A.N.: I promised you guys another chapter and another chapter you shall have! You would have had it HOURS ago, but FFN wouldn't let me log in. Sorry for the delay on responses to reviews, they mean the world to me. Thank you so, SO much. Hope you guys enjoy this!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
He doesn't know where he is when he comes to. He can't quite recall what piece of shit motel they had stopped in this time as he stretches out his form. He knuckles crash into wood and the shallow breath he takes in is stale and thick.
"Dude, it's stifling in here. Crack a damn window." he grouses and tries to roll over only to knock into another obstacle.
"What the fuck Sam? Did you tuck me in?" He paws for the nightstand and sighs as his hands meet another barricade.
"Sam?" His eyes crack open and he blinks. His eyes are weary and gritty and usually only feel this way after a bender.
"Sam?" He calls again fingers reaching out to grab his brother.
One more hollow knock is all it takes to send him spinning violently back into truth.
His eyes widen, his pulse quickens, and his muscles pull tight.
Not a piece of shit hotel, a coffin. A goddamn wooden prison.
He resists the urge to call out for his brother again. He's not here. No one is here.
Just him.
Him and Lily.
And even she left him.
He can dimly remember screaming, pleading, begging, sobbing. His grit wearing thin with ghastly images his mind had been clouded with and then...
He passed out? Shit, he can't remember.
How could he have wasted so much precious oxygen?
As if on cue breathing becomes much harder, each bit of oxygen fighting to get through the thick air.
Everything smells like dirt. He's covered in it.
He pats his hands around the outline of his body gauging damage.
His head is pounding, worse than before.
The wound on his head has opened up again and his palms come away with fresh blood.
"Son of a bitch." he groans as his eyes spy a small break in the wood above him.
A trickle of dirt sifts through the slats.
He head-butted it? Sounds about right.
He can't believe how much time he spent yelling into the empty space around him. Not like it did any good.
The spirit really did nothing but mock him.
There is a muted chime from the cell phone at the bottom of the box.
Dean reaches down to grab it and bumps into the oxygen tank.
As he pulls the phone back up towards him he can see in the dull light the needle resting on the foreboding E.
His phone beeps to remind him that the battery is one step away from dying.
His starved lungs ache as if to remind him that he is one breath away from dying.
He has no signal, no battery, no air left.
No hope.