Lady M (lady_m_319) wrote,
Lady M


Author:  Lady M
Characters: John, Dean (27), Sam (23).
Scenario: John spanks Dean.
Implement:  Belt, Hand
Rating:  PG-13 for spanking and swearing.
Warning: Parental spanking of adult child.  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.



"What are we looking at?"  John Winchester leans over his youngest child's shoulder. His right palm rests open on the kitchen table top supporting his weight.  His left arm drapes over his son's broad shoulder.


"It’s the digital feed from outside the bar Dean and I were scouting last night," Sam Winchester informs his father. 


"That’s the bar where those two people went missing, right?  It's two blocks from here?"


"Yes sir," Sam responds respectfully. 


The two hunters search the video for information to help with their current case.  Multiple people have been reported missing in this small town.  The reports led the Winchester men to believe something out of the ordinary is involved, something supernatural. It’s their job to investigate, hunt, and dispose of whatever is threatening this town before anyone else is reported hurt or killed.


"Did you see that?"  Sam points to an important detail on the screen.


"Go back and pause that," John leans in towards the screen for a closer look. "Dean, come see this," he calls over Sam's shoulder.


No response from his oldest son.


John stands tall.  He turns his head to face over his left shoulder.  "Dean, come in here," he yells in the direction of the living room.


There’s still no response.


"Where's your brother?"  John asks impatiently.


"Not my turn to watch him," Sam quips.


John smacks the back of Sam's head with an open palm.


"Hey, well it's not," Sam grumbles.  "Maybe he went on his date with that red head he picked up last night."


"My orders were nobody leaves this house alone, for any reason." John barks.  He walks into the living room in search of his first born.  He glances around the empty surroundings.  He stands erect in the center of the room.  "Dean.  DEAN!" John calls sharply.


"WHAT, I'm right here," Dean wanders into the house through the front door.


"Where were you?" John demands.


Dean keeps his feet planted. He swivels around at his waist. He studies the door he just strolled through. “Ah, outside," Dean taunts mockingly. "Are your eyes going old man?"


"Alone? And watch your mouth, mister," John reprimands.


"Ah, yeah, I was outside, alone.  It doesn't take two of us to put out one bag of garbage."


"Care to explain why you disobeyed my direct order?" John challenges.


"You heard me, garbage.  Or is your hearing on the fritz, too?"  Dean hops over the back of the sofa.  He lands comfortably.  He stretches his body across the full length of the couch.  Dean reaches casually for the remote on the nearby coffee table.  He turns on the television ignoring the piercing glare from his father.  He pushes the controller buttons to channel surf.


"Dean, turn that off." John commands.


Sam sits bewildered in the kitchen. He can't believe the conversation he's listening to between his brother and father.  Dean must have a death wish baiting his dad like that.  Sam pushes back his chair. He wants one last look at Dean before his father kills his older brother.


"DEAN, shut that off." John demands.  "Front and center young man."


"Dude, I'm twenty-seven.  I don't do 'front and center'.  I'm watching the tube," Dean dismisses his irate father.


John squints at his eldest.  He observes from head to toe the figure lay prone on his couch.   He knowingly runs his palm from his forehead to his chin.


Sam watches his father storm into the bedroom. His retreat is out of character for the ex-marine. 


John marches determinedly back into the room.  He slowly rolls his shirt sleeves up over his elbows.


"Dad, can you come in here?"  Sam attempts to distract his red faced father.


"Not now, Sam.  I'm about to make you an only child," John yells over the loud television volume.


John maneuvers quickly around the couch.  He positions himself to obstruct Dean's line of vision.  He stares down at his oldest.  "I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, young man. But there are consequences for your insubordination and disrespect," John explains in a low growl.  "Get your ass up, off that couch. Stand at attention."


"John, you're blocking the television screen," Dean waves his hand dismissively at the threatening obstacle obscuring his view.


"DAD!"  Sam interjects sharply from the other room.


"Not now Samuel." John growls.


