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At long last, the boys were dismissed, filing out of the Chapel to head for their Homerooms. All except Dean, who forced his reluctant feet to take him in the opposite direction to the Administration building where he knew Principal Morgan’s office was located. He crossed the quad, ignoring the teasing wolf whistles and cheers from some of the other students, and headed inside to the offices.
All too soon, he was standing outside a forbidding oak door. He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. A stern, deep voice answered from within.
‘Enter.’
Dean swallowed nervously and went inside.
Mr Morgan’s office was a forbidding looking room, all mahogany furniture and leather upholstery. There was a large window overlooking the quad, where Mr Morgan had been known to lean out of and bawl at misbehaving students to keep off the grass and get to where they were supposed to be. (Dean had been yelled at for that exact thing in his first week and he had been horrified and yet strangely impressed by the power of the man’s voice.) He wondered if Mr Morgan was going to yell at him that morning. The Principal’s large desk was right in the centre of the room, and on it lay an intimidating looking wooden paddle. Dean scrunched his nose up at the sight of it, unable to look away, until Mr Morgan cleared his throat and Dean reluctantly looked at the Principal.
‘I had hoped that I wouldn’t see you in my office at all, Winchester, let alone so soon in your school career.’
Dean shrank a little under the man’s scrutinising gaze. Mr Morgan’s brown eyes were like being subjected to an x-ray and Dean felt strangely exposed.
‘Do you have your slip?’
‘Yessir.’
Dean fished his pink slip out of his pocket and sheepishly handed the slightly crumpled form over. Mr Morgan’s brows knitted together as he read of Dean’s misdeeds, and Dean winced as Mr Morgan’s expression hardened. He swallowed anxiously as Mr Morgan took the sheet over to his desk and scribbled a note on it, before putting it to one side and turning his attention back to Dean.
‘Fighting? Really? I thought being expelled from…how many was it? Three schools?...might have taught you a lesson by now.’
Dean chewed on his lip. It was bad enough that Mr Morgan knew of his past, let alone bringing it up again.
‘Are you trying to get yourself kicked out?’
Dean’s worried eyes snapped up to meet the Principal’s stern gaze.
‘No, sir. I’m not, honest.’
Mr Morgan continued to survey Dean patiently with his laser-like focus, and Dean squirmed under the scrutiny. The quiet disappointment in the man’s eyes was worse than any scolding. Dean almost wished that the man would just yell at him.
‘You have been given the opportunity for a fresh start here at Brimstage Hall. No one apart from Mr Singer and myself knows about your expulsions. You have a heck of a chance here to move on from your past and really make something of yourself. You should be making the most of this opportunity, Winchester. But instead, you’re here this morning in my office with a pink slip. You’ve only been here seven weeks. Far too soon to be misbehaving seriously enough to be sent to see me. I am deeply saddened by this incident and I know your father would be too.’
Dean flushed red, a wave of embarrassment and shame crashing over him as he thought of what his father would say if he knew he had been in trouble for fighting again. Dad had absolutely hit the roof whenever Dean had been expelled, and Dean wasn’t at all keen to repeat the punishments he had been given for those incidents. Tears prickled behind his eyes, making the bridge of his nose itch and he rubbed at it absent-mindedly. Dad would be so disappointed to know that Dean had got himself paddled for fighting before he had even been at his new school for half a term. He would be even more furious if Dean got himself kicked out. He bit his lip to stop himself from crying, tears threatening to start at any moment. Come on, Winchester. Man up. It’s just a lecture. It’s not the first time a Principal’s tried the ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ speech.
‘Right, young man. Shall we get on with it?’
Oh, right. Dean had almost forgotten his impending punishment with the emotions the lecture had stirred up. Almost, but not quite. The paddle lay on Mr Morgan’s desk, taunting him as he gazed apprehensively at it. It looked bigger and heavier than the ones he had encountered in the past, and Dean was already mentally wincing at the thought of it making contact with his ass. Despite his bravado in front of the Novak boys, when he had admitted to his familiarity with the so-called ‘board of education’, deep down Dean was scared. He really really didn’t want this to happen. It was loud and scary and violent and it had really fucking hurt in the past. And Mr Morgan looked much bigger and much more intimidating than he remembered his other Principals being. The man was built like a line-backer, for fuck’s sake. Dean felt himself panicking, and he took a deep breath to try to swallow down his fear. He straightened his spine and gave Mr Morgan as unaffected a look as he could manage.
‘Sure, why not. L…let’s do this.’
The slight tremor in his voice ruined the nonchalant effect he was aiming for.
‘Take off your blazer, empty your pockets and bend over the desk.’
Dean gulped and obeyed in silence, watching with trepidation as Mr Morgan rolled up his sleeves and picked up the paddle.
‘I’m going to give you six swats. Do not break position or you will earn extra. And you will count aloud, please.’
For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the squeak of the Principal’s shoes as he walked around to position himself behind Dean’s bent form. Dean resisted the urge to look behind him at the man, but instead screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Waiting.
CRACK.
Dean jerked forward with the force of the impact, and, for a split second, he felt nothing. But then the terrible burn spread across his ass. Dean gasped and his eyes watered. Jesus fuck that man could swing a paddle.
Mr Morgan appeared to be waiting for something, and just in time Dean remembered he was meant to be counting.
‘One, sir.’
Instantly, Mr Morgan swatted him again.
CRACK.
Dean sucked in a pained breath, before counting the swat.
‘Two, sir.’
CRACK.
‘Ugh!’ Dean grunted with the impact, clenching his fists to try to distract himself from the horrible sting that seemed to burn deeper rather than fade. ‘ Th…three, sir.’
CRACK.
Oh, fuck. That really hurt. Dean drummed his fists on the surface of the desk, trying desperately to stop the silent tears that were streaming down his cheeks.
‘Don’t keep me waiting, Mr Winchester.’
Dean took a deep breath.
‘Four, s…sir.’
CRACK.
‘Oh! Ow!’ Dean wailed, and it took a minute before he could collect himself.
‘F…f…five, s…sir.’
CRACK.
The sixth and final swat made Dean howl, and he cried out a ‘S..six, sir’ whilst tears dripped on the leather top of the desk. That was so much worse than he remembered it being, it had hurt so much more. Perhaps it really had – the paddle and Principal being that much stronger and more intimidating. And this time his Dad wasn’t there to witness his punishment and hug him afterwards. Dean sobbed for the loss of his family, the harshness of the regime he was now under, the misery of the past two years - all the emotions he had pushed down were rising to the surface and threatening to suck him under.
Mr Morgan put a gentle hand on his shoulder and handed Dean a tissue. Dean breathed deeply and tried to collect himself, wiping his eyes and forcing his feelings back down until he was able to look the Principal in the eye again.
‘Do not make me have to do that again. No more fights, Dean. I do not wish to see you in my office again, do I make myself clear?’
Dean sniffled and nodded, scrunching the tissue in his fist agitatedly.
‘Well now, off you go to class. You don’t want to be late.’
Dean limped out of Mr Morgan’s office as fast as his punished ass would let him.