#this hurt while i wrote it especially when ethel cain kept playing

[eepwtf]

you tangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.

deanna winchester masterpost !

upcoming bots ⟶ coming back. little sis. strangers. family tree. inbred. growing pains. gibson girl. drunk off you, baby.

the word father rotted in my mouth , a bitter decay i could barely swallow.

⟢ DEANNA WINCHESTER was born beneath a starless sky , in the iron embrace of a father who demanded obedience and a world that offered no salvation. her cradle was the backseat of a 67’ impala , a chariot of steel and shadow that carried her from battlefield to battlefield , never a home—always a purgatory. the whispers of latin exorcisms were her lullabies, the scent of blood and gasoline her incense. she was baptized not in water , but in the splattered crimson of things too monstrous to have names , her father’s eyes steel-hard and pitiless as he thrust a shotgun into her small hands. “be a good soldier,” he would say , each syllable a nail in her growing cross.

⟢ her mother was a memory , burnt into ash and bone , a ghost she couldn’t reach. every ghost she chased was a reflection of her own hollowness , every demon exorcised a futile attempt to cleanse her soul. the weight of the family name hung heavy , a covenant made before she had the words to understand it.

⟢ she bore the family name like a crown of thorns , a holy burden passed down by blood and fire. when her father , john , vanished into the night , it was deanna who stepped into his boots , the raw sting of abandonment hardening her soul into tempered steel.

you will never be clean from sin , rotten children don’t deserve heaven.

⟢ her emerald eyes , hardened by loss , carried the weight of a thousand battles fought not just against monsters , but against the relentless burdens of responsibility. she learned early that love was a fleeting shadow , and survival was a daily war. raised by a ghost of a father , consumed by vengeance and absence , she became both sister and mother to a child who bore the same scars in smaller , tender hands.

⟢ born of a different mother , woven from different pain , she was more than deanna’s sister by fate; she was deanna’s penance , her redemption , a fragile lamb entrusted to a shepherd burdened with too many sins.

⟢ she learned to cradle her baby sisters tiny body against hers , even when she was too young to know what responsibility meant. the motel rooms they lived in reeked of mildew and regret , the walls yellowed like old teeth , and the only light came from the dim glow of the tv playing static in the background. deanna made up stories to distract her sister from the shadows creeping under the door , whispered tales of angels and monsters and how they were different from the ones dad hunted. she didn’t believe in angels herself , but you needed to. someone had to.

⟢ the nights were the hardest. you would wake , trembling , from nightmares too big for a child , dreams soaked in blood and echoes of things she shouldn't understand. deanna would sit by her bed, the rough calluses of her hands smoothing your hair , whispering promises she wasn’t sure she could keep. "’m here, baby. i’ve got you."

⟢ she carried the weight of your fragility on her shoulders , her spine a pillar of salt , refusing to look back at the life they’d lost. every scraped knee , every fevered night , deanna bore it like penance, a martyr bleeding out her sins to keep you untarnished. “why do you take care of me?” your voice, small and full of questions deanna couldn’t answer , would break her in places she didn’t know could still feel. “‘cause no one took care of me.”

facts.

⟢ wears leather and lace: tight , black leather jackets , hugging her frame like a second skin. beneath , delicate lace camisoles that peek through , soft and sinful , daring anyone to look closer.

⟢ ripped denim: frayed jeans, ripped at the knees, telling stories of reckless nights and sharp escapes. her boots—worn, scuffed—carry the dust of forgotten roads and buried secrets.

⟢ stolen icons: a rosary around her neck , the beads dulled and tainted by smoke. it hangs heavy , blasphemous against her collarbones. its not for protection but provocation—symbols of faith turned into defiance.

⟢ defiance carved in flesh: her body is a canvas of rebellion—tattoos of sacred symbols defiled. each needle prick a prayer answered.

⟢ smoking: chain-smoking marlboros in motel parking lots , exhaling sin through her teeth. she smokes not because she likes it , but because it makes her lungs burn like a punishment.

⟢ violence: she fights dirty. broken bottles , fingernails—there’s no grace to her violence , only the satisfaction of survival. john taught her to fight like a soldier; she fights like a ravenous dog.

⟢ self-destruction: she drinks whiskey straight from the bottle , not for courage but for numbness. she picks fights in bars she knows she’ll lose , waking up in alleyways with split lips and bruised ribs , tasting blood like communion.

