voluntaryapnea | 21. Oh brother I can't, I can't get through

21. Oh brother I can't, I can't get through

[Video -- Private to Dean]

[Stiles looks tired, like he hasn't slept in awhile. He hasn't. If Dean's ever seen the inside of Scott's cabin, he might recognize it as being where his warden is currently. He's sitting on the bed right beside his unconscious best friend, in fact, even if the feed focuses mostly on his face and the wall behind him.]

Scott's in a coma. [He figures Dean may have heard the announcement from Abigail the night before, but he isn't sure, either.]

So if you need me for something I'm in his cabin. [Not that Dean will need him for anything. Dean pretty much never asks for anything from him. But still. He wants to make sure Dean knows in case something comes up.]

[Video -- Clementine]

[As soon as he's done talking to Dean, he starts the feed once more, this time with Scott's inmate. He draws in a breath, arching his eyebrows and lifts his hand in a wave.]

Hey. I'm sure you probably heard about Scott by now. Hopefully he's not gonna play Sleeping Beauty for long, but uh -- until he wakes up, if you need something. Or want to talk or anything. I'm staying with him. You can just come find me or...you know, call on this thing. I mean obviously there are other options if you don't want to talk to me or whatever, but just -- putting that out there.

[Spam -- Open]

Over the next few days, Stiles can mostly be found only in Scott's cabin. Even with the rest of the pack coming in and visiting, offering to stay for as long as necessary, even with Isaac occasionally living in the other room, Stiles has a difficult time leaving his best friend's side. He feels more anxious than usual, like the end of a fraying wire. For as long as he can actually remember, Scott McCall has been his solid ground. And sure, he's physically fine. He even looks peaceful. These things don't keep him from feeling Scott's forehead regularly to make sure he's not running a fever or anything. He isn't. But he's in a coma and no part of Stiles is okay with that. He knows it happens all the time. He hadn't liked it when it was Dean, either, but this is still worse. This is his brother. And his unresponsiveness makes Stiles feel like he's constantly on the edge of having a panic attack. The only way he could have felt anymore anxious about the scenario is if someone had insisted Scott be in the infirmary while he's out. Hospital settings make nothing better.

So like he had when his inmate was comatized, he spends a great deal of the time reading Harry Potter to Scott. Occasionally he works on his laptop, which he's brought to Scott's for the duration of the time. Making himself right at home here isn't an issue. The McCall house has been his second home since he was four.

But he leaves the door open just a bit in case someone wants to visit, because Scott is a friendly kind of guy who doesn't turn down company and so Stiles isn't going to turn down people who want to visit unless he thinks they're going to be a danger.

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[Dean, of course, knows how it is being weirdly close to one other person in life. Or, he did once. The path is still there, well worn but overgrown, almost reclaimed by a life lived alone through the hardest parts, first by circumstance and then by choice; he doesn't use it anymore.

There's no one left he would sit at the bedside of and hold vigil every moment of every day as he is dead certain Stiles has done at least up until now. If he needed proof, the way Stiles reacts to what he said - and it takes Dean a moment to realize what that was, to notice anything wrong with it - is more than enough.

The hunter frowns.]

You capable of doing something towards that end that I don't know about?

[Stiles tends to feel weirdly close to a handful of people, really. Scott just happens to be the one he's closest to on the Barge. Once he's attached to someone, he's kind of like a barnacle. It's damn near impossible to shake him loose.

He lifts his gaze to meet Dean's eyes, not entirely sure what he means at first and then his eyebrows arch.]

You mean can I heal him? [He assumes that's what he means, and he shakes his head, lips tugging downward. He wishes he had that kind of ability. A lot of things would be a hell of a lot different now.] No. But -- I am certified in CPR. [He's even used it successfully before. It seems like a long time ago when he'd been in the back of that ambulance with Cora, hiding from the alpha pack and she'd stopped breathing. In reality, it had only been a couple of months since it had happened when Stiles first arrived on the Barge.]

[No, he can't heal him, and Dean's steady expression says he already knew that. It's obvious, of course, but Dean knows a thing or two, too, about the way that stubborn love blinds people to common sense sometimes.

He raises an eyebrow.] You think he needs CPR? [Dean also already knows the answer to this, of course; the question is really "what does that have to do with anything?"]

[By Dean's eyebrow raise and steady gaze, he gets the feeling he's missing what the hunter really meant, but for the life of him, he doesn't know what it is.]

Well not right now, no. But if he'd -- [His own breath hitches a little at the thought because how many times have they gotten so close to death? How many more times can they before they can't come back from it?] -- if he'd stop breathing, I know CPR.

[There is a moment when it occurs to Dean to dig into that doubt he can see in Stiles now; that he doesn't trust the Admiral with Scott's life could be something Dean could get his own doubts in around, could start winning Stiles over to his side, to not trusting something so clearly demonic. If Scott stopped breathing, a faithful warden would know that he'd come back in an hour or so anyway. What is CPR against all the amassed magic here, and the Admiral's death toll?

