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BASIC INFO. name: leslie alexis morgan age: nineteen dob: may 8th 1996 pob: baton rouge, louisiana bike: suzuki bandit 1250s ABS mc: hounds of hell position: new prospect  clean money: it was stripping … .  other: btw this is tina speaking and this is my new oc ; he identifies as male, was born biologically male, but is most likely genderfluid (he doesn’t think about it much, he’s just him) and he’s androgynous as fuck. if you misgender him, though, he’s not sensitive to it. call him whatever you want as long as you remember him. (also he’s working towards ditching his bandit and getting a 2013 suzuki blvd c90T B.O.S.S) fc: b. kaulitz [ appearance tag here ]

THEN. you weren’t born a leslie. your mother let you change that, went through the legal process and everything, because you sure as hell didn’t feel like a cody. you were twelve, you remember, because you’d came home from school that day and you’d demanded it. you didn’t want to be anyone else but you – you felt safe in your skin, in the body you were born in – but you just didn’t think what you saw in the mirror fit as well as what was scribbled on that damn certificate. your mother was good like that, though, before she got sick. she let you switch schools in your district after some issues arose and all.  you’ve been fighting since you could speak, though, because – according to your second grade teacher, mrs. comeaux – you are ‘hard to comprehend.’ and, yeah, you understood that the older you grew. you’re argumentative, stubborn, rebellious. you’re quick to judge; too emotional; a little insensitive. hell, you’re promiscuous and lazy, even.  your father – he never understood you, either, despite the fact the two of you found common ground where you could. before your mom died, it was family. after your mom died it was football, liquor, finding money anywhere but hard work.  it wasn’t until you were fifteen or sixteen that you really started to process the reasons why your classmates and faculty never quite clicked with you. it wasn’t until your dad was on his death bed that you really started to process why he never gave up the drink. and, it wasn’t until you were homeless and avoiding your grandparents at all costs that you really, really started to process the fact you were ALONE. and you knew, right away, that alone is not something you wanted to be.  so you packed your things and you fucking ran.  NOW.  a bus ticket, a lot of hitch hiking, and some really hard kicks to a stranger’s face later, you’ve made a friend and that friend resides in odessa. that friend, along with a bat or two of an eyelash, finds you a job. you suck at it, sorta, but you’re pretty so they don’t complain. you learn. while learning, you meet. while meeting, you find.  you weren’t born to dance, after all. you were born to be part of something. to fight.  and, upon meeting jed gideon and the hounds, you know you’ve found your place. 

PERSONALITY. leslie’s a mess. he’s a firey wreck of a mess but he’s loyal if he wants to be and probably so stubborn it’ll piss you off. he’s always looked out for himself, though – no one else – and he doesn’t necessarily believe in the greater good. people are people; people do shitty things; everyone is bound to fuck up. if he’s given reason, though, he’ll align (and rather easily). he’ll do anything not to get a regular job – everything about monotony bores him. he’s an adrenaline junkie and a partier and he’s not afraid to say the shitty thing (whether or not he regrets it later is an entirely different story) but he tries to wear bitch crown proudly. hot headed is a good word for him, though he’s learning. he’s really, really, really good on his feet and faced with a man four times his size he won’t back down (although he’s realistic about the outcome). he’s quick, too, both mentally and physically though it takes something he actually likes doing to get him off his ass. at the end of the day, he’s not a victim. he’ll never let himself be a victim. and he’s not everyone’s cup of tea, no, but he’s a strong serving either way it goes.

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Just a heads up! I'll be on hiatus for vacation between 8/6/2015 - 9/2/2015, so I won't be posting much on BFB. As for Beckett, he's traveled to Alabama for the month to settle some family issues and won't be around Odessa. He and Bela are still a thing, because she's his baby forever. Thank y'all, and I look forward to coming back soon! I'll miss you all dearly.

!!

