A.N.: So I'm going to go ahead and set this is S2, sometime after…'Hunted.' So Sam knows the truth about what John said about him. We're back to Dean's POV, hope you like! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Years of training should have prepared him for this. Should have made it easy to calm the hell down and think of a logical way to get out of this situation. He should be able to handle any nightmare life throws his way.
Instead he's opted for curling up into a nearly fetal position and humming Metallica until the steady pulse in his head starts to feel like an eighteen wheeler rolling over his brain.
He can't stop though, can't take a second to look back around through gritty eyes at his surroundings or he might just lose his mind.
When he can finally feel that his pulse has slowed down and that the tremors that ran through his frame have subsided, he dares to look around again.
Everything looks distorted and small and dim. He doesn't know if it's his head playing tricks on him or what because the small wooden box he's in seems to shrink exponentially in size by the second.
Okay, the coffin is not shrinking, seriously, it's not. You need to get a grip.
He braces his hands above his head driven by a need to touch his prison and make sure that it is not falling in around his head.
He holds his breath for a second and nothing happens.
A muffled cry of relief passes through his gag.
He's got to get out of here.
He pushes his tongue up against the dirty tasting cloth and tries to work it down to his chin.
Several times he has to stop because the taste of decay on the cloth is so strong.
Suck it up sunshine, just a little more…
He can't get the cloth to move past his bottom lip and with his lips finally free he can taste the copper tang of blood.
He doesn't know where it's coming from, whose it is, why it's there.
He tilts his head upwards and gropes around the top of his skull to try and determine where the injury is.
He brings his bound hands down to his face and can just barely make out the crimson streak across the cord.
He's bleeding…from his head.
The impaired vision suddenly makes much more sense as he realizes a slow ooze of blood is traveling down his face.
More things that seemed out of reach moments ago slide to the forefront of his mind.
Wait a minute, how can he see? He's in a coffin; it should be pitch black…
His eyes travel down to the soft glow of his open cell phone by his feet, the eerily unreal blue light finally having significance other than to make him feel like he is perched precariously on the edge of madness.
He twists his boots until the flat of the cell lies across his foot and then he pulls up using his trapped hands to bring the cellphone into his line of sight.
He swears that there is a God and that he really, really likes him.
No signal.
He renounces his newfound faith with a hopeless groan.