Shades of Gray
by Minx
1991
Glen Rose Elementary School
Malvern, Arkansas
Dean’s eyes wandered once again up to the cheap, plastic clock hanging on the wall over his teacher’s head, willing the large black hands on the otherwise drab face to move faster. Stifling a huge yawn behind a fist, Dean slouched down further in his chair, muscled legs kicked out under the desk in front of him. He had only been in the stuffy classroom fifteen minutes and it already felt like he’d been sitting there for hours. It didn’t help that it was the final class of the day; the last class in a long, monotonous day of classes full of teachers trying to stuff useless things like fractions, geography, participles and stupid fruity poems (poems for crying out loud) into his head. Like he was he ever going to need to recite Emily Dickinson on a hunt!
Bored, Dean absently doodled pictures of the family car – his car, he liked to think - on the cover of his notebook with a ballpoint pen he’d swiped from the last diner he, his brother and their father had eaten at the previous evening. The cheap pen had the name of the place – The Shangri La – engraved on its barrel in loopy gold cursive letters, along with the phone number.
The food had pretty much sucked and the waitress, a fat old biddy with blue hair, had made a point of patting either his or Sam’s head every single time she came to the table, clucking her tongue loudly and giving them both sad glances like they were a couple of pitiful stray dogs. Dean knew there was a word for that, but couldn’t remember what it was. He just knew the whole situation had pissed him off and had made his dad feel somewhat uncomfortable.
As a result, Dean didn’t feel at all bad that he’d stolen the pen from the diner. Nor did he feel any remorse for grabbing a big handful of chocolate mint patties from the glass fishbowl beside the cash register when no one was looking, even though the sign on the jar said the mints cost 25 cents each. He figured it was only fair, given that his dad had been overcharged, in his opinion, for the tasteless, dried out meatloaf specials. He’d kept the pen for school, but had shared the candy with his brother later that night while their dad took a shower.
Dean knew his dad would have seen it differently and would have made him take the candy back and apologize, and then would have probably busted his rear end but good for stealing something as useless as candy and for such a petty reason to boot. However, at twelve, Dean already understood that there were shades of gray to life, especially their life, and that a crappy pen and some thin mints weren’t really going to make much of a difference either way.
Dean worked on his drawing some more, adding a flamethrower and machine gun turret to the roof of the Impala, almost as an afterthought. He grinned softly at his bit of creative license, and yet it was not too far off the mark, considering the sizable cache of weapons housed in the car’s trunk. Dean was pretty sure his father didn’t own a machine gun, or at least he’d never seen his dad use one. The flamethrower on the other hand…
Dean glanced up when the skinny kid in front of him passed back a handout over her shoulder to him. He grabbed the paper from the pig-tailed girl, gazed disinterestedly at the handout for all of ten seconds, and then promptly turned the page over on his desk and began to draw on the backside of it, ignoring his classmates and the teacher once again. His history textbook lay under his chair, where he’d slung it when he’d first come into the room, just like he’d done every day since first coming to Glen Rose Elementary School. It looked brand new, the binding un-cracked. In fact, Dean had yet to open the book.
History wasn’t one of Dean’s favorite classes, not that he really had a favorite class, school being more of a parental mandate than anything else to him. Nevertheless, his teacher, Mr. Grant, somehow managed to make the subject of the Civil War even more boring than Dean had ever imagined it to be. He wasn’t sure if it was the low, molasses drawl of the man’s voice that was putting him into a coma or the endless list of dates and place names Mr. Grant was reeling off, running the words together in a droning buzz like an auctioneer in the middle of a bid war. Either way, it was all Dean could do to keep from completely nodding off. Hence the drawing to keep his mind at least partially active.
He gave himself a mental pat on the back for being smart enough to nab a seat at the back of the classroom, near the far corner where he could zone out in peace. Not that he would have drawn much notice anyway. Dean was the new kid in class and he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make friends. In fact, in the month and half the Winchesters had been living in Malvern, Arkansas, Dean had earned the reputation around the school of being a loner, and all in all, he was okay with that status.
It didn’t make sense to him to waste effort on getting chummy with anyone when he had no idea how long he, his brother and their dad would be sticking around. He couldn’t count the number of times over the years that he and Sammy had come home from school in one town or another to the sight of their father hastily packing their meager belongings into their duffle bags with news that they were moving on once again.
It was just easier, in Dean’s mind, to hover on the fringes of the social circles at school, or anywhere else for that matter, in order to avoid the inevitable disappointment and frustration of having to leave behind something or someone you’d grown attached to. Sam hadn’t quite learned that lesson yet. He waded into each new school like a duck into a spring pond, hungry and eager, easily making friends and getting involved in any and all activities offered to him. And just like clockwork, his kid brother pitched a ginormous fit when they had to up and leave again.
Dean wasn’t sure if Sam was naively optimistic about their chances of actually settling down some place permanently or was just too stubborn to give in to the hard truths of their nomadic lifestyle. Either way, it was never a pleasant scene. Nine times out of ten, his little brother usually ended up red-faced and pouting, squirming unhappily in the back seat of the Impala on his freshly spanked butt while their dad fumed all the way to the next town. The kid never learned.
Studying the bikini-clad woman he’d drawn on the back of the handout Mr. Grant had passed out to the class, Dean absently chewed on the end of his pen, lips curving around the plastic to form a crooked grin. Not bad. Tits could maybe be a little bigger though. He pulled the pen from his mouth and proceeded to enhance his drawing, making the inked figure’s breasts rounder and several sizes larger.
“We keepin’ ya awake back there, Mr. Winchester?” Mr. Grant drawled.
Dean’s head immediately shot up, wide hazel eyes flicking up to his teacher, who stood with arms crossed over his wrinkled pinstripe shirt, staring at him expectantly over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. Dean quickly sat up straight, uncomfortably aware now that every head in the room was now turned and focused on him. He felt the heat of a blush creeping up over his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
“Um, what was the question again?” Dean stuttered, brows raised.
A wave of laughter coursed through the class, and Dean offered up a sheepish grin in return.
Mr. Grant pursed his thin lips, letting out an irritated sigh. “I asked if I was keeping you from your beauty rest, Mr. Winchester.”
Dean groaned inwardly. He hated when adults called kids by their last name like that. His dad was “Mr. Winchester”… well, mostly his dad was whatever alias he’d donned that week, but still.
“Uh, no sir,” Dean replied, licking his lips nervously. He glanced up at the clock again, but the class still had twenty more minutes to go. The bell wasn’t going to save him this time.
Mr. Grant pointed to Dean’s history book lying conspicuously underneath his chair. “Then, perhaps it’s that you’ve read and familiarized yourself with all the chapters for this section and don’t feel the need to pay attention to what I have to say?”
Dean hesitated, just a fraction of a second too long, and the older man’s eyes narrowed. Mr. Grant gave an airy wave of his arms.
“Well, why don’t you tell everyone here what you know about the Battle of Chickamauga, then, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean frowned. “There was a chick battle during the Civil War?”
The classroom, once again, erupted into titters of amusement, and Mr. Grant slammed his book down onto his desk, causing the students in the front row nearest him to flinch.
“That’ll be enough out of you, Mr. Winchester!” he stated.
“What?” Dean gave the man an innocent look. “I was just asking a question.”
You think this is funny?” Mr. Grant inquired, his accent becoming thicker, more pronounced. “You think the War Between the States was some big joke?” His dark eyes roamed over the classroom, stifling the whispers and giggles with a terse glare. “Chickamauga happened to be one of the pivotal battles in the Civil War. It was the most significant defeat for the Union army in the Western Theater during the war; a shining victory for the Confederacy.”
“Pretty much the only victory for the good old boys,” Dean snorted under his breath as he tried to hide a smirk.
“What was that?” Mr. Grant’s brows sloped together, his face darkening. Dean blinked. He didn’t think he’d been that loud. “You answer me, boy! What did you just say?”
Boy? Dean bristled at his teacher’s challenging tone. Was this guy serious?
Eyes never wavering from Mr. Grant, Dean drew himself up in his seat, ready to face the opposition with the best defensive weapon in his arsenal – his mouth. “I said it was pretty much the only victory for the south,” Dean repeated with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He snorted. “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret that you guys got your butts kicked and ended up losing the war, is it?”
The entire room went silent. Dean knew his words had hit their mark. Mr. Grant didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned smartly towards his desk, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a small pad of forms.
“You’re kidding,” Dean said. He groaned.
The deep pink color of the paper was instantly familiar to him. Funny how every school he’d ever gone to seemed to use the exact same kind of detention slips; must be a stupid law or something, he thought.
Mr. Grant slapped the pad down onto the corner of his desk, taking a moment to glance up at Dean and send him a cold smile, probably savoring the power the pad gave him. Dean watched with a noncommittal look on his face as his teacher hastily scribbled onto the slip, tore the paper off with a harsh jerk and held the form up in triumph, as if it was a winning golden ticket to Wonka’s chocolate factory.
“Detention, Mr. Winchester.” Mr. Grant pointed towards the classroom door with the pen he still held. “Right now.”
Dean couldn’t help but notice the raw hatred now emanating from his teacher, the resentful anger that lent an unnatural stiffness to the middle-aged man’s posture and hardened his features into a sharp frown of disapproval. It figured his teacher was a die-hard Johnny Reb. His dad was right. Winchesters never had any luck, unless you counted bad luck, of course.
“You’re giving me detention for telling the truth?” Dean pressed, voice betraying his annoyance and disbelief.
His teacher’s scowl managed to deepen, if possible, and Dean was thrown a moment when he realized how much Mr. Grant now looked like the ugly, grimacing jack-o-lantern sitting on the wide windowsill opposite the man’s desk. Nevertheless, Dean couldn’t help the eye roll he gave the man. He really couldn’t.
He probably could have, probably should have watched what came out of his mouth next, but that just wasn’t happening. It wasn’t that kind of day. “Because, I mean, that’s what I did. Told the truth, right? The North – 1? The South – zip? No more free labor for the peanut farmers? Justice for all, and all that crap, right?”
Mr. Grant’s voice came out clipped, containing an undercurrent of fury that forced his thin lips into a sneer. “You need me to escort you down to detention, Mr. Winchester?”
“No, I don’t need an escort, thanks,” Dean shot back with a grumpy sigh.
He knew where the detention room was. Had been there just last week for showing up his gym teacher during a rope-climbing demo in class. Well, it wasn’t so much that he’d beat Mr. Clark up the rope and back down again that had been the problem. It was the fact that he’d then smugly given the man pointers in front of the entire class. And yeah, Dean knew at the time it would land him in trouble, but the guy had been picking on Sammy lately during third grade gym class and so, Dean had felt it necessary to settle the score.
Dean slid out of his chair and bent down to toss his unused history book into his backpack, along with his notebook and pen. He left the crude drawing of the woman on top of his desk. He wasn’t going to need it where he was going, and the thought of his teacher finding it later on and maybe choking in embarrassment again gave Dean a bit of rebellious satisfaction.
Besides, Dean had a contraband girly magazine stuffed under the mattress of his bed at home. He’d secretly lifted it from a truck stop once while his dad was filling up the Impala, and the pages were full of glossy pictures of scantily clad women that were way better than any of his own clumsy attempts at pin up art.
Dean froze in horror when he suddenly felt his dick twitch to life at the thought of the porn magazine. He stayed bent over his chair, biting his lip. Not now! Upstairs brain, Dean! Quickly, he dredged up a Latin incantation for ridding a house of unwanted spirits, and concentrated on that until his mutinous body part settled back down. He didn’t care that his dad said it was normal for a boy his age. It was bad enough popping boners in front of his family at the slightest provocation these days, the last thing Dean wanted right now was a tent pole in his jeans, making it look like he was getting off on being sent to detention!
A few deep breaths and Dean was back in control once more. He slipped his book bag onto his shoulder with an exasperated shrug and then slouched down the narrow aisle between the desks towards the front of the room. He kept his head down, suddenly uncomfortable by the weight of an entire classroom of eyes upon him. A few of the girls sniggered quietly as he passed by them, and Dean felt a surge of shame flood through him, his face growing hot and red. He hoped they were amused by his getting in trouble and not ‘the other thing’ that had just happened.
Casting an irritated glance over at the slip of paper in Mr. Grant’s hand as he came alongside the man, Dean dutifully snagged the detention form from his teacher and then stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans as if it was no more important than a chewing gum wrapper. God, he hated this redneck town and all the backwoods hicks living in it.
The mortification he’d felt only moments ago quickly evaporated to be replaced with a substantial resentment at how unfair this whole situation was. Dean leveled a critical stare at his teacher, the asshat who’d started it all, in his opinion.
“FYI? It’s Dean. Just Dean,” he stated dryly, “I won’t be mister anybody for about another twenty years.”
Dean watched with great satisfaction when a few of his more daring classmates snorted with suppressed laughter. Mr. Grant visibly choked, his clean-shaven face suffusing with deep color as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down erratically several times. Unfortunately, Dean’s amusement lasted only until the fuming man clamped a hand around Dean’s arm, halting his escape from the classroom.
“You need a lesson in respect,” Mr. Grant hissed, leaning down into Dean’s face. Fingers digging into Dean’s bicep through his flannel shirt, Mr. Grant turned, dragging Dean with him, and nodded to a beefy boy in a polo shirt sitting in the front row. “Mr. Chase, please keep an eye on the class while I take Mr. Winchester here to see Principal Woodruff.”
Shocked excitement rippled through the room. Getting hauled out of class and down to the principal’s office meant one thing and one thing only. Someone was about to be paddled. Today, it looked like that someone was none other than Dean Winchester.
**************
Dean slouched against the painted cinderblock wall of the school’s front office, trying to appear ambivalent about the fact that he was about to get his ass handed to him by a balding dude in corduroys and a sweater vest. His stomach fluttered nervously, a sure sign that he was anything but disinterested in what was about to go down.
Mr. Woodruff had been the principal at Glen Rose for the past twelve years and had seen his share of young delinquents come and go from his sparsely furnished office. And while he prided himself on being able to peg a kid’s character within a semester of attendance at his school, it only took Bill Woodruff a solitary glance at Dean’s smug scowl of indifference, hand-me-down clothes and rigid stance to realize he had a ‘live one’ on his hands this afternoon.
Dean, still riding the high of slamming his teacher in front of his classmates, hadn’t helped his situation any either. He’d enthusiastically shared his thoughts with the principal about how lame the hick town of Malvern was (and what kind of dumbass name was that anyway?), how boring Glen stinking Rose Elementary school was, how retardedly stupid the whole Civil War had been, and how totally unfair Mr. Grant was being to Dean for telling it like it was. That little rant, and Dean’s subsequent refusal to apologize, had unfortunately led to Mr. Woodruff giving Dean an ugly choice: two days suspension from school or five licks with the paddle.
Dean wanted to choose the suspension, he really did. Mainly because it offered him a two-day reprieve from the insanity of school, not to mention the fact that it didn’t involve him getting his ass seriously beaten with a very big, very nasty looking paddle. But, he knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to hide a school suspension from his dad. Suspensions required a parent coming down to the school to pick up the child and sign a release form. Dean was not about to get his dad involved in this mess if he could help it.
That left him the only other choice - getting paddled. Miraculously, Dean had never met the infamous ‘board of education’ up close and personal in his long and varied academic career. That didn’t mean he had kept out of trouble in prior schools; Dean had definitely endured his share of detentions and stern reprimands in about a half dozen principals’ offices, along with the odd note or two sent home. The notes were the worst, and usually resulted in his dad lecturing him angrily about ‘staying under the radar’ and ‘respecting one’s elders’, closely followed by a painful butt warming as a lasting reminder to ‘behave’.
Dean wasn’t thrilled with the idea of getting licks, but at least his dad didn’t have to come down to the school for that, which was the important thing to him. He had no desire to face his father’s disappointment on top of what he was already about to get from the principal.
Dean’s nose scrunched in worry. He could only imagine how his dad would react to the knowledge that one of his kids had been paddled at school, particularly for mouthing off since that was one of his dad’s pet peeves, and Dean had been warned more than once by his father about it. Anything that could draw unwanted attention to them was to be avoided whenever possible. Goofing off at school and disrespecting the egghead teachers for the hell of it? Yeah, that was a definite no-no in John Winchester’s book.
Dean cringed. He was pretty sure the indiscretion wouldn’t earn him a congratulatory pat on the back. No, if anything, the pats would be a little lower on his anatomy and a hell of a lot harder, maybe even helped along by his dad’s dreaded belt. It was only used for the most serious of offenses, especially repeat offenses, and Dean knew his father would consider this pretty serious. Hence, the need to keep the information from his dad was topmost in Dean’s mind.
“You ready, young man?” Principal Woodruff’s stern voice abruptly halted Dean’s musings and brought him back to the situation at hand.
Dean flicked his gaze over to the paddle, winced slightly at the thought of it connecting with his ass soon, then caught himself and squared his shoulders as he brought his eyes up to the stocky older man holding the implement of his doom. Man up, Winchester! Never let the enemy see you sweat!
Dean offered the principal an unwavering, unapologetic stare. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s just do it,” he muttered.
While his mind was resigned to his fate, Dean’s feet seemed to be holding out for a better alternative, and he had to consciously will himself forward to the edge of Mr. Woodruff’s big, cluttered desk. Dean now noticed that the end nearest him was clear of any papers, folders and other items, presumably, so he wouldn’t knock anything off while he was bent over it for the paddling.
The irrational thought to just bail on this whole thing and run like hell popped into Dean’s head. But, where exactly could he run to? His dad wasn’t going to pull up stakes in the middle of a hunt just because Dean was trying to avoid a paddling at school. And if he tried to run off and make it on his own, someone would just come after him and then Dean would be in twice the trouble he was already in. No two ways about it, Dean was stuck.
Mr. Grant, his teacher, motioned for Dean to empty his back pockets onto the desk. Dean reluctantly complied with the request, tossing his thin, worn wallet and a plastic comb onto the desktop. He was silently thankful he had left his pocketknife in his locker. They already thought he was some kind of delinquent, no need to add fuel to the fire.
