Chapter 2

Then:

When we finally land at Baltimore, people stumble out of the plane, looking shaken and terrified. I make to follow them - anything's better than having Sam and Dean glaring at me murderously - but a rough calloused hand grabs my arm just before I make it out of the gateway. I yelp in pain and turn to see Dean staring at me with hard green eyes.

"Start talkin', kid."

Well, crap.

Now:

I swallow and instinctively tug my arm, trying to loosen Dean's grip. He holds on tightly, still glaring at me.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarls and I see Sam looming over his shoulder. His expression seems a little less accusatory than his brother's, but still wary, but it's reassuring all the same. Ironic, since I had professed to disliking Sam all throughout the show so far.

"A-Ariel. My name's Ariel Evans," I stammer.

"Great." Dean shoves my arm away at last and I rub at the sore spot, which would definitely bruise. "As if freakin' Satan isn't bad enough, now we've got the little mermaid on our tail."

I cringe at the nickname. "For the record, I hate that movie."

"How do you know us?" Sam asks at last, his hands in his pockets as he surveys me curiously.

"Uhh." That's a good question. It's not as if I can tell them that they're the heroes of my favorite television show. "The...books?" I try, grasping at straws.

Dean groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "I'm gonna kill Chuck."

Well, at least he hasn't called me out on my lie.

Sam is still watching me suspiciously. "You read the books?"

"Skimmed them," I correct, hoping the excuse will give me enough leeway to make mistakes in details while speaking - hey, it's not like I've memorized every instant of the show, I'm not even finished with the fifth season - before adding quickly, "Look, I don't know where I am, or why I'm here. I was in New Jersey just a couple of hours ago, in my second year at Rutgers University." Sam winces slightly in sympathy and I remember that he never finished his schooling at Stanford. "I just want to go home."

Dean's eyes narrow as he studies me briefly before glancing back at Sam. Sam shrugs back at him helplessly and Dean comes to a decision, turning to me. "You're comin' with us."

"What?" I squeak in surprise as his hand claps down on the back of my neck, steering me forward through the airport terminal. "You can't just kidnap me in the middle of an airport!"

"Can and will," Dean replies mock-cheerfully.

"I'll scream," I threaten and Dean pinches the back of my neck slightly. I stifle a yelp of pain.

"No, you won't."

Damn it, he's called my bluff.

"You're safer with us," Sam consoles me as I shoot him a betrayed look. "We don't know how much you know about us, but if you did read the books, you know that monsters are real."

"I thought you weren't real until now!" I complain.

Patiently, Sam continues as if I haven't interrupted. "They'd kill you for that information, and we want to keep you safe."

"So you can get your own information from me," I grumble.

"Right in one," Dean snarks. I step on his foot and smirk when he grunts in pain. "Here, take the kid and stay put." He shoves me at Sam, who catches my shoulder gently and squeezes it reassuringly. "I'm gonna get us a car so we can head back to get the Impala." Sam nods, avoiding Dean's gaze as the older Winchester heads off to the car rental booth without another word.

"You okay?" Sam asks me quietly and I shake my head, sinking into a plastic seat nearby. Sam sits down next to me, still holding my shoulder lightly.

"I want to go home," I repeat, my voice quivering.

"I know. I'm sorry." The warmth of his palm is comforting against my shoulder, and I'm surprised that I ever disliked his character. I swipe my sleeve across my eyes as they sting and Sam's grasp tightens briefly. "Please don't cry." He sounds a little nervous at the thought and I can't help but grin through my tears.

"Crying girls scare you?"

"There's no off button for them," he tells me with a weary smile, as if it's taking a lot of effort to simply crack the joke. I find myself chuckling all the same, relaxing despite my bizarre situation.

The levity doesn't last long, for Dean returns within the minute, a key in his hand.

"Let's go." His expression's grim and Sam's faint smile vanishes, replaced with a guilty frown. He nods, grasping my shoulder as we stand and follow Dean to the rental parking lot.

