Dean comes back to the motel late on his 18th birthday, stumbles through the doorway and casts aside his shoes and wet socks against the wall. He’s drunk, but not drunk enough to forget to check on Sam: the boy’s curled up underneath his blanket in his own bed by the far end of the room, making noises that Dean stops to listen to for a moment until they fade out and disappear. He doesn’t even seem to wake up to the sound of his older brother falling against the hollow wall in an attempt to rid himself of his jeans, and Dean’s happy about that. The kid doesn’t need to see him like this, a little too much extra in his blood and traces of smeared lipstick on his lips and neck. And he didn’t even get lucky: the birthday excuse only got him to second base, leaving behind a certain sense of frustration that still hasn’t faded completely.
The bathroom’s yellow light stirs nausea in the bottom of Dean’s stomach as he moves in and nearly falls over before the shower’s even on. He feels sick, unfulfilled, lonely, annoyed; not the kind of a birthday he wished for. John didn’t bother to show up either - not that Dean expected it. It’ll be good if he gets a happy birthday later that week. The old man will probably write a celebratory note in his journal and consider his duties towards the occasion fulfilled.
The water’s cold. Of course it is; nobody told Sam to get out before the hot water ran out, and that’s mostly Dean’s fault. He’s so tired that he barely feels the water running down his skin, but when he’s out, he’s shivering. Without hesitation, but with a lot of swaying and barely keeping his balance, he pulls back on his underwear and the worn Zeppelin shirt from the pile of clothes he’s left by the doorway. The room’s a blur in front of him, swaying slowly from side to side, as he throws himself on his bed and wrestles the blanket from underneath his tingling body.
God, he could have slept in a better bed tonight. Not for long, of course; he wouldn’t leave Sam for the whole night. But a couple hours. In a nice, soft bed with feminine sheets and a scent that only a girl can carry about her. Something… nicer than this. The mattress creaks and whines underneath him as he shifts, and a weary sigh escapes his parted lips as he settles to welcome sleep. It crawls in like a ghost, submerging him into some intoxicated excuse for rest only for a brief moment before another disturbance sets in. Something else is crawling in his bed. Something that smells and feels like a little brother.