13.

[voluntaryapnea]

[Backdated to the last day of the latest flood.

Open Spam:]

[Stiles can still remember the last time he built a pillow and blanket fort. He and Scott were eleven and at the McCall household. They'd wanted to go camping, but it had rained and ruined their plans. Melissa had suggested they build their camp inside, and being Scott and Stiles, they'd taken her words very much to heart and dragged out every single pillow and every single blanket that the McCall's owned and within a couple of hours, they'd turned the living room into a giant fort.

It isn't exactly what Melissa had meant and she'd stared at them and at the monstrosity for about thirty seconds before shaking her head and vanishing up the stairs. Not surprisingly, that was one of her most common reactions to Scott and Stiles. At least building the fort had meant they weren't engaging into any kind of illegal shenanigans, and that had to count for something, right? Still.

This fort was much, much bigger and much more impressive than that one had been, but that could be because a majority of the Barge had been working on it for the past three days. He knows of course, that this isn't normal. It's some kind of flood, but it's engaging and relatively harmless and the mental break is kind of nice. He is stacking another pillow pile when he hears someone approaching and turns to see who it is.]

[Post-Flood Spam for Dean]

[It doesn't take long for Stiles to realize once he's out of his pillow-induced obsession that he hasn't seen Dean in a few days. Hasn't seen him anywhere. Hasn't heard from him at all. He knows Dean talked to Sam just a couple days prior to the fort-building flood, and he's not sure what to make of his radio silence.

What he does know is that the guy has to be hungry by now, so he stops by the mess hall and fills a tray with food before heading to Dean's door, knocking and waiting.]

[Private to Mason]

Hey, man. I sorta got wrapped up in that whole pillow and blanket thing and didn't ask. You okay?

[Private to Scott McCall]

Are you sure we can't kill him?

[Because honestly. Stiles is all for killing Jerry. He attacked three people Stiles cares about and Stiles actually loathes him.]

Comments

[surfaceshine]

[Dean makes a wordless sound of acknowledgement in his throat, finally picks up the burger, puts it down before he takes a bite and pushes the plate away for now.

Christ, why can't he think straight? Dean nods.]

Okay. Maybe I will talk to her.

[Probably not, though. That sounds suspiciously like interaction with other people, and he's already chafing at Stiles' presence.

It's about here, too, that he remembers he doesn't really have a reason to care, fingertips digging into the corners of his eyes as if that will help anything.]

Good luck with your research, anyway.

[voluntaryapnea]

[There's worry in his eyes as he watches Dean push the plate of food away.]

Do you need to go to the infirmary? [His voice is quiet, uncertain.]

[surfaceshine]

[There's a part of Dean that bristles at the concern, as graceless at accepting it now as ever he was. It gets bogged down in the nauseous part, though, blunting the edge of the frown he turns on Stiles.]

The fuck are they supposed to do for me there?

[voluntaryapnea]

Dude, I don't know. You look like you're about to hurl or something.

[His own frown deepens.]

I could go see if there's soup in the kitchen.

[surfaceshine]

If I hurl, I hurl. It's just...

[He rubs at the corners of his eyes again, impatient but without the energy to back it up.]

This is what happens. That's all. Drink and then stop and then this. Christ, it's not like I can die.

[voluntaryapnea]

[He's hungover. Stiles isn't sure how he missed the signs. He considers Dean for a moment.]

You're probably dehydrated. Have you ever tried burnt toast?

[surfaceshine]

[He's past hungover; hangovers he can more or less function through, at least enough that he can think straight.

This is something that would kill him if he'd ever had the fortune to have access to, and opportunity to, drink as heavily as he has been in the past couple days before he came here. He snorts without looking up.]

You know, I was gonna, but I can't find where I stored the fucking toaster.

[voluntaryapnea]

[He rolls his eyes at the sarcasm.]

It was pretty much an offer on my part. There's a toaster in the kitchen.

[surfaceshine]

And I thought I pretty much told you to get lost.

[He'd meant it then and he means it now, but it still comes off more as rote than with any teeth to it.]

[voluntaryapnea]

Yeah, one thing you'll learn is that I'm terrible at following directions.

[Just ask anyone who's ever met Stiles, really. Teachers, friends, his dad. He does head for the door though.]

I'll be back with toast.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean doesn't bother arguing; for one, he's not quick enough, not like this. For two, even he knows it's not worth the effort, at least not right now. He drops his head into his hand and closes his eyes, stays leaned like that for several minutes, and argues with himself about whether he should just go back to drinking or hold his ground for the next 24 hours at least.

He hasn't, exactly, lost by the time Stiles gets back. He has, however, moved from bench to bed, stretched out haphazardly across it on his stomach, face buried in the stiff, colorless covers. He's not asleep - not remotely - but neither does he react to the door opening and closing again.]

[voluntaryapnea]

[He hesitates when he sees Dean's now laying down. When he doesn't react to Stiles returning to the room. He's not sure if he's asleep or not, so he's as quiet as possible as he sets down the plate of toast, as well as the cup of hot tea. Beside that, he deposits two aspirin, and a bottle of water. He looks at Dean with worried eyes before heading toward the door once more.

He'll check on him again in a few hours.]