The Fifth World

by Kita Kitsune

The Mayans predicted that The Fourth World would come to an end on December 21, 2012; the same Prophesized date for Michael and Lucifer's Final Battle. Team Free Will finds itself working with the queerest pair of unlikely allies, but, caught between angels and demons with No God In Sight, victory won't come easy. SPN-GO crossover AU. Slash. Cover art by me.

2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 2/24

Word Count: 9,091

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Bobby, Winchesters, Novaks, Castiel, Metatron, Beëlzebub, Adam Young

Warning(s): Spoilers for end of GO, language.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, June 15, 2012

Anno Domini 2,002 = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004 = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

Anno 4,004 Ante Christum = "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

2 Corinthians 6:15

What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what portion does a believer share with an unbeliever?

: : :

-Anno Domini 2,004-

Bobby is in the kitchen as he hears Dean's call end—well the boy stops talking, anyway. It didn't sound good, and sure enough Dean's face is blank when he walks back in. He sets Bobby's cell on the kitchen table, and Bobby pulls out a beer and a Coke from the fridge, sitting down across from him and twisting off the top of his drink. Dean just sits, staring at the tiled floor, his pop untouched. Bobby lets him sit in silence long enough that the can starts shedding condensation.

"Seemed like a nice kid." At that, Dean blinks out of it and nods, injecting a fake laugh into the air with a half-grin to complete the mask as he nonchalantly grabs his Coke and pops the tab.

"Heh, yeah. Normal kid, y'know? Normal life, no room for anything superna—"

"Now you don't start with that sorry speech a' yours, son, or I'mma slap you silly." Dean gives him a startled look, and Bobby frowns, leaning over the table with his weight on a bent elbow and pointing his beer at him.

"Just 'cause the kid don't want to be friends don't mean you're not worth it, boy." Dean smile is macho but fake, and he shakes his head.

"Nah, Bobby. I'm just not cut out for friends, you know that." Dean takes a long glug of his pop, and the words only confirm what Bobby already thought—that the boy's gone and ignored his advice. Again.

Damn it, John, how many complexes did you give this poor kid?

Bobby sighs, leaning back and downing another mouthful of beer. He'll give up, for now.

"Did'ja hear 'bout Sam's grades? They came in, earlier this week." At mention of his brother, Dean immediately brightens. He'd been out of town on a light hunting job that Bobby couldn't take because of the garage suffering a sudden deluge of customers. Dean leans forward, voice eager for good news.

"Yeah? How'd he do?"

-Anno Domini 1,991-

Bobby knew Dean hadn't had an easy life. Sammy's had had a rough beginning, but the one he was really worried about was Dean. After Mary died in that botched burglary, her stomach sliced open and spilling her intestines onto Sammy's nursery floor, John had gone a bit revenge-crazy. He left the—'useless and vulnerable' (as John'd put it)—baby Sammy with Missouri Mosely and dragged six-year-old Dean with him on a wild goose chase all over the country. John swore the man who'd done it was a demon, kept disappearing and reappearing everywhere, breaking into nurseries and murdering mothers of young children in some sick Satanic rite—he was sure of it. Bobby called, but it mostly got sent to voicemail. Sometimes Dean would call him—always when John was asleep or out. One thing Bobby gave John credit for, was he always kept Dean out of the really dangerous missions. Sure, he exposed the kid to more than any kid should have to handle, but at least it was something.

-Anno Domini 1,994-

Then, three years later, that old Impala sputtered into the driveway and Bobby was already halfway down the walk when Dean stumbled out of the driver's seat, white as a ghost. Bobby wanted to brain John for letting his nine-year-old fucking drive, but then he noticed Dean's shirt was covered in blood. Bobby's mind switched modes instantly and he hurriedly checked the boy for injuries while Dean choked out as many answers as he could.

"D-Dad—shtriga—i-it—" Bobby's blood froze, and he lunged over the driver's seat, grabbing a fistful of John's jacket from where he sat in the passenger's seat and shaking him, voice a growl.

