THE TROUBLE WITH BALLOONS 2/2
Title: THE TROUBLE WITH BALLOONS 2/2
Author: Lady M
Characters: John, Dean (9), Sam (5), Bobby
Scenario: wee!chesters, John spanks Dean, John spanks Sam
Implements: Hand, paddle.
Rating: PG-13 for spanking and mild swearing.
Warning: Parental spanking of minors. Please don't read if it offends you.
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and the CW own all. I own nothing.
John and Bobby settle back into their research with fresh mugs of hot coffee. Progress is slow, steady and meticulous.
After too short of a time, the commotion from the living room escalates loud enough to disturb the hunter’s research. John pounds his solid fist on the table top. He abruptly pushes his chair away from the table.
“John, it’s been a long day, for all of us,” Bobby offers.
John ignores his friend’s reasoning. He stomps towards the ruckus.
The boys push and shove each other. Sam slams his sneaker down on Dean’s stocking foot.
“Bitch!” Dean exclaims. He cocks his right fist back preparing to clock his little brother a good one to the side of his head.
“DEAN, stand down,” John orders sharply from across the room.
John’s interruption stops Dean in mid-swing. “What’s the problem in here? Do you two need a sore reminder on how corner time works in this family?”
Sam runs to his father. He wraps his small arms around his daddy’s muscular legs. He breathes in the familiar smell of worn denim and gun powder. He sniffles. He points awkwardly back at Dean, “Dean keeps calling me names ‘cause my zipper won’t go up. And he’s trying to take my special prize.”
Dean gives his perfected eye roll. “Dad, you need to see what’s in his pockets.”
John scowls at Dean.
Dean quickly turns his gaze back towards the corner. He shrugs his shoulders.
Bobby looks on from behind the couch. His eyes twinkle with humor. Last night the stone cold hunter, John Winchester, was swinging a machete in one hand and pump loading a shot gun with the other hand. Tonight his biggest concerns are a busted zipper and what a five-year-old is hiding in his pockets.
John inhales a deep calming breath. He rubs Sam’s back, “What’s wrong with your zipper, kiddo?”
“The little jerk’s pockets are crammed with too much stuff. He can’t get his fly closed,” Dean grumbles from across the room. “He also has….”
“DEAN!” John abruptly interrupts his eldest. “Sammy stand over here,” John guides Sam to the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Empty your pockets.”
“It’s mine. Dean can’t have it,” Sam whines.
“If I have to help you with your pants, it won’t be to just empty your pockets,” John warns coolly.
Sam twists awkwardly. He uses his right hand to hold open his left pocket. He pulls out three handfuls of broken crayons. He pulls out the empty pocket lining to show his compliance. Sam looks innocently at his father.
“Other pocket,” John prompts sternly.
Sam huffs. He pulls a couple of miscellaneous crayon pieces from his right pocket. His second handful presents a cluster of green army men. He grins hopefully towards his father.
“All of it,” John orders impatiently. He suspects Sam is hiding something.
Sam slowly extracts an odd looking collection of items from the bottom of his pocket. He lays it on the coffee table with his other prized possessions.
John separates it from the other pieces. He holds it up with two fingers. It’s a bronze chain with colored stones and large sharp jagged teeth. John looks at Sam, “Where did you get this?”
“It’s mine,” Sam bellows.
Bobby walks around the couch for a closer look. “Is that…?” Bobby trails off.
“I think so,” John replies hopefully.
John bends down on one knee. He firmly grabs Sam around both biceps. “Where did you get that?” John asks sternly.
“I don’t know.”
“Samuel.”
“I grabbed it from the witch. She was hurting me.”
John looks over his shoulder as Bobby moves closer. “I’ll call Jim,” Bobby flips open his cell phone.
“I told you to look in his pockets,” Dean gloats from his corner position.
“Keep that attitude in check, young man. You’re in enough trouble already.”
“What’d I do?” the nine-year-old asks indignantly.
Bobby clicks his phone closed.
John shakes his head in disbelief at Dean’s question. He furrows his eyebrows. “We’ll finish this discussion when I get back,” John points a threatening finger directly at his oldest. “For now, driveway laps, both of you, fifteen,” he sweeps his finger in the direction of the door to outside.
“Laps?” Dean moans.
“Twenty, move out, now,” John orders. He motions towards the door with his entire arm.
Dean stomps over to the front of the couch to retrieve his sneakers.
