𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞.
supernatural universe.
☆ | P O W E R ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
──── after years of abuse and torture,
she finds herself to be more powerful
than her abuser
❝ 𝘐 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘕𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙 𝘜𝘕𝘋𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘗𝘖𝘞𝘌𝘙
𝘛𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘌 �...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝐬𝐭, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟐 ―୨୧⋆ ˚ MARLEY'S POV
𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐃. I suspect it didn't go well because Dean returns with a cloth holding his bloody nose, and a bruised eye. I'm not surprised that after he speaks with Dad, he's in a worse position than before the conversation, but I still wish Dad wouldn't hurt him because of me.
Since the... incident as I've chosen to call it, Dad has been busying himself with some work nearby, only returning a few hours ago, and since he returned, he and Dean have been at odds with one another. I've listened to them argue and argue and argue, and now I can't take it anymore so I'm sitting outside on the pavement in the dark.
Dean sits down next to me, and he pretends that he's not in pain── that's Dad's punches didn't hurt him── but I know better. I know Dad's hits hurt, and it'll only hurt more if he doesn't accept what Dad is── a monster.
I don't move, my knees tucked up to my face with my chin resting against my knees. I look out, staring across at the row of houses across from us. I often come out here to look at the stars, but tonight I'm just here to get away from Dad who I now imagine is drinking his weight in cheap booze after the fight with his son.
Dean huffs next to me, and he lowers the bloody cloth, revealing the nasty mark on his nose. Dad sure knows how to punch, that's for certain, but I imagine Dean got a few hits in too.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice timid as I'm unsure whether or not he wants to talk.
He places the cloth down, wincing when he wipes his hand against his nose. "Always, kid." I know he's not okay, but I also know he doesn't want to talk about his fight with Dad even though I know why he fought with Dad.
"You're not," I whisper softly. "You can talk to me, Dean, you know that, right?"
Dean looks over at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the houses across from me. "Right," he utters, reaching a hand out to brush the hair off my shoulder. "They still hurt?"
He's referring to the marks that litter my body── the ones that Dad left only three nights ago while Dean was out at a bar. "A little." If I'm being honest, the psychical pain subsided the moment Dean returned home and nursed the wounds away, but the reminder of how I got the marks hurts all the same. "Don't really want to talk about it anymore."