"John! John, you goddamned son of a bitch, you better not have used Dean as bait for some lifeforce-sucking pedophile!" All that answered him was a pained groan, signalling John was at least unconscious, and then Bobby was aware of small hands tugging on the back of his shirt, trying to pull him off. Dean sounded like he was fighting not to cry.

"B-Bobby! It—it knew he was there, and it was c-coming and Dad shot at it but it dodged, a-and I couldn't do an-anything—" Dean started to hyperventilate, his eyes wide and scared and Bobby quickly turned around, pulling the poor kid to his chest in a hug and rubbing his hair.

"Shhh, shh—son, it's all right, it's okay, you're safe now—" Dean just gave up and clung to him, little-boy arms tight around his midsection as he hiccoughed into his shirt. To Bobby, this wasn't right. John shouldn't be treating Dean like a soldier, he should be treating him like a son. Hell, Sammy was a toddler living with an old friend back in Lawrence, with no idea what his brother or father were like—because Bobby was willing to bet John had never paid Missouri a visit since dumping Sammy on her doorstep—and Dean? Dean was being forced to grow up far too fast. How were these kids ever going to have a normal life? It was then Bobby knew—even if it wasn't his place, even if John would snarl at him for it—he had to try. These kids deserved better than the negligent and dysfunctional upbringing John was giving them. By God, Bobby was going to give these boys a chance at some normalcy, whether their father liked it or not.

-Anno Domini 1,995-

One year later, John was killed in a face-off with a reaper plaguing a hospital in Jefferson City, Missouri. Something weird had been going on in the town—there were a number of unexplainable, strange deaths, all with family members related to the same hospital—and John had called Bobby for some backup information before they went in. Three hours later Bobby's phone rang again, and it was the hospital. They told him they'd found a young boy sitting beside a collapsed older man in a back hallway—just staring at him—and that the boy wouldn't talk. The man's identification said he was Aaron Roadly, and named Robert Singer as his next of kin. Bobby took a deep breath, told the staff he was on his way, and made it from Sioux Falls to Jefferson City in just under eight hours. As he was passing along the Kansas-Missouri border on 29 South, Bobby thought of Sammy—four years old, now, no memory of his father or mother and his only living relative being ten-year-old Dean.

These boys' lives are so messed up. Bobby shook his head.

After picking up Dean and John's body—and beating a narrow escape from Child Welfare—Bobby drove by Missouri's and stopped in to see her and Sammy. The brothers stared at each other for a few moments—well, at least Dean knew who Sammy was, although Bobby couldn't say the same for—

"Dean!" Sammy's eyes lit up in recognition, suddenly, and he launched himself at Dean, laughing and hugging his waist. Dean seemed to visibly relax, even smile a little, and he leaned down with a whisper—to Bobby's great surprise, as Dean hadn't said a word since Jefferson City—hugging the toddler just as tight.

"Sammy."

Well, maybe I'm not the only one Dean's been calling.

(There might be hope for these boys, yet.)

-Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004-

So, Bobby took over caring for both the boys, gruffly thanked Missouri for taking care of Sam for so long, and brought them up to South Dakota to live with him. With the help of Sheriff Mills, Bobby also got Sammy into a nice preschool class and started Dean at the local elementary school. Sammy took to school like a drunkard to whiskey, and started to warm up to Sheriff Mills after being in the car with her every day when she brought him home. He still missed Missouri, though (it made sense, as she'd essentially been his mother his entire life), so Bobby would let him call her once a week, when they had time. The Sheriff came around more and more often, and Bobby let her, noticing that the heaviness in her eyes that'd been there since she lost her young son and husband in that car crash wasn't as bad around the boys. After a few months, she chided him to stop calling her 'Sheriff' and use her 'goddamn name', Jody.

They were a weird family, it was true, but they stuck together and that's what counted. Bobby was cautiously surprised to realize that being a father wasn't quite as easy a job to mess up, as long as you tried—which neither John nor his father had, apparently. It made him feel that bit better, even if he wished he could've shared all this with Karen. But, as it turned out, Bobby was a better father when he was forced into it, so maybe he never could've had this with Karen. And it made something in him ache to realize that, but he always convinced himself that raising these boys would have been what Karen wanted him to do—whether or not she was around to be their mother.

