#rdean x reader

Six Feet Under

You woke up to a deep ache in your shoulders. It was sore all the way down your back. Probably bruised to hell.

You grunted, and your breath fanned back onto your face. You attempted to move, despite your smarting back, and your hands brushed against loose dirt and flaky wood. You tried to adjust your eyes, but there was nothing to see. Just… black. Wherever you were, it was a narrow space. A dirty narrow space.

Was it time to mention you were also slightly claustrophobic?

You were sweating. The air was stuffy. But there was something cold right next to you. Something cold and yielding. You reached for it, blindly patting with your hand flat out, until your fingers curled around something with contour.

You mapped out the dimensions of the object before recoiling in horror. That was no object—that… that was a body. 

Which, with your odds, meant you were in a coffin. An oddly large, though still cramped, coffin. Underground. With no way out but through the suffocating dirt.

Freaking ghouls.

Your first instinct was to scream. To pound up against the wood and holler until your throat was raw. It wasn’t that you wouldn’t, either; it was that you couldn’t. 

You couldn’t breathe.

There was something in your chest right now. There had to be. A void where your lungs had been, like a vacuum that swallowed up all the usable air. Your heart was in your throat.

Were you running out of oxygen? Was it already too late? Your shallow breaths were burning a hole in your chest. You couldn’t breathe.

You reached over to the corpse, this time with urgency. Cold but still flaccid. The body had been fresh for about an hour, then. Rigor mortis hadn’t even begun.

Does it matter? a part of your mind reasoned. It sounded a little like Dean. There’s a cold, dead body next to you, you’re on your last round of air, and you still can’t stop being a nerd?

“It matters,” you muttered to yourself. “Matters ‘cause that means I’ve been stuck down here for about an hour. Takes about five hours total to run short on oxygen. Means at the very least, I’m not dying… yet.”

As hard as a transition was going to be, you needed to breathe deep and slow. But there was still a tightness in your chest.

Relax your shoulders, you could almost hear Sam chiding.

“A little… difficult to do… suffocating in a pine box,” you said, but you relaxed them anyway. You then took in your first, full breath since you woke up. That was progress.

You couldn’t count on the Winchesters finding you in time, or at all. You were going to have to take matters into your own hands and try to climb out of the grave. Dean had done it before, so you could too.

Dean’s also, like, 200 pounds of muscle, Sam cautioned.

If you were going to climb out of your grave, you needed a mask to protect your face from the dirt. Which meant you were going to need to work your shirt off of your head. You brushed your hand over your stomach. Well, you must have put up a fight. Your shirt was shredded, so… that was a no go.

The dead guy had a shirt, Dean said.

Fantastic.

You looked over to your left, to the corpse you couldn’t see. You reached over, awkwardly pulling the shirt up. Its cool skin grazed yours as you worked the fabric over its head. 

The neck didn’t jerk about; it was rigid, but the arms weren’t. Rigor mortis was kicking into gear. Which meant you had been down here for roughly two hours. Working as a hunter, you needed to have some level of knowledge on the dead.

Such a nerd, you could see Dean rolling his eyes.

You tied the bottom of the shirt which took a little while with your arms pinned down and the pitch darkness to guide you. Finally, though, you made a tight knot.

You pulled the shirt over your head like a bag and sat there for a moment. You wished the Winchesters could talk you through this.

That’s when you broke at the pine box. The dirt was cold, dry, and thankfully loose. It fell in clumps around your shoulders, and you shoved it down at your feet.

Climbing your way past the dirt was no joke. It was grimy and freaking difficult. It was like those foam pits that gymnasts use that are nearly impossible to work your way out of, except in complete darkness with limited space. In other words, a freaking nightmare.

But you kept working. Kept pushing up while pushing the dirt down. Six feet, Sam reminded you. Just six feet. Once you’re standing, just work upward. Should be about as tall as I am, yeah?

You made a risky move upward, throwing your hand up as far as it could go, and touched air. A light breeze fell over your skin.

To say it was encouragement was an exaggeration. You worked twice as hard, shoving your way to the top. When your hand felt hard dirt, you crunched your abs and pulled until your chest hit the surface. You frantically dug your legs out before collapsing on the ground.

You went into a fit of hysterical laughter, a result of your adrenaline high and the last throes of your panic.You threw the filthy t-shirt off of your head, inhaling the air that you had once taken for granted.

In your brief delirium, you recalled Dean Winchester retelling his old raising-from-perdition story. He had hardly mentioned climbing out of his grave, as if it hadn’t been important. His focus had mainly been on the mystery of the angels and how they turned out to be douches. He had made this part sound like a. Slice. Of. Pie.

And, well, you got a freaking reality check today. Because it was an entire body workout, and it was exactly as terrifying as it sounded—no, worse. Waking up in pitch darkness, in a small space, with a corpse, six feet under the ground? Hell naw. You were lucky you’d had enough trauma to know how to push back your panic. Because two years ago, you probably would have rotted down there, helpless.

