Five Yard Penalty
by Minx
Lawrence, Kansas
Fall 1962
“So, you askin’ Kathy Sullivan to the homecoming dance?”
Hearing her name, out-of-the-blue like that, sent a thrill up John Winchester’s spine. He and his best friend, Mike Guenther, had just been bantering about cars only moments ago, but it never took long for the conversation to incline towards the fairer sex. The sixteen-year-old paused. He tried to cover, looking up at Mike, managing to grin and blush at the same time as he hurled the football he was holding at his best friend. His aim was off, and the ball wobbled crazily like a drunken bird in flight.
Mike watched smugly as the wayward football sailed high over his head and landed in the neatly trimmed hedge surrounding the front porch of the split-level ranch house the Winchesters called home.
“Jesus, Winchester! Coach actually lets you out on the field?” Mike snorted in derision. “Nice pass there, bonehead!” Mike jogged over to retrieve the ball.
In all honesty, John hadn’t been concentrating on his throw. He had been picturing Kathy Sullivan in those tight hip hugger jeans she wore sometimes on the weekends, the way the denim snugly cradled the round curves of her ass just so…John choked as his body quickly responded in the usual way of teenage boys, presented with a tempting specimen such as Kathy. He quickly broke off the thought before his dick woke up all the way and announced its presence in a very obvious and embarrassing manner that Mike would make sure to point out.
“You want me to concentrate on throwing, then don’t start talking ‘bout girls,” John admonished his friend with a big dopey grin. “And especially not Kathy Sullivan, dude. I mean, jeez, she’s got the hottest lookin’ –“
“…carburetor…” John’s father stated over his shoulder to someone inside the house as he breezed out the screen door and onto the front porch, startling both boys and making them burst into snorts of unconstrained laughter.
“Yeah, carburetor,” Mike said, waggling his eyebrows at John and chuckling as he tossed the football back over to John.
Bill Winchester shook his head, eyeing the two teens in his driveway, who were still cackling at their inside joke. Looking at the young men, a mixture of pride and exasperation welled up in his chest. Mike was sorely in need of a haircut, his blonde hair now past the top of his shirt collar – kid’s fashion these days - and his Johnny looked to have had another growth spurt, only this one was more horizontal than vertical, lean muscle now replacing the scrawniness of just a few months ago, broadening the teen’s shoulders and chest. Joining the football team had been a good move for his boy. It kept John in shape and out of trouble, which seemed to be a problem among teenagers these days.
Whatever had happened to the good old days, he wondered nostalgically. All this crazy rock music and attitude was beyond him. Luckily Lawrence, Kansas was still a bastion for traditional family values, hanging on fiercely to its small-town, mid-western wholesomeness. Bill was thankful for that. His son’s cockiness and general stubborn nature gave him enough to deal with without having to worry about psychedelic drugs, free love and other such nonsense like his brother was dealing wth in New York.
He watched the boys as they tossed the worn football back and forth in the driveway and winced every time John overthrew, forcing Mike to miss the catch. The ball floundered past Mike, more often than not, to bounce erratically towards the Winchester’s latest purchase – a shiny new Chevrolet Bel Air sedan. They’d had the car for a little over a month and Bill was keen to keep it in its pristine condition.
Bill was spurred into action when the football once again danced across the driveway end-to-end, landing precariously close to the Chevy’s rear fender. Bill’s stomach clenched. “Johnny,” he called to his son. “You and Mike take that down to the park and play.”
John made a face. “Aw, Dad, how come?”
Bill may have imagined it, but he was fairly certain he’d heard a tinge of belligerence in his son’s tone. His stance became stiffer, more deliberate as he answered John, keeping his voice even, yet firm.
“Because I said so, young man.”
Mike Guenther’s wary gaze flicked from one Winchester to the other as he stood in silence, watching the scene. He’d known John since the second grade, had eaten countless meals at the Winchester kitchen table, and had bunked down, on more than one occasion, in the spare bed in John’s room after a late game or whenever his parents went out of town. Mike had learned pretty early on in his friendship with John Winchester that it was never wise to get involved when John and his old man decided to butt heads.
John’s father wasn’t above handing out a butt whupping if he thought his kid deserved one, especially if the transgression was for one of the big three: lying, disobeying, or disrespect. And neither was Bill Winchester shy about picking up the phone and calling Mike’s dad if he thought Mike was in need of the same parental attention. Mike was no fool. He knew darn well that, at sixteen, he wasn’t too old for a trip to the garage and a session with his dad’s belt. Both his father and John’s were cut from the same old-fashioned mold - no Dr. Spock, spare the rod bullshit for them.
