Hola chillens! This is a rewrite, because I wasn't happy with the way I did some things. This will also be posted separately, and the original story will be taken down when I'm done posting all the rewritten chapters on here. :) So, yeah, any questions, comments, concerns, please review!

Chapter One: Adulthood

"Oi," I try to get the cop's attention. "I'd like my one phone call, please. I get a phone call, don't I?"

The balding man in his fifties (I'd assume, I'm rubbish at human ages) turns his head and bores into my blue eyes with his grey ones, chilling me to my bones (which is very hard to do, but, then again, according to my dad I'm still a little girl. complete rubbish, I tell you).

"M-may I call someone to pick me up?" I stutter once.

He nods, his double chin rippling, and hauls himself out of the spinney desk chair. Reaching for a ring of keys on his belt, he takes his time finding the right one and unlocks the cell I'm in. Then, I'm led back to his desk like an animal, his hands on the chain connecting the handcuffs on my wrists.

The cop hands me the phone, with a gruff, "You've got five minutes."

With shaking hands, I punch in the familiar set of numbers and hold the phone close to my face, praying to whatever gods and goddesses that will hear me that he picks up.

"Hello?"

"Uncle Bobby, thank God," I crack a small smile at his voice. "Can you come get me?"

"Where are you?"

"Sioux Falls Police station," I tell him sheepishly.

"What the hell did you do, ya damn idjit?"

"I didn't do anythin'! It's all a huge misunderstandin' that they can't seem to comprehend. Can you just come get me? And soon? The men in the cells keep lookin' at me like I'm a piece of meat."

"How old do you look?"

"Um, nineteen? Twenty? I get ages mixed up."

Uncle Bobby sighs into the phone. "Give me five minutes." And then he hangs up. I hand the phone back to the cop and get forced back to my cell. Men whistle and cat-call as I walk by. So I settle in to wait.

The police station is made of awful grey coloured bricks. Three cells are in the bullpen area, five men in one, and me in the farthest one; the middle is empty. The men are very muscular; I suspect some sort of gang affiliation. They keep looking at me.

Three minutes later (ten quid says he broke several driving laws and disregarded speed limit signs), a very irate looking Bobby Singer marches in. I hop up and press myself as close as I can to the outside world, clutching the cold bars with my hands.

"Where the hell is my niece?" he growls.

"Uncle Bobby!" I beam, catching his eye. He looks absolutely pissed.

"Why is my niece in a goddamn jail cell?"

"Calm down, Singer-"

"Don't tell me to calm down, Jody! Let her out so I can take her home."

"I can't do that, Bobby," 'Jody' says calmly.

"Why the hell not?" I ask. "I haven't done anythin' wrong!"

"You were found in a jewelry store locked from the inside!" the balding male cop accuses.

"S'not like I stole anythin', innit? This is what I've had to put up with for the past hour, Uncle Bobby. I'm bored!" I hit my head on the bars and close my eyes.

"Can you let her out of there before she hurts herself for her own amusement? She's done it before."

"I'd get myself out of here, but Deputy Dumbarse over there," I point to a different woman, one with blonde hair sitting at a desk, "took my vortex manipulator! Yeah, lady, I'm talkin' 'bout you!"

"Shut up," Bobby snaps at me, "or I'll leave you here!"

"As a favour, Bobby, -though to you or to us, I'm not sure- I'll let you take her home. We haven't formally arrested her yet."

"Thank you, Jody."

"Though," she continues, "I'd recommend getting her checked by a shrink. She's been spouting all sorts of crazy since we picked her up."

"I'm not crazy!" I protest.

"Will do, Jody."

The fat, balding police officer with more than one chin hauls himself out of his desk chair yet again, causes several mini-earthquakes coming to my cell, and leads me out like an animal yet again, pulling me by the chain connecting my cuffs together. The woman Bobby calls Jody unlocks my cuffs and I rub my poor, now-red wrists.

"Thank you for the lovely police brutality today. I'll take my stuff back, now," I say sarcastically.

