A.N.: We're back to Dean, in that little pine box. *shudder* But hey, his mouth is free and his hands are free so that's something right? Anywho here is chapter 7. I hope you enjoy….because I can't be the only sick, sadistic fan that loves Dean in trouble. :P Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Not even close to mine.
He gives himself a full thirty seconds where he gulps for air, greedily sucking in every bit of available oxygen that doesn't taste like the grave he has been so wrongly cast in.
He gives himself another thirty seconds to relish his freedom. No matter how limited it is. He flexes each digit and feels a smile curl onto his lips that they no longer are constrained by that freakin' rope.
All it takes for reality to slam back down on him is the flicker of his cell screen. The blue light flashes sporadically as he pulls the device to him.
Low battery.
"Dammit." He grumbles as he stares at the blinking battery indicator with disdain.
Oh well, not like it can do much to help him anyway.
He clicks the phone off and pockets it, wincing at the rub of the denim against his injury.
His feet end up in either corner of the coffin as he braces his hands above, searching, gingerly for any sort of give or weakness that he can use to get the hell out of here.
Every time he tentatively presses on the wooden box there is a creak of earth shifting on top of him.
He pulls his hands back with an uttered "Jesus." Not sure whether it is a curse or a prayer.
He cants his head to the right and strains to hear something other than the maddening silence he is encased in.
Nothing.
Not even a whistle of wind passes through his prison.
He resists the urge to punch the wall in frustration.
He tries to remember how he got here, what had happened after Sam and he had split up.
Flashes of being grabbed and thrown burst like a firework in his head, complete with the too bright colors and the crackle of intensity.
It's no use; the concussion is messing with his recall.
He swipes the sleeve of his flannel shirt across his head, pleased when the color of the blood that greets him is brown red and not the vibrant hue of a more pressing injury.
He lets his heart and his breathing slow as he takes stock of the tools he has at his disposal.
Oxygen tank. He could use the thing to break one of the boards and dig himself out…and completely screw himself if he is too far down.
Next.
He fumbles for the contents in his pockets.
Lighter. Lighter+Oxygen tank= Crispy fried Dean.
Next.
Cell phone, with a dying battery and no signal… About as helpful as a drunk Sammy and not nearly as entertaining.
A knife….that might come in handy.
He counts his physical belongings and breathes a sigh of relief when he can feel the amulet shift on his chest.
He has no way of knowing how far down he is, if Sam is coming, how long he has been down there…when his air will run out.
Dean thunks his head against the wooden backing.
He's so fucked.