It felt like there was sand in his eyes, grinding away at the sensitive organs. His hands shook as he reached for another glass of water. The back of his head felt like it was full of cement. "You look like hell, man." His brother turned a pitying expression to him, and he was just too tired to be witty.

"I know."

Thirty seven hours and forty nine minutes of wakefulness takes a toll on a man. He felt so tired during the day, thinking longingly of his bed and blissful dreamlessness. Instead, he had crawled into his bed last night and felt claustrophobic and insecure. His thoughts followed a cycle, touching on different things with each pass, but always landing on the same thought. What was wrong with him?

He had somehow made it through the day, so tired he could not fall asleep, even in his Survey of American History class. Finally, he was home, with no pressing obligations until one the next afternoon. He showered, relaxing his muscles with overheated water and the calming scent of vanilla shampoo.

Naked, he lay on his stomach in his bed. One arm was by his side, tucked under his hip; the other pulled his pillow into a more pleasing shape under his head. His left knee was facing away from him, his right foot straight below. Dean closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion.

His thoughts grew restless and he rolled onto his back, hoping to stop his mind from revolving again.

Why was he the way he was? Why was it so impossible for him to just sleep? Was there something wrong with the chemicals in his brain? It must have something to do with is personality. He held too tightly to some things, like his brother and his need to protect and feel needed. There were things he held like fire – too far to burn but close enough to feel the warmth. Those were the things he craved so much they scared him.

He wanted acceptance and love, but why would anyone give him those things? He couldn't do it, not really. Oh, there were things he accepted but he never could wrap his mind around the whole picture.

His sexuality was something he could accept. Mostly, at least. He could accept what it was, but all the labels just pissed him off. Why should it matter if he hit on a woman but ended up leaving with a man? If he was attracted to them, it was because of them, not what they kept in their pants or what box they checked on government forms.

Other people didn't understand, but it really did not bother him.

What bothered him right now was that he still could not sleep!

With a sinking heart, Dean realized he had been lying here, fruitlessly courting sleep for three hours. It was one in the morning and Sam had just opened the door. He was home from Jess's house.

Sam was always considerate of Dean. He knew he could never sleep and so never invited Jess to spend the night; he felt bad when Dean would wake after only a few hours of sleep to the sound of a hastily muffled text tone. Another person talking, breathing, existing in the same area would quickly send him into insomniac hell. So he stayed over there, or made sure to come home alone.

With a sigh, Dean sat up and ran his hand over his face. A clean pair of pajama pants were pulled over his legs and onto his hips before he left his room. Sam's shoulders drooped when he saw Dean walk to the fridge. "I'm sorry."

Dean hated hearing that tone come out of his brother, as if he was apologizing for existing. Dean shot him a grin, but he knew the circles around his eyes robbed it of its usual charm. "Not you." He grabbed himself a root beer, caffeine free soda for the insomniac, of course. "Catch some sleep, dude. One of us should."

Sam listened, for once. When his brother's back had disappeared into his bedroom, he set up his laptop. If he was going to be awake, he might as well be productive. There was an English paper due next week, and he could start it early since he had the time.

A few more hours passed and Dean knew he was almost to the hallucination point of sleep deprivation. He had been there often enough to see it coming. As he drank another root beer before jumping in yet another shower, because he never felt clean when tiredness weighed him down like mud on his skin, he realized it was possibly a good thing. It was not something he liked to do, but he knew that if he got close to that point, there were things that he could do to make sleep come.

With this solution in mind, Dean was careful when dressing for work. Dark, tight jeans were pulled over black leather work boots. A slightly looser black t-shirt was layered under a red plaid button up. He was ready for his after work plans.

It was fifteen minutes before his shift when Dean parked his Impala outside of Singer Salvage, his Uncle Bobby's business and his place of employment. Bobby shook his head at Dean, but didn't say anything as he pulled coveralls over his jeans and t-shirt, leaving the plaid hanging on his hook. He did not bother hiding his look of worry as Dean dug into a Ford Festiva's carburetor problem.

The day passed with Dean ignoring the nauseous, shaky feeling that exhaustion and lack of appetite combined to create in his body. Bobby watched him like a hawk, muttering 'idjit' under his breath when Dean's trembling hands dropped a bolt for the third time. Dean chewed his lip to avoid screaming at the older man. It was not his fault he was irritating Dean, he was just worried. Everyone knew that so little sleep was not healthy. Bobby was a second father to him, better than his first, actually, and he should be thanked for his concern.

It was just that his concern set Dean's teeth on edge.

Bobby finally lost all patience and sent him home an hour early. He stripped the coveralls off and pulled the plaid back on, then climbed back into his car. There was plenty of time to scope out the Roadhouse before he brought somebody home. A little alcohol, some sex, and Dean would be able to sleep for a while, at least until his temporary bed partner tried to leave.

