voluntaryapnea | 11. Sometimes all our thoughts are misgiven/Ooh it makes me wonder

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11. Sometimes all our thoughts are misgiven/Ooh it makes me wonder

[He's still kind of reeling from the fact that he's been assigned to be Dean's warden. The file arrived at his door hours ago, and Stiles, who isn't by any means known for his ability to sit still for long, has been staring at it ever since. He hasn't touched it other than to lay it on his desk. He's chewed all of his nails down to the quick but he doesn't even realize it.

This isn't what he was expecting. He wonders if the Admiral has any idea what he's doing. It isn't the first time he's wondered that since his arrival almost six months ago. He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, not taking his eyes off the file as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He wonders why he was picked to be Dean's warden. Of all the people on the ship -- who are older, more qualified, many of whom had done the warden-ing thing already -- he can't help but second guess this decision.

He closes his eyes for a moment, then picks up his comm device, hesitating for a second. God he wishes his dad was there right then to give him some advice. But Stiles has always tried to follow his instincts, and that's what he does now.]

[Private to Babs]

So that security thing you were talking about awhile ago? I think I'm gonna need that.

[Private to Dean]

Hey.

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Be there in five.

[Dean isn't entirely sure he wants to do this in public, and he's pretty sure it means he's going to have to be on his best behavior so he doesn't get banned from the pub in the future, but fuck it. Just. Fuck all of it. It's outside of his control anyway, he might as well get some goddamn alcohol out of the deal.

He's slept in the past couple days, at least, and he's not too far gone when he shows up at the pub; as good as sober, really, if anyone were to ask him, which they won't. He left his heavy jacket and his weapons behind, though the empty thigh holster is still there because it makes him feel a little better.

He doesn't try to talk. He meant every word he said. Unfortunately, that includes wanting the drink.]

[Stiles is already there when Dean arrives. The place is empty, otherwise, like it was the first night Dean arrived on the Barge and they'd talked. He's sitting at the same booth Dean had occupied that night. There are two bottles sitting on the table -- both full. One is a bottle of Jack -- his preference, and a bottle of Wild Turkey.

There are also two tumblers on the surface and Stiles has one of them set in front of him, index finger running around the rim of the cup even as he rips open a bag of peanuts with his teeth and his free hand. He's not hungry, but he hasn't eaten in awhile, and on the off chance he drinks more than he should, he doesn't want to wind up being sick later. He eats a couple of the nuts and looks up when he hears Dean's footsteps approaching.

Stiles gives him a slight nod of acknowledgment and opens the bottle of Jack, pouring himself a glass and popping one of the nuts into his mouth, chewing it.]

[The hunter doesn't waste time with hesitating, asking, even saying hello: he slides into the booth across from Stiles, heavily but smoothly, and doesn't stop until he's fetched up against the inside wall again. He scoops the bottle of Wild Turkey and the other glass with him, pulling the latter down into his lap while he opens the former, but he doesn't actually drink yet.

He glares at Stiles. It's not really a specific, pointed expression so much as just how his features are set at present, openly wary and with an almost routine, ready hostility. This is the man that lead a camp of twitchy apocalypse survivors, that made them afraid of him even in the midst of a world overrun by rage-rabid Croats. This is the man that came out of Hell with sulfur cracking through the brittle edges, but no one recognized that out of context. They were all, after all, trapped in Hell once the demons were done with discretion, once the angels gave up all pretense of protecting them as a species.

He waits, settling back a bit in the seat, not so much as glancing at the peanuts and not moving to drink any of the whiskey just yet.]

[Stiles has had a lifetime full of people glaring at him. Some of it was more concerned glaring than hostile glaring -- his dad, Lydia, Coach Finnstock -- whom he knows likes him even if he likes to pretend Stiles drives him crazy. Then there's the hostile kind, the kind Dean is currently exhibiting, which he's also familiar with -- Jackson, the alpha twins, Gerard Argent, Derek, Cora, Peter, Harris. He's sure there are more.

