Sometime during the three months Dean was gone he starts thinking about him. He tries to ignore it. Tries to think about the next hunt. What weapons he needs and what strategy he should use. But his mind keeps coming back to Dean. Dean out in the sun with his shirt off, streaks of dirt running down his chest as he washes the Impala. The sun burning his skin and making the spray of freckles on his shoulders stand out. Sweat running down to pool at the small of his back soaking into the rim of his jeans.

He's so mad at himself that he's getting hard, is hard, thinking about this. Dean's dead. Dead and he hasn't figured out a way to bring him back yet. He shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't want the feeling of release. Shouldn't be thinking about what Dean's hand would feel like around his cock. Something he never had the courage to ask for when Dean was alive. Something he wanted so bad he'd bite back moans in the shower with Dean right outside the door. Dean bitching at him that he was taking too long and not to hog all the fucking hot water. Jerked himself hard to Dean's voice. He shouldn't have thought about it then either. Shouldn't want it now.

But he can't make it go away. The feeling just gets more persistent. Nagging at him. Pricking under his skin. Come on, Sam, you know you want to. Is what he hears in his head, Dean's voice egging him on. Just reach down and stroke it a little. You haven't let yourself have this in months. Come on, Sammy.

FUCK. His fingers were scrabbling at his fly before he could stop them; flipping the button open easily and yanking the zipper down. This is wrong, he thinks as he slips his hand inside his boxers. So wrong, Sam. He can't help the sigh that slips out between his lips, though.

He stops stroking after one go and stands up. Walks his way to the mirror on the dresser with his jeans open around his hips. Looks at himself in the mirror and thinks, Stop.

Don't. Touch yourself, Sammy. Let me see it. You never let me see it before. Dean whispers in his ear. He can almost feel his breath. When he touches himself it's not with a gentle hand. He pushes his boxers down his hips and takes hold of himself in an almost crushing grip. Stares at himself in the mirror as he begins to drag his hand slowly up the shaft. It hurts dry skin on skin, but that feels right. It should hurt. It shouldn't feel good.

Except it does. The pain jerks in his gut. Makes him want to cry out but he keeps his face set, doesn't blink for the longest time. Strokes himself with that bruising hold until the pressure builds and Dean's there again. Faster, Sammy. Come on. Wanna see you come. Come all over your hand. Love to watch you with your hand on your dick. Come on, faster.

When he speeds his pace it starts to burn. But he can't bring himself to stop, to add any spit. He just jerks hard as he can, twists his wrist and pulls faster. He watches his hand around his cock in the mirror and hates himself. Hates himself for being so weak. For needing it so bad. But he can feel Dean's breath along the side of his neck. Hand ghosting down his arm. Let go, Sam.

When he comes it's with a soundless cry. Spurting hard onto the dresser and on his palm. He strokes himself through it a little more gentle. When the warmth from the little bit of life his orgasm brought fades he stares at himself in the mirror. Looks at himself hard. Silently telling himself how pathetic he is.

Yet Dean's there again, one last time. Taste it, Sammy. Want to see you taste it.

The taste of his come is less distasteful than a mouth full of blood. He runs the flat of his tongue over his palm again and lets the taste of it roll around on his tongue. Wonders if this is what Dean would have tasted like. They were brothers after all.