It left you to wonder, though. Why the ghouls left you alive, and not the dead guy. All the other grave desecrations had been long dead—but you were the first to live.

First, you were going to have to get back to the motel. You already knew the boys were gonna freak.

///

When you opened up the hotel door, the Winchesters sprang out of their chairs, barking your name in surprise. “You're—you're…” Sam stammered as he took in your state. You couldn’t blame him; the grave had covered you in dirt from neck to toe.

“Alive. I know,” you said. “I’m also really dirty. You mind if I use your guys’ shower?”

Sam blinked. “No, not at all, but uh, seriously—what happened?”

You let out a halfhearted, breathy laugh. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” You tried to shrug past Dean, but he caught your arm.

“You were gone for three hours,” he said.

“Look, we’re just worried about you. Could you humor us?” Sam added. His eyes were pleading and damn hard to say no to.

You scowled. “You two gotta tell me what happened on your end first. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dean said. “You know most of it. Several grave desecrations of old gravestones, but fresh bodies where bones should be. People in town go missing a few days before that. We split: you went to check on the newest body, while we checked the cemetery. We ganked the ghoul, figured you were coming back from the morgue, but you never showed. After about three hours of looking, we came back here to see if you had maybe come back at all. Actually, we were just about to leave again.” Dean clapped his hands. “Did you ever find anything at the morgue?”

“Yeah, the guy had died from…” …asphyxiation. You trailed off. “Oh crap…”

“What? What is it?”

“Asphyxiation. The guy… he, uh, he had died from asphyxiation. Originally, I mean. The ghoul had been burying his food to eat later. Like… like a squirrel. Must have taken the guy out to snack on, but he was already dead.” It was all coming together. “The ghoul was either stupid or confident because he got sloppy. Probably because he was too hungry to care. That’s why… why I… why I…” Damn it, you let that slip. You peered around them, looking for escape. “Guys, hey, can I just shower? I really just wanna—”

This time, Sam caught your arm. He was gentle, but he had a firm grip. “That’s why you what?”

You clammed up, peeling your eyes away from them. “Why I… uh…” you couldn’t think of an excuse, and the silence was becoming too long to make a convincing one on the spot. You should have walked into this room with a workable lie in mind, but all you had wanted was to shower, scrub all the dirt off your skin, and to lather soap where you had touched that god-awful corpse. You just wanted to be clean and to sleep.

And you seriously were trying to tell them things. Lying sucked, but this? You weren’t sure if you could tell them this and come out of it in one piece.

Sam softly said your name again, trying to bring your eyes back to his. It was too easy. He knew your tells. Your eyes always gave you away if you lied.

We’re never going to let this die, your inner Dean voice sang. And you internally swatted it away. 

I know, you thought sourly. Behind your eyes, a pressure built. Just let me go so I can cry alone. I can’t cry in front of you. I can’t. “He—it… might have…  buried me alive.” It took everything you had in you for your voice to stay steady.

Both of them rocked back a little. Dean looked a little dazed, and Sam looked pale. Sam tilted his head, “Excuse me, buried—?”

“It explains the dirt,” Dean sighed. “No offense, sweetheart, but you smell like a toilet.”

Oh, shove it, Winchester.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I just want to shower—”

“Hold on,” Sam said. He had his hands combing his hair. “Hold on, hold on, just— am I the only one bothered by this?! She— you could have died!”

“But I didn’t,” “But she didn’t,” you and Dean said in unison. He winked at you and you rolled your eyes back.

“Sam. I have been through a lot. You know it, I know it. I’m not that girl from two years ago. You said it yourself once before: I’m a Winchester now. And I’m not a Winchester without a few near death experiences.”

Sam scowled. “You two are so frustrating. Fine, go. Go take your shower. This conversation isn’t over, though.”

Thank God. You could handle this later. The conversation alone had keyed you up. You were burning with tension, anxiety, and trauma. You waved a hand at him. “Fine. But can we do it in the morning? I am so frickin’ exhausted.” It wasn’t a lie; you had bruises lining your entire back, and your face muscles hurt from all the fake expressions you were sending Sam.

They can’t know that I’m weak. How hard could it be, anyway?

Dean did it once, like a freaking champ. Why couldn’t you just suck it up and be a big girl?

He looked on at you with that sad, thoughtful look of his. Complete with the infamous Winchester puppy eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

You were happy to get out of the conversation—and this hunt—relatively unscathed. Hopefully, you would never have to go through that crap ever again, or you really didn’t think you’d be able to keep yourself together like you just had.

When you shut the bathroom door behind you, you let the silent tears run down your face. You bit your hand, heaving, wishing you had the freedom to scream. But you couldn’t, so you didn’t. All you did was turn on the shower right as you let out a quiet sob into a towel to muffle it out. 

Why did your life suck so bad?

///

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