It's tense, and it hangs right there, loud and raucous in his head like a promise he wants to give over but knows he can't. Instead he's lying from one side of the room and out to the other, tense and nervous and unwilling to share what he so desperately wants to admit to. Because he knows it's going to come bursting out sooner or later, the facts of what he's done, and holding on to it for longer and longer's only going to make it that much worse. Like a festering wound, something open and angry and raw, it's only going to consume him until he chokes up in front of his little brother and falls to his own demise. He knows it, entirely and completely, and yet the words won't come.
I sold my soul for you.
They're sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be pushed forward and yet Dean can't manage it, can't make himself come to terms with what he's been through. Because the question comes with the answer of his own death and Sam's survival and while he desperately wants to let his little brother know that he lived, he doesn't want him to think upon Dean's death. His deaths, a hundred times over, something that'll leave him guilt ridden and more than unhappy. It won't be mad that Sam is with him but mad with himself, furious and pained and feeling as if he should've done everything to keep Dean from going to the pit. He knows it, and he can't do a thing to change his own decision or what he's been through, but he can keep Sam from hearing any more than he has to.
He can keep a secret, he's done it before. And he tells himself again and again that he can keep this one, that it can just be his to have, to keep Sam from even coming close to having to deal with the ultimate ramifications of what they've both been through.
It's easier that way, right? The lie wraps up the whole thing, neat and tidy and Dean's not even lying so much anymore as he's saying that he just can't say it. Can't give himself over yet, because it's too much, because it's everything. In that it's everything Sam doesn't need to know for his own well being. Dean can hold onto it, can keep it safe and can pretend it solves all the problems just be not telling and so he stares down into his lap and gives his head a little shake, pushing his palms against his thighs like he's preparing to dust himself off and then he just shrugs.
No big deal. He can tell himself it's no big deal.
"Just got transported to another world, think there's probably a better time for just about every conversation."
no subject
It's tense, and it hangs right there, loud and raucous in his head like a promise he wants to give over but knows he can't. Instead he's lying from one side of the room and out to the other, tense and nervous and unwilling to share what he so desperately wants to admit to. Because he knows it's going to come bursting out sooner or later, the facts of what he's done, and holding on to it for longer and longer's only going to make it that much worse. Like a festering wound, something open and angry and raw, it's only going to consume him until he chokes up in front of his little brother and falls to his own demise. He knows it, entirely and completely, and yet the words won't come.
I sold my soul for you.
They're sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be pushed forward and yet Dean can't manage it, can't make himself come to terms with what he's been through. Because the question comes with the answer of his own death and Sam's survival and while he desperately wants to let his little brother know that he lived, he doesn't want him to think upon Dean's death. His deaths, a hundred times over, something that'll leave him guilt ridden and more than unhappy. It won't be mad that Sam is with him but mad with himself, furious and pained and feeling as if he should've done everything to keep Dean from going to the pit. He knows it, and he can't do a thing to change his own decision or what he's been through, but he can keep Sam from hearing any more than he has to.
He can keep a secret, he's done it before. And he tells himself again and again that he can keep this one, that it can just be his to have, to keep Sam from even coming close to having to deal with the ultimate ramifications of what they've both been through.
It's easier that way, right? The lie wraps up the whole thing, neat and tidy and Dean's not even lying so much anymore as he's saying that he just can't say it. Can't give himself over yet, because it's too much, because it's everything. In that it's everything Sam doesn't need to know for his own well being. Dean can hold onto it, can keep it safe and can pretend it solves all the problems just be not telling and so he stares down into his lap and gives his head a little shake, pushing his palms against his thighs like he's preparing to dust himself off and then he just shrugs.
No big deal. He can tell himself it's no big deal.
"Just got transported to another world, think there's probably a better time for just about every conversation."