There was a thing going around tumblr about Dean digging himself out of his grave and it devolved into a discussion of how John probably made him practice. It spawned a fic. This will be short, and there's more Cooking with Gas coming, don't worry.
Dean never saw it coming.
One minute, he was leaving a salt and burn with his dad, job well done, the next minute he was on his back, staring at the night sky six feet above him.
"Dad?" he called out, blinking in confusion. The back of his head hurt, he must have smacked it on something when he fell. He's weaponless, he's dizzy, almost like being drunk, there's no response from John, and Dean realizes he's laying in an open grave. His heart quickens, and he's suddenly freaked, and wants to get the hell out of the hole.
The first shovel-full of dirt rains down on him, and he really starts freaking out. Dean scrambles to get to his feet, but the dirt is coming faster, and he's disoriented, probably from hitting his head, and he's having quite a bit of difficulty getting to his feet.
"Dad! Dad, help me!" he screams. There's no answer, just a never ending flow of dirt.
Dean's in a full blown panic, his breath ragged and frantic, fingers clawing at the dirt walls. He can't get his legs to cooperate, he can't get to his feet, holy fuck, he thinks, I'm being buried alive! Where the fuck is Dad?!
His legs are almost fully covered, dirt over his chest, and he cannot get up. It's a sickening feeling, when the realization that he's been drugged hits him. That's why he can barely move. They've given him some sort of sedative.
Holy shit, if I'm drugged and in a hole, what the hell happened to Dad?
Dean's heart is pounding, he's going to have a friggin' panic attack, then John Winchester's head appears over the edge of the pit.
"Dad! Dad, you're alright? Get me out of here, please, Dad, get me out of here!"
John's face is unreadable.
"We'll start with just dirt, Dean, but next time, you'll be in a box. This is important, and you need to be able to get yourself out of situations like this, son. I won't always be around to help you. Cover your face with your shirt. The drug will wear off shortly, then start digging yourself out."
"What? Dad, get me out of here!"
John's face is hard and grim. "Cover your face, Dean, this is your last chance." John holds another shovel-full of dirt over the hole.
"Dad! Dad, please don't do this, please don't do this! Dad I can't do this, Dad please, please!"
John hefts the shovel, and Dean only has a second before he's yanking his shirt up over his face and the dirt is falling over his head.
He does his best to calm down, as the dirt continues to drop onto his body. The cloth over his face is growing damp with what he quickly realizes are tears. Sound slowly falls away, dropping off into muffled thumps, then even that is gone.
It's silence in the hole. Total, dead silence, and unrelenting darkness.
Panic rises in him again, and he's overwhelmed with the need to get out. His lungs stutter, he's finding it nearly impossible to breathe, even though the rational part of his brain knows there's still air pockets in the dirt.
He's starting to regain movement in his legs, and Dean starts clawing frantically at the dirt. He's got to get out. He has to get out.
Forcing his arms upward, he grabs into the soil, trying to pull himself up. If he can get on his feet, he can push out of the dirt, he can climb out.
In theory, it should work.
But the panic is building, his heart is pounding so hard. Dean's fighting for every breath, his lungs are burning.
The terrified part of his brain is warring with the rational side, the side that keeps telling him to calm down and dig himself out. The terrified side of his brain is chiming in with a frantic stream of getoutgetougetoutgetout and Dean's gasping, desperate for air, but he can't get a breath, and if he wasn't already in total blackness, then he would be now, and he passes out.
He's being dragged out of the darkness, a firm grip on his shoulder, and he's tossed to the ground, wheezing, desperately trying to get air into his starved lungs.
Dean rolls onto his back and blinks in the bright early morning sunlight.
"You were down there all night, and I still had to come in and get you."
The disappointment is evident in John's voice. Dean tried so hard, every time he regained consciousness, he fought for the surface until the panic and lack of oxygen knocked him out again.
John's hauling him roughly to his feet, and shoving him in the direction of the Impala. Dean's knees give out, and he collapses.
"Get up, Dean. We need to get back to the motel. Sam needs to go to school."
Dean shakily pulls himself to his feet, and stumbles the last few yards to the Impala, gratefully dropping into the passenger seat.
John says nothing to him on the way back to the motel, but Dean can feel the disappointment radiating off of him.
Sam's up when they get back, dressed and ready for school, but he takes one look at Dean, and his eyes widen.
"Holy shit, you're a mess! What the hell happened?"
"Nothing. Your brother is fine, he just needs a shower. Get to school, Sam."
Sam's face grows stormy, and he looks like he wants to argue.
"It's ok, Sammy. Go ahead and go. Don't want to miss first period, right?" Dean voice is quiet and raspy, strained from the night spent underground.
"You sure you're ok, Dean?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Go."
Sam still has that look on his face, the one that usually means an argument, but he grabs his stuff and goes, turning one last time at the door to look at Dean.
"See you guys later," he mutters, on his way out, shutting the door behind him.
"Get a shower. Get some sleep. We will be trying this again, and as many times as it takes, until you can get your ass out of the dirt. This stuff is important Dean."
John storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and Dean hears the Impala start a moment later.
Slowly pulling off his dirt stained clothes, crumbs of soil falling from his hair with his every movement, Dean can't help how hard his dirty, bloodied hands are shaking.
He makes it as far as the bathroom floor before he collapses, and the dam breaks, a sob ripping from his ragged throat.
