If We Don’t Make It...
@whispersandwhiskerburn - Angel, I made it!! :D
This fic is for Angel’s 2K Follower Celebration - congratulations again, girl!
My song prompt was “Broken” by Lifehouse, and the dialogue prompt was “If we don’t make it out of this, I need you to know...”
Here’s a little taste of the lyrics:
The broken locks were a warning You got inside my head Tried my best to be guarded I'm an open book instead I still see your reflection Inside my eyes That are looking for a purpose They’re still looking for life
Sometimes darkness can be so absolute.
You lie there for a second, listening. Then you try and shift your body, feel that everything is still there and mobile, not trapped under debris or broken or bleeding profusely. “Dean?” you whisper, then try to move. God, it hurts. All of it. You feel like a football team used you as a tackle dummy. “Dean?” you say a little louder, then force yourself to sit up, moaning softly. You hear a rustle nearby, and you freeze, not sure if it's him.
A clutch of panic freezes your lungs for a moment, your heart pounding almost painfully in your chest. It couldn't be the wendigo, Dean shot that thing right in its gut, and you saw it burst into flames before it reared up, hitting the rotten timbers of the ceiling and sending them crashing down on you both. The opening you had entered through is now sealed off with tons of dirt and debris, but at the moment, you just want to find Dean.
A groan and the sound of movement shifts your attention directly to your left. “Dean! Are you okay?”
A quiet 'fuck!' reaches your ears, and then, “I'm fine. Are you hurt? Can you move?” You reach out a hand and collide with one of his, and he holds on firmly. “Are you bleeding anywhere?”
“I don't think so. I don't think anything serious. How about you? Damn it, I wish we had a light!”
“I... I think I might have a slight problem.” A flare of flame sears your retinas, leaving you momentarily blind before vision fades slowly back in the glow of his lighter. You inhale sharply at the sight before you, your hand flying to cover your mouth for a moment before speaking.
“Shit. Dean... shit.”
He lets out a laugh that’s half-moan. “Yeah. Kind of impaled myself here.”
“Dean… omg…” You squeeze your eyes shut tight for a second, internally yelling at yourself to stay calm, to act like everything’s going to be fine. It will. “Give me your lighter for a sec, let me see if I can find something to use for a torch.” He nods, swallowing hard against what you know must be overwhelming pain. You take the lighter, scanning around the room, trying not to gag at the remains of the wendigo’s past meals lying in random piles here and there. There are a few human-type touches here and there, probably from someone he… well, already ate. The creature had piled the belongings of his past kills in a corner, and you head there, digging through, hoping to find anything helpful.
A canteen, mostly full, sloshes as you shake it, and you put the strap over your shoulder, continuing your search. There are a couple of flashlights, and – hallelujah, a lantern! A backpack, heavy with its load, gets slung over your shoulder next, and you set the lantern up, lighting it before closing Dean’s lighter.
“Gotta say, I wouldn’t give this place four stars,” he jokes, his voice rough and strained.
“Oh, I don’t know – look at all these amenities,” you smile back, fighting like hell to keep the waver from your voice. You move quickly back towards him, setting the lantern down close by. “Let’s have a look at that, shall we?”
You brace yourself, digging through the backpack to hide your face, hide the struggle to control yourself. The first thing you pull out is a bottle of whiskey, and you close your eyes in gratitude. A first aid kit? Awesome! You keep digging, finding energy bars, a couple of bottles of water, aspirin, matches and several other little gifts that just might keep you sane and alive until you get out of here.
If you get out of here.
You finally take a deep breath and lift the lantern to look more closely at Dean’s injury. He has a piece of rebar protruding from his chest, a couple of inches below his collarbone on the left side. His face looks pale, but his skin doesn’t feel clammy and he’s not showing any other signs of shock. Yet. You hold up the whiskey bottle, twisting the top and breaking the seal. “Want a swig?”
“Oh, hell, yeah,” he rasps, and you slip a hand beneath his head, lifting it carefully and letting him use his good hand to help control the flow.
“So – anything else broken or busted up that I should know about?” you ask, trying to keep things light. It’s not easy, because right now you’re scared shitless.
“I don’t think so. This’ll kinda take your mind off the bumps and bruises,” he manages to say, his teeth clenched together as a wave of pain hits.
