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fpinterviews · 17 years

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Alex Prager

FP: Your career began at a very early age, and you’ve achieved much success in such a short time. How did you get involved in photography?

AP: Actually, I didn't get my first camera until I was 20. Before that, the thought of photography hadn't even crossed my mind past taking below-average snapshots on trips I took. I came back to Los Angeles after living in Florida and Switzerland off and on for 4 years, and when I finally settled in with a job and an apartment, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing with my future, and that kind of excited me. I was at a point where I had to make up my mind about what I was going to focus on as an adult. It was exciting because I was starting from nothing, therefore every career in the world was an option. All I had to do was get the education for whatever I decided I wanted to be. I started going to a lot of art shows. I already knew I wanted to be some kind of an artist, I just didn't know what medium I wanted to work in. I went to these shows alone because I didn't want anyone around swaying my opinion. Anyway, a couple weeks went by of going to museum and gallery shows, and then one day I ended up at the Getty where William Eggleston happened to have a show up. The moment I saw his work I knew that I wanted to be a photographer. I looked at every picture over and over for hours and when I was finished I bought his book. A week later, I had everything I needed to become a professional photographer. After that, I read every book I could find that had anything to do with photography. I made a little darkroom in my bathroom and I was in there every night till 3 in the morning processing my film and enlarging the pictures I had taken. After I got home from work, I used to go around my apartment building photographing still objects like a washing machine or a door, and then I'd go right into my darkroom and make an enlargement of the picture. When it was dry I'd go back to the thing I had taken a picture of and I'd tape my picture right on top of it. It would look kind of surreal. I guess those were my first art shows. Sometimes, when I'd go back to look at it, the picture would be gone and I'd imagine that someone had seen it taped up there and liked it enough to take it home with them.

FP: You’ve published an amazing book called "The Book Of Disquiet: The Seven Deadly Sins,” a collaborative piece with artist Mercedes Helenwein. In it, your work has a surreal through-the-looking-glass quality, reflecting both the glamorous and the perverse. How did the book come to be?

AP: Well, Mercedes and I had just finished a show called 'America Motel' that involved us taking 2 trips across the country. She wrote, I took pictures and our friend Beth Riesgraf documented the trips with her Super 8. The show was great. With the help of our friend, Jason Lee, we rented out an entire motel in downtown Los Angeles and basically turned it into an installation. My photographs were hung on the walls of each room like motel art, Mercedes' book was on the night stands in place of the Bible, and Beth's film was being played on each television. It was awesome. After this, Mercedes and I decided we wanted to do another project together, but this time she was going to do drawings. We had both been really affected by the people we met while driving through Middle America, and coming back to Los Angeles was such a dramatic shift in culture that we both, in our own ways, came to conclusion that our next show should be based on The Seven Deadly Sins. It just seemed like the obvious choice. I thought it would be really cool to do a book of our pictures in the style of a cardboard children's book because The Seven Deadly Sins theme was already really dark I thought it would lighten things up a little by adding some humor.

FP: Diane Arbus once remarked that “a photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.” That seems to be fitting for your work. Do you have an intention in mind before you shoot and then stage things or is it more of an organic process once you start?

AP: I guess it's a little bit of both. Although I don't entirely agree with Diane Arbus. On their own photographs are more like incomplete stories, and the missing chapters are filled in differently by each person who looks at it. In other words, a piece of art is only done once it has an audience to communicate to. Everyone has their own experiences, their own story, and when they look at a picture, they're probably going to somehow relate it to something they've already seen or experienced. Since we all have different pasts, I like to think that no two people can see a picture the same way. As far as how I make the photograph, I always have some kind of idea of what I'm going to shoot beforehand. How general or specific it is doesn't really matter because once I start, I try not to think at all.

FP: Who are your primary influences?

AP: William Eggleston, Stephen Shore, Loretta Lux, Philip-Lorca Dicorcia, Diane Arbus, Helmut Newton, Brassai, Annie Leibovitz, Guy Bourdin. Painters are John Currin, Egon Schiele, Toulouse-Lautrec, Bruegel, Gustav Klimt, Lucian Freud, Balthus. Filmmakers include Alfred Hitchcock, David Lynch, Peter Greenaway, Federico Fellini, Victor Fleming. Musicians include Bob Dylan, Joy Division, The Beatles, The Pixies, Spoon, The Kinks, Bjork, David Bowie, Elvis Costello, Elliott Smith, The Smiths, etc.

FP: Can you talk a bit about your technique and how you use high-gloss plexiglass?

AP: I like the saturation that you get by face-mounting color photographs to plexi-glas, but I don't always use this process. For my next series, I'm mounting the pictures to Sintra Board from behind so nothing will touch the front of them.

FP: Where do you find your models? Are they friends?

AP: It depends. Sometimes a friend will work out perfectly for a shot I had in mind, other times I'll see someone on the street or in a magazine and I'll get in touch with them and ask if they'll pose for me. Another place that can be good for finding models is modeling agencies! What!? I know, weird...

FP: Since your sister is featured in this issue as well (painter Vanessa Prager), I assume you come from a very creative family…

AP: Hmm.. 'Creative family' implies that they we grew up in a family of artists, which we did not, but our parents, and grandmother (who helped raise us), are definitely the opposite of Middle Class in the way of thinking. They're creative in the sense of the freedom they gave us. They always left it up to us to decide what our goals were going to be, and no matter how far-fetched they were they'd back us up 100%. One day when I was 15, I told my parents I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, and literally the next day they had bought me a guitar and had lessons lined up for me whenever I was ready to start taking them. When I was 14 I had the opportunity to work at a knife shop in Switzerland for 4 months with my best friend who was also 14, and they let me go not only that year, but every year after that until I didn't feel like going anymore. I don't think many parents would let their kids have this much self-determinism at such a young age. I'm sure this influenced my sister and I to becoming artists.

