Racebending Revenge Fic: Family Business.
Title: Family Business
Characters: Jo, Ellen, OMC
Rating: PG
Challenge: AU written for Dark Agenda's Racebending Revenge challenge. Jo's family are Iraqi but she herself was born in the US.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: A simple salt and burn raises some personal questions.
Author's Notes: This explores an alternate take on a white character I love. Joanna is a pretty popular name in the Middle East. I've written my own ethnicity into this story because it's the one, apart from British, I feel I can responsibly talk about, but it's definitely not self-insertion (I am personally terrified of guns, knives, etc., and would much rather watch hunters on TV than be one).
“What does it say?” asked Jo. She slid the black and white Polaroid across the bar to her uncle. It was of an amulet; simple-looking thing, but obviously significant. On the tab, in her father’s hand, was a series of Arabic characters. The last two, reading right to left, were heavily underlined.
“Oh… you know I can’t read this,” he shook his head. “I don’t remember the Arabic…”
“Yes you can,” Jo insisted, “You always say that. Uncle Tariq, it’s important.” She lowered her voice, glancing backwards to makes sure her mother was out of earshot. “It’s for a hunt. Cops found it on the body of a former patron, a good hunter. I knew I recognized it as soon as I saw it on the news. This is from my dad’s journal.”
The grey-haired man regarded her over gold-rimmed glasses. Tariq was the eldest brother of Jo’s late father. He was sixty but looked ten years older. “It says ‘repels edimmu, not asaku.’”
She gave him a weird look. “Thanks. I knew you knew.” Jo slid the photograph into her pocket, and continued pretending to wipe the bar.
“I will never be happy for you to hunt,” said her uncle quietly.
Jo shrugged. “It’s the family business.”
He would not go so far as to say that her safety was his business, for fear of crossing the new lines. He had asked, once, after her father, whether she would like to come live with him in California whilst she went to college. She said no. She had told him she planned on becoming a hunter full time. That was 2002. And he’d shocked her then, probably for the only time in her life, for he never referred to their heritage:
“Things are going to be hard enough for Arab people, Joanna. Why do you have to make it more dangerous for yourself?”
There were certain obstacles. Jo spoke English like a Southerner and halting, awkward Arabic only under duress: but her dark, curly hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes were attracting more notice these days. Sometimes people took her for Latina, but not often. She knew which places to avoid at night. The bigger issue, in recent years, was the name: her mother was considering painting out ‘Hassan’s’ above the sign that said ‘Roadhouse’ in an effort to attract more business. It made renting a car difficult, subject to more ID checks, and airport security took so long that any out-of-state hunt was liable to be over before she got there. At least she wasn’t terrified of flying.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Jo said again. “But you can’t stay.” She held the knife out in front of her, steady
on the surface. The ghost drew forward, glared, halted. ‘Come on,’ Jo encouraged the knife mentally. Technically, edimmu were the ghosts of those who had not been buried properly: this one had risen due to grave desecration. Jo prayed it was close enough.
“You do not know,” said the ghost. Her English was halting, awkward, under duress. She was so weirdly familiar - like Jo, she was round faced, dark eyed and lightly built, the same thick, curling dark her. Her clothes were old fashioned - 1960s? - and the Arab necklace she wore on her white blouse glinted like her bangles - forgotten gold.
“We were the first,” the ghost told her. “When we came - there were no others like us here. You are spoilt. You do not know. You forget your heritage.”
“I don’t mean to,” Jo found herself plea-bargaining with the specter. “It’s just - I mean I was born here. I’m sorry you suffered. But you have to go now. You can’t take your anger out on people alive today.”
The ghost glanced disdainfully at the ruins of her own grave.
“I know, I know,” Jo apologized. “I can’t excuse that. It’s a bad time. But it won’t make it better if you hurt people. It will make it worse. You have to go now. Move on. Otherwise I’ll - have to salt and burn you - I mean it - I mean, the bones. I’m sorry. It’s what I do. I’m a hunter.”
“When I go,” said the ghost, “I will go home. Where will go, when it’s your time?”
“Home’s not a place, it’s a state,” Jo replied, though it seemed vaguely ridiculous to dispute metaphysics with a ghost.
“Go home,” the ghost advised her, and disappeared. Jo re-sheathed the knife.
That night, she cooked dolma on a whim.
“This is a nice surprise,” said her mother. “I was about to order pizza again.”
“Mom,” said Jo, “Tell me something about Iraq?”
