To Try and Break Me Down
Title: To Try and Break Me Down
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: John thinks he’s teaching Dean to fully consider the consequences of his actions, but Dean is slowly twisting and turning it into something completely different.
Warnings: Abuse, buckets worth of angst, John's belt, Winchester swearing, what else is new?
Written for the Holiday Fic Exchange on spn_spankings for reapertownusa an anonymous mystery prompter. Obviously.
Fill for 'Rejection' on my hc_bingo card.
John wonders if maybe he has gone insane. Went apeshit crazy without ever bothering to stop and think about it.
He's seen it happen to other hunters, poor bastards singing Memories from Cats, convinced they weren't doing anything abnormal until they accidentally shoot themselves in the head. John wonders if maybe that's what's happened to him. His boys are certainly looking at him like it has.
"Dad, c'mon, I can't just..." Dean finally ventures, his brows crawling down his face into a confused frown. A strained smile twitches across his face, lost for words.
"You can," John sighs with a hard look. "And you're gonna," he ads when Dean looks ready to protest.
"I won't let him," Sam squeaks, voice cracking high with teenage outrage. "This is crazy fu-effed-up, even for you."
Dean elbows his brother in the side, hisses something in his ear and Sam glares, but backpedals as much as he's ever managed to. "'s probably illegal too." His eyes find the tips of his sneakers, shuffling on the wooden floor of their apartment.
John rolls his eyes. "It's not illegal, son."
"Well, it should be."
Sam actually stomps his foot. John half expects him to start holding his breath in an attempt to blackmail him into giving in. Kid's doing nothing to convince him he needs his ass whipped less.
"You done?" John says quietly, which isn't so much a question as a warning and they all know it. He slings his duffel over his shoulder, more than ready to leave the details to the two of them. He's got a homicidal spirit to take care of.
"Dad, can we maybe - "
"I don't wanna hear it, Dean."
Dean's mouth snaps shut so fast John can hear his teeth clicking against each other and he knows he's using that one tone that makes Sam's face flush red with outrage every single time.
"You can't be serious," comes the voice of his youngest. In another life John might have found it funny how predictable the kid can be. In this life he needs to stomp down on that kind of insolence before it has a chance to grow into something more ugly.
"Enough," he growls and tries not to feel guilty at the way Dean flinches at the tone. He knows his hands are curled into fists at his sides, his voice hard and dark and too fucking close to the edge. "Sam, you're gonna do as your brother damn well tells you or deal with the consequences. That includes watching your mouth."
"What about him?" Sam asks, jerking his chin at his older brother.
"What about him?"
"You're away," Sam explains, slowly, not even trying to keep the sarcasm at a somewhat tolerable level. "I mess up, Dean gets to beat my ass. Dean messes up, nothin' happens. Real solid parenting there..." The last part is muttered under his breath and John decides he doesn't have the heart or energy to deal with it.
"Your brother is nineteen," John grits out through clenched teeth. He runs a hand over his freshly shaven chin to give it something to do that doesn't involve it connecting with Sam's face. "He can make a list of whatever rules he breaks and we'll deal with it when I'm back," he finally sighs, rolling his eyes at the sheer absurdity.
Sam rolls his eyes and John marches out the door before he does something he's gonna regret.
:: :: ::
Ghosts are the easy ones, generally speaking. John's come out of this hunt with barely a scratch to show for it. Which is nice and all, but it doesn't make digging up four different graves all over town in one night any less exhausting.
John rubs two fingers over his burning eyes, wills himself to stay awake until he's finished his entry on James motherfucking Smith. It's not a hard task, but his hands are shaking with too much caffeine and too little sleep and the late morning sun is too bright through the dusty curtains. He's so lost in staring at his own shaky handwriting, he barely keeps himself from flinching when Dean's suddenly standing right next to him.
"I, uh...I made that list you wanted." Dean nervously wets his lips, the fake, deep pitch of his voice not nearly enough to cover the nervous stammer.
John stares at him, uncomprehending. "What list, son."
God, he just wants to sleep.
"The list you asked for. You know, you wanted me to keep a tally of all the ways I messed up so you could deal with it when you got back?" Dean's tongue stumbles over the words, quick and messy and John has trouble holding on to what he's saying, because what he's hearing doesn't make any sense at all. Something must have shown on his face, because Dean's eyes suddenly grow wide and his ears flush bright pink. "Which you were obviously joking about. Right...I knew that."
Dean's eyes are pinballs, flashing this way and that and John can't come up with anything to say before the kid shuffles back a couple of steps until he's standing in the doorway, halfway between the kitchen and the living room, eyes digging into John's back.
John stabs his pen down on the open page of his journal until ink starts leaking out. He can't find where his last note ended, where the next one is supposed to begin and damn it, he can't fuckin' concentrate with Dean hovering in the doorway like that.
The boy is thrumming with restless nerves and it sends John's headache through the roof just being in the same room with him.
He closes his eyes, waits for a minute before he's sure he's not going to completely bite Dean's head off.
"Hand me that list, son," he rasps with a tired sigh. He barely has the energy to look up, just holds out his hand and waits for Dean to hand over the piece of yellow legal paper. It's folded neatly in half, frayed and soft, like the boy's been carrying the thing around in his pocket for days, nervously twisting it around clammy fingers.
"I messed up the salt lines," Dean blurts before John has a chance to even glance at the paper in his hand. Quick and rushed and hands tapping against his jeans.
"Settle down," John snaps, more harshly than he really intended to and Dean's arms whip to his sides, his spine straightening in an instant.
"Yes, sir. I fell asleep before I could lay down the salt lines on Friday. And I kinda wasn't there to make Sam dinner on Wednesday." He falters, throws nervous glances at the paper in John's hands. "I know it's not very long, but I really tried to get it all."
