NIGHTMARE SCENARIO
Dean prepares to face his very worst nightmare ...
Rated T for one use of the 'F' word (my first in 60 stories, wow; not like me to show that sort of restraint!)
Chapter 3
xxxxx
"Dean?"
"Dean, are you okay?"
The voice on the radio was beginning to sound concerned.
"DEAN …"
Dean shook his head with a flinch as if emerging from a trance; "Uh, yeah; I'm here;" the long awaited response came in barely a whisper.
"Everything okay?" The relief in the voice was palpable even over the crackling of the radio.
Dean scowled; "I'm stuck in a plane the size of a tea crate, my brother's sick, I've puked so many times, I'm hurling stuff I haven't even eaten yet, we're floating two thousand feet in the air with nothing but a lawnmower engine keeping us from crashing to earth in the middle of the friggin' desert so … yeah, everything's totally crap thanks."
"I understand," came the sympathetic voice over the radio; "are you strapped in?"
Dean reached round and groped for his shoulder harness fumbling clumsily as he tried to fasten it with violently shaking fingers, swearing furiously as he dropped it into his lap twice.
"Right," he panted, blinking hard as the frustration pricked his eyes; jeez, can't even do my friggin' seatbelt up - not a promising start.
The radio hissed into life again; "Okay, Dean, now I need you to take a look at the attitude indicator for me."
"The w-what?" Dean scanned the flight deck in agitated confusion; they were having a freakin' laugh, surely no-one needed all these damn dials and knobs to fly a tub this size.
"It's okay Dean; it looks like a picture of a horizon, and it has a little pair of wings that will tell you if your plane is straight or not." Peter's voice remained calm and reassuring. Well, of course it did, the bastard was comfortable and safe and sitting in a building on the damned ground.
Dean wiped a cuff over his sweat beaded brow, "Yeah, I can see the dial I think, but-uh, but it's hard to read what it says."
"Why's that Dean?"
"Um, well … I puked over it."
Xxxxx
A few minutes passed as Peter's reassuring voice had tried to put his reluctant pilot at ease by familiarising him with the controls. Unfortunately, his best efforts had failed spectacularly.
Dean's hand hovered over the yoke, he couldn't remember what Peter, his new best friend in the whole world, had called the damn thing, but what he had grasped was that as soon as he touched it, the autopilot was disengaged and it was down to him. From that point there was no going back.
His heart pounded against his ribs, faster and faster, harder and harder, like a jackhammer. He was starting to feel lightheaded again. No, no, no; can't faint. Not now, can't faint … pull it together.
He bit down hard on his lip and took a deep breath.
"When you're ready, Dean," came Peter's voice
Dean glanced back at his apparently comatose brother, and tried a watery smile; "getting' you to a doctors S'mmy."
His breath hitched as he grasped the stick.
Xxxxx
The plane lurched violently as the autopilot disengaged, and Dean yelped as it's nose dipped, the engine changing it's pitch from an annoying drone to a terrifying whine.
"It's falling;" he cried, letting go of the yoke in panic, "it's going down real fast, what do I do, what do I do?" Dean could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate as the plane shuddered against the immense stresses of it's sudden descent.
"Pull the yoke back just a little bit to straighten up; not too much though," Peter's voice was calm, yet had an unmistakable undertone of urgency.
Dean's shaking hands gripped the yoke, tugging it back; he cried out as the plane swung wildly beneath him, jolting him against the back of the seat, knocking the breath out of lungs.
"Smooth now" said Peter, "nice and smooth, just watch your altitude."
Dean didn't like to tell him he had his eyes closed.
xxxxx
His sweat soaked hands slipped on the handle of the yoke as the plane rocked and rolled, creaking and rattling around him. Dean never thought he would be happy to hear the pathetic whiny buzz of that crappy engine, but right now, compared to the other noises the plane was making, it would be music to his ears.
"You're doing good, buddy." Dean had to hand it to him, Peter was doing a good job of keeping up the reassurance; "easy now, just hold her steady and she'll bring you down smoothly."
"Smoothly my ass," gasped Dean as the plane pitched sideways, gathering speed; the engine's whine turning into a scream.
