Title: It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester
Author: GatorGrrrl
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 934
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.
Spoilers: none
Notes/Warnings: implied masturbation by a minor, incestuous thoughts

Summary: Sam has needs, too. Sometimes they require an extra hand. Namely, his brother's.

A/N: The seeds of Wincest are germinating. The pressure builds...

***

August 4, 1996 – The Imperial Inn – Albuquerque, New Mexico

Dad was gone. Sam stood outside room 117 and stared up at the sky. It was dark and the dust in the air made the moon look fuzzy. He pulled at the front of his t-shirt, welcoming even the slight movement of air against his chest. It had been hot all day, with no breeze, and they'd been cooped up in the motel room. But it was getting cooler now, like it always did in the desert. Freaky desert weather—stifling one second, freezing the next.

He wished Dean would hurry up, though. He really needed to pee and he didn't really want to go to the front office; the lady behind the counter weirded him out. He supposed he could always go around back and find a corner or something, but that weirded him out even more. The last thing he needed was to be taken by surprise with his wiener hanging out. Dean would never let him live it down.

A high-pitched squeal cut through the quiet from their room and Sam gritted his teeth.

The dust thrown into the air by the Impala's tires hadn't even settled yet when Dean had grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged him out of the room. Armed with a fake ID and enough charm to make girls within a ten-mile radius drop their panties, he had taken Sam to a place called Pat's Corral and sweet-talked the bartender—a woman named Luanne who had a tattoo of a snake around her right biceps—into keeping an eye on Sammy while Dean shot a few rounds of pool.

An hour later, Dean had won a hundred bucks and the temporary affection of a blonde named Debbie, whose voice, when she'd said his name, had made Sam want to hurl. They'd walked back to the motel, Sam trailing behind Dean and Debbie as he kicked the dirt and tried not throw up as he watched them pass a cigarette back and forth.

There it was again. Her voice. Then Dean's. Then Dean's and hers together.

Sam knew what they were doing; he wasn't stupid. And they were doing it on the bed he and Dean would be sharing later if Dad came back to stake his claim on the other one. It wasn't fair. It was their bed. If Dean should be touching anyone on it, it should be Sam.

And holy crap, where did that come from?

Another squeal, another low grunt, and Sam swallowed, bunching his hands into fists inside his pockets. He pictured Dean's hands. Dean had a scab on his left middle finger where he'd cut it fixing something under the Impala's hood. Sam had cleaned the wound himself, Dean teasing him, calling him Nursemaid Sammy. But what Sam remembered the most was the texture of Dean's palm, the heat of his skin, and the way Dean had flipped him off, using the excuse that Sam had wrapped the band aid too tight and he couldn't bend his finger.

Dean's fingers, however, were currently on Debbie. Or in Debbie. And heck no was he thinking about that. Gross.

Only…he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it lately. And it wasn't Debbie he'd been imagining, either. Or any girl for that matter.

He swallowed again and opened his hand inside his right pocket, sliding his fingers along the rough lining. When the tips of his fingers just barely touched his erection, he closed his eyes and bit back a whimper. It wouldn't take long, he knew. Just a few strokes, a little pressure. He pressed in harder, running the edges of his nails along the length. He felt a thin sheen of sweat break out beneath his clothes despite the cool night.

It's all in the wrist, Sammy, he heard Dean say inside his head. Like this. Not that Dean had ever shown him how to do it, but Sam remembered. Remembered Minnesota. Remembered the shower and the steam and the muscles working in Dean's wrist. It's all in the wrist.

But Sam couldn't use his wrist, wouldn't need to, really. Just a little…more…pressure… He sucked in his bottom lip, sunk his front teeth into it.

The door opened behind him and his eyes flew open. He drew back his hand and tucked his fingers back into a fist. His heart was thudding wildly, making him short of breath, and he hoped Dean wouldn't be able to tell what he'd been doing.

Sam turned, his mouth open to say something witty, funny, stupid, whatever. Just something to distract Dean away from studying Sam too closely. But as it turned out, Debbie's tongue was offering enough of a distraction on its own.

Twisting his mouth into a smirk, Sam crossed his arms over his chest and said irritably, "It's about time. I have to pee." And he pushed through the small space between the doorframe and Dean's back and into the room.

It stunk. Just like always. Sam avoided looking at the tangled mass of sheets as he stomped into the bathroom. He flipped both switches, the meager air filter sputtering to life a few seconds after the lights, and pressed in the button lock. Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes. He heard the sounds of the outside door closing and the window sliding open, the crank squeaking in protest.

Then he unbuttoned his jeans, tugging the zipper down impatiently. He really did need to pee; his bladder was nearly to the bursting point. But there was something he had to do first.

***

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