“Just lay still. I’m gonna see if it’s possible to dig out of here.”
“One more belt of that whiskey before you leave?”
You settle back on your heels, putting your hand to his face, and your emotions almost win for a moment or two. “Of course. As much as you want.”
After you help him drink a few swallows more, you move to find a couple of pieces of broken beam, hauling them over to prop his legs up. Then you strip your jacket off, shaking your head at his protests.
“I’m gonna be warm, I’ll be digging. We need to keep you from going into shock. So just take it easy, cowboy. Let somebody take care of you for a change.” You tuck the jacket, still carrying the warmth of your body, around him carefully, then venture a look at his face. He’s looking up at you, and the expression there puts a lump in your throat. You bend to kiss his forehead, then stand abruptly and make your way over to the pile of debris that blocks your exit.
You begin to pull at the broken timbers, focusing on moving one thing at a time, determined not to let defeat weigh you down. One chunk of wood after another, and when you find a piece that’s small enough for you to manage as a shovel, you dig the dirt away as you work. The longer you work, the more angry you get. That creature, that murdering asshole is not going to win. You will not let Dean die down here.
It feels like it’s been hours. You’re exhausted, no idea what time it is, but if you don’t rest you’ll collapse. You drop your makeshift tool and make your way over to Dean. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, and you battle back the sob that tries to make its way from your throat.
“Slow. I need to rest for a bit.” He looks up at your, a glint of pride in his eyes.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Just c’mere, get some sleep. We should probably conserve the lantern, anyway.” You nod, blinking back exhausted tears, and sit down at his right side before extinguishing the lantern. You feel his arm behind you, and you lay down, head on his shoulder, letting him hold you close in the inky blackness around you. You let your arm creep over his middle, resting on his belly, and hold him right back.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s disconcerting when you wake, your eyes finding nothing to focus on as you open them. It takes you a moment to get your bearings, to realize where you are and what woke you. Dean shivers, and you squeeze your eyes closed, a wave of fear washing through you. You have to get him out of here. You feel carefully around until your fingers land on the lantern. You click Dean’s lighter a couple of times to get it going, and light the lantern, then turn your eyes to Dean’s still-sleeping face. You lay the back of your hand gently against his cheek, then his forehead. He feels hot, feverish, and a clutch of panic twists in your belly.
You carry the lantern over closer to where you are working, trying not to let the desperation of the situation overwhelm you. You will get him out of here or die trying, you tell yourself, and start working.
You actually start seeing a faint light through some spaces in the cave-in, and hope blooms in your chest. You are re-energized, yanking timbers free and tossing them aside, digging at the dirt with your crude shovel, and you turn towards Dean with a smile. “Dean, I can see light!”
That’s when it happens. The earth rumbles and you scream angrily at the fresh load of debris crashing down, dirt crumbling in around your feet. The wreckage blocking your way is just as bad, if not worse, now, the corridor outside filling in even more, your hard work made pointless. “No!! Damn it, no!” You lose control, shouting obscenities as you claw into the obstruction, pulling pieces free and flinging them wildly, digging with your fingers until you are spent and fall to your knees, sobbing.
Dean’s voice calling your name brings you back, and you grit your teeth, making yourself stop. He needs you, and you have to get through this. You grab the lantern and make your way over to where he lays, dropping to your knees beside him. “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry. It was working. It was working, but it’s all closed off again, and I don’t know if I...”
“Stop. Y/N, just stop. It’s all right.” He reaches for your hand, and swears softly. “Jesus, sweetheart, look at your hands.” Your face crumples again, and he pulls at you with his good arm, urging you to come closer. You bury your face in his uninjured shoulder, sobbing quietly as he hugs you tight to his side, murmuring calming words, his lips in your hair. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. Please. It’ll be okay.”
“How is it gonna be okay? The one time you need me to save you, for once – and I can’t do it. You’ve always given everything for me, for Sam. I just wanted...”
“Listen.” The command stops your rant, and you turn your face up to look at him. “You worked your ass off shifting all that shit. You did the best you could, sweetheart. As good as Sammy or I could have done. It’s not your fault there was another collapse, it was bound to happen. And Sam is out there looking for us, okay? He’s looking for us, and he won’t stop until he finds us. You know that.” He looks into your eyes in the dim light, searching. Then his fingers grip the back of your head and pull you close, his lips gentle as they cling to yours. “You’re my hero, you got that? My fucking hero.”
