NOT ABOUT ANGELS

CHAPTER ONE: ARRIVAL

"I told you," I growled for what felt like the hundredth time, "I. Don't. Know. How this happened."

"Well, ya better start thinking quick, sweetheart," said Dean gruffly, motioning pointedly with his very loaded gun, which just happened to be pointed directly at my face. "Cause time's a tickin'."

"Hey, just...hold up for a second, Dean," Sam gestured cautiously for peace, clearly well schooled in placating his older brother. He eyed my restraints—which did a good job of thoroughly securing me to my chair—with a disgruntled frown and a furrowed brow. "Is this really necessary? She's just a kid..."

"I'm twenty-seven," I snarled at him bluntly. But at his startled look, I lost my bite and just sighed morosely, resigned. "Don't worry about it… I get it all the time. Check my license if you don't believe me. Back pocket."

Looking more intrigued as a counter to Dean's hostility—though I imagine that was only because he hadn't been in the room when I'd slammed through space time right onto the table in front of the eldest Winchester, making him spill hot coffee all over the front of his trousers—Sam gingerly reached around to retrieve my wallet. After a careful observation, he raised both brows and looked at Dean.

"She's telling the truth," he confirmed grimly, taking another glance at the license, before reaffirming a bit dubiously, "Hadley Dent?"

"That's me…" I sighed, tugging at my bonds uselessly. "And that's no relation to the former Gotham District Attorney, I swear." I snorted, "Although this is weird enough for Batman—I honestly would not be surprised if he spontaneously descended from the rafters right about now." I shook my head at them in grim bemusement, "Sam and Dean fucking Winchester…" I eyed Dean's gun darkly. "You might as well just shoot me now. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Wait, what?" Dean's gun dropped slightly in his confusion. "What the hell you talking about, kid?"

"If this is some fucked up dream," I explained, "you shoot me, I wake up. And if it's not, hell, you'll be saving me a lot of misery." At their continued consternation, I elaborated slowly, "Everyone around you...dies. Usually slowly, or in some other horrible, unspeakable way. Sometimes, they even do it more than once." I met their stony stares with one of my own. "I'd like to avoid that, thanks. Just get it over with."

"Hold on," Dean said, slapping his gun on the table beside him, and fixing me with a frustrated look. "No one's dying here until we figure out who, or what, you are, and what the hell just happened."

Sam walked over beside his brother, his determined expression clearly seconding that statement.

"Well, I'm Hadley Dent—born Harriet, but who the hell wants to walk around with a name like that?" I shrugged.

"Like Hadley is much better?" Dean snorted derisively.

I shrugged again with a snort. "Better than being called Harri. Or—what do they call you again? Deano? Like the Flintstones character? Makes sense. I've been getting a real caveman vibe from your general direction..."

I scrunched my nose up at him for good measure.

"Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before," he brushed it off with the same stony face. It was kind of intimidating, which was weird, because I'd never felt intimidated by him on screen before. But I suppose that was to be expected. "Nice try, but this ain't about me. Wanna try telling me what set all the alarms off in this place like Fourth of July fireworks twenty minutes ago? Oh, and how about appearing out of thin air? And let's not forget how you seem to know everything about us!" When I merely glared at him, he exchanged a look with Sam. "What are you thinking? Witch?"

"I'm not a witch," I growled irately, faster than the still disgruntled Sam could reply. "As for your first two questions, like I've already told you, I. Don't. Know." I paused, eyeing them both warily before addressing, "And the third one? Well, that's...complicated."

"We can deal with complicated," Sam assured with a searching look. "Just give us something."

"...Fine," I sighed, closing my eyes in defeat before looking back up at them slowly. "You guys had any weird encounters with an angel named Balthazar in recent days? Specifically, of the alternate reality bending kind?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a heavy, pointed look that told me all I needed to know.

"Yeah…" I said dryly. "I've watched your TV show. A lot."

Total silence.

Sam raked a hand through his hair anxiously, but Dean, I thought, summed up the situation rather eloquently.

"Fuck."

"Yep." I agreed bleakly. "That."

"But...Balthazar's dead," Sam pointed out, making matters ten million times worse.

I slumped, my head falling back in utter exasperation and I repeated the all too appropriate expletive vehemently. Then a thought came to me and I sat back up quickly.

"Gabrielle?" I suggested hopefully.

"Dead," Dean shot down, beginning to pace.

"Fuck!" I groaned loudly, slamming my feet down on the floor, slumping in my seat again, and creasing my eyes shut as desperation began to set in. They flew back open to stare at the hunters accusingly in my mounting rage though, straining at the limits of my bonds as I stretched towards them. "See?! Everyone around you dies! So if you can't find someone to warp me back home, just fucking shoot me now!"

"Hold on," Sam began, "we don't even know how you got here. If we can find the person—or thing—that sent you—"

"Oh, spare me," I snapped. "I've seen the things that happen to people you care about—even those you try to help. And the people like me? The ones you don't give a rat's ass about? Hah! God help them—oh wait!" I went on, bordering on hysteria, "He doesn't give a shit about them either! Hahahah!" When the mirthless, cold laughter tapered off and I was faced with their disturbed and affronted faces, I said seriously, "Take it from me, I'd be much better off with a bullet in my brain than your 'help.' Even if you don't care, even if you've got a hundred better things to be doing, surely you can take the time out of your oh-so-busy schedules for a mercy killing."

