Supernatural fic: flesh + blood
Still accepting prompts for fic based on holiday music, though obviously my idea of holiday fic involves apocalypses.
Title: flesh + blood
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke.
Written for: wizened_cynic requested Jo and "What Child Is This"
Note: AU apocalypse fic (still awesome), self-mutilation
Summary: Soon the world will shift and rise again.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
Jo curls her fingers around the hilt of the knife. It is worn, rough against her palm. Her thigh aches, burns, and grows tight as the blood dries. She will wash it away soon, clear her pale skin until she can see the sigils, the power beyond words she is cutting into her flesh.
There are carolers on the street, and she can hear them through the closed window.
Or perhaps that is her memory, but she thinks that is wrong, too. No carolers would come to the Roadhouse. If they did, they would have been greeted with holy water and guns and holy words.
She has holy carved into her body, heaven and hell made into flesh.
The window is cold when she presses her forehead against the glass. She leaves a blur, a streak of grease. She hasn’t washed her hair in weeks. The hot water stings too much, makes her wince and roll her body and mewl the pain.
Soon, she thinks, it will not matter that her home has burned nor her mother vanished. Killed, perhaps, or taken by the things which roam the dark.
Soon the world will shift and the voices which whisper promises to her will rise again.
End
Title: flesh + blood
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke.
Written for: wizened_cynic requested Jo and "What Child Is This"
Note: AU apocalypse fic (still awesome), self-mutilation
Summary: Soon the world will shift and rise again.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
Jo curls her fingers around the hilt of the knife. It is worn, rough against her palm. Her thigh aches, burns, and grows tight as the blood dries. She will wash it away soon, clear her pale skin until she can see the sigils, the power beyond words she is cutting into her flesh.
There are carolers on the street, and she can hear them through the closed window.
Or perhaps that is her memory, but she thinks that is wrong, too. No carolers would come to the Roadhouse. If they did, they would have been greeted with holy water and guns and holy words.
She has holy carved into her body, heaven and hell made into flesh.
The window is cold when she presses her forehead against the glass. She leaves a blur, a streak of grease. She hasn’t washed her hair in weeks. The hot water stings too much, makes her wince and roll her body and mewl the pain.
Soon, she thinks, it will not matter that her home has burned nor her mother vanished. Killed, perhaps, or taken by the things which roam the dark.
Soon the world will shift and the voices which whisper promises to her will rise again.
End