A/N: Wow, it's been a while since I've uploaded! I've actually been sitting on this idea for about a year, though I've only recently gotten around to making any significant progress on the story. Next few chapters have already been written. Hope you enjoy :)
Warning- Drug abuse
Sam scrubbed at his face, feeling the stippled dots imprinted there during the night. Sunlight drilled through his half-closed eyes.
What time is it?
The digital clock sitting haphazardly on the nightstand fuzzed in and out of his vision. With a grunt, Sam peeled himself off the floor, his nostrils filling with the scent of moldy motel carpet.
What day is it?
His lips were beginning to crack and that burning ache in his stomach might have been hunger. The last thing he remembered was watching the neon red "VACANCY" sign flicker against a charcoal sky.
His limbs felt heavy, stuffed with sand. A loud pounding on the door joint the one in his head, indicating that he'd overstayed his welcome.
"Gimme a minute! 'M about to check out!" Sam hollered as he stumbled to the bathroom to splash a little water on his face. His reflection stared back at him, an angry red patch on his cheek from the carpet. I can shower in the next town. A few greasy strands of hair clung to his forehead. It's getting so long. Haven't cut it since…
Sam quickly turned away, avoiding the mirror. He snatched a half-dried shirt from the towel rack, yanking the sleeves down so they covered the track marks that raced down his arms like lightning bolts.
Just need to get out of here. It'll be alright once I get my bearings. He moved back to the bedroom, shoving his belongings indiscriminately into a duffle that was patched many times over with duct tape.
Just need a hit, I'll be good. Nausea was already starting to curl in his stomach like a cat.
Sam shoved the door open, shuffling out under the baleful eye of the motel owner. He knows I can feel it, probably gets people like this all the time. Stinking junkies getting high in the bathtub and pissing on the beds. Gonna call the cops on me buddy? Search my room after I leave?
He shoved his last fifty bucks into the man's soft, sweaty hand. I bet you make a tidy profit, you fat bastard.
His beat-up Dodge pickup was waiting for him in the lot. Sam made a mental note to change cars as soon as he got settled. He'd had this one almost a month now; couldn't risk getting ID'd. By the fuzz or Dean. Not that he'd still be looking for my sorry ass anyway.
Sam wiped away the sweat that was beginning to trickle down the back of his neck. His skin was starting to stretch tight and cramps were beginning to shoot down his legs in tiny bursts of electricity. It was going to be a long drive to the next Nowhereville USA.
Setting up shop in a new town was never hard. After all, his transient lifestyle as a hunter was the perfect enabler. He could just roll in, case a couple houses, play a little pool and then spend the next few days high off his ass in some no-name motel. If anyone got suspicious or the money ran out, he could leave without a trace. Sure, it was a pain to establish new connections every time, but he had the gaunt, jittery look dealers tended to recognize.
This particular speck on the map had the dusty, worn-down feel of a place that subsisted off the interstate. A haven for truckers and travelers who were so weary they didn't really care where they laid their heads for the night. Plenty of dingy diners and one sad-looking strip club, complete with hookers with saggy tits and smoker's coughs.
Sam made a beeline for the club, its sign flickering spastically like a tired, neon strobe light. The inside smelled faintly of cheap beer, cigarettes, and desperation. A dancer was grinding halfheartedly against a pole in front of a small group huddled around the stage. He strode over to the bartender, carefully arranging a friendly grin on his face. The corners of his mouth ached at the effort, as if he was stretching a too-tight canvas over a frame.
Jess loved to paint.
Sam forced the smile up to his eyes. Your facial expression, body language, everything has to match. Dad had drilled that into them well enough. You need to be able to look people in the eye and lie through your teeth and they have to believe you. Otherwise you'll wind up dead or in jail. He wore the grin like a second skin, hoping that one of these days he could believe it himself.
The bartender gave him a guarded once-over before grunting, "New in town?"
"Is it that obvious?" Sam chuckled and casually slapped a five on the bar. "A beer, please."
"Not many people live 'round these parts. I even know most of the truckers who pass through by now." He turned his hefty bulk around with some difficulty in the small space, and handed Sam a bottle.
"Thanks. Say, you wouldn't happen to know where I could go to have a good time around here? I mean, the girls are great and all," he gestured towards the stage, "but I'm looking for something a little more… exiting."
The bartender raised a puffy, grey eyebrow. "How do you mean?"
"Who do the truckers usually ask for?" Sam murmured, placing a crumpled twenty into the man's fist.
The man at the front desk of Morty's Motor Paradise didn't even raise an eyebrow when Sam stumbled in, hollow-eyed and panting as he slid a wad of cash across the counter. Perfect.
He snatched the key with trembling fingers and forced himself not to sprint to the room with his prize. In no time at all, he was set up on the floor beside the bed; his entire body humming with anticipation.
Yep, Sam Winchester was living in an addict's paradise. No roots, no worries.
You tried though, didn't you? said that niggling little voice in his head. The one he constantly tried to drown out with the roar of sensation, of nerve endings tingling, on fire with bliss tearing through his body like a rocket.
Jessica. Sweet, smart, beautiful, naïve Jessica. She had no idea what was out there, just a walking, talking snack for whatever-the-fuck roasted her on the ceiling. Maybe if you'd been honest…
Sam tightened his grip on the spoon, watching its precious contents slowly melt over an open flame.
What would Dean say if he could see you now?
The voice yammered on over the familiar, comforting motions of tying off a tourniquet. His skin was stretched taut, hairs standing at attention with excitement. His arm was still useable, for the time being. Sam was careful to rotate sites when he shot up. The educated junkie.
What about Dad?
Sam depressed the plunger quickly and his head filled with numbing static, growing heavy as a lead balloon.