The city was quiet in the dead of Winter, the streets, once filled with crime relatively still. The odd car drove home on their way back from the holidays, school set to start the next day from Christmas break. Less than a decade prior, Azazel and his band of super-powered criminal youths had been running everyone either out or into the ground. Some of them could just ask, and you'd hand them your dead grandmother's wedding ring, some could telepathically take it from you, and some of them could see exactly where you left it and when they could break into your home and take it. The big man himself could do all three and then some.
But, of course, in a world of super villains, they must have foils, and the mysterious (and, according to the few people who have seen him, mainly consisting of drunken vagrants, quite short) Guardian stepped up to bat. Reality could bend to his will, so the stories went, bright lights flashing, or sometimes just giant wombats winking before they knocked you out and dragged you away to the state facility, which was specially crafted to deal with all manner of the supernaturally gifted and deviant. This wasn't uncommon—in fact, most large cities had this sort of dynamic, with one or two heroes facing a series of villains in an epic battle often told in the outrageously popular slice-of-life comic books.
Heroes were rarer, though. They had to give up everything. No, not by some official rule—the good guys were poorly organized at best—but rather by the fact that they went against people who could read minds, and would thoroughly torture anyone they ever loved. Target friends, family, significant others, and especially children, if the hero was dumb enough to get that involved with someone. Villains could do as they pleased. They could have money, power, and any sort of attachment their psychopathic minds desired. Most with superpowers kept it hidden. They wanted to stay out of it altogether, and so, save maybe the odd cat from a tree, they watched the chaos around them, but refused to contribute. They led normal lives, and ignored the signs on walls that said anyone with a "gift" should use it for the good of the people.
Chuck Shurley was at home, wrapped up in a few layers of blankets to save a bit of cash on heating his three bedroom house, inherited from parents who died last June, which he could neither afford on a starving author's salary nor get rid of for sake of sentiment, when his doorbell rang. Cursing whatever moron was out at this hour of. . . nine at night, he got up and opened the oaken door, not seeing anyone. He was about to curse and slam it shut when he heard. . .a giggle?
He looked down, and saw what would amount to the second strangest thing he would see in his entire life. A basket sat on his step, containing two infants wrapped in blue blankets, the letters J and C monogrammed in silver on the corners. One of them was cooing and generally sounding baby like in spite of the biting cold, while the other seemed to be in a mood similar to Chuck's, which is to say, he had an unamused frown and was looking away from his brother. At least, they looked like brothers, twins, considering the fact that they were identical. The same dark hair, the same piercingly blue eyes, and the same pale skin, cheeks and nose reddened in the Winter. A note sat between them, and when he lifted the basket, he found it heavier than he would expect from a couple of newborns. When he got it inside, he found out why.
The note and blankets hid the fact that the children were lying on a bed of gold, pure judging by the way it bent and gave when Chuck bit into it. Hoping the note had answers he read it.
Chuck,
These are my little boys—Kali and I can't care for them, and you know why. They deserve better, and you're my best friend. If anyone can offer them more, you can. I can't trust anyone else with them. Their names are Jimmy and Castiel. I'm sure you can figure out who's who.
Your best bro and Guardian, Gabriel
In high school, and through college, he'd known that Gabriel had been a Super. He even knew his "secret" identity as The Guardian, and that he'd been in an affair with one of the villains from a state over, hoping not only to "save" her, but eventually have a normal life. Apparently, they'd gotten too cozy too soon. He couldn't leave them, and he couldn't just tell Gabe no. The kids deserved a life. He was pondering just giving them up for adoption when Castiel, the one with a C on his blanket, started glowing bright white. He was a super too, which meant he would be made into a hero by the city, or taken by Azazel if anyone found out.
Figuring that this was enough gold to put them all through the day the boys turned 18, he went to his laptop, ordering two cribs, and setting them on his bed for the night. He'd always had a soft spot for kids anyway.
Stories were seen on the news of what happened when someone with a Gift was found, and hadn't already made their choice. The government took them, trained them to be soldiers. Or, if they were luckier, one of the crime rings scooped them up, and molded them into the perfect criminals. So when Chuck saw Castiel, the more inquisitive of the twins, go from one end of the house to the other with only a very constipated look and a flutter like that of wings, his heart dropped.
