to be saved / to be safe
I’m never gonna be rid of her! Never gonna get her teeth out of my skin!
Sam & Darlin' // angst // 2.5k words
(TW: nonconsensual turning and feeding, violence/assault, blood/gore, self harm, panic attack, nightmare, PTSD/flashbacks, car accident)
(I hc Tank with a stutter. You can read more abt that here and at the end of this post.)
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His vision has blacked out from the blood loss, but he can still hear her muffled voice:
“Drink.”
Fingers wrench open his teeth like unforgiving jaws of life, fracturing the bones of his face in the process. His pained moans of protest, gargled by the trance, are smothered as she pushes the fresh gash on her wrist to his mouth. Scalding blood gushes down his throat and he has no choice but to follow her command.
He swallows. The blood is sharp with desperation. Her desperation. Sam manages to gag at the realization—he can taste her emotions through her blood.
Any fight he has left dissipates.
He’d been clinging onto the slimmest of hopes that it wouldn’t happen. That a stranger would pull over and help. That he’d die before the turning took hold. That Alexis would take pity on him and stop.
It’s too late for any of that now.
This is worse than dying. His body feeds drinks out of his control with a voraciousness he’s never known. He’s trapped between her and the door in his side as her blood ravages through his body like molten metal. He writhes soundlessly, his core contorting into something horrifying. Something jagged and freezing and ravenous.
Suddenly, the blood thins and changes flavor. He still can’t see, but he recognizes the taste of Fredrick, bitter with dread and determination. Sam’s draining him and it makes him sick to his stomach with how natural it feels, how his body knows just how to do it. He knows it’s what Fredrick wants, but it feels so wrong, so disgustingly wrong.
The blood changes again and now it’s Darlin’s tang on his tongue—acrid with terror. Sam screams into their skin, trying to pry himself off but he can’t. Stricken, he wonders if it’s really because he can’t or because he won’t. Why won’t he just stop? He feeds and feeds and feeds, tearing the life from their body like the monster he is, and oh, doesn’t he just love the rush their blood brings—
Sam’s eyes snap open.
It’s not as dark as before. There’s a soft glow to his right.
He looks over, heartbeat hammering in his head.
It’s a moon-shaped night light plugged into the wall.
The wall.
His wall.
He’s at home.
There’s no blood, no blaring car alarm, no grating whispers in his ear to ‘hold still’. Everything is calm and safe.
Still, his heart is thumping like he’s hunting being hunted, so he untangles himself from his blankets and scrambles out of his bedroom.
The old hardwood awakes in creaks under his weight as he barrels downstairs. He briefly considers grabbing his boots but decides against it. His hands are shaking so bad, he’s not sure he’d manage to get them on. Besides, it’ll feel good to run barefoot through the soft grass. That’s all he needs, a wide open space to sprint through until he calms the fuck down.
He yanks open the front door and stumbles back as bright light floods his vision.
“Damn it!” he shouts as he blindly slams the door shut, stomach turning and head reeling from the indirect, mid-day sunlight.
His breathing picks up. He can’t get out. He’s trapped, unable to even leave his house and go on a damn run to clear his head. Panic tightens around his neck like an invisible hand that feels like Alexis’s.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it” he gasps, nails scraping at his throat. His feet carry him mindlessly through the house, searching for a way out. He tries to remind himself that he’s home, but his body is caught in a memory, interpreting everything as if it is happening again. The nausea inching up his throat isn’t from a bad dream but from blood loss. His vision is spinning, not from the sun, but from hitting his head on the steering wheel. And the walls of his home are closing in like the door of his old truck…
Racing into the living room—the largest room in the house—Sam begins frantically shoving the furniture away. He just needs space. Enough space to let his lungs expand. His chest aches, like there’s a knee pressing into the middle of his sternum. Alexis’s knee.
He shoves the side table into a corner, knocking the lamp on top of it to the ground. The sound of it shattering sends Sam collapsing to the floor in fear. His skin convinces him there’s shards of the lamp in his side and he tears his sleep shirt off.
There’s no blood, nothing broken or pierced, but he can feel it cleaving into his abdomen. Right there. It’s right there! Fuck! Why can he feel it if it’s not happening?!? He’s there, he’s in the car, and the door is in him, if he could just get it out! and he has the magic to do it but her teeth are already sinking in and he can’t and his ears are ringing and his heart is pounding and the room is spinning and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe! and he knows he doesn’t actually need to and he doesn’t know what’s worse, not being able to breathe or knowing why he doesn’t need to in the first place, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and he can’t think, can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t do anything, anything! as he cowers on his knees—paralyzed like he’s been tranced.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darlin’ pulls up to the house, parking their bike next to Sam’s truck. Their tired hands fish out their keys as they trudge up the porch steps. Work was mind-numbingly frustrating, but with just a few dozen more steps they can sink into bed next to their mate and pass out. Darlin’ eases the heavy oak door open and steps silently inside, locking the door behind them. They shuck off their helmet, riding jacket, and gloves before finally slipping out of their work boots.