Dean snorted and stalked up to lean over the table in front of me with a scowl brewing behind his eyes. "So, what? You got a death wish, is that it?"

I thought about that for a second, thought about home, and life back home, then huffed a bitter little laugh. "Yeah… Yeah, maybe I do."

"Dean—" Sam started, looking alarmed and uneasy, about ready to intervene, but he hesitated.

The elder Winchester just gave me a ten mile stare, before canting his head in a half-shrug and slid his gun over in front of me with a simple, "Okay."

"Wait, Dean," Sam tried again, moving around the table as Dean went to work on jerkily removing the cuffs around my wrists. The way he was acting was beginning to get unnerving.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean dismissed him, unlocking the cuffs and tossing them on the table carelessly.

I took a moment to rub some feeling back into them with a frown, eyeing Dean warily as he continued to stare me down.

"Well?" He gestured towards the pearly handled gun in front of me flippantly. "What'cha waitin' for? Get crackin', kid."

"Dean," Sam said again, more firmly this time.

"What? Kid doesn't want our help. If she wants to die, I say, let her. So go right ahead," he addressed me once again, bitter emotion seeping into his voice. "But I've seen too much death, and I got too much blood on my hands. If you know as much about us as you think you do, you oughta know that. So go on and eat that bullet if that's what you're hungry for, but me?" He held both hands up, shaking his head and backing away slowly with a heated stare. "Don't get me involved."

I looked from him, to the gun, and back again a few times, feeling a sinking sensation in my chest. Slowly, fingers twitching with dread, I reached for the firearm.

"Wait, hey, Hadley—" Sam started to advance on me, but Dean held out an arm in front of him to bar his path.

"Leave it, Sammy," he said grimly.

"Dean, I'm not just going to stand here and—"

"I said," Dean cut him off for a second time, voice deadly serious, "leave it."

My heart was beating out of my chest as my hand closed around the butt of the gun. It took a second to find the safety, but even with untrained fingers I managed to switch it off. It rattled as I raised it up to my temple, which was concerning at first—was there something wrong with the gun?—but then I realized it was my own hand shaking uncontrollably. My finger curled around to rest impossibly light on the trigger…

Do it, my own voice commanded in my head. Get it over with.

How? I wondered desperately. How do I do this?

Just pull the trigger. End it now. It's so easy. You won't even feel a thing. You haven't felt a thing for years, anyway.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, my thoughts running through all the worst things about my life. This mishap? Ending up in another reality? This was just the straw that broke the camel's back. The funny thing about the rest of it, though? It was barely even a blip on people like Sam and Dean's radar. It was nothing to cry about. Normal, day to day problems that everyone dealt with. And sure, I'd grown so distant from friends and family that they barely even existed anymore. I barely existed. That wasn't even the issue. It was the pure mundane, monotony of it all that drove me to the edge. The same thing, day in and day out, isolated, and excruciatingly numb, with no one to share my world with. And now, this. Trapped in a place that spelled almost certain death for someone like me.

What was the point of all this again?

Oh. Right.

Time to get it over with.

I let out a shuddery breath, willing myself to press down on the trigger. The barrel felt like chiseled ice against my skin. I was going to do it. Really. It was long overdue anyway. It had to be done. It wasn't just a selfish indulgence anymore, there was no other option now. Or so I told myself. But then something was nagging at me. Eyes were digging into me, watching, waiting…like it was the exhibition of a century. I couldn't stand it.

Why couldn't I have just one moment of peace? This last moment should feel sacred, private, and...it should belong to me. Just me—no one else. In this moment I should feel like I am the architect of my own destruction; a feeling of triumph when I finally take control of my destiny instead of drifting like flotsam and jetsam, sleepwalking through each and every day that is exactly the same as the one before it with no exception or chance of changing any of it. I was so tired. So, so tired of wishing, and pleading for some kind of release, and now...now I couldn't even have this one thing. Instead of feeling relief...I felt nothing but a deep sinking shame.

With a low, keening cry, it was lucky I still possessed enough sense of mind to switch the safety back on before hurling the gun across the room.

"Hey!" Dean shouted in objection. "Be careful with that thing!"

I was too busy hunched over, sobbing, choking, and dry heaving, rocking my body back and forth with my face in my hands to pay him any attention.

"Great job, Dean," Sam muttered sarcastically, reaching my side as the older Winchester—seeming more concerned with his gun than anything else—went to retrieve his abused firearm.

"Hadley..." he said in his typical sensitive-Sam voice, carefully placing a comforting hand on my shaking shoulder. "We're going to do everything we can to get you back home."

I just shook my head, repeating hysterical broken statements like, "I can't...I can't…I don't...I..."

I still don't know what I meant to say, or what I was more afraid of.

I can't go home.

Or.

I don't want to go home.