A/N: So, this is my first attempt at building a completely original world. Hopefully I can do it justice! I have never written sci-fi, and while the future setting is not the focus of the fic, since it sets up the world, it does play a key role. Please give me advice where it is useful, and ask questions if something is unclear.
At a mere four years of age, Dean Winchester had lost his home, nearly lost his mother, seen his first angel, and formed the one important belief that he would proudly claim held influence over every facet of his life. Angels were people just as much as humans, and deserved to be treated as sentient, autonomous beings.
Society as a whole did not agree. Angel rights activists were viewed on approximately the same level as historical animal rights and environmental groups—extremist fools who would sacrifice mankind for the sake of their precious beasts. Dean had never been able to bring himself to care. By age ten, he had wired his portable net link to receive updates from every major angel rights website and forum he had been able to find with his limited internet time; in middle school, he had founded a small angel rights supporter's club amongst his friends and peer group. On his eighteenth birthday he had received an official member's badge and paperwork from People for Angels for People, affectionately called PAP by its members and "crap" by the majority of the country. "They're government property, living medical equipment," was the sentiment that most people held about angels. They were a World Government project, after all. One hundred forty years ago, the government had pardoned several prisoners from Death Row on the condition that they submit to genetic testing, and from those tests, angels had been created.
The official line was that the genetic testing performed on the prisoners had granted them physical superiority over humans at the cost of their sentience and free will. From human beings, they had simply become bodies, receptacles for the physicality of human experience, but without any of the things that made humans people. They did not think, nor did they feel beyond physical sensation. Mindless vegetables with the ability to heal in the blink of the eye and survive through fatal injuries and sicknesses, they were the perfect empty vessels into which to transfer human illness and wounds. At approximately the same time as the genetic tests had resulted in the creation of angels, researchers had created a technology of molecular transference, allowing physicians to transfer the plights of a given patient into another being, and angels were the perfect solution. No ethical dilemma over killing animals—angels could heal almost instantaneously from the words blights of mankind, eradicating cancer cells and knitting together shattered bone in the time it would take to make a pot of coffee. It was neat, practical, and wholly ethical.
That was the official line. The media touted it, the government confirmed it, and society as a whole believed it. Thinking otherwise made Dean a rare exception.
The memory was as fresh in his mind as if it had occurred yesterday, even though it had been over twenty years ago. Running after the gurney that wheeled his mother's burnt, blackened body into a hospital room, tripping over his own feet as he sobbed, his baby brother tucked into his father's arms, tears streaming down John's face—it all could have been yesterday. The doctor's voice was clear in his mind as any he had ever heard—calling a code blue, shouting for an angel. Dean remembered the soft, tawny wings of the short, thin man, and how the tears had dried abruptly on his face as he met rich, golden-brown eyes. Dean had stared, awed, as the doctor placed the winged man's limp, unresisting hand on his mother's burned, once-beautiful face.
The scream that tore from the angel's throat had sent Dean clapping chubby hands over his ears. The burns had seemed to siphon off of Mary's body, racing up the angel's arm, blackening his flesh and fading, leaving behind smooth, flawless pink skin. The nurse had knelt beside Dean, assuring him that it was all right, the angel did not actually feel pain, the cries were simply a physical reaction to his body's stimulus. But Dean had looked up into the man's eyes, that rich, beautiful gold, watery and glazed with agony, and he had known. The nurse was wrong, and the angel was hurting.
Dean had tried to tell the doctor such, but the woman had ignored him, assuring John that Mary would be all right with a few days rest, and Dean was, like many small children, simply so overwhelmed with the stress of almost losing his mother that he thought he saw something that wasn't there. The angel had been taken away, but not without turning to glance at Dean first. Thank you for trying, the angel had mouthed, and again, no one had believed him.
For the next several years, John and Mary had entertained Dean's notions about angels much in the same way as they would have entertained his insistence on the reality of an imaginary friend. And then, when Dean was nine years old, tragedy had struck the family. Five year old Sam had vanished, taken from his bed in the middle of the night, never to be found. Dean had discovered, in the difficult days to come, that he had to grow up very quickly, and for a while, angels were the farthest thing from his mind. By the time Sammy had been gone for a year, some of the pain had dulled and he was back into his precocious angel rights activism, but his parents no longer had any patience for hearing about the matter.
At twenty-eight years old, Dean had his degree in Engineering, a vintage ground-car, his own 2736 air car—what a sweet model she was—and his own house. None of that held a candle to the importance that his position in PAP. Now, after ten years of loyal membership, the higher-ups in the organization had seen fit to assign Dean to an undercover surveillance mission. Technically, it was not illegal, and Dean was determined to do the best that he could. He would be taking a job as an electrical engineer at one of the angel based genetic testing facilities scattered throughout the country, gathering information. Every tidbit he could snag would count. As soon as they could prove the sentience of angels, the organization could start a true push to end the dreadful institution of medical slavery, and bring freedom to the angels once and for all.
