selene_13: (Dean)
[personal profile] selene_13
Title: Underground
Disclaimer: These boys are not belong to me
Category: h/c
Words: 1,746
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: PG, language
Summary: Written for Hoodietime's third h/c meme
Prompt: Dark, enclosed space, maybe underground. Slimy walls. Possible creepy-crawlies. Rising water. Trapped Dean.

Sam closed the final volume with a snap that echoed through the room. He looked apologetically at the librarian who shushed. Quickly grabbing his stuff together, he headed off, thinking about grabbing lunch. He was starving, had been hitting the books for hours, and thought to move to the coffeebar across the street that offered free wifi.

He was reaching for the door when his cellphone starting belting out the opening tune of Kashmir. Dammit, Dean! He ducked out the door, followed by a loud "shush!" from the librarian. He couldn't show his face there again today, but then again, the books had lead to exactly squat, the library too small to have much documentary.

He fumbled for the cell and pressed it to his ear. "Dean?"

"Sam." Dean's voice sounded tinny and far away. Bad reception out in the field?

Sam hitched his backpack over both shoulders and bounded down the stairs to the library exit. "What's up. Find anything?"

"Yeah, about that," Dean said, voice crackling in and out of focus. Did he sound worried?

Sam paused on the sidewalk. "What's wrong?"

Dean let out a breath directly into the speaker. "So I found the nest, maybe. It's actually right near the murder site."

Sam's eyebrows raised high in surprise. "You found it? In the middle of a field?"

A harsh laugh, then Dean said: "No, more like under it."

Sam paused, wondering if he heard that correctly.

"I was circling around, trying to find any tracks, you know, any sign that could tell us something," Dean said, "when the fucking ground collapsed below me. Dumped me right here."

"Shit," Sam breathed.


"You're trapped?"

"Pretty much."

"Shit." Sam looked down the street, his mind already trying to process a plan. He started down the street at a run.

"So far nobody seems to be home," Dean continued on the other end of the line. Static made his voice crackle, and he sounded out of breath, as if he'd been running. "But, um, it's not very stable in here. I don't think a guy my size is supposed to fit. The walls are sort of crumbling, um, on me."

Sam ran into a parking lot, looked around. "You hurt?" He asked. The coast seemed clear.

Silence on the other end.


"Yeah. 'm okay."

"You're not hurt?" Sam edged along an abandoned looking Toyota, three layers of dust on the hood. He dropped his bag and wrapped his coat around his arm.


Sam rammed his arm through the window.

"Shit! Sam?" Dean's voice raised in panic. "Sam?!"

"Yeah, I'm here. Just getting some transportation," Sam unlocked the car and quickly got in. "Gimme a minute."

"Fuck." Again Dean's breath was clearly audible over the phone, fast and loud.

The car started without a hitch. Sam hummed a little note of satisfaction and put it in gear. "Where'd you leave the Impala?"

Again Dean didn't reply immediately, though he could still hear his heavy breathing. "Dean?"

Dean gave a cough, then "East. End of the lane. Bring gear."

"Yeah," Sam said, flooring it. He didn't feel like he had any time to lose. "Where in the field?"

More coughing, then: "Dunno. Um, further east ... Sammy, you on the way?"

"Yeah, I'm coming. You sure you're not hurt?"

"Hard to breathe," Dean said difficultly. Then a hint of panic rose in his voice. "This thing might be coming up below me. Shit, we don't even know what it is!"

"I have a theory," Sam offered, trying to ground his brother. He had to brake hard for a stop sign. Another car passed right in front of him, leaning on its horn. "I think it migrates. Might not be there anymore. How big is this hole?"

Dean choked out a laugh. "Me-sized. Fuck. I think it's getting smaller. There's dirt falling on me. Fuck."

Shit, thought Sam. He knew where he was going, but it would take more time. "Dean, stay calm, all right."

"I am calm!" Dean barked.

"Ok. So tell me, man. How deep are you? What gear should I bring?" Keep him talking. Keep his mind off the fact that he's stuck in a hole and that there might be a serial killing critter under there that could start in on his toes.

There was only a scratching sound coming through the speaker, distant panting breaths.

"Dean? Dean!" Goddamn this piece of shit car that couldn't go any faster. But then Sam hauled it into the lane, could see the Impala up ahead.

Gasping. Then, "S-Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam let out a hard breath.

"Hard to breathe."

"You told me. Keep trying, just take it easy. How deep are you in?" Sam hit the breaks and jumped out of the Toyota, launched himself at the Impala's trunk.

More panicked breaths. "Shit, 's really tight, Sam. Can't breathe."