Dean didn't do so well at school. It wasn't that we was stupid (couldn't be, when he started quoting freaking Vonnegut out of the blue, one day), but he was years behind his classmates, having never been formally schooled—damn John, God rest his soul, dragging him all over the country, that's no way to raise a well-adjusted kid—and Bobby knew it. Dean did make a valiant try for about two weeks, but after that he was so embarrassed about being labeled a 'dumb kid' and being in the special ed class that he ended up pleading for Bobby to take him on hunts. Bobby shook his head and tried to be a good parent, tried to convince Dean to keep trying at school—but Dean just became more and more miserable, even if he tried to hide it from Sammy, so Sammy wouldn't get discouraged. At last Dean just started refusing to come out of his room in the morning, and Jody suggested Bobby get Dean interested in something outside of school.

Well, the boy'd always liked cars, so Bobby started there. Usually when he was tinkering around in the back shop, Dean would be at his window, watching him work. After a few weeks of worse-and-then-worser at school, Bobby looked up and griped at him.

"If yer just gonna watch, you won't learn anythin'! Get down here!" And Dean had stared, wide-eyed, but then he quickly disappeared from the window and in two minutes he was on the other side of the car Bobby'd been working on, out of breath and back straight, arms pinned at his sides like a soldier's.

"Y-Yes, sir!" Bobby frowned on the inside—that was John's training peeking out, obviously—but let it go and just bent over the exposed hood, motioning for Dean to join him.

"Now, this is the engine, and these're—" Bobby walked him through the basics of how a car runs, and was surprised when Dean already knew quite a bit. Bobby actually smiled a little at the thought John had maybe taught Dean about cars. (It made sense, as that was how Bobby and John had first met, through the mechanic trade, but it was more that this was proof of John acting like a father, and that made him relieved in a way he couldn't name.) But Dean still soaked up all the new information with rapt attention, fingers reaching out of their own accord to poke (carefully, almost reverently, Bobby noted) around the insides of the car.

Prodded by Jody (who'd also noticed Dean's interest), Bobby dragged the Impala out (they'd towed it back with them from Jefferson City) from the barn, and they gave her a full tune-up. John had taken excellent care of her, but Dean's jaw was firmly set as he and Bobby worked on the old girl. The days went by, and slowly Dean started talking about his father. Bobby stayed silent, let the kid rant out his frustration, let him get it out. So at least Dean was talking about John, now. That was better. Even despite this, Dean's grades didn't improve. Soon enough Dean had dropped out entirely, spending his days under the hood or with Bobby on a hunt. Bobby would've liked to try to force the kid into more education, but it was clear that John'd raised him a hunter—to follow orders and kill things—and that Dean couldn't cope with his 'far-too-normal' peers. Dean didn't begrudge Sammy that, though—if anything, he encouraged Sammy to keep up with his studies, to keep going, keep trying, and emphasized the importance of an education. Bobby realized, softly, that that was what he'd told Dean. So maybe Dean knew he wasn't cut out for the normal life, but he knew that if you had a chance at such a life, education was important, so he pushed Sammy into that. Bobby almost shook his head, at that. Little brat was more sensitive than how macho he liked to appear.

So, the years passed, Sammy studied (and hunted in the summers, when he couldn't be persuaded elsewise), Bobby and Dean worked on the cars and hunted, and Jody stayed with Sammy when he was left at home alone because Bobby and Dean had to drive out-of-state for a job. And before Bobby knew it, nine years had passed. Now Sammy—or Sam, as he preferred, now—was a thirteen-year-old honor-rolling high schooler while nineteen-year-old Dean played the casanova (but only when he felt like it—which, given the hormones, was much too often). But neither of the boys seemed about to go off the deep end, and Jody's eyes were soft when she grinned at him and kissed his cheek as he and Dean left on another hunt, whispering that the boys were happy, that was all, and to just enjoy it.

But Bobby knew Dean didn't have any friends, and that just wasn't right.

