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SNEAK PEEK: Project: Royal Rumble Ch. 1 "Minx..."
"Hmm?" She kept her gaze on Krism, wanting to just forget the whole situation for a few seconds and just get lost in an almost dream like state as she watched her fuss over some random cable. She was sure Cry would understand that she needed this distraction for just a minute or two...
The hand she held quickly slipped away then snatched at her wrist, gripping it tightly in one swift motion. Startled, Minx yipped at the painful grab, knowing Cry would never hurt her or any of them unless he was terrified or something was very wrong. She turned to see what it was and came face to face with Cry's mask...
But it wasn't his anymore.
The mask was only a twisted parody of the poker faced one. Deep black scribbles circled the eyes chaotically; and the mouth -if it could be called that- was nothing more than a jagged, toothy smile that was scrawled in
Project: Royal Rumble - Prologue
A/N: Another attempt at writing Cry and others. I'm still not quite used to writing them, so if they're acting OOC (out of character) then I'm sorry. I'm still learning and pretty rusty in terms of writing fics and stuff.
Rating: PG 13+(Better safe than sorry)
Enjoy and let me know what you think of it.
The soft tapping of rapid finger movement on a keyboard sounded loud in the silence of the room full of equipment. It held several computer stations, a fridge, basic living utilities and a few cots scattered at one corner. But the most unusual piece of the room was the lone chair that sat by a wall of monitors; the chair itself resembled of one from a dentist's office and next to that was some hospital equipment. If nothing else, the room looked as if it belonged in a bunker or underground command center of some sci-fi movie. A group of people milled about that room as well, but kept silent as the typin
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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