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Sam can’t stare at his hands for too long. Sometimes, he’ll start to forget they’re his. He’ll get lost in his head and start flipping his hands back and forth, feeling like there’s something else moving them.
It also happens when he looks too long in the mirror. Or when he’s driving, or when someone else spends too long talking. He just forgets to feel his body.
It used to be different. After the cage, it used to be the world that wasn’t real. He used to sit on park benches, observing the world around, and wonder if anything he saw was actually there.
Somewhere along the way, it flipped. He’s confident in the thick, concrete walls of the Men of Letters Bunker. He knows his brother will come running if he yells. Sometimes he even swears he can feel the thrum of the magic, the warding that protects this place.
He doesn’t exactly know when he stopped living in his body.
When he was a kid, it was easy to shrink himself. He was such a small child, he never took up much space anyway. But he hits fifteen and suddenly he’s taller than Dean and Dean never lets him hear the end of it. It’s all shoving his knee aside and snapping at him to move his legs and Dad getting mad that none of his clothes fit anymore.
Maybe it’s always been a problem, he slowly realizes. It would happen occasionally in school. During the classes he forgot to pay attention to, like math, the ones he felt like he already knew everything.
He’d just think. His brain would race so fast it’s like it left him behind. About anything and nothing, he’d go over past conversations and what he should’ve said differently, or future conversations and what he might say during them. About whether or not he’d be able to eat later, if he’d even want to. Stories he might want to work on. What he’d ever do if he managed to leave hunting.
Then suddenly he’s been staring at the wall for ten minutes without actually paying attention and he feels far away from himself. He’d look down at his desk and start doodling on the paper, wondering why his hand doesn’t feel like his.
But it’s not something he ever thought too hard about. He’d get distracted by a call or the cold weather or some ache in his body that reminds him he’s real. He’d forget to even wonder why he was so far away.
Then life went on, and people died and he died and more people died and it was all far too real until he went to hell.
Now, he thinks maybe after Gadreel, it started getting worse. On their longest car rides, when he drives and Dean sleeps, he stares at the endless road, thinking too fast, and he gets that far away feeling again. He’ll look at his hands on the wheel, move them along it, vaguely aware that he’s doing it but not really sure how. Or, when they’re quietly stalking through the woods to track a werewolf, he knows he’s the one moving his legs, but he forgot how to feel it.
When he was younger it was easy to ignore it. It didn’t happen often enough for it to be a problem, he’d get back to normal so fast he barely remembered. But nowadays the feeling sticks around. Sometimes he has to go splash cold water on his face, or dig his nails into his palm to bring himself back into his body. More often than not, it’s only pain that reminds him he’s real.
He knows his head is a dark place. He doesn’t keep weapons in his bedroom anymore for this reason– ‘cause sometimes it gets so strong he considers grabbing the nearest knife and slicing his arm open just to ground himself. These are the nights he locks himself in his bladeless room and puts in headphones to blast music Dean would listen to.
Something about tonight is different. It never comes on when he expects it. He’s alone in the library, and it’s quiet. Maybe his laptop screen is too bright, or it’s simply too quiet.
One minute he’s typing away, and then next second he’s staring at his fingers on the keyboard feeling like they’re not his. The only sound is his breathing, if you don’t count his spiraling thoughts.
He hasn’t been sleeping much, or really eating lately. Maybe that’s why. His body aches all over, but it’s not enough to feel like he’s all there. It moreso provides an overall sense of numbness, and tonight that’s just making it worse. The aches have been consistent enough to fade into the background.
He watches his hands close his laptop. He’s only partially aware of standing and moving through the library, down the stairs and to the sink on the wall. His hand turns the faucet and moves under the water. It’s not cold enough, he just watches it flow and forgets to change the temperature.
He knows it’s him. He knows where he is, but at the same time, he feels far away. Like looking through a screen.
He doesn’t turn off the water before leaving. He moves down the hall and barely notices until he’s barreling into Dean.
“Whoa there, Sasquatch,” Dean grabs him by the arms and steadies him. He can’t feel it through his shirt. “What’s the rush?”
He remembers only at the last second he needs to answer. “Uh, no, nothing, I– uh…” He opens and closes his fist, trying to regain control of his limbs. He forgets to look at Dean, staring somewhere over his shoulder. He’s so far in his head, it’s like it left him behind again.
“You okay?” He’s aware of Dean’s tone, and his eyes shift and he sees Dean’s concerned face. He probably looks freaked out of his mind. Of course Dean would worry.
He glances down at his hands, and his stare lingers a little too long.
