#Their anxiety was too powerful it manifested and took over the sanity slot

[teardropwolf]

Drops my self insert

Health: 150 , Hunger: 100 , "Stress": 200

-Animal person -doesn't like being alone (stress is always increasing if no other people in world) -Starvation doesn't hurt right away -mental health is different (stress/anxiety). -hates touching gross/slimey things

"Favorite" food: fruit medley

Info below: (it may be lengthy, oops)

Feels better around animals. Their stress lowers when near them. Tames beefalo a bit faster. Can tame tallbirds that they raise. Animals that usually run away from the survivors don't run away from them unless they hit them. Critters in their inventory lower their stress. Because they are an animal person, killing animals increases their stress (regardless who kills them.) They just don't like seeing animals die even if it's necessary.

When their hunger runs out, there's a small amount of time  before it starts to drain their health. It takes about 15 seconds.

When it comes to "stress."(I know what sanity is in dst, I just wanted something different for them.) They take damage if it's too high. Their stomach is also "full" when it's high. World looks more like scribbles when it's high too. When stress is high, they are not good at attacking or working. They are able to attack and work regularly as long as it doesn't get "high enough." They also won't eat if stress is high.

They get very stressed out when picking up gross/slimey things. Includes manure, any form of rot, slurtle slime, honey(it's sticky,) etc.

They don't mind being wet, so they don't get stressed from wetness. They do hate having to deal with their glasses getting messed up from being wet, so they are completely neutral to wetness.

It takes a while for heat to affect them. They hate the cold, and freeze easily. Low temperature that can seem managable to the others is cold for them. They prefer sitting by the fire pit during the winter. They like to stay put, and refuse to move away from the warmth. Unlessitstheholidaysthentheyllmakeanexception

Voice: Clarinet (Using the high notes. sometimes goes loud to soft because they struggle with their voice volume sometimes.)

A few extra things:

They don't like eggs and will not eat them. Includes eggs, tallbird eggs, tall scotch eggs, bacon and eggs, plain omelette, breakfast skillet, barnacle nigiri. Other than that, they'll eat anything.

They have apiphobia. They are terrified of bees. Being near one(or their hives) always increases stress. (Even the sound of their buzzing stresses them out.)

They do know how to swim and can do so if needed. They don't really want to though, and prefer to do it only when they have to.

They leave their big bag of belongings in their tent. They tend to instead use a backpack since they don't want something happening to their things. The backpack they use is the rabbit rucksack!

They love soft things! It helps with stress. Soft textures are their favorite! So are smooth textures.

They start off very shy and cautious at first, but slowly warm up to the other survivors. Going from feeling really bummed, low, and reserved to... being in a better mood. They smile a lot more, speak their mind more and are less hard on themself.

They picked up on the fact that everyone's names start with w. They decided to go by "Weardrop." It was just for shits and giggles, but then they ended up actually liking it and it just stuck.

They're from our modern times. They got pulled into the Constant three days ago. They were gifted their grandparents' antique radio when their grandparents moved away. They take advantage that they're from the modern times by confusing the survivors with our modern slang.

[fogsrollingin]

Title: not even duct tape & safety pins  Author: fogsrollingin  Fandom: Supernatural Story details: Sam & Dean, rated PG-13, 2.7k words, chapter 1/?  Summary: The minute Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, mind and spirit combined to manifest as something barely human. Feral. Death vanished, Dean struggled to hold a screaming, newly re-souled Sam down on the cot, and ever since he's been praying for his little brother to come back to him. A/N: my next entry for @whumptober2020! Prompts filled are No 24. "You’re not making any sense" 😵 and No 18. "Paranoia" 👀. This chapter is the first of many that will continue to be updated after Whumptober.  Tumblr link to Chapter 2 || Available on AO3

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ not even duct tape & safety pins, ch 1 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Sam used to know how easy it was to break zip-ties.

Not now.

Dean discovered this fact while gently experimenting with Sam; he was long past the sentimental aspects of reuniting with his brother.

He focused on the here and now a lot more, if not for practicality than for the sake of his sanity. He studied Sam now, carefully tested him sometimes as he dwelt in the basement panic room.

