Work Text:
Mathieu simply walked to the kitchen to start supper. He’d watched Dean put the groceries away, pleased that the young man had accomplished the task correctly. Shrimp etouffe sounded good, and he needed to spark the young one’s appetite. He contemplated the issue of Dean as he worked. The punishment he’d doled out was risky, it could chance undermining the young man’s authority with his younger brother, and he turned the thoughts over in his mind, trying to decide what his next step would be. Coming to a decision, he set the food to simmer, and heard John’s footsteps behind him.
“Johnny.” One of the few people allowed the nickname, he’d met John after he’d returned stateside from ‘Nam, attracted to the burly man when he’d stumbled drunk into a gay bar. Surprisingly, John hadn’t criticized his preferences, and they’d become friends over the following weeks. They had a lot of respect for one another, and he hoped he wouldn’t lose any over his treatment of the man’s oldest boy.
“Dean?”
“In the library, John. Wait a moment.” He noted the man’s eyebrows raising up. Well, blunt works best. “I made a harsh point with him. I don’t want to have to do it again.”
“You won’t.” John grunts and turns.
“I’d like to talk to him again after you do.”
There’s the eyebrow again. “I can’t believe you didn’t punish him enough the first time.”
“I meant talk. I mean to let him know I won’t be disciplining him again – tell him if he thinks he needs it, he needs to ask me for it.”
John stands for a moment, letting that sink in, then draws out one of the kitchen chairs and sits down, looking at his old friend expectantly.
“You think I should do the same.”
“No. I don’t think you should do any different, aside from maybe try to discipline him out of Sam’s sight, if he warrants it. If he’s going to make a stand with Sam, he needs some modicum of authority, needs that responsibility on his shoulders. Best way to set it in place.”
“You know I’m gonna go turn him over my knee right now. What did you give him.”
Mathieu laughs. “I know. Eighteen. Not that many, but… Don’t be shocked, though, I used a tawse on him.”
John just gives him a mild look. “Be glad you had the opportunity – don’t do it again.”
“No worries – he shouldn’t have any bruises, John, but it’ll be hard to sit for the next twenty-four hours.”
John enters the library softly. His boy is sleeping, but starts awake when John steps on the rug laid out in front of the couch. He knows Dean hasn’t been sleeping well, he’s going to correct that tonight as well. Dean squares his shoulders, takes a breath, as the corners of his eyes crinkle at the pain of sitting up on the couch. John’s aware that the boy won’t say anything, won’t plead his case the way Sam might. A quick step forward, and he’s seated on the couch, motioning Dean to stand. His fingers tuck into Dean’s front pocket and draw the boy closer. He’s going to have to psych the kid out some, since he’s not going to deliver the kind of spanking he normally would.
Dean practically quivers as his father unbuttons his worn bluejeans, tugging them down to pool around Dean’s ankles. John has to help him over the sturdy lap waiting for him, because he’s practically frozen in place. The only time John ever does the jeans removal himself is when the boys are in deep trouble, and about to receive a world-class spanking. Except Dean doesn’t think he can handle one of those just at this moment. Only, he can’t seem to find any words.
Once he’s over John’s knees, his boxers are tugged down to join the rumpled denim, and he feels John tense a little. His father lays a hand on his flaming buttocks, and Dean just hopes that death comes quickly, because fuck, that hurts like a sonofabitch. He knows he doesn’t say THAT out loud, because he’s carefully biting his tongue.
“Insubordination isn’t something I take lightly, Dean.”
“Nosir.” Thank god. At least his voice has some sense NOW.
A double swat cracks loud and painful across his backside. John knows Dean’s in enough pain that he’ll never notice that John’s got his hand cupped, producing more noise than impact when he swats, something the man uses frequently when his younger son needs spanking. He’d rather not be doing this, but knows if he doesn’t, Dean’s gonna be toting around some needless guilt, and if he can get his boy to break down, it’ll ease some of the tension and strain he’s been under as well.
“I made myself clear out in the desert that if you were having any issues, you were to come to me.” Another pair of swats, one to each red cheek, and he thinks he heard Dean whimper. Poor kid. Mathieu really tanned his hide for him. “I don’t consider rational discussion of strategy and technique to be insubordinate.” Four swats this time. They’re not going to make it to the thirty six that would double his punishment. Dean’s already buried his face in his folded arms. “I expect this to be the last time I reiterate to you that I consider even the slightest objection to a plan to be important, that I always take time to hear you out.” Six swats land in quick, loud succession, and Dean is practically writhing in his lap. He steels himself. “Now then. We’re almost done here,” he says, noting that he doesn’t get a reaction to that statement. “I want you sitting up and telling me why the insubordination, and I want to be hearing a promise that it won’t happen again, because you aren’t gonna like the consequences if it does.” One, two, three, four measured spanks, still more loud than forceful, and his boy is crying. “Understood?” He hears what’s probably a yes, and lands two more, then pulls the boxers up over the reddened backside and stands Dean up to face him.
It’s hard to wait until Dean’s got his breath under control enough that he can speak clearly. Really, all he wants to do is pull the boy into his lap, comfort him, hear the promise made in the safety of a hug. But he’s not one to overlook a tactical advantage, and if making this point with Dean now might save them a couple trips over John’s knee, he’s damn well gonna follow through.
John hears out the boy’s frustration, offers any number of suggestions. Dean’s objections aren’t complicated, simply blown out of proportion in the boy’s mind, likely because he’s tired. There’s one more thing he wants out of Dean, but it’s time to end the punishment. He reaches for Dean’s jeans, aware that the boy flinches when he does so. It takes a moment to button them up, and he’s a little sorry that they’re not upstairs, because he’d put the boy into pajama pants by preference. A laugh smothers itself as he catches Dean’s eyes, wide with relief that’s tainted with confusion.
“Consider it an acknowledgment of your appropriate responses, but if I see any more of this bullshit in the next twenty four hours, I won’t hesitate to put you back over my knee and give you the other eighteen that you deserve.”
“Yessir.”
“Now come here.” He pulls his tall son down into his lap. “You want to explain to me why you earned a silver star in stupid today?”
“M’tired. M’sorry, Dad.”
“I see that. Why aren’t you sleeping.” He feels Dean shift uncomfortably, and hugs him a little closer, sets his chin on the top of Dean’s head. “Give it up, Dean-o.”
“Nightmares.”
John’s not surprised. He’s had a few himself, but unlike Dean, he’s talked them over with Matheiu. Normally he keeps shit like that to himself, but since Matty’s been forcing Sam to it, he’s been following suit. It’s almost shameful, how much better it’s made him feel, and Dean deserves a little of that.
“Know why?”
“Scared. Not enough time with Sam.” Now that’s a little surprising.
“I want you to talk it over with Mathieu if you have another. Set an example for Sam, maybe.” That gets a wry chuckle out of his boy.
“Dad. M’sorry.” He really is, not just sorry for the fire on his backside, though some of it is a kind of sorry that regrets the fact it took a spanking to get him there. And how.
“I know. We’re good, Dean. It’s over, kiddo.” He leans back with his son, enjoying the moment, hoping that Dean relaxes with him. It won’t be long until supper, judging by the smells, and Sam will be waking on his own soon. He smiles when Dean’s arm tightens around him, and he feels some of the tension that Dean always carries in his shoulders relax, as John smooths out the wrinkled fabric of the boy’s flannel.
Dean’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but glad that John’s not angry, glad that he’s got his father in the first place – and if he’s gonna be honest, then he’s glad that his ass isn’t touching anything at the moment aside from air, the way John’s got him sitting.