Snowball's Chance in Hell
by Minx
Bel-Aire Motor Court
Sandusky, Ohio
February 1998
The sun’s glare off the unbroken expanse of pristine snow is harsh and blinding. Sam squints, raising a hand up to screen his eyes from the white crystalline brilliance of the early morning. Several feet of snow blankets the parking lot of the run-down motel, the parked vehicles nothing more than indistinct lumps underneath the white. The Impala sits quietly under its own layer of snow a couple yards from their room. The only thing visible on her is the metal stalk of the radio antenna jutting proudly up from the white powder covering the hood, and the windshield, covered by a sheet of brittle ice, making it look as if it’s double-paned glass.
It snowed again last night. Big surprise - not. Sam stands a moment, watching his breath rise in great frosty plumes from his chilled nose and mouth. He wishes he’d thought to pick up a scarf at the last Goodwill store they’d stopped at in Kentucky, but it hadn’t been snowing then. Hell, it hadn’t even been chilly by Winchester standards, so the last thing he’d been thinking about was stocking up on cold weather gear. He can hear his dad’s voice in his head: Should have planned ahead, Sam. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his forehead scrunching in disgust.
Sam wonders, once again, why in the hell his father decided to come to northern Ohio in the middle of February. February, for chrissakes. Nothing but constant snowstorms and temperatures that are barely above frostbite level. “Suck it up, Sammy,” his father had said. “Evil doesn’t head south to vacation for the winter, and neither do we.”
Dean had chuckled at that, but Sam couldn’t seem to find the humor in freezing one’s ass off for the thankless job of tracking down and killing whatever creature-du-jour is on his dad’s hunting menu this week. He hasn’t even bothered to ask this time what it is his dad is going after. There’s no point. His dad will tell them if he thinks they need to know. Otherwise, he and Dean are supposed to just sit back and wait for orders.
Orders. Always with the stupid orders. They were never requests or suggestions or even mildly offered opinions. No. John Winchester gave orders, and he expected them to be followed — without question. Sam seems to be having trouble with that lately. A lot. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a teenager now and it’s the whole teen rebellion thing he’s feeling. On the other hand, maybe it’s that Sam is tired of being treated like a little punk-ass kid who doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground. Either way, he can’t help but feel resentful every time his father barks out an order at him these days. Like this morning, for instance, when his dad --
“Jesus!” Sam yips in surprise, starting, as he feels something cold and wet slide down the back of his neck. It soaks the collar of his jacket and flannel shirt underneath.
“You awake now, sunshine?” Dean asks, his voice full of smug cheer. He grins over at Sam devilishly, wiping his wet hand on the thigh of his jeans.
Sam shoots his brother a hostile glower. His face contorts into a grimace of discomfort as he reaches back to finger his damp neck where Dean has deposited a handful of snow.
“Jerk,” Sam spits out, and then shivers uncontrollably as the last bit of the snow melts down the inside of his shirt, sending rivulets of ice water splashing down his spine.
Dean laughs gleefully. He bends down to scoop up another handful of snow, waggling his eyebrows at Sam.
“Dude, don’t even!” Sam counters angrily, pointing at Dean’s hand. He backs up a step, now wary.
Dean ignores Sam’s warning, continuing to scoop up more snow and pack it tightly in his bare hands. Sam watches for a couple seconds before dropping down and grabbing up his own handful of the white stuff. He presses and forms it into a compact round ball.
“That the way you wanna play, Dean?” Sam grunts as he finishes off the snowball in his hand and rises back up on his coltish legs, a brash smirk playing across his lips.
Dean’s grin goes wide. He begins to back away from Sam, snowball in hand, as Sam does the same. Cleaning the ice and snow off the Impala and from around her wheels is now a forgotten chore as each boy quickly takes up a defensive position behind the nearby cars in the silent parking lot.
“On the count of three,” Dean suggests, raising his snowball aloft, readying it for flight. “One…two…”
Sam doesn’t wait for three. He lobs his missile, putting some shoulder into it as any good pitcher would, and nails his older brother in the chest, dead center. Dean gasps at the unexpected impact, eyes going wide, and then he snorts with laughter.
“Oh, you little bitch!” Dean chides, still chuckling as he brushes the snow from his jacket front. He quirks a brow at his brother. “All bets are off now, Sammy. No rules. Last man standing wins.”
Dean lets his snowball fly. Sam is ready for it and dives for cover behind a parked car. The snowball clips the top of the car, exploding into crystal dust and missing Sam completely. Neither boy says a word as they busily drop down to the ground to dig into the mounds of snow around them, frantically forming and throwing snowballs as fast as they can.
Sam is holding his own pretty well against his older brother, which makes him deliriously happy, although Dean’s aim seems to be more on target than his own is. Sam’s hair is speckled with melting snow, the long, dark strands clumping together. He reaches up to absently brush his wet bangs from his eyes and ends up taking a snowball hard to the left shoulder.
“Hey!” Sam growls. He frowns over the trunk of a car at Dean. He can still feel the sting of the impact, even through his wool jacket. “A little hard there, dude!” Sam cautions, rubbing at his shoulder.
Dean chuffs, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Can’t take a widdle ole snowball now? Gonna cry, little girl?” he taunts.
Sam’s eyes narrow. Cursing under his breath, he dips down, searching along the back end of the Ford sedan he’s hiding behind. He grins slyly when he finds what he wants. He reaches over and breaks off a chunk of ice attached to the back bumper, and then scoops up some snow from the ground between his feet. Carefully, Sam encloses the chunk of ice inside the snowball, forming it compactly in his hands. Dean wants to play rough? No problem.
Sam pops up from behind the Ford, ice ball in hand, and rears back, steadying his aim. This one has to be perfect.
“BOYS!”