“Lose that attitude, young man or your butt’s going to get the attention it deserves sooner rather than later.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean turns his butt away from his father as he passes the stern faced man.
“Count them off. I want to hear you from the kitchen.”
Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder, “Let’s go dick wad.” He pulls his little brother through the front door.
John follows Bobby into the kitchen to finalize the preparations for the ritual.
~~~~~~
John and Bobby’s bags sit packed at the front exit.
John lectures the boys, “We’ll be back in a couple of hours. Both of you take a bath. Get in the tub and use soap. Then pajamas and bed.”
“Dad, we know how to take a bath,” Dean interrupts sarcastically.
John glowers incredulously at his eldest. He’s spent most of today controlling the need to handily apply a memorable sting to this son’s bare bottom. Realistically the trained hunter knows his priorities. He’ll perform his fatherly duties soon enough, but first he needs to take care of the coven’s threat to his children.
“Yes,sir.”
“Lock the doors. Stay in the house. Anything to add?” John glances in Bobby’s direction.
“There’s PB&J if you get hungry,” Bobby informs the boys.
“Rumsfeld, nobody in or out,” Bobby orders as he closes the front door behind him.
~~~~~~
The two weary but successful hunters return around three a.m. The ritual needed to be performed when the moon was at its highest point in the sky and at the location where the Priestess Elaina met her demise.
“Least the house is still standing,” Bobby comments as he grabs the weapons bag from the Impala’s trunk.
“The boys stay alone,” John states dryly. He shuts the trunk. “I’ll come back for the bag in the backseat.”
The two men silently proceed towards the house anticipating a couple of hours of much needed shut eye. The previous overnight hunt compounded by the long day today has taken its toll on the weary hunters. They enter the back door.
“Yeah, but that oldest of yours seems to be going through,” Bobby thoughtfully deliberates, “a creative stage these days.”
“I still plan to have a talk with him and his sidekick.”
“Expect that won’t be a quiet conversation.”
“Hmm,” John gazes into the living room. The only light in the room radiates from the television screen. The boys are sprawled out at each end of the couch. “At least they got the pajamas right.” John returns to the car for the last duffel bag.
“Oh, fuck!” Bobby exclaims from the living room as John reenters the house through the kitchen.
John’s at the doorway to the adjacent room in three strides. His gun’s poised and ready. He relaxes as his sharp eyes scan the darken scene.
Dean stands confidently on the coffee table between Bobby and a sleeping Sam. His Swiss Army knife’s open with the point at Bobby’s back.
“Dean, stand down,” John commands from the doorway. “That’s Bobby.”
Dean sleepily blinks twice. He glances over his shoulder towards his dad. He closes the knife. It disappears somewhere in his pajamas. He relaxes his at-the-ready posture. The youngster drops limply back onto the couch.
“Since when did turning off the TV become a health-hazard in my own house?” Bobby chuckles.
“Since you got between Dean and his brother,” John responds knowingly. His gun disappears to the small of his back.
“Dean, it’s late. Go up to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean groggily flops one of Sam’s lifeless arms over his shoulder. He slides his arm under his little brother’s butt to lift him.
“You go ahead. I’ll bring Sam up.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean scampers wobbly up the stairs.
John easily scoops the lifeless Sam into his arms.
“You gonna spank me now, daddy?” Sam mumbles.
“No, son,” John rubs the youngster’s back. He snuggles Sam tightly against his body as he mirrors Dean’s exit up the stairs.
“No spank’in?” Sam asks bewildered as John places him in bed on the other side of Dean.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” John kisses both boys on their foreheads.
The boys snuggle together. Dean automatically throws a protective arm over Sam as he sleeps.
~~~~~~
Dean lies on his back, both hands behind his head, eyes staring at the ceiling.
Sam nuzzles in close to Dean’s warm comfortable side. He opens his eyes. He wipes the sleep away with the back of his hand. The youngster lifts his head to see if his brother’s awake, “I gotta pee.”
“Don’t wake dad if you know what’s good for you.”
“He’s back?”
“Yeah, I saw ‘im last night.”
Sam rolls over Dean to get out of the bed. “I’ll be real quiet,” Sam whispers loudly. The hinges creak as he opens the door. The floor boards groan as the kid shuffles to the bathroom. The elderly pipes clank from the use.
“Quiet, right,” Dean quips.
