Day One: Head Wound + Buried Alive. A grave robber runs into Sam in the cemetery. He traps an unconscious Sam in a coffin with no way out and Sam can only pray that Dean finds him before his oxygen runs out.

SAM

Sam glowered as he dug. He and Dean had been chased out of more than one cemetery before when attempting to disinter a body, but this was unexpected.

The man stood behind him with long greasy hair and clothes that smelled of urine. His hand shook as he pointed a gun at Sam. Sometimes his arm would grow tired and he would lower the pistol, but when Sam glanced at him, he would wave it wildly and shout, "Keep digging!"

"How do you rob graves if you can't even dig?" Sam grumbled.

"Shut up," the man's voice cracked. He was on something, it wasn't hard to tell from his frantic energy, and that made him a real threat. This wasn't a huge deal, all things considered. The man had walked in on him shoveling the grave of their latest ghost and demanded he continue and give everything that Sam found in the coffin. All Sam needed were the bones anyways, but the gun trained on his back made him nervous.

Sam dug in the dark, his flashlight propped beside him on the grave stone, nostrils filled with the smell of fresh earth, and accompanied by the sound of frogs croaking. Dean was watching the ghost's house in case she struck before he could finish salting and burning the bones so he wouldn't be calling anytime soon.

The sound of metal banging against wood rang out and Sam exhaled deeply, finally hitting the coffin.

"Open it," the man leaned over the hole. Sam tossed the shovel above and positioned himself so that he could open the lid beneath him. There she was, the bones of the woman they were looking for, cloaked in her Sunday best. "The jewelry," the man directed.

Sam rolled his eyes, but leaned over and removed her necklace, bracelets, and rings. He passed them to the bug-eyed man. "Is that everything?" he asked

"Yeah, that's everything."

The man straightened and Sam was relieved to see him lower the gun to the ground, but just as quickly, he picked up the shovel and fluidly swung it at Sam.

When Sam woke up, it was dark and smelled like dirt and death. His legs would not stretch out all the way and there was something poking into his back. He blinked in an attempt to adjust his eyes to the light, but the darkness remained opaque. He held his hands out and they immediately touched a surface. He felt around himself and the realization dawned on. He buried me. I'm in the grave. "Dean!" Sam shouted and slammed his hands against the wooden lid, "Dean!" it didn't give way. The man had deposited all the soil back into the hole. He tried to move so that he was not pressed against the bones, but there was nowhere to go in the little woman's coffin.

He pushed harder this time, utilizing his knees to try and budge the lid, but once again, it was unforgiving and didn't move a centimeter. "Dean'll be here," he reminded himself. He'd seen some show where this happened and they kept saying that the oxygen would only last five hours. How long had he been in here already? How long would it take Dean to find him? Sam laid his head back and hissed at a sudden shock of pain. He squirmed his arm up and touched the back of his head, feeling something wet and sticky. The crown of his skull ached where the shovel had whacked him. His eyes grew heavy and he let his lids slide closed, unwittingly slipping into unconsciousness.

DEAN

The sun peered out behind the McMansions of the suburbs. Dean checked his watch. Six AM. What the hell was taking Sam so long? He should have called by now. Dean pulled up Sam's phone number in his contacts and pressed the call icon, but when he held it to his ear, it rang straight to voicemail. Dean frowned and shot off a text: Are you ok?

He wasn't going to wait for a reply. He sped back to the motel and burst into the room, but found it empty and all their things exactly where they had left them. The last place he knew Sam had been was the graveyard, so he raced there next, jumping over the locked gate and ready to search for the headstone, but his eyes immediately landed on an abandoned shovel and flashlight. Dean saw the letters carved into the stone read their ghost's name. The dirt had been turned over, clearly already dug and re-filled. Why would Sam leave his shovel? Why wouldn't he call? "Sam! Sammy!" Dean shouted like he would come sprinting out of the nearby woods at the sound of his name.