It doesn't escape me that I still have my backpack on my shoulders, so it's with relief that I rummage through the contents in the backseat of the rental car once we're on the road.

My textbooks are still there, as is my purse that I'd kept inside to protect it from the rain and snow. I pull out my cellphone, turning it on, and to my relief, there's three bars of signal.

I dial my home phone number and press "Call" before holding the phone to my ear. It doesn't even ring.

Instead, an automated voice says calmly, "The number you are trying to reach is out of service. Please check for any mistakes in the number you have dialled and try again."

I do exactly that, now steadily beginning to panic. The same message greets me and I shove the phone back into my bag, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I look up and catch Sam giving me a sorrowful glance, clearly having witnessed the entire scene.

I force a weak smile back at him - the poor guy looks even more miserable than he had been on the plane - before pulling out my purse fully to check its contents. My Rutgers identification card is still intact, as is my driver's license.

Wait a minute. The fifth season of Supernatural doesn't take place in 2013.

"What's the date?" I ask abruptly.

Dean starts abruptly before answering shortly, "September. The seventh."

"And the year?" I ask warily, my heart sinking. It had been the fourth of February when I had left my world.

"2009," Dean says slowly, as if I'm an idiot.

Damn it, I haven't even graduated high school in this world? Screw everything.

"Right," I say dumbly, "So where are we going?"

"Ilchester. To get our car." Dean glares at me in the rearview mirror. "You gonna keep asking questions, kid?"

"If it gets me answers," I retort, sounding much braver than I feel as my brain finally chooses to remind me that I'm sitting in a car with professional murderers.

"You don't want answers," Sam replies with a tired smile at me, "Trust me."

Surprisingly, I do, so I subside into silence obediently. Dean flicks on the radio.

"-and Governor O'Malley urged calm, saying it's very unlikely an abandoned convent would be a target for terrorists, either foreign or homegrown." Both Winchesters tense.

"Change the station," Dean commands and Sam does so quickly.

"-Hurricane Kinley, unexpectedly slamming into the Galveston area-"

"-announced a successful test of the North Korean nuclear-"

"-a series of tremors-"

"-swine flu-"

Sam finally just switches off the radio and sighs heavily. "Dean, I-"

"Don't say anything." Dean's voice is harsh as his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. There's an awkward silence, which Dean finally breaks by adding a little more gently, "It's okay. We've just gotta keep our heads down and hash this out."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agrees quietly at last. It's like they've forgotten I'm here, which I don't mind. It's better than being on the end of another Dean-glare.

"All right, well, first things first. How did we and Little Miss Mouthy back there end up on Soul Plane?" I scoff, insulted, and settle for glowering at the back of Dean's spiky head.

"Angels, maybe?" Sam suggests. "Beaming us out of harm's way?"

"Well, whatever, it's the least of our worries. We need to find Cas." I have to suppress a squeal at that, because Castiel is honestly one of my favorite Supernatural characters.

Not to mention I ship him and Dean shamelessly. I mean, really, who doesn't?

It's probably better that I keep that to myself, though. Dean looks like he wants to strangle me even when I don't say anything stupid.

Another hour and we're in the Impala, with me inwardly fangirling the entire time, this time headed to Chuck's house. I really hope Chuck doesn't give me away, but at the same time, I'm distracted by the classic car we're in now. It's a little hard to believe Dean had rebuilt the Impala from scratch only a few years earlier, but I can see a little army man toy crammed messily into the ashtray and the carved initials DW and SW into the leather interior of the car.

Some things would never leave the car, no matter how many times one rebuilt it.

Dean sees me admiring the inside of the car and quirks a smile at last.

"You like my baby, I'm guessing."

Taking the opening, I nod and add, "I don't know much about cars, but I know a beautiful car when I see one." Dean nods, as if I've passed some sort of secret test, and Sam gives me an amused look.

"Kiss-ass," he teases me lightly and I look appropriately offended.

"I'll have you know that I begged my mom for a '67 Impala once I got my license."

He snorts. "Yeah? And what did your mom do?"

