Sam stood in the motel doorway, watching. His face felt hot in the baking sun, or at least that's what he told himself. It had nothing to do with the fluttering in his chest, half anticipation, half fear. It certainly wasn't Dean's relentless stream of dirty talk in the car; they'd been doing this-thing-for awhile now, and he'd known Dean a lot longer than that. Dirty talk was simply an integral part of Dean's identity.

And it couldn't possibly be Dean's new plan for overcoming Sam's stubbornness. No. Because Dean wasn't serious, was he? Sam was sixteen, for fuck's sake.

"Gonna turn that white ass nice and red," Dean had said. "Gonna spank your ass raw, Sammy."

Fuck.

Inside, Dean dropped their bags on a bed and moved a chair to the center of the room. Sam kept right on watching, horny as hell and fucking terrified, and it was all just too damn much.

Dean met his hesitation with a gentle smile and beckoned him over. "C'mere, Sammy. And shut the door. Not sure you want the whole town watchin' this."

Sam's dick, which had lost some interest in his haze of uncertainty, twitched a little, and Sam hastened to obey. Dean plunked himself down in the chair, legs spread wide and lazy as always, and looked up at Sam. There was heat in his eyes, sure, and a trace of leftover irritation, but there was understanding, too, and a bit of something that looked to Sam like sympathy.

It helped a little, at least until Dean's smile turned to business and he patted his knee. Sam knew what it meant, he did, but his knees were locked and his muscles were Jell-o and something was climbing his throat and-

"Sammy." That did it. Sam was powerless to refuse that voice, that tone, and he awkwardly draped himself over Dean's lap and closed his eyes. Dean rubbed at his ass a little, comforting, but then he tapped the back of Sam's neck and said, "Eyes open, Sammy. No hiding."

"Dean," Sam whined, but he obeyed anyway. Couldn't resist Dean when he was like this. He startled at Dean's hands at his waistband, the tug of his jeans down his legs, the sudden rush of cold air that raised gooseflesh on his thighs.

"You'll be ok, Sammy," Dean said. "Lift up a little. Gotta get these boxers off, too."

Sam wondered if it was possible to die from blushing. He was half upside-down with his face on fire, and so much blood had rushed to his head it was a wonder there was any left for his dick. It jumped, reminding him that indeed there was, and he stifled the urge to groan.

Dean began smacking him lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention. "Alright, Sammy. Here's how it's gonna go. One" - swat - "you're gonna start treating dad and me with some respect. You don't gotta agree with everything, but no more bitching or pouting. Two" - swat - "you're gonna do the training and sparring and everything else without whining. You're a hunter. Suck it up. And three…." Dean's hand pulled back, and Sam winced in anticipation, but the expected sting didn't come. "Well," Dean said, laughing a little, "we'll discuss number three later. Got everything so far?"

Sam nodded, red-faced, and studied the floor, what little of it he could see from his position bent over Dean's lap, anyway. He felt like a child, like a really small, stupid child. The swats hadn't hurt, not really, but somehow being upended and spanked like a child wasn't as hot as he'd thought it be. Though his dick seemed to disagree.

Dean, of course, noticed. The bastard. "You like that, huh, baby boy? Me taking charge, taking care of you? And I am gonna take care of you, gonna help you get all of this out of your system. I'll even go a little easy on you this first time, ok?"

And then Dean had one hand palming his ass and the other jerking his cock, and it was all Sam could do not to come right there. "You don't gotta be embarrassed, Sammy," Dean said, as if Sam wasn't bent over his lap, red-assed and hard as nails. "Not with me. I know what you need."

Before Sam could register the sudden switch to tenderness, Dean's hand was pinning him down and there was a sharp sting in his ass. He jumped, because damnit, that hurt, but Dean held him tight and that motherfucking perfect hand came smacking down again.

Dean continued for several minutes, by which point Sam was indeed protesting, not that it did any good. He begged and blubbered, but Dean kept right on going, ignoring Sam's pleas and preventing his squirming, right up until there was a knock on the door.

"Boys?"

Dean gave Sam one final solid swat, and Sam yelped. "Dean!" he hissed. "Dad's right outside."

"Don't you worry about that, Sammy. I said I'd take care of you, and I'm sure as hell gonna." He patted the small of Sam's back and helped him stand. "Take your pants off the rest of the way and go wait in the bathroom. We'll finish this in a minute."

Sam hurried to the bathroom, stumbling out of his jeans and wondering whether blushing was anything like crossing your eyes, if his face might get stuck that way. But then Dad knocked again, and he slammed the bathroom door and turned on the water. Had to complete his hiding spot before their father figured out he'd just been ass-over-ears on Dean's lap being spanked to kingdom come.

He pressed his ear to the bathroom door to hear his father's words over the sound of running water. "Dean," he heard John say. "Sam in the bathroom?"

"Yessir." Dean was nothing if not a convincing liar. Sam heard John's voice in his head, insisting that the best lies are short and simple and as close to the truth as you can make 'em. He wondered if John had ever figured his advice would be used against him.

"You talk to him?" Of course. John just wanted to know how much fallout to expect from his broken promise.

"I will," Dean said. "You don't gotta worry. I'll get him straightened out."

"Good," John said. "Oh, and Dean? Make sure you two get some good sleep tonight. We've got a long day of driving ahead of us." And even through the door, Sam could hear Dean's barely suppressed smirk.

The door slammed, Sam jumped, and seconds later he heard Dean's voice. "Come on out, Sammy. Dad's gone." And how Dean could switch from dutiful son to time-to-spank-and-probably-fuck-my-baby-brother so quickly, Sam didn't know.