"Go wait in the truck," Uncle Bobby orders, "and watch your mouth. You get arrested again, I ain't bailin' your sorry ass out."

I wait in the truck.

Uncle Bobby comes out ten-something minutes later, an evidence bag in one hand, and my duffel in the other.

"Thank the goddess, you got my duffel," I tell him with a smile. "That's my ten metre one."

He drops the duffel in the bed of the truck and ties it down, then hands me the evidence bag with my personal effects. My black eyeglasses (which I slide on), iPhone 7C (special ordered TARDIS blue with a hard, clear case; photos of me and Mum and Dad, Uncle Jack and Ianto, me and Uncle Jack, and Mum and Dad in the case's picture slots), ear buds, TARDIS key on a chain (like Mum used to wear hers), my red sonic screwdriver that Dad helped me make when I was about thirty-five, psychic paper in my own black billfold, vortex manipulator, and a completely normal ink pen.

"Where's your folks?" Bobby asks as he starts the truck and drives towards his house, one of the few places I feel comfortable enough in to call 'home'.

"Dad's travellin', Mum's in her cell."

"That doesn't explain why you're here all alone."

"Bobby, you make it sound like I'm a little girl," I turn and smile at him. "I'm nearly a century-ager, I'm old enough to be out in the universe by myself."

"Yeah?" he says sceptically.

I roll my eyes. "Ninety-seven. So I calmly explained to my dad that I was old enough to be out on my own, and he and Mum made me promise to stay on Earth. Loads more people on the List here."

The List. Also known as The List of People the Doctor and River Song Trust Their Daughter With. Well, more like a chart or table, really. It's got name, way of contact, start year, end year, and where they live and between what years. The List is in Gallifreyan, so that the people on the List can't see when they die (which is usually the end year, unless there's a big fight or something that prevents me visiting).

"Not even mentionin' the time we're in. Most people on the List are on this planet in this decade," I continue. "How long's it been since you've seen me?"

"'Bout ten years, give or take a few months."

Shit.

"Sorry, Uncle Bobby."

He waves me off, "Nah, s'fine."

"So, what's happened in ten years, give or take a few months, in the wonderful world of Bobby Singer?"

"What killed Rumsfeld?" I gasp.

"Somethin', that's for damn sure."

"Well, Uncle Bobby's house isn't Uncle Bobby's house without a guard dog. C'mon. Take us to the pound."

"Why the pound?"

"'Cause pet stores have prissy, spoilt dogs. We want a lean, mean, lovable killin' machine," I tell him matter-of-fact. He laughs but does what I say; instead of driving straight to Singer Salvage, he takes a left back onto the main road. "We should also go to the market and buy some Skittles.

We do go to the market, but not to get Skittles. To get adult dog food (I won't settle for anything less than a two-year-old), a dog dish, and a water dish. And food, y'know, for people.

"Did you know, on New Savannah, there's Catkind? They're humanoid with cat features, like fur, cat ears, cat nose, and whiskers. Then they go to New Earth and become Cat Nuns and help people."

"That's cool," he says distractedly. "You still like to cook, right?"

"Yeah, if you'll let me take over your kitchen. I'll cook and bake."

"Kid, you can take over my kitchen anytime," he promises, mussing up my really short dark red hair.

"Not the hair! It took forever this mornin' to get it to lay out like this!" I protest, making him laugh. "I'm a puffball, aren't I?"

"Sorry, kid," he chuckles. I roll my eyes and pull out a black beanie I swiped earlier from my duffel.

"You're not sorry, Uncle Bobby. Now you definitely owe me Skittles."

Uncle Bobby groans. "Fine. We'll get some at checkout."

I take the trolley from him and start dumping different items in it: flour, sugar, eggs, pie crusts, apples, cherries, ice cream (strawberry cheesecake ice cream, because why not) and anything else I think we'll need.

"Just remember, Uncle Bobby, when your credit card bill gets really high, it's because you gave me free reign of the trolley."

"Don't sweat it, kid. It'll all get eaten one way or the other."

