Sweetness Follows

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12293151.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & John
Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester
Character: Dean Winchester, John Winchester, Sam Winchester
Additional Tags: Spanking, Non-Consensual Spanking, Aftermath of Violence, Family,
Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dean Winchester, POV Dean
Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Pre-
Series, Family Dynamics, Aftermath of spanking, Corporal Punishment,
Discipline, Domestic Discipline
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2017-10-07 Words: 2235

Sweetness Follows
by Edge_of_Clairvoyance

Summary

It's not like it's the first time his dad had whipped him, far from it, but it's the first time Dad
had just up and left him after he finished weaving his belt back through the loops of his
jeans, left him without so much as a word or a touch to reassure him that it's okay, that he is
forgiven.

Because maybe this time he isn't.

Notes

The story doesn't have an actual spanking in it, but it's referred to and discussed. So if that
may bother you, please don't read. Also language, a given thing when you have
Winchesters.

The title is a song by R.E.M.

See the end of the work for more notes

Inspired by Disciplinary Discrepancy by reapertownusa

Allayville, Maine, 2000

"You stay right here. You move your ass out of this room, and I'll blister it worse than I just did. Is
that clear, Dean?"

"Yes, sir."

The door slams shut, and he's alone.

For a minute he just stands there, breathing the stale air in and out, in and out. His breaths aren't
calm yet, they hitch and he's pretty sure he is letting out small moans when he exhales. He brings a
shaky hand up to his face; it's wet, of course it is, and as soon as he wipes away the old tears there
are new ones silently trailing down his cheeks. He just lets them be and carefully bends to pull up
his pants.

He groans as he slides the boxers over his welted ass. Even the touch of the thin cotton feels too
rough, but he isn't going to hang around buck naked, even if he's alone in the motel room. He does,
however, reconsider the jeans; he doesn't actually need these. After all, he's not going anywhere
anytime soon. So he unlaces his boots, toes them off, pushes the jeans all the way down and steps
out of them, leaving them on the floor.

And again he is just standing there, not really knowing what to do. It's not like it's the first time his
dad had whipped his ass raw, far from it, but it's the first time Dad had just up and left him after he
finished weaving his belt back through the loops of his jeans, left him without so much as a word
or a touch to reassure him that it's okay, that he is forgiven.

Because maybe this time he isn't.

Not after what he did. Not after nearly getting Caleb killed.

He closes his eyes and brings a fist to his mouth to stifle a sob. Dad hadn't taken a belt to him since
that last time about two years ago, when Dean was absolutely sure he would need a skin transplant
on his backside, it hurt that bad. But after it was done Dad held him until he was all cried out and
then held him some more, just because. It didn't help his ass any, but it eased the clench in his
chest. And now his entire ribcage is throbbing, throbbing so terribly he can't even breathe.

The door swings open and Sam comes in and tosses his backpack aside. A dimpled smile lights up
his face upon seeing his big brother.

"Hi, Dean, you're back! The hunt's over?" Dean doesn't answer, and Sam halts to stare at him. The
smile falters and dissolves when he takes in the sight of Dean standing there in his shirt and boxers,
trembling and teary-faced. Sam moves a few steps closer. "Dean? You're okay? Dad's okay?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, we're fine. Caleb-" he chokes a bit, then regains his voice. "Caleb's hurt. The
rawhead clawed him bad."

Sam gasps. "How bad? Where is he?"

"In his room. Dad patched him up and stuffed him full of antibiotics and painkillers. He's out cold.
Dad went to watch over him, see that the stitches hold and that he doesn't spike a fever."
"Jesus," Sam breaths out. "What happened there?" Dean's chest clamps tighter and he closes his
eyes. He can hear the little shuffle of Sam taking another step forward.

"It was my fault," he whispers, partly to Sam, partly to himself. "We went over the game plan, I
knew my part. But when we got to its lair, I don't know what came over me. I thought I saw an
opening to take the sonovabitch down, I just rushed in-" he inhales, eyes still closed. "It was
playing me. Almost got me, too, but Caleb saved my ass, jumped right into the damn thing." He
rubs a hand down his face, not looking at Sam. He doesn't want to see the disapproval in his
brother's face.

