#please don't hate

2. Euphoria. During this stage you start to feel really good about yourself. As the drinks start flowing your confidence, talkativeness, and sociality begin to increase. You need to start being careful though. At this point although it maybe fun, your words will start to sound a little funny, your memory of future events will be fuzzy, you will most likely come away with bruises you have no knowledge of getting. 

3. Excitement. It should glaringly evident to everyone around that you are drunk, but due to that fact that they are highly drunk as well it may go unnoticed. What they do notice is your large mood swings from happy to mean to sad all within a matter moments. You somehow obtain even more bruises now. You can't form words and you vision is blurry. You are starting to get sick. You need something to drink and are met with more shot which you gladly down without any hesitancy. Liquid is liquid right?

4. Confusion. You have officially blacked out. You're confused why some told you no more. You disregard them anyways by stealing the bottle sitting on the edge of the counter. Your pain tolerance is out of this world and your auto pilot switch has been turned on, making you feel like an unstoppable force.

5. Stupor. You are a zombie like creature, unable to walk, or breathe. The uncontrollable vomiting burns your throat, eventually you start to choke on the stuff coming up. Your irregular heart beat and seizure will lead to some unconciousness.

Please also note that at this stage you will need medical attention, you are close to the final stages there may be life threatening consequences that will not only affect you.

6. Coma. Everyone thinks you're in a deep sleep because no amount of stimuli will wake you. Someone has the decency to bring you up to your room where you can sleep in off and be fine the next day. In their drunken stupor they are sorely mistaken.

7. Death. This one like sobriety is pretty self explanatory. You stop breathing, your heart stops beating and your lips may turn a cool blue color. This is the end of the line for you.

~

Quinn was supposed to be in charge. He was burdened with being the oldest person in home at the time of the incident. He was probably going to be taking the brunt of the blame for what happened to her. There was an underage kid in a house filled with booze and a dead person. He should have known better. 

Jack invited her. She was his friend first back in New Jersey. He had invited her for the summer with the intention of getting to know her than he already and maybe starting something with her. Out of everyone he felt the most guilty. If it weren’t for him she would have never been there.

Cole wasn’t even supposed to be there. He just happened to be passing through and figured it would fun to catch up with his friends. He like many of the others didn’t know his new friend but he was still there and felt like maybe he could have done more.

Trevor kept giving her drinks. He bought most of the stuff they consumed that night. He was the one playing bartender creating drinks and shots that would have destroyed anyones liver at first glance, but she enjoyed them so he kept them going. Behind Jack he fully believed it he was the one most at fault.

Matt tried to get her to stop drinking earlier in that night. Even in his own drunken state he could tell it was getting out of control for her, and tried to tell her no more. He didn't see when she went behind his back and swiped another bottle of something blue full of liquor. He was the who eventually brought her bed and covered her with a blanket when he felt she was a bit cool to the touch.

Luke found her. He was worried when it was well past the middle of the day and she wasn’t up yet. He shut down when he couldn’t wake her, finding she didn’t have a pulse. He had a very hard time finding telling Quinn what that she needed help. He gave his oldest brother a look that conveyed everything they needed to know, sending everyone running towards her room.

~

“So we’re all in agreement that this isn’t our fault?” Quinn looked at the groups of hockey players surrounding him, most of them nodding in agreement.

“They’re going to find someone to blame.” Luke finally broke his silence that he had been holding for awhile now. “We were all here we are all getting in trouble for this.”

“We’re never going to play in the show again are we?” Cole piped up, sounding quite insensitive at the moment. “They aren’t going to want us anymore.”

“Seriously? That’s all you care about right now? Y/N is dead. We are most likely going to jail. Who fucking cares about hockey now. It’s not important anymore.” A few tears escaped Jacks eyes. 

                             - 9:52 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

John Winchester was headed out of town, eager to return to Sioux Falls to retrieve his boys. The day had been a long one, and he hadn’t had much incentive to sticking around town. The dark of the night settled around his truck, and he relaxed slightly in the driver’s seat. Plenty of open road awaited him, and the drive would take a couple of days, allowing him a couple of stops at bars, and the possibility of some company for a night. He put on some music and allowed his mind to wander.

