tehdirtiestsock | Negotiation Tactics (John/Sam)

This was supposed to be a short setup to the first time John fucked Sam, but it grew of its own volition into the long setup, and then I decided I liked it enough on its own merits to post it before I got the porn itself done. so I give you the Rare Pornless Trainingverse ficlet, the only member of its species.

I hope you don't let that put you off :) there will be an explicit follow-up...I just love their dynamic here, Sam as a normal(ish) middle child and John as a *father*, and I didn't want it to get buried in the porn.

[/self-justification]

Training!verse master post
set when Eliza is a newborn, so the boys are 7 and 11.

“John,” Mary breathes out as soon as he walks through the door. “You have to do something. Sam is—”

She doesn’t even try to explain what Sam’s been up to today. Just throws up her hands, face gaunt and drawn. She looks exhausted, more so than usual since Eliza came, and John doesn’t need the run-down anyway…he can guess. Sammy’s been acting out more and more since the baby arrived. They went through this with Dean, but—as is the case with everything—Sam is…more. More stubborn, more distraught, more infuriating.

John’s youngest son is kind of a drama queen. Not that he’s been able to say that out loud more than once. Mary bitch-slapped him hard enough the first time. But it’s true.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll….” John runs a hand over his face, pretty fucking tired himself. Between the garage’s booming business and taking the night watch with Liza, he’s been burning the candle at both ends. But one more look at the deep purple gauges under Mary’s eyes and he gathers her in. She sinks against him hard enough that he almost stumbles back, small as she is. “Ok, I’ll figure something. Why don’t you go take a nap, huh? We can order dinner in.”

When she pulls back, her eyes are damp and Jesus, yeah, today must have been a bad one. He gives her a little push towards the stairs. “Go on.”

He lingers in the foyer a little longer, after she’s gone. Gathers up his patience for whatever shitstorm he’s about to walk into. He knows he was wise to do so the moment he steps into the living room. Dean and Sam are at each other’s throats, and John can count the number of times that’s happened on one hand. But he hasn’t even tried to break up the fight yet when his presence draws Sammy’s wrath.

There’s a quicksilver flash of fear and guilt before Sam’s face becomes a mask of righteous indignation. His little frame is so tense he’s practically vibrating, fists curled at his sides and he’s near tears when he bellows, “IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

It’s a blessing in disguise that John is bone-deep exhausted, because his first impulse—the impulse to out-scream his seven-year-old—is quickly smothered under a blanket of sleep deprivation. Sam deserves to have his ass kicked for yelling at John that way, doubly kicked because John’s sure Mary was on the receiving end before him. Christ only knows how he managed to get Dean pissed at him. But that would take more energy than John has, and once the knee-jerk for retaliation has passed, all John sees is a little boy that’s possibly more exhausted than he is himself.

An impression that’s reinforced by the way Sam blanches when his shouting brings an answering cry from the baby upstairs. Something that John ignores for the moment.

“I know it wasn’t,” he says quietly, though he knows no such thing. He has no idea what happened and he’s half-sure Sam started it, but that’s the easy thing to say…and apparently the right one. Because Sam looks like John just pulled the rug out from under him, face going slack with shock and hope, and John kind of wants to laugh.

Because Goddamn, but Sam is his kid. All you have to do to end an argument is agree with him. Apparently.

“Dean, will you go see to Eliza?” John finally says. Dean frowns at him and Sam, not quite sure what the hell is going on here. “Your mom is taking a nap,” John hints, and Dean’s face clears, distracted by having a new mission. He slips upstairs and thirty seconds later, the house is silent again.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Sam reiterates, but this time he sounds plaintive and confused. John lets his weight fall onto the couch like so many potatoes and gestures him over.

Sam hesitates, probably not convinced yet that he’s out of the woods for a spanking. He probably deserves it, but John’s tried that and it obviously hasn’t worked. Plus, he’s really fucking tired.

“C’mere, kiddo. Let’s talk.”

Either those are the magic words or John sounds like he’s not mad, because Sammy only hesitates a little before he crawls right into John’s lap. John hauls him into a more comfortable position and reclines back, groaning as he toes his boots off.

“Not a lot of sleep to be had with a new baby in the house,” he comments lightly, and Sam buries his face in John’s neck before he nods. It can’t smell good, after a day of sweating over cars, but Sammy fits there, the way he always has, even though he’s getting so big.

Sometimes John wonders…if Mary were a different woman, if they were a more…normal family, would the boys be too grown-up by now to hug their old man? Probably. John remembers the burning need to be a grown and independent, and it starts so young. He runs his fingers through Sammy’s hair appreciatively and feels Sam’s wrung-out sigh against his throat.

“You were a colicky baby,” John comments. “Way worse than Eliza. Used to find Dean asleep in his closet with the door closed some nights, and a pillow over his head.”

“Nuh-uh,” Sam mumbles. He sounds slightly less taciturn than before.

“Yuh-huh. But you grew out of it, and she will too. You just have to act like a big kid til then. We’re all tired, buddy. You’re not the only one, so you need to quit acting like you are.”

John realizes that the suck it up line of logic was a major miscalculation as soon as Sam tenses up. When he pulls his face out of hiding, it’s twisted into a scowl again.

“I’m not tired,” Sammy lies, voice escalating. “And I’m not a baby.”

“Then quit acting like one,” John fires back without thinking. Sam scrambles off his lap, and oh look, they’re gonna fight after all. That was too good to last.

“Everybody treats me like one!” Sam accuses, high and shrill enough to make a dog howl. Eliza starts to wail in harmony, and John hears the floorboards creak in their bedroom as Mary gives up on sleep.

