center Chapter Eight /center
His head hurt. This was the first thought Dean Winchester could manage as he found himself waking up painstakingly slow. He tried to focus and remember what happened. It felt like he had had a few drinks too many after a long night at the bar. But that couldn't be right. He hadn't done that since Dad went missing, and especially not since he'd gone to get Sam. At the thought of his brother, Dean seemed to sober up a bit. Sam. That's right, they'd been out in the woods looking for a ghost, Piggy, or something. Blaine had been an idiot and had run away. They'd chased him and then, Dean saw her. He'd told Sam, but his brother hadn't followed. Fuck, had something happened to Sam?
With that thought, he opened his eyes, hoping to see his brother looking down at him with that worried look that he hated so much. But he was greeted with only darkness, and damn was it dark. Dean couldn't see a thing. He tried to sit up and almost instantly hit his head with a sick thud against something blocking his way. "Fuck," Dean spat, moving his hand up to rub his forehead. It was at that moment when Dean realized something was not right. He stared out into the thick blackness, hoping that any minute a light would turn on and he could see his surroundings. But that wasn't likely to happen.
Raising a hand up, his fingers met with the barrier that had so brutally attacked his head. He felt along it, trying to find its end, but couldn't. Instead, he found corners, where the barrier made a 90 degree angle and started downwards. Like a box. Dean took a deep, albeit shaky, breath and started patting himself down, looking for something, anything that could give him a little light. He found his knife still strapped to his belt. His .45 had fallen out of its hiding spot beneath his jacket, to which he cursed and continued searching himself. The small pouches of salt and Holy Water were missing from inside his jacket. His cell phone was no where to be found. Finally, he felt a lump in his pocket and gave a quiet sound of triumph as he realized it was his keys. His baby hadn't let him down, even in spirit.
Pulling the keys from his pocket, he felt them with his hands, noticing how shaky he was. But he knew the cause for that. It was the fear of what turning on the light would confirm. Something he hoped and prayed and begged not to be true. Finally, he found the small key light that he had insisted on getting after he'd accidentally scratched his car with his keys during a night hunt. He had told his baby that it would never happen again, so he had bought the light. Thank God he had bought the light.
As he clicked the button, a red light filled the small space around him and Dean's breath hitched. Above him was a wooden wall. To the sides of him, right, left, above, below, everywhere there were wooden walls, and they didn't give him much shoulder room. He moved the light to make sure that he was seeing it right, looking at every corner of the box, his hands shaking even more as he realized that he was completely enclosed in this box. And then he made a startling revelation, one that nearly had him crying out in sudden panic.
It was a coffin.
"Fuck," Dean muttered, closing his eyes and opening them again quickly, hoping this was some kind of sick dream. But as he reached a hand up and felt the wooden walls of the coffin again, he knew that this was no dream. Of course it wasn't. Sam was the one who had the dreams. Dean was the one who lived out the nightmares, wasn't that how it went? "Fuck," he whispered again. Now was not the time to panic. Maybe this wasn't what it looked like.
"Sam?" Dean called out, reaching up to pound a fist on the top. He got no reply and didn't like how the pounding had been nothing more than a dull thud. The sound hadn't gone anywhere. i Because there's six feet of dirt on top of me, /i Dean couldn't help but think. He closed his eyes and drew in another shaky breath. "Sammy!" he screamed suddenly at the top of his lungs. His voice only echoed around in the small prison and Dean let out a sound of grief, not too far away from a full out sob. But he wasn't going to cry. Dean Winchester did not cry. Ever.
It was time to assess the situation. Okay, so he was inside a coffin, probably under ground. He had his keys, a knife, and an empty shoulder holster for his gun. He could work with this. No he couldn't, who was he kidding? He was weaponless, unprotected, frustrated, and above all other concerns, he was buried alive. Fucking buried alive. Dean let out a harsh, cruel laugh. He'd thought he'd been through it all. But this? Never had he thought this would happen. There was nothing in Dad's journal that could tell him how to get out of this.
"Calm down," Dean whispered to himself. He shone the key light around a bit more before lowering it to his chest, taking comfort in the fact that, at the very least, he had light. He tried to will the panic away, wanting to concentrate on a way out of this. "How did Uma do it?" he whispered. Well, he was pretty strong. Maybe he could punch his way out of the box too. The wood couldn't be that thick, could it?