Dean and Sam freeze in mid-throw, the familiar low rumble of their father’s voice bringing a halt to their impromptu play. John Winchester stands in the open doorway of their motel room, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his rumpled jeans for warmth, a look of tired irritation on his unshaven face. John has sent his children outside to clean the car off before the next storm comes through, and to basically give the two rambunctious teens something to do other than drive him up the wall while he tries to get a little research done.
“Hey, Dad,” Dean calls amiably. He waves at his father with the hand not holding the snowball.
“You done cleaning the car off?” John questions, eyeballing the Impala suspiciously. He can see that they haven’t even touched the car.
“Uh, no sir,” Dean admits sheepishly. He lowers his hand, trying to hide the snowball behind his leg.
“We’re working on it,” Sam decides to add, with just enough insolence to make his dad’s jaw clench.
Little smart-ass, John thinks angrily. “Well, work on it a little harder,” he snaps. “I didn’t send you out here to goof off. Another storm is coming in this afternoon and it’s supposed to dump another couple feet of snow on top of what’s already here.” He nods at the Impala, sitting between the two boys. “I don’t want the car buried, so you need to make sure she’s free of snow and able to roll out of here when we need her.”
Dean nods and after a hesitant moment, Sam follows suit. John turns to go back inside, but glances one last time over his shoulder out at the parking lot, noticing the splatters of snow on the parked cars around where the boys have been playing.
He turns back and levels a stern look at Dean and Sam. “You know better than to throw snowballs around a bunch of cars,” John lectures. “The last thing we need is someone complaining to the manager about a busted mirror or antenna. I don’t want to see anymore of that, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says simply. He drops the snowball in his hand and heads toward the Impala, intent on following his dad’s orders.
John can see the sullen pout forming on his youngest child’s face even from this distance. He watches as Sam clutches at the snowball in his hand, refusing to give it up.
“Sam? Do we have an understanding?” John asks, the timbre of his voice dropping in warning.
He keeps a steady eye on the boy, watching, gauging, and waiting. John hopes it doesn’t come down to him having to paddle the kid’s butt, but he’s quite ready to do just that if he needs to. Sam has been wading into adolescence like a punch-drunk boxer, taking a swing at anything and everything that tends to get in his line of vision, and John has pretty much reached his limit as far as fatherly patience goes.
“Samuel,” John barks, and Sam flicks his resentful gaze over to his father. “I don’t want you guys messing around in the parking lot.” John’s stern stare meets a pair of recalcitrant green eyes. “Help your brother clean off the car, and then get back inside before you freeze your ass off. That’s an order,” he states before turning and heading back inside the room.
Sam stands, feeling the weight of the ice ball in his hand, his jaw jutting out in frustration. Just one last snowball. Just this one; to get back at Dean for the shoulder hit. Sam waits until his dad has turned his back on them before taking aim and throwing the icy missile. The iceball sails in a perfect arc, the sun glinting off its reflective form as it hits the apex of its flight and then picks up speed as it descends towards its target.
Dean catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and instinctively hits the deck, his combat training taking over. Time seems to slow down for Sam as he watches with growing horror as the deadly ball of ice heads straight for the Impala’s windshield. He manages to gasp “oh, shit”, right before the snowball impacts with a sharp crack against the iced glass.
John swivels around at the noise, eyes darkening. Dean pops up like a jack-in-the-box from beside the hood of the car, his jaw dropping open in terrified amazement as the windshield, brittle from the bitter cold weather and ice, gives way with a pop and a crack, spidery lines veining out along the glass from the site of impact. All three Winchesters just stare at the shattered windshield in mute shock.
Dean is the first to speak. “Oh, Sammy,” he moans, his voice on the edge of desperation. Dean slowly looks over at his little brother, a mixture of worry and sympathy conveyed in his pained expression and softened gaze.
Sam is still staring at the windshield, the cold of the day forgotten. He is unable to tear his eyes from the mess of snow and glass until he registers the bellow of his full name coming from across the parking lot.
“Samuel Michael Winchester!” John roars.
Sam jumps and swings around to face his father, who is turning an ugly shade of maroon from the neck up. Sam’s legs begin to shake. “Dad, I…” he falters and just stops completely. What can he possibly say?
“Get your butt in here, right now!” John commands, making both boys flinch.
Sam slowly begins to trudge towards the motel room and his father. Dean moves towards his brother, but John stops him.
“Dean, you stay right where you are and clean the snow off the car like I told you to,” he orders tersely. “And be careful with the windshield,” he says, the words coming out clipped as his anger at the situation boils over.
Dean nods reluctantly. The eighteen-year-old squares his shoulders and begins to brush the piles of snow from the trunk of the Impala with listless sweeps of his arms. He knows better than to argue with his dad at this point. Sammy fucked up big time, no doubt about it. And, Dean can’t do a damn thing to help him. All he can do is wait and offer some bit of comfort after.
John’s stony glare follows Sam as the teen slips by him, hugging the opposite side of the doorframe, eyes nervously averted as he slinks into the room. John slams the door behind him with enough force to rattle the large picture window next to it. Sam cringes. He’s staring intently at the carpeted floor of the room, his bravado non-existent. He knows he’s made a monumental mistake and that judgment will be swift and terrible.
“Just what the hell did you think you were doing?” John demands as he rounds on Sam, his face a mask of unbridled rage as he gets up in Sam’s personal space and grabs a fistful of his son’s shirtfront, giving it a rough shake. “I told you no more messing around the parked cars out there! I told you to get back to work, Sam!”
“It was an accident,” Sam tries, eyes wild, not knowing what else to say. “I was just…it was just a stupid snowball…” he finishes lamely. He still can’t believe his rotten luck, the image of the cracked windshield fresh in his mind.
“You ignored a direct order…” John states evenly, his calm tone belying the simmering anger evident in his fiery glower.
