His mind, feverish with a lingering trace of toxin, plagued Dean with nightmares, each one worse than the last as his subconscious dug into the recesses, forcing him to relive some of the worst moments of his life. Everything from their mother burning to discovering Sam's demon blood addiction to his torture in hell and his unwelcome time in purgatory. Nothing was off limits. And throughout it all, Dean was on the run, desperate to get away from a dark shadow that always lurked on the edge of his vision. The very same shadow he blamed for the bone chilling sinister laugh that played as an undercurrent, the soundtrack to his nightmare, stuck on a continuous loop.

When he finally managed to escape, returning to the world of the living, Dean found the room dark and the space beside him empty; had Cas ever truly been there with him or was that also some sort of dream, another trick of his addled mind?

Dean lay still listening to the sound of his own breathing. It was ragged, like something loose was rattling around in his chest. And it hurt, taking deep breaths so he avoided it. He'd dealt with his fair share of injuries over the years, but this one was taking a toll, and he didn't want to admit, even to himself. Just laying there he could feel every muscle fiber, finding it was reminiscent of having put in a killer workout the day before, or how he usually felt after a particularly dicey monster tangle, and essentially, isn't that exactly what happened?

Finally, he decided to stir, to test the overall condition of his body. Dean lifted himself up, laying propped up on his elbows, and clenched his teeth as a wave of nausea swept over him. He shut his eyes and waited for it to pass, instead it grew steadily worse until he could no longer ignore it. He knew he wasn't going to be quick enough to reach the bathroom, and even if he thought he stood a chance he didn't exactly trust his legs at this point, so he grabbed for the nearby trashcan and emptied his stomach. There shouldn't have been much in it, all things consider, or at least so he figured, but bile burned his throat on the way up and it came out alarmingly tinged with blood.

Was he bleeding internally? Hadn't Cas healed him?

Dean set down the can when he was certain there was nothing left to add. He considered rolling over and just remaining in place until someone came to check on him, but he needed to pee.

So he pushed himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room twirled. A dull throb, persistent, settled in the base of his skull. He screwed his eyes shut, fearful of a second date with the can. How long were these venomous affects going to last? What had attacked him again? Dean searched his memories, scoured his mind. Why couldn't he remembered what attacked him? Why couldn't he recall the name or even an image of the creature?

Or even why they were out there to begin with?

What sent them into the woods?

Patches of his memory were missing, facts and actions just gone, and of all the things he'd encountered in his life this scared Dean. So he chose, at least for the time being, not to think of, he had a goal in mind. The bathroom. His bladder was pleading for him to empty it. Keeping a hand firmly on the nightstand, putting a great deal of his weight behind it, Dean got to his feet; which was easier said than done, his knees shaky. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Dean stood, or more like leaned, listing to the side supported by the table. The sickening twist returned to his stomach, the hint of bile in his throat.

His fingers curled against the wood, refusing to give in to what he saw as weakness. Dean forced himself to stand talk and straight, taking a purposeful step toward the bathroom. Only to wind up placing his palm flat against the wall. A touch of anger burned within. He loathed feeling frail, fragile. Like a man in the end stages of his life, which he might very well be for what did he know, Dean crossed his room and slipped into the bathroom. He maintained his dignity, doing his business without face planting into the toilet. At the sink, hunched over, he twisted the faucet, listening to the whisper of the running water.

Something wiggled around in his mind just out of reach.

Dean splashed his face, then cupped his hands and drank. Beer would have been better. Feeling a bit more human, Dean left the bathroom, a little more steady on his feet, and headed foe the door. Though he cast a glance back at his bed, thinking how nice it would be to fall amongst the blankets and succumb to the beckoning darkness. Sweet oblivion. Maybe he'd feel better after a few more hours of sleep.

You won't wake up.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine for somehow he knew it to be true. No, sleep could wait until after he got some answers and reassurances. Sam, his beloved brother, a virtual walking encyclopedia, would know how to fix him, how to make everything all better.

But hasn't Cas already fixed me? Or was that a dream?

Aside from laying on the floor of the forest feeling the creeping touch of death, Dean struggled with reality. There was no doubt in his mind he nearly died, none whatsoever. But to have Cas lay at his side, of that he was less certain. By now Dean had left his room behind, making his way down the hall toward the main room of the bunker. Some part of him, the fighter that refused to believe he was hurt, tried to convince him to detour to the kitchen for beer and pie, but Dean stayed on course. He wanted answers. Sam would have them.

Sammy always did.

Dean made it to the room they always seemed to find themselves, with its welcoming table and the shelves of books, ancient tomes with endless secrets. Sam had been reading his way through the vast library. Research, he called it. Nerdiness, countered Dean, though he joked only because that was their relationship. He welcomed the endless fount of knowledge that was his brother.

The sight of the room was enough to send Dean cartwheeling back to the delusion that he was sitting with them, all of them happily chattering away about another victory while he slowly bled to death, his pleas falling on deaf ears. It sent a shiver up his spine.

The space was empty.

Dean stood with his palms pressed flat against the tabletop. He listened, trying t9 gauge where everyone might be. We're they in the kitchen? Or perhaps training? But he heard nothing save the beating of his own tired, strained heartbeat. Had they left him behind to tackle a new monster in need of putting down? A flutter of jealousy passed through Dean. He loved for the thrill of the hunt. Besides, it gave him a great opportunity to sing one-liners.

"Thanks guys," he grumbled. The idea of beer and a slice of our danced across his mind again. "Might as well make the most of my down time."

Dean pushed away from the table and took a few staggering steps in the direction of the kitchen. He hadn't gotten far, barely clearing the table, when he felt something in his side tear. Oh shit. A quick peek revealed a quickly spreading spot of red on his injured side.

"Deja fucking vu," he swore, shoulders slumping. He'd have to detour, rerouting to treat the wound before indulging his desires. As he shuffled along, more mindful of his wound, Dean began to feel dizzy and wondered if perhaps he'd pushed himself too quickly. But then again, they left him alone, what was he supposed to do, lay in bed and wet himself? "And what about Cas?" The thought just popped out of his mouth.

Yeah, what about Cas? Hadn't he healed him, isn't that what Sam said? And if the power of an Angel wasn't enough to cleanse the toxin from his body and to mend the skin perfectly, then just how bad had the attack been? What the hell hit me? The inability to remember was driving him crazy. It wasn't like him to forget things; another side affect of the monster? Dean clenched his jaw. Needles began to creep slowly down his legs and he feared his knees might buckle.

"Old man, Dean."

He began to shake.

"Come on, I'm almost there."

He could see the open door to the nearest bathroom, knowing there were multiple first aid kits under the sink. Why, at this point, didn't they just keep one in the main room? What if he didn't make it in time? What if he…

The thought never finished as his fear came true. He reached the doorway, grasping desperately for the frame as he lost all feeling in his legs and saw the floor rising up quickly to meet him.