Three men stepped into the motel reception in the middle of the night, trying to shake the rain off their jackets and hoodies and failing miserably. The motel owner, Bruno Finelli, wondered what they’d been up to, to get so completely drenched on a cold night like this. They were all tall, especially the youngest one who was definitely a teenager, couldn’t be more than sixteen, seventeen at best. And they were all… like, seriously good-looking, good genes and all that.
While the oldest man, father most likely, signed up for a room with three singles, Bruno wondered what damage rainwater could do to the leather inside that sleek black Impala they’d just stepped out of. It seemed to be the only valuable possession this family of three owned, far as he could tell from their well-worn clothes and boots, and nearly tattered military-style rucksacks. And the rucksacks sure looked heavy, like, strangely so.
The youngest one looked grouchy and miserable, adjusting his backpack on one shoulder first, then shifting it to the other, sighing impatiently. The third man was in his early twenties, and had a freckled face that chicks must swoon over on a daily basis. He looked relieved to be out of the rain and not quite as miserable. In fact his face was just as arrogant and expressionless as the father’s. He even stood the same way, spine straight, chin up, feet set apart stolidly, eyebrows hiked up as he checked out the motel with sharp scrutiny. For some reason, they both also kept glaring sideways at the tall, slender one now and then. At least the brother looked mildly amused, but the father - not at all. And meanwhile the youngest one kept steadfastly ignoring them both, looking more and more put out with every passing second.
“Room one-ten, all the way to the end. Checkout’s at ten am. Have a good night, gentlemen.”
“Thanks,” the man, John Kingston, replied and turned away. His boys followed quietly, the older one swiftly, the younger one dragging his feet, limping a little.
Typical American family, pure and simple: a grumpy kinda-gay teenager, a cocky ex-football jock, and a mean drunk father, out together on a hunting trip in the nearby state forest. To grab some father-son quality time away from the skirts of the house, no doubt.
Bruno shook his head. Just another dull day at the Red Roof Inn, like, seriously. Why couldn’t anyone remotely interesting ever come spend the night at his motel?
John opened the door and let his sons in first. Dean burst in without hesitation, going for the bed in the middle, as always. Sam followed him in next, limping quietly, deliberately, to the bed farthest from the door and right next to the window. He hoped his slow gait would remind his family that he was still hurt and that he should be given a break, or at the very least some time to heal, before they start whaling on him for what happened tonight. Of course, it could also potentially work against him, reminding them of the very reason why he was limping at all. He pulled his wet hoodie off and dropped it to the floor, ready to call it a day but unfortunately for him, his family had other ideas.
“Take off your pants,” Dean ordered, not wasting any time, pulling the first-aid box out his duffel bag. Sam instinctively started to protest, the words ‘fuck you’ springing to mind, and even opened his mouth to say so but was stopped short by the deadly glare his father fixed at him. Abruptly, he clamped his lips shut and pouted, sitting down on the bed and slowly undoing his jeans.
John locked and salted the doors and windows in the meantime, pulling his leather jacket off once done and flinging it to one side. Sam winced as he pulled off the boots one by one, trying not to look at the blood-soaked sock as he peeled it off his right foot. Dean took the socks from him and flung them into a waste basket nearby.
“On your stomach,” Dean prompted and Sam gave him a miserable little look. Dean just shrugged. He didn’t seem unsympathetic but he wasn’t about to go easy on him this time, not when Dad was around. Nor did he intend to defend Sam in any way, this time he was going to step aside and let John handle it. Which never bode well for Sam.
He sighed and laid down on the bed in his t-shirt and boxers, then turned over, propping himself up on his elbows and hiding his face in his hands. His left ankle was what that stupid nymphomaniac bitch had grabbed, cutting sharply through the protection of his leather boots to get to the vulnerable flesh. If he hadn’t been wearing those (now useless) boots, she would have taken his foot right off at the ankle. Sam shuddered, forcing himself to not think about that. As it was, the scratches were deep enough to be a bleeding nuisance but they’d heal soon enough, Dean would see to it.
Sam hissed and bit his lip at the touch of antiseptic-soaked cotton swabbed across his wounds. He held as still as he could, letting Dean put in a couple of stitches where the gash was the deepest and wouldn’t stop oozing blood. He wished Dean would talk to him soothingly like he did when they were alone, read: when Dad was not around. But Dean was biting back his own tongue to stay stoic. Sam could do nothing but suffer in silence, wait for Dean to stop torturing him and then turn it over to John. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could go to sleep.
“You hungry?” John asked not unkindly, once Dean was done bandaging the ankle.
