Author: Shea Brooke

Prompt: #39 Istigation

Rating: R

Type of Story: General

Author's Website: Shea's LJ


Author's Note: Summary: Dean has a history of asking for it, but this is the first time John really thinks he deserves it.

Be Careful What You Ask For

Not all monsters are supernatural.

John's fist connected with the face of the man in front of him. The impact of meaty knuckles on flesh sent him spinning, crashing against the side of his cruiser.

The cop fell to his knees, wavering from side to side, barely able to keep himself upright and out of the dirt. He should have been able to do better. He had the gun. He should have been able to take this guy, he was a state cop after all, an ex-football play.

His mistake had been messing with this particular man's son, this man's pretty 18-year old son. He should have known better and he knew it.

But he'd gotten away with it so many times before, pulled them over for speeding, beat them up a little bit, threatened to take them to jail for assaulting an officer of the law. He gave them a way out that involved their pants around their ankles, and their asses in the air over the hood of his police car.

John took the cop's wobbling head in in one hand, gripping him by the hair. He looked over at his son standing there, hands still cuffed behind his back, the corner of his mouth bloody, his lips smiling.

"Wipe that stupid grin off your face," he ordered before drawing back his fist and plowing it into the face of the officer of the law.

"Fucking pervert."

***

John followed Dean back to their rental house in Tucson, Arizona. He stayed so close to Dean's ass that he actually tapped his bumper when Dean had come to a complete stop at the stop sign.

Smart ass. Dean hadn't come to a complete stop since he was born.

John rubbed a hand over his stubbled face as he parked his truck. Dean was so much like his mother. Nothing could stop Mary once she decided to do something. Not safety. Not common sense.

His knuckles twinged. The old scars had cracked open, but they weren't bleeding much.

"Get your ass in the house," John said his hand gripping the back of Dean's jacket and propelling him towards the stairs.

The living room was dark. Sam was at a friend's house. He'd said he would be there for awhile during his last scheduled check-in call.

John steered Dean towards the bathroom.

"Sit down," he said pushing him down on the toilet seat.

Dean tilted his face up into his father's hands. He was pale; his freckles standing out in sharp contrast to the white of his face.

"How many times did you speed up and down that road before that cop pulled you over?"

"Six." Dean gave his father his brightest smile.

John nodded. "You instigated the whole thing," he said softly, his eyes searching Dean's face.

Dean looked away from John's dark, hooded eyes, and blinked when John's thumb grazed over the bridge of his nose wiping away a few spots of blood.

Dean opened wide as John's fingers explored his mouth, pressing his gums checking for loose teeth.

"Did he hit you anywhere else?" Johns voice was rough. Dean's cheek was cut on the inside, his lip split at the corner, but his teeth were intact. He'd been slapped, not punched.

"Punched me in the ribs," Dean replied.

"Stand up," John said.

Dean stood and let his father take his jacket. He winced slightly as he raised his arms and John pulled his tee-shirt over his head.

Dean started to put his hands down, but John's one-handed grip on his wrists kept them above his head as his other hand gently explored Dean's ribs. Then he found the sore spot.

"Bruised. Not broken. You'll be all right."

John stared. Dean's belt was half-way unbuckled under his belly button. That fucking cop. "Do I need to check you anywhere else?"

Dean grew red in the face, the tips of his ears burning.

"No Sir." He swallowed.

"Good. Now take a shower then come to my room. Take some Tylenol. We're going to talk about this. The hard way."

***

Dean sat on the edge of his father's bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging low, waiting.

John watched him. He was thinking about when Dean was four. Mary had thought it was cute when he would come to John and say, 'Daddy, I need a spanking,' which was Mary's cue to go look for a broken lamp or whatever minor disaster Dean had left in his wake and was sorry for.

Sometimes John would gently oblige him, delivering a few swats. Then Dean would giggle and run away, forgiven.

John didn't know where he'd gotten it from, probably heard it at a friend's house, or maybe on t.v. Dean was always such a good boy.

"This is serious, Son," John began.

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry."

"I told you to leave this one alone."

"Yes sir."

John paced.

"Explain this to me from the beginning. How did you go from 'Yes sir. I'll let the authorities take care of it,' to being bent over the hood of that car."

"I knew you'd follow me. I thought you would bring the sheriff. It was just a matter of timing it...."

"Timing it." John stood over Dean looking down at his bowed head. "TIMING IT!"

Dean flinched.

"Five more minutes, Dean. Five more minutes and I would have turned up that dirt road and seen my 18-year old son getting fucked by an officer of the law."

Dean visibly cringed.

"Do you have any idea what I would have done to him?"

"I'm sorry Dad." He sounded it.

"What have I told you about disobeying me?"

"Don't ever do it."

"Then why did you?"

"I knew you would come."

"That doesn't answer my question. Why did you disobey my order?"

Dean visibly swallowed the lump in his throat. John wanted to comfort him, soothe his hurt, but he couldn't just yet.

When Dean finally spoke his voice was uneven.

"Because someone was going to get fucked on that road tonight...and I didn't want.... It could have been Sammy, Dad. It would have been somebody's Sammy." Dean raised his eyes to his father. "I planned for you to find me."

Dean was going to get himself killed one day.

"I'm going to beat your ass, little boy."

"Dad...." If it was possible, Dean's face turned a little redder.

John didn't move. Eventually Dean looked up to meet his father's eyes.

"Please," Dean said.

John nodded. In two steps he was on Dean, hauling him up, pushing him over face down into the bed.

"Get your ass in the air," he ordered and Dean, trembling all over, complied pulling his knees up under himself and hiding his face in his arms.

John bent his fingers under the waistband of Dean's thin boxer shorts and pulled them down to his knees. He drew back his arm, then slammed his hand down onto Dean's bare ass, again and again. The only sound in the room was the steady crack, crack of bare hand on naked ass and Dean's gasps, which were quickly turning to sobs.

"You're not going to kill yourself for some stranger. Do you hear me?"

Dean involuntarily jerked across the bed, trying to get away.

"Oh, no you don't. You asked for this and now you're going to take it."

John hooked Dean around the waist and sitting down, pulled him across his lap. Dean's ass was welted, raised-fingerprint bruises already forming. John started spanking again, spreading his fingers and smacking all over his son's ass and thighs, covering every inch with a tingling, quivering ache. This was going to be a lesson Dean wasn't going to soon forget.

Then he stopped. His split knuckles were bleeding again and his palm was numb.

He turned Dean over and pulled him into his lap, rocking him against his chest. The skin on the back of Dean's neck felt like it was on fire under John's good hand. Dean's wet face steamed against his neck.

"You're a good boy, Dean. You're a good brother," John whispered into his sweaty hair.

"I'm not."

"Hush, now. Come on." John held him, petting his hair, rubbing his back. When Dean started to pull away, John stood and fished his shorts from the floor where Dean had kicked them. He handed them to his son, looking away as Dean covered his lap.

He went into the bathroom and came out with a cold, wet towel.

"You sleep here tonight. I'll tell Sammy you're not feeling well."

"Thanks, and uh...Dad? Thank you. That was super." His smile was back. John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"You're a weird kid, Dean." John said, as he closed the door.

"I'm 18, Dude!"

***

John nursed his right hand in a bag of ice, cracked open a beer with a fingernail on his left.

He was thinking about Mary. 'Why doesn't he ever ask me for a spanking?' she had teased him once, a little bit jealous.

John wasn't sure why, but he thought it might be because he had stronger hands.

John finished his beer and stood up to get another one. He sat back down in his chair by the phone and waited for Sam to call.

He was already 5-minutes late.

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