[ He doesn't need an empathy bond to feel it all radiating off of Jack. Try as he might to keep his eyes deliberately fixated on the road before him, his peripheral vision catches the way he's slinking down into himself like a turtle retreating into its shell. With no music and no conversation, he's left with ample brain space to replay and replay and replay the memory of the sensations that poured out of Jack and into him.
To separate his stuff from Jack's stuff, and apply context to it.
He gets it.
It frustrates the hell out of him. It's not freaking fair that he doesn't get to keep being pissed. It's not fair that he can't blame the kid, it's not fair that his pain is taking precedent over Dean's.
And that's what it really comes down to, isn't it? When presented with two sources of pain, one being his own and the other belonging to his family, Dean will always choose to prioritize theirs over his. He's less important, hell, he's not important. He doesn't matter, but they do. He only allows himself that sense of injustice, that lamentation of his inability to feel his own feelings, and after that it's a matter of buttoning them up to tend to someone else.
(But he killed my mom.)
It wasn't him.
They get to Dean's apartment. He parks the car. He takes the keys. He leads them in without a word, glancing back only once to make sure Jack is following. The door opens through neural implant recognition (he'll have to add Jack to the mainframe). The key ring with RFID chip and remote start get tossed onto the kitchen table.
It's small. It's crappy. It's as cheaply made as every motel room they've ever stayed in, but it's got two bedrooms and a full(ish) kitchen. It's serviceable.
He's entirely too acutely aware of Jack, of his state of mind, of his lost uncertainty and his lack of a tether. Once the door is shut and the keys are down, once they're surrounded by four walls and some place Dean considers familiar, he finally, finally breaks it.
It's with a sigh, it's with a hard note of resignation in his voice. ]
We're not leaving you.
[ Him. Sam. Cas.
Just so you know. Stop asking yourself that question. ]
We're not kicking you out. We're not abandoning you. That's not how family works.
[ In case that wasn't clear. He doesn't look at Jack as he says it; his bowed head addresses the ground, because he can't look at the kid right now without an onslaught of stuff.
But it still needs to be said, because it's cruel and unusual punishment to leave him balancing on that wire while handling all the other things overwhelming him at the same time.
That doesn't mean he doesn't still want to punch you square in the throat.
no subject
To separate his stuff from Jack's stuff, and apply context to it.
He gets it.
It frustrates the hell out of him. It's not freaking fair that he doesn't get to keep being pissed. It's not fair that he can't blame the kid, it's not fair that his pain is taking precedent over Dean's.
And that's what it really comes down to, isn't it? When presented with two sources of pain, one being his own and the other belonging to his family, Dean will always choose to prioritize theirs over his. He's less important, hell, he's not important. He doesn't matter, but they do. He only allows himself that sense of injustice, that lamentation of his inability to feel his own feelings, and after that it's a matter of buttoning them up to tend to someone else.
(But he killed my mom.)
It wasn't him.
They get to Dean's apartment. He parks the car. He takes the keys. He leads them in without a word, glancing back only once to make sure Jack is following. The door opens through neural implant recognition (he'll have to add Jack to the mainframe). The key ring with RFID chip and remote start get tossed onto the kitchen table.
It's small. It's crappy. It's as cheaply made as every motel room they've ever stayed in, but it's got two bedrooms and a full(ish) kitchen. It's serviceable.
He's entirely too acutely aware of Jack, of his state of mind, of his lost uncertainty and his lack of a tether. Once the door is shut and the keys are down, once they're surrounded by four walls and some place Dean considers familiar, he finally, finally breaks it.
It's with a sigh, it's with a hard note of resignation in his voice. ]
We're not leaving you.
[ Him. Sam. Cas.
Just so you know. Stop asking yourself that question. ]
We're not kicking you out. We're not abandoning you. That's not how family works.
[ In case that wasn't clear. He doesn't look at Jack as he says it; his bowed head addresses the ground, because he can't look at the kid right now without an onslaught of stuff.
But it still needs to be said, because it's cruel and unusual punishment to leave him balancing on that wire while handling all the other things overwhelming him at the same time.
That doesn't mean he doesn't still want to punch you square in the throat.
Eat your tacos. ]