Author: Astrangerfate

Prompt: #30 – Passive-aggressive

Rating: PG - 13

Type of Story: General

Author's Website:Astrangerfate's LJ

Author's Note: This story is set during the episode 'Salvation'.


Never Too Old


"You know, Sammy, this would go a lot easier for all of us if you'd just cut the crap you've been pulling," Dean said grimly, glaring at his brother sitting in the passenger's seat.

Sam tried his best to look innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said in an injured tone, pouting a little despite himself. "I haven't done anything."

"Like hell you haven't!" Dean exploded. "You've been trying to piss Dad off all morning. I just can't believe he hasn't kicked your ass yet."

"I have not!" And anyway, he deserves it, Sam thought bitterly. He sulked a moment before a new idea occurred to him. "Dean, can we pull over at the next exit? I'm really hungry."

"You're what? Oh, come on!" Dean griped. "Half an hour ago you said you couldn't eat anything."

Sam shrugged. "Now I can." He turned on the charm as he gazed at his brother, hope filling his wide eyes. "And I haven't eaten anything since last night."

Dean punched the dashboard in frustration. "Man, Sam, next time you pull this kind of crap I'll beat your ass myself." But he signaled to get off at the next exit, and John, driving ahead in the truck, followed suit.

Dean stopped at a Citgo and pointed at the small store. "Get yourself a Pepsi and a bag of chips, and if you spill any of it on my car I'll kill you."

"Sammy got hungry after all," he called to John, who had rolled down the window. "We'll be back on the road in five minutes, tops."

"We can't afford to waste time here, Dean," John called back. "The demon could act tonight and we still don't know where."

"Yes, sir. Five minutes."

Five minutes passed, then another five, and Sam didn't come back out. John swore under hear breath as he started to get out of the truck, but Dean stopped him.

"Don't worry about it, Dad, I'll get him."

Sam checked the time on his cell phone again. It had been over ten minutes since he'd come in. Where the hell are they? he wondered, feeling vaguely disappointed that his father and brother hadn't shown up to bitch him out. They really don't give a shit about me.

At that moment Dean appeared. "What the hell are you trying to do, Sammy?"

"I'm trying to decide between Doritos and pretzels," Sam said, mock-serious. "Did Daddy send his good little soldier after the one who went AWOL?"

Dean snatched up the bag of Doritos and paid for it with a fake credit card. "He was going to come in here and grab your sorry ass himself. I told him I'd handle it. But…" He paused, locked eyes with his little brother. "I'm not putting up with any more of this shit either. I know you're pissed about Dad leaving, and trying to leave again, and I get that, man, I really do. But we're here now, and we're gonna need you in Salvation. Preferably not acting like a whiny little bitch. Think you can do that?"

Earlier that day

Sam was still pissed at John's attempts to leave them behind when he got into the truck, sending a sour glare at his older brother. Dean should have been the one acting as navigator, but of course he got to ride by himself in his precious Impala, leaving Sam to deal with their father all by himself. Sam smirked a little despite his annoyance. He'll never know what hit him.

His first job as navigator was to shuffle through the maps in the glove compartment, finding the quickest way to Salvation. He didn't really have much hope for this part of the plan, because John knew the interstates of the Midwest like the back of his hand, but Sam was going to give it his best shot anyway.

"So you turn left out of the parking lot and get on the interstate in about two miles," he said casually.

"Is that I-70?" John asked.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said casually. I-70 West.

"You sure about that, Sam?" he asked. "I was pretty damn sure we'd be turning right. Let's see those maps."

Sam handed them over reluctantly. They hadn't even left the parking lot before John decided to double-check. Typical. Why does he even want me to navigate? It's not like he can't figure out the way himself.

"We're headed to Iowa, Sam," he said sharply, giving his youngest son a studying look.

"Yeah, so?" Sam did his best to sound innocent.

"So we're going to be turning right to begin with. And we're heading toward 76 East."

Sam let comprehension dawn on his face. "Oh, right, of course," he agreed hastily. "Guess I just need some coffee."

