John holds the door with one hand, the full laundry basket in the other. He gives his boys a look that makes them scurry a little father into the laundromat.
"Dadddddd, can't you just drop me off at the library?" His youngest whines, as he shuffles his feet through the door.
"Sam, I've already told you no. No means no, son."
"Since when?" Dean scoffs, following his brother inside.
John rolls his eyes as the door shuts behind him. "Find a seat. Both of you." John commands before the pair have time to retaliate.
He sits the basket of dirty clothes on top of one to the empty machines. Lifting the first pair of jeans he starts cleaning out pockets. Two ink pens, a nickel, and what the hell is this gooey crap?
John turns to his youngest who's pouting in a corner chair. "Sammy? What is this?" He lifts his hand and the green slime slips through his fingers and drips on the shiny surface below.
An elderly lady from across the room makes noise in disgust.
Sam shrugs his shoulder. "I don't know." He replies, as he flips a page of the book that he's pilfered from his backpack.
It's been over an hour and the first load of wash is now in the dryer. John is stuffing T-shirts into an empty machine alone with underwear and socks.
And that's when it begins. He hears his oldest first.
"Sam, stop it!." Dean yells, his voice echoing through the room.
Everyone in the laundry facilities gives John a look of 'can't you control your brats?'
The older man scrubs his face with his hand. "Boys." He hasn't raised his voice. He's hoping his tone would be all it took.
The pair immediately jerk to attention. Dean rubs at his left arm and Sam blushes under his father's gaze.
They are both too old to act this way. For Christ sake, Dean is almost sixteen.
He moves closer to the pair and looks them in the eyes. "Knock it off. I mean it." He growls, his voice just high enough to be heard over the tumbling dryers.
"Yes sir." They chirp in unison and suddenly John's realizes why birds sometimes push their babies out of the nests earlier than they should.
The boys sit quietly as John watches the dryer tumble. The clothes inside spin and flip, making him dizzy. Dean is listening to only God knows what kind of music and Sam is still reading his book. He looks at his watch and wishes he has some type of time machine that would make laundry day less torturous.
"I'm going to the restroom." He tells the boys and heads toward the door down the small narrow hall. He feels like he is in that movie that has Bates Motel in it. With all the flashing lights and dripping water in the distance.
He's not even gone ten minutes when he steps out of the bathroom and hears what he assumes is two cats fighting in the building. But it's not an animal going at it. It's his offspring and he's embarrassed by the old lady that tsk and shakers her head at him.
He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself before he reaches the pair. If he could beat some ass right now, he would. Not that anyone watching would stop him. But he does have some dignity left in him.
The boys are literally in the floor, arms and legs twisted together, so he can't tell where they start or end. He takes his changes and reaches in and grabs an arm.
"Let me go!" Dean yelps, as he tries to jerk away.
John gives his oldest a shake and Dean replies with a muffled 'sir.'
"What the hell is going on?!" The father in him is out in full force.
Sam lays on his back on the dirty floor. He huffs and puffs like he's ran miles.
Dean responds first. "He's been an ass all day!"
"Dean."
"Sorry, sir. But I can't take it anymore. He's been whining about the library for an hour! I'm about to take and stuff him in the return books slot myself!"
John reaches in his pocket and pulls out a few ones. "Here, go to the convenience store and get us some drinks. Maybe a candy bar also." He shoves the money into his elder son's hand, turns him towards the door and gives him a small push.
As Dean leaves, he glances over his shoulder and gives his brother a 'you ass is grass' look.
"Now, Dean. That's an order."
As always Dean follows his orders like a good soldier and heads across the street to the small gas station.
Once Dean is out of his site John leans over his youngest, grabs his arm and drags him to his feet.
Sammy doesn't even have time to think about what's happening. His father's heavy hand smacks his backside, and he feels all the customers staring at him. He flushes from the tip of his ears to the bottom of his feet and is relieved when his father stops right before the tears spring from his eyes.
"Dadddddd." He whines as he rubs his burning rear.
"No, Sam. This stops now. You got me?"
His father's terse words make Sam frown. "Yes sir." He pouts.
John looks up when the door to the laundry mat opens. Dean step in carrying cold drinks and a small bag. Hopefully the bag contains some sugary goodness because everyone needs something to put them in a better mood.
The young man hands his dad a coke and a snickers bar then heads to his brother.
"What's wrong with you?" Dean asks, as he takes a seat. He offers Sammy a candy bar but the boy shakes his 'no.'
