It started slowly at first—the measured, yet gathering sensation of pain.
It crept closer and higher—like flames climbing trees in a forest fire—until it was bursting behind her eyelids in an electric surge, and Quincy woke with a gasp.
The pain was sharp, searing, and she felt her mouth open wider in shock, yet no sound would come out, her breath trapped somewhere within the column of her throat. Black dots chased the line of her vision as her lashes struggled to open fully. For a moment, everything was distorted and shapes were blurred beyond recognition, her eyes unable to right themselves. Yet she could focus on nothing else but the stinging pain in her forehead—it might as well have been doused in gasoline and set on fire.
A sob clawed its way past her throat and she choked on it, tears gathering behind her eyes.
Where am I?
Her forehead—throbbing from being slammed into a mirror—was pressed against something smooth and leather.
She was lying in the back seat of a car.
She jolted upright then, her head stinging harshly as with the movement. She searched her surroundings with frantic eyes, willing for her vision to clear so she could get a grasp on where she was. For the moment, the car was parked, and the driver was nowhere to be found.
Outside, it was raining steadily, pattering against the roof and windows of the car in an autonomous drone. The sky was gunmetal gray—it was early morning.
How long was I asleep?
Quincy pressed a hand to her head, surprised to find no blood dripping down her face—someone must have cleaned her up, she realized. She traced the small scratches and the black eye she'd acquired with her fingertips, trying not to cry, and cringing because it was still tender. She didn't even want to think about the woman who had done this to her, the woman who'd dared to call herself her mother.
When Quincy heard the sound of voices outside the car, her breath seized in her throat and she looked around with a new surge of adrenaline, her eyes moving a mile a second. She couldn't see anything past the blur of rain and the fogged windows. The car was warm, though, which meant the heater had to of been on only moments ago. Where was the driver? And where was she?
She swallowed down the whimper that had built in her throat and turned in her seat, trying to locate some kind of landmark or building that would give her a clue as to where she was. However, in every direction she looked, she could see only a blur of green.
After a moment, Quincy gasped.
She was in front of her house.
After her mother, Clara's, death—Quincy's father had moved her and Terrence out of the bustling city and into a small home on the outskirts of Seattle where there were no neighbors and only evergreen trees for company. Her father had hoped the change of scenery would push the painful memories of Clara's death from his head, but it hadn't had the desired effect—it simply made him more depressed.
And as Quincy stared at the little white home with the green roof and the chipping paint . . . she was reminded of what she had lost inside.
Her father was gone—dead.
She had nothing left.
Quincy felt her heart quicken as despair and panic overwhelmed her every rational thought. Just breathe, she told herself. Breathe. Breathe, you'll be okay.
But everything wasn't going to be okay, especially when two massive, disoriented shadows appeared in the window as a blur through the heavy rain.
She screamed, scrambling to the other side of the car, never once taking her eyes off the shapes.
Before her hands could reach around behind her to open the door, it opened for her, and a large hand wrapped around her forearm, eliciting a gasp of surprise. She tried to propel herself forward, trying to rip her arm free from the grip that held them behind her, but the man was strong, and he was not going to budge no matter how hard she tried.
"No!" she screamed, tasting the salt from her tears. "No, please!"
"Hey, hey—you're alright," The stranger's voice was surprisingly soft, his words vibrating against her back. "We're not gonna hurt you."
But Quincy hardly paid him any mind, writhing away from him still, feeling a surge of adrenaline as she tried to break herself from his steel grip. "Please don't hurt me! Please!" She cried.
The man tightened his hold. "My name's, Carter Hust," he said, having to raise his voice so she could hear him, "and that's my partner, Louis Gunnell. We're part of the Seattle police."
Quincy froze.
She openly trembled, a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.
Slowly, she turned her head to look at the man, finding herself face-to-face with a giant. Quincy's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach then, and for a moment, she was without breath.
The man, who was clearly a lot older than herself had a handsome face, his lips pulled tight into a frown. His eyes—a deep, troubled hazel—looked as if they had seen all the horrors of the world and then some.
She let her gaze roam lower, taking in his massive frame. He was strikingly tall, even while bending down, his frame taking up the doorway completely and blocking out the rain.
Quincy slowly inched away, shaking her head, tears spilling from her eyes as she opened and closed her mouth in fear.
He was lying.
His name wasn't Carter Hust, she recognized his voice, she remembered him.
The Winchester brothers.
Quincy scrambled back against the other side of the car, fingernails biting into the leather, and the man could see her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage, her skin turning a ghost-white.