"Samuel, crap, Dean's on his own," Sam mumbles. He sits silently frozen in place.


"You have until the count of three, mister. One."


"Hell, if I can't watch television in peace, I'm going out."  Dean hops off the couch.  He turns his back towards his enraged father. He steps towards the front door.


With exceptional speed, John wraps a firm grip around the back of his idiot child’s neck.


Dean jerks to a stop.


"You were told to stand at attention," John reprimands.


Dean bends his right leg forward. He throws back a strong kick to knock his father off balance.


"Buddy boy, you didn't just try to take your old man out?" John chuckles, "I taught you that move."


Dean grunts.  He spins around to get loose from John's iron grip.


John uses Dean's own momentum to pull the combatant in the direction of the couch.  He forcibly bends Dean over the back of the sofa.  He uses his left hand to quickly pin one of his son's wrists to the small of his back.  


"A little slow on the reflexes tonight, Ace."  John provokes.


Dean fights to get free.  He kicks back with his legs.


John reaches under Dean. He unbuttons and unzips the wrestling twenty-seven-year-old’s jeans.


"Hey, stop that you perv," Dean bucks his whole body to gain leverage. His father has Dean wedged firmly against the chair back.


"If I had boobs you wouldn't be saying that."  John roughly yanks Dean's jeans down to expose two bare buttocks.  He purses his lips thoughtfully. He nods knowingly.


"What are you doing?" Dean yells.  He twists unsuccessfully to free himself.


"I'm going to blister your butt until it’s the color of a ripe red tomato," John states matter-of-factly.


Dean struggles wildly.


"Settle down.  You want to be one of my sons.  Then you'll be treated like one.  That includes a good ass warming when needed," John explains.  He pulls his arm back. He lands the first hard swat to the center of the snow white colored bottom presented before him.


"Shit," Dean yelps in response to the initial impact of the strong calloused palm.  "Let me go."


"We're just getting started. Next my belt’s going to explain to you who’s Alpha under this roof," John promises.


"What!"  Dean pauses for a moment.  He raises his free hand to his head. He holds his index finger and thumb to the side of his face. His eyes flutter up and down in deep thought.  He shakes his head in understanding.  "No way you're taking your belt to me," Dean objects loudly.


"We'll see about that," John unbuckles his own belt. He slowly slides the smooth leather out of the pant loops. He folds it over.  He administers an onslaught of hard swats to the presented butt cheeks.


"YEOH!  Dude, that hurts!"  Dean’s hips wiggle uncontrollably.


"That's the plan, dude," John continues his assault on the squirming rear-end. He applies another bombardment of stinging smacks with the belt. He waits for his son’s reaction.


"FUCK, LET ME UP!" Dean roars.


Sam observes Dean’s ordeal from the next room. He cringes at the sound of John’s belt connecting with Dean’s bare flesh. His dad's being unusually heavy handed with Dean.  Sam attempts to turn his concentration back to his laptop screen. 


John lands half-a-dozen solid whacks with the leather to the already flaming red buttocks. He pauses.


Dean screams out.  He contorts his body.  He uses his free hand to pull at the skin on his chest and shoulders.  Small pieces of mucilaginous flesh fall to the floor.


"There we go," John states satisfactorily. He stands the disoriented, molting creature on its feet.  The monstrosity sheds the skin under John’s hold.  John loses his grip.


The Dean look-alike awkwardly jerks its jeans up over its burning bottom. It runs hastily towards the front door. It bolts outside onto the front porch.


John reaches behind his back.  He removes the concealed revolver from his pant's waistband.  He aims as he chases the being to the door. The experienced hunter fires two silver bullets into the back of the shapeshifter before it clears the porch steps.


The creature stops instantly.  It arches its body in pain.  It collapses awkwardly to the ground. The shapeshifter dies silently.


John kicks the corpse to confirm the kill. There’s no sign of life. He scans the area quickly for witnesses.


"SAM, GET OUT HERE!" John yells into the house.