John rolled the football between his large hands, barely containing his look of bewildered frustration. His dad’s lack of an explanation irritated the hell out of the sixteen-year-old. He and Mike weren’t doing anything wrong, they’d always played ball in the front yard, just like this, and he couldn’t help saying as much to his dad.
“We aren’t hurting anything, Dad. We’re just tossing the ball around some, goofing around, getting some practice in.”
Bill nodded toward the Chevy behind the boys. “You’re practicing is getting a little too close to the new car,” he stated simply. “So, you and Mikey either quit for the day or take it someplace else. Understand?”
Mike could tell from the set of John’s jaw that his friend wasn’t about to ‘take it someplace else’. He let out a beleaguered sigh and waited apprehensively. This was not going to end well.
“How ‘bout we move over to the yard?” John suggested. He headed for the patch of grass in front of the house, not bothering to wait for his dad’s response.
“I already gave you your options, son,” Bill Winchester stated ominously. He fixed John with a hard stare. “You can go to the park or you can put the football away. I’m not in the mood to deal with a busted window today, be it one on the house or one on the car.”
“But, Dad –” John complained sullenly and Bill cut his son off, his tone now low and angry.
“I’m done talking on it, John Edward,” Bill snapped. “One more word and where to play ball is gonna be the last thing on your mind today. You hear me, boy?” His work-roughened hand dropped down to finger his belt, and John’s eyes fell to the driveway in defeat.
“Yes, sir,” John grumbled.
Bill turned, heading back into the house, his thoughts on the ice-cold beer in the fridge and the game on the TV set in the living room. He hadn’t even made it past the threshold of the front door before John decided to have his last say.
“Dude!” John whispered loudly to Mike as he reared back and launched the football, the gesture a small act of defiance towards what he saw as his dad’s unreasonableness.
Unfortunately, Mike’s attention was focused solely on Bill’s retreating figure rather than on John. His head snapped around when he heard John’s hissed shout, but it was too late. John had already thrown the football. And it was a Hail Mary pass if ever Mike had seen one. The conical leather ball looked like a torpedo as it sped towards Mike in a hard, tight spiral, one the coach would have been proud to see. Mike, on the other hand, wasn’t so happy to see it, mainly because it was speeding directly towards his face.
Eyes widening, the teen panicked and ducked, cursing under his breath at John’s poor sense of timing. The football soared past where Mike’s head was only moments before and kept on going, until it smacked into the back end of the Chevy Bel Air with a loud thwack and the crystal sharp snap of glass breaking.
“Sonuvabitch!” John swore under his breath, eyes going wide with dread.
Mike slowly rose from his protective crouch, not really wanting to turn around and look. But he did anyway. And wished he hadn’t. It was bad. “Oh crap, man, no way!” he gulped.
The football had completely demolished one of the rear tail lights on the Bel Air. Shards of red glass littered the driveway around the football like shiny confetti. John couldn’t stop staring at it, his mouth gaping open in stunned horror.
“JONATHAN EDWARD WINCHESTER!”
John nearly jumped out of his skin at hearing his full name being bellowed out across the small front yard. He looked up to see his father stalking determinedly toward him and the battered car, a cold, quiet rage on his face. John’s stomach clenched, his mouth going dry, but he stood his ground, albeit on somewhat shaky legs.
Mike paled visibly and began slowly backing up, feet tripping over themselves, as he tried to distance himself from the situation at hand. Much as he didn’t want to leave John high and dry, the ugly glower on Bill Winchester’s face made him feel like making a break for it.
John caught Mike’s backward progression out of the corner of his eye and let it go. He didn’t blame him, not really. John had been the one to throw the ball. Mike froze when he realized John was watching him and he gave his best friend a rather sheepish look.
“Dude, take off,” John hissed at him.
“John, man…I—” Mike stuttered, wincing sadly, but John cut him off.
“Just go!” John urged, nodding toward the open street. “This is one’s on me. I’ll take the heat for it.”
Mike hesitated then gave a curt nod and took off at a trot down the street and toward home, wondering if there would be a phone call later that evening that would end up with him and his father having a “discussion” out in the garage later. He hoped not.
John started when he felt a firm hand grasp his bicep, clamping down tight. He swiveled and gulped as he stared up into the face of his angry father.
“Dad, I…” John stopped mid-sentence, thinking to himself.
