Dirty Deeds

by Jane Davitt




"It's traditional," Sam insists and waves his beer bottle with enough abandon that beer splashes onto Dean's ass.

His naked ass.

The beer's cold. His ass is warm -- and if Sam goes through with what he's been yammering on about for the last few minutes, pretty soon Dean's ass is going to be toasty enough that any beer that spills on it will evaporate in a hiss.

Sam takes care of what Dean considers to be a shameful waste of alcohol by leaning over and licking every amber droplet off. Which tickles, but in an entirely good way. Dean makes a sound Sam told him once was like a dog trying to purr and wiggles against the bed, his dick riding the groove way too bodies have pressed into the mattress.

The bed's disgusting, just like the room, and it's no place to be celebrating the big 3-0, but as Dean's planning on adding to the list of depraved and nasty deeds done here (done dirt cheap his brain adds, starting off an earworm that burrows as deeply as Sam's tongue) he doesn't really care. That's what showers are for and as for come-soaked sheets, Dean's never washed one in his life, but he assumes spunk comes out easier than blood, so he's not going to lose any sleep over --

Sam's hand connects with damp, flushed skin and Dean jackknives reflexively, stung by both the loss of that warm wriggle of a tongue and the slap itself. Sam's got big hands and one can cover a lot of ass.

"Do that again and lose your favorite jerking off hand, asshole."

"I use them both," Sam says. "You've watched me do it a hundred times. A thousand. One hand for my dick and the other --"

"I know where the other goes." Dean licks his lips, gone bone-dry with a mounting excitement. That slap stung, yeah, but it's left him tingling. He can handle smarting skin if it brings his balls up tight like that. "And if you do that again, your fingers are gonna be all the action your hole gets for months, you --"

Sam spanks him again in the middle of one of Dean's best tirades and murmurs, "Two," in a thoughtfully anticipatory kind of way that tells Dean all he needs to know.

Twenty-eight more.

He can argue, he can yell, but Sam's going to see this through.

He hides his grin in the musty pillow and quietly, sneakily closes the cuff he'd opened while Sam was busy licking him into a puddle of want.

See? Helpless. No way to stop Sam, no way at all.

He settles down to enjoy the rest of his birthday spanking and knows Sam isn't fooled a bit, but that's okay.

They're both good at pretending.

By ten he's gasping, by twenty he's lying in a wet spot and begging Sam to stop, enough, job done, Sammy.

The one to grow on hurts more than all the rest put together, but then it's over, it's done, and Dean's body is glowing, radio-fucking-active and he thinks hazily that he's too old to be discovering a new kink, but if that's what the birthday fairy's left him, well, he'll take it and say thank you kindly, ma'am, because his dick's still mostly hard and he knows he'll be good to go again real soon.

"You liked that," Sam says and rolls the beer bottle, green, wet with cold, across the inferno of Dean's ass, half sadist, and half angel of mercy.

"I am one kinky dude," Dean admits, not without pride. He twists his head and looks up at Sam, who's a little flushed, a little frayed around the edges, lust shredding his calm, just the way Dean likes him. "But before you say a word, just remember it was your idea."

"Off your wish list," Sam tells him.

"Huh? My what? I don't have a --"

"You hit like a dozen spanking sites on the laptop this week," Sam tells him calmly. "Looked like a wish list to me." He nudges Dean's thigh. "It wasn't the only thing on it, though…"

"No?" Dean manages to croak out. He feels violated, exposed. It's almost as good a feeling as the throb and sizzle Sam's left simmering deep in his skin.

"Not by a long way," Sam says and starts at the top of both Dean and the list and works his way down.


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