I wake to the sound of squealing tires and bang my head against a pane of glass. I struggle to open my eyes and see that I'm buckled into the back seat of a car, a 1967 Chevrolet Impala to be exact. I have watched plenty of car shows with my dad to know what the interior of any car looks like. A man in a very raggedy trenchcoat is sitting next to me, his breathing slow and steady, suggesting that he is asleep. As the grogginess of sleep wears off, I notice that his skin is covered with cuts and bruises and he probably hasn't showered in days, maybe even weeks. I reach for my seatbelt buckle and before I can, a great pain surges through my arm. I choke back a cry and settle for a low whine. My right arm seems to be bent at an odd angle and my wrist is swollen twice the size than it usually is.
"Wonder how that happened…" I mutter. Out of my peripheral vision, I see two men walking towards the car and I lay my head back down on my non-broken left arm and close my eyes.
"Sammy, I can't live off rabbit food! I'm a warrior!" A deep, rough voice exclaims after the squeaky driver's door slams shut.
The man next to me stirs and groans, "Dean?"
"Hey Cas, you're awake!" The same voice greets the trenchcoat man with enthusiasm. "What about Julie?"
I flinch at the sound of my own name. How did they know that? Who were these strange men? And why was I with them?
I quiver in fear as I sit upright and look through the rearview mirror at the only guy who had spoken yet. He had dirty blonde hair styled almost in a mowhawk and freckles across the bridge of his nose. His bright green eyes looked friendly, but his brown leather jacket with upturned collar screamed otherwise. He looked back at me hopefully and I cleared my throat.
"I th-think my arm…" I trail off, cradle my right arm in my left and look down at my feet. Why was I even talking to these guys? They probably kidnapped me and when I tried to fight back, my arm got broken. I didn't remember anything. But maybe they were nice and taking me back to my house. I didn't know anything about them, either.
"See, Dean? I told you it was broken!" I jump as the man in the passenger seat finally speaks. He has much softer features than the so-named Dean, with shoulder-length, dark brown hair and gentle eyes. He looks at my arm with a concerned expression. He wasn't the kind of person you would expect to be a kidnapper, but everyone says you can't judge a book by its cover.
"Sam, I know a broken arm when I see one. That's just a sprained wrist!" Dean bickers and turns in the seat to face me. "Julie, will you let me see your arm?"
Still looking at my feet, I shake my head slowly as tears well up in my eyes. Dean growls and turns back to the front of the car. The Impala starts with a rumble and the radio begins playing some Black Sabbath song as we lurch forward onto the highway.