Weaved Fates (A Daryl Dixon Fanfiction)

Open Your Eyes

Somewhere in Georgia

The breath she took in was literally a breath of life, deep, shaky, burning, and completely unexpected. Taylor could feel her lungs expanding to the point of pain, but she just inhaled again and again, confirming that, indeed, she could do it. Blinking rapidly, she opened her eyes just to shut them tightly when the bright sunlight hit her irises, making her blind for a moment. With a groan, she sat down, getting used to her surroundings and prying her eyes open once again.

Taking in everything around her, Taylor noticed she was sitting on the slightly damp moss in the middle of the forest. When she glanced down at herself small gasp of surprise escaped her mouth; her clothes were clean and precisely the same as she had worn the last time she was alive. Was she alive? She was breathing, could smell the grass, tree bark, and motor oil, colors around her were more vibrant than the Purgatory, but how could she be sure?

But that was not the most shocking discovery, no. When she finally stood up and spun around, there it was, her most precious earthy possession. Dean had his Baby, and Taylor had her Lottie - a pretty well-beat-up Jeep Wrangler from the early nineties, restored by herself in her father's junkyard. Taking a few unsteady steps forward, her hand landed on cold metal, and her eyes teared up.

"Why? What does it mean?!" she yelled in the air, looking up towards the sky, but it was no surprise when no answer came.

Huffing, she opened the driver's doors, spotting her black duffel bag. Unzipping it quickly, Taylor noted that her usual gear was inside, her trusty machete and pocket knife, which she quickly put in her black leather jacket that she had on.

A variety of other blades could be seen, a silver dagger and two which looked more fragile, one brass and one made of gold. But the one she was the proudest of was a sharp sword. Reaching for the cheetah, Taylor slowly pulled the blade out, polished steel reflecting the sunlight magnificently. One side was covered in three sigils and Latin writing, designed to kill demons, while the other side was covered in banishing sigil and Enochian words, helping to get rid of angels.

The shotgun was on the bottom of the bag, next to it were two boxes with different types of shells, one filled with gunpowder, the other with rock salt. Tylor's fingers grazed over the metal and ventured to the right, grabbing a brown leather holster and retrieving the pistol that lay inside.

A soft smile appeared on her face when memories flooded her mind. It was her twenty-first birthday, and Dean convinced John to come to Bobby's. Sam was already off to college, but she still could remember shouting and words thrown into the air in the heat of the moment when John told his youngest son to never come back if he chose that life. And yet Dean, two years older than her, came back to the junkyard, baring gifts. They ate cake, and Taylor had a beer with her father and adopted family for the first time legally. But it was the moment when Dean pulled her aside to the backyard, both of them sitting in the Impala, that was the most memorable. The young man pulled the wooden box out of the glove compartment and handed it to her, his eyes sparking with anticipation.

It was a beautiful Colt pistol, just like his, with an ivory handle and black and golden body, shiny and clearly cared for.

"If you ever gonna hunt with us, you gonna need this," Dean told her then, and the gun stayed with her ever since wherever she went.

Now looking at the weapon, she couldn't help but feel lost. Did Dean make it out? Where was he, and what about Sam?

"Oh Chuck, Castiel..." she said to herself, a few tears tracing down her cheeks.

The last thing she could remember from the cold, dangerous place they had been in for a year was a werewolf and then a flash of light. Did the angel make it out of there as well? And how the hell was she here, seemingly back on Earth, if she didn't make it to the rift?