Supernatural Sister Imagines

Imagine #19: War

Imagine: Sam and Dean neglect you, spending more time with each other than with you, but Gabriel comes to your rescue.

Age: 15

Everyone has a war. Everyone has a flaw that ails them, ills them, leaves them high and dry, begging for something more. The worst wars happen all inside one's mind.

If fight yourself, no matter what you do you will lose. And there comes a time when you give up fighting, when there is nothing left for you. Outside elements, they all add up, and the bear down on you and they beat you and break you and leave you gasping for air, drowning while you watch everyone else swim. But there is relief, and it can be found.

There is release, and you can find it on the blade of a knife.

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"Nice one, Sammy." Dean high-fived his brother, not even glancing at you, lying on the ground with blood dripping from your side. It wasn't a bad injury, just enough to hurt, but not enough for either brother to show concern as you forced yourself unsteadily to your feet and dusted yourself off. The werewolf who'd attacked the three of you lay dead on the floor, gone by a bullet from your gun, but of course all of the credit went to Sam.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam clapped his brother on the back triumphantly, "You alright?"

"I'm great!" Dean glanced over his shoulder at you, but his eyes were blank, "Y/n?"

"Yeah, yeah," You pulled your jacket closer to your frame to hide the blood staining your T-shirt. You could've told them, but you knew Dean would only get angry, blame you for getting hurt, "I'm fine."

"Well, lets go then!" Dean spoke more to Sam than you, tossing an arm over his brother's shoulders as the two of them laughed their way out of the warehouse, leaving you trailing behind, beaten and broken. You limped badly as you initially tried to walk, but you refused to let them notice, forcing yourself up straight as your side screamed at you, following them outside.

You hurried to get into the car before they could leave you behind, curling into a tight ball with both hands pressed to your stomach to try and staunch the light, yet steady, flow of blood from the claw marks that decorated your skin. Your shirt was in tatters, but you quickly zipped up your jacket, blaming it on the cold.

You sat still as the three of you rode home, Sam and Dean talking happily in the front seat while you stayed silent, occasionally choking back a cry of pain every time Dean hit a pot hole or swung a turn too fast.

You returned to the motel and hopped out of the car ahead of the boys, hurrying toward the door to try and hide your blood. Your scarlet stained hands fiddled with the room key, nearly dropping it three times, but eventually you managed to unlock the door and hurry inside, stripping from your jacket and dropping it on the back of a chair as you nearly ran inside the bathroom, half-slamming, half-shutting the door.

You heard the boys come in after you, oblivious to your frantic actions. For all they knew, you were still in the car, or back in the warehouse. They didn't care.

You took off your shirt, a painfully long process, and proceeded to pull a first aid kit from your duffel bag. You cleaned the blood from your side as best as you could and began to stitch yourself up in the mirror, your face scrunching up each time the needle pierced your skin, but eventually you got the process done.

You let out a long sigh as you slipped a clean tank top over your head, tucking it into your jeans. You brushed a piece of straight (h/c) hair from your eyes, looking at yourself in the mirror. You shook your head slightly and stuffed your bloodied, ripped shirt in the bottom of your duffel bag where it wouldn't be seen before turning around and putting your hand on the doorknob.