Part I

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The first time America and England met the Winchesters was in a rowdy roadside bar somewhere in Nebraska.

Vacationing with America through the back roads of his country consisted of mostly two things, sunburns and severe headaches and this one would be no different— England figured as he sat on a sticky booth across his boyfriend, sipping the tasteless piss America dubbed beer. He also had rope burns on both his palms and a bruised wrist, which were acquired in the most unpleasant and unsexiest of fashions. His feet were swollen inside of his combat boots and his neck stung with what he figured was some sort of burn caused by the constant chaffing of his collar. In short, England was not a happy camper. He had voted on just taking a damn plane to Washington but the overzealous American had insisted they drive there. Also, screw the highway; he wanted to take the scenic view.

Two hours after they arrived in Nebraska and America's pickup truck dove nose first into a ditch, both countries ended up in an old rundown bar which had taken a good hour to reach on foot. They were both tired and more than a little cranky, but not even that could dampen America's mood as he pushed the buttons to the old looking jukebox across the bar. The costumers became louder, all trying to speak above the blaring music and casting the young man pointed looks, some in annoyance and others on a less than modest level.

America amped his grin, all honest and giddy as he made his way to the counter, ordering another two beers. He ignored the few dozen pairs of eyes who kept seizing him up like some sort of deer about to be mounted on a wall as he waited for the young blonde lady to get him his drinks. Rowdy or not, the bar felt off. It reminded America too much of the World Summit back in New York, all business like and stern with the occasional brawl. This wasn't the kind of atmosphere one would expect in the middle of nowhere, where mullets reigned and flannel was the suit of choice.

"Here you go, handsome." The young lady flashed him a nice smile, she looked a little too young to be working at a place like that, but America could understand. Times were rough, so the buck was welcomed either way. All of that aside, though, the place seemed like a family owned place. She was probably the owner's daughter.

"Ah, thanks. Hey, I was wondering-" America didn't really notice it when his voice took on a bit of a southern drawl as he leaned against the counter, it had been a while since he used it. "Is there a place nearby we could spend the night? I mean, not you and me, like, a friend of mine... and me." He was quick to fix what he meant with a goofy grin when another woman loomed behind the young girl, not looking too friendly. America mildly gestured to England sitting at their booth, absently staring out the window with an empty bottle in his hand. "Our car broke down and there's a good chance my brother won't be able to make it here before morning."

The older woman leaned on the counter, staring hard at him as if she was trying to figure something out, read something; he felt genuinely creeped. "You won't make it anywhere before dark, kid. I could call you up a ride someplace but it's gonna cost ya' with these folks." Her voice was deep, hardened, something that surprised him. America nodded though, his smile never wavering as he pushed his glasses up his nose. Best keep calm.

"Thanks very much, ma'am." Giving them both a grateful nod, America took his beers and made his way through the crowd and back to his booth, ignoring even more of the questioning stares. "The owner said she'd try to find us a ride, or, well, I think she's the owner. Anyways, we can crash there until Matt gets here. Unless you want to sleep under the stars, which we totally should. You don't get to see them like this in the city."

England threw him a deadly glare before turning it on the beer. "Don't even think about getting me to sleep on the ground."

"But it'll be awesome! Just you and me, you know. Make it all worthwhile." That grin couldn't have gotten any wider, it such a thing was even impossible. America brought up his legs to cross them like some kid, popping open his beer and taking a serious swig. He had lost count on how many he had drunk already, but England was just on his second. America planned on keeping it that way. Weak alcohol or not, he would much rather have England sober. Stupidgentlemanwhocouldn'tevenholdhisliquor…

England didn't even bother replying and instead started playing with the salt shaker, brooding. It wasn't that he was opposed to having a romantic evening with America; he just wasn't up to it while feeling like he had been run over by a truck. Repeatedly. All he wanted to do was take a shower, take some tea to calm his frayed nerves and crash on a soft bed. They could save the romance for once they reached Washington.

On the other hand, America hummed along to the song overhead, looking out into the orange sky as the sun began to set. He liked seeing it, his country, this way. All raw nature, untouched and still as new as he first remembered it. Hell, he'd go far enough as to call it magical, as cheesy as that sounded. So maybe he was currently on England's bad side, what else was new. In the end, he knew it would be so worth it; seeing it all with his grumpy British boyfriend.

America got a little too caught up with his unusual deep thinking and hadn't noticed England babbling away about something. "—let him know. It'd be inconvenient for him to keep on his merry way."

"Uh… what?"

His eyebrows furrowed, an impressive and intimidating feat, in sheer frustration. England looked about ready to throw his bottle in the general direction of America's forehead. "I said, we should give Canada a call and let him know where exactly we're at. Nebraska is a pretty vast state." The accent made his clipped words funnier than they should be to America, and he couldn't help the slight giggle that nearly escaped. Nearly. Clearing his throat he nodded.

It took them a few seconds of staring at each other, waiting for either one to make the move before it hit him. America looked at England with his brightest smile and horrifying realization dawned in England's green eyes. The smile faltered. "What is it, England?"

