The State of Perdition

Chapter 4

"""""""""""""""

Summary: A/U: The boys never got into hunting because their mother died of natural causes. Years later, Dean struggles to find acceptance from his father. Eating-disorder theme.

Thank you very much for the reviews and follows!

"""""""""""""""

Some days it was hard to get up; particularly after sex, which tended to wear Dean to the bone. That morning was no different. Dean felt the ache crawl through his every limb, spreading from, he swore, between his toes right to a dull ache between his eyes. Sometimes Carmon would be there, right by his side, and just her presence alone was comfort. As Dean rolled tired eyes, he found himself disappointed; and then shocked, when he saw the time. Fuck, he'd slept until noon!

A while back, Dean had learned that he shouldn't get up too fast, or else he'd just be brought right back down with a wave of dizziness. That morning, he found himself cursing as he didn't listen to himself, as he shot straight up, only to fall back down against, luckily, the mattress.

His head pounded wildly between his eyes.

It was hard to breathe.

Fuck, he was in his old room.

It took a few minutes to get oriented again, and by that time he bothered to listen to his own reason. One mostly-steady hand clutched the edge of the bed as he eased himself up, careful not to jostle himself too much. One of these days, he would be strong enough and thin enough to be able to spring to his feet and feel nothing. It was just as Carmon said; he just wasn't strong enough yet. Yet.

It took more than several minutes to get dressed. Dean had contemplated a shower, but why bother with that before his morning run? Besides, what was a little man-sweat? He headed down the steps, hoping to run into his girlfriend before Sam or Bobby.

What he ran into was a conversation. Stealthy as he was, even if he was not yet perfect, Dean managed to move out of sight before he was seen and, not even contemplating the fact that he was eavesdropping, listened in on, apparently, Sam and Carmon.

"…. I'm really worried about him, Carmon." Sam, of course.

"Don't you think that I am, too?" Carmon. "Look, Sam, I know all about his eating disorder.'

What?

"He ate last night," Carmon promised. "I brought him dinner. He was in a bad state, but he's getting better."

He was getting better. He was losing weight; he didn't have to worry about food. He could run for so long. Jesus, Sam, did he have to prove himself to everyone? Everyone but Carmon.

"Don't bullshit me!" Sam yelled. "I saw you taking the trash out early this morning, and yeah – I had a peek. He didn't eat a damn thing!"

"I told you, he's in a bad state." Carmon explained.

"You said he was," Sam reiterated. "Not that he is. Now you're changing your story?"

"Look," Carmon sighed. "I understand that he needs to gain weight."

What… wait. Gain? No… no no no no. Had Carmon changed her mind? Had she lost her mind? Dean took deep, long breaths against the wall his back was pressed against. His eyes closed. What was happening to his one and only support system?

"However, I'm going to handle things." Carmon stated.

Like Hell that betraying little bitch would.

"If he doesn't get better soon," Carmon promised, "I will take him to a clinic."

No. FUCK. No.

Dean couldn't take it; he just couldn't hear any more of it. He pulled out his keys, ever ready in his pocket in case he decided he needed to get the fuck out of here, and marched straight for the door. By the sound of the door rushing open as soon as he started the Impala, the one and only gift his father had ever given him, he guessed that he'd been found out. Fuck them.

He sped off. To where, he wasn't sure. He'd been betrayed by the one and only person in this world who had believed in him. She never said that she loved him, but what did love and trust matter anymore anyway? He needed a drink.

"""""""""""""""

Dean's phone was off. Nobody could catch him, nobody could come into contact with him. It was too early for the bars to open, so Dean began to drown his sorrows with a bottle of whisky purchased at the local gas station. After that, it was one drink after the other. The thing was, it just didn't help.

Nothing helped.

"""""""""""""""

Dean made it home, somehow. Was it home? It was hard to tell. He'd been there for years, growing up; and wasn't that where Carmon and Sammy were staying? His mind told him it was amazing that he didn't crash the car. His mind also told him that he'd ingested a fuck-ton of alcohol, and shit. That meant a fuck-ton of calories.

Dean didn't even think if he was being followed or not, or if the voice he heard was in his head or actually from some other God-awful son of a bitch who lived here. He stumbled to the nearest bathroom and thrust himself out of the toilet. Get it out of him get it out get it out get it out now now now now NOW.

Dean felt a hand against his forehead, a large hand, and it was soothing.

"God damnit, Dean, why didn't you call? Did you drive home like this?" Sammy.

"I gotta get it out of me, Sam." Dean barely recognized his own voice. "I've gotta…"

"Dean… hey, come here."

He felt a hand push against his stomach ever lightly, and then he felt himself suddenly against someone's back. Not someone. Sam. Sammy was here. Sammy would help. "I need to get it out of me, Sammy." Sammy was smart. Sammy would know what to do. "

"The alcohol?" Sam's voice sounded so close, almost like a whisper in his ear.

Dean shook his head. "The c-calories…" he breathed. "All of that fucking alcohol… making me fucking fat."

"Dean." Sam seemed broken. He sounded scared. He sounded hurt. Dean was so, so sorry.

"I have to get it out of me." There was one remedy, something Dean hadn't ever thought about it before, but it sounded like a good enough idea. He thrust his finger into his throat, and before he knew it, he was retching into the toilet – and feeling every inch of its sting. This wouldn't have happened, though, if he hadn't consumed it all in the first place. He wouldn't have to get rid of it if he wasn't weak. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Shh, Dean, it's okay."

Everything else was a blur and grew fuzzier by the second. The problem? Now he couldn't get it out of him.

He was so fucking fat and weak.

"""""""""""""""

To be continued…