What what? A spankfic? :O It's true, kids… I can pull one of these off once in a while, and Supernatural seems like the logical fandom in which to do so. It's not explicit in the show, but really, no way in hell did John NOT spank his kids. Midwest, eighties/nineties, Dad's an ex-Marine, and growing up under the circumstances they did? Trust me, those kids got their asses beat. Also, I was surprised that there are so many John-spanking-Dean fics and Dean-spanking-Sam fics on this site, but next to no John-spanking-Sam fics. For all their arguing—and the comment Sam makes in "Bugs" (something like "Dad never treated you like that… You were perfect")—I feel like Sam was constantly in trouble throughout his teenage years. Also he's way cuter than Dean and more vulnerable and fun to mess with. So, for your enjoyment, here's Sammy getting it from John. Peace.

Poltergeist

The drive home was forebodingly silent. Dean held perfectly still the whole way, clutching a makeshift shirt-rag bandage over his bleeding shoulder, one eye on his father. John's hands were tight on the steering wheel. He wasn't watching the road so much as glaring at it, and he was cruising at a good fifteen miles over the speed limit. He was like a ticking time bomb. Dean feared that the slightest noise from him or his brother would set the man off. Even Sam, who normally didn't know when to shut up, hadn't made a peep the whole drive. For all the stupidity he'd exhibited in the past two or three hours, at least the kid had enough sense to know when to stop digging his hole.

They pulled into the driveway of the small rental house. John was the first one out of the car. He caught Sam around the back of the neck and marched him up the porch and into the kitchen. Dean followed at a safe distance.

John held Sam at arm's length and looked him up and down. "You're sure you're not hurt?" he said.

"I'm fine," said Sam.

"Go to your room," said John. "Go on, get in there."

Dean sat at the table as Sam disappeared into the hall. John took the wad of bloodied cloth from Dean's shoulder and ordered him to remove his shirt as he gathered medical supplies. A thorough cleaning revealed a smooth, deep gash from the middle of Dean's shoulder to the back of his deltoid. John grimaced. "Bet that hurts like a bitch."

"Just a little," said Dean. In truth, he could barely move his arm for the feeling it would sever at the joint, but Sammy was in enough trouble already without John thinking Dean had been seriously wounded. "Honestly, Dad, just slap on some Neosporin and a band-aid. It's fine."

"Yeah, right," said John. He tilted his head back and forth, examining the wound. "Laceration," he said finally. "Gonna have to stitch it up."

"Is that really necess—"

"Yes."

John stuck Dean's shoulder a few times with a syringe. Dean winced, but after a moment, most of his upper arm was completely numb. John poked it with a finger, and when Dean assured him he couldn't feel a thing, he started in with a needle.

He worked in brooding silence. Dean could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. "Dad," he said. "Look, Dad, about Sammy…"

John's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.

"He's been pretty bent out of shape since school started, you know?" said Dean. "Just don't be too hard on him, okay?"

"Dean, he almost got himself killed," said John. "And you, and me, and every one of those damn kids he had to drag along." He allowed the needle to hover for a moment as he met his son's eyes. "Sorry, Dean, but he's gonna feel this one."

"He didn't mean to hurt anybody."

"Yeah," John grumbled. "That's half the problem."

Dean blinked. "Uh…"

John shook his head. "If he'd gone in there planning to kill something… well, I can't say I'd be thrilled, but at least he'da been armed, you know? He wasn't carrying so much as a grain of salt." Again, he paused in the needlework. "Haven't I told you two a hundred times, don't go anywhere without rock salt and holy water? They're two of the easiest damn things to carry. Won't nobody question you about a bag of salt and a bottle of water."

"I don't know, Dad. He doesn't take this spirit stuff as serious as you and me."

"Well, he'd better start taking it seriously," said John, his tone bordering on snappish. "Those things'll rip him to shreds, whether he believes in them or not."

Dean made no response.

After a few more minutes of stitching, John leaned back to survey his work. "Well, I ain't no seamstress, but that oughta hold up pretty good for you," he said. "Lucky the blade wasn't rusty. Still, we might want to get you in for a tetanus shot." He dabbed the thin seam with antibiotic gel and sealed it with a bandage. "Think you need a sling?"

"No, sir," said Dean. "I can keep it still."

"Hm," said John. "Maybe just to sleep with, then." He selected a bottle from the first-aid kit. "Take some morphine."

"Dad, really, it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"That's the anesthetic." John got to his feet. "Take some drugs and go lie down."

Dean sighed. "Yes, sir."