He says that now.

At the pound, there's tons of dogs, and nearly all of them have those 'pick me' eyes.

"Need any help?" a volunteer that looks to be in high school with his blonde hair tied back in a ponytail asks me.

"No, thanks, I think I have an idea of what I'm lookin' for," I wave him off kindly.

"Okay, if you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

"Hey, what do you think, kid?" Uncle Bobby walks towards me. The irritating volunteer walks away as my uncle makes his way to me.

"They all have those 'pick me, pick me' eyes," I frown.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"I don't want one like that. They're too eager. I want one that's given up, one that thinks he's never gonna get picked. No 'pick me' eyes."

"That makes sense," he agrees with me, wrapping a loose arm around my shoulders.

I glance around the cages before shutting my eyes and try to tune out all the different pitched barking. None of that barking nonsense; no voices, just the... aura (ha, that sounds so lame) of the different dogs. Animals from Earth are more open to spontaneous consensual psychic linking than anyone or anything else on planet.

And then there is one.

My blue eyes snap open.

"That one," I walk to the end of the pathway of concrete, passing black chained fences and gates stretching from top to bottom. Standing in front of a cage at the very end, I take it all in.

There's a clipboard, like all the other cages, that lists the dog's information.

Rex. Male. Three years old. Doesn't get along with other dogs, cats, animals, or people. Aggressive.

'Rex' is a golden retriever, and he looks at me with sad brown eyes. He lays in a chewed up bed on the concrete floor, pieces of rubber scattered randomly about.

"Uncle Bobby! Can we get this one?" I call to him; he hasn't moved an inch. I pull out a plastic bag full of dog treats from my pocket.

"Hey, wait, I wouldn't-" a different male volunteer shouts to me as I open the bag and stick a treat through the hole. Rex hauls himself wearily up from his bed and walks slowly towards me and the treat, sitting on his haunches before partaking.

"Good boy," I beam. "You're just a big sweetheart, aren't you?"

"Hey, lady, seriously, that dog is mean," the volunteer that yelled at me jogs over. "That's why he's in a cage by himself."

"This dog?" I ask sceptically, kneeling down and sticking my fingers through the holes in the metal, much to the human's protests. Rex (I'm so changing his name later, he doesn't even respond to it for the Goddess's sake) licks my fingers and rubs against me with his head. "Ooh, sweetheart, you need a bath and a good teeth cleanin', don't you?" I coo sweetly at the flea-ridden animal. "Uncle Bobby, come look at 'im!"

"I-I've never seen him act like this," the volunteer -one quick look at his name sticker reveals his name to be Jeff- stutters. "He's usually foaming at the mouth right about now."

"No, he just needed to wait for the right person."

"You want this one?" Bobby walks up to us.

"Little TLC, a good bath, an' some good old fashioned sleep on the end of a bed an' I guarantee this one will work just fine for what we need, Uncle Bobby. Lean, mean, lovable killin' machine," I repeat my words from two hours ago, at the market.

"Your gig, kid," Uncle Bobby repeats.

"But I can get him?" I turn and smile at him.

"You sure you want him?" Jeff interrupts. "I can show you a number of other dogs."

"I want this one," I say, hard and clipped. "This one doesn't have the 'pick me' eyes. He's just a big, misunderstood softie if you ask me."

"Okay then," he gives up. "Saving him from euthanization tomorrow, anyway."

"Then that's another reason why we're takin' 'im home."

As soon as he was out of that place, his big orange-red tail started wagging.

A few days later, and a lot of progress made.

Rex's name was changed to Cooper. 'Rex' may be badarse, I'll give it that, but I didn't like it. Anyway. I hosed Cooper down with the green garden hose as soon as he leaped out of the truck. Bobby took my nearly weightless duffel in and dropped it into my room. Then, after drying him off (and getting soaked when he shaked his fur by himself), I brushed his teeth (and told him to quit with that growling nonsense). Then, I fed him. And, after a long day, I crawled into my bed and Cooper fell asleep at the end of it.

