The absence of pain was the most terrifying.
Dean opened his eyes, surprised that he even still had them, and was surprised to see nothing. Maybe they had taken away his senses, leaving him in utter solitude as he went mad. Well, more mad than he was already.
But then he heard his own heavy, labored breathing and he knew that it wasn't the case.
He felt the soft drag of cloth against his skin, something he hadn't felt in what seemd like a millenia. He hoped that there was something- a lighter. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the silver metal, flicking it open and lighting the dark space enough to notice his surroundings.
As if the torturous memories from Hell weren't enough, the feeling of being trapped in a coffin underground - again - was enough to send him into a spiraling flashback.
Dean was ten, Sammy staying with Uncle Bobby while he trained with Dad. They had gone to a clearing in the middle of nowhere, Dean assuming that it would be practice for a salt and burn. When Dad led him out to the hole - already dug with an empty wooden box waiting next to it - Dean's heart started hammering and his breathing sped imperceptibly. "Alright, Dean, put the box down there and get in. I won't always be there to get you out of one of these-" Dean was already shaking, his arms and knees feeling weak as he stumbled over to the light pine box. He would do anything to prove to Dad that he could be a good hunter, and take care of Sammy without messing up. He pushed the box into the grave with that thought in mind, making sure that it didn't fall hard enough to break before he hopped down into the hole and lay in the box. John walked over with the lid to the makeshift coffin, face solemn. Dean knew his eyes were wide with fear as he watched Dad place the top over his body, and he shut his eyes at the first thud of dirt over the top. He broke after ten minutes of being trapped in the dark, slamming on the the lid and screaming for Dad to let him out, please, anything but being trapped in the box. When Dad finally let him out, he was dirty and terrified, enough so that he almost didn't hurt at the disappointed look Dad threw his way.
It took almost all he had to not have a panic attack in the box, because god knew how much oxygen he had available there. His eyes flicked around the boards for a quick way out, finding a loose plank as quickly as he could. He pried at it, dirt falling on his face, but he didn't care, anything to get him out of the box.
It had been two months and three tries since the first coffin Dad had him try to escape from, and Dean was determined to get this one right. When he was told to get into the box in the ground, he complied soundlessly, closing his eyes as though he were sleeping before Dad put the cover on and covered it with dirt. All of the holes that were dug were the standard six foot deep ones used for burials, and he had yet to escape to the surface without help. The first time had been a total disaster, the second and third tries not faring much better. He had done his best to get out until he was running out of air, and shouting hoarsely for help as Dad pulled him out with disappointment and what seemed to be disgust simmering in his eyes. This time would be different, though. It had to be. Dad was taking Sammy, too, this time. He had to show his little brother that he could do it, even if Sammy wasn't watching. The silence was suffocating in the box, and as soon as he heard Dad's muffled voice telling him that he was able to start now, his eyes started flicking around the box, searching for some loose board or plank. It took about thirty seconds before he found one flimsy enough for him to get his shaky fingers to pry away, but he found it and he started pulling apart the coffin to get to the surface. Before dirt filled what breathing space he had, he took a large breath of air that he hoped would last him until he got to the surface. He had never clawed his way through dirt so fast in his life, able to hold in his breath for about a minute before he had to clear a small area large enough for it to fill with the air so he could breathe. It happened about ten times as he dug his way up, small lungs needing air constantly to function. He got to the surface, he knew, when he felt his hands reach nothing but empty air. They were quickly pulled back down to make it easier to get a hole large enough for the rest of his body, but it took him no more than a minute to pull himself up onto the grass, covered in filth and grime and shaking from exertion. Dean blinked the dirt from his eyes, running a hand through his dirty hair as he searched the clearing for Dad and Sammy. They were a ways off, Sammy dozing on the hood of the Impala and Dad watching Dean from afar. He raised a hand and tentatively waved at his Dad, expecting at least a small smile. Dad beckoned for him to come over, and he stood on shaky legs, breath still coming in deep gulps as he regained his wind. Dean didn't know what he was expecting, maybe a slap on the back coupled by a, "That's my boy," but nothing he could ever have expected compared to the cold disappointment that showed in John's eyes as he said in a clipped voice, "Should've gotten out faster. That took you fifteen minutes."
It was the first time Dean thought of him as 'John' instead of 'Dad'.
Dean was out of the grave in five minutes, muscles screaming in protest. He should be dead, by all accounts, especially if Alistair got any input. When he reached the surface, he could do nothing but lay there as the memories resurfaced, and wonder if this was some new punishment Alistair created to put him through more emotional trauma. his voice had been shaky and hoarse, and he knew that he had to contact someone to see if this was real. It was going to be a long day.