Summary: Sam can't breathe and reflects on how that struggle has haunted him all his life.
A/N: Why is it that Sam is always the one getting strangle? I guess two times doesn't really make it a pattern, but really, who gets strangled twice? The more I thought about it, the more symbolic it seemed. Another huge thanks to Cati for her help and inspiration--the story would not be the same without her.
Disclaimer: Not mine...any mistakes are but not much else.
Learning to Breathe
Sam couldn't breathe.
The pressure increased around his neck as the creature raised him off the ground. His feet scrambled, looking for leverage, looking for some kind of purchase that would keep him attached to the earth. His hands clawed at the shaggy, coarse hands that encircled his throat, but to no avail.
Looking up, Sam stared into the squinty, dark eyes of the Sasquatch-like creature. The hairy beast was easily seven feet tall and had strength that exceeded its massive frame. It had flung both Sam and Dean more than ten feet with a swipe of its arm before they had managed to get a good shot off. Sam hadn't yet collected his senses when he felt its shadow fall over him. Dazed, he could not stop himself from being dragged to and off his feet.
For a moment, Sam thought it was going to eat him. He could see sharp teeth protruding from behind its lips, and saliva slithered from its scowling mouth as it growled at him in anticipation. But suddenly a strange look came over it, and its hand tightened around Sam's throat and squeezed.
The burning of his lungs was an all too familiar sensation. The shape shifter, the poltergeist back home—Sam seemed to be the poster boy for paranormal stranglings, as though a supernatural bull's-eye was plastered to his neck After all, whenever the occasion arose for someone to be oxygen deprived, it seemed to be him.
Frantic, Sam twisted, trying to dislodge himself from the creature's grasp. The need for air intensified.
He really should have been used to it, or even learned how to live with less of it somehow, but the need for air was instinctual. Sam couldn't control his body's desperate reaction. Not breathing—that was like not living, not being, not dreaming. When those necessities were threatened, Sam would kick and claw with everything he had. Even if it was in vain.
His struggles slowly lessened. He couldn't see if Dean was even conscious.
Sam had spent his entire adolescence trying to breathe—trying to create a pocket of air that was just for him. His father and Dean had left some room for him in their fractured family, but with every passing year, he found it more constricting. The role he was allowed to play was already scripted for him. His father wanted him to fit into the mold of a good little soldier. Every time he started to chip away at the mold, every time he wanted to pursue a hobby or a dream beyond the Winchester business, he could feel his father's stronghold tightening around him. The more he asked for, the tighter it got. The tighter it got, the more Sam needed.
Sam had left for Stanford in a last ditch effort to catch his breath. After a few months at college, sometimes Sam could momentarily forget, could breathe normally like the rest of his peers. But the vice grip of his father's legacy was always around him, no matter how hard he fought.
Black spots danced before him now, swirling together as they grew. He could no longer see the dense Oregon forest around him. His fingers felt numb as they clutched limply at the thick, snarled hair that distantly tickled his chin. The overpowering stench of the creature's breath wafted into staleness. As emptiness subdued the remnants of his consciousness, Sam wondered one last fleeting thought: would he ever truly breathe?
The pressure released suddenly, and Sam crashed to the ground. The contact resounded hollowly in his mind and at first he could not figure out what happened. Air rushed into his lungs as he took a shuddering breath. Though still blind and paralyzed, Sam sucked greedily at the air which now surrounded him so freely.
A moment later, he felt strong arms pull him up.
"Breathe, Sammy. Just breathe."
His vision began to clear, and Sam realized Dean was holding him. The body of the creature was sprawled out a few feet away, a stake protruding from its chest.
Cradled in his brother's arms, Sam felt a somewhat like an infant—safe, secure. He let himself be rocked, gasping like a newborn, until his breathing slowly evened out, falling into a strong and steady rhythm.