“Yessir,” Sam mumbles miserably, a bright flush of red coloring his cheeks.
John watches Sam squirm, gangly arms and legs twitching restlessly. “Look at me, Samuel!” he snaps.
Sam’s eyes fix on a spot just below his father’s chin. John growls his disappointment, and Sam swallows the lump in his throat and manages to drag his gaze up a few more inches to his dad’s angry stare.
“You disobeyed me and ignored my warning because you thought it was no big deal. You thought you knew better than me.” John continues in the same banal tone, although Sam can discern a slight edge to it, making the words come out colder than they should have. “Because you didn’t think it’d hurt to throw just one more snowball even after I told you no. Even after I explained why I didn’t want you boys doing it anymore. Isn’t that right?”
“Pretty much,” Sam replies quietly, not really caring at this point if he’s respectful or not. It won’t make a difference now. Not really.
“Still think that way?” John asks sharply.
Sam’s dark green eyes turn flinty, a spark of contempt residing in them, residual anger at being proved wrong, yet again. He already feels pretty stupid; he doesn’t need his dad rubbing it in for him, thank you very much. He knows he is in the wrong — absolutely and positively, and yet, he still feels antagonistic towards his father.
John doesn’t say a word. He waits for Sam to answer him, knowing his son will eventually, despite the stubborn set to the boy’s jaw indicating otherwise.
Sam finally sighs, his shoulders slumping. “No sir,” he mutters, shifting from foot to foot. “I should have listened and followed orders.”
John appears to relax somewhat at the confession, but he’s not going to let his youngest off the hook. He motions for Sam to move over to the round wood table next to where he stands.
“I think you know what happens next, Sam,” John says. “You’re gonna get your butt over this table and I’m gonna give you a solid reminder on who’s in command around here and what happens when you don’t follow orders.”
He shoots his son a stormy glare of exasperation. “You’re damn lucky it was our car damaged and not someone else’s.” John begins to unbuckle his belt. “If we’d had to bug out of here because of your little act of rebellion, I guarantee you, you’d be getting this on your bare ass, buddy boy.”
Sam hesitates, grimacing. “Do you have to use that?” he questions, timidly pointing at his father’s belt.
John stops unthreading the leather from his belt loops and cocks his head at Sam in mild disbelief. “You gonna stand there and tell me you think you don’t deserve this?”
“No, it’s not that,” Sam stutters, embarrassment flooding his expression. “Can’t you just…” his face reddens. “You know…can’tyoujustspankme?” the words tumble out of the boy’s mouth in a flustered rush.
“How old are you?” John asks.
“What?” Sam looks up, clearly puzzled.
“How old are you?” John repeats patiently.
“Thirteen?” It comes out more a question than a statement, but John doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“And you’ll be fourteen in a few months,” John says. He begins pulling his belt from his pants loops again. “You really want me to put you over my knee and spank you like a child, Sam?” he asks.
Sam blinks, frowning. He wonders if this is some kind of trick question. John waits as Sam, ever the thinker, makes the issue much more complex than it needs to be. John sighs heavily.
“Look, I’ll give you a choice this time. You can take a belt whipping over the table with your pants up…or you can go over my knee for a bare bottom spanking. Which is it gonna be, Sam?”
Sam chews on his lower lip, thinking some more. Neither is really a decent choice in his humble opinion, but he doesn’t foresee his dad offering a third option that entails him not getting his ass beaten at all, but just letting bygones be bygones. He’s not only been insubordinate, he’s trashed the windshield on the Impala. He might as well have set fire to the flag or spit on the Pope as far as bygones go.
“Samuel,” John urges, enunciating each syllable as his patience wears thin.
Sam knows Dean would choose the belt, if for no other reason than it’s the more ‘manly’ way to go, a hand spanking being seen as too childish a punishment at their age anymore. In fact, the mere threat of getting an over-the-knee spanking from their father these days makes Dean blush ten shades of crimson.
But, Sam isn’t Dean. He isn’t concerned with his image so much as how badly his butt is going to be hurting from the punishment afterwards. He knows his father’s hand won’t be a cakewalk, but it seems like it’ll be a heck of a lot less painful applied to his backside than the one and a half inch wide leather belt dangling from his dad’s right hand.
With a put upon sigh of resignation, Sam gives his father the saddest puppy eyes he can and mumbles dejectedly, “Spanking.”
John gives him a quiet nod and carefully threads his belt back through the loops of his jeans as Sam stares a hole in the floor, trying not to cry.
In his mind, he knows he’s wussed out and has opted for the lesser evil. The kiddie punishment. Crying now would only make him look like a total pussy. Not that he has any doubt whatsoever that he’ll be shedding some tears when the ass beating actually gets underway. Hand or no, his father’s no lightweight. John Winchester’s spankings are notorious for being both memorable and lastingly painful.
John finishes buckling up his belt and reaches over to grab a chair from the little dinette table next to him. He pulls it over and sits down on it and then motions Sam over, giving his son a stony look of reproach that would have sent a lesser man slinking off with his tail between his legs. But Sam’s a Winchester; a product of his father’s stoic upbringing, and he’s used to his old man’s intimidation tactics.
Nevertheless, Sam lets out a small whimper as his dad takes hold of the waistband of his jeans and draws him closer until Sam’s knees brush up against the side of his dad’s thigh.
“Let’s go,” John says tiredly. “Pants down.”
With shaking fingers, Sam pops the button on his jeans and threads the zipper down. He risks a quick peek up at his father, and then wishes he hadn’t. Scary, angry dad face.