Weapons, of any kind, were not allowed on school grounds, but Dean hadn’t been without one on his person since he was nine, since the time he and Sammy had almost been attacked by some bum in an alley. A bum who’d had strange looking eyes and spoke in a language Dean was pretty sure didn’t even exist anymore. After that, his father had insisted he be armed at all times, and Dean hadn’t argued.
The principal cleared his throat and Dean focused back on the issue at hand. He tried hard not to stare at the paddle gripped in the principal’s hand as he slowly bent over the end of the desk, placing his sweaty palms down on the desktop. He felt stupid that a silly piece of wood could intimidate him so much. Okay, a BIG silly, oblong piece of hardwood about a quarter-inch thick, with the words “Old Faithful” stenciled onto its worn face. And, of course, a double row of beveled holes drilled into it to make it sting more. He hated how hard his heart was pounding and silently berated himself for being such a big wuss.
Dean swallowed hard. Pushed a little more than I should’ve today. Just…crap.
“Feet apart, boy, and keep your hands on the desk at all times,” Mr. Woodruff instructed in an almost bored tone.
Dean did as he was told. He clenched his eyes shut, waiting and hoping no one would make him count off. No one did.
The first swat, although expected, made Dean jump and hiss loudly as it scooted him up hard against the edge of Mr. Woodruff’s desk. Dean’s eyes watered at the sudden burst of heat and pain that flared brightly across both his butt cheeks. He quickly braced himself for the second lick, which landed in almost the same spot as the first one, and Dean felt his rear end go cold, or so it seemed, like someone had dipped his ass in a bucket of liquid nitrogen. He bit his lip hard to keep from yelling, hands scrabbling against the smooth wood of the desktop for purchase, to grip something, anything, so he could squeeze hard against the incredible sting that now bloomed across his rear end.
“Ya got three more to go, son,” Principal Woodruff declared as he let Dean settle again before doling out the next swat.
Dean decided that waiting in between the swats was worse. Way worse. It gave his butt enough time to feel the full sting and burn of the last smack, and then become hyper-sensitized before the paddle came swooshing down again. The third harsh crack rang out in the small office. Dean grunted in pain, his breathing grew heavy, and his legs shaky. He wondered how in hell he’d be able to last for two more licks.
The fourth swat caught him dead across his under curve, where bottom met thigh, and Dean gave up on holding back the tears and the shouts of pain. He didn’t even care if snotty Mrs. Bradley, the school secretary, whose desk was just on the other side of the closed office door, could hear him or not. It fucking HURT! The fifth and final swat of the paddle came right on top of the one before it and Dean yelped in misery, tears tracking down his face as he took a huge gulp of air to steady himself.
“All right, son, we’re done here,” Principal Woodruff announced.
He laid the paddle down on the desk beside Dean and reached behind him to grab up a box of tissues from the credenza behind him. He set the box down near the paddle and waited quietly for Dean to collect himself. Dean glared at the paddle, and then glared even harder at the Kleenex box before slowly straightening up. His butt ached and stung. He angrily swiped at the tears on his face, choosing to use the sleeve of his shirt rather than the tissues.
Principal Woodruff leaned up against his desk, studying Dean with a stern countenance. The Winchester boy looked much younger with tears prickling his eyes and a despondent grimace breaking through the tough-guy exterior. Growing up, he guessed, hadn’t gotten any easier since he was a kid. However, he took his job seriously and felt he had done his duty with this one.
“Now, young man, I would hope you’ve learned something from all of this, and that I won’t ever have to see you in my office again. The constitution of these great states of America says you have the right to an opinion, and I can’t argue that fact.” He reached down to tap the handle of the paddle, lying on the desk near his leg. “But, as the principal of this school, I am the law here. And I say it’s more important to keep your mouth shut in class and pay attention to your teacher.” He gave Dean a pointed look. “I will not abide disrespect in my classrooms in any form. Is that understood?”
Dean swallowed hard. “Yes, sir,” he gritted out.
The bell rang loudly right then, and Dean used the noise to quietly mouth the word ‘asshole’ under his breath.
“Good,” Principal Woodruff stated as the bell subsided. “Now, how ‘bout you apologize to Mr. Grant and then you’re excused.”
The air went out of Dean’s lungs. Apologize? Seriously? Wasn’t the paddling enough?
Dean took a moment to swallow his pride, not too hard really, considering the way his butt was throbbing, and dutifully put on a remorseful face.
He turned to his teacher. “I’m sorry,” he stated simply, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. Dean could sound sincere when he wanted to, but he knew his eyes couldn’t lie as easily.
Mr. Grant offered up a thin smile, nodding. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. I’m sure that took a lot for you to do. You are dismissed.”
Red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, Dean stalked out of the office and into the main hallway of the school to find it flooded with students. It was the end of the day and everyone was heading home. Great, Dean thought as he ducked his head and waded through the chattering crowd, just what I need right now. An audience.
Sam was waiting for Dean in his usual spot by the water fountain next to the school library. An enthusiastic grin split the younger boy’s face as Dean sidled up.
“Hey, Dean! Guess what we did today? Guess!” Sam chirped excitedly.
Dean took one look at the construction paper headdress of feathers perched on his brother’s head and rolled his eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood. “Learned about Indians?” he asked tiredly.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, reaching up to straighten his war bonnet proudly. “Isn’t this cool?”
“No, you look like a dork,” Dean shot back, then winced when he saw Sam’s face fall. “C’mon, let’s go. Dad’ll be waiting for us.”
Sam, pouting, silently trailed after his brother down the now almost empty hall towards the large glass doors of the school.
“Dean? Do I really look like a dork?” Sam asked quietly.
Dean stopped. He sighed and then turned to Sam. “No, you look fine, Sammy. I just…I had a crappy day, okay? And I just don’t feel like talking.”
“Oh.” Sam studied Dean, his forehead scrunching under his fringe of bangs. “Hey, you’ve been crying,” he said. “What’s wrong?” His eyes grew wide with concern. “Is Dad okay?”
“Dad’s fine,” Dean said with a dismissive wave. He scowled darkly. “And only little bitches cry. I don’t cry.”
“Do too,” Sam insisted. “You cried when you broke your wrist that one time.”
Dean glared at his little brother. “Yeah? Well, I was eight when that happened, Sam. I’m twelve now, and I don’t cry, so shut up.” He unconsciously reached up to wipe at his face and relaxed a little when he felt only dry skin. “What do you know anyway?” Dean snapped.
He turned and headed for the doors, walking somewhat stiffly. Hard to believe five swats of a stupid paddle could hurt so much.
Sam wasn’t deterred by Dean’s gruff manner. “Your eyes are all red,” he casually observed.
Dean stopped, turned and stalked back towards Sam, jaw clenched. Sam squeaked when Dean grabbed his arm and backed him up into a row of lockers against the wall.
“Look, you little dweeb, I wasn’t crying, so drop it.” Dean gave Sam’s arm a shake, making the paper feathers atop his head bob crazily. “We get to the car, you keep your stupid mouth shut about the crying shit.”
“Why?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing.
Dean blinked. “What?”
Sam glared and struggled to get away, but Dean wouldn’t let him loose. Suddenly, Sam relaxed in Dean’s grip. He looked up with a calm, calculated look. “Why do you care if I think you’ve been crying or not? Unless you’re trying to keep something from Dad.”
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. Damn it! He let go of Sam’s arm.
“What, Dean? You can tell me,” Sam begged. “I won’t tell Dad. I promise.”
Dean chewed on his lip a few minutes before relenting with a growl of disgust. “Fine, but I swear, Sammy, you tell Dad anything about this, and I’ll put ants in your bed again.”
Sam blanched at the memory. “No! I won’t tell!”
“I got paddled today,” Dean confessed.
Sam’s jaw dropped open. “No way, Dean,” he said, aghast. He looked down at Dean’s rear end as if he had x-ray vision and could see through his brother’s jeans. “Did it hurt?”
Dean gave Sam a hard stare and then smacked him in the shoulder. “Of course, it hurt, you moron! What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know! I’ve never been -“
Dean cut Sam off. “Dude, does it hurt when Dad spanks you with his hand?”
Sam blushed but nodded emphatically. “Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t think getting spanked with a big-ass paddle’s gonna hurt even more?” Dean questioned, rolling his eyes.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so, huh?” Sam replied, swallowing in embarrassment and looking at his feet. He jerked his head up to look at his brother. “What happened, Dean?”
Dean explained and Sam huffily declared that both Mr. Grant and Principal Woodruff were the biggest dicks on the whole entire planet ever. It made Dean feel a little better knowing Sam was on his side.
Sam glanced up at Dean, worry clouding his face. “Are you okay?”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He reached back to gingerly rub at his backside. “I’m just not gonna be sitting too great tonight.”
“You don’t think Dad’s gonna notice that?” Sam asked.
Dean put his arm around Sam and steered him down the hallway, a sly smile crossing his lips. “Not if you keep your mouth shut like you promised, Sammy.”
“I will,” Sam said. He reached up and slung his arm around Dean’s shoulder as best he could. Dean was several inches taller than him. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said quietly as they exited the school and headed for the sleek classic Impala waiting at the curb for them.
**************
2 days later…
Dean reached into the rumpled paper lunch bag sitting on the dusty ground between his feet, fingers curling around the second bologna sandwich he’d packed for himself that morning. He tore the plastic wrap away from the sandwich, balling the clear film up in his fist and tossing it absently over one shoulder before biting into the white bread and processed meat.
Much as he liked bologna, two straight weeks of it for lunch every single day was pretty much his limit, regardless of whether or not the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket had it on sale again. He made up his mind to ask his dad if they could get turkey, ham or even PB&J instead tomorrow. Dean knew his little brother, Sam, would be up for that change as well, and the two of them together should be able to convince their father that the slight added expense would be worth everyone’s sanity in the long run.
He supposed he could try to do a swap with one of his classmates, trading his sandwich and, probably his Twinkies too, for something different, but ever since the paddling incident, Dean had made himself scarce, hoping to avoid the jeers and smirks everyone seemed to have for him lately. So much so, that he’d taken to eating his lunch out by the bike racks instead of gathering in the crowded, noisy cafeteria with all the rest of his classmates. Humiliation wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed.
They were a bunch of losers anyway, he decided. His deep hazel eyes wandered over towards the playground and the teeter totters, where several of the boys in his class were showing off their acrobatic prowess to a group of giggling girls by running up and down the tops of the long wooden boards, arms outstretched for balance, as the teeter totters wobbled to and fro. Dean snorted. He could do that blindfolded, easily; that was nothing compared to some of the obstacle courses his dad had devised for him and Sam.
Dean stopped chewing on his sandwich as his gut clenched tightly at the thought of his father. He’d managed to dodge the bullet on telling his dad about the paddling, although it had been a bit hairy that first night. He’d gotten a headache from trying to come up with a plausible reason for why he winced every time he sat down. He’d finally come up with the excuse of having pulled a hamstring in gym that day. Lame, Dean knew, but his father hadn’t really questioned it. Instead, John had handed Dean an icepack and told him to ice the injury after dinner and make sure to elevate the leg so the sprain wouldn’t get worse.
Dean took the icepack to bed and unabashedly stuck it down the back of his pajama pants where it would do the most good, grinning when Sam giggled at him. He didn’t care if it looked stupid; it provided a wonderful cooling relief to his tender backside. Dean wasn’t exactly sure how to elevate his ‘injury’ or if that would really even help in this case, so he decided not to follow that bit of advice. He just rolled onto his stomach to avoid contact with the mattress.
True to his word, Sam had remained silent about the paddling, much to Dean’s relief. Two days had passed and although still a little sore, his backside was able to handle a chair without discomfort once again, but his stomach and his conscious weren’t recovering quite as fast.
A shadow crossed in front of Dean and he looked up to see Sammy standing in front of him, mouth puckered around a Tootsie Pop sucker. Blue raspberry, Dean guessed, because his kid brother’s lips and tongue were a bright slick cobalt color.
“Nice,” Dean commented, “You look like you were making out with some chick that had blue lipstick on.”
Sam grinned around the stick that poked from between his tinted lips.
Dean pointed at the lollipop. “Where’d you get that anyway?”
Pulling the sucker out of his mouth with a wet pop, Sam smiled. “Ashley Wells gave it to me. She gave me two more too ‘cause we’re best friends.”
“Best friends, huh?” Dean raised an interested brow. “And what did you give her in return for the candy, Sammy?” He smirked, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Nothing, you dope. She just likes to hang around me. She thinks I’m smart.” Sam reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out the other Tootsie Pops and held them out to Dean. “You want one? I got a cherry one and chocolate one left.”
Dean took the chocolate one and stuck it in his shirt pocket for later. “Thanks,” he said.
“Hey, Winchester! How’d you like ‘Old Faithful’? Still need a pillow for your pansy ass?”
Sam’s head shot up in annoyance at the taunt coming from the nearby playground. He looked like a pissed off bulldog, his brow furrowed deeply underneath his dark shag of bangs, eyes narrowed, jaw jutting out.
Dean appeared unruffled, focusing on his bologna sandwich, although swallowing the piece he’d just chewed seemed overly difficult, the bread and meat managing to catch in his constricting throat.
“Dean…” Sam complained, eyeing the small group of boys near the teeter totters with mounting resentment.
“Just ignore ‘em, Sammy,” Dean ordered, head down. Yeah ignore them. Great advice. Too bad he was having a hard time following it.
“Aw, whatsa matter, Weener-chester? Does your widdle bottom still hurt? Gonna cry some more?”
A chorus of braying laughter followed the comment. Dean licked his lips, finally bringing his attention up from his sandwich and over to the playground, where Chris Garland, Tim Perry and Jason Polk stood – three of the biggest assholes in his history class - arms crossed, waiting expectantly.
“Dean, let’s just go back inside,” Sam mumbled. He tugged at his brother’s shirtsleeve, but Dean wasn’t paying any attention to him.
Instead, he was eyeballing his trio of antagonists carefully, as his father had taught him, gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Jason Polk was clearly the leader, a foot taller than the other two and a hell of a lot heavier. Too many milkshakes and Snickers bars, Dean thought with a smirk. He finished his assessment, offered up a bored scowl to the group, and then went back to munching on his sandwich. No sense wasting effort, or food, over a bunch of inbred yahoos he wouldn’t be seeing beyond this semester more than likely.
“See, I told ya he was a coward,” Tim Perry loudly announced, grinning, as he elbowed Jason in the ribs. “Total pussy. No wonder he cried when old man Woodruff beat his ass!”
“Uh oh,” Sam muttered. He took a step back, putting himself behind Dean, clearing the way.
Dean slowly stood up, his half-eaten sandwich falling from his hands to land in the dirt at his feet. There were very few things that would ever make him disobey a direct order from his father, the order, of course, being no fighting at school. Ever. Period. End of story. Being called a coward, though, was one thing Dean could never seem to let pass. Because Dean knew, better than anyone, that he was anything but a coward.
He let the anger wash over him, calming him and filling him with a cold, brittle resolve.
“See, you shouldn’t have said that,” Dean muttered darkly under his breath as he approached the three boys still by the teeter-totters. His hooded eyes flicked from one boy to the next, face a shadowed mask of composed fury. “You really shouldn’t have said that,” he repeated.
Tim Perry snorted. “Oh yeah? Why’s that, cry-baby?”
Tim was still chuckling over his remark when Dean kicked the kid in the nuts, hard. The boy’s squeal of shock was short-lived as he instantly dropped to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water, face turning a pasty white. Dean stepped neatly out of the way, as Tim slumped sideways to the ground. The fight had been completely taken out of the bully. He lay, curled in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, his hands going to cover his bruised privates. A few threats and curses trickled weakly from Tim’s mouth, but Dean recognized the kid was no longer a danger.
“What the fu-“ Chris Garland, eyes bulging and jaw gaping at his downed friend, didn’t get to finish his sentence as Dean quickly spun towards the boy to deliver a perfect one-two punch combo, nailing the gangly boy in the gut and nose almost simultaneously.
Dean heard a wet crunch, signaling he’d broken Chris’ nose. He watched with grim satisfaction as his opponent staggered back, lost his footing and then fell hard onto his rear end in the dirt. Chris reached up with a shaky hand, trying to stem the stream of blood gushing from his injured nose. Even so, his effort did little to keep the flow from dripping off the edge of his hand and spattering all down the front of his crisply pressed Gap shirt. Bet that won’t come out in the wash, Dean observed cockily.
“Dean!” Sam hollered.
Dean’s head snapped up in concern, his protective instincts taking over. Unfortunately, the move left him wide open and he ended up catching a fist to the jaw. The blow sent him stumbling blindly backwards.
“Look out!” Sam cried. He threw his Tootsie pop onto the ground near where Dean’s sandwich lay and scrambled towards the playground, eyes blazing.
“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” Dean gasped as he shook the pain off with a grimace and brought his fists up to guard his face from further assault. “Kinda got that figured out now.”
Dean circled Jason and the other boy did the same, fists up so that the boys mirrored one another. Dean bounced agitatedly on the balls of his feet, eyes never leaving his opponent. His jaw ached like a son of a bitch, but he ignored it. He’d had worse injuries in his lifetime. A lot worse.
“C’mon, Jason,” Dean taunted, opening his stance a little more, making it more inviting for the other boy to attack, allowing Dean the offensive advantage. “Let’s go. Let’s see what you got, ‘cause I sure hope that wasn’t your best shot, asshole.”
Jason took the bait just as Dean expected he would and swung hard, a sloppy haymaker that Dean easily ducked under and then took advantage of to pound Jason in the ribs several times before darting out of reach. Jason swore loudly, his eyes now bright with pain.
A crowd of students had gathered around the combatants, ringing them in and energetically shouting encouragement while soaking up the violence with a certain morbid glee.
“You little fucker, you’re goin’ down,” Jason snarled.
Dean let a lopsided grin spread across his lips. “Bring it,” he jeered back.
Jason obliged and barreled into Dean, head down low, using it like a battering ram. A roar of cheers rose from the crowd of onlookers. Dean felt the air go out of his lungs as Jason caught him in the midsection. He crashed to the dusty ground, Jason on top of him, both boys a cursing, grunting heap of flailing arms and legs.
Dean flinched and hissed in pain when one of Jason’s elbows clipped him in the mouth, mashing his lips up hard against his teeth. The coppery tang of blood suddenly blanketed his tongue, and Dean became pissed. No way was he letting an inexperienced, preppy dumbass beat him in a simple fistfight!
