Warnings: corporal punishment, non-con

This town was supposed to be safe, Dean thought to himself frantically as he ran back into the living room. He tracked his eyes back and forth, desperate to see any hiding places he might have missed when he arrived home. "Sammy?" Dean called desperately and listened to the silence offered back by the house.

He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. He shook off what he could of his nerves and checked the clock. Four hours until Dad was scheduled to check in- four hours to find Sammy and bring him back home. If he could find Sam, at least, maybe he wouldn't even have to fess up to leaving his brother home alone again for some sick freak or monster to get a hold of.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted off seconds in his head until his heartbeat slowed and he could think straight again. First things first- make sure Sam was missing, rather than out by himself to the library or a friend's without bothering to leave a note. They'd been living in Eloy for over a month: plenty of time for his dweeby brother to make nice with the locals.

Dean penned a quick note- STAY PUT back at 9 for da ds call- just in case Sam came home. He left the house unlocked with a grimace; Sam's key, forgotten or abandoned in the bowl, had been the first thing to tip Dean off.

The door and ratty screen slapped shut behind him, hinges screaming at the abuse. Dad had asked him to oil them, he remembered. One more thing he'd fucked up.

He jogged down the walkway. He had neighbours to talk to.

Even the neighbours who didn't slam the door in his face had been useless. No, they hadn't seen his brother. Yes, they'd let Dean know if they did see him. The cat-lady the next block over had offered to call the police, said she had a nephew who could get the search started early. Dean's stomach had tied itself in knots at the suggestion, which he quickly refused- Dad would kill him if he got the fucking cops involved on top of everything.

The librarian had been better, offering up a near endless prattle about his brother, gushing as only a short, chubby old lady could, obviously charmed by Sam's polite, clean-cut nerdiness. She'd been more than happy to tell Dean all about Sam's visit earlier in the day, when he'd returned all the books he'd had checked out.

Running home, Dean had felt like an idiot. It hadn't even occurred to him that Sam, Sammy, would ever pick up and leave his school, skip out on the brief runs they made at being normal. John had even bothered to get them a house, for fuck's sake- they hadn't had a house since before Sammy hit double-digits.

Why the hell would Sammy run away? Dean thought to himself frantically. The sun was a hand's width from the horizon, beating down bright and harsh.

Dean jerked open the screen and slammed into the house, running into the room he shared with his brother. The door to the closet was still pulled open from his initial, desperate search. His own duffle, full of every item he never wanted to leave behind, was just as he'd left it. Sam's- a gift from their Dad when he decided Sam could be trusted to keep up in case of emergency- was gone.

The phone rang. It was nine o'clock.

Dean walked out to the living room and picked up the phone, gripping the receiver in his fist. "Hello?" he said, voice numb.

"Dean," came the growl of his dad's voice from across the line. "How's Sammy?"

A fist closed around Dean's throat, trying to stop him from speaking. "Sir," Dean choked out. His hand on the receiver was shaking. "I can't- Sammy's gone, sir. He left."

The phone was silent but for his father's breath. "He left?" The question was incredulous. "When did he leave?"

"I don't know. I came home and he was gone."

"Your school gets out before your brother's, Dean- so where the hell were you?"

"I was out, Dad. Sir. I looked, asked around, but no-one has any idea where he's gone."

"Shut up, Dean. I'm coming home. It'll take me a few hours to find someone to take over. You are going to stay put, you hear me? Sammy might still come home."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

The phone clicked dead next to his ear.

It was dark by the time John got home. The doors opened quietly and he stood framed against the dim light of the streetlamp outside. "Dean," he said, as he stepped through and flipped the switch next to the door. The bare light bulb overhead sent the room into sharp relief.

Dean was sitting hunched over on the couch, head buried in his hands. Spread out on the table in front of him was all the paperwork Sam had accumulated in their time here- homework, tests, permission slips. His eyes, when he turned them on his father, were dim and bloodshot. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he registered John's presence. "Dad," he said, voice hoarse.

John's legs ate up the space between them. His hand snapped out, quick as a snake, and tangled itself in Dean's hair. He pulled Dean's head forward, grip tight, forcing Dean's head to chest level, body twisted to accommodate the awkward position. "Where were you, Dean?" he asked. He used his grip on Dean's hair to shake him, once, hard. "Sammy gets home after you do- or he should. So where were you, Dean?"

"I'm sorry," Dean gasped out, tears welling up. He blinked rapidly to clear the tears. "I was out- I was. I was with a girl."

"A girl," John said, voice flat. "You've been leaving your brother alone again for a girl." He let go of Dean's hair and, almost casual, backhanded Dean across the face.

Dean twisted with the blow and kept his eyes lowered. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

John shoved Dean and watched neutrally as Dean stumbled back a handful of steps. "Fists up," he said. His fists hung loose at his sides, clenching and unclenching slowly.

Dean straightened. The side of his face was flushed re d, swelling up lightly already. He raised his fists into a casual fighting stance and shifted his stance, ready.

When John swung out with his fists, Dean barely swerved. John's right hook took him full in the face, colliding hard with his temple. Dean stumbled and took a clumsy swing at John, a glancing blow that slid off John's shoulder.

