voluntaryapnea | 25. Release me from this curse I'm in/I've been trying to maintain/But I'm struggling

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25. Release me from this curse I'm in/I've been trying to maintain/But I'm struggling

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[Hours after being returned to the Barge, Stiles is still trying to pull his thoughts together and struggling to do so. Physically he feels fine. But every now and then he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Any time he turns to look and see who or what it is, it vanishes quickly. He wants to chalk it up to the lack of sleep at the port.

Truthfully he's worried. Fleeting as it is, he's familiar with this sensation. This things aren't quite right feeling that's settled into his chest as he goes to check on Lydia in the infirmary, and then Dean at his room.

He checks in with Kira on the network, thankful she's now awake, and then goes to check in on the still coma'd Allison. Goes to check in on Scott and Liam. He makes his rounds on the Barge, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

The feeling doesn't leave him as he grabs food from the cafeteria, sitting alone at a table because he doesn't feel like looking for someone to sit with.

Something isn't right.]

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[Stiles grimaces as he makes his way to his inmate's room to check on him. Dean had thrown up almost as soon as they'd arrived back on the Barge. In fact, of the three of them, Stiles is the only one who isn't bedridden at the moment. He pauses outside Dean's door, hesitates a second, mainly because if Dean is sleeping he doesn't want to wake him up, but his desire to check on him is stronger at the moment.

He reaches out to knock when he catches sight of the movement again, and he quickly turns his head but there's no one there. He looks to the right, but there's no one there, either.

Lack of sleep, he tells himself. After he checks on Dean, he'll take a short nap.

He knocks.]

Dean? It's me.

[Dean is tough, but even he can only do so much to fight back against his own body. He hasn't eaten anything, drank only water, so he's doing as well as can be expected as long as he stays still and quiet in his own room, listens to the signals his body is sending him, and endures.

He has always been skilled at enduring. He is working with painstakingly slow, steady care to change the dressings over the cuts along one of his arms when Stiles knocks; he's propped upright against the wall, but closes his eyes anyway against the sound, leans his head back and breathes out to steel himself as well as to determine how likely he is to last long enough to have a conversation. Part of him still wants to send Stiles away, but more than that is the vague knowledge that not only will he just come back later, but he will also leave if Dean tells him to.

He swallows, opens his eyes again and calls just barely above a normal volume, his voice sandpaper rough.]

S'open.

Edited 2015-03-06 04:04 (UTC)

[He turns the handle when Dean indicates it's okay to come in, and he looks over to where Dean's sitting, changing bandages on his arm. His frown deepens immediately as he looks at the bloody, discarded wraps and he itches to offer his inmate help, but doesn't. It looks pretty bad. Not as bad as Derek's arm had looked when he'd been shot with wolfsbane and then tried to make Stiles saw off his arm, but it still doesn't look good.

He hovers in the doorway for a moment before stepping farther inside and shutting the door behind him.]

It looks worse than before. [His voice is quiet, eyes locked on the injury. Why the hell was it still bleeding?]

[That is, in fact, what is giving Dean a bit of pause too; he's more than skilled enough with simple cleaning and wrapping that he knows to trust his gut instinct when it tells him something is wrong, or that what he's doing hasn't been enough. He's not entirely sure how much time has passed, not really, but some of the cuts have dried up and clotted over like they're supposed to. Others...

Dean glances up at Stiles when he comes in, just his eyes flicking up, and then back down to his efforts. The hunter is holding gauze against the deeper end of the long, curling cut, watching it slowly bleed through just above the inside of his elbow. His lips are pressed together too as he works to puzzle it out.]

S'okay. Dirty knives, probably. [He glances over to a set of drawers along the opposite wall from his bed, some of the only ones to survive his last bout of temper; he is very careful not to otherwise move.] Holy water, second drawer. Bring it here.

Edited 2015-03-07 06:05 (UTC)

[Dirty knives. Yeah, that doesn't really do much to reassure him. At all. He watches Dean for a moment while the older man works. He's a lot more still than usual. Moving a lot more slowly. The way someone would if they're either in pain or trying not to puke. And considering...]

Still nauseated?