Sam slowly pushes his jeans and briefs down to his knees, kicking himself mentally one last time for throwing the stupid, stupid, stupid snowball! Then, he’s suddenly face down across his dad’s lap with a rat’s eye view of the dust bunnies that are cowering underneath the dining room table. Sam sort of understands how they feel — exposed and vulnerable. Although Sam has serious doubts that the dust bunnies are suffering the sense of humiliation he feels right now at having his naked teenage butt on display for anyone that might happen to walk past the room and peer into the window.
Sam’s exposed flesh dimples from a cold draft of air, and he waits in nervous apprehension for the first blow. It’s not a long wait. Sam senses his dad’s muscles tighten up underneath him and then he feels an explosion of stinging heat when his father’s hard hand connects solidly with his backside. He swallows back a grunt of pain and forces himself to remain still.
“I hope you weren’t thinking this was going to be the easier of the two choices, Sam,” John comments dryly. He lays into the teenager, arm swinging heavily, repeatedly, in a steady no-nonsense tempo. “You’re not a little kid anymore, and this isn’t going to be some child’s punishment, I promise you that.”
The crack of flesh against flesh and stifled groans escaping from Sam fill the small, badly decorated room. Sam’s rear end undergoes a rapid metamorphosis from tingling splotchy pink to a blazing five-alarm inferno red in a matter of minutes under John’s persistent ministrations.
Sam can’t hold it back any longer. His butt is on fire! He lets out a loud howl, eyes tearing up, and then follows the first outcry with several more hearty yelps as his dad continues to whale away on his raw ass.
“I’m sorry!” Sam cries out in desperation. He begins to struggle. He can’t help it. “Dad, please! I’m sorry!”
“You better be sorry,” John shoots back stonily. He lands a volley of sharp smacks onto the crease between Sam’s thighs and butt cheeks. Sam bucks hard, his back arching as he lets out a pained squawk of dismay. “I’m done with the disrespect and insubordination, Samuel,” John intones darkly. “No more, you hear me?”
“Yes! OW!” Sam promises. He’s ready to swear allegiance to Lucifer himself if it’ll get his dad to stop the spanking. “No more! CRAP, Dad! OW!”
“I give you an order and you better follow it,” John states, using his hand to emphasize his point. “I don’t want to catch any more flak from you when I tell you to do something, Sam. This isn’t a democracy, and you don’t get to vote on who’s in charge.”
“Yessir!” Sam hisses, his face now almost as red as his butt. He thinks he might just bite through his tongue if the spanking goes on much longer. His concentration is divided evenly between his father’s lecture and the throbbing ache now traveling across his backside in coursing waves.
John gives Sam a half dozen more heated swats and then stops. Sam is breathing hard and making little whining noises in the back of his throat. He’s now limp and submissive over John’s lap. John gives the teen a moment to pull himself together before he gently reaches down to pull Sam’s briefs up over his glowing red bottom. Sam winces but doesn’t make a move to get up.
John begins to rub Sam’s back in a gentle pattern. He takes Sam by his shoulders and pulls him up from his prone position. “C’mon kiddo, it’s over. I think you got the message.”
Sam lets out a shaky laugh of regret as he grabs for his jeans and tugs them up over his sore butt, wincing once again as the heavy denim rasps against the raw, abused flesh. “Yes, sir, I got it loud and clear,” he states, his voice husky with unshed tears.
John’s eyes roam over his youngest child’s penitent face and his heart clenches. He clears his throat, offering Sam a wan smile as he reaches up to card work-roughened fingers through the boy’s brunette locks. He lets his palm come to rest on the side of Sam’s warm, sweaty face.
John just stares into Sam’s deep emerald eyes for several heartbeats.
“Jesus,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “Don’t you dare tell your brother this, Sammy, but you’re more like your old man, than I’d ever want to admit.”
Sam pulls back a little from his dad, his face broadcasting his surprise at this little revelation. The two men blink at one another in silence, more said with looks than any amount of words could ever convey.
John pulls Sam into a tight hug. He cradles the back of the boy’s tousled head in one giant palm, the other hand wrapping securely around Sam’s waist. Sam melts into the reassuring strength that is his father. He rests his chin on his dad’s flannel-clad shoulder, balling his own large mitts into his father’s shirtfront.
“M’sorry,” Sam chokes out once more.
“Shhh…” John whispers, hugging Sam tighter.
His dad’s breath tickles against his ear, warm and familiar. Sam relaxes and takes a deep shuddery breath.
“It was a football, instead of a snowball,” John suddenly begins, keeping his voice soft and mellow as if he’s re-telling a favorite bedtime story to his child. Except this story is one Sam’s never heard before.
The teen perks up slightly, curious now.
John continues, a wistful look of nostalgia on his careworn face. “And my pops didn’t give me a choice about the punishment.” He flushes a little at the memory. “It was his belt on the bare. And I swear to God, Sam, to this day, I still remember each and every lick that friggin’ thing burned across my ass.”
Stunned, Sam pulls back slightly to offer up a wide-eyed look of incredulity. “You?” he stutters. “You mean…?”
John chuckles, bowing his head under his offspring’s intense scrutiny. He gives a sheepish nod.
“Yeah, me. Busted the tail light on your granddad’s Chevy Belair tossing a football around the driveway with a pal of mine after I’d been told to move the game somewhere else.”
Sam’s jaw falls open in astonishment. John ignores the melodramatic response. Instead, he scoots forward in his chair, leaning over to grab up another chair from the table and drag it over next to his. He pats the seat, and Sam gingerly lowers himself down onto it. John tries not to smirk as he catches Sam squirming and making a face. He reaches up and places an arm around his son’s shoulders, drawing the teen close.
“So…what happened?” Sam ventures hesitantly. He peers up at his dad through a fringe of dark bangs, shy and yet interested at the same time.
John begins to recount the tale from his boyhood as Sam settles back in his chair, nestling in to his father’s side. He lets a small tired smile play across his lips. Suddenly, things don’t seem so bad anymore.