"Y-You're lying," she whispered. "You're lying, sh-she said your names were Winchester!"
The man's eyes narrowed, darkening his features significantly and making him even more intimating then before—if that was even possible.
"Shit," he cursed, causing Quincy to jump. "She remembers, Dean."
Quincy whimpered, digging her nails deeper into the seat. "Please," she begged, past the point of dignity long ago. "Please don't kill me—I won't tell anybody, if you let me go. I promise I won't," she choked. More tears stung the back of her eyes.
The man's face immediately softened. His shoulders, which had tensed before, relaxed. "We're not gonna kill you," he sighed. Watching her carefully, he reached out a large hand and set it down a few inches from her bare feet. Quincy watched it warily. "I promise."
Quincy was quiet for a moment. Her eyes drifted towards the ceiling of the car as memories from last night came flooding back—her father's dead, lifeless body, the pain, those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed as goose bumps rose over her flesh. Suddenly she did not want to be alone.
"My names, Sam Winchester," the man continued, noticing her trembling bottom lip, "and that's my older brother, Dean. Can you tell us your name?"
Quincy swallowed the lump on her throat, her voice no louder then a whisper, "Quincy."
"Quincy, my brother and I are hunters—you remember that woman from before?" Sam asked, his hand reaching closer to set itself on her icy ankle. For some reason, the soft touch from such a scarred, rough palm made her relax slightly.
"She said she was my mother," Quincy whispered.
"That wasn't your mother, kid. That was a demon."
Quincy's eyes widened at the gruff voice behind Sam and, looking over his massive shoulder, she noticed another man—Dean.
She wondered how she hadn't noticed him before, since he was so obviously there. He was slowly pacing back and forth behind Sam, the light rain dripping off his skin.
Dean was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a handsome face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with an intensity that had her leaning back again. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight—never one to patronize or pity. All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he came closer to Quincy, he seemed like a wild animal held in a cage too small for it.
He paused, his face just over Sam's shoulder, and Quincy's breath hitched.
She felt his gaze roam over her flushed cheeks, tangled hair, bruised face and bloodied sun-dress, lastly settling on her bright green eyes that were blinking up at him from beneath wet lashes. She bowed her head to the seat under his scrutiny, feeling her cheeks turn pink when he continued to stare at her.
She immediately shook her head, returning to the conversation.
"But she . . . she looked like me—"
Dean cut her off immediately, his voice so low Quincy felt it in her bones.
"That's 'cause she was possessed. Your real mother's been dead for years, what you saw was a meatsuit—"
"A vessel," Sam cut his brother off with a glare before turning back to Quincy. "What you saw was a demon using your mother's body as vessel."
"I don't—"
Quincy broke off into a sound that was something between a sob and a choked breath. She pressed the flat of her palms against her temples, applying enough pressure to make her skull feel as though it were about to crack. She was feeling more emotions than a sixteen year-old girl should ever have to feel at one time. Anxiety, mourning, unease, fear.
God, she didn't know what she felt.
All of a sudden, she wanted nothing more then for everything to be back to normal again. She missed her father and Clara and Terrence and sitting together at the dinner table as a family, eating warm mashed potatoes with homemade chicken casserole. She wanted to be back in her warm bed, safe and comfortable, and to sleep and sleep and sleep until everything was right again.
She was so tired.
"We know you're probably confused right now and scared, Quincy—but I need you to focus for a moment, alright?" Sam murmured softly and, against Quincy's better judgment, she found herself leaning toward him, her tiny hand reaching out to brush against his knuckles. He felt strong and warm and . . . safe. "Is there any family we could contact? Anyone we could call to come pick you up?" he continued, his calloused fingers gently caressing her ankle.
Quincy was silent, and Sam waited patiently for her response. She stared at the floral material of her dress in front of her, tracing red petals and green stems with her eyes. When she spoke, her eyes remained fixed on it.
"No," she stated, swallowing. "There's no one."
She heard Dean sigh impatiently. "We can give you a lift to the police station then."
Quincy looked up sharply, staring at Dean as a sudden wave of cold, paralyzing fear washed over her. "No," she gasped, heart thumping frantically. "No, they'll send me back."
"Where?" Sam asked softly with his brows furrowed in confusion.
Tears began pouring from Quincy's eyes again on their own accord. She shook her head. "I can't, please, I can't go back to a foster home. Please don't send me," she begged.