Jesus fuck. John rubs tired hands over his face, desperate to not just collapse in the middle of this conversation. Stubble scratches over scraped palms and he feels a tiny bit more alive. "I don't care about the dinner," he rasps out. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, clumsy moving around too many words. "Your brother's old enough to pop a microwave pizza in the oven." Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean stiffen, shut down the nervous trembling like John didn't just offer something akin to absolution. "I do care about the salt lines," he finishes, because he does and also because Dean needs something to hold onto. "You just added two miles to your morning run for the rest of the week."
Dean nods quickly. Something relaxes about his posture in a way that's almost like falling apart, relief and disappointment tied into one.
"How about you get started right now?"
Dean nods again, turns around on his heels and starts walking for the door, then turns back around two steps in.
"I did that before, you know." It's almost a squeak, John thinks. High and childlike and entirely too much like Sammy. "Forget to lay down all the salt lines?"
"Yeah, I know."
"You were pretty pissed back then."
"I'm pretty pissed now."
For a moment Dean's face lights up, there and gone and John decides he hasn't seen it. Dean squares his shoulders and marches back into the room.
"You said you'd paint my ass red if I ever did something like that again." He's working his belt buckle as he goes, slides the thick, worn leather through the loops of his jeans and holds it out to John. "Maybe you should do that instead."
"You're too old for that."
"That's supposed to be my line." Dean smirks his big, fake smile. All teeth and no substance.
"Christo."
Dean actually laughs at that. A small, nervous trembling sound that makes John feel sick. "Jeez, Dad, I'm not possessed. Just been thinkin' and..." a quick glance down at the belt in his hands before he folds it in half and pushes it at John. "Just seemed like the right thing to do 's all."
Dean can make a list of whatever rules he breaks.
Kid, you ever do that again, I don't care if you're thirteen or thirty, you won't be sitting down for a week.
We'll deal with it when I get back.
"Okay," John says, because what else is he supposed to say? It feels too loud in the small room, cutting through the thick Tennessee air, already too hot for early spring. His hands are suddenly damp with sweat while he watches all the color drain out of Dean's face. Which doesn't make any kind of sense, because the kid is literally asking for it.
John gets up, off his chair. He has to hold on to the back until the room finally comes back into focus. Or as focused as it's going to get today. He closes his journal, puts it on the seat of the chair before moving it out of the way. Dean moves, somewhere on the edge of John's vision where everything is bright white and dull and burning. John turns to look at him. It's been forever since he's had to do this with Dean and Sammy is still a couple of growth spurts shy of not fitting over his knee.
He jerks his head at the table and just like that Dean is moving, shouldering his way past John, leaning over the scarred wooden surface. The room smells like leather and damp sweat, the air still heavy and perfectly still in a way that actually hurts to breathe.
John thinks about lecturing, but the words won't come and it's not like Dean's gonna have trouble figuring out why they're doing this.
He brings the belt down hard. Dean isn't a little kid anymore anymore. The boy's feet skitter across the floor, plastic sneakers on dusty wood. John opens his mouth to tell him to settle down, but Dean is already pushing himself back into position, his fingers digging into his elbows, face disappearing between his arms.
John lets the belt whip down again and again, hard and fast until Dean's entire body is flinching with every blow. He is making small, bitten-off sounds at the tail end of every snap of leather and John forces himself to keep going.
He stops at twenty, tries to put a comforting hand on the small of Dean's back and Dean almost jumps out of his skin. John pulls his hand back. He starts to put the belt back on before he remembers it isn't his.
Dean is pushing himself off the table, still white as a sheet, his eyes shining and impossibly big. They flicker from the belt in John's hand, up to meet John's gaze, back to the belt. John is hit with the absurd urge to wash his hands, scrub off the hurt he caused his boy. Then, suddenly the kid is stumbling forward, slowly, like he's unsure of what he's doing, giving John enough time to step out of the way or push him back.
John stays where he is, unsure of where this is going. Dean meets his eyes for a short second and John sees something there. Something deep and old and broken and he looks away so he can pretend it was never there.
Dean takes another small step forward, closes the gap between them and leans into John's chest. He hesitates for another moment before he drops his head to rest on John's shoulder. The don't hug, just stand there, working on getting their breathing back to normal.
"I'm sorry, I - "
"Then learn from it."
The snap is automatic and harsher than he intended and he has to bite down on the inside of his own cheek to keep from taking it back.
"Yes, sir." Dean is standing upright again, already walking backwards to get some distance between them.
"You can go, work on your extra miles now."
:: :: ::
"You got work today?" John asks, watching Dean fight it out with a can of macaroni and cheese.
Dean makes a noise that's halfway between affirmation and cursing at the uncooperative can. John ducks his head in frustration. He likes the extra money Dean is bringing to the table and the kid was right, he's a lot more use working odd jobs than rotting his brains inside a classroom, but it's a giant inconvenience when it comes to watching out for Sam.
"Leave some of that mac'n'cheese for your brother then," he sighs. "Can't let the kid stay a shrimp forever."
Dean shoots him a confused look from over his shoulder, distrust mixed in there amongst the surprise, bitter and sharp and John makes sure to push it way to the back of his mind. "You - " he stops, takes a deep breath and continues in a voice that's somewhat less in-your-face outraged. "You said we'd go out for burgers tonight."
"You know I wouldn't be leaving if it wasn't important."
The can lands on the wooden counter with a loud metallic click, still unopened, and Dean turns around, quickly takes the two steps until he's standing in front of John's chair. He fishes through his pockets until he finally produces an new frayed, soft piece of paper.
Monday: Skipped training.
"Huh?"
John thought this would be a one time thing. Last of the teenage angst, reliving your childhood kind of nonsense that he's sure some bleeding-heart East Coast shrink has come up with a term for.
“Were you sick?”
Dean shakes his head with a half-hearted shrug and John is really pretty lost here.
“Running shoes give out on you?”
“No, sir.” Dean drops his gaze to the tips of his ratty sneakers for a second before he remembers John’s old rule about men looking each other in the eye. “Just kinda hungover, I guess.”
