(no subject)
Nov. 16th, 2007 02:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gavemea_45In the immediate aftermath of the wreck, the hush is complete. The soft drip of fluid leaking from the Impala's ruined engine is punctuated by the occasional creak of overstrained metal or a 'tink' as a shard of glass falls from a shattered window, but otherwise, everything is quiet.
Sam is pinned between the steering wheel and the driver's seat, with John unconscious and slumped sideways in the seat next to him. Dean lies motionless in the back, sprawled limply where he was flung by the force of the impact.
The only one of them who's moving is the truck driver. The demonic black of his gaze is as flat and empty as a shark's as he steps down from the truck and starts toward the wreckage of the Impala, bootheels thudding solidly against the pavement.
I see a bad moon rising
At the sound, Sam opens his eyes.
I see trouble on the way
It's only a few seconds before it reaches them. Only a few seconds, but it's enough.
"Get back, or I'll kill you, I swear to God."
As the demon tears the door from the car, it finds Sam braced against the seat and waiting for it, with the Colt already raised and pointed. The thing behind the truck driver's face looks down at him with a sneer.
"You won't," it snarls. "You're saving that bullet for someone else."
"Killing this demon comes first. Before me, before everything."
Click. The look in his eyes is as cold and hard as the demon's as Sam cocks the gun and levels it at the driver's heart.
"No, sir. Not before everything."
"You wanna bet?"
You think I've got anything else left to lose?
His finger begins to tighten on the trigger.
With a howl, the demon vomits itself upward from the truck driver's throat into a cloud of seething black smoke and dissipates into nothingness.
Sam barely notices as the man falls to his knees. With a shaking hand, he uncocks the hammer and lowers the Colt, hiding it under the tail of his shirt, then drops his head back against the seat.
"Dad?"
There's no answer. He swallows and tries again, this time louder.
"Dad?" A beat. "Dean?"
Silence.
"DEAN!"
"You--" It's the truck driver, babbling at him, and Sam lifts his head again to look up at the other man. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm gonna go get help--"
"My brother," he croaks, interrupting. "My dad. I can't see-- are they okay?"
The other man's not listening. "Phone doesn't work, no signal -- I have to go, I'm gonna go, find help --"
He's already running up the road by the time Sam manages to turn around.
Sam is pinned between the steering wheel and the driver's seat, with John unconscious and slumped sideways in the seat next to him. Dean lies motionless in the back, sprawled limply where he was flung by the force of the impact.
The only one of them who's moving is the truck driver. The demonic black of his gaze is as flat and empty as a shark's as he steps down from the truck and starts toward the wreckage of the Impala, bootheels thudding solidly against the pavement.
I see a bad moon rising
At the sound, Sam opens his eyes.
I see trouble on the way
It's only a few seconds before it reaches them. Only a few seconds, but it's enough.
"Get back, or I'll kill you, I swear to God."
As the demon tears the door from the car, it finds Sam braced against the seat and waiting for it, with the Colt already raised and pointed. The thing behind the truck driver's face looks down at him with a sneer.
"You won't," it snarls. "You're saving that bullet for someone else."
"Killing this demon comes first. Before me, before everything."
Click. The look in his eyes is as cold and hard as the demon's as Sam cocks the gun and levels it at the driver's heart.
"No, sir. Not before everything."
"You wanna bet?"
You think I've got anything else left to lose?
His finger begins to tighten on the trigger.
With a howl, the demon vomits itself upward from the truck driver's throat into a cloud of seething black smoke and dissipates into nothingness.
Sam barely notices as the man falls to his knees. With a shaking hand, he uncocks the hammer and lowers the Colt, hiding it under the tail of his shirt, then drops his head back against the seat.
"Dad?"
There's no answer. He swallows and tries again, this time louder.
"Dad?" A beat. "Dean?"
Silence.
"DEAN!"
"You--" It's the truck driver, babbling at him, and Sam lifts his head again to look up at the other man. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm gonna go get help--"
"My brother," he croaks, interrupting. "My dad. I can't see-- are they okay?"
The other man's not listening. "Phone doesn't work, no signal -- I have to go, I'm gonna go, find help --"
He's already running up the road by the time Sam manages to turn around.
