Ask God [1/?] Prologue.
Title: Ask God.
Chapter Title: Prologue
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Rating: PG-13 (For some violence)
Pairing[s]: Eventual Dean/Castiel, eventual Sam/OC
Summary: Dean and Sam decide to take a rest stop in this little town on their journey to smite demons and stop Lucifer. While they're there they hear talk of a house, and no one has seen the family that lives there for a while now. A mom, a daughter and a son. Castiel shows up in their motel room and says he hears this voice that keeps praying to be saved. They cock their guns and decide to check the house out, because that's what Winchesters do.
Chapter Summary: And she thought that if she prayed, someone might finally hear her...
Author's Note: When you leave comments you get praise and cookies . . . and the author writes more chapters!
The water fills the tub up to the brim, and the faucet drips precariously with a rhythm. Each droplet creates tiny sets of ripples in the surface, disrupting the smooth surface and making it wrinkle. I watch because there's nothing else to do other than twiddle with my toes and breathe.
The water is nice and warm, but the bare skin above its surface shivers with goose bumps from the cold, bitter air. I forgot to close the window, otherwise there wouldn't be a draft of breeze rolling through the bathroom. I blink my eyes and feel the little crystals of water that had gathered on my lashes into beads dribble down onto my cheeks with the contact, and they slink down my skin slowly, like a snowball, or dominoes. It tickles and I smile, and close my eyes to soak in the moment, because there never really are moments like this one anymore.
The door slams open, and my eyes snap open. I remember now why I'm in here. "You only have five more minutes, girl." My mother's voice is like venom, and the way she says girl . . . It's never by my name anymore; it's girl or whore, or other filthy names. I'm no longer a daughter, just a simple hostage, an item, a piece of meat to her. She's not my mother anymore. She's not anything . . .
I reach up my hands and undo the barrettes that have been imprisoning my hair into a tight bundled knot on my head. It's like a load of bricks is lifted off of my head, and the tension is gone, but the reminder of dirt settles instead. It's longer than I remember, cascades down my back, and the tips float upon the surface like little water spiders. My hair is ratty, greasy brown stem roots growing off my scalp. I have not bathed in weeks, and maybe that's why I got lost for that short moment, staring at something lost and forgotten. Bathing is like a chore, a task that I savor. You only get ten minutes. I only have five.
I gather a large dollop of shampoo into my hand and lather it into my head, massaging out all the kinks in my hair that feels like straw. I shudder because I remember the blood, and it hurts me, and I don't want to remember that, so I suck in a huge breath and dive down into the depths of my small pond to wash away the memories and to maybe cleanse my soul.
I don't remember why I open my eyes, but I do, and I watch the porcelain wall of the tub across from me, all plain and yellow and boring like it's the most interesting thing on this planet. The water doesn't hurt, it feels so nice, and I want to stay here forever and just rest my tired eyes, and forget. I want to slink into God's forgiving hands and let him kiss my forehead, each eyelid, and whisper a prayer into my ear of redemption. That it will be okay now. That everything would be fine.
But there's only pain, and I remember I only have five minutes, but it's a reminder that's too late as my mother's hand slips through my hair down to the roots, tangles her fingers into a tight fist and yanks me up. I gasp because the air is frigid, little pins and needles pricking at my skin, and I'm a doll, do as you please. What would you have me do?
"I told you five minutes," she hisses, at me, her daughter, her slave. And it's freezing, and I'm naked, and I don't want to open my eyes. She pulls me out and doesn't let me get my footing, because I slip, and fall and there's nothing but the hard tile floor against my thigh, bruising me. I slide across the floor as she drags me, and I just won't open my eyes, but I can feel the towel now, roughly patting me dry. "You didn't listen. You never listen. You're such a useless, pathetic little girl."
It's my mom's voice, but it's not her. It could never be her, because she would never say something so remorseless and cold. Why is everything so cold? I answer with tears, because I don't have a voice anymore. She responds with her palm, and it's hard, stings my cheek and I taste blood. It's always blood nowadays. "Get dressed and then get out here. I have work for you, you lazy little girl."
I shudder, listen to the door slam shut, and continue crying as I finally open my eyes. I'm in front of the counter now, and next to the door. There's a path of water from the tub to where I sit, and a puddle underneath me. My legs feel like there's lead inside of them as I reach up and grasp the edge of the marble counter top, and it takes all my strength to pull myself up to my feet, but I do, and I stand and tug the towel closer.
The mirror takes me off guard. I don't know the person staring back at me. Straggly, unkempt knotted brunette strands of hair that used to glow with health. Pale skin, white as snow, tattered flesh, and skinny little fragile limbs of bones, meat and flesh. Is this a body? Quivering little lips, bruised and cut and slit. Blood dribbling from a tiny nose. But it's those eyes that scream the reality of everything. They're storms that crush the earth, bubbling steam pits, broken porcelain dolls, what once was loved, memories of little girls dressing up in dresses too big for them, and forgotten. They're just little brown circles, sad and boring, useless.
I start to pray as I stand there and start putting on the clothes that had been laid out for me. I pray for my my mother to be alive, because I still love her. I pray for my little brother, ten years old, beaten to death by a rolling pin while I lay unconscious on the kitchen floor after getting my head cracked for trying to stop it. I pray that he's an angel, strong and beautiful, and happy. And I pray for God to hear my pleas, my cries, and my pain. I pray for a hero.
