Lady M (lady_m_319) wrote,
Lady M


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.



John navigates the Impala into a parking space in front of the walkway to the pastor’s rectory.


Jim descends the path hoping to have a quick moment alone with John before he goes in to check on his youngest.


“Dean. We’re here. Get up and help with the bags.” John commands towards his lifeless son.


John tosses the trunk keys to Jim as he pulls open the back door.


Dean lies on his stomach still as a corpse.


“DEAN, move it.” No response.


John reaches into the back of the Impala. With both his hands he grabs Dean around the waist and slides him off the seat and onto his feet. He’s limp like a rag doll. With one arm John securely holds the boy around the waist bracing Dean’s back up against his father’s chest. He gently pats his son’s dimpled cheek with the back of his hand.


“Stop it, Sam.  I’ll pound you.” Dean flops his head side to side.


“It’s your father, Dean. Open your eyes.”


Reality sets in. Dean opens his eyes.


“Son, are you okay? Your cheek feels warm. The back of your shirt is damp.” John reaches up to feel Dean’s forehead. “You might have a fever. Take your bag inside. I’ll bring the first aid kit,” John instructs as he moves towards the trunk of the car.


Pastor Jim stands with his arms crossed waiting to speak with John. “I suspect you already had one of your talks with Dean,” Pastor Jim gives a knowing nod to the implement sitting on the top of the bags in the trunk.


“Preacher, are you questioning my parenting?”


“No. Not my place.”


“Ha, like you never have an opinion.”


“I humbly give counsel where counsel is due.” Jim brings his open palms together in front of his chest. He bows slightly forward. He gives his old friend a superior grin.


John smirks and shakes his head disapprovingly.


“I thought we should talk before you go in, though. When I found Sam tied up in the woods, I found one of Dean’s shirts rolled up on the ground. There was dried blood all down one sleeve. About five feet away there was a single bow arrow stuck in a tree trunk about four feet high off the ground. How do you suppose that got there?” Jim ponders out loud.


“Are you trying to tell me something, Jim?”


“Just making sure you have all the facts before we go in.”


The two men grab the bags and make their way up the walk. Dean sluggishly enters the house about twenty yards ahead of them. They hear a loud crash of falling furniture. They move quickly towards the door. John enters the doorway first. 


Dean’s spread eagle on his back on the cold floor in the huge kitchen. His legs tangled in a fallen old fashioned style kitchen chair.


An angry Sam lies on top of him. Sam punches his brother as Dean tries to cover his face from the onslaught.


Dean’s in protective mode. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam so he covers-up and waits until the runt tires himself out.


John drops the bags he’s carrying. In one swift motion he reaches under Sam and lifts him off his brother.


“Oh, did I mention Sam’s still mad as a hornet’s nest?” Jim adds somewhat teasingly.


“Good to know!” John shoots back sarcastically, still holding a flailing, irate Sam.


With his free arm, John straightens a toppled chair. He forcefully deposits Sam onto the seat of the chair. He barks, “Stay put!”


Sam slides forward on the huge seat with intentions of resuming his attack on Dean.


John turns abruptly.  He leans his face down directly in front of his youngest son. Using his stern, controlled, military voice he advises his second born, “You move from this spot and I guarantee you, you won’t be using a chair for at least a week.”


With a huff, Sam crosses his arms over his chest in defeat.


John looks up to see Jim grinning at him.  “This is going well,” Jim needles.


In response, John purses his lips. He’ll save his choice words for his old friend when the younger ears aren’t listening.


Pastor Jim helps Dean off the floor onto his feet.


John stands half way between his two sons. He focuses his attention towards Dean. “Dean, take off your shirts,” he commands.


Dean takes a step back, leaning against Pastor Jim’s legs. His mind works quickly.


“Are you going to beat me?” Dean asks with innocence and sincerity.


John can’t believe Dean just asked him that. His punishment of choice for the boys is a good firm spanking but he would never harm them, never beat them. He bends down on one knee. He’s eye level with the child.  “Dean, I have never beaten you or your brother and I never will. Why would you ask that?”


“You told me to take off my shirts and you brought that in from the car with you,” Dean glances towards the switch lying on top of the dropped bags.


John stares at Dean in disbelief. Then, he thinks he sees it. Yes, it’s there; a slight sparkle in the young green eyes; a minute twitch in the cheek bones; an ever so slight upward curve at the ends of his manipulative son’s mouth.