"Please… do tell me you took the rucksack from the trunk before we left."

Thin eyebrows shot up, shifting the glasses along. "I took the luggage."

"Fuck."

"England! I told you to take it like three times! What the hell, man!"

England rubbed his palms across his face, fuming at the idiocy that was the entire trip. He should have stayed in London, or at least should have gone back to London after the damn meeting was over. Damn the infuriating American for sweet talking him into such a stupid idea. "This is all your bloody fault!"

Suppressing an indignant yelp, America got to his feet. There was no real anger behind his actions, just slight annoyance at being blamed for something that clearly wasn't his fault for once. "My fault? How is this my fault, exactly?" Not caring if he was making a scene, he turned on his heels and headed out, ignoring how tense most of the costumers were now.

"Where do you think you're going, you infuriating sod?" England followed soon after, tripping over his feet as he slammed into a particularly ghastly smelling trucker. "My apologies." Only two beers and he was tipsy. America must have put something in his drinks. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, America took long strides, squinting into the sun as he got on the road and started walking back in the direction in which they had come from. "Alfred!"

"I'm going to get our stuff, Arthur." He sounded like a little kid lashing out at his mother. America couldn't help but cringe at the thought. Using their human names during an argument always annoyed him to no end, but being among other humans, and being so loud, he couldn't go around shouting their respective titles.

Simply put, America didn't know why he felt so irritated. It felt odd to him. England always was scatterbrained, he'd done worse before. Like leaving his wallet back home and remembering it while halfway through the Atlantic Ocean. He ignored the cold chill sliding through his back and turned up his shirt collar.

Both their wallets were in the rucksack, along with their phones and several important documents that had been stored in a hurry as they left New York. Had it been just clothes or something, American wouldn't have bothered going back, but these were personal effects he couldn't just leave behind for the sake of national security.

Twenty minutes later, and the bar was but a speck of light. America had double-timed when the dark started creeping up. He usually didn't mind being outside in the dark in his own lands, but that something was still off. The tension faded a bit when England finally caught up with him, panting, and grabbed a hold of his sleeve. "Will you… slow down… you git?" They stood there, giving the Briton a chance to regain his breath. "I'm too bloody old for this."

"You're old overall." America couldn't help but quip with a light laugh, earning himself yet another glare.

The sky had already turned a deep blue color, nearly black in some places, but streaks of pink and dark violet still slashed through in some places. Stars were already sparkling in the darker blotches, light wisps of gray clouds adding to the array of colors. It really was beautiful, England thought idly, still clinging to America as he straightened up to crack his back. America was always beautiful. His grip softened then, almost tender as he briefly looked into those equally sparkling blue eyes, a small smile trying to tug its way into the corner of his lip.

America took that as England's version of an apology.

Shoulder to shoulder, they continued their walk towards the abandoned truck, huddling closer when the temperature began to drop; their jackets were tucked away in their luggage back at the bar. A thought crossed England's mind and he only hoped they wouldn't get stolen.

"Do you think Canada will be here before morning?" America spoke up, just to keep the silence at bay. It was late October and not a single cicada was out shrilling their way into the night. No crickets, no anything. He knew how the nights sounded, and this was too quiet. Too cold for comfort. Something lurked in the short distance and only then did he notice it.

"I'll give him a call once we get our stuff back and see how far off he is—" England was cut off when he slammed into America's broad back hard enough to leave him reeling. "Idiot! How many times have I told you never to stop abruptly when—"

America shushed him before he could finish, and he did so immediately. Thinking back, England couldn't really remember when the last time was America had signaled him to be quiet. The Trenches came briefly to mind, but he wasn't that sure. Seconds ticked by as they stood there, England's eyebrow raised in question as he remained pressed against America's stiff back. Was it a coyote? A robber? Something ridiculously stupid which was causing the American to overreact for no other reason than to act like his supposedly heroic self? America's arms were lightly stretched out though, knees bent, a protective stance if he ever seen one. England was certain now; he hadn't seen America this alert since the World Wars.

Curiosity and uncertainty winning the best of him, he looked over America's shoulder.

There was nothing.

"America…?"

"England." His voice was tight in warning, clipped and stiff.

"What are you doing?" England moved, trying to get by the irrationally spooked American to no avail. He tried to see whatever the hell it was, if anything, that the other was seeing, but it wasn't dark enough to fully obscure anything. Whatever it was, it was lost on England.

America, though, saw it clear as day, standing before him, dark shadow stark against the painted hues of the endless sky, ominous and dark and downright evil. It took him a good moment to put a name to it, not having seen anything of the sort in years, centuries even. But it was there now, unfazed by the crowd a few miles away or any cars that might pass by. Those things didn't wander outside of forests a few states away, so seeing one right there in the open made chills skid along America's spine. It was the thing of nightmares. Something he had thought long extinct.

Suddenly, America remembered that ghosts weren't the only thing he should be terrified of.