The thick blackout curtains are all drawn per usual, leaving the house in pitch darkness. Darlin’ doesn’t mind. They shift just enough to increase their night vision and move towards the stairs with ease.
They’ve made it a few steps up when something stops them in their tracks. There’s a sound, strange and harsh, coming from deeper in the house. They creep back down the stairs and follow it through the hallway toward the living room. As they draw closer, the sound clarifies into something more discernible: breathing. Fast breathing. Terribly fast breathing.
The end of the hallway is blocked by an overturned armchair. Darlin' moves to climb over it but stops abruptly at the state of the living room beyond.
The stench of fear and sweat stifles the space like a ghost. Every piece of furniture has been slammed against the walls, deep gouges in the lacquered floor revealing the erratic paths they’d taken. Broken ceramic shards are scattered across the hardwood. And in the center of the cleared room is Sam, doubled over on his knees, his ripped blue sleep shirt balled up in his hands. The vibrations of his panicked core are like a live current in the air, making Darlin's hair stand on end. And the sound that led them there—it’s coming from him. Sam is breathing so fast Darlin’ can hardly distinguish one breath from the next, vampirism allowing his lungs to hyperventilate at a frightening speed.
Panic clambers up Darlin’s spine, but they chase it back down with a shudder. Taking a deep breath, they clamber over the armchair and crouch down at the edge of the room.
“SSam?” they ask, their voice quiet.
He flinches but otherwise leaves them unacknowledged.
“SSam, it’s okay. I’m here,” Darlin’ assures him softly. “WWhat's going on? WWhat do you nnneed?”
“…
…make it stop,” Sam gasps, “please.”
Eyes stinging at the broken plea, Darlin' rises slowly to their feet. “O-okay,” they say. “I’ll b-be right b-b-back. I p-promise.”
Darlin’ climbs back over the armchair and hurries down the hallway, mentally going over the grounding techniques their therapist has been trying to get them to do. Senses. They remember that senses help with panic attacks. Well, they hope it’s a panic attack and not some magical or vampiric affliction they know nothing about. Shit. They’re not a healer. What if they’re wrong? What if they make things worse? What if they—no. This is a panic attack. They’ve only ever seen Sam have one before this and it hadn’t been nearly as bad, but Darlin’ has had plenty of their own. If they’re wrong, they’ll deal with that then. But for now, this is a panic attack. Alright. Senses. Touch, taste, sight, sound, smell.
Smell. That seems the least invasive, the least overstimulating. They can work with that. They rush into the kitchen and grab a bag of coffee grounds, spilling some on themself in their haste as they head back to the living room.
“Hey, uh, I b-brought something that mmmight help,” they say as they climb back over the chair. “C-Can I t-t-touch?”
Sam’s muscles tighten as if he expects a fight, the sight of which rips a hole in Darlin’s heart. Only after the Inversion had they seen him so scared. Or so small. And even then…
They take his response as a no.
“Hey, hey, that’s okay. I’ll just mmmove this a b-b-bit c-closer,” they murmur, inching the bag of grounds across the floor, “b-but I wwwon’t t-touch.”
Darlin’ pushes the bag as close as it seems Sam will allow as he shrinks slightly away at the approaching sound. Sweat drips down his body. His skin interprets the feeling as blood. A strangled sound gurgles up his throat as he lets go of his torn shirt and frantically scrubs his hands over his face and chest. Darlin’ backs away at the sudden movement, controlling their own breathing to keep from panicking themself.
“SSam…SSam, it’s okay. You’re safe. Just…f-focus on wwhat you smell, okay?” Darlin’ says, “WWhat do you smell?”
Sam slams his hands on the ground, nails digging into the wood. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to focus on their words as pins and needles prickle through his heaving body. Darlin’ sounds like they’re underwater. What did they say? What can he...smell?
He can smell his own sickly sweat. He can smell Darlin’s anxiety, sour like battery acid. Like melting plastic. Like his truck burning. But he can…he can smell something…earthy? Warm. Something that tugs up memories like a blanket.
His breathing slows slightly. Cracking his eyes open, Sam spots the bag about a foot away. When he reaches for it, his shaking hand knocks it over, scattering the grounds across the floor. He grasps wildly at a handful, feels the familiar grit.
“There you - - go,” Darlin’ breathes, “just f-focus on that. You’re doing great, b-baby.”
Sam clenches the grounds in his hands. Between labored breaths, he rasps, “I had a nightmare.”