John drops his head forward to rest his chin on his chest so his grin can pass undetected. The kid’s good but John’s better. He raises a stern face off his chest. He stands up straight to his full height. John’s glaring eyes point towards the con artist standing in front of Pastor Jim.


“I better see some skin pretty quick or somebody’s sorry little butt is going to be taking another trip over my knee,” John raises both eyebrows questioningly at Dean.


“John!” Pastor Jim admonishes, surprised at John’s insensitive response to his son’s heart felt question.


“Jim, my friend, we’re being conned here by a ten-year-old.”


Dean forms a sly grin. He gives a quick flinch of the eyebrows. His gaze settles on his father’s disapproving expression.


“Shit.” Dean spits out as he steps forward away from Pastor Jim.


“Language.” John and Pastor Jim reprimand together.


“Oookaay,” Dean grits out. Why does his dad have to be so smart all the time? He raises his two arms in the air. He unsuccessfully attempts to remove both shirts over his head at the same time.


“Shouldn’ta gone for the two-fer,” Dean grumbles. His arms are awkwardly stuck inside his partially removed shirts.


“Oh, shit.” The struggling causes a sharp shooting pain in his injured arm. Dean hopes gravity will help remove the shirts as he bends forward at the waist. He twists and pulls, hands aimed towards the floor.


John quickly steps forward. From behind Dean, a firm swat lands on his already tender butt.


“Ow! Hey!” Dean spins away from the unexpected swat trying to avoid a second. He’s disoriented slightly with his head trapped inside the stuck shirts. He thought his dad was at the other end of the kitchen.


“Dean, you were told to watch your language,” John scolds. “If I have to speak to you again we’ll be taking a trip up to the bathroom to give that mouth of yours a good soaping.”


“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Dean finally frees his head and arms from his shirts. That last swat reignited the intense sting in his bottom. He gives his butt a gentle rub.


“Dean, what do you mean your father beats you and what is a two-fer?” The Reverend asks concernedly.


“Son, are you going to set the good pastor straight or should I?” John challenges.


Dean shrugs his left shoulder as he slightly tilts his head to the left.


“My eldest here,” John levels a hard glance towards Dean, “tried playing on our sympathies. His scheme was to get himself and his little brother out of any punishment that might result from our discussion. The two-fer my creative offspring speaks of is his attempt to also get the newly acquired switch thrown out of the equation.”


“So Dean doesn’t really think you beat the boys? It was a con, a ploy to get himself and his brother out of a spanking?” Pastor Jim shakes his head disapprovingly.


“It’s time to get to the bottom of this charade,” John states sternly. He pulls a chair out from under the kitchen table. He sits down.


“Dean, come here. Let me see your arm?”


Dean shows his father the arm which was hidden under two layers of shirts. It’s wrapped in grey duct tape. Under the tape is a dirty piece of cloth used to stop the bleeding. Pieces of grass and gravel stick to the adhesive and the bicep.


Pastor Jim reaches into a kitchen draw. He hands the scowling father a pair of scissors.


John works at removing the make shift bandage. He finishes cutting away the duct tape and slowly peels away the grimy rag to expose the wound. He feels Dean’s damp forehead.


“No wonder you’re running a fever. This needs to be cleaned out properly. You know better than this,” John rebukes.


Pastor Jim opens another kitchen drawer. He removes the two items he had retrieved when he found Sam. With one hand he holds up the bow arrow he had found lodged in a nearby tree. He pointedly places it on the kitchen table for all to see. With both hands he holds up the second item from the woods, Dean’s bloody t-shirt. He places it next to the arrow.


John glances at Sam who is pushed back on the chair as far as he can sit. His feet are flat on the seat. His bent knees are braced against his chest.


“Anyone care to explain these?” John inquires gesturing towards the items on the table.


Sam clamps both hands over his mouth in an act of panic.


Dean shifts his feet and pays close attention to his shoe laces.


“Well, boys?” John sternly demands.


Dean raises his head. He opens his mouth to begin.


John knowingly cuts his eldest off, “And if I get anything but the truth that person is going to find themselves face down over my knee for a bout with that switch.”


Dean bites his bottom lip. He glances over at Sam huddled in the large chair. He begins his internal debate. He’s supposed to protect Sammy, always. He didn’t do a good job of keeping him safe when he left him tied to a tree. But the runt did shoot him with an arrow. But he is his little brother. He doesn’t want to throw the kid under the dad bus but he really doesn’t want to go another round over his father’s knee with that painful branch. Like his dad said. He didn’t care for it, much. He unconsciously rubs his sore butt. Dean takes in a deep breath to prepare to speak.