He what? Was sorry? Yeah, no shit. Of course, he was sorry – not so much for throwing the football, as for the lousy piece of luck that sent the stupid thing hurtling into the new family car and taking out a tail light, which he was sure would be expensive to replace and would be coming out of his hide. And he was definitely sorry his Dad has seen him, because that meant there was no way to play some damage control on the situation, to palm off the incident as a hapless accident, one of those crazy little things that just happen. All in all, John knew he was screwed.
He opted to keep his mouth shut and concentrate on his shadow, which was stretching out in front of him across the leaf-cluttered driveway. There was no real point in attempting to offer up some lame excuse. They both knew exactly what had happened and why.
“Let’s go,” Bill growled. Without another word, the elder Winchester turned, towing his reluctant son after him back towards the house. He stopped them beside the rear bumper of the Bel Air, eyes ablaze with fury. “You’re cleaning that up and getting it fixed,” Bill stated, motioning with his free hand towards the jagged hole in the taillight.
“Yes, sir,” John replied obediently. Saying anything else would only earn him worse than what he was about to receive, and John knew it.
The two men headed for the porch, John trying hard to maintain a stoic front and Bill trying to bring his anger under control before he strangled his kid on the front lawn in front of all the neighbors.
“Bill? Is that you?” Helen Winchester’s lilting voice carried down the short hallway from the kitchen as Bill and John stomped noisily into the living room. Helen poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, a worried frown sliding onto her face at the sight of her two men, both of them looking very put out.
She eyed her husband, saw the grim set of his jaw, the glint of fury in his hazel eyes and then glanced over at her son, who was staring a hole into the polished wood floor, his broad shoulders slumped, an air of apprehensive defeat blanketing him. “Honey? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Bill snorted, eyeing John still clutched in his grip. “Oh, something happened all right.” He gave John a shake. “Your fool son, here, just busted a light on the new Chevy!” Bill glared at John. “After I told him to keep away from it.”
“Oh, Johnny!” Helen said softly. Her eyes took on a sympathetic look. “I’m sure he’s sorry, Bill,” she offered, trying to defuse the situation.
“If he ain’t now, he will be,” Bill commented wryly as he swung John around and gave the teenager a crisp swat to the seat of his pants, aiming him towards the stairs. “Because I’ll be giving him a good reminder on who’s still the boss in this house. Get your butt to your room, boy. I’ll be up directly.”
John nodded miserably and shuffled up the steps and into his bedroom, shutting the door. He wandered over to his neatly made bed, and slumped down onto it, the fingers of his right hand absently playing with a loose thread on the quilted bedspread underneath him. Despite the gravity of the situation, John let out a short bitter laugh. Might as well enjoy the feeling of sitting down Winchester, he thought with chagrin as he shifted on the mattress. He was pretty positive that his dad was about to revoke that little privilege for a day or two.
No sooner had that thought flickered through John’s head, than the door to the room opened and his father strode in, much calmer in demeanor, but with the same severe mask of irritation pasted on his face. For him, there was only one way to deal with his son’s overabundance of stubbornness and attitude, and that was to whup some sense into his boy.
John stood up in deference to his father and forced himself to look the man directly in the eye.
“You know, if you’d a just listened to me and done what I told you to do, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now,” Bill said, his voice laden with tired disappointment. He began unbuckling his heavy leather belt, eyes never leaving his son.
John watched, swallowing hard. He could feel his heart jitter at the sight of his dad’s belt, previous encounters with the dreaded implement still etched into his memory. His butt clenched unconsciously at the memory of past spankings, and John mentally kicked himself for having so stupidly gotten himself into this latest mess.
“Get ‘em down, boy,” Bill ordered as he tugged his belt from the last loop in his pants and doubled the leather in his hand. “I want you bared and over the bed. Now.”
John nodded and silently complied with his father’s orders, shoving his jeans and briefs down to his knees, his face reddening at the humiliation of being so naked in front of his dad, especially at his age. He was thankful that all thoughts of Kathy Sullivan were absent at this point. He turned awkwardly, his pants twisting about his legs and leaned forward over his bed, resting his weight upon his bent elbows. John shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited.
“Why are you getting this whipping, Johnny?” Bill demanded as he raised the belt back and up.
Because you’re a jerk and I’m stupid, John mused. “Because I broke the tail light on the Chevy when I threw the football after you told me to stop,” he answered aloud.
“That’s right, son,” Bill replied somberly.
John absently wondered if he’d even be getting a butt roasting if the ball had missed the car. The point became completely moot when his father’s belt cracked down, sending an explosion of searing heat and pain across his unprotected backside. John bit back a cuss, clamping down hard on his lower lip. There was no time to recover from the first blow before a second and a third one followed. Each lick of the belt was distinct and separate, despite coming one on top of the other. John could easily discern which burning sting belonged to which welt.