It had been six weeks since Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, his mind and spirit combining to manifest as something barely human. Feral. Six weeks. Bobby and Dean had been diligently tracking Sam's "recovery" trying to convince themselves it wasn't devastating to witness their graphed plateau lasting longer and longer.

Today Dean figured he might as well see if some hunter's tricks could jog Sam's memories. So, a harmless experiment, the zip-ties.

Sam was always naked, unable or unwilling to clothe himself. He was always warm though. Dean made sure of that. He and Bobby monitored the thermostat religiously. It was harder to keep him clean. Sam gnashed his teeth and growled threateningly but at least he never attacked when Dean cornered him with warm wet towels to wipe off the sweat, grit and grime Sam managed to get on his skin rolling around the floors, stalking along the walls, toppling old furniture. Sure, Sam might fritz into a panic as Dean approached, screaming and terrified, but he never hit or kicked and Dean would rub him down, his ears ringing by the end of it.

Dean tried to outlast his brother's screams whenever he came near so many times. Tried to stay there through it until Sam's throat would go dry, until his vocal chords would seize up, his muscles would relax and his eyes might dull with lassitude. Dean would still be there, soft words and gentle touches and maybe it'd cut a revelation through Sam's mind that he could trust Dean when his guard was down.

But it never happened.

Sammy’s unholy shrieks never stopped until Dean would back away, shaky, the sound echoing in his head. Each time he tried, Dean would last longer than he had before but never longer than Sam could hold out, his little brother's tireless yowls a relentless barrage of mindless alarm and panic. And then every time without fail, when Dean retreated, Sam would instantly go quiet and prowl, wary unblinking eyes staying fixed on him.

It was a tactic, Dean had realized.

Depending on his mood, this knowledge made Dean either furious or on the brink of despair. It was a tactic that worked so well on him. Every time. The desperate, piercing vocals of fear and terror from Sam were never going to be something Dean could ignore.

Today Sam had screeched and shook as predicted while Dean cornered him and put the zip-tie around his bony wrists. When he stepped away, Sam calmed. Dean felt guilty for the dark amusement he felt watching Sam's exaggerated movements looking down, squinting, an aggressive wriggling of his hands trying to part them at the wrist, then the full realization dawning that he was bound; Dean had bound him.

Dean wasn't so amused when Sam looked back up at him, his face ugly with hatred and fury.

Dean never seen his little brother with that look. It was pure and unhinged, a demon's mien, and it stole his breath away.

The look vanished then though, enraged roaring and screaming took its place. Sam ran around and knocked things over and clearly had no recollection how to simply swing his arms down with his elbows tucked to split the stupid thing. He was behaving like an animal caught and trapped and trying to escape with unthinking panic.

Dean didn't remove the ties. He couldn't; he wouldn't bring the sharp pliers near Sam until he calmed down.

Dean and Bobby were worried about Sam near sharp utensils and wouldn't allow it even when they were around and watchful. They just didn't want to risk hurting Sam (or Sam hurting himself) in any way. They knew if he did, Sam wouldn't understand; he might see blood and feel pain and think it was torture, and whatever trust gained between the three of them (and Dean and Bobby had to believe there was some) could be lost.

Sharp objects certainly included razors, and Sam's modest beard stood testament to their concerns. And now, regrettably, so was a zip-tie that Sam couldn't break on his own.

Dean had to leave the room as Sam was really getting underway. His body was a wrecking ball in a tornado when he got like this, crashing through nearly everything in the panic room. Dean swung the heavy door shut, closing watery eyes and sniffing as he slotted the metal viewer open. He opened his eyes to watch, make sure Sammy didn't hurt himself. He also grabbed the pliers off a shelf to the side of the door outside and pocketed them.

Sam raged on, wrists still bound.

Six weeks. In all that time neither Bobby nor Dean had been able to find it in their hearts to bind Sam down - to the cot, for instance, or in a straitjacket. They'd been loathe to even keep him locked in the panic room but they quickly realized leaving him free to the whole house served as a kind of sensory overload for him. He'd freak out over nothing they could discern and there were too many exits to the house - including windows - where a naked Sammy could bolt. And one afternoon just days after the re-souling, that's exactly what happened. Sam had been found shivering, naked on a stack of pallets in the alley behind a Sioux Falls post office. Bobby and Dean had driven like lightning to get there as soon as they heard the dispatch chatter but two deputies were already near the post office and made it to the scene first. Sam snapped and snarled at them when they came too close.  They were at a loss of what to do about him when the Impala swerved into the alley, the two gruff men launching out to take over. Bobby had handled the two deputies as Dean had thrown a blanket over Sam, coaxed him into the Impala.

