Author's Note : cringes Please don't kill me for posting this before I post the end to Sic Transit Gloria... I'm out of the cast, out of the brace, and for the most part, pain free. (Okay, it still hurts, but shhh, I need to work!) This is something I've been working on since long before the Season 1 finale, so... I need to post it. Leave me lots of comments and encourage me to finish this (and I'll work on the other one, I promise, it's just been SO lonnng.)

Anyway, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

Disclaimer : Oh, and I don't own Supernatural.

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Dirty sunlight spilled through the streaked window, falling across the beds and leaving shadowy patterns on the parts of the carpet it couldn't quite reach. Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered every available surface, the top of the small table in the corner completely hidden and the dresser not far behind. The bedside table held a dozen or more empty bottles, one of which had fallen on it's side, amber liquid collecting in a pool, soaking the edge of the TV guide. The bedclothes had been kicked off sometime during the night, one stubborn blanket colored mustard yellow clinging stubbornly to the ankle of the man who lay face down in the pillows.

Partially buried beneath the bottles that stood upright on it, a digital alarm clock turned over to 7:00, emitting a pulsating tone loud enough to wake the dead.

In response, a hand shot out, catching the necks of several bottles and sending them careening onto their sides, colliding with more bottles before rolling off the stand and crashing to the ground. Ignoring the racket, the hand formed a fist and pounded savagely on the snooze button.

"Son of a fucking bitch..."

With a guttural stream of cursing, the man pulled his head from the pillows to peer blearily at the clock for a moment, scratching his head in an unconsciously comical manner as he deciphered the blurry numbers.

Without so much as a mumble, the man grabbed the cord of the clock and yanked it from the wall, letting it land where it may, and turned back to the bed, flopping over on his back and facing away from the light. As a last thought, the man reached for the bedclothes, pulling them up around him.

Groaning at the persistent sunlight, he pulled a pillow over his eyes, cursed once more, and gave up.

With an angry growl, he flung the pillow across the room, hitting the TV and sending another group of bottles to the floor.

Rolling out of bed in one fluid motion, the man ran his hands over his face and grimaced.

Muttering beneath his breath, he stumbled into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Twisting the knob on the faucet all the way, he let hot water pour from the spigot for a few minutes before stripping down from his boxers and stepping beneath the spray.

Standing motionless, he let the water cascade over him. His hair, plastered to his skull, hung past his eyes, and he ran a hand through it, momentarily contemplating a haircut. He needed one, badly. Deciding it was too much effort, he slicked his hair back and reached for the tiny bottle of complimentary shampoo left by the maid on her last visit.

Dumping the contents into his hand, he worked his hands through the tangles in his hair, lathering up and trying to ignore the way it aggravated his already aching head. With the generous amount of suds left on his hands, he soaped his body, not bothering to reach for the actual soap.

Ducking back under the shower, he let the water rinse away the dirt, trying to remember when he'd last bothered to bathe. He should do it more often, he knew, not so much as a hygiene issue, but because he always felt better immediately after. Cleaner.

If the water could wash away the filth that clung to him like it was his own skin, he would stand there forever. But as it was, the water was running cold, and he had no intentions of freezing his ass off for the sake of feeling cleansed of sin.

Sin was meaningless after all, to an atheist.

He snatched a clean towel from the rack and frowned.

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd stopped believing in god. Maybe he'd never really started, because he sure as hell couldn't remember ever having faith. Faith was bullshit. A night light to chase away the monsters, real and metaphorical. It was a crutch that made you weak, made you believe you'd be saved by some higher power when all you had to depend on was yourself. The way he saw it, you got yourself propped up on faith, something real is gonna come knock it out from under you quicker than you can scream to some imagined deity to save your ass.

No, when it came down to it, all you had was yourself, and depending on anything else was a good was to get dead.

Chucking the towel into the corner, he grabbed his toothbrush and applied a healthy amount of Crest to the bristles. Cottonmouth aside, his mouth tasted like old sock.

He brushed, spat, rinsed, and left the bathroom feeling cleaner than he had in days.

Metaphorically.

He stood in front of the mirror on the wall for a minute, taking in his appearance. He was too thin; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent meal, but that was nothing new. His pants had been hanging on his hips for weeks now, held up only by the extra couple notches he'd added to his belt with the sharp tip of a knife. Crude, but better than shelling out cash for a new one.

His face was gaunt, his cheekbones standing out, eyes rimmed with dark circles that plainly told anyone who looked that he didn't get nearly enough sleep. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked closer at his face, showing a thin white scar at the eyebrow, a scar that made one hell of a story when he was drunk enough to be persuaded to tell it - which wasn't often.

He let his eyes drop, and tore his gaze away, quickly heading to his duffle bag, pulling out what passed for clean clothes, and dressing quickly, pulling on his worn jeans and tightening the belt so they didn't fall off when he pulled on the long sleeved shirt.

He made a quick trip back to the bathroom to retrieve his dirty boxers and toothbrush before stuffing everything back into his bag.

Standing, he surveyed the room with a frown.

As a courtesy to the maid, he collected the beer bottles and dropped as many into the trash as the can could fit. The rest he left in a row on the dresser.

He thought only briefly of the rest of the mess, going over the room only to make sure he had left nothing behind.

And then he stood, motionless, hands at his side, completely at a loss as to what to do next.

On the small table by the door, the phone stared back at him, mocking him.

Hesitantly, he took a step towards it, reaching out to trace the smooth surface of the earpiece, the square numbers on the face, tugging at the spiraled cord.

He knew he shouldn't call.

And so hesitantly, his hand picked up the receiver.

Shaky fingers punched out a number he knew by heart.

One ring...

Two...

Three.

His arm muscles protested as his mind fought the urge to hang up, and the desperate need to keep the line open just a moment more.

And then, a soft, female voice.

"Hello?"

He clenched his jaw shut, grinding his teeth, and held the phone in a death grip, thinking for a moment that he might crack the cheap plastic cover and end up having to fork over money he didn't have to pay for it.

"Hello?" the voice said again, more persistently.

In the background, he heard another voice asking softly who it was.

"I don't know," the woman said, speaking loud enough to be heard, but clearly turned away from the phone.

There was the sound of movement, a rustle as the phone was passed.

"Hello?"

A stronger voice this time, male, and achingly familiar.

He shut his eyes and tried to breathe.

The voice on the other end tried again, one word, hauntingly desperate as he asked.

"Dean?"

He hung up.