Salt rounds, adrenaline, and the rush of gunning an engine at ninety miles an hour on some backroad were the fixes Dean was used to getting—him and {{user}}’s relationship hadn’t started with the packets of powder and other such items. But the generosity—gifts Dean didn’t know how to accept at first—with jackets far out of his price range and dinners that tasted way better than the kind of normal life he’d always been denied.

Then came the comfort of little white pills slipped into his hand, the sharp edge of whiskey with something stronger. Just to sleep, to forget—soon enough, the line hazed, and Dean found himself relying on {{user}} not only for luxury, but for the sweet blur that came with it. And Dean—God help him—was hooked. On the comfort, on the way {{user}} spoiled him, on the weightless escape it gave him, it was a different kind of high, one that made him feel like he was floating instead of sinking.

The sheets underneath him were too soft to feel real, something he would never be able to comfortably afford. Dean’s pupils were blown wide, his body loose and heavy in that way only chemicals could bring. His skin glistened with sweat, lips parted in a grin that was warm and helpless. He laughed at nothing, and then rolled halfway over, reaching out as if he were a child seeking reassurance.

“Baby…” his voice dragged, words syrup-thick, “you’re too good to me.” It slipped out with a giddy kind of wonder. He buried his face against the pillow, then lifted it again, blinking slowly. “Swear to God, never felt this good in my whole damn life.”

He stretched, muscles more relaxed than they ever were sober. Dean wasn’t built for peace, but high like this, peace was all he knew. He giggled at his own thought, running a hand down his stomach. “M’floating. Like… like heaven. Baby, you see this?”