THE END
Sandusky, Ohio
February 1998
The sun’s glare off the unbroken expanse of pristine snow is harsh and blinding. Sam squints, raising a hand up to screen his eyes from the white crystalline brilliance of the early morning. Several feet of snow blankets the parking lot of the run-down motel, the parked vehicles nothing more than indistinct lumps underneath the white. The Impala sits quietly under its own layer of snow a couple yards from their room. The only thing visible on her is the metal stalk of the radio antenna jutting proudly up from the white powder covering the hood, and the windshield, covered by a sheet of brittle ice, making it look as if it’s double-paned glass.
It snowed again last night. Big surprise - not. Sam stands a moment, watching his breath rise in great frosty plumes from his chilled nose and mouth. He wishes he’d thought to pick up a scarf at the last Goodwill store they’d stopped at in Kentucky, but it hadn’t been snowing then. Hell, it hadn’t even been chilly by Winchester standards, so the last thing he’d been thinking about was stocking up on cold weather gear. He can hear his dad’s voice in his head: Should have planned ahead, Sam. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his forehead scrunching in disgust.
Sam wonders, once again, why in the hell his father decided to come to northern Ohio in the middle of February. February, for chrissakes. Nothing but constant snowstorms and temperatures that are barely above frostbite level. “Suck it up, Sammy,” his father had said. “Evil doesn’t head south to vacation for the winter, and neither do we.”
Dean had chuckled at that, but Sam couldn’t seem to find the humor in freezing one’s ass off for the thankless job of tracking down and killing whatever creature-du-jour is on his dad’s hunting menu this week. He hasn’t even bothered to ask this time what it is his dad is going after. There’s no point. His dad will tell them if he thinks they need to know. Otherwise, he and Dean are supposed to just sit back and wait for orders.
Orders. Always with the stupid orders. They were never requests or suggestions or even mildly offered opinions. No. John Winchester gave orders, and he expected them to be followed — without question. Sam seems to be having trouble with that lately. A lot. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a teenager now and it’s the whole teen rebellion thing he’s feeling. On the other hand, maybe it’s that Sam is tired of being treated like a little punk-ass kid who doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground. Either way, he can’t help but feel resentful every time his father barks out an order at him these days. Like this morning, for instance, when his dad --
“Jesus!” Sam yips in surprise, starting, as he feels something cold and wet slide down the back of his neck. It soaks the collar of his jacket and flannel shirt underneath.
“You awake now, sunshine?” Dean asks, his voice full of smug cheer. He grins over at Sam devilishly, wiping his wet hand on the thigh of his jeans.
Sam shoots his brother a hostile glower. His face contorts into a grimace of discomfort as he reaches back to finger his damp neck where Dean has deposited a handful of snow.
“Jerk,” Sam spits out, and then shivers uncontrollably as the last bit of the snow melts down the inside of his shirt, sending rivulets of ice water splashing down his spine.
Dean laughs gleefully. He bends down to scoop up another handful of snow, waggling his eyebrows at Sam.
“Dude, don’t even!” Sam counters angrily, pointing at Dean’s hand. He backs up a step, now wary.
Dean ignores Sam’s warning, continuing to scoop up more snow and pack it tightly in his bare hands. Sam watches for a couple seconds before dropping down and grabbing up his own handful of the white stuff. He presses and forms it into a compact round ball.
“That the way you wanna play, Dean?” Sam grunts as he finishes off the snowball in his hand and rises back up on his coltish legs, a brash smirk playing across his lips.
Dean’s grin goes wide. He begins to back away from Sam, snowball in hand, as Sam does the same. Cleaning the ice and snow off the Impala and from around her wheels is now a forgotten chore as each boy quickly takes up a defensive position behind the nearby cars in the silent parking lot.
“On the count of three,” Dean suggests, raising his snowball aloft, readying it for flight. “One…two…”
Sam doesn’t wait for three. He lobs his missile, putting some shoulder into it as any good pitcher would, and nails his older brother in the chest, dead center. Dean gasps at the unexpected impact, eyes going wide, and then he snorts with laughter.
“Oh, you little bitch!” Dean chides, still chuckling as he brushes the snow from his jacket front. He quirks a brow at his brother. “All bets are off now, Sammy. No rules. Last man standing wins.”
Dean lets his snowball fly. Sam is ready for it and dives for cover behind a parked car. The snowball clips the top of the car, exploding into crystal dust and missing Sam completely. Neither boy says a word as they busily drop down to the ground to dig into the mounds of snow around them, frantically forming and throwing snowballs as fast as they can.
Sam is holding his own pretty well against his older brother, which makes him deliriously happy, although Dean’s aim seems to be more on target than his own is. Sam’s hair is speckled with melting snow, the long, dark strands clumping together. He reaches up to absently brush his wet bangs from his eyes and ends up taking a snowball hard to the left shoulder.
“Hey!” Sam growls. He frowns over the trunk of a car at Dean. He can still feel the sting of the impact, even through his wool jacket. “A little hard there, dude!” Sam cautions, rubbing at his shoulder.
Dean chuffs, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. “Whatsa matter, Samantha? Can’t take a widdle ole snowball now? Gonna cry, little girl?” he taunts.
Sam’s eyes narrow. Cursing under his breath, he dips down, searching along the back end of the Ford sedan he’s hiding behind. He grins slyly when he finds what he wants. He reaches over and breaks off a chunk of ice attached to the back bumper, and then scoops up some snow from the ground between his feet. Carefully, Sam encloses the chunk of ice inside the snowball, forming it compactly in his hands. Dean wants to play rough? No problem.
Sam pops up from behind the Ford, ice ball in hand, and rears back, steadying his aim. This one has to be perfect.
“BOYS!”