I grimace. "She gave me our old Toyota Camry instead."

"A Toyota," Dean repeats, sounding scandalized at the very thought.

"I know," I sigh.

When we finally arrive at Chuck's house two hours later - how do the Winchesters stand these car trips daily? - we're all tired and irritated and eager for answers.

Too bad Chuck's house looks like it's destroyed when we open the unlocked door.

"Holy crap," I say, stunned by the damage, "Looks like a bomb went off in here." It hadn't seemed nearly this bad on the show.

Dean shushes me - he's had enough experience with that in the past few hours - before stepping into the house. Sam places an arm around my shoulders as he leads me inside, holding me close to his side. Water drips from the ceiling as we carefully step over broken plaster and wood all over the floor. Something creaks behind us and we whirl around simultaneously, but nothing stirs behind us. We trudge on through the house.

Abruptly, something large swings towards Sam, whacking him on the head. He stumbles away from me, clutching at his head.

"Jeez! Ow!"

"Sam?" Our attacker, a wiry man holding a plunger above his head like a mace, lowers said "weapon" slowly, looking confused.

"Yes!" Sam snaps, more out of pain than actual anger, as he rubs his head.

"Hey, Chuck," Dean greets cheerfully.

"So...you're okay?" Chuck glances at all of us, his pale blue eyes lingering the longest on me. I huddle back against Sam's side nervously.

"Well, my head hurts," Sam says dryly.

"No, I-I mean, my...my last vision. You went, like, full-on Vader. Your body temperature was one-fifty, your heart rate was two hundred. Your eyes went black." Sam's arm around my shoulders tighten defensively.

"Your eyes went black?" Dean echoes and Sam turns towards him, his expression hurt.

"I didn't know."

I hesitate before tugging Sam's sleeve. If I'm going to play dumb past the third season, I'm going to have to ask more questions. "What's he talking about?" Sam looks back down at me, his hurt fading into resignation as he shakes his head.

"Later, Ariel."

"And you." Chuck points at me. "I saw you, too, here and now. But you were all...fuzzy."

"Fuzzy?" I snort. "I know I'm adorable, if that's what you mean."

"No, no, it was like...like a television with only half a signal. The picture's full of static and blurred around the edges."

I'm not sure what that means, so I revert back to sarcasm. "What can I say? I'm a girl of many mysteries."

"Yeah, apparently." Dean's watching me now, his eyes narrowed once more. "She says she read your books."

"I am so sorry," Chuck apologizes immediately, turning to me.

While I haven't actually read the books, I feel sorry for the self-deprecating author and reassure him, "They weren't bad. Sure, the writing itself could use a little work, but the story was compelling." I'm running purely on things mentioned in the show, so I'm relieved when Chuck relaxes enough to give me a grateful smile.

"Where's Cas?" Dean cuts in and Chuck looks back at him.

"He's dead. Or gone. The archangel smote the crap out of him." Seeing Dean's stricken expression, the prophet adds, "I'm sorry."

"You sure? I mean, maybe he just vanished into the light or something," Dean says hopefully.

"Oh, no. He, like, exploded. Like a water balloon of chunky soup."

I grimace at the vivid imagery. "Chuck. Too much info."

"Oh." Chuck looks appropriately chastised.

"You got a-" Sam gestures vaguely at Chuck's ear and the prophet reaches into his own hair, pulling out a bloody tooth.

"Oh, God. Is that a molar? It is," he confirms his own question. "I've got a molar in my hair. This has been a really stressful day." Awkwardly, I pat his shoulder.

"Cas, you stupid bastard," Dean hisses to the empty air, his voice wounded.

"Stupid?" Sam turns to Dean. "He was trying to help us."

"Yeah, exactly." Dean turns a broken gaze on Sam.

"So what now?"

"I don't know."

"You guys done exchanging meaningful looks yet?" I pipe up, earning a mild glare from Sam and a more intense glare from Dean.

"Oh, crap," Chuck says suddenly, "I can feel them."

