(no subject)
Title: Innocence Lost
Author: Kali
Paring: None
Genre: Drama, I guess
Rating: PG13 for minor violence
Warning: None
Summary: When I told Dad I was afraid of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45... I was nine years old!
Disclaimer: Don't own them or the show, please don't sue.
Notes: Wanted to write something about them as kids and I remembered that quote from the pilot. And voila, I have a drabble.
The gun is cold and heavy in his hands, his grip sweaty and clumsy. His heart is pounding fiercly, the blood rushing in his ears, and he thinks he might actually die from fear. He knows he’s being watched, Dad’s in front of him and Dean’s behind him, but neither say a word, neither try to reassure him. And then Dad opens the closet door, stepping neatly to the side, and it’s rushing at Sam, snarling and growling, and Sam can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.
The gunshot is like thunder in the small room, bouncing off the walls and ecohing back to him. The gun kicks viciously in his hands, jumping like it’s alive, but he doesn’t need another shot, thank God. The thing is lying at his feet, claws outstretched, thick red blood oozing from the hole in, for lack of a better word, its forehead. The gun slips from his fingers, deftly caught by Dean, who’s just suddenly there, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight.
Well done, Sammy, he murmurs. You did good.
And Sam’s not so sure about that, but he takes whatever praise he can get from his big brother and tries not to look at the crumpled thing at his feet.
Author: Kali
Paring: None
Genre: Drama, I guess
Rating: PG13 for minor violence
Warning: None
Summary: When I told Dad I was afraid of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45... I was nine years old!
Disclaimer: Don't own them or the show, please don't sue.
Notes: Wanted to write something about them as kids and I remembered that quote from the pilot. And voila, I have a drabble.
The gun is cold and heavy in his hands, his grip sweaty and clumsy. His heart is pounding fiercly, the blood rushing in his ears, and he thinks he might actually die from fear. He knows he’s being watched, Dad’s in front of him and Dean’s behind him, but neither say a word, neither try to reassure him. And then Dad opens the closet door, stepping neatly to the side, and it’s rushing at Sam, snarling and growling, and Sam can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.
The gunshot is like thunder in the small room, bouncing off the walls and ecohing back to him. The gun kicks viciously in his hands, jumping like it’s alive, but he doesn’t need another shot, thank God. The thing is lying at his feet, claws outstretched, thick red blood oozing from the hole in, for lack of a better word, its forehead. The gun slips from his fingers, deftly caught by Dean, who’s just suddenly there, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight.
Well done, Sammy, he murmurs. You did good.
And Sam’s not so sure about that, but he takes whatever praise he can get from his big brother and tries not to look at the crumpled thing at his feet.