Written for the winter spanking challenge at spn_spankings. Thanks to dljensengirl88 for her beta-work!
Warnings for kinkiness and wincestuous dirty talk, I guess?
"What the fuck was that about?"
Dean always looked sexy as hell when he got riled, but Sam stifled the urge to smirk and instead assumed an irritated pout. "I dunno, Dean. He just...he gets under my skin sometimes, you know?"
"He gets under your skin." Dean's voice was flat, his eyes narrow, and his thick palm slid across the seat to rest on Sam's thigh. He squeezed. "Well, Sam. I am so sorry that Dad gets under your skin."
There was something predatory in Dean's tone that sent shivers down Sam's spine and a twitch of interest in his groin.
"I'm sorry, Dean, I…."
"Not yet, you aren't." Dean's eyes were trained on the road, careful as always when handling his Baby, but his grip on Sam's leg tightened. Sam could almost feel the bruises spreading out, Dean's marks on his skin, and he found himself not very sorry at all.
They'd been sitting in a diner, discussing a case while Dean wolfed his burger and Sam picked at the wilted yellow leaves of his salad, ignoring both his brother and father. An orange, unripe cherry tomato had skittered away from his fork, and he'd sighed, irritated, just in time to catch the words "werewolf," "two states over," and "bring you boys along." Sam had gotten snippy, understandably, from his perspective, since Dad had promised he could finish the school year in one place. And then of course Dad had turned drill sergeant, and there'd been yelling and curious stares from the other booths. Now they were packed up and driving, on their way to yet another godforsaken town, and Dean was mad.
Dean always got pissed when Sam and Dad fought, but Sam couldn't help it, couldn't help bucking under the stifling dictatorship that was John Winchester. Even when he knew how it would turn out.
"He lied to me." Sam knew he was whining, could hear the childish petulance in his words, but he didn't care. It was true, anyway.
"He didn't lie to you."
"Yes, he did! He promised we'd stick around until I finished classes. There are two weeks left, and we're back on the road. That's a lie."
Dean slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Goddamnit, Sam! That's not a lie, that's a change of circumstances." He eyed Sam sideways. "You think we should just twiddle our thumbs while you study poetry or what the fuck ever and let innocent people die? Really?"
If there was anything Sam knew, it was how to do stony silence well, and he let it fill the car while he stared straight ahead.
Dean sighed. "Whatever. You're a stubborn little bitch, you know that? No use arguing when you get like this."
They drove a while, refusing to talk, until Sam grew comfortable in the satisfying buzz of his self-righteous indignation. When Dean finally spoke, Sam startled and had to struggle to make out the quiet words.
"Only one way to control you. Dad never got that. Always left it up to me."
That much was true, at least. Dean had always had charge of raising Sam, everything from tying his shoes to fixing his meals to the occasional swat to the ass. Sam was sixteen, though, and it had been a few years, not since they turned into something more, and Dean couldn't be saying, couldn't possibly mean….
"When we get to the motel tonight, and we're all checked in and ready for bed, you know what I'm gonna do?"
Sam thought maybe he did, but he couldn't reply, couldn't form words, because Dean, Dean….
"Gonna sit myself down on the bed, bend you over my lap, and pull those jeans off that stubborn ass of yours."
Sam tried to swallow.
"And then I'm gonna let you have it. Really have it, like I should've been doing all along. Gonna turn that white ass nice and red, get you wiggling and begging in my lap."
Sam squirmed in his seat, and Dean laughed.
"Yeah, just like that, baby boy. Squirming just like that. All day tomorrow, too, squirming in my car, trying to get comfortable." Dean's grin turned wolfish and his eyes went dark. "Gonna spank your ass raw, Sammy."
Sam's jeans were uncomfortably tight now, and he stared at his brother, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, unable to process the sudden burn of shame and want and oh god, yes, pounding in his useless brain.
Dean's lips quirked a little, as if he could read Sam's thoughts. "And maybe when I'm done with you, I'll let you up and put you in the corner, and you can stand there, nose pressed to the wall, bare ass on display, while I relax with the magic fingers. What do you think about that, Sammy?"
Sam totally did not groan. He didn't.
Dean laughed. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He braked gently at the stoplight and pressed his mouth to Sam's ear. "Let you wait and squirm, and believe me, you'll be squirming, 'cause you'll know it's not over yet."
Maybe Sam did groan then. A little.
Dean slid his hand back over the seat and under Sam, palming his ass. "I think then I'll bend you over the bed, make you press your face down and keep that bottom of yours high in the air, maybe spread your legs a little. What do you think, little brother? Think I should use my belt next?"
Sam's face was beet-red; he'd never blushed so painfully in his life. And Dean saw, knew what it meant, and he smirked, the bastard. "Yeah, I agree, Sammy. Belt it is."
Dean leaned back in his seat, cool as you please, and placed his hands back on the steering wheel. Sam stared resolutely out the windshield, trying and failing to steady his breathing. Dean has been pissed before, sure, and maybe a little bossy in bed, but Sam had never seen him like this, so sure, so take charge. And damn, if Sam didn't like it.
Dean was turning him on like crazy, and, at the same time, making him feel beyond embarrassed for his misbehavior. It was too much to take in all at once, and without thinking, desperate for relief, he moved one hand to rub at his crotch. Dean grabbed it and pinned it to the leather between them without taking his eyes off the road.
"Uh-uh, Sammy." Dean was all business now. "You've been whining and bitching for weeks. 'Bout time things change around here."
Sam tugged on his wrist, but Dean just gripped it harder and snorted. "Sorry, baby boy. You don't get to touch, not unless I say so."
He didn't speak again until they were at the motel, parked alongside their father's truck. Sam opened the door to exit the car, but Dean pulled him back. "Good thing for you Dad gets two rooms now," Dean said, his lips twisting in a futile effort to hide his grin. "You'll still have to be quiet, though. Don't know which would be worse for you, Dad listening to your ass get beat or hearing me pound you into the mattress afterward, you just begging to come and not being allowed to, not 'til I'm finished with you, anyway."
With that, Dean released Sam's wrist and left the car, slamming the door behind him. Sam sat for a moment, unable to move, unable to breathe, even, and then Dean paused, leaned against the door to their room, and crooked one finger, gesturing for Sam to follow.
And Sam did, cursing his stupid, traitorous body all the way, his feet moving without his consent toward his brother, the room, and all that it meant. He could protest, sure, but Dean had seen the blush, had seen Sam's cock twitch in obvious interest, and would know that Sam was lying. And suddenly he found he didn't much care to protest after all.