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muserne:

        jo has a pet parrotlet that she found outside one day, it had a broken little wing & was all dirty so she picked it up & took it home, decided to try to nurse it back to health. she didn’t want to give it a name just in case it didn’t make it, so she started calling it ‘gay bird’. 

    well the bird ended up healing pretty well, it’s got something wrong with it’s neck so it’s always looking at a sideways angle. but jo loves the little thing, it hangs out on her shoulders while she’s at home or at work at the tattoo parlor. she doesn’t have to worry about it flying away because it doesn’t fly very well, but it’s also pretty attached to her.  

     it also hangs out in the breast pocket of her leather jacket, so she always tells people to be careful when they hug her. 

                       she usually just calls it lil’ geebee or GB. 

gay bird. ❜

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BASIC INFO. name: castiel ( cas ) sacha novak age: thirty-one dob: july 10, ‘84 pob: pontiac, illinois bike: suzuki boulevard c50 mc: unaffiliated ( previously of the illinois garrison - est. ‘70 ) position: unaffiliated ( as yet ) clean money: whatever’s in his back pocket ( $23 ) other: watches his language // ( secretly ) loves animals // ( mostly ) deaf in his right ear fc: taylor kinney

THEN. born into a notoriously large, but broken family, your earliest memories consist of anger. both at those around you, and yourself. why it is that you’re not strong enough to comfort your mother when she cries over your absent father? when your brothers’ quarrels turn from words to actions; when fists are thrown. when gabriel vanishes; why aren’t you enough of a man to stop him? ( probably ) because you’re watching it all from behind the slats of your crib. it stunts your development but you fall in line nonetheless—michael is strict when it comes to learning to walk, read, write. and you swear, by the age of four, that you can recognise sitters better than your own siblings.

result; trust is difficult for you. but not faith. you store that in abundance, close to your heart, not your head. language comes in the form of scripture. holy words you’ve memorised by eleven. at which time, emotions are hard-felt by you because society is loud and unkempt against your quiet serenity. yet beyond the mask of stoicism, a fire burns in your belly. you want to find the man who abandoned his child. and you want to take his life. only the black book clutched between shaking hands stops you; occupying your palms in place of a blade. or a gun. but even that betrays you at fifteen.

boys. it never seemed like an unnatural process to follow the clench in their jaws, the tiny quirk of their lips—even though you’ve been force-fed the lie ( all your life ) that it is. so, in a betrayal unto yourself, you repress the desires. burying every free moment in studies helps to alleviate the worst of your sinful thoughts and, by seventeen, most-every verse is etched into your very being. yet, you’re far from holy. ironically, the final straw breaks at bible camp—days before you turn twenty-one. that’s where you meet him; the love of your life so far. and you have to remind yourself daily not to catch his green eyes, not to make it obvious, but his beauty makes it a task you’re unprepared for. before he arrived—before dean—you liked amelia. she’s long forgotten in his wake.

and for two weeks, your trust grows. it blooms into the strongest bond you’ve had since you were born. you give yourself to him in every way ( silently praying he won’t leave; not like gabriel and your father ). mind, body, even your soul belongs to him that first time. no shame flushes your cheeks as you move together, hands holding, breath short and heavy. the act of love fills your veins with newfound fire and your passion for psalms is only ignited further. you devour the holy book, when before, you simply read it. the perfect words cross your mind as you wait for him to answer the door of his cabin the morning after. he’s opened your eyes, brought you into a world of pure colour and almost violent emotion. you’re sure you cried into his shoulder as his fingers hushed you, silently reassuring.

the aftermath is indescribable. for all the years you’ve been reading, nothing comes to mind; no string of sounds leaves your throat at his absence. both from the room and from your chest. because that’s what he’s taken. your heart. and the decision comes swiftly, following dean’s departure.

three years later, you’re a prospect for the illinois garrison chapter. you’ve changed irreparably; marked the skin of your throat with ink, giving your enemies small hope of what they don’t know is lost to you. M E R C Y. it creeps up, laying at the pulse that beats beneath your jaw. and it’s only when they look you in the eyes that they realise how very wrong they’ve been about you. because your arm is strong, you hands steady. you don’t flinch and you always do as you’re told. until you don’t. which unleashes a storm in the ranks of the chapter. since dean, you’ve never shown much interest in anyone but she’s everything you can appreciate. and so very far from the sweaters and knee-high socks of your church.

just happens to be the president’s wife too. but you ignore that in lieu of the fact that she brings you back to life, shows you what you’ve been missing in your abstinence. and you’ve always been strong but she supplants such thoughts of power inside your head; there is no resisting. for six years you serve beneath a man who cares for you less than your own father. until, at thirty, you challenge him. you lose, of course, and your dignity is shattered—along with your ribs—but the extension of your arm, the pistol gifted to you when the promotion to sergeant at arms was announced, remains unmoved. it sits, pressed close to your spine as illinois becomes the past.

