Visions of a Half-Sleep

The Meltdown

Nothing happened.

His body didn't convulse, spew vomit or start screaming in tongues. There was no thunder or lightning. The earth did not rip open with hellfire erupting from below. God didn't reach down and pluck him off the chair to drag him to hell. The birds were chirping in the trees, happy as can be on any other day.

Stiles opened his scrunched-up eyes, the offensive glare of the overcast day making spots dance in his vision. Shaking his head, he frantically looked for confirmation that it had worked, taking in the baffled look of Sam and Dean. "Did it work?" he was desperate for anything, a nod, smile maybe, even a high five. Instead, his brothers shared a look that could have said a hundred different things, none of them good.

"Are your sigils correct?" Sam asked crouching down for a closer look at the lines in the dirt.

"Of course." Dean scoffed, clearly offended by the implication of his handy work. "Did you say everything correctly?"

"Yes," Sam confirmed, flipping through the passages, skimming to triple-check. With a frown, he snapped the book closed and looked at Dean for what to do next. Again, they had a silent conversation that Stiles could barely dream about being a part of.

"Did it work?" Stiles asked again, the rope was starting to cut into his skin. His fingers became cold as the blood flow was slightly too constricted to keep them warm in the damp cloudy weather.

They didn't answer him. "Well... maybe it did work?" Sam suggested though he didn't seem convinced.

"I didn't see smoke, did you?" Dean was irritated, gun still in his hand waving it a bit more than what the Sheriff taught Stiles was safe.

"No, but-"

"Did. It. Work?" Stiles was starting to shake. He couldn't handle them ignoring him, talking around him like he didn't even exist. No more real than the nightmares he had been falling into.

His heart only tightened its clutch when his two older brothers looked at him like they were seeing him for the first time. A fear, the kind that came when you were truly being seen in all your horrid glory, gripped him under their twin stares. Their expressions were locked off, faces blank, unable to give a hint at what they were thinking or feeling.

Sam and Dean shared another one of their looks that was quickly getting under Stiles' skin. Silent conversations sucked when you weren't part of them. Then with a frustrated sigh, Sam admitted, "No. It didn't."

Ice lance through his chest, "What does that mean? Am I still possessed?" His breathing was becoming heavy, torso starting to sway in his seat from dry heaving. The spots in his vision grew as a panic attack started to steal his body. The exorcism had to have worked. It had to, there was no other option.

He kicked the ground like it personally offended him. It was an excuse, so he couldn't look Stiles in the eyes. "Stiles. It didn't work because you aren't possessed." Dean stated, pocketing his gun once more, using that insufferable adult voice that people thought kept stiles from arguing with them.

"What? No that's not true." He tried not to cry. They were wrong. It had to have worked. He was possessed, and that possessed was the only way to explain what had been happening to him. Normal teens just didn't have morbid nightmares and large blank spots in their memory.

Sam seemed more at ease looking at him, a sort of sad understanding in his eyes, "If you were possessed, it would have worked."

"But the nightmares, the voices, and blackouts. I know I am possessed." He struggled in the chair, tight ropes cutting off what little breath he could take. The legs of the chair tittered back and forth, threatening to tip over and knock him to the rocky ground.