FP: What advice would you give for anyone young trying to break into the business?

AP: Some of the best advice I ever got when I first started was from a painter friend of mine, Bryten Goss, he told me not to talk to any photographers for 1 full year and during that year to always have my camera on me, take as many pictures as possible and find other photographers and artists I like and study their work. That first year is really important because you're so new at it that you can be misguided and influenced really easily, so trusting yourself to be able to learn what you need to know on your own enough to start getting pictures you can be proud of is important.

FP: In what direction do you see your work heading currently? And where can we next see your work?

AP: For the past year or so, I've been working on a series of pictures called 'POLYESTER' and I'll be exhibiting these in my first ever solo show in April at the Robert Berman Gallery at Bergamot Station in Santa Monica. With this show, I wanted there to be a staged, retro quality to the images while keeping them modern. Almost like the people in my pictures are kind of bad actors dressed up and playing roles from movies in the 60's.

#Alex Prager

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all-or-nothing-baby · 4 years

Note

Would love to see you do U with Destiel

Mini-fic prompt-fill. The letter U is "Coming Home".

@avidbkwrm For you, Spencer... here you go, my friend <3

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The Last Time

Tags: Dean POV, Modern AU, Drug and Alcohol Misuse, Prostitution, Hurt With Comfort, Angst With A Happy Ending.

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Getting back to his shitty apartment afterwards was always the worst part.

It wasn't the peeling wallpaper that bothered Dean. He didn't care that there were only bare floorboards splashed with spilled paint in the bathroom. Couldn’t even give a shit that the wet rot, in the corner above the sofa, was probably the cause of his perpetual cough. And yeah, okay, so he knew the fuck-ton of weed he smoked, on top of the booze, didn’t exactly help. And no, it didn’t exactly make him forget, either. But it did help him to give less of a shit about how shitty he felt.

...until the next time.

Cas was a drug. Dean had known it from the start, had known he shouldn’t get involved. Known he’d end up losing people too, if he did. And he had. But fuck, after that first time? He was hooked. A junkie. Now, he was so far fucking gone it was scary because being with Cas was better than anything Dean had ever had. And whenever Dean wasn’t tangled up in sheets and smiles, all sticky, with him? He was in hell. Especially right afterwards… the instant craving was unbearable. Still tasting his sharp citrusy taste; smelling of bubble gum and baby wipes, just like him; running his rough fingertips over the pink and tender places he'd been claimed. Yeah, Cas was the drug Dean didn’t know how to quit. And Jesus, he didn’t want to, which was worse.

Yet still, at first, he'd swear every visit was the last.

…until the next time.

Dean had lived all over, growing up. Cheap hotels and motels, trailer parks. And worse. Never knew what it was to settle and lay roots. Cas told him he'd been raised the polar opposite: huge family, a single home his whole life. Until his folks had found out he liked dicks not chicks and tried to bible-bash it outta him, quite literally. Cas had left and never contacted them again. And it turned out, being where he was now was better than being on the streets.

Really don't know why I'm telling you all this, he'd said to Dean after only the second time. Maybe it's just those kind eyes? he'd smiled. But I'm sorry, you're not paying to hear about my screwed-up life in a sob-story… want me to fuck you now, baby?

Dean had never gone with a sex worker before. Hated the idea—not for him, exactly, but for them. The idea that some people thought they were worth so little that they'd sell themselves? It horrified him. But walking out that bar that night and seeing that dark, unruly hair and those blue, blue eyes heading straight for him, coming for him...

Hey, beautiful, wanna spend the night with an angel?

No such thing, Dean had tried. But it had come out as a question, a challenge. An almost prove me wrong, please—and with a smile he couldn't have helped if he'd tried.

The man—dressed in a long coat, black boots and tight jeans; the crispest of white shirts with a low slung tie; and an eight o'clock shadow Dean instantly craved to leave a tingle on his inside thighs—had smiled back and said, that's your problem, beautiful. You have no faith.

By the time Dean had left the No-Tell room later that night—left Jimmy, as he'd called himself back then—Dean was born again. His belief suddenly so strong, he'd gone back to his apartment and goddammit he'd prayed.

But for the days that followed, the guilt was overwhelming. Dean had hoped beyond hope he'd be strong enough to stay away from the stranger he now wanted to help; to take away from this dangerous life, this mess Jimmy had gotten himself into... No. Dean told himself he wouldn't go back. It was wrong, on so many levels. Shit, he didn't even know the guy from Adam and yet, what, he wanted to save him?

Dean actually did actually managed to keep his distance, for a time. For a little while, he thought sense had won out.

...until the next time.

After that, Dean became fucking devout. Being with Jimmy—with Cas—very quickly became more than a one-sided thing… it became about not just fucking, but enjoying each other. Them tasting and devouring each other. Holding out for one another. Worshipping each other. Had the tables now turned? Was Cas really the angel he'd said he was and Dean, the sinner who needed saving? For the two hours a week that Dean could barely afford, Dean was happy. They'd often spend time just talking, tracing patterns on the others skin. As contradictory and ironic as it was, being with Cas? It honest to God felt holy. Dean was a better man when with him. Wanted to do better because of him. Felt more himself than he ever had before. And soon, inevitably, every time he'd leave Cas, it was ten times harder than the last.