Shaken and reeling, they had taken Sam down to the panic room and spent hours with him there, patching up his cuts from the window glass he'd shattered when he'd jumped through it, guilty they had to keep him down there but knowing it was the only way to make sure this incident wouldn't be repeated. They did the room up as nice as possible. Power-washed it, got a big box mattress. Soft white sheets. A thick, cushy pillow. Plastic water bottles littered the area too. Dean and Bobby were on a constant cycle of bringing full ones down and the empties up.

Sam seemed completely indifferent about the relocation. Then they noticed a few improvements in his habits which simmered hope. He was using the bed, for example, and where before if Dean forgot to take him into the bathroom he wouldn't be able to make it in time but now Sam got up and used the toilet on his own. That was a big, big win.

So maybe the boundaries of the panic room were a good thing. But bindings had been out of the question. No cuffs, no straitjacket. They couldn't do that to him after what he'd suffered in the cage for eons, after having had his very soul shredded to ribbons by the literal devil. And they noticed that Sam never hurt them and didn't really hurt himself during his tirades so it wasn't actually necessary safety-wise.

They also never drugged him, although Bobby was starting to come around to the idea and Dean wouldn't be too difficult to persuade if things kept going the way they were. Sam needed to calm down sometimes.

But maybe these flimsy zip-ties, the first form of restraint Dean had used on his traumatized brother - but only because he thought Sam would handle them better, get out of them quick - would tucker him out. Maybe he'd shriek and snarl and jump, run, somersault and whatever other acrobatics he could try to reach an exhaustion point that'd get his guard down. Maybe far enough down Dean could catch a glimpse of... him, of Sammy. If he was still in there.

Dean's eyes pricked, his nose ran. It was this grief mingled with paralyzing terror that Sam was gone forever, his immortal soul so permanently scarred and altered there was nothing left of what Dean knew of it.

Dean blinked away tears, steadied his breath, and watched his brother wear himself out. He ended up in a heaving, sweaty heap lying in the corner, whimpering and writhing around, eyes fixed on the white plastic around his wrists in front of him. Despite the giant overhead propellers that served as ventilation, the air down there was still musty, stale, dry. Sam gulped, his breath hitching painfully. He continued to stare at his bindings, twitching and rocking his body on the floor in a mix between anxiety and what Dean figured to be self-soothing repetition.

Dean opened the door then, immediately going to the floor once he stepped inside. Sam didn't growl as much when Dean would do that.

He army-crawled to his brother. Sam shook and pressed deeper into the cement wall where it met the floor. His eyes were alert slits of suspicion as Dean closed the distance.

Sweat broke out over Dean's brow as he crept closer without much of a reaction from Sam. This was a huge first right now. The only other times Dean had made it this close to his brother, Sam was always wild and panicked and Dean was usually trying to restrain him. Sam hadn't been this calm near him since the re-souling.

Dean blanked out his mind, loosened the grip of fear that held him. But he knew any moment, this quiet between them could break apart, fly away off the rails before Dean could even think to do something with it. This was progress. This was magic.

Don't let go, Sam.

Dean reminded himself to breathe.

Sam's hands were bound by flimsy plastic in front of him as he lay on his side, huffing petulantly, his damp-from-sweat hair tangled and splayed out everywhere, beard straggly, lips chapped, but he was maintaining eye contact. His eyes were so clear, so much his little brother that it hurt deep in Dean's chest. Murky green, turquoise, patches of hazel, flecks of gold in brown, all fixed on him as though he were a stranger. Dean yearned to reach out and press the pads of his fingers to the side of Sam's face, smooth his hair, and just keep at it until Sam closed his eyes. Dean was so desperate for just that tiniest, simplest lesson of trust they might be able to experience.

Without taking his eyes off him and before he even knew what he was doing, Dean lifted a hand. Sam jerked back, shaking, looking between Dean and his hand like they were separate entities, one unpredictable and the other a snake uncoiling, rising to strike. Dean could see the countdown to panic so quickly he just went for the closest contact point between them and ended up petting Sam's arm.

