A/N: Wanted to jump on the hbo spn bandwagon (it's a meme on tumblr dot hell), and I happened to find a great post by woedean that just really inspired me. They wrote: "hbo spn would've showed dean going through withdrawals in purgatory"

WARNING: This fic contains mentions of alcohol abuse, withdrawal, violence, and illness. It's just pretty grimdark too.

6 Hours

Dean collapsed onto a moss-covered log, breathing heavy. Blood streaked his skin — not his own. It was drying and cooling now, the sensations leaving him uncomfortable and itchy. He had to keep moving. He knew he had to keep moving.

God, he just needed a break first.

The fighting since he'd entered Purgatory had been almost non-stop. It was just beginning to slow, as if the monsters were hearing that Dean Winchester was with them. What stories did they tell? Did they say he'd come to Purgatory to finish the job? Was he like the thing under the bed they told their children about at night?

Dean kind of liked that idea, liked that he was becoming the scary creature in the dark when it came to this place.

His hands shook as he raised his weapon to examine it. It was a blade attached to a long hilt of bone. He'd acquired it from the vampire he'd most recently beheaded. And it was sturdy, but it needed a bit of cleaning, and probably some sharpening. The metal was easily sharp enough to be deadly, but he knew hacking at bone could really do a number on a weapon.

Now having something easy to do, having something that wasn't mind-numbing or world-shattering, Dean got up to get a move on. Eventually, he found a place to work.

Dean began to sweat anew. This wasn't the sweat of battle or exertion. It was something else. He could feel it with the nausea roiling in his stomach, the way his heart beat frantically. This wasn't good. If he was found out here like this, he was screwed.

He set to cleaning the blade as best he could on his already dirty shirt (gonna have to wash that somehow), his blood thundering in his ears. The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood on end, and he whirled, breathing heavy, ready to face whatever came at him.

There was nothing.

He was alone.

Too alone.

"Cas, where are you?" Dean prayed.

There was no answer, no reveal.

Castiel had abandoned Dean.

It had to have been a mistake, right?

Right?

Dean set off again, his hands shaking, sweat slicking his dirtied skin, a headache pounding away deep in his skull.

17 Hours

The headache had only gotten worse. Dean had tried to find food some time ago, but apparently monsters weren't big on anything that wasn't human. That was yet another problem he had to face, all while feeling like shit: how the hell was he going to survive?

There was plenty of water. He hadn't found the source yet, or where the flow ended, but there were rivers and streams. Running water was good. Stagnation only gave bacteria free rein to grow and flourish.

Dean didn't have anything to carry the water in, but he'd set up camp near a stream, had washed, and had had plenty to drink.

His camp could barely be called that. He'd simply just found a flat stretch of ground near his source of water, made sure there weren't any loose branches or boulders nearby, hunted around a bit to make sure he really was alone, and then he'd made a lean-to. Doing that with shaking hands ended up with him getting dead leaves and dried, flaking mud on him, but this was the best he could do. Dean was using leaves as bedding, and he lay awake, looking upwards into the dark through the cracks in his shelter.

His headache had forced him to lie down countless times. His nausea threatened to overcome him, even while he tried to sleep.

How would he sleep?

Dean was hungry, bone-weary, frightened… The list was long, and he realized some of it might have been from that deep urge he felt in his brain, the urge that just wouldn't let him be.

I wish Purgatory had friggin' alcohol.

Dean's world spun, and he started to pray: Hey, Cas, don't know if you can hear me, but if you can… I miss you. I need you here. I don't know where you went, or why, but I don't care. I just need you.

Dean fell asleep to thoughts of Castiel's touch on him.

18 Hours

Dean couldn't breathe, he was trembling so badly he wasn't sure how he hadn't fallen apart yet, and profound sickness overcame him. Before he even had any recognition that he was awake, Dean was rolling onto his side, and puking his guts out… which didn't amount to much seeing as he didn't have food in his stomach. The pain punched him in repeated bursts, and he just wanted to breathe, wanted his body to stop doing this god awful thing.

Long moments passed before it did.

Dean groaned, and laid his head back down. The smell of his sick made his eyes water. A strange gurgling sound came up from his stomach, and he groaned some more.

Great. Just great.

Dean was too sick to listen for any enemies nearby.

He lay there, his very heartbeat painful, his head feeling like maybe it'd find relief if it got smashed in, and then he heard them. Footsteps.

Dean tried to grab his blade, but his shaking hand fumbled and brushed it farther away. The bone hilt knocked against wood, and crunched in the leaves.

The footsteps came closer.

Dean tried to sit up, but ended up barely able to see from the motion.

Against his will, he found himself lying back down.

"No, no…" Dean begged, as that person, that thing in the dark, drew near.

It was in the lean-to with him now, and Dean expected to feel teeth and claws at his skin, or maybe hands around his throat at any moment. Instead, soft, familiar palms, with long, thick fingers cradled his face. Dean opened his eyes and looked up into the penetrating, blue gaze of his best friend.

"Cas?" he asked.

Cas didn't say anything. Impending doom rose up in Dean's chest, spiking through him.

Black took him.

When he came to there was blood in his mouth, and his body ached like every muscle had been put through a marathon.

Castiel was gone.

Cas, please…

26 Hours

Dean had managed to drag himself out of the lean-to, had cleaned up, had gotten plenty to drink, and now he was on the hunt for food again. He hadn't thrown up in a few hours, he was recovering from his earlier seizure, and he had rationalized that he'd hallucinated Castiel.

