above the logic we are (closed)

[kickingand]

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.

Comments

[collegedropout]

But that's never in your cards, buddy boy. Just as soon as he moves in for another attempt, a heavy familiar hand is clasping hard around his wrist — hard enough to bruise bone, wrenching the knife away from the space that is currently bleeding; does Dean even realize how much blood is getting on him? Jesus christ. He may hear Sam's voice, distant and ringing at first, lined with a frantic anger:

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

Which is, of course, a stupid but necessary question. Of course Sam knows what he's doing. He had caught him before trying it, but Sam had gotten so fucking wrapped up in ship affairs, in new territories, that he failed to imagine Dean would get back into this again. He thought... He thought Cas had been gone long enough to stem any of this reckless fucking behavior.

He was clearly wrong. Blood smears on the front of Sam's shirt and on his sleeve as twists Dean's arm, hoping to get it in an uncomfortable lock so he'll drop the bloody knife. Damage is already done, but the sooner he can get Dean down and get him medical attention, the better.

This is fucked.

Dean's not supposed to be the one doing this shit. He's supposed to stupidly kamikaze himself forward into cases and Sam's supposed to catch him in the act and bitch his ear off. But of course, there are no cases in space, and this isn't the usual Dean, and —

"Drop it, Dean. You're bleeding everywhere, drop it — "

If it's rushed and panicked, he's not going to point it out.