So, you know how my profile claims that I'll never write PWP? Well, apparently I got horny and made myself into a liar! What can I tell 'ya? Our boys have that effect on me.


Sam was pissed off. And lonely and stir-crazy and bored out of his fricken mind. He'd flipped through the fifty fuzzy channels at least a dozen times, not sure why he kept expecting something interesting to miraculously appear between late night infomercials and Spanish language soap operas. Some bronzed, curly headed bimbo was simpering words Sam didn't understand and pressing herself up against a beefed up idiot in a tiny black t-shirt that made him look more like a cartoon superhero than a real person. Sam rolled his eyes and chucked the remote across the room in frustration. He hated being left behind, more than anything in the world.

Less than forty-eight hours ago, a resurrected car accident victim named Angela Mason had tackled him in a cemetery and broken three bones in his right hand. If luck had ever been on his side, their next hunt would have been a few days drive away so the swelling in his arm would have the chance come down. Then he'd be able to move his fingers without wincing in pain and Dean wouldn't have taken off in the impala, leaving Sam with nothing but strict orders to stay put. Sam wouldn't have been left stranded in some stale motel room while his knight-in-shining-armor of a big brother went gallivanting after a pack of werewolves two towns over. But when had luck ever been on Sam's side?

Sam sighed deeply. Alright, fine, he wasn't mad at Dean. Not really. The ER doctor had only allowed Sam to be discharged if he promised not to use his hand for at least a few days. And Dean had winked and quipped that it was essential Sam's right hand heal as perfectly as possible. So when Bobby called about suspected werewolf activity a few hours away, Dean had decided it was best for them both if he took care of the case and let Sam rest. If Sam was honest with himself, it was probably for the best. He was no good against a pack of werewolves with only one working arm, especially since he couldn't shoot for shit with his left hand. But sitting here in another nameless motel room, wearily eyeing the salt lines by the door and windows and realizing that if something supernatural were to break in, he probably wouldn't be much use against it anyway … it dragged Sam right back to a thousand frustrated nights of his childhood. Dad and Dean would be out saving people and kicking sweet monster ass, and Sam would do his homework and watch stupid sitcoms and hate that he was still deemed too young and too weak to be a hero, like his big brother.

Yeah, more than anything, Sam hated being left behind.

The shrill and unexpected sound of his cell ringing made Sam jump in surprise and unintentionally clench his wounded hand.

"Shit," Sam muttered, breathing deeply and willing the throbbing to stop.

He reached across to the bedside table and picked up the silver phone.

"Hey Dean."

"How ya doing, kiddo?"

Sam couldn't help snorting derisively. "How do you think? I'm bored. Explain to me again why you had to leave me marooned in this shithole?"

"Your hand is broken," Dean droned.

"Yeah, I know that!" Sam snapped, not caring how immature he sounded. "But why couldn't I be there with you? Just because I can't hunt doesn't mean you had to – "

"Yeah, it does, Sam," Dean said firmly. "If you were here, you'd find some way to sneak out and come after me, and then you'd get yourself hurt for real."

Sam huffed in irritation, but a big part of him knew Dean was right. The only thing keeping him from hotwiring a car and chasing after Dean this second was the fact that he didn't know where Dean was, and Bobby wouldn't spill.

"Look," Dean started, a bit more gently, "I'm finished, alright? It was a quicker fix than I expected. Bullets have been fired and bodies have been burned, and I just need a few hours sleep and then I'll come get you."

"I miss you." Sam knew it was stupid, but he really did.

"Already? It hasn't even been a whole day. I think that's a new record for me." Dean sounded entirely too please with himself.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well it's the longest we've been apart in a long time."

Just the sound of his big brother's gravelly voice had pulled Sam right out of his bad mood. But it had also reminded him that he'd have to sleep alone for the first time in a long time. It wasn't about sex, it really wasn't. There were lots of days when they were too tired, or too busy with a hunt, or too sore from being thrown against a wall. It was an occupational hazard. But no matter what condition they were in, Sam always slept curled around his big brother. Between Dean, Jessica, and then Dean again, it had been years since Sam'd last slept by himself. He felt a bit like he was drowning in the huge bed; his big body felt ironically tiny without another beside it. And cold. Sam had never really realized how warm Dean always was.

"Sam!" Dean snapped.

Damn it, had Dean been talking?

"Sorry, what?"

Dean chuckled. "Got lost in your head again?"

"I was thinking about you. About how much I wish you were here."

"Really?" Dean drawled. "And just what would you do with me if I was?"

Sam's breath hitched a little. He loved when Dean's voice got low and rough like that.

"Kiss you," he answered.

"Well that's unimaginative."

"What, you want me to … like … talk you through it?"

Was Dean seriously suggesting phone sex?

"Why not?" Dean asked. "I'm not gettin' anything better tonight and neither are you."

Sam smiled. "Actually, I was planning on an orgy. Me and six or seven blonds. Maybe some Jell-O."

Dean snorted. "Alright, give me a minute to picture that."

"What's it look like?"

"Well I've got the tub of Jell-O, but for some reason I can't picture the girls. Just you, naked and hard and all spread out for me."

Sam bit back a gasp, and Dean laughed quietly.

"I just made you hard, didn't I?"

"Just a bit." Sam somehow managed to keep his voice steady.

"Mm, well let's see if we can't do better than that?" Dean purred. "What are you wearing?"

