Follows "A Hole in the World" and "Mirror, Water, Glass." Written very quickly, and is almost but not quite flashfic.

Warnings: Self-harm, post-hell trauma

Zero

He's been sick for a while now. It's not right, it's not. It would be better if he could think, could focus, could drag himself back somehow, but it's like lifting a stone on his back. He wants to see clearly. He does. But it's too heavy.

Sam doesn't like it. Dean can tell. It bothers him a lot. A lot. "Come on, Dean," he keeps saying, "Come sit down. You need to eat. Please Dean. Please."

But it hurts to stop, it hurts to sit, his skin flares and prickles and his eyes catch the sunlight, the razor-fine edges, and he rubs at them and he'd hide if he could.

Bobby—the other one—he remembers Bobby, big and gruff and solid and uneasy. An old man now but he'd been young once and he's still alive, somehow, and Dean's pretty sure that's funny but he doesn't know how to explain it to the others.

"You've got to settle down, boy," he tells Dean, from where he's standing in a wash of clear light. "You're wearin' a damn hole in my floor. Come on."

Dean says, "No. No no. It's okay. I'm okay."

Sam's not around right now. He had somewhere to be. With the thing. Ruby. She's a thing and she's Sam's friend and she smiles at Dean from behind her face, all teeth and blood and gleaming lights and falling down and down.

He doesn't like her. Really really doesn't like her. But Sam looks at her more than anyone else these days.

So his brother's gone off with the thing with the smile and Bobby's trying to calm Dean down, but he's already calm, he is.

"I'm okay," he says again, backing away when Bobby takes a few steps closer. His hands grasp at the air and he bumps into a table, a sofa, a pile of books and all of a sudden his back's to the wall. He puts a hand over his eyes. Too much light and it doesn't cut the way it should. God, the way it should.

His lips move and he realizes he's said, "I need," when Bobby asks, "What, son? What do you need?"

long thin razors fine lines wires sharp things liquid red running down long clever fingers

Oh

"Shh," Dean whispers, drawing his hand loosely down the skin of his face, "Nothing, nothing. It's nothing. Sorry. I'm sorry."

He needs it.

Bobby doesn't touch him, at least. Leaves him there standing in the corner watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight, the melting glare move over the sofa. Dean rolls his head and rests it against the hard wall and breathes quick and light through his nose. He can see the other man puttering around the room, straightening things, going to the kitchen and coming back, always with one eye cocked toward Dean's corner. But he doesn't try to coax him out and Dean appreciates that.

He remembers small soft hands, and injections.

Sam comes back after a while.

"How is he?" he asks Bobby, and the man says, "He's been there for an hour."

Dean pushes a hand against the wall. Looks up at his brother, huge and hazy in the light. Sam turns, and Dean sees teeth even though his mouth is shut. He flinches away.

"Anna," he says, but she's been gone for a while.

He doesn't know what happened to her.

"Dean," Sam says, and then it's another round of pleading and Dean shuts his eyes and pushes his head into the corner and lets his knees go a little soft. He can feel every inch of his skin. Every cell.

It's beautiful. It's there for a reason.

"This is worse," Sam's whispering outside the door, and Dean can hear him even though he's shoved himself in between the old musty bed and the wall.

"I've never seen—he wasn't even like this when he came back. You remember? Nothing like this."

Bobby murmurs, "Sam, we've got nothing to compare him to. He's pretty much patient zero, here."

Dean shuts his eyes. He can imagine Sam's frustration, his tense shoulders and hands. His ribs are shivering and he clutches at them but they don't stop rattling. Nothing hurts as much as it should and two days ago Sam cut all his nails back. Cruelly, he thinks.

He bites down on the back of his hand, but it's not enough. It's hard to break skin with teeth. Cracks his head back against the hollow wall and white punches through his head back to front. He keeps forgetting to breathe. Light and shallow, fast and bright.

He's sick. He needs.

But the door opens and no, okay no Sam, Jesus, "Jesus," one of them says, but he's okay, he's okay.

"I didn't—" Dean starts but Sam's leaning down, huge and awful, arms and hands grasping and dragging him up and he pulls back but it doesn't matter, he can't pull far enough. The rattling in his ribs has gone up in his throat and wants to push out high and giddy.

"Did you bite yourself?" Sam demands, shrill, and Dean pulls and pulls.

They're saying his name. They're saying his name. Dean shuts his eyes and presses the side of his head to the wall (he's burning up now, but they won't believe him if he tells) and stops breathing and they're saying it.

"Alastair," Sam says, and a tiny noise comes out of Dean's mouth, like a drop of water.

His knees hit the floor and he's going to throw up or scream or tear his own throat out, but he keeps his lips shut and no one hears.

"Alastair," Bobby repeats skeptically, like the name means nothing.

Maybe that's right.

Dean splays his hands on the floor, pushes himself upright.

He knows now. He knows he knows he knows.

He paces down the hall and finds the kitchen and the back door. It's dusty dry outside.

He licks his lips.

He remembers to breathe, just barely.

there's screaming someone's screaming and things fall, crash onto the floor and explode and sam yells, dean dean dean and christ he's pissed he's furious he's ready to tear somebody apart but bobby says settle son, settle, and sam rocks back and he's trying to get himself under control, and dean takes the opportunity to scramble backward, across the floor, through the broken jars and fallen tools and they're not gonna lock him up they're not putting him in there they're not

"dean," sam's saying, and he doesn't care, finds the wall, pushes back and lashes out, hand swinging crack! and leaves a trail of blood on sam's cheek and he realizes that his palm is bleeding and oh god, he's bleeding, and his eyes fix and his mouth opens and he tracks it, tracks it, as sam shifts back and away and dean follows the mark with his eyes and remembers, and looks down slowly and he's bleeding from his hand

it runs in the grooves of his palm

it's there

it's there

oh god

whatever noise he makes doesn't matter and Sam grabs him, big hands on both arms and they drag him into the panic room, and he's bleeding and it doesn't matter it's okay it's okay

alastair alastair alastair alastair

they cuff him to the bed and sam wraps his palm

he's bleeding

it's okay

it's okay

he leans heavy on his brother, lets his eyes slide half-closed

flexes his hand, his fingers

He makes a little noise.

He's heavy.

He feels good.

"Settle down," Sam murmurs. "Settle."

It's good.

They stick him and he wants to ask Sam if he knows what the hell he's doing. Needles leave marks. Are they gonna keep sticking him? Is that the master plan here?

"This'll help you relax," Sam tells him.

He'd laugh in his face, if he could remember which muscles to use.

"Where's Alastair?" he demands, instead, and Sam flinches. Good thing he got the needle out first.

"What?"

He fixes his eyes on Sam's face.

"I'm better now, Sam," Dean says. "You can let me out." He works his wrists in the cuffs.

"I'll let you out when you calm down," Sam says. In the doorway, Bobby stares at the floor.

Dean says simply, "You don't know what the fuck you're doing."

They leave him alone after that. But he hears them on the stairs, and Sam's voice chokes and, no, he doesn't know what they fuck he's doing. Neither of them do.

Dean stares up at the fan and opens and shuts his hand. A little song. It hurts. It hurts.

Whatever Sam gave him is coming on strong. He wonders if this is the plan now. Keep him down. Soft and simple.

Alright then.

There are worse ways to go.

But when Alastair finds out, he's gonna be pissed.

-end-