[He follows Dean's gaze to the drawers, then nods and moves over, opening the second drawer and pulling out a bottle of what he assumes is holy water. Though why Dean's using holy water for this, he's not sure. His eyebrows are furrowed as he hands it over.]

What's the holy water for anyway?

Mm.

[It's an affirmative sound, one that makes Dean pale a little because he is, indeed, still horrendously nauseous. He's stubborn, though, and this is important, and he's feeling better than he did by leaps and bounds so he remembers not to nod and waits for the bottle. He lets Stiles basically offer it into his face before reaching for it, carefully arranging himself and the first aid items so he can free up both hands to unscrew the lid.]

Peroxide, iodine, booze for regular infection. Holy water for demonic infection, sometimes. See if it helps. [And he does, indeed, begin to wash out the scratch in question with the holy water. It's not very effective with anything but the worst but most basic of demonic infections, has only helped once that Dean has seen, but it's simple enough to try and it doesn't hurt, so why not.

He'll hold off becoming actively concerned until he's exhausted all of his options first. It's just a cut. When he's to the point where he's putting pressure on it again without really reacting as though it hurts at all, he looks back up at Stiles.] You good? Lydia?

[Stiles grimaces at the affirmation. Granted, Dean looks a lot better than he had when they'd first arrived back, but he's still pale. Tired looking. A lot of people are walking around with that general appearance after the port, but most of them aren't Stiles' concern, either. It isn't that he doesn't care, it's just that the ability to juggle compassion and concern for multiple people has never been a strong suit. It's expanded here, but it's not encompassing of the entire barge. Not by a long shot.]

You think it might be a demonic infection?

[His own face pales a little at that, because he's had quite enough of demons, and demonic possession for the rest of his life, frankly. He watches as Dean cleans the wound and then nods at the question.]

I'm fine. [He looks down for a second at the mention of Lydia.] She's in the Infirmary still. She's pretty disoriented. [And by disoriented, he means that Lydia's not entirely sure who he is or why he was visiting her and Jackson wasn't.]

Maybe. Maybe not.

[It's dismissive; trying to figure out how to explain that he doesn't mind trying it but doesn't think it'll work, but isn't even sure if there's anything to be worried about yet makes his head hurt, so he summarizes that way instead.]

Demons did it. Why not.

Disoriented how?

[Without the actual act of cleaning the wound to keep his attention, just holding gauze to it again to see if it slows down, Dean leans his head back against the wall behind him and locks his eyes on Stiles. He can't be anything but obvious in the way he looks over his warden, doesn't glance quickly or try to angle his head away to hide it, and right now he doesn't care. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Too many people made it out of there too much in one piece, with only one casualty that he's heard about. Demons never play that kind of odds, so he takes the chance to see for himself that Stiles is more or less okay on a physical level.]

[It's not the dismissive part that worries him. He's used to that. It's the idea that there might be a demon on board. And one that may have infected Dean, at that. He shifts from one foot to the other, barely suppressing the urge to start pacing the length of Dean's cabin. Would the holy water be bubbling in the wound if it was demonic? Would smoke be rising from it? Holy water hadn't come into play with the Nogitsune, and it's his only baseline for comparison. He's not even sure holy water is a thing in his world.

But at the question about disorientation and Lydia, Stiles can't repress anymore, and he begins to pace, chewing his thumbnail absently.]

One minute she knew who I was, but not why I was there. The next she didn't even know my name. And then it was -- [His voice is a little strained but he stops talking and forces himself to take a deep breath.] And then it was like everything was completely normal again.

[It was like how his mom had been toward the end. The last few weeks when she was awake, sometimes completely lucid and other times...much less than.

"Who do you belong to, little boy?"]

[Trying to follow Stiles as he moves back and forth is a one way ticket to throwing up again, so Dean closes his eyes for a few moments instead, listens to the sounds of his footsteps both just to mark how agitated he is and to monitor if he moves closer to Dean. If he focuses, that's when he hears just how strained Stiles' voice is, that it goes deeper than the simple worry for someone he loves. There are levels of damage. Dean doesn't know how deep this one goes exactly, but he knows it's deeper than one incident, deeper than generic concern for when anyone isn't in control of themselves.

