Title: The Indian Chief Goes Bow Hunting
Author: Lady M
Characters: John, Dean (10), Sam (6), Pastor Jim
Rating: PG-13 for spanking and mild swearing.
Warning: Parental spanking of minors. Please don't read if it offends you.
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and the CW own all. I own nothing.
When the Winchester clan finds themselves with some limited, but much needed, down time between their hunts for evil they head towards fellow hunter Pastor Jim Murphy’s residence. The patriarch, John Winchester, uses the quieter time to heal fresh wounds and browse the good pastor’s extensive library.
At Jim’s, John logs quality time with his two rambunctious boys. He knows too soon they will be men and out from under his protective eye. He needs to make sure his offspring are prepared for the physical, mental and supernatural challenges they will face in their adult lives. To aid John in their training and in honing his sons’ hunting skills he takes advantage of the deserted woods near Pastor Jim’s compound. A ten-year-old toting a machete or a shotgun isn't usually well received in populated neighborhoods.
The Winchester youngsters enjoy spending time at Pastor Jim’s. There’s a good size yard in the rear of the house which is bordered by a patch of thick inviting woods. The boys are allowed to play and explore as long as they don’t wander off too far.
Six-year-old Samuel Winchester participates in the church-provided Day Care Center activities. Sam likes the interaction with the other children. He gets to be creative by drawing and doing arts and crafts. There’s usually a new collection of books for him to use to practice his reading skills. He likes to showoff how well he can read. He's allowed to take one book back to the house and read out loud to whoever will listen.
Ten-year-old Dean Winchester scoffs at Day Care. He feels it's for babies. It has nothing to offer him. He’s used to being the lone caregiver of himself and Sam when his father’s away on a hunt. The kids at Day Care play with toy guns and baby sized Lego’s. They don't even have the essential green army men. When possible, Dean badgers Sam into ditching Day Care to play with him in the unexplored woods.
Today’s a good day for Dean. It’s a bad day for Sam. After dinner, John advises the boys he’s taking Dean bow hunting tomorrow afternoon. He explains to Sam he’s still too small to handle the larger bow. He’ll stay with Pastor Jim while John and Dean train.
Sam loudly voices his objections.
“That’s enough Samuel, unless you want to continue this discussion upstairs over my knee?” John quickly ends the conversation.
Sam’s furious at the thought of being left behind. He stomps his small feet. He tramples off in a huff to the bedroom the boys share at the top of the stairs. He turns when he reaches the upstairs platform. He yells down the stairs, “I don’t wanna go stupid bow hunting anyway. It’s stupid!” He disappears into the room. He slams the bedroom door to emphasize his displeasure.
“I’ll take care of that before we leave,” John states matter-of-factly as he nods his head towards the top of the stairs.
“He’s fine, John. No need.” Pastor Jim knows what John Winchester means when he says ‘he’ll take care of that’. Samuel will be laid face down over his father’s knees. His small butt will receive a thorough paddling until he acknowledges the errors of his ways. This is John’s no-nonsense approach to single parenting the two strong willed sons he’s raising.
“He just wants to spend time with you,” Jim adds.
“All right Padre, I’ll give him a pass on the outburst, this time,” John concedes.
“THAT was an outburst? That wasn’t an outburst. Wait until he’s a teenager,” Pastor Jim chuckles.
“Kid won’t make it to be a teenager if he keeps up the tantrums,” John scowls.
“Dad, I’ll play cowboys and Indians out in the woods with Sam in the morning,” Dean offers. “That’ll make him happy.”
“Fine Dean, but be ready to leave at thirteen hundred hours, sharp.” John climbs the stairs towards his unhappy six-year-old.
In the kitchen Pastor Jim and Dean listen to the low growl of John Winchester’s voice addressing his youngest. Dean winces at the sound of the first solid smack. It’s followed by a high pitched yelp from his baby brother. Dean sits motionless at the kitchen table. He cradles his glass of milk in both hands. The smacks stop as abruptly as they began.
Moments pass. The entire house is silent except for the settling creaks of the old structure. John clumps down the stairs in his heavy work boots. He returns to the kitchen. He rolls down his shirt sleeves. He glances from his oldest son slumped in a kitchen chair to the pastor leaning his butt against a counter top.
Pastor Jim holds both arms out towards John. His palms raised upward in a questioning gesture. “What was that?” Jim asks disappointed and confused.
