Well, this is it; the chapter that I know several of you have been waiting for. Dean takes quite a harsh spanking for his misdeeds, but remember he did ask for this. If you don't like spankings, please don't read. I do believe that this was probably the John Winchester's form of discipline.

Thank you for all of the reviews; please keep them coming if you like the story.

Chapter 10: The Winchester Paddle

The Winchester Paddle was a legend in its own right. Hand-carved out of solid hickory wood by a great-great-great grandfather Winchester, the paddle had been used for ages to keep unruly and stubborn Winchester boys in line. This paddle was passed from father to son upon the birth of another generation of Winchester boys, it was only used on male children, and only after the 13th birthday. It had made quite an impression on many young backsides, and Dean Winchester's was no exception. The Winchester paddle was only used on the most severe of infractions, and its impact was not taken lightly. Once applied to the seat of an errant boy, a burning fire quickly spread after the second or third strike; usually by the eighth or ninth stroke, the young lad was hard-pressed to stay in position and could rarely prevent tears from escaping. Only the stubborn determination of these boys kept them from bawling like babies; it was certainly not an experience that these boys looked forward to experiencing.

Dean knew all of this as he walked toward the Impala to remove the despised paddle from the glove compartment box. He inwardly debated his decision to ask for twenty with it. He knew that he deserved the punishment, but the uncertainty and anxiety that filled his very being as he stood bent over at the waist waiting for that first smack of the paddle was not something he desired. He had heard tales of boys who traded licks with the paddle just for fun, but he had yet to understand how that could be considered fun. No, Dean Winchester was not one who enjoyed the warming of his bottom; nor did he enjoy the humiliation of presenting his backside for roasting. Fortunately for him, Dad never required that he remove his jeans for the paddling, like some fathers did. He always said that "a proper paddling did not require undressing; the message could effectively be delivered through denim." Showing his emotions was not an easy task for Dean either, and therefore, to stand in front of his father with tears on his cheeks after his dad had just thoroughly tanned his hide was very embarrassing for the unusually stubborn young man.

All of these thoughts were flooding Dean's mind as he slowly walked back toward the cabin where they were held up for the night. He appreciated that Dad had been thoughtful enough to bring them to the cabin when he figured that someone was getting spanked tonight. Dean hated when he got paddled at a motel because he figured that everyone in close proximity of their room knew what was happening, and then he was embarrassed to show his face for a few days. He always tried really hard not to do things when Dad was around, but sometimes Sammy would get so annoying. Before he would even realize what was happening, he and Sam would be sprawled out in the floor punching and shoving each other as they rolled around on the dirty carpet. Dad would swiftly walk over, reach down with two hands, and pull them both up by the collar of their shirts. Most of the time he would just shove them in opposite directions and tell them to "cut it out and cool off". A few times though, if he had told them already to "knock it off", he would send Dean to the Impala to bring back the paddle, and then he would blister their backside.

Dean approached the steps to the front porch and took a deep breath. This was it; the time had arrived; the moment of reckoning! He opened and quietly closed the door as he entered. He stood facing the door staring out into the darkness of the night. He saw his reflection in the window, and he could read the trouble in his eyes. He thought to himself, "Dean Winchester, you are an idiot!" Then, he turned around and went and stood in front of his Dad holding the paddle by his side.

"Son, I think we have had a long and exhausting day. We have thoroughly talked about this situation, and I am convinced that you know exactly what you did wrong and why you are being punished. I think the time for talking is over. Come over behind my chair and assume the position."

"Yes, Sir," Dean replied. He obediently walked over to the overstuffed chair and leaned himself over the back. He knew to place his hands flat onto the seat cushion, spread his legs slightly, and keep his legs straight. He tried to keep his muscles loose, but he knew that with the anticipation of the first swat, muscles tended to tense automatically. He sensed Dad's presence as he came around and stood to the left side of him. He quickly cut his eyes around to see exactly where Dad was located; then seeing that Dad was almost prepared to start, he quickly dropped his head back down burrowing his face into the top of the cushion. He felt his knees slightly buckle and then re-straighten, and he had that cold, clammy feeling that you get when you're going to be carsick. It was then that he felt, before he heard, the paddle slam into his rear-end.

His head jerked back instantly and his eyes rolled upward. His eyelids momentarily closed and he stifled any response. He had forgotten how effective his father was with that paddle, but one good smack, and it all came flooding back to him. He took a deep breath, swallowed deeply, and said, "One". It was only moments before the paddle landed exactly on top of where it had landed previously. Dean was always amazed at the accuracy and precision that his dad had; he seemed to know exactly where to place the swats to have the most impact to Dean's anatomy. Dean clenched his teeth as well as his butt cheeks before saying, "Two".