Chapter Title: Prologue
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Rating: PG-13 (For some violence)
Pairing[s]: Eventual Dean/Castiel, eventual Sam/OC
Summary: Dean and Sam decide to take a rest stop in this little town on their journey to smite demons and stop Lucifer. While they're there they hear talk of a house, and no one has seen the family that lives there for a while now. A mom, a daughter and a son. Castiel shows up in their motel room and says he hears this voice that keeps praying to be saved. They cock their guns and decide to check the house out, because that's what Winchesters do.
Chapter Summary: And she thought that if she prayed, someone might finally hear her...
Author's Note: When you leave comments you get praise and cookies . . . and the author writes more chapters!
The water fills the tub up to the brim, and the faucet drips precariously with a rhythm. Each droplet creates tiny sets of ripples in the surface, disrupting the smooth surface and making it wrinkle. I watch because there's nothing else to do other than twiddle with my toes and breathe.
The water is nice and warm, but the bare skin above its surface shivers with goose bumps from the cold, bitter air. I forgot to close the window, otherwise there wouldn't be a draft of breeze rolling through the bathroom. I blink my eyes and feel the little crystals of water that had gathered on my lashes into beads dribble down onto my cheeks with the contact, and they slink down my skin slowly, like a snowball, or dominoes. It tickles and I smile, and close my eyes to soak in the moment, because there never really are moments like this one anymore.
The door slams open, and my eyes snap open. I remember now why I'm in here. "You only have five more minutes, girl." My mother's voice is like venom, and the way she says girl . . . It's never by my name anymore; it's girl or whore, or other filthy names. I'm no longer a daughter, just a simple hostage, an item, a piece of meat to her. She's not my mother anymore. She's not anything . . .
I reach up my hands and undo the barrettes that have been imprisoning my hair into a tight bundled knot on my head. It's like a load of bricks is lifted off of my head, and the tension is gone, but the reminder of dirt settles instead. It's longer than I remember, cascades down my back, and the tips float upon the surface like little water spiders. My hair is ratty, greasy brown stem roots growing off my scalp. I have not bathed in weeks, and maybe that's why I got lost for that short moment, staring at something lost and forgotten. Bathing is like a chore, a task that I savor. You only get ten minutes. I only have five.
I gather a large dollop of shampoo into my hand and lather it into my head, massaging out all the kinks in my hair that feels like straw. I shudder because I remember the blood, and it hurts me, and I don't want to remember that, so I suck in a huge breath and dive down into the depths of my small pond to wash away the memories and to maybe cleanse my soul.
I don't remember why I open my eyes, but I do, and I watch the porcelain wall of the tub across from me, all plain and yellow and boring like it's the most interesting thing on this planet. The water doesn't hurt, it feels so nice, and I want to stay here forever and just rest my tired eyes, and forget. I want to slink into God's forgiving hands and let him kiss my forehead, each eyelid, and whisper a prayer into my ear of redemption. That it will be okay now. That everything would be fine.
But there's only pain, and I remember I only have five minutes, but it's a reminder that's too late as my mother's hand slips through my hair down to the roots, tangles her fingers into a tight fist and yanks me up. I gasp because the air is frigid, little pins and needles pricking at my skin, and I'm a doll, do as you please. What would you have me do?
"I told you five minutes," she hisses, at me, her daughter, her slave. And it's freezing, and I'm naked, and I don't want to open my eyes. She pulls me out and doesn't let me get my footing, because I slip, and fall and there's nothing but the hard tile floor against my thigh, bruising me. I slide across the floor as she drags me, and I just won't open my eyes, but I can feel the towel now, roughly patting me dry. "You didn't listen. You never listen. You're such a useless, pathetic little girl."
It's my mom's voice, but it's not her. It could never be her, because she would never say something so remorseless and cold. Why is everything so cold? I answer with tears, because I don't have a voice anymore. She responds with her palm, and it's hard, stings my cheek and I taste blood. It's always blood nowadays. "Get dressed and then get out here. I have work for you, you lazy little girl."
I shudder, listen to the door slam shut, and continue crying as I finally open my eyes. I'm in front of the counter now, and next to the door. There's a path of water from the tub to where I sit, and a puddle underneath me. My legs feel like there's lead inside of them as I reach up and grasp the edge of the marble counter top, and it takes all my strength to pull myself up to my feet, but I do, and I stand and tug the towel closer.
The mirror takes me off guard. I don't know the person staring back at me. Straggly, unkempt knotted brunette strands of hair that used to glow with health. Pale skin, white as snow, tattered flesh, and skinny little fragile limbs of bones, meat and flesh. Is this a body? Quivering little lips, bruised and cut and slit. Blood dribbling from a tiny nose. But it's those eyes that scream the reality of everything. They're storms that crush the earth, bubbling steam pits, broken porcelain dolls, what once was loved, memories of little girls dressing up in dresses too big for them, and forgotten. They're just little brown circles, sad and boring, useless.
I start to pray as I stand there and start putting on the clothes that had been laid out for me. I pray for my my mother to be alive, because I still love her. I pray for my little brother, ten years old, beaten to death by a rolling pin while I lay unconscious on the kitchen floor after getting my head cracked for trying to stop it. I pray that he's an angel, strong and beautiful, and happy. And I pray for God to hear my pleas, my cries, and my pain. I pray for a hero.