: : :

-Anno Domini 2,005-

Dean doesn't call again. Jimmy is moreso relieved and a little sad, but he pushes that away. The rest of his sixteenth year isn't nearly as eventful as the day Claire was possessed, but he prefers that, anyway. His nightmares—every night, now, and the unmistakable sounds of war have been added to the still-blank landscapes he dreams of—and headaches are the only things that've gotten worse. There is a plus to him getting older, though, because just in time for his seventeeth birthday, Jimmy's beard starts to come in. It's really only peach fuzz, but for a present Amelia gives him a bag of razors and some shaving cream from the corner store. Claire presents him with a handmade card from her kindergarten class, her smile bright and he returns it with a hug.

That night, Jimmy has no nightmares, but when he wakes up he finds he isn't hungry. He grabs an apple, anyway, stuffing it in his backpack and making doubly sure he has money for lunch. By lunchtime he's famished, and it seems like the tray in front of him has too little food to slake his appetite. But Jimmy understands doing things in moderation, so he keeps himself from going up to get a second lunch. (He doesn't have the money for another, anyway.) He returns home and they eat dinner together as usual, his appetite normal. But that night, for the first time, Jimmy sees the ground of his landscapes stained red. He just stares at it for a moment, then looks up into the sky. All he can see is white light, and he doesn't understand why this dream is different than the others.

By the time he wakes up, he's forgotten all about it.

The weeks pass, and Jimmy's appetite continues to fluctuate. Some days he'll wake up hungry, others he won't get hungry until lunch, and sometimes he'll not eat anything until dinner. For the first three weeks, he realized that he would want to eat double at lunch if he ate nothing at breakfast, and then eat dinner as usual, and then not be hungry at breakfast, again. The same would go for if he ate nothing at dinner, he'd want to eat double at breakfast. But soon enough this began to change, too. Jimmy would eat breakfast, then nothing for lunch, and he wouldn't be hungry again until breakfast the next day. Even then, he would eat a normal amount for breakfast—not like he hadn't eaten in a day, at all.

Jimmy'd expected to grow skinnier as he didn't eat as much, but that didn't happen, either. His body stayed the same, it kept developing as any healthy seventeen-year-old's body should, he just—didn't need to eat as much. But as time kept on, Jimmy started to realize that he'd only eat once every two days, then once every three days, then every four days—the lapses between meals were only getting longer. By the time he'd passed his eighteenth birthday and was approaching graduation, Jimmy was eating a slice of bread every two weeks. And there was something wrong with that, undoubtedly, but the truly odd part about this was that Jimmy didn't seem like he was starving, at all. He just wasn't hungry. Amelia was worried he might be depressed, and told him to visit the school guidance counselor, but they still came up with nothing. Jimmy wasn't depressed, he was in perfect mental health, he just—didn't need to eat.

-Anno Domini 2,006, Spring-

People—teachers, mostly, and Amelia—said Jimmy was smart enough to get a complete scholarship to a good university, get a degree (or two), and graduate at the top of his class in 2009 (one year sooner than most). Perhaps they were right. After all, Jimmy never stumbled in any of his classes and always got particularly good marks in AP Psychology and AP English. But, given the rocky situation with his own life (and the changes he'd been dealing with), Jimmy got distracted. Oh, he still passed, got good marks and attended, but the addition of junior-year stress to his earlier woes led to Jimmy not applying for any of those good scholarships to good universities. He just didn't have the energy for more school, after the past few years (at least, that's what he said when Amelia went into parent-mode and scolded him for not even trying to get a good education).

A strange transformation had also overcome Jimmy, halfway through senior year. The nervousness and knowledge of being low on the food chain as a freshman or sophomore had been mollified by junior year, and now he felt confident. The other boys had grown out of their bullying by the tail-end of junior year, when their girlfriends had found out. Senior year was a mecca for all underclassmen (it obviously didn't work if you hadn't been at the same high school for four years, though—in that situation, the climb to popularity depended on your charisma and looks, alone). It was a never-ending cycle, and everyone would get to it, eventually.