“Sammy?”
“Dean, I…” He shakes his head and runs his hands over his face, brushes his hair back. He’s not all there. He’s not quite sure how to get back. An idea occurs to him and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Hey. Punch me.” His voice feels muffled and somehow too loud in his head.
Dean looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “What?”
“Just– I need you to hit me. Please.”
“Dude, I’m not just gonna…”
Sam’s breath stutters in his chest and he’s turning in the hall, the lights glaring down at him. His hand trails along the wall and he’s aware of moving, but it’s like looking at a screen again. He’s not the one doing it.
He can hear the footsteps and Dean’s voice somewhere behind him.
He’s in a bathroom before he realizes it, and his fist flies into the mirror.
The immediate pain is so blinding he forgets all about his head and cries out, sinking to his knees cradling his bloody hand. Glass flies everywhere and his free hand is suddenly squeezing, only making it hurt more.
“Sam, what the actual fuck?”
Dean is kicking glass aside and sitting in front of him, wrenching his bleeding hand away from his own grip. He swears again under his breath again and moves out of his vision .
Sam is panting, feeling the sharp pain all the way up his arm. He doesn’t think about his legs feeling too long or his hands feeling far away. It’s just the waves of pain and nausea.
Dean’s back with a rags, a bowl of water, and a first aid kit. “The hell’s wrong with you?”
“I just–” It’s difficult to talk through the pain, especially when Dean is taking his hand and squeezing it under the rag.
“What’s going on, man?”
He takes some deep, steadying breaths. How does he even talk about this?
“Sometimes I just– ow, fuck, Dean, that hurts.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have punched the damn mirror. Jesus, Sammy. There’s glass all up in here. It’s gonna hurt more while I get these out.”
He sighs a little shakily. “‘S fine. Just do it.”
So Dean gets a pair of tweezers and they sit in a pile of glass as he delicately starts picking them out. And Sam is right there, avoiding looking at his hand as he allows the sharpness to keep him there.
“Talk to me, Sam.”
“I…sometimes I just– start to feel far away. From myself. It’s like I get too aware of my body and it starts to feel like it’s not mine.”
Dean listens with knitted brows, focused on his work. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to…” He vaguely gestures with his hand. “It’s like my body’s not real, and I’m just…floating?”
Dean doesn’t say anything yet, so Sam goes on. “That doesn’t really feel like the right word, but that’s the only way I can describe it. It's like I’m controlling myself through a screen.”
Dean stops a moment and looks up at him. “Wait, is this, like, a…cage thing?”
“No, no, I– it’s happened before that. Since I was a kid.”
“Why’d you never say anything?”
Sam looks down, almost ashamed. “It’s never really been a problem, not till now. It was always pretty easy to shake off.”
“So what’s with the mirror?”
“It’s…the pain? It’s like I have to shock myself back into my body.”
Suddenly Dean’s eyes are trailing up and down his body, searching, and Sam knows he’s wondering how often Sam hurts himself. He dips Sam’s hand into the bowl.
“Cold showers help, usually,” Sam offers up, knowing it doesn’t make him seem less crazy. “It just hasn’t been this bad before.”
Dean’s drying off his hand now. “What brings it on? And how often?”
He gives a side shrug. “Happens a lot when I’m driving, or…when it’s too quiet. Or if I stare at my hands for too long.”
Dean forces out a breath, shaking his head so gently Sam almost doesn’t notice. He starts wrapping Sam’s hand. “So, this has nothing to do with…Lucifer, or the hallucination stuff.”
“Not really. More run-of-the-mill fucked up brain stuff than Our kind of fucked up brain stuff.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
Sam sighs. “Day or two. I kind of…can’t. When it gets like this.”
“Have you eaten?”
Sam just shakes his head at that.
“I hate to break it to you, but this is the kind of shit that gets worse when you don’t sleep. I may not know much, but I know that.”
Sam breathes out a chuckle that’s more like a scoff. “Yeah, yeah.”
Dean finishes wrapping his hand. “Why don’t you go lay down, and I’ll fix you something.”
“Dean, you don’t–”
“Sammy, just shut up and try and get some rest, huh?
Sam rolls his eyes and Dean helps him up. His legs feel semi-steady under him, and he starts towards the door.
“Oh, hey.” Dean starts rummaging through a drawer, then tosses Sam a bottle. “Those will knock you out. Eat first, though.”
Sam scans the label, not really reading it, then glances at Dean. “Thanks.”
Dean leaves the mess to clean up for later, and claps his shoulder as he walks out. “You’ll be alright, Sammy.”