Dean and Sam freeze in mid-throw, the familiar low rumble of their father’s voice bringing a halt to their impromptu play. John Winchester stands in the open doorway of their motel room, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his rumpled jeans for warmth, a look of tired irritation on his unshaven face. John has sent his children outside to clean the car off before the next storm comes through, and to basically give the two rambunctious teens something to do other than drive him up the wall while he tries to get a little research done.
“Hey, Dad,” Dean calls amiably. He waves at his father with the hand not holding the snowball.
“You done cleaning the car off?” John questions, eyeballing the Impala suspiciously. He can see that they haven’t even touched the car.
“Uh, no sir,” Dean admits sheepishly. He lowers his hand, trying to hide the snowball behind his leg.
“We’re working on it,” Sam decides to add, with just enough insolence to make his dad’s jaw clench.
Little smart-ass, John thinks angrily. “Well, work on it a little harder,” he snaps. “I didn’t send you out here to goof off. Another storm is coming in this afternoon and it’s supposed to dump another couple feet of snow on top of what’s already here.” He nods at the Impala, sitting between the two boys. “I don’t want the car buried, so you need to make sure she’s free of snow and able to roll out of here when we need her.”
Dean nods and after a hesitant moment, Sam follows suit. John turns to go back inside, but glances one last time over his shoulder out at the parking lot, noticing the splatters of snow on the parked cars around where the boys have been playing.
He turns back and levels a stern look at Dean and Sam. “You know better than to throw snowballs around a bunch of cars,” John lectures. “The last thing we need is someone complaining to the manager about a busted mirror or antenna. I don’t want to see anymore of that, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says simply. He drops the snowball in his hand and heads toward the Impala, intent on following his dad’s orders.
John can see the sullen pout forming on his youngest child’s face even from this distance. He watches as Sam clutches at the snowball in his hand, refusing to give it up.
“Sam? Do we have an understanding?” John asks, the timbre of his voice dropping in warning.
He keeps a steady eye on the boy, watching, gauging, and waiting. John hopes it doesn’t come down to him having to paddle the kid’s butt, but he’s quite ready to do just that if he needs to. Sam has been wading into adolescence like a punch-drunk boxer, taking a swing at anything and everything that tends to get in his line of vision, and John has pretty much reached his limit as far as fatherly patience goes.
“Samuel,” John barks, and Sam flicks his resentful gaze over to his father. “I don’t want you guys messing around in the parking lot.” John’s stern stare meets a pair of recalcitrant green eyes. “Help your brother clean off the car, and then get back inside before you freeze your ass off. That’s an order,” he states before turning and heading back inside the room.
Sam stands, feeling the weight of the ice ball in his hand, his jaw jutting out in frustration. Just one last snowball. Just this one; to get back at Dean for the shoulder hit. Sam waits until his dad has turned his back on them before taking aim and throwing the icy missile. The iceball sails in a perfect arc, the sun glinting off its reflective form as it hits the apex of its flight and then picks up speed as it descends towards its target.
Dean catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and instinctively hits the deck, his combat training taking over. Time seems to slow down for Sam as he watches with growing horror as the deadly ball of ice heads straight for the Impala’s windshield. He manages to gasp “oh, shit”, right before the snowball impacts with a sharp crack against the iced glass.
John swivels around at the noise, eyes darkening. Dean pops up like a jack-in-the-box from beside the hood of the car, his jaw dropping open in terrified amazement as the windshield, brittle from the bitter cold weather and ice, gives way with a pop and a crack, spidery lines veining out along the glass from the site of impact. All three Winchesters just stare at the shattered windshield in mute shock.
Dean is the first to speak. “Oh, Sammy,” he moans, his voice on the edge of desperation. Dean slowly looks over at his little brother, a mixture of worry and sympathy conveyed in his pained expression and softened gaze.
Sam is still staring at the windshield, the cold of the day forgotten. He is unable to tear his eyes from the mess of snow and glass until he registers the bellow of his full name coming from across the parking lot.
“Samuel Michael Winchester!” John roars.
Sam jumps and swings around to face his father, who is turning an ugly shade of maroon from the neck up. Sam’s legs begin to shake. “Dad, I…” he falters and just stops completely. What can he possibly say?
“Get your butt in here, right now!” John commands, making both boys flinch.
Sam slowly begins to trudge towards the motel room and his father. Dean moves towards his brother, but John stops him.
“Dean, you stay right where you are and clean the snow off the car like I told you to,” he orders tersely. “And be careful with the windshield,” he says, the words coming out clipped as his anger at the situation boils over.
Dean nods reluctantly. The eighteen-year-old squares his shoulders and begins to brush the piles of snow from the trunk of the Impala with listless sweeps of his arms. He knows better than to argue with his dad at this point. Sammy fucked up big time, no doubt about it. And, Dean can’t do a damn thing to help him. All he can do is wait and offer some bit of comfort after.
John’s stony glare follows Sam as the teen slips by him, hugging the opposite side of the doorframe, eyes nervously averted as he slinks into the room. John slams the door behind him with enough force to rattle the large picture window next to it. Sam cringes. He’s staring intently at the carpeted floor of the room, his bravado non-existent. He knows he’s made a monumental mistake and that judgment will be swift and terrible.
“Just what the hell did you think you were doing?” John demands as he rounds on Sam, his face a mask of unbridled rage as he gets up in Sam’s personal space and grabs a fistful of his son’s shirtfront, giving it a rough shake. “I told you no more messing around the parked cars out there! I told you to get back to work, Sam!”
“It was an accident,” Sam tries, eyes wild, not knowing what else to say. “I was just…it was just a stupid snowball…” he finishes lamely. He still can’t believe his rotten luck, the image of the cracked windshield fresh in his mind.
“You ignored a direct order…” John states evenly, his calm tone belying the simmering anger evident in his fiery glower.