It's usually at least somewhat his fault because he has a hard time keeping his mouth shut. It's possible he owns a T-shirt that says My Death Will Probably Be Caused by Being Sarcastic at the Wrong Time. Which is ironic, since his death had been because of a psychotic dark druid rather than his mouth. At least his first one anyway.

He takes note of the fact that Dean hasn't taken a drink, but he doesn't comment. When he speaks, his voice is low.]

I read the file. And I can kind of only imagine how much you probably hate me right now. [And that's fine. He's pretty sure there's more people that hate him than like him, and he doesn't really care that much. He's never pretended to be someone he isn't.] But for the record, I'm not asking to be re-paired with someone else.

[Dean doesn't blink, and doesn't look away when Stiles starts talking. He's watching now, watching for lies, watching for truth, watching for anything at all that he can use before it can be used against him. He was never manipulative, he isn't now, but he's the weakest thing on the planet now. He learned that he only gets one chance to notice the detail that will keep him out from under the knife, that vigilance could prevent him taking an infected person back into camp before they started showing the major symptoms.

Stiles is telling the truth, but knowing that doesn't explain why. Knowing that doesn't make it any less difficult to believe there isn't something here he's missing.]

Why? Why do you think I hate you? Why wouldn't you ask for someone you have even the slightest chance of redeeming, if that's what this place is about?

[Stiles doesn't squirm under the scrutiny, because he is being honest. He only squirms when he's lying badly. It's why his dad never believes half the crazy stories he comes up with when he's trying to cover up the actual crazy things that he's gotten himself into. He takes a moment, though, when Dean asks him questions. He looks down at his glass.]

Because you don't want to be here in the first place? Because I know things that you probably don't really want me to know?

[He looks back up at him, sits back in his seat.]

As for why I'm not asking for someone else? [He looks at Dean intently.] I don't believe you're some kind of lost cause.

You read the file.

[He meant it for a lead in to the first part: he has a history of being held places he doesn't want to be. This isn't the first time someone's been handed a book full of his life, only back then it was innocent, and it was before the unforgivable things started happening. Before Dean broke. But he hesitates because maybe the file wasn't that complete, maybe Stiles just didn't get it.

Maybe he doesn't believe it. Dean sets his own empty glass back on the table, moves the bottle aside slightly, and leans forward until he can fold his arms on the edge of the table. His fingers itch to reach for the alcohol. He won't take it until they're on the same page. He has other sources without accepting this from Stiles, not yet, not until he knows how this is going to end up working out.]

It's words on a page to you. I know. I've seen one. It's words on a page, names for people you've never met and, in my case, never will. It's fiction. You get to put it down and walk away.

Let me put it into perspective for you: if there's a Beacon Hills on my planet? It's gone now. If your friends have counterparts there? If you do? They're either dead or going to be, or they're infected with a demonic virus that makes them into mindless, rabid animals until they run facefirst into a bullet or starve to death. Their families are the same. Your teachers, your neighbors, everyone you ever knew. Humans are done. Anything supernatural weaker than a demon - and when it's Lucifer, that's all of them - they're done.

And it's my fault. I let them out. I failed to put them back in. Me.

[He nods slightly in acknowledgment. He hadn't really wanted to read the file, still didn't entirely feel right about it, but Dean had basically ordered him to. So he had. His nod is only confirmation of that, of nothing else.

Stiles watches as Dean shifts forward, leans his arms on the table after setting the bottle of side. He's been tested enough times to know that's sort of what this is. So he listens. He searches Dean's expression the same way Dean had been searching his minutes before, trying to pick up on visual cues.

The file itself is extensive. A pretty complete picture of events and choices and consequences and fallout that had been pretty draining to read about. And if it was draining to read about? He can only imagine having to live through all of it. He believes what he read, can see the trauma that's hardened Dean into the man seated in front of him. And maybe he doesn't get it entirely, and he's not sure he ever will because it's impossible to truly completely understand someone else's trauma unless you've lived through it yourself. But he doesn't think it's necessary either. As much as he's hated it in the past, he does have empathy. Maybe not as much as Scott, but it's there. And he's not walking away.