"Sweats."

"No shirt?"

Sam blushed. "Uh, no."

"Good. I love your chest. All firm and toned, but your skin is so soft. I can just imagine what it would taste like on my tongue."

Sam felt a couple beads of sweat roll down his temple. He was turned on as hell, but … why was he nervous? This was Dean. They'd had pretty much every kind of sex imaginable, and Sam was never nervous when they were actually together. This was stupid.

"Sam? Did I lose ya?"

"Sorry," Sam muttered. "I just … I don't really know how to do this."

Sam could almost hear Dean smirk and roll his eyes. "You've never had phone sex before?"

"No. I – wait, who've you had phone sex with?"

"You really wanna know the answer to that?"

"On second thought, no."

Dean laughed, but not in a mocking way, which Sam appreciated.

"Its easy, dude, you just tell me what you'd do to me if I was there."

"What if it's stupid, what if you laugh at me?" God, he hated how insecure he sounded.

"Why would I laugh at you?" Dean asked seriously. "I mean, c'mon, unless you're gonna start going on about me in a dress or something, I'm pretty sure whatever you have to say is just gonna make me harder."

"Are you hard right now?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed. "Since the second I heard your voice, Sammy."

Sam smiled a little. "Really?"

"I've told you I love your voice."

"Yeah I know, but I didn't think – I mean, I didn't realize you meant you loved it enough to …"

To get you hard from just hearing it. Sam couldn't quite bring himself to say it, but he did let the idea fill him up. Dean wasn't the type to get all sentimental about things like that, so Sam had to read between the lines sometimes. But he knew every little gesture like that was Dean's way of telling Sam how much he loved him. And that turned Sam on more than anything.

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay. Well. What, uh, what are you wearing?"

"Nothing, now," Dean said, in his low, rough, 'turned on' voice. "Just lying here, naked and hard, stroking myself and wishing it was your hand. Or maybe that hot mouth of yours."

"Jesus." Sam held the phone between his ear and shoulder, and his uninjured hand found his cock and gave it a couple of hard tugs to take the edge off.

"Okay … so imagine it's my mouth. I'm, uh, sucking you."

Dean chuckled. "You're not very good at this."

Sam blushed again. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"Sorry. Look, its okay, Sammy. Hearing your voice is enough. Just talk to me?"

Sam's head spun a little. He took a few more deep breaths, determined to stop acting like a damn virgin and make this good for Dean.

"Okay, how bout … I'm pressing my tongue into that spot just below the head that drives you crazy."

"Mm," Dean moaned. "I do love that."

Encouraged, Sam continued. "Now I'm swirling my tongue around the head, and then dragging my teeth over it."

Dean's breath quickened, and Sam closed his eyes and tried to imagine his brother sprawled out on a bed, lazily stroking himself; the image inspiring him to go a little further, even if it made his cheeks burn.

"Now I've got you swallowed all the way to the base and I'm sucking so hard you can't breathe. My mouth is hot and wet and you have to bite your lip just to keep from coming down my throat."

"Fuck, Sammy. I take it back, you're really good at this."

Sam couldn't help feeling proud of himself, even though in the grand scheme of things, this was a fairly useless skill.

"You still going on yourself?" Dean asked, his voice breathy.

"Oh!" Sam hadn't even noticed his hand falling to his side. "Uh, no, I kinda … forgot."

Dean laughed again; this time affectionately. "Well get that hand back to work! Except, it's my hand. And my teeth are tugging on a nipple. It's hard against my tongue and you're moaning my name."

Sam did what Dean said, his cock twitching and one of his nipples tingling as if he could really feel Dean's lips on it.

"Feels a bit weird to be doing this with my left hand," Sam said, struggling to get the untrained muscles to fall into the right rhythm.

"Press your thumb and forefinger together," Dean instructed. "They're the strongest."

Sam smiled. "You've tried this before?"

"Is that some kind of shock to you?"

"Not really."

Sam followed Dean's advice, trying to squeeze on the way up and grip the head like he would normally.

"Dean …" he whimpered.

"Yeah, just like that Sammy," Dean whispered huskily.

"What now?" Sam asked breathlessly, getting closer by the second as he pictured Dean's lust-blackened eyes and a sheen of sweat dusted on freckled skin.

"Now my tongue is in your mouth, and I've got both our cocks in my hand. I'm grinding into you, your dick is so hot against mine."

Sam could feel heat and tension building at the base of his spine. His hand was nearly cramping, but he ignored it and stroked himself faster, and almost hard enough to hurt. Just the way Dean would do it if he were really here.

"Almost … there ... Sammy?" Dean's voice sounded strangled and his breath hitched.

"Yeah," Sam somehow managed to choke out.

Another ten seconds listening to rustling and rough breathing through the phone, and then Dean played his final card – the one thing that was sure to get Sam off every time.

He whispered "I love you, Sammy."

Dean wasn't one to say it often, but it meant so much to Sam when he did that it always threw Sam over the edge. He cried out and shot hot ribbons over his hand and onto his slick chest; the deep, guttural moans in his ear meaning Dean had come too.

"Fuck, that was good," Dean breathed, but Sam had been reduced to a giant puddle of goo and couldn't do a thing but gasp for air and think to himself that having to snuggle with a pillow tonight instead of Dean might just be worth it.

"Maybe we should stay in separate hotel rooms more often," Dean panted.

Sam just laughed.