Here you go with chapter 2. We're going to stay with Dean for a little longer with this one, just because he's got the interesting perspective right now.
On a short side note, Mythbusters did some research on how long a person can survive in a closed casket before the air turns toxic. For any of you who might have seen that, I claim artistic licence on that aspect of the story. Not much of it, but some.
Enjoy!
Chapter 2
He didn't want to check his watch again. Checking his watch meant lighting up the Zippo. And Dean didn't know how much gas was left in the lighter. Also, fire burned precious oxygen. Dean had no idea how much oxygen a lighter flame ate up, but he had none to spare. Absolutely none. He had never before regretted it that the hands of his watch didn't glow in the dark, but now he did. It sucked.
Or maybe not so much.
Actually, he didn't want to know how much time had passed, how many more minutes of air he had breathed away. He didn't want to. But yet he wanted to, no he needed to know at least that much. In this nightmare, he needed something to ground himself, even if it was something as insignificant as the time. There was nothing else for him to hold on to, after all. Nothing but a darkness so black and thick and all-penetrating and reeking of death that it would have sent shivers down Dean's spine if it hadn't been so hot and stuffy in the casket.
His hands felt numb as he picked up the lighter despite all concerns about remaining lighter fluid and oxygen and flicked the wheel. This time it took five, six, seven turns of the wheel for the flint to catch, and the flame was small and flickered strongly once it lit.
Was his oxygen already running this low? Or was it simply the Zippo that was slowly giving out?
Dean couldn't say for sure, and he really didn't want to contemplate which was worse – his time running out, or facing his last minutes, maybe – hopefully – hours in total darkness. Quickly he raised his left arm and took a look at his watch. Ten past seven. A bit more than half an hour since he had woken up. Less than two hours since that grave digger had hit him over the head with that shovel.
Dean's head was still throbbing from where the metal had hit him on the right side of the head. He had felt the huge lump behind his right ear earlier, and his hair was still sticky with blood from the wound. With that and the fact that he had passed out, it was likely that he had a concussion. Dean very nearly laughed. Yeah, on the long list of his current problems, a concussion wasn't exactly on top. It probably didn't even make the top five. His air was about to run out soon, and once it did, it wouldn't matter much anymore whether or not the blow to his head had shaken his brain loose or not.
Now would be a good time, Sam.
It would be very much appreciated if Sam managed to get here, and sooner rather than later.
Not that Sam had any idea where to look for him, but hey. What was that freaky ESP thing of his good for if it only told him when random strangers were in danger, but gave no warning when Sam's own brother could really need a little help?
But maybe that was not how it worked. Who the hell knew how that psychic crap worked? Dean didn't, not at all. And Sam didn't really have a clue either. He just got hit by visions, out of the blue, and was in a scary amount of pain and discomfort until they passed.
Dean hated it when that happened. When he could only stand by and watch his brother suffer.
He really didn't like to see Sam go through that. But right now, he'd appreciate a vision. Didn't need to be a big one, just enough to make Sam lug his ridiculously tall frame to the cemetery and start digging.
Damn, that throbbing in his head was annoying. And it hurt. Pulsing, pounding, throbbing, making him feel sick to the stomach.
One thing he had learned today. The air in a coffin didn't last for very long. He got that it normally wasn't a requirement to have enough breathable air in a place where you put dead people, but still. Would it hurt to consider the fact that somebody might get buried alive?
He had thought it would last him a bit longer at least. Another hour. Maybe two. Enough for Sam to find him.
Because he could really need a little help now. Sam had to know that. He was all for that emo-shit, wasn't he? Shouldn't he have a brotherly premonition or anything? A spidey sense telling him that Dean could use a helping hand?
Get your ass into gear, Sam. And bring a shovel.
But now already it felt as if he was sucking in anything but oxygen every time he drew breath. He only wanted to draw in as much air as he could, fill his lungs and hope to catch more oxygen that way, but he forced himself not to. He needed to keep his breathing flat and regular, make the little air he had last longer. And he knew that every time he exhaled, he made the air in the casket even worse.
Didn't that become toxic after a while?
He distinctly remembered reading something about that somewhere. Maybe. He didn't remember clearly. Maybe he hadn't read it, maybe it had been Sam telling him about it. His brother always spewed up pieces of wiseass knowledge that nobody else knew or cared about. Sam would know.
Maybe he should call Sam and ask. Yeah, he could definitely do that. Sam's face always lit up like a Christmas tree when he was asked about geek-stuff like that. It made Sam happy, and that was what Dean was there for, right? Make sure that Sam was happy. So he should just call Sammy and let him go into a geek rant. And he could tell Sammy to come and dig him out while he had him on the line.
Yeah, he should definitely do that.
Clumsy fingers patted down his pockets and sides. Where was his phone? He never left the house without his phone. He needed his phone to calls Sammy, because if he didn't call Sammy then nobody was going to dig him out, and he was never going to find out how much air fit into a coffin and how much oxygen a person needed to survive if they were buried…
He must have dropped his phone.
But where was it?
Maybe it had rolled under the bed or something. He just needed to turn on his side and reach under the bed, then he could get to his phone. Or had he put it on his nightstand?
But he couldn't really move, and he was so tired. He only wanted to sleep, but the room was so hot, and he couldn't sleep. He needed to get to his phone, call Sammy and tell him to turn down the heat.
Something about that didn't make sense.
If he could only tell what it was, but it was so hard to think straight in this stuffy air.
Why didn't anybody open a window?
Sam. Sam's bed was closer to the window, wasn't it? Was it so hard to get out of bed to let some air into the room?
Sam.
