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Oct. 27th, 2009 | 10:24 pm
location: Winchester Drive
mood: satisfiedsatisfied
music: Springsteen


Author:  Lady M
Characters: John, Dean (16), Sam (12).
Scenario: teen!chesters, Dean spanks Sam.
Implement:  Hand
Rating:  PG-13 for spanking and mild swearing.
Warning: Spanking of minors.  Please don't read if it offends you.
Disclaimer:  Eric Kripke and the CW own all.  I own nothing.

Author’s note: Thanks to Razzie for her helpful input.



Dean Winchester retrieves his ringing cell phone from his front jeans pocket. He checks the caller ID.


John Winchester drops a duffle bag of weapons onto the kitchen floor. This is his second trip to empty his truck.


"How'd the hunt go?"  Dean asks his father enthusiastically.


"It was a Werewolf.  We got the thing before it vanished. One silver bullet to the heart took it down. Where's your brother?  You two okay?" John inquires offhandedly.


Dean flips open his cell phone before the call goes to voicemail, "Yeah.  When?  WHAT?"  Dean raises his voice. He turns his back to his father.  He saunters towards the other room. Dean moves out of earshot of his father.


John crooks an eyebrow at his departing eldest.  He doesn't need to have psychic powers to know something’s up with his two sons.  His paternal instincts are in high gear. He allows Dean his privacy, for now. The kid knows there will be consequences if he lies or tries to hide something from him.


Dean flips his phone closed. He reenters the kitchen, "Gotta fetch the squirt.  Be right back," Dean hurries his explanation.


"I'll go.  It'll give Sammy and me some time together.  Where is he?" John asks nonchalantly.


"I'll get him."  Dean bolts towards the door.


"Hold it right there, mister," John orders.


"Dad, I don’t want to leave the kid sitting around too long," Dean explains.


"Take one more step towards that door and you won’t have to worry about sitting anytime soon," John counters.


"Crap!" Dean mumbles under his breath.


"Excuse me?"


"Yes, sir."


"Front and center, young man."


Dean ambles back. He stands at attention in front of his father.


"Well?" John growls.


"I let the kid go to a basketball game with his friends tonight.  I dropped him off at his school. I told him to call my cell for a ride home."


"I know where his school is.  Give me your keys," John holds out an open palm.


"He's not exactly at the school, anymore."


"So where exactly is he?"  John's temper rises. 


Dean pauses.


"I'm not playing 20 questions with you, Dean. Report!"


"He's at the Grandby police station."


"Shit, Dean, what’s he doing there?"


"It's Mischief Night before Halloween.  His friends were throwing rotten eggs.  The cops came by. A kid tripped Sam on purpose. He fell. The cops grabbed him off the ground."


"Nice friends," John criticizes.


"Yeah, the police hauled Sam and two others in.  They saw enough to know Sam wasn’t throwing the eggs.” 


“He better not have been throwing eggs,” John warns.


“The cops will let him go as long as someone picks him up."


"Keys," John thrusts out his open palm determinedly.


"Dad, he did this on my watch.  I want to handle it."


John glares at his eldest.


"I’ll take care of it," Dean reassures his father.


"Make sure you do," John states. He walks towards the stairs.  "Or I will when he gets home," he adds sternly without turning around.




Sam Winchester's face glows with relief when his older brother struts into the police station.  He watches Dean nod his head politely at the officer working the front desk.  Dean motions for Sam to come along.  Sam glares over his shoulder at the only boy left sitting on the bench.  He scampers towards Dean.


"Are you okay, kiddo?"  Dean asks. They descend the stone steps outside the police station.


"Yeah, thanks for coming to get me.  They were talking about putting me in a cell with some really bad guys."


"They were trying to scare you, squirt," Dean consoles.


"Wow, Sam, you stink.  What happened?" Dean walks down wind of his brother.


"Some kids pelted us with rotten eggs."  Sam brushes eggshell fragments from his clothing. He waits at the Impala door for Dean to unlock his side.


