Author's Notes: A HUGE thank you to those who have reviewed and/or added my story to favorites and alerts! It means so much to hear from those of you reading this and it keeps me motivated to continue writing.
I should probably mention that the story is all plotted out, and chapter 4 is just about finished- just needs some editing. The outline is telling me it'll be about 10 chapters in all, but don't hold me to it.
Please continue to enjoy. I always welcome comments and constructive feedback.
Chapter 3
His world came to a screeching halt.
Dean stumbled forward to where the edge of the grave had just been and fell on his knees. The shot gun slipped and clattered on the ground. His hands clenched, grasping fistfuls of earth. He blinked his eyes quickly, as if he didn't quite believe what he'd just seen. But the pile of dirt Sam had shoveled out was now replaced back in the grave. The grave he'd left Sam lying in-
Sam.
No.
... Sammy.
His lungs burned and his chest constricted. Dean suddenly gulped in oxygen he hadn't realized he had been depriving himself of.
Oxygen.
Sammy.
The Earth tilted and began its rotation again. The ground seemed to jerk under his feet as he grabbed for the shovel. A wave of dizziness hit him as he frantically dug.
Sam.
Dean shoveled, ignoring the ache in his chest. His heart thudded against his ribcage, sweat trickled down from his hairline to his chin. He ignored the pinpricks of pain on his back as sweat ran through the cuts and scrapes left there from the rough tree bark. He ignored the sticky fluid that dripped on his neck from the back of his head.
But he couldn't ignore the thoughts in his head.
How long could someone survive buried alive?
What if there was somehow a pocket of air?
Buried under four to six feet of dirt? With a head injury?
He kept digging and pushed those questions away. His hands were trembling as he dug and he fought to keep hold of the shovel. Sam had dug for forty-five minutes to get to the top of the casket-
There's no way he could survive that long…
He could have aspirated dirt and choked to death in moments…
Dean continued digging, blinking the tears from his eyes. Not caring that they ran down his cheeks while he shoveled. His heart was racing, blood pumping so violently that he could hear it whooshing in his ears. It was all he could hear.
He had no idea how much time had passed. He focused on the repetitive motion of shoveling and the willpower it was taking to hold back his nausea. His limbs shook from exhaustion; his vision was swimming. He was getting close, though and so he quickened his pace.
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but the shovel hitting the top of the casket wasn't it. It jarred him out of his grief for a brief moment. Then Dean threw the shovel aside, grabbed the flashlight and began clearing dirt away by hand.
The casket lid was closed.
Hope fluttered in his chest, compressed around his heart and escaped from his lips in a desperate cry of "Sammy?"
He pried the lid open, shaking violently.
Sam was lying on his back with his arms at his sides. Dean almost lost control of the bile creeping up his throat at the sight of his little brother so still in the casket. He straddled either side of the casket to lean in close, but he could see already that his brother wasn't breathing. By the pale light from the moon and the flashlight's illumination his brother's lips were tinged blue.
Oxygen deprivation with a head injury. Followed by the presence of fumes from the lighter fluid-
Dean dropped to his knees, straddling his little brother's chest. Years of training, drilled into him by his father, came rushing back.
Open the airway. Check.
Dean felt for a pulse, not finding one, but he cursed because his hands were shaking so uncontrollably he couldn't be sure.
He pinched Sam's nose closed and breathed into him, once, twice. Fifteen chest compressions. He breathed for his brother again, once, twice, watching Sam's chest rise with each breath and then go still again. He started the chest compressions again-
"C'mon, Sam. C'mon. Breathe." It hasn't been too long, he's going to be fine, it hasn't been too long…
Two more breaths and back to compressions. Dean let out a frustrated cry. He was back in Cold Oak, holding his brother up in the middle of the dirt road. Wrapping his arms around his brother's boneless body as he died. As he died in the middle of frigging South Dakota on a muddy street in an abandoned town all because Dean was too late…
It hasn't been too long, he's going to be fine, it hasn't been too long… He repeated the mantra over and over and over-
Panic was welling up in his chest, his throat closing up as he fought it back down. He pinched Sam's nose closed again, breathing once-
Sam coughed and sucked in a deep breath. Dean rolled his brother onto his side, coaxing him to keep breathing, keep breathing Sammy, that's right, you're fine, keep breathing, I've got you. Sam continued to gulp and cough, rubbing his chest while he blinked through the confusion. Dean sat back on his heels, a hand against the side of the casket to keep from falling over and allowed himself one deep breath of relief before standing up. You can fall apart once your both out of the hole and the damned witch is burning.
"Sam?" His voice was a strained whisper, his throat clogged with dust and emotion, so he cleared it and tried again. "Sam? We gotta get out of here. Let's go."
"Dean, I can't- God, m'head hurts. Hurts to open m'eyes," he slurred. Sam was still on his side, one hand on his chest, the other wrapped around the top of his head as if trying to keep his brain from exploding through the top of his skull. "Where am I?"
Dean reached down, grabbing his brother's hands. He ignored the question. "This is going to suck, but you have to stand up. Now. You can lie down all you want once we're above ground."
Sam started to nod, then thought better of it and grunted out an "Okay, yeah" instead. Dean pulled Sam to his feet, let him sway for a moment until the dizziness passed, and then gently guided him to the side of the dirt hole. Sam pulled himself up with a little help from Dean and Dean followed right behind.
Dean got to his feet, taking note that Sam had passed out again laying flat on his back in the dirt next to the shovel and duffel bag. His chest was rising and he was more or less okay, so Dean let him be for the moment. He had to finish this before they both got thrown around or buried alive again. He dug out a book of matches, lit them, and threw them into the casket.
He watched the flames ignite, spread, and lick up the sides of the grave. Dean rubbed both hands over his eyes and dragged them down to his lips. He held them there until he was able to swallow the sob of relief that was threatening to erupt. The adrenaline that had sustained him this long bottomed out and he sat down abruptly. Sam was right beside him, unconscious, and Dean laid a hand on his brother's chest. He felt the rise and fall, slow and steady.
Dean allowed himself to fall apart.
End Chapter 3