Instead, Sam glares at his brother and he wants to spout off some smartass remarks, but the sound of the dryer buzzing causes both boys to jump.
"You two get to fold." John jerks his head towards the machine.
"You heard him, Samantha. Girls get to fold." Dean smirks.
John has just opened the dryer door so the air inside can cool off before the boys start taking care of the load. His back is turned for less than fifteen seconds, and all hell breaks loose.
The boys are at again on the floor, rolling around and throwing punches. Except this time Sam catches Dean at the disadvantage and John sees his youngest son's elbow catch his oldest in the nose.
Dean jumps to his feet, blood pours between his fingers and drips on the white floor. He walks toward his dad and John reaches to grab a towel, but it's too late, the liquid has dripped on the clean folded clothes in the basket on the floor.
John stares at the blood-covered clothes in disbelief. They've been there three hours and have two loads of clothes finished and two loads still in the washer. Three hours! He blinks and looks around the small space wondering his he's on candid camera.
He orders his oldest to go to the bathroom to clean up his wounds and his youngest now stand in a corner. John's grateful that everyone else has left the laundromat because one more smirk from an old person would make him lose all his senses and he'd have to smack someone's dentures out of their head.
John takes a few deep, calming breaths, counts to ten, then twenty and before he knows it he reaches a hundred. He pics up the basket of newly stained garments and shoves them back into an empty washer. He's just about to put the water on high heat when a memory flutters into his mind.
It's summer and Dean is three. His chubby legs are tottering around outside on the patio. Somehow the boy's feet get tangled, and the baby falls flat on his face.
The screams started immediately, and John dashed to his boy and scooped him up, checking him from head to toe. The only injury was a few drops of blood that dripped from Dean's tiny turned up nose. John hugged and comforted his son until tears were gone. In less than five minutes the toddler was off playing on the tall dark grass as if nothing ever had happened.
That night after the baby's eyes had fallen shut into a deep slumber. John had taken the small blood spotted shirt to Mary who had gently soaked it in cold water. "Never soak blood in hot water, John. It will set the stain."
He can hear her voice as if she is standing beside him. He turns the dial on the washer from hot to cold, thankful for the simple memory.
John taps his fingers on the wheel of the Impala. He's relieved that the laundry duty for this week is done and over with. Fighting monsters and the evil that lurks in the night is an easier job than this!
He looks in the rearview mirror at his two delinquents. Okay, okay, they aren't that bad, but for God Sake today they have plucked his last nerve. Well plucked, stomped, and rolled on it. The pair sulks in the backseat. After the last rumble and tumble at the laundromat the owner asked them to leave when the washer stopped. So they are headed to the room with a basket full of wet clothes that John is going to have to hand in the bathroom to dry. Not only that, but Dean also has a bruise that's blooming across his nose and when he had asked Sam to apologize the refusal came way too fast.
Yep, these two need to remember who's in charge here. They know how to act in public. The hunter doesn't care for the extra attention that his sons have brought him today. He nods to himself and decides he knows what needs to be done. He hates to punish his children but sometimes you just have to do what needs to be done.
The trio arrives back at this week's seedy hotel. John pulls the car into a spot and the boys open their doors in unison. He calls to their backs as they head for the door. He's pretty sure they think that today's activities are done and over, but boy are they wrong.
"Curfew is eleven on weekends." Dean states, following his father inside the darkened room.
Sam flips a switch, and the room fills with an odd orange glow from the ancient light bulbs.
John heads straight to the bathroom and sets the backet in the tub. "Tonight, it's-"John pauses and looks at the time of the digital clock radio. "it's at 7:08. So, you and your brother need to go get ready for bed. Once your changed, we're going to have a talk."
Dean furrows his brows. "About what? Curfew changes?"
John chuckles, he knows he shouldn't, but it slips out anyways. "No. We are going to 'talk' about how we act in public."
Dean blushes and Sam's mouth almost hits the floor. The realization has him them both.
"We won't do it again!" Sam pleads. "I didn't mean to hit Dean in the nose!"
"Sometimes in life you just need reminders." John states matter-of-factly. He turns and pulls the chair from underneath the small desk and places it in front of the door. He doesn't think his boys would be stupid enough to try and escape. "Dean. You're oldest." The hunter pats his knee as an invitation. "Samuel, you can go start getting ready for bed."
