driftfleet | above the logic we are (closed)

Entry tags:

above the logic we are (closed)

Who: Dean [AU] & Sam of the Winchester Variety Hour
Broadcast: Nada
Action: Red Fish
When: this eeevening
note/warning: dean is a stupid and there is gore ahead.

Dean is tired of it.

Tired of wondering whether or not he's under some sort of strict mind control, waiting for something to be driven straight into his brain that might render him any number of things. But most of all, without the use of his free will, his discretion and choice, a thing he covets silently. He's not a Croat, nor a man who does anything but make his own decisions and the fear of losing that drives him towards sleeplessness and incessant worry. He's not going to end up at the whim of this thing in his brain, he's just not.

And so, finally, it just seems like the simple choice to try and get rid of it.

Maybe this has to do with Cas being gone, but Dean isn't going there in a hundred million years. He'd spoken to Cas about everything before he'd up and disappeared and that was it, his limit when it came to discussions on the matter. There was no musing on his death, or the fact that he had caused it - he had thrown his best friend to the wolves for no reason and now it sat with Dean at every second of every day and so maybe he was something more inclined to behave rashly. Who cared if this went wrong; he didn't. It was an exercise in taking matters into his own hands all over again, because why the fuck not. There was no reason not to try, not when the loss of his home was his fault.

Sam had finally left him alone, had stopped following him around, was no longer inclined to keep an eye on him and so Dean took advantage by making his way to the kitchen once more, no hesitation held in his steps. It was seconds before he was digging around for the knife that he'd meant to use before, and even when he finally had it in his grip, the only thought on Dean's mind was how best to approach this. Which way should he go diving in when he had no good look at what he was doing - maybe that didn't matter either. It wasn't like he couldn't feel the augment, just barely, located near the base of his skull. As long as he avoided his pounding jugular and instead carved below the ridge of bone that curved to form the back of his head, then maybe he'd survive this. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe exploratory surgery was what this place needed to get closer to finding a way for everyone to remove their devices.

Might as well see.

Dean stole a second or two to prod around by his spine, fingers poking in at his cervical vertebrae before working perpendicular towards the edge of his skull. It was only then that he took in a hard breath and plunged the tip of the blade into the back of his neck, trying to not navigate it in far enough to hit anything overly important so much as he was trying to dig around, carve out the augment in the process. Blood made an immediate run down over his fingers, his hand, trailing down the length of his forearm, making it particularly difficult to keep hold of the knife. But he swore he felt the blade scraping up against something and Dean dug in harder, plunging the blade at an angle, working it around desperately. It was up there on the list of painful things he'd done to himself, but it certainly wasn't the worst thing he'd ever endured... still didn't make it fun, though.

"Son of a bi--"

Which was right around when everything fucked up. All of him seemed to light up at once, the hot buzzing sensation ripping through his muscles and dropping him like a sack of potatoes. It was excruciating, all his nerve endings shouting at once and only fragments were left of the moment once he was done being zapped, Dean only feeling as if he'd gone up in smoke, his brain utterly jostled from the residual effects of being electrocuted. His grip on the blade had only tightened while he'd seized and within seconds, Dean was attempting to get back up onto his feet. A thing that might have been easier if he could see straight through the sudden, sickening wave of misery. Everything suddenly descended into a kind of hopelessness, a guilt that he swore was going to eat him alive within seconds. There was nothing left but his mistakes and Dean was alone with them.

He'd left Cas to die, and he'd do the same to himself if only he wasn't already dead. So why even struggle with it if there was nothing left. Might as well dive in all over again, the blade still held in his grasp.

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If there's one thing that Dean's learned - or so he tells himself right now - is that somewhere along the way, things got too fucked up to make any better. At least in his own world. Because his Sam? His Sam wouldn't have fought this hard and maybe that's his fault (it's probably his fault) and maybe it's Sam's fault (no, it's much more likely Dean's fault) but the point of the matter is that he hasn't seen Sam fight this hard for him in... too long.

Sam's still his annoying little brother, still everything he ever used to be and more. And it's infuriating, it's a heart wrenching thing to see, to know he's missed out on watching Sammy become more of everything that he already was. It's horrible and it kills him but were his augment not in the middle of fucking with his brain right now, he'd be much more able to see the good in it, even if he wouldn't say a word on the subject.

But like this, it's only awful. It's loss like he's never known, a deep seated pit of stupid despair that's trying its damndest to eat him alive. He's fairly sure he's never felt like this before, the lowest of the low kind of bullshit that you can't dig your way out from under. Dean's not sure why it's happening, can't think through it well enough to see that it might be the augment he tried to jam out of his brain, but all he knows is the loss of it. The ache of never seeing Cas again, of killing him, of killing Sam.

