Authors note:
This next chapter contains non-graphic, non-sexual spanking (beating...maybe it's more beating?) of an adult by another adult. It is not glamorized - important note! Feel free to skip if you need to.
Also maybe John's a little OOC? But I feel like only a little...
Reviews bring me joy :)
Dean sprang out of bed when he heard pounding on the front door, grabbing the gun from under his pillow.
"You will also want these," Sophie called as he rushed for the door, holding up his boxers.
Dean stopped short, his hand on the doorknob.
"I think it's generally bad form to come at someone naked while brandishing a firearm," she said. She was trying to keep her voice light, but she'd climbed out of bed too, and was tying her robe with one hand and gripping her bat in the other.
"Stay behind me," Dean instructed.
"Understood," Sophie replied.
Sam was already in the front room when they opened their bedroom door, gun in hand. The remains of their Christmas festivities hadn't been tidied yet. That was a problem for tomorrow morning. So there were dirty wineglasses and mugs in the sink, scraps of wrapping paper on the rug. It was a cozy kind of mess, Dean decided.
He made for the door, pistol in hand. Sam followed close behind, while Sophie hung back in the bedroom doorway. Dean wrenched open the door and took a long moment to process what he saw.
His father.
The first emotion that rushed into his brain was excitement. Dad was home for Christmas.
Then he remembered Sam's vision. And the excitement was rapidly replaced with panic.
"Playing house I see?" John said.
Sam and Dean exchanged a loaded glance. Then they both holstered their guns. Sam took John's arm and made a noble but ineffective attempt to guide him to the couch. Dean hurried to Sophie, herded her into their bedroom, and shut the door.
"What's going on?" She asked, brow furrowed.
"Something that could get very, very bad," Dean replied.
"Isn't that your dad?" Sophie asked.
"Yes," Dean acknowledged, "Unfortunately."
"Because…" Sophie started to speak but Dean didn't let her finish.
He took her by the shoulders and ducked his head to make direct eye contact.
"Dad hates holidays and he hates outsiders. And Sam had a vision that Dad was gonna try and hurt you. So I have no idea what is about to happen out there. But whatever it is I need you to promise me two things, okay?"
Sophie nodded.
"You will follow my lead. No matter what. No matter how insane or dangerous what I'm asking you to do seems at the moment, you will follow my lead."
"Okay," Sophie agreed, her face getting paler by the second. Dean could feel her trembling under his hands.
"And you will not talk. Yes sir and no sir responses only. Got it?"
"Alright…I mean…yes, sir."
"I am so sorry," Dean said, kissing her forehead, "And whatever happens I promise that I will take care of you and that everything will be okay."
"Yes, sir."
John had a shotgun. That certainly wasn't a good sign.
He paced the small living room like a caged animal.
"I see you two have been playing house," he repeated the phrase from earlier, "I thought I told you that hunters don't celebrate Christmas?"
John batted at the wool socks that Sophie had hung on the radiator and filled with candy.
"And I would have thought that what happened to your mom," John turned his gaze to Sam, "And to Jessica, would have been enough to put you off of long term relationships."
He gestured casually at Sophie.
"But maybe I'm wrong," John slurred, "Maybe this isn't some pathetic attempt at fake domesticity. Maybe you're trading her back and forth for some easy fun? Spending a little extra time playing pool and putting the money towards some Martha Stewart-wannabe housekeeper?"
Dean ground his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret.
"Sophie's our new researcher," Sam said. He hoped, desperately, that it would get his father off their case.
"She's a new hunter?" John stopped.
"Yes sir," Sam replied automatically.
"So you two are training her?"
"Yes sir," Dean said quickly. Maybe this would placate him. Maybe Sam's vision wouldn't come true. Maybe.
"She's not slowing you down?" John asked.
"Effectiveness is up 83%," Sam replied quickly. Sophie cracked a smile, then immediately dropped her gaze to the carpet.
"So you've been suitably hard on her?" John asked.
"Yes sir," Dean replied, "Right Sophie?"
"Yes sir," she stammered a little.
"Late nights?" John asked, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder.
"Up till 3 a couple of times," Sam said, trying not to remember why she'd been up that late the last time.
"Taking her out in the field?" John crossed the space to loom over Sophie.
"She took the arm off a leshy last month. Saved Sam's life," Dean said, "Tracked down a vengeful spirit the week after that. Fought a werewolf too."
"That what these scars are from?" John asked, pulling back the neckline of Sophie's robe to reveal the dark red-brown lines across her sternum.
"Yes sir," Dean replied.