“What?” John challenges.
“You said you’d give the kid a pass,” Jim admonishes.
“I did. Not a real outburst. Not a real spanking,” John affirms.
Dean focuses all his attention on his half full glass of milk. He nods his head in agreement.
“Dean, you have something to say?” Jim prompts.
“Three. I counted, just three. An attention getter,” Dean explains to his glass before taking a swallow.
John wears a satisfied grin. He mockingly gestures towards the pastor by holding both arms out in front of himself with his palms up.
The pastor shakes his head at John’s logic. From Dean’s reaction, though, it is apparent Papa Winchester is consistent in his parenting approach. It appears the boys know the rules and the consequences that go along with breaking the rules.
“Sammy, okay?” Dean glances concernedly towards his father.
“Sam’s fine. I told him you’d play cowboys and Indians with him in the morning before we leave. He wants to be the Great Indian Chief who attacks the cowboys.”
“Sure,” Dean nods approvingly.
“Finish your drink and hit the sack. Tomorrow will be a long day,” John instructs.
With one gulp, Dean downs the remaining liquid. He places the glass in the sink. “Good night, Pastor Jim. Good night, Dad.” Dean disappears up the stairs.
“Thirteen hundred hours, sharp,” John calls after his oldest.
The next afternoon Dean waits patiently for his father by the Impala at the assigned time of thirteen hundred hours.
John gives a nod of approval as he approaches the vehicle. “Stow your gear in the back seat. We’re moving out,” John instructs.
The Chevy Impala rumbles to life.
Dean sits tall in the front seat across from his father. He grins from ear to ear. He’s anxious and full of pride for being allowed to go on a serious training mission with his father. A lot of his training usually involves calisthenics or sparring with his little brother, especially when his dad isn’t around. This trip is specifically to work on his bow hunting skills. He loves bow hunting and it helps that he’s good at it.
John parks the Chevy Impala within one hundred yards of a large clearing. They’ll set up camp at this end of the open lot. John regularly uses this area for training. He’s already set out targets and obstacles to challenge his ten-year-old son. He’ll teach Dean survival techniques including which plant life is edible, which is poisonous and which can be useful. The main goal of the weekend is to improve his son’s bow hunting skills. Dean’s a natural but the ten-year-old needs practice to be at the top of his game.
Practicing too near Pastor Jim’s house draws unnecessary attention. The pastor’s woods border homes and farms. The neighborhood kids could accidentally wander into the middle of a training session and get themselves hurt. Never mind having to explain to the parents or police why a ten-year-old or a six-year-old is “playing” with live ammunition and dangerous weapons. This patch of woods is far enough secluded to be off the Local Neighborhood Watch route.
“Dean, set out the sleeping bags then gather some kindling wood. Make sure it’s dry and not laden with sap,” John instructs.
“Yes, sir,” Dean responds with a spry step. He’s excited and enthusiastic about the weekend. He wants to improve his bow hunting but the best part is the special time he gets alone with his dad. No Sam to get in the way. Dean suddenly drops the armful of wood he’s carrying. His body goes ridged. His face turns a pasty white color. His entire facial expression droops.
John turns at the abrupt sound of wood hitting the ground. He watches Dean’s demeanor change.
“Dean, are you okay?” John asks concerned.
Dean doesn’t respond. He stands frozen in place.
John’s cell phone rings. He digs for it in his pant pocket. He sits his butt down on a nearby log. He maintains eye contact with his oddly posed son.
“Winchester,” John answers. He listens to the caller.
“Jim, hold on. What about Sam?” John demands.
“Shit!” Dean’s eyes turn to a deer-in-the-head-lights blank stare. He composes himself. He moves towards his father.
“I have to talk to Pastor Jim,” Dean reaches to grab the phone away from his father’s ear.
“Dean. Stop. You know the rule.” Yeah, the no grabbing the phone while dad is talking rule. Punishment swats and corner time to follow.
“I neeeed to talk to Pastor Jim,” Dean whines despairingly. “It’s important.”
“Do you know where your brother is?” John glares at Dean, realizing something is up.
“Kinda,” Dean falters.
“Yes or no?” John demands sternly.
“Yes,” Dean whispers.
“Jim, I’m putting you on speaker. Dean, report,” John commands.
“Uhm, hi, uhm, Pastor Jim,” Dean begins shakily. He awkwardly shuffles his feet. “You know that big tree in the woods that got hit by lightening last summer?”