 A half hour or so later, the ferocity of the wind brought him back. The wind was going crazy, seemingly forming a vortex. Immediately, all traces of relaxation disappeared from John Winchester. He slammed the brakes to avoid the funnel, grabbed his gun, and reached for the door.

 The wind stopped. Leaves and sticks fell to the ground. In the center of it all stood a girl, looking to be somewhere around the age of fifteen. She was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt and scarf. She spun on her heel, absorbing her surroundings. She stopped when her eyes landed on the truck. John took this as his cue to exit said truck, gun hidden beneath his jacket.

 “Hey there,” he said, not wanting to startle her.

 “Hel-” she froze, getting her first good look at him. She sucked a breath in. John hesitated, weighing his next move. Before he came to a decision, a fist connected with his nose. He reeled back, cursing, and pressed a hand to his bleeding nose. Barely giving him a second to process the fact that the punch had been thrown with good technique and with a surprising amount of power, she followed it up with a sidekick. John dodged out of the way and fumbled for his gun. He had barely managed to pull it free when the side of the girl’s foot connected with it, sending the gun flying toward the side of the road. Her foot finished its arc, landing behind her in a fighting stance, only to spring off immediately to round kick him in the head. He blocked it and returned fire with a right hook, which she blocked. He followed the right hook with an uppercut, which she didn’t block. A rush of air left her. John didn’t give her time to recover, using the precious few seconds he had to grab the silver knife from his jacket and slash at her face. She responded quickly, but not quick enough, allowing the knife to slash across her arm. She grimaced at the cut, but didn’t display a worse reaction, which threw John for a loop. Given her mysterious appearance in the middle of the road, the way she had seemed to recognize him, and the immediate, well-coordinated attack, he had expected her to be, well, not human. Still, silver didn’t rule everything out.

 The girl, meanwhile, had retreated to John’s truck and was clutching her injured arm, hissing. She looked up at John warily, evidently expecting an attack. His next actions surprised both him and her. He strode over and held out his hand.

 “The name’s John Winchester. Can I get the name of the chick that just broke my nose?”

 The girl hesitated. She didn’t particularly trust John, but the mere fact that he existed… what harm could telling him her name do anyway?

 “Clara. I’d apologize for the broken nose but it’d be a lie.”

 “OK, Clara, you wanna let me take a look at that arm?”

 “You’re the one who cut it, why should I let you anywhere near it?”

 “I’ve got a med kit?”

 “….Fine.”

 John went around the truck to grab the med kit from the trunk, and also to avoid having the kid see the weapons in the back. A few minutes saw the kid’s arm cleaned and bandaged.

 “Well, I can’t leave you out here. Get in, I’ll take you home.”

 She snorted. “Home? Yeah, good luck with that.”

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “Best to just show you,” she said, climbing into the truck, leaving John to get to the driver’s seat.

 “Where to?”

 “Hmmm? Oh, right,” she paused. “Pocatello, Idaho.”

 John simply nodded and drove, leaving the questioning for later.

                            - 11:38 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

Clara had spent the last hour or so having her entire world turned on its head. She had been kidnapped by a cyclone (of all the clichés!), found by John Winchester, cut by John Winchester, treated by John Winchester, and driven by John Winchester. She’d broken his (John Winchester’s!) nose. She couldn’t stop running his name through her head on repeat, a fair reaction given that an hour ago the man had been a fictional character. She had no regrets about her initial reaction, as she felt wholeheartedly that the man deserved a broken nose, hell, she thought he deserved worse. He was a shitty father, not that great of a husband, and a terrible person in general. She did have some lingering doubts about letting him drive her anywhere. In the end, she figured, she could explain some of the truth, seeing as she likely didn’t legally exist in this universe yet.

She played with the ends of her scarf, nervous about his reaction. A sudden thought hit her, and she immediately zipped up her jacket to hide the Supernatural t-shirt she had on underneath, and tried to subtly rearrange her scarf to hide the slightly modified anti-possession symbols on the ends and the large, all caps “WINCHESTER BROTHERS” on it. John took notice and cranked the heat up.

“Cold?”

“Not anymore. Could we get some tunes?”

John reached behind them and grabbed a cassette tape at random, sliding it in. Zep’s Immigrant Song hit them at full volume, and Clara smirked, thinking of Thor: Ragnorak. The smirk disappeared a second later, when she realized that the MCU had yet to be introduced, much less developed to the point of Ragnorak. She felt slightly faint.