...until the next time.

The night Dean saw the bruises was the night he'd started thinking seriously about it.

Doesn't usually happen, Cas had promised. Like it was nothing. Dean called bullshit, his voice tinged with anger. But he was mostly completely fucking heartbroken. He felt helpless. Dean had kissed each purpling mark with gentle lips and stroked that untamable hair for over his allotted time slot. Paid the extra. Told Cas dumb jokes that Cas laughed at regardless. They watched some TV together on Dean's phone, tied up like a pretzel.

Turned out Cas had... refused to fulfill some specific act and the disgruntled john had complained to Cas' twisted pimp, Naomi, who'd then set her muscle on him. They were supposed to just scare me a little—well, a lot, Cas had smiled sadly. Maybe swirlie me or choke me out, you know? They weren't supposed to beat him. To mark him. He'd admitted, the clients don't like that—well, most of them, anyways. Some were sicker fucks than others. After ten months, Dean knew that by now.

Soon after, Dean had started working longer shifts at the restaurant, always asking for overtime. It meant they sometimes couldn't meet, or maybe only had an hour together instead of two, what with Cas' workload being not exactly flexible. It was tough. And maybe not just on Dean? Cas almost seemed disappointed whenever Dean told him he wouldn't be seeing him as usual. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Dean's part. He'd thought they'd had a connection but... Dean didn't have the words to ask. So he'd just hoped Cas understood. He seemed to, mostly. But sometimes, he'd get that look in those baby-blues. The one that said, you've lost faith in me Dean. And, at one point, Dean worried this just couldn't work. That maybe he'd lost what little faith he had in himself. That Cas probably had no faith in Dean to begin with.

...until the next time.

Dean wasn't sure if it had been a slip. An accidental admission. He'd been so close, so many times, to uttering the words himself. But he'd never imagined Cas letting his guard down in that way. And honestly? Dean had stopped allowing himself to think about the possibility of it being a reality at all.

I love you Dean, Cas had whispered in a breath. And then Dean found that he couldn't breathe at all, the air in his lungs leaving in a rush. Time stopped and for a moment everything was the way it should be. Just them and this…. and then Dean realised, Cas probably just needed the money. Wanted Dean to start coming back more regularly because he always paid well. Dean treated Cas well, too. And what if the other clients were rougher, meaner? Yeah, these things. Dean knew they were the real reason Cas had said what he'd said. Not some accidental slip.

But it didn't really matter, not to Dean. He'd already made up his mind. So, he'd said nothing. Pretended he hadn't heard.

...until the next time.

Dean packed up the few things he owned. Left all the crappy furniture he'd accumulated in the equally crappy apartment he hated, got in his car and didn't look back.

They made love, because he knew it would probably be the last time. Dean savoured every second with Cas. Hoped his long licks and trembling bites, soft moans and desperate squeezes told Cas everything Dean knew he still had to say, so he wouldn't have to… but, as astute as his angel in a trench coat was, Cas couldn't read minds.

So, Dean dressed. Then, chewing at his bottom lip, emptied the bag he'd brought with him onto the bed. Cas' eyes blew wide at the sight of all the bills that spilled from Dean's largest duffle.

I can't do this, Cas, he blurted. Can't let my decisions be controlled by some high and mighty less-than-human asshole anymore. So I'm... leaving. And I ain't comin' back... and he only stopped to take a breath, steal his courage, because there was more to the speech he'd planned—but Cas cut him off there.

It's okay, I was waiting for this. Knew it was probably coming, Cas said flatly. Then he spat, but, Dean, do you really think I want your fucking money? God, I was so foolish to think that maybe you... Just, please leave, Dean. Leave and let me keep the ounce of dignity I'm managing to hang on to. Cas turned away from Dean now. Wouldn't let him see those pretty blue eyes.

Then Dean said it. Cas, I want you to come with me. Don't know where, but I wanna get you outta this.

Dean knew he had to do more. Say more. Cas needed the words neither had really spoken; had rarely been said to either of them. Hell, Dean needed to say them just as much.

Not able to look directly at the man who meant everything to him—too scared, too cowardly—Dean said, I love you, Cas. Like nothing else. And I know you only said it to me 'cause you thought you had to... but it's okay. I don't mind that you don't. I just wanna… I gotta help you be safe, man. Away from here. Please let me. Then you can go wherever you like, do whatever you wanna and I'll—

A small sob cut Dean's speech short. He looked up at Cas as, terrified his words had maybe had the opposite effect. But Cas flew at Dean, threw arms around Dean's neck and held onto him, speaking quiet yes, yes, yeses, into the shoulder of Dean's leather jacket.

They left via the fire escape.

...it was the last time.

Dean drove them into and through the night, Cas gripping his free hand tightly, not letting go. Not even once.

After two more days on the road, when they were about to leave the state, Dean asked Cas, where to?

Cas said, take me home.

Unsure of what it meant but sure about this—about them—Dean asked, where is home, sweetheart? because he knew he'd do whatever it took to be with this man.

Cas looked out of the window for a moment and smiled. Then, laughing gently, he looked back at Dean and told him, anywhere you take me, baby.

#destiel #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #modern au #tw: mentions of drug misuse #tw: alcohol #tw: prostitution #hurt with comfort #angst with a happy ending #long post #the last time #my words #lucy's writing #all-or-nothing-writes #all-or-nothing-baby #ask prompt #prompt fill #for my lovely friend

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mackgemma · 4 years

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history is made at night.

when august 2014 where arkansas what gemma ( then known as ‘gwen’ ) and a friend take a night too far a/n done for task two - the first time. 2300 words of murder porn. literally. triggers oh boy. murder, obviously. prostitution. sex. knife play. cutting. violence. vague domestic violent acts.