Dean downed a couple of pills and trudged into the living room to flop on the couch. John waited long enough to assure himself Dean was okay before allowing his thoughts to return to Sam. He'd watched the knife shoot across the room, had seen the gush of blood before he noted which part of his son it cut. He had felt, for one horrible, fleeting moment, a wrench in his gut as he anticipated the worst. Dean had grabbed his own arm, wincing, and everything had been all right. But that wasn't the only close call, and anyway, if John hadn't been listening to the police scanner when they reported screams coming from the mansion, he wouldn't have been there at all. Sam would have been all alone, defenseless, up against a very ill-tempered poltergeist.

The very thought sent a violent shiver through John's body, and he steeled himself. He was relieved to have both his boys back in one piece, but this should never have happened. It could never happen again. He had to make sure of that. He ran his fingers through his hair.

Time to deal with Son Number Two.

Sam was perched on the edge of his bed, watching his fingers weave in and out of one another, when John came in. He stopped fidgeting for a moment but otherwise made no indication he'd noticed his father.

Dean considered the boy. He was tall for his age, but still pretty scrawny. Dean had peaked in height his sophomore year of high school, but at fifteen, Sam had yet to be blessed with a growth spurt of his own. He looked particularly small huddled over himself on the bed, hands clasped, head bowed. He was still just a child. It was so easy to forget.

John folded his arms over his chest. "You wanna tell me what that was all about?"

Sam raised one shoulder and let it fall.

"Let me rephrase that," said John. "What in the name of all that is good and holy could have possessed you to lead a group of kids into a haunted house without so much as the salt on a potato chip to defend yourself?"

Sam shrugged again.

"Am I talking to a wall?" said John.

Sam looked up, and John was taken aback by his expression. Everything about his posture was penitent and resigned, but his eyes, deep brown things staring out at him from under a furrowed brow, were screaming defiance. Even as he awaited punishment, Sam was going to fight.

"Answer me when I speak to you," said John.

"Sorry." Sam's voice was level.

"How many times have I told you to carry salt and holy water wherever you go?" said John.

Sam started to shrug again, but at a look from John, he reconsidered. "I don't know," he said. "A lot."

"But hell, what do I know. I've just been doing this for fifteen years. I'm sure you know plenty more than me, is that right?"

"Sorry."

John licked his teeth. "Sam," he said. "You had to know there was something weird going on in that mansion. Why the hell did you go in?"

Sam made a face. He looked at his hands. "They dared me to."

John raised his eyebrows. "Who, those other kids?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that's it? You risked your life on a hare-brained dare?"

"They thought I was too chicken," said Sam. "They said if I believed the stories, I was a baby. So I had to prove them wrong."

John floundered for a moment, lost for words. When he did speak again, his voice was thunderous. "Boy, are you out of your goddamn mind? Like hell you had to prove them wrong! What you had to do was get them as far away from that house as humanly possible, not walk them through the front door!"

At this, Sam's head shot up. His eyes were narrowed in anger. "I had to get them away? Dad, do you really think they would have listened?"

"You could have tried, at least!"

"Who says I didn't? Those kids don't like me, Dad. They think I'm some kind of sissy. I told them it wasn't a good idea, and they just laughed. What was I supposed to do, say my dad hunts demons for a living and they should believe every little ghost story they hear because, guess what, they might be true?"

"That's exactly what you were supposed to do, Sammy."

"Dad, no offense, but screw that!" Sam's hands balled into fists on his comforter. "I know you don't give a shit what people think about you, but high school isn't that easy. I have to see these people every single day, and it's a hell of a lot easier to cope when they don't think I'm some kind of freaking whack job. I go through the same damn thing every freaking month, and you know what, Dad, maybe I'm sick of it. Maybe I'm tired of people looking at me like they're scared I'm gonna go all Carrie on them. Maybe I just want to be normal, for once."

"Knock off the drama, Sam," said John. "You're not normal, and that's just the way it is."

"That's bullshit. Just 'cause you're obsessed with this demon thing doesn't mean I have to be."

"Boy—!" John took a menacing step forward, and Sam shrank back. John stopped. He ran a hand over his face and forced himself to take a series of slow, calming breaths. Why was everything so much harder with Sam? When Dean was in trouble, he sat through his lecture with a yes sir, I'm sorry, no sir, I won't do it again, and he took his punishment, and that was that. With Sam, there was always this argument, this back-and-forth that made a small part of John reconsider his anger, but mostly made him irritated that his son was talking back to him in the first place. This wasn't a discussion. Sam had done something irreparably stupid, and John had to make sure it didn't happen again.