"Castiel, what do you think you're doing?" He shouted, going to the six year old and shaking him by the shoulders. Jimmy had been sitting on the couch and turned around, watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and pity for his brother.
"I...I just wanted some juice..." He mumbled, never having gotten in trouble for grabbing juice before. Chuck said it was healthy, full of nutrients, and that he could have as much as he wanted.
"Not the juice the...the moving thing you just did!" He didn't want to call it teleporting, but it seemed to be just that.
"You mean flying?" the boy asked, obviously not understanding what was wrong.
"Yes. You know that's not normal don't you?"
"I...but The Guardian does it. In the comic books, he does it, so I thought it was good." Castiel explained, tears falling from his cobalt eyes.
"Castiel, you listen to me. If anyone catches you doing something like that—something not normal—they will take you away from me. From Jimmy. They'll take you away and make you do horrible things so promise me that you won't try and be like anyone in the comic books, okay?"
"Yeah. I promise." Castiel nodded furiously, not wanting to be taken from his home. Jimmy was scared to sleep alone after all, but to embarrassed to tell their dad. He wouldn't sleep if Cas go taken away.
When he went to school three weeks later, he was sure not to do anything suspicious. When the teacher asked him a question, he answered, but he never raised his hand to be called on. He didn't introduce himself to the other kids like Jimmy did. He didn't do anything but what he had to in order to negate anyone asking him questions. The other kids picked up on his awkwardness, and left him alone.
Jimmy tried to introduce him to the friends he'd made, but the elder (by seven minutes) brother was soon able to push them away. When he came home, he was quiet in the car, and Chuck wondered what he had done. He knew he'd overreacted, but Castiel had to understand that there was to be no using of his father's powers. Curiosity found in touching everything seemed to go into books, and then the internet when they got it. He spent hours and hours learning things that no child would know, rather than playing outside.
By middles school, it no longer took effort, or even conscious choice for him to isolate himself. It was reinforced by everyone who knew him, and those who didn't soon learned that the one in the tan coat was a weirdo. The one in a blue jacket, or no coat at all in the Summer, was a cool guy. Not really the cool kid type, but he'd laugh and joke and not tell you the weirdest things you never wanted to know as response for normal human conversation. He was normal, something which everyone joked couldn't be genetic since Castiel wasn't.
When he was thirteen, they got separate rooms, the old storage area being cleared out for Castiel. It was slightly smaller than their old room, now Jimmy's, but he didn't mind. Jimmy had basketball trophies that were taking up space—Castiel had a bunch of books that he kept neatly in shelves based on how many times he'd re-read them. He tried not to let the people talking about him get to him, though every time they said he wasn't "normal" he cringed—not being normal meant that they could take you away. They could find out that he could fly, that if he focused on a given part of his body it could glow, that, by accident, his power could blow things up. And then they would take him away from Jimmy and Chuck, and he would have to do horrible things to people.
The Summer before high school, he started wondering if that were so bad—at least he could stop pretending.
Crowley cursed as he threw his chessboard off the table. The city was supposed to be easy pickings since that bastard hero left without a trace a few years back. But nooo, another gang had to come in on the terf he'd been fighting for since the place had electricity. With a click of his fingers, the board went back, and he downed a glass of the high quality scotch he'd taken to, imported from Scotland.
"Sir..." One of his henchmen came in, this one a normal man, his arm so bloody and battered it was hardly there, and the rest of his fairing little better.
"What is it, you idiot?" He spat back, looking at the time to find it was three in the morning.
"Azazel's men, Sir. They attacked us...they got the shipment. They killed everyone and sent me to tell you." He sank to his knees, though if it was out of submissiveness or just lacking the strength to stand Crowley neither knew nor cared.
"DAMN THAT BASTARD!" Crowley shouted, pulling the gun from his drawer and putting a bullet into the man's head, musing for a moment it was his yellow-eyed rival. A man half his age, who'd been nowhere as far as Crowley could tell, was beating the syndicate he'd been building up so long. He needed someone else with powers, someone to do his dirty work who wouldn't fear a gun or a blade. But those didn't come cheaply, or often, and he had the sneaking suspicion that Azazel had more hands in that department than him.
He didn't bother pouring the scotch into a glass as he called someone to come and clean up the mess.