"We'll stop on the way out," John promised. "I could use some too. This demon's got me so I'm not thinking too clearly either." He checked the rearview mirror. Dean gave him a thumbs-up, and they headed out, stopping briefly at a Texaco along the way.

Sam sat back to wait, and then spilled his large coffee all over the car at the first opportunity. "Shit!" he exclaimed loudly, although he'd been careful only to spatter a few hot drops on his jeans. "Dad! You're driving too fast!"

"You watch your mouth," John ordered. "There are papers towels in the glove compartment. Clean up the mess and see if the maps can be saved."

Sam heaved a frustrated sigh as he reached for the handle again, but John's voice interrupted him.

"I'm not sure how you managed to spill that on a straight road, boy, but I don't need any more interruptions while I'm driving. You keep that in mind."

"Well, I didn't mean to!" Sam insisted angrily.

"I sure hope you're telling me the truth, son."

"I wanted that coffee," Sam whined. His father didn't respond, and he waited a minute before beginning again. "Can we stop and get some more?"

"If you're tired, Sam, why don't you take a nap," John suggested firmly, changing lanes to pass a U-Haul.

Sam pretended to close his eyes, but within five minutes it was time to commence Phase Two of his plan. Waiting any longer might mean arriving too late to investigate Salvation that day, and he didn't want to screw up the hunt…just make sure his father and brother understood that they couldn't just waltz in and start dictating his life again without being sorry.

"Shit!" he exclaimed again as his eyes flew open and he jumped up in his seat.

"I told you to watch that mouth," John reminded him sternly. "If it happens again, I'm going to spank it out of you."

Sam was so taken aback that he couldn't respond for a moment. Clearing his throat, he tried for a shaky laugh. "Ahaha, good one, Dad," he said, although he wasn't at all sure that John had been joking. "Anyway….uhh, we've gotta turn around. Now."

"Any reason why?" John asked skeptically.

"I uhh…I think I left my laptop charging at the hotel," Sam said quickly. "Sorry about that."

"God damn it, Sam!" John yelled, and Sam actually jumped. He hadn't expected his father to sound quite so angry when he found out about the computer, not when they were only half an hour out of town. His mind flitted uneasily to some of the other things he'd done before leaving. If Dad's pissed about this….

"Sorry!" he said defensively. "I was in a hurry!"

"You call your brother and let him know what you did," John said angrily. "Tell him were getting off at the next exit and heading back to Manning."

"Yessir." Sam was already blushing when he reached for his cell phone, and John's next remark made his cheeks flood with color.

"I don't know why you think this is funny, Samuel, but you're not too old for me to turn you over my knee if you keep it up."

And any regret Sam had felt about the way he'd gone through his father's duffel quickly dissipated with his annoyance. "I didn't do anything!" he said hotly. "Maybe if you're just going to yell at me I should ride with Dean! You don't need me, anyway."

"That might be wise," John agreed. Sam folded his arms and glared out the window until they arrived back in Manning.

***

Sam huffed loudly as he got into the Impala, cradling his laptop in his arms. "Dad's an ass," he grumbled, hoping for some sympathy from his older brother.

Dean didn't seem interested. "Whatever, dude, you've been acting like a bitch all day. Don't try to act like it's Dad's fault, cause it's not." He cranked up the volume on a KISS cassette and Sam covered his ears with his hands.

"Jeez, Dean, do you mind not trying to make me deaf by the age of 25?"

"Sorry," Dean said unrepentantly. He didn't touch the dial, so Sam reached for it, but Dean slapped his hand away. "Driver picks the music, Sam, so paws off."

Sam sent him a vicious look. I could be dying and he wouldn't care, so long as he had his stupid tapes. He considered for a moment, then stretched his legs out long and slow, making sure his foot collided with the shoebox full of Dean's tapes.

"Watch it, Sam!" Dean yelled, panicking, but the crunching noise assured him it as too late. Sam's massive shoe had completely crushed Dean's Deep Purple tape.