He opens his eyes again when Stiles ventures closer, fixes him with a slightly dull but no less steady gaze, trying to catch Stiles' eyes with his own and hold him still that way. His voice is rough but perfectly reasonable, a full sentence this time instead of fewest words possible.

He doesn't notice himself falling into old habits.]

What do the doctors say?

[It honestly doesn't occur to Stiles that his pacing might be aggravating Dean's nausea. Pacing is the norm for him. It's what he does when he's trying to figure things out or trying to deal with something he really doesn't want to deal with. This definitely qualifies. He does manage to stop himself when Dean catches his gaze and he exhales.]

That she's not the only one experiencing weird symptoms. They don't know much beyond that.

[He figures it has to tie into the port, though. It's the only thing that makes sense.]

[The problem is, there isn't much optimism left in Dean; he doesn't know how to be reassuring here. The days of blindly knowing that everything will work out alright in the end if only everyone involved tries hard enough are over.

He considers pointing out that that place was powerful, clearly capable scrambling brains, personalities, and perception permanently; he could even back it up with experience, though not with the tower they just escaped. A part of him still thinks it's kinder to make sure people understand that the worst can and will happen, so they're ready if it does and relieved if it doesn't; but he hesitates.]

That can happen. Under stress. That place was... stressful for her.

Probably better, back here.

[He's not necessarily looking for reassurance. Maybe a little, but mostly he's trying to figure out what's going on. Still. The words Dean offers are reassuring and it's appreciated. He nods, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.]

Yeah. Yeah, it was.

[It hadn't been a picnic for anyone, from the people he's talked to since getting back.]

You want some 7UP or something?

[It's in Dean's nature to figure out what's going on, too; not that he always gives in to it these days, but it's there. He gets it. Hard to solve what is still a mystery, after all.

It hadn't been a picnic for anyone, but Dean had come alive for a few days; even bedridden now, even with his assortment of cuts and injuries - many of which only just missed being serious - he'd been better off, there. He'd understood the world and his place in it exactly, had an outlet and a target for his anger, had a way to be useful. Now...

Now Stiles offers him 7UP and for several moments Dean just stares at him. It's not that he doesn't recognize why it's being offered, isn't even that it never occurred to him, but it's something almost from another life for him. It's a small comfort, more placebo and home remedy than anything, and it is what mothers do for their sick kids, what brothers do for their sick brothers, it is mundane and simple and no one has offered anything like it for Dean since he was old enough to unscrew the top of a 2 liter by himself.

He just barely stops himself from shaking his head.] Anything but water's coming right back up. [And sometimes water, too, but Dean has survived worse. He'll get over it or he won't, and he's not particularly bothered by the latter option as most might be; not his ideal choice of a way to go, of course, but he's long since stopped expecting to get his preference.

He needs to move this along before Stiles starts honing in on figuring out what's going on with him, though. He has the perfect target.] Who was the woman?

[Stiles has never thought of himself as any kind of caretaker. Not really. Looking after Scott and his dad had just been his responsibility. Not that either of them ever asked that of him. They certainly hadn't. Neither had anyone in the pack. But that's what people did when they cared about people, isn't it? Offering Dean 7UP isn't any kind of big deal in his opinion. It's nothing he wouldn't have done for any of his friends or family if they were in his predicament.

He grimaces at Dean's admission though, and he nods. Hopefully the nausea and vomiting will ease soon on its own.

His question is such an abrupt change of topic that for a moment his eyebrows furrow. He has no idea what woman Dean is talking about.

Until he suddenly does. The woman in the hospital bed. Dean had been there at the end, when Lydia screamed and pulled him out of the very believable scenario that he'd already lived through once before, and relived in a lot of nightmares. He'd seen.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head.]

It was some kind of...set up. She was -- [He licks his lips because his mouth is suddenly dry.] They wanted me to think it was my mom. It wasn't.

[It's not a big deal. It's such a small deal that it's one of the things Dean has given up on or completely overlooked for a long time - and it is not the shape that kindness comes in for him anymore.

But the subject change has its desired effect and Dean is able to relax as much as he can into the new direction, into the scrutiny being on someone else. He's watching Stiles' face when it dawns on him, and he wouldn't have a reaction even if he were feeling especially expressive just now.]

