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Most of the time it was a low buzz in the back of Sam’s mind, like a fat, lazy bumblebee – not enough to impair him, but just enough to make him doubt every action he took. He would double and triple check his research to make sure they knew what monster they were hunting; he would constantly question his decisions. Are you sure those are the right weapons for a ghoul? Are you sure that’s the vamps’ nest?
It was only when Dean reassured him or made a definite decision that he would feel calmer, even if it was only for a little while.
But there were other times, when the hunt didn’t go as they had planned, or if Sam and Dean had a particularly bad fight, then the noise would suddenly be cranked up in volume until it was all Sam could comprehend, and he would snap his eyes closed and cover his ears and shake his head, desperate to clear his mind.
Sometimes it happened for no apparent reason at all.
--
Sam bit back a cry as his shoulder was popped back into place, then took a swig from the bottle of beer as the pain began to ease.
“You good now?” Dean asked, inspecting his stitches.
“As much as I could be,” Sam shrugged, standing up and stretching his arm experimentally.
“Good.” Dean retorted, slipping into a new, clean shirt and pulling on his jacket. “I’m getting us some burgers.” He grabbed his car keys and wallet and shut the door with a thud. A few seconds later, Sam heard the familiar rumble of the Impala as it drove away.
Sam let out a small huff, flopping back down onto the bed, legs dangling off it as he raised his arms above his head and closed his eyes.
It was all peace and silence and relief for a moment, then the distant hum quadrupled in volume and Sam bolted upright, eyes wide. He could already feel his chest tightening like it always did, and he pressed his palms against his thighs, hard enough to bruise the skin.
Not good. Not good. The voice wailed like a car alarm, going from whispering to yelling and back again. Sam grimaced, eyes squeezing shut again as he scraped his nails along the bedspread, muscles tense and hands shaking. Not good. Not good.
Over and over and over and over.
Sometimes the voice would switch the phrase up a bit, to not enough or it’s bad, it’s bad or just other short remarks that would hiss in Sam’s ears, but tonight it had reverted to its favourite phrase. Sam groaned and wrung his hands, rocking back and forth slightly. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and all he could focus on were his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.
He worked on his arm, long index finger and thumb squeezing and moulding and pinching the skin on his right forearm starting from the wrist and ending at the elbow and going back down again, wincing every time he pressed too hard, but with each short burst of pain his breath would come just a little deeper, and he was able to relax his chest for but a moment before his thoughts overwhelmed him again. Not good. Not good. Nearly got Dean killed. Not good. He’s gonna die in a month anyway. Not good. Not good not good not goodnotgoodnot--
His mind couldn’t make any comprehensible thoughts; all Sam could see behind his eyes was flashes of white and black and grey like when a television screen went fuzzy. His hand moved from his arm to his ribcage, pressing against the spot where the ghost and thrown him against a wall. He gasped, then pressed again, and again, before grabbing the skin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing hard. He bit back a groan as the voice faltered, then came back in full force like a wave crashing over Sam’s head.
Sam turned himself around to bury his head into the pillow, letting out a strangled scream that was muffled by the foam and fabric on his mouth. He grabbed at the bed sheets, trying in desperation to pull them apart, wanting to hear the satisfying rip as the fabric would tear. But the attempt was in vain as he tugged at the fabric and it wouldn’t give in, so instead he pressed his hands against his ears, as if trying to smash his own skull in, and screamed again, loud and furious and scared.
It seemed as if the voice was fading, and the band around his chest loosened, and he felt his shrieks melt into sobs, body shaking as he cried. He released the grip on the sides of his head and moved his hands until they were under the pillow, hugging it close to his body as he sat up and began to rock back and forth again. His breaths became slower and deeper as he calmed, the voice becoming faraway and hardly audible as it usually was.
He hadn’t noticed the jangle of keys and the creak of the door opening, or the hurried footsteps or the worried, “Sam?” that escaped Dean’s mouth as he dropped onto the bed beside his brother. But he did feel the hands on his shoulder and rubbing over his back and turning him around so he could collapse into Dean’s sturdy frame, tossing the pillow to the floor and burying his face into Dean’s neck, his brother’s arms wound tight around him. He did feel one hand reached up to stroke his hair lightly, the other brushing up and down Sam’s back lightly, comfortingly. He did hear the whispers of, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and “You’ll be alright” which gradually settled into the humming of a song Sam barely recognised.
“Not good,” he murmured into Dean’s shoulder.
“All good,” his brother countered. “I’m here, baby brother. I’ve got you. It’s all good, Sammy.”
No! The voice tried to protest.
But Dean said so.
It’s all good.