Five Times
by Minx
Tupelo, Mississippi – Residence of Mrs. Eleanor Clifton
JUNE 1986
John nodded, jotting down the information the elderly woman supplied to him about the big, black dog that had attacked her and her husband a week ago. Late husband, John mentally corrected himself as he looked back up from his journal to offer Eleanor Clifton a genuinely sympathetic smile. He knew exactly what it felt like to lose your spouse to something you couldn’t fully explain without people thinking you were a prime candidate for the loony bin.
Eleanor shifted a little on the chintz couch, easing her sprained ankle, which was wrapped tightly in an ace bandage, up onto a cushion to ease the throbbing a bit. She smiled tearfully at John.
“Thank you, again, Detective Walsh,” she said.
“Call me, Steven, ma’am,” John coaxed, trying to stay her nerves and gain some sense of familiarity with her in order to gain her confidence.
She nodded. “Steven. I appreciate you taking an honest interest in what happened.” She hesitated, fighting back the tears. “The other officers…they thought I was exaggerating – you know, from my grief – about the size of that…brute of an animal…that took my Bill from me.”
John may have been fairly new to the whole hunting gig, but he was under no delusions as to what had killed Eleanor Clifton’s husband. He’d bet his last dollar on it. A black shuck.
He glanced down at his wristwatch, tracking the time carefully. He was anxious to get back out to the car to check on Dean and Sam. He’d left his two young sons in the back seat of the Impala twenty minutes ago with strict instructions not to leave the car or else. While Dean and Sam were good about obeying his orders, John wasn’t a fool. He’d learned pretty quickly that both his seven-year-old and his three-year-old had the combined attention span of a cocker spaniel at best, and left alone for any length of time, the two inquisitive boys usually ended up getting into some sort of trouble or another.
“Well, I think I’ve got everything, Mrs. Clifton,” John stated, trying to sound official as he rose from his seat. “I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of any new leads we get. Thank you for your time and my deepest sympathies to you and your family.”
Once outside, John closed his eyes and took in a deep lungful of the rain-scented Spring air, letting it out slowly. The jobs were never easy. None of them. Someone always seemed to die, and it pissed John off that there seemed to be so much darkness and evil in the world that went unnoticed by the average layman walking down the street. He stuffed his journal into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and started towards the Impala, a small smile creeping over his lips. No matter how bad it got sometimes, one look at Dean’s crooked grin or Sammy’s big green eyes made it bearable for him.
John’s upbeat mood quickly evaporated when he saw that the Impala sat at the curb, empty. His breath hitched and his heart sped up as adrenalin suddenly coursed through his system. He threw open the passenger side door of the sleek black car to check the floors and backseat, thinking perhaps Dean and Sam were hiding, playing a game or something, but no, no boys in sight.
John whirled around, leaving the car door wide open, his eyes searching rapidly, frantically around him.
“Dean! Sammy!” John shouted, as he swept his gaze over the front yards and little field across the street from where he stood. “Boys!” he called, panic seeping into his voice.
“Daddy?”
A mixture of relief and concern filled John at the sound of Dean’s voice coming from across the street. He caught sight of the top of his oldest child’s dark blonde head, peeking out from the rim of the drainage ditch. Running, John was at Dean’s side in a matter of seconds, scooping his child up and hugging him close.
“Oh my God,” John moaned into Dean’s short, brush-cut hair, tears coming to his eyes, “Are you okay?” He held the boy at arm’s length, inspecting him and then set him down, quickly scanning the area for his youngest offspring. “Dean, where’s your brother? Where’s Sammy?”
Dean bit his lip and didn’t say anything. John stared at him, his panic rising once more.
“Dean,” John said, a little firmer this time. He grabbed the boy by his upper arms, giving him a shake. “Where is Sammy?”
“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled, staring down at his dirty sneakers in shame.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” John snapped, trying not to scare Dean, but doing a bad job of it. “Wasn’t Sam with you?”
Dean shrugged, fidgeting nervously and continued to focus on the ground. “I don’t know,” he repeated quietly.
John could tell his son was lying by the way Dean refused to meet his eyes. “Dean. Where. The. Hell. Is. Your. Brother?” he demanded angrily, his temper escalating.
“I don’ wanna say ‘cause you’re gonna be mad,” Dean whined, lower lip quivering, as he squirmed in apprehension.
John was speechless for a moment, and then he felt the anger well up inside himself like a geyser getting ready to blow. He bent down, eyes on level with Dean’s, his voice calm but full of warning.
“Dean James Winchester, you tell me where your brother is right now or you’re going to get a spanking you won’t ever forget!”
Dean, usually pretty stoic about most things, burst into tears. “It wasn’t my fault, Daddy!” he sobbed pitifully. “Sammy was the one that went after it. He just jumped out of the car, n’ he was too fast n’ besides, he bit me when I tried to stop him, and, and...” Dean sobbed harder, unable to get the rest of the story out. He pointed to the corrugated metal drainage pipe behind him. “He’s in there…”
John stared at the pipe in stunned disbelief. He let go of Dean and wandered closer to the pipe, which appeared to be a couple feet or so in diameter and knelt down, peering into the solid black depths of the opening.
“Sammy? Son, you in there?” John gently called. He heard rustling and then a faint mewl that sounded more like a cat than a three-year-old boy. “Sam?”
A whimper this time, sounding a little more human, but John couldn’t be for sure. He turned to Dean. “Dean, run get me the big flashlight from the car. Hurry.”
Dean sped off…
“Jesus fuck me Christ,” John swore under his breath as he played the beam of the flashlight in his hand down the inside of the drainage pipe.
There. Almost smack in the center of the six foot long pipe, was Sam. He was facing away from John, the faint yellow glow of the flashlight splashed across the little boy’s muddy backside and legs.
“Daddy?” a small, timid voice queried, and John breathed a sigh of relief.
“You all right, kiddo?” John questioned.
“The kitty cat won’t come,” Sam stated petulantly.
“What?” John frowned in puzzlement.
“I petted him and he cried, but he won’t come wif me,” Sam tried to explain.
John looked over at Dean for clarification.
“There was this kitten and we were watching it from the car and all, and then it ran across the road into the ditch here and Sammy wanted to go after it,” Dean explained. “I tried to stop him, Dad, but he bit me!” Dean pointed at the faint teeth marks on his forearm. “The kitten ran into the pipe and started crying so Sammy went after him and well, that’s when you showed up,” Dean finished and hung his head again.
Twenty minutes and a lot of coaxing later, John managed to extract a very dirty, very recalcitrant little three-year-old from the drainage pipe. It took another five and a half minutes and a minor tantrum for John to convince Sam to let go of the bedraggled calico kitten he was clutching tightly to his chest.
Much like Sam had been unwilling to give up the cat, John cradled his child in his arms, not wanting to let him go for fear of losing him again. He knew that was irrational to think but couldn’t help it. He’d lost too many things in his life that had been precious to him and Sam and Dean weren’t ever going to be next on that list, if he could help it.
When John finally calmed down enough that he wasn’t shaking anymore, he took both his boys to task, spanking their denim-clad bottoms until his hand was hot and stinging. Sam got quite the spanking of his young life for racking up a whole list of violations: leaving the car against orders, biting his brother, crossing a street by himself, climbing into the pipe and refusing to come out and then arguing with his father about leaving the kitten behind.
While Sam understood why he was getting punished, Dean was quite the opposite. In fact, his older son was almost belligerent about it, coming close to earning another round of swats from John.
“It’s not fair! Sammy’s the one that left the car!” Dean complained, a black scowl on his face as he tearfully rubbed at his stinging behind. “How come I got it too?” He shot Sam a dirty look. “Stupid head,” he spat, and John pointed a warning finger at him.
“Hey, enough of that,” John scolded. “You keep running your mouth, little boy, and you’re going right back over my knee.”
That shut Dean up instantly.
John continued, giving Dean a long, measured look. “You got spanked for lying to me, Dean.” Dean winced. “Yeah, that’s right. I asked you where your brother was and you lied to me and said you didn’t know, not once, but twice.”
“I didn’t wanna get in trouble,” Dean groused.
“Yeah? And what did you think lying to me was going to get you?” John shot back. “The minute Sam took off, you should have come and got me. That’s standard procedure and you know it, Dean.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But, nothing,” John countered. “You know the rules and you chose to ignore them. Both of you did. And now you’re facing the consequences of your decisions.”
“I don’ like cons-kwenzes, they hurts my bottom!” Sam declared sadly as he shifted in John’s arms.
John snorted. “You don’t want a sore backside, kiddo, then you do what I tell you from now on. Got it?”
Sam nodded, snuffling into John’s shoulder, hiding his face because he knew he’d been naughty but didn’t want to admit it. John glanced down at Sam’s feet, noticing for the first time that he was wearing only one shoe. The other foot was covered only by a wet, muddy sock that had a large-size hole in the heel of it.
“Sammy, where’s your shoe, buddy?” John questioned in puzzlement.
Sam pointed to the entrance of the pipe. “In d’ere,” he moped, on the verge of tears again, his lower lip jutting out in the saddest of pouts. “I losted my shoe.”
“I’ll go get it,” Dean sighed in weary resignation and headed for the pipe but was brought up short by John’s hand on the scruff of his neck.
“Oh, no you won’t!” John warned. “Sam can wear his slippers until we can stop to get him another pair of sneakers.” He turned, heading for the Impala, carrying Sam, with Dean still in tow by his shirt collar. “The only thing I want to see you two climbing into right now is the backseat of the car,” he ordered, his voice tired but still full of enough parental authority that neither boy chose to argue. “We’ve had enough adventures down the rabbit hole for one day.”