John sucks in a deep breath. Slowly through his teeth, so he has some time to deal with the familiar, angry twitch in his fists. “What’s the rule about training?” he asks carefully slowly, making sure every word is laced with warning.
“Don’t be a little bitch about it,” Dean answers, chancing a quick smile and John isn't sure if he wants to laugh or lash out.
It’s the essence of the rule alright.
“You think a fuckin’ hangover counts as an exception?”
“No sir, you power through.”
“That’s right,” John agrees. “Now what do you figure we should do about that?”
Dean is already reaching for his belt.
:: :: ::
It ends up being a ritual after that. John is starting to think it's a good thing, even. He's busted the boy's ass over his mouth more times than he cares to count, but he's never really thought about what he got up to while John was away; as long as the motel room wasn't trashed and the police hadn't gotten involved they were good. He realizes now that he's been teaching the wrong lessons all along.
Sometimes it feels like Dean has a bipolar five-year-old ghostwriting his lists. He goes weeks in a row blaming himself for crap John wouldn't even dream of taking his belt to him for and then he throws in a line about hustling pool and getting his fake ID taken away like it's nothing big at all and John only keeps from losing his shit by biting down on his cheeks until he tastes copper.
Sunday: Stayed out after work
John is still trying to figure out if the faded pencil scribblings are shitting him when Dean starts taking off his belt.
“I’m not whipping you for this shit.”
"But Sam..."
"Knows how to lay a simple salt line."
John wants to think the wide-eyed, blank look is relief, but really, it doesn’t look a thing like it.
:: :: ::
"I think I should have a curfew," Dean says one evening, when he's back from his part time, underpaid mechanic job and Sam is still at some after school club. “You know, a time I need to be home. I’m thinkin’ I oughta have one.”
It's a strange thing to ask for, considering he spent half his high school years breaking it and arguing that he wasn't a snot-nosed little kid anymore, but then again Dean's always liked the idea of having set rules, so John gives him one.
The next time he comes back, Dean's blatant disobedience fills the entire page and John whips him so hard he has to force himself to look away every time Dean tries to sit down for a week after that.
:: :: ::
Bobby calls about what he thinks might be a revenant a couple towns over.
Dean asks to come with him. Begs almost and John realizes that he doesn't remember the last time his eldest actually outright asked for anything.
Sammy's the one who complains and bitches and it takes a fuckin' act of congress to shut him up and most of the time John doesn't even notice Dean in the middle of it.
He doesn't know how to handle this, which means he tries not to handle it at all. He frowns and says “Dean” in that quiet, hard tone that’s usually more than enough to have the kid backing down. John goes back to packing his things, expecting the matter to be settled.
“Revenants are pretty fu…the things are really dangerous, Dad. I could help. I could be backup, I - “
“Enough,” John frowns, suddenly irritated to have Dean arguing with him. “Get those bags to the car.”
Dean stays right where he is, rooted to the spot and John hates the way he gulps like his mouth suddenly went dry.
"Boy, I have to tell you again, you 'n I are gonna be having words."
Dean's eyes skitter from John to Sam on the couch, back to John. He turns on his heels and picks up the bags before John can figure out if his threat is serious.
“Revenants aren’t all that dangerous,” he says, talking to the back of Sam’s head on the couch. “Your brother’s just worrying.”
Sam shrugs, sinks deeper into the leather couch with a noncommittal teenage sound that stabs right into the ball of irritation behind John’s left eye.
He stares at the mop of dark hair, wondering when the kid went from screaming bloody murder at being left alone to looking forward to any second he gets to spend away from his father. He runs his hand over his freshly shaven cheeks, stares at Sammy until he hears Dean jogging back into the living room.
“Sam’s been real good lately.” His voice sounds high somehow. Breathless and strained with nervous tension. “I didn’t have to punish him at all the last couple times you were gone. I bet he’d - “
"Dean!" Sam whips around, nails scratching new scars into the old leather couch.
"What? Not punishing you is a good thing. It means - "
"You're not supposed to tell him. Jeez, that's - "
“I said enough.” There is no mistaking the command in John’s tone now and even Sam's shoulders instinctively straighten from their usual slouch. “I’m not discussing this any further. We clear?”
He gets two mumbled "yessir"'s in reply and John rolls his eyes when they both try to shrug him off when he steps in to say goodbye with a quick pat to the neck.
:: :: ::
Monday - Thursday: Forgot to clean the Yellowboy
There is a spoon on the counter next to John. It looks old and smooth from too much use and John is going to assume Dean found the thing in one of the cockroach infested cupboards, rather than actually going out to a pawn shop and buying the damn thing.
“You can use this, if you think the belt’s too much,” Dean says with a strange, warm quality to his voice. “You know, ‘cause I still messed up, even if it’s not all that bad.”
For a minute John thinks about refusing. A cold fist closes around his heart and he knows whatever it is he's been trying to teach Dean, the boy's been learning a very different lesson.
"For fuck's sake," he mumbles, slams his palm down on the counter in frustration and when he opens his eyes, Dean is bent over the table, bracing himself on slightly trembling arms.
Later John awkwardly pats Dean's neck, after they're done and Dean is still leaning against his chest. "Go on 'n clean the guns, son. Sitting on a sore ass 's gonna help you remember next time."
Dean nods against his shoulder with a pained groan.
"Wanna help?"
John doesn't remember the last time they cleaned guns together. Probably around Thanksgiving when they were going after a pack of werewolves. The fist is back around John's heart when he realizes that was almost five months ago. He pushes the sick feeling back down. Someone has to hunt down the evil of the world and someone has to stay home and make sure it doesn't get to his baby boy first. Dean knows it's nothing personal.
"Sam's gonna be on spring break soon," he says quietly, gently grabbing Dean's shoulders and pushing him away. "You boys can come along and gank as many evil sons of bitches as you want."
Dean doesn't come up to him with a single list for almost six weeks.
Then Sam breaks his clavicle in the last soccer game of the season and their plans get fucked to all hell.