“You okay there?” 

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Perfectly fine. A bit thirsty.”

John took the opportunity to hand her the holy water, a move she had anticipated. She took a sip.

“Tastes a bit odd. Is it from some well in the middle of nowhere?” She drank some more. 

John had been watching her reaction closely, and was a tad bit startled.

“N-No, just a motel.”

He handed her a generously salted sandwich. 

“Here, you must be hungry.”

She took a large bite of it, then paused.

“Thoo much thalt,” she stated, mouth full. Swallowing the mouthful, she continued, “not enough meat.”

 “You’re human,” John blurted, surprised.

 “Well yeah, what’d you expect, three rats in a trench?”

 John forced a laugh.

 “You never know. So, mind telling me why you broke my nose before you even finished sayin’ hello?”

 “Oh, that’s easy. I find myself on a lonely stretch of road in the dark, alone but for a large black truck and a big guy, who judging by his stance, is ex-military, Marine if I had to guess, who is tense, likely trigger happy, and armed, going off of the glint of metal from his belt and the lump in his jacket, so logically, I get him before he can get me. You wouldn’t have been the first guy to jump me, and I learned my lesson pretty quickly after the first two times.”

 John’s mouth was hanging open, something Clara found quite amusing. Her explanation, of course, wasn’t the truth. Well, not the whole truth anyhow. She had been jumped before, and it was distinctly not pleasant. She knew he was an ex-Marine, not from his stance, but from knowledge brought from a totally different universe, from what she could guess.

 “I-I wasn’t going to attack you!” he said defensively.

 “Sure. Better safe than sorry though.”

 As she said that, the black truck rumbled to a stop in front of a no-tell motel. John got out, then turned around and asked, “ya comin’ or what, kid?”

 Clara slid out of the truck, dropping to the ground.

 “Why, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the actual fuck is this thing so high up?”

 “To make you complain. Hurry up, it actually is cold out here.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched into the lobby.

 The poor kid at the desk was awoken by John Winchester’s fist pounding the desk. They got one room, two queens.

 The moment Clara’s head hit the pillows she was out. Or so John assumed. She watched through mostly shut eyes as he methodically checked and cleaned his gun, then salted above the door and the windows. He finally crashed an hour after she’d “gone to sleep”. She waited another half hour, then allowed the darkness to drag her away from the land of the living.

                            - 6:43 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

John Winchester awoke to the smell of coffee and bagels, and the sounds of an unfamiliar person moving about his room. Keeping his eyes shut, he inched his hand under his pillow, reaching for the familiar weight of his gun.

 And found nothing.

 A voice cut through the slight panic in his mind.

 “Looking for this?”

 John opened his eyes to see a fifteen year old girl standing above him, holding his gun. The events of the previous night came rushing back. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat up, reaching out a hand to take the gun back. She set it in his palm, reached behind herself, and presented a cup of coffee.

“No idea how you take it, but I figured you might need some if we were gonna get an early start.”

 “Two things: I take it with two creams, no sugar, and how’d you pay for this?”

 “Noted, and I borrowed some money from your wallet. Drink up, I got you a bagel, you can eat it on the way.”

 “…On the way to what exactly?”

 “To show you that I don’t exist yet, genius.”

 John had yet to drink the coffee, and thus did not really process her words or the fact that he was being bossed around by a teenaged girl.

 Twenty minutes saw John caffeinated, fed, and in the truck on the way to Clara’s high school to get at the student records. It was at this point that he remembered her nonsensical statement.

 “What the hell do you mean you don’t exist yet?”

 “Oh. Um. Right. So while I was out this morning, I grabbed the paper. The date’s the 4th of June, 1996.”

 “Yeah, and?”

 She sucked in a breath. “And I was born February 3, 2005.”

 Silence.

 “Come again?”

 “I was born Feb-”

 “No, I heard you. I just don’t see how that’s possible.”

 “Hey, I assume you saw that cyclone. It pulled me out of May 2020, on the road out of Pocatello.”

 “And you aren’t freaking out why, exactly?”

 “I watch a very weird tv show.”

 “So we’re going to your high school why?”

 “To show you I’m not on the records. But you’ll likely find Daddy Dearest on there.” The way she said “Daddy Dearest” was full of bitterness and loathing. John stored that away for later.

