Dean's been awake for 48 hours straight. Any other night he would have pulled off the road. They would have slept in the car, but right now they need four walls. They need windows and doors. They need the security of a thick line of salt.

Fucking demons.

There are lights in the distance. The sense of relief Dean feels is intense, a wave of calm that's almost dangerous while he's behind the wheel.

Streetlights. Porch lights. Motel neon.

It feels familiar. It's another shitty motel with buzzing lights in some backwards nowheresville town, but there's something else. Something that pokes at the back of Dean's brain, throwing up a twinge of mild alarm.

It's probably nothing. Maybe they've been through here before. The whole town is familiar, so much so that Dean drives on autopilot and the Impala slides into the motel parking lot like she knows the way.

Dean leaves Sam slumbering restlessly in the passenger seat and hopes that they didn't skip out on the bill the last time they were here.

The manager is wearing striped pajamas and a brown robe that makes him look like a moth-eaten teddy bear. He hands Dean a key with a yawn, and mutters something about checkout time and towels, but Dean isn't listening.

He stares at the key in his hand and wonders why his brain is on fire, why it's sending up all kinds of warning signals.

It's a plain silver key, tied, with a short length of ratty gray string, to a green plastic diamond.

It was white, Dean's brain supplies. The string, it used to be white. Clean, and new, but not any more. The room number is six, but it could just as easily be nine. The number handwritten in permanent marker doesn't have the line that indicates which way up it's supposed to go, and that, too, sparks Dean's memory.

"Number six," the manager says, but Dean already knew, and then, "good night," with a firmness that gets Dean moving out the door as the manager locks it behind him.

Dean's still staring at the key in his hand as he returns to the car and opens the passenger door, catching Sam with his hip before he falls onto the pavement. "Get your shit, Sammy," Dean says. "Got us a room."

Dean slides the key into the lock, and there's a familiar crunch as he pushes it home.

"We've been here before," he says, almost to himself. "Can't put my finger on it."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says. "I went to high school here."

The door swings open, and Sam's words, coupled with the all-too-familiar interior of the room, bring the memories flooding back with a wave of sickening dread. It's all he can do not to back up, get in the car, and drive until he can forget it all over again.

Not that he ever actually forgot what happened here. It replays in his dreams, sometimes. That bed, by the far wall. The creak of springs and the bang of the headboard against the wall. Limbs tangled in sheets and in each other. The smell of bleach and cheap hair conditioner, sweat and bodily fluids.

The unique blend of scents that make up the perfume of motel sex.

"We gotta go," Dean says, finally backing up, hitting the door, because Sam's already shut it behind him. "Sammy, we gotta go."

"Don't be fucking stupid, Dean." Sam dumps his bag on the floor and walks toward the nearest bed, collapsing face-first with a creak of bedsprings, and within moments, he's snoring. Asleep, fully clothed, boots and all.

Dean stares in horror. Sam's claimed the bed nearest the door. Dean's bed—or at least it was, back then. Must have been about ten years ago. Right here, in this room, in these very beds, and something happened here that Dean's been trying to forget for a decade.

Sam was seventeen. Taller than Dean, lean, but starting to pack on some of that muscle that seems to come so naturally to him. Dad had ditched them here, gone off on some wild goose chase. He went radio silent after two weeks, and they were alone, and Dean was solely responsible for his kid brother.

As far as they both knew, all they had left was each other.

Here is where he betrayed that responsibility. Right here in this room. Right there in the bed furthest from the door, the only one left for Dean to sleep in.

If he hadn't been so fucking exhausted, he'd have stayed up. Still, he lingers as he salts the windows and door, before he finally takes off his boots and strips out of his jeans. He climbs under the covers, so similar to the ones from a decade ago that they might be the exact same blankets, the exact same sheets.

---

Dean wakes to the sound of the shower running. Sam's bed is rumpled, but the covers are still drawn up, testament to the way Sam collapsed on top of them, fully clothed.

Sam's boots are in the middle of the floor. His jeans, filthy from the fight, a crumpled heap outside the bathroom.

The shower shuts off. The door opens, and Sam, a too-small towel wrapped around his waist, steps through a curtain of steam. It pours into the room, reeking of cheap motel conditioner, and invokes something Pavlovian in Dean, a response he thought he'd trained away long ago.

This place, this room, brings it all flooding back. "Better be some hot water left," he mutters, avoiding Sam's eyes.

"Always plenty of hot water here," Sam says, crossing the room and hauling his bag up off the floor, tossing it onto the bed. "Remember?"

Dean ignores the question, swings his head away while Sam drops the towel and gets dressed. Dean remembers far more than that about this place, this room, but while he's giving Sam privacy, the only place he can look is the bathroom, steam still oozing out of the open door.

There was always plenty of hot water. They spent a lot of time in the shower, and it never ran out.