Seniors were looked up to as sophisticated and put-together, not children anymore. The senior girls cast maternally disapproving looks at the freshman girls who dressed in tube tops and mini skirts, and sniffed at the freshman boys' middle-school-age pranks. The senior boys were outgoing and friendly, paying no mind to the barriers of the social order within the school, making friends with everyone and being known by everyone. Jimmy was no exception. Their last week of classes, boys who'd shoved him into lockers in years past were dragging him around by an arm around his neck, their faces full of cheer and rambunctious enthusiasm. Jimmy couldn't help but grin and go along with it as their final days of compulsory school came to an end. Everyone was happy. Everyone was equal, in the class. No one looked down on anyone else, because they'd all just realized that they'd been through the last four years (or eight, or twelve, depending when people had moved in) together, and now all was forgiven. They were all comrades-in-arms, bright faces turned up to the shining future—because they all had futures—with all the buoying fervor of youth-on-the-brink-of-adulthood. Right now everything was fine, and they were all there, holding hands against the waves of The Real World lapping at their ankles.

-Anno Domini 2,006, Autumn-

Six months after graduation, Jimmy's last morsel of food had been two months ago, his nightmares were getting slowly more vivid, and he'd started to have trouble sleeping. It wasn't the nightmares—or the fear of their content—which were keeping him up, either. Jimmy would lie in bed for hours, perfectly awake, and still be aware when Amelia stumbled into bed a little after two in the morning. Around then he'd fall asleep, and wake up four hours later, for work. He wouldn't feel tired in the afternoon the next day, either—so it wasn't like he was making up for the lack of sleep with a four-hour nap, or some such thing. Jimmy had started to feel scared when he couldn't fall asleep at the same time he'd gone to bed—ten at night—for years, but he'd dismissed it as stress due to the shift from student to adult. But it was still unnerving that nothing helped, and he could feel Amelia getting uneasy, too. He knew she was worried about him, and tried to force food on him as often as possible, but it didn't work. Food had essentially become as appetizing as rocks. It just held no appeal for him, anymore—and apparently sleep was soon to follow.

At first Jimmy thought he'd dedicate the time he wasn't sleeping to reading. But it was always the middle of the night, and when he'd sit down with a library book, visions started to creep in around the edges of his mind. Faces of people he didn't know would stare at him and every time he blinked he saw those same landscapes, only now he'd see flashes of steel as weapons slashed through the air. Jimmy wasn't watching it from far above, either. No, he was in the thick of things. There was a sword attached to his hand—gleaming metal, bright and unstained—and it moved as though of its own accord, Jimmy's invisible hand arcing it around gracefully as he advanced over the field. It was eerie. There were still the sounds of war, the sky was full of light and the ground was covered in red, and there were weapons clashing all around, but—other than the faces—Jimmy couldn't see the soldiers' bodies. He was a soldier, he had to be, because he was fighting alongside other soldiers.

After a few nights of this, Jimmy began to pick one voice out from the multitude. It wasn't even that it was that memorable, but he heard it the most often, so he supposed it was a soldier he was close to, someone always fighting alongside him. It shouted things in a strange language Jimmy didn't understand, even if he somehow knew the meaning, anyway. It was obvious his soldier friend was giving orders above the din, and Jimmy started to see the battle slowly take shape. Gleaming armor and white light shone from his side of the field, and he began to discern dark, hellish flames licking at the ground from the other side. Over time, these images became more detailed, and after a few months Jimmy could see wrought-iron armor on their adversaries. Some of their enemies had white wings, just like those on his side, and Jimmy found himself confused (not over the fact both sides had wings—it was a dream, after all—but over the mixed colors). Of their foes, those whose wings weren't completely white had feathers which were charred and blackened with soot. The heat of their armor was obvious even from this distance, as though it were imbued with fire. The substance it was made of continually shifted, as well—glowing red-hot where a gleaming sword made contact, as though concentrating strength to that area. Jimmy's own armor worked much the same, he realized. Gleaming silvery gold became brilliant with white light wherever a stroke of a weapon clanged against it.