How long before you figured that out?

[Not long. And too long, at the same time. Like all things related to the death of someone you love.]

Just a couple minutes. I wasn't there long before Lydia screamed. It jolted me out of what was going on.

[What's important is that it happened at the time, not later, not once they returned to the Barge to lick their wounds. Dean doesn't nod, but he blinks slowly in acknowledgement, begins the slow process of changing positions by easing back and down where he already is.]

Looked like a hospital.

What happened?

[He's silent for a moment. There's a lot he can talk about easily. Give him a topic and chances are he'll know at least something about it, thanks to frequent all night Wikipedia spirals. But there are other things that are a struggle, and talking about his mom, even with Scott, has always been difficult.]

It was. Or...it was supposed to be, I guess.

[He moves, a little farther away from Dean, and leans against the wall.]

She was sick. Frontotemporal dementia.

Sounds pleasant.

[It takes Dean until Stiles actively moves away to realize quite how deep the struggle to talk about this one might be; empathy bounces off the callus in his heart where it used to live, dull, distant pings of an emotion he was always inconsistent with anyway. If he found common ground with someone, often he overidentified; if he didn't, there was absolutely no connection there at all.

Now he comments dryly and watches Stiles, neither pushing nor dismissing him; either he'll go on or he won't, and he'll do either of them on his own. Dean waits to see which it will be. It's been so long since he had time to think about his own mother that he really can't even remember what she looked like.]

[He rakes a hand through his hair, chewing the inside of his cheek and barely registering Dean's words.]

She was diagnosed when I was six. I didn't know what any of it meant.

[Of course he hadn't. Even his early on Google skills had only taken him so far in figuring that one out. His mind hadn't been capable of processing what it meant. Not until she started forgetting who he was. Who his dad was. Not until the hallucinations and the night terrors and the numerous hospital trips. And even then, even now he struggles to truly comprehend it.]

A lot of times when things got bad, my dad would send me to Scott's for a few days.

[Dean only knows what dementia means; he knows what six means, vaguely, distantly, remembers it the way blind people born with sight remember the color green from the memories they had when they were small. He knows that more than the story about the sandbox - which was true and which was basis enough on its own for a strong friendship but not for a brotherhood - this is where Scott and Stiles begin.

He wonders if Stiles' dad loved his mom enough to chase down her killer for two decades; he wonders if his dad knew he was relegating his son to be raised by another child, and how that would end up. (He wonders how it didn't end up the same way.) He clears his throat, carefully.]

How long?

[He knows Dean isn't asking how many days he'd spent at Scott's house while his mom was sick. He wouldn't be able to answer that with any amount of accuracy if it was what was being asked. He couldn't begin to guess. He glances over at Dean briefly, rubs the back of his neck.]

Two and a half years. I was eight when she died. [He looks away again, expression growing distant again. He chews his thumbnail.]

I was with her when...

[He exhales.]

Dad was working. Out on a call. A car accident. There was a girl that -- she was trapped in the car and she wasn't going to make it. He didn't want to leave her there, to die alone.

[How noble, Dean thinks, doesn't say. It wouldn't be a compliment. The truth is that Dean isn't sure how he feels about any of that whatsoever. Losing Mary - hell, losing his entire family had happened in a moment. He hadn't had time to miss them until it was too late, he had plenty of slack to hang himself with afterwards knowing if he could have been just a little faster...

He stiffens a little when he finally finds the context, because he lost Sam in a moment that first time, but he's been losing him slowly for years, right in front of his eyes. His lips thin, because he's not remotely stupid enough to say it's the same thing and even if it were, this isn't the kind of parallel he'd draw between them. It's not one he'd want drawn.]

Just you?

Yeah.

[His voice is quiet and he stares at a spot on the wall.]

Until the nurses came in anyway, when the machines went off. They didn't let me stay in the room after that. But she was already gone anyway.

[There wasn't a reason to stay there, even if he hadn't realized it at the time. Even though one of the nurses had to drag him out of her room kicking and screaming at the top of his lungs.]

25. Release me from this curse I'm in/I've been trying to maintain/But I'm struggling

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