He took a step back, shoving England as he went; flinching at the shouted swears and curses as he tried to keep him quiet but the Englishman wasn't having it. They had to get their stuff back, and he'd be damned if America turned back now after walking for so long. He seemed downright scared, and having it been any other occasion, England would have jumped into his overprotective mode. Mother hen instinct kicking into high gear. But standing there in the clearing, in the middle of nowhere with no potential danger in sight, he couldn't make sense of it.

Trying to understand why England couldn't see the thing, America chanced a glance, glared at the shorter blonde before turning back to face it. He immediately stiffened when he noticed that it had moved closer. Logic escaped him; he knew those things were fast, faster than anything anyone had ever encountered. All it would take is a blink of the eye and they wouldn't be waking up for days, if lucky, just hanging from hooks, waiting to be skinned. America tried to think quickly, something he wasn't really used to, but kept bringing up blanks. Panic was setting in, he was sweating cold, and he was currently fighting the urge to curl into England like he usually did while watching scary movies. They wouldn't be able to outrun it. Hell, England would have laughed at him for suggesting it. Why run from something that isn't there?

"Yo, England? Do you trust me?" It wasn't something he was fond of asking. He knew England did, and he knew it was unfair to ask it. England, much like him, was allergic to demonstrating vulnerability, be it on the battlefield or in his personal life. Asking him such a question exposed them both in a great many ways, and some of those things they weren't quite ready to face. Babysteps, America had thought to himself a few months ago.

"What kind of stupid bloody question is that?" England registered the panic in the American's voice, making his question a bit more high-pitched than was necessary.

"If I tell you to run and not look back, would you do it?"

"Ameri—"

"Yes or no?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he muttered, "Yes."

England might not have been of athletic build, but his lean body and powerful legs did for something. His height put him in a slight disadvantage, but he made up for it with agility. He could run if need be, like at that instance, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be caught. But this was different. Whatever was wavering beneath America's voice put him on edge, the frantic scan of blue eyes put him on high alert and he wasn't about to question that. Instead, he trusted his judgment, somethingutterlyludicrous, and ran like a madman.

America was close behind, not daring to look back to see if the creature was in pursuit. He didn't need to. He heard it clear, the dead silence that came with the looming terror his native people warded against for centuries before England himself arrived on his shores. For a brief moment, he shut his eyes and prayed for a miracle. Anything to get to the bar in once piece; back to the crowd of people who obviously had a few shotguns stashed away in their trucks. The wish was cut short however, when something wrapped around his ankle and pulled him back.

He fell with a panicked grunt, kicking helplessly against the thing as his hands scrambled against the red dirt.

England turned at the sound of something hitting the ground, and couldn't really process the sight of America being dragged away in such a macabre fashion. It looked like something out of a bad horror movie. He stopped in his tracks, unable to decide on what to do before running in America's direction. He didn't know what he was going to do, what he was up against, but England's put up with worse. Magic and the supernatural was something he dealt with on a daily basis back home in his lands, so he wasn't about to be thrown off by some murderous phantom intent on making away with his partner.

Skidding onto the ground, England grabbed America's wrist, pulling him away from the force dragging in the opposite direction. America twisted in the hold, trying and failing repeatedly to get free from the chilling grasp. Heart in his throat, nails clawing at anything he could find, his eyes met England's. "Go!"

"This isn't the time to play hero!" England pulled harder now that he had a firm hold on America's arm, but it reached the point where it was doing more harm than good. The creature's strength was enough to throw even America off, much to his chagrin.

Even then, England couldn't see what the cause of their distress was. He's playing a game of tug-of-war against something he couldn't see, therefore something he couldn't ward off with his magic. He needed to know what it was in order to counter it and so far he had no such luck. America was terrified, he was terrified, and he had no way of breaking loose.

Too wrapped up in the fruitless struggle, neither nation noticed the smooth rumbling of an engine, or the high beams of a car shinning directly in their direction. A gunshot though, seemed to have caught their attention long enough to make them all stop. Night had already fallen and the headlights left both America and England momentarily blinded. It didn't take them a second though, when they heard doors slam and rushed heavy footfalls, to notice that America had gotten free from the unnatural hold. They had time enough.

Riding the momentum, America jumped to his feet and tried to make a run for it, grateful for the momentary distraction. Each instinct in him urged him to turn back and fight, be the hero he was, but he was scared. Too scared and hurt to retaliate against something that wasn't supposed to exist, something he wasn't expecting. Give him a war and he'd fight to the death, but this… this was too much. This overpowered him on so many levels that he was sure he wouldn't be able to sleep for a few years. Gripping England tight, they ran, synchronized and didn't look back at the shouting and gunshots.

However, it wasn't all just going to be over. England had kind of figured that. When magic comes into play, no matter what kind, things are never easy. There's always more to it. Like a domino effect. Just one little action caused an unending chain of reactions until it was cut in one way or another. It was the natural order things.

That's why he wasn't at all surprised, even though it did startle him, when they ran face first into a man who had seemed to appear out of nowhere, stoic and still. The last thing England recalled was the color of his eyes, a blue so unnatural and unreal that they reminded him of America's own.

In America's case, too dazed to explicitly focus on anything, high on adrenaline, what he last saw was a billowing tan trench coat, silent against the thunderous fight behind them.