* trigger warning: contains content that details derealization and severe anxiety.
After a long day of researching whatever the hell was killing people in this backwater town, drinking heavily, and passing out on his laptop around four in the afternoon, Dean Winchester was beyond 'stressed out' when he woke up at 6:07 PM and Sam was gone.
The sky was a deep purple now, in contrast to the sun that had been fading, piercing Dean's eye as he fell asleep, two hours before. The immediate confusion upon waking up did little to remedy his building anxiety.
"S'm?" He mumbled, picking his head up and looking around. Where the hell was Sam? Where the hell am I?
Logically, Dean knew this was the motel he'd been in all day, and his real problem was tracking his secret-keeping brother and the demon skank he was likely shacked up with. But for the life of him, his surroundings felt too distant for him to recognize. Oh, shit.
Dean whipped his head around, desperately trying to familiarize himself but everything felt like a dream, too far away to touch, but too close to not be real. He was having a panic attack.
Not the usual kind. Not the terrifying hyperventilating, not the feeling impending death by suffocation. No. This was the other kind.
He swallowed thickly, and it felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. His heartbeat was picking up but it was difficult even to sense that when he could barely even feel the rest of his body. His muscles were weak, knees shaking even while he was sitting but more troubling was the inability to think properly.
"Sam!" He said, but it didn't come out like that.
He sounded slower than he should've, stupid, but he couldn't control it. Shit, shit, shit, no...
He stood up from the chair and tried to focus on walking. Nothing. His movement was only possible by muscle memory because he wasn't conscious of his decision to walk to get his keys at all. He needed to find Sam.
Whether it was because he needed to know Sam was safe or he needed Sam to tell Dean that he was, was not entirely clear.
He wandered, feeling like he was floating to the car, until he realized he couldn't drive. He scraped at the driver's door with the key, unable to get at the lock and he gave up. He sat down against the door and dug his fist into the gravel parking lot. The rocks dug into his palms but he couldn't make sense of it enough to feel it.
I'm gonna lose my fucking mind here.
His hands were shaking bad now and he was swallowing too often. He tried to direct trembling fingers to his jacket pocket to pull out his Zippo.
He flicked it open and lit it after a few tries. He watched the flame, tried to focus on the color, the heat, the substance, anything, but his mind was busy screaming. He blew out the flame, and slowly pressed the hot metal to his forearm. It burned enough for his hand to drop the thing but his mind only seemed to get a second of clarity before it was drowned by disorientation again.
Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or cry, but something needed to give. He felt like he might explode. Not even. Just sort of melt away into nothing. He took out his phone. 6:13 PM. What the fuck? It had to have been more than six minutes. No. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, his heart was pounding.
His fingers dialed Sam's number while he mind wandered everywhere else. It rang a few times, nothing.
He called two more times and the second, Sam's voice came as a shock, breaking the steady evening silence of the dark parking lot no one had pulled into except the Winchesters in days.
"Dean? What's going on?"
"S'mmy?"
There was a pause, "Dean, what? What's going on? You find something?"
Dean paused for much longer than he wanted to and finally said, "Sammy... I can't... I can't... I don't know what to do."
"What?"
Dean didn't know what he was saying but his tongue went on, saying, "I don't feel... Right... It's like a, uh... A panic... Thing. It's like, I don't... Feel... Real."
"Dean, are you drunk?"
"No!" Dean tried to reel it back because he'd said that way too loud, "No, I'm just... Sam, please, I'm kinda sc-" Dean stopped dead there and then said, "Just, get back here."
"Dean-" Sam said, suddenly much softer. But Dean had already hung up. Sam glanced at the last trace of blood on Ruby's arm, and then at the door. Dean was about to say he was scared.
6:27 PM
"Dean? Dean! Hey!"
Dean looked up and saw Sam standing over him, the terrified look in Dean's eyes seemed to be reflecting in Sam's.
"This feels like a dream..." Too long of a pause, "A shitty one." Dean slurred.
Sam's fingers laced around Dean's wrist, feeling the pulse racing too fast just beneath this skin.
His eyes flicked up and saw the color had left Dean's face and his eyes were just darting around, unable to focus.
"Is this a panic attack?" Sam asked.
Dean didn't answer and Sam could see he looked absolutely lost. Detached.
Derealization.
One of the strangest, not so common, and terrifying possible symptoms of a severe panic attack.
Sam reached down and dragged Dean to his feet, and whether or not he needed to, Dean clung to him.
Sam took him inside and sat him down on one of the beds. He stared into the pure terror in Dean's eyes and saw him screaming for help but would never say it. Not even now. But that was about the extent of his control.
Dean gripped Sam's forearm hard, squeezing as he inhaled deeply. The breath came out with a harsh shudder.
"Try and sleep, Dean, you'll feel better. You're overtired, you're kinda drunk, you're stressed, don't ride this out awake. Sleep. It'll be over before when you wake up."
Dean swallowed, and nodded.
He laid down and breathed those shuddering breaths for another hour and a half. He would open his eyes, clearly still awake and look to Sam for help, but he wouldn't say anything.
Around 9:30 as the uneven breathing continued, a hand clamped around Dean's and for the first time in over three hours, Dean recognized it. He closed his eyes, focused on the touch, allowing his breathing to slow, and the fear ebbed away into the darkness that consumed his conscious thoughts.
8:45 AM
Dean's eyes blinked open. The ceiling was familiar, and he could've sang. He sat up slowly and saw Sam making his bed a few feet over. They made eye contact.
Out of all the things they shoved in the corner, Dean's drinking, Sam's lies, the codependency, everything. Out of all of it, they would never ever talk about Dean's anxiety.
It was an ego thing, plain and simple, but this one thing, Sam let slide.
And when they met each other's gaze, Dean silently said, thanks. And Sam nodded.
A lot could be said about Sam. His lies, his secrets, his psychic crap, whatever. But, he was Dean's anchor. And rusted or not, he would never let Dean get lost.