He deflected the next punch and countered it with a head butt that rocked Jason’s skull back and made him see stars. Jason tried to grab a fistful of Dean’s hair but it was too short. Dean pried the other boy’s hand from off his head and trapped it in his own, locking their fingers together as if they were a romantic couple on a moonlit stroll. He then proceeded to bend Jason’s fingers back, stretching them in the wrong direction, until the other boy howled in agony.
Dean offered up a nasty smile, thankful that his dad had taught him to fight dirty. He knew he was only supposed to use that style in extreme life-threatening circumstances, but he sheepishly admitted he wasn’t averse to pulling an underhanded maneuver or two here and now if it meant showing the bigmouth jerk on top of him just who wasn’t a coward.
The two boys rolled, kicked, shouted, punched and swore as the crowd around them grew, news of the fight and the billowing dust cloud they had created drawing kids from other parts of the playground over to watch the rising excitement.
Both boys momentarily paused their gouging and punching when a heavy weight suddenly settled on top of them, pressing them down into the dirt.
“You leave my brother alone!” Sam growled angrily, as he pummeled the big sixth grader he now straddled. “You mother-fucking sonuvabitch!” he spat.
“Sam!” Dean choked in surprise at the unexpected profanity. He knew his father and Uncle Bobby often recklessly threw those very same words out from time to time; hell, he did too when the situation warranted it, but he’d never heard them coming out of his eight-year-old brother’s mouth before. Dad was going to shit a brick.
Jason ignored the scrappy nuisance perched on top of him until Sam grabbed Jason’s ears from behind, yanking back hard on them as if they were the reins on a horse.
“OW!” Jason roared. “Get off me, you little freak!” He reached back with one arm, slapping crazily, trying to dislodge Sam from his back with little success.
Dean took the opportunity of Jason being temporarily distracted to punch the other boy in the eye. He would have followed up with a knee to the gut, but all of a sudden, Dean was all alone on the ground. Seconds later, Dean felt himself roughly hauled to his feet, a large hand clamped imperiously onto his shoulder.
He could still hear Sam somewhere off to his left, spewing out more four-letter expletives, stringing them together in some pretty inventive ways, Dean realized with an odd mixture of pride and concern. He made a mental note to pay a little more attention to the language he used in front of his baby brother from now on.
“Mister Winchester…”
Aw shit. Dean groaned under his breath. He tilted his head up, squinting against the brilliance of the midday sun, to spy Principal Woodruff’s outraged visage glaring down at him.
“Why am I not surprised?” the older man huffed. “And this little gutter-mouth must be your brother?” He indicated Sam, who was standing next to him, with a jerk of his head.
Dean shot Sam a warning look from around the principal’s substantial paunch, and Sam, taking the implied hint, clamped his mouth shut, cutting off the latest string of obscenities he’d been directing at both the principal and the other teacher that had pulled him off of Jason earlier.
The Winchester boys in tow, Principal Woodruff headed for the school and his office.
“Looks like I’m gonna get to meet your daddy after all,” he declared. An acerbic smile twisted up the corners of Principal Woodruff’s mouth, deepening the wrinkles already there from smoking a pack of Marlboros a day for the past twenty-eight years.
The thought of what his father was going to do to him when he learned of this latest screw up sent Dean’s stomach plummeting like a lead weight.
**************
Dean and Sam sat side-by-side, twin heads bowed in resignation, looking completely disheveled when their father strode into the principal’s office a half hour later. Dean’s flannel shirt had a good-sized tear along one of the shoulder seams, complementing the row of reddened fingernail scratches marking the skin of the twelve-year-old’s neck just below his right ear.
Dean kept his eyes on the floor and furtively swiped at his bloodied lower lip while trying to appear innocent, a difficult, if not impossible, feat given the circumstances.
Sam sat next to his older brother, sweaty, dirt-streaked face and hair sticking up every which way from his head the only real outward indication of his involvement in the fight. He was nervously tapping his foot on the carpet – his shoeless, sock-covered foot. The other one still had a tennis shoe on it; God knew where the missing shoe was, John tiredly thought.
He scrubbed at his stubbled jaw in irritation and glanced over once again at his eldest child, managing to catch Dean’s attention this time, but only for a split second before Dean quickly dipped his head back down, breaking the tenuous eye contact. It was enough though. The look had told John volumes.
He slowly leaned in towards Dean for a closer inspection of the damage, and was not amused when his son deliberately leaned back to keep space between them and tried to tuck his bloodied knuckles under his armpits, hiding the obvious damage.
Reaching out, John took hold of Dean’s chin in one large hand, lifting and turning it towards the light to survey the purple bruise sprouting on his son’s left cheek with a growing sense of fury. He let go and stepped back, folding his muscled arms across his chest.
“I don’t suppose either of you want to tell me what the hell happened?” John growled. His voice was low and measured; a sure signal to Dean and Sam that no matter what they said, it wasn’t going to help their case.
As a result, both boys chose to remain silent, eyes shifting from a focused spot on the carpet to sidelong glances full of worry at each other. John added a stony glare of his own to the mix, daring them to move even a fraction of an inch from their seats before he turned and finally addressed the school principal.
Principal Woodruff saw John Winchester’s raging stare of disapproval and struggled to maintain the polite counterfeit smile on his face. He had assumed Dean’s father would be the typical blue-collar type he usually deemed beneath his status. The look in the man’s eyes, however, told him he had made a serious miscalculation.
He dutifully held out his hand in invitation and John took it, briefly eyeing the principal’s gaudy college fraternity ring with mild distaste as he gave a firm, gruff shake with his own callused, grease-stained hand.
“Mr. Winchester, it’s unfortunate we couldn’t have met under better circumstances,” Bill Woodruff drawled amiably. He pointed to one of the armless chairs in front of his desk. “Won’t you have a seat, sir?”
John glanced at the chair in question, noting that it was smaller, plainer and sat lower than the principal’s chair. Typical intimidation tactic, he noted dryly. Must come in useful against all those scary twelve-year-olds. Hackles raised, John looked back up to the man sitting behind the desk. An insecure man was a dangerous man.
“I don’t intend to stay long enough to get comfortable,” John declared curtly, “So how ‘bout we get down to business.”
Principal Woodruff nodded, trying to adjust to John’s take-charge attitude. Most parents that came into his office were more deferential, eager to make amends for their child’s unruly behavior. He studied John Winchester for a long moment, wondering whether it was competence or arrogance that lent itself to the man’s fearless demeanor.
“Mr. Winchester,” Principal Woodruff began and both John and Dean looked up at him.
Dean quickly determined that he wasn’t the “Mr. Winchester” being addressed and with a grimace of embarrassment, he cast his eyes back down to his lap, nudging Sam sharply in the leg with his knee when the younger boy let out a tiny snort of amusement at the mix-up.
Principal Woodruff continued. “I don’t even know where exactly to begin,” he said as he folded his hands neatly atop his desk, leaning forward until his vest-covered belly pressed up against and slightly overhung the desktop. “I understand that your boys are new here and that it is often not easy to fit in right away, but I assure you, sir, we at Glen Rose Elementary have welcomed Dean and Sam with open arms.”
Dean let out bothered chuff of disagreement, which John chose to ignore for the moment, although his hand itched to do otherwise. That would come later.
Principal Woodruff went on. “Which is why I was quite disappointed to find them both involved in a fistfight this afternoon. A fight, I might add, that consisted of your two boys ganging up against one other child.”
“Dad! That’s NOT -“
John shut Dean up with a look, his patience all but gone.
The instant obedience didn’t go unnoticed by the other man in the room. Apparently, there was some sense of respect and discipline in the Winchester household, despite outward appearances to the contrary. With a calculated glint in his eyes, the principal decided to see just how in control John was.
“I must say, Mr. Winchester, I was quite shocked at the filth that was pouring from your child’s mouth this afternoon.” Principal Woodruff shook his head sadly, clucking his tongue. “A boy so young, using such inappropriate language. It was just shameful.”
John shot Dean an icy glare over his shoulder and was surprised to see a look of confusion cross his son’s face.
Principal Woodruff continued, “I can only assume that Samuel learned those words at home.”
John’s gaze snapped back to the principal, brows furrowing. “You mean, Dean,” he corrected.
“No, sir, I mean your youngest one,” the other man countered, enjoying the momentary look of shock in John’s eyes.
John shifted fully around to level a long hard stare at Sam, who had the good grace to blush a deep crimson under his father’s intense scrutiny.
“If I had children, I must say I wouldn’t allow them to listen to that horrible rap music, full of profanity and sex, or play those violent death-filled video games you see everywhere,” the principal announced with a dismissive wave of a hand. “And, of course, our children do look to us to set a good example, Mr. Winchester,” Bill Woodruff drawled silkily.
Despite having only conversed with the man for less than fifteen minutes, John had already pegged the principal for a typical southern “good old boy” – intolerant of outsiders, proud of his redneck heritage, and loyally chained to a moral sense of right and wrong that could only be viewed in black and white terms.
While the insinuating bastard made John’s blood boil, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Woodruff. If the man only knew of the darker truths that existed just beneath the surface of polite society, festering away like some malignant disease, he might be more inclined to shift his rigid perspective to one with a bit more scope. Because, absolutely nothing, in John’s experience, was ever as neatly cut and dried as that; not war, not love, not even hunting. There were always levels of risk, degrees of sacrifice and various ranges of morals to be navigated around at every turn.
Sam may have picked up those swear words at home, John guiltily surmised. Or from any number of less than savory people they had bumped into while passing from one place to another. One thing he did know, without a doubt, was that Sam - intelligent, thoughtful, studious Sam - would never use that kind of language unless provoked. There was more to the story than Principal Woodruff was letting on, and John quietly stewed over that fact while he waited for the man to finish.
Taking a mental step back, John came to the conclusion that he’d have to play this differently than normal if he wanted to keep ‘Boss Hogg’ off his back and not speed dialing CPS or the state police the minute John and the boys left his office.
“I apologize for my son’s language, Mr. Woodruff,” John said, feigning a bit of awkwardness for the other man’s benefit. “My boys know I don’t allow such profanity.” There was an edge to his voice aimed at Sam and Dean, which prompted another shared gulp from the boys. They knew they were in serious trouble.
Principal Woodruff nodded sympathetically as John continued.
“I can promise you that it won’t ever happen again,” John said. He fixed an angry stare on Sam. “We’ll be having a little talk about this at home, Sam,” he stated, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of menace to it.
Sam looked like he was about to cry. Dean reached over to give his kid brother’s arm a squeeze of reassurance as John turned back to the principal. “Ever since their mother died, it’s been kind of hard for us.”
Dean frowned in outrage. He hated when his dad talked about Mom like that. What the hell was he doing, anyway, getting chummy with the dumbass principal?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a widower, Mr. Winchester,” Woodruff said. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to raise your boys without a woman’s softer touch around the home.”
John stifled the urge to reject the fake platitude and storm out of the office. Instead, he forced himself to remain civil and even offer up a nod. He attempted to change the subject. “You mentioned that my boys were fighting another boy?” he questioned. “Just one other kid? Did I hear that right?”
The principal nodded. “Yes, Jason Polk. He’s in Dean’s class. A good, honest boy; I went to school with his daddy. Two of Jason’s friends tried to intervene and were seriously injured for their efforts.” Principal Woodruff’s lips thinned. “One has a broken nose and the other…well…” he hesitated, uncomfortably fingering the knot of his tie. “Let’s just say the other boy is uh, speaking in a slightly higher pitch than normal right now.”
John wanted to strangle Dean. He knew better than to use his combat training against civilians!
Principal Woodruff continued. “Now I wouldn’t normally be inclined to be quite so harsh here – boys will be boys, right? And Dean’s grades overall are fairly respectable, surprising enough, considering his lack of interest in participating in his classes.” The man chuckled lightly and then cleared his throat, ready to get down to business. “But, your son’s behavior is inexcusable in light of this being the second time in less than a week that he’s been in my office for a reprimand.”
“Second?” John slowly repeated, cocking his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right.
He chanced a look over at Dean, who was currently studying his kneecaps with great intent. John’s jaw tightened, a sour ache growing in his gut.
“Mind telling me what the first meet and greet was about?” he quietly requested.
Woodruff sighed, leaning back in his leather-cushioned chair. “Your son received five licks on Tuesday for being disruptive in class, being disrespectful to his teacher and to me also, and then refusing to apologize afterwards.”
I apologized! Dean thought sullenly. Though I take it back now, you stupid bastard…
The ache in John’s gut grew, twisting fitfully. He watched Dean slouch down further in his chair, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a worried gesture. The kid damn well better be worried, John thought, his temper escalating. He thinks five licks at school were bad…
Grabbing a manila folder off a pile on his desk, Principal Woodruff opened it, splaying the pages out in front of him, and picked up the topmost one, offering it to John. “Dean seems to prefer art to history,” he dryly asserted. “This is what he was working on while the rest of the class was learning about the Civil War.”
John took the paper from the other man, curiosity aroused, and then let out a beleaguered sigh at the drawing of the woman Dean had left behind in his history class. He turned, picture held out to Dean in accusation.
“You do this?” John asked pointedly.
Dean looked up at the picture, then at his father and then back to the picture. He shrugged and nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered.
John’s stance grew rigid. “Excuse me?” he challenged, eyes flinty.
Dean’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Mr. Winchester, but both your boys are suspended for three days,” Principal Woodruff announced. He pushed another paper, this one an official looking form, towards John. “If you could please sign this acknowledgement, we’ll be done here and we’ll see Dean and Sam next Wednesday for classes.”
His fingers gripping the pen so hard it shook, John hastily signed the form, and shoved it back towards the principal. Woodruff took the form, tapping it once with his forefinger before setting it atop the other papers in the open file still in front of him. He then snatched up a thicker folder and handed it across the desk to John.
“Here are their homework assignments, so they won’t fall behind. I truly hope this will be the end of this situation, Mr. Winchester, for all involved.”
Woodruff tented his fingers, offering up a thoughtful frown.
“Have you ever considered family counseling?” he asked carefully, attempting to keep his face neutral. John Winchester carried a certain edginess to him that Bill Woodruff found slightly intimidating, and there was no sense in riling the man any more than he obviously was, but it was his duty to offer aid where he could. “We have a monthly grief counseling session that meets in our gymnasium as well as a family –“
“Thanks, but we’re fine,” John cut the man off, voice a little colder than he’d wanted it to be. “You don’t need to worry about Dean and Sam. I give you my word that they’ll come back here next week with an improved outlook and on their best behavior.”
Woodruff observed both young boys as they groaned in unison. Apparently, Mr. Winchester was a man of his word if the anxious looks his sons were giving him was any indication. Good.
By the time the Winchester clan left Glen Rose elementary school, Sam was sniffling with every other step and Dean was shuffling along, stoop-shouldered, like a condemned man on his final march to the gallows.
**************
Under better circumstances, Dean might have found the irony of getting a spanking for essentially getting a spanking in the first place pretty funny. However, there was nothing even remotely humorous about the current situation, particularly not the look on his dad’s face as he strode into Dean’s bedroom and swung the door shut behind him with a volatile slam that reverberated all through the small apartment.
Dean carefully licked his lips with a tongue that was actually too dry to be of benefit. There wasn’t even enough spit in his mouth at that point to make swallowing a necessity, though he felt himself gulping nervously anyway. He’d been sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, as it was the lower one of the bunk beds the boys currently shared, but had quickly risen when his father had entered the room. It never hurt to show the head of the household some courtesy; although Dean had a feeling it was too little, too late in this instance. Like way too late, he reflected ruefully.
He bravely met his father’s glower and then silently watched as his dad grabbed the sturdy chair from next to the desk by the opposite wall and dragged it over towards where Dean stood next to the beds. His dad didn’t sit down in it though. He just gripped the top of the chair tightly, as if he expected it to bolt off or something and fixed Dean with a rather black look. Dean stared apprehensively at the white knuckles clenching the scarred wood. He couldn’t remember the last time his father was this pissed. Playing it safe, he decided to wait for his father to begin the talking.
Sammy had made the mistake earlier of opening his mouth in the school parking lot to whine about missing some stupid class play about the pilgrims and Indians because of the 3-day suspension, and Dad had lost it. Their father had bent his kid brother over his left hip, right there next to the car, and had walloped Sammy’s sorry ass, Sam howling and Dad lecturing, until Dean thought someone from the school might show up from the ruckus being made.
No one showed up to intervene, and Dad’s hand must have gotten tired, because he finally stopped, grasping a sobbing, snot-faced Sammy by the collar of his shirt and depositing him in the back seat of the Impala with a warning look. There wasn’t any real need for the warning, Dean judged, because a spanked Sam was pretty much a subdued Sam, guaranteed.
Thinking back on it, Dean wondered if maybe his little brother was the lucky one in all this, having gotten his ass beating out of the way and over with before their dad had time to calm down and really think about what had taken place.
“I’m not even going to get into with you about using your fighting skills and tactical training against an opponent you knew damn well was green and unprepared,” John stated, dark eyes boring into Dean with a purpose.
Dean flinched when his dad pointed an angry finger at him.
“I think I’ve made it pretty clear in the past how I feel about that, Dean,” John said. “And we both know this situation didn’t warrant you using that level of violence.” His dad paused a moment to let his words sink in. “In fact, this whole situation never should have happened, because you and your brother have a standing order to keep your fists to yourself when you’re at school. So, you wanna tell me what was so damn special about today that you decided to disobey that order?”
Dean let his eyes drop to the floor. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Answer me!” his father growled.
“I got mad,” Dean finally confessed, his voice a low whisper.
“Mad?” John repeated. He sounded slightly stunned. “About what?”
Dean squirmed, feeling like an idiot. It all seemed so ridiculously dumb now. “Jason and his retarded buddies were teasing me ‘bout getting paddled,” Dean explained quietly, his words directed at the floor. His head jerked up. “But, Dad, you gotta -”
His father cut him off. “You broke a kid’s nose over that?” he asked, brows knotting in exasperation.
“Yeah, well it sounds pretty lame now, but-”
“It’s lame no matter how you look at it, Dean,” John admonished. “Your smart ass attitude got you into trouble and you took your anger over getting paddled for it out on some poor defenseless kid!”