0o0o0o0o0
At twenty-four springs passing, Samael Watchkeeper ought to have been still a child, small and wide-eyed and under the protection of his elders. Humans had an accelerated aging rate, however, and three years to an angel had passed in the span of one year for him for his first fifteen springs. It had been a relief for both him and his guardian, Lucifer Soulstealer, when Naomi Spellcrafter had developed a syrup that would slow Samael's aging process down to match the rest of the tribe's. Samael was now the physical and mental equivalent of an angel of fifty-four springs, and would continue to grow at a regular pace, so long as he did not miss too many dosages. He regretted the many seasons that he had lost due to human growth, but at the same time, it was good that he could be of use to the tribe all the sooner.
Samael had only vague memories of his time living amongst his biological people. He had had a mother, a father, and a brother, he knew that. He had lived in their world of loud contraptions and strange devices, fated to grow up in a barbaric society until the night when Inias Blighthealer had crept into his human home and stolen him away. At the time, no human had ever lived among the angels, and Samael knew that he had been an experimental child. He was simply glad that he had been chosen, and taken from the barbarians who would have raised him to be a slavemaster and a brute, to live amongst the peaceful, civilized angels.
0o0
It was loud in the mountaintop caverns, and the strangers with wings chattered in a language that Sam had never heard. He cried, kicking fruitlessly at the strange man who had grabbed him from his bed, screaming for his mother, his father, his big brother. The winged man who sat atop a pile of soft white pillows regarded him sternly, conferring with the dark man and the scarred man on either side of him.
"This is a dangerous gamble, Inias," the apparent leader said finally, regarding Sam's captor with steely eyes. "The humans have taken so many of us already. There is nothing to suggest that they are anything other than malevolent beasts—beasts who may come looking for their stolen whelp."
"I understand." The harsh, steady tones of his captor rang hard in Sam's ears, and he wailed, burying his face in his hands. He just wanted to go home! He wanted Dean! "But this child is young. He has not had the time to be indoctrinated into the barbarous ways of the humans. Many of us think that they might have the capacity for civility, and if we bring one of them up in our ways, and he grows up as any angel child would, then we will know for certain."
"And what good would that knowledge bring us?" the dark man rumbled, raising his eyebrows as he stared down his nose as Sam. Sam whimpered, dropping his chin to his thin chest, rocking back and forth miserably.
"There are a number of possibilities," the man who had taken Sam said finally. He knelt and laid a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, rubbing his back soothingly. "If human children can be raised to be civilized, we can bring them up amongst us, and then send them as envoys to their people to beg the release of our brethren. They can work among our sentries, for if they are caught, they will not be enslaved as we would be. They can help us understand basic humanity, the better to know how they function, and how to save our brothers and sisters from their captivity."
The three men atop the platform exchanged a shared glance. "We will test your theory, Inias," the leader said after a long moment. "The child has nine years to prove that he can grow up as a decent being, a civilized person. If he succeeds, then by that point, he will be a full member of our tribe, and no further action will be taken. If he fails, he will be killed, and his body returned to the humans as an example."
The man beside Sam smiled. "I am sure he will succeed," he said gratefully.
"Lucifer." The scarred man turned his head towards the leader of the trio. "You have had the misfortune of living amongst humankind. You speak their language. Will you be able to take this child into your home and raise him, teaching him our ways and speech, without exacting reprisal upon him?"
"He is but a child," the scarred man said dismissively. "I do not fear him. If Inias is confident that he can learn to be a civilized being, then I will gladly assist in his experiment."
"Then take him into your home," the leader said, his calm voice commanding and final. "Learn his human name, and christen him appropriately. Bring him up as your own, but do not grow attached to him until he has shown signs of civility and proper angelic behavior."
The scarred man nodded and descended from the platform, coming to a halt in front of Sam. He crouched, and took Sam's hands in his, gently pulling them away from his tear-streaked face. "Little one, what is your name?" he asked, the first English words that Sam had heard since he had been stolen away.
"S-Sam." He sobbed, throwing himself at the winged man, clinging to him as he wept. "I want to go home. I miss Mama and Daddy and Dean!"
The man shushed him, gathering him gently up in his arms. "He calls himself Sam," the scarred man said, turning to face the two remaining on the platform. "I propose that we call him Samael. It will be simple enough for him to learn, as similar as it is to his human name."
"Very well." The dark man shared a glance with his fellow before continuing. "Take Samael and prepare him a place in your set. We will convene in a month for a report on his progress."
