The coffee was bitter and stale, but Dean drank it anyway. It did little to relieve the swollen sandpaper of his tongue. He poked at the congealed egg yolk on his plate with a spotty fork. The waitress, too used to his constant presence to feign politeness, paused for a moment to top off his cup. He dropped some creamer into the inky coffee and watched the pale swirl it created.
Jerry's 24 Hour Café was both the blessing and curse of Dean's existence; a blessing because it gave him somewhere to be when the roaring emptiness of his apartment began to drive him insane, and a curse because the anonymous wave of faces that strode in and out of the door only reminded him how alone he was. He compulsively dumped creamer into his cup until the contents was nearly white. He had been there for hours.
The watery gray of dawn slowly brightened into a blue morning, and it was finally time for a shift change. Dean's palms began to itch as he watched the midmorning waitress, his waitress, tie on her apron. She was very careful not to look directly at him, but her hurried demeanor as she clocked in let him know that she was aware of his presence. She checked on every table but his, her voice gratingly bright as she inquired about refills. Finally, she made her casual way to his corner booth.
"And what can I do for you, sugar?" she asked with an easy smile. She leaned against the cracked red vinyl of the booth.
"My usual, please," Dean asked.
"Bacon cheeseburger," she replied. "You got it, honey."
She stacked his breakfast plates and walked away with a wink. Dean saw the flash of white that was pressed to the bottom of the chipped ceramic for just a moment before the waitress pocketed it. His skin began to thrum with anticipation.
Only a short while later, she returned with his order. She set it down with another smile, but didn't stop to talk. Dean waited until she had walked back to the counter before lifting the top bun off of his burger. Nestled under the drooping lettuce was the tiny vial he had paid for. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and tore into his food, suddenly impatient to get back home. He tossed a few crumpled twenties on the table and left without looking back.
The air was laced with a sharp chill, and Dean hunched further into his jacket as he walked. It was only a mile back to his apartment, and he crossed the distance quickly. He mounted the cement stairs to the second floor, pointedly ignoring the tarp-covered vehicle rusting in his designated parking spot. He fumbled with his keys for a moment before sliding the correct one into the lock and pushing the splintered door open. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, leaning against it and taking a deep breath.
The apartment was pathetically bare, sporting only a small bed, desk, and static-filled TV. The tiny kitchen had stained linoleum and a badly humming fridge. A lockbox sat under the window, but it was the only thing that Dean had contributed to the apartment that was his. A framed picture sat face down on top of it.
Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and held the vial in his palm, his vision filled with the dark red contents. This was his favorite part. He loved seeing how long he could last before he glutted his need, how much time he could stand as his muscles began to shiver and his breathing became shallow. He waited until the anticipation turned to pain, until the pleasure was a punishment. It was all he had now. Every time he broke, it was too soon. With shaking fingers he unscrewed the top of the vial, promising that tomorrow he would last longer. He always promised.
He held the vial up to the light from the window, watching as the sun fractured off the glass, tinting his hand with a sullen ruby glow. He sighed, and it was bone-deep in its resignation. He blinked back tears from the sun-really, the sun?—and tipped his chin down in a nod.
"To you, Sammy," he said, and swallowed the thick liquid.
It slid coldly down his throat, leaving a burning ache in its wake. His stomach tingled, and his vision swirled. He collapsed backward onto the bed. He wondered why it always affected him this way, when it had given Sam so much power and energy. It slid through his veins like morphine, sweet and dull. His thoughts were foggy and slow; he wouldn't be getting up again that day. Tomorrow, he would go back to the diner and complete the cycle again.
It was all he had now.