John leaves for Nashville and a pack of 'walkers and a bottle of Jack every night to help him forget the crestfallen look Dean shot him when he was told he'd have to stay home and nurse his brother back to health
:: :: ::
John doesn't even care what the list in front of him says. Same shit it always does, most likely. Curfew and drinking where cops might have seen him and the never-ending curfew shit.
John runs his thumb over the thin paper. He doesn't know what exactly he expected after leaving the boys alone like that all over again, but it's not this. The same short list, the usual screw ups that John would barely consider worth whipping the kid over if he wasn't fuckin' asking for it.
"You should probably use this," Dean croaks, soft and breathless, his eyes glued to the heavy leather strop in his hands.
John feels his mouth fall slightly open. He knows that he's probably supposed to say something, but his mind has suddenly gone blank.
He's threatened them with the thing before. Dean when he was drunk and lashing out at anything in sight and Sammy when the boy just kept pushing him ever closer to where he wasn’t sure he could hold on to his temper anymore. Never once did he think about following through though.
John quickly wets his lips, dimly aware that his ears are ringing and he still hasn't said a thing. He forces his eyes away from the strop to watch his wet palms mess up Dean's untidy pencil scrawl.
"What the fuck's gotten into you?" he asks finally, his voice rough and breathless in his own ears.
Dean just stares at him, eyes hard and pleading at the same time and for a moment John feels like he's falling.
Dean pushes the strop against his chest, hard and fast and John grabs it before it can fall to the floor. He wraps his fingers around the handle. It scares him, how perfectly it fits into his palm. The leather smells too thick, the many scratches from dozens of knives catch under his nails when he runs it through his hands.
He reminds himself they're doing this for Dean's sake. To teach him. To make sure he thinks about the consequences of his actions and that means John isn't in charge of deciding what those consequences are.
“I’m gonna…” John takes a deep breath, pushes himself to his feet and kicks his chair out of the way in a single motion. “I’m gonna have to see what kind of damage I’m doing.”
John can see the wheels turning behind Dean's eyes. He can tell the exact moment the pieces finally fall in place. The color drains out of Dean’s face even quicker than John’s gotten used to, he can see the goosebumps rise on the kid's freckled forearms.
John is almost sure Dean's about to back out, but then he coughs out a weird little sound and starts taking off his jeans.
John crushes Dean against his chest, after they're done. It's desperate and scared and he barely got in a dozen strokes before Dean screamed and John froze and now Dean isn't even making cracks about getting hugged with his junk hanging out.
John is trying to come up with an apology, which is something he isn't good at at the best of times - least of all when it's with his boys and they desperately deserve one - when he finally makes out the soft whispers under the silent sobs, desperate "I'm sorry"s against his chest and suddenly John is too busy trying not to puke to say a single word.
:: :: ::
The belt and spoon get retired after that. Dean says it's working, whatever the hell that means at this point, John isn't sure. He still gets a horrible, uneasy feeling trying to eat him from the inside out, every time Dean steps up to him with the strop, but it's okay.
It's gotta be okay, because if it isn't he doesn't know what he's been doing for the last couple of months.
Boy keeps messing up in the same ways, upping the ante's probably the best thing to do if his belt can't make the point.
With enough tequila in his system John can almost make himself believe it.
:: :: ::
There is none of the awkward hugging the last time it happens.
John throws the strop down on the table, next to Dean's head and Dean’s death grip on the edge is gone like cut strings on a puppet. John tries to reach out and steady him, but the kid slides right through his fingers into a gasping, trembling ball on the floor.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm...”
Dean says it over and over again. A broken, trembling record that hurts and twists something in John’s chest and makes him want to join right in.
“It’s okay,” he whispers in a voice so soft he’s almost positive Dean doesn’t hear him over his desperate, gasping breats. “You’re gonna be alright, son.”
John tries to keep himself from seeing the mess of welted, bruised skin all the way down to the back of his boy’s knees. “You did good,” he tells him, forcing his voice to rise over Dean's whimpers this time and Dean’s gasps turn into broken sobs.
John barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he loses his breakfast.
His skin is too tight all over and he has no idea where he's supposed to go from here.
:: :: ::
"You okay?" John asks later that day, when Sammy's holed up in front of some nature documentary, as happy as he gets these days and John can't come up with any more reasons to stay inside, away from what he did to his eldest. He closes the door behind him, careful not to disturb the neat line of salt and joins Dean where he's leaning against the fire escape.
Dean's tongue shoots out, nervously wetting his split lips before he quickly nods. "Yessir."
It's like air being punched out of John's guts. He grabs his beer tighter, presses the cool glass against his throbbing temple. He doesn't dare drink enough to drive away to images of brutally red skin, twitching muscles, his broken boy.
"Cut that crap and tell me if you're okay," he rasps, tries to make his voice warm and rough and like he remembers talking to his boys so very long ago.
Dean shoots him a bewildered glance out of the corner of his eye and John wants to crawl out of his own body.
"Sore," Dean allows after a minute, shifting slightly on the balls of he feet. John raises a questioning eyebrow and Dean's hand swipes across his chin like he's trying to hide the way his mouth is starting to curl into a small smile. "Okay, so it's still throbbing like hell, but that's kinda the point, right?"
John sighs. He isn't sure if they could ever agree on what the point was supposed to be.
"Do I need to take a look at it?"
"What?" Dean spins around to face him now, a look of abject horror on his face.
"Just offerin'," John chuckles.
They stand out there in the dark for a long time, sharing John's El Sol and it's not enough, but it's more than John thought he could give and he hopes that Dean gets how much none of this was about him, because he won't ever be able to say it out loud.
"Found a hunt," he finally says and beside him Dean immediately tenses up again.
"When do you gotta leave?"
John smiles, licks a warming drop of beer off his upper lip. "Day after tomorrow," he says, nudging Dean's arm his with elbow. "If you're up for sitting all the way to Chattanooga."
