"I said, where's the money, Winchester," the gruff man shouted, puffs of cigarette smoke floating out of his mouth as he scolded Dean.
"I," Dean stuttered, "I don't have it. I couldn't make the sale. I'm sorry." Sweat was beading at his brow, and his hands were clenched into rock solid fists at the thought of what was to come.
"Oh, you're sorry? Sure, man, that totally makes it better, thanks!" teased the man again. He began to polish his knife, a silver beauty with elegant flowers carved into its wooden handle.
"I can get you the money," pleaded Dean, a low growl to his voice. It was almost like the sound of somebody in fear trying to act tough. No, it couldn't be. Dean Winchester doesn't get scared, right?
The man strode around the chair Dean was tied to, snickering under his breath. "Dean, Dean, Dean. I don't want to do this. Really, I'm a nice guy. But, I have to." Then he took his fancy silver knife and made a deep slit in Dean's flesh.
Crimson blood ran down the muscles of his forearm. He set his jaw and stared through the pain.
"You know what? I'm gonna cut you some slack just this once. I want my money in the next two days, you hear me? Either you sell the crack or, well, let's just say there'll be some... unfortunate consequences." And with that, the man struck Dean with a hard blow to the head that caused him to fall unconscious.
Dean woke up on the floor of his dingy, little apartment. He had the vaguely salty sensation of dried blood in his mouth. He picked his sorry ass off the floor like he did every time this happened and landed on the couch with a grunt.
He knew he was in trouble. This time he knew it was bad. He was in way too deep. This was never the life he wanted. He wanted to go to college, start a business, have a family for god's sake. But money was tight. Fate would never let him have a single one of those sweet privileges anyways. No she would never. After all though, it could be worse, right? That was what he told himself to patch up his wounds when the going got especially bad. It was a temporary consolation.
How on earth was he going to pay this one off? I know what you're thinking, just sell the goddamned drugs and get the guy his money! You've done it before! Only the problem was he didn't have it to sell. No, don't be daft, he didn't smoke it himself, he would never. What he had done was drop it into some water pooled at the side of the road when he was stumbling home drunk the other night.
After working up enough motivation to make it into the kitchen, if you could call it a kitchen, he put cold water on his bruises and cuts. The physical ailments weren't really the ones hurting him though.
He needed help or at least someone to talk to if nothing else.
"Cas," he whispered into the phone softly, his voice cracking, "How soon can you be over at my place?"