Warning: Language, Alcohol abuse, nongraphic nudity and mentions of sexual situations.

Prompt: From fifimom at LJ's SPN-BigPretzel, "For awhile after Sam's gone to school and John's gone hunting on his own Dean has a blast. Sex, booze, hunting and not having to take care of anyone but himself is fun until his dad goes missing. I'd love to read about Dean enjoying his freedom a little."

AN: The nonofficial soundtrack for this story was the song "Devil In Me" by the 22-20s.

"Me, Myself, & I"


Day 1


Dean's eyes were open before he'd fully awoken. That strange, lazy sensation of being pulled from slumber by the late hour alone overtook him. He blinked once at the brightness filtering in around the motel's thick curtains. Then he comprehended what he was seeing: the bed across from him was empty.

Panic attacked, fought off quickly by realization. He'd been aware, at some time before dawn, of his father packing and giving a muttered goodbye. There might have been an order to get some rest somewhere in there.

Dean tried to roll over, and then he remembered why he was supposed to rest. The poltergeist had thrown him down the front steps of the old house they'd cleared the night before, leaving his back streaked in bruises and aching like a sonnavabitch. His father had promptly frowned and noted that he wouldn't be much good chasing a werewolf. Which was where their next hunt would have led them.

Only, it looked like the "their" part was getting crossed out. Dad had left on the hunt, headed seven states west of here, by himself.

It wasn't all that odd. Dad had been leaving him alone pretty frequently since Sam had been struck with the college bug—that's what Dean referred to it as in his head. Left a bit of hope in him, thinking that it would all pass over eventually. That this was just a phase, like Sam's obsession with magicians. God, he wished...

"Crap," Dean muttered into the pillow. Sam was gone. Dad was gone. And here he was, alone. The room didn't reply to him, didn't tell him to get off his lazy ass and put some ointment on his back. Didn't tell him to get some coffee or run some laps to get his blood pumping. The room was quiet.

Dean raised his head off the pillow for half a second. "Screw it," he announced, and promptly fell back asleep.


Day 2


The grin on his face was slightly delirious, the drunken expression of a man well rested, when he finally pulled himself out of bed at two in the afternoon. His back had loosened up some, his cell wasn't carrying a message, and the cleaning lady hadn't kicked him out yet, which meant Dad must have paid for at least two more nights. All in all, he felt pretty good. Probably good enough to go on a hunt, and for a moment, he considered hopping in his clothes and speeding off in the Impala after his dad.

That moment passed quickly when he had to hobble to the bathroom like an old man.

When he hopped in the shower, he let the hot water flow over him like a blanket, easing his aching muscles. It felt awesome. And, he figured one perk of being alone was letting the water run until it was colder than the Arctic.

Dean stepped out into the motel room, gave it a glance over. Salt lines in place. Chain on the door. Curtains drawn. Still no message on the phone. He frowned then shook off his funk. Dean Winchester did not drown in his own misery like a chick post-break-up. Though, he was plenty open to that eating ice cream part. That wasn't restricted to girls was it?

Point being, he wasn't going to mope. Or brood. Or any of that other pansy shit. If he was going to be stuck alone a while, he might as well enjoy it.

He flipped on the TV—a re-airing of a new show called Dr. Sexy was starting. Probably total crap, but whatever. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the mirror, confirming that, yes, he was indeed wearing a multi-colored skin-coat, and shrugged off any thoughts of going out for the evening.

He considered his options a moment, glancing from one side of the room to the other, as if he expected someone to jump out of the woodwork. Usually, he didn't do stuff like this... His dad had always taught him to have his boots at the ready in case of an emergency. Which made good sense. Only, this small town was now evil free and there wasn't anyone here to give him the "get here now" ring.

"Screw it."

He let the towel drop. No point getting dressed if there was no one to impress or save. He grabbed a beer from the cooler, dropped down, birthday suit against cigarette-burned comforter, and picked up the remote to turn up the volume.


Day 3


It was summertime, the sun was high, the weather hot, and Dean Winchester was bored.

Dean wasn't particularly good at handling boredom. Boredom meant being stuck inside your own head, and that was a place Dean didn't want to visit any time soon. So, the solution? Well, when he was a kid, it usually meant playing a game with Sammy. Nowadays, it meant playing other, less G-rated, games with especially gifted women.


Day 6...Maybe


Dean woke up on a bathroom floor approximately a hundred miles from the Impala, and he promptly vomited up the last of the drunken watermelon he'd polished off to the encouraging sound of a crowd's chant. Had there been a party? The crowd was gone, but the melon rinds remained, scattered around the condo—condo? Dean frowned, and not just because his mouth tasted like cheap vodka. He was fairly certain he hadn't rented a condo, which meant he had no clue whose dime he was living on.