Blythe, California - The Tropic Motor Hotel
DECEMBER 1988
“No, not like that, Sammy. You gotta build it up, kinda on the tip of your tongue. Keep your mouth tight n’ blow it out hard,” Dean explained patiently.
Dean was teaching his little brother, Sam, an important skill. He was teaching him how to spit. They’d been practicing for the past five or so minutes. Sam had just about managed to finally get enough saliva gathered up to form a decent spitball, but he was still having trouble getting the stuff to shoot out of his mouth properly.
The two boys stood in front of the candy machine that was tucked away in the shelter of a little‑used alcove off the wing of the motel where the boys and their dad were currently staying— The Tropic Motor Hotel. Nothing much tropical about it though, Dean noted wryly, as he dug the change his dad had given him out of the front pocket of his jeans.
It was early December, still chilly enough to have to wear a jacket outside, and, despite the plethora of palm trees swaying lazily in the stiff breeze around the perimeter of the parking lot, the rest of the place looked exactly like every other nondescript motel they stayed at all across the country. Same whitewashed concrete walls. Same oversized ugly neon signage. And, same cracked sidewalks littered with gum wrappers and cigarette butts.
Dean plugged the quarters into the machine, selecting from the slim choices offered and pressed the button.
“Like this?” Sam questioned.
He tugged at the hem of Dean’s jacket, wanting Dean’s attention. Dean glanced down and Sam screwed up his face in deep concentration, lips pooching out. He spit hard, but not hard enough. Sam ended up covering his chin and the front of his worn sweatshirt with a wide spray of his own saliva.
Dean let out a little chuckle. “Um, well that was a good try, Sammy. But you gotta keep the wad of spit a little tighter next time.” He reached down to tousle Sam’s unruly hair, letting the five-year-old know that his efforts were honorable and appreciated. Sam wiped his chin on the cuff of his sweatshirt, grinning happily.
Dean bent down to gather up the Hershey’s bars from the tray of the candy machine where they had dropped when he sensed movement directly behind him. A voice, full of snide contempt soon followed.
“Well if it isn’t the trailer trash boys, practicing their manners.”
Dean and Sam both looked up at that comment, Dean’s hackles rising. The kid was a couple years older than Dean, and his name was Justin. Dean knew that only because he’d heard the boy called that a couple of times in passing.
Justin and his mother were staying two doors down from the Winchesters. They had been at the crappy motel even longer than he, Sam and their father had, which for some reason made Justin act as if he owned the freaking place. Justin was a spoiled little jerk and had made rude comments and picked on Dean and Sam from day one. It was quite obvious he didn’t much care for the Winchesters. Dean didn’t have a problem with that. He loathed Justin right back.
“Hey, little trailer trashers, you buying yourselves some dinner there?” Justin teased, eyeing the candy bars now tightly clenched in Dean’s hand.
Dean said nothing. He grabbed Sam’s shirtfront and shoved his little brother behind him as he eyed the older boy.
“Whatsa matter?” Justin asked, brow raised skeptically at Dean. “You too stupid to talk? Hm? You one of those retards who can’t talk and pisses his pants and has to wear a diaper all the time?” He pointed at Sam, cowering behind Dean. “What’s with your brother? Looks like the halfwit drooled all over himself!”
Justin brayed laughter, and Sam sniffled, glancing briefly down at his spit-soaked sweatshirt and burrowed his head into Dean’s side in shame. Dean remained silent, the only sign of his rising fury the clenching of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes as he focused hard to keep from punching the kid. Justin quickly got bored when neither boy rose to his bait. He offered Dean and Sam one last haughty look of disgust before he turned to leave.
A smile burned slowly across Dean’s lips, yet his eyes remained cold and hard. Dean passed a candy bar to Sam, and then quickly peeled open his own and took a huge bite, chewing furiously but not swallowing. “Watch and learn, Sammy,” Dean whispered around the mouthful of warm chocolate.
Sam blinked back his tears, eyes wide, studying Dean attentively. Dean made a noise deep in his throat, face contorting, as he worked to hock up a large wad of phlegm, mixing it with the chocolate in his mouth. He took careful aim, calculating the breeze and trajectory easily in his head and then let fly with the spit, grinning with deep satisfaction when it hit Justin square in the back of his neck. The wad slowly traveled down past the opening of Justin’s tee shirt, leaving a dirty slime trail down the boy’s tanned skin.
Justin tensed, one hand flying to the back of his neck amidst gales of laughter from Dean and Sam. His fingers came away wet and sticky, and Justin stared down at the muddy brown mess in his hand, eyes growing wide with horror. He gagged, trying hard not to throw up on the spot.
Justin whirled about, glaring daggers at Dean and Sam as they continued to wheeze and snort in amusement. “I’m telling my mom!” Justin screamed at Dean, his face turning red. “You little turd! You just wait, I’m gonna tell and -”
Justin stopped mid-sentence when Dean took a menacing step towards him, fists balled up, ready to do some damage. Dean began to hock up another mouthful of spit in warning. Justin eyed Dean, sizing him up, and then he took an uneasy step backwards.
“You just wait!” Justin bawled, and pointed a shaky finger at Dean. He turned and fled as fast his Nikes could take him.
Sam squealed in delight. “You scared him away, Dean,” Sam said, giggling. “He was afraid of your spit!”
Dean shot Sam a victory grin. “That’s right, Sammy. That was my famous Hershey’s loogie and no one can withstand the epic power of that baby.”
“I wanna learn,” Sam pouted and gazed up at Dean with his doleful puppy eyes. “Show me how, Dean. Pleeease?”
And Dean did.
****
Sam stood in the corner sobbing hard, his butt on fire from the painful spanking his dad had just delivered to him. Even though his daddy had held him and rocked him afterwards, Sam wasn’t feeling particularly forgiving just yet towards anyone, but most especially not towards his older brother. In Sam’s mind, Dean was the whole reason his bottom was hurting right now.
Scrubbing at his reddened eyes, Sam took a deep shaky breath to still the sobs and listened with a bit of selfish satisfaction to Dean, somewhere behind him, howling in counterpoint to their father’s hand coming down hard on the bare flesh of his own rear end.
“Jesus Christ, Dean! How many times do I have to tell you not to teach your little brother stuff like that?” John Winchester growled as he laid into his nine-year-old, burning a stinging path of heat down Dean’s bottom to his upper thighs and back again with his big, callused hand.
“I’m sorry!” Dean wailed, tears stinging the backs of his eyes.
“You’re sorry?” John asked in disbelief as he continued to spank Dean, the blows coming down in a torrent of sharp swats. “How the hell do you think I feel? I’m the one that had to apologize to that kid’s mother for my toddler hocking up a spit wad the size of Montana on her!” John let his hand speak for how displeased he was. “Honestly, I don’t know what gets into you two sometimes!”
Despite the pain, Dean managed a brief smile at the memory of Justin’s mom standing at their motel room door, gasping in revulsion at the perfect loogie Sam had spit onto her bare thigh just below the cuff of her white linen shorts. That’d teach her to call him and Sam vile, little hoodlums, he thought gleefully before his father’s stern hand brought him back to the moment with painful clarity.
“No more spitting!” John ordered, and Dean readily agreed.
Evansville, Indiana - The Donna Motor Court
OCTOBER 1989
“Nuh uh!” Sam declared hotly. “Superman is like a gazillion times stronger and smarter than Batman!” He knelt on the motel bed, and shoved his comic book into Dean’s face, pointing. “Look! Superman can fly!”
Ten-year-old Dean Winchester huffed loudly, giving the comic book and Sam a stupendous eye roll. He pushed the magazine away with enough force to almost knock Sam off the bed. “So what? Batman can fly too,” he said.
“No, he can’t, Dean!” Sam challenged.
“Sure he can,” Dean shot back. He picked up his own comic book and riffled through the pages, stopping at one and proudly displaying it to his little brother. “See? What’s he doing right there, Sammy? Huh? That’s Batman. And he’s flying.”
Sam studied the comic a moment and then shot Dean a sour face. “He’s not flying. He’s swinging from his bat cable, and that’s not the same thing.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Batman could fly if he wanted to, he just doesn’t ‘cause he’s too cool for that,” he announced airily. He glared at Sam.
Sam smiled triumphantly.
“Batman could kick Superman’s big, fat, hairy ass any day of the week,” Dean stated in growing irritation. Because Batman was the epitome of a superhero in Dean’s mind, his dad not withstanding. John Winchester could kick ANYONE’S ass, hands down, even Batman’s. That was a given to Dean.
Dean sneered at his little brother. “Stop being such a little bitch for that dorky loser, Sammy,” he snapped and aimed a smack at Sam’s head for his troubles.
“Daddy’s gonna spank you for saying the ‘B’ word again, Dean,” Sam said, ducking the smack.
Dean stopped teasing Sam and glanced apprehensively towards the closed door of the bathroom. The noise of the shower running put him back at ease.
“Dad’s still in the shower, stupid, so he didn’t even hear me,” Dean said smugly. He laid his Batman comic down on the nightstand with a show of reverence and then smiled over at Sam. “Batman is tougher than Superman, Sammy, and I can prove it.”
****
“Samuel Michael Winchester! DON’T YOU DARE!”
John had come out of the bathroom barefoot and in jeans, a damp towel tossed over one shoulder, to spy his youngest child perched atop the wobbly chest of drawers against the far wall, getting ready to leap from it across to one of the wrought iron beds that Dean was already bouncing on top of. Both boys had stripped the blankets from the beds and had them tied around their necks.