Dean stands at the driver's side door.  He leans his elbows on the roof of his baby, "While you were at the basketball game?"  Dean inquires sarcastically.


Sam's facial expression turns blank. He realizes his brother isn't buying his tall tale.


Dean slides into the driver's seat behind the wheel.


"Dean, unlock the door," Sam tugs at the vehicle’s door.


"No way. You’re not getting into my baby in those stinky clothes.  Lose the jacket and pants."


"DEAN!"  Sam frantically struggles unsuccessfully with the door handle.  "I'll be in my underwear," he explains exasperatedly.


"Strip or walk.  It’s your choice."


Sam slams his palm on the window.


"Hey," Dean admonishes.  "Sam, we're parked next to woods. Nobody's going to see you."  Dean advises sympathetically.  "Besides, you're twelve.  What's there to see?"  He adds with a grin and a chuckle. He turns to face the steering wheel.  He starts the engine.


"You suck! It's cold out here."  Sam unzips his jacket. He removes it. 


"Toasty warm in here," Dean taunts in his brother’s direction.


"For a big brother you can be a real jerk."


"I'm an awesome big brother.  Who else would’ve come all the way down here to get your sorry ass out of jail?  Now, get in the car."


Sam grumbles under his breath. He unzips his jeans.  He quickly removes them over his sneakers.


Dean unlocks the passenger door.


Sam slides awkwardly onto the cold front seat.


"See, your modesty’s intact and my baby's not getting rotten egg all over her upholstery," Dean aims a satisfied smug look towards his brother.


Sam huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest. His patented Sam Winchester facial pout grows across his face.


"So where'd you say you got hit with those eggs?" Dean asks offhandedly. He shifts the car into drive.


"I didn't," Sam responds curtly.


"You might want to lose that attitude.  I left you at a basketball game. I picked you up at a police station.  See where I'm going with this?"  Dean tilts his head towards his stubborn brother. He gives Sam an ominous grin.


Sam scrunches nervously down in his seat.  He pretends to look out the window.


"Want to tell me what happened?"  Dean suggests.


"Not really," Sam cringes.


"Fine, we’ll do this your way. Tell me what happened. That’s an order," Dean directs sternly.


"I already told you," Sam answers sarcastically. 


"You were at a police station," Dean states hotly.


"A kid tripped me.  The cops grabbed me off the ground. End of story," Sam responds exasperatedly.


"Enough Sam, report," Dean orders firmly.


"Yeah, right," Sam chuckles, "You're not dad."


"No, but he left me in charge.  I gave you permission to go.  Hell, I took you," Dean acknowledges critically.


"Permission," Sam raises his squeaky voice.  He uncrosses his arms.  He turns his entire body to face his brother.  "I would have gone anyway," Sam grits out through clenched teeth.  He turns back in his seat to face forward.  He re-crosses his arms. "You're not the boss of me," he grumbles under his breath. 


"Wrong answer, kiddo," Dean asserts. He sharply turns the Impala onto the next dirt road.


"Hey, this isn't the way home.  Where’re we going?"  Sam looks concernedly around.


"We’re going to have a little talk." Dean parks the Chevy along the secluded road.


"I got nothing more to say," Sam huffs.


"We'll see about that. I know what will loosen your tongue," Dean steps out of the driver's side door. He tosses his jacket into the backseat. He shuts the door. He pockets the keys.


Sam realizes quickly that Dean isn't playing around.  He's sporting his serious face.  Sam locks his car door.  He leans over and locks the driver's side door.


Dean struts up to Sam’s window. "Einstein, I got the keys," Dean pulls them out of his pocket. He jingles them at Sam through the closed window.  "Open the door and get your sorry ass out here, now. That’s an order."


"What for?" Sam asks indignantly.


"So we can exchange recipes," Dean cajoles. 


Sam responds with his mocking bitch face.