"You're getting lazy, Dean," he said. He started jabbing at Dean's torso, sloppy, hard punches- markedly different from the near-surgical precision he used in their training sessions. John's fits collided with Dean's sternum, stomach, gut and in one breath-stealing shot, his liver. Dean was barely standing by the end of it, fists still held up as th ough they were going to fight back.

"You can't even put up a fight." John raked his eyes down Dean's body, taking in the sweat, the back and forth sway . He snorted and lowered his fists. "Fine, then. If you won't act like a man, I won't treat you like one. Over the arm of the couch, pants down."

Dean's eyes widened in shock. "Yes, sir." With shaking hands, he undid his pants, lowering them and stepping out of the legs. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"Whore," John said to himself, angry. "My first born son is no better than a whore."

Dean bit his lip and bent over the arm of the couch, awkward. His t-shirt rode up slightly, leaving his ass completely visible.

John dropped his hands to his belt. He opened it slowly, pulling on the buckle and guiding the strap through his belt-loops. He folded it over once so he was gripping both ends in one hand. Without preamble, he brought his arm back and swung the strap forward. It hit across the skin of Dean's buttocks with a sharp crack, leaving behind a bright red strip.

His arm rose and fell rhythmically, the loud slapping sound of leather on skin filling the air. Dean's ass, thighs and back went from the smooth, golden colou r they started at, past pink, past red, until they had darkened to a dark, bruised colour, red over bruised dark skin. Blue was fading in on Dean's back around the deeper edges of red already.

Against the bed, Dean was crying silently. Harsh sobs wracked his body, little wet breaths smothered into the couch cushions. John could see the snot running from Dean's nose, mixing with his tears to stain the couch dark. His son looked painfully young like that, limbs too long and thin, coltish. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked.

Before Dean could answer, the phone rang. John looked at his son- unable to push himself up out of his snot, let alone answer the phone. He set the belt down and reached over to pick up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice was slightly out of breath with the exertion but evened out quickly.

"Hi!" chirped a happy, female voice. "Is Dean there? It's Sarah."

"Sarah," John repeated. He turned his gaze, hard, on his son. "I'm sorry Sarah, but Dean can't come to phone right now. I'll tell him you called."

"Sure!" came the voice from the receiver, before John settled the phone back in its cradle.

"Was that the girl you were with, Dean?" he asked. His rage, quelled by the violence, swelled up in his breast again. "Was that the girl you went out and whored around with while your brother ran away?"

"Yes," Dean gasped out around his still hitching breaths. "She's- she's in my homeroom, her dad owns the grocery store, she lets me-"

"I don't want to hear it," John said, disgusted by Dean's attempt at an excuse. "I told you to stay here and take care of your brother. You disobeyed and he's gone. I don't want to hear about how you've been sticking your dick into girls for the sake of your family. Your family walked out that door and you had no idea it was happening." He put his hands on the bruised flesh of Dean's ass and gripped it tight, digging his fingers in. "You try to peddle your ass the same way you peddle your dick?"

Dean twisted around to stare at John, eyes wide. After a too-long pause, a quick "No," escaped his lips.

John stilled and loosened his grip for a second. "You have," he breathed out, shocked. He let his fingers stray into the crease of Dean's ass, wondering. "Did you turn yourself into a whore while I wasn't looking or have you always been this way?"

"I didn't- it wasn't like that," Dean said, the whites showing around his eyes. He tried to twitch away when John's fingers brushed over his entrance, a scared whine creeping out from inside his chest.

"My son, the whore," John said, voice distant. He pushed his fingers into his son's ass, too-hard against the tight skin. When he twisted his fingers, he could feel his nails catch on the delicate skin of his son's apparentlyfuckable ass, but ignored it. He knew where the prostate was- Mary had been a firecracker in all the best ways- and he used that knowledge to find and press into his son's, hard.

Almost in a trance, John fucked his son on his fingers. It seemed like a dream- Sammy gone and Dean here, beaten past red into hurt, his hole clenched like a vice around John's fingers.

"Daddy, please." Dean's voice broke in on John's thoughts like a clap of thunder. He dragged his fingers out of Dean's entrance and stumbled back, nausea rolling his stomach over.

"Put your pants back on," John said finally. He ran a tired hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes, trying to work out the tension headache he'd been wracked with since Dean's call. "And for god's sake, put on some underpants."

"'Can't," Dean said, eyes low. "Everything's dirty."

"Then you should have done the laundry, Dean." John kept his eyes off his son as he dressed. "If you can't handle a simple thing like that, I don't know why I thought you could handle your brother."

"I'm sorry," Dean let out. A fresh bout of tears squeezed past the slit of his eyes, dampening his too-long eyelashes. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened tear-free eyes. "But I think- I think I found something."

"What, Dean?" John asked, head tipped back.

"Sammy's class had a day trip a few weeks back, just after we moved here- you remember, you had to sign that slip? They went to Flagstaff. They went to that, that pioneer village thing. I called the bus station; they said a kid matching Sam's description bought a ticket to Flagstaff." Dean's words tumbled out of his mouth quickly, almost tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.

"Flagstaff," John muttered to himself. Flagstaff was big- a whole hell of a lot bigger than Eloy. "If he's there, we have to leave now. We won't be able to catch him, but we might be able to find someone who saw him.

"You're driving, Dean. I need to sleep. When I wake up, we're going to find your brother. You think you can do that, at least?"

Dean practically wilted at John's words. "Yes, sir."