voluntaryapnea | 08. When I Wake Up I'm Afraid/Somebody Else Might Take My Place

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08. When I Wake Up I'm Afraid/Somebody Else Might Take My Place

[Around one in the morning, people on the seventh floor, and people on the Barge who have super hearing abilities might have been awakened to the sound of terrified, nightmare-induced screaming from Stiles' room.]

[Spam for Lydia Martin]

[He is in the dark, the way he always is when it begins. He can feel how quickly his heart is beating and while he knows it's not physically possible for it to beat right out of his chest, right now it's hard to remember that.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it, Stiiiiles?"

No, no, no. This is supposed to be over with. He has been free from Void for weeks, or so he'd thought. But there's no mistaking the deep, gravelly voice.

"We're going to destroy them all, Stiles. One by one."

He shudders, trying to ignore it even as he closes his eyes because feels hot breath against his cheek, knows it's right there, waiting to make its move. Waiting to take over and finish what it started. He can't let it. He can't. But it's too late because he watches himself do things he never wanted to do. He watches himself stab his best friend with a sword. Watches himself bludgeon a kid from his geometry class with a tire iron. Watches himself set up a bomb to send to his dad. Watches an arrow impale Coach Finstock in the stomach. Watches Scott cradle Allison's lifeless body in his arms.

He screams. He screams loudly, terrified and horrified but his dad is not there to wrap him up in arms and assure him that he is okay, that everything is okay. Everything is not okay. It's the landing that wakes him. He hits the floor hard, gasping for breath, tears staining his cheeks as he struggles to free himself from the Nemeton's vines -- except it's not really vines from the Nemeton -- it's his bedsheets and he's tangled, constricted and he feels like he's suffocating. He claws at the material with very human finger nails, scratching marks into his own skin in desperation to get loose. He finally manages to escape and he has to get out of the room.

He flings himself out the door and lurches toward the stairs, scrambling as though he's being chased. He is shaking violently, sweat and tears staining his paler than usual skin as he makes his way toward the fifth floor. He doesn't even realize where he's going until he's standing at Lydia's door.]

[Open Spam]

[Later that day finds him still shaky and while he's much less visibly upset than he was when he arrived at Lydia's early that morning, he's still pale. There are dark circles under his eyes, though not as dark as the ones that Void had left behind after he'd been possessed. One can find him at the CES, running through a forest -- the Beacon Hills Preserve for those who are familiar with it. It is a concentrated effort on his part. He doesn't like running very much, but it feels like what he needs to do. Like if he stops it's only a matter of time before his nightmares catch up with him again. Like it's only a matter of time before Void takes over, even if Void is gone now.

It's never really over.]

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[Dean knows about lying - to himself, to others, others to him. He knows the different shades of lying, can smell it from a hundred paces, can outdraw almost anyone if he sets his mind to it. Almost anyone. He has good teachers.

He has extensive experience.

It's a dead give away, as is the perfectly reasonable explanation he gives instead. Dean feels tired - again, or more, or always - and turns away, raising his eyes back to the nearly-black berries in the tree above his head.]

Whatever.

[Stiles is silent for a moment, tempted to just let it all go at that. To start running again. Instead, he flexes his fingers and looks over at Dean, considering him before sighing.]

I've had them since I was a kid. They come and go. I've just had them a lot the past few months.

[The irony, of course, is that Dean doesn't know what to do with the truth either. Not really. A rejection of a lie is, in his book, not necessarily indicative of a desire for the truth.

The hunter goes very still, considering if he wants to deal with this, if he guilt or obligation that makes him open his mouth again without turning around; after all, he lies to himself most of all.]

Think it's 'cause of this place, or'd it start back home?

[The truth is usually a lot harder pill to swallow for anyone who's had to face it. He faces it in small doses, mostly, when he's not keeping himself as busy as possible with any thing that will distract him for awhile. And his current state is a result. Or at least, part of the reason why.]

Started back home. Weeks before I got here.

[Dean nods, accepting that well enough. After all, it's not as though having trouble sleeping is anything like uncommon. It's not as though not getting enough sleep isn't the surest way to drive a person mad.

Also, interestingly, one of the more painful ones, considering how quickly it translates to physical feedback.]

Dreams? Or something else? [Finally, he tilts his head so he can Stiles out of the corner of his eye. He runs with an... interesting crowd. That doesn't always mean anything, though. Dean ought to know.]

[He blows out a breath, doesn't look at Dean this time. The answer of course, is both. Had the nogitsune caused the night terrors or had the night terrors been its way into his head in the first place? It's like one of the damned things riddles plucking at his brain. Which came first? The chicken or the egg?

Not knowing the answer to that still bothers him, but he doubts he'll ever know for sure. He's not sure that it matters much now. What matters is that the thing isn't here. Now the dreams are mostly just remnants left over from the damage he'd caused.]

Both, really.

Can't do much with the dreams. Never could.

[It rolls out of his mouth before he has a chance to stop it, so instead he just doesn't look at it; that happens to him more than he's willing to admit, even now. No one else notices because he just keeps walking, doesn't lose stride or look back at the piece of himself that accidentally fell out of his pocket while he wasn't paying attention.