John grabs Sam by the upper arm and yanks him closer before he can run off and pout for a week. “This. This is what I’m talking about, Sam. It’s gotta stop. There’s only room for one baby in the family, and Eliza’s it.”

John’s an asshole. Mary seems to think he’s some kind of saint, but John knows, deep down, that he’s an asshole. Which is pretty much confirmed, proof positive, when Sammy looks utterly slapped just before he bursts into tears. John thinks pop psychology is bullshit but it’s pretty fucking obvious he said exactly the wrong thing. Cuz he’s an asshole.

“C’mere, c’mere, sorry kiddo. Ssshhh.” Sam struggles when John pulls him back onto his lap, nearly knees him in the balls but after a second he just collapses, utterly and completely, and bawls against John’s shoulder like he’s heartbroken. Christ. He knows it’s mostly exhaustion, mixed with frustration, maybe, but Sam’s jag is so violent that John can’t help but feel guilty. And like a sorry excuse for a parent. And thankful as fuck he’s not raising this kid alone. Mary never would have said that.

He and Sam are doomed to push each other’s buttons. Jesus fuck, help them all when this kid starts trying to be his own man.

For now, he’s just learning how to be a big boy, and that’s painful enough. Sam cries so loud and so long that he outpaces the baby…John doesn’t even register how quiet everyone else is til Dean appears on the stairs, peering into the living room with wide eyes. And John has the feeling Sam is gonna be embarrassed enough about wailing all over his old man, so there’s no need to pile on Dean as a witness to this humiliation. Dean’s not thrilled when John signals for him to go away, but he does it.

John’s exhausted by the time Sam finally winds down. His little body is shuddery with wrung-out breath, and the pattern John’s hand takes up automatically against the boy’s small back is a throwback to the colicky years.

Sam was never meant to be an easy kid.

“There you go, breathe,” he murmurs, chest falling in an exaggerated in and out until Sam catches his rhythm and quiets.

“I’m s-sorry.”

It’s a garbly, muffled plea against the wet cotton of John’s work shirt, and it’s a struggle not to chuckle in response. Sam doesn’t generally have a sense of humor at times like these, and gets offended as a wet cat at those who do. “Nothin to apologize for, kiddo. Sometimes a man’s gotta cry.”

Sam pulls back at that, face filled with blatant skepticism. John’s heart squeezes at how bloodshot and swollen his own eyes look in that tiny, elfin face. “Dean says boys aren’t supposed to cry.”

John narrowly avoids rolling his eyes at that. “Who you gonna trust, Dean, or your old man?” he challenges.

Sam, bless him, doesn’t look all that certain of his answer. He has the kind of blind faith in his brother that Dean has in John.

“Hell,” he continues when it’s clear Sam’s not ready to make his choice. “Sometimes you kids wear me out so bad, I wanna sit down and cry.”

Sam’s face squishes up indignantly. “Nuh-uh.”

That makes John grin. Sam might not trust him as far as he can throw him, but he still thinks his dad is invincible. Sam lights up in reflection and nuzzles in like a puppy against his work shirt.

It’s a little less charming when his snotty nose leaves a trail of slime in its wake. John sets him on his feet and pops his butt. “Why don’t you go rinse your face, come back and we’ll brainstorm.”

It’s Sam’s new favorite activity, though John feels silly, using that word. Sam tilts his head like he knows. “Mano-a-mano?”

Permission to leave the brainstorm to Mary. John smothers a smile. “Yup.”

“About what?”

“Go wash that gunk off your face, and I’ll tell you.”

He actually dozes off, a little, to the sound of water running in the kitchen sink. When he startles himself awake, Sam is perched on the edge of the coffee table two feet away, staring right at him.

“About what?” he pursues.

For a second, John is lost. Then he remembers what started this mess. “How we can treat you like more of a big kid.”

Sam tilts his head again, lips pressed and eyes narrowed like he’s trying to decide if John’s full of shit.

“Any ideas?” he prompts after Sam says nothing.

“Chores,” Sam says immediately. John’s brain stutters in place.

“Chores?”

Sam nods solemnly. “I’m big enough to do some of Dean’s stuff.”

He’s flabbergasted. John was pretty sure they’d be bargaining for a later bedtime or...candy for dinner. “But then what would Dean do?”

Sam shrugs. “You’re his parents,” the little shit replies. “Something harder. His stuff is too easy for him now.”

John’s pretty sure Dean won’t be thrilled to find out his brother’s volunteering him for hard labor, but he’s not wrong. “That’s what you want. More chores.”

“Not more chores, different chores,” Sam clarifies. “And I don’t want it, I’ll just do it to earn what I want.”

Sneaky motherfucker. Some day, Sam is going to run circles around them all. “And what is it that you want?”

Sam’s nervous. It doesn’t show so much on his little poker face, but the way he shifts to sit on his hands is a tell. “I want you to put it in me.”

Fuck. Sneaky.mother.fucker. “Sam. You’re too young.”

“I’m younger than Dean was the first time you put it in him, but I’m not smaller. I checked on the wall, I’m just as big now as he was back then. And that’s what should count, right? I’m big enough now.”

Kid should be a lawyer, the way he’s mastered the loophole. “Sammy—”

“You won’t hurt me, and that’s what matters, isn’t it? And if I’m really a big kid, like you say I am, I should be allowed to say I want it, now that we know it won’t hurt me.” His eyes are bright and intense on John’s, impatient and quick to catch on to the fact that John has no coherent argument to counter with. Beyond the old gem, I said so. He’s not above using that one, but it’ll lead to round two of the earlier screaming and he doesn’t have the energy. “Dad?”

“We’ll see,” he says finally. And before Sam can bitch like he’s opened his mouth to, “No, Sam. I’ll talk with your mother.”

She’ll say he should do it. But John’s not above stall tactics, either.

TBC