Jimmy would come back to himself after these daydreams—or trances, whatever they were—and realize hours had passed and the sun was rising. He kept these visions to himself, even if he couldn't banish them when the sun set and the world went dark. But soon, even during the day, he'd hear echoes of that voice—a strong voice, full of conviction and courage—as it shouted its orders over the battlefield. Jimmy didn't know what it meant, but after all he'd gone through in the past year, a disembodied voice seemed to be the least of his worries.

But when it started talking to him, specifically, Jimmy knew it wasn't.

He was stocking shelves when it first happened.

Jimmy. Jimmy jerked, the back of his hand shoving boxes of cereal to the floor. He shook his head and bent down, fingers trembling slightly.

No, I. I couldn't have heard that. He nodded to himself, pushed it from his mind, and picked up two boxes, straightening.

You did, Jimmy. A prickle at the back of his mind made him shiver, and he shook his head again, concentrating on setting the boxes with ones that matched.

No. I didn't. He stated firmly to himself. I am not going to start hearing voices just when things are starting to look up. So, no, whatever-part-of-my-subconscious you are, I didn't hear anything.

Jimmy was rather satisfied when the voice didn't return.

: : :

-Anno Domini 1,988-

The Foretold Day for Heaven and Hell's War was approaching. Earth would be the battleground, of course. It would happen in two years. A great many of the Heavenly Host—captains, mostly—were sent to Earth, stationed there in the bodies of innocent, untainted fetuses whose bodies would, in 1990, grow to maturity at an astounding rate. These captains, after having been on Earth for two years, would have a sense of human culture and so be able to calm the masses. Being trained and unprideful leaders, they were therefore also authorized to administer sedation when necessary and collect humans of true faith and worth, if their superiors should require vessels.

Castiel was no different. Under orders from Aniel, his major, he flew to Earth and found an infant soul, heading to unite with its body. He followed it and gently guided it to Heaven, slipping himself into the fetus, instead. It was a tight adjustment to fit his Grace into such a tiny body, but—as he was an angel—Castiel only had to shrink and rearrange a few molecules to succeed. He was born as James Albert Novak, the child of Gwendolyn Florance Novak and Charles Franklin Novak. At the time of his birth, his only sibling—named Amelia Catherine Novak—was four years old.

-Anno Domini 1,990-

The Prophesized Day came. Castiel waited for orders. He felt the Metatron descend to Earth (England, specifically) in a lightning flash. He felt Beëlzebub ascend beside him amidst boiling asphalt. Castiel heard a demon present at the scene speak, and heard the demon commanded to be silent by Beëlzebub. The entire Heavenly Host (or, Host of Heaven) and the Fallen Legion (or, Legion of the Fallen) were silent, not daring to even fake a breath, lest it disrupt the fate of the world currently teetering precariously in a place called "Lower Tadfield." Metatron and Beëlzebub spoke to an eleven-year-old boy standing between them, the entire scene broadcast to the minds of all those of angel stock (which meant, everyone in both the Host and the Legion). The eleven-year-old was the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness.

That eleven-year-old was The Antichrist, Lucifer's son, brought from Hell as a baby in 1979.

He introduced himself as Adam Young.

Adam Young pointed, and it was now that everyone watching noticed the other angel present at the scene. The angel, looking rumpled in an overcoat, stood beside a demon with bright yellow eyes. They were talking. Nervously, yes, but like friends. Castiel felt outrage pulse through the Host, and something almost akin to delight slice through the Legion.

Then Adam Young continued, and everyone couldn't help but listen. Metatron and Beëlzebub tried to interrupt, but couldn't, not against Adam Young. And then Metatron told the boy to look inside himself, to see what was in his very genes to do. It was the Great Plan, and it was in Adam Young's blood to want to destroy the world (or humanity, at least). And the boy hesitated as he felt the pull within him, and every demon and angel and human (only those present at the scene, and there were a handful) felt the air charge with tension.

And then the other angel stepped forward, speaking up, his voice clear (and oddly, inescapably British).

