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It starts as what has to be a joke, with Dean swatting Sam as hard as he can on the ass to wake him up. "Get up, birthday boy!" Dean hollers. "Places to be, leviathans to kill."
Sam clambers out of bed reluctantly, butt cheek stinging, and heads for the shower. It's hot and the water pressure is nice, and he thinks it's not a bad way to start his twenty ninth birthday. It could be worse. It could be Tuesday. He washes his hair and stands for a few minutes under the spray, until Dean barges in to take a pee and says, "Takin' your time in there?"
"No," Sam gurgles, water running down his face.
"Okay, but check-out's at nine and we need to get going."
"I'm going," Sam grumbles. He turns off the water and reaches for his towel. Dean has vacated the bathroom by then, so he towels off and emerges from the steam with the towel around his waist. They could do with bigger towels. Dean is at the desk drinking a tiny styrofoam cup of coffee when Sam walks by on the way to his duffel bag, and Dean reaches out as he passes and smacks him on the other cheek.
"What the fuck!" Sam clutches both cheeks in indignation, trying to protect his ass and his dignity at the same time.
"Twenty seven more to go," Dean warns, grinning. He has a wicked look in his eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me." Sam pulls his boxers on up under the towel and drops it on the bed, and suddenly Dean is there, smacking him again.
"Twenty six."
"That's fucked up, dude," Sam tells him.
"Whatever," Dean says. "I've seen fucked up, and this is barely scratching the surface."
Sam tries dodging the next one that comes as they're checking out, but Dean's hand glances off the side of his ass all the same. The clerk gives them a funny look, and Sam can feel his face going red.
"Twenty five," Dean whispers, gleeful.
"Fucked up," Sam hisses back.
Dean announces, "I'm starving. You want pancakes, birthday boy?"
"Fruit salad," Sam says, just to piss him off, and follows him out of the motel lobby.
The diner down the street is sit-down only, so Sam lingers behind Dean when they walk in to stay out of the line of fire. Dean puts up two fingers and gives the hostess a sleazy wink, and when she leads them to their table Sam's guard falters and Dean gets a step behind him. When Sam goes to sit down, Dean whacks him one, right on the seat of his pants, and Sam almost yells aloud.
"Dude, that hurt!"
"Crybaby," Dean mutters, sliding into the booth seat across from him. "Take it like a man, Sammy."
"You're a fucking psycho," Sam says. But he's glad Dean's fixating on this today, rather than Bobby, or Dick Roman, or the cheap whiskey in the flask. Although they are in public. Which is weird.
Dean grins like that's the best compliment he's gotten all week.
He does get pancakes, and fruit salad, and a bottomless cup of coffee, and Dean eats his own short stack at a leisurely pace. They've got a hunk of clay they don't know what to do with in the trunk, and Dean's keen on getting back to the Impala and moving her before Roman Enterprises fucks with her out of spite, but he doesn't actually look like he's in a terrible rush. Sam wouldn't mind taking the day kind of easy, actually.
By the end of breakfast his ass has stopped smarting, and he makes the mistake of letting Dean pay at the till and leaving ahead of him. Dean catches him halfway across the parking lot and must have gotten a running start, judging by the strength behind the smack. Sam yelps and Dean hoots with laughter all the way to the car. Sam should get revenge, yank Dean's boxers up his ass crack or glue the car keys to his hand, but it is kind of funny. And, maybe, although this is even more fucked up than the game itself, he kind of likes it.
Dean pulls into a gas station a hundred and fifty miles out of town and says, "Fill 'er up, I'm getting a Coke." Sam puts on an appropriately bitchy expression, but he fishes his wallet out and starts to fill the tank while Dean disappears into the shop. When Dean comes back, Coke in hand, Sam doesn't move. He's leaning on the gas pump handle, rear end cocked out, and he pretends he can't hear Dean coming. Dean's footsteps slow, creeping up, and then he hits Sam three times, whap, whap, whap, on the ass. The blows land right on top of one another, on the spots that are already sore, and Sam's cock stiffens in his jeans.
"What is that now?" Dean crows.
"Nine," Sam says, doing an awkward little shuffle to keep his boner from showing. Yup, still fucked up. Even Lucifer couldn't top that one.
"Good, keep track," Dean says.
The rest of the morning is uneventful; Dean drives and Sam fiddles around on his computer, unable to get internet in the car, obviously. He looks through their notes and Frank's information on Dick, and the Leviathans, trying to pick up on something he hasn't seen yet. There's nothing.
They stop for lunch at the only fast food store off the highway that doesn't have a drive through, and Dean smirks when he pulls into the parking spot. Sam gets a sudden hot flush of shame when he thinks of Bobby, who might be with them right now, watching Dean spank his brother through his birthday. This just gets worse and worse.
Sam manages to get behind Dean in line to order, but Dean steps aside and digs in his pocket for cash, and when Sam tries to sidle away without being rude to the cashier, Dean's hand swings out and smacks him good. Sam gives him a shove, and Dean slaps him again. Then he pays for their six dollar meal as if nothing happened. Sam stands with his back to the half-height wall, glaring at Dean until the food appears.
He beats Dean to the car, but Dean makes a detour around the passenger side to lunge at him, laughing. It's crazy. Sam shrinks back, butt to the window.
"We should get a room soon," Dean says, looking around at what must pass for a town out here.
"What? Why?"
