Summary: Four sides of wood, small and cramped, six feet under and little air to breathe. This was just great. Where the hell was Sam when he needed the guy? During season 2 somewhere.
Disclaimers: I don't own Supernatural.
When Dean wakes up, it is not to the softness of the bed he had been resting on. Whatever he was lying on was hard, and it was cold. Not freezing cold, but just… cold. He opened his eyes.
Darkness. He stretched out a hand but did not get very far. Wood. The sides. Wood. He was lying on wood. His breath quickened against his will. No fucking way. There was no fucking way. But the size of the box, or could he really call it a box, and the feeling of coldness around him, no doubt coming from the outside of this thing.
He was lying in a fucking coffin.
Before he could start panic, Dean took a deep breath, closed his eyes and lay back his head from where it had been resting, trying to remember. He and Sam had been finishing a hunt and gone back to their motel for a good night's sleep before moving on. He had fallen asleep pretty quickly, and had no memory getting in here.
Great. Just fucking great. He opened his eyes again, ignored the wetness in his eyes, ignored the hammering of his heart. Sam. Was Sam alright? He had to know if Sam was alright. The younger man had been in the same room, slept in the same room just feet away from him. For all he knew, Sam could be lying in a coffin as well. No, no such thoughts. Sam was okay, Sam was just fine, it was just Dean who had to get out and kill whoever put him in a fucking coffin.
First things first. Was he really underground? Dean reached up to touch the wood, banged on it. Solid. Earth on top of it. The sides too. Fuck. He was buried. He should have known. It was near winter, and the coldness was in the earth too. This was not good. He felt panic settle in but willed it away. He searched his pockets, but what a surprise, his phone was not there. It was either in the motel room or thrown away.
"Jackass!" he shouted, just to get rid of some steam. "When I get to you fucker, I'm gonna rip you apart!"
He felt on the wood again, wondering how deep he was buried. Shallow, or real funeral-style? He was not sure he was going to enjoy digging himself up if it was funeral-style.
"Sam!" he tried. Nothing. "Sammy!" He already knew it was useless, but still kept on trying. He felt tears burn his eyes but refused to let them fall. There was no way he was going to let them fall. He had faced near-impossible situations before, this was just another one.
But somehow it was different. His limbs were shaking the tiniest bit, he was fucking buried in the ground and it was getting more difficult to breathe. No air, no breathing. No breathing, no strength. No strength, slow death.
"Dammit," he said, no anger in his voice anymore, the tiniest bit of a plea in it. "Sammy… fuck, this is so not the right time for this shit. Sammy!"
Why he was still yelling he did not know. It felt good. But it was stupid, because the air was not going to last forever. Still, it felt good. Gave him false hope. A bit of hope, that someone might hear him… wherever he was.
Who had buried him here anyway? An enemy? Well, he got quite a few of those. Someone connected to the last job? That was just a fucking spirit, nothing else. Family-member that wanted that crazy lady to haunt the home? Perhaps. The family seemed a bit whacked the whole bunch of 'em. Plus he had been pretty rude to the remains of that whacky family. So they had probably buried him for the sake of revenge. Yes. That sounded completely logic. Maybe. Perhaps. He did not know. Not that many things that happened to him and Sam were perfectly logical.
"Great. Fucking great. Why the hell am I thinking about that now? Someone, help!" Dean took a few breaths and decided if he was not getting help, he simply had to dig himself out. If he could break this stupid coffin that is. It was made pretty good, no cheap fucker. No matter where he hit nothing bulged, nothing gave in. He felt himself getting weaker and hated it. Why the hell did he get weaker? Less oxygen in his system? Most likely. He did not have to like it though.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, nice and cool, man, take it nice and cool." He was not so good at following his own advice, hearing his ragged breath. He could not move, he could not destroy the fucking coffin, he was too weak to dig himself up anyway and the oxygen was quickly escaping.
Dean hit the coffin's roof once more, hating the walls yet loving them. Without them he would be dead, suffocated by the earth he was buried in. But the mere facts he was inside of them made him angry, it showed him he had been caught unaware, he had not been able to protect himself nor Sam. Somehow, he felt the latter was more important. It always was. Sam before himself, always and ever.
"This is not the time," he whispered. "Come on, man, you're going to die down here unless you do something." But he was not moving. He scraped against the wood with his nails, feeling light-headed and his breaths were shallow. He was unconsciously trying to save air but for what? Dean let his eyes fall close and prepared for the end… whenever it would come.
Shovel. Digging. Earth thrown to the side. Dean's eyes opened wide in the small, dark space.
"Sam!" he shouted. He heard a muffled answer, the shovel moved quicker. This time the tears slipped down without him noticing, and he knew he wore the silliest grin through time. He did not care. Sam was on his way, and the younger man would probably allow him to smile like this. "Sammy!"
It was freaky listening to a guy digging you up from the ground but Dean did not linger on it for long. He closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him, the sound of rescue. He was lucky to have his little – or rather tall – brother who worried about where he was and if he was okay. And, if he disappeared without a trace in the middle of the night, Sam had a right to worry.
The thoughts having driven him to distraction, now pushed aside as the shovel hit the coffin, hard. Dean felt more than dizzy due to the lack of air, but still could not help but shout Sam's name again.
More hurried now, scraping sounds of Sam removing the earth from the coffin, then a yanking that made the whole coffin move a bit but not the lid to open. Dean helped next time, pushing the best he could from his position and the lid sprang open.
Gulping in fresh air, he stared up at Sam's white face and then he was hauled up into Sam's arms, the younger of them nearly sobbing with relief.
"I thought… I called for you and you stopped answering, I thought… oh god, Dean…"
Dean managed to get up on arm around Sam's back, feeling the dizziness go back a bit but not completely. He still gulped in more air.
"Come on, Sammy, help me up," he murmured a little later. "I don't want to be here longer than necessary."
His brother was quick up on his feet, pulling Dean with him. The older one managed to climb out the hole himself, but felt his arms shake. Well… he had a little while ago been buried alive. He had the right to be a bit shaken up.
"How did you find me?" he asked.
"Well, since we met the crazy family at the cemetery after we burnt the remains and I saw they had a grave ready, when you were gone… I didn't think somewhere else. I got here, saw the grave covered and started digging. Then I heard your voice, which by the way freaked me out. Don't do that again."
"What, don't get my ass snatched by family Crazy and thrown down into a hole? Don't worry, I wasn't planning to let that happen again."
"Good," Sam replied as he stood up and looked down at the grace. "Come on, can you stand?"
"I'm fine," Dean said and got up. "Wow." His head decided to spin 180 and he grabbed onto Sam as he stumbled.
"Fine? Yeah right, like I'll believe that," Sam muttered as he held onto Dean. "Come on, let's just ditch town."
"What, no more sleeping?"
"I packed everything, it's all in the car."
Sam got one arm around Dean's waist, pulled his older brother's arm around his shoulder and helped him over to the Impala. When Dean did not protest at being placed on the passenger seat Sam got a bit worried. He gently took his brother's head in his larger hands and said:
"Dean, you okay, bro?"
"Dizzy," the older man mumbled. "Just need a few minutes."
"Go to sleep, Dean, it's okay, I got it."
Once Sam got into the car he reached to the backseat and grabbed Dean's leather jacket. He gently placed it around Dean, could not resist laying one hand on Dean's head where it was lolling against the window.
"Fine, Sammy. Drive."
Sam smiled before turning the engine on.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Anywhere but this fucked-up place," Dean muttered. "And with a good breakfast."
Hope you enjoyed!
Until another time,