Bill continued to wallop John with the belt, the licks coming solid and steady. “I am sick and tired of your attitude, young man. That smart aleck mouth and defiance are going to end, right here, right now. Is that clear?”
“Yessir!” John gasped, his voice hitching slightly. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out from hollering and squirming. Jesus, his dad had a heavy swing!
“As long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say, and you will do it without giving me lip! I ever have to take my belt to you like this again, buddy boy, and you’re going to wish you’d a never been born, you hear me?”
“Yessir! OW! I got it, sir!” John hastily replied as the belt laid down stripe after zinging stripe all over his butt and upper thighs.
He grimaced and finally let slip a disconsolate yelp as the individual lines of intense sting built and began to overload his senses. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, which instead of hiding them, forced the tears there to well up and trail down over his scrunched up face.
“Dad! I get it!” John howled, jumping as the leather connected once again with his glowing red backside. “No more lip! I swear! I’ll do what you tell me! I’m real sorry! Honest!”
A broken sob escaped from John against his will and his father stilled his arm, dropping the belt onto the bed next to John’s head. John cringed away from it but remained bent over until his dad patted his back.
“I’m sorry too, Johnny,” Bill said, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry I had to punish you like that. But, I won’t stand for that kind of blatant insolence. Your mother and I brought you up better than that.”
The tears came a little harder at the mention of his mom. He felt ashamed of what he’d done. “Dad, I am so sorry,” John mumbled. He slowly stood up, wincing as his flaming butt began to throb in time to his heartbeat.
Bill reached over and eased John’s pants back up into place before he corralled the boy into a curt hug, giving John’s neck a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“I know you’re sorry, boy, and I forgive you. But, you need to start minding that temper of yours, son, and showing some respect. If you don’t, one of these days that attitude of yours is gonna get you into a whole heap of trouble. You’re practically a man, Johnny. Gonna be going off on your own one day, and meeting some pretty young thing and settling down with a family of your own, and your kids are gonna be looking up to you, John, for how to behave, how to act.”
Bill pulled away from John, fixing him with a serious but tender gaze. “It’s a big responsibility raising children. And there ain’t no manual for it. It’s up to the parents to do the right thing and see to it that their sons and daughters grow to be decent human beings. You want people to respect you, then you have to respect others first. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I understand,” John said quietly. And he did. He threw the football the final time just to show his father he couldn’t be bossed around. It was a totally immature and selfish thing to do. To say he regretted the act would be putting it mildly. John felt his face burn with shame as he gave his father a watery smile. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget, Dad,” John stated earnestly.
As if to confirm, the rueful teenager reached behind him, rubbing carefully at his aching bottom, cringing at the prickly heat delineating each and every welt.
“That’s good to hear, Johnny,” Bill remarked calmly. He smiled back at his son, clapping him on the back. “Now, I want you to go downstairs and apologize to your mother for ruining her new car, and then I want you to get the push broom and dustpan from the garage and go clean up all that glass in the driveway. All right? Don’t want a flat tire to go along with the busted light, now do we?”
John shook his head, a familiar half-grin quirking up the corners of his mouth. “No sir. I don’t think my butt could handle any more car trouble today.”
Bill chuckled and watched his sixteen-year-old head out of the bedroom and for the stairs. He followed a short distance behind, smirking as John stopped on the stairs once to squirm uncomfortably and rub his sore butt again. He chose to ignore the mumbled string of curse words that tumbled from his son’s mouth, like an uncontrollable current. He knew they were more a product of the harsh spanking the boy had just suffered rather than any sign of continued belligerence. Hell, he’d be hard put not to let out a salty cuss or two himself in the boy’s position.
Stopping at the bottom step of the staircase, Bill let John go into the kitchen alone to talk to his mother. Those two had a bond that he wasn’t a part of and knew not to intrude upon. The bond of mother and child. She’d accept his apology with an indulgent smile and cuddle him, even though John’d pretend to be embarrassed by the mush, and then she’d slip him a couple cookies or a brownie before he went outside to clean up the broken glass, and all would be well again.
Bill leaned on the banister, waiting. He smiled, hearing his wife’s bubbling laughter. Boy had a wit on him, that was for sure, and he could be quite charming when he wasn’t using said wit to be a sarcastic little shit.
“You’re gonna make a fine man one day, John Winchester,” he said to no one in particular. “Gonna make me proud.”
