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 wall shakes, again, and someone shouts and another shotgun blast blows a hole in the doorway, spraying plaster and drywall. Jack turns his face away, panting, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s sure the entire place is going to come crashing down around them. They’re going to die like this, here, in some basement, tied up and crushed to death.
But suddenly it’s quiet. Violently so, noiselessness slamming into the room like a wall, shutting everything else out. Jack can hear his own breath, rasping in and out, and Leslie’s tiny, panting moans. Her horror. His fear. He’s shaking all over. Every inch of him is trembling, and he’s coated in plaster and someone else’s blood, and all he can think, wildly, is that it can’t be sanitary and what if he gets some kind of disease and there’s a headless body lying on the floor and he can’t hear anything from the other room and they’re dead, they’re dead. They’re all dead.
Except Sam, apparently, who staggers back to stand in the doorway wiping his face and bleeding, and he looks down at his chest in something like irritation and shakes his head and Jack thinks, Well, he can’t be hurt that bad if he’s still standing.
The cold-eyed man from before seems to disagree, however, appearing suddenly and shoving Sam into the room, shotgun still in one hand. He physically forces Sam to sit, propping him up against the wall, and hauls his own shirt off. Balls it up, and presses it to Sam’s wound.
“Hold that there,” he says, then turns and grabs one ankle of the woman whose head he exploded. He doesn’t spare a glance for Jack or Leslie, just hauls the body out as if it’s so much meat. As if there hadn’t been a person inside five minutes ago.
A moment later, he comes back for the head. He holds it carefully, so nothing comes spilling out of the neck hole.
Sam had a brother, Jack recalls.
Sam has a brother.
He thinks he should say something. “Please don’t kill us,” seems like a pretty good starting point, but he can’t get his tongue to cooperate. Stares slack-jawed and useless at the horror leaning against the wall, the thing that used to be his friend.
They were friends. They were friends.
“You like…Lucky Charms,” a quiet voice says, and Sam blinks blearily. It takes Jack a moment to realize that it’s Leslie who’s spoken.
Sam’s mouth works. He shakes his head a little.
“…what?” he asks, vaguely.
“I remember. L-Lucky Charms. And…and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. You,” she breaks off when her voice trembles. Swallows, and continues. “You never wanted to admit it but you…you’d buy them whenever you had a little extra c-cash. Sam. I. I remember. We went to school, together. You, and and me, and Jack here. Do you remember? Remember us?”
Sam shuts his eyes briefly, and his whole body sags. When he opens them again, he looks more like the boy Jack remembers than he has any right to.
“I remember,” he murmurs, and adds, “I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you. Whatever you’re thinking…I’m not. I’m not.”
Jack says, “The FBI interviewed us. You-God, I don’t even…” he rams his tongue between his teeth and clamps down hard, because antagonizing the psychotic Satanist serial killer is maybe not the way he wants to approach this situation. He knows better. It’s just that he’s been kidnapped and tied up and smacked around and, oh yeah, sprayed in someone else’s blood and brain matter. So he’s maybe not thinking all that clearly.
He shuts his eyes briefly, and Leslie squeezes his hand.
“Could you…untie us?” she asks, voice quiet. When Sam shakes his head, Jack’s heart drops into his stomach.
“I can’t,” Sam says, shifting minutely, repositioning the shirt on his chest, “Not now. But…m’brother can. He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Dean,” Jack blurts, without meaning to. “I-I remember…” and trails off.
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