Oneshot Number 2
Title: Untitled (looks like my muse failed me in this point)
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Dammit!
Prompt: Great big Sammy. Little tiny box. And everything that he's ever been afraid of seems to somehow get in there with him. If he could just get out. If he could just move to bang on something for help. If only the digging he could hear was really Dean.
Warnings: I hate to repeat myself but... eewwww! So don't wanna be in Sam's shoes. Plus, my muse didn't exactly get along with the prompt. It had its own mind.
It’s hot.
It’s the first thing he realizes. Right before he finds out that it’s not the air that presses against his chest but something solid. Something unforgiving. He wants to lift it off his torso but his hands are as trapped as the rest of his body.
And that’s when he wakes. Really wakes up. And wishes he could back to sleep.
He opens his eyes. Wide open. Wider yet. But it doesn’t make any difference. It’s dark. So very pitch dark. Dark enough that he sees white rings scattered in the darkness, wandering with his gaze. Like worms creeping over his eyeballs. Blinking hastily, he tries again. But there’s still nothing. He surrenders. Knows, that’s just his eyes playing trick on him.
He tries to take a deep breath but his chest doesn’t have room to expand. His ribcage feels like it’s in a vice like grip on someone’s work bench. The air, the precious air, won’t get past his throat and he swallows, forces himself to calm down even though he knows it’s useless. And too late.
He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Can feel the sweat on his forehead roll along his temple, vanishing in his hairline. Squeezing his eyes shut again he counts. He doesn’t get far. Loses concentration after “thirteen...” and starts from the beginning. He won’t even try to move his feet because he knows, every movement he makes costs him precious air, energy and seconds he doesn’t have.
thumpthumpthump
His heartbeat is fast enough that he can’t even differentiate one beat from the next.
There’s something stuck in his throat and it feels huge even though it’s just a scream. But it hurts. Hurts so much that he thinks he might drown in his own terror. Suffocate in his own call for salvation. Like it’s not the nothingness around him that threatens to squash him but his own useless cry for help.
The weight against his chest increases even more and he tries to wriggle his head free to lengthen his throat as if this could make it easier for the air to flow along his airway. But that’s stupid and he knows it. Because where there’s no air, there’s no breath.
His limbs start twitching, his toes thumping against the low ceiling. Accompanying his heartbeat in an irregular rhythm.
thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpppp
Dull sounds coming from far away ... and from above.
And with his last waning thoughts he can feel the vibrations of his seizing body rattle him like they’re trying to shake him back to awakeness. As if they knew that the desired rescue was mere seconds away.
Thumpthumpthuuumpthuuuuump....
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Dammit!
Prompt: Great big Sammy. Little tiny box. And everything that he's ever been afraid of seems to somehow get in there with him. If he could just get out. If he could just move to bang on something for help. If only the digging he could hear was really Dean.
Warnings: I hate to repeat myself but... eewwww! So don't wanna be in Sam's shoes. Plus, my muse didn't exactly get along with the prompt. It had its own mind.
It’s hot.
It’s the first thing he realizes. Right before he finds out that it’s not the air that presses against his chest but something solid. Something unforgiving. He wants to lift it off his torso but his hands are as trapped as the rest of his body.
And that’s when he wakes. Really wakes up. And wishes he could back to sleep.
He opens his eyes. Wide open. Wider yet. But it doesn’t make any difference. It’s dark. So very pitch dark. Dark enough that he sees white rings scattered in the darkness, wandering with his gaze. Like worms creeping over his eyeballs. Blinking hastily, he tries again. But there’s still nothing. He surrenders. Knows, that’s just his eyes playing trick on him.
He tries to take a deep breath but his chest doesn’t have room to expand. His ribcage feels like it’s in a vice like grip on someone’s work bench. The air, the precious air, won’t get past his throat and he swallows, forces himself to calm down even though he knows it’s useless. And too late.
He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Can feel the sweat on his forehead roll along his temple, vanishing in his hairline. Squeezing his eyes shut again he counts. He doesn’t get far. Loses concentration after “thirteen...” and starts from the beginning. He won’t even try to move his feet because he knows, every movement he makes costs him precious air, energy and seconds he doesn’t have.
thumpthumpthump
His heartbeat is fast enough that he can’t even differentiate one beat from the next.
There’s something stuck in his throat and it feels huge even though it’s just a scream. But it hurts. Hurts so much that he thinks he might drown in his own terror. Suffocate in his own call for salvation. Like it’s not the nothingness around him that threatens to squash him but his own useless cry for help.
The weight against his chest increases even more and he tries to wriggle his head free to lengthen his throat as if this could make it easier for the air to flow along his airway. But that’s stupid and he knows it. Because where there’s no air, there’s no breath.
His limbs start twitching, his toes thumping against the low ceiling. Accompanying his heartbeat in an irregular rhythm.
thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpppp
Dull sounds coming from far away ... and from above.
And with his last waning thoughts he can feel the vibrations of his seizing body rattle him like they’re trying to shake him back to awakeness. As if they knew that the desired rescue was mere seconds away.
Thumpthumpthuuumpthuuuuump....