Happy Halloween :-)
Disclaimer: Not mine. The usual.
A/N: Unbetad. *shames*
This.Is.War
The pathway lies in front of him, abandoned and empty. Weed is growing in small bushes from between the cracks. Fingers reaching up from hell. Footsteps of their predecessors still lingering on the cold pavement, vanishing fast like tear drops on a hot stone. The distance's end is marked by a few wooden steps and a lonely porch. The house already stinks and the smell carries an almost imperceptible note of sulphur. Worse than the garbage container behind their motel. The smell is invading his nostrils even though he was still standing ten yards away
„Don't worry, Sammy, I got your back.“ Dean says in a hushed voice and claps softly on his back.
„I don't want to,“ Sam whispers, feeling foolish before the last word has even left his mouth.
„You don't get to want, Sammy. This is war!“ Dean insists with a deep undertone that reminds Sammy of his father.
„I don't know, Dean. Does he really deserve this?“
„Deserve …?“ Dean's voice cracks with incredulity. “Deserve? This is exactly what he deserves, Sammy. He's a bitter old bastard. Remember Gina McDillon?”
Sammy bites his lower lip and nods. Remembers her and the tears streaming down her face. She's got a pretty butterfly painted on her right cheek and the tears make a rainbow coloured mess of it.
“Yeah,” he repeats and takes the offered weapon, carefully weighing it in his small hand until it feels familiar and warm in his palm. Then, he throws it at the same time as Dean does. Just like his brother, he aims for the front door and both eggs reach their aims, spot on, burst with an obscene splash and before he knows it, Dean grabs his elbow and pulls him swiftly along the street, the bag with purchased sweets banging hard against his calf.
From behind he can hear old Mr. Ramshak yelling and cursing in annoyance on the messy front porch. “Damn kids! I'm calling the cops, you hear me, you useless little critters?”
They run on, until their sides hurt with stitches and their breath is coming in short gasps.
“That...” Dean announces, leaning with his hands on his knees to get air back into his lungs. “... will teach that big old oaf to bark at little girls when they ask for trick or treat.”
Sammy grins happily, nods and feels accomplished.
A/N: Unbetad. *shames*
This.Is.War
The pathway lies in front of him, abandoned and empty. Weed is growing in small bushes from between the cracks. Fingers reaching up from hell. Footsteps of their predecessors still lingering on the cold pavement, vanishing fast like tear drops on a hot stone. The distance's end is marked by a few wooden steps and a lonely porch. The house already stinks and the smell carries an almost imperceptible note of sulphur. Worse than the garbage container behind their motel. The smell is invading his nostrils even though he was still standing ten yards away
„Don't worry, Sammy, I got your back.“ Dean says in a hushed voice and claps softly on his back.
„I don't want to,“ Sam whispers, feeling foolish before the last word has even left his mouth.
„You don't get to want, Sammy. This is war!“ Dean insists with a deep undertone that reminds Sammy of his father.
„I don't know, Dean. Does he really deserve this?“
„Deserve …?“ Dean's voice cracks with incredulity. “Deserve? This is exactly what he deserves, Sammy. He's a bitter old bastard. Remember Gina McDillon?”
Sammy bites his lower lip and nods. Remembers her and the tears streaming down her face. She's got a pretty butterfly painted on her right cheek and the tears make a rainbow coloured mess of it.
“Yeah,” he repeats and takes the offered weapon, carefully weighing it in his small hand until it feels familiar and warm in his palm. Then, he throws it at the same time as Dean does. Just like his brother, he aims for the front door and both eggs reach their aims, spot on, burst with an obscene splash and before he knows it, Dean grabs his elbow and pulls him swiftly along the street, the bag with purchased sweets banging hard against his calf.
From behind he can hear old Mr. Ramshak yelling and cursing in annoyance on the messy front porch. “Damn kids! I'm calling the cops, you hear me, you useless little critters?”
They run on, until their sides hurt with stitches and their breath is coming in short gasps.
“That...” Dean announces, leaning with his hands on his knees to get air back into his lungs. “... will teach that big old oaf to bark at little girls when they ask for trick or treat.”
Sammy grins happily, nods and feels accomplished.