Why'd he have to lose this too?

"You don't need me here, you were doing fine without me!" There's a plea in there somewhere, to damn well let it go but Dean's doing that annoying kid thing, pulling on his arm and tugging in the opposite direction, his nose scrunching in annoyance out of a forced need to keep from talking about it. He doesn't want to talk about killing Cas, and he sure as hell doesn't want to address the fact that Sam's freaked out right now.

It's so much easier to put up a fight, to refuse to keep his eyes from blurring while he snarls with annoyance.

"I don't need to be saved, goddammit-- " But okay, yanking on Sam's grip over him was getting piteously exhausting and combined with his mental instability? Dean was about to be done in. "Son of a bitch, I swear- it's not- I don't need help!"

"Shut up," Sam replies, pressing his newly retrieved towel into Dean's wound, but the rough anger is more and more difficult to maintain; he hates to hear his own words being spit back at him — "You could barely do it with me!" echoes something fierce. He's never shaken that moment he nearly stepped off the ledge of his own accord. And how hypocritical he is now, right now, when he still... even now... thinks it was likely a huge mistake not to take the plunge.

But he's here. And goddammit, he fought to maintain some level of mental stability. And if he's got to do the same for Dean this time, then so be it. Sam is intimately familiar with what Dean's feeling. And even though their relationship took a hit after their meeting in the church, Sam recalls how much safer he felt when Dean had told him to let it go. He remembers letting some of that pain go, and it was better, if only for that fleeting, fleeting moment. Just before the trials rebelled and burned him from the inside out.

He whips Dean around easily and hugs him tightly, not removing the towel from his neck but at least trying to alleviate something for Dean. Something. It always worked for him — doesn't wipe anything away, but it's a reminder, and it feels like you're carrying far less, and it's good. He hooks his chin around Dean's shoulder and gives them just this one moment.

Besides, if he can calm Dean down, he can move him to a medical bed.

The less he moves, the less blood he loses.

"Shut up," he says again. "I love you, Dean. I need you here, okay? I need help. I need you around, okay?"

Dean has no interest in shutting up, he really doesn't. Because the more he shouts, the easier it is to die down the raucous pain in his head, the now sickening feeling that everything imaginable has gone wrong. Not that he doesn't feel that way the majority of the time anyway, but that's not truly the point, because now it feels worse than ever, rattling the chains somewhere in the back of his head and bringing them triumphantly forward, reminding him of every single damn mistake, every person he let die, every moment they wasted.

"I'm not--" He had every intention of saying that he wasn't gonna, dammit, you can't make me. He can be belligerent too, just as stubborn as Sam and then some, but all of a sudden - or maybe time just shoots by when he stops to blink, the throbbing somewhere in his head loud and clear - he's being wrenched into a hug that makes him stop. Everything suddenly freezes and Dean blinks, nose practically crammed to Sam's shoulder, stunned by the force of the thing in equal parts to the fact that he got a hug at all.

His reaction should be to struggle away, kick and fuss and put up even more of a struggled fight because that's just what he does. He shoves everything further and further until there's nothing left, but Sam just keeps clinging and there's nothing Dean can to do to stop it. The sheer poignancy of that is enough to make Dean clench his jaw and tell himself that the second he gives in to this, it'll be gone. Just like Cas, just like everyone- Sam won't stick around if Dean allows them to be the kind of brothers they used to be and that's never been more real than it is right now.

But everything hurts. And while Dean can take more than his fair share, this is something he doesn't know how to manage sanely.

"Who said I was leaving?"

It's grumbled thick and heavy against Sam's shoulder but at the very least, at least he stops his fierce wriggling about. There's no more thrashing against Sam's hold and if anything, he's fairly sure he's going to burst into idiotic, furious tears, maybe put himself through the nearest wall the second he has a chance to. His head feels like it's going to implode with the well of misery that's plugged itself up in his mind, undoing all the things he's spent weeks now saying to no one.

"I just need to get it out."

"I get it. I do, man, but. You can't. You can't take it out without leaving."

Sam's always been the more emotional one — well, partly. He was slower to anger despite having a well of it himself; slower to those frustrated outbursts that often plagued his quick-tempered big brother, but he also tended to be the sappy one. It's kind of his thing, always teased for it since he was little and even 'til now. The chick-flick-instigator. So sure, his eyes burn a little when Dean responds.