So he listens. His expression doesn't change as Dean speaks. It just remains passive but attentive. He purses his lips when Dean is finished talking and he leans forward now, too.]

You're right. [His words are quiet.] I'll probably never meet any of the people I read about. But it's not fiction to me, either.

[He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly.] And yeah. It's words on a page. I can't ever know about all of it even if I can read about it. Because nothing is ever that cut and dry. [He pauses, dropping his gaze for a moment.] I also don't believe it's as black and white as you're trying to make it sound. I think you've been trapped between a rock and a hard place a lot. [He looks up at Dean again.] So I'm not going to sit here and tell you that you made shitty choices or that you're a shitty person because that's not why I'm here, and I don't think it's a fair, accurate assessment anyway.

Edited 2014-08-22 14:40 (UTC)

Oh?

[He doesn't bother refuting the first part. Of course he's right. He knows he's right. That much isn't in doubt, because of all the things he questions, those are some of the most solid by which he judges. Of everything else he loses or worries he made up, he never, ever forgets that it is all his fault. He doesn't waver under the scrutiny, not even a little, because that he can take. He can handle being under the gun.

It's the flat out ignorance that comes next that gets him. The line of his mouth hardens, and he feels the words lining up on his tongue, because it is that black and white. It couldn't be more cut and dry if he'd done it deliberately. There is no fair, accurate assessment because the entire situation was unfair, was obscured and obfuscated, misrepresented and blown out of proportion. The entire contents of that file is a clusterfuck and if Stiles can't see that the entire thing - the paper representation and the events it details - would be better on the bonfire?

Dean doesn't know what the fuck he was reading, because his life has been one long series of shitty choice, after shitty choice, after shitty choice.

But he doesn't argue. He doesn't have to. Instead:]

So why are you here, then? What are you going to do? What are the rules, "boss?"

Edited 2014-08-23 06:14 (UTC)

[Stiles can see the moment that his mouth hardens, watches the way his eyes narrow. He has no doubt that Dean thinks the things he's done, the mistakes he's made and the way everything has turned out is that black and white. That he blames himself. Hates himself. Resents being told otherwise. And Stiles may only be seventeen but he knows enough to realize that even people with the ability to predict the future can't see everything. They can't predict the kind of effects their actions or lack thereof will have at every given point. That's why it's not that simple.

That's why it isn't black and white. Because very few things ever are in Stiles' world. At the core, he can relate a little to Dean's guilt. It's part of what's driven him to the Barge in the first place. But this isn't about him. He shakes his head a little at Dean's words.]

I'm not your boss, man. [He gazes at him intently, wishing that he could project the kind of earnest sincerity his best friend does on a regular every day basis.] I'm here because I want to help. And I think the Admiral pairs people up for a reason.

[Dean doesn't know what to do with honest sincerity, not anymore. He used to be able to win people over with conviction, to protect them with it, he used to be able to make people want to trust him. Now he expects it's something more akin to putting the bet on the dog in the fight with the most scars and the most mean.

And he certainly doesn't know what to do with all that unfounded optimism.]

Well at least that's on the table.

Let me be a little more clear: I want to know why you're here. The real reason. You know more about me than anyone left alive, and I've got fuckall. What's helping me - whatever the hell you think that's going to do - worth to you?

[Dean wants to know his deal. He probably should have expected that. Wouldn't he want to know if their situations were reversed? He lets out a breath, looking down for a moment and suddenly feeling both more tired and wary than he was seconds before. He licks his lips, reaches out and pours himself another drink.

It shouldn't be a big deal, really. Dean knows about the kinds of things that are out there. He takes a sip of the Jack Daniels and his fingers curl around the glass tightly.]

