O Christmas Tree
by Minx
Lawrence, Kansas
Home of John & Mary Winchester
December 1981
“NO!”
The reprimand was immediate, loud and full of fury. It startled John Winchester, despite the fact that after two tours in ‘Nam, there was really very little that could shock the ex-Marine anymore. But, then again, John wasn’t used to having a pint-sized toddler scolding him like he was still some dumb grunt cowering in a rice paddy.
“Excuse me?” John’s dark eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he shot his glaring two-year-old son a warning look. “What did you just say to me?”
“John…” Mary’s soft plea did nothing to lessen her husband’s displeasure.
“Mary, he’s got to learn he can’t always have his way.”
Mary’s nose scrunched at that, but she gave a slight nod of acceptance, followed by a long sigh. “They don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing, you know.”
John let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Christ, I’ve dealt with full-bird colonels with less attitude,” he muttered wryly.
He turned back to his son who was standing next to the half-decorated Christmas tree. Dean glowered ominously up at his father, his lower lip stuck out far enough, for a 747 to easily land on. The kid had Mary’s looks, John noted, but his temper. Just great.
Dean’s small, chubby fists were full of the cheap plastic tinsel Mary had bought at the drug store that morning when she went to pick up her prescription for birth control. Because one toddler in diapers at a time was enough for the both of them, thank you very much. The tinsel was the strand kind; long silvery noodles that John’s grandmother used to take hours to meticulously hang on the tree, one strand at a time.
While John didn’t particularly hold to his Grandma Lois’ single tinsel at a time method of decorating, he couldn’t get on board with Dean’s system either. It consisted of scrunching the strands up in a tight ball and flinging the whole mess into the air, hoping it would hit the tree, but not really caring if it did because it was sparkly and fun to watch.
The tinsel, more often than not, missed the tree entirely to cover the toddler and surrounding floor with clingy silver threads. Threads that had to picked up by hand because they tended to catch in the vacuum cleaner’s brush and clog the filter. And when it did manage to get onto the tree, Dean’s height disadvantage meant that only the lowest 6 inches or so of the Christmas tree got any tinsel at all.
John eyed his son. “Dean, no more throwing the tinsel.” He held out a hand towards the two-year-old. “Here, give daddy what you have and you can help mommy with the ornaments.” The ornaments were mostly plastic, so there was no harm if Dean dropped them.
Dean’s brow furrowed, eyes glassy and full of unshed tears due to not taking his usual afternoon nap. Mary had tried to put him down, but Dean wasn’t having any of it that day and had spent his naptime bouncing around his crib until John had given in and brought him back out to the living room to “help” decorate the tree.
“Dean.” John let a note of warning slide into his voice this time.
Dean drew his hands up close to his chest, refusing to let go of the tinsel. “NO!” he shrieked once more, this time reaching an impressive octave range that had both Mary and John wincing. “MY TIMSEW!”
At two and a half, Dean was the very definition of a belligerent, stubborn toddler. Tantrums and crying jags were daily occurrences as of late and Mary had kidded more than once that maybe the stork had left the wrong kid because they had ordered the sweet, even-tempered one, hadn’t they?
While John understood that two-year-olds were supposed to be ornery, he didn’t want his son to think he had the upper hand either. He took a step towards Dean, crouching to get down to his son’s level and held his hand out again.
“Dean, give me the tinsel, right now, please,” he stated firmly.
The corners of Dean’s lips dropped into an upside down U as he let out another angry shriek when John made a move to take the tinsel from him. Dean batted defiantly at John’s fingers, twisting and turning from his father’s grasp, screaming at the top of his lungs as if someone was murdering him instead of trying to reclaim what was now just a stringy clump of tarnished tinsel from his hands.
“Dean, baby, you can have a pretty ornament to play with instead, okay? See?” Mary dangled a red and white striped ornament shaped like a candy cane in front of her toddler. “Come on, sweetie, give daddy the tinsel and you can have the candy cane.”
Dean ignored the offering, instead focusing on the bigger battle in front of him. He backed away from John, tinsel clutched to his chest and tried to scoot under the tree to escape, but John was faster and latched onto his son’s left arm, stopping him.
“Nuh uh, buddy. Can’t have the tree falling down on top of you,” John said. “Now, hand over the tinsel, kiddo.”
“NODONTWANNA!” Dean shouted, blurring the words together. His face reddened to a brilliant crimson as he worked himself into a tantrum of epic proportions. “MY TINSEW!”
Dean’s little sneakered foot kicked out, violently connecting with John’s shin.