NOW. half a tank of gas ( and a flat tyre ) leaves you pushing the only possession you can’t bear to part with. it feels like miles pass before you reach odessa, the place that reminds you all-too-much of your long-forgotten beginnings. small businesses, a community, people who care about one another; tears spike at your crystalline eyes. and you thank the god you abandoned, or who abandoned you, for the good fortune of taking a left on the highway. because, even though you’re alone, bruising and hungry, children take the time to share a smile with you on the street. with twenty-three dollars, you can’t buy much but repairing your bike is paramount. if uriel comes for you, running is the only option. 

for now, a beer and a packet of peanuts will suffice. 

PERSONALITY. cas is honest in his opinions. he lies when he has to, but always for ( apparently ) good reasons. though his faith was lost for many years, he’s recovering it slowly—the bible will become essential to him in the future. he is quiet but doesn’t often back down from fights, even if he knows he can’t win. he is well-read and enjoys a contrasting range of music and literature.  favourite song: linkin park - what i’ve done // chopin - nocturne in e flat major op.9 no.2  favourite book: on the road by jack kerouac favourite bible verse: but you, man of god,  flee from all this                                        and pursue righteousness,  godliness                                        faith, love, endurance and gentleness - 1 timothy 6:11 he identifies as bisexual but is ultimately indifferent to sexual ( and romantic ) orientation(s). 

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THE OFFICIAL POLICE REPORT READS THAT IT WAS AN ELECTRICAL FIRE, BUT THE HOUNDS KNOW BETTER. the building was burnt down in the early hours of the morning, it’s equal distance between the roadhouse & the garage, nothing but an old shack that they had taken to meeting at to deal with illicit affairs on occasion. the entire thing went up in flames, the smell of gasoline hung in the air for hours afterwards, the black ash skid marks of strange bikes taking off towards the east. it had been a message from their rival gang, & now it’s time for some retaliation. 

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name : abigail ( abby ) bailey bela talbot age : twenty-four occupation : con artist, thief, informant, supplier.  car : silver mercedes convertible relationship status : smitten with beckett boyer

bio.

          born in england to both new & old money, she was meant to have it all. a doting mother, a caring father, anything she ever wanted. while appearances may ring true for what her life was supposed to be, behind closed doors it was a living hell. her father, as high class & refined as he was, was sick. he had a sickness of the mind that attracted him to his daughter, a beautiful little girl named abby with bright green eyes & a warm smile, a laugh that could fill a room, & oh god, was she smart. by the age of four she was nearly outsmarting all her teachers, mischievous little thing she was.         yet, the older she got, the more her smile seemed to fade. her laugh quieted & she became so hollow that it hurt, no one knew what was wrong, & those that did were paid to look the other way. so she was brushed aside, left to her father’s whims until the age of fourteen, when enough had been enough. she’d reached a breaking point. how many nights was she supposed to cry into her pillow, body aching to have no one come to her aid? so she decided to deal with it herself, signing her soul away to hell to have her parents killed. the father that touched her & the mother that let it happen.         ten years was all they gave her, ten years until they came to collect their due, drag her down into the deepest part of hell. she made the most of it, running in the same circuit as hunters, dealing in occult items & making more money than most people could even dream out. the clock keeps ticking, but what a clever girl she was, making all these deals & bargains, enough to outsmart hell itself.      the weight had been lifted, her business was booming & she lived to the age of twenty-four, there were no hellhounds on her heels & she found that the closest people to her, the ones she wouldn’t dare call friends, but perhaps friendly, had settled down in odessa, given up the hunting life. it was that move of theirs that encouraged her to expand her work to information & the occasional dealing in weapons, making herself a valuable asset to the hounds in an attempt to keep in contact with the only people in her life that she didn’t actively want to shoot in the face.      but she’s finding that settling in odessa, even for a short time, has brought her to someone else, & she’s struggling to make things work, despite having no idea how to behave like a normal human in a relationship. 

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update: until further notice dean (hcund) is out of odessa for hounds-related reasons!

!!

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jo's age is going to be changed from 24 to 20 so she can hangout with carl and they can be bff's

hey guys, so if you have a change to your character or a plot point please send it into this blog so that i can post it & make sure that everyone has seen it, so that vital plot points don’t get passed over.

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beckett & bela have been traveling around for her work for a little while, now they’ve arrived back in odessa & are planning to stay for a little while. beckett is back with the club & bela is working ( so if anyone needs information or items, she’s doing business ). they are also exclusive with each other but are unsure of what to label themselves as, so they haven’t yet.

