He can't decide if things actually got better or worse, the only thing that he can really say is that he feels like shit. Which doesn't say anything at all, because he had been feeling like shit even before he fell sick. He keeps drifting in and out of conscience, at least that's what he thinks he does, maybe he just drifts from dream to dream; it's really hard to tell. Cas is no longer the only visitor in his dreams, there are other, darker figures, some are strangers, but some come from his past, and it's them that he fears the most.

He can't escape his dreams for long, and as harsh as waking up into reality is, as much as he fears the sight of Alastair waiting patiently for god knows what, it's still better than the torment in his nightmares. And maybe Alastair is just a figment of his dreams too, because sometimes he's there and sometime he isn't, and his brain is too muddled to actually make sense out of it.

Maybe there simply is no sense.

But then it's weird dreamscapes again, sometimes there is Cas, sometimes there isn't, sometimes he's running, sometimes he's fighting and then there are those dreams in which he doesn't do much of anything. He just watches helplessly as his greatest fears come true. It's these he always seems to wake from, with a start and the fading sense of panic, but maybe that's just another dream too. He has vague recollections of being moved too, for bathroom breaks most likely, and he really doesn't want to think about that, because if there's someone he wouldn't ever trust with his decency, it's Alastair and his men.

Alastair is gone the next time he wakes to the room. He doesn't feel as bad anymore, but that just means the room doesn't immediately spin around him when he tries to move. Other than that he still feels miserable. His body hurts, that's nothing new, but now there is a deep sitting ache in his joints, like he's some old man with arthritis.

He feels more lucid than he has in a long time, even though he's still a little fuzzy around the edges. But he's not tired, not risky-to-fall-asleep-any-moment tired at least, and that's about as much progress as he's likely to get anytime soon. And that gives him time to think.

First of all, why the fuck is he here and not in the warehouse? Alastair couldn't possibly care this much to get him accommodated just because he's a little sick. Especially after he made it so much a point to show his disappointment in Dean. And they must have been treating him too, because he feels better, and he doubts that it's solely thanks to the nice cozy bed.

Dean carefully tests the reach of his new bonds, to assess the options this situation gives him. There's a blanket covering him, and he can't really see it, but judging by the clinking sound (and the painful burning he gets every time he moves), they're metal handcuffs, connecting his hands to the rails at the side of the bed. His feet are free however, and that might or might not come in handy.

If only he wouldn't feel so damn weak. Like a newborn kitten or something. Wait, no more animal analogies, he's not some helpless critter in a trap. He tries to sit up, but that's easier said than done, because he has no fucking strength. He doesn't even want to think about all the muscles he burned up during his fever. But he manages to sit up eventually, and thank the mother of fucking pie, he's actually clothed. Even if said clothes are completely unfamiliar. It's all about counting blessings after all.

Or maybe not so much.

He feels so fucking dirty now, not just dirty as in sweaty and lacking a shower dirty, but actual gross like ants crawling under his skin dirty. Because there's no way that those bastards haven't touched him inappropriately, because Alastair's a sick fuck who gets off on shit like that.

But right now he's alone and he's going to make the best of that situation, now that he's finally in a more favorable position. If only by a stretch. He looks around the room for anything that might help him, but as far as he can tell the room is empty aside from the bed. The bed seems like one of those hospital beds from Dr. Sexy, with the rails at the side that are usually there to prevent people from falling off. And sure enough, after a more or less acrobatic attempt at looking under the bed he can now confirm, yes the bed has rolls.

Way to go there Winchester.

That doesn't really constitute as progress, not unless he's able to roll his way out of here, wherever here is. Which means he's back to squat. There has to be something here that could help him. If he could just get his hands on a needle or something, a hairclip, fuck, a toenail would be enough. Okay probably not a toenail, but at this point he would go for it. He has a few tricks up his sleeve when it comes to picking locks, one thing he can contribute to his father's training, but yeah, without a pick, that will only get him this far.

Maybe he actually should try to roll his way out of here.

