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Sam was hyperventilating. Why was he hyperventilating? No really why? His breaths were so quick, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his vision blurring. What was happening? Why was he hyperventilating?
His neck jerked as he sat there propped against grimy wallpaper. Oh. That's why.
It's never going away. He will never have full control over himself. His body isn't really his. He's a puppet. He may think he controls the strings but he doesn't, at least not anymore. Did he ever?
He fucking hates this. The endless panic attacks when he remembers that it's never going away. He'll never be 'normal'. G-d he fucking hates this. He hates his genetic make up for causing him to suffer like this. Wasn't John bad enough? Wasn't losing Jess bad enough? His tics had to exacerbate themselves right when everythings ‘getting back to normal’.
Of course the tics started when he was a kid but they weren't even that bad back then. Mostly just embarrassing. They caught attention he didn't want, he still doesn't want. He doesn't want people staring at him. He doesn't want his neck to jerk, his mouth to spout words he doesn't even mean. He just wants to hold the strings. His strings.
He just wants to have control over himself. He doesn’t want the pitying looks when people find out about his Tourette’s. The previous attempted exorcisms. The statements of ‘I’ll pray for you’ or ‘I hope you feel better’. They just rubbed salt in the wound. It’s never going away. No matter how many medications he tries. Breathing exercises he does, routine. Anything. It’ll never stop.
He misses being a kid. Being oblivious to what was going on. To the way his nose frequently twitched and the constant sniffing. How this weird funny feeling always curled around the tops of his shoulders and around his neck. How it always seemed like pressure was building up in the back of his throat, only released when he screeched. But John didn’t like that, or his teachers. So he squished it down. He squished everything down until the pressure built and it burst.
His tics became more obvious. His mental health dropping. But as long as he wasn’t inconveniencing anyone it was all good. It all came to a head when Dean moved them away from John. They had a fresh start. He was at a new school with a proper diagnosis and people that were more considerate of his struggles. He didn’t get yelled at or reprimanded for whistling in class.
He even got into college. Things were looking up, he met Jess, he was going to be valedictorian. His tics were even waning. Then the fire happened, he lost her. He dropped out as the memories around campus of Jess were too much. So he went back to stay with Dean. Who fed him and kept him on a schedule. The fact that he didn’t have to rely on himself at that time was relieving, but he missed being in as much control as he had been.
G-d he misses Jess. Her smile, the way she taught him how to make the towel hat. Making cookies at two am together just because they could. The way she didn’t point his tics out or laugh at him when his tics did something stupid. She was perfect.
The memories faded. He could feel something cold touching his face. Something dribbled down his face. He reached his hand up to feel a cold wet cloth. What? His vision clearing, he realized and he looked up. Dean was kneeling in front of him, worried look on his face, hands damp from putting the cloth on Sam’s face. Sam was still breathing rapidly, but was able to start focusing on breathing slower.
“You ok?” Dean asked. Holding his hand out for the cloth. Sam went to hand it to him but tic flung it at Dean, he winced as the cold cloth smacked onto denim jeans. Dean just grimaced a little as he plucked the cloth off of his thigh and moved on. "'S alright Sammy, just water."
“No. Not really, not yet, but I will be.” It’ll take some time, some therapy but he really will be.
“Ok.” Dean's hands worried at the cloth. “I’m proud of you Sam. You’ve been given a really shitty hand and you’ve dealt with it so well.”
Sam knew that that was the closest Dean was going to get to saying I love you. He appreciated that his brother was still looking out for him.
“Thank you Dean.” He meant it. For breaking him out of the spiral of self deprecating thoughts, for still caring for him even when he lashed out or ticced inappropriate things.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. It could be but he could get through this. Maybe? Not the Tourette’s obviously but everything else he probably could.