I was possessed back home. [His gaze flickers back up to Dean's face almost reluctantly.] By something called a Nogitsune. It fed off pain and chaos and strife. [He shifts in his seat because it's still not something he's comfortable talking about, but he supposes it's only fair if he ever expects Dean to open up to him about anything.] I killed people. A lot of them. And I got a lot of other people hurt and killed even when it was separated from me.

I came to fix it. To set things right.

[It's automatic by this point, the way Dean's mind snaps up the word and goes searching for what he knows about them. He knows they oppose the kitsune, he knows they're the darker twins, and he knows a few details for how to kill one in his own world, but he can also tell by the description that they're not the same. Nogitsune where he's from don't bother possessing people. They're too vain and too powerful.

Differences, though, don't mean that Dean doesn't know a thing or two about possession. There is no visible sign of the chill that runs down his spine and dissipates somewhere in his gut at the thought, he doesn't waver, doesn't flinch, doesn't hitch his breathing, just watches. Doesn't think about a lifetime ago when someone much more important to him was looking at him with less reluctance and more bright-eyed, desperate plea, talking about killing people and wanting Dean to fix it.

And in a way, isn't Stiles asking him to help fix it, too? Dean dismisses the notion - it's not even strong enough to be called a memory, really - before he can clearly see the face behind those imploring eyes, and does not react to Stiles.]

How many is "a lot?" [Because Dean is pretty sure their scales are different, but surprisingly, he doesn't really think that makes as much difference in this particular case as it might. It's quality, not quantity:] How many of them did you love?

[So many things about their worlds are different. So many others are the same. In Stiles' world, the Nogitsune had been an evil spirit that had used him until it was strong enough to manifest itself into a carbon copy of Stiles -- in appearance, anyway. And in knowledge. It had gained all of Stiles' thoughts, memories, feelings, and used them as an extremely effective weapon against everyone he loves.

He's glad that Dean doesn't react. Seeing people's reactions to the things he's done is one of the very main reasons he's kept this mostly to himself; Bucky and Needy aside.]

I don't know the final count. It wasn't over when I came here. [There are three others on the ship at this point who might know the answer to that, but he hasn't asked and they haven't offered. Part of him wants and needs to know. The other part of him is afraid of the answer.] A couple dozen, at least.

[He does drop his gaze at the last question.] Just one. [And maybe he wouldn't have gone to the lengths he is by being here if it weren't for Allison Argent, but he doesn't know. He can't know, because she did die.]

Just one.

[Dean repeats it, harsher by default rather than intent, although there's a bitter little twist he barely even hears let alone is capable of stopping. Only dozens. Only one. And here, he gets to have Scott. Here, he thinks he gets to set it all straight.

The hunter is slightly more unsettled, though, by the broad similarities, by the niches he could wedge empathy into if he was so inclined, that would probably hold him up if he trusted his weight to them. Unfortunately, he isn't inclined, and he doesn't trust: if anything, the possibility for it makes him even more unwilling. Makes him even more suspicious.

But, there's always that other thing:]

Look. You seem like a good enough kid, or at least you're trying to be, but you're outta your depth here. You know that, right?

If any-a that's real, if you really are trying to set things straight? You need to find yourself a better cause. You read the file. It's only a matter of time until something more powerful still comes along and yanks me back into the ring. It always happens.

[He knows how it sounds. How it has to sound to someone who's been through the things that Dean's been through. Who's suffered the losses that Dean has suffered. Losing people isn't new to Stiles. His mom had died from frontotemporal dementia when he'd been eight, but he'd lost her long before then. She hadn't known who he was for a long time before her death. And in some ways that's almost more painful than watching her die in front of him.

There've been plenty of other losses, most in the last year and a half. It's just that he's only been directly responsible for the ones the Nogitsune hadn't given him a choice about. Allison may be the only one of the people he'd gotten killed that he loves, but her death has wrecked the rest of them irrevocably.

He thinks of the other him, the one who was on the mirror Barge. The one who'd lost his world's Scott that night at the Glen Capri. He thinks of how that had been enough to send other him over the edge without the need for evil spirit possession helping him along. Certain things, certain events can just break a person so completely that there's so little chance of going back. He knows that's what he's facing with Dean. Knows that he's that broken. More so, possibly.