“But Dad, I’m Superman!” Sam objected as he held his hands out in front of him. “I hafta show Dean I can fly! He flew and he’s Batman, so I hafta do it now or Dean says I’m a scaredy-cat, loser, butt-muncher! ”
Dean froze, his eyes quickly falling to the bedspread under his feet.
John glowered over at Dean. “You instigated this?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Dean bit his lip and continued to stare a hole in the bedspread. John nodded, eyes darkening.
“You just bought yourself a world-class paddling, buddy boy,” he told Dean. John pointed to the floor directly in front of him. “You’ve got to the count of three to get your – shit!”
From the corner of his eye, John saw Sam jump. His parental instincts kicked into high gear, and John swiveled and lunged forward, heart in his throat. Sam landed safely in his father’s outstretched arms, the force of his leap knocking them backwards and down. John let out a grunt as his backside met the floor, Sam on top of him, tangled up in the blanket around his neck.
“Dad!” Dean gasped, scrambling to the edge of the bed and peering down, mouth flopping open in shock.
“I’m okay, Dean,” John replied as he tore the blanket off Sam, checking the child for injuries. Sam huddled in his father’s lap, a proud grin on his six-year-old face.
“I did it! I flew!” Sam crowed, his eyes alight with triumph. “Did you see me?”
“Oh, I saw all right,” John seethed. Confident that Sam was injury-free, John immediately flipped the wriggling little boy over in his lap, putting a hand in the small of Sam’s back to keep him in place. “And now you’re going to see what happens when you disobey a direct order, mister!”
Sam’s grin slid off his face, replaced by a frown, from which quickly bloomed a lusty yelp as John laid into Sam’s backside with gusto.
“OW! Daddy, no!” Sam bawled. He kicked his legs as John spanked his bottom fast and hard.
John paused the spanking, his flinty gaze flicking up to Dean on the bed above him. He caught Dean’s eye, and gave his oldest child a malevolent look as he raised his hand to deliver another swat to Sam’s already smarting bottom.
“You’re next, Batman.”
Interstate Highway 80, somewhere in Nebraska - Lane’s Diner
MAY 1990
The pretty brunette waitress knew it was impolite to stare, much less laugh, knew it would probably cost her getting a tip, but she couldn’t help it. The little family sitting at her booth was just too hilarious to ignore.
45 MINUTES EARLIER…
“You’re awful quiet back there, guys,” John commented over his shoulder as he kept his eyes on the long stretch of dusty blacktop in front of him.
Dean piped up from the back seat of the Impala, sounding rather preoccupied for someone who was only eleven. “I’m drawing,” Dean announced and then bent his head back down to the task at hand.
Sounded pleasant enough, John thought as he signaled a lane change and steered the Impala into the passing lane. At least it was keeping his two boys quiet and occupied for the time being. They had a ways to go before they reached Singer’s place in Sioux Falls, and John was more than thankful for any bit of peace he could gain along the way.
“Sammy coloring too?” John asked absently.
“Nope,” Dean replied, head still bent down in concentration. “He’s sleeping.”
“Oh, well don’t wake him then,” John said. “Let him nap until we stop for lunch in a half hour or so. That way, he won’t be so cranky later on.”
“Okay, Dad,” Dean replied.
Even though Sam was seven, he often got tired in the late afternoons and, more often than not, his demeanor went from inquisitive, energetic puppy to scowling, bad-tempered hellion in the blink of an eye. John was all for letting the kid nap to avoid dealing with a temper tantrum later on, when he’d be tired himself from hours of sitting behind the wheel of the car.
The rumble of the Impala’s engine and steady supply of classic rock pouring softly from the dashboard radio worked their magic and soon Dean’s eyelids began drooping heavily too. A few minutes later, Dean was fast asleep, head lolling against the car door, Sam’s head still in his lap.
Sam snored softly in his sleep, nose twitching. Had John been able to look over the seat at the boy, he’d probably say it was fitting to his current situation. Sam now sported whiskers and a blue-inked nose, compliments of his big brother’s ‘drawing’. Dean still had the ink pen clutched in his hand, but his grip loosened the deeper he slept until the pen fell, hitting Sam in the ear and waking him up.
With a yawn, Sam sat up hazily and then frowned. Something looked off to him. He crossed his eyes, catching sight of the tip of his nose and then reached up to rub at it in puzzlement. His fingers came away blue. Sam glared over at Dean, still asleep. He glanced down at the ink pen that had rolled onto the floor of the car and a light bulb went off in Sam’s head. Careful so as not to wake Dean, Sam grabbed the pen from the floor and inched closer to his brother’s slumped form…
***
“Well, I didn’t know!” Dean exclaimed petulantly, stifling another sob as his father swung the hairbrush down, cracking against Dean’s bared bottom once more. The sharp report echoed off the tiled walls of the rest stop bathroom where Dean was bent over, head down, hands grasping the edge of the little sink in front of him for support.
Dean’s face hurt almost as much as his butt did from where his dad had spent nearly fifteen minutes desperately trying to scrub the blue handle-bar mustache off Dean’s upper lip. Sam had smirked and made faces at Dean from behind their father’s back until it was his turn with the water, soap and rough, scratchy restroom towels.
No matter what John tried — and he had been pretty inventive on that score — nothing would completely remove the mustache from Dean’s upper lip, or the whiskers and nose from Sam’s face. John let out a low growl of weary exasperation. Under better circumstances, he might have been less harsh about the punishment, might even have found the whole situation pretty humorous. But, he was tired from lack of sleep and driving all day, and this little episode did absolutely nothing to calm his frayed mood.
“Damn it! It says ‘permanent and indelible’ right there on the side of the pen, Dean!” John argued as he delivered a volley of heated swats to his son’s reddened backside. “And you know better than to write on your brother in the first place!”
“I told you I was drawing!” Dean retorted, his tone sullen yet managing an edgy sarcasm.
John answered him with another flurry of spanks to Dean’s already tender crease where butt met thigh, and Dean regretted his words and deeds almost immediately.
Sam stood, nose to the wall, next to his dad, awaiting his turn. He began to cry. “I don’t want a spanking,” he muttered, kicking the tiled wall in front of him.
“Yeah?” John snapped in return, never breaking stride on Dean. “Well, I don’t want to spend the rest of the day explaining to God and everyone else why my two smart ass kids have ink tattoos all over their faces either.”
Dean and Sam both winced at that, Dean adding a scalding yelp when his dad caught him in a particularly sore spot for the third time in a row.
***
“Stop crying, kiddo, it’ll wear off in a few days,” John explained gently once again to his youngest, who kept rubbing at his blued nose, his face scrunched up into a monumental pout.
“I don’ wanna be a bunny no more,” Sam griped tearfully. “N’ ice cream and pie’s not gonna make it all better, either.”
John groaned inwardly. He leveled a volatile glare across the table towards Dean, who sat quietly, but with the tiniest of smirks on his face, despite the uncomfortable ache in his backside.
“Something funny to you, Dean?” John questioned in a tone that suggested he wasn’t looking for any answer other than ‘no, sir’.
“No, sir,” Dean said, as expected, although he couldn’t help but think that at least Sam had given him a sort of cool ‘tattoo’, much better than what he’d done to Sam. He reached up to run a finger along his upper lip.
The waitress returned with their drink orders and bit the inside of her cheek hard, tears of mirth springing to her eyes as she tried to concentrate on her pad and pen instead of the two meek little boys fidgeting like crazy in the booth in front of her. From the looks the father kept shooting at them from across the table, it wasn’t too hard to guess what had happened. The youngest one whimpered quietly and reached down to surreptitiously rub at the seat of his jeans. No, not hard to guess at all.
“So…that’s a meatloaf special for you,” the waitress recited back, glancing over at John, then back down to her pad before she lost it and cracked up totally. “And, two kid’s burger plates, plus pie ala modes for the Easter Bunny and Black Bart, here…”
Blue Earth, Minnesota - Pastor Jim Murphy’s residence
AUGUST 1991
The watermelon was sweet and juicy as Dean bit into the ripened wedge in his hand. He turned slightly on the grass where he was sprawled and spit out a fat, dark seed at his brother.
“Quit it,” Sam complained, brushing the seed off his arm where it had stuck. He slurped watermelon juice off his hand and took a bite of his own wedge. “Wha time’sa moo-ie?” he asked around the mouthful of melon.
“Four-thirty,” Dean promptly answered. “Dad said he’d take us if he and Pastor Jim get all the painting done before then.”
The Winchesters had been staying at Jim Murphy’s for the past two weeks, helping their dad’s old friend do some repair jobs on the rectory buildings. Dean and Sam had both been very good about lending a hand where they could, for the most part, and John had decided to reward them for their efforts. He’d given in to Dean’s pleadings and was planning on taking them to see a matinee of Terminator 2, the movie Dean had been yearning to see. The big caveat was that the painting had to get done on Jim’s house first. Otherwise, the movie would have to wait for some other time.
Dean took another chomp of watermelon, watching the two older men up on ladders against the side of the house, paint brushes in hand and sighed deeply.
“What?” Sam asked.
Dean eyed the job at hand, calculating in his head. There seemed to be a lot of wall left to paint, in his opinion and it was already getting close to two o’clock. Dropping his watermelon rind on the ground between him and Sam, Dean got up, brushing the grass from his pants and headed toward his dad.
“What’s up, bud?” John called down to Dean when he caught sight of him standing near the ladders. “You still hungry?”
“No, sir,” Dean replied. “Just wondering how much longer you think it’ll take?”
John’s lips thinned. Dean had been asking that same question every twenty minutes or so since they’d started on the last wall earlier in the day. While he understood why his son asked, it still irritated John that Dean was doing it.