“Sonuva-“ John cursed under his breath as he hopped up and down on one foot, rubbing distractedly at his bruised leg.
His brows knotted as he glared his disapproval at Dean.
“You do not kick, mister!” he chided and then gasped when Dean did just that, kicking John once more before throwing the warm, soggy handfuls of tinsel at him. They hit John in the kneecaps before lazily drifting down to cover his shoes.
“Dean Winchester!” Mary scolded, eyes going wide.
John’s reaction was swift and full of censure. He spun Dean to the side and tapped his little diapered butt once, not very hard, but enough to let Dean know John meant business. Dean instantly stopped his struggles and let out a choked yelp, more in surprise than pain; the diaper having padded most of the blow.
Two huge green eyes blinked up at John in a strange mix of wonder and offense. Dean’s lower lip began to quiver.
“Don’t you ever kick me or throw anything at me again, young man!” John said. He pointed at Dean, finger an angry accusation. “That is not nice! That’s a no-no! You understand?”
Dean’s reply was to let out a heart-wrenching sob, followed by a deep intake of breath, little round chest ballooning with the effort, and then a full-blown howl of tearful angst assaulted John. He let go of Dean, who immediately ran over to Mary with raised arms in supplication, his pouting, crimson face covered in snot and tears, mouth open in a guttural squawk of dismay.
“Oh, baby, you’re okay,” Mary cooed as she bent down to envelop Dean in her arms, her mothering instincts taking over despite her son’s recent misbehavior. “Your okay. Calm down, sweetie.”
Mary petted Dean’s hair, rubbed his back and spoke softly to the toddler until Dean was down to nothing more than an occasional sniffle, his sweaty face buried into his mother’s neck.
Sighing, John scrubbed tiredly at his unshaven jaw, watching mother and son. “Well, crap. Now, I feel like a great, big ass-“
“John…” Mary shot her husband a warning look over Dean’s head.
John coughed. “Uh, I mean great big…meanie,” he finished, rolling his eyes.
Mary smirked. “You are a meanie,” she teased.
“Oh, you think so, huh?” John tried to act stern, but lost the battle. He closed the distance between himself and his wife, a sly grin on his face. “Maybe I spanked the wrong person,” he said.
John wrapped his arms around Mary as she stood back up, leaving Dean sandwiched between his parents.
Kissing Mary’s temple, John reached behind his wife to swat her butt once. Mary squeaked in surprise. John laughed.
“Nice ass, by the way, Mrs. Winchester,” he whispered into Mary’s ear, causing her to blush and giggle.
Whap!
“Bad, Daddy! No hit Mommy!”
Mary’s mouth fell open, shock mixing with amusement on her face.
John blinked, surprised, as the small hand landed on his backside once more. The smack didn’t hurt; in fact, it barely registered with John. More an insistent tap against his pants than a disciplinary swat, but it was the act itself that caught him off guard.
John half-twisted around, peering over his shoulder in bewilderment, to spot Dean standing behind him, a stern scowl on the toddler’s dirt-streaked face.
“That’s a no-no, Daddy!” Dean stated. His voice wavered a little, unsure of the possible consequences to come from his actions. This was Daddy, after all, he’d just spanked.
But, instead of a reciprocal punishment, John shook with laughter, turning and bending to swoop Dean up in his arms.
“So, you think Daddy deserved a spanking for spanking Mommy, Deano?” John asked.
Dean nodded. “That’s a no-no,” he solemnly repeated. He reached over to his mother to offer up a hug and a wet, sloppy kiss.
“Aww, my little hero,” Mary said, smiling widely and returning the kiss.
John’s heart swelled. “You’re a good boy, Dean,” he murmured, planting a kiss on the top of his son’s head and hugging him tight to his chest. “You keep on protecting your mom. Even from me.”
“’Kay,” Dean replied.
“And, I’m sorry I had to swat you earlier, buddy,” John said. He pushed Dean’s bangs off his forehead, studying his son in earnest. “I’ll always love you, no matter what you do, Dean, but that doesn’t mean I won’t punish you when you do something wrong.”
Dean peered at his father but said nothing. John hoped he understood the sentiment, but didn’t push it further. There’d be plenty of time in the years to come for father and son chats about what it meant to be a son, a husband, a brother, a friend, a man.
Right now, John just wanted to enjoy the warm, family moment. He winked at Dean and Dean laughed, grabbing John’s ears and pulling him close to kiss him on the nose, making John go cross-eyed.
“Mewy Chwissmas!” Dean said, grinning happily.
“Merry Christmas,” John and Mary replied, sharing a soft, loving look between them.