Dean's mouth falls into a big smile that John hasn't seen since last Thanksgiving and maybe Dean will think that this is enough.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: John thinks he’s teaching Dean to fully consider the consequences of his actions, but Dean is slowly twisting and turning it into something completely different.
Warnings: Abuse, buckets worth of angst, John's belt, Winchester swearing, what else is new?
Written for the Holiday Fic Exchange on spn_spankings for reapertownusa an anonymous mystery prompter. Obviously.
Fill for 'Rejection' on my hc_bingo card.
John wonders if maybe he has gone insane. Went apeshit crazy without ever bothering to stop and think about it.
He's seen it happen to other hunters, poor bastards singing Memories from Cats, convinced they weren't doing anything abnormal until they accidentally shoot themselves in the head. John wonders if maybe that's what's happened to him. His boys are certainly looking at him like it has.
"Dad, c'mon, I can't just..." Dean finally ventures, his brows crawling down his face into a confused frown. A strained smile twitches across his face, lost for words.
"You can," John sighs with a hard look. "And you're gonna," he ads when Dean looks ready to protest.
"I won't let him," Sam squeaks, voice cracking high with teenage outrage. "This is crazy fu-effed-up, even for you."
Dean elbows his brother in the side, hisses something in his ear and Sam glares, but backpedals as much as he's ever managed to. "'s probably illegal too." His eyes find the tips of his sneakers, shuffling on the wooden floor of their apartment.
John rolls his eyes. "It's not illegal, son."
"Well, it should be."
Sam actually stomps his foot. John half expects him to start holding his breath in an attempt to blackmail him into giving in. Kid's doing nothing to convince him he needs his ass whipped less.
"You done?" John says quietly, which isn't so much a question as a warning and they all know it. He slings his duffel over his shoulder, more than ready to leave the details to the two of them. He's got a homicidal spirit to take care of.
"Dad, can we maybe - "
"I don't wanna hear it, Dean."
Dean's mouth snaps shut so fast John can hear his teeth clicking against each other and he knows he's using that one tone that makes Sam's face flush red with outrage every single time.
"You can't be serious," comes the voice of his youngest. In another life John might have found it funny how predictable the kid can be. In this life he needs to stomp down on that kind of insolence before it has a chance to grow into something more ugly.
"Enough," he growls and tries not to feel guilty at the way Dean flinches at the tone. He knows his hands are curled into fists at his sides, his voice hard and dark and too fucking close to the edge. "Sam, you're gonna do as your brother damn well tells you or deal with the consequences. That includes watching your mouth."
"What about him?" Sam asks, jerking his chin at his older brother.
"What about him?"
"You're away," Sam explains, slowly, not even trying to keep the sarcasm at a somewhat tolerable level. "I mess up, Dean gets to beat my ass. Dean messes up, nothin' happens. Real solid parenting there..." The last part is muttered under his breath and John decides he doesn't have the heart or energy to deal with it.
"Your brother is nineteen," John grits out through clenched teeth. He runs a hand over his freshly shaven chin to give it something to do that doesn't involve it connecting with Sam's face. "He can make a list of whatever rules he breaks and we'll deal with it when I'm back," he finally sighs, rolling his eyes at the sheer absurdity.
Sam rolls his eyes and John marches out the door before he does something he's gonna regret.
:: :: ::
Ghosts are the easy ones, generally speaking. John's come out of this hunt with barely a scratch to show for it. Which is nice and all, but it doesn't make digging up four different graves all over town in one night any less exhausting.
John rubs two fingers over his burning eyes, wills himself to stay awake until he's finished his entry on James motherfucking Smith. It's not a hard task, but his hands are shaking with too much caffeine and too little sleep and the late morning sun is too bright through the dusty curtains. He's so lost in staring at his own shaky handwriting, he barely keeps himself from flinching when Dean's suddenly standing right next to him.
"I, uh...I made that list you wanted." Dean nervously wets his lips, the fake, deep pitch of his voice not nearly enough to cover the nervous stammer.
John stares at him, uncomprehending. "What list, son."
God, he just wants to sleep.
"The list you asked for. You know, you wanted me to keep a tally of all the ways I messed up so you could deal with it when you got back?" Dean's tongue stumbles over the words, quick and messy and John has trouble holding on to what he's saying, because what he's hearing doesn't make any sense at all. Something must have shown on his face, because Dean's eyes suddenly grow wide and his ears flush bright pink. "Which you were obviously joking about. Right...I knew that."
Dean's eyes are pinballs, flashing this way and that and John can't come up with anything to say before the kid shuffles back a couple of steps until he's standing in the doorway, halfway between the kitchen and the living room, eyes digging into John's back.
John stabs his pen down on the open page of his journal until ink starts leaking out. He can't find where his last note ended, where the next one is supposed to begin and damn it, he can't fuckin' concentrate with Dean hovering in the doorway like that.
The boy is thrumming with restless nerves and it sends John's headache through the roof just being in the same room with him.
He closes his eyes, waits for a minute before he's sure he's not going to completely bite Dean's head off.
"Hand me that list, son," he rasps with a tired sigh. He barely has the energy to look up, just holds out his hand and waits for Dean to hand over the piece of yellow legal paper. It's folded neatly in half, frayed and soft, like the boy's been carrying the thing around in his pocket for days, nervously twisting it around clammy fingers.
"I messed up the salt lines," Dean blurts before John has a chance to even glance at the paper in his hand. Quick and rushed and hands tapping against his jeans.
"Settle down," John snaps, more harshly than he really intended to and Dean's arms whip to his sides, his spine straightening in an instant.
"Yes, sir. I fell asleep before I could lay down the salt lines on Friday. And I kinda wasn't there to make Sam dinner on Wednesday." He falters, throws nervous glances at the paper in John's hands. "I know it's not very long, but I really tried to get it all."