Dean examines the bed as best as it is possible from his position, tries to find anything that might help him (aside from obviously useless rolls), but it's not really a surprise that he comes up short. Alastair is a pro at this, he wouldn't overlook something that might help Dean, and he certainly wouldn't leave him alone in the room when he would think that Dean could escape. Come to think of it, there's no way at all that Alastair would him leave unsupervised in a room like this. And fuck him for not thinking of that earlier, but there is a camera mounted in one corner, and he really must be out of the loop to have missed that.

He slumps back down onto the bed with a sigh, a very frustrated sigh. He has to close his eyes for a moment, his endeavor, however short, has left him on short breath and he really doesn't need the world spinning right now. Or ever, for that matter. It takes him longer than he cares to admit to settle enough so that he can open his eyes again, and when he does he wished he'd just taken another nap.

"I knew you had gotten weak, but this is nothing short of pathetic." Lilith chides, an icy smile playing on her lips as she takes in his evidently pathetic state. She's leaning against the wall, in the exact same spot Alastair had stood earlier. The shark-like grin on her face is very unlike Alastair though.

"You used to be one of our best." She shakes her head derisively. "And now look at you. Dump a bit of water on you and you fold like a paper crane."

"Here's another one I didn't miss one bit." Dean groans, wishing not for the first time to be someplace entirely else, hell, even the fucking warehouse is more preferable to being in close vicinity to Lilith.

Lilith tsks and looks down pointedly at the cuffs around his wrists. "You're in no position to be snarky Winchester, but by all means, do continue. I'd like to see how long it lasts." There is an ominous note in her voice, and Dean's suspicion only gets confirmed when the door behind her pushes open and a man rolls in one of those metal carts with trays on it. The kind that usually carries sharp medical instruments during medical procedures that usually require anesthesia.

The man just rolls the cart in next to the bed and leaves without giving either of them a second glance, but Dean is way more focused on what is actually on that cart. "Not to say I wasn't thrilled when I heard you left." Lilith continues while she takes a pair of rubber gloves from the middle tray and pulls them on. All clinical and routine, she's even wearing a lab coat. "Alastair always gave you too much latitude in my opinion, but I think he finally saw his mistake."

She smirks, and there's a horrible suspicion dawning on Dean, not that there was much room to guess to begin with. What with the whole setup and the medical instruments (sharp and pointy) laid out on the cart. But there's a difference between being tortured by an amateur and someone who has been trained by Alastair. Dean knows the difference far too well.

"And I'm pretty sure it's not too far-fetched to say I did a way better job at being Alastair's second in command as you did. There's this thing called loyalty you should probably read up on."

"What d'you have to do to get the promotion? Spread your legs?" Dean is pretty sure that taunting her is the wrong thing to do, but he just can't help it. Lilith irks him, always has, and now that she's apparently climbed another peck on the ranking, she's even more insufferable. And Dean would do about anything to knock her off her high horse.

Lilith's smirk falters, just a fraction but nevertheless. "At least I didn't have to play guinea pig." She runs a finger along the sleek metal line of some sort of metal poker, examining it with curious care, but Dean is pretty sure that she's putting on the show specifically for him. Like they used to do back in the medieval ages, show the victim the torture instruments beforehand, maybe they'd confess without having to shed blood.

The thought isn't reassuring at all, since he's pretty damn sure that Lilith is out for blood.

"See Dean, he never really trusted you. That's why he put you through the meat grinder before he let you in on the fun." She finally picks something from the tray, a long silver needle with a curved end, eying it almost like a mother would look at her child, before she lifts it to her mouth and kisses it. Dean cringes.

"Don't you dare put that inside of me, bitch." He threatens, and is that fucking lipstick on the metal? He tries to pull away as she approaches, but he can't really go far, and his struggles only seem to amuse her more.

"I however, had his trust from the beginning, and once he saw my natural talent," she hooks the tipped curve under the collar of Dean's shirt and pulls, and the fabric gives way with a ripping sound. There's actually a small sharpened section, like a blade, along the curve, and somehow that makes it this much scarier, because now it's no longer about poking, but cutting.

(Alastair never left scars, but Lilith isn't here to test his endurance, she's here to prove a point.)

"He gave me the position and responsibility I deserve." She flicks her wrists and the bottom seam rips apart, leaving his chest exposed to her calculating gaze.

