There wasn't a lot to go on from Dean's text message, so Jack figures the best place to start is Dean's house. He gets there, parks the truck and is not especially surprised to see that the front door open a crack. No other cars are there but Dean's, but Jack is still cautious as he gets out and heads inside.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath when he sees Dean. He's curled on the floor, pale, his face bloodied. He's breathing, but Jack steps over a smear of blood on the welcome mat and crouches beside him, reaching for the pulse in his throat. "Dean," he says sharply, "you with me?"
"Yeah, I came," Jack says, pushing Dean's hair out of his face and trying to get a better look at the damage. "What the hell happened here?" he asks, then, "how bad are you hurt? You breathing all right?"
"Breathing, yes, but...hurts," he's confused, of course, waves of pain and nausea still hitting him now and then.
He gestures vaguely lifting one hand.
"Been kicked. A lot. Everywhere," he's trying to speak slowly because it's easier that way and Jack will understand him. It's important that Jack understands him, because there was something he wanted to tell him. Yes, Taylor.
Jack leans forward a little in his chair, and looks at Dean. Finally he says, "Son, where in the name of God did you get such a low opinion of yourself?" He shakes his head then, glancing at his hands and then back at Dean. "No, never mind where you got it--that's usually so long a story no one can ever really tell it. Question is, how do we make you let go of it? At least let go of it enough that you stop wasting time with people who'll tell you you're right to have it. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be hurt," he says gently, "but wanting people who'll tear you down and leave you there, that's no good. That's the kind of hurt I've never seen help anyone."
"But it's easier," Dean says. "They don't need to care about you to give you that."
"And there's no long story to tell about- I didn't have a low opinion of myself until I came here, didn't think I was Einstein either but..." he shifts uneasily on the couch, "oh hell, ask David, ask Pyro. That's what they think. And fuck knows why, but it felt true, when they said it. How could I come to you, Jack? How?"
And he looks up at Jack but then looks away at the window again.
Jack shakes his head, confused. "Wait, you mean that after--what, thirty years or so of feeling reasonably good about yourself, you're letting the opinions of David Shaw and Max Pyro--two men who don't even know you as well as I do, which is to say not very fucking well at all--determine your opinion of yourself?
"And what do you mean, it felt true, and you couldn't come to me? Dean, what the fuck?" He is well and truly baffled. "Why couldn't you?"
"I couldn't because I'm just one of your strays, Jack. Nothing less, nothing more. A mercy fuck I can find anywhere. I couldn't come to you all- all needy and desperate. Not again. I tried to stay away. I read your books, I'm still reading them, and you ...I didn't feel I could give anything to you. It felt true. I don't know that I could give you anything except-"
Oh, fuck, he's spilling it all out in the wrong way and Jack will either get bored or angry or more confused and then more questions.
Not that it is much clear for him, anyway. He moves and there's a small gasp of pain and a chuckle. "-except long twisted conversations and runs to the Emergency Unit." It's a very lame attempt at humour and he knows it.
"And what they say matters, because they matter to you."
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"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath when he sees Dean. He's curled on the floor, pale, his face bloodied. He's breathing, but Jack steps over a smear of blood on the welcome mat and crouches beside him, reaching for the pulse in his throat. "Dean," he says sharply, "you with me?"
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"Jack," he whispers at first, then louder. "Jack. You came."
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He gestures vaguely lifting one hand.
"Been kicked. A lot. Everywhere," he's trying to speak slowly because it's easier that way and Jack will understand him. It's important that Jack understands him, because there was something he wanted to tell him. Yes, Taylor.
"I fucked up. I'm sorry."
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"And there's no long story to tell about- I didn't have a low opinion of myself until I came here, didn't think I was Einstein either but..." he shifts uneasily on the couch, "oh hell, ask David, ask Pyro. That's what they think. And fuck knows why, but it felt true, when they said it. How could I come to you, Jack? How?"
And he looks up at Jack but then looks away at the window again.
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"And what do you mean, it felt true, and you couldn't come to me? Dean, what the fuck?" He is well and truly baffled. "Why couldn't you?"
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Oh, fuck, he's spilling it all out in the wrong way and Jack will either get bored or angry or more confused and then more questions.
Not that it is much clear for him, anyway. He moves and there's a small gasp of pain and a chuckle. "-except long twisted conversations and runs to the Emergency Unit." It's a very lame attempt at humour and he knows it.
"And what they say matters, because they matter to you."
Reply
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