He clears his throat, smelling only blood.

"Even if they bring you back, it's not — it can't happen. You can't keep doing this. There's a better way; there always is. We'll find it, but just... please. Don't do this anymore, okay? Please?"

Don't make him look at you like his well-being relies on your answer.

He doesn't want to guilt-trip you, but he also would prefer you not carve into yourself like this. As far as he can tell, it's about as self-harm as you can get. and while Sam's never personally dealt with it outside of his own self-wounding during the hallucinations, he's pretty sure this is leaps and bounds worse than squeezing your hand until it bleeds and the devil is gone.

He doesn't let Dean go, but he keeps the pressure more firmly on the wound and starts moving him toward the medical room where they had been housing Coil when he was busted up. "Let's get you laying down, alright? Let me take a look at what a crappy turkey carver you are."

See, look, a joke. Everything's okay.

"Quit--"

Dean grumbles something fierce, not particularly feeling like offering up a soliloquy when he's so bad at talking to begin with, but his head aches and he feels like plunging himself off the deep end. Quite literally. He's sure it's got everything to do with Cas and then some, somehow forgetting the idea that his augment might be prodding him even more than usual with his attempt at removing it. All Dean is sure of is the fact that he's in misery and it's idiotic and annoying and yet he can't do anything but tangle himself up further in it, scrubbing at his face and shooting a paranoid look back towards the knife that seems so fucking far away.

The temptation is a burning reality, but he's done for with Sam here. He just is.

"How is there a better way? It's the only- Sam, I can't do this. This mind control bullshit? They're gonna fuck us over, set us up, do something."

As far as Dean's concerned, that's a fairly reasonable thing to worry about.

So why wasn't anyone else worrying about it?

Not to mention- trying to take on Sam's guilt tripping makes him feel twice as monstrously horrible, close to crumbling under his own emotional baggage. While Sam is far better at actually feeling his feelings, Dean has gotten exceptionally good at stashing them until the proverbial dam breaks and all he can try to do now is keep from burying his face in his hands and willing himself into disappearing. Which is perhaps why it's so exceptionally easy for Dean to begin navigating him around, at least until Dean figures out what's up and Dean manages to look offended for a hot second.

"Look, it's fine- we've lived through worse, you didn't even let me get anywhere."

It's alright, Dean. Sam knows how to disarm all that struggle. He pats Dean's shoulder, palm pressed securely as he walks his brother against Dean's rather sluggish complaining. The other hand still cups the wound with a drenched towelette.

"We die all the time," he says, flashing to far too many memories of his brother dying — technically too many to count, not that he really wants to go over that horrible period of time. That vanished six months. The pain of the memory's dampened from his own time in hell (because it was a long goddamn time down there, Dean knows the feeling). "Doesn't mean you stab yourself in the fucking back, man. The atroma probably love it."

Because of the drama, the shock of it. Aliens probably have just as big a sick curiosity as humanity. He focuses on getting Dean moved from point A to point B.

"You can do this. You're capable of a lot. And you're the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch I've ever had the frustration of knowing. I'm not letting you get anywhere, you're goddamn right. So. Bite me." But the hand on Dean's chest is warm and heavy and full of care. So we all know Sam's words are a brother's usual coping method: being full of shit.

Dean wants to say it - the obvious admittance that should follow. That they don't just die all the time, that he is dead. That Sam's gone, that Cas is dead, that he failed. It's so tempting to shout Sam's ear off about it, as if it'll keep him from being perpetually nudged towards the medical room, where- where, what? He'll be poked some more? Why does that sound like such a horrible fate compared to the one he was inflicting upon himself.

"Sam."

Dean tries to sound commanding, as if he can make his little brother do what he wants just because he said so. Just the way it used to work. He's sorely out of practice when it comes to bossing him around though and he sets jaw, trying to pretend that he's more annoyed than he is when all he'd truly prefer doing is falling apart. Somehow it all feels off kilter, as if everything is just on the edge of infinitely worse than it usually is, but Dean stumbles back footsteps despite his unwillingness.

"I don't have anything to go back to." Dean attempts to shout the words, because as we all know, talking louder is an effective way to pass along all the words you don't know how to actually say. But even lifting his voice doesn't go as well as he wants it to, his stupid feelings dampening the words heavily. He's not sure if talking about anything will save him, but all he wants is for Sam to get it. To know that he doesn't have any other choice in the matter, that this is the end of his line.

And he doesn't know what to do with it.