"I would congratulate you on your achievement, but I'm kind of tied up right now." If everything fails, he can at least hide behind his bravado. The grin he forces on his cheeks feels brittle at best, but Lilith was never as sharp as Alastair and judging by the unhappy frown that almost gets lost between all that Botox, she's actually buying it.

"He warned me about that attitude of yours." She drags one manicured nail over his skin, pushing enough to leave a fading line no doubt, but at least she won't ruin her precious nails by actually drawing blood. The way she's looking at him, she's seriously contemplating it, but at least she's got her priorities straight.

But of course she doesn't need her claws to mark him up. Which she promptly proves.

Dean thought he was prepared for the pain, but it turns out he isn't. Not even close. The first cut isn't even so bad, like a thick injection needle, and it's pretty painful alright, but nothing he can't handle, that is until she twists the needle and hooks the tip under his skin and pulls. Dean actually screams, it's only a short burst before he manages to bite down on it, but it's a scream nonetheless. And Lilith soaks it up like it's the essence of youth.

"He also told me that it's just a façade."

She smirks with way too much teeth and Dean just waits for her to lick the blood from the needle.

"You disappoint me Dean. I was expecting you would hold out a little bit longer." She pulls her lips into a pout, as fake as most of her body.

Dean grimaces, trying to even out his breathing and assess the damage. Lilith drew a more or less straight line down his chest, blood already pooling in the dip of his ribcage. But that is, of course, just the beginning. It reminds him of that one scene in Star Wars when they tortured Han and Leia, just for the fun of it. Only they had this weird ball thing with needles and injections.

Okay, not helping.

"Yeah sorry about that. But being sick sometimes has that effect."

"Right, that." She shrugs dismissively, twirling the needle in her hands as if she couldn't quite decide where to continue. "Took you long enough to recover. We even got you a bed. But knowing you, I don't even expect gratitude." She flicks the needle, ridding it of the remaining droplets of blood.

Dean snorts, but doesn't react otherwise. Lilith is a bitch, and as much as he wants to tell her what he thinks of her, he feels too tired and drained to put up much of a fight. He's still sick, the sweat on his skin has cooled and he can barely suppress a shiver. Lilith's whole presence is way too bright and loud for his tired head. The cut on his chest still hurts, but it's more like a slight burning now, and since he's already pushing a lot of pain into the back of his mind, it doesn't take much to ignore that one too.

He just wants to fall back to sleep, dreamless this time, and wake up again when he's well again. No scratching throat, no more pelt on his tongue, no more aching joints, okay he should probably stop listing his ailments, because thinking of them just reminds him that he's actually hurting, quite badly.

His weakness must show, because Lilith is smirking again, her seemingly too many rows of teeth making her look like a shark again. "Don't back out on me now darling. We were having so much fun together." She purrs and jams the needle back into his skin without so much as a warning. Dean jerks violently, metal clanging and legs flailing as he tries to get away, just away, and she might just have punctured his heart and he can't breathe and it just hurts-

There's something, a small piece of information that registers somewhere in the back of his mind, something small and very important, but it's drowned out by the pain, the flashes of black in front of his eyes and the grating sound of Lilith's laughter as she twists the needle around.

He must have blacked out, because the next thing Dean registers is Lilith's face way too close up for comfort, lips pulled into a snarl and the fading sting on his cheek tells him exactly how she got him awake again. "You've really gone soft." Lilith spits out, voice dripping with anger, as if he had just done it to personally offend her.

Dean grimaces, tries to move away from her, but his movements are halted when pain erupts in his chest, the needle still buried firmly somewhere between his ribs. There's cold sweat on his face, not from the fever this time, but from the fear of how it will feel when she pulls it out again. It was worse enough when she was just cutting skin, but this is something else. And he's in no condition to take the pain, he's sick and weak, lacking energy, because there's no way those fuckers actually fed him properly during his sickness. And he's constantly losing fluid, his throat feels parched in addition to sore and it's a fucking effort to actually keep focused on Lilith's face.

"I haven't even begun to play with you and you're already giving in. Is that really all you can manage?" She twists her hand, moving the needle inside of him and Dean has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood after effectively adding another injury to his already long list. It's like she's ripping apart his lungs, white hot pain, bursting through his body and for a moment all he sees is black.