Summer in Arkansas was unbearable. The heat was undeniable, and for those working at the local bar, drinking between customers was expected. The twang Grace had picked up was another affection of her new personality - Gwen, she called herself down here, a redhead with a propensity for whiskey, a little loud, a little slutty, and definitely not local.

She’d settled in well enough - found a roommate, found a girlfriend, pierced her navel and eyebrow and got a tattoo on her hip of a bird. Generic, cheap - Gwen could be all of this and more. And it was her girlfriend - Phoebe, though if that was her real name, Grace’d be damned, but who was she to judge? - who showed her how powerful it was to sell her body to a man. To take his money, show him a good enough time, and know that they were merely putty in your hands.

Empowering. Most would frown upon sex work - god knew, if her parents ever found out what their darling Grace was doing, they’d disown her immediately. And it wasn’t like she needed the money - no one questioned that her credit cards still said Grace Mack when she told them her name was Gwen - but it was still...liberating.

Sometimes they sold themselves as a pair. Gwen and Phoebe, two for the price of one. Guys went nuts for it, especially the locals who’d never admit to spending their hard earned cash on the cute bartenders at the pub. Not to their friends, and definitely not to their wives. And while Phoebe definitely needed the money more than Grace, she refused to let her have it all. The one time she tried to take more than her cut, she’d wound up with a bruise on her face that she told people she managed to get from tripping down the stairs.

Typical excuse for a typical small town. The fact that she was gay only made it more confusing - small little Gwen couldn’t have landed a punch like that, left a mark like that. But they didn’t know what Grace did - seeing her girlfriend crumbled up in a corner of the room, crying and begging her to stop, was the most intoxicating feeling in the world.

It was everything.

But she wanted more. Going after Phoebe on more than the rare occasion wouldn’t be enough - no, and if she went missing, the people of their town would take note. And Grace - well, she could run, but Gwen would definitely be a suspect. She needed to find someone who wouldn’t be traced back to her.

She propositioned Phoebe with a gift - a trip to Texarkana, a reprieve from their day to day hell. A vacation of sorts, for those who could ever look at a spot on the map in the middle of the Bible Belt and call it a vacation. They could find someone new, a third who they could both use for their own advantage, and get a lot more cash than they were getting from the hometown boys who were hiding their own latent sexualities in hookers and booze.

It was easy enough; find a popular trucker stop, wear a short dress, wait for the interest to come. When Grace told the man she was one half of a pair, his eyes lit up - an extra $500, no problem, he was in. Two nubile young girls, barely old enough to be on their own, much less violate - he’d pay for them.

The motel room was chosen by Phoebe. Grace was ready to do it there in the parking lot, but Phoebe at least had the thought to remember that cameras were everywhere. A problem Grace had to contend with if she wanted to keep living as Gwen, or anyone else for that matter.

The trucker wasn’t the worst looking guy, but he definitely wasn’t going to get Grace wet enough to fuck. It was the thought of what was coming that turned her on, that made her blood flow, her skin tingling with anticipation. She let him kiss her, touch her, alternating between herself and Phoebe on the other side of the bed, pulling her dress over her head.

“Sometimes we like things a little more dangerous,” she cooed in his ear after a little while, his dick in Phoebe’s mouth as Grace trailed her fingers over his chest. “A little rougher.”

“Oh, I can go rough,” he promised, but she shook her head, nose crinkling in amusement - she turned just enough to open the nightstand drawer, pulling out a knife they’d taken from the diner they’d been in just an hour before. “Oh,” he blanched, Grace smiling innocently as she ran it through her fingers, “you mean like - rough, rough.”

“It’s easy,” she promised, kissing him gently as she passed it over to Phoebe who pulled herself away from their toy for the night to settle herself between Grace’s thighs instead. “You can watch us first, if you want.”

He nodded, a little apprehensive, but Gwen and Phoebe had done this a hundred times over - small scars lined both their bodies, and Phoebe traced one on Grace’s thigh with her tongue, dangling the knife dangerously in her hand. But Phoebe knew the consequences of going too rough on Gwen - things could turn at the drop of a hat if they needed to.

( grace so desperately wanted the excuse for them to. )

Grace let out an exhale as soon as the knife touched her skin - a little cool, the sharp edge just teetering against her. She nodded, and Phoebe smiled as she let the knife drag into Grace’s skin, a bright red line of blood exposed as Grace hissed; it was almost enough to let the energy inside of her come out, but tonight she’d get so much more. Still, the air made the cut sting, and Phoebe’s tongue lapped at the cut as she placed the knife down, Grace moaning in relief and desire. The man next to them had his cock in his hand, stroking himself as he watched them, and for a moment, Grace let Phoebe raise herself higher, her tongue against Grace’s clit, a finger buried inside of her, her mouth coated in blood and spit and a small orgasm rippled through her, one hand around the knifes handle and the other groping her own chest.

“My turn?” he asked when Phoebe sat back on her knees, wiping her face off with the back of her hand and Grace laughed, nodding slightly, the manic feeling taking a hold of her.

“Your turn,” she promised, pushing herself up ( the sting of the cut as it folded against her skin striking, Grace ignoring it as she sat up ) to straddle his waist. “Where do you want to feel it?”