“It’ll take as long as it takes, Dean,” John answered gruffly, wiping his brush off on a rag.
Jim passed a can of paint to John, giving Dean a sympathetic smile. “I know how badly you want to see that movie, Dean,” he said. “But if we don’t get this done today, then I’m going to have to pay extra for the use of the ladders and other paint equipment the church rented. But, I’ll tell you what, if you end up missing the movie today, I’ll take you tomorrow – I’ll even pay for popcorn, drinks, candy – the whole shebang, how’s that?”
“You don’t have to do that,” John protested, but Jim held up a hand.
“No, no. I’m thankful for all the help you and the boys have given me these last couple of weeks, John, and it’s only fair that I show my appreciation.”
Dean didn’t seem too happy though. John eyed him and frowned.
“I’d think you’d be showing a little gratitude yourself for that offer, son,” he said tightly. He’d taught his boys to be respectful and Dean’s sulking grated on him.
“Today’s the last day they’re showing Terminator 2, Dad,” Dean commented, a hint of a challenge in his voice.
“Well, then, we’ll go to some other movie tomorrow, if this takes too long,” Jim offered, trying to make the best of the situation. “Any movie you and Sam want, Dean.”
Dean offered up a weak smile, nodding. “The only movie I wanna see is that one,” he stated sullenly under his breath as he turned away and headed back towards Sam.
****
John and Jim were in the kitchen, taking a short break from their work, enjoying a couple of ice-cold beers, when they heard a crash, followed by a boyish shriek of outrage and someone bellowing “sonuvabitch!” in obvious exasperation.
John was out the door before Jim fully registered that the noise outside could only have come from Dean and Sam.
“Lord, help us,” Jim muttered, wincing and sending up a silent prayer. He ran to catch up to John.
By the time Jim rounded the side of the rectory, John already had Dean bent over his knee, the kid’s jeans puddled unceremoniously around his ankles, and was paddling the boy’s thinly clad behind with one of the long, wooden paint stirrers that had been lying on the ground next to the paint cans. Dean was hollering loudly, a testament to the thin paddle’s wicked sting.
Jim was a kind and sympathetic man; he had to be in his line of work. But, the sight of all the wreckage strewn before him made him slightly less charitable to the young man now getting a well-deserved lesson in patience.
Both ladders had toppled over, and the empty paint bucket was on its side a few feet away where it had rolled after hitting the ground. Off-white paint splattered everything. It was splashed across the nearby grass and over the small window beneath where the ladders had been. It drenched the flowers in the bed beneath the window, and even covered Sam from head to toe. The young boy was truly a pathetic sight; standing with his shoulders slumped, dripping “warm vanilla sugar” latex paint, a look of anxious regret on his face.
Jim sighed, gingerly taking Sam’s right sleeve, the only part of the boy that miraculously hadn’t gotten hit with the paint, and slowly steered him towards the back door to the house.
“Let’s see about getting you cleaned up while your dad and brother, uh, finish their discussion,” he said.
Sam gave Dean one last sorrowful look and then let the Pastor drag him away. “I don’t guess we’re going to the movies tonight, are we?” he quietly asked, flicking paint from the ends of his fingertips.
Jim didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained silent, herding Sam towards the stash of paint thinner by the back porch.
“Dad!” Dean whimpered, face grimacing from the stinging smacks raining down on his cotton briefs. “We were just trying to help!”
“I know what you were just trying to do, smart ass!” John retorted, flicking his wrist and snapping the strip of wood down across his son’s scorched butt over and over again. “When I tell you to wait on something, you don’t go behind my back and make a mess of it, do I make myself clear?”
“Ow!” Dean howled, in want of a better reply. It was pretty much the truth anyway, and by now he was definitely regretting trying to speed things up to make the afternoon movie. He gritted his teeth and hoped his dad would finish beating his ass before someone from the church happened by…
***
Sam shut the water off in the shower and reached past the shower curtain for a towel, but ended up grabbing hold of his dad’s forearm instead.
“Get your butt out here, Samuel,” John ordered, sweeping the flimsy plastic curtain aside, causing Sam to bleat in startled embarrassment.
“Dad!” he squeaked, face blushing beet red.
Ignoring Sam’s feeble protest, John caught his son by a wrist and tugged, yanking the wet, naked boy out of the shower and over his lap as he sat back down on the toilet lid.
“It was Dean’s idea!” Sam whined, trying to cover his exposed backside.
“I can’t believe you let your brother talk you into such an idiotic scheme!” John scolded as he raised the paint stirrer he had brought upstairs with him. “What do you have to say for yourself, Samuel?”
Sam squirmed, his mind going at warp speed to come up with a good reason for why he’d agreed to help Dean try to get the rest of the painting done while their father was inside. But, nothing came to mind.
“I’m waiting, Sam,” John warned.
“Uh…” Sam stuttered and then went limp over his dad’s lap. “I got nothing,” he muttered sadly and then hissed, sucking air through his teeth, when the slat of wood connected with his still wet butt, leaving a swathe of bright pain behind.
“Wrong answer, son,” John replied and he began to wallop Sam in earnest.
Hardeeville, South Carolina – The Thunderbird Inn
MARCH 1993
“And you thought shooting golf balls from a slingshot was a good idea because why?” John asked his fourteen-year-old son wearily. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, feeling very old and very tired all of a sudden.
He’d just finished blistering both Dean’s and Sam’s butts for managing to put one of the dimpled white balls through the large plate glass window that fronted the lobby of the motel they’d pulled into the night before. Profuse apologies to the irate motel manager and John’s last two hundred dollars slipped into the man’s shirt pocket had smoothed things over enough that they were allowed to stay, and no police were called.
Dean shrugged sadly, reaching down to rub at his raw, aching bottom. He shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the motel bed. His butt and upper thighs were still hot to the touch and throbbing painfully from his dad’s belt. Dean marveled once again at the power of his dad’s swing and how much the wicked strip of leather seemed like it was an extension of his father’s arm when his dad was using it to beat his ass. He squirmed some more, trying to find a position that wouldn’t hurt, but knowing he wouldn’t succeed in the endeavor.
“Sammy was having trouble hitting anything with the little rocks I was using, so I figured a bigger missile would be easier for him to hit the target with,” Dean stated simply in answer to his dad’s question. He looked up at his father, eyes sincere with no hint of sarcasm for once. “Kinda like how you use a scatter gun sometimes when hunting, so you don’t have to worry about your aim.”
John couldn’t fault the logic in that even though he wasn’t too happy with the outcome of said logic. He looked down at Sam, who was cuddled up against his other side, still sniffling a little from the spanking, his face half hidden in his father’s shirtfront.
“Sounds like we need to get you out to the range for a little more practice, bud,” John suggested gently. Sam just nodded quietly. John gave the boy a tight hug of reassurance.
He turned his attention back to Dean. “So, we’ve answered the golf ball question,” he said. “Now, you wanna tell me why you were aiming them at windows, Dean?” He cocked a stern brow at his oldest son.
Dean sat up straighter, trying not to make a face as his tender butt pressed into the mattress. “We weren’t aiming at the window, Dad, honest!” he exclaimed. “We were shooting at the big dumpster out front. And, Sammy nailed that sucker. He hit the little bulls eye I drew on there dead center. You shoulda seen it.”
Sammy peeked out from under his dad’s arm, and grinned, despite the tears on his face. “Dean said I was a crack shot,” he mumbled.
“I bet,” John replied dryly. “So, how’d the ball end up shattering the lobby window if you were shooting at the dumpster, son?”
Dean sighed, feeling slightly foolish. “It ricocheted,” he said. “I guess we didn’t think about how golf balls bounce…like a lot…”
“What’s one of the first rules in target practice, Dean,” John demanded quietly yet firmly.
“Always be aware of your surroundings and have a familiarity with your weapon and ammo before you load and fire,” Dean recited, hanging his head in shame.
“That’s right,” John said. He picked up the slingshot he’d confiscated earlier, admiring the item in his hands. “Where’d you get this from?” he asked.
Dean smiled softly, a note of pride in his voice. “I made it,” he stated.
John’s brows rose. “You made this?”
He looked back down at the simple U-shaped piece of metal, clearly impressed. Dean leaned in closer.
“Yeah, I found this old busted cheese grater near the dumpster and it looked like it would make a great slingshot, so I borrowed some heavy duty rubber bands from the motel office-”
“Meaning you took them without asking,” John corrected.
Dean offered his father a sheepish grin. “Something like that,” he said, flushing slightly and then continued to explain how he’d made the slingshot from bits and pieces he’d scrounged up around the place.
“Pretty creative there, Dean-o,” John grudgingly admitted. He nudged his son, pleased to see Dean relax finally and offer up a genuine smile.
“Good to see you using your head like that, but,” John paused and gently popped Sam on the top of the head with the slingshot to get his attention. “No more using this thing in close quarters. From now on, this is for open range use only - Bobby’s back yard, fields and the like. Got it?”
Both boys nodded vigorously. John handed the slingshot back to Dean as he rose from the bed, offering the teen a somber look of reproach.
“I ever catch either of you aiming that at a person or an innocent animal, and I’ll paddle your butt so bad you won’t be able to sit down until you’re my age. Understood?”
“Yup. Yes, sir,” Dean quickly corrected himself, nodding in earnest.
John flicked his gaze over to Sam. “Sam? We clear?”
Sam nodded, palming his bruised rear end to emphasize he understood perfectly.