“Can I has pie now?” Dean inquired.
THE END
Home of John & Mary Winchester
December 1981
“NO!”
The reprimand was immediate, loud and full of fury. It startled John Winchester, despite the fact that after two tours in ‘Nam, there was really very little that could shock the ex-Marine anymore. But, then again, John wasn’t used to having a pint-sized toddler scolding him like he was still some dumb grunt cowering in a rice paddy.
“Excuse me?” John’s dark eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he shot his glaring two-year-old son a warning look. “What did you just say to me?”
“John…” Mary’s soft plea did nothing to lessen her husband’s displeasure.
“Mary, he’s got to learn he can’t always have his way.”
Mary’s nose scrunched at that, but she gave a slight nod of acceptance, followed by a long sigh. “They don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing, you know.”
John let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Christ, I’ve dealt with full-bird colonels with less attitude,” he muttered wryly.
He turned back to his son who was standing next to the half-decorated Christmas tree. Dean glowered ominously up at his father, his lower lip stuck out far enough, for a 747 to easily land on. The kid had Mary’s looks, John noted, but his temper. Just great.
Dean’s small, chubby fists were full of the cheap plastic tinsel Mary had bought at the drug store that morning when she went to pick up her prescription for birth control. Because one toddler in diapers at a time was enough for the both of them, thank you very much. The tinsel was the strand kind; long silvery noodles that John’s grandmother used to take hours to meticulously hang on the tree, one strand at a time.
While John didn’t particularly hold to his Grandma Lois’ single tinsel at a time method of decorating, he couldn’t get on board with Dean’s system either. It consisted of scrunching the strands up in a tight ball and flinging the whole mess into the air, hoping it would hit the tree, but not really caring if it did because it was sparkly and fun to watch.
The tinsel, more often than not, missed the tree entirely to cover the toddler and surrounding floor with clingy silver threads. Threads that had to picked up by hand because they tended to catch in the vacuum cleaner’s brush and clog the filter. And when it did manage to get onto the tree, Dean’s height disadvantage meant that only the lowest 6 inches or so of the Christmas tree got any tinsel at all.
John eyed his son. “Dean, no more throwing the tinsel.” He held out a hand towards the two-year-old. “Here, give daddy what you have and you can help mommy with the ornaments.” The ornaments were mostly plastic, so there was no harm if Dean dropped them.
Dean’s brow furrowed, eyes glassy and full of unshed tears due to not taking his usual afternoon nap. Mary had tried to put him down, but Dean wasn’t having any of it that day and had spent his naptime bouncing around his crib until John had given in and brought him back out to the living room to “help” decorate the tree.
“Dean.” John let a note of warning slide into his voice this time.
Dean drew his hands up close to his chest, refusing to let go of the tinsel. “NO!” he shrieked once more, this time reaching an impressive octave range that had both Mary and John wincing. “MY TIMSEW!”
At two and a half, Dean was the very definition of a belligerent, stubborn toddler. Tantrums and crying jags were daily occurrences as of late and Mary had kidded more than once that maybe the stork had left the wrong kid because they had ordered the sweet, even-tempered one, hadn’t they?
While John understood that two-year-olds were supposed to be ornery, he didn’t want his son to think he had the upper hand either. He took a step towards Dean, crouching to get down to his son’s level and held his hand out again.
“Dean, give me the tinsel, right now, please,” he stated firmly.
The corners of Dean’s lips dropped into an upside down U as he let out another angry shriek when John made a move to take the tinsel from him. Dean batted defiantly at John’s fingers, twisting and turning from his father’s grasp, screaming at the top of his lungs as if someone was murdering him instead of trying to reclaim what was now just a stringy clump of tarnished tinsel from his hands.
“Dean, baby, you can have a pretty ornament to play with instead, okay? See?” Mary dangled a red and white striped ornament shaped like a candy cane in front of her toddler. “Come on, sweetie, give daddy the tinsel and you can have the candy cane.”
Dean ignored the offering, instead focusing on the bigger battle in front of him. He backed away from John, tinsel clutched to his chest and tried to scoot under the tree to escape, but John was faster and latched onto his son’s left arm, stopping him.
“Nuh uh, buddy. Can’t have the tree falling down on top of you,” John said. “Now, hand over the tinsel, kiddo.”
“NODONTWANNA!” Dean shouted, blurring the words together. His face reddened to a brilliant crimson as he worked himself into a tantrum of epic proportions. “MY TINSEW!”
Dean’s little sneakered foot kicked out, violently connecting with John’s shin.
“Sonuva-“ John cursed under his breath as he hopped up and down on one foot, rubbing distractedly at his bruised leg.