“Sam’s out there?” Jim asks.
“Uhm, no, he’s not there. You know the stone wall that’s only four feet tall and about ten feet long?”
“He’s there?” Jim asks anxiously.
“No, not there.”
“DEAN!” John bellows. He rolls his eyes as his anger mounts.
Dean continues, “See, we were playing cowboys and Indians out between the tree and the wall and the Indian Chief got captured so he got tied to a tree to be tortured…”
“He’s out by the tree?” Pastor Jim cuts into Dean’s explanation.
“Uhm, yeah. He might be, you know, still tied to it,” Dean winces.
“Call me when you find him. We’re on our way,” John pockets his phone. He looks with disbelief at his eldest, “Tied to a tree, Dean? Break camp we’re going back.”
“But, dad,” Dean pleads.
“Not another word, if you know what’s good for you. Start packing,” John fumes.
Dean silently re-rolls the sleeping bags. Disappointed, he makes his first trip back to the Impala.
As Dean returns he hears his father talking on his cell phone.
“You got him? He’s okay?” John sharply inquires.
“I got him. He seems fine. I found him tied to the tree where Dean said he would be. We’re heading home.” Pastor Jim calmly informs.
Relief washes over John. He relaxes for a quick moment. He turns to glare distinctly towards his oldest. “Alright Jim, I need to take care of something here. Then we’ll be on our way back.” John disconnects the call. He doesn’t utter a word. He bends down to rummage through his nap sack.
“Sam’s okay? Pastor Jim got him?” Dean asks apprehensively.
“Jim found him,” John confirms as he continues his exploration.
For a long moment Dean pauses. “What are you looking for?” Dean asks concernedly as his father continues feeling around inside his duffel.
“My hairbrush,” John informs without deterring his quest.
“No ladies to impress out here, Dad,” Dean nervously attempts to lighten the mood knowing Sam’s been found.
“Hairbrush isn’t for me.” John suspends his search. He looks back over his shoulder at his son. “It’s for you.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry. A lump grows in his throat. He takes a step back.
John gives up on the duffel bag search. He walks towards the woods. “On my six, Dean,” John orders.
“Where are we going?”
“To teach you how to properly cut a switch,” John turns to raise his eyebrows at his son. “I expect this won’t be the only time your backside becomes acquainted with the sting from a switching. I might as well teach you how to do it right from the beginning.”
Dean obediently follows his father. He scuffs and stumbles along even though his gaze is on his feet.
They travel thirty yards before their path is blocked by a recently fallen tree with many branches.
“This will do,” John declares.
Dean watches as his father artfully removes an offshoot from the tree with his pocket knife.
“It should be young, fresh and flexible. Not too long, sixteen to eighteen inches in length. Not too brittle,” John instructs. He bends the shaft to show its flexibility. He hands the branch to Dean, “Remove the leaves and extensions.”
John watches as small trembling fingers clean the leaves turning it into a smooth implement for punishment.
Dean holds it out to his father for review.
John takes the wooden rod. To test it, he swishes it against his outer pant leg. He nods his approval. He motions with his other arm for Dean to follow him back to camp.
“Dad, um, how come you know this stuff?” Dean inquires hesitantly.
“Your grandfather taught me. He was a firm believer that the punishment should fit the crime. Got my butt kissed more than once by a switch’s bark. I didn’t care for it much.” He looks back at his son, “Don’t expect you will either.”
They travel the remaining yards in silence. Both lost in their own thoughts.
At the campsite, John places the stave on the log next to him. He slowly unbuttons and turns up his left cuff. He rolls the long sleeve up his forearm.
“Dad, do you really want to waste time on this? You know, Sam’s fine and I need the training,” Dean proposes.
“So you think we should just forget about this?” John methodically rolls his right sleeve up his arm.
Dean’s stomach muscles tense watching his father raise his second sleeve. This usually marks the point of no return. Dad’s about to make somebody’s butt very uncomfortable, guaranteed.
John places his palms on his knees. He sits down on a large tree stump.
“Yeah, no harm no foul. Sammy’s okay. We could just…move on.” Dean flashes his most enthusiastic grin. “I’ll get the fire started,” Dean offers. “I brought marshmallows,” he adds tentatively. He bends to retrieve kindling for the fire.