Sam's eyes widen to Bambi like proportions. "I…but…I thought you told us both to get ready for bed."
Dean shakes his head at his little brother, but he can tell Sammy isn't getting the hint. Nice thick jeans are much better protection than thinned out pajama bottoms.
John runs his hand across his stubbled chin. "That I did. I'."
"It's not fair." Sam whines, casting a quick look at his brother.
"You don't think you deserve to be punished?"
Oh, this is a tough question for either son to answer and John can't wait to hear the responses.
Dean simply raises his hands in defeat. "Look, we were both brats today and as soon as it started, I knew how it'd end. So, for once I'm admitting fault here and taking it like a man."
The father in John was proud as hell that Dean is growing up, but he is also sad that his little boy is gone. "Samuel?"
"AII I wanted was to go to the library." He responds. "So, it's your fault I acted that way, because had you dropped me off…."
John's patience pretty much flies out the window as Sam continues. "Dean, go get ready for bed.
His eldest nods and heads a few steps towards the bathroom. Sam is about to follow, but John's baritone voice stops him.
The boy turns and finds his father beckoning him to come closer. Sam has had many punishments in his life. Spanking, groundings, laps, extra training, kitchen duties. But for some reason being over his dad's lap getting his backside warmed is one of the most embarrassing for him.
He sighs, takes a deep breath and decides to accept his awaiting faith. He drags himself to where his father sits in the chair, stands before him and tries to give him the saddest face he can.
Christ. Why is the kid so damn cute? Pull yourself together Winchester, you're the father here." "Pants down."
Sam frowns at the order but finds his fingers fiddling at the button on his jeans. His pants slide to his ankles and bunch around his feet.
It doesn't take long before he finds himself across his father's knees. *Awkward. * He thinks to himself and swears he will never be in the position again.
John snags the waist band of the boy's underpants and slips them down to his son's knee. Sam groans in embarrassment or dread, John isn't sure. "I don't want you acting like a brat in public. "You got me?"
"Yes, sir." Sam replies and the smacks begin.
John starts with a few light smacks to the middle of the boys behind. Redness blooms in the shape of his handprint. He moves his hand from one side to the other making sure that his son will remember how to behave in the future.
Sam starts to kick his leg and tries to roll of fhis father's lap. John gives his one hard lick that makes the boy's breath catch. This is when John takes the opportunity to pull the boy back onto his knees. He wraps his arm around his waist and holds him into place.
"I won't do it again!" Sam yelps, as his father applies another sharp spank.
"I've heard that before." John replies, as he continues with the punishment.
Sam breathing is becoming heavier and he's no longer kicking.
"What have we learned from today?" John asks, adding a few more sharp licks to his youngest's backside.
The boy yelps. "Not to be a brat!"
John pauses for a moment. "What else, Samuel?"
"Don't draw extra attention when it's not needed? I just wanted to go to the library!"
Some people never learn, John thinks and applies a few more burning smacks to the boy's red backside. "No means no, Sam. You can't have everything you want. Do you think I want to spend a whole day washing clothes?" The boy didn't answer but john could hear the sniffles. "No, I don't. I do it because I love you and want you to have clean clothes. You're my son and I try to do what's right even when it's hard for me."
That was it, those words were all it takes, and Sam starts to cry. Not a soft baby cry but deep sorrowful tears of understanding.
John applies five more swats to the boys sit spots and then turns him around so he can see his face.
Sam reaches down and pulls up his underwear but decides to kick his pants off onto the floor. He moves to his father's knee squirming and trying to find a position that isn't too uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry." Sam says, snuggling into his dad's shirt. "It won't happen again." He announces as he yawns.
John wraps his arms around his son and pulls him closer. "I hope not, Sammy." He replies, softly. "You just need to remember everything you do in life has consequences."
Sam burrows in a little deeper as he lets out another huge yawn. "So…you'll have consequences for spanking me?"
John looks to God for the right answer. "I do son. My punishment is heartbreak for having to."
Sam sighs and takes in the scent of his dad's plaid shirt. It smells of fabric softener and a hint of lingering outdoors. It is odd for his father to have these scents. He frowns because as he boy recalls dad usually smells like gun powder and sweat. Sam decides to tuck the memory in the back of his mind as he stretches. He can feel himself getting heavy and his eyes start to drift closed.
John lifts him off his lap. "Sorry, son, but you need to go get ready for bed. Go tell your brother it's your turn in the bathroom."
