He shoved forward, burying himself in Sam's mouth, hitting his gag reflex with abandon as he thrust hard and fast into his throat. The tightening of Sam's throat as he gagged and sputtered was a glorious feeling; Dean had nearly forgotten the sensation, after years without his brother. He pulled the belt tighter with one hand, fisting his free hand through Sam's hair, shoving Sam's face flush against his crotch.
Sam tapped at his leg frantically with one hand, signaling to Dean that he could not breathe. Dean tugged at the belt and thrust forward hard, prolonging his brother's panic, before dropping his hand from the belt. He slipped his hand tenderly over the back of Sam's neck and pulled back slightly for a brief moment before tightening his hands on his brother and thrusting forward again, pounding into the back of his throat as pressure built in his crotch. Sam's mouth was warm and gasping, his tongue flapping weakly around Dean's shaft. "You learn your lesson yet?" Dean growled, slamming into the back of Sam's throat, savoring the feeling. Saliva dripped from his brother's lips; he grasped feebly at Dean's jeans and clung, clearly struggling to breathe as Dean thrust into his mouth. "You're fucking nothing. Father killer. This is what you get," he snarled, pulling out to give Sam a moment to breathe—he wanted to punish him, to dominate him into submission and repentance, not to kill him—and stood, his penis twitching, throbbing unpleasantly with the pressure that built and seethed inside him. "You're my little bitch, Sam. This is your place."
Sam nodded weakly, reaching up to wipe the spit from his face. Dean grabbed his hand before he could touch his mouth. "I don't fucking thing so," he whispered, staring down at his brother. Sam's cheeks were flushed, a stark contrast to the rest of his face, which was pale from pain and exhaustion. Sweat had begun to build up on his forehead in a light sheen, slowly trickling down to his wide eyes, through which his shame and humiliation shone freely. Dean smiled grimly and grabbed Sam's jaw; Sam opened obediently, and Dean thrust into his mouth again, moaning as warmth enveloped his throbbing penis. He ached for release, but he couldn't finish yet—he had to firmly drive the lesson into Sam's mind. It was a treat, to see his brother on his knees, submissive and in pain, subject to Dean's whims, to punishment for his transgressions. Dean kept it teasing at first, lightly thrusting, letting Sam whirl his tongue around the fleshy head of Dean's penis. It was so good, so perfect, and Dean felt the desire to break his brother to pieces rise up in him, screaming in his mind and his body. Dean tightened his grip on Sam's hair and reached for the belt again, tugging lightly at it. He was rewarded with a muffled whimper as Sam's grip tightened on his jeans, hands shaking enough to move the fabric slightly. Dean smirked and pulled the belt tight, once again cutting off Sam's airways. Sam gagged around him, hands clutching desperately at his legs. Dean thrust forward into Sam's mouth, slamming repeatedly into the back of his throat until he felt Sam's grip begin to slacken. He dropped the belt and grabbed his brother's chin, forcing his head up slightly and halting his thrusts. He allowed Sam to gasp around him for a moment. "You going to finish this, or am I going to have to take it the hard way?" Dean asked, slurring.
Sam tightened his grip on Dean's jeans and reached up with his tongue to swirl around Dean's shaft. Dean kept his hand fisted in his brother's hair, but did not pull him forward, allowing Sam to suck, swirling his tongue around the head of Dean's penis until Dean thought that he was going to burst from the pressure building up inside of him. He groaned, and thrust forward one last time, his orgasm tearing through his body, spilling down the back of Sam's throat. He supposed Sam's skills as a former prostitute came in handy here; Sam swallowed without trouble and let his head drop as Dean pulled away.
Dean re-buttoned his pants and knelt down beside Sam. "Realize you got off lightly," he informed his brother, his voice hard.
"I know," Sam replied huskily. He looked up to meet Dean's eyes. "Was that enough for you, though? Can we move past this?"
Dean shrugged. "Well, you realized you fucked up and didn't fight me on this one, so yeah, I guess I can let you off lightly," he said. He did not think he had fully forgiven Sam, but the majority of his fury had left his system, and he did not think that he could beat or fuck the rest of it out into Sam. Dean was not so delusional; he knew that the rest of his anger would take time to fade. The punishment, at least, was a memory that he could fall back on when he felt like fury and grief would consume him again.
Sam nodded, swiping a hand across his mouth, grimacing as the welts on his back pulled. "You break the skin anywhere?" he asked, swallowing hard, probably in an attempt to soothe his throat.
"Oh all over the place, because I've never had to give a beating before," Dean replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Come on, Sam. I get that it's been years, but I know how to dish out a little punishment without actually hurting you. Put your shirt on and get the hell over it, you're not going to die."
Sam flipped him off and pulled his shirt back over his head, grimacing as it brushed over welts. It was barely ten at night, but Dean was exhausted; he unlocked the door and stripped quickly down to his boxers, not bothering to so much as brush his teeth before he collapsed onto the bed and gave into his desire to sleep.