"Alastair promised me." She snaps, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets as she stares at him with all her fury. It would be ridiculous in any other situation, how worked up she gets over the fact that her toy isn't as durable as she wants it to be, but Dean can't really appreciate that now. He's too busy trying to get his lungs back to work " He said you would be fun, that you wouldn't break like the others. He said I could play with you until I was bored."

She yanks the needle out in one clean motion and this time Dean doesn't attempt to hold back his scream. There's a hole in his chest, a hole with jagged edges and he thinks he sees something white in there, white like bones and he has to fight nausea in addition to the blackness now. He's vaguely aware that he's flailing again and there is a clatter of sound in the air and his legs catch with something as they flail around. And all of a sudden the puzzle piece falls into place and he reacts without thinking.

He yanks his leg back, foot catching with the rail of the cart and he pushes the whole thing against Lilith's back, sending the medical instruments fly around the room. It's not nearly enough force to knock Lilith off her feet, he's too exhausted for that, but that wasn't really the plan to begin with. As much as he can actually claim he had a plan in the first place.

Most of the instruments flew right over him, but a few have actually landed on top of him. Everything is just pain, but he hasn't come this far to give up now, so while Lilith is busy spitting furious insults in his face and slapping him a few times, he searches with his hands until he finally, miraculously, locates one that has landed close enough. He doesn't know what it is, just that it's long, metallic and thank whatever god is listening, it's thin. And it's sharp, but at this point another cut on his finger doesn't really matter. He carefully hides it under his wrist, hoping that Lilith won't check her equipment for any missing pieces.

"How dare you?" Lilith yells, but relents from slapping him again. "I will make you pay for this." She hisses as she steps back from him, casting one seething glance at the mess in the room, not even bothering to take the scalpel away that's lying on his chest, before she twirls around and stomps out of the room, completely ignoring the turned over cart on the floor. Apparently Alastair never taught her that some toys fight back.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. He might have procured this small victory, but he doubts it'll get him far in his condition. He might have to put that to the test though. There's no way he's going to stay here any longer if he can help it.

But he can't do anything now - Lilith, or whoever is in charge, won't leave him alone long after this, if only to make sure that he doesn't do something stupid with the arsenal of weapons Lilith left him with essentially. But the least he can do is uphold the pretense. Especially since there still is a camera trained on him.

He wiggles a bit, trying to get the scalpel on his chest closer to his head by lifting his lower body up from the bed. It almost sends him into a blackout again, but he grits his teeth through it, forcing his thoughts onto something pleasant, car parts, Cas, Sammy's smile, pie, Cas.

The scalpel slides a few inches on the blood coagulating on his chest, resting now low under his collar bones and if he just tilts his head right he might reach it with his mou-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A cool voice says from the door and Dean slumps down with a groan. Of all the people they could have sent, they sent her. And it's not that she's the worst of Alistair's stock, because she's not, it's just because somehow she knows exactly how to get under his skin, without ever using a knife.

"Meg." He isn't sure if he should roll his eyes or be glad that at least no one will carve him open any time soon. Meg prefers subtler way of torturing, mainly by annoying the shit out of him. She used to be Alastair's favorite, but at some point before he joined the gang she decided to concentrate on other tasks, leaving the spot open for Dean to take.

"You don't look so good." She comments as she snatches the scalpel away from his chest, giving the wound on his chest a disdainful look. "Like you had just had a wrestling match with one of Alastair's dogs."

"Nice to see you too." Dean grunts, and adjusts his position that doesn't upset one of his wounds. Which to his incredible luck, is impossible obviously.

"Come on Dean, we both know that you prefer me over sweet Lilith and dear Alastair any time of the day." Meg tosses the scalpel down on the ground, not caring to even pretend she's interested in cleaning up Lilith's mess. There's the unspoken rule amongst Alastair's gang to never leave Meg and Lilith alone in one room together.

"That's not really an achievement considering your competitors."

"True. So what did you do to make Lilith flip tables?" She leans back against the wall, arms crossed and an easy smile on her lips. Dean is sure she isn't just here to satisfy her curiosity, but also to keep an eye on him.

"Why would I tell you?"

"Don't play hard to get, it doesn't suit you."

