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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[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.]

That blows.

[It's the first honest thing he can think of to say; it's as meaningless as I'm sorry, of course, it can't change anything, but it falls out of his mouth anyway. He could be more specific, apologize for seeing it in the opera hall, for his dad deciding some other girl was more important than his family, that he's had to learn to live with it. He could offer condolences, which he would mean, but not enough for a mother.

It's this last that brings him around to the response he does want to give, the question he does want to ask - or maybe just the piece that makes the least sense to him. He swallows, closes his eyes so he can focus on stringing together more words at a time.]

You still think this place - the Admiral - is the answer? To what you need?

Yeah.

[He definitely won't disagree with the sentiment. It does blow. But it's part of his life that's long ago and far away, usually tucked back into a dark corner of his mind that he doesn't pull out to look at except on rare occasions. This time hadn't been his choice.

And he thinks he understands why Dean's asking that question now. He purses his lips, lets out a breath.]

Yeah. I think it's still the only thing I can do. [Because he can't go back now. Not with so much at stake.]

Mm.

[The answer just makes Dean feel tired; he knows he should push back against it, repeat the arguments he's already tried, find the way to word it so that Stiles will listen and go home, so he won't repeat Dean's mistakes. So he won't continue letting things like that place and the dreams and the Joker's gas happen to him because he thinks it will be worth it in the end.

So he won't save everyone he's trying to save only to kill them again one, five, ten years from now when all this comes to a head. Dean is dead certain he is right. The apocalypse is the one constant left in his life and it scorches anything that dares to try to survive it.

His gut twists, either in empathy or with whatever unnatural malaise has gripped hold of it, and he swallows carefully, as carefully does not move. This is when he realizes he doesn't have to do any of that: it's the coward's way out, but Dean has known almost as long as he's known the word for it that he is definitely a coward. He does not open his eyes.]

I need to not be conscious.

[He watches Dean, half expecting a fight, and not sure what to think when he doesn't get one. It's worrying. Then again he knows Dean isn't feeling that great, and that probably goes a long way toward explaining why his inmate isn't trying to argue with him about it right now.

He nods a little, pushing himself away from the door.]

I'll go so you can rest. [He pauses, hesitating for a moment.] I can check with the infirmary and see if there are sleeping pills if you think it'd help you rest better.

[Dean's lips twitch, bemused and a little nonplussed by the offer. He keeps being a dick to Stiles. Stiles keeps trying to help him anyway. He doesn't get it.

This time he does slit his eyes open, finds his warden with his dull gaze.]

Not a problem, right now. Exorcisms... takes a lot to do that many.

I'm good.

[Nauseous, worn through, cut up, and still alone, but it's the closest he can come to good right now so he'll take it.]

[He nods, looking like he wants to ask something -- or more than one something, given who he is, and he does want to ask more things about exorcisms and Latin and the symbol that Dean had drawn on Lydia and him before, but those questions will wait.]

Okay.

[He picks up Dean's communicator and moves it closer to him.]

Just in case you change your mind, give me a holler.

[They are, one and all, questions Dean would answer much more readily than anything about himself; his knowledge is fair game. His life is not.

This time when Stiles is patronizing, Dean rolls his eyes vaguely, closes them again.]

Dude. Stop. [Firm, and if it's lacking the harshest edges - if it sounds a little like something familiar and well worn in its exasperation - it's because he's always been bad at being sidelined by his own limitations.] Go away.

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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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