“Good,” John sighed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, giving both boys a tender smile. “I ever tell you about the time me and Jim Murphy were in basic training and were just learning how to fire an M-16? No?” John chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought the Master Sarge was gonna throw both our sorry asses in the stockade. Boy, were we green back then…”
THE END
JUNE 1986
John nodded, jotting down the information the elderly woman supplied to him about the big, black dog that had attacked her and her husband a week ago. Late husband, John mentally corrected himself as he looked back up from his journal to offer Eleanor Clifton a genuinely sympathetic smile. He knew exactly what it felt like to lose your spouse to something you couldn’t fully explain without people thinking you were a prime candidate for the loony bin.
Eleanor shifted a little on the chintz couch, easing her sprained ankle, which was wrapped tightly in an ace bandage, up onto a cushion to ease the throbbing a bit. She smiled tearfully at John.
“Thank you, again, Detective Walsh,” she said.
“Call me, Steven, ma’am,” John coaxed, trying to stay her nerves and gain some sense of familiarity with her in order to gain her confidence.
She nodded. “Steven. I appreciate you taking an honest interest in what happened.” She hesitated, fighting back the tears. “The other officers…they thought I was exaggerating – you know, from my grief – about the size of that…brute of an animal…that took my Bill from me.”
John may have been fairly new to the whole hunting gig, but he was under no delusions as to what had killed Eleanor Clifton’s husband. He’d bet his last dollar on it. A black shuck.
He glanced down at his wristwatch, tracking the time carefully. He was anxious to get back out to the car to check on Dean and Sam. He’d left his two young sons in the back seat of the Impala twenty minutes ago with strict instructions not to leave the car or else. While Dean and Sam were good about obeying his orders, John wasn’t a fool. He’d learned pretty quickly that both his seven-year-old and his three-year-old had the combined attention span of a cocker spaniel at best, and left alone for any length of time, the two inquisitive boys usually ended up getting into some sort of trouble or another.
“Well, I think I’ve got everything, Mrs. Clifton,” John stated, trying to sound official as he rose from his seat. “I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of any new leads we get. Thank you for your time and my deepest sympathies to you and your family.”
Once outside, John closed his eyes and took in a deep lungful of the rain-scented Spring air, letting it out slowly. The jobs were never easy. None of them. Someone always seemed to die, and it pissed John off that there seemed to be so much darkness and evil in the world that went unnoticed by the average layman walking down the street. He stuffed his journal into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and started towards the Impala, a small smile creeping over his lips. No matter how bad it got sometimes, one look at Dean’s crooked grin or Sammy’s big green eyes made it bearable for him.
John’s upbeat mood quickly evaporated when he saw that the Impala sat at the curb, empty. His breath hitched and his heart sped up as adrenalin suddenly coursed through his system. He threw open the passenger side door of the sleek black car to check the floors and backseat, thinking perhaps Dean and Sam were hiding, playing a game or something, but no, no boys in sight.
John whirled around, leaving the car door wide open, his eyes searching rapidly, frantically around him.
“Dean! Sammy!” John shouted, as he swept his gaze over the front yards and little field across the street from where he stood. “Boys!” he called, panic seeping into his voice.
“Daddy?”
A mixture of relief and concern filled John at the sound of Dean’s voice coming from across the street. He caught sight of the top of his oldest child’s dark blonde head, peeking out from the rim of the drainage ditch. Running, John was at Dean’s side in a matter of seconds, scooping his child up and hugging him close.
“Oh my God,” John moaned into Dean’s short, brush-cut hair, tears coming to his eyes, “Are you okay?” He held the boy at arm’s length, inspecting him and then set him down, quickly scanning the area for his youngest offspring. “Dean, where’s your brother? Where’s Sammy?”
Dean bit his lip and didn’t say anything. John stared at him, his panic rising once more.
“Dean,” John said, a little firmer this time. He grabbed the boy by his upper arms, giving him a shake. “Where is Sammy?”
“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled, staring down at his dirty sneakers in shame.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” John snapped, trying not to scare Dean, but doing a bad job of it. “Wasn’t Sam with you?”
Dean shrugged, fidgeting nervously and continued to focus on the ground. “I don’t know,” he repeated quietly.
John could tell his son was lying by the way Dean refused to meet his eyes. “Dean. Where. The. Hell. Is. Your. Brother?” he demanded angrily, his temper escalating.
“I don’ wanna say ‘cause you’re gonna be mad,” Dean whined, lower lip quivering, as he squirmed in apprehension.
John was speechless for a moment, and then he felt the anger well up inside himself like a geyser getting ready to blow. He bent down, eyes on level with Dean’s, his voice calm but full of warning.
“Dean James Winchester, you tell me where your brother is right now or you’re going to get a spanking you won’t ever forget!”
Dean, usually pretty stoic about most things, burst into tears. “It wasn’t my fault, Daddy!” he sobbed pitifully. “Sammy was the one that went after it. He just jumped out of the car, n’ he was too fast n’ besides, he bit me when I tried to stop him, and, and...” Dean sobbed harder, unable to get the rest of the story out. He pointed to the corrugated metal drainage pipe behind him. “He’s in there…”
John stared at the pipe in stunned disbelief. He let go of Dean and wandered closer to the pipe, which appeared to be a couple feet or so in diameter and knelt down, peering into the solid black depths of the opening.
“Sammy? Son, you in there?” John gently called. He heard rustling and then a faint mewl that sounded more like a cat than a three-year-old boy. “Sam?”
A whimper this time, sounding a little more human, but John couldn’t be for sure. He turned to Dean. “Dean, run get me the big flashlight from the car. Hurry.”
Dean sped off…
“Jesus fuck me Christ,” John swore under his breath as he played the beam of the flashlight in his hand down the inside of the drainage pipe.
There. Almost smack in the center of the six foot long pipe, was Sam. He was facing away from John, the faint yellow glow of the flashlight splashed across the little boy’s muddy backside and legs.
“Daddy?” a small, timid voice queried, and John breathed a sigh of relief.
“You all right, kiddo?” John questioned.
“The kitty cat won’t come,” Sam stated petulantly.
“What?” John frowned in puzzlement.
“I petted him and he cried, but he won’t come wif me,” Sam tried to explain.
John looked over at Dean for clarification.
“There was this kitten and we were watching it from the car and all, and then it ran across the road into the ditch here and Sammy wanted to go after it,” Dean explained. “I tried to stop him, Dad, but he bit me!” Dean pointed at the faint teeth marks on his forearm. “The kitten ran into the pipe and started crying so Sammy went after him and well, that’s when you showed up,” Dean finished and hung his head again.
Twenty minutes and a lot of coaxing later, John managed to extract a very dirty, very recalcitrant little three-year-old from the drainage pipe. It took another five and a half minutes and a minor tantrum for John to convince Sam to let go of the bedraggled calico kitten he was clutching tightly to his chest.
Much like Sam had been unwilling to give up the cat, John cradled his child in his arms, not wanting to let him go for fear of losing him again. He knew that was irrational to think but couldn’t help it. He’d lost too many things in his life that had been precious to him and Sam and Dean weren’t ever going to be next on that list, if he could help it.
When John finally calmed down enough that he wasn’t shaking anymore, he took both his boys to task, spanking their denim-clad bottoms until his hand was hot and stinging. Sam got quite the spanking of his young life for racking up a whole list of violations: leaving the car against orders, biting his brother, crossing a street by himself, climbing into the pipe and refusing to come out and then arguing with his father about leaving the kitten behind.
While Sam understood why he was getting punished, Dean was quite the opposite. In fact, his older son was almost belligerent about it, coming close to earning another round of swats from John.
“It’s not fair! Sammy’s the one that left the car!” Dean complained, a black scowl on his face as he tearfully rubbed at his stinging behind. “How come I got it too?” He shot Sam a dirty look. “Stupid head,” he spat, and John pointed a warning finger at him.
“Hey, enough of that,” John scolded. “You keep running your mouth, little boy, and you’re going right back over my knee.”
That shut Dean up instantly.
John continued, giving Dean a long, measured look. “You got spanked for lying to me, Dean.” Dean winced. “Yeah, that’s right. I asked you where your brother was and you lied to me and said you didn’t know, not once, but twice.”
“I didn’t wanna get in trouble,” Dean groused.
“Yeah? And what did you think lying to me was going to get you?” John shot back. “The minute Sam took off, you should have come and got me. That’s standard procedure and you know it, Dean.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But, nothing,” John countered. “You know the rules and you chose to ignore them. Both of you did. And now you’re facing the consequences of your decisions.”
“I don’ like cons-kwenzes, they hurts my bottom!” Sam declared sadly as he shifted in John’s arms.
John snorted. “You don’t want a sore backside, kiddo, then you do what I tell you from now on. Got it?”
Sam nodded, snuffling into John’s shoulder, hiding his face because he knew he’d been naughty but didn’t want to admit it. John glanced down at Sam’s feet, noticing for the first time that he was wearing only one shoe. The other foot was covered only by a wet, muddy sock that had a large-size hole in the heel of it.
“Sammy, where’s your shoe, buddy?” John questioned in puzzlement.
Sam pointed to the entrance of the pipe. “In d’ere,” he moped, on the verge of tears again, his lower lip jutting out in the saddest of pouts. “I losted my shoe.”
“I’ll go get it,” Dean sighed in weary resignation and headed for the pipe but was brought up short by John’s hand on the scruff of his neck.
“Oh, no you won’t!” John warned. “Sam can wear his slippers until we can stop to get him another pair of sneakers.” He turned, heading for the Impala, carrying Sam, with Dean still in tow by his shirt collar. “The only thing I want to see you two climbing into right now is the backseat of the car,” he ordered, his voice tired but still full of enough parental authority that neither boy chose to argue. “We’ve had enough adventures down the rabbit hole for one day.”