"Thought we'd find you here." The new voice right behind me causes me to spin around and yelp at the sudden appearance of three newcomers, the bald one in the front having been the speaker. I scramble back to hide behind Sam, who clutches me to his side protectively. "Playtime's over, Dean," the bald man continues, "Time to come with us."

"You just keep your distance, asshat," Dean snarls, pointing at him warningly.

"You're upset." The man tilts his head slightly, clearly mocking Dean.

"Yeah. A little. You sons of bitches jump-started Judgment Day!"

"Maybe we let it happen. We didn't start anything. In fact, we even brought you help." The man looks at me and I tighten my hold on Sam's jacket. "Hi, there, Ariel. I don't think we've met. I'm Zachariah."

"She doesn't care," Dean interrupts, stepping between us, and I'm grateful for the loss of eye contact. Zachariah is creepy, and the fact that he's powerful enough to yank me across a dimension for his own morbid amusement makes me both angry and terrified.

"Point is, you had a chance to stop your brother and you didn't." Sam ducks his head, ashamed, and I huddle closer to him. "So let's not quibble over who started what. Let's just say it's all our faults and move on. 'Cause like it or not, it's Apocalypse Now. And we're back on the same team again."

"That so?" Dean raises an eyebrow.

"You want to kill the Devil. We want you to kill the Devil. It's...synergy." I make a note to look that word up at some point.

"And I'm just supposed to trust you?" Not waiting for Zachariah's response, Dean snaps, "Cram it with walnuts, ugly!"

"This isn't a game, son," Zachariah says, his smile fading slightly, "Lucifer is powerful in ways that defy description. We need to strike now, hard and fast...before he finds his vessel."

"His vessel?" I pipe up, frowning.

"Lucifer needs a meat suit?" Sam adds, which partially answers my question.

"He is an angel. Them's the rules." I then remember Pamela Barnes, and her blindness after having witnessed Castiel's true form. Vessels allow angels to walk the Earth, I finally recall. "And when he touches down, we're talking Four Horsemen, red oceans, fiery skies, the greatest hits. You can stop him, Dean, but you need our help."

"You listen to me, you two-faced douche." I'm starting to remember why Dean's my favorite. "After what you did, I don't want jack squat from you!"

"You listen to me, boy! You think you can rebel against us? As Lucifer did?" Zachariah's gaze drops to Dean's clenched fist, which is dripping blood. "You're bleeding."

"Oh, yeah. A little insurance policy in case you dicks showed up." Dean tugs on a sliding door and slams his palm over the bloody sigil inscribed there. It shines with white light and the room goes white for a moment. I shut my eyes and when I open them, Zachariah and his angel flunkies are gone. "Learned that from my friend, Cas, you son of a bitch!" Dean calls towards the ceiling.

"Freaking ninja," I croak, staring at Dean, "When'd you draw that?" I don't recall ever seeing Dean cut his hand or draw a sigil, but he merely shrugs and gives me a smirk.

"This sucks ass," Chuck summarizes all our feelings.

Hopefully this story will pick up the pace once Sympathy for the Devil is out of the way. For reasons obvious to those who know me, I'm eager to get to Changing Channels, but I have to be patient and trudge my way through slowly.

People have asked me if I've based Ariel off myself and I will answer this by saying "in part." For example, she and I do both go to the same university, and are the same age, but while I am completely caught up with Supernatural (and have memorized a crap ton more in terms of details), Ariel is still near the end of Season Five, and doesn't remember tiny things like the douchebag angel's name - Zachariah - or specific things that happen in an episode. I find it will allow for a lot more spontaneity than "This will happen and I know it because I watch the show, herp-de-derp."

Again, I don't plan to make her a Mary-Sue by using some of my own details to shape her, and if I accidentally make her just that, I DEPEND ON YOU TO WARN ME.

(God, I hope that ramble made sense. I'd hate to have to type it out again in layman's terms.)

Reviews are good. Constructive criticism is our friend. Give it for free by typing it into that little text box below. Right down there. C'mon. You can do it.