"What, you want some tips on how to drive her up the wall?"

"Please, I'd just like to know if any of what I taught you actually stuck."

Dean goes with the eye roll this time. Meg isn't any less dangerous than the others when it comes to thwarting his escape plans, but she was the only one he had some sort of camaraderie with, even though she annoyed him like no other. But she at least had something comparable to common sense and she laughed at his jokes, occasionally.

And he kind of liked her, when she wasn't busy getting under his skin. She also had this uncanny ability of always sensing when something was up, she was even worse than Jo when it came to that. And she noticed things that slipped past the others, which made it an actual miracle that she hadn't yet noticed the sharp object he hid under his wrist. He had been able to smear off the blood from his cut earlier, so at least that couldn't give him away.

"Awww Dean, I thought you trusted me."

"Sorry sweet cheeks, but as long as you're with the crazy lot I'll keep my hands off."

"Dean you wound me. I thought what we had was special." She wipes away fake tears from her cheek. "Was it something I did? Is there something else? You cheated on me with Lilith, didn't you? Oh Dean, you heartbreaker."

"What can I say? Her fake teeth and boobs just were too much for me to handle."

Meg laughs, but it only lasts about a second before she instantly grows serious. "Alastair has a lot planned for you Dean and I'm pretty sure you'll like none of it." She looks at him,but only after a minute flicker to the mounted camera. And there is something in her eyes, as if she's trying to convey something without words, as if she wants him to tell something that she can't possibly say out loud.

For some reason he remembers a conversation, between two of Alastair's goons, he listened in on. How they didn't trust Meg, because she was strange, because she always seemed to have her own agenda, and how they couldn't understand why she would ever give up her place of power. And then one of their higher-ups had shown up and told them to shut up, that if the boss trusted Meg they'd better too.

There's a message in there, a secret that he has to uncover, but his head is still filled with cotton and he can't quite think straight, it seems all his brain has been used up with the effort to make witty comments.

"Alastair is out of town, has taken quite the entourage with him, but he'll come pay you a visit once he's back. I'm supposed to tell you that you better be fit when he returns, he doesn't like to play with wounded prey." Meg grimaces slightly, clearly not happy with the choice of words. There's an oddity to it and how she deliberately put herself in a position that makes her face indiscernible from the camera's viewpoint.

"Thanks, I guess." Dean answers, acting for all the world as if the news doesn't bother him, but the truth is that he can barely hold it together at this point. Lilith had been a sneak preview on what was to come and he already knew he wouldn't like it. The truth is, he's pretty much at the end of his line and terrified as hell.

Meg looks for a moment as if she wants to smile, but there is a kind of sadness in her features, but the expression melts away almost instantly. "Anyway I'm going to bother Lilith now; I want to know what you did to her." She gives him a two fingered salute, glancing one more time at the camera before turning to leave, but she hesitates for a second at the door, looking back at him and then, "Take care Dean." She sounds almost soft and Dean suddenly realizes what he's been missing.

She's trying to help him. By telling him that Alastair isn't here, along with most of his men, that Lilith will be distracted, that Lilith and Meg will be distracted and with that all the big players are accounted for. That also means that he doesn't have much time, and his original plan on resting a bit before, seems to have become unattainable. The thing he doesn't understand though, is why. Why in the devil's name would she even consider helping him? Sure, the talk had been there, but Alastair trusts her, and she has no reason to go betray him. So maybe it's a trap?

Fuck, he can't bother with that right now. He can barely stay conscious as it is, he certainly won't solve this puzzle in his condition, and he damn well hasn't the time to even attempt it. He isn't even sure if he'll be able to pull the shit necessary to get him out of here, because even lying down he can tell that he's weak, not to mention that he's overall sore, bleeding from a nasty cut on his chest and an even worse hole somewhere too close to his heart, his head is still suffering from a near-concussion an don't even get him started on his fever/flu/pneumonia /whatever the fuck that was-episode.

It's safe to say he's a wreck.

And all he can do is hope that no one is watching him through the camera right now.

It's time to get to work before the wish to just stay that way becomes too powerful.