He peeked out of the bathroom. Dean was watching, dark-eyed, no trace of his smile left. "We'll skip the corner time, Sammy, since you got a break just now. Up on the bed, all fours."

Sam's heart was racing and his palms were sweat-damp, but Dean's voice lured him like always. It had been like this as long as he could remember, since Dean had gotten over his denial and given in to this new thing between them. He'd felt powerful in his persuasion at first, with his puppy eyes and pleading voice that could wring anything he wanted out of his brother. But it hadn't taken long for the dynamic to shift, for Dean to act the big brother in bed, too. Sam wondered whether, in the big scheme of things, this sudden development had been inevitable.

"Now, Sam. Quit stalling." Sam wanted to say he hadn't been stalling, but his voice was stuck and his feet were moving, and before he knew it he was on the bed, ass in the air, t-shirt awkwardly crumpled around his armpits.

Dean pushed his head down and nudged his knees apart. Sam heard the quiet hiss of leather on denim, Dean's belt coming off, and his cock nudged his belly painfully. Dean laughed. "Not yet, baby brother. Got business to attend to first." And there was a whoosh and then pain exploding in a stripe of heat on his ass.

Sam yelped and lurched up on his hands, calming only when he felt Dean's hand on the nape of his neck, urging his head back down. "Sammy," Dean said. "Got nine more coming, ok? And then you'll be done. Just nine more. Can you take that many for me, Sammy?"

And Sam could. He could take anything that voice required of him, give anything it asked. He nodded, mumbled something unintelligible through the blanket bunched in his mouth. Another stroke of the belt, and it hurt, but he held himself still. The anger and shame he'd been nursing all day were dissolving, slowly, under Dean's commanding tenderness.

After the fifth stroke, Dean paused, rubbing soothing circles into Sam's bruised ass. "Halfway done, Sammy," Dean said. "Just five more. But first we gotta talk."

Sam started to rise, to face his brother for what was sure to be yet another humiliating conversation, but Dean pushed him back down and said, "No. You can stay like that."

There was a quiet snick, and Sam tensed for another stroke of the belt, but what he felt instead was Dean's finger, cool and lubed, prodding at his entrance.

Sam buried his face in the mattress, cheeks burning. They'd done this before, of course. Countless times. But never like this, never with Dean's disappointment heavy between them, and he wished he could take it all back. His angry words, his stupid, stupid fight with their father. And why? Because John had decided saving people was more important than a few games of soccer or a history test? Why couldn't he just-

But his brooding was cut short by the sudden stab of Dean's finger. Sam groaned and pushed himself back on the intrusion, all embarrassment gone.

Dean chuckled. "You love it, don't you, Sammy. Love anything I give you."

Sam moaned his agreement, and the finger twisted in deeper, sliding out just enough for a second to join it. "That's right, Sammy," Dean said. "Just relax. But listen, too, ok?"

Dean scissored his fingers while he spoke. "Being a kid is tough. I remember. And all the moving on top it? That's a lot for anyone to handle, even if it's the life you'd choose. It's not for you, and I get that, Sammy, I do. But it's your life for now, and you gotta suck it up."

Sam tried to listen, he did, but then Dean added a third finger. His head shot back as he fucked himself up on Dean's hand, needy and desperate, wanting Dean's cock in there now. He must have said something to that effect - too much blood was rushing in his ears to be sure - because Dean laughed and said, "Hold on, Sammy. Soon. I promise."

The fingers kept right on moving, slow and lazy, not nearly enough. "We can't keep going on like this," Dean said. "You fighting with Dad, moping for days. It's my job to take care of you, and that includes helping you keep all these hormones in check. So this is what we're gonna do."

Something brushed Sam's prostate, and he nearly came right there. Would have, had Dean not grabbed his dick by the base and said, firmly, "No."

"No, Sam," Dean continued. "Not yet. This is what I'm talking about. From now on, you don't get to come, not unless I say so. You do, and you'll wish you hadn't."

And those marvelous fingers were suddenly gone. Sam had scarcely noticed their absence when the belt slammed into him again. He gasped, his hands scrabbling at the blanket. Heat and cold and shame and want all surged up within him, churning and spiraling out of control, and he knew, somewhere in the haze of his mind, that Dean was right. He needed this, needed Dean. Strong, sure Dean, those big hands and thick arms that had cradled him since infancy, brought him up and kept him in line all these years. That belt he'd undone countless times himself, prelude to the illicit warmth of Dean's bed, now delivering something else. Something he needed. Something he craved.

"Four more," Dean said, swinging again. "Three. And Sammy? If you think this hurts, just remember this is only the beginning. You keep up this hostility with Dad, it will only get worse."

The final three strokes came quick and heavy, the last one driving the breath from his lungs. Sam barely heard the belt drop to the floor, barely felt Dean's hands on his hips, until something thick and hard and desperately needed shoved inside him. The first few thrusts were too much and perfect, Dean's fingers gripping him tight, his mouth biting hard at the side of Sam's neck. Sam struggled to hold back his orgasm, but pleasure was building, coiling in his gut. And then Dean's voice, rough with pleasure and whiskey and smoke saying, "Come, Sammy," and his vision blacked out and he collapsed, sore and sticky and sated, pinned by his brother above him.

By the time he was aware enough to pay any attention, Dean had already wiped him off and tucked him into bed. He climbed in next to Sam, wrapping him in his arms and pulling him close. "C'mere, baby boy," Dean said, breath hot on Sam's neck. "You did good. Real good." He stroked his fingers soft in Sam's hair, and Sam knew, suddenly and surely, that he could do this - the moving, the sparring, the translations, all of it - because Dean would be here, beside him, holding him, nuzzling his face in the back of Sam's neck just as he was doing now. "Go to sleep now, Sammy," Dean said.

And Sam did.