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It seems to take forever just to get where Dean wants to go—just to make the trip up from his quarters to First Officer Spock's—and as he stares down the door, Dean shivers. Not because he's cold, but for other reasons. Reasons that scrape along Dean's bones and set his stomach doing all kinds of impressive gymnastics, get his heart flopping around so hard and so wildly that Dean wants to run down to sickbay instead of going through with this. After all, he might be ill—maybe he caught something the last time he left the ship, maybe something's wrong with him physically (something that could be another unforeseen complication of his and Cas's mind-meld).
But even as he considers these options, Dean knows how ridiculous his objections are—knows how perfectly ridiculous he's being—and he sighs. This is stupid. So immensely stupid that Dean could puke. He turns on his heel and stalks away from the door, thinking that he shouldn't bother Commander Spock with any of this nonsense—but going back to his own quarters isn't an option for Dean, either. Cas is there, and he thinks that Dean's coming to talk to Commander Spock about everything that's happened lately. He's not forcing the issue, but Dean still stops dead in the middle of the corridor, sighs and slouches at the hips. His shoulders slouch just at the thought of disappointing Cas about this.
He could always go down to the mess hall and see who else is there—maybe Kyle, maybe Leslie, maybe anyone who could take Dean's mind off of what's going on; there'd be the benefit of getting something to eat, besides, because it's been a while—but Dean huffs instead and presses the button, rings the door's chime. He hesitates another moment, but nevertheless, he slinks inside at the dry sound of Commander Spock drawling, Come in.
There's a long moment, as the door closes behind him, when Dean wants to just run for the hills. Commander Spock's sitting at his desk, hunched over it and apparently playing three levels of chess against himself—he doesn't look up, or nod, or do anything to acknowledge that he knows Dean's here; he doesn't even arch an eyebrow—and the way his face is so still sends another shiver up Dean's spine. Every blink, every rise and fall of his back, seems so perfectly measured that it has to be intentional, no matter how ridiculous or illogical it makes Dean for thinking that. Breathing probably isn't intentional, and it's ridiculous to think otherwise.
Speaking, on the other hand, is very much intentional—but when Dean opens his mouth to say something, Commander Spock cuts him off: "Have you ever played chess, Lieutenant Winchester?"
Dean shakes his head, has to force himself to hold still, rather than rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Not—well, not really, anyway? My mom tried to teach me when I was a kid, but I didn't really take to it as well as Sam did. He's Captain of the Academy's chess team right now, actually, so… he really, really took to it? He'd probably play you, if you ever wanted. Which I'm not saying that you do or anything, but… y'know. He probably would."
"Ah, yes, Cast'ell did mention your fondness for bragging about your brother's accomplishments instead of discussing what needs attention given to it. I believe it's a behavior that your Captain finds endearing as well—when he does not find it incredibly frustrating instead. Fortunately for us both, I am above such emotional reactions to your habits."
Until Spock looks up, pointedly arches one of his eyebrows, Dean's not sure how he should interpret that statement—but it becomes perfectly clear underneath Spock's intense scrutiny. He's not supposed to question any part of Spock's interpretation, on this matter—he's not supposed to bring up Spock's bond with Jim and Bones, and he's definitely not supposed to argue that Spock could ever be wrong—much less when he's here and asking for help, after a fashion. Dean sighs, just asks if he can sit down, and once he has permission, he takes the seat opposite Commander Spock. For another long, silent moment, he just watches Spock play, shuffling the pieces around his multiple boards and squinting at them.
Better them than Dean, at any rate—and there's not much that Dean wants to read into that. There's a lot that Bones and Jim would probably read into it—they'd make it into some expression that Dean would rather be a chess piece than move in the world for himself, or something like that—but there's nothing that's really worth reading into. With a huff, wrinkling his nose, Dean tries to fathom the movements of Spock's chess pieces, folds his hands in his lap. For all his heart pounds and scratches at his lungs, willing him to just say something already, Dean finds his tongue feeling thick and slow, his mind going surprisingly blank. Ever since the mind-meld, it's been a non-stop track of memories and nightmares and just trying to keep them buried where they belong—but now he has nothing to say for himself.
So, once again, Spock's the one to break the silence between them: "I've been expecting you, Lieutenant," he says, knocking out one of the pieces that Dean recognizes as a rook. "And I presume that you wish for this visit to remain off the record?"
"That'd be a good… Yeah, I mean… Yes, please, Commander. And thank you, Commander." (God, could he be any more pathetic, stammering and stumbling all over his words, falling back on some stilted show of respect for Spock's authority and position as a superior officer instead of actually saying what he means—instead of saying what's really on his mind? Dean's not certain, but his money's on no—no, he could not possibly be any more pathetic, at this moment.)
"Do you ever mean to announce the reason for your visit, then? Deducing it was fairly simple, but I believe that most humans take some form of comfort in being the one to voice their own rationale and experiences." Spock runs one of his long, spidery fingers down the ridged mane of what Dean remembers is a knight. "Of course, if you do not take comfort in this idea, I am more than capable of proceeding as though you had told me anything about why you've come."
It takes a moment, but—"I want to know more about mind-melds?" Dean manages to spit out, he isn't sure how, but once he's gotten that said, he can't stop himself from saying, "I mean, I know there's a lot that you can't tell me—Jim and Bones and Cas all said there's a lot the Vulcans keep secret, but—I think it's kind of a special case right now, right? I deserve to know what happened to me then, don't I?"