Dean’s brows shot up. “Jason Polk’s not that defenseless, Dad. He’s on the junior football team. I mean, jeez, have you seen him? He doesn’t even have a neck!”
His father’s eyes narrowed, face darkening. “That. That right there,” he said, pointing again, “Is what gets you into trouble. Every. Single. Time. That mouthy, belligerent attitude of yours.”
“So what? I’m s’posed to kiss everybody’s ass now?” Dean shot back, eyes glistening with tears of frustration.
“Watch your mouth, mister,” John snapped, and Dean sat down on the bed once more, suddenly feeling way too tired.
John’s voice softened a bit. “I’m not asking you to back down with your tail between your legs all the time, Dean. I’m asking you to start using your head instead of your mouth a little more. Learn to pick your battles. You’re gonna have situations come up where the most obvious gut reaction isn’t gonna be the best one to choose and you’ve gotta be man enough and smart enough to accept that. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Dean nodded grimly. “Yes sir.”
“Good,” John replied. He eased into the desk chair opposite Dean and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, so his eyes would be on a level with Dean’s. “The older you get and the more experience you pack under your belt, the easier it’ll be to know when to make a stand and when to walk away. In this case, I think you knew your temper got the better of you, regardless. Don’t let it happen again,” John ordered.
“No sir, it won’t,” Dean asserted.
“Okay, then let’s move on to the fact that you disobeyed a direct order,” John said. “That’s not acceptable, Dean, for any reason. So, that’s strike one.”
Dean winced. He hated when his dad did the whole three strikes and you’re out thing. Mainly, because it meant that he’d racked up enough parental violations in one go around to lose any chance whatsoever of leniency when it came time for his father to hand down a punishment. He mentally said his goodbyes to his rear end. It would be a long, long time before that part of his body would be feeling anything other than sore and tender.
“Strike two, pal, is what started all this in the first place – not paying attention in school and mouthing off to your teacher,” John said. He gave Dean an expectant look. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“History sucks?” Dean offered with a nonchalant shrug.
John moved so fast, Dean didn’t have time to react until he was back on the bed, his butt tingling from the trio of smacks his Dad had delivered with his hard right hand.
“OW, Dad!” Dean squawked in dismay. He grimaced and reached underneath him to rub at the sting.
“Keep it up, smart ass, and this is gonna be a long night for the both of us,” John warned.
“M’sorry,” Dean mumbled, even though his opinion on the subject hadn’t changed. “But, seriously, history is beyond boring. I mean, what good is studying about the past? When am I ever going to need to know that stuff?”
John snorted at his son’s naiveté. “You remember that hunt in Virginia I did last summer? The haunted courthouse?”
“Yes, sir, I remember,” Dean said cautiously. “The motel we stayed at had a really awesome pool slide and Sammy practically lived in the swimming pool the whole time we were there.”
“Well, I was actually talking about the hunt itself,” John said with a bemused shake of his head. “If I hadn’t known a little about the history of that particular town, about the courthouse being from the revolutionary war era for instance, then I might not have figured out what was haunting that place and why.”
“Huh,” Dean said. He mulled the thought over a bit before replying. “So…you’re saying even though history is a snooze fest, I might need it for a job some day.”
“Exactly,” John affirmed. “And that goes for all your other classes too, Dean. The smarter you are, the better a hunter you become. And the longer you tend you live,” he added with emphasis. “And that means you need to start paying your teachers some respect.”
Dean made a face, and John’s brow shot up.
“Mr. Grant is a real jerk,” Dean argued. “He was gonna give me detention because his side lost the Civil War.”
John appeared skeptical. “I hardly think your teacher was blaming you for the fall of the Confederacy, dude.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe not for that, but he got real mad when I brought up that the north royally kicked the south’s ass.”
“Kinda like you did when those boys teased you about getting paddled?” John inquired innocently.
“What? No! That’s not…it’s…” Dean spluttered, face heating up at getting unexpectedly called out by his dad. He bit his lower lip, frowning, then sighed deeply. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered gloomily.
John nodded sagely. “Hurts when someone pokes at a sore point, doesn’t it?” he said. “Your teacher may be a bit of a dick,” Dean nodded emphatically as John continued, “And this town may be as redneck as it gets, but people are still people, son, no matter where you go. They have fears and doubts and worries, just like everyone else. Just like me. Just like you. Just like Sammy.”
“I guess so,” Dean reluctantly conceded. “But how come they get to be jerks and I can’t say anything about it?”
“First off, you’re only twelve years old, Dean. You’re still a kid. And that means you’re expected to mind your manners, listen to the adults and do as you’re told.” John gave Dean a measured look. “You live to be my age, and then you can start voicing your opinions on what you think about others. Second, and more important to our particular situation, is that we can’t afford to call attention to ourselves.”
“’Cause of what you do,” Dean responded with a weighty sigh. It seemed like that was the general, catch-all excuse around the Winchester house for everything from why Dean couldn’t bring a hex bag to show and tell in the second grade to why he always had to lie and tell everyone, including his own brother, that their father was a traveling salesman instead of a badass monster hunter. “It’s not fair,” Dean pouted.
“Life ain’t fair, kiddo, better get used to it,” John retorted acidly. He sat up straight, and Dean’s heart began to trip faster in anticipation of what he knew was coming.
“Your final and third strike, mister, is the worst one,” John stated, his features hardening as he motioned for Dean to stand. “You lied to me, Dean. You got into trouble at school; serious enough to warrant a trip to the principal’s office for a paddling, and you never said a word about it.”
Dean felt the tears building and could do nothing to stop them. He’d lied to his dad. On purpose. The guilt rose in Dean’s chest like a tidal wave, crashing over him and drowning him in its icy condemnation. Lower lip trembling, it took all of Dean’s reserve to pull his chin up from his chest and acknowledge the angry, disappointed frown on his father’s face.
“I’m real sorry, Dad,” Dean whispered. A single tear traced a wet path down his right cheek.
John gave his son a brief somber nod. “I know you are, Dean,” he replied softly. “But, that’s not good enough this time, son.” Eyes still on his eldest child, John reached down and began to unbuckle his belt. “You broke the rules. Big time. So, you’re getting a little reminder from me that when I set the rules around here, your job isn’t to question them or test them. Your job is to follow those rules and behave yourself or face the consequences for disobeying.”
Belt now free from his pants, John indicated a spot on the floor beside his chair. “I want you over here with your jeans down, Dean,” he ordered as he folded his belt in two, tucking the ends into the palm of his right hand. “Let’s go, bud. Right now.”
Dean fumbled open the button and zipper on his pants with hands that shook as if he had palsy. His eyes kept straying to the belt in his father’s hand as he lowered his jeans down to his knees and edged closer to the chair until his knees pressed up against his father’s thigh. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion except for his heart, which was revving faster than normal, causing his pulse to pound in his ears. No passing out, Dean, he reminded himself. That would most definitely not be cool...except maybe then his dad wouldn’t spank him? Nah, no such luck, Dean figured, and besides, he deserved to get it for lying if for nothing else.
Jaw set, eyes screwed shut, Dean took a deep calming breath and then obediently bent over as his father drew him down over his sturdy lap. Dean’s fingers curled around the edges of the nearest chair leg, gripping tight. Wasn’t I just in this position two days ago? he silently noted, with a touch of disgust. Only it wouldn’t be five measly licks this time. It’d be twelve stinging whacks of his dad’s belt. One for every year of Dean’s life.
Dean felt his dad’s hand, warm and solid on his lower back, stilling him and in a strange way, comforting him.
“Why are you getting this spanking, son?” John questioned.
Gosh, Dad, you want the whole list or just the top ten faves?
Dean wisely kept the snark to himself and answered in a monotone instead, listing out his recent crimes. “I got in trouble at school and then lied to you about it, an’ I disobeyed orders and beat the crap out of some losers for ragging on me about it,” he finished glumly. He felt a vague twinge of conscience and added hastily, “And I dragged Sammy into it and told him not to tell you.”
Kid’s learning, John thought with a surge of pride. He hadn’t even brought up Sam’s involvement, and yet Dean had willingly done so, accepting some of the responsibility without being told. Although, John wanted to point out to his eldest that his baby brother hadn’t exactly been forced into keeping the lie, or participating in the fistfight for that matter. That had been Sam’s own choice and he’d already paid for his poor decision and was now out in the living room, sulking about it.
John had tried to offer his youngest some sympathy by way of a hug to show he wasn’t angry anymore, but Sam was having none of it. He was still pissed about the spanking in the parking lot, and wasn’t ready yet to let bygones be bygones. As usual, the eight-year-old stubbornly preferred to mope by himself instead, huddled up at one end of the dilapidated couch in the apartment until he got too lonely or too bored to sit there and stew any longer.
John knew that eventually Sammy would seek him out, tentatively leaning into his side, eyes mutely imploring and John would scoop the kid up in a reassuring bear hug and all would go back to normal. He hated spanking his kids, but found it to be a surefire way to deter any repeat performances of unwanted behavior.
Right now, John just wanted to get Dean’s punishment over with and out of the way.
Dean heard the belt seconds before he felt the stripe of heat traveling across his butt, igniting nerve endings all along its course. He hissed, legs kicking and eyes watering as he fought the instinctive urge to jump up and away from the source of the sting.
He didn’t really have time to fully process the first whack before the rest arrived in a fairly steady rhythm. The belt licks cascaded down over his brief-covered rear end and over his thighs and then back up again in overlapping lines of fire. His dad was obviously done talking and wanted to get down to business, which he did with efficient and painful gusto.
Stoic grunts quickly transformed into desperate yelps, which then devolved into harsh sobs, as Dean let the ache, both physical and emotional, wash over him. He went limp over his father’s lap, wrung out, submitting to the spanking he knew he deserved.
As quickly as the swats had begun, they ended. Dean waited, tense, gulping and trying hard to control his tears, but the scorching heat radiating off his rear end seemed to keep his eyes from being able to shut down the tear production. Well that, and the overwhelming sense of having failed his dad, Dean thought miserably.
Dean felt his dad’s hands encircle him and then lift him up, turning him so that he was now sitting carefully on his dad’s lap.
“Ow,” Dean whined, flinching, and his father eased Dean’s bottom off his knee to hang over it instead.
“Better?” John asked quietly.
Dean squinted up at his father, pained expression in place. “You’re kidding, right?” he groaned tearily. He rubbed at his throbbing backside.
“C’mere,” John growled softly. He let Dean down off his lap, letting the boy draw up his jeans with a wince before dragging Dean in between his knees and pulling the boy up tight to his broad chest, protective arms wrapping around Dean, holding him, comforting him.
John dropped a kiss onto Dean’s head, before tucking it under his stubbled chin, letting his child curl into the warmth of his shirtfront.
“No more fighting at school,” John said softly.
“Uh, uh. No more,” Dean hiccupped against his dad’s chest.
“No more goofing off in class and smarting off to your teachers,” John declared, earning a firm headshake from his son.
“Nope, no more,” Dean quietly agreed.
John gave Dean a big hug and then gently pried him away from his chest so that he could meet Dean’s tear-filled eyes. “And no more lies, Dean,” he firmly stated. “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, I want you to understand that you can always come to me with the truth.”
“If I tell you the truth but it’s something bad, are you still gonna spank me?” Dean questioned, hesitation in his voice.
“What do you think?” John replied.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean muttered in defeat. “Not much of an incentive there, Dad,” he added gloomily.
John ruffled Dean’s hair. “Well, the incentive would be that you did the right thing in telling me,” he explained. “And staying out of trouble altogether would keep you from having to make that choice, wouldn’t it?”
“Yessir,” Dean said.
They remained quiet a few moments, John keeping a hand on Dean’s back to steady him, and Dean taking the comfort and forgiveness his father was offering.
Dean lifted his head and caught sight of a figure in the doorway. “Hey, Sammy,” he said.
John looked up to see his youngest peeping into the room, hugging the side of the doorway, eyes questioning, asking silent permission to enter the room.
“You still mad at your old man?” John asked Sam.
Sam answered with a mute shrug of his shoulders, eyes downcast.
John smiled. “Get over here, kiddo.” He motioned, opening his arms wider to accept Sam as he padded over to the chair and allowed himself to be enveloped by both Dean’s and his father’s arms.
Sam looked over at Dean, apology written in his big green eyes. “M’sorry,” he mumbled sadly.
Dean grinned softly. “What’re you sorry for, Samantha? I’m the one that got us into trouble this time.”
Sam’s tired face screwed up in concentration as he pondered that revelation. He suddenly glared at Dean. “Yeah…” he groused, frowning. “That’s right! This is all your fault!” He reached over and socked his brother in the shoulder.
“Hey!” John intervened, shooting both boys a warning look. “There’s plenty of fault to go around,” he said, pointedly giving Sam a hard stare. “You both made some pretty lousy decisions and you’ve both paid for them, so enough’s enough.”
Two whispered ‘yessirs’ came in reply.
“Dad?” Sam piped up, snuggling deeply into his father’s side. “I know you just said enough and all, but can I just say something?”
John sighed, looking skyward in aggravation. Sam could never let things just lie. He always needed to suss out the why and wherefore before he was fully satisfied.
“What, Sam?” John gave in.
“I’m not sayin’ we weren’t bad,” Sam started, but John cut him off.
“Whoa there, buddy. You and Dean aren’t bad. Let’s just get that cleared up first, okay?” John raised a brow, waiting for Sam to agree which he did with a timid nod. John continued. “Disobedient? Yes. Rude? Definitely. Causing your old man to get grey hairs? Always. But you’re not bad. You paid for your errors in judgment, and hopefully you’ll learn from this and make better decisions next time.”
“Okay…” Sam replied, rethinking his strategy. “Well, me and Dean made bad decisions, but I think Principal Woodruff did too.”
Dean snorted. “So what, Sammy? You want Dad to go and spank Principal Woodruff?” he teased.
“No,” Sam scowled at his brother. “But, he wasn’t fair,” he said, looking up at his father. “He didn’t even let us tell our side of the story, Dad. He just listened to the other boys and not us.”
John frowned. He had a feeling that that’s what had happened. “What’s your side of the story, Sam?” he inquired.
“Those jerks were picking on Dean-”
“They weren’t picking on me!” Dean huffed, clearly unwilling to admit to being bullied.
“They were making fun of you,” Sam stated in exasperation. He shot Dean an eye roll and continued. “Anyway, they started the whole thing. And they called Dean a coward too, which he ISN’T!” Sam said, his voice rising heatedly. “And it wasn’t just one boy, it was three, Dad. So, that’s why I had to go help Dean-”
“Like I needed your help, squirt,” Dean muttered, but let a small grin play over his lips.
“And they’re always picking on us. ‘Cause we’re the new kids and they think we’re weird,” Sam finished.
That last part tore at John’s heart a bit. Their constant moving around would always make his children “the new kids”, and the guilt of that gnawed at his gut because it couldn’t be helped. If he was going to save lives and hunt down Mary’s killer, then he had to go wherever the trail led, at a moment’s notice if that’s what it took. And he wasn’t about to dump his boys off to be raised by some distant relative or worse, one of his hunting contacts like Singer or Murphy, while he ran off and chased evil. No, Dean and Sam were his responsibility. Nevertheless, he felt, at times, as if he didn’t do enough for them, that he couldn’t protect them as he’d sworn to do that dark November night so many years ago.
He sighed, squeezing both boys to his chest tightly. “Hey guys, how ‘bout we do something together this weekend?” John suggested.
Two pairs of eyes lit up.
“Really?” Dean asked, excitement in his voice.
“Something fun? Not like washing the car or doing the laundry?” Sam challenged.
John laughed, slightly embarrassed to admit he’d gotten his kids to assist with chores in the past by using the guise of it being a family outing. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder gently. “I promise this time it’ll be something fun. In fact, why don’t you two choose what you’d like to do.”
“Movies and pizza!” they both said together.
“Wow, I can’t believe you two actually agreed so quickly,” John said, impressed. “Movies and pizza it is, then.” He raised a brow in question. “So, what’re we gonna go see?”
“Child’s Play 3!” Dean demanded.
“No! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” Sam countered.
John watched his sons glaring at each other. “I knew that wasn’t going to last long,” he said with a faint smile.
He pushed the two of them together so they tumbled from his grasp and fell to the floor, playfully wrestling.Dean yelped when his sore butt hit the ground but he quickly rolled to his side, never once letting go of his squirming brother, despite the chances of his backside meeting the floor again.
“Okay, first one to get pinned makes dinner tonight,” John joked amiably.
At that, Dean pinned Sammy in record time, but the little boy’s shrieks held no hint of panic, just a healthy dose of outrage.
“I can’t make dinner! I’m only eight!” Sam argued loudly.
Dean groaned. “Fine, I’ll make it, you dork.” He grinned, reaching up to give Sam a noogie. “No one wants to eat your nasty bologna and peanut butter sandwiches anyway.”
“How about I go pick up some Chinese instead?” John offered, bending down to scoop up a giggling Sam and hoist the child over his shoulder. “I’m not really hungry for Spaghettios or Lucky Charms tonight either, kiddo,” he said, giving Dean a teasing smile.
“Daaaad,” Dean complained half-heartedly.
“C’mon,” John said. “Let’s go see if we can nab another restaurant pen for your collection, smart ass.”
Dean flushed. “You know about that?” he asked nervously, giving his dad a wide-eyed stare.
John quirked an amused brow at his son. “Dude, I’m your father. I know about everything.”
Dean grew unnaturally quiet, suddenly worrying what else his dad might know about…like the porn magazine, for instance… His anxiety didn’t last long as John unexpectedly picked Dean up around the middle and began half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the bedroom like a sack of potatoes, Dean bursting into snorts of laughter as Sam, still slung over John’s opposite shoulder, shrieked with delight.
“Hmm…I think you two have been putting on some weight,” John stated mischievously. “Gotta cut down on all those bologna and peanut butter sandwiches I think…and maybe make you jog to school instead of me driving you…”
Dean and Sam both chuffed loudly, rolling their eyes and snickering at their father’s teasing. John joined in, his whisky warm chuckle adding a high note to the rare moment of uncensored happiness for the three of them.