It was a long, grim ride until they stopped at the diner for lunch.

***

"I'm not hungry," Sam said sulkily, poking with his fork at the Big Buster's Bulky Burger he'd ordered.

"See if you can eat anyway, Sam. We still have a lot of driving to do."

Sam turned a steady glower on his father. "I'm sick," he spat. "I'll throw up if I try to eat anything. In fact, I think I'm running a fever. I might be contagious." He leaned weakly against the wall, trying his best to look pallid and making a distressed face when he had to move to sip his water.

John and Dean finished their lunch in relative silence. As they were walking out the door, Sam was embarrassed to hear his stomach growl loudly. His father turned to him.

"Last chance to get something to eat, Sam."

Sam threw up his hands in irritation. "What, did you not believe me when I said I was sick? Are you that angry with me because I forgot my laptop? I try so hard…so damn hard, and all I get it…"

John grabbed his arm and spun him around to land six sharp swats on his behind. "I warned you about the language, Sam," he scolded. "Now you can either drop the attitude or we can take care of that little problem in the restroom."

"Dad, I'm 23!" Sam exclaimed, trying to twist out of his father's grip and forgetting to make his voice hoarse and trembling.

"Then start acting like it."

Salvation, Iowa

"Alright, I'm going to pick up some supplies," John announced, fixing his oldest son with a steady gaze. "Colt's in my duffel, Dean, and there's an antique shop at Battery and Vine. Find the closest match you can."

"Yes, sir."

Sam barely waited for the door to close before muttering, "Here we go again," just loud enough for Dean to hear.

"Don't go there, Sam," his brother warned. "I'm serious, man. It's getting really old really fast."

"You heard him yourself!" Sam protested, a little miffed that Dean could go so quickly from yelling at their father to yes-sirring. "Where does he get off being pissed about my visions, huh? I mean, it's not like he's been around to notice, or even care. And now, first chance he gets, he up and leaves—"

"Don't you say that," Dean snapped angrily. "He already said he was sorry, okay? And it's not like he's leaving for the hell of it. People are dying, Sam. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and feeding me this shit that Dad doesn't care about you." He rose from the bed, walked over to where John's duffel lay on the floor. Sam felt his stomach flop uneasily and his throat constrict.

"I'm going to that antique store," Dean said firmly. "You can come with me or stay here, suit yourself." He unzipped the front compartment, checked it for the gun.

Sam shifted his weight. He'd been so preoccupied with his visions, and being so close to killing the demon, that he'd forgotten what he'd done with John's bag. The toothbrush had been coated with soap, the sticky shampoo had been loosened so that the cap would come off and everything not in a plastic bag would be coated, and…

Dean swore loudly, and in a second he was back by Sam's side and had his arm in a viselike grip.

"What did you do with the Colt, Sammy?" he asked furiously, giving his younger brother a shake.

"What, can't you find it?" he asked innocently, but Dean was in no mood for games.

"Sam, you tell me where it is right now!" he bellowed.

"I didn't know Meg was going to call," he defended himself earnestly, wondering how Dean could seem to tower over him when he had height on his side.

"That doesn't have anything to do with this. Where the hell is it?"

"With the weapons in Dad's truck?" he tried, giving his brother a winning smile.

Dean just looked at him like he was from another planet. "Why?" he asked, very reasonably, in a calm voice that to Sam was more worrisome than the most ferocious snarl. When Dean was really upset, he was quiet and nonchalant.

"It…seemed like a good idea at the time." Sam dropped his eyes to study his shoes, afraid of what he might see next in Dean's face.

"Oh, right." Dean shook his head, as if amazed by his own stupidity. "You know, I don't even know why we're talking about this."

"Yeah, neither do I," Sam agreed quickly.

"I'm glad we're on the same page here." Dean began to steer Sam toward the nearest bed, and it took a moment for Sam to start struggling.

"What the hell, Dean?" he shouted, trying unsuccessfully to shake Dean off.