“I DID IT! I SHOT THE BOW.” Sam yells as he starts to cry. “Please don’t beat me with the stick.”


“Crap!  I’m not beating anyone with the stick,” John sharply answers in frustration.


Pastor Jim snickers.


“You’re not helping,” John glares at his friend.


“I guess bringing that switch into the house wasn’t your best decision.”


John’s stern glare states clearly that the good pastor’s interference is not welcomed. He refocuses his attention to the task at hand.


“Samuel, front and center.” John commands purposefully.


Sam cautiously slides forward on the chair. He eases his feet down to the floor.


“John, why don’t I take Dean upstairs to finish cleaning out his wound?” Pastor Jim offers as he places his hands on Dean’s shoulder. He turns him towards the stairs.


“Good idea. Sam and I need to talk.”


Pastor Jim gathers the first aid kit into his left hand. He motions for Dean to go ahead of him up the stairs.


Dean gives his brother a sympathetic look and climbs the stairs.


“I’ll just take this with me.” Pastor Jim steps back to pick up the much discussed piece of wood. He grabs it in his left hand along with the first aid kit.


“Not very trusting for a man of the cloth,” John grumbles after the pastor.


Pastor Jim waves his right hand over his shoulder in response to John’s taunting. He follows Dean up the stairs. They turn the corner at the top of the stairs to enter the bathroom. The door clicks loudly as it closes behind them.


“Samuel, report.”


“Can Dean come back and stay with me?” Sam asks worriedly looking towards the stairs. His eyes fill with tears. Sam’s rarely left alone to give the report or to explain anything to his father. Dean’s the oldest. He’s in charge. He gives the report. He’s always responsible even when Sam’s the one to mess up. Sam needs his big brother, now.


“Sam, look at me. You want your brother to have his arm taken care of, right?”


Sam turns his attention to his father. He apprehensively nods his head forward.


“Then you need to be a big boy and report in his absence. Can you do that?”


Sam slowly nods an affirmative but he doesn’t start.


“Sam, you said you did it. What did you do?” John patiently prods his six-year-old.


“I want Dean,” Sam whines.


“Samuel Winchester, enough. Dean is not coming back. Stand at attention. Report this minute,” John orders relinquishing his remaining patience.


Sam recognizes the unflinching marine tone and knows his father means business. He wipes his eyes with his fists. He straightens his posture. He takes in a gasp of air.


“You said I was too little to bow hunt. You made me mad.”


“Go on.” John needs his youngest to stay focused. He’ll voice his disapproval soon enough.


“Dean and me, we were playing cowboys and in’gins in the woods. We had a whole bag of supplies.” Sam enthusiastically adds, “We had rope and tape and matches and sling shots and real knives and even rags for masks but I needed a bow.” He hesitates. “You said I was too little but I’m not too little to use a bow. I’m not.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest.


John disapprovingly raises his eyebrows at his petulant son. He waits.


Sam lowers his arms.


“Continue,” John instructs.


“I took one of your bows into the woods. I was the chief. I had to have a bow. When we got into the woods I showed Dean the bow. He got mad. He was yelling at me. It slipped and shot him in the arm. He was bleeding a whole lot. He used the rag and grey tape to stop the bleeding. I said you wouldn’t take him training ‘cause he was hurt. I could go and not him. But he wanted to go. He tied me to the tree. He taped my mouth so I wouldn’t tell. Dean left me.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest as he remembers he’s angry with his big brother.


“Then what happened?”


“Pastor Jim came and got me.”


“Is that it?”


‘I peed in my pants,” Sam whispers. “And a bird pooped on my head,” he adds with a scowl.


“Sam, what did you do that was naughty?”  John needs to keep his six-year-old focused.


“Nut’in,” Sam shrugs and drops his gaze to his feet.


“Samuel look at me.” John raises the child’s chin until their eyes meet. “You need to tell me what you did wrong that you are going to be punished for.”


“Nut’in,” Sam repeats.


“Wrong answer. You can think about the right answer, young man, while you log some corner time. Move it.” John pivots Sam towards the wall adjacent to the stairway. He plants a firm swat to Sam’s bottom as his stubborn son takes his position in the corner.




“Stay put. I’ll be back for your answer.” John strides with purpose out to the Impala. He needs to retrieve the weapons for cleaning. After absorbing Sam’s story he also needs to take a minute to calm himself before punishing his youngest.


Pastor Jim reappears in the kitchen. Eyeing the exiled child, he inquires, “Sam, are you okay?”