"Listen, kid, I know this is hard—"
Quincy cut Dean off through gritted teeth. "You have no idea," She was beginning to shake again, and Sam moved to grab her arm, but she tore it away as if his fingertips had burned her. "I've just lost everything I've ever loved—my father, my home, my life," She shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I have nothing."
Sam swallowed, "Quincy, I'm sorry but there's nothing—"
"Take me with you," she said, voice frantic. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs in a panic that was slowly beginning to ebb. "I wanna know more, please, I need . . . I need to understand what happened back there."
"Quincy, we're not the kind of people you want to be around, trust me—you'll be happier in foster care," Sam tried to reason.
"But you saved me," she whispered. Her eyes didn't leave his for even a second. "I trust you."
"Quincy . . ."
"Please, I'll do anything! I-I'll cook for you and clean and, and you won't even know I'm there, honest—"
This time, Dean cut her off.
"You wanna know what we do for a living?" He asked, bending down and leaning close to her. His mouth was pulled into a thin, tight line, and his eyes were dark. "We drive around the country searching this type of shit out. See this car? This is where we live—sometimes we crash at some crappy motels, but it's usually only for a night or two before we're on the road again."
Quincy watched as Dean leaned in closer, eyes burning. His palms were now splayed flat out on top of the car's door.
She kept as still as a board.
"You wanna know what happens to people who get involved with us?" he asked, a bitter frown on his lips. "They die. Every single fuckin' time. What we do isn't a game. Our lives are constantly on the line. We see things you only see in your nightmares—only they're real and they're looking to kill you."
The gaze he fixed Quincy with when he finished sent every nerve in her body on fire. She felt like she'd been electrocuted. She realized she couldn't reply, couldn't even move. She was paralyzed by the depth of his stare.
When she finally managed to reply, her voice was hardly a whisper. "I don't have anything to loose," she said.
She pushed her hair back from her forehead, suddenly nauseous at the realization.
She watched Dean close his eyes again, and she would have missed the way his lashes pressed tight against his cheeks had it not been for the sun that had cast the window aglow in a burst of orange and yellow beside him. The fiery light highlighted all the stubble on his face, and the blonde in his hair shone with an almost golden gleam.
Despite the circumstances, Quincy couldn't help but find him beautiful.
"We're taking you to the station," he suddenly said, breaking her from her thoughts. "Sam, get in the car."
And the despair that filled Quincy was instantaneous, like she'd been shocked by an electric current. The jolt of realization made her heart stop, and she felt as if her lungs had been punctured with a sharp knife, all the air rushing out at once.
She couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe as the two brother climbed into the car and started foreward, the rocking motion causing her stomach to churn.
The ride to the station was mostly silent. Both Dean and Sam remained quiet in the front seat, occasionally exchanging hushed words that Quincy couldn't hear over the low rock music thumping from the radio.
The road was narrow and curvy, the black pavement winding its way through pine and cedar trees that lined either side of the road. No cars passed them as they traveled closer and closer to the city and Quincy had to put a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs.
She couldn't go back to foster care, not again—not after everything she'd been through, after everything she'd seen. She was bruised and broken and scared of the dark now, even more then before . . . no one would ever want her or understand what she had been through.
She wanted to know more about the creature who had taken her father's life and about her past that she couldn't remember—something only the Winchester's could help her do.
But like always, luck wasn't on her side.
When they eventually pulled up to the station, Sam turned to look at Quincy over his seat.
His face held barely concealed pity.
"We're sorry, Quincy," he murmured gently. "But this is for the best."
Her face was blank as she stared out the window at the dull, gray building in front of her, tears still dripping down her cheeks no matter how hard she tried to swallow them down.
When she looked at Sam, she saw his eyes widen slightly.
"It's okay," she whispered, letting out a choked, bitter laugh. "I'm used to people sending me away."
"Son of bitch."
Suddenly—to both her and Sam's confusion—the car started forward again, so quickly neither one had time to processes it until they were on the road again.
"What're you doing?" Sam exclaimed, looking at Dean like he'd grown another head. He grabbed onto the handle above him when Dean continued to speed foreward.
Quincy noticed Dean glance back at her through the rear-view mirror. His face was a mask she couldn't even begin to read.
"She won't last a month, Sammy," he said, his eyes now trained on the road. "Who knows, maybe she'll be useful."
Quincy's breath caught and her heart began to thump erratically against her chest.
"Are you—"
"Just shut up and don't make a peep, alright. I already got headache," he grunted, reaching to turn up the radio.
Quincy simply smiled, tears dripping down her face as she whispered.
"Thank you."