Jesus fuck. John rubs tired hands over his face, desperate to not just collapse in the middle of this conversation. Stubble scratches over scraped palms and he feels a tiny bit more alive. "I don't care about the dinner," he rasps out. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, clumsy moving around too many words. "Your brother's old enough to pop a microwave pizza in the oven." Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean stiffen, shut down the nervous trembling like John didn't just offer something akin to absolution. "I do care about the salt lines," he finishes, because he does and also because Dean needs something to hold onto. "You just added two miles to your morning run for the rest of the week."
Dean nods quickly. Something relaxes about his posture in a way that's almost like falling apart, relief and disappointment tied into one.
"How about you get started right now?"
Dean nods again, turns around on his heels and starts walking for the door, then turns back around two steps in.
"I did that before, you know." It's almost a squeak, John thinks. High and childlike and entirely too much like Sammy. "Forget to lay down all the salt lines?"
"Yeah, I know."
"You were pretty pissed back then."
"I'm pretty pissed now."
For a moment Dean's face lights up, there and gone and John decides he hasn't seen it. Dean squares his shoulders and marches back into the room.
"You said you'd paint my ass red if I ever did something like that again." He's working his belt buckle as he goes, slides the thick, worn leather through the loops of his jeans and holds it out to John. "Maybe you should do that instead."
"You're too old for that."
"That's supposed to be my line." Dean smirks his big, fake smile. All teeth and no substance.
"Christo."
Dean actually laughs at that. A small, nervous trembling sound that makes John feel sick. "Jeez, Dad, I'm not possessed. Just been thinkin' and..." a quick glance down at the belt in his hands before he folds it in half and pushes it at John. "Just seemed like the right thing to do 's all."
Dean can make a list of whatever rules he breaks.
Kid, you ever do that again, I don't care if you're thirteen or thirty, you won't be sitting down for a week.
We'll deal with it when I get back.
"Okay," John says, because what else is he supposed to say? It feels too loud in the small room, cutting through the thick Tennessee air, already too hot for early spring. His hands are suddenly damp with sweat while he watches all the color drain out of Dean's face. Which doesn't make any kind of sense, because the kid is literally asking for it.
John gets up, off his chair. He has to hold on to the back until the room finally comes back into focus. Or as focused as it's going to get today. He closes his journal, puts it on the seat of the chair before moving it out of the way. Dean moves, somewhere on the edge of John's vision where everything is bright white and dull and burning. John turns to look at him. It's been forever since he's had to do this with Dean and Sammy is still a couple of growth spurts shy of not fitting over his knee.
He jerks his head at the table and just like that Dean is moving, shouldering his way past John, leaning over the scarred wooden surface. The room smells like leather and damp sweat, the air still heavy and perfectly still in a way that actually hurts to breathe.
John thinks about lecturing, but the words won't come and it's not like Dean's gonna have trouble figuring out why they're doing this.
He brings the belt down hard. Dean isn't a little kid anymore anymore. The boy's feet skitter across the floor, plastic sneakers on dusty wood. John opens his mouth to tell him to settle down, but Dean is already pushing himself back into position, his fingers digging into his elbows, face disappearing between his arms.
John lets the belt whip down again and again, hard and fast until Dean's entire body is flinching with every blow. He is making small, bitten-off sounds at the tail end of every snap of leather and John forces himself to keep going.
He stops at twenty, tries to put a comforting hand on the small of Dean's back and Dean almost jumps out of his skin. John pulls his hand back. He starts to put the belt back on before he remembers it isn't his.
Dean is pushing himself off the table, still white as a sheet, his eyes shining and impossibly big. They flicker from the belt in John's hand, up to meet John's gaze, back to the belt. John is hit with the absurd urge to wash his hands, scrub off the hurt he caused his boy. Then, suddenly the kid is stumbling forward, slowly, like he's unsure of what he's doing, giving John enough time to step out of the way or push him back.
John stays where he is, unsure of where this is going. Dean meets his eyes for a short second and John sees something there. Something deep and old and broken and he looks away so he can pretend it was never there.
Dean takes another small step forward, closes the gap between them and leans into John's chest. He hesitates for another moment before he drops his head to rest on John's shoulder. The don't hug, just stand there, working on getting their breathing back to normal.
"I'm sorry, I - "
"Then learn from it."
The snap is automatic and harsher than he intended and he has to bite down on the inside of his own cheek to keep from taking it back.
"Yes, sir." Dean is standing upright again, already walking backwards to get some distance between them.
"You can go, work on your extra miles now."
:: :: ::
"You got work today?" John asks, watching Dean fight it out with a can of macaroni and cheese.
Dean makes a noise that's halfway between affirmation and cursing at the uncooperative can. John ducks his head in frustration. He likes the extra money Dean is bringing to the table and the kid was right, he's a lot more use working odd jobs than rotting his brains inside a classroom, but it's a giant inconvenience when it comes to watching out for Sam.
"Leave some of that mac'n'cheese for your brother then," he sighs. "Can't let the kid stay a shrimp forever."
Dean shoots him a confused look from over his shoulder, distrust mixed in there amongst the surprise, bitter and sharp and John makes sure to push it way to the back of his mind. "You - " he stops, takes a deep breath and continues in a voice that's somewhat less in-your-face outraged. "You said we'd go out for burgers tonight."
"You know I wouldn't be leaving if it wasn't important."
The can lands on the wooden counter with a loud metallic click, still unopened, and Dean turns around, quickly takes the two steps until he's standing in front of John's chair. He fishes through his pockets until he finally produces an new frayed, soft piece of paper.
Monday: Skipped training.
"Huh?"
John thought this would be a one time thing. Last of the teenage angst, reliving your childhood kind of nonsense that he's sure some bleeding-heart East Coast shrink has come up with a term for.
“Were you sick?”
Dean shakes his head with a half-hearted shrug and John is really pretty lost here.
“Running shoes give out on you?”
“No, sir.” Dean drops his gaze to the tips of his ratty sneakers for a second before he remembers John’s old rule about men looking each other in the eye. “Just kinda hungover, I guess.”
John sucks in a deep breath. Slowly through his teeth, so he has some time to deal with the familiar, angry twitch in his fists. “What’s the rule about training?” he asks carefully slowly, making sure every word is laced with warning.