It was awkward, maybe even comical if this wasn't such a desperate bid to build trust with a little brother who felt like the embodiment of the word 'trauma' right now. There was no equivalent in the human experience to the time Sam spent in hell with Lucifer. Dean knew this and in his darkest musings he wondered if trying to coax out any semblance of his Sammy was just added trauma. Hadn't he been through enough? Shouldn't Dean just let him rest, give him the necessities of life and otherwise leave the poor man to his own devices?

Dean's gut and heart always rebelled at that direction of thought. So he kept dragging his fingers gently along Sam's skin. Below the elbow, little strokes, barely there, and Sam had let out a yelp of shock and fear at first but he quieted into low breathy whimpers when he realized there was no pain. He stared at Dean's hand, eyes laser focused. He kept his whole body tense, strung like a bow and Dean realized he was doing the same.

Dean forced himself to relax. He gradually turned on his stomach, he let his legs stretch out, all while keeping a gentle watchful gaze on his brother, keeping his two fingers petting Sam's arm in an unbroken, slow rhythm.

After an interminable amount of time doing nothing else, Dean inwardly celebrated when he saw Sam start to take after him in relaxing. The steady strokes were calming, every sweet touch reinforcing Dean's presence as calm, as harmless.

---

There was a demon. It was lying down in front of Sam, petting him after having bound his wrists, and Sam didn't know its name but it was pathetic. It was always coming to him in this new hell, this round metal tube full of garbage. The demon seemed to be his keeper for the moment. Where had Lucifer gone? And what was this thing trying to do, crawling on the floor to him - trick him? Did it think he was that stupid?

The face was nice though, Sam thought detachedly. It was the first unmarred face he'd seen in ages. Another trick, no doubt, but a pleasant one to enjoy for just a moment. Same thing when the creature started touching him, stroking his arm with feather-light pressure, its fingers gentle, eyes wide open, hellish murky pits of... feelings that Sam couldn't place right now but he knew they existed out there somewhere, somewhere he was sure he couldn't touch, somewhere impossible. His heart twinged, his breath got shallow at the feeling of it, the feeling he couldn’t touch.

Sam discovered then that the demon was fast. It moved, cut the cord that bound his wrists so quickly Sam that barely saw the flash of the sharp metal that did it.

Sam made to launch up and scream this demon away again but then the touch came back, quick as anything on his arms and then down to his hands. Sam watched, eyes wide and following every moment of the demon's gentle, simple caresses as though any moment a knife would materialize and slice pain down him just as soft and pretty and elegant.

When it never came, when the demon finally just got up and left, Sam was starting to think the demon must be sick or infirm. There was something deeply wrong with it.

Looking at the door after it, Sam didn't understand the salty water on his cheeks. He rubbed the wet off until his skin was dry but his face still hurt. His body was numb as always. The demon's touches burned though. They haunted him.

---

"Sounds like progress," Bobby concluded after Dean had filled him in. He was leaning against one of his bookshelves. "So what're you being sulky for?"

Dean bit his lip, staring at nothing as he perched on a stack of books against the wall. He clicked his tongue. "Think something might be wrong with his eyes, maybe."

"Why's that?"

Dean shrugged. "He still doesn't recognize me."

Bobby sighed. After a healthy silence honoring Dean's disappointment, he finally spoke.  "People think we see with our eyes. And sure, if we lose our eyeballs, we won't see. But there's another way to disrupt eyesight and every other sense God gave ya."

Dean thought a moment before nodding with understanding. Bobby continued. "Psychological trauma can mess with what you see, hear, smell, taste..."

Dean clenched his jaw and wiped his face with his hands. "Yeah."

“Makes you wonder how much of reality Sam’s actually perceiving right now.”

"And what he remembers," Bobby added significantly. That Sam might not, might never remember Dean went unsaid but they were both thinking it.

Dean shook his head clear. "No. Doesn't matter. He can make new memories of me," he said confidently. But his eyes glistened. Bobby broke out a second bottle of whiskey.

To Be Continued...

Tumblr link to Chapter 2 || Available on AO3 A/N: 😢 Thank you so much for reading! Please like, comment, reblog if you can spare the time 💛🤗 ~ Alex