His hand aches every time he swipes the tethered limb up against the jagged nail that sticks out haphazardly from somewhere behind him.
He hisses against the gag and ignores the slickness of his hands as blood joins the sweat that coats the appendage.
He had begun frantically sawing against the nail once he had seen the text messages that peppered his screen.
Ten minutes after he didn't show up. 'Dude, where are you?'
Twenty minutes. 'Dean?'
Thirty. 'Seriously man, where the hell are you?'
Forty. 'Dammit Dean! Answer your phone!'
Fifty. 'Dean? I hope you're just being a jackass to mess with me. Dean?'
One hour. 'Dean, don't worry. I'll find you.'
His first reaction to his brother's panic had been to call out for him, until he remembered sheepishly that he was underground and gagged.
His next reaction was to find something, anything, to help him free his hands because he couldn't spend one more second with his mouth full of death.
His hand slipped and the tip of the nail dug into his palm as a smothered grunt escaped his mouth.
He tried to think about how many times he had gotten out of impossible situations, how many times he had stood over his captors with rope or cable ties or cuffs in his hands and stated, 'Bondage really isn't your strong point huh?' right before he beat them into submission.
But all of those times were different, all of those times he had been topside, able to breathe and move and shift. Here every jolt of motion from his body is met with a barricade and he has to fight hard not to hyperventilate.
He needs that air, needs to concentrate and get the hell out of here.
Before his reason is pushed too far.
Before he brings the whole earth down on him just to do something.
He rolls away from the nail for just a second and his leg whacks into something solid.
He cries out from instinct and tries not to think about another corpse occupying his prison or maybe even a rat…
An audible shudder runs through him and he sucks in a breath and reaches into the space he can't easily see with shaky hands.
Please don't be a rat; please don't be a rat…or a body.
His hands close on a cold surface. Cold and…metallic?
Fuck me.
Dean stares at the oxygen tank with something close to disbelief.
His hands clench the nozzle and then release and clench again.
Nope, still here.
The last of the rope catches and frays against the edge of the metal and with a sigh of fabric his hands are free.
He flexes the digits and tries to ignore the throb of pain it causes. Each finger is coated in bright red liquid as Dean brings them up to his face to yank the cloth free.
Okay so mouth is free, hands are free…now what?
A moan of the earth shifting on top of his prison is all that answers him.