“Oh, uh, I thought I could like - for you, not - “

“Tsk, tsk,” she shook her head while Phoebe laughed, leaving the bed just to ensure the door was locked and the window curtains were closed. She turned the air conditioner on, Grace’s skin erupting in goosebumps as the cold air hit them, the noise rattling loudly enough that no one would hear them.

( there was no one around to hear them, really. )

“Don’t you want to be a good sport,” Grace asked, letting the knife rest easily on his collarbone, dragging it down his sternum before letting the point just barely break flesh above his navel. “We all get to bleed here.”

“I dunno,” he sounded nervous, his attention diverted between Grace and her knife, Phoebe crawling behind her and kissing her neck and the wedding ring on the nightstand. “I mean, I don’t - my wife - “

“You’re a trucker,” Grace promised, her voice smooth as honey, leaning forward just enough to pull his attention back to her. And he did seem distracted - though whether it was because her knife dug a little deeper or because he was staring at her breasts, she didn’t really care. “Just say it was an accident. A fight.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re both very hot but - “

Grace lost her patience, her eyes rolling as she let out a huffy sigh. “Get me the duct tape.”

Phoebe was up and moving before he even seemed to realize what was happening - a plea, an argument, but Phoebe dutifully did her part, silencing him with a few pieces of well laid silver tape over his mouth, panic officially settling in. And he was big, but there were two of them - Grace let her knife clatter to the floor for a moment while they tied his hands up against the bed, the knots secure from weeks of watching youtube tutorials online despite his thrashing.

“The more you panic, the more she loves it,” Phoebe whispered to him, and Grace was touched, that in such a short amount of time her girlfriend had learned so much about her. About her darker tendencies, the thrill of violence. She paused long enough to give her a kiss, offering the handle of the knife as they broke away.

“Do you want the first slice?”

“This is your dream, baby,” she breathed, and Grace smiled wider, the manic look in her eyes reflected in the adoration of Phoebe’s. “You do it.”

So she did.

A nice, thick slice down his thigh first - a tease, really, something she’d done to Phoebe dozens of times, and girls before her who were looking for a little help for self inflicted violence. But he shuddered, trying to scream behind his gag and Grace just let out a laugh, shaking her hair out of her eyes as she spread the cut apart with her fingers, letting Phoebe taste it off of her as he watched in horror. And from there, it was almost like a serene peace washed over her - every line on his body let out another frustration she’d had bottled up inside of her, another day she could look forward to in peace before the need hit her again.

When they were done, she wasn’t sure who bore more blood - them, him, or the mattress underneath of him. But that was expected - she wouldn’t bother cleaning up after herself, had let Phoebe check them in, had stayed completely undetected the entire time. And as she stared at him, eyes wide in terror and mouth still covered with duct tape, she smiled peacefully to herself. It was an urge, a desire she’d held as long as she could remember, and now she’d done it.

Murder. It wasn’t as hard as everyone made it seem - at least, not emotionally. Physically, she had to admit she was a little sore.

“I’m going to shower,” Phoebe said, her voice wavering a little. She’d ridden the high of the act for as long as it lasted, but Grace could see her wavering now. The small frown tugging her lips down, the way she kept avoiding eye contact.

She would freak out. It was inevitable. She’d panic, and tell, and while she didn’t know enough about Grace’s real identity to put an alert out, it would still raise alarms.

Grace didn’t think twice.

She’d packed gloves just in case, and she let Phoebe shower as she washed off the knife - evidence of herself, as best she could. They’d be able to tell there were multiple blood types, but Grace’s would be minimal compared to their victims and Phoebe’s. And without fingerprints, they’d assume the stage was set for what Grace wanted it to be - a murder suicide of a type, panic and nerves overtaking Phoebe as she took a John in a motel in the middle of nowhere. Gwen would die with her - she’d have to hitch to a new town, find some hair dye, pick a new name. But that was okay - Gwen was done with, and someone new was emerging inside of her.

“Baby?” Grace called, Phoebe sticking her head out of the bathroom with her bottom lip worried between her teeth. “Come here.”

Phoebe started blubbering almost immediately, but Grace had always been unaffected by tears. She nodded, pretending to listen, the blood soaked into her skin hardening, turning a dark brown from the violent red that had coated her earlier. She led Phoebe to the bed, and if her girlfriend noticed the gloves, she said nothing. Her voice was high pitched, nervous as she spit out question after question - what if someone saw them, what if someone was looking for him, what if they didn’t cover their tracks well enough - and Grace listened to her for a few moments while she assessed her.

In the end, it was even easier than their original intention - he had been a game, but this was business. And after one too many questions, Grace merely raised the knife to her throat, slicing it before she could even question what was happening. She let the knife clatter to the floor, Phoebe’s eyes searching her own as the life trickled out of her. Grace merely smiled at her, kissing her forehead before removing the gloves she’d put on without Phoebe paying attention.

“You were amazing, sweetie,” she promised, a glazed look starting to appear as blood slipped out from her throat. “You just were never going to be permanent. But thank you, really. You’ve given me the best gift I could ever ask for.”

The only thing Grace decided to clean was herself; she ensured there was no evidence of herself anywhere, pulled the cash out of their truckers wallets and whatever Phoebe had had left. It was enough to get her to Missouri, maybe, or Florida. Maybe she’d go north - Michigan, or Minnesota.

Whatever she did, as she let the door close behind her and she slipped into the darkness, she knew this wouldn’t be the last of it. The bloodlust had been satiated, calmed, but not diminished. Not forever.

One day, she’d do it again. Whether that was as Georgia, or Gia or Gloria or Gabriella, she didn’t know. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that she’d found her calling.