Getting his hand ready, he rubbed his fingers, warming them up, preparing them for battle. Then, he clenched it into a fist and, taking a deep breath and holding it, he brought his fist up forcefully. "Ow, fuck!" Dean yelled, dropping the key light and rubbing his now hurting hand. He grit his teeth and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. That was unsuccessful. His fist couldn't break through that wood. But maybe his knife could.
Groping around he found the hilt of his knife. He found his keys once again and stuck them in his mouth, using his teeth to clamp down on the button, lighting the coffin once more. He coached himself, though the words were indistinguishable through the keys in his mouth. He grabbed the knife with both hands and lined the point up to the middle of the wood. Okay, no problem. He'd weaken the wood, burst out, climb through the dirt, and escape this relatively unscathed. No problem. He could do this. He was a Winchester after all and Winchesters were capable of just about anything. i Even abandoning their own flesh and blood. /i The thought had come out of no where, but Dean shook his head, knowing now was not the time to think about that.
Slowly, he began working the knife back and forth, digging a small hole into the wood. He let out a triumphant, yet muffled, cheer as the hole gradually got bigger. He was working it in circles, trying to push the knife deeper into the wood, hoping that it would break through soon. The wood could splinter and crack and he'd be free to climb through the soil to fresh air and light and life. Yeah, ghostie thought he could best the mighty Dean Winchester. Sam wasn't the only one with brains in this family.
But luck had unfortunately forgotten to smile on Dean that morning. As he started to grind his knife harder, his spirits were rising until there was a sudden snap and Dean felt the knife jerk in his hand. He closed his eyes for a second, praying that this wasn't happening. But, looking up at the knife in his hand, he pulled it slowly away and his shoulders fell and he lay himself flat, looking at the broken bottom half of the knife he held in his hand. He looked up and saw the top of his knife still lodged into the wood. There was about two and a half inches left. He groaned and took the key light out of his mouth, looking angrily at the broken knife shard in the wood.
"You bastard," he said between grit teeth. He wasn't sure really who he was cussing at, but it just felt right to do so. He set his face and braced his body with renewed determination, though he only felt it half heartedly, knowing what he was about to do. He reached up and grasped his hand around the knife shard. Without even holding it that tightly, he could already feel the edges of the blade digging into his skin, slicing it with ease. Fuck, this was going to hurt. He gave a sigh and clamped his teeth shut, already anticipating the pain.
He pulled on the shard harshly and the pain was intense as the blade sliced deep into his hand. Fortunately, and it would be the only fortune Dean would be shown, the knife came loose from the wood and Dean closed his eyes, breathing through his nose for a moment, willing away that pain. He'd felt pain before, this was nothing. He'd been in trouble before, this was nothing. His family had gotten him out of worse situations before, this was nothing.
"Okay, Dean," he encouraged himself. "Just do it. Show Uma whose boss." And sucking in one last, tight breath, he started hacking the knife into the wood. With every hit, he could feel the knife dig deeper and deeper into his palm and his fingers. He had to readjust his hold several times when the pain got too intense, when the knife went too deep. Blood was starting to trickle down his hand and wrist. It seeped out of the sides of his closed fist. A few drops fell onto his face and he flinched involuntarily. But he kept at it. Almost there, he was almost there.
But his body betrayed him. More like his hand betrayed him as the knife made one last slice into his palm, this time cutting so deeply that Dean's hand went completely numb. Though, his arm did not, and the hot pain that raced up it made Dean give out a yell of pain. He dropped the knife shard and cradled the injured hand to his chest, not liking the way it was shaking, looking as though it was convulsing into death.