"Look, Sam," said John, fighting to keep his temper under control. "Whether or not you could have talked those kids out of it, the fact is that you went in. You knew exactly what was in there, and you went in anyway. You could have called me or your brother, you could have at least gotten a weapon, or you could have walked away. But you didn't."

"But those kids would've—"

"Sammy, I don't give a damn if those kids woulda laughed at you," said John. "Really, I don't. I know it seems hard, but if staying alive means you're the laughingstock of the school for, what, three weeks? That sounds entirely reasonable to me, and if you disagree, well frankly, Sammy, I don't care. You know more about what goes on in this world than ninety percent of the population, and you threw all of that out the window tonight just to make yourself a shade more popular with some gang of hooligans you're never even going to see again. That infuriates me, Sammy, it really does."

Sam glared at the floorboards. "You don't understand."

"Of course not," said John. "Cause I'm the big bad dad who has to rain on everyone's parade. Because all I do every day is hunt spirits and demons and monsters, while you're slaving away trying to survive high school. No, there's no way I could possibly understand. God knows I've never seen anything like the kind of hell you're going through."

Sam said nothing.

"Other kids get to choose whether they want to believe in monsters," said John. "You, my boy, do not have that luxury. It's not the way I wanted it, believe me. I'd give anything to be able to leave you home alone without fearing every second for your safety. But I know what's out there, and so do you. And you're never gonna get away from that, Sammy, so the best thing you can do is protect yourself. You have to protect yourself. And you have to protect other people, even if they hate you for it. Even if they think you're crazy. Do you understand me?"

Sam's nostrils flared slightly, and he didn't lift his gaze, but he responded with a sullen, "Yes, sir."

They both fell silent. For several seconds, the only sound was the muted voices on the television two rooms over. Finally, John said, "Is there anything else I should know about?"

Sam didn't look up. "No, sir."

John nodded. He stalled another moment or two, checking and double-checking to make sure he wasn't acting in anger. It was so hard to read this kid, to know whether he was afraid or just sulking, and John had a feeling that if he ever were to lash out in anger, Sam would quite possibly be traumatized for life.

As confident as he was going to get that he had his emotions under control, John reached down to undo his belt. "All right," he said. He slid the belt out of its loops and folded it in half. "Come here."

Sam's pulse quickened in spite of him at the sight of his father's belt. It didn't come out except under very serious circumstances—like the time he and Dean had forgotten to salt the doors and windows for three days while John was gone. Sam winced at the memory. That had been almost four years ago, but he didn't think he'd ever forget the look on his father's face when he realized any manner of dark creature could have waltzed right in on his unprotected sons. The sting of the belt had reinforced that particular lesson, and it was about to do so again.

Sam eased himself off the bed, dragging his feet to where his father stood. It was, perhaps, the result of seriously wishful thinking, but he waited for the command ("Bend over, Sammy,") before he turned to face the foot of the bed and lowered himself, grudgingly, over the frame.

"Count 'em off," said John.

Sam clenched his teeth and squeezed the comforter with both hands.

The loud snap of the first stroke echoed in the small room. It was more shock than anything that made Sam hiss through his teeth and hunch himself further over the mattress. "One, sir."

John waited a couple of seconds to let the first stroke sink in. Just as it was beginning to prickle, he landed another.

"Two, sir."

The next few were low, closer to Sam's thighs. They were starting to sting. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he counted. "Three, sir. Four, sir. Ah… f-five, sir." His backside was heating up quickly, and each stroke was getting to be more painful than the last. "Six, sir. Ah. Seven, sir. Ow… eh… eight, sir."

Sam was breathing heavily, and John paused to let him collect himself. When he started in again, he picked up his pace and began to swing just a little harder.

"Nine, sir. Ah! T-ten—ow! Eh… ele… A-how!"

"Count it, Sammy. Eleven."

Sam grunted into the comforter. His father wanted to hear each number aloud, whether it matched the stroke count or not.

"Ow!"

"Eleven, Sammy."

"Eh… el… eleven… s-sir—ow! T-t-twelve, sir—ah! Thir… ah, thirt, thirt… a-huh…" Sam felt the tears starting to dampen his blanket, and his breathing was getting short. "A-huh… a-huh… th-th-thirteen… s-sir."

"Easy, boy," said John, and he put a hand on the small of Sam's back. "Almost there." He took another moment to adjust his grip on the belt.