Sam didn’t reply, but Dean getting the hint cleared his throat. “I’ll go grab us something to eat.” And quickly, before Sam could plead with him not to leave him alone with Dad, Dean strode out of the room with his keys and wallet. The door closed behind him with an ominous click and Sam shivered. He started to get up and off the bed.
Oh no. Face down, butt up in easy access of Dad’s hand… that couldn’t be good.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“No you don’t. Stay put.”
Sam sulked, and turned away from John, not liking that his Dad was now sitting on his bed right next to him, planting one hand on the bed on the other side of his waist, trapping Sam in between. John’s voice tingled at the back of his neck, deep and guttural as it was, causing his skin to break out into a zillion goose pimples.
John put a hand on Sam’s back, rubbing it up and down in long, comforting strokes. Sam closed his eyes in tenuous relief.
“Shh, you’re alright, son,” he whispered. Sam wondered for how long, John really could spank, he knew that from first-hand experience. Several… first-hand experiences, actually.
“You shouldn’t have lied to Dean.”
Sam whined loudly. “You know him, Dad. He kept teasing and riding me day and night until I told him I’d done it with Tina Sue Harden.”
John almost started to chuckle. Sam would recognize that sharp intake of breath anywhere, but was disappointed when John didn’t give in to the levity of the moment. It might have translated into a less severe spanking for him.
“Alright, I get that. But you knew what we were going in to hunt tonight, Sammy. You knew Santerian pagan goddesses only feed on, uh…”
Sam couldn’t help but smirk as his father stuttered, struggling to not say the V-word.
“… o-on pure souls only. You should’ve come clean, if not with Dean then with me, at least.”
Sam grimaced. This didn’t seem the right time to tell his Dad that they weren’t exactly close, and that there was no way in hell he could talk to John about his… sex life, or the lack of it.
“You knew she wouldn’t hurt me or Dean, but she’d go right after you the moment you stepped into the orchard, Sammy. If you really didn’t want me or Dean to find out that you were still… you know… then why step in at all? Why didn’t you stay in the car instead?”
Sam muttered inaudibly, to which John stopped rubbing his back and moved his hand to rest on the curve of his boxer-clad butt instead. “I didn’t get that.”
Sam huffed. “I said, I skipped out on a whole week of school thanks to this stupid -” he decided not to say ‘mission’ - “pagan goddess, I didn’t wanna spend the hunt sitting in the car waiting for you guys to finish the job. And besides, I figured you and Dean would get her before she got me, so…”
John simply rubbed at his face. Abruptly, he tugged at Sam’s shoulder to make him turn over and face his father. Sam readily complied, so long as his butt was out of reach, putting his injured ankle on the pillow that John furnished and placed at the foot of the bed. John once again sat down next to him, looking down right into Sam’s eyes. The annoyance was unmistakable, as was the frenzied concern for Sammy’s well-being, along with an element of fear that John felt every time a hunt didn’t go as planned and ended up hurting his children.
“If I knew you were at risk, I would have been watching out for you, Sammy. As would Dean. If we knew, we wouldn’t have let that bitch get as close as she did in the first place.”
Sam pouted. “Nooo. You would have ordered me to stay put in the car, that’s what you would have done.”
John raised an eyebrow. “So you deliberately lied to me. I get why you couldn’t tell Dean. But not telling me - that was outright deception, wasn’t it?”
Sam tried to flash his puppy dog eyes at his father, silently pleading for understanding and clemency. But John’s position on crime and punishment was unflappable as always. The old man narrowed his eyes and made Sam turn over again.
“No, Dad, please! I’m hurt!”
“And whose fault is that?”
Sam groaned and stayed completely deadweight, not that it stopped John from literally picking him up clear off the bed and turning him over, plonking him right back on his stomach. In anticipation of what was about to happen, Sam completely forgot about the ache in his ankle.
John didn’t waste any more time on excuses or explanations. “This better be a lesson for you, Sammy. You’re sixteen, you’re entitled to your secrets, but not when it puts you or your family in danger. You hear me?”
“Yeah, sorry, Dad please….!”
Apologizing never got him anywhere, least not this early in the game. John was going to spank him for as long as he thought Sam deserved it, and there was nothing Sam could do about it. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow as John pulled his boxers down to his knees and started smacking his bare butt cheeks, first the right one then left in alternation.