"Yes sir." The boy agrees and heads for the room where his brother awaits. He opens the door and the bright light from the small bathroom slightly blinds. "Next." He says, as he steps onto the cold tiles.
"Wish me luck." Dean gulps and steps onto the green shag carpet.
"You'll need it." Sam frowns and reaches to rub his backside.
The first thing Dean notices is the small pair of jeans laying on the floor. *Ah crap. *
John still sits in the chair, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Son, how are old are you?"
Dean gives his father a look of shock. "Ummmm fifteen, sir. Almost, sixteen." *Is this a trick question? *
"Sooooooo, wouldn't you think an almost sixteen-year-old should be able to sit in a laundry mat for a few hours without acting up?"
Well crap. Why does his dad always have to make such good points? * "Well, in my defense, sir. Sam-"
John stops his oldest. "Dean, son, I just want you to stand there for a second and think about what you're about to say." *I'm giving you a chance, kiddo, take it.*
The teen furrows his brows and looks down at the floor. He thinks for a few minutes and sighs before speaks.
"You're right, Dad. I'm old enough to know better. I should have helped Sam or entertained him or something. It's my responsibility to take care of him. With your help of course, sir."
The corner of John's mouth lifts in a small smile. Dean's been a second father to his youngest since he's been four. Always the protector, the one that guides and redirects. He supposes that occasionally, Dean needs to be a kid, but not in the way he did today.
"Sam leads by example, son." John states, leaning back.
"So, the example is to get my ass beat?" The teen asks, in confusion.
"Let the punishment fit the crime." The older man pats his lap and watches a world of emotion flash across his son's face.
Dean groans, but steps forward to take the dreaded position. He shifts a little and tries to find a place for his legs. He decides leaning forward his hands bracing him is the most comfortable. He grits his teeth as he feels his dad's arm brushing his back. He waits for the pajama pants to be pulled down, however, he's surprised when it doesn't happen. Relief floods over him, the thin pajamas isn't much help, but at least it saves him from extra embarrassment!
The thoughts of shyness leave Dean's mind when his father's strong hand contacts his buttocks. *How can someone so old be so strong? *
John's swats come in a rhythm. Five on each side, five in the center. Dean must be getting tougher because he's not even made a peep yet.
"Do you know why we are here?" He questions, his son, as he applies more spanks to every part of the boy's backside.
"We don't have enough together time?" Dean replies and instantly regrets it.
John rolls his eyes and is glad his son can't see him. How did he raise such a smartass? Oh wait, he knows where he gets some of his mouth from. *HIM*
"This isn't a joke, kiddo." He states and applies the licks harder than before. It is when he chucks down the pajama bottom and applies a few spots to his oldest son's sit spots that the boy goes over the edge.
"I'm sorry!" Dean apologizes with a tear-filled voice. "I'll be good!"
"You damn well better be or we will revisit this again. You understand me?"
The last few slaps to the bare skin cause Dean to his and at this point the boy would offer his soul to be out of this position.
"I asked you a question, son."
"Yes, sir! I understand!"
There is one more smack and it's all over. The older boy doesn't even realize his father's hand has stopped. All he can think of now is the burning in his ass and how they could most likely do one of those the is your ass on drugs commercials, when they good the egg.
He doesn't even know when his dad has set him up, but his butt burns and his wrists are sore from keeping himself from teetering over.
John does the same thing with his oldest as he did with Sam. He sits him slightly on his leg and lets the boy position himself to be more comfortable. Dean sniffles and hiccups, then sighs. "Dad, I really am sorry. I'll try harder."
John smiles to himself. "Yeah, I know."
"You know that I'm sorry? Or I'll try harder?" The boy asks, laying his head on his dad's strong wide shoulder.
"We'll go for both, okay kiddo?" The voice is husky and full of hope and suddenly Dean feels safe and at home.
He nods his head and it's his turn to yawn. Why a good spanking causes his offspring to sleep is behind him.
It doesn't take Dean as long as it did some to start to become heavy. "Oh no you don't. You're too big to carry to bed."
Dean nods and stretches as he slowly rises from his dad's lap.
"Go to bed, Dean." John points to the bed closest to the bathroom. "I'll get your brother."
It's about an hour later and John sits at the small desk a ring of light illuminates the small area. He's writing notes in the corner of a page of his journal. Not about ghosts, or monsters, or the bad things that live in the closest, but of how to survive a laundry day with two kids on a sunny day.
The end