It's cold, here. Not the kind of cold Dean's used to. The city is bitter, damp and he feels the chill of it in the marrow of his bones. He's in dark layers, his coat, sweater, beanie.
Doesn't even look like himself these days, but then he's kind of not himself.
Dean's out on his own for the first time in his life.
No dad, no Sam and no Impala and while the former, the lack of family, leaves a sort of dull ache somewhere in his chest?
It's the latter that's got him destination-bound in mass transit, standing in front of the door with his personal brand of comfort blasting through cheap headphones.
Holding on to the rail and the seat beside him, swaying a bit as the train meets it's destination.
The doors open and Dean finds himself pushing through the small crush of commuters heading home after a long day. His own trek is quick, he has a routine.
Out of the stations, up to the street and straight for a sandwich shop where he still has a little good credit.
They know he's coming, the BLT he orders every day is wrapped in white paper and waiting for him to swing by the counter and pick it up.
Good credit - they know he can't pay them back and Dean knows they know. Every day he gets a smile from the girl behind the counter.
If the owner's in he gets a pat on the back, 'Look at this boy! What a boy!' Pride from a man he's only known for three months that his own father couldn't muster.
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