There was just no other explanation.

The angel wasn't here.

Castiel. Castiel had to be Dean's priority.

Well, right up there with finding food.

He got into more fights than he cared to count before he found some berries to eat. He tested them on his skin before eating them, and they were alright. The dark berries were bitter, but his tongue danced with the flavors, as if his body recognized it was finally getting some nutrients.

At this point though, with food mostly non-existent, Dean realized he might have to start eating monsters.

And... nope. Too nauseous for that thought.

He leaned against a tree, willing his headache to go away, willing his body to just calm down.

Get over it, he told himself. No alcohol. Whatever. No big deal, okay? It's not like it's the end of the world. Dean didn't believe himself, so he added, Trust me, you've been there. It ain't this.

Still, his body disagreed, even while he seemed to be recovering a bit.

Recovery didn't stop him from making another shelter to pass out in. Besides, he'd earned it. He'd killed more monsters than he had fingers, and he was pretty sure the thing that was burning through him right now was a fever.

Sweaty, and more sick than he cared to admit, Dean did what he found a habit now. He prayed. This time, he did it out loud, as if he needed to know the words were real, that he was real, that he was putting in the damn effort:

"Hey, Cas. It's been… I don't know, maybe a day? Things aren't great, but I'm alive. What about you?"

Silence.

His throat tightened. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah, I'd want to keep quiet too. Lots of evil crap stuck in here with us. But that's why I need you, why we need each other. I want to be there for you, Cas. I know… I know that so much happened, and I know you think you're cursed. Hell, this probably doesn't really prove much to the contrary. But you're not cursed. You couldn't be. If you were, would I even want to pray to you?"

Still no answer.

Dean's body seemed to struggle sucking in air, suffering without his best friend.

He prayed till he was too tired to do it, till common sense broke through the fever and told him he had to keep quiet so he couldn't be tracked. He prayed, wishing for the angel, his best friend. His head clung to that one action fervently, as if trying to replace one addiction with another.

30 Hours

Dean was attacked.

The fight was far from quick and clean, and it ended with Dean bruised, and bloodied, sitting in a stream to try and clean himself off. There was a deep slash from claws on his left forearm, and he thought he might've pulled something near his hip. Could've sprained his ankle too.

Thriving, he commented sarcastically to himself.

Dean threw up, and then he passed out, sitting in the slow-moving water.

38 Hours

He came to just enough to bandage his wound, and drag himself to the uplifted roots at the base of a tree.

Cas…

48 Hours

Dean didn't know what day it was, or how much time had passed. But when he woke up, there was mucus and acid from his stomach on the leaves beside him.

The symptoms were getting worse. That little uphill slide prior to this had been a damn lie.

Dean groaned, and he forced himself up.

That had him dry-heaving, holding onto a tree to keep himself up, bark scraping at his hands.

The world spun. Sounds pounded in and out, and his beating heart was so loud, he was sure everything could hear it.

Dean started at every little sound, even the ones he made.

After getting water, a monster came his way.

Dean covered himself in mud to hide his scent, and then went and buried himself under leaves beneath a low-hanging bough. Mercifully, the monster didn't find him. But the sickness and agonies in his body did.

Cas, I'm here. I miss you. I hope you're alright.

55 Hours

Castiel walked along beside Dean, a hand at the back of his neck, slowly stroking as if to soothe his headache.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked him.

Dean tried to push him aside, but that only had him stumbling. He managed to catch himself, and glanced over at him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Castiel gripped his shoulder, pulling Dean to a halt. His gaze was serious as he looked him over.

"No, I don't think you are."

A cool hand was against his forehead, and Dean nearly breathed in a sigh of relief at that.

"You're burning up."

"You're hot too," Dean commented, not sure where the joking words had even come from.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, vaguely remembering a bit of a werewolf's arm that he'd eaten. It still sat heavy in his stomach.

"Have you had water?"

Dean tried to move him aside again, and found himself leaning against a tree.

When he opened his mouth to answer, he was all alone.

Tears stinging his eyes, Dean prayed, "Why can't you be here? Why can't you fucking be here? Cas, I-I'm not doing good. And even if I was, I'd still want you here. I can't do this alone. I… I don't know how I can. I think about it, and I start losing it. This place… this place feels different, feels like there's nothing holding me in or holding me back, but… knowing you're out there — I can't stop worrying. I can't stop… I can't stop wanting. Please. Castiel."

Castiel's hand was on his forehead once more. A small part of Dean knew it wasn't real, but he was too sick to bother.

71 Hours

Time had passed in a strange, sickening blur, the world tilting and spinning around him. And now Dean was lying on his side under a sturdy outcropping of boulders. His lips were chapped, his arm was sore, and it burned. His ankle felt like it'd fall off if he even dared to move it, and twisting his body about brought even more aches and pains. His stomach grumbled, and he knew he was weak, too weak to defend himself if need be. Yet, he felt better. Better than he had for days.

Dean pulled himself up, and he was stunned at the clarity with which he saw Purgatory. He could take in where he was, see the tracks he'd left, see everything he'd need to survive for just a few more hours.

Somehow, his blade was still with him.

As that clarity washed over him, Dean studied it. It was a good weapon, and had lasted multiple fights already. Maybe it would last him long enough; long enough to find the angel.

Already planning for the day ahead of him, taking in everything — the sights, the sounds, the smells — Dean hefted the blade over his shoulder, bone hilt fitting nicely in his hand. He looked around, and then up as he prayed, "Alright, Cas, I'm coming to you."