“No! Daddy’s a big meanie.”


“Not too thrilled with your time out, I see. How long you in for?” Pastor Jim pulls a chair over so he can sit close to Sam.


“Daddy says I was naughty, but I wasn’t. I have t’a stay in the stupid corner ‘til he tells me.”


“You don’t think taking the bow and shooting your brother was naughty?”


“No. They left me here all by myself. They made me mad.”


“You weren’t by yourself. You were with me. Sam, it’s okay to be angry or unhappy but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow your daddy’s rules. You could have hurt yourself or really hurt Dean with the crossbow. Your daddy makes rules to keep you and your brother safe. You don’t have to like the rules, but you have to follow them. You’re being naughty when you don’t follow the rules.”


In deep thought, Sam unconsciously kicks the floor board in front of him.


John leans on the door frame. He’s heard most of Pastor Jim’s and Sam’s conversation.


“How’s Dean?” John inquires from across the room.


“The gash dried around the rag he taped to his arm. I stuck him in the tub to bring down the fever and to open up the wound. Once it’s clean, I think he’ll be okay. And by the way, nice handy work on that caboose of Dean’s. It looks like there’s two Japanese flags floating in my bathtub water.”


“I don’t want to have to teach the same lesson twice. Means I didn’t do it right the first time. It’s not good for the boys,” John uncharacteristically justifies.


Pastor Jim nods. Whether you agree with John Winchester or not, you have to admire him for his dedication to his sons, and his belief in his convictions.


“Sam, you have anything you want to tell me?” John encourages.


Sam glances up at Pastor Jim.


Jim nods approving encouragement at the youngster.


Sam turns towards his father. “I was naughty,” Sam whispers.


“It’s time for me to check on Dean.” Pastor Jim gets up. He gives John a confident sympathetic nod. He walks up the stairs content that his family counseling skills even work on the Winchesters.


John sits down on the chair close to Sam that Pastor Jim vacated.


“Samuel, are you ready to tell me why you should be punished?”


Sam stares down at his feet and nods slowly, yes.


“I can’t hear you.” John states firmly.


“Yes, sir.”


“Come here.” John points to a spot on the bare floor directly in front of his knees.


Sam turns. He reconsiders. He moves with apprehension to the designated position. He rubs his sweaty palms on the sides of his pants. He crosses his arms over his chest. Not in defiance but for comfort.


“What did you do that was naughty?” John asks for the second time tonight.


“I took the crossbow without asking.”




“I shot Dean.” Sam looks at his father’s face for approval of his confession.


“Sam you know you’re forbidden from touching any weapons unless I am with you. They are dangerous when not handled properly,” John states in a stern tone.


“Yes, sir,” Sam shuffles uncomfortably.


“You see how someone can get hurt when you use the weapons as toys.”


“Yes, sir.”


“I’m going to punish you for acting naughty.” John reaches forward to hook his fingers into the front of Sam’s waistband. He tugs the youngster forward between his thighs. He unbuttons and unzips Sam’s pants.


Sam stands frozen in place.


John reaches his large hands around his son’s small chest. He lifts him off the floor.


“I don’t want a spank’in,” Sam kicks his legs.


“I know kiddo, but you need to be punished so settle down.” John swings the boy’s legs to the outside of his right thigh. He eases the flailing six-year-old’s body over his lap.


Sam rests his forearms on his father’s left thigh. He scissor kicks his legs up and down.


John lays his left hand over the small of his son’s back to balance him in place. He pats the boy’s butt twice, “I said, settle down,” John tightly reiterates. He slides his right hand around the waistband of Sam’s jeans and underpants. He pulls them below the clenched buttocks.


“I’m going to spank you now, son.”


Sam whimpers softly. He lowers his head. He cups his face in his open palms resting on his father’s left thigh. He sniffles. He nods his understanding.


John accepts the silent acknowledgement. He purses his lips and looks down at the snow white butt presented over his knee. He lands the first swat causing Sam’s body to jump. His large hand impacts almost the entire small bottom bringing a pink blush to the surface.


John repositions his left arm across Sam’s back to pull him in securely against his stomach and upper thighs. He doesn’t want his baby to slide off or for a spank to miss his target.


John continues with rhythmic swats to the fleshiest part of his son’s buttocks.


Sam removes his hands from the front of his face and braces himself against his father’s thighs. He squirms as the heat builds in his rear-end. He cries out.


John moves his attention to the sensitive sit spots with numerous firm spanks.


