A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres 2/?
A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres
Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor. Epilepsy 'verse
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16
Sam wakes up on the floor.
In a moment, he'll remember the argument and realise that he's supposed to be mad at his brother and father but for now he turns blindly towards the hand carding through his hair, the soft voice that murmurs “hey, kiddo” in a way that somehow lets him know he's safe before he knows anything else.
His head pounds and there's a confusing glare of jumbled after-images behind his eyelids, as if he's been staring at things under a bright light and now the shapes are imprinted on his retinas. None of the shadowy figures make sense, nothing does, apart from the smell of gun oil and peanut M&Ms. Dean, his mushy brain supplies sleepily. Dean called him 'kiddo', that means he had a fit. Dad's aftershave filters through the haze next and that triggers the memories of the fight. He's probably lost a chunk off the end - he usually does if the fit is big enough and seeing as he currently feels like he's been hit by a truck, he's guessing this one was pretty bad - but he remembers what it was about; the hunt. The straight-forward, low risk, barely more than reconnaissance kind of hunt that Sam could totally handle if Dad would stop being so unfair and let him come.
Sam lies still for a moment, the rough grain of the carpet pressing against his cheek, breathing in the dingy, familiar smell of dust and ash, and wishes that he didn't have to remember that he's Sam Winchester and he's lying on the floor because his own brain hates him so much that it just sabotaged his chances of convincing Dad that he's up for field action by demonstrating exactly why Dad has never, and probably will never, take him on a hunt.
It's not fair. The first full on grand mal he's had in almost three months and it had to be now, right in the middle of building his case to Dad. To make everything worse, just because epilepsy fucking sucks and loves to make his life hell, the growing dampness in his jeans lets him know that he's pissed himself. Fucking great.
“You back with us, Sammy?”
Sam really wishes he wasn't. He feels like shit and he's mad at Dad for being right about there still being a seizure risk even though his meds have been working (up until now) and he's mad at himself for leaning into Dean's touch so readily when he's mad at his brother, too. Dean may let him drive the car when they're in the middle of nowhere but he's just as reluctant as Dad is to let Sam help them hunt monsters. Even this stupid ghost that hasn't even killed anybody.
He's in the recovery position (of course. It feels like he spends half his life in this position) and it's a struggle to open his eyes, let alone get his arms underneath him enough to push himself up but he does it and he does it without Dad or Dean's help, shrugging off their attempts, even though he feels like collapsing all over again and it makes Dad growl in frustration. Dean says nothing but when Sam sneaks a look at him, he seems hurt, his face twisted with emotions Sam's too tired to figure out.
“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Dad mutters, just in case Sam's dumb enough to think he can continue the argument.
“You never let me do anything.” The words are out before Sam has a chance to think. Apparently he is dumb enough, or maybe he's just too tired to filter his thoughts while he's swaying from the effort of just staying upright, or too angry about being wrapped in cotton wool and tucked away for later use, trapped by Dad's useless promises of mythical cures.
He's so over it. Maybe he could handle things better if Dad would let him join a soccer team or debate club or something but no, Dad says there's no time for that, he needs to study his Latin or work on self-defence or clean the guns even though there's no damn point because it's not like he's ever going to get close enough to a monster to use any of that stuff.
“After I find a cure-” Dad starts, right on cue, and Sam is suddenly and completely sick of hearing it.
“There is no cure!” His own voice makes his head pound but his declaration stops Dad in his tracks so it's worth it. He doesn't look at either of his hovering family members as he stumbles towards the bathroom, half blinded by post-seizure exhaustion. “If there was, we would have found it by now. This is as good as it gets.”
And that's only so long as the medication keeps working so well. Three months without a grand mal is probably a record for him but, knowing his luck, he's probably starting to build up a tolerance and that's why he's currently clutching the bathroom door frame for support as his head spins and his legs threaten to give out beneath him, ruining his plans for a quick door-slamming exit.
“Sammy?” Dean appears at his side, arms reaching out to steady him. It's so Dean. He always wants to help, always wants to keep Sam safe, but Sam's sick of always being looked after. Stubbornly, he pushes off the door frame without help and steps into the bathroom, refusing to look at Dean before he shuts the door in his face.
Chapter Three