He was too old for this, for Christ’s sake! Sam squirmed and grunted and apologized again, anything to make the incessant barrage of smacks stop. But John’s hand was relentless, firm and heavy, calloused against the relatively delicate skin on Sam’s behind. He put his other hand in the small of Sam’s back to keep him from slithering off the bed. Sam’s muted grunts turned into loud whimpers after a few minutes as John continued to punish him. The humiliation of being spanked was quickly forgotten as pain, real pain, blossomed in his reddened backside. Sam pushed one hand behind to cover himself, but needless to say, John grabbed it and held it out of the way, still spanking his youngest at a calm, steady pace. He seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, nor did he seem very angry, just driven to teach his boy a lesson he wouldn’t forget for a good long time to come.
It had been a grueling day - starting with earlier that morning when they figured out the pattern. Every single person ripped to shreds in the pagan goddess’ orchard was a virgin. Everyone else passed through it untouched. Sam had felt that little coil of guilt tightening in his stomach ever since, nervous but unwilling to confess his little white lie uttered six months ago. Unwilling to have Dean mock him again. Unwilling to have to explain that he wanted his first time to be special and not just a random quickie in the back of a car, which would only re-enforce his brother’s belief in his alleged gayness. Followed by the attack that he’d been expecting all night but still took him aback when it happened. And last but not the least, the look on his family’s face that morphed from concern to confusion to finally disappointment, and in Dean‘s case - outright entertainment. Dean had laughed, of course, only once he was sure Sam was okay. But John hadn’t stopped frowning ever since.
“Okay! Okay! Dad, please, stop!”
Amazingly, John did stop. It’s when the loud slapping sound stopped that Sam heard his own sobs slipping softly out of his mouth. He felt John slip his boxers back up his scorching ass and whimpered without inhibition.
“Shh, it’s over. Easy, son, easy.” John mumbled, with as much kindness as he was capable of.
Sam rolled his eyes despite the tears. “No, Dad. It’s not easy and it‘s not over,” he sniveled. “Do you realize Dean’s going to make my life a living hell because of this?”
He turned over to look up into his father’s face. John looked stunned. But he was also smiling.
“He’s going to remind me every day that not only am I still a virgin, that I tried to fake it and almost got eaten by a purist pagan goddess bitch and then also got my butt spanked for it! This is like the worst thing that could have ever hap-”
Sam didn’t get to finish. John started sniggering somewhere at ’virgin’ and ended with a loud bellowing laughter that Sam hadn’t heard from him in years. The teenager opted to whine some more, just so he could keep this side of John around for a little bit longer. John was still laughing when he pulled Sam off the bed and into a tight embrace. He put a hand in the back of Sam’s head, pushing it into the crook of his neck and held his boy there, comforting him lovingly.
“Relax, Dean’s not going to give you a hard time. You have my word.” And John’s word meant a lot here. Sam was more than inclined to believe him. Except he also knew how ingeniously sneaky Dean could be. He groaned into John’s shirt, nope, this was not over yet. Not by a long shot. Hell, going by the chuckling, he suspected his Dad himself was not going to let him live this down anytime soon.
"Da-aad!" Sam tried again, but his complaints were muffled in his father's flannel and kind of half-hearted to begin with.
“Shh, Sammy, it‘s all good. You‘re all right…” John rocked his boy back and forth, holding Sam like he hadn’t in a very long time. Sam closed his eyes and relaxed in his father's arms, glad this stupid day was over at last.
Bruno Finelli kept one curious eye on the twenty-year old who paced back and forth outside the reception. Shortly after checking in, the boy had left, getting into that sexy muscle car of his and disappeared for fifteen minutes. Then he returned with a couple of brown bags (food maybe), parked and nodded at Bruno briskly as he passed him by. Only to return a minute later with hurried steps, the bags of food still clutched in one hand, smiling at Bruno sheepishly.
He was stalling.
Bruno kept watch as the boy paced, looked at his watch and glancing over at their room’s door every few seconds. And then a loud, okay not that loud, a muted sequence of howls came from inside room one-ten. The boy turned towards it frowning big time, then schooled his face and turned back towards Bruno, flashing him another flimsy grin.
No prizes for guessing what was going on here. The tall kid must be in trouble for his surly attitude. And the dad must be knocking the hell out of him right about now, having sent the older one out on an errand. Seriously, like hello, could they possibly be more obvious? This was one dysfunctional family alright - a selfish, abusive father happy to hit a kid just because he tripped and ruined the man’s hunting trip, a big brother who didn’t care enough to intervene, and the poor Sasquatch who’d be sporting a black eye in the morning for being clumsy, or gay, maybe both.
Bruno shook his head again. Like seriously. Why couldn’t anyone remotely normal ever come spend the night at his motel?
*** fin ***