“Don’t be a little bitch about it,” Dean answers, chancing a quick smile and John isn't sure if he wants to laugh or lash out.
It’s the essence of the rule alright.
“You think a fuckin’ hangover counts as an exception?”
“No sir, you power through.”
“That’s right,” John agrees. “Now what do you figure we should do about that?”
Dean is already reaching for his belt.
:: :: ::
It ends up being a ritual after that. John is starting to think it's a good thing, even. He's busted the boy's ass over his mouth more times than he cares to count, but he's never really thought about what he got up to while John was away; as long as the motel room wasn't trashed and the police hadn't gotten involved they were good. He realizes now that he's been teaching the wrong lessons all along.
Sometimes it feels like Dean has a bipolar five-year-old ghostwriting his lists. He goes weeks in a row blaming himself for crap John wouldn't even dream of taking his belt to him for and then he throws in a line about hustling pool and getting his fake ID taken away like it's nothing big at all and John only keeps from losing his shit by biting down on his cheeks until he tastes copper.
Sunday: Stayed out after work
John is still trying to figure out if the faded pencil scribblings are shitting him when Dean starts taking off his belt.
“I’m not whipping you for this shit.”
"But Sam..."
"Knows how to lay a simple salt line."
John wants to think the wide-eyed, blank look is relief, but really, it doesn’t look a thing like it.
:: :: ::
"I think I should have a curfew," Dean says one evening, when he's back from his part time, underpaid mechanic job and Sam is still at some after school club. “You know, a time I need to be home. I’m thinkin’ I oughta have one.”
It's a strange thing to ask for, considering he spent half his high school years breaking it and arguing that he wasn't a snot-nosed little kid anymore, but then again Dean's always liked the idea of having set rules, so John gives him one.
The next time he comes back, Dean's blatant disobedience fills the entire page and John whips him so hard he has to force himself to look away every time Dean tries to sit down for a week after that.
:: :: ::
Bobby calls about what he thinks might be a revenant a couple towns over.
Dean asks to come with him. Begs almost and John realizes that he doesn't remember the last time his eldest actually outright asked for anything.
Sammy's the one who complains and bitches and it takes a fuckin' act of congress to shut him up and most of the time John doesn't even notice Dean in the middle of it.
He doesn't know how to handle this, which means he tries not to handle it at all. He frowns and says “Dean” in that quiet, hard tone that’s usually more than enough to have the kid backing down. John goes back to packing his things, expecting the matter to be settled.
“Revenants are pretty fu…the things are really dangerous, Dad. I could help. I could be backup, I - “
“Enough,” John frowns, suddenly irritated to have Dean arguing with him. “Get those bags to the car.”
Dean stays right where he is, rooted to the spot and John hates the way he gulps like his mouth suddenly went dry.
"Boy, I have to tell you again, you 'n I are gonna be having words."
Dean's eyes skitter from John to Sam on the couch, back to John. He turns on his heels and picks up the bags before John can figure out if his threat is serious.
“Revenants aren’t all that dangerous,” he says, talking to the back of Sam’s head on the couch. “Your brother’s just worrying.”
Sam shrugs, sinks deeper into the leather couch with a noncommittal teenage sound that stabs right into the ball of irritation behind John’s left eye.
He stares at the mop of dark hair, wondering when the kid went from screaming bloody murder at being left alone to looking forward to any second he gets to spend away from his father. He runs his hand over his freshly shaven cheeks, stares at Sammy until he hears Dean jogging back into the living room.
“Sam’s been real good lately.” His voice sounds high somehow. Breathless and strained with nervous tension. “I didn’t have to punish him at all the last couple times you were gone. I bet he’d - “
"Dean!" Sam whips around, nails scratching new scars into the old leather couch.
"What? Not punishing you is a good thing. It means - "
"You're not supposed to tell him. Jeez, that's - "
“I said enough.” There is no mistaking the command in John’s tone now and even Sam's shoulders instinctively straighten from their usual slouch. “I’m not discussing this any further. We clear?”
He gets two mumbled "yessir"'s in reply and John rolls his eyes when they both try to shrug him off when he steps in to say goodbye with a quick pat to the neck.
:: :: ::
Monday - Thursday: Forgot to clean the Yellowboy
There is a spoon on the counter next to John. It looks old and smooth from too much use and John is going to assume Dean found the thing in one of the cockroach infested cupboards, rather than actually going out to a pawn shop and buying the damn thing.
“You can use this, if you think the belt’s too much,” Dean says with a strange, warm quality to his voice. “You know, ‘cause I still messed up, even if it’s not all that bad.”
For a minute John thinks about refusing. A cold fist closes around his heart and he knows whatever it is he's been trying to teach Dean, the boy's been learning a very different lesson.
"For fuck's sake," he mumbles, slams his palm down on the counter in frustration and when he opens his eyes, Dean is bent over the table, bracing himself on slightly trembling arms.
Later John awkwardly pats Dean's neck, after they're done and Dean is still leaning against his chest. "Go on 'n clean the guns, son. Sitting on a sore ass 's gonna help you remember next time."
Dean nods against his shoulder with a pained groan.
"Wanna help?"
John doesn't remember the last time they cleaned guns together. Probably around Thanksgiving when they were going after a pack of werewolves. The fist is back around John's heart when he realizes that was almost five months ago. He pushes the sick feeling back down. Someone has to hunt down the evil of the world and someone has to stay home and make sure it doesn't get to his baby boy first. Dean knows it's nothing personal.
"Sam's gonna be on spring break soon," he says quietly, gently grabbing Dean's shoulders and pushing him away. "You boys can come along and gank as many evil sons of bitches as you want."
Dean doesn't come up to him with a single list for almost six weeks.
Then Sam breaks his clavicle in the last soccer game of the season and their plans get fucked to all hell.