"Excuse me. This Great Plan. This would be the ineffable Plan, right?"

This angel proceeded to argue semantics with Metatron. Castiel felt a ripple of amusement from the Legion and utter horror from the Host, but the angel remained stubbornly respectful as he argued his point—which was, whether the Great Plan was, in fact, an explicit part of the ineffable Plan. Everyone watched as the demon standing beside the angel—not Beëlzebub, but the one with yellow, snake-like eyes—started to grin. The angel responded, voice still perfectly polite and undeterred despite Metatron's obvious and growing impatience. Then the demon, this time, interrupted Metatron, and Beëlzebub shouted down his subordinate, the Prince of Hell's voice buzzing like a nest of flies.

"It izz written!" The Legion was becoming decidedly less amused at this turn of events, Castiel noticed. All was still silent (as no one risked interrupting—or being heard over—the broadcast), but Castiel could still feel his Fallen brothers' and fellow angels' general opinions on the turn the conversation was taking.

"But it might be written differently somewhere else. Where you can't read it." The demon said.

"In bigger letters." The angel agreed.

"Underlined." They were adding to each other's statements.

"Twice." It was clear they knew each other very well. Castiel wondered over just how long they had been working with each other.

"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world. It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?" The demon finished off on a smug note. Metatron responded that God did not play games with His loyal servants, but he sounded worried, and the demon just laughed. There was silence, for a moment. Then Adam Young spoke, his voice inevitably gaining everyone's attention, and they had to listen. Castiel felt within this boy the power to destroy the entire Host and Legion with a thought. It was part of what kept both sides (including forcing Metatron and Beëlzebub to try and reason with the boy, since they could not overpower him) so desperately paralyzed, he realized belatedly.

"I don't see why it matters what is written. Not when it's about people. It can always be crossed out."

And Castiel heard an unsettled Metatron and Beëlzebub concede, together, that they needed to seek further instructions. Castiel didn't know what to think as he felt the Voice of God and the Prince of Hell depart. Then he heard, along with the rest of the Host and the Legion, as the angel and demon spoke like old friends, relieved and ridiculous.

"Is it over, do you think?" The angel asked the demon. The demon shrugged.

"Not for us, I'm afraid."

Castiel and everyone else knew, in that moment, that those two knew they had been marked for Heaven's Rehabilitation Curriculum and Hell's Corruption Plan, respectively. [1]

How imprudent of him, to fraternize with a demon. Castiel thought to himself.

And then, abruptly everyone was riveted to the image of Adam Young when he glanced at the two forbidden friends, voice clear and firm.

"I don't think you need to go worryin'. I know all about you two. Don't you worry." The Legion and the Host watched as Adam Young turned to look at his friends—three other eleven-year-olds, looking a little shell-shocked and shaken. And then he spoke again, tone imbued with decisive power and resounding through their minds as a Voice.

"There's been too much messin' around anyway. But it seems to me everyone's goin' to be a lot happier if they forget about this. Not actually forget, just not remember exactly. An' then we can go home."

At that, the Host and the Legion and everyone—or, just about—stopped listening.

They went home.

The next morning, Castiel felt a strange sensation that he'd missed something, but the more he thought about it, the more elusive it became. Eventually, he supposed, Heaven would contact him with his next orders. He was on Earth for the coming Apocalypse, after all. He realized, fuzzily, that the precise date had never been revealed to him, but it would be coming, he was sure of that. He only had to wait.

Later that year, Heaven clarified that the End of Days would occur on January 1, 2000. Castiel didn't question the order, merely settled down for another ten years or so until he would be needed in the War.

[1] The Legion's more powerful Fallen were seething with rage, intending to immediately recall their contaminated agent and make an example of him. The weaker demons were furiously clamoring, screeching advice for the upcoming torture and hoping to get a taste of it. (For they could all feel the weakness in the demon that had led to this atrocity. The demon had had his properly evil mindset bleached out of him, and been infected with optimism and worse, trust.) By predictable contrast, the Host radiated stern disapproval and pity. The higher-level angels were determining that they must—only temporarily, of course—withdraw their confused brother from his station on Earth. He required a firm re-education, so as to never again make the mistake of keeping company with a demon. (And worse, it was friendship. Innocent angels hid nothing from their fellow brothers—what would be the purpose, if they had nothing to hide?—and this angel was calmly allowing his brothers to see everything. He was firm in his conviction, and plainly did not care it was a demon he believed he was friends with. That, of course, was the problem, and obvious proof of the poor angel's deplorable mental condition.)