Sam sits dazed. He’s disturbingly confused by the scene he just witnessed. His thoughts rapidly flash back through his mind. First, Dean's being a royal dick.  Next, his father delivers the daddy of all spankings to his brother.   Then, his dad shoots at his brother.




Sam organizes his wits.  He darts in the direction of the front door.  He follows cautiously a trail of gooey chunks of corpuscles.  He sees a still form of flesh and bones lying on the porch.


"Look for your brother.  He's got to be close," John directs.


Sam points hesitantly at the motionless body at his feet.


"That's not your brother," John scoffs.  "I'm betting that's the shapeshifter on the digital feed. The one we saw coming out of the bar.  Now find your brother so I can really kill him.  And don't YOU leave my line of sight if you know what's good for you." John scolds.


"Yes, sir," Sam sprints into the yard.  He investigates the opposite side of the hedges.  He circles towards the side of the house. He keeps his dad in his peripheral vision.  He searches the area where the garbage cans are stored.


"He's over here, dad."  Sam lifts the debris covering his partially naked brother.


John streaks towards Sam.


Sam roughly shakes Dean’s shoulder.


A dazed Dean swings his fists and arms in defensive gestures.


"It's us, Dean.  You're okay." John explains quickly.


"For now," Sam mumbles under his breath.


John and Sam help Dean to his feet.


"Can you walk?"  John inquires.


"Yeah, I'm good," Dean reassures. He takes a step.  He wobbles.  He pushes John's steadying hands away.  He straightens himself. He trudges towards the house.


"Sam, stay with your brother.  I'll dispose of the remains out back," John orders.


Dean pauses as he approaches the porch.  He steps over the lifeless body, his body.


Sam shadows Dean into the house.


"Was that blob on the porch a shapeshifter?" Dean guesses.


"Yeah," Sam replies.


"How'd you get him?" Dean probes.


"Dad did.  One minute he was beating your ass raw with his belt. The next thing I knew he was firing a couple of rounds at you as you ran out the front door," Sam clarifies.


Dean reaches the bedroom door with Sam on his heels. "Francis, I don't think dad meant for you to watch me get dressed," Dean mocks.


"He said stay with you, I'm staying.  He’s majorly pissed. I don’t need any of that spilling over onto me." Sam justifies.


"Why's he so pissed?" Dean pursues.


"You’re kidding, right? You disobeyed his direct order not to leave the house. You got taken down by a shapeshifter who called dad a pervert and told him to fuck-off when he gave it an order. And what really seemed to push his buttons, it called dad John," Sam adds with a smirk.


"Shit, I did that once at Pastor Jim's," Dean reflects.


"And?"  Sam prompts.


"Even the golden tongued pastor couldn't talk the old man down.  Dad said being disrespectful had serious consequences. I didn't sit for two days after he had me over his knees.  I never did that again," Dean rubs his butt unconsciously.


"That sounds like dad," Sam agrees.


"How'd he know he wasn't shooting me?" Dean reflects.


"You'll have to ask dad," Sam discloses.


"Ask dad what?" John’s low gravelly voice interrupts the boys.


"How'd you know it wasn't me?" Dean questions.


"I'm a trained hunter, Dean," John replies cunningly.


"Seriously, how'd you know?" Dean quips.


"You weren't wearing any skivvies when I swatted your ass," John informs seriously.


"What?  I'm wearing underwear," Dean’s hands gesture to below his waist.


"You are, but the shapeshifter wasn't," John explains.


"You notice if I’m going commando?" Dean balks.


"I saw you snake a clean pair out of Sam's bag this morning," John elaborates.


"Awkward," Dean mumbles under his breath.


"Those are mine?"  Sam asks appalled. He points at his brother’s crotch. "Keep’em. They’re yours. I don't ever want them back," Sam responds indignantly.


Dean checks his watch, "Good enough. We’re done here. The shapeshifter‘s dead. The hunt's over. I can still make my date with the sassy red head." He retrieves a clean pair of jeans from his open duffle bag.