Next day was training him, as was the day after that. And the day after that. Which went over well, if I do say so myself. Uncle Bobby was impressed. Cooper knows how to sit, wait, stay, lay down, time for breakfast/dinner, go outside, go get it (no, not that, smart one), bring me whatever, time to go, attack, disarm, take it down; pretty much you name it, he knows it. He's rather smart. It helps that I'm, well, what I am.

Yesterday and today finds me deep in the bottom of my ten metre duffel bag. I'm attaching climbing handles on the south wall, organizing the shit into proper drawers on the north wall, and making sure the teleport pad doesn't come loose again. (Teleport pad isn't big/powerful enough to transport life forms, just supplies.)

"Bobby!" I shout. "Can you hand me a crosshead screwdriver?"

"Hold on," I hear him say faintly.

"C'mon, Uncle Bobby, I'm nearly done!"

"Would you wait five seconds? Idjit."

I wait about five minutes, literally hanging there. Becoming bored and wanting to finish, I let the silver climbing handle hang from the one screw I attached on earlier; using the rope I tied around a chair covered in books and cinder blocks (so I'm not stuck in there), I pull myself up so my head is sticking out of the duffel.

"Oh," I say as I see Bobby talking with two unfamiliar wounded men, who all fall silent and stare as soon as I speak. "Hello."

It's silent for about two more beats, before the taller one (they're both pretty damn tall) speaks. "Bobby," he says slowly, still looking at me. "Why is there a girl in a duffel bag on the floor?"

"I think the better question is 'why are there two men bleeding in the front room?'" I counter.

"Excellent questions," the shorter (and I say that lightly, they're both freakishly tall) of the two waves off, clutching his chest. "Got any whiskey?"

"Yeah, sit down," Uncle Bobby snaps into action, walking to the kitchen.

"Do I get some?" I haul myself out of the duffel and follow him.

"Hell no!"

"Why not? Jack lets me drink with him!"

"Yeah, and you and I both know how responsible Jack Harkness is," Bobby scoffs.

"Mum lets me drink with her," I try.

"Your mother lets you drink wine so she doesn't have to drink alone, and she's occasionally an escaped convict. No."

"But I'm older than twenty-one!"

"Then take your fake ID and go get some yourself!"

"Tsk, you're so mean to me," I pout good-naturedly, clicking my tongue at the beginning. "You have to sleep sometime, old man!"

"Who are you callin' old? You're one to talk!"

"You're so mean to me!" I crack up, and he does, too.

"Hey, you're the one makin' a dent in my credit card, kid!"

"Now, y'see, you talk like you're annoyed, but you don't sound annoyed," I keep egging at him.

"Damn idjit," he mutters.

"You love me," I wave off. "Okay, so, what can I do?"

"Dean looks worse off," Bobby gestures to the man clutching his ribs, blood seeping from the wound. "I'll deal with Sam over here. And no flirting, womanizer."

"Who do you think I am, Bobby?" he -Dean- pretends to be offended.

"I know who you are, boy," he growls out. "That's the point."

"Move your hand, let me see," I order, bringing attention back to the matter at hand. Humans are so fragile compared to someone like me.

"Slave driver," Dean accuses. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Hazel. Nice to meet you. Now move that hand."

"Hazel, meet Dean and Sam Winchester. Boys, Hazel," Bobby introduces.

"How do you know each other?" Sam asks as Uncle Bobby pulls something out of his leg with tweezers.

"I crash landed in his backyard about ten years ago, give or take a few months," I say as I tug on Dean's tan and muscular arm. He finally moves his hand, and blood pours out of the knife wound, drenching his shirt even more. "Damn, what the hell happened to you? That's gonna need stitches. Take that off, put pressure on that, and come sit down in the kitchen where the light is."

"Crash landed?"

"Long story. Sit."

He does what I say, wincing when he clunks into the chair. I grab a towel, a needle, and some stitching from a drawer under the stove. Then a different bottle of whiskey. I kneel down so I can work better.

"You a doctor?" Dean asks.