THE END
Fall 1962
“So, you askin’ Kathy Sullivan to the homecoming dance?”
Hearing her name, out-of-the-blue like that, sent a thrill up John Winchester’s spine. He and his best friend, Mike Guenther, had just been bantering about cars only moments ago, but it never took long for the conversation to incline towards the fairer sex. The sixteen-year-old paused. He tried to cover, looking up at Mike, managing to grin and blush at the same time as he hurled the football he was holding at his best friend. His aim was off, and the ball wobbled crazily like a drunken bird in flight.
Mike watched smugly as the wayward football sailed high over his head and landed in the neatly trimmed hedge surrounding the front porch of the split-level ranch house the Winchesters called home.
“Jesus, Winchester! Coach actually lets you out on the field?” Mike snorted in derision. “Nice pass there, bonehead!” Mike jogged over to retrieve the ball.
In all honesty, John hadn’t been concentrating on his throw. He had been picturing Kathy Sullivan in those tight hip hugger jeans she wore sometimes on the weekends, the way the denim snugly cradled the round curves of her ass just so…John choked as his body quickly responded in the usual way of teenage boys, presented with a tempting specimen such as Kathy. He quickly broke off the thought before his dick woke up all the way and announced its presence in a very obvious and embarrassing manner that Mike would make sure to point out.
“You want me to concentrate on throwing, then don’t start talking ‘bout girls,” John admonished his friend with a big dopey grin. “And especially not Kathy Sullivan, dude. I mean, jeez, she’s got the hottest lookin’ –“
“…carburetor…” John’s father stated over his shoulder to someone inside the house as he breezed out the screen door and onto the front porch, startling both boys and making them burst into snorts of unconstrained laughter.
“Yeah, carburetor,” Mike said, waggling his eyebrows at John and chuckling as he tossed the football back over to John.
Bill Winchester shook his head, eyeing the two teens in his driveway, who were still cackling at their inside joke. Looking at the young men, a mixture of pride and exasperation welled up in his chest. Mike was sorely in need of a haircut, his blonde hair now past the top of his shirt collar – kid’s fashion these days - and his Johnny looked to have had another growth spurt, only this one was more horizontal than vertical, lean muscle now replacing the scrawniness of just a few months ago, broadening the teen’s shoulders and chest. Joining the football team had been a good move for his boy. It kept John in shape and out of trouble, which seemed to be a problem among teenagers these days.
Whatever had happened to the good old days, he wondered nostalgically. All this crazy rock music and attitude was beyond him. Luckily Lawrence, Kansas was still a bastion for traditional family values, hanging on fiercely to its small-town, mid-western wholesomeness. Bill was thankful for that. His son’s cockiness and general stubborn nature gave him enough to deal with without having to worry about psychedelic drugs, free love and other such nonsense like his brother was dealing wth in New York.
He watched the boys as they tossed the worn football back and forth in the driveway and winced every time John overthrew, forcing Mike to miss the catch. The ball floundered past Mike, more often than not, to bounce erratically towards the Winchester’s latest purchase – a shiny new Chevrolet Bel Air sedan. They’d had the car for a little over a month and Bill was keen to keep it in its pristine condition.
Bill was spurred into action when the football once again danced across the driveway end-to-end, landing precariously close to the Chevy’s rear fender. Bill’s stomach clenched. “Johnny,” he called to his son. “You and Mike take that down to the park and play.”
John made a face. “Aw, Dad, how come?”
Bill may have imagined it, but he was fairly certain he’d heard a tinge of belligerence in his son’s tone. His stance became stiffer, more deliberate as he answered John, keeping his voice even, yet firm.
“Because I said so, young man.”
Mike Guenther’s wary gaze flicked from one Winchester to the other as he stood in silence, watching the scene. He’d known John since the second grade, had eaten countless meals at the Winchester kitchen table, and had bunked down, on more than one occasion, in the spare bed in John’s room after a late game or whenever his parents went out of town. Mike had learned pretty early on in his friendship with John Winchester that it was never wise to get involved when John and his old man decided to butt heads.
John’s father wasn’t above handing out a butt whupping if he thought his kid deserved one, especially if the transgression was for one of the big three: lying, disobeying, or disrespect. And neither was Bill Winchester shy about picking up the phone and calling Mike’s dad if he thought Mike was in need of the same parental attention. Mike was no fool. He knew darn well that, at sixteen, he wasn’t too old for a trip to the garage and a session with his dad’s belt. Both his father and John’s were cut from the same old-fashioned mold - no Dr. Spock, spare the rod bullshit for them.