"Don't pretend you don't have this coming, Sammy," Dean said, sitting down resolutely. "You've been acting like a spoiled brat all day, and as much fun as it's been to watch you get your panties in a bunch, it's about time we took care of the problem."

He moved his right hand to the button of Sam's jeans, and Sam reacted instinctively, slapping it away.

"Dean, look, I'm sorry about the Colt. Call Dad and he'll bring it right back!" he said, panicking a little despite himself because it actually looked like Dean was serious about this.

"Too late for that now, Sammy. Now you can let me take off your jeans, or I can take off my belt for this conversation."

Dean acted like he was being generous in giving Sam options, and Sam wanted nothing more than to squirm out of his brother's grip and run away fast. But he had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't get very far before Dean caught up with him, and he really wasn't sure that it was the best idea to piss his brother off any more than he already had. Besides, he was tired. Being in his biggest bitch mode all day and then getting hit with visions had exhausted him. He paused to weigh his options, and Dean took advantage of the opportunity to unzip his jeans fast and haul Sam over his knee before he could figure out what was going on.

" Look, Sam, this has got to stop, and it's gonna stop now," he promised. "Frankly, I'm sick and tired of putting up with your crap."

Sam felt the first smack land square in the middle of his butt and couldn't help a surprised yelp. It had been long enough since his last spanking that he'd forgotten just how much it could hurt. The next sharp swat landed in the same place, and then his brother started methodically covering every inch of his bottom with his flat palm.

"Really, Sam," Dean was saying, clearly annoyed, "it's one thing to be in a bad mood, and it's another thing to completely take it out on me and Dad like it's our fault."

"Well, it is your fault!" Sam retorted, biting down on his cheek and digging his fingernails into his palms to keep from squirming or showing Dean that the spanks were really starting to add up.

"Excuse me?" Dean was so incensed that he actually stopped spanking for a moment, before returning with renewed vigor to Sam's bare thighs. "I'd love to hear how all the crap you pulled today is my fault."

"Why do you always blame me for everything?" Sam protested, unable to keep himself from flinching away from the steady rain of smacks and hating himself for it.

"Oh, I don't know," Dean said snidely, landing a few more solid swats to Sam's thighs for emphasis before returning to the crest of his bottom. "Because it's pretty damn hard to blame anyone else for leaving the laptop in Manning when it belongs to you. And faking a stomachache? Come on, Sam, it's not like you're trying to get out of going to school for a day. This is hunting, and it's our job. Peoples' lives depend on it. And breaking my Burn cassette was just nasty."

"Oww! Jeez, okay, I'm sorry," Sam apologized. His backside was heating to an uncomfortable degree, and he had a bad feeling his brother was still harboring resentment over the Deep Purple tape. He felt a lump rising in his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to keep any moisture from escaping.

"Yeah, well, not as sorry as you're gonna be," Dean swore darkly, reaching for the waistband of Sam's boxers. "Obviously this isn't getting through to you, so—"

"What the hell is this?" John's voice interrupted them, and Sam stiffened instantly, then burst into tears. He just couldn't believe this was happening…he was 23 years old, a few months away from having his degree, and lying facedown over his brother's lap with his bare ass on display, like a naughty little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Once the tears started, he sobbed.

Dean nodded to John briefly. "Sammy took the Colt from your duffel and put it in the goddamn truck. I was just taking care of some of the stunts he's been pulling today."

"I noticed the Colt," John said darkly. "And you know, you've been asking for this all day, Samuel, but that was a line that should not have been crossed."

Sam's broken sobs were interrupted by a wail. Even in his embarrassment, he had held out some hope that his dad would put a stop to it, but it didn't look like that was going to happen.

"In fact, I'd say you're damn lucky that your brother got to you before I did," John continued. Sam shuddered at the censure, recognizing a tone he hadn't heard since he left for Stanford all those years ago. He felt his stomach sink with horror, wondering if his dad would spank him again after Dean was through. It wouldn't be the first time—he remembered all too clearly what had happened if he got in trouble as a kid while John was out hunting. Dean dealt with it on the spot, and John invariably blistered his butt again once he returned.