"No. But my dad is, and so's our friend, Martha. She lived with us for a while."

"What was that Bobby said about your mom?"

I coax his hand away and he hisses in pain when I dab at the wound with the white towel, soaking up the blood.

"Sorry, sorry. Um, she's in prison. Didn't do anythin' wrong, though; it's a long story. What the bloody hell happened to you? Did you get mugged or somethin'?"

"Or somethin'," he grits out, and I hand him the bottle of whiskey. He takes three healthy swigs and sets the glass bottle on the table with a shaky hand. "Thanks."

"Mmm, not done, yet, sweetheart."

"Make it quick."

"I'll try my best," I reassure him, cleaning all the dry blood. "This is gonna sting."

"Just do it." I open the whiskey bottle and pour it on the three-inch long one-inch wide wound, and he clenches his teeth tight to keep from screaming.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I have to clean it so you don't get an infection; I'm sorry!" I apologise frantically. I don't like seeing people hurt, even if I've just met them. Especially if I'm the one causing them pain. I'm like my mum in that way. Dad, too. I make quick work of cleaning the gash, the whiskey turning red with his blood as it soaks his jeans and runs onto the floor. After I sterilize the needle and thread, I hand him the bottle.

"Son of a bitch that hurt!" he swears in between gulps.

"M'sorry, m'almost done," I tell him.

"I know. This isn't my first time gettin' sliced 'n diced."

"What the hell d'ya do for a livin'?" I ask incredulously as I make my first stitch.

"What do you do for a living?" he counters.

"I help people," I say simply. My mobile goes off, the ringtone I have set for my dad blaring through the room and into the next.

"You gonna get that?"

"Nope. M'gonna let it go to voicemail, an' have 'im kill me for it later. Hold still."

"You know who it is?"

"S'the ringtone for my dad. It can wait. Hold still."

"So, how long have you been here with Bobby?" he changes the subject.

"Um, five days? Six? Somethin' like that. M'almost done, and it would go faster if you would hold still."

"I'm not moving!"

"You are! Y'keep squirmin', just quit that!"

"Hold still, Dean. Let the kid finish," Bobby walks in with Sam. Sam sits at the table across from me and Dean, while Uncle Bobby raids his full refrigerator.

"You two gonna tell me what happened, or keep me in the dark? 'Cause no way was that a mugging," I say as I tie off the stitches. "Stay." I get back on my feet only to kneel down again under the kitchen sink. I grab a bandage and some medical tape. "Bobby, do you think he's concussed?"

"Nah, he's got a thick skull, why?"

I hop up and smack Dean on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"Quit lookin' at my arse!"

Sam holds back a laugh while I hold the white bandage in place with one hand and apply strips of tape with the other.

"I can't help but look at the finer things in life, especially when one is a hot nurse stitching me up," he smiles flirtatiously.

"I'm gonna smack you again," I warn, with a small smile on my face. "There, done. Go put a button down or somethin' on. An' if you pull those stitches, I'll smack you."

"Violent, much? That's okay, I like it rough."

"Oh, god, is he always like this?" I moan.

"Worse. He's actually acting pretty tame right now," Sam informs me.

"Wonderful." I take a swig of whiskey before Uncle Bobby can stop me, and grab my phone and sweater from the counter. "I'm going to go out and call my dad back before he blows up the planet."

"Don't take too long, kid, it's cold out there," Bobby tells me.

"I'll be fine, Uncle Bobby," I smile reassuringly and head out to the deck. Before I can dial my dad, however, my mum calls.

"Would you like to tell me why your father is freaking out?"

"M'fine, Mum, I just didn't hear my mobile phone go off. Tell him not to worry."

"You can tell him yourself when we're done talking. How are you?"

"M'great, Mum. I'm having fun out here."

"An' you're where?"

"At Uncle Bobby's. Near the end of 2008, I think. Time sense is a little off."

"When was the last time you slept?" she says in an accusatory tone.

"I've been busy!"

"Ugh, you are too much like your father, sometimes, I swear. Have you at least been eating?"