Blythe, California - The Tropic Motor Hotel
DECEMBER 1988
“No, not like that, Sammy. You gotta build it up, kinda on the tip of your tongue. Keep your mouth tight n’ blow it out hard,” Dean explained patiently.
Dean was teaching his little brother, Sam, an important skill. He was teaching him how to spit. They’d been practicing for the past five or so minutes. Sam had just about managed to finally get enough saliva gathered up to form a decent spitball, but he was still having trouble getting the stuff to shoot out of his mouth properly.
The two boys stood in front of the candy machine that was tucked away in the shelter of a little‑used alcove off the wing of the motel where the boys and their dad were currently staying— The Tropic Motor Hotel. Nothing much tropical about it though, Dean noted wryly, as he dug the change his dad had given him out of the front pocket of his jeans.
It was early December, still chilly enough to have to wear a jacket outside, and, despite the plethora of palm trees swaying lazily in the stiff breeze around the perimeter of the parking lot, the rest of the place looked exactly like every other nondescript motel they stayed at all across the country. Same whitewashed concrete walls. Same oversized ugly neon signage. And, same cracked sidewalks littered with gum wrappers and cigarette butts.
Dean plugged the quarters into the machine, selecting from the slim choices offered and pressed the button.
“Like this?” Sam questioned.
He tugged at the hem of Dean’s jacket, wanting Dean’s attention. Dean glanced down and Sam screwed up his face in deep concentration, lips pooching out. He spit hard, but not hard enough. Sam ended up covering his chin and the front of his worn sweatshirt with a wide spray of his own saliva.
Dean let out a little chuckle. “Um, well that was a good try, Sammy. But you gotta keep the wad of spit a little tighter next time.” He reached down to tousle Sam’s unruly hair, letting the five-year-old know that his efforts were honorable and appreciated. Sam wiped his chin on the cuff of his sweatshirt, grinning happily.
Dean bent down to gather up the Hershey’s bars from the tray of the candy machine where they had dropped when he sensed movement directly behind him. A voice, full of snide contempt soon followed.
“Well if it isn’t the trailer trash boys, practicing their manners.”
Dean and Sam both looked up at that comment, Dean’s hackles rising. The kid was a couple years older than Dean, and his name was Justin. Dean knew that only because he’d heard the boy called that a couple of times in passing.
Justin and his mother were staying two doors down from the Winchesters. They had been at the crappy motel even longer than he, Sam and their father had, which for some reason made Justin act as if he owned the freaking place. Justin was a spoiled little jerk and had made rude comments and picked on Dean and Sam from day one. It was quite obvious he didn’t much care for the Winchesters. Dean didn’t have a problem with that. He loathed Justin right back.
“Hey, little trailer trashers, you buying yourselves some dinner there?” Justin teased, eyeing the candy bars now tightly clenched in Dean’s hand.
Dean said nothing. He grabbed Sam’s shirtfront and shoved his little brother behind him as he eyed the older boy.
“Whatsa matter?” Justin asked, brow raised skeptically at Dean. “You too stupid to talk? Hm? You one of those retards who can’t talk and pisses his pants and has to wear a diaper all the time?” He pointed at Sam, cowering behind Dean. “What’s with your brother? Looks like the halfwit drooled all over himself!”
Justin brayed laughter, and Sam sniffled, glancing briefly down at his spit-soaked sweatshirt and burrowed his head into Dean’s side in shame. Dean remained silent, the only sign of his rising fury the clenching of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes as he focused hard to keep from punching the kid. Justin quickly got bored when neither boy rose to his bait. He offered Dean and Sam one last haughty look of disgust before he turned to leave.
A smile burned slowly across Dean’s lips, yet his eyes remained cold and hard. Dean passed a candy bar to Sam, and then quickly peeled open his own and took a huge bite, chewing furiously but not swallowing. “Watch and learn, Sammy,” Dean whispered around the mouthful of warm chocolate.
Sam blinked back his tears, eyes wide, studying Dean attentively. Dean made a noise deep in his throat, face contorting, as he worked to hock up a large wad of phlegm, mixing it with the chocolate in his mouth. He took careful aim, calculating the breeze and trajectory easily in his head and then let fly with the spit, grinning with deep satisfaction when it hit Justin square in the back of his neck. The wad slowly traveled down past the opening of Justin’s tee shirt, leaving a dirty slime trail down the boy’s tanned skin.
Justin tensed, one hand flying to the back of his neck amidst gales of laughter from Dean and Sam. His fingers came away wet and sticky, and Justin stared down at the muddy brown mess in his hand, eyes growing wide with horror. He gagged, trying hard not to throw up on the spot.
Justin whirled about, glaring daggers at Dean and Sam as they continued to wheeze and snort in amusement. “I’m telling my mom!” Justin screamed at Dean, his face turning red. “You little turd! You just wait, I’m gonna tell and -”
Justin stopped mid-sentence when Dean took a menacing step towards him, fists balled up, ready to do some damage. Dean began to hock up another mouthful of spit in warning. Justin eyed Dean, sizing him up, and then he took an uneasy step backwards.
“You just wait!” Justin bawled, and pointed a shaky finger at Dean. He turned and fled as fast his Nikes could take him.
Sam squealed in delight. “You scared him away, Dean,” Sam said, giggling. “He was afraid of your spit!”
Dean shot Sam a victory grin. “That’s right, Sammy. That was my famous Hershey’s loogie and no one can withstand the epic power of that baby.”
“I wanna learn,” Sam pouted and gazed up at Dean with his doleful puppy eyes. “Show me how, Dean. Pleeease?”
And Dean did.
****
Sam stood in the corner sobbing hard, his butt on fire from the painful spanking his dad had just delivered to him. Even though his daddy had held him and rocked him afterwards, Sam wasn’t feeling particularly forgiving just yet towards anyone, but most especially not towards his older brother. In Sam’s mind, Dean was the whole reason his bottom was hurting right now.
Scrubbing at his reddened eyes, Sam took a deep shaky breath to still the sobs and listened with a bit of selfish satisfaction to Dean, somewhere behind him, howling in counterpoint to their father’s hand coming down hard on the bare flesh of his own rear end.
“Jesus Christ, Dean! How many times do I have to tell you not to teach your little brother stuff like that?” John Winchester growled as he laid into his nine-year-old, burning a stinging path of heat down Dean’s bottom to his upper thighs and back again with his big, callused hand.
“I’m sorry!” Dean wailed, tears stinging the backs of his eyes.
“You’re sorry?” John asked in disbelief as he continued to spank Dean, the blows coming down in a torrent of sharp swats. “How the hell do you think I feel? I’m the one that had to apologize to that kid’s mother for my toddler hocking up a spit wad the size of Montana on her!” John let his hand speak for how displeased he was. “Honestly, I don’t know what gets into you two sometimes!”
Despite the pain, Dean managed a brief smile at the memory of Justin’s mom standing at their motel room door, gasping in revulsion at the perfect loogie Sam had spit onto her bare thigh just below the cuff of her white linen shorts. That’d teach her to call him and Sam vile, little hoodlums, he thought gleefully before his father’s stern hand brought him back to the moment with painful clarity.
“No more spitting!” John ordered, and Dean readily agreed.
Evansville, Indiana - The Donna Motor Court
OCTOBER 1989
“Nuh uh!” Sam declared hotly. “Superman is like a gazillion times stronger and smarter than Batman!” He knelt on the motel bed, and shoved his comic book into Dean’s face, pointing. “Look! Superman can fly!”
Ten-year-old Dean Winchester huffed loudly, giving the comic book and Sam a stupendous eye roll. He pushed the magazine away with enough force to almost knock Sam off the bed. “So what? Batman can fly too,” he said.
“No, he can’t, Dean!” Sam challenged.
“Sure he can,” Dean shot back. He picked up his own comic book and riffled through the pages, stopping at one and proudly displaying it to his little brother. “See? What’s he doing right there, Sammy? Huh? That’s Batman. And he’s flying.”
Sam studied the comic a moment and then shot Dean a sour face. “He’s not flying. He’s swinging from his bat cable, and that’s not the same thing.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Batman could fly if he wanted to, he just doesn’t ‘cause he’s too cool for that,” he announced airily. He glared at Sam.
Sam smiled triumphantly.
“Batman could kick Superman’s big, fat, hairy ass any day of the week,” Dean stated in growing irritation. Because Batman was the epitome of a superhero in Dean’s mind, his dad not withstanding. John Winchester could kick ANYONE’S ass, hands down, even Batman’s. That was a given to Dean.
Dean sneered at his little brother. “Stop being such a little bitch for that dorky loser, Sammy,” he snapped and aimed a smack at Sam’s head for his troubles.
“Daddy’s gonna spank you for saying the ‘B’ word again, Dean,” Sam said, ducking the smack.
Dean stopped teasing Sam and glanced apprehensively towards the closed door of the bathroom. The noise of the shower running put him back at ease.
“Dad’s still in the shower, stupid, so he didn’t even hear me,” Dean said smugly. He laid his Batman comic down on the nightstand with a show of reverence and then smiled over at Sam. “Batman is tougher than Superman, Sammy, and I can prove it.”
****
“Samuel Michael Winchester! DON’T YOU DARE!”
John had come out of the bathroom barefoot and in jeans, a damp towel tossed over one shoulder, to spy his youngest child perched atop the wobbly chest of drawers against the far wall, getting ready to leap from it across to one of the wrought iron beds that Dean was already bouncing on top of. Both boys had stripped the blankets from the beds and had them tied around their necks.