THE END
Glen Rose Elementary School
Malvern, Arkansas
Dean’s eyes wandered once again up to the cheap, plastic clock hanging on the wall over his teacher’s head, willing the large black hands on the otherwise drab face to move faster. Stifling a huge yawn behind a fist, Dean slouched down further in his chair, muscled legs kicked out under the desk in front of him. He had only been in the stuffy classroom fifteen minutes and it already felt like he’d been sitting there for hours. It didn’t help that it was the final class of the day; the last class in a long, monotonous day of classes full of teachers trying to stuff useless things like fractions, geography, participles and stupid fruity poems (poems for crying out loud) into his head. Like he was he ever going to need to recite Emily Dickinson on a hunt!
Bored, Dean absently doodled pictures of the family car – his car, he liked to think - on the cover of his notebook with a ballpoint pen he’d swiped from the last diner he, his brother and their father had eaten at the previous evening. The cheap pen had the name of the place – The Shangri La – engraved on its barrel in loopy gold cursive letters, along with the phone number.
The food had pretty much sucked and the waitress, a fat old biddy with blue hair, had made a point of patting either his or Sam’s head every single time she came to the table, clucking her tongue loudly and giving them both sad glances like they were a couple of pitiful stray dogs. Dean knew there was a word for that, but couldn’t remember what it was. He just knew the whole situation had pissed him off and had made his dad feel somewhat uncomfortable.
As a result, Dean didn’t feel at all bad that he’d stolen the pen from the diner. Nor did he feel any remorse for grabbing a big handful of chocolate mint patties from the glass fishbowl beside the cash register when no one was looking, even though the sign on the jar said the mints cost 25 cents each. He figured it was only fair, given that his dad had been overcharged, in his opinion, for the tasteless, dried out meatloaf specials. He’d kept the pen for school, but had shared the candy with his brother later that night while their dad took a shower.
Dean knew his dad would have seen it differently and would have made him take the candy back and apologize, and then would have probably busted his rear end but good for stealing something as useless as candy and for such a petty reason to boot. However, at twelve, Dean already understood that there were shades of gray to life, especially their life, and that a crappy pen and some thin mints weren’t really going to make much of a difference either way.
Dean worked on his drawing some more, adding a flamethrower and machine gun turret to the roof of the Impala, almost as an afterthought. He grinned softly at his bit of creative license, and yet it was not too far off the mark, considering the sizable cache of weapons housed in the car’s trunk. Dean was pretty sure his father didn’t own a machine gun, or at least he’d never seen his dad use one. The flamethrower on the other hand…
Dean glanced up when the skinny kid in front of him passed back a handout over her shoulder to him. He grabbed the paper from the pig-tailed girl, gazed disinterestedly at the handout for all of ten seconds, and then promptly turned the page over on his desk and began to draw on the backside of it, ignoring his classmates and the teacher once again. His history textbook lay under his chair, where he’d slung it when he’d first come into the room, just like he’d done every day since first coming to Glen Rose Elementary School. It looked brand new, the binding un-cracked. In fact, Dean had yet to open the book.
History wasn’t one of Dean’s favorite classes, not that he really had a favorite class, school being more of a parental mandate than anything else to him. Nevertheless, his teacher, Mr. Grant, somehow managed to make the subject of the Civil War even more boring than Dean had ever imagined it to be. He wasn’t sure if it was the low, molasses drawl of the man’s voice that was putting him into a coma or the endless list of dates and place names Mr. Grant was reeling off, running the words together in a droning buzz like an auctioneer in the middle of a bid war. Either way, it was all Dean could do to keep from completely nodding off. Hence the drawing to keep his mind at least partially active.
He gave himself a mental pat on the back for being smart enough to nab a seat at the back of the classroom, near the far corner where he could zone out in peace. Not that he would have drawn much notice anyway. Dean was the new kid in class and he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make friends. In fact, in the month and half the Winchesters had been living in Malvern, Arkansas, Dean had earned the reputation around the school of being a loner, and all in all, he was okay with that status.
It didn’t make sense to him to waste effort on getting chummy with anyone when he had no idea how long he, his brother and their dad would be sticking around. He couldn’t count the number of times over the years that he and Sammy had come home from school in one town or another to the sight of their father hastily packing their meager belongings into their duffle bags with news that they were moving on once again.
It was just easier, in Dean’s mind, to hover on the fringes of the social circles at school, or anywhere else for that matter, in order to avoid the inevitable disappointment and frustration of having to leave behind something or someone you’d grown attached to. Sam hadn’t quite learned that lesson yet. He waded into each new school like a duck into a spring pond, hungry and eager, easily making friends and getting involved in any and all activities offered to him. And just like clockwork, his kid brother pitched a ginormous fit when they had to up and leave again.
Dean wasn’t sure if Sam was naively optimistic about their chances of actually settling down some place permanently or was just too stubborn to give in to the hard truths of their nomadic lifestyle. Either way, it was never a pleasant scene. Nine times out of ten, his little brother usually ended up red-faced and pouting, squirming unhappily in the back seat of the Impala on his freshly spanked butt while their dad fumed all the way to the next town. The kid never learned.
Studying the bikini-clad woman he’d drawn on the back of the handout Mr. Grant had passed out to the class, Dean absently chewed on the end of his pen, lips curving around the plastic to form a crooked grin. Not bad. Tits could maybe be a little bigger though. He pulled the pen from his mouth and proceeded to enhance his drawing, making the inked figure’s breasts rounder and several sizes larger.
“We keepin’ ya awake back there, Mr. Winchester?” Mr. Grant drawled.
Dean’s head immediately shot up, wide hazel eyes flicking up to his teacher, who stood with arms crossed over his wrinkled pinstripe shirt, staring at him expectantly over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. Dean quickly sat up straight, uncomfortably aware now that every head in the room was now turned and focused on him. He felt the heat of a blush creeping up over his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
“Um, what was the question again?” Dean stuttered, brows raised.
A wave of laughter coursed through the class, and Dean offered up a sheepish grin in return.
Mr. Grant pursed his thin lips, letting out an irritated sigh. “I asked if I was keeping you from your beauty rest, Mr. Winchester.”
Dean groaned inwardly. He hated when adults called kids by their last name like that. His dad was “Mr. Winchester”… well, mostly his dad was whatever alias he’d donned that week, but still.
“Uh, no sir,” Dean replied, licking his lips nervously. He glanced up at the clock again, but the class still had twenty more minutes to go. The bell wasn’t going to save him this time.
Mr. Grant pointed to Dean’s history book lying conspicuously underneath his chair. “Then, perhaps it’s that you’ve read and familiarized yourself with all the chapters for this section and don’t feel the need to pay attention to what I have to say?”
Dean hesitated, just a fraction of a second too long, and the older man’s eyes narrowed. Mr. Grant gave an airy wave of his arms.
“Well, why don’t you tell everyone here what you know about the Battle of Chickamauga, then, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean frowned. “There was a chick battle during the Civil War?”
The classroom, once again, erupted into titters of amusement, and Mr. Grant slammed his book down onto his desk, causing the students in the front row nearest him to flinch.
“That’ll be enough out of you, Mr. Winchester!” he stated.
“What?” Dean gave the man an innocent look. “I was just asking a question.”
You think this is funny?” Mr. Grant inquired, his accent becoming thicker, more pronounced. “You think the War Between the States was some big joke?” His dark eyes roamed over the classroom, stifling the whispers and giggles with a terse glare. “Chickamauga happened to be one of the pivotal battles in the Civil War. It was the most significant defeat for the Union army in the Western Theater during the war; a shining victory for the Confederacy.”
“Pretty much the only victory for the good old boys,” Dean snorted under his breath as he tried to hide a smirk.
“What was that?” Mr. Grant’s brows sloped together, his face darkening. Dean blinked. He didn’t think he’d been that loud. “You answer me, boy! What did you just say?”
Boy? Dean bristled at his teacher’s challenging tone. Was this guy serious?
Eyes never wavering from Mr. Grant, Dean drew himself up in his seat, ready to face the opposition with the best defensive weapon in his arsenal – his mouth. “I said it was pretty much the only victory for the south,” Dean repeated with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He snorted. “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret that you guys got your butts kicked and ended up losing the war, is it?”
The entire room went silent. Dean knew his words had hit their mark. Mr. Grant didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned smartly towards his desk, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a small pad of forms.
“You’re kidding,” Dean said. He groaned.
The deep pink color of the paper was instantly familiar to him. Funny how every school he’d ever gone to seemed to use the exact same kind of detention slips; must be a stupid law or something, he thought.
Mr. Grant slapped the pad down onto the corner of his desk, taking a moment to glance up at Dean and send him a cold smile, probably savoring the power the pad gave him. Dean watched with a noncommittal look on his face as his teacher hastily scribbled onto the slip, tore the paper off with a harsh jerk and held the form up in triumph, as if it was a winning golden ticket to Wonka’s chocolate factory.
“Detention, Mr. Winchester.” Mr. Grant pointed towards the classroom door with the pen he still held. “Right now.”
Dean couldn’t help but notice the raw hatred now emanating from his teacher, the resentful anger that lent an unnatural stiffness to the middle-aged man’s posture and hardened his features into a sharp frown of disapproval. It figured his teacher was a die-hard Johnny Reb. His dad was right. Winchesters never had any luck, unless you counted bad luck, of course.
“You’re giving me detention for telling the truth?” Dean pressed, voice betraying his annoyance and disbelief.
His teacher’s scowl managed to deepen, if possible, and Dean was thrown a moment when he realized how much Mr. Grant now looked like the ugly, grimacing jack-o-lantern sitting on the wide windowsill opposite the man’s desk. Nevertheless, Dean couldn’t help the eye roll he gave the man. He really couldn’t.
He probably could have, probably should have watched what came out of his mouth next, but that just wasn’t happening. It wasn’t that kind of day. “Because, I mean, that’s what I did. Told the truth, right? The North – 1? The South – zip? No more free labor for the peanut farmers? Justice for all, and all that crap, right?”
Mr. Grant’s voice came out clipped, containing an undercurrent of fury that forced his thin lips into a sneer. “You need me to escort you down to detention, Mr. Winchester?”
“No, I don’t need an escort, thanks,” Dean shot back with a grumpy sigh.
He knew where the detention room was. Had been there just last week for showing up his gym teacher during a rope-climbing demo in class. Well, it wasn’t so much that he’d beat Mr. Clark up the rope and back down again that had been the problem. It was the fact that he’d then smugly given the man pointers in front of the entire class. And yeah, Dean knew at the time it would land him in trouble, but the guy had been picking on Sammy lately during third grade gym class and so, Dean had felt it necessary to settle the score.
Dean slid out of his chair and bent down to toss his unused history book into his backpack, along with his notebook and pen. He left the crude drawing of the woman on top of his desk. He wasn’t going to need it where he was going, and the thought of his teacher finding it later on and maybe choking in embarrassment again gave Dean a bit of rebellious satisfaction.
Besides, Dean had a contraband girly magazine stuffed under the mattress of his bed at home. He’d secretly lifted it from a truck stop once while his dad was filling up the Impala, and the pages were full of glossy pictures of scantily clad women that were way better than any of his own clumsy attempts at pin up art.
Dean froze in horror when he suddenly felt his dick twitch to life at the thought of the porn magazine. He stayed bent over his chair, biting his lip. Not now! Upstairs brain, Dean! Quickly, he dredged up a Latin incantation for ridding a house of unwanted spirits, and concentrated on that until his mutinous body part settled back down. He didn’t care that his dad said it was normal for a boy his age. It was bad enough popping boners in front of his family at the slightest provocation these days, the last thing Dean wanted right now was a tent pole in his jeans, making it look like he was getting off on being sent to detention!
A few deep breaths and Dean was back in control once more. He slipped his book bag onto his shoulder with an exasperated shrug and then slouched down the narrow aisle between the desks towards the front of the room. He kept his head down, suddenly uncomfortable by the weight of an entire classroom of eyes upon him. A few of the girls sniggered quietly as he passed by them, and Dean felt a surge of shame flood through him, his face growing hot and red. He hoped they were amused by his getting in trouble and not ‘the other thing’ that had just happened.
Casting an irritated glance over at the slip of paper in Mr. Grant’s hand as he came alongside the man, Dean dutifully snagged the detention form from his teacher and then stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans as if it was no more important than a chewing gum wrapper. God, he hated this redneck town and all the backwoods hicks living in it.
The mortification he’d felt only moments ago quickly evaporated to be replaced with a substantial resentment at how unfair this whole situation was. Dean leveled a critical stare at his teacher, the asshat who’d started it all, in his opinion.
“FYI? It’s Dean. Just Dean,” he stated dryly, “I won’t be mister anybody for about another twenty years.”
Dean watched with great satisfaction when a few of his more daring classmates snorted with suppressed laughter. Mr. Grant visibly choked, his clean-shaven face suffusing with deep color as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down erratically several times. Unfortunately, Dean’s amusement lasted only until the fuming man clamped a hand around Dean’s arm, halting his escape from the classroom.
“You need a lesson in respect,” Mr. Grant hissed, leaning down into Dean’s face. Fingers digging into Dean’s bicep through his flannel shirt, Mr. Grant turned, dragging Dean with him, and nodded to a beefy boy in a polo shirt sitting in the front row. “Mr. Chase, please keep an eye on the class while I take Mr. Winchester here to see Principal Woodruff.”
Shocked excitement rippled through the room. Getting hauled out of class and down to the principal’s office meant one thing and one thing only. Someone was about to be paddled. Today, it looked like that someone was none other than Dean Winchester.
**************
Dean slouched against the painted cinderblock wall of the school’s front office, trying to appear ambivalent about the fact that he was about to get his ass handed to him by a balding dude in corduroys and a sweater vest. His stomach fluttered nervously, a sure sign that he was anything but disinterested in what was about to go down.
Mr. Woodruff had been the principal at Glen Rose for the past twelve years and had seen his share of young delinquents come and go from his sparsely furnished office. And while he prided himself on being able to peg a kid’s character within a semester of attendance at his school, it only took Bill Woodruff a solitary glance at Dean’s smug scowl of indifference, hand-me-down clothes and rigid stance to realize he had a ‘live one’ on his hands this afternoon.
Dean, still riding the high of slamming his teacher in front of his classmates, hadn’t helped his situation any either. He’d enthusiastically shared his thoughts with the principal about how lame the hick town of Malvern was (and what kind of dumbass name was that anyway?), how boring Glen stinking Rose Elementary school was, how retardedly stupid the whole Civil War had been, and how totally unfair Mr. Grant was being to Dean for telling it like it was. That little rant, and Dean’s subsequent refusal to apologize, had unfortunately led to Mr. Woodruff giving Dean an ugly choice: two days suspension from school or five licks with the paddle.
Dean wanted to choose the suspension, he really did. Mainly because it offered him a two-day reprieve from the insanity of school, not to mention the fact that it didn’t involve him getting his ass seriously beaten with a very big, very nasty looking paddle. But, he knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to hide a school suspension from his dad. Suspensions required a parent coming down to the school to pick up the child and sign a release form. Dean was not about to get his dad involved in this mess if he could help it.
That left him the only other choice - getting paddled. Miraculously, Dean had never met the infamous ‘board of education’ up close and personal in his long and varied academic career. That didn’t mean he had kept out of trouble in prior schools; Dean had definitely endured his share of detentions and stern reprimands in about a half dozen principals’ offices, along with the odd note or two sent home. The notes were the worst, and usually resulted in his dad lecturing him angrily about ‘staying under the radar’ and ‘respecting one’s elders’, closely followed by a painful butt warming as a lasting reminder to ‘behave’.
Dean wasn’t thrilled with the idea of getting licks, but at least his dad didn’t have to come down to the school for that, which was the important thing to him. He had no desire to face his father’s disappointment on top of what he was already about to get from the principal.
Dean’s nose scrunched in worry. He could only imagine how his dad would react to the knowledge that one of his kids had been paddled at school, particularly for mouthing off since that was one of his dad’s pet peeves, and Dean had been warned more than once by his father about it. Anything that could draw unwanted attention to them was to be avoided whenever possible. Goofing off at school and disrespecting the egghead teachers for the hell of it? Yeah, that was a definite no-no in John Winchester’s book.
Dean cringed. He was pretty sure the indiscretion wouldn’t earn him a congratulatory pat on the back. No, if anything, the pats would be a little lower on his anatomy and a hell of a lot harder, maybe even helped along by his dad’s dreaded belt. It was only used for the most serious of offenses, especially repeat offenses, and Dean knew his father would consider this pretty serious. Hence, the need to keep the information from his dad was topmost in Dean’s mind.
“You ready, young man?” Principal Woodruff’s stern voice abruptly halted Dean’s musings and brought him back to the situation at hand.
Dean flicked his gaze over to the paddle, winced slightly at the thought of it connecting with his ass soon, then caught himself and squared his shoulders as he brought his eyes up to the stocky older man holding the implement of his doom. Man up, Winchester! Never let the enemy see you sweat!
Dean offered the principal an unwavering, unapologetic stare. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s just do it,” he muttered.
While his mind was resigned to his fate, Dean’s feet seemed to be holding out for a better alternative, and he had to consciously will himself forward to the edge of Mr. Woodruff’s big, cluttered desk. Dean now noticed that the end nearest him was clear of any papers, folders and other items, presumably, so he wouldn’t knock anything off while he was bent over it for the paddling.
The irrational thought to just bail on this whole thing and run like hell popped into Dean’s head. But, where exactly could he run to? His dad wasn’t going to pull up stakes in the middle of a hunt just because Dean was trying to avoid a paddling at school. And if he tried to run off and make it on his own, someone would just come after him and then Dean would be in twice the trouble he was already in. No two ways about it, Dean was stuck.
Mr. Grant, his teacher, motioned for Dean to empty his back pockets onto the desk. Dean reluctantly complied with the request, tossing his thin, worn wallet and a plastic comb onto the desktop. He was silently thankful he had left his pocketknife in his locker. They already thought he was some kind of delinquent, no need to add fuel to the fire.