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Name    :: D. Grimm Alias’     :: Grimm, Dick, the Reaper Age       :: Twenty nine yet D.O.B    :: Thirteenth of October in ‘85 P.O.B    :: a Highway as far as anyone knows Ride      :: Indian Chief Dark Horse, blacked out /                  2005 Harley Davidson Fat Boy Lo MC        :: Hounds of Hell ( est. ‘89 ) Position :: Sergeant at Arms ( going on 9 years ) Cover    :: Vice’s Pawn Shop

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Basic Information:

Name: Jedidiah Gideon Name Meaning: Beloved of the Lord | He that bruises or breaks; a destroyer Aliases: Jay, Jed, Prince of Hounds, The Boogieman Age: Twenty-eight DOB: November 1st, 1987 POB: Southern California Bike of choice: Solid black; 2014 Harley Davidson Low Rider MC: Hounds of Hell (est. 1989) Time in MC: 26 years (basically all his life) President: Lex Gideon (Jed’s father) Position: V.P. (4 years running) Cover Business/Clean Money: Hound’s Roadhouse

Background Information:

Lex Gideon started the Hounds of Hell MC in 1989, a year and six months after his wife (Sally) died in a brutal crossfire of two rivaling gangs. With her murderers still free, the case closed due to underhanded law maneuvers, and a 2 year old toddler on his hands, Lex turned to the only option he could see open at that point: if you cant beat them, join them. Already having a few friends that considered themselves ‘motorcycle enthusiasts’ made the development of the club smooth and easy, even though most were wary as to where he was taking all of this. The money’s good, y’know? Falling into the pit of gun-running and vigilante justice, the name of the MC became a well known tag all across SoCal, bleeding out from it’s roots to travel all along the West Coast. For the next 26 years the club grew and cultivated, and, along with it, so did Lex’s son, Jedidiah. Hound’s Roadhouse, the bar they’ve been using as a cover business and a source of clean money, has been up and running since Jed was born. Lex and Sally established it with some left over funds she received when her father passed away. It’s still going strong and the top floor has been changed into several rooms, almost like a motel, for people to rent and stay in.

Personality and ‘The Boogieman’ Legend:

Jedidiah Gideon is known around the MC as one of the more playful personalities; flirtatious and prank-pulling, his father often feels like perhaps he made the wrong choice for his second in command. Jed’s a free spirit and extremely opinionated, and he doesn’t take kindly to disrespect or being argued with. Despite his usual happy demeanor, he has a hair-trigger anger that is quick to blow up before slowly settling into a quite, hot rage. It’s not the flash fire everyone’s unsure about, though, it’s when he get’s silent that there’s cause to worry. He’s also usually very secretive, which never bodes well with Lex, choosing to hide things from his father and the club rather than make it the official business he should.

Jed was titled ‘The Boogieman’ when he was 19 after a nighttime run that turned hostile really quick. While everyone in the club was trying to figure out how to get around the trouble they had found themselves in with another MC, Jed disappeared, dressed in solid black, and slit the throat of every important member he could find. Naturally, no one had solid evidence to pin it on Jed or the HOH, but those who heard what happened knew exactly where the knife pointed. Because of this incident, he now wears a patch on his vest with the given title.

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                                                                    v. LEAD INSIDE MY BELLY

                        ‘  monsters are real, yeah, but the more those lines blur, the                            more I spill blood instead of salt, sam, the more m’not so                            sure I ain’t of ‘em. ‘ NAME: dean (eric) winchester ALIASES: surprisingly, none.  AGE: twenty-seven DOB: january 24th, 1988 POB: lawrence, kansas BIKE / CAR:  ‘14 harley davidson dyna switchback, ‘67 chevy impala MC: hounds of hell (est. 1989) POSITION: road captain CLEAN MONEY: mechanic, ernie’s garage

THEN:

s’not every day you follow your father around with a sawed-off and s’not every day you crawl under the covers at the age of twelve with the word murderer tucked inside your sleeve (but he was gonna kill sammy so he had to die, had to die). s’not every day you find yourself with a busted eye and a bloodied lip at the hands of something that doesn’t even have hands, either, and s’not every day a family rips itself apart in the name of a young man’s education     

s’not every day your cheek slams into a police cruiser, your feet apart and your record as dirty as your jeans. and s’not every day you can’t afford a lawyer     ironic, ain’t it?    to get your broke ass off the hook.

                      march 18th, tallahassee, florida.                                  boy,       you       are       behind       B A R S.

you spend three years in the joint, you celebrate your twenty-third, twenty-fourth, and twenty-fifth birthday with nothin’ but a bunk and some ayn rand to come back to        you’ve erased your big two-four, though, as you’ve buried it under one hundred and ten shades of goddamn denial. was there even a funeral? did sammy salt and burn? fuck. you ask him, your brother. with a solemn look to the left, he says yes.

when you’re released, your car is in bits and pieces. nobody told you it was the chevy your dad had kissed the wheeler with. nobody told you it’d been dropped off at singer auto with the ghosts of the accident still lining the seats.

you put it back together. your brother gets into law school. you drive and you drive and you drive.