"Research," Dean says. "Maybe hit up the library for some wi-fi or something. We don't really know what we're doing, do we?"
"Not really," Sam agrees, but he's suspicious. He thought their first objective was the Impala, but Dean is eyeing him speculatively and pursing his lips. He raises an eyebrow and Dean looks away. There's a pause, and then Dean shrugs and wanders around the car again to unlock the doors. Sam sinks into his seat, clutching the greasy take-out bag. His ass is sore. He stretches his legs out in the footwell and tries not to think about it.
The hotel Dean picks is advertising $29.99 a night for two double beds, which is a great deal. The motel itself is like eight rooms long, all in a row, green chipped paint on every door. Dean sends Sam in to get the room while he gathers their bags, and Sam barely has to flash two twenties to get a key.
Dean hits him again as he's unlocking the door to Room 8, and again as he tries to scramble away across the brown carpet.
"Come on, man!" The game isn't funny anymore-- he's too interested in it, and it's making him nervous.
"What are we up to?" Dean asks.
Sam glares at him.
Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Fourteen." God, fuck, he is so weird. Why.
"Got a ways to go, huh," Dean says. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Over my knee."
"Jesus, Dean," Sam splutters. "What-- no!"
"Sammy, now."
His voice has a steely edge to it, and Sam finds himself drawn towards him. He swallows hard, and then kneels on the bed beside Dean. He lays himself out across Dean's lap, elbows and knees on the weird-smelling comforter, and Dean's big hand lands hard on his ass. Sam jerks, blood rushing all kinds of places it shouldn't, and Dean's other hand comes to rest between Sam's shoulder blades.
"Yeah?" Dean asks.
"What if--"
"I left Bobby in the car."
"Fuck off, Dean, Jesus, this is so stupid."
Dean spanks him, properly this time, one good smack and Sam goes silent. His cock is hardening fast, just from the promise, and he drops his head between his shoulders.
"Sam?" Dean prods, fingers digging into the now-sensitive flesh of Sam's buttocks.
"Fifteen?"
"Good. Keep counting."
Jesus fuck, Sam thinks, and nods, closing his eyes.
Dean's hand disappears for a moment and Sam braces himself, which just involves clenching all the muscles in his ass and groin. His cock throbs, and then Dean smacks him on the right cheek, hard, and the noise it makes is loud.
"Sixteen," Sam whispers into his hands.
Dean gives him a squeeze, thumb of his other hand rubbing at Sam's spine, and lifts off to hit him again, on the other cheek.
"Seventeen."
Then it's like Dean wants to use them up, like he's tired of waiting. He starts to spank Sam hard and fast, one after another, while Sam writhes like a kid on his brother's lap. There's no way Dean can't feel his hard-on.
Suddenly Dean stops, and Sam says, "Twenty three?"
"Take your pants off."
"Dean."
"Sam."
Sam pushes up on his hands and reaches under himself for his belt buckle. Dean grabs the waist of his jeans when it comes loose and pulls it down, leaving Sam with a seriously obvious tent in his boxers. Dean just pushes on his shoulder blades to put him down again, and Sam's dick comes into rough contact with the crotch of Dean's jeans. Dean's hard too, Sam realizes. He's only got six more before this is over. Fuck.
Dean's first slap sounds like a gunshot in the silent room and Sam almost jumps off the bed it hurts so bad. His ass is hot and tender, and Dean's hand feels enormous.
"Twenty four," he says, unable to help himself now.
The last five are drawn out, the time between them unequal. Dean is teasing him. Sam looks over his shoulder at "Twenty seven," to find Dean grinning, eyes fixed on Sam's ass as Sam squirms and grinds and rubs himself off against Dean's groin. Twenty eight has him with his face between his hands again, and twenty nine is like torture; the last one, and not enough.
He's breathing hard, as if he just ran a mile, and above him Dean sounds like he's in the same state. Sam keeps his head down, hips twitching minutely.
"You wanna keep going?" Dean rasps.
Sam nods.
"Get up a sec," Dean says, and Sam rises up on his hands and knees again. His cock is leaking in his boxers, and losing the pressure of Dean's crotch makes him moan in regret. "Yeah, like that," Dean mutters, fingers stroking the seam of Sam's shorts. He brushes against Sam's asshole, probably not by accident, and Sam bites back another groan. Then Dean says, "Jerk yourself off."
"Fuck," Sam growls, shifting his weight to one elbow and reaching underneath himself. He doesn't need a lot, he's so ready. He grips his cock through his boxers and starts to rub, and Dean goes back to slapping him on the ass. If this isn't fucked up, Sam isn't sure what is. He grits his teeth, pleasure and pain blending into something he can't control, and he comes at number forty six for the day, blowing his wad in his boxers and basically humping Dean's lap.
Dean whispers, "Shit," and lets go of Sam's shoulder to fumble at his jeans. Sam looks down the length of his body to Dean's lap where Dean's pulling out his cock, fat in his fist. Dean keeps on hand on Sam's ass as he jacks himself hard and fast, and Sam hears himself whimpering in pain when Dean squeezes again, his fingernails pressing the cotton of Sam's boxers into his tender skin. Dean comes instantly, grunting and shooting all over Sam's t-shirt.
When he's done he flops backwards on the bed, panting, his dick still out. Sam rises shakily up onto his knees and stares down at his brother.
"Well," Dean says, shrugging, "that happened."
Sam says, "Jerk."
Dean grins.