Repeat Offender
by Minx
The boy loved cars, no doubt about it, Bobby Singer mused with a rueful shake of his head. It didn’t matter if the vehicle was in running condition or not either. Ten-year-old Dean Winchester could appreciate the shadow of contours still left on a rusted-out junker in Bobby’s messy salvage yard just as much as he could on the treasured, pristine ’67 Chevy Impala his father owned and drove. Bobby supposed that Dean got his near fanatical adoration of muscle cars, in part, from John, who’d been a pretty damn fine mechanic once upon a time, before a demon had murdered his wife and his sense of normal life along with her.
Despite that tragedy, or perhaps because of it, Bobby knew that John was a good father to his two young boys. He kept them safe, taught them to survive and when time permitted, John even went so far as to indulge them in their childish interests now and again. For little Sammy, that meant splurging on books and puzzles which the six-year-old consumed with an appetite that would put a starving hyena to shame. Anything that required using some brain cells to figure out got Sammy grinning from ear to ear. Bobby had teased John more than once that he was going to have his hands full when Sam got a little older and began to outthink his old man. That had earned Bobby a rather sour look from his friend and a less than polite request to ‘fuck off’.
Dean, on the other hand, was all about cars, weapons and anything else his father was interested in, which made it easy for John. Just show the kid how to clean one of the many revolvers he kept in the trunk of their Impala or let him ‘help’ wrench on the car once in awhile, and Dean was in heaven. Unfortunately for the youngster, Bobby couldn’t help but conclude that it was Dean’s fondness for cars that was most likely going to earn him one helluva blistered tail this afternoon.
The older man quietly observed John Winchester’s back stiffen with anger as he glared out the window of Bobby’s cluttered study, his dark gaze directed out toward the yard piled high with used auto parts and vehicles in various states of disrepair. The fingers of John’s left hand clutched the frame of the open window so tightly Bobby wondered if his friend wasn’t leaving imprints in the dull wood surface.
“I’m gonna kill him,” John growled.
Dean had already been caught once that morning, crawling around and playing in an old Dodge Charger out in Bobby’s yard. The Charger wasn’t in so bad a condition, Bobby had observed impartially, as Dean had waved at him from his perch. It was missing all four wheels and its engine guts, but the frame and interior were still essentially intact. But then, that wasn’t the real problem, from his and John’s point of view. No, the problem lay in the fact that the Dodge sat precariously atop a large heap of crushed cars. Cars that were old, rusty and in danger of toppling over from a stiff breeze much less from a boisterous child’s rough play.
John just about had a fit when he’d discovered Dean’s new ‘playhouse’, and had yelled at his son to get the hell down from there and get his keister back inside the house or else. Bobby chuckled. Kid wasn’t happy about the order, but he wasn’t stupid either. Dean knew exactly what his dad’s ‘or else’ meant and had quickly scrambled to the ground in record time, eyes on the toes of his scuffed Keds as John had given Dean an earful about keeping away from the wrecked cars without supervision. And even if Dean hadn’t had a clue about what his daddy meant, Bobby saw that the boy got clarification by way of a solid swat of warning to his little butt as John directed him back to the house.
And yet, not three hours later, there was Dean, back out in the dusty auto yard, once again scaling the large pile of crushed vehicles he’d been told were off limits.
“Little idjit,” Bobby murmured under his breath, with a hint of admiration at Dean’s perseverance, foolhardy as it may be. Kid had his daddy’s guts and recklessness that was for sure.
He watched John watching Dean, as the ten-year-old used his toes and hands to grapple for purchase up the side of the rusty metal cars without a thought to possible injury from the broken glass or sharp metal pieces in his way. Like a sure-footed monkey, Bobby mused; and this particular monkey was about to get his britches tanned but good if the look on John’s face said anything about it.
“Be right back,” John snapped, as he pivoted from the window and stalked out of the study, a glint of murder in his eyes.
Bobby didn’t follow. It wasn’t his place to interfere when John was disciplining his boys. John might be harder than most parents these days when it came to handing down the rules, but Bobby could honestly say his friend was never unfair or cruel about it. The punishment always fit the crime, and John was there with a hug and kind word afterwards.
Bobby caught sight of John from the window as he strode purposefully across the yard towards his wayward child. Dean was happily playing Speed Racer in the Charger, oblivious to the impending confrontation about to happen.
“Unca Bobby?”
Bobby glanced over his broad shoulder at the sound of the timid voice behind him. Sammy stood in the doorway to the study, eyes wide and scared.
