Unbroken // Supernatural // Dean Winchester

Lizbeth Rising

Disclaimer: 'Supernatural' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.

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Chapter One - Lizbeth Rising

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"Son of a bitch!"

The words forced their way from her involuntarily, as if they had been waiting years for the chance to finally be spoken. Her lips trembled as the whisper was ripped from them, the air passing through them stale and bitter to taste. Her lungs shuddered with the force of it before heaving, as if they suddenly remembered how to work. Pain seared her throat as she hacked and coughed, the interior cracking and splitting like paper left too close to a fire.

Disorientation. If her mind had been clear enough to choose a particular word, that would have been the most likely candidate. The pounding of her head echoed in her ears. Her eyes stung as if she was staring directly into the sun, even though all they could see was black. And she swore she could here her lungs crackling with each panting breath they sucked in, like someone had just poured milk into a bowl of rice krispies.

Her surroundings were completely quiet but the silence screamed at her, almost accusing her for crimes she couldn't name. The shrieks had filled her ears for so long, being without them was just as jarring.

Where the hell was she? Her skin tingled with the memory of a blistering heat, but met only cool, stagnant air. It made every inch of her sting, like she had been scrubbed head to toe with a coarse wire brush. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, glancing around searchingly for any clue as to her location, but all she was confronted with was that same oppressive darkness. Wherever she was, it was pitch black.

Lizbeth reached out, blindly feeling her way around. She was lying flat on her back, letting her fingertips drag across the surface beneath her. They met the rough grain of some sort of wood. Six inches of space to her left, six inches to her right, and four inches above her nose. This was not good. This was very, very not good. Still examining her surroundings, her fingers found some sort of fabric. A dress, some sort of polyester based concoction by the feel of it. As she began to sweat it stuck to her skin, itchy and uncomfortable and completely impractical. She wouldn't be caught dead in something like that. Or maybe she would, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that she was currently trapped inside her own coffin.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice coming out in a weak croak. "Is anybody there? Help!"

Swearing at herself, she slammed her fist to her forehead. "Don't be an idiot, Oswald," she whispered to herself. "Nobody can hear you."

Calm, steadying breaths—that was what she needed. Gentle, calm, steadying breaths. An average sized coffin would give her about five hours of oxygen. A claustrophobia-induced panic attack would use up half of that and wouldn't exactly help her out of the situation. Useless and counterproductive.

Reaching upwards, Lizbeth felt along the lid of the coffin. The seams between the planks were relatively wide and certain places were moist and rotten, making the roof sink in some parts. All in all, the thing was poorly constructed. She could have been offended if not for the fact that she might not be able to bust herself out of a better model. She felt for the edges of the planks, digging her fingernails into the wood. It splintered as she clawed, shards wedging themselves under her nails. The grimace of pain that followed caused her dried lips to crack and bleed. "Come on," she muttered, trying to find the right angle to get enough leverage. Her fingertips clamped down on a plank with a vice-like grip to the point that she managed to haul her body up off the base of the coffin, trying to use her weight to pry it loose. "Come on, you motherfucker."