Sam yelps. He breathes heavily with intermittent gasps. The sobs catch in his throat. Two more swats to his behind and the sobs escape.  His butt stings like he’s never felt before. It’s fire engine red in color and radiating heat.


“’m s…sorry. ’m s…sorry, daddy.”


John pauses so he can hear his son.


“I won’t play with the weapons…ever again.” Sam blubbers.


John lets out a huff of air through his nose at the ‘ever again’ comment. At least he can make sure it won’t be in the near future. Sam needs this punishment to deter him from any future thoughts of treating the weapons as toys. It’s too dangerous. John needs to keep his boys safe. He steels his heart. He inhales deeply.


“Okay, Samuel. We’re almost done.” John finishes with five firm memorable swats to the tender bottom.


“YEOUCH!” Sam resoundingly yells. He’s exhausted. He lays limp over his father’s lap. His crying is audible and uncontrolled.


John rubs his wailing son’s back. He understands this was a hard but necessary lesson for his six-year-old to learn. It was a hard lesson for John to teach. But he needs to be prepared which means keeping the weapons readily available. Their accessibility could be critical to the boys’ safety. He needs to know the same accessibility won’t cause harm to the boys. Teaching his youngest that weapons aren’t toys gives John that reassurance. John slides his warm right hand under the back of Sam’s shirt. He gently rubs the youngster’s tense back muscles.


Sam coughs.


John pats his baby’s bare back. He massages his child’s neck muscles.  John slides Sam into his arms and rests the youth’s head on his shoulder.


Sam’s arms lay limp against his father’s chest. He rubs his wet eyes and runny nose on the soft flannel covered shoulder.


“Thanks for that, son,” John smirks as he continues to pat and rub Sam’s back.


Sam’s body relaxes and snuggles against his daddy’s comforting embrace. His face nestles into his father’s scratchy neck. He gasps for air twice. He expels a long quieting sigh. He turns his face away from his father’s neck and settles quietly.


John gives his chastised son a few moments to calm himself.


“You ready to sit on my lap?” John whispers towards Sam. He pats his back twice.


John feels Sam rub his cheek against his shoulder in an affirmative motion. He shifts Sam to a comfortable sitting position in his lap, balancing the child so his butt doesn’t suffer unnecessary pressure. He wraps both arms around his son’s shoulders and pulls him tight to his chest. He unconsciously moves their bodies in a soothing rocking motion.


“It’s gotten quiet down there. Is Sam still alive?” Pastor Jim questions from the top of the stairs.


“Just finishing up. How’s the arm?”


“The resident prune and I will be down shortly,” Pastor Jim advises light heartedly.


Sam giggles at the prune comment. He lifts his head off his daddy’s chest.


“Dean is pruney,” Sam mocks.


“Sam, what are you going to say to your brother when he comes down?” John softly inquires.


Sam purses his lips together. He scrunches his tear streaked face in deep thought.


“Ummm…sorry?” Sam asks looking hopefully up at his father’s face for confirmation.


John smiles and nods at the wide wet eyed, grinning face of his youngest son who sits on his lap. He embraces the boy securely against his warm body.


Pastor Jim enters the kitchen.


Dean follows tentatively three steps behind.


Sam glances questioningly up at his father.


John nods his approval.


Sam eases off John’s lap to run to Dean. He throws his arms around his big brother’s waist for a hug.


“Your arm?” Sam asks surprised. He points at the large fresh bandage covering Dean’s forearm.


“It’s okay. Pastor Jim fixed me up. You okay?” Dean asks apprehensively.


Sam crooks his finger for Dean to lean down to his level. “My heinie hurts,” Sam shares the information as if it’s a secret.


Dean grins knowingly, “Mine too, squirt. No more playing cowboys and Indian Chief for a while. You mad I left you in the woods?”


“No. You mad I shot you?” Sam asks concernedly.


“No, just don’t make a habit of it.” Dean quips.


“’kay, pruney,” Sam giggles.








The boys turn to their father.


“Dad, are you mad?” Dean asks cautiously.


John responds by opening his arms for a family hug.


“Anybody want to know if I’m mad?” Pastor Jim asks feeling slightly left out.


Three pairs of eyes sparkle at him. With similar smirks the three Winchester men all respond with a resounding, “No!”


“Hah. See if next time I come to the rescue of the Great Indian Chief.”


Together the four enjoy a moment of playful banter accompanied by relaxed






Tags: john spanks dean, john spanks sam, wee!chesters
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