Author's Note:

Aaaand she meets the infamous Winchesters! Feel free to review/send me any feedback you have! Thanks for reading! :)

-TheEliot

I am drifting on a soft pool of liquid warmth, my every muscle relaxed. I am utterly at peace. Somewhere in the distance, voices mutter, but what they are saying makes no impression. Where am I? How did I come to be here? I flew out of my cylinder—I was in a bathroom. Such funny little rooms, both functional and decorative. What is the purpose of an attractive bathroom? I walked out. I met the Refrigerator Man. What was his name again…

Dean Winchester.

I feel a shot of adrenaline shoot stingingly up my legs, leaving my toes tingling, but force my self to remain completely still, my breathing even and slow. I take stock of my surroundings. I'm warm, and lying on something soft. There are two men in the room with me, based on the rhythm of the heartbeats and breathing. They're talking—about me. A voice I've only heard on the telephone is speaking—Sam Winchester.

"Dean, we can't just tie up innocent girls in a cheap motel room—do you realize how much trauma this girl is going to go through, waking up naked and tied up in a motel room with a couple of guys with guns? We can at least untie her."

Huh. I hadn't realized my hands were tied. As though that could stop me. I suppress a smirk.

"The door was locked, Sammy."

"What?"

"The door was locked. There is literally no way she got in here—either she's something new and can walk through walls or teleport or some shit, and we need to question her and find out what the hell is up, or someone—namely Cas, considering he's the only one who knows where we are—dropped her off here and she needs our help. Either way, she can't leave. And personally, I'd like to find out what the hell happened to her."

His voice drops to a near whisper. I listen more intently, amplifying my hearing to better understand him.

"Sam, she looked so terrified. She looked like she had just been through—just escaped from—Hell. There's no way I let her leave without finding out who—or what— could do that to a little slip of a girl to make her break down like that. She's broken, Sammy. And one way or another, we're either gonna have to help fix her…or gank her."

So they aren't aware that I was held in the box. I hear…Sam, judging by the weight of his footsteps…stand up and walk across the room, the resonance of his steps changing as he steps off the lush carpet and onto the tile of their metal kitchen. I judge now to be an appropriate time to alert them of my wakefulness. I change the rhythm of my breathing and crack my eyes slightly, assuming that their watch over me is intent enough to notice such infinitesimal changes. I am correct. I hear a shuffling of feet and the smacking of lips—evidence of someone mouthing something—then the television is switched on and they sit down on what I gather to be the bed next to mine. I open my eyes fully.

And am once again assaulted by the beauty of color. The tones of this small room—which I may once have perceived to be dull, are ravishing. I'll never become entirely used to this. I can tell from the window that the sun has set, and the flashing light of the television—so strange, to see it as well as hear it—is the most prominent light in the room. The men pretend to be intently watching the television, but there is a tension in them that I know comes from their complete focus on my every movement.

Hunters, indeed.

I sit up slowly, propping myself up on my elbow. I am covered by an inordinately large pile of blankets—evidently the men were uncomfortable with the idea of my waking up feeling exposed. A tent-like plaid shirt lies folded on the bed next to me. Using as little movement as is possible, so they won't feel obliged to pretend to notice me, I push my arms through the fabric and button it up. I am quite certain that when I stand, the shirt will reach at least halfway down my thighs. I cough a little to warrant their attention, not having to feign weakness because of my very real fatigue, and they look over at me, their movements slow—they're trying so hard not to frighten me. It's quite endearing. I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a whisper,

"Water?"

I attempt to sit up further, but am impeded by the awkwardness of my bound wrists. Dean reaches over to the bedside table and retrieves a tall glass of water, handing it to me gingerly. I grasp it between my fingers, my hands shaking, and tip it into my mouth.

Pure bliss.

I didn't realize how desperately I have missed the simple feeling of my thirst being quenched. I guzzle the water urgently, prompting a slightly sassy "slow down, it ain't goin' anywhere" from Dean. I don't listen—can't—until the glass has been drained.

If this is my reaction to water, how will I handle eating again?

How will I handle being in this world?

And what am I even supposed to do anymore?

Ugh. I have more immediate problems. No time for existentialism.

I look up at the brothers, wondering what I should tell them. The truth? They care for him, I know, so they may defer to him—in which case they may attempt to trap me again.

They won't succeed with me on my guard against them, but it may inconvenience me.

Then again, from what I have gleaned from my information over the course of…well, their entire lives, I suppose—they aren't just heroes. The Winchester brothers are genuinely good people. They have developed their consciences based on inherent virtue and follow them unfailingly. Unless they deem me a monster—which, I suppose, isn't entirely out of the question— I should be safe. And I do so hate lying to good people. I hate liars.

I focus my gaze on the eyes of each of the brothers in turn, seeking desperately some answer, some reassurance of my trust in them.

And in their eyes I see confusion, wariness, and even a hint of fear. However, what stands out strikingly, and what I focus on, is the true and deep concern. They don't know me, they cannot have any idea what or whom I am, but they feel true concern for me.

In my entire life, only one other person has shown me that concern.

And he left.

And I miss it.

And that is what decides it for me.

Tonight I will tell the Winchesters my story.