Dean should shower. He can feel the dirt still crusted on his skin, dried blood sticky between his fingers.

He grabs his gear and closes the bathroom door behind him.

---

Dean's head is still spinning from the half a bottle of first aid kit whiskey they drank, and he clings to the sides of the shower, to Sam. He giggles, drunk and high on endorphins.

They're both covered in come. Rutting naked together on a single bed will do that, after all.

Sam kisses him under the stream of hot water. Tastes like whiskey, and faintly of stomach acid. The kid isn't used to the booze yet.

Dean feels a faint pang of guilt. He's not supposed to get his kid brother drunk and bang him, but the whiskey, and the loss, and the fact Sam kissed Dean first tempers it.

"You want this, right?" Dean asks. "Sammy, I gotta know."

"Hell yeah," Sam says, and kisses Dean again, hard.

Dean shoves him away, laughing. "Rinse your mouth. You taste like sick." He turns, grabs the sliver of motel soap and scrubs at the muck on his belly. His come, Sam's come, all blended together like they're the same person.

Sam takes a mouthful of shower water and gargles, then shoots it at Dean's back, at the place between his shoulder blades that he can't quite reach. "Feels good," Dean says, then passes Sam the soap. "Wash my back?"

It's more of a massage than a scrub. Sam's good at at, though. Practiced, experienced from working out knots from a rough hunt. Dean moans, plants his hands against the wall, hangs his head and lets the hot water hit him on the back of his neck. It runs down his back and over Sam's fingers as they work.

"God, you sound so sexy," Sam says, soaping forgotten as he crowds up against Dean's back. He's hard again, and his cock fits itself along the crack of Dean's ass like it belongs there. "Guh," Sam says, and gives what is probably an involuntary thrust.

"Again?" Dean laughs, but he grinds back. It feels nice, and if Sam wants to rub off against Dean's ass he's all for it, plus, they're already in the shower so clean up will be a hell of a lot easier.

Thing is, Sam doesn't just rub up against Dean. He grabs hold of his cock, and he slides the head down into the crack of Dean's ass, up and down, over Dean's hole.

"Oh, fuck," Dean says, and this is definitely involuntary, but he rocks back against his brother. "Oh, fuck."

"Can I?" Sam says, voice rough and broken. "Let me, Dean, I need to—" His hips jerk, the head of his cock stabbing against Dean's hole. "Dean, please."

"Oh, shit," Dean says, gasping, head spinning, alcohol and hot water not a good combo. "Yeah, okay, just—" He looks around, grabs the half-used bottle of complimentary conditioner from the shelf. "Use this."

Sam gives him an incredulous look.

"Just do it, Sammy." Dean's got no experience with anal sex, but he has a general idea of the mechanics. "Fingers first. Or you're gonna tear me a new one, and that doesn't sound like fun."

---

It's all too familiar. The hot water streaming over him and making his head spin. The wall where he planted his hands, the same brand of conditioner in a tiny bottle, the smell of it as he snaps the cap open.

Dean squirts it into his hand, rubs the cheap product between his fingers and brings his hand to his nose to sniff.

Buried memories hit him like a wrecking ball. Sam's hand in the small of his back, pressing him against the cold tile, another hand, slick with this very stuff, probing between the cheeks of his ass.

Slick fingers pressing into him, stretching him open, and then—

His baby brother's cock inside him.

Dean's so hard it hurts. He wraps his hand around his cock and strokes, hard and fast, fingers a blur, so desperate to get off. And he can't resist sliding his free hand back, thrusts a finger inside himself, those memories finally released with a conscious need to relive the events of the past.

Dean cries out as he comes, biting his lip on his brother's name as it echoes in the tiny bathroom.

---

"It's this place," Sam says. "This room. That's why you wanted to leave. You didn't want to remember. Worked so hard to forget, but you can't, when it's staring you in the face. But I never forgot, Dean."

Sam's got him pinned against the bathroom door. Locked the steam inside and slammed Dean against it as soon as he came out.

"You let me believe you didn't want it. You let me think, for a fucking decade, that I forced you into it, but I heard you, Dean. I heard you say my name."

"I didn't—"

"You think I don't know what you sound like when you're coming? Like that sound hasn't replayed in my head over and over for the last ten years? I know."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But it wasn't your fault, Sam. It was never on you. What happened was on me. You were just a kid, and I was supposed to look out for you, not—"

"Let me fuck you?"

Dean's breath lodges in his throat. "Yeah."

"But you wanted it," Sam says.

Dean tries to swallow past the lump, but fails, and his voice is reedy and hollow. "Yeah."

"You still want it."

"Sammy—"

"Let me fuck you."

This time it's a demand, as insistent as the hard length pressed against Dean's thigh.