His brows knotted as he glared his disapproval at Dean.
“You do not kick, mister!” he chided and then gasped when Dean did just that, kicking John once more before throwing the warm, soggy handfuls of tinsel at him. They hit John in the kneecaps before lazily drifting down to cover his shoes.
“Dean Winchester!” Mary scolded, eyes going wide.
John’s reaction was swift and full of censure. He spun Dean to the side and tapped his little diapered butt once, not very hard, but enough to let Dean know John meant business. Dean instantly stopped his struggles and let out a choked yelp, more in surprise than pain; the diaper having padded most of the blow.
Two huge green eyes blinked up at John in a strange mix of wonder and offense. Dean’s lower lip began to quiver.
“Don’t you ever kick me or throw anything at me again, young man!” John said. He pointed at Dean, finger an angry accusation. “That is not nice! That’s a no-no! You understand?”
Dean’s reply was to let out a heart-wrenching sob, followed by a deep intake of breath, little round chest ballooning with the effort, and then a full-blown howl of tearful angst assaulted John. He let go of Dean, who immediately ran over to Mary with raised arms in supplication, his pouting, crimson face covered in snot and tears, mouth open in a guttural squawk of dismay.
“Oh, baby, you’re okay,” Mary cooed as she bent down to envelop Dean in her arms, her mothering instincts taking over despite her son’s recent misbehavior. “Your okay. Calm down, sweetie.”
Mary petted Dean’s hair, rubbed his back and spoke softly to the toddler until Dean was down to nothing more than an occasional sniffle, his sweaty face buried into his mother’s neck.
Sighing, John scrubbed tiredly at his unshaven jaw, watching mother and son. “Well, crap. Now, I feel like a great, big ass-“
“John…” Mary shot her husband a warning look over Dean’s head.
John coughed. “Uh, I mean great big…meanie,” he finished, rolling his eyes.
Mary smirked. “You are a meanie,” she teased.
“Oh, you think so, huh?” John tried to act stern, but lost the battle. He closed the distance between himself and his wife, a sly grin on his face. “Maybe I spanked the wrong person,” he said.
John wrapped his arms around Mary as she stood back up, leaving Dean sandwiched between his parents.
Kissing Mary’s temple, John reached behind his wife to swat her butt once. Mary squeaked in surprise. John laughed.
“Nice ass, by the way, Mrs. Winchester,” he whispered into Mary’s ear, causing her to blush and giggle.
Whap!
“Bad, Daddy! No hit Mommy!”
Mary’s mouth fell open, shock mixing with amusement on her face.
John blinked, surprised, as the small hand landed on his backside once more. The smack didn’t hurt; in fact, it barely registered with John. More an insistent tap against his pants than a disciplinary swat, but it was the act itself that caught him off guard.
John half-twisted around, peering over his shoulder in bewilderment, to spot Dean standing behind him, a stern scowl on the toddler’s dirt-streaked face.
“That’s a no-no, Daddy!” Dean stated. His voice wavered a little, unsure of the possible consequences to come from his actions. This was Daddy, after all, he’d just spanked.
But, instead of a reciprocal punishment, John shook with laughter, turning and bending to swoop Dean up in his arms.
“So, you think Daddy deserved a spanking for spanking Mommy, Deano?” John asked.
Dean nodded. “That’s a no-no,” he solemnly repeated. He reached over to his mother to offer up a hug and a wet, sloppy kiss.
“Aww, my little hero,” Mary said, smiling widely and returning the kiss.
John’s heart swelled. “You’re a good boy, Dean,” he murmured, planting a kiss on the top of his son’s head and hugging him tight to his chest. “You keep on protecting your mom. Even from me.”
“’Kay,” Dean replied.
“And, I’m sorry I had to swat you earlier, buddy,” John said. He pushed Dean’s bangs off his forehead, studying his son in earnest. “I’ll always love you, no matter what you do, Dean, but that doesn’t mean I won’t punish you when you do something wrong.”
Dean peered at his father but said nothing. John hoped he understood the sentiment, but didn’t push it further. There’d be plenty of time in the years to come for father and son chats about what it meant to be a son, a husband, a brother, a friend, a man.
Right now, John just wanted to enjoy the warm, family moment. He winked at Dean and Dean laughed, grabbing John’s ears and pulling him close to kiss him on the nose, making John go cross-eyed.
“Mewy Chwissmas!” Dean said, grinning happily.
“Merry Christmas,” John and Mary replied, sharing a soft, loving look between them.
“Can I has pie now?” Dean inquired.
THE END