Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6373162.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Spanking
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-25 Words: 2154
****** Everything Like This ******
by lavishsqualor
Summary
     It started out as something Dean was ordered to do. Years later,
     though, that couldn’t be used as an excuse.
It wasn't something they ever talked about, too taboo for even the Winchesters.
Ghosts and goblins may have been regular conversational topics, but they
didn't--couldn't--talk about this. That alone spoke volumes.
Dean realized that he was the obvious father figure in Sam's life, or mother
figure--he didn’t spend too much time analyzing it--so it made sense that he'd
had to punish him from time to time over the years. The fact that the
punishment Dean doled out occasionally took a sharp turn towards getting Sam
off wasn't anything that anyone ever needed to know. Or speak of.
The first time, Sam had been a ripe sixteen years old. His crime? Putting
himself in harm's way during a hunt, while attempting to shield Dean from the
lunging attack of a particularly nasty chupacabra. Sam had timed it just right,
hadn't even suffered a scratch, but that was beside the point. Dean had
received his instructions during a hurried and huskily-whispered conversation
outside the motel room after Dad had dropped them off for the night on his way
to a haunting two states over.
When he walked into the room, it was hard for Dean to look at Sam. He didn't
like having to do this. The quick peek he managed told him that Sam wasn't
excited, either, seated hunched over on the bed with his head down.
Dean squared his shoulders and looked up. "Pants off, Sammy."
That wasn’t what he'd been planning to say.
Sam jerked at Dean's words, clearly nothing he'd expected to hear. "Wh-- what?"
"You heard me." Dean's breath hitched as he walked toward Sam.
It was clear that Sam was confused, so Dean made sure his don't-fuck-with-me
face was pasted on good. When he sat down next to him, Sam stood, undid his
jeans, and lowered them. If Sam's knees were trembling, that was to be
understood--Dean's own hands were shaking kind of wildly. He fisted them into
the blanket, choosing to keep his own nerves hidden for as long as possible.
When Sam met his eye, Dean found himself saying, "Everything."
Sam flinched, again, but his long fingers tucked into the elastic of his faded
blue boxer briefs and tugged, slowly lowering them down his hips and lower,
lower still until they joined his kicked aside pants in a heap.
Dean was rough with Sam, rougher than usual, even rougher than when they
sparred, and when he grabbed Sam around his skinny waist, bony hipbones poking
into Dean's forearm as he tugged him down, he surprised even himself. Sam had
grown, was growing like a fucking sprout, but his long, lanky limbs still
didn't give Dean any trouble. He had Sam down and spread across his knees like
it was nothing. Normally, it was nothing. But normally, Sam's ass was covered,
not staring up at Dean, all pale, smooth, trembling skin.
Dean splayed his hand across Sam's lower back first, slid his too-short t-shirt
up higher, warming his hand to the feel of flesh. A sharp exhale from Sam,
relief, and Dean could feel it. He had no idea how everything felt so
intensified, so peaked, when he hadn't even struck Sam yet. Couldn't wait any
longer, though, couldn't draw it out and leave his mind open for interpretation
of the weirdness, so Dean drew up and then quickly smacked down, fast, hard.
It stung Dean's palm. The yelp and swelling redness told Dean it stung Sam,
too.
Callused palm to soft, bare skin, low, where Sam's thighs just met the rise of
his ass, once, twice and three times more in quick succession.
Ten licks, Dean'd been ordered, so ten it would be. Three more, back, forth and
back across Sam's ass cheeks, and when Dean pulled away, he was sickened at the
redness there, sickened by the low rush of some foreign feeling swimming around
his gut.
He smoothed his fingers over the already rising welts while Sam whimpered
quietly. During the few times Dad had directed Dean to spank Sam in this way,
Sam had been completely silent, bone still and defiant. But it had never
actually occurred this way; he'd never been so exposed, so vulnerable, and he'd
never been sixteen, either.