“Unca Bobby?” Sam repeated. “Where’s daddy going? I saw him leave, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was going.” Sam’s face fell. “He looked mad…did I do something wrong?”
Sweet smokin’ Jesus. Bobby motioned the little boy over to him, and Sam complied.
“You ain’t the one in trouble, kiddo,” Bobby reassured the six-year-old. He pulled Sam in front of him and pointed out the window. “It’s your knucklehead of a brother who’s about to feel a butt-full of your daddy’s aggravation.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open when he caught sight of Dean atop the pile of cars, now looking more than a little contrite as their father yelled up to him from the ground.
“Daddy already told him not play up there,” Sam uttered solemnly, looking up at Bobby for confirmation.
“Yup,” Bobby gave a curt nod, keeping his eyes on the scene outside. He placed a callused hand atop Sam’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And you’re about to witness what happens when one of you rascals doesn’t listen to what you’re told,” he said calmly.
No sooner did Dean’s feet hit the ground, John was on his son. Wordless, he grabbed Dean by the scruff of his neck and hauled the abashed child over to the steps of the back porch. Bobby and Sam both winced when John sat down on the top step, yanked Dean over his lap, and without lecture or warning, proceeded to set the young boy’s bottom on fire with a flurry of spanks that sounded like the sharp cracks of a repeater rifle being fired.
Dean’s legs jerked with each solid spank landing on his upturned backside and it wasn’t long before his voice was added to the mix. Dean’s plaintive “OWs” and wails of “I’m sorry!” fell on deaf ears though. John busted his kid’s butt, keeping the spanking steady and hard; the stinging swats covering Dean’s rear from the crest down to the crease and back again. He wanted to make sure Dean understood he had made a serious mistake by committing a repeat offense, especially after John had warned the child not a few hours earlier what would happen if he disobeyed again.
“I told you to stay away from those cars, Dean,” John said angrily as he spanked his son. “What part of that order didn’t you understand?”
Dean sobbed out another “I’m sorry” and then howled as his father caught him across the tops of his thighs.
Sam silently reached up to put his hand in Bobby’s as the two continued to watch the spanking from the study window. Bobby crooked a smile at Sam, giving the hand in his a squeeze of reassurance.
“Don’t s’pose you’ll be getting a hankering to play out on them cars, will you?” he gently asked the boy.
Sam shook his head vigorously. “Nuh uh. Daddy spanks hard,” he stated matter-of-factly, and Bobby couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips.
“That he does, Sammy,” Bobby replied, still smiling. “And best you remember that or you’ll be taking your next meal standing at the kitchen counter like your brother’s gonna be doing.”
THE END
Despite that tragedy, or perhaps because of it, Bobby knew that John was a good father to his two young boys. He kept them safe, taught them to survive and when time permitted, John even went so far as to indulge them in their childish interests now and again. For little Sammy, that meant splurging on books and puzzles which the six-year-old consumed with an appetite that would put a starving hyena to shame. Anything that required using some brain cells to figure out got Sammy grinning from ear to ear. Bobby had teased John more than once that he was going to have his hands full when Sam got a little older and began to outthink his old man. That had earned Bobby a rather sour look from his friend and a less than polite request to ‘fuck off’.
Dean, on the other hand, was all about cars, weapons and anything else his father was interested in, which made it easy for John. Just show the kid how to clean one of the many revolvers he kept in the trunk of their Impala or let him ‘help’ wrench on the car once in awhile, and Dean was in heaven. Unfortunately for the youngster, Bobby couldn’t help but conclude that it was Dean’s fondness for cars that was most likely going to earn him one helluva blistered tail this afternoon.
The older man quietly observed John Winchester’s back stiffen with anger as he glared out the window of Bobby’s cluttered study, his dark gaze directed out toward the yard piled high with used auto parts and vehicles in various states of disrepair. The fingers of John’s left hand clutched the frame of the open window so tightly Bobby wondered if his friend wasn’t leaving imprints in the dull wood surface.
“I’m gonna kill him,” John growled.
Dean had already been caught once that morning, crawling around and playing in an old Dodge Charger out in Bobby’s yard. The Charger wasn’t in so bad a condition, Bobby had observed impartially, as Dean had waved at him from his perch. It was missing all four wheels and its engine guts, but the frame and interior were still essentially intact. But then, that wasn’t the real problem, from his and John’s point of view. No, the problem lay in the fact that the Dodge sat precariously atop a large heap of crushed cars. Cars that were old, rusty and in danger of toppling over from a stiff breeze much less from a boisterous child’s rough play.