“But Dad, I’m Superman!” Sam objected as he held his hands out in front of him. “I hafta show Dean I can fly! He flew and he’s Batman, so I hafta do it now or Dean says I’m a scaredy-cat, loser, butt-muncher! ”
Dean froze, his eyes quickly falling to the bedspread under his feet.
John glowered over at Dean. “You instigated this?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Dean bit his lip and continued to stare a hole in the bedspread. John nodded, eyes darkening.
“You just bought yourself a world-class paddling, buddy boy,” he told Dean. John pointed to the floor directly in front of him. “You’ve got to the count of three to get your – shit!”
From the corner of his eye, John saw Sam jump. His parental instincts kicked into high gear, and John swiveled and lunged forward, heart in his throat. Sam landed safely in his father’s outstretched arms, the force of his leap knocking them backwards and down. John let out a grunt as his backside met the floor, Sam on top of him, tangled up in the blanket around his neck.
“Dad!” Dean gasped, scrambling to the edge of the bed and peering down, mouth flopping open in shock.
“I’m okay, Dean,” John replied as he tore the blanket off Sam, checking the child for injuries. Sam huddled in his father’s lap, a proud grin on his six-year-old face.
“I did it! I flew!” Sam crowed, his eyes alight with triumph. “Did you see me?”
“Oh, I saw all right,” John seethed. Confident that Sam was injury-free, John immediately flipped the wriggling little boy over in his lap, putting a hand in the small of Sam’s back to keep him in place. “And now you’re going to see what happens when you disobey a direct order, mister!”
Sam’s grin slid off his face, replaced by a frown, from which quickly bloomed a lusty yelp as John laid into Sam’s backside with gusto.
“OW! Daddy, no!” Sam bawled. He kicked his legs as John spanked his bottom fast and hard.
John paused the spanking, his flinty gaze flicking up to Dean on the bed above him. He caught Dean’s eye, and gave his oldest child a malevolent look as he raised his hand to deliver another swat to Sam’s already smarting bottom.
“You’re next, Batman.”
Interstate Highway 80, somewhere in Nebraska - Lane’s Diner
MAY 1990
The pretty brunette waitress knew it was impolite to stare, much less laugh, knew it would probably cost her getting a tip, but she couldn’t help it. The little family sitting at her booth was just too hilarious to ignore.
45 MINUTES EARLIER…
“You’re awful quiet back there, guys,” John commented over his shoulder as he kept his eyes on the long stretch of dusty blacktop in front of him.
Dean piped up from the back seat of the Impala, sounding rather preoccupied for someone who was only eleven. “I’m drawing,” Dean announced and then bent his head back down to the task at hand.
Sounded pleasant enough, John thought as he signaled a lane change and steered the Impala into the passing lane. At least it was keeping his two boys quiet and occupied for the time being. They had a ways to go before they reached Singer’s place in Sioux Falls, and John was more than thankful for any bit of peace he could gain along the way.
“Sammy coloring too?” John asked absently.
“Nope,” Dean replied, head still bent down in concentration. “He’s sleeping.”
“Oh, well don’t wake him then,” John said. “Let him nap until we stop for lunch in a half hour or so. That way, he won’t be so cranky later on.”
“Okay, Dad,” Dean replied.
Even though Sam was seven, he often got tired in the late afternoons and, more often than not, his demeanor went from inquisitive, energetic puppy to scowling, bad-tempered hellion in the blink of an eye. John was all for letting the kid nap to avoid dealing with a temper tantrum later on, when he’d be tired himself from hours of sitting behind the wheel of the car.
The rumble of the Impala’s engine and steady supply of classic rock pouring softly from the dashboard radio worked their magic and soon Dean’s eyelids began drooping heavily too. A few minutes later, Dean was fast asleep, head lolling against the car door, Sam’s head still in his lap.
Sam snored softly in his sleep, nose twitching. Had John been able to look over the seat at the boy, he’d probably say it was fitting to his current situation. Sam now sported whiskers and a blue-inked nose, compliments of his big brother’s ‘drawing’. Dean still had the ink pen clutched in his hand, but his grip loosened the deeper he slept until the pen fell, hitting Sam in the ear and waking him up.
With a yawn, Sam sat up hazily and then frowned. Something looked off to him. He crossed his eyes, catching sight of the tip of his nose and then reached up to rub at it in puzzlement. His fingers came away blue. Sam glared over at Dean, still asleep. He glanced down at the ink pen that had rolled onto the floor of the car and a light bulb went off in Sam’s head. Careful so as not to wake Dean, Sam grabbed the pen from the floor and inched closer to his brother’s slumped form…
***
“Well, I didn’t know!” Dean exclaimed petulantly, stifling another sob as his father swung the hairbrush down, cracking against Dean’s bared bottom once more. The sharp report echoed off the tiled walls of the rest stop bathroom where Dean was bent over, head down, hands grasping the edge of the little sink in front of him for support.
Dean’s face hurt almost as much as his butt did from where his dad had spent nearly fifteen minutes desperately trying to scrub the blue handle-bar mustache off Dean’s upper lip. Sam had smirked and made faces at Dean from behind their father’s back until it was his turn with the water, soap and rough, scratchy restroom towels.
No matter what John tried — and he had been pretty inventive on that score — nothing would completely remove the mustache from Dean’s upper lip, or the whiskers and nose from Sam’s face. John let out a low growl of weary exasperation. Under better circumstances, he might have been less harsh about the punishment, might even have found the whole situation pretty humorous. But, he was tired from lack of sleep and driving all day, and this little episode did absolutely nothing to calm his frayed mood.
“Damn it! It says ‘permanent and indelible’ right there on the side of the pen, Dean!” John argued as he delivered a volley of heated swats to his son’s reddened backside. “And you know better than to write on your brother in the first place!”
“I told you I was drawing!” Dean retorted, his tone sullen yet managing an edgy sarcasm.
John answered him with another flurry of spanks to Dean’s already tender crease where butt met thigh, and Dean regretted his words and deeds almost immediately.
Sam stood, nose to the wall, next to his dad, awaiting his turn. He began to cry. “I don’t want a spanking,” he muttered, kicking the tiled wall in front of him.
“Yeah?” John snapped in return, never breaking stride on Dean. “Well, I don’t want to spend the rest of the day explaining to God and everyone else why my two smart ass kids have ink tattoos all over their faces either.”
Dean and Sam both winced at that, Dean adding a scalding yelp when his dad caught him in a particularly sore spot for the third time in a row.
***
“Stop crying, kiddo, it’ll wear off in a few days,” John explained gently once again to his youngest, who kept rubbing at his blued nose, his face scrunched up into a monumental pout.
“I don’ wanna be a bunny no more,” Sam griped tearfully. “N’ ice cream and pie’s not gonna make it all better, either.”
John groaned inwardly. He leveled a volatile glare across the table towards Dean, who sat quietly, but with the tiniest of smirks on his face, despite the uncomfortable ache in his backside.
“Something funny to you, Dean?” John questioned in a tone that suggested he wasn’t looking for any answer other than ‘no, sir’.
“No, sir,” Dean said, as expected, although he couldn’t help but think that at least Sam had given him a sort of cool ‘tattoo’, much better than what he’d done to Sam. He reached up to run a finger along his upper lip.
The waitress returned with their drink orders and bit the inside of her cheek hard, tears of mirth springing to her eyes as she tried to concentrate on her pad and pen instead of the two meek little boys fidgeting like crazy in the booth in front of her. From the looks the father kept shooting at them from across the table, it wasn’t too hard to guess what had happened. The youngest one whimpered quietly and reached down to surreptitiously rub at the seat of his jeans. No, not hard to guess at all.
“So…that’s a meatloaf special for you,” the waitress recited back, glancing over at John, then back down to her pad before she lost it and cracked up totally. “And, two kid’s burger plates, plus pie ala modes for the Easter Bunny and Black Bart, here…”
Blue Earth, Minnesota - Pastor Jim Murphy’s residence
AUGUST 1991
The watermelon was sweet and juicy as Dean bit into the ripened wedge in his hand. He turned slightly on the grass where he was sprawled and spit out a fat, dark seed at his brother.
“Quit it,” Sam complained, brushing the seed off his arm where it had stuck. He slurped watermelon juice off his hand and took a bite of his own wedge. “Wha time’sa moo-ie?” he asked around the mouthful of melon.
“Four-thirty,” Dean promptly answered. “Dad said he’d take us if he and Pastor Jim get all the painting done before then.”
The Winchesters had been staying at Jim Murphy’s for the past two weeks, helping their dad’s old friend do some repair jobs on the rectory buildings. Dean and Sam had both been very good about lending a hand where they could, for the most part, and John had decided to reward them for their efforts. He’d given in to Dean’s pleadings and was planning on taking them to see a matinee of Terminator 2, the movie Dean had been yearning to see. The big caveat was that the painting had to get done on Jim’s house first. Otherwise, the movie would have to wait for some other time.
Dean took another chomp of watermelon, watching the two older men up on ladders against the side of the house, paint brushes in hand and sighed deeply.
“What?” Sam asked.
Dean eyed the job at hand, calculating in his head. There seemed to be a lot of wall left to paint, in his opinion and it was already getting close to two o’clock. Dropping his watermelon rind on the ground between him and Sam, Dean got up, brushing the grass from his pants and headed toward his dad.
“What’s up, bud?” John called down to Dean when he caught sight of him standing near the ladders. “You still hungry?”
“No, sir,” Dean replied. “Just wondering how much longer you think it’ll take?”
John’s lips thinned. Dean had been asking that same question every twenty minutes or so since they’d started on the last wall earlier in the day. While he understood why his son asked, it still irritated John that Dean was doing it.
“It’ll take as long as it takes, Dean,” John answered gruffly, wiping his brush off on a rag.