“Sorry, kiddo. We need to have a talk.”
“But we’re wasting daylight,” Dean explains as he turns away from his father.
John recognizes stalling when he sees it. “Front and center, young man.” John’s low, authoritative tone is unmistakable.
Dean acquiesces to his father’s stern demeanor. He knows his father is unwavering when he has a target in his sights and today Dean’s butt has a bull’s-eye on it. He stands square in front of his father, just out of arms reach.
“Dean, do you want to tell me what you were thinking,” John demands evenly.
“That it’s a good time to roast marshmallows.”
“Something’s going to get roasted, alright, but it’s not going to be marshmallows.” John narrows his glare. “Try again.”
“I was thinking we could have an epic father-son moment in the woods.”
“You want epic, I’ll give you epic. Now stow that smart mouth of yours.” John pauses. “Unless we need to have a talk about that before we talk about you tying your brother to a tree and leaving him?”
Dean cringes slightly at his father’s stern words. The situation with Sammy sounds so much worse when his father says it out loud. Dean hangs his head down.
“Step forward, son. You’ve got a spanking coming.” John apprises adamantly.
Dean steps over to his father’s right side. He slowly fingers his belt buckle open. He unzips his pants. He hastily pushes them to below his knees. He leans ahead to lie across his father’s lap.
John holds out his bare right arm to stop Dean’s forward motion.
“Brief’s too, kiddo,” his father instructs quietly.
Dean bends forward to push his briefs down his legs to meet his jeans.
John pats his sturdy thighs and waits for his son to assume the dreaded position.
Dean closes his eyes as he lays his ten-year-old body over his dad’s muscular thighs. How does he get himself into this situation? His bare ass in the air, presented for punishment over his daddy’s lap.
“Dean, why are you getting this spanking?” John asks before laying down the law.
“Because I captured the Indian Chief and defeated the Indian Nation. OHHH!” Dean feels his father land firm swats to each of his unprotected, previously pale colored cheeks.
“This is the second time today I’ve had to speak to you about that mouth of yours. You’re asking for extra swats from my belt.”
“No, sir. Not asking. I’m done,” Dean responds quickly.
“Then tell me why are you getting this spanking?”
“Because I left Sammy tied to a tree,” Dean states matter-of-factly. “I was going to call Pastor Jim once we got on the road and he couldn’t stop us.” Dean turns his head to look over his shoulder at his father. “I didn’t mean to leave him.” Dean turns back to face the ground. “But I forgot,” he lowers his voice. “Honest dad, I forgot.” Dean adds quickly, already out of breath.
John sees no reason to prolong the inevitable. He raises his calloused hand. He smacks Dean’s butt dead center.
Another solid smack connects with the boy’s cheeks in the same spot.
Dean grits his teeth to keep silent.
John lands numerous random swats.
Dean instinctively reaches back with his hand to cover his stinging butt.
John pins his son’s arm to his back clearing his goal. The determined father is relentless as he spanks his target’s center point.
The burn intensifies. Dean tries to squirm off his father’s lap but is held solidly in place.
John continues by applying thunderous swats to Dean’s tender sit spots.
Dean can’t control his outburst any longer. “I’m s…sorry, daddy. P…please, stop,” Dean sobs.
John needs to make sure Dean recognizes the seriousness of his offence. He needs the punishment to be memorable and to match the crime. He lands additional swats to the boy’s blazing rear-end. Both bottom cheeks are a bright crimson hue.
“Owww!” The tears fall freely from Dean’s eyes.
John pauses and asks Dean, “Are you ever going to mistreat your little brother?”
“Nooo, I’ll never tie him to a tree.”
“Not what I asked.” More swats land on the flaming sit spots. “Try again,” John encourages.
“I won’t mistreat Sammy,” Dean blurts out quickly. “I promise, never again,” he adds between sobs. He collapses over his father’s lap.
John’s cell phone rings. He quickly answers hoping it’s an update on Sam’s condition. “Winchester.”
“John, we’re back at the house. Sam’s doing fine.”
“Good.” John volunteers no emotion.
“The Great Indian Chief had a large glass of milk and his first meal request was for PB&J with chips. Right now he’s swimming in the bathtub. He seems okay.”
“Thanks for the update. We’re coming home.”
“John, don’t be too hard on Dean. He just wanted to spend time bow hunting with his father.”
“We’re in the middle of that discussion right now,” John disconnects.