John just about had a fit when he’d discovered Dean’s new ‘playhouse’, and had yelled at his son to get the hell down from there and get his keister back inside the house or else. Bobby chuckled. Kid wasn’t happy about the order, but he wasn’t stupid either. Dean knew exactly what his dad’s ‘or else’ meant and had quickly scrambled to the ground in record time, eyes on the toes of his scuffed Keds as John had given Dean an earful about keeping away from the wrecked cars without supervision. And even if Dean hadn’t had a clue about what his daddy meant, Bobby saw that the boy got clarification by way of a solid swat of warning to his little butt as John directed him back to the house.
And yet, not three hours later, there was Dean, back out in the dusty auto yard, once again scaling the large pile of crushed vehicles he’d been told were off limits.
“Little idjit,” Bobby murmured under his breath, with a hint of admiration at Dean’s perseverance, foolhardy as it may be. Kid had his daddy’s guts and recklessness that was for sure.
He watched John watching Dean, as the ten-year-old used his toes and hands to grapple for purchase up the side of the rusty metal cars without a thought to possible injury from the broken glass or sharp metal pieces in his way. Like a sure-footed monkey, Bobby mused; and this particular monkey was about to get his britches tanned but good if the look on John’s face said anything about it.
“Be right back,” John snapped, as he pivoted from the window and stalked out of the study, a glint of murder in his eyes.
Bobby didn’t follow. It wasn’t his place to interfere when John was disciplining his boys. John might be harder than most parents these days when it came to handing down the rules, but Bobby could honestly say his friend was never unfair or cruel about it. The punishment always fit the crime, and John was there with a hug and kind word afterwards.
Bobby caught sight of John from the window as he strode purposefully across the yard towards his wayward child. Dean was happily playing Speed Racer in the Charger, oblivious to the impending confrontation about to happen.
“Unca Bobby?”
Bobby glanced over his broad shoulder at the sound of the timid voice behind him. Sammy stood in the doorway to the study, eyes wide and scared.
“Unca Bobby?” Sam repeated. “Where’s daddy going? I saw him leave, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was going.” Sam’s face fell. “He looked mad…did I do something wrong?”
Sweet smokin’ Jesus. Bobby motioned the little boy over to him, and Sam complied.
“You ain’t the one in trouble, kiddo,” Bobby reassured the six-year-old. He pulled Sam in front of him and pointed out the window. “It’s your knucklehead of a brother who’s about to feel a butt-full of your daddy’s aggravation.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open when he caught sight of Dean atop the pile of cars, now looking more than a little contrite as their father yelled up to him from the ground.
“Daddy already told him not play up there,” Sam uttered solemnly, looking up at Bobby for confirmation.
“Yup,” Bobby gave a curt nod, keeping his eyes on the scene outside. He placed a callused hand atop Sam’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And you’re about to witness what happens when one of you rascals doesn’t listen to what you’re told,” he said calmly.
No sooner did Dean’s feet hit the ground, John was on his son. Wordless, he grabbed Dean by the scruff of his neck and hauled the abashed child over to the steps of the back porch. Bobby and Sam both winced when John sat down on the top step, yanked Dean over his lap, and without lecture or warning, proceeded to set the young boy’s bottom on fire with a flurry of spanks that sounded like the sharp cracks of a repeater rifle being fired.
Dean’s legs jerked with each solid spank landing on his upturned backside and it wasn’t long before his voice was added to the mix. Dean’s plaintive “OWs” and wails of “I’m sorry!” fell on deaf ears though. John busted his kid’s butt, keeping the spanking steady and hard; the stinging swats covering Dean’s rear from the crest down to the crease and back again. He wanted to make sure Dean understood he had made a serious mistake by committing a repeat offense, especially after John had warned the child not a few hours earlier what would happen if he disobeyed again.
“I told you to stay away from those cars, Dean,” John said angrily as he spanked his son. “What part of that order didn’t you understand?”
Dean sobbed out another “I’m sorry” and then howled as his father caught him across the tops of his thighs.
Sam silently reached up to put his hand in Bobby’s as the two continued to watch the spanking from the study window. Bobby crooked a smile at Sam, giving the hand in his a squeeze of reassurance.
“Don’t s’pose you’ll be getting a hankering to play out on them cars, will you?” he gently asked the boy.
Sam shook his head vigorously. “Nuh uh. Daddy spanks hard,” he stated matter-of-factly, and Bobby couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips.
“That he does, Sammy,” Bobby replied, still smiling. “And best you remember that or you’ll be taking your next meal standing at the kitchen counter like your brother’s gonna be doing.”
THE END