But the story just reminded her of the other times she had heard it.
The End.
Characters: Jo, Ellen, OMC
Rating: PG
Challenge: AU written for Dark Agenda's Racebending Revenge challenge. Jo's family are Iraqi but she herself was born in the US.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: A simple salt and burn raises some personal questions.
Author's Notes: This explores an alternate take on a white character I love. Joanna is a pretty popular name in the Middle East. I've written my own ethnicity into this story because it's the one, apart from British, I feel I can responsibly talk about, but it's definitely not self-insertion (I am personally terrified of guns, knives, etc., and would much rather watch hunters on TV than be one).
“What does it say?” asked Jo. She slid the black and white Polaroid across the bar to her uncle. It was of an amulet; simple-looking thing, but obviously significant. On the tab, in her father’s hand, was a series of Arabic characters. The last two, reading right to left, were heavily underlined.
“Oh… you know I can’t read this,” he shook his head. “I don’t remember the Arabic…”
“Yes you can,” Jo insisted, “You always say that. Uncle Tariq, it’s important.” She lowered her voice, glancing backwards to makes sure her mother was out of earshot. “It’s for a hunt. Cops found it on the body of a former patron, a good hunter. I knew I recognized it as soon as I saw it on the news. This is from my dad’s journal.”
The grey-haired man regarded her over gold-rimmed glasses. Tariq was the eldest brother of Jo’s late father. He was sixty but looked ten years older. “It says ‘repels edimmu, not asaku.’”
She gave him a weird look. “Thanks. I knew you knew.” Jo slid the photograph into her pocket, and continued pretending to wipe the bar.
“I will never be happy for you to hunt,” said her uncle quietly.
Jo shrugged. “It’s the family business.”
He would not go so far as to say that her safety was his business, for fear of crossing the new lines. He had asked, once, after her father, whether she would like to come live with him in California whilst she went to college. She said no. She had told him she planned on becoming a hunter full time. That was 2002. And he’d shocked her then, probably for the only time in her life, for he never referred to their heritage:
“Things are going to be hard enough for Arab people, Joanna. Why do you have to make it more dangerous for yourself?”
There were certain obstacles. Jo spoke English like a Southerner and halting, awkward Arabic only under duress: but her dark, curly hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes were attracting more notice these days. Sometimes people took her for Latina, but not often. She knew which places to avoid at night. The bigger issue, in recent years, was the name: her mother was considering painting out ‘Hassan’s’ above the sign that said ‘Roadhouse’ in an effort to attract more business. It made renting a car difficult, subject to more ID checks, and airport security took so long that any out-of-state hunt was liable to be over before she got there. At least she wasn’t terrified of flying.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Jo said again. “But you can’t stay.” She held the knife out in front of her, steady
on the surface. The ghost drew forward, glared, halted. ‘Come on,’ Jo encouraged the knife mentally. Technically, edimmu were the ghosts of those who had not been buried properly: this one had risen due to grave desecration. Jo prayed it was close enough.
“You do not know,” said the ghost. Her English was halting, awkward, under duress. She was so weirdly familiar - like Jo, she was round faced, dark eyed and lightly built, the same thick, curling dark her. Her clothes were old fashioned - 1960s? - and the Arab necklace she wore on her white blouse glinted like her bangles - forgotten gold.
“We were the first,” the ghost told her. “When we came - there were no others like us here. You are spoilt. You do not know. You forget your heritage.”
“I don’t mean to,” Jo found herself plea-bargaining with the specter. “It’s just - I mean I was born here. I’m sorry you suffered. But you have to go now. You can’t take your anger out on people alive today.”
The ghost glanced disdainfully at the ruins of her own grave.
“I know, I know,” Jo apologized. “I can’t excuse that. It’s a bad time. But it won’t make it better if you hurt people. It will make it worse. You have to go now. Move on. Otherwise I’ll - have to salt and burn you - I mean it - I mean, the bones. I’m sorry. It’s what I do. I’m a hunter.”
“When I go,” said the ghost, “I will go home. Where will go, when it’s your time?”
“Home’s not a place, it’s a state,” Jo replied, though it seemed vaguely ridiculous to dispute metaphysics with a ghost.
“Go home,” the ghost advised her, and disappeared. Jo re-sheathed the knife.
That night, she cooked dolma on a whim.
“This is a nice surprise,” said her mother. “I was about to order pizza again.”
“Mom,” said Jo, “Tell me something about Iraq?”
But the story just reminded her of the other times she had heard it.
The End.