With sympathy, Pastor Jim pictures Dean’s end of the discussion. He’s laid face down over his father’s lap, hands and feet dangling. Bare butt presented for punishment. Jim shakes his head at his friend’s predictability and goes to check on the Chief.
Dean’s sobs quiet considerably. He controls his breathing. “Is Sam okay?”
John pauses. He evaluates the crimson buttocks laid across his knees. He retrieves the switch.
“Yes, Sam’s fine but we’re not through here, yet.”
John relies on Dean to be Sam’s protector. Tying his brother to a tree and forgetting about him is unthinkable. He needs Dean to recognize the severity of his behavior. He needs to make this a memorable spanking for his eldest. A spanking that will make him think twice before ever putting Sam in danger again.
“For being irresponsible and endangering your little brother you’ve earned three strokes with the switch.” John raises the switch. He applies the first stroke.
It takes a heart beat for Dean’s mind to register the unfamiliar sting his bottom is feeling. He yelps, expelling air. He breathes in slowly. A second stripe is added across his buttocks, intensifying his discomfort. “OOWW!”
“One more, son,” John quickly administers the third stoke across the boy’s backside.
“YEOWWW!” Dean loses what little composure he has left. He can’t tell which is worse, the fresh sting from the switch or the hot fire emanating from his entire tenderized buttocks.
John drops the switch.
Dean sobs uncontrollably over his dad’s lap. He breathes in short hitches and moist gasps.
John relaxes the grip he has on his son’s waist and frees his pinned arm. He pulls Dean’s underpants over the youth’s scarlet bottom.
Dean’s aware his father is lifting him off his lap. He doesn’t resist the gesture.
John cradles him against his shoulder. He hugs him tight into his chest.
“You’re okay, Dean,” John soothes, rubbing Dean’s quivering back.
Dean continues to sob against his father’s shirt. He soaks the shoulder with his tears.
John rubs gentle comforting circles on Dean’s back to quiet him. He knows this was a harsh punishment for the ten-year-old, but it was necessary. Dean left his baby brother in a dangerous, vulnerable position. Something harmful could have happened to his youngest. John hopes this spanking will help Dean to make responsible choices in the future.
Dean calms enough to speak. He lifts his head off his father’s shoulder.
“You’re sure Sammy’s okay?” Dean asks in labored breaths.
“Yes, Pastor Jim says he’s fine. But I think you’re going to have to smooth things over with your brother.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean rests his head back on his daddy’s shoulder. They remain together quietly accepting each other’s comfort and warmth.
Dean takes a deep breath and releases. He breathes normally. He squirms and fidgets against his father’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?” John inquires.
Dean pulls his head away from his father’s shoulder. He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’ve been better,” Dean quips.
John squeezes his smart-ass son tightly against his chest. “Are you ready to get rolling? I told Pastor Jim we’re coming home.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean eases away from his father’s embrace. He slowly maneuvers off his dad’s lap. He pulls his jeans over his stinging butt with a hiss. “Crap, Dad, that switch hurt.”
John purses his lips and nods knowingly.
The Winchester men efficiently dismantle camp. Dean’s stiff movements telegraph his sore bottom. They repack the Impala. Dean notices as he closes the trunk, his dad placed the switch in a predominant position on top of the bags. That’s one item he wouldn’t mind if it got left behind. If he hadn’t taken the hairbrush out of his father’s bag and left it behind, he never would have been introduced to this newest implement of punishment. Who knew the hairbrush could be replaced by something so much worse.
John holds the driver’s side door open for Dean to crawl into the front seat.
Dean looks wearily at the leather seat he needs to slide against. “Um, Dad, can I sit in back?” Dean asks shyly.
John nods an affirmative and opens the rear door with an understanding smirk. The kid’s avoiding sitting on a sore bottom for the trek back to Pastor Jim’s. Can’t say he blames him. From experience John knows just a couple of swats from a switch will have that effect.
Dean creeps into the back seat on his knees. He plops down on his stomach and quickly settles for the ride back to an angry little brother.
John closes the back car door and maneuvers into the front seat. He slams the front door shut. As he turns the key in the ignition, he glances over his shoulder for a last check on his son before pulling out. The boy’s sprawled out across the back seat on his stomach. His eyes droop easing him towards dreamland.
John turns the radio to a Zed Zeppelin tune and throws the Chevy into drive.