John leaves for Nashville and a pack of 'walkers and a bottle of Jack every night to help him forget the crestfallen look Dean shot him when he was told he'd have to stay home and nurse his brother back to health
:: :: ::
John doesn't even care what the list in front of him says. Same shit it always does, most likely. Curfew and drinking where cops might have seen him and the never-ending curfew shit.
John runs his thumb over the thin paper. He doesn't know what exactly he expected after leaving the boys alone like that all over again, but it's not this. The same short list, the usual screw ups that John would barely consider worth whipping the kid over if he wasn't fuckin' asking for it.
"You should probably use this," Dean croaks, soft and breathless, his eyes glued to the heavy leather strop in his hands.
John feels his mouth fall slightly open. He knows that he's probably supposed to say something, but his mind has suddenly gone blank.
He's threatened them with the thing before. Dean when he was drunk and lashing out at anything in sight and Sammy when the boy just kept pushing him ever closer to where he wasn’t sure he could hold on to his temper anymore. Never once did he think about following through though.
John quickly wets his lips, dimly aware that his ears are ringing and he still hasn't said a thing. He forces his eyes away from the strop to watch his wet palms mess up Dean's untidy pencil scrawl.
"What the fuck's gotten into you?" he asks finally, his voice rough and breathless in his own ears.
Dean just stares at him, eyes hard and pleading at the same time and for a moment John feels like he's falling.
Dean pushes the strop against his chest, hard and fast and John grabs it before it can fall to the floor. He wraps his fingers around the handle. It scares him, how perfectly it fits into his palm. The leather smells too thick, the many scratches from dozens of knives catch under his nails when he runs it through his hands.
He reminds himself they're doing this for Dean's sake. To teach him. To make sure he thinks about the consequences of his actions and that means John isn't in charge of deciding what those consequences are.
“I’m gonna…” John takes a deep breath, pushes himself to his feet and kicks his chair out of the way in a single motion. “I’m gonna have to see what kind of damage I’m doing.”
John can see the wheels turning behind Dean's eyes. He can tell the exact moment the pieces finally fall in place. The color drains out of Dean’s face even quicker than John’s gotten used to, he can see the goosebumps rise on the kid's freckled forearms.
John is almost sure Dean's about to back out, but then he coughs out a weird little sound and starts taking off his jeans.
John crushes Dean against his chest, after they're done. It's desperate and scared and he barely got in a dozen strokes before Dean screamed and John froze and now Dean isn't even making cracks about getting hugged with his junk hanging out.
John is trying to come up with an apology, which is something he isn't good at at the best of times - least of all when it's with his boys and they desperately deserve one - when he finally makes out the soft whispers under the silent sobs, desperate "I'm sorry"s against his chest and suddenly John is too busy trying not to puke to say a single word.
:: :: ::
The belt and spoon get retired after that. Dean says it's working, whatever the hell that means at this point, John isn't sure. He still gets a horrible, uneasy feeling trying to eat him from the inside out, every time Dean steps up to him with the strop, but it's okay.
It's gotta be okay, because if it isn't he doesn't know what he's been doing for the last couple of months.
Boy keeps messing up in the same ways, upping the ante's probably the best thing to do if his belt can't make the point.
With enough tequila in his system John can almost make himself believe it.
:: :: ::
There is none of the awkward hugging the last time it happens.
John throws the strop down on the table, next to Dean's head and Dean’s death grip on the edge is gone like cut strings on a puppet. John tries to reach out and steady him, but the kid slides right through his fingers into a gasping, trembling ball on the floor.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm...”
Dean says it over and over again. A broken, trembling record that hurts and twists something in John’s chest and makes him want to join right in.
“It’s okay,” he whispers in a voice so soft he’s almost positive Dean doesn’t hear him over his desperate, gasping breats. “You’re gonna be alright, son.”
John tries to keep himself from seeing the mess of welted, bruised skin all the way down to the back of his boy’s knees. “You did good,” he tells him, forcing his voice to rise over Dean's whimpers this time and Dean’s gasps turn into broken sobs.
John barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he loses his breakfast.
His skin is too tight all over and he has no idea where he's supposed to go from here.
:: :: ::
"You okay?" John asks later that day, when Sammy's holed up in front of some nature documentary, as happy as he gets these days and John can't come up with any more reasons to stay inside, away from what he did to his eldest. He closes the door behind him, careful not to disturb the neat line of salt and joins Dean where he's leaning against the fire escape.
Dean's tongue shoots out, nervously wetting his split lips before he quickly nods. "Yessir."
It's like air being punched out of John's guts. He grabs his beer tighter, presses the cool glass against his throbbing temple. He doesn't dare drink enough to drive away to images of brutally red skin, twitching muscles, his broken boy.
"Cut that crap and tell me if you're okay," he rasps, tries to make his voice warm and rough and like he remembers talking to his boys so very long ago.
Dean shoots him a bewildered glance out of the corner of his eye and John wants to crawl out of his own body.
"Sore," Dean allows after a minute, shifting slightly on the balls of he feet. John raises a questioning eyebrow and Dean's hand swipes across his chin like he's trying to hide the way his mouth is starting to curl into a small smile. "Okay, so it's still throbbing like hell, but that's kinda the point, right?"
John sighs. He isn't sure if they could ever agree on what the point was supposed to be.
"Do I need to take a look at it?"
"What?" Dean spins around to face him now, a look of abject horror on his face.
"Just offerin'," John chuckles.
They stand out there in the dark for a long time, sharing John's El Sol and it's not enough, but it's more than John thought he could give and he hopes that Dean gets how much none of this was about him, because he won't ever be able to say it out loud.
"Found a hunt," he finally says and beside him Dean immediately tenses up again.
"When do you gotta leave?"
John smiles, licks a warming drop of beer off his upper lip. "Day after tomorrow," he says, nudging Dean's arm his with elbow. "If you're up for sitting all the way to Chattanooga."
Dean's mouth falls into a big smile that John hasn't seen since last Thanksgiving and maybe Dean will think that this is enough.