Fic: The Hidden Breaks
Title: The Hidden Breaks
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 6x01
Word Count: 1200
Warnings: Claustrophobia
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Hell always leaves traces of itself behind.
AN: Written for hells_bells and for the 'phobia' square for angst_bingo
It takes them a while to find out where the monster that's been terrorising a small town is coming from. It turns out that it's tunnelled a hole into the rock beneath the basement of an empty house. It's been coming out at night to slip through the neighbourhood and skin people in their beds.
Sam finds it on one of his passes through the previous victim's homes. A flash of movement in the darkness when his torch passes the wall. The light outlines a narrow, shining gap in the solid rock, and the brief fading movement of burnt orange skin squeezing into it. Sam doesn't even think about, he slides into the gap after it, turning awkwardly sideways and slithering his way through the narrow tunnel that's been carved out of the rock and dirt.
It's a tight fit, but he's close, he can hear it shuffling and scraping ahead of him. He tries to twist a hand back to get his gun out but the angle's bad and the tunnel's too tight. The thing's not physically strong though, as long as he doesn't let it bite him, he knows he can take it down.
He reaches a narrow space, rock swelling out and he breathes in, pushes on through it. It's rough going and he can feel his shirt catch on sharp stones, and tear. The floor's loose and gravelly and he knows if it gets any tighter he's going to be screwed. He won't be able to follow the thing in any farther. Dean could catch it coming out, only Sam doesn't know where the exit is yet. He misjudges how tight the passage ahead is, coming to a stop when his chest wedges there. He breathes in, stretches, twists. But he can't get through, his shoulders just won't fit.
"Shit." He can feel the hard dig of his gun in the back of his pants. But his waist and hips aren't the problem. He stretches, pushes against the rock wall, fingers bringing down a scatter of stones and earth. "You've got to be kidding me."
The shuffling sounds in the distance grow quieter and quieter, and then they're gone completely. He's lost it.
Sam slams his hand against the wall over his head. He completely deserves the shower of dirt that coats him afterwards. He attempts to slide back, twist around, go back the way he came. But his body stubbornly refuses to budge. He's wedged his shoulders and chest in tight and there's too much of him. Sam's pushed himself in far enough that he can't go forward and he can't go back and for a second he wants to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. At how utterly ridiculous it is.
But the more he stretches and pulls, the sharper each inhale sounds. He tells himself he's imagining the thinness of the air, that it's just tension. That he's just making it worse by struggling so much. He tells himself it would be sensible to take the stuff out of his pockets, wait until he'd calmed down a little and try shifting upwards and sideways. He knows his body shape, he's been in smaller spaces than this, smaller graves than this.
Only his body is no longer listening to his brain, all adrenaline and force and quietly rising panic. There isn't enough space to breathe, the rock scraping and crushing into his chest and shoulders - and the more Sam tries to breathe the less space it feels like he has. The less air there is in the gap. He knows suddenly and absolutely that he's not going to be able to get out. He's going to suffocate, or be wedged here forever underground. Or he's going to be slowly crushed, ribs breaking under the pressure of it.
He needs to move, he needs to move now. He can't stay here like this, he won't.
There's a voice in his ear, telling him he's going to be here forever. That he deserves to be here. That he jumped in and now he'll never let him go. It's familiar enough to leave air jerking in his throat. Because he doesn't remember that - he doesn't want to remember that. Not here and not now. The dreams are bad enough, blurring and indistinct but still awful and he can't relive them here. Not here and not now.
There's a noise coming out of his throat that doesn’t even sound like him, but he can't make it stop. He knows, he fucking knows that he needs to relax, that the adrenaline and the tension are making it worse. He's smart enough to know that he's having a panic attack. But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. The only thing he needs right now is to get out and he has no control over the clawing, straining thing that used to be his body. He has no control at all.
He can hear someone calling his name, but he can't make himself listen - not until someone touches the hand he's been clawing at the dirt with, and Sam closes his fingers so tightly over that hand that he'd swear he's going to break it.
"Sam, stop, you're going to hurt yourself." It's Castiel. Sam's digging his fingers into the back of Castiel's hand trying to pull himself free. Because he doesn't care, he doesn't care if he breaks every bone in his body.
He needs to get out.
"Sam." Castiel's voice is so slow, so calm. Like he doesn’t understand.
"Get me out of here, please god, get me out of here."
There's no more talking. Something cracks, sharply, rock skittering down to hit his shoes in a shower and then the hand that has his own is pulling, pulling him sideways. He's stumbling and shaking his way through the tunnel the way he came. Until he's back in the cold damp of the basement.
He feels like he's going to throw up.
Castiel's still holding his hand, like he's afraid Sam might fly apart, or fall down, or lose it completely...again.
"I don't have a problem with small spaces," Sam says. The back of his neck is damp and cold and there's no moisture in his mouth at all. Pulse thudding so hard he thinks he really might throw up after all.
Castiel doesn't say a word. He steps forward and lays a hand against his forehead. The panic drains out of Sam and his chest stops feeling like it's going to rip open. The nausea's gone completely. Sam's just left feeling cold, and more than a little pathetic.
"I never used to have a problem with small spaces," he says quietly.
Castiel leads him away from the hole, and Sam all but falls into an old lawn chair propped against the wall.
"It's not really a big thing, I guess, when I was - where I was. I'm lucky, right? If that's all I get. This and the nightmares."
Castiel doesn't speak but Sam thinks he can read his expression well enough.
Sam shakes his head. "Fuck, I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for." Castiel's still holding his hand, fingers careful and reluctant to let go. Or maybe that's Sam. Maybe Sam's the one who wants to feel like he has someone there to stop him flying apart, just for a while.
