comment fic meme!
Following the results of the poll we took last month (don't make it easy on us or anything, guys, haha!), we've decided to hold a comment fic meme once every three months. This gives everyone time to write and prompt to their heart's content, and allows us mods to keep up with y'all. And we're starting right now!
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The scream goes on. It’s a woman, voice tearing the air, spiraling higher. A gunshots cracks across the noise and suddenly there’s shouting, men’s voices, hollering and furious. Another gunshot. The wall shakes, and dust drifts down. The woman screams again and there’s a wet splat and Leslie moans in horror.
“Jesus Christ,” Jack mutters, “Jesus fucking…”
A man bursts into the room, a new man, a goddamn giant bastard with a shotgun in one hand and a flat, wickedly curved blade in the other. He’s got blood on his face and it drips thick and red from the blade and holy motherfucking Christ there’s a hunk of scalp still clinging to the end of it.
The man pulls up short in the doorway and stares, and Leslie turns her head sharply toward the wall, matted hair falling across her face. Jack can’t see her but he knows she’s biting her lip. Tiny noises of horror are leaking out of her mouth. The blood-covered man’s eyes flick between the two of them, and for a moment his expression is disturbingly…familiar.
“No,” Jack says, feet scrabbling, “No please…”
The man in the doorway says, “Um,” and the hunk of skin and hair slides down the curve of the blade and splats onto the floor. He doesn’t notice.
“Hey!” thunders a voice from somewhere behind the man, “Little goddamn help here, princess?”
“Wha-” he spins, in the doorway, but doesn’t make it far as a tiny, shrieking body cannons into him, slamming him into the room and onto his back. One of the terrible women straddles his stomach and plunges a knife in at shoulder level, rakes it across his chest, and the man actually screams, two seconds before the woman’s head explodes.
Blood and bone and brain matter rain down on everyone and Jack hears a muffled shriek tear out of his own throat. Another man storms into the room, shotgun at the ready. The headless body topples over and the newcomer hurries to grab the bloody man’s arm and hoist him, staggering, to his feet.
“Sam?” he says, and ‘Sam’ presses his hand to the bleeding wound on his chest and nods tightly, white-faced.
And Jack knows that name.
And now he knows that face. Older, broader, spattered in blood and mean as hell, but he knows it. A phantom he never thought he’d see again, never wanted to see again, an echo of the boy he’d known, in another lifetime.
Sam Winchester.
Oh Jesus. God have mercy.
Leslie’s turned her face away from the wall, and caught a glimpse of the pair. Sam, and an older man with a cold, flat gaze and filthy hands.
“…S-Sam?” she quavers, and Sam sways back, his blood-covered fingers curling against his chest.
“We’re not done here,” the other man snarls, and shoves the curved weapon, hilt-first, in Sam’s direction. “Move.”
And Sam’s still swaying and white-faced and bleeding but he swallows and nods and takes the weapon.
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