Sam's not letting anything Dean's commanding get through. Not that he was really that good at listening anyway; that kind of stopped when he was... what, nine? Ten? Bless your heart for trying, though, man. Sam grips Dean's arm, a squeeze that is grounding, perhaps an attempt to comfort.

"You're alive. You keep moving. You told me that, remember? To keep going?" He shakes his head. "It's not always over just because it feels like it is. If you're here, then there's something." He moves Dean toward the room regardless, rambling. Because now that they're so far apart in so many ways, this seems long overdue. "When you — went to hell, I did this exact shit... Sometimes things seem like endless torment and you just wanna lay down and die, man. But it'll weigh less. You just have to hang on long enough to find what you need."

Come on, come sit down on the bed, let him see.

"... To be honest, I wasn't much better a few years ago. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, but it taught me something, okay? I got better, and so can you." He says it softly, like the prior anger is whittling away. "Lay on your stomach — lay down, I need to look at this."

Dean just grumbles something akin to a highly annoyed breath, desperately wanting to book it from this entire situation. Sam isn't letting up (when are either of them not stupidly stubborn), which is enough to be pissed off about unto itself, but Dean's head still feels like it's spinning with some sort of abject misery. He wants to go back to what he was doing, wants to sit down and be off his rocker, wants to-- he doesn't even know what.

But trying to focus on Sam's words is rough unto itself, and yet he manages it to some degree. Even if he's bitter about the entire thing, ignoring the pain ringing loud at the back of his skull, wishing he could have gotten further if only to see what he could've done.

He wants to ask what happens when he's done here- what then, Sam? What happens then? But he doesn't say the word, instead tries to find something else to spit out, as if he even knows what to say anymore at the end of the day. It's all gone to shit, that he's sure of, but even if he has to keep going he'd rather be doing it without the threat of mind control on his heels.

"You don't get to make it sound easy." Not when he doesn't deserve easy, not when it's all his fault. He's even oblivious to the fact that he's being directed around, trying to shake his head, trying to make a point without saying the words. "Nothing I did deserves easy."

... But hoo boy, you lost him at lay down on your stomach, Sam. Dean's going to proceed to be an unhappy camper now, making with a stupid effort to squirm away. "Not happening."

He huffs a humorless laugh, something dark passing his features as he grips his brother with kinder hands. As far as Sam's concerned, that statement should be on his shoulders; not Dean's. Dean didn't deserve the shit he got. Sam, though? Well. He deserved to fall into a pit, that's for fucking sure. He watched the news, back then. He knows what his sins were.

Even if he's learned over time that he served penance for letting Lucifer out, it still haunts him sometimes, when those dark feelings strike up like a match again. That feeling that it was never enough. Nami had begged to differ — and he remembers her words well. But it may have not been enough. He never forgets.

"You're preaching to the choir, Dean. It's not easy, but nothing we do is. We're Winchesters." His grip tightens a bit on his arms, and though he sounds tired and stressed, he also is being a little shit - "Do you really want someone to walk in with me sitting on you, full cowgirl?"

You're going to have to figure out where your dignity is going to be lost, here.

One is worse than the other.

And yet- Dean's always given himself far too much baggage. Especially now, when he's certain that the end of the world is a thing he was meant to fix, when Cas' death was truly his fault, when he was sure that it would be enough when it wasn't at all. Dean knows these things are his fault - they were meant for him to fix, and now he's too busy staring all of them down to come to terms with anything at all.

But it has to be said, that threatening full cowgirl is one way to get Dean's attention.

"Can you not put that picture in my head? Ever again?" It's grumbled low and fully annoyed, Dean sideyeing Sam rather aggressively. He still doesn't like this in the slightest, would much prefer sitting down to lying down, but he supposes that he asked for this in some twisted way.

Considering he'd go back and do it again in a hot minute if Sam would just fuck off for two seconds. It's tempting to even threaten it, to say that he didn't get as far as he'd planned, that he'll just do it again the next time he's reminded of some other poor sap's augment glitch. But that would give away a deeper ulterior motive and so he says nothing, eyeing the bed instead and trudging his way back to it to make his way to sitting on the edge. Because he can get away with that, right?

Edited 2016-08-26 01:24 (UTC)

Nope, no you cannot get away with it.

Let him demonstrate how weak you are by shoving you lightly to the side. Rolling his eyes to the space-heavens, he continues his relentless nudging to a man who hasn't the strength to keep resisting. Because his anxiety is going to fucking quadruple if he doesn't lay you down now.

"Only if you actually listen to me for once in your life. You wanna recite Dad's speech about neck injuries, or do you want me to do it?"