"You won't be needing those," John warns.


"You always say we should keep a low profile. No pants, not so low a profile," Dean snarks.


"We need to talk," John states sternly at his oldest.


"Sam?" John directs towards his youngest.


"I'll be in the kitchen.  I already caught act one of this show." Sam moves hastily through the doorway.


"What’d you want to talk about, our next gig?" Dean asks casually. He tugs his clean jeans over his muscular thighs.


"How about we talk about this gig?" John mimics.


"What's the problem? We ganked the shifter," Dean bends to tie his boot laces.


"We?" John asks sternly.


"Well, you," Dean concedes.


"And where were you while I was putting two bullets in my eldest son’s back?" John reprimands.


"You probably only needed one bullet," Dean wisecracks.


"Watch it, mister. You’re already skating on thin ice."


"Sorry, sir."


"I don't ever want to be in that situation again. I set rules for a reason. I think you need a reminder of who gives the orders in this family and who takes the orders."


"I get it.  You're the chief and Sam and I are the Indians," Dean acknowledges.


"I'm going to make sure you get it.  There are consequences for disobeying direct orders. Front and center, young man."


"Dad, I'm twenty-seven."


"So you know how this works." Having used most of his patience earlier for the same argument with the shifter, John quickly begins his count, "One." 


"You’re counting?"


"Two," John slides the wooden chair out from under the desk.  He places it to his side.


"Fine, stop counting," Dean responds sharply. "I'm here," he steps forward. "Let's just do this," Dean acquiesces halfheartedly to his father’s demands.


"A little cocky for someone who's about to get their butt handed to them," John raises one eyebrow.


"I'm an adult.  I accept there are consequences. Then I'm going on my date," Dean rationalizes.


"We'll see about that," John grins slyly. "Bend over the back of the chair," John orders.


Dean adheres to his father’s instructions. He braces his hands on the seat, "You don't have to do this, dad.  I get it,” Dean reveals over his shoulder.  "Umph," Dean responds to John's first hard swat to his buttocks. He hangs his head forward.


John lands six repetitive swats to the upturned backside. He observes his son’s relaxed body language. "You don't really get it, do you son?" John asks sincerely.


"Ah, I think I'm getting it right now," Dean quips.


"Stand up.  Drop your jeans.  You need to take this more seriously," John enjoins.


"I'm twenty-seven-years-old.  I'm bent over the back of a chair getting my ass smacked by someone who is not my date for the evening.  I'd say that's pretty serious," Dean responds irritated.  He unbuckles his belt.  He unbuttons and unzips his fly.


"Briefs too," John instructs.


"On the bare?"  Dean zips his fly closed.  "I'm out of..."


Before Dean completes his sentence, John grabs his stunned eldest firmly by the arm.  He twists Dean around in a strangling choke hold.  He maneuvers his obstinate son towards the bed.  John stands in position along the side of the bed.  He kicks Dean's feet out from under him.  John eases down onto the bed. He smoothly guides his off balanced child across his lap.


"Let me up."  Dean squawks.  He unsuccessfully bucks his body against John's firm hold.


"Not until we come to an understanding," John retorts. With his right hand John grabs the back of Dean's jeans by the waist.  He roughly tugs the denim down past his son’s butt cheeks. John slides his hand under the waistband of his captive's briefs.


Dean strains to get free.


"Settle down," John draws the underpants down to expose his son’s firm round bottom. "You've been spanked on your bare butt before." 


"I was a kid.  I'm too old for this.  Let me up!"  Dean struggles.


"That’s the problem. You’ve gotten too big for your britches. Stop struggling, young man.  Do I need to remind you what the penalty is for fighting me on a punishment?"


"Dad, come on.  I'm a grown man."


"You’ll always be my son.  I’ll always do what’s needed to keep you safe.  I’ll start by reminding you that there are consequences when my orders are ignored."  John lays a barrage of stinging swats to Dean's bare backside. 