"Fine, I’m going to smack your backside until you can’t sit down. You’re going to agree that I am the boss of you.  Then you're going to tell me what really happened tonight," Dean explains angrily.


"No way! You're not dad," Sam retorts.


Dean’s patience hits its limit for Sam acting like a brat. He wonders if this is how dad feels before he drags Sam to his room to warm his butt. As Sam argues, Dean stealthily slips the key into the lock.  He immediately unlocks the Impala. He grabs the handle. He opens the door.


Sam's facial expression changes quickly to one of dread.  He pauses with indecision for a second too long. 


Dean reaches hastily into the Impala. He grabs Sam by the ear.  He pulls the defiant twelve-year-old out of the front seat and onto his feet.


"Dean, stop.  You're hurting my ear."  Sam swats at Dean's hand holding his ear.


"That's not all that's going to be hurting when I get through with you," Dean plants his butt on an old tree stump.  He maneuvers the struggling youth over his knees.


"Dean, don't.  I'll report."


"Too late, junior. Your crappy attitude earned you a good butt warming." Dean smacks the underpants covered bottom draped over his lap.


"OW!"  The sting from Dean's first swat radiates through Sam's cold hindquarters.  He reaches back with his hand to protect his sensitive rear-end.


"You know the rule about covering your butt."  Dean grabs Sam's wrist.  He pins it to his side.  "That earns you three more swats."


"No, Dean, Stop!"


"Stop what, Sam?  Making sure you know who the boss is?"  Dean lands six sharp whacks.  He watches as pink colored skin peeks through the worn spots in Sam's white underpants.  His twelve-year-old brother needs to lose the attitude before they go home.  Dean continues with random smarting smacks.


"Please, Dean, STOP!" Sam pleads.


"Say it, Sam."


"No," Sam responds curtly.


Dean applies three convincing cracks to the squirming bottom over his thighs.


"OW! Okay, okay. You're the boss," Sam exhales.


Dean pats Sam twice between his shoulder blades to signal the spanking is over. He helps Sam to his feet.


"Shit, Dean that hurt," Sam whines. He rubs at the radiating sting in his rear-end. His butt cheeks no longer feel the cold night air. 


"That was the plan, Einstein."


"Can we go now?"  Sam asks impatiently.


"You still need to tell me why you got your ass tossed in jail."


"I wasn't in jail," Sam snaps back.


"Watch it Sam.  That attitude's what earned you that sore butt. Do I need to put you back over my knee?"


"Fine, what do you want to know?"  Sam huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest.


"Let's cut through the B.S. You never planned to go to the basketball game tonight.  You lied to me so I'd let you out of the house, right?"


"I didn't want you to have to lie to dad if he called," Sam offers shyly.


"So you were protecting me? It had nothing to do with protecting your own butt?" Dean asks unconvinced.


"Sorta," Sam cringes under Dean's sarcasm. 


"Not buying it, Sam."


"I really wanted to go.  You would have said no if I asked," Sam whines.


"So you lied to me. You put yourself in danger," Dean reasons.


"You always went out on Mischief Night," Sam counters.


"Yeah, I did until dad found out.  Then his hand had a talk with my backside. I didn't sit for days after that."


"Then it’s a good thing for my backside that dad won't be home until tomorrow," Sam sighs.


"Sorry, kiddo.  Hunt ended early."


"Crap Dean, he’s home? Does he know?"  Sam panics.




"You told him? You suck!"


"Hey, he wanted to pick you up himself. Your butt would have been on fire before you even made it to the car. I told him I’d take care of it."


"I can't go home."


"Yes, you can."


"He's gonna be mad."


"No, he won't be," Dean reassures.


"He'll roast my ass.  You said so yourself."


"No, he won't."


"You don't know that."


"Yes, I do. Tonight your ass is mine, kiddo."


Sam's face turns a pasty white color.  A second ago he had time to think how to dodge his father's heavy hand.  Abruptly, he learns his fate is sitting on the log in front of him.  His self-preservation instinct tells him to run, now.