Stiles exhales slowly, leaning back in the booth and regarding Dean for a long moment.]

I know. I've been out of my depth a lot. [Hell, it's practically his comfort zone at this point.]

And you could be right. Maybe something more powerful will come along and pull you back again. [He pauses, pops a peanut into his mouth and chews it.] But until it does, if it does, I'm not going anywhere. [He doesn't say or mean that in a threatening way, just a quiet, honest truth laid out between them.]

[Dean would agree, if he knew; it's ironic that he broke in Hell, he picked up the knife and he enjoyed it and he slaughtered his way through a world unaware yet that it was dead, but none of that is what makes it hard to think or breathe or move. None of that is what made him feel like nothing at all that he does is worth the struggle, that none of it will come to any good, that none of it will make a difference.

No, that moment, that failure, is much, much more recent. That failure is in the file too, he's sure, but he's not going to highlight it. He's not going to expose any more of his weaknesses than already has done. Instead, he focuses again on the similarities to shake himself out of it - Dean has been out of his depth his entire life, too, it feels like sometimes, and for years he hadn't let that stop him or slow him down. Not until the odds were too heavily stacked for anything less than complete, utter, futile failure.

And there's... not the optimism, but the stolid, stubborn refusal to recognize defeat when he's looking at it. Dean stares back, weighs the words, and finally - finally - reaches for the bottle to pour himself a drink.]

Then I'm sorry about your deal. You might've had a chance.

Do we even need to talk about all the other rubberneckers around here? You talked about any of this with your buddy? [He doesn't consciously think about when he and Sam, then he and Cas, then he and Chuck would have talked about any challenge they were all facing; but it's still second nature, still a foregone conclusion in his mind, because that's what happens when two people are so close they don't even think twice about being involved in each others' lives.]

[Stiles can identify with that to a degree, because as horrified as he was by his actions -- controlled by something that wasn't him -- some part of him had also enjoyed it. Had felt powerful, fearless. Invincible. But it had been momentary. It isn't something he dwells on, doesn't want to think about that being one of the reasons the Admiral has paired them up, doesn't want to acknowledge it.

By nature, Stiles isn't optimistic to the degree that Scott is. He isn't optimistic about things going well, but he's also acted as the spark of belief to ignite magic and had it work. It's a strange sort of contradiction. But he is stubborn. He doesn't give up easily when it matters. And this absolutely matters. He just nods as Dean tells him he's sorry about his deal. He's fine with it, knows that the lack of optimism on Dean's part is about Dean rather than Stiles.

He watches as Dean pours himself a drink and he pours himself another as well, nodding at him.]

We can, sure. So far no one's said anything to me about it. [He shrugs. It's only been a few hours, but he's still kind of surprised given the number of people that are insinuating themselves into Dean's life here the way he has. Overall, if anything, Stiles has been more passive about it than others. He suspects the questions will start flying in his direction in the near future, though.] But if they do, I'm not gonna say anything. Nothing we talk about or that I know about is anyone's business unless you want it to be. And that goes for Scott, too. But Scott won't ask.

[The same way that Stiles hasn't asked about Jack's business. It isn't that he doesn't care, because he likes Jack. But Jack isn't his inmate, and questioning Scott about it feels wrong. He knows Scott has the same amount of respect and restraint -- if not more so.]

You say that like this is the sort of place that gives you a choice.

[Like any place is, really, but he's done a little research and he's heard some things. And then, of course, there's his own experience, the things demons can pull out of their hosts' minds as they make themselves comfortable, the things other people here can find out by knowing someone who isn't, wasn't, him.

He knocks back the first drink, pours a second, drops it back gratefully too before slowing down on the third. This he raises off the table but just holds in one hand for now, watching the liquid pool around the glass as he turns it in front of him and chews his lower lip in what would, in anyone else, be thoughtful consideration.]