Oof, now that's just rude. Dean grunts as he's shoved, immediately throwing an arm out to brace himself to keep from toppling over. That's hardly fair as far as he's concerned, and yet his head hurts too much to make it overly easy to straighten himself right back out. Instead, he's just sort of left tipped to the side, trying to narrow his gaze in a concerted effort to appear cranky and annoyed when he's honestly just too tired to give much of a fuck one way or another.

"You're really bring dad's shit into this? Really?" And sadly, it's still a rather effective means to get Dean to behave. Sort of.

"You don't screw around with neck injuries," he parrots from his father, since Dean seems more keen on avoiding it. "It's where a lot of monsters aim because it's full of tubes just dying to spray blood all over the place. Last thing you need is to lose your head."

He nudges Dean down if he bothers trying to get back up, wearily looking back to his communication devices. "Got some people — you're gonna have to deal with some nurses coming to check you out now, good job." He pats Dean's shoulder. "Just relax. Don't make me beg."

If Dean had the oomph left in him, he'd be rolling his eyes right around now. The last thing he needs in his life is an ancient Dad-lecture of how to best take care of themselves. Not to mention, he's not stupid enough to have forgotten exactly what a neck injury does; he just happened to experience it first hand. And would still be at it if Sam hadn't interrupted.

Even so, it's an odd reminder of just how disappointed John would be in him, a feeling he can't help but growl under his breath at, a thing he doesn't want to spend any time considering right now, especially with Sam so adamantly prodding at him.

And Dean would have been almost - but not quite - oh so willing to lay his tired ass down, but the mention of nurses has him once more trying to push his way back up, scowling at Sam something fierce.

"When did we ever bring nurses into the equation, Sam?"

"When have we ever been in ships floating through infinite space?"

He's not letting you get up out of bed, that's for friggin' sure. The moment you go wandering off, bleeding more, looking for the blade? That's when Sam's failed his job. He sighs softly, wearily, before shaking his head.

"Am I going to have to get rid of anything sharp around here, Dean...? Are you really gonna do this again — this whole self-sabotage thing? Because man — at least warn me. I'll start replacing everything with plastic knives if I got to."

Okay, point- but Sam had been trying so hard, ever since he'd shown up, to make things normal again. To bring them back to where they were supposed to be, to where they'd once been. And while Dean was trying nowhere near as hard to readjust himself to the ways in which their relationship had once lived and breathed, he could at least try to use it to his advantage now.

So why wasn't it working.

Not that it mattered when he was being threatened with plastic knives, something he managed to find offensive, as if he was truly going off the rails. "It's not self sabotage if I had a reason for it." And that was something Dean was going to stand by, the fact that he would've gone for the gold if Sam hadn't stopped him. It made it that much harder to feel as if he shouldn't have done it in the first place, stubborn as he was to begin with.

"They didn't stick something in our head for shits and giggles, Sam. It's like a goddamn shock collar."

But all complaining aside, the fact that he was starting to feel like he'd been fried from the inside out, if not the throbbing at the back of his skull, was starting to get to him. A nap might soon be in order.

"A shock collar you decided to stab with something sharp and metal. Good fucking job."

He grits his teeth.

"Your reason was friggin' stupid and reckless and if this were me, you'd probably kick me right on the ass."

You stupid hypocritical bastard.

Yeah, he's mad at your reasoning.

Are you surprised?

Dean has perfectly sound reasoning as far as he's concerned, and for the time being he's going to grumpily stand by it. Not just to be a pest, but because he has a tendency to think he's right. One of those hard and fast rules he lives by until he changes his mind of his own accord.

But he's starting to feel like death warmed over and he might be wondering if his brain is leaking out. Which was really never his intention and something that would be so much more worthwhile if Sam had just let him get a little further.

"Would you cram it with the high and mighty act if I laid down?"

Because he might be teetering over anyway.

"Yes." And if he says that a little desperately, he's not gonna admit it.

And teetering is a good sign that Sam should help lay you down, alright?

Alright. He looks at Dean with tension in the lines of his face, tired and worried.

"I'll take care of this, alright? Just lay down."

"Fine."

Fine fine fine, Dean is halfway inclined to still try and shove Sam at a distance, just because he doesn't want to deal with this, but he knows he's not going to get anywhere with that either. And so he finally topples sideways and has to wiggle a bit to readjust, smashing his face into the nearest pillow with a grunt.

If one were to assume he'd make himself comfortable, that's not quite true, because his shoulders near bunch up to his ears in anticipation, waiting for Sam's doctoring to begin.

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