Jim passed a can of paint to John, giving Dean a sympathetic smile. “I know how badly you want to see that movie, Dean,” he said. “But if we don’t get this done today, then I’m going to have to pay extra for the use of the ladders and other paint equipment the church rented. But, I’ll tell you what, if you end up missing the movie today, I’ll take you tomorrow – I’ll even pay for popcorn, drinks, candy – the whole shebang, how’s that?”
“You don’t have to do that,” John protested, but Jim held up a hand.
“No, no. I’m thankful for all the help you and the boys have given me these last couple of weeks, John, and it’s only fair that I show my appreciation.”
Dean didn’t seem too happy though. John eyed him and frowned.
“I’d think you’d be showing a little gratitude yourself for that offer, son,” he said tightly. He’d taught his boys to be respectful and Dean’s sulking grated on him.
“Today’s the last day they’re showing Terminator 2, Dad,” Dean commented, a hint of a challenge in his voice.
“Well, then, we’ll go to some other movie tomorrow, if this takes too long,” Jim offered, trying to make the best of the situation. “Any movie you and Sam want, Dean.”
Dean offered up a weak smile, nodding. “The only movie I wanna see is that one,” he stated sullenly under his breath as he turned away and headed back towards Sam.
****
John and Jim were in the kitchen, taking a short break from their work, enjoying a couple of ice-cold beers, when they heard a crash, followed by a boyish shriek of outrage and someone bellowing “sonuvabitch!” in obvious exasperation.
John was out the door before Jim fully registered that the noise outside could only have come from Dean and Sam.
“Lord, help us,” Jim muttered, wincing and sending up a silent prayer. He ran to catch up to John.
By the time Jim rounded the side of the rectory, John already had Dean bent over his knee, the kid’s jeans puddled unceremoniously around his ankles, and was paddling the boy’s thinly clad behind with one of the long, wooden paint stirrers that had been lying on the ground next to the paint cans. Dean was hollering loudly, a testament to the thin paddle’s wicked sting.
Jim was a kind and sympathetic man; he had to be in his line of work. But, the sight of all the wreckage strewn before him made him slightly less charitable to the young man now getting a well-deserved lesson in patience.
Both ladders had toppled over, and the empty paint bucket was on its side a few feet away where it had rolled after hitting the ground. Off-white paint splattered everything. It was splashed across the nearby grass and over the small window beneath where the ladders had been. It drenched the flowers in the bed beneath the window, and even covered Sam from head to toe. The young boy was truly a pathetic sight; standing with his shoulders slumped, dripping “warm vanilla sugar” latex paint, a look of anxious regret on his face.
Jim sighed, gingerly taking Sam’s right sleeve, the only part of the boy that miraculously hadn’t gotten hit with the paint, and slowly steered him towards the back door to the house.
“Let’s see about getting you cleaned up while your dad and brother, uh, finish their discussion,” he said.
Sam gave Dean one last sorrowful look and then let the Pastor drag him away. “I don’t guess we’re going to the movies tonight, are we?” he quietly asked, flicking paint from the ends of his fingertips.
Jim didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained silent, herding Sam towards the stash of paint thinner by the back porch.
“Dad!” Dean whimpered, face grimacing from the stinging smacks raining down on his cotton briefs. “We were just trying to help!”
“I know what you were just trying to do, smart ass!” John retorted, flicking his wrist and snapping the strip of wood down across his son’s scorched butt over and over again. “When I tell you to wait on something, you don’t go behind my back and make a mess of it, do I make myself clear?”
“Ow!” Dean howled, in want of a better reply. It was pretty much the truth anyway, and by now he was definitely regretting trying to speed things up to make the afternoon movie. He gritted his teeth and hoped his dad would finish beating his ass before someone from the church happened by…
***
Sam shut the water off in the shower and reached past the shower curtain for a towel, but ended up grabbing hold of his dad’s forearm instead.
“Get your butt out here, Samuel,” John ordered, sweeping the flimsy plastic curtain aside, causing Sam to bleat in startled embarrassment.
“Dad!” he squeaked, face blushing beet red.
Ignoring Sam’s feeble protest, John caught his son by a wrist and tugged, yanking the wet, naked boy out of the shower and over his lap as he sat back down on the toilet lid.
“It was Dean’s idea!” Sam whined, trying to cover his exposed backside.
“I can’t believe you let your brother talk you into such an idiotic scheme!” John scolded as he raised the paint stirrer he had brought upstairs with him. “What do you have to say for yourself, Samuel?”
Sam squirmed, his mind going at warp speed to come up with a good reason for why he’d agreed to help Dean try to get the rest of the painting done while their father was inside. But, nothing came to mind.
“I’m waiting, Sam,” John warned.
“Uh…” Sam stuttered and then went limp over his dad’s lap. “I got nothing,” he muttered sadly and then hissed, sucking air through his teeth, when the slat of wood connected with his still wet butt, leaving a swathe of bright pain behind.
“Wrong answer, son,” John replied and he began to wallop Sam in earnest.
Hardeeville, South Carolina – The Thunderbird Inn
MARCH 1993
“And you thought shooting golf balls from a slingshot was a good idea because why?” John asked his fourteen-year-old son wearily. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, feeling very old and very tired all of a sudden.
He’d just finished blistering both Dean’s and Sam’s butts for managing to put one of the dimpled white balls through the large plate glass window that fronted the lobby of the motel they’d pulled into the night before. Profuse apologies to the irate motel manager and John’s last two hundred dollars slipped into the man’s shirt pocket had smoothed things over enough that they were allowed to stay, and no police were called.
Dean shrugged sadly, reaching down to rub at his raw, aching bottom. He shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the motel bed. His butt and upper thighs were still hot to the touch and throbbing painfully from his dad’s belt. Dean marveled once again at the power of his dad’s swing and how much the wicked strip of leather seemed like it was an extension of his father’s arm when his dad was using it to beat his ass. He squirmed some more, trying to find a position that wouldn’t hurt, but knowing he wouldn’t succeed in the endeavor.
“Sammy was having trouble hitting anything with the little rocks I was using, so I figured a bigger missile would be easier for him to hit the target with,” Dean stated simply in answer to his dad’s question. He looked up at his father, eyes sincere with no hint of sarcasm for once. “Kinda like how you use a scatter gun sometimes when hunting, so you don’t have to worry about your aim.”
John couldn’t fault the logic in that even though he wasn’t too happy with the outcome of said logic. He looked down at Sam, who was cuddled up against his other side, still sniffling a little from the spanking, his face half hidden in his father’s shirtfront.
“Sounds like we need to get you out to the range for a little more practice, bud,” John suggested gently. Sam just nodded quietly. John gave the boy a tight hug of reassurance.
He turned his attention back to Dean. “So, we’ve answered the golf ball question,” he said. “Now, you wanna tell me why you were aiming them at windows, Dean?” He cocked a stern brow at his oldest son.
Dean sat up straighter, trying not to make a face as his tender butt pressed into the mattress. “We weren’t aiming at the window, Dad, honest!” he exclaimed. “We were shooting at the big dumpster out front. And, Sammy nailed that sucker. He hit the little bulls eye I drew on there dead center. You shoulda seen it.”
Sammy peeked out from under his dad’s arm, and grinned, despite the tears on his face. “Dean said I was a crack shot,” he mumbled.
“I bet,” John replied dryly. “So, how’d the ball end up shattering the lobby window if you were shooting at the dumpster, son?”
Dean sighed, feeling slightly foolish. “It ricocheted,” he said. “I guess we didn’t think about how golf balls bounce…like a lot…”
“What’s one of the first rules in target practice, Dean,” John demanded quietly yet firmly.
“Always be aware of your surroundings and have a familiarity with your weapon and ammo before you load and fire,” Dean recited, hanging his head in shame.
“That’s right,” John said. He picked up the slingshot he’d confiscated earlier, admiring the item in his hands. “Where’d you get this from?” he asked.
Dean smiled softly, a note of pride in his voice. “I made it,” he stated.
John’s brows rose. “You made this?”
He looked back down at the simple U-shaped piece of metal, clearly impressed. Dean leaned in closer.
“Yeah, I found this old busted cheese grater near the dumpster and it looked like it would make a great slingshot, so I borrowed some heavy duty rubber bands from the motel office-”
“Meaning you took them without asking,” John corrected.
Dean offered his father a sheepish grin. “Something like that,” he said, flushing slightly and then continued to explain how he’d made the slingshot from bits and pieces he’d scrounged up around the place.
“Pretty creative there, Dean-o,” John grudgingly admitted. He nudged his son, pleased to see Dean relax finally and offer up a genuine smile.
“Good to see you using your head like that, but,” John paused and gently popped Sam on the top of the head with the slingshot to get his attention. “No more using this thing in close quarters. From now on, this is for open range use only - Bobby’s back yard, fields and the like. Got it?”
Both boys nodded vigorously. John handed the slingshot back to Dean as he rose from the bed, offering the teen a somber look of reproach.
“I ever catch either of you aiming that at a person or an innocent animal, and I’ll paddle your butt so bad you won’t be able to sit down until you’re my age. Understood?”
“Yup. Yes, sir,” Dean quickly corrected himself, nodding in earnest.
John flicked his gaze over to Sam. “Sam? We clear?”
Sam nodded, palming his bruised rear end to emphasize he understood perfectly.
“Good,” John sighed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, giving both boys a tender smile. “I ever tell you about the time me and Jim Murphy were in basic training and were just learning how to fire an M-16? No?” John chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought the Master Sarge was gonna throw both our sorry asses in the stockade. Boy, were we green back then…”
THE END