NOW:

when you roll into ODESSA, you meet jedidiah gideon, and you get involved with somethin’ that feels like family. a few months later, you save his life. you meet katherine pierce, get her a job at the roadhouse. you meet layla kim, too. you couldn’t breathe the first time you kissed her and you can’t breathe when you kiss her now. eventually, you move in. 

though you hate the circumstances, you get sammy a job at ernie’s when he climbs his way down the coast without a degree. you are so relieved (god, he’s next to you again) but you’re scared to death all the same. replacing one life of what if’s for another – it’s crazy, yeah, and it might not make a lick of sense, but, somehow, somehow, it’s better. either way, it’s done. you’re in. you’ve got everyone you love within a five mile radius, too – and god help the poor bastard who tries to fuck that up. 

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NAME: Sam Winchester AGE: Twenty-four DOB: May 2nd, 1991 POB: Lawrence, Kansas RIDE: Triumph, Bonneville T100 MC: Hounds of Hell (est. 1989) POSITION: Patched member CLEAN MONEY: Mechanic, Ernie’s Garage OTHER: quotes statutes at cops because he can // has a ponytail

It’s the look he gives you when you tell him; and you’re close to breaking but you don’t say it. A clenched jaw and nothing else as you leave the only place, the only home you’ve ever known. To Stanford. It’s daunting and you don’t know how things progress without you, until it’s too late. In your absence, Dean’s incarcerated and you can’t help but feel it. Your bones ache with it because if you had been there, things could’ve gone differently. Life would be less of the nightmare you know today.

She’s a light in your life; Jess. The girl you think you’ll marry if she gives you half the chance. Her smile burns into your soul, takes your breath and makes you wish you weren’t such a terrible brother. For a dozen months you bask in her, soak up her vibrance, respect her almost until it’s physically painful. Because that’s who you are. But things never stay good for long; you know that.

Dean should’ve been there when John passed. You can’t blame him but the void you’re left with is gaping; and growing wider as you cling to the remnants of your former self. The grief infects you, twisting and searching to eradicate all that’s good in your too-human body. You think of the past, of how strong Dean was - and is - and you know you can never compare. There’s no way of knowing how he feels because he’s estranged from you now but there is so much you don’t say on visitation days - it almost kills you.

Keep reading

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Basics:

Name: Lucida Marie Gautreaux DOB: October 13, 1989 POB: New Orleans, LA Bike: 2003 Soft-Tail Deuce; Black and Silver Age:25 Occupation: Bussing tables and whatever else needs doing in the roadhouse Affiliation: Hounds of Hell prospect

Background:

Lucida wasn’t raised for this sort of thing. Her family had been upper middle class, they had a yard and a dog - she and her sister went to private school. Not that it mattered anymore. Her parents were gone, turns out her dad was a little less than clean and ran a serious prescription scam, selling blanks to drug dealers, but then the police started poking around and…well, he wasn’t a brave man. They let him off easy, the police did. Minimal jail time, parole for good behavior.

But rats get exterminated one way or another. 

And exterminators leave calling cards. Like breaking into a house and cutting up kids and the wife. Burn down the house - let him know how angry they were. She remembered those flames, still has a mark on her arm and a missing tooth and a flower from her mother’s funeral. It’s pink.  

Some guy killed her Dad on the concrete, bashed his head in with only the blacktop as a weapon. Lucida remembers her sister hit her knees when she they got the news, in their grandparent’s kitchen with cheap linoleum floor. She missed the warm wood from home.

It broke Seph’s heart losing them both and whatever they took when they burned down the house - Lucy can’t find words for that.  Maybe it breaks her heart too, she can’t decide. It still feels like it’s going, a maddening thump that just doesn’t stop.

