Chapter 3:

A Road Trip from Hell with a Tour Guide from Heaven

"Alfred Jones, if you change the radio station one more time I am kicking you out of this car. Literally kicking, mind you. As in I will shove you out of that door while we are speeding down this highway at top speed-"

"Rosa! Wrong side of the road!"

"Who asked you, Amelia?"

"SHUT UP, ROSA, LOOK AT THE ROAD!"

"ACK! HOLY SHIT! WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD!"

"Fine, fine, I'll drive like you American wankers."

Both said American wankers in the passenger seats breathed deep sighs of relief. "Who's dumb idea was it to let the European drive?" a very sleep-deprived Amelia grumbled. The last twenty-four hours of forced wakefulness had managed to deflate, decompose and destroy her usually peppy spirit.

"Uh, well, I think that was me," Alfred, often referred to as 'America' said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Lazy American berk," Rosa (typically called 'Britain' by those who, unlike her American companions, bothered to be intimidated by her identity as a country) grouched at him, her tone gentle and teasing, despite the harsh phrasing.

"Well, I was emotionally compromised!" America said defensively.

"He's my brother, Alfred, if anyone is going to be emotionally compromised by his kidnapping, I think it would be me," Britain pointed out.

Amelia, who could be called the United States, or perhaps Lady Liberty, but didn't like fancy titles and generally preferred the name 'Amelia', sighed at the two of them. Concern for Arthur, or 'England' as he insisted on being called, twisted in her stomach. She began to chew on her thumbnail. It was a terrible habit she thought she had broken when she was a child. Apparently this new problem had pushed her into resuming the unpleasant habit.

America disrupted her train of thought. "No, not that! I'm as concerned for Iggy as the next person-"

Not as worried as I am. Not by a long shot. Amelia thought uncharitably at him. The knots in her stomach tightened. She tried not to imagine what sort of horrible things could have happened to her friend, could be happening to him right now…

America was still talking. As usual, the words he was spitting out were rather absurd. "No, the season finale of 'Doctor Sexy, M.D' was on last night and Doctor Sexy and that sexy-but-earnest female doctor decided to do that surgery on sexy-but-driven doctor's comatose husband. Y'know, the one that could save him, but could also wipe his memory of the last few years? It's an even more compelling plot-line because the husband turns out to be Doctor Sexy's long-lost half-brother who stands in the way of his passionate love for-"

"ALFRED STOP BEING AN INCONSIDERATE-!" at this point, Amelia and Britain, who had been speaking in unison, split off into hurling two different insults at the American. Amelia opted to go for the universally degrading "ass-hat" while Britain chose the slightly more refined (or at least more exotic) "wanker."

America looked wounded, "I was only trying to lighten the mood, take your minds off of things…"

Britain huffed. Amelia could practically see the thoughts drifting through the other woman's blonde head. They mostly ran along the lines of 'why the hell am I dating this arse-hole?' Amelia could also see the moment where Britain came to the grudging conclusion that America really was doing his best to keep their spirits up, albeit through slightly trashy hospital soap-operas.

"Alfred, just don't talk, love."

America's face crumpled even more. He looked like a puppy that had been left out in the rain. After about a minute he broke the silence. His voice was serious for once. Amelia could sense the shift in her brother's mood. The forced cheer dropped from his shoulders, leaving only a shadow of his usual manic energy. "Do you really think you can find Iggy, Rosa? I get that you guys have a bond, but I can barely find Amelia half the time when we're in the same house…"

Britain sighed and reached a gentle hand out to cup Alfred's cheek. "Don't worry, love," she said, stroking his cheek with the pad of her thumb, "Arthur and I have been a nation for a thousand years. There are things that come with age. One of those is a very tight bond. Our magic just makes it a more tangible bond. One that I can use to track the git."

America smiled and leaned into Britain's touch. "Thank you, Rosa. He's my best friend, and this is kind of my fault."