Weapons, of any kind, were not allowed on school grounds, but Dean hadn’t been without one on his person since he was nine, since the time he and Sammy had almost been attacked by some bum in an alley. A bum who’d had strange looking eyes and spoke in a language Dean was pretty sure didn’t even exist anymore. After that, his father had insisted he be armed at all times, and Dean hadn’t argued.
The principal cleared his throat and Dean focused back on the issue at hand. He tried hard not to stare at the paddle gripped in the principal’s hand as he slowly bent over the end of the desk, placing his sweaty palms down on the desktop. He felt stupid that a silly piece of wood could intimidate him so much. Okay, a BIG silly, oblong piece of hardwood about a quarter-inch thick, with the words “Old Faithful” stenciled onto its worn face. And, of course, a double row of beveled holes drilled into it to make it sting more. He hated how hard his heart was pounding and silently berated himself for being such a big wuss.
Dean swallowed hard. Pushed a little more than I should’ve today. Just…crap.
“Feet apart, boy, and keep your hands on the desk at all times,” Mr. Woodruff instructed in an almost bored tone.
Dean did as he was told. He clenched his eyes shut, waiting and hoping no one would make him count off. No one did.
The first swat, although expected, made Dean jump and hiss loudly as it scooted him up hard against the edge of Mr. Woodruff’s desk. Dean’s eyes watered at the sudden burst of heat and pain that flared brightly across both his butt cheeks. He quickly braced himself for the second lick, which landed in almost the same spot as the first one, and Dean felt his rear end go cold, or so it seemed, like someone had dipped his ass in a bucket of liquid nitrogen. He bit his lip hard to keep from yelling, hands scrabbling against the smooth wood of the desktop for purchase, to grip something, anything, so he could squeeze hard against the incredible sting that now bloomed across his rear end.
“Ya got three more to go, son,” Principal Woodruff declared as he let Dean settle again before doling out the next swat.
Dean decided that waiting in between the swats was worse. Way worse. It gave his butt enough time to feel the full sting and burn of the last smack, and then become hyper-sensitized before the paddle came swooshing down again. The third harsh crack rang out in the small office. Dean grunted in pain, his breathing grew heavy, and his legs shaky. He wondered how in hell he’d be able to last for two more licks.
The fourth swat caught him dead across his under curve, where bottom met thigh, and Dean gave up on holding back the tears and the shouts of pain. He didn’t even care if snotty Mrs. Bradley, the school secretary, whose desk was just on the other side of the closed office door, could hear him or not. It fucking HURT! The fifth and final swat of the paddle came right on top of the one before it and Dean yelped in misery, tears tracking down his face as he took a huge gulp of air to steady himself.
“All right, son, we’re done here,” Principal Woodruff announced.
He laid the paddle down on the desk beside Dean and reached behind him to grab up a box of tissues from the credenza behind him. He set the box down near the paddle and waited quietly for Dean to collect himself. Dean glared at the paddle, and then glared even harder at the Kleenex box before slowly straightening up. His butt ached and stung. He angrily swiped at the tears on his face, choosing to use the sleeve of his shirt rather than the tissues.
Principal Woodruff leaned up against his desk, studying Dean with a stern countenance. The Winchester boy looked much younger with tears prickling his eyes and a despondent grimace breaking through the tough-guy exterior. Growing up, he guessed, hadn’t gotten any easier since he was a kid. However, he took his job seriously and felt he had done his duty with this one.
“Now, young man, I would hope you’ve learned something from all of this, and that I won’t ever have to see you in my office again. The constitution of these great states of America says you have the right to an opinion, and I can’t argue that fact.” He reached down to tap the handle of the paddle, lying on the desk near his leg. “But, as the principal of this school, I am the law here. And I say it’s more important to keep your mouth shut in class and pay attention to your teacher.” He gave Dean a pointed look. “I will not abide disrespect in my classrooms in any form. Is that understood?”
Dean swallowed hard. “Yes, sir,” he gritted out.
The bell rang loudly right then, and Dean used the noise to quietly mouth the word ‘asshole’ under his breath.
“Good,” Principal Woodruff stated as the bell subsided. “Now, how ‘bout you apologize to Mr. Grant and then you’re excused.”
The air went out of Dean’s lungs. Apologize? Seriously? Wasn’t the paddling enough?
Dean took a moment to swallow his pride, not too hard really, considering the way his butt was throbbing, and dutifully put on a remorseful face.
He turned to his teacher. “I’m sorry,” he stated simply, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. Dean could sound sincere when he wanted to, but he knew his eyes couldn’t lie as easily.
Mr. Grant offered up a thin smile, nodding. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. I’m sure that took a lot for you to do. You are dismissed.”
Red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, Dean stalked out of the office and into the main hallway of the school to find it flooded with students. It was the end of the day and everyone was heading home. Great, Dean thought as he ducked his head and waded through the chattering crowd, just what I need right now. An audience.
Sam was waiting for Dean in his usual spot by the water fountain next to the school library. An enthusiastic grin split the younger boy’s face as Dean sidled up.
“Hey, Dean! Guess what we did today? Guess!” Sam chirped excitedly.
Dean took one look at the construction paper headdress of feathers perched on his brother’s head and rolled his eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood. “Learned about Indians?” he asked tiredly.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, reaching up to straighten his war bonnet proudly. “Isn’t this cool?”
“No, you look like a dork,” Dean shot back, then winced when he saw Sam’s face fall. “C’mon, let’s go. Dad’ll be waiting for us.”
Sam, pouting, silently trailed after his brother down the now almost empty hall towards the large glass doors of the school.
“Dean? Do I really look like a dork?” Sam asked quietly.
Dean stopped. He sighed and then turned to Sam. “No, you look fine, Sammy. I just…I had a crappy day, okay? And I just don’t feel like talking.”
“Oh.” Sam studied Dean, his forehead scrunching under his fringe of bangs. “Hey, you’ve been crying,” he said. “What’s wrong?” His eyes grew wide with concern. “Is Dad okay?”
“Dad’s fine,” Dean said with a dismissive wave. He scowled darkly. “And only little bitches cry. I don’t cry.”
“Do too,” Sam insisted. “You cried when you broke your wrist that one time.”
Dean glared at his little brother. “Yeah? Well, I was eight when that happened, Sam. I’m twelve now, and I don’t cry, so shut up.” He unconsciously reached up to wipe at his face and relaxed a little when he felt only dry skin. “What do you know anyway?” Dean snapped.
He turned and headed for the doors, walking somewhat stiffly. Hard to believe five swats of a stupid paddle could hurt so much.
Sam wasn’t deterred by Dean’s gruff manner. “Your eyes are all red,” he casually observed.
Dean stopped, turned and stalked back towards Sam, jaw clenched. Sam squeaked when Dean grabbed his arm and backed him up into a row of lockers against the wall.
“Look, you little dweeb, I wasn’t crying, so drop it.” Dean gave Sam’s arm a shake, making the paper feathers atop his head bob crazily. “We get to the car, you keep your stupid mouth shut about the crying shit.”
“Why?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing.
Dean blinked. “What?”
Sam glared and struggled to get away, but Dean wouldn’t let him loose. Suddenly, Sam relaxed in Dean’s grip. He looked up with a calm, calculated look. “Why do you care if I think you’ve been crying or not? Unless you’re trying to keep something from Dad.”
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. Damn it! He let go of Sam’s arm.
“What, Dean? You can tell me,” Sam begged. “I won’t tell Dad. I promise.”
Dean chewed on his lip a few minutes before relenting with a growl of disgust. “Fine, but I swear, Sammy, you tell Dad anything about this, and I’ll put ants in your bed again.”
Sam blanched at the memory. “No! I won’t tell!”
“I got paddled today,” Dean confessed.
Sam’s jaw dropped open. “No way, Dean,” he said, aghast. He looked down at Dean’s rear end as if he had x-ray vision and could see through his brother’s jeans. “Did it hurt?”
Dean gave Sam a hard stare and then smacked him in the shoulder. “Of course, it hurt, you moron! What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know! I’ve never been -“
Dean cut Sam off. “Dude, does it hurt when Dad spanks you with his hand?”
Sam blushed but nodded emphatically. “Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t think getting spanked with a big-ass paddle’s gonna hurt even more?” Dean questioned, rolling his eyes.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so, huh?” Sam replied, swallowing in embarrassment and looking at his feet. He jerked his head up to look at his brother. “What happened, Dean?”
Dean explained and Sam huffily declared that both Mr. Grant and Principal Woodruff were the biggest dicks on the whole entire planet ever. It made Dean feel a little better knowing Sam was on his side.
Sam glanced up at Dean, worry clouding his face. “Are you okay?”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He reached back to gingerly rub at his backside. “I’m just not gonna be sitting too great tonight.”
“You don’t think Dad’s gonna notice that?” Sam asked.
Dean put his arm around Sam and steered him down the hallway, a sly smile crossing his lips. “Not if you keep your mouth shut like you promised, Sammy.”
“I will,” Sam said. He reached up and slung his arm around Dean’s shoulder as best he could. Dean was several inches taller than him. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said quietly as they exited the school and headed for the sleek classic Impala waiting at the curb for them.
**************
2 days later…
Dean reached into the rumpled paper lunch bag sitting on the dusty ground between his feet, fingers curling around the second bologna sandwich he’d packed for himself that morning. He tore the plastic wrap away from the sandwich, balling the clear film up in his fist and tossing it absently over one shoulder before biting into the white bread and processed meat.
Much as he liked bologna, two straight weeks of it for lunch every single day was pretty much his limit, regardless of whether or not the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket had it on sale again. He made up his mind to ask his dad if they could get turkey, ham or even PB&J instead tomorrow. Dean knew his little brother, Sam, would be up for that change as well, and the two of them together should be able to convince their father that the slight added expense would be worth everyone’s sanity in the long run.
He supposed he could try to do a swap with one of his classmates, trading his sandwich and, probably his Twinkies too, for something different, but ever since the paddling incident, Dean had made himself scarce, hoping to avoid the jeers and smirks everyone seemed to have for him lately. So much so, that he’d taken to eating his lunch out by the bike racks instead of gathering in the crowded, noisy cafeteria with all the rest of his classmates. Humiliation wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed.
They were a bunch of losers anyway, he decided. His deep hazel eyes wandered over towards the playground and the teeter totters, where several of the boys in his class were showing off their acrobatic prowess to a group of giggling girls by running up and down the tops of the long wooden boards, arms outstretched for balance, as the teeter totters wobbled to and fro. Dean snorted. He could do that blindfolded, easily; that was nothing compared to some of the obstacle courses his dad had devised for him and Sam.
Dean stopped chewing on his sandwich as his gut clenched tightly at the thought of his father. He’d managed to dodge the bullet on telling his dad about the paddling, although it had been a bit hairy that first night. He’d gotten a headache from trying to come up with a plausible reason for why he winced every time he sat down. He’d finally come up with the excuse of having pulled a hamstring in gym that day. Lame, Dean knew, but his father hadn’t really questioned it. Instead, John had handed Dean an icepack and told him to ice the injury after dinner and make sure to elevate the leg so the sprain wouldn’t get worse.
Dean took the icepack to bed and unabashedly stuck it down the back of his pajama pants where it would do the most good, grinning when Sam giggled at him. He didn’t care if it looked stupid; it provided a wonderful cooling relief to his tender backside. Dean wasn’t exactly sure how to elevate his ‘injury’ or if that would really even help in this case, so he decided not to follow that bit of advice. He just rolled onto his stomach to avoid contact with the mattress.
True to his word, Sam had remained silent about the paddling, much to Dean’s relief. Two days had passed and although still a little sore, his backside was able to handle a chair without discomfort once again, but his stomach and his conscious weren’t recovering quite as fast.
A shadow crossed in front of Dean and he looked up to see Sammy standing in front of him, mouth puckered around a Tootsie Pop sucker. Blue raspberry, Dean guessed, because his kid brother’s lips and tongue were a bright slick cobalt color.
“Nice,” Dean commented, “You look like you were making out with some chick that had blue lipstick on.”
Sam grinned around the stick that poked from between his tinted lips.
Dean pointed at the lollipop. “Where’d you get that anyway?”
Pulling the sucker out of his mouth with a wet pop, Sam smiled. “Ashley Wells gave it to me. She gave me two more too ‘cause we’re best friends.”
“Best friends, huh?” Dean raised an interested brow. “And what did you give her in return for the candy, Sammy?” He smirked, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Nothing, you dope. She just likes to hang around me. She thinks I’m smart.” Sam reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out the other Tootsie Pops and held them out to Dean. “You want one? I got a cherry one and chocolate one left.”
Dean took the chocolate one and stuck it in his shirt pocket for later. “Thanks,” he said.
“Hey, Winchester! How’d you like ‘Old Faithful’? Still need a pillow for your pansy ass?”
Sam’s head shot up in annoyance at the taunt coming from the nearby playground. He looked like a pissed off bulldog, his brow furrowed deeply underneath his dark shag of bangs, eyes narrowed, jaw jutting out.
Dean appeared unruffled, focusing on his bologna sandwich, although swallowing the piece he’d just chewed seemed overly difficult, the bread and meat managing to catch in his constricting throat.
“Dean…” Sam complained, eyeing the small group of boys near the teeter totters with mounting resentment.
“Just ignore ‘em, Sammy,” Dean ordered, head down. Yeah ignore them. Great advice. Too bad he was having a hard time following it.
“Aw, whatsa matter, Weener-chester? Does your widdle bottom still hurt? Gonna cry some more?”
A chorus of braying laughter followed the comment. Dean licked his lips, finally bringing his attention up from his sandwich and over to the playground, where Chris Garland, Tim Perry and Jason Polk stood – three of the biggest assholes in his history class - arms crossed, waiting expectantly.
“Dean, let’s just go back inside,” Sam mumbled. He tugged at his brother’s shirtsleeve, but Dean wasn’t paying any attention to him.
Instead, he was eyeballing his trio of antagonists carefully, as his father had taught him, gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Jason Polk was clearly the leader, a foot taller than the other two and a hell of a lot heavier. Too many milkshakes and Snickers bars, Dean thought with a smirk. He finished his assessment, offered up a bored scowl to the group, and then went back to munching on his sandwich. No sense wasting effort, or food, over a bunch of inbred yahoos he wouldn’t be seeing beyond this semester more than likely.
“See, I told ya he was a coward,” Tim Perry loudly announced, grinning, as he elbowed Jason in the ribs. “Total pussy. No wonder he cried when old man Woodruff beat his ass!”
“Uh oh,” Sam muttered. He took a step back, putting himself behind Dean, clearing the way.
Dean slowly stood up, his half-eaten sandwich falling from his hands to land in the dirt at his feet. There were very few things that would ever make him disobey a direct order from his father, the order, of course, being no fighting at school. Ever. Period. End of story. Being called a coward, though, was one thing Dean could never seem to let pass. Because Dean knew, better than anyone, that he was anything but a coward.
He let the anger wash over him, calming him and filling him with a cold, brittle resolve.
“See, you shouldn’t have said that,” Dean muttered darkly under his breath as he approached the three boys still by the teeter-totters. His hooded eyes flicked from one boy to the next, face a shadowed mask of composed fury. “You really shouldn’t have said that,” he repeated.
Tim Perry snorted. “Oh yeah? Why’s that, cry-baby?”
Tim was still chuckling over his remark when Dean kicked the kid in the nuts, hard. The boy’s squeal of shock was short-lived as he instantly dropped to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water, face turning a pasty white. Dean stepped neatly out of the way, as Tim slumped sideways to the ground. The fight had been completely taken out of the bully. He lay, curled in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, his hands going to cover his bruised privates. A few threats and curses trickled weakly from Tim’s mouth, but Dean recognized the kid was no longer a danger.
“What the fu-“ Chris Garland, eyes bulging and jaw gaping at his downed friend, didn’t get to finish his sentence as Dean quickly spun towards the boy to deliver a perfect one-two punch combo, nailing the gangly boy in the gut and nose almost simultaneously.
Dean heard a wet crunch, signaling he’d broken Chris’ nose. He watched with grim satisfaction as his opponent staggered back, lost his footing and then fell hard onto his rear end in the dirt. Chris reached up with a shaky hand, trying to stem the stream of blood gushing from his injured nose. Even so, his effort did little to keep the flow from dripping off the edge of his hand and spattering all down the front of his crisply pressed Gap shirt. Bet that won’t come out in the wash, Dean observed cockily.
“Dean!” Sam hollered.
Dean’s head snapped up in concern, his protective instincts taking over. Unfortunately, the move left him wide open and he ended up catching a fist to the jaw. The blow sent him stumbling blindly backwards.
“Look out!” Sam cried. He threw his Tootsie pop onto the ground near where Dean’s sandwich lay and scrambled towards the playground, eyes blazing.
“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” Dean gasped as he shook the pain off with a grimace and brought his fists up to guard his face from further assault. “Kinda got that figured out now.”
Dean circled Jason and the other boy did the same, fists up so that the boys mirrored one another. Dean bounced agitatedly on the balls of his feet, eyes never leaving his opponent. His jaw ached like a son of a bitch, but he ignored it. He’d had worse injuries in his lifetime. A lot worse.
“C’mon, Jason,” Dean taunted, opening his stance a little more, making it more inviting for the other boy to attack, allowing Dean the offensive advantage. “Let’s go. Let’s see what you got, ‘cause I sure hope that wasn’t your best shot, asshole.”
Jason took the bait just as Dean expected he would and swung hard, a sloppy haymaker that Dean easily ducked under and then took advantage of to pound Jason in the ribs several times before darting out of reach. Jason swore loudly, his eyes now bright with pain.
A crowd of students had gathered around the combatants, ringing them in and energetically shouting encouragement while soaking up the violence with a certain morbid glee.
“You little fucker, you’re goin’ down,” Jason snarled.
Dean let a lopsided grin spread across his lips. “Bring it,” he jeered back.
Jason obliged and barreled into Dean, head down low, using it like a battering ram. A roar of cheers rose from the crowd of onlookers. Dean felt the air go out of his lungs as Jason caught him in the midsection. He crashed to the dusty ground, Jason on top of him, both boys a cursing, grunting heap of flailing arms and legs.
Dean flinched and hissed in pain when one of Jason’s elbows clipped him in the mouth, mashing his lips up hard against his teeth. The coppery tang of blood suddenly blanketed his tongue, and Dean became pissed. No way was he letting an inexperienced, preppy dumbass beat him in a simple fistfight!
