Title: Crying over Spilt Milk
Author: Wildblueyonder6
Characters: Sam, Dean and John
Summary: This was due to a prompt, first word, Crash, Last word Housewife– Just our boys getting in a little altercation – Winchesters-style. Parental spanking, please don't read if it offends you. Not getting paid.
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Crash!
John lifted his head from his newspaper and glanced toward the kitchen. It sounded like boy hitting table and because it was followed by a yelp it was probably Sam.
"Boys." It was just loud enough to project into the kitchen, laced with just enough warning to know he meant business.
A hushed, "Shit," followed by a scramble of chairs and bodies and then blissful quiet.
John straightened his paper with a purposeful snap and leaned back into the chair. For all intents and purposes, he was an average dad just relaxing after a hard day at work. There was some validity to that; he had limped his way in at 0540 with only a bruised hip to show for his troubles with an enraged ghost of a 30-year-old housewife. John smirked quietly to himself; he had got his ass kicked by a girl. But in the end he had prevailed with only the telltale mottled bruising running up his hip. Not too bad by all accounts and then this.
"It's all your fault, dickweasle," That was Dean.
"Me? You're the one who won't leave my stuff alone. " Although John couldn't see his youngest's face, he was sure there were pursed lips and furrowed brows.
"You got your damn crap all over the kitchen, Sam. How 'm I supposed to make lunch when it looks like Mr. Wizard just took a dump on the counter?"
"It took me four weeks to make that project! It's not my fault you have no educational aspirations."
"How about you aspirate this glass of milk?" There was another scuffle, the scramble of sneakered feet on the linoleum and what sounded suspiciously like the gurgle and spit of his youngest choking on the end of their milk supply.
John sighed. Sending both boys to school with whupped asses was not in his game plan today. First, John knew he could tan some Winchester hide, which meant neither boy would be sitting well all through school. Not that John cared particularly about the welfare of his boys butts, but more this school was full of hoity toity nosey bitches who would like nothing better than call him down to the office. And there was very little chance that even stoic Dean could sit without squirming after getting his ass roasted by John. Secondly, his heart just wasn't in it. He was tired and his hip hurt. He dropped the paper on the couch, slowly stood and rolled his shoulders.
His right hand felt okay though.
He didn't move to the kitchen though, yet.
"DEAN LOOK AT MY PROJECT," There was the telltale sound of fist on face and that was the determining factor.
John walked the three steps into the kitchen to find Dean covering his nose as it trickled blood on the cracked linoleum. Sam was covered in milk as well as the project he had worked on. The kitchen table was upended and while was probably serviceable, looked rougher than it had at 0540.
Both boys had the Holy Shit look reserved for when John decided to step into their fights.
Sam was closer. John reached over, grabbed the kid by his shirt and although it hurt his hip like hell balanced the boy over his leg using a chair to lean on and offered a flurry of swats to his upturned denim covered ass. Sam howled at the indignity of it, but did nothing to get away. Which was good, 'cause John was not chasing his skinny ass all over the house. He dropped him with a thud and then turned on his oldest.
"Dad!" Dean held his hand out placatingly; the other was still trying to stop the gush of blood from his nose.
John ignored him, took a quick look at a possible spanking site and pulled the boy to the counter, tipped him over it and replayed the same hand to ass action he had just given Sammy.
He released Dean with a shake and then looked around the kitchen.
"You two, clean this shit up. Now. You have 10 minutes to get your asses out of this house and on your way to school. Get this kitchen squared away and Sam… "John glared hard at Sam. "That means dressed in a clean shirt too."
He stalked back into the living room and eased his sore hip down on the couch.
He could hear the whispered whines and complaints of both boys as they went about hurriedly cleaning the kitchen.
In less then ten minutes they sulked their way past John. Sam in a clean shirt, clutching his slightly milky project. Dean shuffling with his head down, a deep blush on his face but all trace of blood removed from his nose.
The door shut quietly with barely a click.
John decided raising two boys might be harder than fighting a pissed off housewife.