John rolled the football between his large hands, barely containing his look of bewildered frustration. His dad’s lack of an explanation irritated the hell out of the sixteen-year-old. He and Mike weren’t doing anything wrong, they’d always played ball in the front yard, just like this, and he couldn’t help saying as much to his dad.
“We aren’t hurting anything, Dad. We’re just tossing the ball around some, goofing around, getting some practice in.”
Bill nodded toward the Chevy behind the boys. “You’re practicing is getting a little too close to the new car,” he stated simply. “So, you and Mikey either quit for the day or take it someplace else. Understand?”
Mike could tell from the set of John’s jaw that his friend wasn’t about to ‘take it someplace else’. He let out a beleaguered sigh and waited apprehensively. This was not going to end well.
“How ‘bout we move over to the yard?” John suggested. He headed for the patch of grass in front of the house, not bothering to wait for his dad’s response.
“I already gave you your options, son,” Bill Winchester stated ominously. He fixed John with a hard stare. “You can go to the park or you can put the football away. I’m not in the mood to deal with a busted window today, be it one on the house or one on the car.”
“But, Dad –” John complained sullenly and Bill cut his son off, his tone now low and angry.
“I’m done talking on it, John Edward,” Bill snapped. “One more word and where to play ball is gonna be the last thing on your mind today. You hear me, boy?” His work-roughened hand dropped down to finger his belt, and John’s eyes fell to the driveway in defeat.
“Yes, sir,” John grumbled.
Bill turned, heading back into the house, his thoughts on the ice-cold beer in the fridge and the game on the TV set in the living room. He hadn’t even made it past the threshold of the front door before John decided to have his last say.
“Dude!” John whispered loudly to Mike as he reared back and launched the football, the gesture a small act of defiance towards what he saw as his dad’s unreasonableness.
Unfortunately, Mike’s attention was focused solely on Bill’s retreating figure rather than on John. His head snapped around when he heard John’s hissed shout, but it was too late. John had already thrown the football. And it was a Hail Mary pass if ever Mike had seen one. The conical leather ball looked like a torpedo as it sped towards Mike in a hard, tight spiral, one the coach would have been proud to see. Mike, on the other hand, wasn’t so happy to see it, mainly because it was speeding directly towards his face.
Eyes widening, the teen panicked and ducked, cursing under his breath at John’s poor sense of timing. The football soared past where Mike’s head was only moments before and kept on going, until it smacked into the back end of the Chevy Bel Air with a loud thwack and the crystal sharp snap of glass breaking.
“Sonuvabitch!” John swore under his breath, eyes going wide with dread.
Mike slowly rose from his protective crouch, not really wanting to turn around and look. But he did anyway. And wished he hadn’t. It was bad. “Oh crap, man, no way!” he gulped.
The football had completely demolished one of the rear tail lights on the Bel Air. Shards of red glass littered the driveway around the football like shiny confetti. John couldn’t stop staring at it, his mouth gaping open in stunned horror.
“JONATHAN EDWARD WINCHESTER!”
John nearly jumped out of his skin at hearing his full name being bellowed out across the small front yard. He looked up to see his father stalking determinedly toward him and the battered car, a cold, quiet rage on his face. John’s stomach clenched, his mouth going dry, but he stood his ground, albeit on somewhat shaky legs.
Mike paled visibly and began slowly backing up, feet tripping over themselves, as he tried to distance himself from the situation at hand. Much as he didn’t want to leave John high and dry, the ugly glower on Bill Winchester’s face made him feel like making a break for it.
John caught Mike’s backward progression out of the corner of his eye and let it go. He didn’t blame him, not really. John had been the one to throw the ball. Mike froze when he realized John was watching him and he gave his best friend a rather sheepish look.
“Dude, take off,” John hissed at him.
“John, man…I—” Mike stuttered, wincing sadly, but John cut him off.
“Just go!” John urged, nodding toward the open street. “This is one’s on me. I’ll take the heat for it.”
Mike hesitated then gave a curt nod and took off at a trot down the street and toward home, wondering if there would be a phone call later that evening that would end up with him and his father having a “discussion” out in the garage later. He hoped not.
John started when he felt a firm hand grasp his bicep, clamping down tight. He swiveled and gulped as he stared up into the face of his angry father.
“Dad, I…” John stopped mid-sentence, thinking to himself.
