Dean came awake with a start, roused by the sound of a car door slamming seemingly right outside the window of their room. Cracking open an eye, he was surprised to see the first brilliant streaks of dawn lasering through a gap in the curtains.

Damn—morning already?

He rolled onto his back and yawned, coveting the thought of a steamy hot cup of coffee. It was when he went to stretch that he felt a familiar dampness on his boxers. A quick peek confirmed his suspicion, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment.

A wet dream? You got to be kidding me! I haven't had one of those since I was 16!

He glanced over at his still sleeping sibling. His cheeks grew even redder.

God—if Sam knew, I'd never—NEVER—hear the end of it.

Just thinking about that made Dean close his eyes and cringe. The moment his eyelids slammed shut, quick flashes from his dream assaulted him. He gasped and sat up. He doesn't remember those kinds of dreams being so intense, even at the age of 16 when everything is intense.

Shoving aside the covers, he stood—ridiculously grateful that the room was still dark and that Sam still snored away in the other bed. Truth be told, Dean wished he could return to sleep. A bone-deep weariness tugged at every muscle. He staggered to his duffel bag and pulled out clean clothes. As quietly as possible, Dean walked to the bathroom, not even swearing when he stubbed his toe on the door jamb. Once in the bathroom, he snicked the door shut and sighed in relief. It was a short respite though. When he pulled off his shirt, he discovered several long, red welts snaking across his belly. Even worse, he found similar marks on his thighs. Recalling Sam's words about his dream, Dean felt a chill march down his back.

Walking back into the room some twenty-five minutes later, he felt a bit steadier, but not much. His brother was probably going to kill him for taking such a long shower and using up most, if not all, of the hot water.

Reaching out a bare foot, he vigorously wiggled Sam's mattress. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty—time to get up!"

Sam mumbled something incomprehensible and buried his face deeper in his pillow.

Dean wiggled the mattress even harder, practically setting Sam's body to bouncing like a ball.

"C'mon, Sam. Get a move on. Aren't people supposed to start fishing early in the morning?"

"Dude—all right already." The growl emanating from his brother, whose face was still firmly planted in his pillow, was heartfelt and promised retribution if Dean didn't quit his antics.

Sam slowly rolled out of bed, the sheet and blanket so entangled around his long limbs they came with him. He shed them as he stalked to the bathroom.

Dean heard the shower start up and glanced at his watch.

Now might be a good time to make an escape.

Grabbing his wallet, he stuffed it in his back pocket, and made a beeline for the door. "Hey, uh, Sammy," he yelled, "I'm . . . ah . . . gonna go get us so—"

"DEAN!" Sam's roar reverberated throughout the motel room.

Dean's stopped in his tracks, shoulders hunched up around his ears.

"You jerk. You didn't leave me any hot water!"

Dean slipped out the door, hoping that hot coffee and whatever else he could scrounge up for breakfast would make a suitable peace offering.

TBC . . .