Dean doesn't want it to be obvious, not in any way. He wants to keep this hidden for as long as possible, stow it all away and stash it somewhere invisible where Sam doesn't have to see what he's done. Sam's already gotten pissed at him once for this, he doesn't need to do it all over again and Dean is starting to boil over with a cold sort of fear, viscous and frothing in his belly, gripping tight and holding fierce to the things he doesn't want to say.
In an instant, images skitter across his mind.
Black pits and the rack, trussed up and losing limbs like nobody's business. Bone took hours to carve through if they wanted it to and everything else took just as long - not that time really mattered when they got right down to it. But it all blipped by in an instant, the steady drip of blood like a echoing scream, bouncing in his ears, sounds he refused to give and panicked chokes that made the world seem as if it was hanging on a wire. Everything was always so frantic, sped up and slowed down and strewn about, his organs a thing that were no longer his to keep in any way shape or form. And then it was everyone else he dug deep into, bodies that became his to tear apart, to take for keeps, to explore in ways that sent blood dribbling up to his elbows.
In the flash of a second it's gone, drops back behind his eyelids and Dean blinks again, emptied and hollowed out and wondering when it will all just go away. When he can forget it, when he can pretend it had never happened. Maybe if he'd been stronger he'd be allowed to forget but as it stood, it's his shameful burden to bear and so he puts it on his shoulders the same way he does everything else, as if he has more than enough room to carry the world and more. And Sam can't know, can't begin to know.
But what lies does he have? What can he come up with on the spot that will be enough, that will be a good enough lie to reflect what has happened.
Can he skip on by all of this, just say he doesn't have a clue where it went and go from there? Because that's the truth: he doesn't know where it is, not physically, but he knows why it was lost in the first places and it still remains as much of a lie as he can figure it to be and it still hurts, makes him hate himself that much more for wanting to twist the words he gives to Sammy in some kind of marbled fashion. Lies with truth, intertwined against the spaces between them until Dean gets away with everything he doesn't want to give when he's always so good at giving Sammy his all.
So what's he supposed to do? What's the outcome of this that doesn't have him climbing up the walls from the sheer weight of his own self hatred?
"Can we just-" The words are gritted out until Dean has to freeze again, jaw clenched until it aches in the pounding of his own head, trying to find the things to say that aren't dickish but are still entirely wrong. Because everything is wrong, nothing is how he wants to say it and no matter what he gives, it isn't the words he wants to say. "Can we just stow it, Sammy? Please?"
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In an instant, images skitter across his mind.
Black pits and the rack, trussed up and losing limbs like nobody's business. Bone took hours to carve through if they wanted it to and everything else took just as long - not that time really mattered when they got right down to it. But it all blipped by in an instant, the steady drip of blood like a echoing scream, bouncing in his ears, sounds he refused to give and panicked chokes that made the world seem as if it was hanging on a wire. Everything was always so frantic, sped up and slowed down and strewn about, his organs a thing that were no longer his to keep in any way shape or form. And then it was everyone else he dug deep into, bodies that became his to tear apart, to take for keeps, to explore in ways that sent blood dribbling up to his elbows.
In the flash of a second it's gone, drops back behind his eyelids and Dean blinks again, emptied and hollowed out and wondering when it will all just go away. When he can forget it, when he can pretend it had never happened. Maybe if he'd been stronger he'd be allowed to forget but as it stood, it's his shameful burden to bear and so he puts it on his shoulders the same way he does everything else, as if he has more than enough room to carry the world and more. And Sam can't know, can't begin to know.
But what lies does he have? What can he come up with on the spot that will be enough, that will be a good enough lie to reflect what has happened.
Can he skip on by all of this, just say he doesn't have a clue where it went and go from there? Because that's the truth: he doesn't know where it is, not physically, but he knows why it was lost in the first places and it still remains as much of a lie as he can figure it to be and it still hurts, makes him hate himself that much more for wanting to twist the words he gives to Sammy in some kind of marbled fashion. Lies with truth, intertwined against the spaces between them until Dean gets away with everything he doesn't want to give when he's always so good at giving Sammy his all.
So what's he supposed to do? What's the outcome of this that doesn't have him climbing up the walls from the sheer weight of his own self hatred?
"Can we just-" The words are gritted out until Dean has to freeze again, jaw clenched until it aches in the pounding of his own head, trying to find the things to say that aren't dickish but are still entirely wrong. Because everything is wrong, nothing is how he wants to say it and no matter what he gives, it isn't the words he wants to say. "Can we just stow it, Sammy? Please?"