Supernatural BSM

Blood Is Thicker- Daughter Y/N

A/N; strange set up here. It takes place around Season 11, but Jess had just died. You are about 16 in this story and your father is Sam. The plot is pretty much you get into a fight with him. (he's an abusive drunk in this one... Don't hate me)

3rd Person Pov

"You are an expert at 'sorry,' and keeping the lines blurry! You are always on your laptop never paying any attention to me! Always wanting to kill anything and everything to drown out the pain of what killed mom and what could have been if you just didn't go with uncle Dean. But to be honest...  Jessica? She was the lucky one! Getting away from you? I wish I could do the same! Being burned on the ceiling is a dream compared to living with you!" Almost as soon as the name of your deceased mother came across your lips, a harsh slap was delivered across your face. Your head turned to the right as his hand connected with your facial flesh. "You dumb bitch! You don't ever speak about your mother like that you hear me? You didn't know her at all but I did! So if you sling her name through the mud like that again and I'll do more than just give you a tap on the face! You hear me bitch!" He screamed as he got in your face getting louder and louder by the second.

    You stood there in shock for a moment, just absorbing all that he just said and all that he just did. He immediately though, once calm from anger, took a step towards you. "Y/N I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to- let me see your face." "This is just my point. You always say sorry. But not this time. You don't get to be 'sorry' this time. Because you say sorry like its worth each time before too. But you and I both know that you're not sorry. You never are and never will be." You stated almost with no emotion in your voice. You walked past him and into your room in the bunker. Dean was gone for the week on a case and your father being the abusive drunk he was, wasn't making your life easy in the slightest.

    You walked into your room and closed the door behind you, you sat on the bed for a while thinking about how much more fucked up your life could possibly get. If you stick around your dad would just beat you; again and again until he felt like it was enough. If you stuck around he would just continue to yell at you for little mistakes like spilling water on the floor or dropping a book in the library. If you stuck around you would just be a waste of space in his eyes. Always being a disappointment. Never making him proud. Never hearing him say the words 'I Love You.' Never having a father that cares enough to even save you from yourself.

    You sat on your bed and looked up at the ceiling and cried. Cried like a baby missing its mama, but not daring to make a sound; not wanting to draw attention to yourself from your dad. You wound up falling asleep and woke up a few hours later; the time was now 3:58am and you were tired, not from exhaustion but from living. You walked into your bathroom and found something. Something that you got some joy out of when it rested in your warm hands. A razor. A cold piece of steel that was to give you the sweet release of death. The sweet release of your last breath. You started running the bath with warm water, not wanting to burn yourself for the last minutes of its life.

    You rolled up your sleeves on your flannel and got in; clothes and all. The razor rested ever so neatly in your fingertips; like an author with a quill pen. You turned off the water once it was at the appropriate level or rather the level you wanted it at. One... Two... Three. You counted in your head, then you were off, slitting down your wrist; one clean line on the left and one clean line on the right. You sighed in relief as you set the razor on the side of the tub, then once again resting your arms back into the warm relaxing water.

    One deep breath... Two deep breaths... Three deep breaths. A minute or two passed before you started to feel it. You started to feel your head become light, while the black stars of the empty start to consume you.

    Your eyelids fall closed, you can no longer see the world, but the world can see you. Your face read of a thousand sorrows. Your arms read of a thousand wars. Your bruises read of a thousand cries for help. But most importantly, your tears stains read of a thousand shed pleas of mercy.

A/N: Part 2 Anyone???