#para #sp #history is made at night #p: august 2014 #ytigc task #mgm

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thedogsled · 7 years

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13x02 Coda in three parts; Dean’s POV

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“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean snapped. Not for the first time, either. Sam had been trying to get him to stop driving for almost two hours now, and Dean was doggedly forcing himself to stay awake, biting the inside of his cheek every time he felt himself drifting. The car still hadn’t swung into opposing traffic, so he considered that to be something of a win, but exhaustion was finally starting to get to him.

They’d set off two hours after sundown, after one hell of a bad day, but there were still ten hours of driving to go before they had any hope of reaching the bunker.

Still, the thought of putting his head down on a pillow didn’t appeal to Dean at all. He wanted to stay awake. If he was still awake, then it was still the same day; the same day that he’d lost Cas, not the day after, or the day after that, or weeks after losing him. Somehow if it was never later, then Dean didn’t have to start counting the days. He didn’t have to worry about the inevitable point when enough days had passed that he was now supposed to magically move on from the fact that Castiel was dead.

But Dean knew he was struggling. He knew that sooner or later, even with his own prodigious skill at battling sleep, it was going to come round and bite him. He was only human, no matter how many times he’d been anything but, and it would catch up to him eventually. If he was really lucky, they’d all die in the inevitable collision.

Occasionally he would glance in the rear view mirror at the Nephilim sleeping in the back seat, his conversation with Sam still ringing in his ears. His brother thought there was hope there. Dean didn’t. He saw a mission. He saw the inevitability of fate, because Jack was Lucifer’s son, which meant he was going to go bad, just as Dean being John’s son meant that he was going to lose everything.

Sighing, he glanced to Sam. He loved the kid, he did, but Dean knew that Sam’s optimism blinded him. Okay, so he’d forgiven it, but Sam had sided with the Men of Letters when Dean had told him to make a choice, and look where that had led them.

If Sam was going to be the leader now, going to make his own decisions, then Dean had to respect them no matter how crazy he thought they were. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have a back up plan. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t be ready with a weapon when Sam’s new project went dark side. Sam had to respect that too.

His eyes returned to the road. It was a straight, lonely bit of highway, which made it too easy for his thoughts to wander. Too damn easy. Too easy to see the shape of a man in a tan trench coat on the side of the road, or glance into his rearview mirror and glimpse Castiel sleeping there instead of Jack.

The Impala skidded sideways along the road, rubber burning as Dean jammed down on the brakes and wrenched the wheel sideways to keep them from flying off into a field of corn. Jack was thrown awake in the back seat, and Sam, who had been dozing, shot forward in indignation the moment inertia cease, and snatched the keys out of the ignition.

“Sam!”

“No, Dean! No way!”

Dean tried his most threatening big brother voice. “Give me back the keys.”

“What, so you can try and kill us again? No, Dean. What the hell happened, anyway? Did you drop off?”

“There was a sheep in the road,” he lied.

“There wasn’t a sheep, Dean.”

“How do you know? You were asleep.”

“My eyes were open. There wasn’t a sheep.” Sam glowered at him.

“So you’re saying I hallucinated it?” Dean asked, sharply.

“Yes, Dean. You hallucinated a sheep. There are no sheep!” Sam opened his door briskly, getting out so that he could wave his hand into the night. “Do you see any sheep out here?”

While Jack looked flustered and uncertain in the back seat, watching them argue with wide eyes like a child who’d just been woken from a strange dream only to be even more startled that he was sleeping at all, Sam walked all the way around the Impala, opening Dean’s side.

“Get out.”

“Come on, Sam…”

“Get out, Dean. Get out of the car. I’m going to find us a motel.”

Eventually Dean got out, but he resolved to protest the rest of the way. This was a terrible idea, and it was going to get someone killed, Dean just knew it.

-----

He didn’t want to be in a bed.

He didn’t want to be in a room, he didn’t want to be trying to get some sleep, and he didn’t want to be on the goddamn planet Earth right now either. But here he was. It was inescapable. The cracked motel room ceiling was a blank canvas of misery above him, stained from damp, and covered in smudges where people had smashed mosquitoes into the paintwork. A particularly ugly spider had made its home in the corner, and where the paint wasn’t mouldy it was chipped and broken instead.

If he went to sleep then today would end. If he slept then sooner or later he would have to let Castiel go, and when he did that he’d lose him forever. Sleeping was loss, and Dean had had just about as much loss as he could take.

But he was drifting. He was drifting anyway, slipping from consciousness, ebbing…

Castiel was sitting at the end of the bed watching Scooby Doo. A single spark of light was shining out of a hole in his back, a pinprick of gold the only proof that Dean was dreaming, and this wasn’t really his angel come back to him.

For a moment, Dean thought he wouldn’t speak. Hallucinations didn’t, but dreams occasionally did. He should have remembered that. But then Cas turned toward him and smiled sadly.

“Hello, Dean.”

Two words and his heart ached so much that he didn’t want to hear even one more. But this dream had been sent to torture him. He knew it. This was his new Hell.

“What are you doing?” Cas asked. “What are you doing, Dean?”

Dean pulled himself upright, putting his back to the end of the bed. He stared at the apparition.

“What do you mean?”

Cas stared back.

“Fine,” Dean spat. “Fine, I know what I’m doing. You know why it’s got to be this way. He’s the reason you’re gone, Cas. You trusted him, you put your faith in him, and now you’re dead because of him. That’s what happens.”

