Supernatural Sister Imagines

Imagine #72: Fate

Imagine: You run away from home and meet the Winchester brothers.

Age: 15

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     "Dad! Please, what are you doing? You can't leave her! You can't leave my sister!" John yanked his arm from his teenage sons' grasps, a growl emanating from his lips angrily as he continued down the sidewalk. A light rain battered his face coldly as Sam and Dean chased after, trying to pry from his arms a little girl, no more than a few months of age.

     "Dean, let go of me!" John turned angrily to the one who'd spoke, his face red, dripping with drops of rain. "She doesn't even have a name! We don't need her! We don't want her!"

     "No, Dad!" Sam screamed, a little boy with a high-pitched voice and tears in his eyes, "you don't want her! We love her! Please!"

     "You don't have to have anything to do with her," Dean pleaded, "We'll take care of her. Please," His voice grew desperate, cracking and breaking as he fought tears, "You can't take her away from me."

     "I'm sorry, boys," John said, but his voice was as cold as the rain, and unforgiving, "she goes."

     He took off again at a brisk walk, oblivious to his sons' anguished yells and screams as he ascended the steps to the local orphanage and placed the baby on the ground, sliding her under the roof out of the rain and standing up straighter.

     "Dad," Dean's yells suddenly became quiet, "If you leave her there, I will never forgive you. Never."

     John hesitated, staring at the little girl as she writhed around on the concrete, beginning to cry. He was startled to find that what he thought was rain was really a tear drifting down his cheek, and quickly wiped it away with an angry shake of his head.

     "Let's go."

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"What the hell is wrong with you?" You can't help but to flinch as your adoptive father slings an empty beer bottle in your general direction, the glass shattering against the wall above your head, showering you in shards that stick in your fragile skin like thorns.

"I don't see what the problem is." You retort bitterly, all but numb to your supposed 'father's' onslaught. You'd lived with him all your life; found on the streets as an infant, taken in by an orphanage, he adopted you. Everything was fine until you turned five; it was then that the sharp slaps and wrists gripped hard enough to leave bruises, the alcohol that littered the entire trailer home, the stench of cigarette smoke that seared itself into the hairs in your nose and settled like a thick layer across every article of clothing you owned; it was then that the torture began.

"They're all As," You continued, unintentionally allowing a venom to enter your voice, "My lowest grade is a 94. You told me to bring them up and I did."

"Hey!" Instantly your father was on his feet, grabbing you by the shoulders and lifting you into the air. He set you down in front of him with a rough shake and reared his hand back, sending it flying across your cheek, the sting all too familiar to you. You didn't even flinch, "Don't you take on that tone with me, bitch! I kept you alive! If I hadn't, you never would've left that orphanage! Ain't nobody love you like I love you! Never!"

"You don't love me," You whispered violently, the words seeping through your teeth like a hiss. You attempted to rip your wrist from his hand, "What kind of love is this? The bruises? The blood? The beer bottles being broken over my back?"