With shaking hands, he drops it and opens his laptop. Today’s random image on the screen saver is a meteor shower. Figures. Clicks and sees the last website he’d had up and that’s it. He can’t make sense of anything on the page except for the pictures.
Because he can’t read.
He stares for a few more seconds, then shoves the laptop to the floor, because his breath his coming faster and faster now, sweat is dripping from his hairline. He pulls up his knees and leans back against the headboard, can feel the knot in his throat and the stinging in his eyes but doesn’t fight them.
Sam starts to cry, and then he’s sobbing, heaving in big breaths when he can, his face streaked with tears and snot and he feels like he won’t ever stop.
He’s seen, he thinks, everything scary that can possibly exist.
None of them are more terrifying than not being able to read.
So he shakes and he weeps and he has no idea how long he’s been lying there but he knows he has to get back to the bunker. He’s not far, but -
Surely there are people who can’t read and still drive a car? Right?
Sam doesn’t know if he can walk to the bathroom without being able to read. If he can keep breathing without being able to read.
He has to do it. He’s not calling Dean. Everyone thinks Dean’s the one who knows every highway and back road in the lower 48, they don’t know that when paper maps were the only navigation tool available Sam spent all of his childhood learning them because his brother and his dad got motion sickness if they tried to read in the car.
Sam doesn’t need exit signs or state road mile markers. He’ll be fine (except that he is so incredibly not fine at all), he’ll make it.
He’ll make it and then he’ll call Cas, and then Cas will do that thing where he touches Sam’s cheek and calms his down, and then Cas will fix it.
RE: Filled 2/2 Taken
Because he can’t read.
He stares for a few more seconds, then shoves the laptop to the floor, because his breath his coming faster and faster now, sweat is dripping from his hairline. He pulls up his knees and leans back against the headboard, can feel the knot in his throat and the stinging in his eyes but doesn’t fight them.
Sam starts to cry, and then he’s sobbing, heaving in big breaths when he can, his face streaked with tears and snot and he feels like he won’t ever stop.
He’s seen, he thinks, everything scary that can possibly exist.
None of them are more terrifying than not being able to read.
So he shakes and he weeps and he has no idea how long he’s been lying there but he knows he has to get back to the bunker. He’s not far, but -
Surely there are people who can’t read and still drive a car? Right?
Sam doesn’t know if he can walk to the bathroom without being able to read. If he can keep breathing without being able to read.
He has to do it. He’s not calling Dean. Everyone thinks Dean’s the one who knows every highway and back road in the lower 48, they don’t know that when paper maps were the only navigation tool available Sam spent all of his childhood learning them because his brother and his dad got motion sickness if they tried to read in the car.
Sam doesn’t need exit signs or state road mile markers. He’ll be fine (except that he is so incredibly not fine at all), he’ll make it.
He’ll make it and then he’ll call Cas, and then Cas will do that thing where he touches Sam’s cheek and calms his down, and then Cas will fix it.
First he’ll have to stop crying.