The ground reared toward them, noticeably closer now. Dean watched it through impossibly wide eyes, glazed with terror as he had never felt. Throat burning, he gasped for precious air; his breaths coming faster and harder, rasping as he fought against the shuddering yoke to keep control of the aircraft.
"Back on the throttle Dean, you need to slow down just a little bit"
"Oshitoshitoshitoshitoshit oooooooooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiit …" Dean's voice rose into a wail as the plane shuddered and bucked, groaning and creaking as it plunged down towards the waiting desert floor. He wondered how long he could scream without pausing for breath; his efforts so far had been impressive.
Battling to slow the plane's descent; Dean could see the ground only a few hundred feet away now, and getting closer by the second; he abandoned all pretence of trying to be calm.
Paralysed with fear, he gripped the throttle lever in a cold, sweat-dampened hand; Peter's words washed over him unheard. His mind had shut down against the horror of what was happening, and had taken him someplace else, somewhere where he wasn't hurtling to his doom in a small shitty aircraft, somewhere where Sam was well, and wouldn't have to die because of his useless brother's incompetence.
He palmed the continuous flow of tears away from his face, stricken with fear and resignation as he watched the ground rushing up to meet them; it was then he was startled by voice behind him.
"D-Dean? What the hell?"
He tried to turn, but he was held fast by the harness. But he didn't need to turn; that voice was unmistakable.
It was Sam.
Xxxxx
"Sammy? You okay man? YOU OKAY?"
At the sound of his brother's voice, Dean's resolve snapped back into him; he yelled back to Sam at the top of his voice, "Sam, you okay? Hang on bro' – gettin' you some help."
He'd heard Peter say something about raising the nose, and doing something with the flaps. The hell? What friggin' flaps? He tugged back on the throttle feeling the plane lurch as it began to slow, cringing as the engine spluttered and whined horribly."Sammy, buckle up dude, gonna be bumpy …"
"Dean, throttle back, lift the nose, raise the flaps …" the soothing mantra over the radio continued.
He frantically pulled and pushed levers, flicking switches, murmuring incoherently as the plane continued to descend, "oooooooohcrapocrapcrapcrap …"
Two hundred feet from the ground; the plane pitched and swung as Dean tried desperately to wrestle it into the right angle for landing.
Peter was barking orders at him on the radio, behind him he could hear Sam yelling, wanting to know what the hell was going on.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he screamed.
One hundred feet from the ground; Dean managed to drag the nose up a little, still fighting for control as the little aircraft listed sideways,
Fifty feet; the ground raced along beneath them, the engine roaring and hissing as he continued pulling back the throttle, slowing the plane by fractions, his damp hands slipping and losing their grip as the plane juddered and pitched.
Twenty feet, ten feet . "Hang on Sam, hang on …"
As the plane made contact with the ground, there was a clatter as it bounced, and lurched sideways, the two occupants yelped as they were flung sideways with it. It touched down again, this time the right wheel dug into the soft sand of the desert floor and snapped off with a ragged crack. The aircraft gave a sickening jolt, as it collapsed sideways, tearing the right wing from the fuselage and sending the crippled aircraft into a skidding spin across the desert floor.
It's nose planted into the ground, buckling grotesquely and shattering the propeller into flying smithereens. Pinned into his seat by the massive forces of the crash, Dean did his best to duck as whirling shrapnel from the propeller peppered the fractured windshield.
"Dean, man … Dean, you OK?" Sam's voice bellowed wildly from the back of the skidding wreck.
Eventually the ruined fuselage skidded to a halt in a cloud of red dust, which settled slowly over the silent, gently rocking wreckage.
Dean sat in the pilot's seat, shaking uncontrollably, gulping beautiful ground level air into his shocked, battered lungs. Something warm trickled down the side of his tear-stained face, and he was aware of a searing pain along his left leg which appeared to be trapped under the tangled remains of the flight deck.
But Dean didn't care; he was on the ground; Sam was alive, and what's more he was awake. Somewhere behind him, Dean could hear Sam unbuckling his seatbelt and frantically calling his name. When he felt Sam's large hand grasp his shoulder, he gave a deep sigh, and sank into well deserved oblivion.
Xxxxx
tbc