Author: Me (glittergron)
Pairings/Characters: Rachel/Quinn, Dean, Sam, John, Bobby, and Puck.
Rating: M, for language and violence.
Type: AU, femslash, gen.
Summary: Dean doesn't want to be on this hunt, but he's a sucker for misty eyes and damsels in distress.
A/N: This story has a secret, and I'm not telling what it is!
Rachel's going to die. It's inevitable at this point. Her girlfriend is tiring as she keeps getting pushed back by the assault, the silver dagger in her hand flashing dangerously, slick with rain and less savoury substances. Rachel's convinced that they're both going to be torn apart. Strewn over this nowhere highway, repainting the asphalt with their blood. And she's still so young, still chasing Broadway dreams that won't ever come true now.
Digging her hands through the weapons duffel she dropped, she tries to free something that could shoot a big hole in the black dog, but the beast is huge even by a hunter's standards, and it's out for blood if that swipe of muddied paws and vicious claws is any indication. Rachel hefts a heavy shotgun into her hand, contemplates for a split second, then turns and jumps from the backseat of Quinn's car.
She catches her foot on the strap of the bag and trips, but by some stroke of luck she catches her balance in time to shakily throw the gun to Quinn with a single warning cry.
Quinn's sharp reflexes shine through as she fumbles the weapon into her hand, the dagger slipping between her fingers. The report that cracks through the stormy night, thundering on through the blanket of trees lining the roadside, makes Rachel wince but grin with shortly-lived relief.
The black dog, howling and writhing after being filled with consecrated buckshot, clambers to its paws and issues a growl. It snaps its teeth and makes a pained lunge at Quinn, the blonde grunting in pain as she throws herself down and out of the way. But claws rip through her jeans before she can get another weapon in her hand.
Rachel takes a frantic step towards Quinn when she slaps her hand down over the gash in her thigh with a cry. Her controlled expression slips for a moment to relay how much pain she's really in, gushing blood on herself and the road.
"Quinn!" Rachel yells to her lover, unready for them to be split apart by something as mundane as death. She stumbles towards her through the rain, while the black dog recovers from being shot faster than she'd like.
"No, get back!" Quinn shouts, and Rachel's vision tunnels to focus on the beast as it catches the scent of Quinn's spilled blood and clamps its teeth down on the girl's uninjured leg, biting down hard enough to make her scream. Her voice breaks hoarsely.
The black dog tugs Quinn across the road, reducing her to nothing but a meal in its eyes, and Quinn's legs are too torn for her to kick out. Sickening red stains swirl in the rain as she's scraped over the concrete and hauled into the mud off the tarmac like so much road kill.
Rachel breaks into a run, her chest heaving. There are no real weapons on her person besides a butterfly knife tucked into her pocket, there simply because Quinn's paranoid as hell. Quinn was raised a hunter, but Rachel wasn't. She's soft in all the ways Quinn isn't, so she needs to be protected. She needs something to hold and wield if everything goes wrong.
All Rachel needs is Quinn to be okay. It's her fault this is happening; her desire to go chasing after the black dog landed Quinn in danger. The idea took Rachel by the shoulders and shook her, this stupid urge to prove she can do what her girlfriend does.
Her shoes splash and squelch into the mud on the side of the road. Her breaths spike and shudder through her chest as the sounds of growls and Quinn's shouts disappear too fast through the trees. Rachel frantically sprints, slips down a culvert into a filling drain, and proceeds to scream Quinn's name at the top of her lungs. She hardly realises she's sobbing as she digs her fingers into the sopping wet earth to clamber up over the other side of the ditch.
But the noises are gone, the tracks are confusing and she still hasn't learned how to follow a trail the way Quinn tried to teach her. Rachel's on her hands and knees all of a sudden, palms stinging and sinking in the dirt.
"Quinn!" she screeches, her heart making a bid for freedom to go racing off on its own through the forest, and she forces herself to ignore the splashes of blood on the ground as she crawls forward.
She groans, sits back on her haunches and swipes a muddy hand over her forehead, shuddering in the cold because Quinn's not back yet. She's not fucking back yet, and maybe the black dog is taking too long to dispatch, or maybe there's a million other possibilities and outcomes and she doesn't want to dwell on any of them.
They're relationship is so new and tender, but it's burrowed so deep in Rachel now that any of those worst possible scenarios might kill her.
The next time she screams Quinn's name into the darkness, her voice peters off to a croak. She's quiet for a moment, listening so hard her eardrums might burst from the effort. But there's nothing but the rain falling through the foliage, pattering on leaves and stirring up the smell of ozone. Everything's calm like the whole universe hasn't just tilted on its axis and spun Rachel upside fucking down.
She's struggling to her feet again, even though her exhausted body tells her to lie down in the mud and never get back up again. But she has to make a quick decision when she turns back to the road, alerted to something she can't seem to identify fast enough.
The sound of a car's engine is coming toward her, and Rachel realises she's still close to the highway, suddenly understands she can't possibly do this alone. Quinn has determinedly kept her away from hunting, and she can't fight like her girlfriend anyway. She barely even knows how to load a gun right.
Rachel starts running, this new focus pushing her back over the ditch as she leaps it and does an ungraceful tumble onto the road, hurting practically everything as she comes up again and steps out in the path of the car. She's waving her arms manically in the air, blinded by the headlights, begging the driver to stop and know what to do, because Quinn's not here. Quinn would know what to do in this situation, but she's not here.
The thought runs a disjointed and rambling loop in Rachel's head. It barely falters when the car stops with a screech of tires, and it's a miracle really that the driver could even see her through the sheets of rain tumbling down from the pitch black sky.