A glance in the rear view mirror served as a last minute appearance check. Honestly, Dean was surprised he looked as good as he did. A constant state of sleep deprivation had burned his body's reserves until the bones of his body and face stood out starkly, though only the barest hint of stubble graced his chin. Purplish stains surrounded his eyes, making him look as if he spent his nights fighting, instead of restless. It made the green of his irises quite striking, actually. His lips weren't chapped for once, and his hair was actually willing to be styled as he wanted it after two showers. All in all, he looked pretty damned good for someone who's most recent stretch of consciousness had passed the seventy one hour mark.

As insurance, he sent a text to Sam that said he was going to bring someone home. Sam would know what that meant and would not approve, but he knew that Dean was not going to let it become the problem it had been before. He trusted that Dean didn't want to become that person again; the person that passed out drunk and puking in front of the toilet or woke up next to strangers with no recollection of even meeting, just for the sake of a few hours' sleep. He had worked hard to be where he was, even if he got less sleep. He had not liked being so dependent on something so blatantly addictive, being dependent on something that had already torn his family apart. Dean knew that this was why the only response he got from Sam was a warning to be careful.

That was all he needed to be ready. It was not smart; he and Sam both knew it. But Dean was desperate. This was just the latest stretch in weeks of crappy sleep cycles. He was going to fail his classes if he zombied out instead of paying attention. Grandpa Samuel wouldn't pay for college if he wasn't going to pass, and he would probably disappoint Bobby more than he wanted to think about. Dean was convinced everything would be okay if he could just fucking sleep.

The door to the Roadhouse brought Dean to a dimly lit, smoky room that looked much bigger with the lights on. He had no intention of seeing that tonight, though. No, he wanted to be curled around a warm body in his bed by the time Ellen shouted for last call. To that end, he took himself to the bar, which was really the midway point between the types of patrons the Roadhouse catered to. From the door to the bar, it was a socialization center, with people sitting at tables and talking, or playing pool, with a steady rock beat in the background. From the bar to the back of the building, shiny linoleum floor rocked with lights and skittering, pulsating dance music.

Ellen smiled when she saw him. "Hey, good looking. Been a while since I saw you."

The sounds at the bar, rock warring with pop, shouted conversation and screamed come-ons were blending into a beat that his body still knew. It amped him up, made him smile at the bartender, and made a part of him regret giving it up. He squashed that, knowing that he had made the right decision. "That's college. Whiskey and sprite?" He didn't really like the drink, but Coke had caffeine in it. All the things his fucked up mind had taken away from him made him even angrier. He couldn't even drink a damn Coke.

Ellen smiled and made his drink, having it in his hand before he had completed one turn of his surveillance. He winked at her before something told him to look behind himself again. A dark haired man, wearing all black and a smug smile, laid his hand on the shoulder of another dark haired man, though the second was taller than the first. Dean watched them, a feeling in his stomach telling him he needed to. The taller man seemed to be unhappy with his situation. He jerked his shoulder away from the shorter man, but it did not seem to deter him. For a few seconds, Dean watched this continue as the taller man slowly made his way towards the bar, but never quite making it.

Dean took a swallow of his drink before giving a quick, unfriendly, smile to Ellen and moved toward them. He didn't like when someone could not take no for an answer. He just had time to register that the taller man was wearing a waistcoat – and who does that in a bar? – before he turned and looked directly at his harasser. His messy hair caught a patch of light from the bar, showing it to be a deep brown and not black, before he lifted his arms and forcibly shoved the shorter man away from him. The black clad man stepped toward the formal one, straightening his black dress shirt. His chin jutted out, pompously declaring his disbelief, if Dean was any judge.

He had stopped when he thought that the man had stopped the situation, but he started forward again now. However, he could have saved himself the trouble. He was just four feet away when the tall man punched the other in the jaw with a mean right hook.

Dean thought that it was possibly the sexiest thing he had seen in quite some time.

Before the bully-turned-victim could retaliate, Dean was by his side and forcibly gripped his arm, pulling him toward the door. The crowd was opening around them when Dean looked at the man. His chin seemed to be swelling, and his lower lip bleeding. "A gentleman knows when to take no for an answer." There was a police officer standing outside the door when Dean shoved him through.

"Sod off." The injured man jerked his shirt back into place again and raised a lofty brow to the police officer, before calmly stalking away from the bar. The officer just nodded at Dean and followed after him.

Now that this was taken care of, Dean could go admire the man that had dealt that damage. He found him at the bar, dropping a shot down his throat, ignoring the bag of ice Ellen was trying to hand him. Just as Dean got within easy speaking distance of the two of them, the man turned to Dean. His eyes widened and it felt as if his heart kicked up a beat. The man was all angular features and tanned skin around full lips and Dean could swear that someone had painted those eyes on him, they were so blue.

Too bad the man was obviously not interested in being taken home tonight.

"Great shot, man. Couldn't have done better myself." He smiled, the charm he had sworn was gone back in full force. He held out his hand. "Dean."