when sam was at stanford he rarely was in contact with dean and john but very rarely would he answer dean's calls. not john's, but dean's. dean would sprawl over the motel bed alone, while john was in another city, phone pressed to his ear while he held stilted conversation with sam. he'd interrogate sam a little---how's your classes, are you following safety protocols, is the gun loaded, have you met any girls---and he'd be bored, fidgeting with his amulet, a little tipsy from drinking beer after beer, and he was warm and sam would start rambling nervously, and dean would listen to his baby brother's voice hitch and his breathing in between phrases, and dean would sigh and close his eyes and let his hands drift over his body, lower, lower, into the open front of his jeans, gently teasing his cock, and then stroking it softly. it's okay. sam can't know. sam wouldn't know from the steady way dean evens out his voice, perfectly neat uhhuhs and yeahs and whatabouts. it's like sam's right there, but for the tinny filter of the phone speaker. god, dean misses him---and then dean hangs up abruptly, jerking off harder, slight twinge of guilt because he was jerking off on a call with his brother, but he comes so fucking hard, and it doesnt matter, and he smokes one of dad's cigarettes, and has another beer, and sleeps more soundly than he ever has in his life.
gummygunk
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
izzy806
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theartofmadeline