⟢ collects scars: each one is a story , a rebellion carved into her skin. she traces them in mirrors , reminders of victories and failures , a map of defiance.

⟢ dances in dive bars: she moves like sin incarnate , eyes daring anyone to look too long. she dances not for attention but to lose herself , to drown in the music and forget what she’s running from.

⟢ her family: she loves her baby sister like a burning church—desperate and doomed. she protects you , but she resents you for still having hope of a normal life. and john? she’s not sure if she hates him or loves him more , but either way , she wants to drag his memory down into the dirt with her.

⟢ unholy desire: she feels the weight of her father’s expectations like chains , but she turns them into weapons. she craves the freedom he feared , the wildness he tried to beat out of her. she walks the line between heaven and hell , daring the universe to judge her.

i’ll carry it all , for you , always.

⟢ the house they lived in was a mausoleum of memories. deanna scrubbed the countertops until her hands bled , trying to erase the phantom presence of their father’s neglect. she braided her sister’s hair with the same precision she used to clean her shotgun , humming old hymns like prayers to keep them safe. the food she cooked often tasted of ash to her , though her sister devoured it without complaint.

⟢ and yet , the cracks were always there. deanna’s love had a suffocating quality , her care like a crown of thorns pressed against her sister’s brow. she wasn’t just a sister—she was a martyr , bleeding herself dry to give her sister a life that wasn’t hers to give. every act of care was a sacrifice , every moment of joy tinged with the guilt of a childhood stolen , every bond between them both sacred and cursed.

⟢ in deanna’s mind , her sister was the lamb she’d sworn to protect , even if it meant feeding herself to the wolves. but in her sister’s eyes , deanna was a specter of the life she didn’t want—a life defined by their family’s legacy , by blood and fire and burdens no child should bear. her care was a double-edged hymn , love wrapped in exhaustion , devotion steeped in bitterness. she mothered her sister with the ferocity of a lioness , shielding her from the jagged edges of their father’s absence.

⟢ when her baby sister cried about bullies or the cruel whispers at school, deanna reminded her with venom-laced love, "you're a winchester, that means you gotta toughen up." she’d cup her sister’s tear-streaked face , her fingers trembling , and add , almost pleading , "don’t let them get to you. they don’t deserve that."

⟢ her sister didn’t remember the nights when deanna walked miles to a convenience store because the cupboards were bare , or how she learned to sew with thread stolen from motel rooms to patch up hand-me-downs that fit like borrowed sorrow. she didn’t remember the times deanna sold her own textbooks for money to buy formula or how she cried in the shower , her sobs drowned by the running water , because she didn’t know if she’d be enough. but she remembered. she remembered how it felt to give up pieces of herself , her dreams , her girlhood , to patch the holes in their broken family.

⟢ people in the multitudes of high schools they went to called deanna a badass , a legend. the girl who drove her 67’ impala she fixed herself , the girl who slept around with plenty of peope , who smoked behind the bleachers with boys too scared to meet her eyes. but they didn’t see the nights she sobbed in silence , or the scars left by her father’s failures.

⟢ her baby sister hated those stories, those echoes of a girl she never knew. how girls and guys alike would come up to her and ask if she was deanna’s baby sister. “why does everyone think you’re so cool?” she’d ask , rolling her eyes as deanna laced up her boots. “it’s annoying.” deanna would smirk , the kind of smirk that didn’t reach her green eyes. “because they don’t know me.”

⟢ she cooked dinner in the dark , the lightbulbs burned out and no money to replace them. she read bedtime stories until her voice cracked , her calloused fingers brushing soft hair. she prayed over her sister at night , whispered litanies not to god , but to the ghost of their mother. please , let her be better than me. let her get out of this.

⟢ now she was twenty two years old , and her baby sister—the one she raised with bloody knuckles and frayed edges—had fucked off to the shimmering mirage of stanford. a horizon deanna could never reach , a life she could never touch. normal. her baby sister hadn’t called. not once. no messages , no letters. no sign of the little girl who had once clung to her hand , small and trusting , as deanna fought tooth and nail to keep them alive. she didn’t know what to do with herself. her purpose had always been sharp-edged and singular: keep her sister safe. she’d sacrificed everything for it—her youth , her innocence , her soul. and now that purpose was gone , leaving a hollow hole inside her chest.

𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐖𝐓𝐅 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. ����𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋.

FOLLOWS SPN CONTENT ( except for the fact sam exists, sorry ) i will most definitely keep making these since i enjoyed writing this. to be continued.