"Ah. F-fourteen, sir. A-how. F-fifteen, sir. Ow. A-huh. Suh… s-s-sixteen, sir. Ah-oww. S-seventeen, sir. Oww. A-huh… eight… eighteen, s-sir. Mph. N-nineteen, sir… Mph… ow… a-howw… tuh… twenty, sir."

John took a step back, and as Sam released a few choking sobs into the comforter, he threaded the belt back into place.

Sam forced his jaw to stop trembling. He brought a fist forward to wipe the tears out of his eyes. His backside was burning, but already some of the heat had started to subside. He swallowed hard a couple of times, took a shaky breath, and pushed himself to a standing position.

"You all right?" said John.

"Mm… mm-hm."

"Sammy, look at me."

Sam turned slowly around but kept his eyes trained on the floor. John stepped in front of him and took his chin in one strong hand. He tilted the boy's face upward. "Look at me, Sam."

Sam allowed his eyes, red-rimmed and bleary, to meet his father's.

"Boy, you know I love you more than anything," said John. "There is nothing in this world I wouldn't do to keep you safe. You hear me? Nothing. You, me, and your brother, we're all we have. Now I know you and I don't always get along, but what about your brother, Sammy? What do you think would happen if he lost you?"

Sam sniffled once. His lip quivered.

"He couldn't stand it," said John. "Neither could I. You mean too much to both of us. And I'll do everything I can to protect you, but I'm not always going to be around. So you've got to protect yourself. Do you understand me, Sammy? You can't be so reckless. You have to keep yourself alive. If for no one else, then for Dean. He'd be lost without you, Sam, and he'll tell you so himself. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded. He sniffed. "Yes, sir."

John released his chin. He took both of Sam's shoulders and pulled him forward. "Come here," he said, and he wrapped the boy in a tight embrace.

Sam buried his face in his father's denim shirt. It smelled like cigarettes, a hint of leather, and the unique scent that belonged entirely to John. Sam took a shuddering breath and held his father tight. For all that they fought, Sam could never deny that this was the safest place he could imagine—snug in his father's arms. He held on until John put a hand on the back of his head and pulled gently away. The look in his eyes was not unkind.

"You scared the both of us half to death," he said. "You almost got yourself killed. Don't ever do that again, Sammy, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

John rubbed the back of Sam's head. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. You go on to bed. You got school in the morning."

Sam nodded. John afforded him a half-smile, tousled his hair, and left the room.

Sam immediately took advantage of his privacy to rub out the rest of the sting. It still burned, and he knew he'd feel a residual tingle in the morning, but it wasn't exactly pain. Pain was having a hole clawed in your side, or spraining your knee, or getting your head bashed into a wall. A whipping just hurt. Sure, it stung like crazy, but it healed on its own, and in a relatively short span of time. Besides, even if he couldn't sit stoically before his father and rattle off his offenses, the way Dean could, Sam knew he deserved what he'd gotten. He had been reckless… and maybe he did put too much store in what the other kids thought of him.

Dean and John had both been there when the demon attacked all those years ago. They knew what they were fighting for, and that obsession was enough to drive them forward. Sam didn't have that. Despite what his father said, he was normal—more normal than the two of them, anyway. Too normal for ghost hunting. He could hardly be blamed for forgetting, now and then, why they had to live the way they did. It wasn't his fight, after all.

He changed out of his clothes, wincing as he pulled the fabric over his sore skin, and he crawled into bed. He put a hand back and rubbed some more, but it wasn't helping at this point. He sighed. Whether or not it was his fight, his father was right. Nothing could change the fact that he knew about the evil that was out there, and pretending it didn't exist wouldn't stop it from attacking him. Getting himself killed would only make John and Dean hurt that much more. And no matter what he felt about his father, he could never do that to Dean.

As if on cue, the bedroom door creaked open, and Dean edged his way inside. He was quiet as he groped in the dark for his bed, one arm wrapped in a sling and bound to his chest.

"Dean?"

Dean turned his head. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean turned down the covers and slid himself into bed. "Yeah, you better be. You had us scared shitless."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"How're you feeling?"

"It's not so bad."

Dean chuckled. "Sure," he said. "I bet you flashed those puppy-dog eyes and Dad just melted, right?"

"Shut up."

They were silent for a minute before Sam spoke up again.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"…I really am sorry."

"I know you are, Sam." Dean rolled over to look at his brother across the room. "Just promise me you won't do something like that ever again."

"Yeah, Dean," said Sam. He watched his brother with wide eyes, and he spoke in a voice more earnest than was common for him. "I promise."

The end.