Being eleven years old was the worst. Dean wasn't back yet, and Sammy was stuck in this smelly motel room by himself. Dad would probably be away for a few more days. The stupid television only got two channels, but he didn't dare leave the room and risk Dean coming back to find him gone. Sam was so bored he went to bed early. He hoped that when big-bad-fifteen-year-old Dean finally got back, he'd see his poor, neglected little brother asleep already and would feel just terrible about it.
He lay on his side, facing the wall, pouting. When he heard the doorknob turn, Sammy shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep. That would show Dean.
"Sammy?" Dean whispered, not bothering to turn on the light. "You up?"
Keeping still, Sam ignored him.
"He's asleep, come on," Dean whispered. There were footsteps, and the door clicked shut.
Sam opened his eyes, staring at the wall, confused. Was Dad back? Why was Dean whispering? He heard the springs creak on the other bed. Then he heard a soft giggle, and Sam scrunched his eyebrows together. Dean had brought home a girl!
He lay very still, getting madder by the second. Should he sit up and reveal that he wasn't asleep after all? Should he snore very loud and annoying until she left? He kept quiet, seething in his anger. Then he heard something else. Sam held his breath.
The sounds of wet, sloppy kissing came faintly from the other side of the room. Now Sam was pissed. How could Dean do this? How dare he? It was bad enough that Sam had never yet had a girlfriend, while Dean had girls (and grown women) making eyes at him everywhere they went. Now he was rubbing it in Sam's face?
"Dean," the girl moaned.
"Shhh."
All the fight went out of Sam. He lay there, hearing the noises coming from the other bed, but he no longer felt angry. He wasn't sure what he felt.
Another soft moan filled the room, cut short into a muffled grunt. The bedsprings squeaked in quick rhythm.
Sam noticed his pants growing uncomfortable. He grimaced. He tried not to squirm.
Then came a whispered pant: "oh- God!"
He felt his eyes grow wide. That was Dean; he was sure of it.
Suddenly the creaking springs stopped. The only sound was two people gasping for air. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. He waited for what felt like hours.
"Let me walk you home." That was the last thing he heard Dean say before the door opened and shut again, and Sammy was once again alone in the motel room. He ran to the bathroom and dealt with his own problem as quickly as he could, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion.
He was back in bed before Dean returned for the night. When Dean tiptoed over to check on him, it took all Sam's willpower to keep his breathing slow and steady, pretending he'd been asleep all along.
"Night, little brother," Dean whispered, ruffling Sammy's hair against the pillow.