Sam’s bare feet slap against the cool floor as he runs back to the bedroom. He flings himself up onto the mattress. He lands on his brother.
“Hey, watch it squirt,” Dean cajoles.
Sam digs back under the warm blankets to find his sweet spot next to his brother.
John arrives in the open doorway wearing a pair of clean faded jeans. He’s fully dressed with boots and a faded T-shirt which hugs his chest and flairs loosely at the waist. The three day stubble adds a grim darkness to his overall demeanor.
“Boys,” John states flatly. “It’s time to talk.”
Their father’s early and unexpected presence startles Dean and Sam. They give each other worried looks.
John strides purposefully across the room to the heavy old desk. He slides the chair into the center of the room. He leans his firm butt against the top of the desk edge facing the boys. John crosses his arms over his chest. He waits.
The boys untangle themselves. They scramble out of bed. Knowingly they stand at attention in front of their father’s disapproving stare.
Dean thinks, Crap, we’ve been here way too much lately.
Silence fills the room.
Sam hiccups.
Dean unconsciously rubs Sam’s back to calm him.
John stares sharply moving his gaze from one delinquent to the other.
The boys guiltily drop their eyes to the floor.
“Before we start, I’m not sure what you heard from your eavesdropping stunt but last night Uncle Bobby and I took care of the witch’s coven you angered with your balloon prank. They won’t be coming after you.”
“Yes, sir,” both boys shift their stance.
“You boys disobeyed a direct order to stay inside the motel room.”
“Yes, sir,” both boys respond. Sam slides his hand up into his big brother’s.
“One of you used your five-finger-discount to acquire contraband balloons.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s hand. He was hoping dad didn’t catch that aspect of the plan. You can’t get anything past the old man.
“You climbed recklessly out onto an unsafe roof. You planned to throw water balloons at innocent people passing by. Am I getting it right, so far?” John questions angrily.
“Yes, sir.”
“We were just trying to help get rid of a witch,” Sam looks up innocently at his father.
John scowls fiercely at his youngest son. The son who the day before had scared the crap out of him by falling from a roof. And it takes a lot to scare John Winchester.
Sam lowers his eyes. He realizes his dad doesn’t agree with their motive.
“Let’s move on. You have been fighting and bickering constantly. You forgot the basics for breaking down a room to efficiently move out. We WILL be doing practice drills for that in the near future.” John continues his rant, “You were disruptive in the Impala and at Uncle Bobby’s. Your bad attitudes will not be tolerated.”
“I’m not the one that yelled at you,” Sam offers quietly.
“Thanks a lot squirt.”
“Both of you need to pay attention to what I am saying,” John stares from one son to the other. “Dean and I will have our own talk later.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. He knows having his own talk with his father won’t be good for his butt.
“Getting up on that motel roof was one of the most dangerous stunts you two have ever pulled. Both of you have been disorderly, disrespectful and disobedient. Do you have anything to say before I punish you?”
“No, sir,” the two admonished youths respond respectfully.
“Both of you will be getting a taste of the paddle this morning.”
“It was Dean’s plan,” Sam whines.
Dean punches Sam in the bicep.
“Ow,” Sam shoves Dean.
Dean shoves Sam back. He stumbles. Dean tackles him to the floor. The boys roll around on the hard wood punching and kicking each other.
John hangs his head forward. He counts to ten. He raises his body off the desk. He grabs each of his flailing sons by their collars. He pulls them apart. John holds them at arms length. “That’s enough, you two. This is the behavior I am talking about. Do I need to take off my belt?”
Both boys immediately stop struggling.
John maneuvers Sam to sit on the hard desk chair in the middle of the room. “Samuel, you keep your butt glued to that seat or you’ll be looking at a bedtime spanking for the next two nights. You understand me, mister?”
“Yes sir,” Sam whispers tentatively.
John leads Dean by his collar out of the room. He guides the youth down the hall and into the bedroom John occupies when the Winchesters stay with Bobby. He maneuvers Dean across the room to the open corner. “Stay put, young man,” John instructs irrefutably. He walks towards his dresser. He bends down to rummage through his green duffel bag on the floor. The disciplinarian locates the solid wooden paddle.
Dean peeks over his shoulder to observe his father.