"Yes, Mother, I've been eating. I lost track of time. Been working on my duffel. Putting handles in an organizing everythin' in it."

"Don't you go anywhere without that duffel."

"I know, Mum. I won't. An' I'll call you if I leave Bobby's."

"Damn right you will! Go give him the phone for me, sweetie, I wanna talk to him."

"Mum," I moan. "You can't just let me be?"

"No, I can't. You're my daughter, Lyra, it's my job to worry about you."

"I know."

"Hey, I love you."

"I love you, too, Mum."

"Go give the phone to Bobby. An' I'll take care of your dad later."

"Okay. Thanks, mum."

"S'no problem, sweetie." I walk back inside, pass Sam and Dean still at the table (Dean with a shirt on).

"Okay, Mum, here he is. I love you." I hand the phone to Bobby.

"Hey, River," he says into the phone. "How's jail?"

"Bobby," I groan. "Don't get 'er started. She'll never shut up."

He taps a button on my mobile, putting her on speaker.

"-are cold, water's drippin' from the ceilin', I got Tased by a Judoon for callin' him a bastard in Galactic Base an' moved to solitary, an' I've been sexually assaulted by the guard on the night shift. On top of that, my husband hasn't visited me in a month!"

"Mum, you are so full of crap," I laugh. "Don't listen to a word she says, Uncle Bobby. That's exactly, word for word what she told me an' Amy last time we talked to her."

"Sweetie, let the adults talk!"

"Yeah, see, an' now she's blowin' me off. Love ya, too, Mum!"

"Go to bed, sweetie!"

Bobby laughs and takes her off speaker. "You two are hilarious."

"M'glad we amuse you, Bobby." I begin ignoring him and head to the fridge, where I have a small container of some chicken and potatoes from earlier today. "You boys can help yourselves, there's tons of food here."

"Yeah? You cook, too, 'cause Bobby can't cook for shit," Dean asks.

"I heard that!"

"Good in the kitchen, shit at cleanin' up after."

"Please tell me you make pie."

I smile as I sit down in between them, my food warmed up and a fork in my hand.

"No pie for you, Dean Winchester. Gotta earn it."

"Dammit, you're gonna make life hard, aren't you?"

"S'my job," I laugh in between bites. Sam, laughing, hops up and walks towards the fridge.

Bobby hangs up my mobile phone and smacks it on the table in front of me.

"What was your mother just telling me about a pill, young lady?" he accuses.

And everything falls silent.

"M'actually not that young anymore, Uncle Bobby-"

"Under my roof, I'm in charge. Answer the question."

Dammit.

"Bobby-"

"Tell me."

"But-"

"Hazel."

I glance at Sam (who's leaning against the counter) and Dean (who's sitting next to me), and back at my 'uncle' with fear in my eyes.

"Trust me, they won't do nothin', kid. Now, you gotta tell me," he says, softer.

I take a deep breath and blow it out.

"It blocks timelines; well, it blocks me seeing them. If I can't see them, I can't act on them, and, more importantly, seeing timelines when you're like me... it's bad."

"Okay, define 'bad'."

"'Bad' as in, uh... well, one incident is okay. Two, and I get a migraine. Three, I can get physically sick. Four, I pass out, and it takes longer than usual for me to wake up. Five in a row, well, I've never gotten that far, but Dad and Owen have a theory."

"Wait a minute, are you saying that you can see timelines?" Dean looks at me with a look of disbelief. "Timelines."

"Yeah," I say in a small voice.

"Don't even think about it," Bobby warns them, pulling me to him.

"Think about what? Uncle Bobby, what are they gonna do?"

"Calm down, Haze, they ain't gonna do nothin'. You've been up for three days straight -don't even try to lie to me about it- and it's late. Why don't you go on up to bed?"

"Fine. Good night."

"Night."

TBC

FYI sexual assault is no joke, and River knows that. She's just bored and, well, River. And she misses the Doctor *two heart emoticon things because ff is dumb and won't let me type them out*

Please review!