Work Text:
They didn't know where the pistol came from. But when the thing that used to be their dad lunged at them, and his hands dug into their throat, shoving them inch by inch up the wall, and their hands clawed uselessly for something, anything that would help them, the pistol was there, cold and reassuringly heavy in their grip; and when they raised it in one shaking hand, fumbled a finger onto the trigger, and pulled, it fired.
Their dad swayed on his feet. The smell of burned meat rose up. The shot had taken half his jaw off, bone and all; the edges of the hole were scorched and smoking. Blood bubbled from the wound. They could feel it on their face, hot and sticky and horrid. Their dad's eyes were glassy. His hands went limp, dumping them back on their feet, and he crumpled to the floor.
The thing that used to be their mom let out a guttural scream and threw herself at them.
They didn't even look. They just squeezed their eyes shut, and swung the pistol around with both hands, and fired, and fired, and fired, until the trigger clicked uselessly under their fingers and the room went still.