John struts determinately to Dean. With his strong fingers he palms the top of the child’s head like it’s a basketball. Wordlessly he rotates Dean’s head back to face the corner. “What part of stay put did you not understand? That just earned you another swat with the paddle. Now hold your position until I return or you’ll be a very sorry little boy,” for emphasis John swats Dean’s backside with his open palm. He strides towards the doorway.
“Dad,” Dean whispers daringly as he rubs his butt.
John balks. He turns slowly to focus on the boy openly disobeying his order.
“Daddy,” Dean states softly.
John softens slightly from his firstborn’s pleading expression. He moves to stand firm but threateningly next to his son. “Dean?”
“The balloons weren’t Sam’s idea. They were mine. You shouldn’t paddle Sammy.”
“Dean Winchester, did you force your brother out the window, up the drain pipe and onto that roof?” John demands.
“Um, no sir.”
“Then Sam made his own decision to be on that roof.”
“Yes sir. But…”
“There are consequences for his choices.”
“But the paddle, dad, he’s so little.”
“Trust me Dean. I would never hurt your brother. Sam will learn from this. He’ll be okay. Now hold your position.” John places the handle of the paddle in his back waistband.
“Yes sir,” Dean reluctantly returns to maintain his corner post.
John pats Dean reassuringly on the top of his head. He steps into the hall. He hesitates. The understanding father glances over his shoulder at his distressed oldest son. He leans into the room. He grabs the worn brass knob. John closes the door behind him.
The patriarch of the Winchester clan maintains his resolve as he strides down the hall to this morning’s first order of fatherly business, his youngest son, the sidekick.
Sam sits anxiously on the hard chair worriedly swinging his legs anticipating his painful fate. He knows his dad doesn’t make idol threats. He knows his punishment will include the dreaded wooden paddle being applied to his butt. He nervously watches his swinging feet as he waits.
“Samuel, stand at attention,” John orders from the threshold.
Sam scoots forward on the chair seat. He places one foot and then the other onto the floor. He stands straight and tall like he’s been taught by his father. He wishes Dean was here to hold his hand.
John’s intimidating form fills the archway. He slowly rolls his right long sleeve up over his forearm. He stares at the posed figure in front of him. He steps into the room. He deliberately closes the door behind him.
“Samuel, do you know why I’m going to punish you?” John unhurriedly rolls his left sleeve up his arm.
“I fell off the roof,” Sam offers proudly.
John expels a huge sigh. The kid doesn’t get it. “No Samuel, it wasn’t the falling that earned you a spanking over my knee. It was getting on the roof in the first place.”
“Oh,” Sam responds apprehensively.
“Your orders were not to leave the motel room. You disobeyed. That was the beginning of your troubles, young man.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Sam hangs his head downward. He nervously twists his right foot to step on its side.
“Do you understand?” John asks.
“Yes, sir. I gotta follow orders.”
“Good boy,” John walks into the room. He walks behind Sam to sit on the chair his son just vacated.
Sam twists his head around to follow his father. He see’s the paddle wedged in John’s belt.
“You got the paddle,” Sam gulps.
“I warned you, son. Getting up on that roof was a serious infraction of the rules. As part of your spanking you will receive one swat with the paddle.” John quickly lifts Sam off his feet. He positions the child’s bottom over his knees. He pats his back twice. “I’m going to spank you now,” John states calmly.
“Ah huh,” Sam whispers. He tenses. He tightens his hands into little fists. He shuts his eyes. He waits.
John’s first swat radiates warmth through Sam’s entire small bottom.
“Ow,” Sam squeaks. He wiggles his butt. He pushes up on John’s muscular thighs.
John rests his left elbow on Sam’s back. He gently secures his son to his lap. John continues the spanking. The thin pajama pants offer no protection from the rapid crisp open handed assault John applies to Sam’s little behind.
Sam’s snow white colored heinie instantly changes to a crimson coloring.
“Stop, Ow,” Sam sobs. His behind feels like it is on fire from his father’s well placed rhythmic spanks.
“We’re almost done,” John pulls down Sam’s pajama pants to expose two rose colored butt cheeks. He reaches behind his back to remove the cold wooden paddle. Without ceremony the determined father soundly swats Sam’s bottom one time.
“YEOW!” Sam yells. He kicks out with his feet. He squirms to get away from the nasty sting of the paddle.
“Sammy, we’re done,” John consoles comfortingly. He returns the paddle to his back waistband. He lifts Sam’s tense body to his shoulder. He tenderly pats the boy’s back.
