Work Text:
In. Out.
When he was a kid, Sam had suffered from nightmares.
Not the normal kind that little kids get, where all it takes is running into a parent’s room and a hug to feel better. Night terrors. Dreams where he couldn’t wake up until a trickling chill had crept all the way down his neck and snaked down his back until every inch of his chest felt frozen. Dreams where something sticky and heavy covered his mouth and nose so he couldn’t breathe unless he was fighting for every shuddering gasp. Dreams where, even after he woke, he felt grimy. Unclean. He’d always woken with a stifled gasp, chest heaving like he’d run seven marathons and broken the world record every time.
Dad and Dean had had this weird habit of breathing in synch. He used to lie there and count them, dragging every breath into his lungs in time with theirs until his heartrate slowed to normal. It was always a long time until exhaustion caught up and dragged him down again.
This is a little like that.
When they get back to the bunker, Sam staggers into his room without a word, a soldier staggering back from his personal war. Dean lets him. God (no—not God) knows he’s fought enough of his own.
There’s a perfectly good bed, but Sam chooses the corner instead, sinks down into a seated position with his back against the wall, trying the old breathing method, attempting to trick himself into thinking Dean and Dad are breathing together.
In. It’s all over. Out. It’s all gone now. In. Bigger fish to fry. Out.
He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until something drips off the end of his nose. And, sure, this is the point where he’d usually be telling himself to buck up, Sam, you’ve been through worse, but he’s just been reminded of the worse in the most awful way possible and this time, he can’t.
So, he covers his mouth with his sleeve. Curls into a tighter ball. Closes his eyes. Lets out another shivery breath.
In a few minutes, he’ll clean himself up and walk out like nothing’s wrong. He’ll tease Dean about whatever cooking show he’s undoubtedly watching on his laptop in a desperate attempt to feel normal. He’ll eat whatever his brother puts in front of him, maybe read a book or yet another Men of Letters dissertation on something utterly ridiculous. He’ll buck up, like he always does, and it’ll be all right.
But for now?
In. Out.