His fingers rolled across his clit, flattening to rub vigorously at himself with quick, hard thrusts. No matter how he touched himself, he could never bring himself over the threshold and even in a room almost his own it still proved impossible. He propped one leg up, trying to slip his hand further in between his thighs and emptying his mind. An image slowly constructed itself as he jerked himself off: Dean, in need of a shower, leaning on the Impala as he dropped Sam off at Stanford. His eyes were misty, and Sam’s own squeezed shut as he came.
—
Empty motel room, he was used to it now no matter how much he wished he wasn’t. Skinemax came free with the room, but the movie went ignored as Dean’s mind, and hand, wandered down South. He tried to think of past girlfriends, but nothing got his balls as tight as when he thought about Sammy. Smug little brat, better than the only life Dean could ever have. Should’ve bent him over his knee before leaving him in California, told him to not forget where he came from. But Sammy deserved better than Dean, both in life and in love.