But he bypasses it; maybe it's something of the old Dean, maybe it's that even now he isn't particularly inclined to be cruel and there is no way around the fact that that would be cruel. Instead, he shakes his head.]

Don't fool yourself. Staring isn't gonna change anything, and you aren't doing anyone any good thinking it might.

[It might surprise Dean to know how little Stiles trusts the Admiral at the end of the day. Especially when it comes to people's lives. He doesn't think he's demonic. Probably, anyway. But he doesn't think the Admiral has as much control over things as some seem to think, either. Frankly Stiles is just doing what he always does -- hedging his bets. The deals have worked for others who've come and gone. It might take half an eternity, but he's no quitter when it comes to the things that matter.]

I was reading, not staring.

[It's not a flippant response, but it's not exactly defensive either. He knows that holing himself up in Scott's room isn't the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but. But. It isn't just about making sure Scott is still breathing. It's also about making sure no one messes with him while he sleeps. There's a whole lot of people on this barge that Stiles doesn't trust any farther than he can shove them.]

How was your kitchen shift? [He takes another drink of the milkshake.]

Mm.

[Dean is not impressed by that answer either, because it's semantics, but Stiles knew what he meant. It's enough and it's not Dean's place to tell him what to do, where to spend his time or with whom. He shrugs, taking a deep breath and shifting his attention to looking over the room instead. There's no sense of uncertainty in essentially being in someone else's cabin without their permission, and he drifts towards a book shelf to start looking over the items there while he talks.]

Riveting. I'm really excited that I'm learning to chop onions. Maybe someday I can go back and make the Croats cry to keep them out of my camp.

[This is not a statement of hope that he'll ever go back, not even obliquely. His voice is flat, resigned, just like he's been ever since switching departments.]

Perks are good, though.

[He watches as Dean moves away, peruses Scott's bookshelf above his desk in the corner. He picks up the burger on the tray Dean brought and takes a bite before responding, mouth quirking upwards at the corners just a little at his sarcasm even if the words don't sound sarcastic.]

Just wait. I'm sure before long they'll have you chopping all kinds of exciting foods besides onions.

Yeah? What are the perks? [He takes another bite as his stomach growls hungrily. He hadn't even realized how hungry he'd been.]

You're eating 'em.

[Dean doesn't notice Stiles' reaction to him, turned mostly away and apparently intent on snooping around, although he doesn't touch anything. There isn't any intent in it, but instead something rather like a feral animal of some kind finding itself inside a house, confident enough not to run, but not comfortable enough to stay.

Dean isn't someone who belongs in other peoples' comfortable, safe homes anymore.]

You really should've thought about this before agreeing to assign me there. Your food is in my hands. Literally and figuratively.

[It's something a little more like his old humor, although still more the framework than any actual substance; it's true, though, that Dean has always been extremely practical where food is concerned. Everyone needs it to survive and while he loved it as a luxury before, now he values it, too, and has done since his arrival.

Food and, of course, indoor plumbing.]

[Fortunately, Scott's room is filled with normal teenage boy stuff. A few books from school, his computer, pictures of he and Stiles and of his mom and him. Various pictures in frames of other friends -- Allison and Isaac and Lydia and Kira. Lacrosse stuff. Nothing overly interesting. Nothing that would even signal something is different about him than any other teenage boy.]

And they're delicious for the record.

[He manages to say this mostly coherently around a mouthful of half-chewed food, not even grimacing at the rest of his statement. Maybe he should be more concerned about Dean poisoning him, but he's not. Until Dean made a vague reference to it, he hadn't even considered it, really.]

[He's right not to consider it; poison isn't really Dean's style, not if he wants to do harm to someone like Stiles. There is a certain comfortable predictability in how straightforward he prefers to be. More likely he'll accidentally poison someone with salmonella some day or, which is more likely yet, refuse to give up his 8" chef's knife and go for as many throats as he can.

Dean lingers over the pictures, turns over some of the lacrosse gear for inspection, eyes taking in the details. He's not actually looking for anything different. He's just looking at what other peoples' lives look like.

Abruptly, without turning around:]

How long've you known Scott?

[The question surprises him and he raises his eyebrows, swallowing down the food and taking a drink of the milkshake before he responds. He drops down into the desk chair, glancing over to where Scott lays still and silent, and then back to Dean.]

Pretty much my whole life. As far back as I can remember, really. We were four when we met.

Yeah? And how was that?

[His voice doesn't give much away, at least not about this line of questioning. He's as conversational as he ever gets, moves on from the bookshelf to the TV, tilting his head to survey the array of gaming consoles, movie cases, and paraphernalia there.]

[As far as questioning goes, this feels like pretty safe territory. It also happens to be some of Stiles's best memories. He sips his milkshake and leans back in the chair, a faint, distant smile on his face.]