Dean senses Sam's propensity to bolt.  He quickly grabs Sam by his wrist.  For the second time tonight, Dean drapes his little brother over his knees in a quick smooth motion.


"Dean no," Sam argues.  "You already spanked me."


"You’ve got a short memory, Sam.  Those swats were for your crappy attitude.  This spanking is for lying and the bad choices you made tonight."


"Dean, I'm sorry.  I won't lie to you again," Sam asserts.


"You're going to be a lot sorrier when I'm done with you."  Dean raises his arm.  With an open palm he lands a firm swat to the center of Sam's bottom.


Sam gasps.


Dean quickly returns the rosy color to Sam's butt with a barrage of swats.


"Ow, that's enough.  It stings," Sam struggles.


"Sorry, kiddo.  We're just getting started."  Dean reaches into the waistband of Sam's underpants.  He draws them down just below his butt cheeks.


"DEAN, NO!"  Sam pounds on Dean's leg with his fist. He squirms to get free.


Dean pulls his brother snug against his lap.  He thinks about how Sam lied to him.  How he put himself in danger.  The kid deserves a good tanning. Dean continues the spanking with renewed enthusiasm.


Sam yelps under Dean's unexpected heavy hand.  Uncontrollable grunts and pleas escape from the twelve-year-old.


"Dean, 'm sorry, 'm sorry.  Please stop," Sam pleads.


Dean pauses, "Why are you sorry, Sam?"


Sam takes a deep breath to calm his breathing.  "Because I went out," Sam sobs.


"And?" Dean prompts.


"I lied to you," Sam blurts out. He sighs heavily. He’s relieved the spanking’s ended.


Dean surprises Sam when he lands three loud, solid swats to the center of his bottom.  "Those were the three you earned earlier.  We're done, here."   Dean carefully replaces Sam’s underpants over his glowing red orbs.  A flaming heat emanates through the thin cotton from his brother's well spanked buttocks.  "You want me to help you up?"  Dean asks softly.


Sam shakes his head, no.  He eases awkwardly off Dean's lap.  His butt’s on fire. He stands. His gaze never leaves the ground.  With both hands he reaches back. Sam massages his burning cheeks.  He tightly closes his eyes. Tears roll down his cheeks.


Dean stands in front of his brother.  He rests his hands on Sam’s shoulders. "You okay?" Dean asks the top of Sam’s head.


Sam nods slowly, yes.  He lunges at his brother. He almost knocks him backwards.  He hides his face against Dean's solid chest.


Dean wraps his arms around the repentant form.  He soothingly rubs his little brother's quivering back.  After a few quiet moments Sam's shaking body calms in Dean's comforting squeeze.


Dean musses Sam's untamed hair.  "You know why I had to spank you? It's not safe to go out at night alone and unprepared.  You broke one of dad’s basic rules. I’m letting you off easy. Dad might have brought out the hairbrush."  Dean holds Sam firmly in his arms.


Sam leans his head away from Dean’s chest. "Jerk," Sam rubs his sore butt.  He buries his face into his big brother’s soft shirt front.


Dean waits for Sam’s body to relax in his embrace.


"Are you okay?" Dean inquires softly.


"Are you sure about dad? He’s not going to have one of his talks with me?" Sam worries.


"He told me to take care of it," Dean pauses. "But you’re going to have to show him your butt."  Dean smiles mischievously. He rests his arm across his brother's shoulders.


"What?  Why?" Sam questions abruptly.


"Don't you remember?  When you were around four-years-old dad would come back from a hunt. You’d tattle that I had spanked you.  He’d ask why.  He'd want to see the damage for himself. You'd proudly show him your bare butt."


"I did not," Sam denies.


"Yeah, you did," Dean smirks. It’s too easy to taunt his baby brother. "It took you a while to realize you were tattling on yourself and not on me," Dean musses Sam’s shaggy hair.