"There are very few exceptions made to our rules about secrecy, Lieutenant—and appealing to your friendship with my t'hy'la will not help you, either." Spock sighs, though—heavily, almost humanly—and for the first time, he nudges his chessboards aside, looks Dean in the eye without something between them. "However, you do deserve a more informed opinion on what happened to you. It is only logical that you should be curious—and it is only logical that I should provide you with some necessary insight, lest you decide to experiment with Cast'ell."
"I think Cas would kill me if I suggested anything like that, sir," Dean says, mostly talking to the desk, because meeting Spock's gaze is proving so much harder than it usually does. He's intense—that's why it's difficult enough to begin with—but now, after the mind-meld… "It's weird, sir, but… I'm not trying to be impolite over here or anything, it's just—it's like you're back inside my head again, when I look at you."
"What I needed to do required much from me, as well as from yourself and Cast'ell. It is only fitting that there should be some after-effects that you still find yourself struggling with. Unfortunately, I cannot say whether or not they will continue indefinitely—not because of my people's secrecy, but because such an incident was quite unprecedented."
"Just what I freaking needed—being special like this is just what I always wanted." Dean could groan, or kick something, or put his fist through a fucking wall—there's nothing about this situation that's any kind of acceptable, that Dean would wish on anybody else. "Sorry, I just—I'm not trying to be a dumb-ass, and it isn't like I don't appreciate you sitting down with me about this—I just… I don't even know what's going on, half the time."
"You are attempting to cope with more than anyone could expect you to deal with, Lieutenant Winchester. You have handled the situation with the mind-meld remarkably well, considering that it was both non-consensual and unintended—"
"Yeah, I got tossed into freaking sickbay, weeks after the fact, because I was letting it drive me crazy, and driving my boyfriend crazy, too. That's totally handling shit well—"
"You have handled yourself as well as anyone could expect from you. That it might not constitute well by most traditional definitions is quite irrelevant—what matters is how you have handled yourself under the specific conditions that have been given to you. You have had your emotional and psychological stability upset, and seen the boundaries between yourself and Cast'ell deteriorate in ways that the human mind cannot possibly imagine until they happen. This is not something to take lightly or brush off, as is your usual idiom."
This is when it hits Dean that something's going on with Spock. He isn't being as cold as he always is—and when Dean looks back up at him, Commander Spock's expression isn't his usual, unfathomable, unmoving look. There's something else there, too, underneath the tense, straight line of Spock's mouth and his set jaw. Something that Dean could almost mistake for sympathy, if he didn't know any better. Sympathy is a human emotion, and Spock is above feeling it, much less expressing it—especially to someone whom he mostly knows as Jim's young friend, Lieutenant Winchester. But if Dean didn't know any better, he'd probably see sympathy in the tight quirk of Spock's lips, in the way they part as though he wants to say something, only to close before he does so.
"How much did you see?" Dean says after another long moment of silence—one that's long enough for Spock to move his levitating boards back into place, start considering his options on the middle board. He furrows his brow ever-so-slightly, and Dean jumps in to clarify, "During the mind-meld. With me and Cas—I… I remember, I was thinking some pretty not-good things during it, and I just… How much of all that did you get?"
Spock turns his gaze back up to Dean and says, "All of it," and Dean can't see himself, but he's pretty certain that he loses all the color in his face—something cold drops into the pit of his stomach, seeps out and jolts up his spine, and makes him shiver all over again. He's not even sure what he can say to that, if there's anything that wouldn't just go and exacerbate everything—Dean's run over all the possibilities in his head, come up with scripts for them, and they all have to disappear on him now, go flying out the window as he wrings his hands and tries (unsuccessfully) to force himself to look up from the desk. Swallowing thickly, he tries to say something, but all that comes out is a string of half-baked syllables that never even try to sound like words.
And somehow, Spock understands what this means. He shuffles one of his bishops into position to defend its Queen, and says, "You wish to know my assessment of what I learned about you during your mind-meld with Cast'ell—understandably so, as I am the only available authority on Vulcan matters. You also feel that Cast'ell's opinion is too biased because of your relationship and because of his opinions about you, most likely because they contradict the abysmally low self-image that your father instilled in you. For some likely irrational, emotional reason, you think that I might tell you that it is a normal desire, wishing to see one's self wholly subsumed into a mind-meld—and, I might add, you would be quite incorrect."
Dean blinks at Spock, and it takes him a good minute just to be able to say, "Oh. Uh. Yeah, about that thing?" (So much for the not-sympathy, he can't help thinking.)
"While I doubt that your experience with the mind-meld is entirely unique, I have never encountered it before and I do not think that it reflects very well on your current situation—or on your current emotional state." Spock huffs, nudging one of his rooks up several rows, then brushing his boards out of the way again.
He leans forward, staring right at Dean as he says, "This is, perhaps, a situation that you should discuss with Doctor McCoy instead, Lieutenant. Ambassador Sarek has made it difficult to be his son, though not to the same extent as your own father, and my solution is simply to speak with him as little as possible—it is a solution that I believe will not work as well for you as it does for me. What I am qualified to say, however, is simple: your father is wrong about you, and I believe that it would be in your best interests to make an appointment with an appointment with Doctor McCoy in his capacity as ship's counselor, preferably for as soon as possible."
There's nothing more that Dean can say to that—at least the only thing that comes to mind is, oh… well, thank you, Commander, sorry for taking up so much of your time—and as he leaves Spock to his chessboards, Dean can't help wondering if he expected too much going into this. He doesn't feel worse, but he doesn't really feel better, and all he's really learned is that he's a freak. A freak who apparently needs to see Bones for a head-shrinking as soon as possible. Just his fucking luck.