Dean crouched and his eyes glazed over as he stared at the headstone, trying to sort through his thoughts. He pulled his phone from his pocket to dial Sam's number again, but paused when he thought he might have heard something. Then again - a smothered sound. Dean squinted and looked around, but he froze when his eyes swept the ground and it occurred to him. "Sammy!" he jumped up, grabbed the shovel, and began working. He dug faster than ever before. The adrenaline galvanized him and he couldn't feel the usual ache in his arms that came with exhumation. "Sam!" he yelled again.

The muffled sound returned, louder but still indecipherable, from below him. There was no room for question now, Sam was trapped. Sweat dripped down Dean's face until he hit the box and chucked the shovel out of the way. He maneuvered himself around the lid and threw it open. "Sam," he breathed, a relieved smile spreading across his lips, but his face fell when he found that Sam's eyes were shut. "No, no, no. Are you with me? Come on, Sammy," he bent and held his fingers over Sam's neck, feeling his pulse. He let out a sharp breath when he felt the light beat there. "We'll get you out of here," he said, heaving Sam up with his hands beneath his armpits. He threw the gangly man over his shoulder and climbed from the pit. He was heavy and if Dean weren't high on adrenaline, he might not have been able to manage it. He rested Sam on the grass.

"You've gotta wake up, buddy," Dean's heart was still galloping in his chest. Sam was alive, but he could be in a coma. He might have lost brain function from the dangerous lack of oxygen. He should have never let him go alone. What the fuck happened?

Dean gently patted Sam's face and his hazel eyes fluttered open. "Dean?" he asked drowsily.

"Attaboy. Come on, let's go before we both get arrested," he helped Sam sit up with a hand around his shoulder, then he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Sam for a brief second before patting him and pulling away. He rose and offered Sam his hand. He looked wobbly, but he managed to follow Dean to the gate. Dean's hands shook as he picked the gate lock. It took him longer than usual, but he broke through eventually and ushered Sam into the Impala.

He kept one eye on Sam while he drove them back to the motel. When they got there, Dean raced to open Sam's door. "I'm fine," Sam croaked and waved him away.

"I know," Dean said, but he still hovered beside Sam until they got inside the room and pointed at him to sit on the bed, "What happened?"

Sam groaned and reached to rub the back of his head, but jerked his hand away before he could touch it. "This guy was grave robbing I guess and walked in on me. Knocked me out. Son of a bitch," Sam winced.

"Let me see it," Dean carefully picked apart strands of Sam's hair. The crown of his head was caked in blood. Dean grimaced. "How do you feel?" he pulled away, "How many fingers?" Dean held up two fingers.

"Dean, I'm fine. Two-" his eyes went in and out of focus and he blinked hard.

"Shit. Maybe we should see a doctor," Dean chewed his lip.

"No, we need to deal with the ghost. This is stupid. I shouldn't have let this happen," Sam looked away.

Dean's chest tightened. "It's not your fault. People are batshit."

"Can we just finish the hunt?"
Dean considered it. They weren't the type of people to go to the doctor's unless they were on the verge of death. Even bullet holes usually didn't bring them to the hospital doors. "Let me fix your head."
Sam didn't protest so Dean went to Baby and retrieved their well-used first aid kit. When he got back, he positioned himself on the bed behind Sam. He took a pad and doused it with alcohol, wiping away the blood in Sam's hair, taking care not to touch the wound yet. Sam relaxed under the touch. When he finished washing away the caked-on blood, he delicately dabbed the gash. Sam tensed, but said nothing. Their pain tolerance was sky high, but Dean still hated hurting his little brother. When he finished, he withdrew bandages and wrapped them around the top of Sam's head.

He taped it off and climbed off the bed to judge his work. "All good, doctor?" Sam asked.

"You should stay here. I'm gonna burn the bones."
Sam huffed. "I'm fine."

Dean wished he wouldn't argue so much, but he knew that his little brother would put up a fight, the same way he would, so he acquiesced. Sam could watch, but Dean wouldn't let him get involved. "I haven't decided you're not going to a doctor yet," Dean threatened.

Sam smiled softly. "I'm okay."

"Just don't get dead," it was all Dean could say to communicate he couldn't live without Sam and the near-death scare rattled him. He sighed, letting out the stress of the past hour.

"You too."

"Sure," Dean patted him on the arm.