Of course it's not like I don't deserve it, he thought miserably. He was completely ashamed of the way he had been acting, and even more ashamed to be getting whaled on by his older brother. At 23 years old, he wasn't just old enough not to expect spankings. He was old enough not to earn them.

"I'm going to go get the maps from the car," John said gruffly. "I think you should still be able to read them, even with the coffee stains. You can use them to find that antique store."

"Yessir," Dean replied. "We're almost done here."

John nodded and turned his gaze to his youngest. "Don't think that you and I won't be having our own discussion, Samuel," he said curtly, before walking out of the room.

Sam felt a cold prickle of dread in his stomach, and his mind jumped ahead to the gruesome thought of John's punishment, only to come crashing back down to reality when Dean's hard hand collided with his crimson cheek.

"Ouch! God, Dean, I'm sorry!" he cried, feeling truly remorseful. Dean swatted him a few more time for good measure before touching him lightly on the shoulder and pulling his boxers back to his knees.

"Hey, it's alright, Sam, I know you are," he said uncomfortably over Sam's disconsolate shaking wails. "It's okay now. I'm done spanking you."

Sam couldn't get his crying under control for another minute or two, which was somehow even more embarrassing than the actual spanking, but Dean didn't force him to move or make fun of him for being a chick. He just sat there, rubbing circles along Sam's shoulder blades and telling him it was going to be okay.

Sam propped himself up eventually, got to his feet and pulled his jeans back up, unable to look Dean in the eye. He was sure that his face was as red as his… He blushed even harder.

"I really am sorry, Dean," he confessed. "I was acting like a jerk."

"Yeah, well, you turn into a pain in my ass, I'll turn into a pain in yours," Dean replied easily, putting an affectionate arm around him. "I know it's been pretty weird, having Dad show up out of the blue, being so close to smoking this sonuvabitch, but you gotta keep your head out of your ass, okay?"

"Okay, Dean, I get the point," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"Attaboy." Dean released him, cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.

John chose that moment to come striding back in. He stood directly in front of the boys, looking at them long and hard. "Sam, I ought to whip your butt again myself until you don't sit down for a week," he said finally.

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed softly, his head dropping in shame.

John glared at him for a moment longer. "Come here, Samuel," he growled, walking over to a small table in the corner. Sam gulped, wondering briefly if there was enough gas in the Impala for him to rush out of the room and make his way to Mexico. But he had already resisted one spanking today, and that certainly hadn't done him any favors, so he trudged over to John, his feet dragging on the worn carpet.

"Bend over," John directed, and Sam obeyed, his face flushing as he laid his hands flat on the table and leaned forward a little. John steadied him with a hand on his lower back before raising his other hand and giving Sam a good crack on his rear end. Sam hissed in pain at the sharp contact, his eyes filling once more with tears—his dad's hand was a lot harder than he remembered. But John only gave him a dozen solid spanks before releasing him, waiting for him to right himself.

Sam swiped a hand across his eyes as he stood, blinking hard against the additional tears that were threatening to spill. John clapped a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I love you, Sammy, but your behavior is improving now, do you understand me?"

"Yessir," Sam said obediently, offering John a rueful smile and hoping this meant that the tension would die down. His father didn't usually hold grudges after spanking one of the boys.

"Good. Dean," John said, walking over to where his older son stood.

"Yeah, Dad?"

John grabbed Dean's upper arm and swatted the seat of his pants twice, eliciting a startled yelp. "You get permission before you spank your brother," he directed. "That's always been the rule. This is a chain of command, and you best remember how it works."

"Yessir!" Dean replied smartly, dodging out of the way of any further spanks.

"Alright then," John said, hiding a grin at the fact that both of his "grown-up" boys were reaching back to rub their injured behinds. "Now, boys, let's go get our hands on a gun and smoke this evil son of a bitch."

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