He what? Was sorry? Yeah, no shit. Of course, he was sorry – not so much for throwing the football, as for the lousy piece of luck that sent the stupid thing hurtling into the new family car and taking out a tail light, which he was sure would be expensive to replace and would be coming out of his hide. And he was definitely sorry his Dad has seen him, because that meant there was no way to play some damage control on the situation, to palm off the incident as a hapless accident, one of those crazy little things that just happen. All in all, John knew he was screwed.
He opted to keep his mouth shut and concentrate on his shadow, which was stretching out in front of him across the leaf-cluttered driveway. There was no real point in attempting to offer up some lame excuse. They both knew exactly what had happened and why.
“Let’s go,” Bill growled. Without another word, the elder Winchester turned, towing his reluctant son after him back towards the house. He stopped them beside the rear bumper of the Bel Air, eyes ablaze with fury. “You’re cleaning that up and getting it fixed,” Bill stated, motioning with his free hand towards the jagged hole in the taillight.
“Yes, sir,” John replied obediently. Saying anything else would only earn him worse than what he was about to receive, and John knew it.
The two men headed for the porch, John trying hard to maintain a stoic front and Bill trying to bring his anger under control before he strangled his kid on the front lawn in front of all the neighbors.
“Bill? Is that you?” Helen Winchester’s lilting voice carried down the short hallway from the kitchen as Bill and John stomped noisily into the living room. Helen poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, a worried frown sliding onto her face at the sight of her two men, both of them looking very put out.
She eyed her husband, saw the grim set of his jaw, the glint of fury in his hazel eyes and then glanced over at her son, who was staring a hole into the polished wood floor, his broad shoulders slumped, an air of apprehensive defeat blanketing him. “Honey? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Bill snorted, eyeing John still clutched in his grip. “Oh, something happened all right.” He gave John a shake. “Your fool son, here, just busted a light on the new Chevy!” Bill glared at John. “After I told him to keep away from it.”
“Oh, Johnny!” Helen said softly. Her eyes took on a sympathetic look. “I’m sure he’s sorry, Bill,” she offered, trying to defuse the situation.
“If he ain’t now, he will be,” Bill commented wryly as he swung John around and gave the teenager a crisp swat to the seat of his pants, aiming him towards the stairs. “Because I’ll be giving him a good reminder on who’s still the boss in this house. Get your butt to your room, boy. I’ll be up directly.”
John nodded miserably and shuffled up the steps and into his bedroom, shutting the door. He wandered over to his neatly made bed, and slumped down onto it, the fingers of his right hand absently playing with a loose thread on the quilted bedspread underneath him. Despite the gravity of the situation, John let out a short bitter laugh. Might as well enjoy the feeling of sitting down Winchester, he thought with chagrin as he shifted on the mattress. He was pretty positive that his dad was about to revoke that little privilege for a day or two.
No sooner had that thought flickered through John’s head, than the door to the room opened and his father strode in, much calmer in demeanor, but with the same severe mask of irritation pasted on his face. For him, there was only one way to deal with his son’s overabundance of stubbornness and attitude, and that was to whup some sense into his boy.
John stood up in deference to his father and forced himself to look the man directly in the eye.
“You know, if you’d a just listened to me and done what I told you to do, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now,” Bill said, his voice laden with tired disappointment. He began unbuckling his heavy leather belt, eyes never leaving his son.
John watched, swallowing hard. He could feel his heart jitter at the sight of his dad’s belt, previous encounters with the dreaded implement still etched into his memory. His butt clenched unconsciously at the memory of past spankings, and John mentally kicked himself for having so stupidly gotten himself into this latest mess.
“Get ‘em down, boy,” Bill ordered as he tugged his belt from the last loop in his pants and doubled the leather in his hand. “I want you bared and over the bed. Now.”
John nodded and silently complied with his father’s orders, shoving his jeans and briefs down to his knees, his face reddening at the humiliation of being so naked in front of his dad, especially at his age. He was thankful that all thoughts of Kathy Sullivan were absent at this point. He turned awkwardly, his pants twisting about his legs and leaned forward over his bed, resting his weight upon his bent elbows. John shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited.
“Why are you getting this whipping, Johnny?” Bill demanded as he raised the belt back and up.
Because you’re a jerk and I’m stupid, John mused. “Because I broke the tail light on the Chevy when I threw the football after you told me to stop,” he answered aloud.
“That’s right, son,” Bill replied somberly.
John absently wondered if he’d even be getting a butt roasting if the ball had missed the car. The point became completely moot when his father’s belt cracked down, sending an explosion of searing heat and pain across his unprotected backside. John bit back a cuss, clamping down hard on his lower lip. There was no time to recover from the first blow before a second and a third one followed. Each lick of the belt was distinct and separate, despite coming one on top of the other. John could easily discern which burning sting belonged to which welt.