"Ow!  Dad, I get it.  You’re the Alpha Dog."


John ignores his son's revelation.  He continues applying numerous spanks to the meatiest part of Dean's bottom.


"Shit!  That's enough," Dean protests.


"I'll let you know when it's enough."  John knows if Dean is still working his smart-mouth then it means he needs additional enlightenment. Enlightenment that John is prepared to provide. He quickens his volley of swats. He applies a stronger stroke to his son's unprotected hindquarters. 


Dean grunts. He feels the significant change being administered to his bottom by his father’s hand.  He stops squirming.  He focuses on the burning sting his dad’s raising on his backside.  He can't remember the last time his butt was on fire like this.  Unshed tears fill his eyes. "Dad, umm, dad, I get it," Dean sniffles.


"What do you get, son?" John pauses.


"I’ll always need to follow your orders," Dean confesses.


"Is there anything else?" John prompts.


Dean inhales a deep breath.  He exhales, "It was hard for you to shoot the shapeshifter.  It looked like me." Dean inhales a quick gasp.


John lands an onslaught of solid swats to each scarlet colored butt cheek lying over his lap. 


"Dad, I’m sorry."  Dean lets out a deep cleansing sigh.


John abruptly stops the spanking. "We're good here, son."  John squeezes Dean’s shoulder.  He rubs his child's back.


Dean’s body relaxes over his father’s lap. "Okay if I get up?" He wipes at his tear streaked face with the tips of his fingers. 


With both hands John eases Dean's briefs up over his fire engine red colored bottom.  He feels the heat radiating from the chastised area.


"We're done here," John pats Dean's back twice.


Dean slowly pushes off the bed with his muscular arms.  He reaches stiffly back with one foot at a time to balance his weight.  He eases to a standing position.  He flexes his tense back muscles. 


"Crap dad; don't let anybody tell you you're getting old."  Dean gingerly massages his sore butt.  "I'm going to be feeling this one for a couple of days."


"It'll give you something to think about on our drive to Bobby’s," John encourages.


"Dad, I'm sorry you had to shoot that thing that looked like me," Dean apologizes sincerely.


"You've been punished and forgiven, Dean. Just make sure it never happens again or you won’t be talking just a couple of days," John raises his eyebrows. He points his index finger at his son for emphasis.


"Shit, Sam's gonna get some mileage out of this one."  Dean pulls his jeans slowly over his burning buttocks.


"I'm not so sure about that.  He was pretty unnerved when he thought I shot you.  Now give your old man a hug."


"No chick flick moments, dad."


"That's an order," John pulls his child in close for a smothering embrace.


Dean returns the affection.  He hides his face in the soft material on his father's shoulder. It’s the same gesture he made when he was four-years-old, right after he’d received a few swats from his daddy for acting naughty.


The familiar position gives John a comforting feeling.  He relishes this rare close moment of warm physical contact with his first born. He rubs his son's back. He maintains the loving hug. Moments pass in silence.


Dean turns his face to the side. He gently rests his head on his father’s shoulder.


John grins.  Since Dean was young, that gesture has always been his queue to tell John when Dean was okay after a spanking.  John asks anyway, "You okay, kiddo?"


"I'm twenty-seven-years-old.  My butt's on fire and I'm late for my date.  What do you think?"  Dean remarks sarcastically.


"No date.  You're grounded.  That's an order."


"Grounded?"  Dean pulls away from his father’s embrace.


"You heard me.  Or does my belt need to remind you about following orders?" John crooks an eyebrow at his eldest.


"No,sir."  Dean responds quickly.


"Let's go inform your brother he's not an only child."  John drapes his arm over his son's shoulder. They maneuver into the hallway.


"So the geek was freaked when he thought I was gone?"  Dean beams.


"Dean, leave it alone." John warns with a swat to his son’s sensitized butt.


Dean smirks as he rubs his sore backside. "Oh, Sammmmy," he dashes ahead of his father in search of his little brother.




Tags: john spanks dean, supernatural fan fic
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