A.N.: Chapter 19 of this tale is below, for those of you who were worried that Dean was acting okay just for the sake of Sam and Bobby, you were right. A special thanks to Dorothy for helping me beta this chapter, and more thanks than I can properly convey to the rest of you who read and review and just plain rock!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
He can't remember falling asleep, and that fact alone pretty much tells him he is far, far closer to death than he is really comfortable. He chuckles because yeah, there has to be a certain level of 'comfort' with near death experiences in his particular brand of living and then 'almost' dying.
He can't remember the last time he was conscious but… did he really waste precious air screaming and bellowing out into the darkness of his tomb? The roughness and pain that lances through his throat as he swallows makes the answer to that question a resounding yes.
Fuck, did he even make an attempt to get out or did he just lay there like a pansy and flitter away into unconsciousness? No, he wouldn't just give up without a fight. Not him. The pain in his head and the crookedness of his fingers confirms that at least tried to do something. He didn't lay in wait for death to collect him peacefully.
Damn it, he is going to die in this hole. But he can't, not yet. First he has to find some way to leave behind a goodbye for Sam, like a note. He snorts. It doesn't look like the piece of shit coffin is going to speed up the process to become paper anytime soon (although that would make his grand plan to escape so much easier) so yeah, that's not going to work. And he doesn't even have a pen in his meager belongings, so cross off that particle brand of communication.
Maybe he can leave a recorded message on his cell phone… his dead cell phone. His own impending doom is apparently taking place of his common sense.
His fingers skim the hard metal of his knife. Christ, maybe he'll just carve letters into the coffin just… he has to do something. He can't leave it like this. He can't drift off from this world into whatever is out there waiting for him without telling Sam… without telling Sammy…
He wakes up engulfed in a mountain of blankets, his scream lost somewhere in the scratchiness of the comforter. The sheets are twisted around his neck and face creating some kind of macabre, homemade noose. He panics as he clutches sweaty palms around the fabric, fighting to loosen the stupid fucking thing from around his throat.
Notintheground,notintheground,notintheground.
He pants in exertion as he thrusts the entirety of the bed linens away from his overheated body to tumble carelessly to the floor.
The room is silent, save for Sam's uneven snores. Poor Sammy, the kid only snores when he's totally exhausted.
Dean swings his feet off the side of the bed and paws around on the ground to snatch up his discarded jeans.
He somehow manages to maneuver back into the denim with his once functional hand, all the while unable to tear his eyes away from his brother. He narrows his gaze onto Sam's features, his little brother who seems to age years with every hunt.
He pats a sleeping shoulder and mumbles a fond, "Sweet dreams Sammy," as he wiggles the rest of the way into his jeans.
His hand starts to reach for his jacket when it happens.
The room feels like it's closing in, the air saturates with a thick, stale and nauseatingly familiar taste as his knees give out suddenly to acquaint themselves with the floor.
His head tips into the back of the particleboard chair as he fights off the wave of dizziness.
"I'm not there," he grits out, "not in that stupid little box, not dying, I'm fine." He hisses, lightly banging a hand against the side of the chair.
"Sam got you out, remember. You're out." He groans, forcing himself back to his feet.
His brother grumbles something unintelligible as he rolls over towards him.
"Sam has been through enough, he doesn't need this." Dean whispers, watching as his brother slips back into a fitful sleep.
He reaches for his keys and clamps his hand down on them hard, relishing the bite of the metal into his palm because it is real.
He's here. He's back into the light of the day, of the surface. He didn't die down there like he was terrified he would, not like Lily.
Lily.
The name cuts a swath through his defenses as he recalls the high pitched, keening wails she expelled into the darkness, her mind traveling a shocking expanse of emotions for such a young girl.
No one had found her. No one had rescued her. No one had delivered her into the waiting arms of her parents, to be showered with love and support. No one had the chance to help her recover from the consuming horror of being buried alive.
"Dammit," Dean grumbles, running a hand down his face to clear away the evidence of fresh tears.
He's got to get out of here. He needs to get away from the suffocating grip of claustrophobia that grips him tight as he stares at the closed door. He is trapped in that room and he can't take it for even one more second.
He rushes the door and exits the room in a panic. He darts into the parking lot and races to his car; not exactly sure of where he's going but knowing there is no way he can step one foot back into that room.
He has miles to go before he sleeps…