Sam's whimpers transformed into small sobs as Dean continued running over the
too-warm, no-longer-smooth flesh, and when he shifted against Dean, it was
Dean's turn to be surprised.
He couldn't really believe it, couldn't fathom what was even happening, but
another roll of Sam's hips confirmed it. That was Sam's dick, solid and heavy,
jutting up against Dean's thigh. It was caught between Dean's legs, huge, and
another small shift of Sam's hips made the head of his dick dig into Dean. If
Dean wasn't mistaken, it was leaking, wet-warm precome soaking through his
jeans.
That strange feeling in his gut tripled instantantly with the realization, and
then he understood. Sam wasn't the only one who was enjoying this.
"Sammy." Dean's voice hitched as he centered his hand on Sam's ass, slowly dug
his fingers down into the crack and squeezed.
Sam's sobs stopped. "Please, Dean."
Jesus Christ.
"Gotta keep going, Sam. Dad said ten."
"Yeah." Sam's breaths got louder, little swallowed pants. "Yeah, do it."
Dean brought his hand up and then quickly back down, harder than before, and
fast. Three down and that was it. But then Sam kept rutting against him, and he
murmured, "More, Dean. Please."
Dean had never once found himself able to say no to Sam when he begged.
First, though, he dug his fingers deep, couldn't help it, had to feel. As his
fingers found their mark, Dean brought his other hand down on Sam. Smack,
smack, smack.
On the third, Dean felt Sam's asshole flutter against the tips of his fingers,
he felt Sam's body shudder across his lap, he felt Sam's come so warm, so wet
against his leg.
 
 
Only two more times did Dean punish Sam in such a way before Sam left for
Stanford. Only two more times did he have that feeling, that deep, intense want
rippling through his whole being. Only two times did he regret it, because it
only served to remind him of exactly what he couldn't have. 
Neither time was ever spoken of. 
 
 
Four years it'd been since Dean picked Sam up from Stanford. Four years they'd
been back together on the road, and not a single time had they come close to
revisiting any sort of "punishment." 
The tension had been building the whole time. 
At first, Sam was grieving and moving on from Jess and the life he'd made. Then
they'd been so focused on finding the goddamned yellow-eyed demon and
preoccupied with Sam's visions. Then there was Dean's deal.
Everything about their lives had been keeping them from each other, even if
they spent every day in the same car and every night in beds only three feet
apart. 
This past year, Dean felt Sam drifting further and further away, emotionally.
Physically, though, things had been amping up.
And when Sam gets caught up by the Adam-mimicking ghoul, Dean can't help but be
pissed. Always so damn emotional, always ready and willing to drop everything
to help and care for the wounded, Sam had opened himself up. If he didn't care
so damn much, he could take better care of himself. 
They'd got the beasties, but Dean needed out of that place. Miles and miles
eaten up by the Impala's tires, and the tension filling the stale air was
palpable; Dean was honestly finding it difficult to breathe. 
So when he walked into the room they'd gotten for the night and threw his
duffel down next to the bed closest to the door, it didn't surprise him in the
least when he heard his own voice. 
"Sam." Dean hadn't spoken in near an hour, hadn't said a word to Sam since
they’d left Minnesota, and yet his voice sounded as though it'd been dragged
over coals, spent. He turned to look at Sam and found him with his hands on his
belt, fingers shaking as they pulled the leather loose. 
Sam knew.
"What were you doing back there, Sam?" More emotion than Dean'd like colored
his words.
Sam shook his head as his fingers moved to the buttons of his jeans. 
Of their own volition, Dean's legs carried him forward. "You can't be doing
that. Can't be so trusting, getting yourself into trouble."
Now, Sam nodded. His pants dropped, puddling at his feet. 
Dean was entirely used to seeing Sam in underwear, but this was different--it'd
been too fucking long since he'd seen him like this. He closed the gap between
them and grabbed Sam, sat down, and Sam came willingly, shimmying across the
bedspread to lay out across Dean's lap. 
