FIC - Withdrawal (for ohsam)
Title: Withdrawal
Characters: Sam. Dean (gen)
Rating: R for language and reference to drug and alcohol use
Summary: a fill for the following prompt on the ohsam 7x17 comment-fic meme: Sam was on some heavy-duty anti-psychotics and sedatives while in the hospital and stopping them abruptly causes him to go into withdrawal.
He’d been out of the hospital for a couple of weeks, taking his last bottle of Klonopin with him. Internet research had told Sam that withdrawal from this kind of medication could be difficult, but he had no way to procure a new prescription, so he did what he always did: planned ahead.
Four milligrams per day had been his dosage, and he knew that was relatively high, but he was prepared. A week before his pills ran out, he cut his dosage in half. Four milligrams to two, so they lasted for twice as long as they normally would have.
Eventually, of course, they were gone. The first day was a bit of a blur. He wasn’t asleep, but not really awake, either. Dean was hovering. Not a surprise. The whole first day wasn’t even over before Dean had moved them from a motel to a cabin he’d scored through one of Bobby’s old contacts.
Even tucked into a comfortable bed in a (relatively) safe place, there was no sleep. Every now and then he’d drift off for 30 or 45 seconds, only to be jolted awake like someone had grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Of course, no one had, that’s just what it felt like. The inevitable panic ensued, increased heartbeat, sweating, racing thoughts. Then, of course, the horrific feeling of realizing the sun had come up and he hadn’t had a minute of sleep.
Coffee. He drank it black now, and lots of it, to try and make himself functional during the day. But nothing changed.
He couldn’t do anything. Could barely even stand, hands shaking and eyes darting around with unending restlessness.
Dean tried. Sam knew he was trying, he pulled out every trick in the book. But nothing worked.
On the second night, Sam downed half a fifth of tequila and passed out.
For an hour.
He woke with a pounding in his head, and the same exceptionally high level of anxiety. No way he was getting back to sleep.
Halfway through the third day, Sam had a compulsion to do something, because sitting still was unbearable. He got up and started scrubbing the small bathroom in the cabin. Within half an hour, it was sparkling clean. But he felt hot, sweat dripping down his face and covering the rest of his body. He hadn’t been able to do it for a couple of days, but looking in the mirror, he realized his face was red and there were swollen spots over his eyebrows and on his cheeks. Hives, kind of. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. Maybe from the heat or the sweating.
Either way, half an hour of activity had drained him completely. By the time Dean had come back with food (which Sam would not eat, no matter what kind of intimidation tactics his brother employed), he found Sam lying on the floor, his face flushed and swollen, covered in sweat.
“You have to tell me what’s wrong, man, come on, I can’t help you if I’ve got nothing to work with. Please, Sam.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I swear, if I could, I would do it. I can’t stay still, because I’m all jumpy, but when I try to do something, I can’t. It’s just the withdrawal from the benzos. It’ll pass. It has to.”
Dean didn’t look as convinced as Sam.
On day seven, when Sam still hadn’t slept and didn’t seem to be improving, Dean suggested they find another doctor.
Sam’s horrified look held him off. “They’re going to think I’m crazy! Lock me up again! What am I going to say? I’m freaking out? And then I’m freaking out about how freaked out I am?”
“You’re not crazy, Sammy. I just didn’t think it would take this long for you to get through the withdrawal. Maybe we ought to be a little more patient?”
Sam laughed, loud and hysterical, his eyes red with dark circles underneath. “More patient. Yes. It can’t go on that much longer. This shit has to be out of my system at some point. It’s been a week almost. Can’t be more than a few more days, right?”
Dean reluctantly agreed. “A few more days. All right.”
On day ten, when Sam still hadn’t slept, despite the epic quantities of alcohol he consumed every night (and why hadn’t Dean been drinking though all this? He didn’t know.), he lost his balance standing in front of the coffee maker and almost hit the floor. Dean was close enough to catch him, but it was enough. Too much. This wasn’t going away.
“I’m taking you to the doctor.”
“Fuck, Dean, no, it’s been almost two weeks, I’ve got to be close. I didn’t go through all this for nothing. Please?”
“I’m sorry, Sammy, I know you don’t want it, but I’m not giving you the option this time. I sold three of my shotguns, we can cover a clinic bill. Now get in the fucking car, or I’ll carry you and you’ll have to nurse me through a fucking herniated disc from lifting your giant ass. I’m not kidding.”