Dean keeps an eye out for the door while he carefully fumbles with the needle thing. Not that it would help him that much, the time it takes to open the door is not nearly enough for him to hide the evidence again, but it gives him at least a pretense of safety. He can only use one hand, and since there's not a chance in hell he'll get this shit done with his left hand (not in his condition at least), he has to awkwardly try and pass the needle into his dominant hand.

And that was the easy part.

Now is about the time to be grateful for John and all his relentless training, forcing his kids to perfect their lock picking skills, because yeah, picking locks is the most important skill for any kid to know and John won't accept anything less than perfection. Meaning he can pick a freaking lock one handed with his arms tied behind his back. Or something like that.

It takes a lot of fumbling and twisting his wrist to put the needle in the lock on his handcuffs, and that's not even counting the times he accidentally stabs himself with the damn thing. By the time he finally manages to undo the lock, his hands are slick with blood and he feels like he played catch with a needle pillow. But he has a free hand now and that makes picking the last lock a piece of cake.

And that still wasn't the hardest part.

He moves slowly, first pushing himself into sitting on the edge of the bed, before he even attempts to stand up. Dean allows a second to marvel at the fact that so far no one has burst in through the door to prevent his escape, but whatever Meg did, it must hold. His legs nearly give out on the first try and he has to catch himself as not to fall down on the arsenal of sharp objects on the floor. Really, Lilith has thought of anything. Various knives and needles, hooks and saws and a few other things Dean really doesn't want to know what their intended use is.

(He could think of a few, he has seen far too many 'creative' things in his time.)

But at least he won't have to go unarmed. (Better not to think about how little a knife will help him against a gun.) The wounds on his chest have stopped bleeding but he doesn't have any illusions about it staying that way. The crusts are fresh and that means as soon as he's moving around they will open again. He wastes a few minutes with cutting the rest of his shirt into bandages and wrapping it around his chest. He wraps the severed sleeves around his wrists, wincing at the contact, but they're bleeding too much and it won't do good if he leaves an easy to follow trace behind.

He takes the biggest knife and two scalpels as his spare weapons, pushing the latter two under the bandages over his chest. And then it's time for the truth, and Dean can't help but think that from all the dumb shit he's gotten himself into, this got to be the worst. And there's so much that could just go wrong from this point on, he has no idea where he even is and a guy with dirty pants and bloody bandages around his chest is not exactly subtle. But he can't stay here, he needs to get out and warn his family.

More importantly, to do what he should have done a long time ago, sic Jody on the bastard; consequences be damned.

And he better not start and think about what might happen if Alastair catches him.

Dean takes careful steps towards the door, mindful of the sharp objects littering the floor and cursing inwardly about his lack of shoes. But in his situation he probably can be glad that he at least has pants. There's a tense moment as he opens the door, but the corridor behind is thankfully empty.

It's maybe too much to call it corridor, just a stretch of empty room with a few doors and a staircase at one end. The doors are closed, and Dean isn't exactly inclined to find out if he's alone on the floor or not. He grabs the knife tighter, but he has the slight suspicion that should it come to using it, he'll most likely fail. As it is he needs to hold on to the wall to keep steady, his muscles keep protesting and his vision blacks out more than once. He repeats Meg's words in his head like a mantra, Alastair is out of town and Lilith is busy with Meg. He's safe, they can't hurt him. He'll get out of here.

As it turns out he almost thwarts his own plans by falling down the stairs.

He's barely able to catch his fall, nails digging painfully into the wall as he stumbles down a few steps, slamming with his side into the wall when his fingers catch on the railing. At this point he's just hurting, there's not a spot on him that isn't complaining or screaming with agony and he hasn't even made it down the stairs yet.

There's no way of telling how much time has passed since Meg has left him, but it can't be too late, can it? He's got to have some time left. Step after step, one foot after the other. It's a slow and arduous process, he's more falling down than actually stepping but he reaches the ground eventually. Dean knows he should check his surroundings, make sure he doesn't walk into any nasty surprises, but all he can think of is to get out of there.

The door is right in front of him, just another stretch of room in front of him, past two openings, one on each side. And there could be anything behind those openings, but he's too tired to even bother looking. He's lost the knife somewhere on the way, probably on the staircase, and he isn't sure if he'll be able to reach his backups should he need them.

That no one came after he created such a ruckus, must mean that the coast is clear.