Sam was hard, already.
It was too much, the frustration with Sam over his carelessness, and now,
knowing he was ready, knowing he wanted it. 
Dean couldn't wait. 
He brought his hand up then down, quick. How good it felt made him kind of
sick, but he pushed that down to the place where he kept everything else he
never thought about. He distracted himself by yanking at Sam's briefs, fingers
trembling and catching in the elastic before he pulled them down and out of the
way. 
Sam's skin was already reddening, but it wasn't enough. 
One, two, three, four, every smack harder and faster.
Dean pulled back and fisted his hand in Sam's flannel. The marks of his fingers
were already swelling, handprints rising up and off Sam's skin, warm pink
against the pale. The hand in Sam's shirt rose, revealed how unmarred Sam's
back was. Dean smoothed his hand down the curve, then up over the warmth of
Sam's ass. 
Sam shivered. 
This may have been punishment, of a sorts, but Dean wasn't counting the number
of licks and couldn't be bothered to worry that maybe it wasn't enough; he
needed more. 
As his fingers found their way between Sam's cheeks, Sam moaned. 
"Yeah, Sammy?" 
"Yeah." Sam ground down, unabashed. Dean worked his fingers lower, deeper,
tickling against Sam's hole. "Want it."
Dean pushed, and it was dry, tight, but he worked his finger in to the second
knuckle. 
They'd never gone this far. 
He held firm, slowly rotating, and said, "Sam, can you reach my bag?" Dean
couldn't bother worrying about how wrecked he sounded. He was laying it all
out. 
Sam pulled Dean's duffle closer and reached in. Dean didn't know how he knew
where it was, but Sam found the lube stored deep in the side pocket fast,
tossed it up on the bed. 
Dean pulled his finger out, and Sam whimpered at the loss. Then he was
breathing in, loud, shocked at the coolness. The slippery wet glistened, and it
was cold to the touch, stark opposite to the brands laced across Sam’s skin. 
"Come on, Dean," Sam said. 
That was all the encouragement Dean needed. He worked two fingers in, the wet
making it easy even against the tight muscles. Sam was hotter than anything
Dean'd ever felt, tighter than anything. 
Sam was writhing, absolutely coming apart on Dean's lap. He ground down and
back up, up into Dean's fingers with every thrust, down onto Dean with his dick
between. "More, Dean. More."
Dean pulled out and brought a third finger to Sam's hole. Slowly, he pushed in,
watched as Sam opened up around him, watched as his asshole expanded wide,
pulled taught. The fit was even tighter, now. It felt like it had to be too
much, but Sam was reacting like it was just right. 
"So full-- so good." Sam moaned, fucking moaned, little sounds of pleasure
escaping in time with each thrust of Dean's hand. Dean was going to lose it
right here in his pants, not from the small amount of friction Sam's rutting
was providing, but from Sam's voice, from having Sam fall apart on him, because
of him. 
Sam pushed back onto Dean’s hand and down into his lap, over and again. "Yeah,
Sammy. Keep going." Harder, Dean drove into him. "That's it. Fuck yourself,
Sammy. Fuck yourself on my hand." 
And Sam did. 
The moans turned into grunts and the friction Dean felt turned into a full out
grind, Sam's dick rubbing hard against his. "Gonna-- Dean, 'm gonna--"
The wet spreading across Dean's lap and the shudders wracking Sam's body did
it. Dean fell back as he released, soaking his jeans, come mingling in the
denim with Sam's. 
Sam shifted off of Dean, slid across the bed to lay next to him. "I'm sorry,
Dean," he said, through the come-down breaths.
Dean turned his head, smiled, couldn't be mad at Sam, not anymore. "Just don't
go trying to get yourself killed all the time, Sam, fuck." 
"So I don't have to wait six years or get almost-killed for this to happen
again?"
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