What I'm saying is that a hard line across the board isn't really realistic, is it?

[Point. The idea of not being in control of his own actions or words again is -- unsettling at best. He grimaces and takes a drink before setting his glass down in front of him, watching as Dean pours himself glass after glass of liquor until he finally stops and stares at it.

Stiles exhales.]

Okay, that's fair. [As fair as things got anyway.] I won't tell anyone anything unless there's some kind of flood and I literally can't do anything about it.

[Dean doesn't even register the word fair. It's not fair, because Stiles knows more now than he should, and there's no way to guarantee that knowledge stays where it should be: with Dean. And it might be true that people deserve whatever warning they can get, that maybe they'd listen to it coming from Stiles if not from Dean, and that Dean himself had this same potential to spread the information through the same means.

Promises are great. Promises were currency, once. Promises mean precisely nothing to him anymore, and so he glances up from the glass and does the only thing he knows how to enforce discipline: by making consequences for failure clear.]

You realize that if I hear something I know I didn't put out there, and I can trace it back to you, I'll kill you right? [This is not hyperbole or exaggeration, nor does he put any kind of emphasis on it. It's just what will happen, signed and sealed.] I don't really care if you come back, but it won't be pleasant.

Just making sure you understand where we're at.

[No. In a lot of respects, that isn't fair. Then again, most things weren't. He doesn't doubt the truth behind the threat. He has read the file. He knows Dean's not kidding around. But neither is Stiles. He has no intention of willingly telling anyone anything he knows. He's good at keeping secrets. Always has been.

He's also pretty used to threats to his life, which is why he doesn't flinch or waver, even if he does trust this version of Dean less than he trusts Derek Hale, and...that's not saying a whole lot. It isn't the genuine threat to his life that's troubling. It's the knowledge that if Dean does kill him, Allison will come after Dean. And if not Allison, then probably Bucky. Either way, it won't be pretty for anyone involved, and he does not want to have anymore blood on his hands. So he simply nods.]

We're on the same page.

[That, of course, is the trap of caring about people, of having people that care about you. They're bound to your actions, to your life, to your goals and your consequences. Dean isn't remotely unaware of this fact, that he'd be making enemies, that those enemies might come after him, that by defending himself or countering their attacks he might make Stiles an enemy as well. That it's all one vicious, bloody cycle, rolling unstoppable downhill and bound for nowhere good.

Unfortunately, this is all Dean's life has been. He tried to escape it, he had people he cared about once, and none of it made any difference in the end, so he's stopped trying. Bring them on. He'll handle them or he won't, and there's nothing he can do about it but what he's already done.

Dean drains his current glass and sets it on the table, reaches for the bottle.]

Good. We done here? [It's not so much a question, even though there's a question mark on the end of it.]

[Stiles is positive that Dean knows he'll be making a lot of enemies if he kills Stiles. It's another reason that Stiles knows he's going to have to tread lightly with the man. Because Dean doesn't need anymore enemies. He needs people he can lean on and trust, even if it takes a long time for him to do so. Not making enemies is a good first step, though.

He nods slightly at the question and puts the cap back on the bottle of Jack Daniels.]

Yeah, I think so.

[Dean doesn't even consider people in terms of whether he can trust or lean on them anymore; everyone is an enemy, or will be. The only choice left to him is how close to let them get, how willing he is to be wrong about how much of a liability they are. In most cases, it's not much.

In Stiles' case, Dean has no choice that he can see, not yet. He's watching, but the wardens here have resources he simply doesn't, ones he can't outright take; his best strategy right now is to do his best to sit tight and wait. Everything fucks it up sooner or later. He just has to be watching when it happens.]

Good. [The hunter stands, then, and takes the bottle with him. When he turns back it's not to ask permission to take it.] You're probably better off burning that file. Don't say I didn't warn you.

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voluntaryapnea - 2014-09-05 20:35 (UTC) - Expand

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11. Sometimes all our thoughts are misgiven/Ooh it makes me wonder

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