He never goes back for it, either, and that's how he survives now. By not letting others know when he's handed them something they can use to gut him, if they can only put the pieces together properly.]

What's the something else?

[He's surprised by the slip, even if he's not surprised at what the slip is. He doesn't ask him about it though, knows that any efforts to look at Dean's own troubles will just be rebuffed.]

Sleep paralysis, sleepwalking, insomnia. Lots of constant chaos.

[Even as he says the word chaos, he looks away. Chaos, strife and pain. All the things a Nogitsune loves to feed on.]

[Whether Dean thinks he's gotten away with it or not, he just snorts.]

Constant chaos, huh? Didn't do yourself any favors coming here, by most counts. Unless it's peaceful for you here, too?

[Because Dean isn't much bothered by the pace so far; he gets a good night's sleep, a hot shower, three meals, and only the occasional off the wall threat. It's almost like a vacation, really.]

You're already on the right track for the rest of it.

It's about par for the course for me.

[There's no bitterness there. Just a kind of flat acceptance. Things on the Barge aren't great, but so far it's not really as bad as home can be either. He's not possessed, and when his friends die here, they come back within a short time. He misses his dad, but he deals with that by not thinking about it as much as he can, and reassuring himself that there's another version of himself at home who's taking care of him.]

Maybe a little better than. [He shrugs.]

You mean because exercise is supposed to induce better sleep?

[Dean nods, unsurprised by the answer. It lines up with what he's come to expect from the people Stiles is firmly rooted amongst, or what he would have if he had given their situation at home much thought. He really only cares about what he sees here, and that only marginally.

Exercise, though, he snorts. Technically that's not wrong. It's also not what he meant.]

I mean keep yourself busy and you don't have to think. That includes when you're asleep.

You been to the infirmary yet? Asked what they can do for you? [It's been years since Dean had access to a fully functional, fully stocked, fully staffed medical facility. That comes in right after hot, running water for him on the luxury scale, and he sees no reason others shouldn't take advantage of it.

It's logic, and it's practical, which is different from Dean caring, really. Once he would have been genuinely concerned because he gave a shit. Now, it just makes sense.]

[Right. Keeping occupied. That's definitely high on his list of current priorities. He's avoided the infirmary as much as possible, though. Because he's not fond of medical settings in the least. He's spent far too much time in them. He shakes his head a little.]

Nah. Although I guess I could talk to Jack. See about some kind of sleeping pills.

[Then again, will that make it better or worse? He'd be sleeping, but if he's that drugged, will he be trapped in nightmares he can't escape from? That's not a great option either. He glances at Dean for a moment.]

Don't suppose you wanna join me for running?

Your call.

[Dean doesn't ask about them because he knows how to shake off alcohol if he needs to; drugs, not so much. Nightmares are only nightmares, lack of sleep is only lack of sleep, neither of them will actually kill him. If they were going to, they would have already.

The question, though, draws the hunter up short. The line of his mouth thins, clearly trying to decide where the benefit is in it for Stiles. He hasn't, exactly, been good company. He never is.]

Why is it, exactly, you think I'd want to do that?

[Stiles' experience with nightmares is a bit different. Because it's when the Nogitsune had begun taking over -- when he slept. And then taken him over once more because he was drugged into sleeping. But that was back home. Here they're just nightmares. Just insomnia. Not possession-induced.

He arches his eyebrows at the question, though.]

I don't know. It was just a thought.

[Dean is warded against creatures tampering with his sleep and his mind. He's discovered, of course, that this doesn't always mean as much as it should, but it's the old habits, the small comforts, that make the rest bearable. At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

Like running. He'd hated it, once upon a time, and he doesn't think of it as fun even now; Stiles is from a world where there's a surplus of things that makes keeping in shape a hobby. Dean is from a world where expending energy unnecessarily could get a person killed when it becomes so.

He shakes his head.]

I only run if something's chasing me. By all means, don't let me hold you up.

[Sometimes old habits and small comforts are all a person has to hold onto. You gotta take them where you can get them. And keep them clutched tightly.

Running isn't fun. Stiles hates running, but it has become necessity. It's probably going to be a necessity on the Barge, too. He kind of smiles at Dean's reply, though, because it's something he'd have said at another time.]

That's usually my motto, too. Well, that and Coach makes us do suicide runs for lacrosse which suck a lot. [He shrugs.]

Not as much as literal suicide runs.

[Dean used to have a sense of humor, and one still shows up every now and again in rote if not with intent, grim and charred; this is not one of those times. He is not endeared by the smile, and he's not going to be running any time soon, which means it's time to deploy his standard defensive tactics.]

[Well, that's definitely bleak, he thinks, glancing at Dean warily.]

Yeah. Definitely not as much as...in the literal sense. [He purses his lips, figuring Dean's probably about sick of talking to him anyway.]

See ya around.

[Dean just looks expectantly back at him - and then Stiles does exactly what he expects, and he doesn't argue. He just nods.]

Probably. [It isn't like he has much of a choice, is it? Dean turns back to the tree he'd been studying before Stiles ran up on him, deliberately dismissive.]

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08. When I Wake Up I'm Afraid/Somebody Else Might Take My Place

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