Good Evening! well it took all day, but I still made it! This one is another one that changed from what I'd originally had. This one went through about four different "versions"/possibilities before this finally coalesced. Another huge thx to Sylvia37 for her help brainstorming with me and giving me some ideas that morphed into this story. :) Hope you all enjoy!

No. 18: PANIC! AT THE DISCO

prompts: Panic Attacks, Phobias, Paranoia

Setting: s14 after Michael was gone for good

Dean sucked in deep, uneven breaths, his pulse pounding in his chest. The carpet was rough under his hands, grounding him. The gritty fibers were the first sensation that filtered through the sheer, agonizing panic that had sent him to his knees in the first place. He concentrated on the carpet against his skin, letting it remind him that he was in a shabby motel not a five star hotel.

This is real. This is now. I'm me. I'm only me.

He shifted, half falling backwards against the bed he'd not even had the opportunity to attempt to sleep in. Not that it seemed likely he'd be sleeping anytime soon. All he'd done was sit down on the edge of the bed and close his eyes for a split second. Just to rest his eyes. Rest his eyes and then he'd seen - remembered - things.

Remembered things he had done. People he'd hurt. People he'd killed.

A fresh chill ran down his spine and he pressed his hands to his face, trying without success to block out the visions his brain refused to let him forget.

He'd been here before; more than once. Too many times, in fact. Covered in someone else's blood, even if he wasn't literally wearing someone else's blood right now.

The chill down his spine turned into a full body tremor. He couldn't stop the shaking and waves of warmth swept over him. Lightheaded, he pressed a hand against his chest. The air seemed thick, his breaths strained.

He jerked at the feeling of hands on his shoulders.

"Easy," Sam said, his grip strong, another point of grounding in the midst of a maelstrom of confusion and fear. "Just me. Take a deep breath."

Dean tried. He legitimately tried. But the panic had frayed his last sense of control.

"Hey, look at me." Sam's voice was a bit louder, just enough to break through the panic.

"Sam." Dean met his brother's concerned gaze.

"Right here."

The reality of the situation hit him like a punch. He was freaking out, falling apart in the middle of the day for absolutely no good reason. It was embarrassing. Pathetic.

"Sorry." He pulled back from his brother. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Dean," Sam said softly, allowing Dean to move away.

The remnants of his panic attack still clinging to him like a bad taste, Dean sat on the edge of the bed - where everything had started in the first place. He ran a hand over his face, struggling to meet his brother's all too knowing gaze. Moments like this, he was as good as flayed open. Exposed and vulnerable. He hated it, but the truth was there wasn't anyone who could read him like his brother could.

Sam sat on the other bed across from him. For a few moments, they were silent. The faint scent of barbecue wafted through the room. Sam had gone to grab lunch, that's right. He'd been gone less than twenty minutes and Dean had managed to have a full on panic attack in that time.

"Dean?"

"I'm ok, Sam." Dean slammed the lid on the box of his embarrassing emotional loss of control. Pushing himself to his feet, he rubbed his hands like he was actually still looking forward to barbecue. He couldn't control the trembling, but hid it by rifling through the bags with false enthusiasm. "Lunch?"

"It's ok not to be ok," Sam said, his voice barely audible.

Dean stared into the bag of food, his stomach twisting.

"It gets better."

"What does?" Dean asked, going for obliviousness as he dug out barbecue sandwiches that didn't remotely tempt him.

"The panic attacks. The paranoia. The way it feels like there's something inside you, clawing at you, poisoning you, fighting to get free. The way you don't even know if you...if you're still even you."

"Stop." The sandwich fell from Dean's hands. He wrapped his fingers around the back of the chair. "Just...don't."

"Dean, we never talk about this stuff-"

"For good reason," Dean said through gritted teeth.

Sam sighed, then said, "This is the fourth time in a week, Dean. You're not ok."

Dean tightened his hands on the chair, knuckles whitening.

"I'm just saying...that I understand, ok? I understand and if you need to talk about it-"

"I don't."

"I'll listen," Sam finished.

The way he sounded - tired, concerned, understanding - was like a knife through Dean's heart. Sam would listen because Sam understood. He understood because he'd gone through possession - more than once. He understood, because he'd suffered from the same horrors that were keeping Dean up at night and haunting him every moment of every single day.

"How… how long did it take?" Dean struggled to find the words.

"How long did what take?"

"How long till the...till you didn't...till it all stopped?"

Sam was silent for a long time, then he said, "It didn't."

Dean looked up, frowning. Sam was staring at the floor, his hands clasped tightly as he rested his elbows on his knees. Expression haunted, posture tense.

"I said it gets better," Sam said, not looking up. "I didn't say you ever completely get over it."

Taking a deep breath, Dean slumped into the chair and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head. "You don't need to be sorry. That's not what this is about."

"Sam…"

Dean's voice trailed off. So many things he needed to say. Things he should have already said. Things he still couldn't say. Story of their lives.

As was shared trauma.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really hungry," Sam said, straightening.

"Neither am I."

"You wanna go get drunk?"

Dean laughed, surprised at the suggestion.

Sam was trying out a smile, but it looked uncertain.

"I don't wanna get drunk," Dean said, crossing the room and holding out a hand to pull his brother to his feet.

"You don't?" Sam accepted his hand and stood up, a curious expression on his face.

"Well, yeah. I do. But I don't. Not right now."

"Ok...so what're we going to do, then?"

Dean tried out another deep breath and this time, his lungs seemed to finally expand. Seemed that the air was sweet and unclogged with fear. The shakiness was gone. The horrors that haunted them both might never cease to lurk in the corners of their minds, but that didn't mean they couldn't -

"Live, Sam," Dean said, tossing his brother his jacket and opening the door to a bright, sunny afternoon. "We're going to live."

Thanks for reading! This turned out very different than I'd ever expected but I love how it turned out. :) I don't know for sure if I'll be posting tomorrow morning or tomorrow evening, but I'm determined to post every day, so something will be posted...at some point lol.

Tomorrow's theme/prompts: No. 19: BROKEN HEARTS, Grief, Mourning Loved One, Survivor's Guilt

ooooh SO MUCH POSSIBILITY FOR WINCHESTER ANGST!