Phone, check.
Wallet, check.
Motel room key, check.
Music,
Sam slipped a bud into each of his ears, scrolling his thumb across his phone and finding the perfect thumping beat to get him going.
Check.
He cast one wary glance to the bed that remained unoccupied—as it had all night—and sighed, opening the pea-green motel door. Birds chirped in the crisp morning air, sun climbing steadily as it hung over the horizon. Sam took a deep breath, stepping back to stretch each of his calves. He rolled his shoulder, and took off in a jog.
He passed the Impala and froze with his back to it, not ten steps into his morning run. Sam blinked and attempted to understand what he thought he saw. Eyebrows drawing together, he stepped backwards in measured steps and peered into the backseat window, perplexed.
Dean lay sprawled across the vinyl seat, face down, shirtless, covered in streaks of color. He was drooling, and he was alone. Sam shook his head and took out his earphones, knocking his knuckles against the window pane. Dean awoke with a start, and within a second he was pressed up to a seated position in a sluggish, drugged movement. His eyes darted around with urgency, for what Sam had no idea.
"Dean?" Sam's mouth hung open incredulously as Dean swung open the car door, taking in the sight of him. "What the hell?"
"Mm…" Dean shook his head and rubbed at his face, blinking bleary eyes that squinted in the light. "Uh…Mornin', Sammy."
"Mornin'?" Sam's features wrinkled as the stale scent of sweat and booze wafted out of the car in his direction. He exhaled a short, dry laugh. "I don't even know where to begin. Were you here all night?"
Dean ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "Definitely not. I just, uh…"
"Did you…" Sam looked over Dean's body painted with blue, green, yellow, even pink. "…get into a fight with some clowns?"
Dean shot a look up at him, placing a steadying hand on the edge of the door. "Got a little sidetracked, is all."
"Yeah well, hope she was worth it." Sam smirked. "You smell like a bar floor."
"Mind your business." Dean slurred as he braced and pulled himself from out of the car, taking a shaky step to the side and then closing the door behind him.
"I was kind of worried when you didn't come back." Sam's features held a hint of concern, to which Dean said nothing, but avoided his eye. Sam grimaced and attempted to leave the judgement out of his tone. "You still drunk?"
"A little. What of it?"
"Okay, man, well…" Sam shrugged and stuck one of the earpieces back in. "I'm going on a run. You uh, want me to pick you up something?"
"Nah, I'm good." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to blink the crusted sleep from his eyes. "You got my pie?"
"Yeah. I got your pie." Sam laughed breathily. Dean nodded, and Sam watched his brother's eyebrows draw together slightly, eyes unfocused toward the ground as his mind seemed to go somewhere else. "Hey, you uh…sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, Sammy." Dean swiped his palm over his face again. His voice took on that sarcastic, abrasive tone. "You go have a real…good time on your run."
"You must be hurting. Even your insults suck."
"Shut up."
Dean meandered toward the hotel room door, and paused not three steps later.
"Hey," Sam reached in his pocket, pulling a key attached to a tag out. "This might help."
Dean turned, catching the key in one hand. He nodded to Sam, who gave him a half-smile and took off.
Dean glanced to the slick black car, then swept his eyes briefly over the parking lot before sliding the key into the lock.
The ugly floral duvet welcomed him like an old reliable friend he never expected to miss. He groaned as he sank into the not-so-soft pad of the mattress, dismissing the thought of climbing beneath the covers or even removing his jeans. His stomach churned uncomfortably, and he silently cursed the grim reflection of blue jello wiggling in a plastic cup. The slick shine of it shifted and became eyes, staring intently in a dark corridor. Dean swallowed, shoving the thought away. His mouth was dry.
He was surprised when sleep didn't immediately reclaim him, and he grumbled to himself as he pushed up on all fours, crawling off the bed.
"I'm a coward. So it has to be now."
It wasn't until the water from the tap overflowed onto his fingers that he realized he was staring into the sink, motionless. The cool water felt good against his flushed skin, and he splashed a bit on his face, frowning at himself in the mirror when he noticed the flecks of blue still clinging to some edges of his features. He found a bottle of painkiller and took more than the recommended dose, knowing he'd be thankful later.
"You're…my…"
His hands raked into his hair, and he turned back to the bed. Through his drowsiness, his eyes widened as an object placed upon the floral pattern jolted his attention for the first time. He reached to it, cradling the slick, beige fabric of Castiel's trench-coat in his hands. Dean stared at it, flushing as he realized Sam must have seen it, and drew his hand back to throw it into the corner. He stopped, arm poised mid-cock. Dean looked to the trench-coat and lowered it slowly as if it weighed a great deal.
"You're my human."
Pursing his lips, Dean didn't take his eyes off the garment as he stepped to the small dining table, folding the coat neatly over the back of the chair. He rested a hand on it there for a moment, then slipped back to the bed, his fingertips trailing along the fabric before departing from it.
Dean closed his eyes after collapsing on the bed, willing his mind to slip back into the thick murk of drunk sleep. He breathed deep, begging unconsciousness to take him. To squelch the passing memories of the night. To snuff out the nagging echo of his own words. His stomach gurgled and his head was beginning to throb. The air hung thick in the stagnant motel room, the faint memory of fingers brushing across the curves of his back washing vaguely over him, the last of his thoughts drifting into blackness, the last sensation he felt being a faint sense of longing as he slipped into a heavy slumber without dreams.