Bill continued to wallop John with the belt, the licks coming solid and steady. “I am sick and tired of your attitude, young man. That smart aleck mouth and defiance are going to end, right here, right now. Is that clear?”
“Yessir!” John gasped, his voice hitching slightly. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out from hollering and squirming. Jesus, his dad had a heavy swing!
“As long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say, and you will do it without giving me lip! I ever have to take my belt to you like this again, buddy boy, and you’re going to wish you’d a never been born, you hear me?”
“Yessir! OW! I got it, sir!” John hastily replied as the belt laid down stripe after zinging stripe all over his butt and upper thighs.
He grimaced and finally let slip a disconsolate yelp as the individual lines of intense sting built and began to overload his senses. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, which instead of hiding them, forced the tears there to well up and trail down over his scrunched up face.
“Dad! I get it!” John howled, jumping as the leather connected once again with his glowing red backside. “No more lip! I swear! I’ll do what you tell me! I’m real sorry! Honest!”
A broken sob escaped from John against his will and his father stilled his arm, dropping the belt onto the bed next to John’s head. John cringed away from it but remained bent over until his dad patted his back.
“I’m sorry too, Johnny,” Bill said, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry I had to punish you like that. But, I won’t stand for that kind of blatant insolence. Your mother and I brought you up better than that.”
The tears came a little harder at the mention of his mom. He felt ashamed of what he’d done. “Dad, I am so sorry,” John mumbled. He slowly stood up, wincing as his flaming butt began to throb in time to his heartbeat.
Bill reached over and eased John’s pants back up into place before he corralled the boy into a curt hug, giving John’s neck a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“I know you’re sorry, boy, and I forgive you. But, you need to start minding that temper of yours, son, and showing some respect. If you don’t, one of these days that attitude of yours is gonna get you into a whole heap of trouble. You’re practically a man, Johnny. Gonna be going off on your own one day, and meeting some pretty young thing and settling down with a family of your own, and your kids are gonna be looking up to you, John, for how to behave, how to act.”
Bill pulled away from John, fixing him with a serious but tender gaze. “It’s a big responsibility raising children. And there ain’t no manual for it. It’s up to the parents to do the right thing and see to it that their sons and daughters grow to be decent human beings. You want people to respect you, then you have to respect others first. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I understand,” John said quietly. And he did. He threw the football the final time just to show his father he couldn’t be bossed around. It was a totally immature and selfish thing to do. To say he regretted the act would be putting it mildly. John felt his face burn with shame as he gave his father a watery smile. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget, Dad,” John stated earnestly.
As if to confirm, the rueful teenager reached behind him, rubbing carefully at his aching bottom, cringing at the prickly heat delineating each and every welt.
“That’s good to hear, Johnny,” Bill remarked calmly. He smiled back at his son, clapping him on the back. “Now, I want you to go downstairs and apologize to your mother for ruining her new car, and then I want you to get the push broom and dustpan from the garage and go clean up all that glass in the driveway. All right? Don’t want a flat tire to go along with the busted light, now do we?”
John shook his head, a familiar half-grin quirking up the corners of his mouth. “No sir. I don’t think my butt could handle any more car trouble today.”
Bill chuckled and watched his sixteen-year-old head out of the bedroom and for the stairs. He followed a short distance behind, smirking as John stopped on the stairs once to squirm uncomfortably and rub his sore butt again. He chose to ignore the mumbled string of curse words that tumbled from his son’s mouth, like an uncontrollable current. He knew they were more a product of the harsh spanking the boy had just suffered rather than any sign of continued belligerence. Hell, he’d be hard put not to let out a salty cuss or two himself in the boy’s position.
Stopping at the bottom step of the staircase, Bill let John go into the kitchen alone to talk to his mother. Those two had a bond that he wasn’t a part of and knew not to intrude upon. The bond of mother and child. She’d accept his apology with an indulgent smile and cuddle him, even though John’d pretend to be embarrassed by the mush, and then she’d slip him a couple cookies or a brownie before he went outside to clean up the broken glass, and all would be well again.
Bill leaned on the banister, waiting. He smiled, hearing his wife’s bubbling laughter. Boy had a wit on him, that was for sure, and he could be quite charming when he wasn’t using said wit to be a sarcastic little shit.
“You’re gonna make a fine man one day, John Winchester,” he said to no one in particular. “Gonna make me proud.”
THE END