“I’m s..orry,” Sam gasps.
“I know son. You’re forgiven. You’re okay,” John soothingly pats the youngster’s back.
Sam inhales a deep breath. His breath hitches as he exhales.
John rubs the back of his baby’s warm neck with his right hand’s firm grip.
Sam slowly quiets in John’s strong embrace.
The patient father waits. He continues alternating from tenderly rubbing to calmly patting his son’s back.
Sam breathes rhythmically.
“Are you ready to sit on my lap?” John pulls Sam’s pajama pants over his sore crimson bottom.
Sam moans softly. His head rests on John’s shoulder. He’s asleep.
John allows the five-year-old to doze against his chest. The cathartic spanking preceded by his day of witch hunting has exhausted the youth. Sam’s breathing turns to deep, stuffy snores. John lays Sam on the bed on his stomach.
Sam fusses. He throws his arm over Dean’s vacant spot. Sam doesn’t wake when John covers his sensitive backside with the blankets.
John kisses his youngest on the forehead. He silently closes the door as he leaves. He needs to attend to this morning’s second order of fatherly business, the brains behind the operation.
John stands outside his closed bedroom door. He knows the firm approach he takes with his sons’ discipline gets results. They rarely revisit the same offence a second time. If only his oldest would use his creativity for good he wouldn’t be standing outside this door preparing to paddle the little genius’s backside. He inhales deeply. He releases. He turns the knob and opens the door.
Dean turns his head from his corner position to confirm his father’s entrance. He maintains eye contact with his dad, “Is Sammy okay?” Dean inquires softly.
“Your brother’s fine. He’s napping.”
Dean’s aware of the meaning behind his father’s statement. Sam’s worn out after his spanking and fell asleep. He knows he’ll be joining his little brother soon enough. He turns his face back towards the corner.
John closes the door behind him. He methodically re-rolls his right shirt sleeve. He sits on his bed.
Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as his dad lays the paddle next to him on the mattress. The condemned leans his forehead against the wall with a thud.
“Dean, come here,” John designates a spot on the floor in front of his feet.
Dean shuffles slowly towards his inevitable fate. His eyes remain downcast towards his feet.
“Young man, you had one helluva day yesterday,” John admonishes. “We’ve already discussed your balloon caper, your disruptiveness, and your disrespect. We need to discuss how you disobeyed my order to watch out for Sammy.
Dean’s head rises slowly to stare at his father. He saddens at the surprising realization that he had put Sam in danger. His facial expression changes to reflect his revelation and regret.
“The water balloon stunt off the roof has your name written all over it. You were the mastermind behind stealing the balloons. Climbing out onto the roof and tossing the balloons over the side. Your plan endangered yourself. It also put your little brother in harms way. You need to think about what would have happened to Sam if I wasn’t there to catch him when he fell off the roof,” John lectures.
At the thought of harming his brother, water fills Dean’s eyes. A single tear streams down his pale cheek.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Dean’s bottom lip quivers slightly. He shakes his head no.
“Step forward. Slide your pajama pants down. You’re going over my knee,” John advises.
Dean complies with his father’s instructions. His thoughts are focused on protecting Sam, and how he failed.
John instantly brings Dean back to his own reality with the first firm swat he applies to the boy’s rear-end.
“Ow!” Dean cries out.
John reflects. Dean never cries out after only one swat. His concern for his little brother is evident. His emotions must be close to the surface.
John gathers his resolve. He knows how to help his son work through the guilt he’s festering. John applies a volley of open handed swats to Dean’s buttocks.
Dean grits his teeth. He silently internalizes each painful swat. His natural reflexes cause him to push up with his forearms.
John eases Dean down against his thick thighs. He secures the child against his lap. He smacks the pinkened orbs. His continuous rhythm of swats brings a warm crimson glow to Dean’s buttocks.
Dean silently kicks his feet.
“Settle down, Dean. We’re not done,” John continues to pepper Dean’s bottom with precise stinging spanks.
“S…stop, dad, I…I’m sorry,” Dean finally sobs.
John applies two final smacks to Dean’s bare bottom.
“You earned two swats with the paddle,” John grabs the handle of the paddle lying next to him. He applies two quick swats to Dean’s rosy colored backside.
“YEOW!” Dean yelps.
“Son, we’re done,” John pats Dean’s back. “Your spanking is over.”
Dean cries softly. He sniffles. His body relaxes over John’s knees.
