Dear Addiction

Chapter thirty four

Dean stared at the mirror, hands gripping the sink rim, his green eyes staring back, showing the exhaustion he felt. Bloodshot, purple bags underneath from his sleepless nights. Even on the rare occasion that he was able to fall asleep, it never lasted long, always plunged with nightmares. Him driving, him snorting, him injecting, him dying.

He wished he was dying, it would be easier than living through the withdrawal. 

His skin had become paler than before, making the freckles that scattered his cheeks clear, and his stumble had grown out. Longer then he would have liked from over a week without shaving, as they didn't allow razors in the facility.

Safety reasons, that's what they had said when Dean asked for one.

People can hurt themselves with them.

Maybe that's why he wanted one, was how Dean had replied

"Dean."

He could hear his name being called from the main part of his bedroom, though for a moment he didn't move. Hands stilled gripped around the sink rim, eyes on the mirror. He looked like a corpse, with his ashen, sweaty skin, eyes hollow and expressionless. He missed the way they would dilate. No, miss was too simple, too delicate. He craved it, he needed it.

The drug.

The high.

The feeling that everything was okay.

"Dean."

This time he stepped away, walking across the small bathroom, and to the door, pulling it open to meet Charlie's grinning face.

"Hey bitch," She greeted. Dean didn't reply, instead stepping around her, and to the foot of his bed where his duffle bag had been thrown. He pulled off his shirt, one he'd been wearing for the past few days, the material now sticky with sweat. "I thought I'd walk with you to our group session."

Dean grabbed a black t-shirt from his bag, pulling it over his head. "I'm not going."

"Dude," Charlie cried. Despite their rocky start, they'd quickly become friends. Charlie was fun, loud, and not afraid to be mouthy when Dean was being douche. In a way she reminded him of a slightly more energetic Sam. "I think Dorthy's starting to like me. You're supposed to be my wingman, talk me up."

"Talk you up?" Dean turned and walked to the door, Charlie following him into the hallway. "What should I say? you're smart, kind, and spend all day playing pretend?"

"It's called larping, and you'd like it!"

Dean only shook his head, a small smile across his lips. He didn't know if he would have stayed if it wasn't for Charlie, other than a handful of nurses, and one therapist, she was the only person he talked to.

"So what," Charlie began as they started walking down the hall. Her usual energetic, light tone had dropped and instead she spoke with slight concern. "You just aren't going to go to the meeting? You've been to what three?"

"Four."

Dean glanced to the other just in time to watch Charlie dramatically roll her eyes. "If you don't participate in anything, why do you even stay here?"

Sam.

He would stay the two weeks for Sam. He'd stay clean for Sam. He'd do it for as long as Sam needed him. 

Dean didn't reply, instead looking to his left forearm. Most of the scratches from the night of his overdose had healed, though a particularly deep one stayed, leaving a faded scar that traveled from his wrist to just before the nook of his elbow. He ran his thumb across the scar, eyes resting there for another moment.