Keep reading

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                                      v: lead inside my belly

NAME: layla kim AGE: twenty-four DOB: 28 july, 1990 POB: winchmore hill, london, england OCCUPATION: computer genius freelance hacker/programmer. she’s also the go-to person in town for computer issues and repairs. POSITION: affiliate (dating dean winchester; helps with any technological issues that might arise) OTHER: daughter emilie, 3; currently pregnant but nobody knows

you don’t belong here. you are short floral skirts and knitting scarves and cups of tea (feeling sad? i’ll make a cuppa. cause for celebration? i’ll make a cuppa. it’s three o’clock? i’ll make a cuppa). you’re holding hands and sunset dates and home-baked picnics. you are a mum, first and foremost, easy smiles spreading into bared teeth and vicious words the second your baby is threatened. you are piles of blankets and pastel colours and braided hair.

you don’t belong here. you are the girl who runs, away from the father who hit her, so far away she ends up in america. you are feminism and determination, self-preservation and taking no shit, demanding respect, but still warmth and light and strength. you are compassion and the light at the end of the tunnel, and you’ve never hit a person in your life.

you don’t belong here. you are doctor’s appointments and unbearable agony and swollen joints. you are complete exhaustion and the inability to walk, and the piles of pills you consume, rattling round inside you like you’re the pill pot. you are forgotten words and crawling into bed like you never want to emerge and the tears you try to hide (and the way your daughter climbing in next to you can make everything better again). you’re pink canes and bright blue wheelchairs, and you are the smile in the face of it all.

you don’t belong here. you are the genius glued to her laptop, never without a phone or tablet in her lap. you are the substitute computer shop, the people of the town paying you in cookies to fix their technological issues. you are the sedate kind of crime – hacking into places you shouldn’t, stealing money from the evil corporations and donating it to charity (and yourself; medical bills are expensive. god you miss the nhs).

but you do belong here. you are the place dean calls home, the tingle in your lips when he kisses you, the life inside you that you’re too afraid to mention. you are the lack of intimidation around men three times your size, you’re the sense of adventure riding pillion behind dean and the excited squeal when you set something on fire for the first time. you are making a family, not being born to it.

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name : joanna beth harvelle nicknames : jo, jojo, blondie age : twenty position : prospect alias : angelface job : part time mechanic, tattoo artist. tattoos : cross ( middle of back ), roses ( right forearm ), freedom ( left wrist ), mandala ( left shoulder ), her father’s name ( on her chest ; over her heart ), lace garter ( left leg ), wings ( under her breasts ), roses ( left foot ), sugar skull ( right thigh ). most of her tattoos don’t mean anything, she just likes them. see them here. notable skills : good with all types of knives, fair with cars & bikes, knows how to make a damn good apple pie & mix a mean drink. 

        the first half of your life was white picket fences & barbie dolls, playing house with mama & going fishing with daddy. she taught you to cook, he taught you how to fix cars. they both taught you how to be strong. they encouraged you to speak your mind, follow your heart, no matter what. they just wanted their little girl to be happy. 

      until you were seven you spent the days stomping through the mud with all of the rough & tumble neighborhood boys, coming home with scraped knees & bloody noses. just because you were a girl didn’t mean you couldn’t climb trees or punch tommy in the face after he pulled on your blonde pigtails. both mama & daddy were always so proud of you.

      then one day, daddy didn’t come home. the police knocked on the door, said that there was a man in the morgue. mama sent you to grandma’s, didn’t pick you up for a whole day. she never told you what happened, but even so young, you knew that a closed casket meant something bad. 

      mama kept it together as best she could, forced a smile, so you forced one too. but were  in high school, still so angry, still so bitter. you loved your daddy & he’s gone. so you got tattoos, snuck out late, got into fights, kissed boys ( & girls ) put more stress on mama than she could take. you traded in your pigtails & skinned knees for ink & fresh bruises. 

      but she never quit on you, she saved up & sent you to college. at first it went well, but you weren’t happy there, & you could only pretend for mama so long. you’re not a student, you’re not meant for libraries & tests, for frat parties & frisbee on the quad.

      there’s always been an itch in your feet & violence in your bones. because you know now, your daddy was a biker, he tried to leave the life once your mama got pregnant with you, but it’s not something that someone can walk away from, it pulled him back, time & time again despite mama’s pleas. now she’s beggin’ you not to go, not to follow in your daddy’s footsteps, that it’s a dangerous world, but you can’t resist it. 

    it’s tugging at you too. but you’re not scared, because you were meant for this.                                     a life of leather & blood.  

                                                                  ( note : as this is canon divergent, jo is not                                                                   affiliated with the supernatural nor does she                                                                    know the winchesters from outside the mc )                   written by jill ( aka resilientbones & procurare​ )