The breath punches out of Dean's chest in a gasp. "Fuck. Sammy—"

"Tell me you want it, Dean," Sam begs, grinding against Dean's thigh, his hot breath damp against Dean's cheek. "I need to know—"

"I want it," Dean spits. "Oh fuck, Sammy. I want it so much."

Sam fists his hands into Dean's shirt, flips him to face the bathroom door. His hands are rushed, desperate, his belt buckle jangles and his zipper is loud and ominous.

Dean rips at his own fly to drop his jeans over his ass. "Lube, Sammy, fuck."

"Got it." There's the telltale sound of thick fluid squirting from a bottle, then the shock of cold against hot flesh.

Dean gasps as a thick finger enters him. "Fucking boy scout. Always prepared." Last time, Sam was a fumbling virgin, awkward and unsure. The years have given him a confidence Dean doesn't feel.

"Never fucked another guy, Sammy," Dean moans. "Oh god. Just you. Oh, fuck."

There's a thick, filthy squelch as Sam slides two fingers into Dean, over and over. "I've got you," Sam says. "I'll take care of you."

Dean pushes away the thought that Sam's done this with other men. It's not hard, when all he can think about is the arm wrapped around his chest, holding him up as his knees go weak, and the fingers probing his insides.

Sam's bare, hard cock slides against Dean's hip. "Tell me you want it," Sam repeats.

"I want it," Dean says, fucking himself back on Sam's fingers. "Want your cock, Sammy. Fuck me."

Sam's different. Dean's different. The years have changed them both, even in this place where the memories of long ago are so fresh and clear.

It's a different kind of desperation. Then, it was the fear that they were alone in the world, that they only had each other. Now, it's the knowledge that they've lost time, denied themselves this for so long, and the desire finally released in an uncontrollable burst.

Tt's different because Dean's cheek is pressed against the bathroom door. Then, they did it in the bed, with the scent of bleach and the springs creaking beneath them. And they did it in the shower, steam and soap and slimy conditioner. They even did it in the motel pool, reeking of chlorine and unskimmed leaves floating around them.

"Fuck me," Dean groans. "Fuck me up against the fucking wall. Put your fucking cock in me, Sammy, give me your cock."

"Guh," Sam says, pulling his fingers out, leaving Dean empty and clenching, but just for a second.

Sam slides his cock home in one long, agonizing thrust, and then stills.

"I'm inside you," Sam gasps. "I'm finally inside you again, Dean."

Dean can't think. He's stretched, full, pinpricks of fire spreading over his skin, fingertips buzzing. He sucks in great gasps of air, not enough oxygen reaching his extremities, all the blood in his body pooled in his cock.

Sam used to come quick. Hell, Dean used to come quick. Now, Sam fucks into him like it's going to last forever, like they've got all the time in the world.

Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. As soon as they leave this place, they could go back to normal. Ignoring what happened here. Again.

Dean doesn't want it. "Keep fucking me," Dean says, the double meaning clear in his mind. "When we leave here, keep fucking me, want you to keep fucking me."

"Yeah," Sam says, fucking hard into Dean's body, making the door creak on it's hinges, bang in the frame, announce to the world that they're fucking, against the wall, enthusiastic and unrestrained. "Yeah. I want it, Dean. Not gonna let you cover it up. Not again. Never again. Fuck, you feel so good."

"Come inside me," Dean says, grasping his cock at the base, stroking up his length, spreading the slick oozing from the tip. "Want your come inside me."

Sam's arm tightens around Dean's chest, his free hand grabs Dean's hip, hard, and he starts driving into Dean like he's possessed.

This is more like before. Hormones and desperation and Sam jackrabbiting into Dean's ass, completely out of control.

Dean's hand tightens on his cock, holds on for dear life, but he's gonna come, the thought—the memory—of Sam's come, dripping down the inside of his thigh, the smell of bleach and sweat and Sam surrounding him. It's all so fucking familiar. Sam's cock inside him, deeper, burrowing into his flesh, slamming hard right up inside him until he can damn near feel it in his throat.

Dean comes with a guttural groan, come spattering the door, dripping down onto his bare feet.

Sam follows moments later, stilling with a grunt and moaning. "So fucking tight," he says, and "so fucking good Dean," and "you feel so fucking good," before he slumps, heavy, against Dean's back.

The awkwardness as they pull away from each other is tempered by post-coital endorphins. Dean grins at Sam as he pulls up his jeans, and revels as the look of concern and fear on Sam's face melts away.

"I meant it," Dean says, grimacing at the feeling of his brother's come leaking out of him. "I don't want this to be locked away in some shitty motel in some nowhere town. Not again."

"You want that?" Sam asks. "No denial? No pretending like it never happened?"

"We're grown-ups now, Sammy. Consenting adults."

"Right." Sam grins. "Shower with me? We had a lot of fun in that shower, remember?"

"I remember," Dean says, as Sam pulls him through the door into the bathroom.

fin