The panic began to set in after that. He could only fight it off for so long and Dean was at the end of his rope. He fought back the tears that threatened his eyes. No, he wasn't going to cry. He would keep his dignity until the very end. Or at least until Sammy came along and let him out. No doubt his little brother was looking for him right now. After all, Sam would never let him down like this. He'd always been behind him.
i That's why he shot you in the chest and pulled the trigger of a gun as it was aimed at your head. /i Dean shook the thought away. That had been Dr. Ellicott's doing. Sure, Sam had admitted that in a way those were his actual thoughts, but they'd made amends. Dean knew Sam had his back. i So where was he when that ghost attacked you and buried you alive? /i It was true. Dean had run after the manifestation of the ghost and when he'd lost sight of it, he'd turned to see if Sam saw where it went. But his little brother had not been behind him. Then the ghost had attacked. It took him by surprise and he managed to get one shot off, but the rock salt went astray, missing its target. Where had Sam been during all of that? Sam had told him that he had his back. Sam had told him that he was with him, during the hunt, Sam was always with him. But not this time. And not in that asylum. Pathetic. That's what he'd called him. Pathetic and begging for the attention of their father. And Sam was right, that's what had hurt so much. Sam had been right to say those things. Dean had known it was true all along. Sam had managed to escape this life, but it was the only life Dean knew how to lead.
And it was about to end. Why hadn't Sam been behind him? Had he really, truly abandoned him? Just like Dad? Just like Mom? Was he that hated by the people he thought loved him? No, it couldn't be that. Sam had said he'd die for him. He'd said it to his face and Sam was never the lying type. So why hadn't he been there? Maybe he just hadn't heard him. Maybe this whole thing was just a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that was going to cost him his life. He wasn't supposed to die like this. He didn't know how he was supposed to, but it wasn't like this, alone in the dark. He had always imagined his death as being valiant and brave and awe inspiring. This was anything but awe inspiring. This was fucking messed up.
Dean felt anger, pain, fear and every other emotion he'd ever felt swell up in his chest. The walls were suddenly too close and Sam and his Dad were suddenly too far away. Where was everyone? Where was Sam? Was he looking for him right now? Was Sam out there alone, scared, looking for his lost brother? Dean didn't know. Sammy wasn't a liar, but then again, he had been ready to shoot his own brother in the head.
And then there was Dad. Dad who had failed to come through for him when they went home. Dad who had left him to hunt alone, without a word, without a goodbye. Dad who was now leading them all over the country to risk their lives and fight trivial battles. Dad who was now letting his son die in a coffin buried deep beneath the earth.
"Fuck you," Dean snarled. He said it to his Dad, to the walls surrounding him, to the ghost who had trapped him, to whatever it was that was keeping Sam from finding him. "Fuck you! You hear me!" Dean screamed, pounding his good fist against the top of the coffin. "I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you! Come out and fight me like a man!" And Dean slammed his fist again and again into the wood, feeling as the skin on his hand split and tore and blood started oozing and knuckles were popping. He bucked and kicked and banged his body around inside the coffin, inside his tomb, inside his inevitable death. He would not go out like this. He would go out fighting.
But when the bone snapped in Dean's wrist and his hand fell limply to his chest, cradling its injured comrade, Dean stopped moving, drawing in trembling, horrified breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut. His body was aching. New bruises and cuts and scrapes now littered his skin, mixing with old scars and newer wounds still healing. But all the wounds in the world didn't compare to the pain Dean felt in his heart as he realized his greatest fear was coming true. The fear that was the reason he was so pathetic, the reason he wanted Dad's approval, the reason he had gone to get Sam in the first place. It was a fear instilled into him when he had watched his childhood go up in flames along with his mother. And it was coming true. If Sam didn't find him soon, he knew it would come true.
He was going to die alone.
Sam didn't think the day could get any worse. It was beginning to get dark, which had struck an odd thought into Sam's head. How had the ghost nabbed Dean in broad daylight? He didn't know why they hadn't thought of it before. It was common knowledge ghosts only came out at night. Dean had said it before, i The freaks come out at night. /i But Piggy had already proved to be anything but an ordinary ghost. And now, she had Dean buried somewhere. That thought alone was eating away at Sam's sanity. Dean was buried alive. God, that sounded awful. He couldn't quite imagine what was going through his brother's head right now. Dean was always the calm one, always collected. He always thought about the hunt, focused on the task, hardly ever showing emotion or fear. But how could Dean not be scared now? How could Dean not be out of his mind with fear and desperation. Sam knew that he would be. He'd probably be giving up hope right about now, crying and screaming and freaking out and begging for his big brother to come and save him as usual. But Dean, his brother who never ceased to amaze him, was probably holding it together better than anyone in the world could. At least, that's what Sam hoped. He hoped he wouldn't find his brother a broken man. Finding his brother dead was out of the question, but there was a very large possibility that Dean had finally met his match, finally found something that broke down those infuriating walls his brother had built up around himself.