He deflected the next punch and countered it with a head butt that rocked Jason’s skull back and made him see stars. Jason tried to grab a fistful of Dean’s hair but it was too short. Dean pried the other boy’s hand from off his head and trapped it in his own, locking their fingers together as if they were a romantic couple on a moonlit stroll. He then proceeded to bend Jason’s fingers back, stretching them in the wrong direction, until the other boy howled in agony.
Dean offered up a nasty smile, thankful that his dad had taught him to fight dirty. He knew he was only supposed to use that style in extreme life-threatening circumstances, but he sheepishly admitted he wasn’t averse to pulling an underhanded maneuver or two here and now if it meant showing the bigmouth jerk on top of him just who wasn’t a coward.
The two boys rolled, kicked, shouted, punched and swore as the crowd around them grew, news of the fight and the billowing dust cloud they had created drawing kids from other parts of the playground over to watch the rising excitement.
Both boys momentarily paused their gouging and punching when a heavy weight suddenly settled on top of them, pressing them down into the dirt.
“You leave my brother alone!” Sam growled angrily, as he pummeled the big sixth grader he now straddled. “You mother-fucking sonuvabitch!” he spat.
“Sam!” Dean choked in surprise at the unexpected profanity. He knew his father and Uncle Bobby often recklessly threw those very same words out from time to time; hell, he did too when the situation warranted it, but he’d never heard them coming out of his eight-year-old brother’s mouth before. Dad was going to shit a brick.
Jason ignored the scrappy nuisance perched on top of him until Sam grabbed Jason’s ears from behind, yanking back hard on them as if they were the reins on a horse.
“OW!” Jason roared. “Get off me, you little freak!” He reached back with one arm, slapping crazily, trying to dislodge Sam from his back with little success.
Dean took the opportunity of Jason being temporarily distracted to punch the other boy in the eye. He would have followed up with a knee to the gut, but all of a sudden, Dean was all alone on the ground. Seconds later, Dean felt himself roughly hauled to his feet, a large hand clamped imperiously onto his shoulder.
He could still hear Sam somewhere off to his left, spewing out more four-letter expletives, stringing them together in some pretty inventive ways, Dean realized with an odd mixture of pride and concern. He made a mental note to pay a little more attention to the language he used in front of his baby brother from now on.
“Mister Winchester…”
Aw shit. Dean groaned under his breath. He tilted his head up, squinting against the brilliance of the midday sun, to spy Principal Woodruff’s outraged visage glaring down at him.
“Why am I not surprised?” the older man huffed. “And this little gutter-mouth must be your brother?” He indicated Sam, who was standing next to him, with a jerk of his head.
Dean shot Sam a warning look from around the principal’s substantial paunch, and Sam, taking the implied hint, clamped his mouth shut, cutting off the latest string of obscenities he’d been directing at both the principal and the other teacher that had pulled him off of Jason earlier.
The Winchester boys in tow, Principal Woodruff headed for the school and his office.
“Looks like I’m gonna get to meet your daddy after all,” he declared. An acerbic smile twisted up the corners of Principal Woodruff’s mouth, deepening the wrinkles already there from smoking a pack of Marlboros a day for the past twenty-eight years.
The thought of what his father was going to do to him when he learned of this latest screw up sent Dean’s stomach plummeting like a lead weight.
**************
Dean and Sam sat side-by-side, twin heads bowed in resignation, looking completely disheveled when their father strode into the principal’s office a half hour later. Dean’s flannel shirt had a good-sized tear along one of the shoulder seams, complementing the row of reddened fingernail scratches marking the skin of the twelve-year-old’s neck just below his right ear.
Dean kept his eyes on the floor and furtively swiped at his bloodied lower lip while trying to appear innocent, a difficult, if not impossible, feat given the circumstances.
Sam sat next to his older brother, sweaty, dirt-streaked face and hair sticking up every which way from his head the only real outward indication of his involvement in the fight. He was nervously tapping his foot on the carpet – his shoeless, sock-covered foot. The other one still had a tennis shoe on it; God knew where the missing shoe was, John tiredly thought.
He scrubbed at his stubbled jaw in irritation and glanced over once again at his eldest child, managing to catch Dean’s attention this time, but only for a split second before Dean quickly dipped his head back down, breaking the tenuous eye contact. It was enough though. The look had told John volumes.
He slowly leaned in towards Dean for a closer inspection of the damage, and was not amused when his son deliberately leaned back to keep space between them and tried to tuck his bloodied knuckles under his armpits, hiding the obvious damage.
Reaching out, John took hold of Dean’s chin in one large hand, lifting and turning it towards the light to survey the purple bruise sprouting on his son’s left cheek with a growing sense of fury. He let go and stepped back, folding his muscled arms across his chest.
“I don’t suppose either of you want to tell me what the hell happened?” John growled. His voice was low and measured; a sure signal to Dean and Sam that no matter what they said, it wasn’t going to help their case.
As a result, both boys chose to remain silent, eyes shifting from a focused spot on the carpet to sidelong glances full of worry at each other. John added a stony glare of his own to the mix, daring them to move even a fraction of an inch from their seats before he turned and finally addressed the school principal.
Principal Woodruff saw John Winchester’s raging stare of disapproval and struggled to maintain the polite counterfeit smile on his face. He had assumed Dean’s father would be the typical blue-collar type he usually deemed beneath his status. The look in the man’s eyes, however, told him he had made a serious miscalculation.
He dutifully held out his hand in invitation and John took it, briefly eyeing the principal’s gaudy college fraternity ring with mild distaste as he gave a firm, gruff shake with his own callused, grease-stained hand.
“Mr. Winchester, it’s unfortunate we couldn’t have met under better circumstances,” Bill Woodruff drawled amiably. He pointed to one of the armless chairs in front of his desk. “Won’t you have a seat, sir?”
John glanced at the chair in question, noting that it was smaller, plainer and sat lower than the principal’s chair. Typical intimidation tactic, he noted dryly. Must come in useful against all those scary twelve-year-olds. Hackles raised, John looked back up to the man sitting behind the desk. An insecure man was a dangerous man.
“I don’t intend to stay long enough to get comfortable,” John declared curtly, “So how ‘bout we get down to business.”
Principal Woodruff nodded, trying to adjust to John’s take-charge attitude. Most parents that came into his office were more deferential, eager to make amends for their child’s unruly behavior. He studied John Winchester for a long moment, wondering whether it was competence or arrogance that lent itself to the man’s fearless demeanor.
“Mr. Winchester,” Principal Woodruff began and both John and Dean looked up at him.
Dean quickly determined that he wasn’t the “Mr. Winchester” being addressed and with a grimace of embarrassment, he cast his eyes back down to his lap, nudging Sam sharply in the leg with his knee when the younger boy let out a tiny snort of amusement at the mix-up.
Principal Woodruff continued. “I don’t even know where exactly to begin,” he said as he folded his hands neatly atop his desk, leaning forward until his vest-covered belly pressed up against and slightly overhung the desktop. “I understand that your boys are new here and that it is often not easy to fit in right away, but I assure you, sir, we at Glen Rose Elementary have welcomed Dean and Sam with open arms.”
Dean let out bothered chuff of disagreement, which John chose to ignore for the moment, although his hand itched to do otherwise. That would come later.
Principal Woodruff went on. “Which is why I was quite disappointed to find them both involved in a fistfight this afternoon. A fight, I might add, that consisted of your two boys ganging up against one other child.”
“Dad! That’s NOT -“
John shut Dean up with a look, his patience all but gone.
The instant obedience didn’t go unnoticed by the other man in the room. Apparently, there was some sense of respect and discipline in the Winchester household, despite outward appearances to the contrary. With a calculated glint in his eyes, the principal decided to see just how in control John was.
“I must say, Mr. Winchester, I was quite shocked at the filth that was pouring from your child’s mouth this afternoon.” Principal Woodruff shook his head sadly, clucking his tongue. “A boy so young, using such inappropriate language. It was just shameful.”
John shot Dean an icy glare over his shoulder and was surprised to see a look of confusion cross his son’s face.
Principal Woodruff continued, “I can only assume that Samuel learned those words at home.”
John’s gaze snapped back to the principal, brows furrowing. “You mean, Dean,” he corrected.
“No, sir, I mean your youngest one,” the other man countered, enjoying the momentary look of shock in John’s eyes.
John shifted fully around to level a long hard stare at Sam, who had the good grace to blush a deep crimson under his father’s intense scrutiny.
“If I had children, I must say I wouldn’t allow them to listen to that horrible rap music, full of profanity and sex, or play those violent death-filled video games you see everywhere,” the principal announced with a dismissive wave of a hand. “And, of course, our children do look to us to set a good example, Mr. Winchester,” Bill Woodruff drawled silkily.
Despite having only conversed with the man for less than fifteen minutes, John had already pegged the principal for a typical southern “good old boy” – intolerant of outsiders, proud of his redneck heritage, and loyally chained to a moral sense of right and wrong that could only be viewed in black and white terms.
While the insinuating bastard made John’s blood boil, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Woodruff. If the man only knew of the darker truths that existed just beneath the surface of polite society, festering away like some malignant disease, he might be more inclined to shift his rigid perspective to one with a bit more scope. Because, absolutely nothing, in John’s experience, was ever as neatly cut and dried as that; not war, not love, not even hunting. There were always levels of risk, degrees of sacrifice and various ranges of morals to be navigated around at every turn.
Sam may have picked up those swear words at home, John guiltily surmised. Or from any number of less than savory people they had bumped into while passing from one place to another. One thing he did know, without a doubt, was that Sam - intelligent, thoughtful, studious Sam - would never use that kind of language unless provoked. There was more to the story than Principal Woodruff was letting on, and John quietly stewed over that fact while he waited for the man to finish.
Taking a mental step back, John came to the conclusion that he’d have to play this differently than normal if he wanted to keep ‘Boss Hogg’ off his back and not speed dialing CPS or the state police the minute John and the boys left his office.
“I apologize for my son’s language, Mr. Woodruff,” John said, feigning a bit of awkwardness for the other man’s benefit. “My boys know I don’t allow such profanity.” There was an edge to his voice aimed at Sam and Dean, which prompted another shared gulp from the boys. They knew they were in serious trouble.
Principal Woodruff nodded sympathetically as John continued.
“I can promise you that it won’t ever happen again,” John said. He fixed an angry stare on Sam. “We’ll be having a little talk about this at home, Sam,” he stated, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of menace to it.
Sam looked like he was about to cry. Dean reached over to give his kid brother’s arm a squeeze of reassurance as John turned back to the principal. “Ever since their mother died, it’s been kind of hard for us.”
Dean frowned in outrage. He hated when his dad talked about Mom like that. What the hell was he doing, anyway, getting chummy with the dumbass principal?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a widower, Mr. Winchester,” Woodruff said. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to raise your boys without a woman’s softer touch around the home.”
John stifled the urge to reject the fake platitude and storm out of the office. Instead, he forced himself to remain civil and even offer up a nod. He attempted to change the subject. “You mentioned that my boys were fighting another boy?” he questioned. “Just one other kid? Did I hear that right?”
The principal nodded. “Yes, Jason Polk. He’s in Dean’s class. A good, honest boy; I went to school with his daddy. Two of Jason’s friends tried to intervene and were seriously injured for their efforts.” Principal Woodruff’s lips thinned. “One has a broken nose and the other…well…” he hesitated, uncomfortably fingering the knot of his tie. “Let’s just say the other boy is uh, speaking in a slightly higher pitch than normal right now.”
John wanted to strangle Dean. He knew better than to use his combat training against civilians!
Principal Woodruff continued. “Now I wouldn’t normally be inclined to be quite so harsh here – boys will be boys, right? And Dean’s grades overall are fairly respectable, surprising enough, considering his lack of interest in participating in his classes.” The man chuckled lightly and then cleared his throat, ready to get down to business. “But, your son’s behavior is inexcusable in light of this being the second time in less than a week that he’s been in my office for a reprimand.”
“Second?” John slowly repeated, cocking his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right.
He chanced a look over at Dean, who was currently studying his kneecaps with great intent. John’s jaw tightened, a sour ache growing in his gut.
“Mind telling me what the first meet and greet was about?” he quietly requested.
Woodruff sighed, leaning back in his leather-cushioned chair. “Your son received five licks on Tuesday for being disruptive in class, being disrespectful to his teacher and to me also, and then refusing to apologize afterwards.”
I apologized! Dean thought sullenly. Though I take it back now, you stupid bastard…
The ache in John’s gut grew, twisting fitfully. He watched Dean slouch down further in his chair, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a worried gesture. The kid damn well better be worried, John thought, his temper escalating. He thinks five licks at school were bad…
Grabbing a manila folder off a pile on his desk, Principal Woodruff opened it, splaying the pages out in front of him, and picked up the topmost one, offering it to John. “Dean seems to prefer art to history,” he dryly asserted. “This is what he was working on while the rest of the class was learning about the Civil War.”
John took the paper from the other man, curiosity aroused, and then let out a beleaguered sigh at the drawing of the woman Dean had left behind in his history class. He turned, picture held out to Dean in accusation.
“You do this?” John asked pointedly.
Dean looked up at the picture, then at his father and then back to the picture. He shrugged and nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered.
John’s stance grew rigid. “Excuse me?” he challenged, eyes flinty.
Dean’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Mr. Winchester, but both your boys are suspended for three days,” Principal Woodruff announced. He pushed another paper, this one an official looking form, towards John. “If you could please sign this acknowledgement, we’ll be done here and we’ll see Dean and Sam next Wednesday for classes.”
His fingers gripping the pen so hard it shook, John hastily signed the form, and shoved it back towards the principal. Woodruff took the form, tapping it once with his forefinger before setting it atop the other papers in the open file still in front of him. He then snatched up a thicker folder and handed it across the desk to John.
“Here are their homework assignments, so they won’t fall behind. I truly hope this will be the end of this situation, Mr. Winchester, for all involved.”
Woodruff tented his fingers, offering up a thoughtful frown.
“Have you ever considered family counseling?” he asked carefully, attempting to keep his face neutral. John Winchester carried a certain edginess to him that Bill Woodruff found slightly intimidating, and there was no sense in riling the man any more than he obviously was, but it was his duty to offer aid where he could. “We have a monthly grief counseling session that meets in our gymnasium as well as a family –“
“Thanks, but we’re fine,” John cut the man off, voice a little colder than he’d wanted it to be. “You don’t need to worry about Dean and Sam. I give you my word that they’ll come back here next week with an improved outlook and on their best behavior.”
Woodruff observed both young boys as they groaned in unison. Apparently, Mr. Winchester was a man of his word if the anxious looks his sons were giving him was any indication. Good.
By the time the Winchester clan left Glen Rose elementary school, Sam was sniffling with every other step and Dean was shuffling along, stoop-shouldered, like a condemned man on his final march to the gallows.
**************
Under better circumstances, Dean might have found the irony of getting a spanking for essentially getting a spanking in the first place pretty funny. However, there was nothing even remotely humorous about the current situation, particularly not the look on his dad’s face as he strode into Dean’s bedroom and swung the door shut behind him with a volatile slam that reverberated all through the small apartment.
Dean carefully licked his lips with a tongue that was actually too dry to be of benefit. There wasn’t even enough spit in his mouth at that point to make swallowing a necessity, though he felt himself gulping nervously anyway. He’d been sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, as it was the lower one of the bunk beds the boys currently shared, but had quickly risen when his father had entered the room. It never hurt to show the head of the household some courtesy; although Dean had a feeling it was too little, too late in this instance. Like way too late, he reflected ruefully.
He bravely met his father’s glower and then silently watched as his dad grabbed the sturdy chair from next to the desk by the opposite wall and dragged it over towards where Dean stood next to the beds. His dad didn’t sit down in it though. He just gripped the top of the chair tightly, as if he expected it to bolt off or something and fixed Dean with a rather black look. Dean stared apprehensively at the white knuckles clenching the scarred wood. He couldn’t remember the last time his father was this pissed. Playing it safe, he decided to wait for his father to begin the talking.
Sammy had made the mistake earlier of opening his mouth in the school parking lot to whine about missing some stupid class play about the pilgrims and Indians because of the 3-day suspension, and Dad had lost it. Their father had bent his kid brother over his left hip, right there next to the car, and had walloped Sammy’s sorry ass, Sam howling and Dad lecturing, until Dean thought someone from the school might show up from the ruckus being made.
No one showed up to intervene, and Dad’s hand must have gotten tired, because he finally stopped, grasping a sobbing, snot-faced Sammy by the collar of his shirt and depositing him in the back seat of the Impala with a warning look. There wasn’t any real need for the warning, Dean judged, because a spanked Sam was pretty much a subdued Sam, guaranteed.
Thinking back on it, Dean wondered if maybe his little brother was the lucky one in all this, having gotten his ass beating out of the way and over with before their dad had time to calm down and really think about what had taken place.
“I’m not even going to get into with you about using your fighting skills and tactical training against an opponent you knew damn well was green and unprepared,” John stated, dark eyes boring into Dean with a purpose.
Dean flinched when his dad pointed an angry finger at him.
“I think I’ve made it pretty clear in the past how I feel about that, Dean,” John said. “And we both know this situation didn’t warrant you using that level of violence.” His dad paused a moment to let his words sink in. “In fact, this whole situation never should have happened, because you and your brother have a standing order to keep your fists to yourself when you’re at school. So, you wanna tell me what was so damn special about today that you decided to disobey that order?”
Dean let his eyes drop to the floor. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Answer me!” his father growled.
“I got mad,” Dean finally confessed, his voice a low whisper.
“Mad?” John repeated. He sounded slightly stunned. “About what?”
Dean squirmed, feeling like an idiot. It all seemed so ridiculously dumb now. “Jason and his retarded buddies were teasing me ‘bout getting paddled,” Dean explained quietly, his words directed at the floor. His head jerked up. “But, Dad, you gotta -”
His father cut him off. “You broke a kid’s nose over that?” he asked, brows knotting in exasperation.
“Yeah, well it sounds pretty lame now, but-”
“It’s lame no matter how you look at it, Dean,” John admonished. “Your smart ass attitude got you into trouble and you took your anger over getting paddled for it out on some poor defenseless kid!”