He stumbles forward, leaning heavily against the wall, but he has to stop when he reaches the opening on his side. He has to bridge the gap somehow, preferably without crawling or falling on his face. Dean braces himself against the wall, setting his feet as far away from the wall as possible before he shoves himself off of the wall, tipping forward, stumbling and falling right against the opposite side of the opening.

God fucking damn it; at least no one saw that.

"What the…?" There's a voice and Dean realizes with belated surprise that the room he's just passed had not been empty. How the man missed the earlier noise is beyond him. "Hey, you're not supposed to be here. How the hell did you even get out?" The man comes at him, Dean is barely able to make out his features, let alone figure out how to get rid of him. The man reaches out to grab him, he's still talking, but Dean can't hear him over the buzzing in his ears. And then he's touching him, hand digging in his shoulder and Dean just reacts, fueled purely by instinct and the hours of training Dad put him through. He yanks the man forward by his arm, catching him off guard and the man stumbles against him arm, one of Dean's hands caught awkwardly between them.

The man freezes, all his weight suddenly on Dean, and they collapse together to the ground, something warm and wet dripping over Dean, and there is something cold and hard in his hand. He can't move, not with the heavy weight on top of him and it's suffocating, he scrambles to get him of, but everything is wet and slippery and he can't breathe with the overwhelming stench of blood in his nose.

Somehow, he doesn't remember how, he manages to crawl out from under him, the scalpel still in his hand, and that's just another thing he can't remember, when and how he pulled it in the first place, but he must have, because the man is dead and Dean is soaked with blood.

But he can't stop and work through that right now, he can't waste time on psychoanalyzing his reaction to killing yet another person either. Because no matter how bad a thug he was, he was still a person and Dean had never wanted to kill another human being again.

And the worst part is that he probably should consider himself lucky, that he only ran into one person, because no matter how many fever-induced superpowers he might unlock, he doubts he would have been able to take on two. He's not even sure how he took on this one, aside from weird fever-induced superpowers, but that's not a real thing, at least he thinks it isn't. It's so hard to concentrate; everything just feels so fuzzy in his brain.

He would fall asleep right then and there, he's sure of that, weren't it for the constant pain he's in. There's a tight feeling in his chest and throat, and he has to fight the urge to hack his lungs out more than once, not to mention the various aches and bruises he carries around with him. And through all of that he feels like he's burning up from the inside, the fever must have flared again, and while his skin is soaked with cold sweat, he doesn't feel a shred of cold. He can't rest, not when he's still hurting, not when he's still not safe.

Rationally he knows he should search the man's clothes for weapons, something more reliable than a scalpel that's slippery with blood, but considering the effort it takes him already to just get up on his feet again, he doubts he can handle the weight of a gun, let alone the backlash of firing one. He gets to the front door, the same way he got down the stairs, without any memories of ever doing it.

Pushing the front door open is one of the hardest things he's ever done. He doesn't even have the energy left to wonder why the door was even unlocked in the first place; Alastair would never allow such a blunder. It's dark outside, it must be night. The air is cold, late summer, on the verge of fall and the blood on his skin has cooled into nothing more than a sticky uncomfortable mess.

He walks. That's all he can focus on. He walks. He can't say how long he's been walking or in which direction. For all he knows he could have been walking in a circle the whole time. There's just the pavement underneath him, endless pavement and as long as there is pavement he'll walk. The scalpel is long gone too, lost somewhere on the way and he should maybe be worried about leaving traces, but then he would have to stop walking to focus his attention on something else than his legs. He can't feel his feet anymore, at least his legs must be the cold then, but the rest of him feels strangely warm, as if his skin is on fire.

Dean doesn't know how he managed to stay upright for so long (or maybe he just imagines it being so long, maybe only a few minutes have passed), and it's when he hears muffled voices that he realizes he's lying on the ground. He must have stumbled and fallen, but he can't recall any of it. His head is throbbing, there seems to be some form of mist in front of his eyes, he can't see, no matter how hard he tries.

The voices draw nearer, and all Dean can think of is that he's failed, that Alastair caught him and that he'll never get to see Cas or Sammy again. And it's with the image of Cas' face in front of his eyes that he finally fades to black.