“I’m not dead because of Jack, Dean. I’m dead because I thought it was my responsibility to kill Lucifer. I’m dead because I saw the chance, and because I thought it was the useful thing to do, and because even though I gave everything, it wasn’t enough.”

Dean twisted his face away. He couldn’t stand to look at Castiel, couldn’t look at the bright spot on his chest any longer. It was killing him.

“You should have stayed,” he said at last. “You should have stayed with us, with me. I needed you to stay.”

The touch of a hand against his jaw drew his attention forcefully up. Castiel was sitting right beside him, touching his face, looking into his eyes. Dean only knew he was crying because Cas’ face was looking blurrier by the second, and the angel’s thumb smudged through his forming tears. For a moment Dean even thought that Cas would lean in and kiss them away.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I wanted to.”

“Please, Cas. Please. I need you. Why did you leave me? Why did you have to go and leave? I can’t do this without you.”

He flung his arms around the angel’s neck, pressed his face into Cas’ shirt and began to sob, but as he did, Castiel caught fire, the flames rising higher, the smoke choking him, blinding him, burning his hands…

Darkness swamped him. Dean was wrapped around his pillow, tears running silently down his face, when consciousness tugged him back into the waking world.

Sam and Jack were still sleeping, their breathing steady, Jack’s left hand draped across the bible in his lap. It wasn’t burning, even if Dean vehemently believed it ought to be.

-----

The bar was empty but for the waitress. Even if she were his type, Dean wouldn’t have noticed. Not today. He had no interest in trying to find physical distraction. He was too tired, and it was all just so…so pointless.

Besides, he was here to get away from Jack, Sam and Donatello. He needed the break, needed time with his own thoughts, needed to be away from…from it.

Was it just to torture him that Jack looked and sounded so much like Cas? He was so eager to please, and yet so terribly literal. That crap where he went and stood in the corridor? That was something Cas would have done, with the same frowny-squint on his face the entire time. And the copycat behaviour? Sam obviously found it endearing, but all it did for Dean was dig in sharp claws and rake through his already tattered heart all over again.

Jack wanted to be like him, and what hurt almost as bad as losing Cas was the fact that Dean just didn’t think anyone should want to be like him, least of all potentially the most powerful being in the world. Jack was a catastrophe waiting to happen, and if he tried to be like Dean then that would surely just be compounded. Dean was a curse. He knew that now. The people he loved always, always died, and every decision he ever made ended in worse things happening, over and over again.

No, Jack shouldn’t be like him. If Dean could put a stop to anything, it would be any effort the kid was trying to make to imprint on him. He’d drive him away even harder if he had to.

For now he just couldn’t take it. He needed the space, needed to be away from it all, needed to just close his eyes and pretend that the world was a normal place and he was a normal person, when it felt like nothing would ever be normal again.

Leaning against the counter, his drink half ignored at his side, Dean thumbed his way through his phone apps. He couldn’t play Scrabble because it reminded him of his mom, and Candy Crush was off the cards because Cas loved it so much.

Cas.

Without thinking, Dean drew up his old text messages. They were old text messages, because Cas had stopped answering his calls and texts for so long, but Dean had kept the sequences he found particularly endearing or funny. In fact it was safe to say that his collection of old texts with Cas was the reason why he hadn’t replaced his phone. Changed the handset, sure, when evil witches had smashed the screen, but…

Dean sighed, idly flicked his thumb across the screen, halting abruptly when he found an unread message tucked in among the others. It was from just after Christmas.

Dean licked his lips, looking down at the unanswered question, at the blinking cursor that suggested that he should write a reply and put Cas out of his misery. Instead, the waitress tried to catch his attention, and Dean looked up from his phone to acknowledge her.

He still really needed to finish his drink…

#spoilers #crying #s13 spoilers #spn spoilers #coda #s13x02 #jack kline #dean winchester #slightly shippy gen #destiel

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amberlynnb-blog1 · 5 years

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A Drive To Survive.

The questions I had pondered my entire life were “can I really be happy?” and “will I ever be able to live in my own skin?” I marveled at such questions since I was a little girl up until the ripe age of 21. More than ever there was a need to be like the average child, the average cocky teenage girl, or even the average temperate drug user. The ingredients of being sober included severe consequences of not getting what I wanted in the moment and more importantly, waking up in the morning to handle life on life’s terms. From hiding under a bed dreading about going to school, to living on the streets of Sepulveda in clothes I hadn’t washed in two weeks, there was one thing in common: I could not face reality. The delusional state of just stagnantly breathing became surviving daily life with grace, dignity, and honesty. Today, my drive to survive consists of what I went through, what changed during the process, and what my life looks like as of now.

I remember my innocent age of 13 years old before I had any illegal drugs in my system. As I sit here and reminisce on the past, I wish I took childhood more seriously. My grandparents and my mother raised me in a big house. I attended private school and I always had food on the table. We even had a Golden Retriever named Shadow. From doctors to ADD testing facilities, I grew up with the mindset that a pill could fix anything. By the age of fourteen, I was on almost every prescription medicine for ADD, ADHD, and depression including Adderall, Vyvance, Zolft, and Prozac. Despite the pleasing hand I was dealt, I couldn’t see past the fear and frustration of being a shy “no one”. When I attended middle and high school, I was bullied quite a bit for being the weird ugly girl with a shy personality and oversized clothes. My fearfulness led me to a deep resolution to not eat in front of people. The reason of starvation stemmed from being overly self-conscious with a self-esteem that was purely nonexistent. The fear manifested and the unrealistic expectations of how I felt others should act etched a carving that splintered into the skin of who came into contact with me. The twisted perception I had at that age led to the predestined solution and destruction of drugs and alcohol.