Another little sob escapes your lips, and then you kiss him back with everything you have in you. As you pull back a bit, the lamp flickers, then dies. Dean cradles your head against his shoulder and holds you there for a moment before he speaks again.
“I need you to listen to me, okay?” You nod, your head nestled against his neck, and he hesitates for a few seconds before he continues. After a shaky breath, he speaks softly. “If we don't make it out of this, I need you to know...”
“Dean! Please don’t say that!”
“You said you’d listen.” You bite at your lips to stop the words from bursting out, then nod again. “You know how I feel about family. You’ve been family to me, and to Sam. But in case we don’t get out of here, you need to know, before it’s too late. You’re more than family to me. You’ve always been more. I just never had the guts to tell you. Sorry I waited so long.”
You prop yourself up beside him and put your hands on his face, bending to kiss him. “I’ve loved you for so long,” you whisper against his lips. You kiss each other breathless, and then he moves just a little, groaning with pain. You sit up, feeling around in the darkness for the bottle. “How about taking me out for a drink?”
“Never let it be said I don’t know how to show a girl a good time,” he retorts, his voice strained with pain, and you grab one of the flashlights so you can guide the bottle to his lips. You both take several slugs from the bottle before you put the top on and shut off the light. You lie down at his side again, letting his arm surround you, clinging to him as much as you can without causing him pain.
You wake slowly, your head pounding. You hear muffled shouts, thudding noises, and you sit up, your eyes wide, reaching for the flashlight. “Dean! Dean? Do you hear? Someone’s here!”
He stirs a little, clearing his throat. “Yeah. I hear it.” His voice is faint, and a sense of urgency forces you to your feet. You rush over to where the doorway used to be, shouting at the top of your lungs. “Sam? Sam, is that you? We’re in here! Dean’s hurt, but we’re okay, we’re alive!”
~~~~~~~~~~
You walk into the bunker, breathing deep of the scent, books and coffee, gun oil and men and comfort. “What?” Dean asks as he stops behind you.
“Nothing. Just good to be home.” You look over your shoulder at him, smiling. His eyes are warm, sparkling as he teases you.
“Wait till you see how good it is when you actually, you know, go in.” He grins as you stick out your tongue, then head down the stairs.
He fights you, but you insist on putting him to bed. He's still fighting the fever and infection, although it's a damn sight better than a couple of days ago. He strips down to his boxers, even with his arm in a sling, and actually lets you help him get into a pair of sweats, then hits the pillow with a sigh. You cover him up and bend to kiss him, standing to leave, but he grabs your wrist. “Aren't you getting in?”
“You – want me to stay? Here?”
He looks at you, scanning over your features for clues to what you're thinking. “You know what I said back there, in the mine?” You nod hesitantly, your lip between your teeth. “I meant it. It wasn't just the heat of the moment, or me thinking I was gonna die. I meant what I said. Did you?” His voice is soft, his eyes showing the faintest hint of fear as he asks.
“I meant every word, Dean.” You can see the tension slip away from him as you speak, and he smiles.
“Well, then, yeah. I want you to stay.” You feel a little bubbling surge of joy, and you return his smile with a big one of your own.
“Okay. But first I want a long, hot shower. The one the nurses let me use at the hospital was barely a trickle.”
“I told you to let Sam take you home.”
“And I told you I wasn't leaving you. I'm just dying for our wonderful water pressure so I can feel like I really cleaned all the stink of that place off my skin.” You squeeze his hand and pull away slowly. “I'll be right back.”
When you come back he's down for the count, breathing deep, his good arm flung out to his side as if he's waiting for you. You stare at him for a few quiet moments, fully aware of how close you were to losing him. Then you push that painful thought away and climb in beside him, tucking yourself in close to his side. He sighs, his arm folding you in even closer, and you smile. His voice rumbles in his chest as he speaks, his face nuzzling into your freshly blow-dried hair.
“If we don't make it out of this – it'll be the best fuckin' thing that ever happened to me.”
Tagging my usual lovelies - don’t faint, I actually wrote something! (I know it’s been a while):
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