The scarred man nodded, leaving the cavern at a steady clip, making his way towards a dense copse of trees. "My name is Lucifer," he told Sam, leaping into the air and fluttering towards a small, camouflaged structure high up in the branches of an aspen tree. "And you are Samael from this point forth. You will be staying with me to learn the ways of the angels."
"But I want my family," Sam sobbed, wiping his eyes hard with a pudgy hand.
Lucifer regarded him with sympathy. "I know you do, Samael," he said, taking Sam's hand lightly in his own. "But we need you. You will grow, you will learn, and one day you will understand."
0o0
Samael owed everything to Lucifer. It was Lucifer who had taught him Enochian, and who had raised him to understand proper culture and behavior. Lucifer had been the one who had sought out Naomi and begged her to create a draught that would allow Samael to age at a normal rate. Lucifer had taught him how to hunt, how to track, how to keep guard and watch, picking up every detail that might suggest that something was out of the ordinary. When Samael had grown too big to be carried from place to place, Lucifer had taught him how to climb, allowing Samael to make up for the handicap that was his lack of wings. Most importantly, he had ensured that even though Samael was not an angel himself, he never felt that he did not belong among his tribe. Samael might have been born a human, but he belonged among the angels, and Lucifer ensured that he never thought differently.
When he was a mere fifteen springs past, the equivalent of an angelic 45 seasons due to his then accelerated growth, Samael had been granted the name Watchkeeper. It was his duty to keep sentry for the tribe, warning his fellows when humans came too close, scaring away predators and interlopers. Even without wings, Samael was useful to his tribe, and the pride in being good at his job had blossomed in him swiftly and strongly. His birth may have lain with humans, but his birthright lay with the tribe, and Samael would give his life to keep his adopted people safe.
0o0o0o0o0
35712 had never known a breath of free air. He had been born on a breeding farm, a cruel institution designed to pump out angels for medical use and testing purposes. Female angels were expected to breed until their ovaries ran dry, at which point they would be sent back to the hospitals and the laboratories. Several male angels were kept at each farm, essentially at stud, forced to produce offspring for the unrelenting machine of medical production.
35712 did not know who his mother was, nor who his father was. He had lived at the farm, among his fellow angels, for the first fifteen years of his life, long enough to learn Enochian, the tongue of his people, and to be given a name, Castiel. His name and language, he had since been forced to remind himself of primarily in his head, for once he left the farm, he was no longer granted leave to speak. Humanity at large could not know that the angels had a culture, had the ability to understand language or name their own. The few times Castiel had been caught speaking in youthful foolishness after leaving the farm, he had been beaten, glossy black feathers ripped from his wings until even his accelerated healing abilities had unable to bring them back at a proper speed. It had not taken him long to learn.
At his first hospital, Castiel had become acquainted with a free-born angel, 13590, or Gabriel, as he informed Castiel he had been called. Gabriel had been Castiel's rock, speaking to him through the bars of their cells whenever the guards had been out of earshot. He had spun for Castiel a picture of high mountains and tall trees, of cavernous meeting halls and warm homes made of wood and earth. Gabriel's tribe had been comprised primarily of warriors, and Gabriel himself had been a young, proud warrior of 49 springs—49 years, he had explained to Castiel—when he had been taken, shot down with a sedative and dragged away to be broken of his culture. His brother Lucifer had come for him, and had been taken as well. But Lucifer was strong and proud, and he had escaped with his life, promising to come back for Gabriel as soon as he could rally the tribe. Gabriel had been shipped away before Lucifer could return, and he had never seen his brother again.
It was the sad lot of angels that they could never count on keeping a friendly connection. Castiel had hardly been fifty years old when a testing facility coordinator came nosing around the hospital, inclined upon selecting angels for research purposes. Castiel had been among those selected, and had been taken away from Gabriel, the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He was only fifty two now, and yet every day, he begged for death.
Life at the hospital had been difficult and painful. Every day, Castiel had been forced to take illness and injury into his body, burning the infection from his own cells to spare the human from whom it had originated. Compared to the testing facility, the life had been a posh utopia. Here, Castiel passed his days in a cage so small he had to bend his head when he wanted to sit, his knees grazing bars if he let them fall away from his chest. Being in the cage, as terrible as it was, was nothing compared to what he endured out of it. His handler, a cruel man named Alastair, claimed to be interested in learning exactly how the angel's healing process worked, so that genetic scientists could work it into the human genome. After a mere two years, Castiel was certain that this was not the man's true intent. He was simply a sadist who took pleasure in hearing Castiel scream.
Castiel had seen attempted suicides back at the hospital, and had healed many of them himself. He longed for the freedom of human beings to bleed out from a simple blade to the wrists, for a body that would shut down if he simply fed it enough chemicals. Life as a test subject was not living at all; he was merely existing, and he had centuries to go before the sweet embrace of death finally claimed him.
