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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And then his friends are all, "OMG! It's Psycho Sam who was a closet satanist and was wanted by the FBI!"
And Sam is very conspicuously injured, but he and Dean can't stop to patch him up because the eldritch creature is still trying to rip their throats out.
And Sam's feelings are hurt because his old friends are scared of him now.
Sam, Dean, season 5 or later.
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monicawoe.livejournal.com/46527.html
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...sorry.
Warnings: Gore, language, violence.
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And They Cry to See Your Face
In the end, Jack can only hold her hand. He wishes he could do more, could reach out and gather her up, hide her face against his chest so she doesn’t have to see. He feels like a fool, clutching Leslie’s hand, bound together at the wrist, but it’s the best he can manage. He can feel the bones of her hand grinding in his desperate grip, but she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t so much as whimper.
“We’re going to die here,” she murmurs, tilting her head oddly so her hair falls across her face, “Aren’t we?”
“No.” He makes his voice as fierce as he can. “No.”
He can’t look at her face, though, and presses his lips together and turns away quickly. Unfortunately, that means he catches the eye of the man standing in the doorway, who winks.
Bastard.
Jack doesn’t know how many of them there are. Somewhere between four and six, he thinks, though they come ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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This is not that kid-hell, even when he was that kid he wasn’t that kid. And he’s all grown up, now. Into a monster.
“You sure had us fooled, Sam,” says a voice, and Jack realizes it’s his own. He snaps his mouth shut, but he can’t take the words back.
Isn’t sure he wants to.
Sam licks his lips, looks down. It’s incongruous. Jack doesn’t think he’s acting. But there’s still blood smeared across his cheek and matted in his hair.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I guess I did.”
No one says anything after that.
( ... )
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So close, but gone. Obliterated. Ruined.
Absolutely ruined.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers, and doesn’t know why. Sam stops busily sawing at the tie and turns his head. His hair falls away and he’s a boy. He’s a man. He’s a killer.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, “It doesn’t matter, now.”
Jack wants to tell him, I’m sorry I ever knew you. Because it’s the truth.
But the words won’t come.
Sam gives him a little smile.
He’s got Jack’s hand free and has started on their bound wrists when there’s a bang! outside and the whole house shakes, again, and Dean makes a noise like someone’s tearing his skin off. Some awful wordless cry. Sam’s on his feet before Jack even registers it, shouting, “Dean! Dean!”
Jack blurts, “Wait!” and he doesn’t know why. It doesn’t matter, though.
Sam’s gone.
Beside him, ( ... )
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A very brave fill.
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Thanks so much!
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And yes! Moar badass!Winchesters! Killing things and kicking ass and being unapologetic about it! I approve this message!
So glad you enjoyed! ;)
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And the worst part is, maybe for them, being terrified of Sam is better than understand the truth.
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Thanks very much!
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