Sam had fallen asleep at the table.
He remembered—even in his bleary, half-awake state—that he had been writing a paper about The Illiad for his Mythology & Folklore class just before he passed out on his folded arm. Sam probably drooled on his paper, he’d have to rewrite it in the morning.
Because it wasn’t yet morning, there was no pale blue light pouring in through the sheer curtains, and the only light in the room was coming from the bulb over the sink. Sam couldn’t see it, but he couldn’t see much of anything with half of his face buried into a pillow and his unobstructed eye squinting through the dark. He didn’t want to pull himself up onto wobbly arms and turn onto his other side just to see if Dean was asleep in the next bed over, but it was strange to not wake up to the sound of some softcore porn that his brother was sneakily trying to enjoy without Sam noticing. Though, Sam wasn’t sure he could hear much of anything right now, even his own shallow breathing.
When he attempted to push up on the mattress and turn onto his side, he realized that he was stuck. There was a weight pressing down onto the middle of his back, and more holding down his legs. His arms were free, but they felt heavy as he folded underneath the pressure pinning him in place. His senses started to awaken along with his body—first touch, then sound, as he heard his breathing, then the mattress creaking, and then another series of rough, yet rhythmic, breaths.
Sam assumed he just couldn’t hear the TV and that Dean was really enjoying himself to whatever Emmanuel movie was on tonight. That didn’t explain why his blanket felt like it was made of lead, though. When he attempted to raise his hips and bring himself onto his knees, it almost felt like he was being pushed back down. He exhaled sharply and tried to summon words from his dry throat, only managing a small “hmph” of exertion.
Sensation came back slowly—he started to feel a sharp pressure digging into the flesh of his hips, then something scratchy but warm brushing against the backs of his thighs, and some pulsating force in between them. Sam tried to shuffle to the side but was held firm in place, feeling pain in his hips as he collapsed back into place. His head was swimming and he struggled to fully open the eye that wasn’t crushed into the pillow, only seeing dark shapes that were briefly illuminated by passing headlights. Sam felt like he had when Dean got him drunk for his 16th birthday; heavy and limp, delirious, and smaller than he really was. He swallowed hard, unsure if he tasted the stale remnants of alcohol on his tongue and doubly unsure when he would have had anything to drink. It wasn’t like he was begging to get wasted again after that birthday.
“Dean?” He croaked, hoping he might get some verbal confirmation that he truly was awake and not in the midst of some strange nightmare.
All Sam heard was a firm grunt before he flopped back against the mattress and his eyes slid shut again.
When he woke up in the morning, Dean wasn’t there, and when he came back in the early evening he looked guiltier than Sam had ever seen him. He wouldn’t put two and two together until nearly a decade later when he was in college. Sam didn’t hold it against Dean, though—if anything, he wished that Dean would have owned up to it then, in that molding motel room, just to spare him so many years of uncertain pining.