 “Right.”

 They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Upon arriving at the school, both of them slipped seamlessly into their roles. John, a tired single father, and Clara, his smart but shy daughter. The principal let them into her office, asking them a multitude of questions regarding their supposed move, Clara’s previous education, John’s job, their home situation, Clara’s fictional deceased mother. Fortunately for them, they both had plenty of experience lying on their toes. The moment the principal left to deal with a fight that Clara had set up on her way in by stealing one kid’s lunch and putting it in another kid’s bag, they were out of their seats, searching for the records. Clara started rifling through the drawers, while John seated himself in front of the computer. Four minutes later, John was clicking through student records and Clara was standing behind him.

 “No Claras in here.”

 “Probably because that’s a fake name. Try Rachel Fusson.”

 “No Rachels, but there are a whole slew of Fussons. Currently enrolled are Owen and Daniel.”

 “Owen’s the old man.”

 Footsteps told of the principal’s approach. John quickly exited the file and shut the computer down, while Clara scrambled to close all the cabinets. They both slid into their seats a moment before she opened the door and attempted to look innocent. The principal apologized for the interruption and continued her interrogation. It took them half an hour to escape her clutches.

                             - 8:36 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

Clara had woken that morning drenched in a cold sweat. Upon realizing that there was no immediate danger, she had relaxed and turned to the clock. 4:22 AM. The fuck was she supposed to do at 4 AM? She glanced to her right and saw another occupied bed. John Winchester. Right. She was no longer in the middle of a global pandemic, nor was she anywhere close to her home universe. She wasn’t terribly upset about being pulled out of a world where she couldn’t hug her friends, or even really see them. She also wasn’t terribly upset about being yanked away from her relatives, seeing as they were fairly dedicated to beating her down in every way possible. They had belittled her, toyed with her emotions, and, depending on the “transgression”, beat her. She did, however, miss her friends, her pets, and her girlfriend. Fuck. What would they think had happened? A snore jolted her out of her thoughts.

 “Focus,” she hissed to herself.

 First order of business: coffee and food. She got up, putting 15 years of sneaking into use to grab John’s wallet, his gun, and her shoes. She slipped out the front door and went in search of a coffee shop. Half an hour of wandering brought her to a hole-in-the-wall run by a guy wearing more layers than a Winchester and sporting a mustache the size of Texas. She bought two cups of coffee, two bagels, and the paper. She grabbed a couple of cups cream and some sugar for John, and headed back to the motel. She’d downed half her coffee and most of her bagel (and made her bed) when he started inching his hand toward his pillow in search of his gun. She made her way over to him.

 Second order of business: get some food and coffee into John Winchester and then get him to the high school to show him the records and prove her case about being from 2020. She grinned at the panicked expression on the hunter’s face at finding no gun, holding up said gun and asking him if he was looking for it. Another half hour saw them safely arrived at the school, with John informed of her current predicament. Knowing they’d need a distraction, she put the shipper eyes to work, immediately spotting two boys with so much unresolved sexual tension between them that it’d turned to animosity from what she could see. She nabbed the taller one’s lunchbox, slipping it into the other one’s backpack. She hoped they’d get their heads out of their asses soon, but not soon enough to unravel her plan (everyone who said shipping was a waste of time and energy could suck it).

 After the principal left, Clara sprung for the drawers, having no idea how to work the old computer (John really wasn’t much better). She scanned through the files, seeing detention slips, complaints, and write-ups, but no records.

 “Hey.” John had found the records.

 Forty-five minutes later, they were back at the motel.

 “Okay, so lemme get this straight-” started John.

 Clara snorted. “Good luck with that.”

 John squinted, not getting it. He continued, “you were born in 2005, you came from the year 2020, and you can fight better than a lot of the “professionals” I know. Who the fuck are you, Clara? Or should I call you Rachel?”

 “Let’s stick with Clara. I’m just a kid from Pocatello. I can fight, because, like I said, I’ve been jumped before. Once was enough, so I learned to fight so next time I wouldn’t be helpless. Why are you taking the time travel thing so well? You didn’t freak out, just questioned the hows and whys.”

 “I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit, kid.” With that, he stood up and started packing the few things he’d unpacked the night before.

 Clara sat and watched him, having nothing of her own to pack.

 “Let’s go,” said John, moving out the door.