To The Beat Of The Devil's Drums [Supernatural]

Welcome To The House Of Fun

An unrelenting weight presses down on the back of Dean's head as he struggles for air. His earlier confidence that she won't kill him evaporates in an instant, blood pounding hard and thunderous in his ears. He can't hold his breath for long. His lungs are only half full and if he doesn't get oxygen in the next few seconds...

He must be fighting for less than a minute, but it seems like far longer. The strength begins to seep from his muscles, replaced instead with the bone-aching chill of the water. He's hyper-aware of each thump of his heart, slowing from its panicked gallop into heavy, laborious beats that it barely seems able to maintain. Part of his mind vaguely registers that that ought to be good, until it's overruled by the part that reminds him his heart seems ready to just straight up stop.

Then, the pressure lets up.

Dean's head shoots out of the water, a deep, long breath being dragged desperately into his lungs. He coughs, gasps for air, then finally manages to calm the heaving of his chest. In the pitch black, he hears the groan and splash of metal footsteps receding, and then there's nothing but the ragged pants of his own breathing. It takes several seconds for his head to stop spinning. What the hell just happened...?

He looks around, unable to see anything but the faint glimmer of daylight several meters away. His hands briefly scrabble under the water for the gun, feeling a wave of relief when his fingers close on metal, but he knows his phone is probably too fucked by now to be worth retrieving. For whatever reason, she seems to have let him go. Right now, he's not going to look that gift horse in the mouth.

He's shivering slightly as he makes his way further through the tunnel, a breeze managing to blow in to further chill the wetness soaking his clothes. It's a relief to make it back out into the daylight, where he scrambles over the barrier and all but collapses onto the ground. His chest heaves with each breath. "Alright," he murmurs, trying to calm himself. "I made it. You see that?" His voice gets louder. "I made it." There's no reply but the quiet sound but the wind.

Dean gulps down a couple more breaths then presses his fingers to his throat, lifting his other hand to look at his watch. It's at that point he remembers it's a sports watch and there's supposed to be a built in function to keep track of his heart rate, but it unfortunately needs a chest strap. Instead, he times his pulse manually, counting what he thinks is 38 beats in half a minute. Slower than expected.

"Cold water makes your heart rate drop," he hears Sam say in his ear. "But shivering can bring it up again."

Still. 76. That's safe. It won't be harming Sam any further.

He lies like that for several minutes, drawing deep breaths as he wills his heart rate to drop lower. He completed the challenge. That means he only needs to drop a few more beats to buy back Sam some blood. When he next checks his pulse, it's hovering on the cusp of 70. Close enough.

Dean stays on the floor for as long as he thinks he can afford. If every minute his heart spent racing is a minute he can buy back, by the time twenty minutes have passed he thinks Sam must be back in the green again. If she's honouring her word, that is. He has no idea, as the loudspeakers all around remain ominously silent.

The sky is beginning to take on the dull grey of a cloudy fall evening, and he knows he should get moving again before the light fades. He doesn't reckon much to his chances of finding Sam in the dark. It takes no small amount of effort to drag himself back to his feet, both his neck and his injured shoulder protesting as he picks himself up and begins the short walk to the Fun House.

Garish paint still clings to the side of the building, the manic face of a clown grinning widely as its mouth forms the entranceway. The thick growth of wild heather and foxgloves that have sprung up around the doorway give the unsettling impression of vomit, and Dean grimaces as he passes through the threshold. Sam would hate this.