Archive of Our Own

"Come here," Dean says.

Sam does. For once, he's quiet.

"Pants down," Dean tells him.

Sam unbuckles his belt, unbuttons the fly, pushes his jeans down below his hips. He's wearing his usual boxer-briefs, and Dean can tell that he's already half hard.

"Underwear too," Dean prompts.

"But you said—" Sam starts to protest.

"I said I'd think about whether to do it bare or not. And I've thought about it. Now quit stalling."

The briefs go down too. Dean wants to reach out, wants to stroke Sam's cock into full hardness, maybe suck him for a while and listen to the noises he makes as he tries not to let his knees buckle.

"Please, Dean," Sam breathes, like he's reading Dean's thoughts.

"Take your spanking and behave, and we'll see."

"Please."

Sam half-naked, jeans down and cock erect, is not easy to resist.

"I said we'll see." Dean tries not to bite his lip, but it's like his lips and tongue of their own accord want him to lean forward so that he can lick the head, take the shaft into his mouth.

Sam stretches out across Dean's lap, arranging his long body from one end of the bed to the other. His cock rests between Dean's thighs, which Dean thinks can't be comfortable since he's got jeans on, too, but given the tiny, maybe unconscious little thrusts Sam's hips are doing, Sam's clearly enjoying it.

Dean rests one hand on Sam's ass and runs the other up and down Sam's spine. He glances over to his right, where Sam laid out their toys—or things that can be used as toys. The magnificent perversity of Sam's mind will never fail to amaze him. There's the paddle that Sam acquired through mysterious means and left for Dean to find; there's the strap they bought in the Castro (on the way home, Sam stretched out on the passenger side of the truck and rubbed himself through his khakis while going into specific detail about what he wanted Dean to do with the strap; as soon as they were inside, Dean locked the door, pushed Sam to his knees, and came in Sam's mouth about sixty seconds later, then put the strap to its intended use); Sam's wood-backed hairbrush (which Dean is morally certain first appealed to Sam for purposes that had nothing to do with his hair); a ruler; one of Dean's belts; and a wooden spoon.

"I'm not sure what I'm going to use on you, Sam," Dean tells him. He runs his hand over and across Sam's thighs, trails his fingers over Sam's ass as Sam arches up into them. Dean personally doesn't like the hairbrush—too easy to leave bruises—but he'll use it if Sam asks. Anything else is fair game.

"Whatever you think is best," Sam whispers, pushing back against Dean's hand on his ass.

Sam's rarely this compliant. Dean thinks he should take advantage of it.

He starts with his hand: the left steady on Sam's back, the right coming down regularly, evenly. Sam gasps, and when he turns his head, Dean can see that his eyes are closed, mouth partway open in some sort of cross between a moan and a smile. Dean spanks him a few more times, not terribly hard, but enough to turn the skin pink. Dean pauses, rubs where he sees the flush, and hears something unintelligible come out of Sam's mouth. After a moment, he realizes that Sam said, "Don't stop."

"You're not the one who decides that, Sam," Dean reminds him.

"Please don't stop," Sam amends, this time more clearly.

"Well," Dean says, "since you asked nicely."

He keeps going until the skin is warm under his palm—not hot, but getting there. Dean's hand is big enough, and Sam's hips are narrow enough, that he can strike both sides at once, so he does, and Sam thrusts down hard, rubbing himself against the denim. Dean stops, pausing until Sam is still, and then starts alternating: left cheek, right cheek, left, right. He can feel how hard Sam is, just from this, from lying across Dean's lap and getting spanked.

Dean stops again, traces the length of Sam's spine, pushing him gently back into place when he arches up. It's at this point that Sam usually voices some sort of opinion as to what he thinks Dean should do next—I've been so very, very bad, you should definitely paddle me; I bet your belt would turn my ass bright red; I left my seminar today to jerk off in the bathroom and pretend I was getting spanked with the hairbrush. But Sam is quiet, and Dean leans over to kiss the top of his head and say, "Close your eyes."