Sophie looked at him desperately and he could see her starting to shake with anxiety. He swallowed back the guilt trying to take hold of him. Right now he needed his wits about him. He needed to keep tabs on this situation, and intervene before something bad happened. Something really bad. Sure, he could step in now, try to stop things before they started. But in his experience with John Winchester, when he was in one of his moods, you had to wait until the shit truly hit the fan. Otherwise all you were doing was delaying the inevitable.
"How about I take that gun for you Dad?" Sam offered.
"Sure, sure," John agreed. Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least he wasn't going to shoot her at this exact moment.
John circled around and pulled at the collar of Sophie's robe to see her back.
"You've been beating her," he said, "Good."
Dean and Sam exchanged a puzzled look. It took a split second for Dean to remember the network of tiny scars on her back from her seizure in Manitoba. A split second too long.
"Or maybe you haven't been?" John questioned, "Maybe that's from the leshy?"
"Something like that," Dean couldn't outright lie. John would see through it. And he'd be mad.
"Gotta toughen her up," John said, "Couple rock salt rounds to the stomach maybe? Or a couple dozen lashes with a belt might do it?"
John took off his belt.
"She's new so she'll fight," he said casually.
Dean watched Sophie stiffen. Her gaze darted up to his, looking for an out. But Dean knew better. He knew that saying no to this would lead to something worse. It was Christmas. John was alone. He was obsessing over his hunt for Mary's killer. When he was like this, there was no stopping him unless you simply knocked him unconscious.
"Who wants to hit her and who wants to hold her?" John asked, looking back and forth between his sons.
"On second thought," John continued, snapping his belt against his palm, "You'll both go soft. We all know that. Dean, hold her still and I'll take care of this."
Dean took Sophie's shoulders. She gazed up at him, tears starting to form in her eyes already. The guilt was gnawing at his stomach. He should do something. He had to do something. But what? John didn't take no for an answer.
At least Dean could patch her up from this. At least she'd be okay once it was over. Provided, of course, they could think of a way to get John to leave.
One crisis at a time.
Sophie pressed her forehead into Dean's bare chest, taking long, deliberate breaths, clearly trying to keep herself from hyperventilating and passing out.
John moved to stand behind her, then reached around and untied her robe.
"Surely that's not necessary?" Sam put in.
"Gotta embarrass her a little," John replied, pulling on the robe until it fell in a puddle at their feet. Sam turned to face the wall and Dean gritted his teeth, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. If he let himself watch he'd end up doing something he'd regret.
He heard the leather snap against Sophie's skin and felt her stiffen in his grip. The first few strikes didn't have the telltale clink of a metal buckle, but after that they did. Sophie was tough. Dean had to give her credit for that. He felt hot tears on his chest, but she stayed deadly silent the whole time. John would be impressed.
"You did well," John said when he was done. Dean felt Sophie sag in his grip, her breathing getting ragged. And then it seemed that everything happened at once.
"You know what," John said, "You did so well I think we might just have to see how you handle some rock salt."
Dean's gaze leapt to his father - who was picking up the shotgun and searching his pockets for a round. At this range, at her size, with those half-healed scars crisscrossing her stomach and no clothes between her and the projectile, rock salt could kill her.
This.
This was the worst case scenario they'd been waiting for. The thing that absolutely demanded intervention. Dean and Sam exchanged a momentary glance, the slightest of nods, and then Sam punched John square in the jaw and knocked him unconscious.
Dean pulled Sophie into his chest.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered over and over again. She looked up at him, big tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Dean? Why are the lights turning colors?" She murmured. And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp, convulsions wracking her frame.
Dean lowered her to the ground, laid her on her side, and sat down next to her. He knew what to do this time. Just wait it out. But he couldn't watch. She was naked and bleeding, convulsing on the carpet. And it was his fault. He couldn't watch.
So he shifted his gaze to Sam and their unconscious father.
"What do I do now?" His younger brother asked, his voice hazy with shock.
"Put him in his car. Drive ten miles - back roads. Leave him there. And come back," Dean instructed, "I'll pay for your cab."
"You'll take care of Sophie?" Sam mumbled.
"Of course I'll take care of Sophie," Dean snapped. He swallowed hard.
"Thanks Sam," his voice was softer now, "You did good tonight."
"Don't mention it," Sam replied, hoisting John's limp body onto his shoulder. He paused at the doorway.
"That's a nice shotgun…maybe we could…keep it?" Sam suggested.
"I'll put it in the trunk once I've got her taken care of," Dean replied.