But Sam's voice is gentle when he asks, "And you're okay? Did it get you? Were you hurt?"

Dean shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"You're not. You're in pain."

Despite himself, Dean scoffs a bit. "Yeah, a tanning will do that to you."

"A what?" Dean glances at Sam for a second, and then looks away. "Dean, did Dad whip you? Did
he?"

Dean gives a small nod. It's not like he can really keep it a secret from his brother. Sam is bound to
see him squirming whenever he sat down for the next few days.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, why would you let him do that for?!"

This is not the response Dean is expecting, and he is so surprised he looks up at Sam. "What'd you
mean?"

"You're twenty-one years old, for crying out loud! He can't spank you!"

"You know Dad doesn't give a crap about how old we are when it comes to screwing up this bad.
And it's not like I didn't deserve it, 'cause I deserved a hell of a lot worse."

"It's fucked up, Dean! He can take you off hunts, he can dump you at Bobby's or at Pastor Jim's,
hell, he can make you run laps. He can-"

"It's not the same."

"No, it's not! I know you fucking idolize the man, but you can't go along with him doing this to
you! Damn it, Dean, what are you, twelve?!"

Sam rumbles on, but it all kind of washes around Dean. He is so tired, so throughly and utterly
tired.

"Can we not do this now, Sam? I've been awake for nearly twenty hours straight, the hunt was a
mess, and Dad really layed into me hard. I want a shower and some sleep. I promise I'll let you yell
at me all you want later, okay? Just… please," he hates how his voice sounds, wavery and
pleading, a little boy's voice. But he doesn't have the energy to man it up. Not right now. He
doesn't feel like a man right now.

Sam looks at him, and something is passing over his face. Before Dean can figure it out, Sam steps
forward and suddenly his arms are wrapping around Dean.

Sam has really sprouted up like a weed; he already matches Dean's height, and Dean suspects he
isn't done growing yet. But at this moment he doesn't care, because when Sam holds him with one
hand on the back of Dean's neck and the other gently rubbing his back, and when Dean presses his
face into Sam's shoulder, he feels like he is the little brother. And it feels… he would have thought
'good', but he is everything other than good right now. It feels right. His hands creep up to grab
Sam's shirt, exactly like Sammy used to do when Dean comforted him, and a whimper escapes his
lips.

"It's okay, it's okay, Dean," Sam murmurs into his ear. His hand keeps rubbing Dean's back, and he
starts to sway ever so slightly, rocking Dean with him. "I'm sorry I yelled. I'm so sorry. It's okay
now."

And then Dean lets go. His sobs are muffled by Sam's shoulder and his tears are moisting Sam's
shirt and his shivering body presses against Sam's. And Sam just stands there, patiently holding
him, rubbing his back and rocking him, rubbing and rocking.

Dean calms down at last, but he remains as he is, face hidden in Sam's shoulder, clutching handfuls
of Sam's shirt, and sniffles quietly. Sam has stopped rubbing his back and just holds him, leaning
his head to rest against Dean's. After a few minutes he says, "you need to lie down for a bit, okay?"

Dean nods against his shoulder but doesn't move. So Sam starts walking very slowly, making Dean
walk with him to the bed. When they reach it, he finally takes his arms off Dean and gently tries to
pry his hands away from his shirt.

"No," Dean breaths out, his voice pleading, not even aware what he's asking. But Sam understands.

"I'm here, I'm not leaving you. Just let me get settled first," and with this Dean can finally make
himself disengage and stand by the bed as Sam quickly kicks off his shoes, sprawls on his back
and reaches a hand out for Dean.

Gingerly Dean lowers himself onto the bed, mindful of his throbbing behind, tucks himself against
Sam's side and lays his head on Sam's chest. Sam wraps an arm around him, reaches over with the
other to find Dean's arm and holds it.

