3 days he lay in bed.

When his senses finally returned to him, he realized he was a mess. 3 days he had gone without showering, or even the energy to get out of bed. The smell of urine among other things flooded his nostrils. He dragged himself to the bathroom and slid into the shower, clothes and all.

The scalding water brought him back to reality. He began to strip, taking mental notes on how each body part felt. Once naked he took a long and calculated shower, and then decided to examine himself in the mirror. He looked like hell. Beard overgrown, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken in, and then there was his arm. The mark where the needle had entered his skin was fading, but the bruising around it was quite vibrant. The skin was sore, and even bending his arm was tough. He decided then and there, "never again."

Once dressed he went to a diner close by, realizing he hadn't eaten in 3 days. He sat patiently with a cup of coffee, waiting for pancakes when a large group of rowdy men came in the diner. Dean kept his head down until someone put a rough hand on his shoulder. He snapped his head up to see Steve, the one motherfucker he wished he had never seen again. With a devilish grin on his face, Steve nodded to the door, and Dean followed him out.

"I was worried I would read the paper you had O.D'd. 3 days went by and I hadn't seen you back in the bar. How do you feel?" Steve asked. No real concern behind his question.

"Like shit. I don't know how you do that all the time." Dean replied hoarsely.

"Soon, you'll realize you can't go without it. Call me when that happens." Steve winked as he slipped, dean a card with a number on it. Dean stuffed it in his pocket and hurried back into the diner. He took his food to go and quickly headed back to his motel room. He felt as if he were going to be sick.

When he got there, Dean ran inside and straight to the bathroom. He threw up his coffee, the only thing he had in his system, then dry heaved for 5 minutes. He dripped sweat and his head was pounding as he pulled himself off the bathroom floor and slowly and painfully made his way to the bed. Thank god maid service had come while he was gone.

He lay there for hours and nothing seemed to help. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks, this is withdrawal! Why had he been so stupid, how could he have thought doing heroine would have been a good idea. His stupidity had put himself in shit situations time and time again, but this time was too much. He knew what he needed to do to make it stop, but could he really do that to himself?

He picked up the phone and pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket. With shaky hands he slowly dialed the number. After 2 rings Dean heard a voice on the other line.

"I need your help," Dean said.