Dean’s brows shot up. “Jason Polk’s not that defenseless, Dad. He’s on the junior football team. I mean, jeez, have you seen him? He doesn’t even have a neck!”
His father’s eyes narrowed, face darkening. “That. That right there,” he said, pointing again, “Is what gets you into trouble. Every. Single. Time. That mouthy, belligerent attitude of yours.”
“So what? I’m s’posed to kiss everybody’s ass now?” Dean shot back, eyes glistening with tears of frustration.
“Watch your mouth, mister,” John snapped, and Dean sat down on the bed once more, suddenly feeling way too tired.
John’s voice softened a bit. “I’m not asking you to back down with your tail between your legs all the time, Dean. I’m asking you to start using your head instead of your mouth a little more. Learn to pick your battles. You’re gonna have situations come up where the most obvious gut reaction isn’t gonna be the best one to choose and you’ve gotta be man enough and smart enough to accept that. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Dean nodded grimly. “Yes sir.”
“Good,” John replied. He eased into the desk chair opposite Dean and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, so his eyes would be on a level with Dean’s. “The older you get and the more experience you pack under your belt, the easier it’ll be to know when to make a stand and when to walk away. In this case, I think you knew your temper got the better of you, regardless. Don’t let it happen again,” John ordered.
“No sir, it won’t,” Dean asserted.
“Okay, then let’s move on to the fact that you disobeyed a direct order,” John said. “That’s not acceptable, Dean, for any reason. So, that’s strike one.”
Dean winced. He hated when his dad did the whole three strikes and you’re out thing. Mainly, because it meant that he’d racked up enough parental violations in one go around to lose any chance whatsoever of leniency when it came time for his father to hand down a punishment. He mentally said his goodbyes to his rear end. It would be a long, long time before that part of his body would be feeling anything other than sore and tender.
“Strike two, pal, is what started all this in the first place – not paying attention in school and mouthing off to your teacher,” John said. He gave Dean an expectant look. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“History sucks?” Dean offered with a nonchalant shrug.
John moved so fast, Dean didn’t have time to react until he was back on the bed, his butt tingling from the trio of smacks his Dad had delivered with his hard right hand.
“OW, Dad!” Dean squawked in dismay. He grimaced and reached underneath him to rub at the sting.
“Keep it up, smart ass, and this is gonna be a long night for the both of us,” John warned.
“M’sorry,” Dean mumbled, even though his opinion on the subject hadn’t changed. “But, seriously, history is beyond boring. I mean, what good is studying about the past? When am I ever going to need to know that stuff?”
John snorted at his son’s naiveté. “You remember that hunt in Virginia I did last summer? The haunted courthouse?”
“Yes, sir, I remember,” Dean said cautiously. “The motel we stayed at had a really awesome pool slide and Sammy practically lived in the swimming pool the whole time we were there.”
“Well, I was actually talking about the hunt itself,” John said with a bemused shake of his head. “If I hadn’t known a little about the history of that particular town, about the courthouse being from the revolutionary war era for instance, then I might not have figured out what was haunting that place and why.”
“Huh,” Dean said. He mulled the thought over a bit before replying. “So…you’re saying even though history is a snooze fest, I might need it for a job some day.”
“Exactly,” John affirmed. “And that goes for all your other classes too, Dean. The smarter you are, the better a hunter you become. And the longer you tend you live,” he added with emphasis. “And that means you need to start paying your teachers some respect.”
Dean made a face, and John’s brow shot up.
“Mr. Grant is a real jerk,” Dean argued. “He was gonna give me detention because his side lost the Civil War.”
John appeared skeptical. “I hardly think your teacher was blaming you for the fall of the Confederacy, dude.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe not for that, but he got real mad when I brought up that the north royally kicked the south’s ass.”
“Kinda like you did when those boys teased you about getting paddled?” John inquired innocently.
“What? No! That’s not…it’s…” Dean spluttered, face heating up at getting unexpectedly called out by his dad. He bit his lower lip, frowning, then sighed deeply. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered gloomily.
John nodded sagely. “Hurts when someone pokes at a sore point, doesn’t it?” he said. “Your teacher may be a bit of a dick,” Dean nodded emphatically as John continued, “And this town may be as redneck as it gets, but people are still people, son, no matter where you go. They have fears and doubts and worries, just like everyone else. Just like me. Just like you. Just like Sammy.”
“I guess so,” Dean reluctantly conceded. “But how come they get to be jerks and I can’t say anything about it?”
“First off, you’re only twelve years old, Dean. You’re still a kid. And that means you’re expected to mind your manners, listen to the adults and do as you’re told.” John gave Dean a measured look. “You live to be my age, and then you can start voicing your opinions on what you think about others. Second, and more important to our particular situation, is that we can’t afford to call attention to ourselves.”
“’Cause of what you do,” Dean responded with a weighty sigh. It seemed like that was the general, catch-all excuse around the Winchester house for everything from why Dean couldn’t bring a hex bag to show and tell in the second grade to why he always had to lie and tell everyone, including his own brother, that their father was a traveling salesman instead of a badass monster hunter. “It’s not fair,” Dean pouted.
“Life ain’t fair, kiddo, better get used to it,” John retorted acidly. He sat up straight, and Dean’s heart began to trip faster in anticipation of what he knew was coming.
“Your final and third strike, mister, is the worst one,” John stated, his features hardening as he motioned for Dean to stand. “You lied to me, Dean. You got into trouble at school; serious enough to warrant a trip to the principal’s office for a paddling, and you never said a word about it.”
Dean felt the tears building and could do nothing to stop them. He’d lied to his dad. On purpose. The guilt rose in Dean’s chest like a tidal wave, crashing over him and drowning him in its icy condemnation. Lower lip trembling, it took all of Dean’s reserve to pull his chin up from his chest and acknowledge the angry, disappointed frown on his father’s face.
“I’m real sorry, Dad,” Dean whispered. A single tear traced a wet path down his right cheek.
John gave his son a brief somber nod. “I know you are, Dean,” he replied softly. “But, that’s not good enough this time, son.” Eyes still on his eldest child, John reached down and began to unbuckle his belt. “You broke the rules. Big time. So, you’re getting a little reminder from me that when I set the rules around here, your job isn’t to question them or test them. Your job is to follow those rules and behave yourself or face the consequences for disobeying.”
Belt now free from his pants, John indicated a spot on the floor beside his chair. “I want you over here with your jeans down, Dean,” he ordered as he folded his belt in two, tucking the ends into the palm of his right hand. “Let’s go, bud. Right now.”
Dean fumbled open the button and zipper on his pants with hands that shook as if he had palsy. His eyes kept straying to the belt in his father’s hand as he lowered his jeans down to his knees and edged closer to the chair until his knees pressed up against his father’s thigh. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion except for his heart, which was revving faster than normal, causing his pulse to pound in his ears. No passing out, Dean, he reminded himself. That would most definitely not be cool...except maybe then his dad wouldn’t spank him? Nah, no such luck, Dean figured, and besides, he deserved to get it for lying if for nothing else.
Jaw set, eyes screwed shut, Dean took a deep calming breath and then obediently bent over as his father drew him down over his sturdy lap. Dean’s fingers curled around the edges of the nearest chair leg, gripping tight. Wasn’t I just in this position two days ago? he silently noted, with a touch of disgust. Only it wouldn’t be five measly licks this time. It’d be twelve stinging whacks of his dad’s belt. One for every year of Dean’s life.
Dean felt his dad’s hand, warm and solid on his lower back, stilling him and in a strange way, comforting him.
“Why are you getting this spanking, son?” John questioned.
Gosh, Dad, you want the whole list or just the top ten faves?
Dean wisely kept the snark to himself and answered in a monotone instead, listing out his recent crimes. “I got in trouble at school and then lied to you about it, an’ I disobeyed orders and beat the crap out of some losers for ragging on me about it,” he finished glumly. He felt a vague twinge of conscience and added hastily, “And I dragged Sammy into it and told him not to tell you.”
Kid’s learning, John thought with a surge of pride. He hadn’t even brought up Sam’s involvement, and yet Dean had willingly done so, accepting some of the responsibility without being told. Although, John wanted to point out to his eldest that his baby brother hadn’t exactly been forced into keeping the lie, or participating in the fistfight for that matter. That had been Sam’s own choice and he’d already paid for his poor decision and was now out in the living room, sulking about it.
John had tried to offer his youngest some sympathy by way of a hug to show he wasn’t angry anymore, but Sam was having none of it. He was still pissed about the spanking in the parking lot, and wasn’t ready yet to let bygones be bygones. As usual, the eight-year-old stubbornly preferred to mope by himself instead, huddled up at one end of the dilapidated couch in the apartment until he got too lonely or too bored to sit there and stew any longer.
John knew that eventually Sammy would seek him out, tentatively leaning into his side, eyes mutely imploring and John would scoop the kid up in a reassuring bear hug and all would go back to normal. He hated spanking his kids, but found it to be a surefire way to deter any repeat performances of unwanted behavior.
Right now, John just wanted to get Dean’s punishment over with and out of the way.
Dean heard the belt seconds before he felt the stripe of heat traveling across his butt, igniting nerve endings all along its course. He hissed, legs kicking and eyes watering as he fought the instinctive urge to jump up and away from the source of the sting.
He didn’t really have time to fully process the first whack before the rest arrived in a fairly steady rhythm. The belt licks cascaded down over his brief-covered rear end and over his thighs and then back up again in overlapping lines of fire. His dad was obviously done talking and wanted to get down to business, which he did with efficient and painful gusto.
Stoic grunts quickly transformed into desperate yelps, which then devolved into harsh sobs, as Dean let the ache, both physical and emotional, wash over him. He went limp over his father’s lap, wrung out, submitting to the spanking he knew he deserved.
As quickly as the swats had begun, they ended. Dean waited, tense, gulping and trying hard to control his tears, but the scorching heat radiating off his rear end seemed to keep his eyes from being able to shut down the tear production. Well that, and the overwhelming sense of having failed his dad, Dean thought miserably.
Dean felt his dad’s hands encircle him and then lift him up, turning him so that he was now sitting carefully on his dad’s lap.
“Ow,” Dean whined, flinching, and his father eased Dean’s bottom off his knee to hang over it instead.
“Better?” John asked quietly.
Dean squinted up at his father, pained expression in place. “You’re kidding, right?” he groaned tearily. He rubbed at his throbbing backside.
“C’mere,” John growled softly. He let Dean down off his lap, letting the boy draw up his jeans with a wince before dragging Dean in between his knees and pulling the boy up tight to his broad chest, protective arms wrapping around Dean, holding him, comforting him.
John dropped a kiss onto Dean’s head, before tucking it under his stubbled chin, letting his child curl into the warmth of his shirtfront.
“No more fighting at school,” John said softly.
“Uh, uh. No more,” Dean hiccupped against his dad’s chest.
“No more goofing off in class and smarting off to your teachers,” John declared, earning a firm headshake from his son.
“Nope, no more,” Dean quietly agreed.
John gave Dean a big hug and then gently pried him away from his chest so that he could meet Dean’s tear-filled eyes. “And no more lies, Dean,” he firmly stated. “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, I want you to understand that you can always come to me with the truth.”
“If I tell you the truth but it’s something bad, are you still gonna spank me?” Dean questioned, hesitation in his voice.
“What do you think?” John replied.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean muttered in defeat. “Not much of an incentive there, Dad,” he added gloomily.
John ruffled Dean’s hair. “Well, the incentive would be that you did the right thing in telling me,” he explained. “And staying out of trouble altogether would keep you from having to make that choice, wouldn’t it?”
“Yessir,” Dean said.
They remained quiet a few moments, John keeping a hand on Dean’s back to steady him, and Dean taking the comfort and forgiveness his father was offering.
Dean lifted his head and caught sight of a figure in the doorway. “Hey, Sammy,” he said.
John looked up to see his youngest peeping into the room, hugging the side of the doorway, eyes questioning, asking silent permission to enter the room.
“You still mad at your old man?” John asked Sam.
Sam answered with a mute shrug of his shoulders, eyes downcast.
John smiled. “Get over here, kiddo.” He motioned, opening his arms wider to accept Sam as he padded over to the chair and allowed himself to be enveloped by both Dean’s and his father’s arms.
Sam looked over at Dean, apology written in his big green eyes. “M’sorry,” he mumbled sadly.
Dean grinned softly. “What’re you sorry for, Samantha? I’m the one that got us into trouble this time.”
Sam’s tired face screwed up in concentration as he pondered that revelation. He suddenly glared at Dean. “Yeah…” he groused, frowning. “That’s right! This is all your fault!” He reached over and socked his brother in the shoulder.
“Hey!” John intervened, shooting both boys a warning look. “There’s plenty of fault to go around,” he said, pointedly giving Sam a hard stare. “You both made some pretty lousy decisions and you’ve both paid for them, so enough’s enough.”
Two whispered ‘yessirs’ came in reply.
“Dad?” Sam piped up, snuggling deeply into his father’s side. “I know you just said enough and all, but can I just say something?”
John sighed, looking skyward in aggravation. Sam could never let things just lie. He always needed to suss out the why and wherefore before he was fully satisfied.
“What, Sam?” John gave in.
“I’m not sayin’ we weren’t bad,” Sam started, but John cut him off.
“Whoa there, buddy. You and Dean aren’t bad. Let’s just get that cleared up first, okay?” John raised a brow, waiting for Sam to agree which he did with a timid nod. John continued. “Disobedient? Yes. Rude? Definitely. Causing your old man to get grey hairs? Always. But you’re not bad. You paid for your errors in judgment, and hopefully you’ll learn from this and make better decisions next time.”
“Okay…” Sam replied, rethinking his strategy. “Well, me and Dean made bad decisions, but I think Principal Woodruff did too.”
Dean snorted. “So what, Sammy? You want Dad to go and spank Principal Woodruff?” he teased.
“No,” Sam scowled at his brother. “But, he wasn’t fair,” he said, looking up at his father. “He didn’t even let us tell our side of the story, Dad. He just listened to the other boys and not us.”
John frowned. He had a feeling that that’s what had happened. “What’s your side of the story, Sam?” he inquired.
“Those jerks were picking on Dean-”
“They weren’t picking on me!” Dean huffed, clearly unwilling to admit to being bullied.
“They were making fun of you,” Sam stated in exasperation. He shot Dean an eye roll and continued. “Anyway, they started the whole thing. And they called Dean a coward too, which he ISN’T!” Sam said, his voice rising heatedly. “And it wasn’t just one boy, it was three, Dad. So, that’s why I had to go help Dean-”
“Like I needed your help, squirt,” Dean muttered, but let a small grin play over his lips.
“And they’re always picking on us. ‘Cause we’re the new kids and they think we’re weird,” Sam finished.
That last part tore at John’s heart a bit. Their constant moving around would always make his children “the new kids”, and the guilt of that gnawed at his gut because it couldn’t be helped. If he was going to save lives and hunt down Mary’s killer, then he had to go wherever the trail led, at a moment’s notice if that’s what it took. And he wasn’t about to dump his boys off to be raised by some distant relative or worse, one of his hunting contacts like Singer or Murphy, while he ran off and chased evil. No, Dean and Sam were his responsibility. Nevertheless, he felt, at times, as if he didn’t do enough for them, that he couldn’t protect them as he’d sworn to do that dark November night so many years ago.
He sighed, squeezing both boys to his chest tightly. “Hey guys, how ‘bout we do something together this weekend?” John suggested.
Two pairs of eyes lit up.
“Really?” Dean asked, excitement in his voice.
“Something fun? Not like washing the car or doing the laundry?” Sam challenged.
John laughed, slightly embarrassed to admit he’d gotten his kids to assist with chores in the past by using the guise of it being a family outing. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder gently. “I promise this time it’ll be something fun. In fact, why don’t you two choose what you’d like to do.”
“Movies and pizza!” they both said together.
“Wow, I can’t believe you two actually agreed so quickly,” John said, impressed. “Movies and pizza it is, then.” He raised a brow in question. “So, what’re we gonna go see?”
“Child’s Play 3!” Dean demanded.
“No! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” Sam countered.
John watched his sons glaring at each other. “I knew that wasn’t going to last long,” he said with a faint smile.
He pushed the two of them together so they tumbled from his grasp and fell to the floor, playfully wrestling.Dean yelped when his sore butt hit the ground but he quickly rolled to his side, never once letting go of his squirming brother, despite the chances of his backside meeting the floor again.
“Okay, first one to get pinned makes dinner tonight,” John joked amiably.
At that, Dean pinned Sammy in record time, but the little boy’s shrieks held no hint of panic, just a healthy dose of outrage.
“I can’t make dinner! I’m only eight!” Sam argued loudly.
Dean groaned. “Fine, I’ll make it, you dork.” He grinned, reaching up to give Sam a noogie. “No one wants to eat your nasty bologna and peanut butter sandwiches anyway.”
“How about I go pick up some Chinese instead?” John offered, bending down to scoop up a giggling Sam and hoist the child over his shoulder. “I’m not really hungry for Spaghettios or Lucky Charms tonight either, kiddo,” he said, giving Dean a teasing smile.
“Daaaad,” Dean complained half-heartedly.
“C’mon,” John said. “Let’s go see if we can nab another restaurant pen for your collection, smart ass.”
Dean flushed. “You know about that?” he asked nervously, giving his dad a wide-eyed stare.
John quirked an amused brow at his son. “Dude, I’m your father. I know about everything.”
Dean grew unnaturally quiet, suddenly worrying what else his dad might know about…like the porn magazine, for instance… His anxiety didn’t last long as John unexpectedly picked Dean up around the middle and began half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the bedroom like a sack of potatoes, Dean bursting into snorts of laughter as Sam, still slung over John’s opposite shoulder, shrieked with delight.
“Hmm…I think you two have been putting on some weight,” John stated mischievously. “Gotta cut down on all those bologna and peanut butter sandwiches I think…and maybe make you jog to school instead of me driving you…”
Dean and Sam both chuffed loudly, rolling their eyes and snickering at their father’s teasing. John joined in, his whisky warm chuckle adding a high note to the rare moment of uncensored happiness for the three of them.
THE END