We were on the playground. The sandbox. Another kid was giving me a hard time. [And by that, Stiles means Jackson was trying to steal his shoes right off his feet. Jerk.] Scott made him leave me alone. [And then they'd built a sandcastle together and it had been the best sandcastle ever. Or at least it was for a couple of four year olds. Whatever, it's his story and he'll stick to it.]

[It doesn't occur to Dean to question the story; he can hear the ring of truth in Stiles' voice, the way he doesn't even have to think about the memory to put it into words. It's a storybook kind of meeting. It's the way every good friendship should start: there should be a hero and there should be loyalty and something should be built out of it. Something, no matter what it is, that is the best ever, so much better than either of them could have built alone.

Dean is toying with a controller, handling it with the air of someone that has seen it before, knows what it's for, but has never used it. His thumb works the joystick back and forth experimentally.]

Inseparable ever since, huh? Even into space and beyond.

[He watches Dean toy with the controller for a moment, and considers asking him if he wants to play. He and Scott both have plenty of video games to choose from. And sure it might be kind of childish to be on a prison barge playing video games, but on the other hand, they have a lot of time on their hands. Might not be a bad distraction once in awhile, even for Dean.]

Yeah, pretty much. But -- when I first got here, I didn't even know he was here. It was sort of a weird coincidence. [And sort of not. He and Scott's lives have often revolved around being in each other's orbit, and he's not entirely surprised they both wound up on the Barge without actually planning it. Apparently that now extends to the rest of Scott's pack, as well.]

Weird coincidence.

[Dean, in the tradition of every good manchild everywhere, used to love video games. His experience was always more with the quarter machines in diners and arcades, of course, his specialty the shooting games with the plastic guns more than private consoles with controllers, but he'd like them just fine. "Blotto time," Sam had once exasperatedly called it and Dean hadn't known what it meant and succinctly forgot, but he'd been right. He usually was.

Now video games feel like part of someone else's life, just like the carpet under his feet, the comic books on their shelves, the figurines and the soft sheets on the comfortable bed. He sets the controller down and tilts his head at his reflection in the dark television screen.]

If he never wakes up, what's that mean for you? [There's no edge to it this time, except the one such a question must inherently have; Dean doesn't add anything, is the thing. It's an honest question, one he's not sure he wants to know the answer to, so he does the both of them the favor of not turning around when he asks it.]

[Arriving on the Barge only to find a younger version of his best friend already aboard had definitely been weird. But not one of the weirdest things ever, either. It was more like one of those weird things that a person finds reassuring, proving again to Stiles what he's always known: Scott is his solid ground.

He doesn't spend much time playing video games these days. Lately he's been reading a lot more than he used to even though he's always liked reading.

He drops his gaze at the question, anxiety stirring in his stomach instantly.]

He will. Everyone does. Needy woke up. Jackson. Isaac. You. Everyone wakes up.

No.

[It's immediate, solid, cutting off Stiles in his headlong rush towards hope, towards that end where everything works out for no reason other than it must, because that's what's supposed to happen.

That's not life. Not everyone does anything. Now he does glance over, eyebrows pulled slightly together, expression darker than the conversation has been up to this point.]

What will you do if he doesn't?

[He lifts his eyes to meet Dean's gaze. He feels his natural defenses rise and he struggles to fight them back down. Lashing out at Dean won't help anyone. So he takes a deep breath, lets his gaze shift momentarily to Scott.]

I'll keep going. Here.

[He would have felt better if Stiles had lashed out; now he doesn't know what he feels. There's no victory, no satisfaction at the answer, just a hard, long look as he studies his warden, knows that it's true and sees what Stiles doesn't say. Sees that it's a dick move, but feels no remorse for all of that.

Just because people don't look at the unpleasant possibilities in life doesn't mean they aren't there and won't gate-crash even a perfect life. Dean let himself look away from them too long. It still doesn't feel like victory to have pulled the answer out where they both can see it, but there's something like relief and discomfort in it, too. Stiles would keep going but he wouldn't be the same.

The hunter nods, and turns for the door.]

I'll get outta your face.

[He's aware of the unpleasant possibilities in life. He's all too aware of them, really. He's just not going to give up on Scott so easily. He'll wake up. It might be awhile before it happens, but he will wake up. He believes it the same way he believes that the Barge will work. Because it has to. There aren't other options.

But if Dean is right, Stiles will keep going because there aren't other options there, either. He'll keep going, but he'll be different. Much like he changed after Allison died -- he'll change again. And it won't be for the better. It couldn't be.]

Thanks. For the food and the shake. [His gaze is still on Scott, more weary than before, more troubled.]

[He's not proud to have put that there, that weariness, that trouble. But maybe it was necessary, maybe it was as important as the favor Stiles does thank him for, this thing that he won't.

Dean waves one hand vaguely, and disappears into the hallway. He didn't do it for the thanks - but he can't say for sure why he did do it, either.]

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21. Oh brother I can't, I can't get through

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