Dean closes his eyes and breaths. How many times over the years did they lie like this, with Sam
snuggling against his side and using his chest as a pillow? Now Sam is the one he snuggles against,
little Sammy, not so little anymore. Not little at all. And it's good. It is, because right now he needs
a big brother.

When he opens his eyes again, the light has changed. He must have been out for a few hours at
least. Sam is gone and he is lying alone in bed. No, not alone; Dad is sitting on the edge of the bed
at his side, looking at him. When he sees Dean is awake, he smiles.

"Hey."

"Hey," he searches his father's face for discontent, anger, disappointment, and finds none. "How's
Caleb?"

"The stitches are holding, the wounds don't seem to be inflaming, so far he isn't getting feverish.
He woke up a little while ago. Still weak, but the painkillers are helping."

"That's awesome," it is, and a little more weight is lifted off his chest. Dad reaches down, puts his
big hand on the side of Dean's face and his thumb traces his cheekbone with a gentle touch.

"He wants to see you."

"He does?" Why would he, after Dean nearly got him killed? But Dad is still smiling, his calloused
thumb still patting his cheek.

"He's worried about you, he was scared you got hurt. And he also knows you wouldn't believe me
if I told you he's not mad at you, so you'll need to hear it from him."

Dean does have a hard time believing anybody would be so forgiving toward a reckless, stupid-ass
hunter that put their lives in danger, but as much as he feels like he could never look Caleb in the
face again, he'd have to apologize to him at some point or another, and now is as good a time as
any.

Dad takes his hand off him and he carefully maneuvers out of bed without putting weight on his
sore ass. His jeans and boots are still on the floor where he left them.

Sam is sitting at the table in the kitchenette area, and as Dean finishes getting dressed he stands up.
"I'll come with you."

They go out of the motel room. Outside the sky is painted with orange and yellow and red, and the
sun is half-hidden behind the line of trees on the other side of the road in front of the motel. They
stand side by side, watching the sunset and feeling the breeze on their skin.

Finally, Dean asks, "Did you get in his face about it?"

"Who, Dad's? About spanking you?" Sam shakes his head. "I wanted to, but no, I didn't."

"How come?"

The whispered breeze moves Sam's bangs lightly as he sighs. "I knew it'd just get you upset, and
you were plenty upset already. And also, when he came in, the way he looked at you… this
worried, sort of tender look…" he shakes his head again, as if clearing it. "And I had a little time to
think, when you were asleep. About what you said, that being taken off hunts or dumped at
Bobby's wouldn’t be the same. And maybe… maybe for you it's not, maybe for you it doesn't feel
like a real punishment, you know? You like things to be sharp and clear and… and I don't know, to
the point? And this is as much to the point as it gets, I guess. I mean, it's physical, it's indisputable,
it's there. You get your ass whipped, pay for whatever you did, and it's done. And you can let go of
the guilt." Sam turns his head to look at him. "Am I making any sense?"

It isn't like Dean had ever thought the damn thing through this coherently, but you can trust
Wonder Geek to psychoanalyzed the shit out of him. It almost makes Dean smirk. He nods
slightly, and Sam sighs again.

"Look, man, I don’t like it anymore now than I did a couple hours ago, but you're an adult, at least
most of the time. And if this… works, or whatever, for you, then I'll try to stay out of it. But if it
doesn't… whenever you need me…"

Dean nods at him. "Thanks, Sam." He drops his eyes for a minute, shuffles his feet and looks up
again. "And thanks for… back there."

Sam smiles, a soft little smile. "Anytime, Dean."

"Dude, I hope I wouldn't need it that often."

Sam's smile broadens. "Make sure you don't, 'cause you know, man, you got snot on my shirt, and-
"
 "Zip it, Sammy."

Sammy zips it, his dimpled smile wide and warm, and Dean smiles back and glances over to catch
the last bit of sun before it slips away behind the trees.

End Notes

The story (or rather, the 2-part series) that was my inspiration is one of the best SPN CP
stories I have read to date. Not only is it splendidly written, it also gives a believable
psychological explanation as to why a corporal punishment would work so well for Dean,
and that is my mindset for him whenever I write a spanking fic.

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