The second time it happens, Dean wakes up underground, already under a heavy blanket of dirt, heart accelerating madly as he becomes aware of his surroundings.
There's fabric wrapped around his head. He guesses he should be grateful John took the time to at least do that much for him. Dean wills his heart to slow down, and does his damn best to calm himself, taking the deepest breaths possible.
He will not freak out this time. He will not allow himself the luxury of a meltdown.
Slowly, methodically, Dean begins scratching at the layers of dirt above him.
He'll work himself into a sitting position, then slowly but surely get to his feet, and yank himself out of the dirt.
Maybe if he's triumphant, John will stop this "exercise".
Dean loses track of time, aware of nothing but the feel of moving the dirt. It's harder then he imagined, getting into a sitting position, and he labors for some time before he realizes he's getting nowhere and the panic starts to nip at the edges of his thought process.
He's sweating profusely and can feel the dirt turning to mud along his bare skin. It's in his shirt, his pants, everywhere. There's a tickle on his neck, he can only assume it's some sort of insect, and the idea makes him shudder. It's just another thought to shove to the back of his mind, into the locked place he's desperately trying to keep his panic in.
Another long stretch of time clawing at the dirt, his movements becoming less coordinated as he uses up the air pocket. He's almost upright, his efforts finally rewarding him, when he realizes he barely has any oxygen left. He knows he needs to calm down, conserve the little he does have, but his heart has other ideas, and starts pounding, like it wants to beat right out of his chest.
Dean swallows a half-formed sob, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. This isn't fair! What kind of father does this to his child?
The panic is settling in full-force now, there's no avoiding it or pushing it away and stars spark across his eyes, the only thing he can see in the dark.
He can't breathe. He can't suck in a decent breath. His lungs are on fire.
And it sucks, because he is so close. He's on his feet, and he's over six feet tall, so he can't be that far from the surface, but Dean cannot breathe, he's suffocating, he's dying, and his father will be so damn disappointed, and Sammy, oh my god, Sammy, he won't understand, he'll be so heartbroken…
It's the last thought that races through Dean's mind, even as he feels his hand break the surface, and an even darker blackness then the unbreakable blackness of the grave swallows him.
He comes around propped up against a tree.
John is sitting nearby, about a foot down in the grave, digging, shovelfuls of dirt adding to the growing mound next to the hole.
Dean swallows, fear like a cold grip around his heart. John's going to make him do it again. He failed and John said he would do it as many times as necessary until Dean got it.
He wants to cry, he wants to sob, he wants to yank that shovel out of John's grasp and smash his father's head with it.
"I had to pull you out. You were close, but not close enough. You're lucky you didn't suffocate. There's water, drink it, and then we're going to do this again. Understand?"
Dean can't speak, but he nods his assent, and drains the bottle of water.
The day is hot for April, the air is sticky and heavy. He thinks it's about noon by the position of the sun. He's filthy, can feel the crumbs of soil in his jeans, even in his boxers, sticking to the sweaty skin of his ass.
It's taking everything he has not to burst into tears, but the terror of disappointing John scares him more than being underground again.
John buries him twice more, and Dean manages to get himself out fully on the last try. He lays on the ground, panting, heart pounding out of his chest, but he's triumphant, and he grins up at John from where he's laying on the ground, recovering, but John just nods, his only acknowledgement of Dean's success.
"Fill the hole. Do it quickly, it's late, and Sam will be needing dinner." He stalks off to the Impala, leaving Dean to clean up the mess.
It's well after five when they get back to the motel, and Sam again freaks when he sees his dirt covered brother.
"What the hell?" he shrieks.
"Your brother's just dirty from training. Calm down, Sam."
Dean notices John doesn't share the type of "training" they were doing, and looking to avoid an argument, he grabs a change of clothes and heads for the shower.
At least it's over now, and he's been successful, so hopefully this so-called training is over and they can move on to something else.
Dinner is a quiet affair, spaghetti and a salad for Sam, and Dean can feel the tension in the room. He knows Sam is stewing, and wants to start something, but Dean's definitely starting to feel the exhaustion settling in his bones, and he really just wants a peaceful evening.
"So what kind of training was it?" Sam asks John antagonistically, fire in his tone, and Dean's heart sinks.
"Don't worry about it, Sammy, I'm fine."
"It's Sam. And what kind of training leaves you shaking and covered in dirt? Or did you think I didn't notice?"
Dean ducks his head, cheeks flaming with shame. Sam is glaring pointedly at John, who ignores him.
"I'll be back later. Finish your homework and get to bed, Sam." John gives him no opportunity to argue, just slams the door on the way out. A moment later, the Impala roars to life, then the sound fades into the distance.
Dean is still staring at his plate, hoping Sam will let the issue drop. He's tired, exhausted, and all he wants to do is crawl into bed.
"Please talk to me, Dean," Sam implores softly. "You're scaring me."
"I'm tired Sammy. I just want to go to bed." Dean pushes away from the table, his dinner mostly untouched, and crosses the room, crawling wearily into bed and pulling the covers over his head. He hears Sam sigh loudly, clearly annoyed, but Dean stays under the blanket.
He doesn't want Sam to see the tears that are dripping onto his pillow.