Sam’s willpower was down to nothing at that point, so he went quietly, and let Dean explain what had been going on to the portly and sincere looking physician that saw them.
“What was your original dosage?”
“Four milligrams a day. But I cut down! I knew I was running out so I cut it in half, I thought that would be all right.”
The doctor shook his head. “And how long have you been off the Klonopin?”
“Ten days.”
Dean and Sam had both seen medical professionals raise eyebrows and give them frustrated and/or sympathetic looks before, but this one was even more shocked than most.
“Ten days? And you’re just now making it here? You’re lucky you didn’t end up having seizures and hallucinations, young man.” (Seizures and hallucinations, oh yes, wasn’t Sam lucky to have escaped all that?) “When people step down their dosage of this kind of medication, the usual protocol is to reduce the dosage by .5 milligrams at a time, and by that I mean a month at a time. I realize you thought cutting the dosage before you ran out would help, but basically what you did was four months of reduction in one day. This is not acceptable. It could kill you, and I am not exaggerating.”
It was Dean’s turn to speak up then. “So what are our options here? What do we do?”
“Your brother goes back onto the medication, at his original dose, immediately.”
Sam was incredulous. “But I’ve been through almost two weeks of withdrawal already! I can’t just go back-”
“You can and you will. I’ll get you all the samples I can from our pharmacy and then write you a prescription for the generic, Clonazepam, which is less then fifteen dollars a month. If, at some point, you want to try this again, that’s fine. But you’ll do it as it’s intended, at a pace that’s safe, and under medical supervision.”
Before Sam had a chance to interject again, Dean thanked the doctor for his help, and promised he’d make sure his brother took the medication as prescribed.
In the parking lot of the clinic, Sam swallowed two pills, half a day’s dosage before all this, and within half an hour, his mind was once again clear. It was a relief and a curse at the same time. “I’m a fucking junkie, Dean.”
“Not the first time”, Dean responded, before realizing how hurtful and insensitive his words were. “And hey, I’m a drunk. Right? So, here we are. You take your medicine, I’ll take mine, and everything’s going to be fine.”
With his brain finally functioning again, even if a bit slowly, Sam responded, “Promise?”
Dean gave the only answer he could, the only one he’d ever been able to give his baby brother in response to that question. “Of course. I promise.”
Characters: Sam. Dean (gen)
Rating: R for language and reference to drug and alcohol use
Summary: a fill for the following prompt on the ohsam 7x17 comment-fic meme: Sam was on some heavy-duty anti-psychotics and sedatives while in the hospital and stopping them abruptly causes him to go into withdrawal.
He’d been out of the hospital for a couple of weeks, taking his last bottle of Klonopin with him. Internet research had told Sam that withdrawal from this kind of medication could be difficult, but he had no way to procure a new prescription, so he did what he always did: planned ahead.
Four milligrams per day had been his dosage, and he knew that was relatively high, but he was prepared. A week before his pills ran out, he cut his dosage in half. Four milligrams to two, so they lasted for twice as long as they normally would have.
Eventually, of course, they were gone. The first day was a bit of a blur. He wasn’t asleep, but not really awake, either. Dean was hovering. Not a surprise. The whole first day wasn’t even over before Dean had moved them from a motel to a cabin he’d scored through one of Bobby’s old contacts.
Even tucked into a comfortable bed in a (relatively) safe place, there was no sleep. Every now and then he’d drift off for 30 or 45 seconds, only to be jolted awake like someone had grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Of course, no one had, that’s just what it felt like. The inevitable panic ensued, increased heartbeat, sweating, racing thoughts. Then, of course, the horrific feeling of realizing the sun had come up and he hadn’t had a minute of sleep.
Coffee. He drank it black now, and lots of it, to try and make himself functional during the day. But nothing changed.
He couldn’t do anything. Could barely even stand, hands shaking and eyes darting around with unending restlessness.
Dean tried. Sam knew he was trying, he pulled out every trick in the book. But nothing worked.
On the second night, Sam downed half a fifth of tequila and passed out.
For an hour.
He woke with a pounding in his head, and the same exceptionally high level of anxiety. No way he was getting back to sleep.
Halfway through the third day, Sam had a compulsion to do something, because sitting still was unbearable. He got up and started scrubbing the small bathroom in the cabin. Within half an hour, it was sparkling clean. But he felt hot, sweat dripping down his face and covering the rest of his body. He hadn’t been able to do it for a couple of days, but looking in the mirror, he realized his face was red and there were swollen spots over his eyebrows and on his cheeks. Hives, kind of. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. Maybe from the heat or the sweating.
