You rode your bike home like you always did at seven p.m., the tires rolling across the dirt as you pedaled. You let out a breath and tried pedaling harder, your open jacket flapping just a bit as your speed increased. The streets to your left were empty, so you turned onto the pavement. You hummed some Def Leppard song as you focused on moving up the hill before your right turn.
"Dude, how old are you?" Sam asked Dean as they headed towards town.
"I'm sorry, dude!" Dean argued back. "Twizzlers are better than Red Vines."
"No, they're not. Look at this." Sam held up two different red licorice strands. "Red Vines are longer."
"That's only to make up for how crappy they taste." Sam inched the Red Vine towards Dean's face.
"Just try it, Dean," Sam said.
"No, get that crap away from my mouth, Sam!" Dean said, swatting at the candy. The Impala swerved just a little bit.
"Do it, come on," Sam urged, pushing the Red Vine closer. "You know I'm right, Dean."
"No, stop it! Will you-" The car swerved even more when the two brothers started wrestling, each with only one arm.
Crash.
The car stopped abruptly and both Winchesters looked out the front window.
"I think we hit something," Sam said. Dean rolled his eyes.
"You think?" he sighed sarcastically, opening his door. "I swear, if you-" Dean stopped when he saw you and your bike sprawled on the ground. You groaned and tried to focus on a tall figure.
"Hey," a voice said. "Hey, you okay?" You felt your shoulder being shook before you blacked out.
"Oh, son of a bitch," were the first words to leave your mouth when you woke up. You were in something moving and you were lying on soft, black leather. You could feel stinging in your mouth and on most of the right side of your body.
"Holy crap, Dean, she's awake already," the man in the passenger seat said.
"Really, already?" the driver replied, looking back at you.
"What... How...," you tried asking, but you found that most of your breath was gone from your lungs. You coughed a couple times and managed to get out the sentence, "Who are you?"
"Uhm...," the slightly moose-y one mumbled.
"We're, uh, FBI," the one driving said.
"I don't think you are," you sighed quietly, letting out a hollow chuckle.
"Here." The passenger passed you two ID badges that looked fairly real. You could tell, obviously, that they weren't real.
"What'd you do, make these out of paper and plastic?" you asked, sitting up as much you could. The badges were snatched out of your hands, which now stung.
"Look, I'm Dean," the driver said. "This is Sam, my brother. We, uh... We hit you. With my car."
"No, I think I got that part. But thank you for answering my question." Sam sighed and looked you over again.
"So, uh...we're probably just going to drop you off at the hospital...," he explained. "You know...we can't really stick around for you." You shook your head in denial.
"No hospital," you mumbled. "I'm not one for hospital bills." Sam eyed Dean.
"You don't like doctors or nurses, huh?" Dean asked.
"I don't paying someone to fix me when I can do that myself." Sam gave something of a cross between an impressed and slightly concerned face.
"Well, I guess we can just fix you up at the motel," Dean suggested.