"Sam?" Blaine asked from the passenger seat. Sam startled. He'd forgotten the other man was even in the car.
"What?" He hadn't meant to snap, but there wasn't time to feel sorry.
"If Piggy is killing the people who…who buried her," Blaine seemed to have trouble with the words. Sam knew the feeling. Adam Beaumont had been buried alive, Blaine was trying to come to terms with that. "Why did she attack my brother? And why attack Dean?"
Sam shook his head. The truth was that he didn't know. He could sit there and theorize all day, but in reality, there was no way he could ever know why Piggy was killing innocent people. But he knew Blaine needed an answer more than he needed the truth. So Sam gave him the closest thing to an educated guess that he could muster. "Piggy was always picked on and teased, right?" Blaine nodded. "Well, Adam was teasing you when he was taken. And Dean teases people all the time. And I heard that Harley Jensen was a loud mouth. I think she went after them because to her, they were bullies."
Blaine shook his head. "But my brother wasn't a bully," he whispered quietly. Blaine turned and slouched in his chair. "He teased me all the time but he never meant it." Suddenly, Blaine's face crumpled. "He died because he was teasing me?"
"No," Sam said, cursing himself for giving that answer. He hadn't meant to make the man feel worse. "He died because he caught the eyes of a very vengeful spirit. It wasn't your fault."
Blaine was quiet for a moment and Sam thought that he wasn't going to say anything more. But Blaine leaned his head against the window and said, "I hope we find your brother."
Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying. It was getting harder and harder to keep back the tears that had been threatening to spill over since he'd first realized Dean was gone. "Me too," he whispered, gripping the steering wheel tighter and pushing the gas pedal a little bit faster.
When Sam pulled the car up behind the Impala, he knew his day was going from horrible to fucking horrible as he saw the tow truck that had already hooked up Dean's cherished car. Sam jumped out of the Oldsmobile and ran around the car, pounding his fist on the tow truck driver's side door. It opened slowly and Sam was about to plead and beg for the driver to leave Dean's car alone, but he was surprised into silence when he saw who was sitting behind the steering wheel.
"Conroy?" Sam asked, not knowing what the older man was doing there. He thought he just ran the snack shop and gas station. But of course, some gas stations had tow trucks of their own. Maybe Conroy owned one.
Conroy smiled down at Sam and got out of the truck. "Well, my boy, fancy meeting you here," he said, clapping Sam on the shoulder.
Snapping out of the shock of seeing the older man there, Sam knew he had to get down to business quickly. Dean didn't have time for conversations or formalities right now. Sam pointed to the Impala. "Look, that's my brother's car. We'll be back for it in a little bit, could you please just leave it here?"
Conroy looked at Sam with a frown. He reached over and rubbed Sam's shoulder. "You look stressed, boy. What's wrong?"
"Please, Conroy, can you just leave it here?" Sam begged, growing desperate to run into those woods and find his brother.
"Why sure," Conroy said. "But what's going on? I haven't seen someone look as frantic as you since I hid my wife's chocolate covered caramels." Sam ran back to the car, pulling the duffle bag and a gas can out where he had left them. Blaine got out and nodded to Conroy. Conroy frowned. "If I'm not mistaken, your brother was a lot shorter when I met him before."
Some time in the future, Sam would laugh at that comment. Dean always had been picked on about his height whenever Sam was standing next to him. But anyone who had done the picking usually ended up with a black eye or a bloody nose, unless of course they were a woman, in which case Dean would use it to his advantage. Sam looked over at Conroy. "It has my brother," he said hurriedly and turned to head into the woods.
"Who?" Conroy called after him, making to follow. "The ghost?"
Sam didn't stop and didn't turn around. He didn't want to do this now, he didn't want to explain it to another person. What he wanted, what he was dying to do, was to find his brother and get himself and Dean as far away from Shilling as possible. Blaine, however, was willing to fill the old man in, since Conroy seemed to be following them anyway. He told him about Hank Reynolds and how Sam and Dean had found the year book and how they knew who the ghost was and what had happened to her. "It's a girl named Piggy."