Amelia sighed, resisting the urge to gnaw at her already ragged thumbnail. It was both of their faults. They had accidentally printed out the wrong information about England's arrival time and thought he wouldn't be coming until the next day. It wasn't until Amelia checked her voicemail the next morning that she realized just how much she and America had screwed up. In a rush of panic they had asked Britain if she had any idea what had happened to the absent England. She too was in a state of panic, having received a garbled version of England's kidnapping in the form of a semi-prophetic dream. Without a thought, they grabbed the keys, left the Canadian siblings in charge of the house and drove off on a half-baked rescue mission.

They sat in silence, America occasionally expressing his tension by humming the 'Doctor Sexy, M.D' theme song. He didn't stop until Amelia kicked the back of his seat (bastard had called shotgun). They drove on. An hour or so passed. Amelia had almost dozed off, eyelids slowly drifting closed almost against her will when suddenly…

Thud. CRASH!

Something slammed into the side of their car, throwing them all to the side as they began to swerve, the car's body crunching and bending as whatever was attacking them beat at them over and over again. Pops and cracks resounded through the increasingly cramped cabin, punctuated by all three nations' vivid cursing. A purple light began to twist and bend around Britain's body as she began chanting in a dark, mysterious language. Suddenly whatever was harassing them drew back, an echoing roar enveloping them in response to Britain's spell-casting efforts. Black smoke swirled outside the car, visible through the tiny slivers of window-glass left un-cracked by the barrage.

Britain's purple light flickered and dimmed. Amelia, losing patience and realizing that they were losing time, yelled at her brother, "Alfred! Emergency brake!"

"Gotcha!" he bellowed back, yanking the brake, riding out the spinning and swerving as the car struggled to adjust to the sudden decrease in speed.

Once they stopped, Amelia kicked open her door, her supernatural strength taking the door clean off. She jumped out of the car and was suddenly surrounded by a thick fog of black smoke, the misty depths punctuated with flashes of angry, tormented red light. Sullen purple patches rose and fell within the cloud, fading and re-growing like strange, massive bruises.

She growled, "You asked for it," and reached into the depths of her bomber jacket. This was not an ordinary leather jacket. This had been a gift from England for her last birthday. It was enchanted. In a rare burst of magical competence, England had bespelled her jacket to provide her with an endless supply of whatever food she wanted. She normally wanted junk food. England frequently complained that she was using her gift for evil. The irritated, slightly offended look he would shoot her was just too cute. It made him look like a small, irritated cat. Needless to say, Amelia's bomber produced almost exclusively fast food.

What Amelia pulled from her jacket would go down in history as one of the weirdest weapons ever used to combat the forces of hell. She grabbed a super-sized order of McDonald's fries and chucked them, cardboard container and all, at the angry shadow. It wailed, the black smoke shredding and dissolving wherever the salt-laden fried potatoes touched it.

"Great idea, sis!" America shouted over the sound of the creature wailing. He pulled a baseball-bat-sized fry from the inside of his jacket. His jacket's food-producing properties were the result of his jealousy over Amelia's improved clothing. Wanting a similarly awesome bomber, America had invaded England and Britain's magic library and tried some enchanting of his own. It did not work quite right. As a result America's jacket's food-spawning abilities could be a bit… warped.

America began merrily bashing at the shadow-thing with his fry-bat. Amelia kept pulling containers of fries from her own jacket and hurling them at the creature. Britain struggled out of the car and resumed chanting, using the breathing space created by Amelia, America and their sodium-rich diets to get a better grip on her magic.

It was all going swimmingly until the shadow picked Britain up and hurled her into America, knocking him to the ground and the fry-bat out of his hands. Britain went silent. America lost his weapon, the fry-bat promptly crushed in a furious kamikaze strike from a particularly irate scrap of demon-smoke. Both of the incapacitated nations lay unmoving on the pavement. That left Amelia as the last defense. Somehow she didn't think that her improvised weapons were quite up to the job. Still hurling her super-sized fries at the darkness, she did something she almost never did. She prayed. It was a pretty shoddy, grudging and half-assed prayer, all things considered. But it was a prayer and it was heartfelt. In its own irreverent way. Dean Winchester would have been proud. Castiel, angel of the Lord, would have been disapproving. Sam Winchester would have been long-suffering (but there is not much stock to be put into this fact, though. It is common knowledge that Sam Winchester is always long-suffering).

