Dean sat on the edge of the bed, drinking a beer and flipping channels. He stopped for a moment on an excessively loud infomercial but clicked off of it when Sam muttered in his sleep. The old black and white western that was on the next station up lasted only two minutes before Dean bored of it. Six channels later, he was watching Clint Eastwood squint his way through Heartbreak Ridge. When it was over Dean could count on two hours of Matlock to carry him through until three. After that he would have to rely on reruns of CSI to keep him company until Sammy woke at seven.
Dean hated the police procedural, but sometimes it was the only thing that got him through the night.
Wisconsin was cold at almost any time of the year, but in mid-December with a full moon at four in the morning it gave the word a whole new level of meaning. Dean stood outside the hotel room, leaning against his car and staring at the hotel room door. He listened as the wind moaned around the buildings, and watched as the snow snaked under the Impala and danced around the dumpsters in the alley. His toes had gone numb a while ago and he could feel the tingling start of frostbite on his ears and cheeks. He'd have to go in soon, but he wasn't ready to give up quite yet.
Dean hated the cold, but sometimes it was the only thing that got him through the night.
The laundromat was small and surprisingly crowded for the early morning hour. Dean picked through the old magazines that were scattered about the place and avoided eye contact with the large bearded man who kept smiling inappropriately at the other customers. A small part of Dean wished the ugly SOB would do something overtly threatening, just so that he'd have a excuse to throw his sorry ass out of the building, but the creep seemed satisfied with just leering. Dean divided the clothes into more loads than were strictly necessary and dried them longer than needed. Then he took the time to fold all of Sam's stuff neatly, just as his brother liked. He jammed his own back into his duffle.
Dean hated doing clothes, but sometimes it was the only thing that got him through the night.
There was a mesmerizing cadence to running. The steady beat of feet on road, the controlled in-and-out of the breath, the constant change of scenery. Once in the groove it didn't require any thought, just the unending need to put one foot in front of the other. When he ran, Dean always headed away from the hotel, taking the lonelier roads that headed away from the streetlights and buildings. He ran until the faint traces of sunrise could be seen in the sky, until his feet burned with every step. Dean would pause long enough to take three long breaths, and then he would turn and run back.
Dean hated running, but sometimes it was the only thing that got him through the night.
The battles Dean could win but the war was always lost, because willpower alone could only keep him awake for so long. When the shadows started closing in and the stench of the pit wafted along on every breeze, Dean knew it was the end. He traded fighting sleep for a couple of bottles of Jack. Sam would frown at him and they would snipe at each other for a bit but when the whiskey tasted like sulfur and the quiet of the room began to echo with screams and begging, Dean would finish the bottle in a sullen silence. He would wait until Sam gave up and his steady breathing filled the room. Then Dean would wrap himself in his old leather jacket and curl up on top of the bed. The whiskey was never enough to dull the pain or dampen the horror, but it slowed his reflexes and kept him from lashing out at the demons that visited him in his nightmare. When he closed his eyes, sleep would bring hell.
The faint hope of waking was the only thing that got him through the night.