"I'm not going to show him my butt.  I'm too old for that."


"Dude, that’s up to you. But there’ll be consequences if you disobey the old man."


"Fine," Sam replies with a huff.


Dean walks to the rear of the car.  He opens the trunk.  He rummages through a duffel bag.  He closes the trunk.  "Here, put these on."  He tosses his brother a pair of sweatpants.


"You couldn't give me these before?"


"I knew you wouldn't be wearing them for long," Dean shrugs.


"Jerk," Sam tugs on the pants.  He gently eases them over his tender flesh. He slides cautiously onto the Impala’s cold leather seat.


Dean gives his brother a satisfied look, "Let's go home."




John hears the Impala approach. He stands erect in the center of the living room. Dean bounds through the front door. 


"Where's your brother?  Is he okay?" John interrogates.


"Sam’s okay. The Impala got pelted with eggs on the way home.  The fugitive’s cleaning her off.  I'll check for scratches in the morning."


"Any problems with the police?"


"No, sir.  He's good.  They gave him a verbal warning."


"Did he give you any trouble?"


Dean shrugs.


"You take care of it?"  John glares questioningly at Dean.


"Yes, sir, we stopped on the way home. Had a talk about his attitude, the lying and the Mischief Night crap. He'll be sleeping on his stomach tonight."


Sam walks hesitantly into the living room.


"What's the damage?"  John inquires about the Impala.


"It's okay," Sam responds cautiously.


"Any marks?"  John continues his questions.


"Yeah, there's marks and it sucks," Sam responds sharply in a raised voice.


"Thought you took care of the attitude?"  John directs angrily towards Dean.


"Fine, I’ll show you."  Sam turns his back towards his father.


John glances quizzically at Dean.


Sam uses both hands to lower his sweatpants and underwear.  He exposes his rosy red colored buttocks.  "There, satisfied?"  Sam grimaces as he quickly pulls his pants up over his stinging bottom.  His facial cheeks flush red with embarrassment.  "Can I go now?  I need a shower."


Dean looks down at the floor.  He struggles to contain his laughter.


"Go," John nods his head towards the bathroom. 


Sam bolts out of the room.


"What was that all about?" John looks suspiciously at his oldest.


"You got me."


"You find his attitude funny?"


"No, sir," Dean straightens up.


"Your brother’s insolence is not a laughing matter."


"No, sir."


"Neither is his insubordination."


"No, sir," Dean laughs uncontrollably.


"What the hell is wrong with you?" John skeptically eyes his eldest.


"Nothing, sir," Dean gathers his composure.


"Dean, report."


"I told the squirt you'd want to make sure I punished him. That he’d have to show you his red backside. He got all pissy and embarrassed. I told him when he was little he wanted to show you his butt so he could get sympathy after I spanked him.


"You're half right, Dean."


"What do you mean half right?" Dean asks curiously.


"That wasn't Sammy who used to drop trou," John grins mischievously.


"What are you talking about?"


"When I’d go off on a hunt you’d stay with Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby.  When I got back you'd proudly drop trou to show me your butt. I’d know by the color if Bobby had needed to take his spoon to your backside or if Jim had needed to enlighten you with any of his priestly guidance," John explains lightly. He raises both his eyebrows at his son.


"Dad, come on." Dean scowls at his father with disbelief.


"Hey, ask Pastor Jim or Bobby.  They always got a chuckle out of watching you showoff to me."


"I'm going to bed," Dean saunters towards the doorway, the tips of his ears red from embarrassment.


"I guess all the Winchesters needed to get into a little mischief tonight," John laughs quietly.



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Comments {29}

Lady M

(no subject)

from: lady_m_319
date: Dec. 11th, 2009 05:40 am (UTC)

I'm so glad you liked it. It was fun to write and it made me laugh, also.

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(no subject)

from: phlepa
date: Dec. 11th, 2009 05:44 am (UTC)

Your welcome. I bet it was fun to write. I love stories like that.

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