“Yessir,” Sam mumbles miserably, a bright flush of red coloring his cheeks.
John watches Sam squirm, gangly arms and legs twitching restlessly. “Look at me, Samuel!” he snaps.
Sam’s eyes fix on a spot just below his father’s chin. John growls his disappointment, and Sam swallows the lump in his throat and manages to drag his gaze up a few more inches to his dad’s angry stare.
“You disobeyed me and ignored my warning because you thought it was no big deal. You thought you knew better than me.” John continues in the same banal tone, although Sam can discern a slight edge to it, making the words come out colder than they should have. “Because you didn’t think it’d hurt to throw just one more snowball even after I told you no. Even after I explained why I didn’t want you boys doing it anymore. Isn’t that right?”
“Pretty much,” Sam replies quietly, not really caring at this point if he’s respectful or not. It won’t make a difference now. Not really.
“Still think that way?” John asks sharply.
Sam’s dark green eyes turn flinty, a spark of contempt residing in them, residual anger at being proved wrong, yet again. He already feels pretty stupid; he doesn’t need his dad rubbing it in for him, thank you very much. He knows he is in the wrong — absolutely and positively, and yet, he still feels antagonistic towards his father.
John doesn’t say a word. He waits for Sam to answer him, knowing his son will eventually, despite the stubborn set to the boy’s jaw indicating otherwise.
Sam finally sighs, his shoulders slumping. “No sir,” he mutters, shifting from foot to foot. “I should have listened and followed orders.”
John appears to relax somewhat at the confession, but he’s not going to let his youngest off the hook. He motions for Sam to move over to the round wood table next to where he stands.
“I think you know what happens next, Sam,” John says. “You’re gonna get your butt over this table and I’m gonna give you a solid reminder on who’s in command around here and what happens when you don’t follow orders.”
He shoots his son a stormy glare of exasperation. “You’re damn lucky it was our car damaged and not someone else’s.” John begins to unbuckle his belt. “If we’d had to bug out of here because of your little act of rebellion, I guarantee you, you’d be getting this on your bare ass, buddy boy.”
Sam hesitates, grimacing. “Do you have to use that?” he questions, timidly pointing at his father’s belt.
John stops unthreading the leather from his belt loops and cocks his head at Sam in mild disbelief. “You gonna stand there and tell me you think you don’t deserve this?”
“No, it’s not that,” Sam stutters, embarrassment flooding his expression. “Can’t you just…” his face reddens. “You know…can’tyoujustspankme?” the words tumble out of the boy’s mouth in a flustered rush.
“How old are you?” John asks.
“What?” Sam looks up, clearly puzzled.
“How old are you?” John repeats patiently.
“Thirteen?” It comes out more a question than a statement, but John doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“And you’ll be fourteen in a few months,” John says. He begins pulling his belt from his pants loops again. “You really want me to put you over my knee and spank you like a child, Sam?” he asks.
Sam blinks, frowning. He wonders if this is some kind of trick question. John waits as Sam, ever the thinker, makes the issue much more complex than it needs to be. John sighs heavily.
“Look, I’ll give you a choice this time. You can take a belt whipping over the table with your pants up…or you can go over my knee for a bare bottom spanking. Which is it gonna be, Sam?”
Sam chews on his lower lip, thinking some more. Neither is really a decent choice in his humble opinion, but he doesn’t foresee his dad offering a third option that entails him not getting his ass beaten at all, but just letting bygones be bygones. He’s not only been insubordinate, he’s trashed the windshield on the Impala. He might as well have set fire to the flag or spit on the Pope as far as bygones go.
“Samuel,” John urges, enunciating each syllable as his patience wears thin.
Sam knows Dean would choose the belt, if for no other reason than it’s the more ‘manly’ way to go, a hand spanking being seen as too childish a punishment at their age anymore. In fact, the mere threat of getting an over-the-knee spanking from their father these days makes Dean blush ten shades of crimson.
But, Sam isn’t Dean. He isn’t concerned with his image so much as how badly his butt is going to be hurting from the punishment afterwards. He knows his father’s hand won’t be a cakewalk, but it seems like it’ll be a heck of a lot less painful applied to his backside than the one and a half inch wide leather belt dangling from his dad’s right hand.
With a put upon sigh of resignation, Sam gives his father the saddest puppy eyes he can and mumbles dejectedly, “Spanking.”
John gives him a quiet nod and carefully threads his belt back through the loops of his jeans as Sam stares a hole in the floor, trying not to cry.
In his mind, he knows he’s wussed out and has opted for the lesser evil. The kiddie punishment. Crying now would only make him look like a total pussy. Not that he has any doubt whatsoever that he’ll be shedding some tears when the ass beating actually gets underway. Hand or no, his father’s no lightweight. John Winchester’s spankings are notorious for being both memorable and lastingly painful.
John finishes buckling up his belt and reaches over to grab a chair from the little dinette table next to him. He pulls it over and sits down on it and then motions Sam over, giving his son a stony look of reproach that would have sent a lesser man slinking off with his tail between his legs. But Sam’s a Winchester; a product of his father’s stoic upbringing, and he’s used to his old man’s intimidation tactics.
Nevertheless, Sam lets out a small whimper as his dad takes hold of the waistband of his jeans and draws him closer until Sam’s knees brush up against the side of his dad’s thigh.
“Let’s go,” John says tiredly. “Pants down.”
With shaking fingers, Sam pops the button on his jeans and threads the zipper down. He risks a quick peek up at his father, and then wishes he hadn’t. Scary, angry dad face.