Sometimes Sam forgets just how strong Castiel is.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 6x01
Word Count: 1200
Warnings: Claustrophobia
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Hell always leaves traces of itself behind.
AN: Written for hells_bells and for the 'phobia' square for angst_bingo
It takes them a while to find out where the monster that's been terrorising a small town is coming from. It turns out that it's tunnelled a hole into the rock beneath the basement of an empty house. It's been coming out at night to slip through the neighbourhood and skin people in their beds.
Sam finds it on one of his passes through the previous victim's homes. A flash of movement in the darkness when his torch passes the wall. The light outlines a narrow, shining gap in the solid rock, and the brief fading movement of burnt orange skin squeezing into it. Sam doesn't even think about, he slides into the gap after it, turning awkwardly sideways and slithering his way through the narrow tunnel that's been carved out of the rock and dirt.
It's a tight fit, but he's close, he can hear it shuffling and scraping ahead of him. He tries to twist a hand back to get his gun out but the angle's bad and the tunnel's too tight. The thing's not physically strong though, as long as he doesn't let it bite him, he knows he can take it down.
He reaches a narrow space, rock swelling out and he breathes in, pushes on through it. It's rough going and he can feel his shirt catch on sharp stones, and tear. The floor's loose and gravelly and he knows if it gets any tighter he's going to be screwed. He won't be able to follow the thing in any farther. Dean could catch it coming out, only Sam doesn't know where the exit is yet. He misjudges how tight the passage ahead is, coming to a stop when his chest wedges there. He breathes in, stretches, twists. But he can't get through, his shoulders just won't fit.
"Shit." He can feel the hard dig of his gun in the back of his pants. But his waist and hips aren't the problem. He stretches, pushes against the rock wall, fingers bringing down a scatter of stones and earth. "You've got to be kidding me."
The shuffling sounds in the distance grow quieter and quieter, and then they're gone completely. He's lost it.
Sam slams his hand against the wall over his head. He completely deserves the shower of dirt that coats him afterwards. He attempts to slide back, twist around, go back the way he came. But his body stubbornly refuses to budge. He's wedged his shoulders and chest in tight and there's too much of him. Sam's pushed himself in far enough that he can't go forward and he can't go back and for a second he wants to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. At how utterly ridiculous it is.
But the more he stretches and pulls, the sharper each inhale sounds. He tells himself he's imagining the thinness of the air, that it's just tension. That he's just making it worse by struggling so much. He tells himself it would be sensible to take the stuff out of his pockets, wait until he'd calmed down a little and try shifting upwards and sideways. He knows his body shape, he's been in smaller spaces than this, smaller graves than this.
Only his body is no longer listening to his brain, all adrenaline and force and quietly rising panic. There isn't enough space to breathe, the rock scraping and crushing into his chest and shoulders - and the more Sam tries to breathe the less space it feels like he has. The less air there is in the gap. He knows suddenly and absolutely that he's not going to be able to get out. He's going to suffocate, or be wedged here forever underground. Or he's going to be slowly crushed, ribs breaking under the pressure of it.
He needs to move, he needs to move now. He can't stay here like this, he won't.
There's a voice in his ear, telling him he's going to be here forever. That he deserves to be here. That he jumped in and now he'll never let him go. It's familiar enough to leave air jerking in his throat. Because he doesn't remember that - he doesn't want to remember that. Not here and not now. The dreams are bad enough, blurring and indistinct but still awful and he can't relive them here. Not here and not now.
There's a noise coming out of his throat that doesn’t even sound like him, but he can't make it stop. He knows, he fucking knows that he needs to relax, that the adrenaline and the tension are making it worse. He's smart enough to know that he's having a panic attack. But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. The only thing he needs right now is to get out and he has no control over the clawing, straining thing that used to be his body. He has no control at all.
He can hear someone calling his name, but he can't make himself listen - not until someone touches the hand he's been clawing at the dirt with, and Sam closes his fingers so tightly over that hand that he'd swear he's going to break it.
"Sam, stop, you're going to hurt yourself." It's Castiel. Sam's digging his fingers into the back of Castiel's hand trying to pull himself free. Because he doesn't care, he doesn't care if he breaks every bone in his body.
He needs to get out.
"Sam." Castiel's voice is so slow, so calm. Like he doesn’t understand.
"Get me out of here, please god, get me out of here."
There's no more talking. Something cracks, sharply, rock skittering down to hit his shoes in a shower and then the hand that has his own is pulling, pulling him sideways. He's stumbling and shaking his way through the tunnel the way he came. Until he's back in the cold damp of the basement.
He feels like he's going to throw up.
Castiel's still holding his hand, like he's afraid Sam might fly apart, or fall down, or lose it completely...again.
"I don't have a problem with small spaces," Sam says. The back of his neck is damp and cold and there's no moisture in his mouth at all. Pulse thudding so hard he thinks he really might throw up after all.
Castiel doesn't say a word. He steps forward and lays a hand against his forehead. The panic drains out of Sam and his chest stops feeling like it's going to rip open. The nausea's gone completely. Sam's just left feeling cold, and more than a little pathetic.
"I never used to have a problem with small spaces," he says quietly.
Castiel leads him away from the hole, and Sam all but falls into an old lawn chair propped against the wall.
"It's not really a big thing, I guess, when I was - where I was. I'm lucky, right? If that's all I get. This and the nightmares."
Castiel doesn't speak but Sam thinks he can read his expression well enough.
Sam shakes his head. "Fuck, I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for." Castiel's still holding his hand, fingers careful and reluctant to let go. Or maybe that's Sam. Maybe Sam's the one who wants to feel like he has someone there to stop him flying apart, just for a while.
Sometimes Sam forgets just how strong Castiel is.