Chapter Text
It was all so painless, falling in love with Dean…
No, shit, wrong story–
It was dark. And cold. And small. Dean was never a big fan of small spaces.
When the hellhound came to take his soul and drag it down to Hell, Dean Winchester was expecting that to be the end. He didn’t truly want to die in the end, but he did. He went to Hell and that would be it, end of story. Eternal burning, endless suffering, little red guys with horns and tails poking him with little pitchforks forever, the whole package. For the rest of his soul’s vast and incomprehensible existence. Endless. Until, of course, it ended.
The very last thing Dean was expecting was to wake up, especially not in this dark, cold, small little wooden box where he couldn’t breathe and–
Oh, shit, he couldn’t breathe.
He panicked. Probably the worst possible thing to do in a situation like that but, what’d you expect? Fear and desperation overtook him. He kicked and slammed at the top of the box he was in, presumably a coffin. It didn’t budge. He just kept hitting it over and over and over again. It would not budge. He clawed at it until his nails ripped and bled and it hurt so much more than it should and he tried to yell but he couldn’t breathe and he was so tired and it hurt whenever he hit it but he had to get out, he had to get out, getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutGETOUT.
A crack in the coffin top, just above his legs, and dirt came pouring down. But he persisted. As the earth seemed to cave in onto him, he latched on to whatever he could. He pushed and parted the soil around him and struggled through like he was drowning and the earth was the ocean. He was exhausted and he could barely manage it but after so much effort, Dean rose from the ground.
He’d clawed himself out and immediately let himself drop face first into the loose soil. He was gasping desperately, struggling to draw air into his lungs. His entire body ached, like needles had been driven straight into his bones. Even taking in his surroundings proved to be a challenge. Everything just felt numb besides that ache. He could barely see or feel anything around him; the fresh open ground, the trees swaying in the breeze– come to think of it, it was seriously cold out there, even with the sun blaring down at him. Like the breeze just canceled it out.
Of course, Dean’s mind was still mostly stuck in… let’s call it “Hell-mode,” so his first thought was that the demons were out there, that this was some kind of trick, some punishment they’d made up. That he’d messed up somehow, he’d made them angry. His head was reeling with confusion, the poor guy was completely and utterly lost. He tried to scramble to his feet, to run or hide, but the second he put too much pressure onto his legs it was like an explosion of pain ran through them and up his spine. He collapsed onto his knees instantly with a yelp of pain. As if that wasn’t enough, that’s when he was hit by the true truck. The agonizing illness.
Dean’s stomach flipped so hard he had to bite back a strangled scream, his abdomen suddenly clenching violently. He hunched over as it hit him, hands clutching at his middle so tight that it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the nausea and dizziness combined with the agony that had overcome his body. He was completely unable to stop it, and he retched up a gruesome, concerning pool of nothing but dark blood and acid. Saying that it was terrifying would be an absolutely criminal understatement. He quickly became delirious, on top of being confused and afraid and in an incredible amount of pain.
He just collapsed, barely avoiding landing in the pool of blood, and laid there for a while. The pain in his legs and back made it so he couldn’t stand, but it wasn’t just his legs. His arms also felt like they were going to shatter when he tried to put pressure on them to simply sit up. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. He struggled, trying to at least get into a position to crawl, and he’d give a soft cry every time he failed and collapsed again. It quickly dawned on him that there were no people around and he didn’t have a clue where he was, what was going on, or how it was happening. This was bad.
He curled in on himself, trying to gather his strength. God, it was cold out there… He was dizzy, nauseous, in so much pain. He was alone, he couldn’t walk, he could barely see anything at all, his vision was fuzzy and blurred. He needed help, he needed someone to come for him, he just needed someone to hold him– oh god. Dean hadn’t been this terrified since the first days in Hell. Of course, for all he knew, he was still in the Pit. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t stand. He just wanted Sam, or Bobby, or even his dad, but that wasn’t gonna happen. He needed anyone, anyone.
There was just so much pain…
He tried to curl up tighter, the cold was starting to get too much. He was delirious, it hurt so bad, it was so goddamn cold. He couldn’t help it, he started to cry. His body was wracked with sobs, which turned into raspy, wet coughs. He tried to scream, to cry out for help. No one responded. No one was there. “Help- ahh- help!”
His cry echoed through the trees. There was no response, not a single noise.
“Please– nnghhh, help me!”
He was sobbing openly now. He was desperate. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t. Still, no response.
“Please… oh god… help…”
He was getting exhausted. Again, there was no sound. No rustling, no twigs snapping, no footsteps. Just him, the pain, and the pool of blood. He didn’t know what to do, his words fading into sobs. That was all he could do, just lie there and cry for what felt like ages.
Left with no other option, Dean tried again. He started to desperately crawl forwards. He was shaking like crazy, barely able to make it a few feet before collapsing headfirst. He was in so much pain, terrified and delirious. He fell on his face into the dirt again, then multiple times over. Tears ran freely down his face as he kept attempting to crawl and failing again and again. He started coughing, hard and deep (get your head outta the gutter you freak), sending jolts of pain through his entire form. But he kept crawling– no, a better word would be dragging himself across the land. He’d grip at the ground and pull himself forward, biting back cries of pain every time he did. His whole body was shaking with the pain now, not to mention the cold…
His breathing was shallow and ragged, his vision so blurred it was almost gone entirely. He was covered in dirt and blood, tears and snot running down his face in a constant stream. He was scared, so scared- he was in so much pain and he couldn’t see and his head hurt and he just wanted– he couldn’t see– I can’t see—
He practically whimpered, his vision going blurry and then almost blank. His head felt even fuzzier, he was still shaking so bad and he was so scared, he was in so much pain… he couldn’t. He couldn’t keep going. His arms gave out completely, unable to support him anymore. Dean collapsed once more, trembling. Now he was officially done, crying into the dirt. His body felt like an ice cube with this cold even though the sun was overhead. He trembled and gasped, letting out a constant mantra of quiet sobs. His body burned with the pain.
God, why was it so cold?