[Later, Dean will be surprised that Stiles actually went; not because he secretly didn't want him to - although part of him thrums with anxiety once his br- Stiles is out of his sight - but because he didn't have to argue. Dean doesn't know what he's going to do now. Part of him still doesn't want to hurt anyone and that's the part that gives voice, but part of him really, really does and that's why Stiles - why ANYone - can't be here right now.
It's both easier and harder once he's alone. There's no one to see, no one to watch and no one else to consider, so there's no pressure to keep the walls up. But that also means there's no pressure to keep the walls up. He looks around him and sees the mess of the room for the first time and there's an impulse to destroy it more, to splinter the benches, tear apart the bed frame, shred the curtains. It's not his hand that stops him. It's not being tired. It's that it won't solve anything and he knows that.
With the reinforced memories of someone who wasn't this, he knows that, he remembers when he was safe to be around, when he was someone that protected others, when he was good. When he was a hero. He misses that, too, almost as much as he misses Sam. He misses the part of himself he can never have back, the part he destroyed in Hell, the part he dragged through the mud trying to adapt afterwards. The apocalypse is no place for heroes, and he let himself become a survivor, and now he's here.
He does kick a bench, because it's there and it's already broken and it's in his way. He shoves a drawer out of the way of where he'd been sitting before, searches for any bottle of liquor he can find, but he broke them all. There weren't that many to begin with. He hadn't felt like he needed it.
Mostly what being alone does, with nothing but himself to fight against, nothing to console, nothing to stop the spin, is let him lose himself and try again, which he does, sinking back down where he'd been before Stiles came in, occasionally poking at his injured hand to bring himself back from an edge he's not willing to cross but not able to raise enough concern to do anything with it, not able to come up with a good enough reason why it matters. Sam is gone. Stiles was never his. He is still who he always was, and he is still the last one standing.
All he can do is wait until that knowledge is no longer overwhelming.]
no subject
It's both easier and harder once he's alone. There's no one to see, no one to watch and no one else to consider, so there's no pressure to keep the walls up. But that also means there's no pressure to keep the walls up. He looks around him and sees the mess of the room for the first time and there's an impulse to destroy it more, to splinter the benches, tear apart the bed frame, shred the curtains. It's not his hand that stops him. It's not being tired. It's that it won't solve anything and he knows that.
With the reinforced memories of someone who wasn't this, he knows that, he remembers when he was safe to be around, when he was someone that protected others, when he was good. When he was a hero. He misses that, too, almost as much as he misses Sam. He misses the part of himself he can never have back, the part he destroyed in Hell, the part he dragged through the mud trying to adapt afterwards. The apocalypse is no place for heroes, and he let himself become a survivor, and now he's here.
He does kick a bench, because it's there and it's already broken and it's in his way. He shoves a drawer out of the way of where he'd been sitting before, searches for any bottle of liquor he can find, but he broke them all. There weren't that many to begin with. He hadn't felt like he needed it.
Mostly what being alone does, with nothing but himself to fight against, nothing to console, nothing to stop the spin, is let him lose himself and try again, which he does, sinking back down where he'd been before Stiles came in, occasionally poking at his injured hand to bring himself back from an edge he's not willing to cross but not able to raise enough concern to do anything with it, not able to come up with a good enough reason why it matters. Sam is gone. Stiles was never his. He is still who he always was, and he is still the last one standing.
All he can do is wait until that knowledge is no longer overwhelming.]