There was something important, something he couldn't forget.
Something about Sam.
He needed to call someone. Sam. Right. He needed to call Sam.
But that didn't make sense, not if Sam was in the same room. He didn't need his phone for that. He only needed to open his mouth and call out to him, and he would do that. He'd certainly do that, if he wasn't so tired and the world around him wasn't so stuffy and hot.
Had Sam left? He had gone before, that Dean remembered clearly. He had left for Stanford. For over three years he had been gone, he could never forget that. Three years without Sam. But Sam had come back, right? Dean remembered that. Sam had come back, and then he had left him again. And again.
Sam always left him. He had come back each time, right? It was all so fuzzy in Dean's head. But he was fairly sure that Sam had come back each time he had left. But then why did he leave?
Didn't he know what that did to Dean?
Especially now after Dad…
Dean couldn't do this alone.
Alone. There was something. He was alone, that's why he needed Sam. He needed Sam to come for him, wasn't that right? Damn, why was it so hard to have a single clear thought?
Sam never had that problem. Dean smiled at that thought. No, Sam's brain was so freakishly huge that he probably never stopped thinking. He was a thinking machine. Had been even as a little kid.
Dean still remembered that spelling competition when Sam had been in what? Third grade? Yeah, third grade. Their Dad hadn't been able to make it, and Sam had begged until Dean had agreed to come and watch.
He clearly remembered how embarrassed he had been. The only teenager amongst all the parents, teachers, and the kid contestants. Everybody had stared at him, and it had been embarrassing. Frigging embarrassing. Until Sam had entered the stage, and had knocked the ball out of the park. Sammy had been barely nine, but he had stood there and had spelled words that most of the parents probably hadn't known how to spell. From the moment Sammy had entered the stage, embarrassment had turned into pride, and when Sam had won the competition, it had been Dean who had clapped and cheered the loudest.
He had known it then. In hindsight, he must have known it then. Must have known that Sam had a different life ahead of him, a life in which he could use that huge brain of his for something else but hunting. Something better. He had always known that Sam's wasn't made for digging up graves for his whole life.
Digging…
There was something…
Something important about digging. What was it?
He didn't know. It was so hot in here, and that rhythmic throbbing in his head was making I hard to hear his own thoughts.
Digging. And Sam. But Sam shouldn't be digging. Sam should be at college, reading books and getting good grades and having a girlfriend and being happy. That was all he ever wanted. And Sam was going to get that happy, normal, and safe life he craved so much. Dean was going to make sure of that. He didn't know how, but he had to.
Somehow.
Sam.
Where was Sam?
Why wasn't he here?
Sam had to know that Dean always worried when he didn't know where his brother was. Always. He needed to know, needed to watch out for Sammy, needed to look after Sammy, make sure that he was safe, and happy.
It was his job, and he needed to know where Sammy was to do it. Bad things happened when he didn't look out for Sammy. Gordon. That crazy cannibal family. Meg the demon chick. No, he needed to look out for Sammy and make sure that all the bad things didn't get to him.
But he was alone.
He had no idea where he was, or what had happened, or even why it was so frigging hot in here and the air felt too stuffy to breathe, but that was one thing he was sure of. He was alone. And he was in trouble. The kind of trouble that he couldn't get himself out of alone.
Alone.
That's all it ever came back to.
Alone. The one thing he had never wanted to be. But now he was alone, and he knew that something was seriously wrong, something bad was going to happen soon and there was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing at all.
Blindly, he reached out with his hands, startled when his fingers encountered fabric and padding and metal.
And then he remembered. The casket. He was in a casket. Buried alive, and alone, and Sam probably wasn't going to find him in time because Sam was pissed at him and didn't even know that he was missing, or that he was in trouble. No, by the time Sam was going to find him it was probably going to be too late. If Sam was ever going to find him.
That thought sent a sudden burst of panic and, along with it, clarity through him. He was going to die here. Alone. Sam wasn't going to find him in time. If he was ever going to find him. How should he? There was no trace, nothing but a freshly dug grave on a cemetery, and graves on a cemetery really were nothing unusual.
Desperately, he started clawing at the torn fabric and padding with numb fingers, ready and willing to claw himself out of this prison before it killed him. But the metal under his fingers was unyielding, it didn't give way under his fingernails. Nothing. He could do nothing but grab fistful after fistful of padding and satin, tearing it off the lid to reveal even more metal underneath, until his little strength finally ran out and his hands dropped uselessly to his sides. He was gasping, panting for air, but there was nearly no air left for him to breathe no matter how hard he tried to force it into his lungs.
No air.
He was alone, and he had no air. Just the throbbing in his head that grew louder and louder with every time he tried to breathe but failed to come up with enough oxygen to keep his body awake and working. And nobody was ever going to find him.
He was alone, he had no air, and it was unbearably hot. He couldn't change it, maybe a miracle would happen if he only closed his eyes and let go. Maybe then Sammy would find him. Maybe then he wouldn't spend eternity in somebody else's grave, without anybody knowing where he was and what had happened.
There was something hard under his hand. Something…what was that? Clumsily, agonizingly slow he reached inside his jacket to find out what it was. His gun. Oh yes, the friendly grave digger who had given him a free burial had left him his gun. And Dean knew exactly why the man had done that. Not to shoot his way out of the casket, because that wouldn't work.
Oh, the gun was a way out of this. Not a way out of the casket, but a way out of this mess.
And as Dean lay there, alone in the darkness with not enough air to breathe, with just that rhythmic throbbing in his head and no hope of being found anytime soon, that way out started to look more and more attractive.
TBC
TBC
TBC
Thanks for reading and as always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.
