[ The car'd already been starting to crawl out of the drive through line, creeping across the parking lot toward the exit while waiting for Jack to take the bags from him. The second they touch, the nanosecond an outside source invades his mind, Dean slams the breaks on instinct. It doesn't make much of a noise what with being a hover car, but it does jolt them pretty solidly toward an itty bitty whiplash moment.
What overcomes him is familiar. God, it's familiar - it's that same deep, resonating pit of despair he carries around at all times but has learned to put a leash on. It's that rising tide of wailing hurt that he allows to manifest only as anger unless something knocks him for a loop. He's not expecting it, he's not braced for it, and it slams into him like a god damn mac truck. Jack might be looking in his eyes, but Dean's not looking back because he can't see through the onslaught of it. It makes his vision lose focus and his eyes prick with a sudden dryness, an ensuing shine.
Even Jack yanking his hand back doesn't quite end it, because it dredges to the surface all the things Dean's repressing himself like a fucking magnet. Knocks down carefully constructed barriers and lets the flood out.
He can navigate parts of it, enough to put the car in park. Enough to transition both hands to the wheel, enough to catch any noise in his throat and feel it expand under the pressure of the breath inside it, choking, stifling.
He lowers his forehead to the back of his hands, lips pulled into his teeth, jaw locked tight, shoulders rigid.
Mom. The ripping feeling of losing a son. How much he hates himself for being able to compartmentalize that, how much easier it is to think of him as a monster and disassociate these versions of Jack entirely. What kind of fucking person can do that, who can hunt their own kid, who can become so god damn detached that they can let themselves do what he was gonna do? Is he even a god damn person anymore? His entire life is a fucking lie, a game, a fucking sham. He's losing everyone all over again. The god damn guilt. Just the fucking guilt alone is staggering. He sucks in a rapid breath through his teeth, a sharp hiss, a gush of an exhale. His guild, Jack's guilt, his pain, Jack's pain. The crack in his heart like a fault line.
Okay.
Okay. Okay. Okay. You're okay. You been feeling this your whole life. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.
He's not okay.
He peels himself out of the driver's seat without acknowledging the apology, door swinging wide open and left that way, long strides toward nothing while he links his hands behind his head. ]
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What overcomes him is familiar. God, it's familiar - it's that same deep, resonating pit of despair he carries around at all times but has learned to put a leash on. It's that rising tide of wailing hurt that he allows to manifest only as anger unless something knocks him for a loop. He's not expecting it, he's not braced for it, and it slams into him like a god damn mac truck. Jack might be looking in his eyes, but Dean's not looking back because he can't see through the onslaught of it. It makes his vision lose focus and his eyes prick with a sudden dryness, an ensuing shine.
Even Jack yanking his hand back doesn't quite end it, because it dredges to the surface all the things Dean's repressing himself like a fucking magnet. Knocks down carefully constructed barriers and lets the flood out.
He can navigate parts of it, enough to put the car in park. Enough to transition both hands to the wheel, enough to catch any noise in his throat and feel it expand under the pressure of the breath inside it, choking, stifling.
He lowers his forehead to the back of his hands, lips pulled into his teeth, jaw locked tight, shoulders rigid.
Mom.
The ripping feeling of losing a son.
How much he hates himself for being able to compartmentalize that, how much easier it is to think of him as a monster and disassociate these versions of Jack entirely. What kind of fucking person can do that, who can hunt their own kid, who can become so god damn detached that they can let themselves do what he was gonna do? Is he even a god damn person anymore?
His entire life is a fucking lie, a game, a fucking sham.
He's losing everyone all over again.
The god damn guilt. Just the fucking guilt alone is staggering. He sucks in a rapid breath through his teeth, a sharp hiss, a gush of an exhale. His guild, Jack's guilt, his pain, Jack's pain.
The crack in his heart like a fault line.
Okay.
Okay. Okay. Okay. You're okay. You been feeling this your whole life. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.
He's not okay.
He peels himself out of the driver's seat without acknowledging the apology, door swinging wide open and left that way, long strides toward nothing while he links his hands behind his head. ]