Sam slowly pushes his jeans and briefs down to his knees, kicking himself mentally one last time for throwing the stupid, stupid, stupid snowball! Then, he’s suddenly face down across his dad’s lap with a rat’s eye view of the dust bunnies that are cowering underneath the dining room table. Sam sort of understands how they feel — exposed and vulnerable. Although Sam has serious doubts that the dust bunnies are suffering the sense of humiliation he feels right now at having his naked teenage butt on display for anyone that might happen to walk past the room and peer into the window.
Sam’s exposed flesh dimples from a cold draft of air, and he waits in nervous apprehension for the first blow. It’s not a long wait. Sam senses his dad’s muscles tighten up underneath him and then he feels an explosion of stinging heat when his father’s hard hand connects solidly with his backside. He swallows back a grunt of pain and forces himself to remain still.
“I hope you weren’t thinking this was going to be the easier of the two choices, Sam,” John comments dryly. He lays into the teenager, arm swinging heavily, repeatedly, in a steady no-nonsense tempo. “You’re not a little kid anymore, and this isn’t going to be some child’s punishment, I promise you that.”
The crack of flesh against flesh and stifled groans escaping from Sam fill the small, badly decorated room. Sam’s rear end undergoes a rapid metamorphosis from tingling splotchy pink to a blazing five-alarm inferno red in a matter of minutes under John’s persistent ministrations.
Sam can’t hold it back any longer. His butt is on fire! He lets out a loud howl, eyes tearing up, and then follows the first outcry with several more hearty yelps as his dad continues to whale away on his raw ass.
“I’m sorry!” Sam cries out in desperation. He begins to struggle. He can’t help it. “Dad, please! I’m sorry!”
“You better be sorry,” John shoots back stonily. He lands a volley of sharp smacks onto the crease between Sam’s thighs and butt cheeks. Sam bucks hard, his back arching as he lets out a pained squawk of dismay. “I’m done with the disrespect and insubordination, Samuel,” John intones darkly. “No more, you hear me?”
“Yes! OW!” Sam promises. He’s ready to swear allegiance to Lucifer himself if it’ll get his dad to stop the spanking. “No more! CRAP, Dad! OW!”
“I give you an order and you better follow it,” John states, using his hand to emphasize his point. “I don’t want to catch any more flak from you when I tell you to do something, Sam. This isn’t a democracy, and you don’t get to vote on who’s in charge.”
“Yessir!” Sam hisses, his face now almost as red as his butt. He thinks he might just bite through his tongue if the spanking goes on much longer. His concentration is divided evenly between his father’s lecture and the throbbing ache now traveling across his backside in coursing waves.
John gives Sam a half dozen more heated swats and then stops. Sam is breathing hard and making little whining noises in the back of his throat. He’s now limp and submissive over John’s lap. John gives the teen a moment to pull himself together before he gently reaches down to pull Sam’s briefs up over his glowing red bottom. Sam winces but doesn’t make a move to get up.
John begins to rub Sam’s back in a gentle pattern. He takes Sam by his shoulders and pulls him up from his prone position. “C’mon kiddo, it’s over. I think you got the message.”
Sam lets out a shaky laugh of regret as he grabs for his jeans and tugs them up over his sore butt, wincing once again as the heavy denim rasps against the raw, abused flesh. “Yes, sir, I got it loud and clear,” he states, his voice husky with unshed tears.
John’s eyes roam over his youngest child’s penitent face and his heart clenches. He clears his throat, offering Sam a wan smile as he reaches up to card work-roughened fingers through the boy’s brunette locks. He lets his palm come to rest on the side of Sam’s warm, sweaty face.
John just stares into Sam’s deep emerald eyes for several heartbeats.
“Jesus,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “Don’t you dare tell your brother this, Sammy, but you’re more like your old man, than I’d ever want to admit.”
Sam pulls back a little from his dad, his face broadcasting his surprise at this little revelation. The two men blink at one another in silence, more said with looks than any amount of words could ever convey.
John pulls Sam into a tight hug. He cradles the back of the boy’s tousled head in one giant palm, the other hand wrapping securely around Sam’s waist. Sam melts into the reassuring strength that is his father. He rests his chin on his dad’s flannel-clad shoulder, balling his own large mitts into his father’s shirtfront.
“M’sorry,” Sam chokes out once more.
“Shhh…” John whispers, hugging Sam tighter.
His dad’s breath tickles against his ear, warm and familiar. Sam relaxes and takes a deep shuddery breath.
“It was a football, instead of a snowball,” John suddenly begins, keeping his voice soft and mellow as if he’s re-telling a favorite bedtime story to his child. Except this story is one Sam’s never heard before.
The teen perks up slightly, curious now.
John continues, a wistful look of nostalgia on his careworn face. “And my pops didn’t give me a choice about the punishment.” He flushes a little at the memory. “It was his belt on the bare. And I swear to God, Sam, to this day, I still remember each and every lick that friggin’ thing burned across my ass.”
Stunned, Sam pulls back slightly to offer up a wide-eyed look of incredulity. “You?” he stutters. “You mean…?”
John chuckles, bowing his head under his offspring’s intense scrutiny. He gives a sheepish nod.
“Yeah, me. Busted the tail light on your granddad’s Chevy Belair tossing a football around the driveway with a pal of mine after I’d been told to move the game somewhere else.”
Sam’s jaw falls open in astonishment. John ignores the melodramatic response. Instead, he scoots forward in his chair, leaning over to grab up another chair from the table and drag it over next to his. He pats the seat, and Sam gingerly lowers himself down onto it. John tries not to smirk as he catches Sam squirming and making a face. He reaches up and places an arm around his son’s shoulders, drawing the teen close.
“So…what happened?” Sam ventures hesitantly. He peers up at his dad through a fringe of dark bangs, shy and yet interested at the same time.
John begins to recount the tale from his boyhood as Sam settles back in his chair, nestling in to his father’s side. He lets a small tired smile play across his lips. Suddenly, things don’t seem so bad anymore.
THE END