Three more well placed smacks with the paddle had Dean rising onto the tips of his toes. He was finding it much harder to squelch his desire to cry out when the paddle landed, and his fists were now clenched rather than flat on the chair. He noticed that each time he called out the number now, his voice was just a little higher pitched and trembled ever so slightly. There were no tears in his eyes yet, but he knew that they would eventually begin to swell. "Five," he said. "Dad, can I have just a second?"

"Sure, Son. Let me know when you are ready."

Dean relaxed for a moment taking a few deep breaths. He clenched and unclenched his buttocks trying to relieve the pain that was growing as well as shuffling his legs trying to loosen the muscles once again. He turned his head to the left and let out a slight moan; he felt like cursing but knew that would only add to the punishment. He knew that his father would only be so patient, and so he spread his legs back into proper position and said, "Ok, Dad. I'm ready."

The next three strokes came fast and furiously connecting with the tender under curve of his upper thigh area. The first tears began welling in his eyes, and he couldn't help but let out a grunt with each of these swats. He once again turned his head to the left, took a deep breath of air in through his nose and released it out of his mouth, and closed his eyes for a few seconds trying to control his response to the smacks. Finally, feeling more in control, he said, "Eight, Sir."

Not one to delay, John Winchester landed the next two smacks in exactly the same place as the previous three, and Dean could not contain the "Ah, Dad!" that escaped his lips. His knees slightly buckled, and he felt himself tightly holding onto the seat cushion for support. His rear felt like it was on fire, and it was difficult for him to hold position. He couldn't speak for several seconds as his mind processed the burning sensation that was quickly becoming more unbearable. He knew that he was halfway finished, but the thought of taking ten more licks from Dad was making him feel like he could hyperventilate. After several seconds, Dean lifted his head off of the chair cushion and said in a cracked voice, "Ten".

As Dean waited for the next stroke of the paddle, he felt the first tear drop from his eye and slowly roll down his cheek. A moment later, the wooden board slammed into his backside once again. Higher than the last few swats, this time Dean was able to control his reflexes and did not move from his position. He quickly said, "Eleven" and anxiously awaited the next sting of pain. His Dad delivered the next four right to the center of his butt in quick succession. Dean slightly lifted his left leg trying to avoid any further strokes while also swaying his rear end from side to side in an effort to cool the burning fire. He was standing on the very tips of his toes, and he quietly let out a long, "Nooooooo. Please. Wait." His breathing was now somewhat labored, and there were drops of perspiration on his brow. The pain in his backside was radiating, and he could feel it each time his heart would beat. He reached up to his face with his hand and quickly wiped away any signs of the tears that were falling. The muscles on the side of his jaws were visibly clenching and unclenching as Dean prepared himself to receive the last five. In an almost whisper, he said, "Fifteen".

Dean held on tightly to the chair. He had given up trying to keep his muscles loose as now he was just trying to endure the last five swats of the paddle. He knew that it would be several days before he could sit comfortably without being reminded of this latest foolish escapade of his. In his heart, he hoped this might be the last paddling that he ever received from his father, but he also knew that it was almost impossible for most Winchesters to avoid trouble. Trouble seemed like a magnet that just drew Dean toward it with an unbreakable energy. No, he doubted this would be his last appointment with the paddle.

Dean took the last five strokes of the paddle as quietly as he possibly could. Letting out just a few "Ohs, Ows, and Ahs", Dean stayed in position until the final smack. He knew that Dad always saved the hardest stroke for the last, and so he was not surprised when the paddle slammed into his backside like a speeding freight train. He could not help but jump up from his bent-over position and grab his rear with both hands trying to quench the sizzling burn. He let out a loud, "Ow, Dad! Man! Oh, OH, OH! That hurt! Shoot! Ow!" He jumped up and down and round and round before slowly leaning over with his hands on his knees trying to get his breath. As he stayed bent at the waist, he closed his eyes, and let out a low rumble in his throat. He wiped at the tears that were rolling down his cheeks, and tried to regain his composure. No matter how old Dean was, the unbelievable strength of his father and that Winchester paddle never disappointed.

As Dean returned to a standing position, he put his hand on his hips and shifted his weight onto one leg to alleviate some of the pressure on his blistered backside. He bit the inside of his cheek and took several deep breaths. As much as he wanted to run off to be alone, he knew what was expected of him following a whipping. He waited until Dad laid the paddle on the table, and then walked over to him holding out his arms. Dean walked into the waiting arms of his father and laid his head against his father's broad chest. His Dad wrapped him into a huge hug and held him closely until Dean felt comforted. "Son, I love you."

"I love you too, Dad."