It was a cold winter night, the street lights casting a warm glow over the blanketed white streets. Eerie silence permeated his being. He hated silence. He dove into the nearest alley and sat down on a pile of cardboard boxes. The brick walls on either side of him reeked of grease and mildew. He stared down at his wrists, and scrubbed a cold hand over them.
"Fuck."
He told them not to leave any marks. That was his policy, no physical evidence that anyone was ever there. They got a little too rough and he tried to stop them, but one of them pulled a rope out of seemingly nowhere. He's lucky they even gave him half of the money he was owed.
I should get home.
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He fumbled for his room key for a moment before opening the door. A gust of warm air hit his face and he thanked god under his breath.
"Dean?" His brother called from the bedroom they share.
"What are you doing up?" He asked and shut the door behind him. He started to strip his wet jacket and boots off his shivering body.
"I think I like the question "What are you doing out?" better."
"I was hustling pool. We need the money."
The lie slipped easily from his lips, but fell a little flat. He hoped Sam would chock it up to exhaustion.
Sam popped his head out of the bedroom door frame. "You hear from dad yet?" He asked, hopeful.
"If I had I would've told you." He shrugged at Sam and plopped down onto the couch.
Sam walked to the kitchen and grabbed two sodas, tossing one to Dean as he sat down across from him.
"What happened to your wrists?"
"A bar fight. S'nothing."
The things you love
You put into cement
In order to keep them
They have to be dead
You think that he's yours
But it's only in your head
His coffin is not your arms
His grave is not your bed
Cement, Nicole Dollanganger
thanks for reading. I don't own any characters, unless stated otherwise.