Either way, half an hour of activity had drained him completely. By the time Dean had come back with food (which Sam would not eat, no matter what kind of intimidation tactics his brother employed), he found Sam lying on the floor, his face flushed and swollen, covered in sweat.
“You have to tell me what’s wrong, man, come on, I can’t help you if I’ve got nothing to work with. Please, Sam.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I swear, if I could, I would do it. I can’t stay still, because I’m all jumpy, but when I try to do something, I can’t. It’s just the withdrawal from the benzos. It’ll pass. It has to.”
Dean didn’t look as convinced as Sam.
On day seven, when Sam still hadn’t slept and didn’t seem to be improving, Dean suggested they find another doctor.
Sam’s horrified look held him off. “They’re going to think I’m crazy! Lock me up again! What am I going to say? I’m freaking out? And then I’m freaking out about how freaked out I am?”
“You’re not crazy, Sammy. I just didn’t think it would take this long for you to get through the withdrawal. Maybe we ought to be a little more patient?”
Sam laughed, loud and hysterical, his eyes red with dark circles underneath. “More patient. Yes. It can’t go on that much longer. This shit has to be out of my system at some point. It’s been a week almost. Can’t be more than a few more days, right?”
Dean reluctantly agreed. “A few more days. All right.”
On day ten, when Sam still hadn’t slept, despite the epic quantities of alcohol he consumed every night (and why hadn’t Dean been drinking though all this? He didn’t know.), he lost his balance standing in front of the coffee maker and almost hit the floor. Dean was close enough to catch him, but it was enough. Too much. This wasn’t going away.
“I’m taking you to the doctor.”
“Fuck, Dean, no, it’s been almost two weeks, I’ve got to be close. I didn’t go through all this for nothing. Please?”
“I’m sorry, Sammy, I know you don’t want it, but I’m not giving you the option this time. I sold three of my shotguns, we can cover a clinic bill. Now get in the fucking car, or I’ll carry you and you’ll have to nurse me through a fucking herniated disc from lifting your giant ass. I’m not kidding.”
Sam’s willpower was down to nothing at that point, so he went quietly, and let Dean explain what had been going on to the portly and sincere looking physician that saw them.
“What was your original dosage?”
“Four milligrams a day. But I cut down! I knew I was running out so I cut it in half, I thought that would be all right.”
The doctor shook his head. “And how long have you been off the Klonopin?”
“Ten days.”
Dean and Sam had both seen medical professionals raise eyebrows and give them frustrated and/or sympathetic looks before, but this one was even more shocked than most.
“Ten days? And you’re just now making it here? You’re lucky you didn’t end up having seizures and hallucinations, young man.” (Seizures and hallucinations, oh yes, wasn’t Sam lucky to have escaped all that?) “When people step down their dosage of this kind of medication, the usual protocol is to reduce the dosage by .5 milligrams at a time, and by that I mean a month at a time. I realize you thought cutting the dosage before you ran out would help, but basically what you did was four months of reduction in one day. This is not acceptable. It could kill you, and I am not exaggerating.”
It was Dean’s turn to speak up then. “So what are our options here? What do we do?”
“Your brother goes back onto the medication, at his original dose, immediately.”
Sam was incredulous. “But I’ve been through almost two weeks of withdrawal already! I can’t just go back-”
“You can and you will. I’ll get you all the samples I can from our pharmacy and then write you a prescription for the generic, Clonazepam, which is less then fifteen dollars a month. If, at some point, you want to try this again, that’s fine. But you’ll do it as it’s intended, at a pace that’s safe, and under medical supervision.”
Before Sam had a chance to interject again, Dean thanked the doctor for his help, and promised he’d make sure his brother took the medication as prescribed.
In the parking lot of the clinic, Sam swallowed two pills, half a day’s dosage before all this, and within half an hour, his mind was once again clear. It was a relief and a curse at the same time. “I’m a fucking junkie, Dean.”
“Not the first time”, Dean responded, before realizing how hurtful and insensitive his words were. “And hey, I’m a drunk. Right? So, here we are. You take your medicine, I’ll take mine, and everything’s going to be fine.”
With his brain finally functioning again, even if a bit slowly, Sam responded, “Promise?”
Dean gave the only answer he could, the only one he’d ever been able to give his baby brother in response to that question. “Of course. I promise.”