Conroy eyed him suspiciously. "Piggy?" he asked quietly. He frowned but then shook his head. "What kind of a name is that?"
"Guess we didn't get her real name," Blaine said and Sam sighed as he used his arm to maneuver around a branch.
"We didn't need to know it," Sam replied. He stopped and turned, looking at Conroy. "I don't think you should come with us. This ghost is still dangerous."
Conroy waved a hand, shushing him. "Don't you worry. I'm not afraid of some stupid old ghost." Sam eyed him and Conroy gave him a warm smile. "Besides, you'll need someone who can navigate these woods. Don't want you boys getting lost out there. Lots of things that would find you pretty tasty."
Sam wanted to tell Conroy that he didn't care about what creatures were out there. He didn't care if he came across an alligator or a snake or even a fucking shark standing on two feet holding a machete. All Sam wanted to find was the little Piggy who had his brother. And there was not a thing in the world that would keep him from killing it once and for all.
Right after he found Dean.
It had been forever since he'd woken up and Dean was sure that by now, it was starting to look like a lost cause. He'd started feeling sick to the stomach just minutes ago, but was afraid to take too many deep breaths, knowing that the air inside this coffin wouldn't last forever. He didn't know how long he'd been out, so he couldn't even guess how many hours he had left…if any.
So he lay still, with his eyes closed, concentrating on taking small breaths, short and far in between, conserving the air. Though a part of him wanted to just breathe it all in really fast and get it over with. The not knowing when he was going to die was actually killing him faster than anything else could. Sure, he wanted to get out of this alive, but a part of him wanted to end it now. He could see why Adam Beaumont had been killed by a blow to the head. He'd done it to himself. Had hit his head on the coffin floor until he was dead. A sad way to go, but it was a way to go none the less.
But Dean wasn't ready to give up just yet. He still had a shred of hope that any minute now, Sam would come and get him out of here. And maybe he was getting delusional from the lack of oxygen, but he had even started having a small hope that maybe his Dad would show up. Maybe, by some miracle, John Winchester would swoop in and save the day, make things all better, take away his pain. But he knew that was just a hope, one that wasn't likely to come true.
A sudden movement on his arm made Dean open his eyes. He'd dropped the key light some time ago and couldn't feel for it seeing as both his hands were immobile at the moment. So instead, he brought up the limp extremity and trying to brush off whatever had been on his arm. But there was nothing there. Suddenly, another movement was on his other arm. He repeated the process, but couldn't find anything. Another showed up on his leg, another on his stomach, then on his neck, then on his face. Dean flashed back to just a few weeks ago when Sam and him had almost been bug fodder on an ancient burial ground. This is what it felt like. Bugs crawling everywhere.
But as he moved his hands to swipe them away, he just felt skin, nothing was there. Dean felt like laughing, and he would have too if he hadn't been so creeped out and scared. Phantom bugs. Great. Buried alive, broken wrist, possible dead hand, and now there were phantom bugs.
They crawled all over him and Dean suddenly knew how all of the victims got the scratches all over their bodies. It wasn't from the ghost, it was from themselves. Scratching at the invisible bugs until they had torn into their own skin. Well, he wasn't going to do that. He could ignore a few lousy bugs. He closed his eyes again, trying not to think about the creepy, crawly feelings that were exploring his entire body. He hated bugs. He always had but now he hated them more than anything in the world.
One especially powerful itch shocked Dean as it ran across his face. He let out a small yelp and involuntarily scratched himself with his limp, knife damaged hand. He swore as he felt his own fingernails dig across his nose. It stung, but it wasn't deep. Nothing too permanent. A bright ray of hope, Dean tried to comfort himself. His face wasn't damaged permanently, that meant life could go on.
Another powerful itch had Dean scratching into his left arm. Then, all of the itches were powerful and Dean tensed his entire body, pushing his feet on the end of the coffin. No, no, no. There were no bugs crawling on him. It was just the ghost messing with his head. He could handle this. He had to handle this. Think, think of something else. Don't let it win. Don't let it win.
And, with nothing else to distract himself from the feeling of spiders, worms, and other types of crawly insects marching over his skin, Dean did the only thing that calmed him down in situations like this.
He started humming Metallica.