John lifts the limp body off his lap. He secures Dean against his chest. His son’s face nestles into his left shoulder. John massages Dean’s neck with his strong calloused fingers.
Dean gasps for a breath. He moans softly.
John pats Dean’s back comfortingly.
The nine-year-old rubs his face from side to side against his father’s soft flannel shirt.
John hugs his son tightly against his chest.
Dean turns his face to the side, away from his father’s. He rests his head on John’s left shoulder. Dean wipes the back of his right hand across his tear streaked face.
John holds his son securely against his body until his breathing calms.
“Are you ready to sit on my lap, kiddo?”
Dean rubs his cheek up and down on his daddy’s shoulder.
John pats Dean’s back twice in acknowledgement of his response. He lifts Dean to sit on his thighs.
“Ow!” Dean protests.
“Is that better?” John shifts Dean’s seated position.
Dean nods his head affirmatively.
“Tell me what you learned today?”
A slow sly smile grows across Dean’s tear streaked face. “Sammy can’t fly,” Dean smiles.
“Dean,” John warns.
“I need to watch out for Sammy better ‘cuz he’s my little brother. No more climbing on roofs. He coulda gotten real hurt. It woulda been my fault.”
“Yes, you need to protect Sammy but not just with not climbing out onto roofs.”
“I know, I’m bad.”
“No, Dean you’re not bad. You used bad judgment.”
“I can’t take care of Sam.”
“Sure you can. You already do. You do a lot for him. Tell me what you do for Sammy.”
Dean pauses. He squints his eyes deep in thought. “I make sure he eats and brushes his teeth. And I make him take a bath when he smells funny.” Dean glances up at his father for approval.
“That’s right, Dean.” John squeezes Dean to his chest. “You also made a mean batch of holy water. Pastor Jim will be proud of you.”
“He will?”
“Sure, he taught you that blessing when you were Sam’s age. But son, you need to use your powers for good. No more water balloons.”
“Okay, no more water balloons,” Dean asserts. He rests his head against his father’s firm chest. Almost instantly his eye lids fall heavily.
John cradles Dean in his arms. He carries his son to the boys’ bedroom. He gently lays the youngster next to his sleeping brother.
Dean’s weight on the mattress alerts Sam to his presence. Sam shifts to snuggle in close to Dean’s warm form. He wraps his arm over his big brother.
John leans in and kisses the boys’ foreheads. He lingers in the doorway to silently admire his two most treasured possessions. He closes the door quietly.
“Bit early for that much hellubaloo going on up there,” Bobby greets John as he tromps into the kitchen. “Coffee’s fresh,” Bobby hands John a clean mug.
“Guess I should take balloons off my Christmas list for the boys,” Bobby jeers.
John grunts at Bobby’s attempt at humor.
“Winchester, lighten up. We got rid of those witches. The boys are safe. So Dean pulled one of his hair brained stunts. He’s nine. From what me and the neighbors all heard, you showed him the error of his ways. Something he’ll remember for a good long while.”
“My youngest fell off a roof yesterday. I can’t get that image out of my head.”
“Knowing those two this ain’t going to be the last time you tan their hides for acting like idjits. You got a lot of years ahead of you. Pace yourself. You’re doing a good job with them young’uns so don’t beat yourself up. The most important thing is that you’re keeping them safe.”
John nods solemnly. He stares downward at his half full coffee cup on the table.
“Daddy?” Sam whispers from the middle of the staircase.
Dean clamps his hand over his brother’s mouth.
The commotion draws John and Bobby’s attention.
“Boys, come down here,” John instructs.
“We’re sorry,” the boys scamper awkwardly in their bare feet to their father’s side.
“You’ve been forgiven,” John opens his arms wide for a family hug.
“What about Uncle Bobby?” Sam asks as he leans away from John’s secure embrace.
“We’re square, kid,” Bobby nods approvingly at the Winchester clan.
Sam runs over to wrap his short pudgy arms around Bobby’s legs. He squeezes tightly.
“You spanked these two little angels?” Bobby asks sarcastically.
“It wasn’t easy. It’s never easy,” John replies earnestly.
“Dad, we’re okay,” Dean comforts his father. He lays his small hand on the patriarch’s shoulder.
Sam nods enthusiastically.
“Yeah, we are okay, aren’t we?” John warm heartily agrees with his sons.
THE END