repost: where you left off (i pick up the pieces)
title: where you left off (i pick up the pieces)
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: g/pg
warnings: SPOILERS for 4x01.
word count: 533
notes: yes, this is that fic. i'm reposting it like i promised a few of you, since it's officially season 4. a little pov work. inspiration & lyrics from 'dragonfly' by the thorns. follow-up to come later this week.
here goes nothing
heard him saying
as he dropped away
here goes nothing
coming down
hardly makes a sound
He wakes up in the dark.
There’s something over his head. He feels closed in, stiff. Cold. He reaches out blindly and his hands meet with wood; it’s rough under his fingers. He trails his hands across the face of it, finds the edges. Dean follows the outline of the shape with his hands; he pictures it in his head: he’s in a box.
Oh god, he was. He was.
There’s not enough room to breathe. Dean pounds on the lid of the box - his coffin - ignores the splinters that break off and slide under his skin. Bites his lip, his mind stuck in the groove of Pleasepleaseplease. He's not gonna, he won't die down here.
His foot connects with the wood, and Dean realises whoever buried him left his boots on.
Dean grits his teeth and kicks as hard as he can. Keeps kicking until the wood cracks and gives under the steel toes of his boots. Pries at the mess with his fingers till his nails sting, and when he sticks one of them in his mouth to pull out a too-deep splinter under his fingernail, it tastes like copper. Ash.
Dean laughs. Pretends it doesn’t sound weak and strange. Nothing like Dean Winchester at all.
He digs upward, hands scrabbling against the dirt. He closes his eyes and tries to keep a lid on the panic that wants to claw its own way out of his chest. The dirt slides over his face, clings to his eyelashes. He is getting out.
He digs harder.
His hands finally hit air and he grabs for something, anything. Feels grass under his fingers and holds on. He locks his fingers in the ground above him, crawls out of the grave - outoutoutnownownow - inch by inch, on his belly.
He flips over onto his back. Lets the grass prickle and itch against his neck, his arms. The sun is warm. Bright. Safe.
Dean never wants to be in the dark again.
He squints up at the clouds. The impossible blue of the sky. Everything stretches out huge and empty around him. There are no birds, no people.
Just Dean.
It’s easy to get lost in the stillness. The space and the silence. Especially after, after...
He fights to remember what happened before he woke up in his own grave. Flashes of things skitter around in his mind, half formed and shadowy. As soon as Dean focuses, tries to pin something down, the memories slip away. Gone.
But he remembers the dark. Can almost feel it pressing in on him.
Dean shivers; he needs to move. He rolls over and gets to his feet, swaying a little at the head rush. His stomach growls. The craving for a cheeseburger hits him sharp and sudden. Dean laughs again; this time it sounds almost right.
Seems like being buried alive - dead, he’d been dead - took a lot of energy. There had to be somewhere around here to find a bottle of water, something to eat. He’ll see if he can’t round up some supplies, some wheels, or better yet, a phone.
And right after that, he’s gonna find Sammy.
Dean starts walking.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: g/pg
warnings: SPOILERS for 4x01.
word count: 533
notes: yes, this is that fic. i'm reposting it like i promised a few of you, since it's officially season 4. a little pov work. inspiration & lyrics from 'dragonfly' by the thorns. follow-up to come later this week.
here goes nothing
heard him saying
as he dropped away
here goes nothing
coming down
hardly makes a sound
He wakes up in the dark.
There’s something over his head. He feels closed in, stiff. Cold. He reaches out blindly and his hands meet with wood; it’s rough under his fingers. He trails his hands across the face of it, finds the edges. Dean follows the outline of the shape with his hands; he pictures it in his head: he’s in a box.
Oh god, he was. He was.
There’s not enough room to breathe. Dean pounds on the lid of the box - his coffin - ignores the splinters that break off and slide under his skin. Bites his lip, his mind stuck in the groove of Pleasepleaseplease. He's not gonna, he won't die down here.
His foot connects with the wood, and Dean realises whoever buried him left his boots on.
Dean grits his teeth and kicks as hard as he can. Keeps kicking until the wood cracks and gives under the steel toes of his boots. Pries at the mess with his fingers till his nails sting, and when he sticks one of them in his mouth to pull out a too-deep splinter under his fingernail, it tastes like copper. Ash.
Dean laughs. Pretends it doesn’t sound weak and strange. Nothing like Dean Winchester at all.
He digs upward, hands scrabbling against the dirt. He closes his eyes and tries to keep a lid on the panic that wants to claw its own way out of his chest. The dirt slides over his face, clings to his eyelashes. He is getting out.
He digs harder.
His hands finally hit air and he grabs for something, anything. Feels grass under his fingers and holds on. He locks his fingers in the ground above him, crawls out of the grave - outoutoutnownownow - inch by inch, on his belly.
He flips over onto his back. Lets the grass prickle and itch against his neck, his arms. The sun is warm. Bright. Safe.
Dean never wants to be in the dark again.
He squints up at the clouds. The impossible blue of the sky. Everything stretches out huge and empty around him. There are no birds, no people.
Just Dean.
It’s easy to get lost in the stillness. The space and the silence. Especially after, after...
He fights to remember what happened before he woke up in his own grave. Flashes of things skitter around in his mind, half formed and shadowy. As soon as Dean focuses, tries to pin something down, the memories slip away. Gone.
But he remembers the dark. Can almost feel it pressing in on him.
Dean shivers; he needs to move. He rolls over and gets to his feet, swaying a little at the head rush. His stomach growls. The craving for a cheeseburger hits him sharp and sudden. Dean laughs again; this time it sounds almost right.
Seems like being buried alive - dead, he’d been dead - took a lot of energy. There had to be somewhere around here to find a bottle of water, something to eat. He’ll see if he can’t round up some supplies, some wheels, or better yet, a phone.
And right after that, he’s gonna find Sammy.
Dean starts walking.
- end