Sen Beret's Anniversary Meme!
It's actually been a year and two months since I became involved with the fandom, but hey, who's counting?
Masterlist
rules
Masterlist
rules
- comment on this post with your prompts! all prompts are welcome (be as vague or detailed as you'd like!) as long as they fit with the theme of sneezy/sick/allergic Sam, Dean, Castiel, John, etc.
- reply to prompts with your ( Read more... )
The thing topples, face-first, as Sam tackles it from behind. As they crash down hard against the carpet, Becky can see Dean behind them, slumped unconscious against the side of his bed and bleeding from a cut across his forehead. This definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
She scrambles backward and almost topples over into the bathtub.
“Ru… Hhh’KHTCH’HH!” Sam sneezes, jaw clenched with the effort of fighting off the monster. “Run!”
But the monster lifts its head, looks Becky straight in the eye. With a roar, it stands, throwing Sam off of its shoulders.
“You.” The thing lurches forward, catches a handful of her shirt within its fist. Twisting at the fabric, it hoists her upwards until her tiptoes just graze the floor and the stitching starts to come away at the seams. “It is you.”
Somewhere behind, Sam scrambles, tries to catch a hold of the monster’s ankles, but it plants a boot in his face without even loosening its grip.
“You know Death,” it insists, pressing its mouth right up against her face.
The smell is worse this close up. Like a warm rutabaga, rotting on a compost pile. “I… I don’t…” she begins, angling her head away and not feeling at all sure about engaging it in conversation.
It grabs her head with its free hand and yanks it in its direction. Its skin is white and wet and wrinkled. It looks almost as like a whole chunk of it would slide off at a touch. She strains to look anywhere other than into its eyes.
“You have to get a message.... I don’t want to be here. Tell Death,” it pants, “He has to take me.”
And then she sees it. Oh thank God. Over in the bedroom, Dean is staggering to his feet, creeping around the bed, reaching under the pillow…
She clamps her lips together, determined not to sigh with relief, and looks back at the monster as if she hadn’t noticed a thing.
It shakes her. “Tell him!”
“I don’t know him!” She squeaks.
“Yes you do,” it roars in response, holding up one of her hands by the wrist, “Horseman!”
Sam’s sneezing, which had become something of a smothered soundtrack to this fight, falters and then stops entirely. She catches sight of him, shivering as he stands ready, a lamp gripped between two hands. When she meets his eyes, they’re wide with realisation.
Shit.
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It shrieks in frustration and barrels into Sam, knocking him over easily and tearing the lamp out of his grip.
“De… Hhh-Deadn-KHSHhH! Get… huh! Becky. The rhhuh… the rindg… HhhNgh’TCHUH!”
Dean advances on her, but she can see that he’s confused. It doesn’t matter. She’s way ahead of them both.
She slips the ring easily off her finger and tosses it onto the ground.
Dean squints at it for a moment when it rolls over to his feet. When he looks up at her again, it’s with a look that could boil iron. Apparently, he recognised it.
His eyes not leaving Becky’s face, he slams the ring underfoot. There’s a glow of green and a crack of energy and the tide of the battle turns immediately. As if without a thought, Sam wrenches the whatever-it-is off of his chest and pins its arms to the floor.
“Silver bullets,” he yells.
“On it.”
When Dean runs for the door, it’s smooth and not stumbling. Sam doesn’t sneeze, doesn’t gasp. He grimaces a little as the monster struggles beneath him, but he doesn’t let up.
He doesn’t look at Becky.
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“That’s it?” She asks, “It’s dead?”
“For now,” Dean mutters. “If we don’t want it up and running around with half a face, we’ll need to steak it in its gravesite later.” He kicks at the motionless body where it is sprawled next to Sam on the carpet. “Whaddyouknow? Turns out you don’t need Head Reaper himself to switch the lights out.”
When no-one reacts, Dean sighs, and pulls Becky’s dufflebag from underneath their upended table. “Well, thank you for your entirely individual brand of help, but it’s probably time you were leaving. I assume there are no objections this time,” he adds, looking pointedly at Sam.
Sam shakes his head and looks away, his face creasing. He reaches out for the Kleenex box, now crushed and abandoned on the floor. Pulling out a couple of tissues, he arches back, blinking.
“Huhhh… Uhhh… Huhhh… HHT’ZCHhhHuh! HggKhhTCHYEW! Ow.”
Dean stares at him. “You’re not seriously still sick?”
“Ndo,” Sam grumbles, holding Kleenex against his face. “Bastard zombie broke mby ndose. Pressure was botherindg mbe.”
Becky notices then, what a mess has been left by this whole thing. The motel room looks an absolute wreck, and the boys look worse. Sam has mud and blood smeared across his cheekbone where he’d taken that foot to the face; Dean is limping and holding his arm awkwardly; and the pair of them are moving slow and stiff now that the adrenaline of the fight it wearing off.
“Um… so… I know I’m probably the last person you want around right now, but, you know, you’re gonna need some help clearing this place up…”
“No!” They answer. In Unison. Becky’s not gonna pretend it’s not totally awesome. She turns to Sam.
“At least let me bandage your…”
“Becky,” Sam interrupts, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I dond’t kndow what you were tryindg to achieve here…” She thinks about explaining, but he cuts her off. “Actually, I dond’t evend wandt to thidnk about it. But believe mbe whedn I tell you that if we see you agaidn, or hear that you’ve beedn withind a hundred feet of a mbagical object, thedn you will be the ndext thindg that we steak ind a graveyard.”
It occurs to Becky that it’s probably not a good idea to argue with a guy on the same day that you see him whack a zombie with a lamp.
Oh well, no shame in knowing when you’re beaten.
She gives them one last (winning - she thinks) smile, and hefts her bag back onto her shoulder. “Well, it’s been nice hunting with you. I hope you feel better.”
“Really?” Dean rounds on her. “You hope we feel better? Maybe next time you could…”
“Leave it.” Sam tells him, getting to his feet with a groan as Becky steps out of the door.
It could have gone worse, she decides, squeezing at Sam’s toothbrush that she’d snuck into her jacket. After all - she totally almost got to drive the Impala.
She’ll just need to come up with a better plan next time.
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