When I turned 15 years old, marijuana was discovered. Weed went from a fun and alleviating drug to a dependence that ultimately started me down a long road of desperation. Weed was accepted in my family, but if only they knew where this simple recreational drug would take me. After inhaling the mesmerizing smoke, I wanted to meet the man with the miraculous plant. I made it a goal to try to take some home with me and soon after that I was smoking and selling large quantities of green. Nothing else in life was important until I physically had the plant in my possession. Eventually marijuana stopped treating my disease and I needed something much more potent. I was introduced to a 27 year old man one night through Facebook and the last thing I expected doing was getting introduced to heroin. At first he didn’t want me know he was an addict. He hid it from me, but when I saw his eyes watering and him sneezing and slipping into the night to hunt for the dealers, I knew there was something drastically wrong. I could smell the odor of burning tar slip through his clothes and soon enough I was standing up trying not to collapse. I married heroin that night and we stayed together for four years.

I was now 20 years old and the drugs had led me to a point of being spiritually, emotionally and physically broken. The consistent need for something was getting old and I was exhausted. Every single morning I would have to pick up a straw and smoke dope until I was well enough to pick myself out of bed. The bathroom was next as I needed to throw up from the stomach bile that collected in my belly from the night before. My brain felt like it was deteriorating. I started having emotional outbursts with those around me when I didn’t get my way or my money or my drugs. I was still living at home at the time. My mother and grandparents did not want to kick me out because they thought they could prevent an overdose if I stayed at home; however, this still had a place in the earth to plant me if an accident did happen. Those around me were turned off by my negative behavior and I was quickly losing all those who cared about me. After a while I started getting sick of being sick and tired, but the drug use did not stop.

I never thought I would end up in jail but shortly enough, I did. After my first night in jail, anything was believable. I had gone off the deep end and I couldn’t wait to get out so I could get high yet, once again. Van Nuys Jail was freezing, smelly, and stale. The deputies always burned the food in the microwave and the beds were as hard as stone. The women were quite inspiring especially the one young girl I met. She had cut her husband up with an ax. She ended up giving me her shirt to keep me warm while I was kicking heroin. I can recall kicking the metal bunk beds as hard as I could at 4 am in the morning, praying to a God I didn’t know existed. After six days I was released and I went back to the only love I knew, my dope.

As soon as I finally got kicked out of my house after multiple threats to stop, Sepulveda Boulevard was not far from where I lived. The Boulevard was corrupted with a false assumption of security and people who sold drugs. I was motivated to go to any length to get my dope. I can vaguely recall driving around scary men for drugs. I would rotate from living in my car and waking up in cockroach ridden motel rooms. I even awoke one night to realize my social security card and license were stolen. The month I was on the streets had me feeling the lowest I had ever felt. I didn’t know how to say no and therefore, I couldn’t stop inhaling substances. I just wanted a safe place to stay and I felt I needed to be told what to do. After a three day drug using free for all, I felt like I needed help. For the first time I admitted defeat in the means that I couldn’t do this by myself. I literally felt insanity rise up in me like a bird taking flight for the first time. I admitted myself into Kaiser hospital and they directed me to a downtown mental institution. For seven days I was locked in with the real crazies. There was a lady I was housed with who would open up the Bible by her bed, pick a page, and make it a mission to follow whatever it said. She would say a Wiccan prayer every time she did this process. It was a miracle that I lasted those seven days as I felt as if I was turning into one of those people. After sobering up, the self-realization set in that I was just a drug addict. The doors of the institution opened up and I awoke from the casket I was set in. I could now see the freedom awaiting me in the horizon.

The first step of the healing process was to admit complete defeat of everything I thought I had control over. I had a moment of clarity meaning that this life I was living was not definite and that there was a solution. When I would walk into meeting halls, I would see people smiling and laughing. I just wanted to be like them. The introduction of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings spawned a foundation based off of a solution and other people striving to achieve a better life. There were content homeless people, business people, lawyers, mothers, fathers and even children in these meetings. Now, I would never mingle with a vast amount of these people outside these meeting halls, but one thing in common kept us together in perfect harmony. That one perfect thing was the solution that rid us of the obsession. I kept hearing the 12 steps echo around the halls and I decided to give it a try. A sponsor guided me and now I guide other women with the same tools that were taught to me: helping others is my newfound freedom. The selfish, self-seeking, inconsiderate, dishonest and fearful behavior escaped me and the serenity rose out of my pale white skin. I now take women through the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous in which has instilled in me a new pursuit of survival. The women I have helped needed to survive as I have and so we walk together. My family welcomes me into their house to this day. I even have a key to the house so I can let myself in when they are not there. My family brags about me wherever they go and they are so proud of me. The relationship I have with them now is simply remarkable.

My sobriety date is July 1st, 2015. I am now a secure 24-year-old woman who is capable of surviving life on life’s terms. The struggles that I have encountered leading up to now have shaped my inner core. I can now see the other side of the many hardships that come up in my daily existence. I never thought it be possible to get sober and be happy. I also did not think that getting sober would put me into a state of happiness. I stay in the present now and I do not dwell in the future or the past. The problems that I encounter are much smaller than they used to be. The thought to use has not sprung up since I admitted defeat. As Malcolm X admitted, “. . . I never had been so truly free in my life” (144). The idea that everything happens for a reason has been ingrained in me and each trial and tribulation that is endured increases me strength and my drive to survive.

#drugaddiction recovery healing writing shortstory mystory

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