Sam does.

The strap Sam picked out isn't actually much different from Dean's belt, just a bit easier to manage because its ends are fastened together (meaning that it is always doubled over), and without a buckle. Dean picks it up, but doesn't run it across Sam's ass first like he sometimes does; he wants this to be a surprise.

Sam's whimpered gasp at the first stroke doesn't unnerve Dean the way it would have a year or so ago. Sam doesn't thrust up into the second, but the way he spreads his legs just a little, raising his ass, offering himself, is unmistakable. At the fourth, he breathes Dean's name; at the fifth, Dean can feel the wet warmth of precome. He squirms restlessly at the sixth and seventh, and so Dean does the eighth harder: It leaves a strict line of dark pink across the skin, and Sam throws his head back. The ninth is the same, a little bit lower on Sam's ass, and Sam's gasp this time is louder, sharper.

Sam cries out at the tenth, and at each of the next several. He's quivering with tension, and at the eighteenth he collapses back across Dean's thighs, legs still parted, and Dean sees the muscles in his ass flex as he thrusts sharply down, moaning. Nineteen, and Sam does it again, without shame, rubbing his hard cock against Dean's leg. Twenty and he cries out again, again at twenty-one, and at twenty-two he's coming, shuddering, soaking Dean's jeans as Dean keeps spanking him until he's still, the way Sam likes.

Dean puts down the strap and rubs Sam's back, and for a few moments the only sound in the room is their breathing. Dean's is quick; Sam's is uneven and almost desperate, but he calms as Dean strokes his spine and sides, runs his fingers through Sam's hair.

Dean nudges Sam to stand, and he stands too. He pulls Sam's jeans and briefs the rest of the way down and off. He cleans him up with some tissues, then throws them away and puts his arms around Sam. Sam's taller, but he manages to rest his hand on Dean's shoulder anyway. They stand like that for a little while until Dean says, "Undress me, Sam."

Sam does, starting with Dean's socks, then his old plaid button-down. Dean raises his arms so that Sam can strip off the T-shirt underneath. Sam unzips his jeans, pushes his boxers down, and once they're both naked, Dean pulls Sam close again. "Love you, Sam," he whispers. "So much."

"Love you too," Sam says. He kisses Dean's shoulder and throat and says, still quietly but in a more normal tone, "What do you want me to do for you? You want me to suck you?"

Instead, though, Dean fucks him, both of them lying on their sides on the bed, Sam's back to Dean's front. Sam twists around so that they can kiss, his hand in Dean's hair. Dean strokes his shoulders, arms, chest, belly, and cock; Sam doesn't get hard again, but he makes little sighing noises into Dean's mouth. His ass is hot against Dean's balls and thighs as he meets Dean's slow thrusts.

Dean buries his face in the back of Sam's neck as he comes, shaking apart, fingers interlaced with Sam's. He pants onto Sam's skin and they stay like that for a few minutes. Dean laughs when he realizes that all the toys got kicked onto the floor.

"What?" Sam says.

"Nothing—I just realized that we forgot to take all the toys off the bed."

Sam pulls away to look, and Dean says, "So help me God, if you get out of bed to pick them up, I will spank you again."

"You say that like it's a threat— OK, yeah, it would kind of hurt right now."

Dean rolls to his back and pulls Sam with him. "We should eat something at some point," he says after a while. It was late afternoon when they started; now it's nearly time for supper.

"You're making me dinner after all that," Sam says.

"I am?"

"I totally put out for you. I mean, really what you should do is take me to some four-star restaurant, but I don't think either of us wants to get dressed."

"Do we even have any food in the house?"

Sam gives a laborious, long-suffering sigh. "So order me some Chinese food. There better be crab rangoons."

"Okay," says Dean. "Do I have to do it right this minute?"

"No."

They lie there together as the sun sets.