spn100: "trash"
word count: 200
#bringbackmyboyjesse
We have an actual Antichrist now, so I'd love to see the old one coming out of the woodworks.
Jesse's pretty sure his side is two pangs of pain away from fracturing from his body and establishing a new nation among the banana peels and questionably compacted pizza boxes. It smells like shit, looks like shit, but honestly? Anything would be better than the godawful ache.
Case in point, the silver blade hanging out of the aforementioned side, accompanied by a sheepish "I am sorry," from a young blonde man, just now holding out a hand to help Jesse up. "I should have known you did not intend to hurt me."
Naivety and purity roll off the kid, nearly suffocating Jesse in guilt and genuine concern. Disgusting.
Jesse just glares at the hand, instead using his left arm to prop himself up. The black trash bags beneath him deflate with a light hiss, one not atypical of a fart.
"I am Jack," the nuisance says. "And you are Jesse. We are brothers."
Jesse thinks about it. Hard. The world is starting to spin, forgetting how to breath sort of hard, all sprinkled with a touch of apathetic glee.
"I am sorry for stabbing you."
That was it.
Jesse just lets himself fall face first back into the trash heap.