"Um, I'm not sure how to do this… but… uh, now I lay me down to sleep? Nah, now I try to kick this creepy-ass shadow's butt. I pray the Lord to give me a hand here because things aren't looking too good. Your love and hopefully some kick-ass backup be with me until this shadow-thing's gone. And um, yeah, feel free to wake me with the morning light. It's all good. Amen?" Amelia did not have much faith in the prayer she had just uttered.

She did not really expect anything to happen. As far as she could tell from most religious leaders, God's intervention in your life is not supposed to be literal intervention. It's more of a 'here I'll help you help yourself' type thing. No religious leader had prepared her for the sudden appearance of an angel. Much less a short, slightly scruffy, skinny dude sucking on a lollipop and looking like he could use a haircut. He scanned the swirling, furious mass of darkness and whistled low and long.

"Wow-za, sister. It's is a good thing I was tuned into angel radio. That is one nasty mother."

"You're an angel?" Amelia raised an eyebrow, "Did God fire the guy in charge of quality-control or something?"

"Whoa, princess. I didn't do anything to you! And be glad you got me, I'm the fun angel! It could be worse, you could be having a really awkward conversation with a grumpy dude in a trenchcoat right now. But nooo, you got me and I brought candy! But none for you, because you're being rude."

Amelia gave a little snarl and hurled a particularly massive order of fries at the tendril of smog that attempted to sneak up on her and wrap itself around her middle.

The angel's eyes lit up. "FRENCH FRIES! Now we're in business!" he cracked his knuckles, spitting out his lollipop stick. Shaking out his hands he glowered up at the eye of the smoke-storm.

"Hey, laaadiiiieeesss. Lovely ladies! Beautiful ladies! Three Witchy Ladies! Is this really necessary? If you keep screwing around down here I'll have to do something about it. Just desserts and all." He tipped his head to the side as if listening to a response. His face twisted into an irritated expression, "Screw preemptive strike! This is just pathetic. No style, no flair. Just ham-handed attack and run. Pathetic. Now run along so I can go crush you later. Yes, crush. Your nonsense disrupted my lunch. I was having dinner and a show, thank you. Watching a guy get chased down Main Street by a hoard of angry clowns is always fun. Especially when you created the clowns. Parental pride and all. Not to mention… just desserts." The last two words were spoken with such menace Amelia almost forgot how small and insignificant the man had looked. He was a true angel. There was no mistaking it. Just a rather… unconventional one.

He unwrapped another lollipop, listening to what must the response.

His eyes glowed. Apparently the answer was not all he had hoped for. With an angry gesture, the lollipop he had been preparing to eat disappeared, replaced by a shining sliver sword. A single sweep of the blade, a flash of light. Amelia blacked out.

The next thing she knew she was being splashed with Coca-Cola by an irritated angel. "Get up, get up," he demanded.

Groaning, Amelia sat up, only to have a hand stuck in her face. She peered groggily up at the angel's face. He grinned sunnily at her. "You promised me fries. And if you're gonna be telling me about why the hell Macbethean Three Witches are off the stage and in the world, I think I deserve to go super-size."

Amelia sighed and handed over the fries. He fell on the proffered food like a hungry jackal, only pausing once between bites to grumble, "By the way, I'm Gabriel."

Author's Note: Wow, it's been awhile since I updated. Last week was Thanksgiving here in the States and I was busy. Lots of stuff happening now that the holidays are here. I'm considering doing some Christmas one-shots for either Supernatural or Hetalia…

Anywho, here's this chapter. This was mostly about catching up with Rosa and the Americas, plus Gabriel and some of the Witches' powers needed to be introduced. May I say now, I love Supernatural's Gabriel. He is hilarious. I know that according to canon he should be dead by this point, but I'm kind of defying canon timeline for this fic. Just think of it as an AU which exists outside of the timeline.

PLEASE REVIEW! I see that people visit this story, but I like knowing what you all think about it. Hearing from people makes my day, it really does. See you next chapter!