Title: It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester
Author: GatorGrrrl
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 901
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.
Spoilers: none
Notes/Warnings: masturbation by a minor

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

A/N: The seeds of Wincest are sown. (And why I suddenly decided to write a five part masturbation fic when I have half a dozen other fics needing my immediate attention, I'll never know! My muse works in mysterious ways.)

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June 17, 1995 – The Blue Boy Motel – Ely, Minnesota

The paint was off-white and a hairline crack ran along the ceiling plaster, ending in a divot the size of Dean's fist over the showerhead. Sam pressed his back against the peeling wallpaper and drew his knees up higher, his tailbone digging into the cold tile floor. He gritted his teeth and peered through his sweaty bangs at the bare light bulb over the sink. The tendons in his wrist were starting to seize up on him, the ache in his hand slowly morphing into a sharp line of pain, like the time he slashed his palm when Dean was trying to teach him how to defend against a knife attack.

Dean's fist. That was the reason Sam was doing this in the first place, the reason why he had his hand down the front of his pajama pants, and why he had the sudden flash of his hand freezing in that shape if he didn't stop soon. And wouldn't that be just great? Dad would fix him with that look of barely concealed disappointment and Dean would never stop laughing.

Stupid Dean and his stupid fist. Sam didn't know what the big deal was, anyway. It's not like he'd never seen Dean's fist before. He'd seen it plenty of times, had even been on the receiving end of it once or twice when Dad wasn't looking (which was a lot, actually). Only…he'd never, ever seen it like that before: fingers curled loosely, moving up and down, up and down, thumb darting out periodically, wrist muscles working beneath his skin.

Sam hadn't meant to stare. He'd simply gone into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like a million times before. It was almost routine, really. While Dean was in the shower, Sam would brush his teeth and comb his hair and obsess about the disproportionality of his limbs in the foggy mirror.

But then there was the groan. And the crack in the shower curtain where Dean hadn't closed it all the way. At first it was just the noise, and Sam paused, listening for it again. But when he didn't hear it, he picked up his toothbrush. Then in the mirror, he saw the reflection of Dean's hand press against the wall of the shower, heard the muted but distinct sound of the F-word being uttered in his brother's voice.

He should've called out his brother's name or something because…well, he just should have.

Sam clenched his jaw so tight he thought he felt his molars crack and dug the fingers of his left hand into his thigh, the worn flannel of his pajama pants bunching against his palm.

It was like watching a train wreck; Sam couldn't look away. Along the entire length of Dean's right forearm, the muscles contracted and twitched. His head was bowed low, dipping below the line of his left arm, and water dripped down his scalp and over his face to fall in rivulets from his nose and chin. Shallow breaths disturbed the smooth flow of water as they pushed past Dean's slightly parted lips.

Sam wanted to cry out, but he bit it back, squeezing his eyes shut so tight, shooting stars flew across the backs of his eyelids. Dizziness started creeping in around the edges.

Dean threw his head back, white teeth flashing through lips drawn back into a near snarl. Thick ropes of semen spurted from the circle of Dean's fist and Sam dropped his toothbrush on the floor. To Sam's ears, it sounded like a bomb going off, the noise bouncing off the walls of the tiny bathroom like a 21-gun salute. He stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at the slit in the shower curtain, waiting for Dean to poke his head out and tell Sam to get lost.

Only…he didn't. The water just kept running and Dean instead started singing some old Led Zeppelin song that Sam hated, mostly because he didn't know the words and was always left out when Dad and Dean sang it together in the car. So Sam just stood there, staring at the ratty shower curtain, trying to figure out what he was going to do about the bulge in his pajamas.

His release leaked out through the thin line of his lips in the form of an exhausted whimper. He tasted blood and realized he'd chewed through the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. He let his head fall back against the wall with a hollow thud and breathed out, opening his eyes to stare through his bangs at the ceiling, the view pulsing with each heartbeat. He stared until his eyelids drooped and he once again became aware of the cold tile under his butt.

Pulling his hand away, he flexed his fingers and grimaced. There was something cold and slick on the back of his hand, drying on his skin, and he was suddenly aware of the wet spot in his shorts and how uncomfortable it would soon be. He made a face and stood up, the tile cold under his bare feet as he walked over to the sink. Turning on the water, he squirted extra soap onto his palm and scrubbed twice as long as normal. When he finished rinsing, he looked at himself in the mirror—and couldn't help the small smile that crept across his face.

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