"What the hell?" He stared back at himself in the mirror, scrubbing his fingers along two days of beard growth. "I'm in a condo," he reasoned with himself. Because that tiny bit of information had surprised him. "On the coast." Another tidbit. "Because…" He took a moment, trying to remember the details, but a dull headache warned him off. "Because someone wanted to go to the beach?" And that someone had had boobs, right? Right.

Slowly, he let his attention drift down. Nope. Not a stitch of clothing on. And was that lipstick on his... Okay, so maybe the situation wasn't so bad after all.

"Deee…"

The muffled call had come from the bedroom. He washed out his mouth and stumbled back out to see a lobster-print blanket, complete with lobster-shaped pillows. Of course, it was what was under the blanket which caught his attention. A head of long blond hair lifted up, a lazy grin on the young woman's face. Red gloss was smeared over her chin.

Dean gave her a crooked smile in return. "Uh—Heather?"

"You coming back to bed, baby?" she asked, stifling a yawn. "Or we could take a shower if you want." She giggled. "I've still got sand in all sorts of places…"

He paused only a moment. After all, he couldn't remember what he and Heather had done last night. It was only fair she give him a refresher.

"I could help with that."


Day 8


Back in his Baby again, Metallica rattling the bones in his chest, Dean rolled back through town covered in graveyard dirt. Caleb had called him in to take care of a haunting in Georgia. A few salt rounds and a quart of fuel later, Dean found himself back on the road, another job well done. A freaking easy job, as a matter a fact.

It kind of bugged him, actually.

"Really, would it have killed the ghost not to shout his own name—I mean, who the hell has supernatural powers and shouts, 'You know who I am? I'm Howard Hargett and my father will hear about this!' at anyone wandering through his house? Christ! I mean, come on—play the game, dead boy, this isn't rocket science…" Dean promptly shut his mouth, his face flushed, and not just from the sunburn he couldn't remember getting. "Oh, I'm talking to myself now. That's friggin' great."

He glanced down at his phone. No new messages, and it wasn't a surprise. He'd received a call from his dad when he stumbled out of Heather's condo and had been scared out his mind that the old man had found the Impala, minus a Winchester, but John had just called to confirm that his hunt was taking longer than expected and told him to find work until they could meet up again next month. Presumably after the next full moon.

And of course, there was the text from Sammy, too. Apparently, Dean mighta, sorta drunk dialed him and left a message in warning of the dangers of watermelons. Great.

Dean sighed. "Find work," he muttered, repeating his father's orders. Sure, he could do that.


Day 9


Holy Mother of God, Veronica Wanna-See-My-Tattoo had a friggin' AC/DC thong on. Dean was fairly certain this was love.


Day 10


Dean decided it was maybe time he practiced a little self restraint. A ten day bender was awesome. More than awesome. But, it was over now. He'd learned his lesson. Time to get back to using the alarm clock, staying away from hard liquor while on the job, and always wearing pants. Mainly, that pants part.

"Hey, dude! Come on—I know you heard me!"

Dean strained his neck, trying to see the lawn below. He was fairly damn certain he'd seen the motel manager's narrow shadow moving toward the dumpster on the other side of the back parking lot. Either the asshole was deaf or he was used to ignoring naked men hanging upside down from his second floor balcony at three in the morning.

Dean tilted his head up, the blood flowing into his eyes making him dizzy. Mainly he saw…well, parts that should never be this exposed to the weather. But, past that, he could see the rope currently killing his goddamn ankles. A few feet higher, it was well secured to the iron railing. The balcony looked dark; his room looked dark. He could hear the faint sound of moaning coming from the open sliding glass door.

"That's just fucking great," Dean snapped, hoping to interrupt the happy folks occupying his room. Damn slutty Veronica…Apparently, she was already in a relationship with twin amateur wrestlers who didn't take too well to her preference for a Winchester third act.

He sighed, letting his body relax again. He was pretty sure he'd work up the energy to pull himself up eventually, hopefully before the maids arrived in the morning. Sweet ol' Lucinda didn't deserve a heart attack. Until, then… A crack sounded, and the tension left his back.

"Finally got that kink out…"Dean smirked. He'd always been a glass half-full kind of guy.

But, yeah. Self restraint. He was going to start practicing that. Tomorrow. After he'd beat the shit out of the Wonder Twins.