[ It's a slow death, this breed of suffocation, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it. He doesn't know how to escape himself right now and it's driving him further up the wall than he might usually crawl, desperate to find a home away from himself when there is no escape, no respite. There are no long stretches of road, no loud speakers, no music to dull the steady, furious ache. He's raging, mad at himself for a million and one things and all of them rest so steadily on his shoulders that it makes it hard to breathe and god, sometimes he hates it here more than he wants to admit to.
But right now; right now he hates it more because he hates himself most of all. He hates the confusion, the sickening taste of not knowing himself beyond the rampant alcohol, not knowing where to find his own limbs and how to access his own mind. He feels foreign and lost, like he keeps stumbling into walls onto to find himself on the other side of the room where he wasn't meant to be in the first place.
He doesn't want to blame it on Cas, because it's not his fault, this terror. This terror that he'll lose it all, lose himself and more. But he can't help being angry - it's what he's good at. It's what he knows, and what he knows is all he cling to right now.
The words don't entirely catch him off guard. Not that he's expecting them, but they aren't a shock either, and he narrows his gaze a bit, staring a sharp hole through the table because right now apparently he's forgotten how to lie. He even stumbles over some empty words through parted lips as if he can brush it aside easy and when he finally looks up he's got nothing. Nothing good at least. Though he does manage to shake his head and almost force a laugh, anything at all to provide that isn't a lost cause. ]
This place isn't actually any worse than home. [ He shrugs a shoulder, as if that's an answer. As if it means all the things he wishes he could make it mean. ] I got the bullshit down pat.
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Date: 2016-08-05 09:10 pm (UTC)But right now; right now he hates it more because he hates himself most of all. He hates the confusion, the sickening taste of not knowing himself beyond the rampant alcohol, not knowing where to find his own limbs and how to access his own mind. He feels foreign and lost, like he keeps stumbling into walls onto to find himself on the other side of the room where he wasn't meant to be in the first place.
He doesn't want to blame it on Cas, because it's not his fault, this terror. This terror that he'll lose it all, lose himself and more. But he can't help being angry - it's what he's good at. It's what he knows, and what he knows is all he cling to right now.
The words don't entirely catch him off guard. Not that he's expecting them, but they aren't a shock either, and he narrows his gaze a bit, staring a sharp hole through the table because right now apparently he's forgotten how to lie. He even stumbles over some empty words through parted lips as if he can brush it aside easy and when he finally looks up he's got nothing. Nothing good at least. Though he does manage to shake his head and almost force a laugh, anything at all to provide that isn't a lost cause. ]
This place isn't actually any worse than home. [ He shrugs a shoulder, as if that's an answer. As if it means all the things he wishes he could make it mean. ] I got the bullshit down pat.