x-x-x-x-x
Dean quietly crept into the dreary motel room that Sam had booked for the both of them the other day. It was early enough in the morning that the sun had yet to rise. He peered into the dark room, relaxing as he saw a large figure laying in one of the two beds, Sam. The door creaked as it began to shut on its own; Dean gripped the door tightly with a sticky hand to keep it from slamming, careful not to wake up his brother.
The cold wind from outside crept in behind him as he entered and Dean shivered as it reached his bare arms. He wondered briefly who he had given his jacket to but there was a long list of possibilities and just trying to narrow it down made his head hurt. It had been a long night and he had gotten around more than he had planned.
Dean closed the door quietly, leaning his head against the paint-chipped wood. There was a sour taste in his mouth that Dean had become uncomfortably familiar with, making him feel slightly nauseated as he shuffled towards the bathroom to hopefully wash away all the impurity that he could feel clinging to his skin. Feeling sticky, dirty and cold Dean quickly peeled off his clothes as he moved towards the washroom, leaving behind a trail of fabric that were most likely masked with a 100 different types of cologne and various cheap perfumes. He hated the things he did everyday but not enough to find any other way to take care of Sammy.
He reached the washroom and closed the door hard behind him, his thoughts only on scrubbing the disgusting feeling that soaked his skin. He started the shower and turned the temperature as hot as it would go, which wasn't hot enough to wash the sickening feelings out of his system.
After almost an hour of vigorous scrubbing Dean finally gave up and exited the shower, turning off the water as he wrapped a towel around his waist, its fabric feeling like that of sandpaper. A heavy sigh escaped him as he looked in the mirror, cringing at the bedraggled man that stared back at him. Slipping on clothes, Dean continued to watch his reflection. His shirt was no more than a thin white undershirt, with stains and tears and only a general sense of where they came from.
Dean looked at the many cuts and bruises that riddled his body; they always seemed to multiply each night, growing in number. The girls would always give him a strange looked, asking him if he was into that sort of thing in a hushed whisper while the men didn't seem to care either way. They would just throw him down and have at it. It was always the boys who would leave the bruises, the cuts, the bite marks, the carpet burns. Dean's mind whizzed with thoughts and the realization that soap would never be able to wash this off. No amount of scrubbing would ever be able to change how he felt, and Dean knew no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to for it. He would always be this dirty, unclean and wrong.
Tired and worn, Dean left the bathroom and slid into bed, hopping to get a decent night's sleep.
-End-