Sam leant on the trunk a moment, closed his eyes, forced himself to center. "Dean," he said evenly. "It sounds like you're hyperventilating. Try to calm down. There has to be air above you." He hoped he was right about that, but what else could he say? "Try to breathe more slowly." He took his own deep breath and opened the trunk, phone against his shoulder. He emptied his backpack, didn't mind that his laptop bounced on the tarp. He stuffed the bag with rope, belts, gloves, a gun, whatever he could find. He grabbed a shovel and walked out into the field, taking care where he put his feet. If he ended up like Dean they were screwed.

The phone remained silent. Sam could only hope Dean was busy calming himself down.

"You okay there, man?" he asked. "I'm almost there. Call out to me if you can."

A gritty noise came through the speaker. Dean moving the phone around? Then his brother's voice came back on. "Can't." Dean panted. "'s no air."

That didn's sound good.

Sam pulled the phone from his ear. "Dean?" he called, nearly at the center of the field. "Dean!" No response.

He put the phone back to his ear. "Dean? You hearing me?"

"Sammy?" Dean's breath was reduced to superficial gasping. "Help."

Shit! Sam closed in on the murder side. Pieces of police ribbon wafted in the wind. Dean had said east.

A few dozen careful steps and he found the hole. It looked barely a foot wide and he couldn't see anything down it except darkness. "Dean?" he called down. "You there?"

First a series of breathless coughs, that had him sit back on his haunches in relief, then "Sam! Fucking Christ. Get me out! Get me out now!" Dean's voice sounded wrecked.

"I'm dropping a belt on a rope!" Sam called down. "Grab onto it!"

"Just do it!" drifted up weakly.

He lowered the rope at least thirty feet before he felt it hit something.

"Pull!" Dean hoarsely shouted up.

Sam pulled, meeting resistance first, but then slowly but steadily lifting up the bulk of his brother.

Dean emerged, covered completely in dirt, his face gray with it. His eyes were wide and frantic as he rolled out onto the grass. Getting to his hands and knees, he started to crawl away further from the hole, his breath practically whistling out of him.

"Dean, wait," Sam said. Dropping the rope and following quickly, he put his hands on Dean's back.

Dean snarled, turned around and struck quick as a snake, shoving Sam away. Sam dropped on his ass. Dean got up and stumbled a few steps, then dropped to his knees, coughing harshly.

"Dean, hey," Sam said, stunned. He followed again but took care to stay a few paces behind, giving Dean space, until Dean started retching.

"Oh man," Sam sighed, moving closer and dropping his hands back on Dean's shoulders to keep him steady. This time Dean was too busy heaving up the dirt he swallowed and what was left of his breakfast to push him away.

When Dean finally caught a breath and leaned back, threatening to topple all the way over to the ground, Sam caught him against his chest.

"Deep breaths, Dean. You're okay."

Dean laid against Sam, limp as a noodle now. His breathing remained shallow.

Sam let it go on a few minutes, trying to assess any damage. Dean looked basically okay, scraped and bruised maybe, and probably had sand in places you didn't want to think about, but otherwise okay. The panic seemed to be leaking away. "Dean? You with me?"

Dean blinked as if he'd just woken up, shifted in Sam's grip, put a hand against his own chest. "Think I broke a few ribs, maybe," he whispered. "Got caught by the walls. Couldn't move further down. Stuck."

Sam nodded. That would explain the shallow breathing. He didn't think Dean had been playing it completely straight. He never quite did.

"No air," Dean repeated, rubbing his forehead, smearing the dirt into circles.

"You're out now," Sam assured.

"I can see that, you dork."

"Guess you're feeling better if you're insulting me again," Sam huffed good-naturedly. "Think you can stand?" He pushed himself up and grabbed Dean's arm.

"'Course," Dean said. But he let Sam pull most of his weight and as he stood he swayed, free hand still pressed against his ribs.

As they made their way to the car - Dean stumbling regularly and remaining silent about Sam's hand on his arm, which told Sam enough about how rotten Dean was really feeling - Dean suddenly stopped and made Sam turn around. "What is it" Sam asked.

"Promise me," Dean said. "Next time, you won't bury me again. You give me a hunter's funeral."

"What?" Sam asked, stunned, unprepared.

"You don't put me back under the ground." Dean insisted, but he looked away, his eyes finding his shoes. "Just promise okay?

Sam pursed his lips. He didn't want to promise anything. He didn't even want to think about it now.

"Sammy, please," Dean said, even as a shudder past through him. He shook himself, coughed harshly, then looked back at Sam, sincere.

"All right," Sam said, giving in, feeling lost. "Just let's get back to the motel now. Get you fixed up. If you think you can go on."

"Yeah, I can go on. Bitch." Dean muttered gruffly, and took a step, stumbled on it. He took a sharp breath.

Sam hurriedly stepped forward to catch him as his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Gotcha," Sam said.

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