They wince. “I’m so sorry b-baby. Seems lllike it wwas a b-bad one.”
“Fuck! I’m never gonna be rid of her!” Sam cries, chest burning, “Never gonna get her teeth out of my skin!”
Darlin’s face hardens into something cold and dangerous. “- - Alexis,” they mutter, her name rancid in their mouth.
His head nods furiously. He begins to lose any small control he’d gained over his breathing as the words tumble out: “I was back there. It was happenin’ again. I couldn’t stop her. I tried and I couldn’t stop her and her blood was in my mouth and I couldn’t stop her and I couldn’t stop myself! I couldn’t stop and then it was Fredrick-it was Fredrick and I didn’t stop and then it was-it was you and I didn’t stop. I didn’t fuckin’ stop! I just kept feedin’ and feedin’ and I wouldn’t stop! Fuck! I-I can’t-I can’t-I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I can’t-fuck, it’s like I’m disappearin’. I can’t feel anything-it’s all-it’s all numb—Tank, please, I-I-I can’t stop-can’t-can’t—”
“T-T-Touch? C-Can I t-t-touch?” Darlin’ pleads.
“No! I don’t-I don’t want to hurt you!” Sam shrieks, tearing at his skin to keep himself from reaching out for them.
“You wwon’t, SSam,” Darlin’ says, confidence steeling their voice despite the hurt his words bring. “I knnow you wwon’t. Trust mme.”
He sobs against the urge to run. He’s trapped and he’s terrified to hurt them, but he’s hurting and they’re so close, they’re right there and he trusts them more than he trusts himself, more than anyone, and he wants nothing more than to be held by them. Breathless, he shakes his head yes and Darlin’s arms are around him in an instant. He won’t dare let himself touch them back, but he allows Darlin’ to cradle him, their fingers rubbing gentle circles into his skin like he’s fragile. Like he’s not dangerous. Like he’s not deadly.
“Aren’t you scared?” he gasps.
“Of wwhat?”
“Me!”
Shock steals their words away for a moment.
“...of you?”
Tremors wrack his body as he nods. Darlin’ tries to look at his face, but he turns it away.
“Of what I am…what I’ve done…what’s been done to me.” He wants to flay off his skin, wants them to see how corrupted his very foundation is. He’s been fooling them and he’s been fooling himself, thinking he could ever be normal, be safe.
Grief threatens to overtake Darlin’ like a rising river threatens a levee. But they stay strong against it, arms tightening around him as they state firmly, “NNo. NNNever. I’m nnot scared of you.”
“How can you say that?” Sam asks incredulously. He can feel his vampirism knitting his torn skin back together and the sensation makes him want to tear himself apart all over again.
“Easily. I c-can say it easily. It’s llllike saying I lllove you. There’s nno fight in it. It t-takes nnothing at all,” they assure him.
“But how? After what you went through—”
“You’re nnot Q-Q-Quinn.”
There’s fire in their voice now. Not scorching, there’s not enough heat to burn. But it’s bright and fierce; they don’t know how else to be when they’re protecting him, even from himself.
“You’re nnot him. And you’re nnot - - Alexis. You’re nnothing lllike them. You’re k-kind and gentle and good. B-Being a v-vampire doesn’t t-take that away.
I lllove you, SSam. NNo, I don’t lllove wwhat happened to you. I fucking wwish that nnever happened to you. I wwwish you’d nnever b-b-been hurt. B-B-But I lllove you, and that mmeans I lllove all of you. In-Including the p-p-parts of you that you hate.”
He wants to believe them, needs to.
“This feeling wwill p-pass, mmy lllove,” Darlin’ assures him, “I p-promise.”
Sam knows those words. They’re the same words he’s told Darlin’ when the roles are reversed, when Darlin’ is panicking and he’s the one trying to convince them that everything is okay, that he still loves them.
He finally allows himself to face Darlin’, bracing for pity or deceit. Instead, he’s greeted with a gaze that rivals the sun in its warmth.
Darlin’ smiles at him, soft and gentle, and the ache in his chest fades. “That’s it,” they murmur, leaning their forehead against his, “just b-breathe.”
Sam realizes his breathing has slowed. It’s still fast but it’s not racing out of his control. He manages to wrangle it further, forcing his lungs to push and pull the air slower and slower. He matches Darlin’s breathing, letting their rhythm become his own, and it feels like coming home.
“You’re safe,” Darlin’ exhales.
Sam breathes the words in and allows himself for a moment to believe they're true.
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taglist: @sunsickcrab @lookitseddie @viperx5
**In Tank's dialogue, ... represents an intentional pause, - - represents a block in sound caused by their stutter, and — represents an interruption caused by something other than their stutter. I'm always open to feedback on how to better represent/write stutters. <3**