: : :

Due to the amount of publicity generated in the human public sphere in the year 1999 (over fear of the Apocalypse happening—because of either computers or Jesus, depending on your sources), Uriel, Aniel, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer (the remaining Five of the Seven Archangels [2]) decided to move the date. They didn't want the humans prepared, after all. Therefore, January 1, 2000 passed without incident, the minds of the rest of the Heavenly Host and Fallen Legion were made to forget that the Foretold Date had passed, and the Apocalypse was moved to May 21, 2011. (It was based, this time, on the rapture prediction of an obscure man called Harold Camping. Heaven and Hell figured that, having been wrong twice before in 1994 and 1995, no one would take him seriously and they could carry out their long-expected fight in peace.)

Unfortunately, the public caught wind of the May 2011 prediction, and the humans were again thrown into a pre-apocalyptic panic. None of this would have swayed the Archangels (after the last frenzy over "Y2K"), but something else forced them to delay the date and re-alter the minds of their subordinates. Only Uriel, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer remembered that May 21, 2011 was the day the Archangel Aniel Descended to Earth. (Explained in human military terms, a Descent is to a Fall as MIA is to KIA.) There was a scrambling search for her, but when it proved fruitless, the Archangels decided to hush up the entire incident and try another apocalypse at a later date. The loss of Aniel—so well-versed in battle and such a popular leader among the lesser multitudes of angels—could not be completely covered up, however, and there was tension in the lower ranks that would take a few months to smooth out. After all these failed Raptures, the remaining Four Archangels' patience was wearing thin, and so the "final" date for the End of the World—now called "The Foretold Day of Michael and Lucifer's Final Battle"—was moved to December 21, 2012.

Sadly, in human affairs it soon came to light that this was also the day the Mayan calendar predicted the End of the Fourth World, but by now Michael and Lucifer were chafing at the bit. The Archangels—Four of the accessible Six, anyway—agreed that they just didn't care about human awareness of the battle, anymore, and stubbornly decided for this date to be "the one".

[2] Six of the original Seven Archangels yet lived. Gabriel was, of course, the Seventh (being the youngest), but he had Descended to Earth some centuries ago. The other Archangels sensed he was not dead, but none of his brothers knew—as Gabriel was no longer connected to Heaven—if he would have also felt Aniel's Descent.

: : :

-Anno Domini 1,994-

When Castiel was still young, there were no problems. Gwendolyn Novak doted on him. She always held him, carried him, and gazed at him with such adoration that Castiel began to suspect she was subconsciously siphoning off a small bit of his Grace—craving it, if you will. He felt many wounds within her, but paid them no mind—it was not his mission to heal them—and nothing changed until his first day of human school.

He was given strange looks for being so quiet. Castiel had never found the need to talk much, and so couldn't understand when his teacher gave him worried looks as he sat quietly at his desk, staring at the blackboard in thought while his schoolmates played outside. But Castiel ignored her, instead choosing to reflect on what he'd observed of the other children. Their behavior was different than his, and different than Amelia Novak's. Perhaps he was acting strange for his age? The thought crossed his mind, and Castiel frowned. How was he to stay hidden if he stood out? He must create a mask for himself.

And so, as he returned home that day, he created "Jimmy". It was an easy enough farce for an angel. Castiel merely had to combine qualities that the adults encouraged in children his age, adjust them properly to fit into his family structure, and then let his creation run on autopilot. It was an excellent solution, he thought. It would enable Castiel to rest, instead of being barraged with the needs of humanity on a daily basis. His body was young, and so he had gotten used to needing nourishment and sleep and visits to the bathroom, but it was all so distracting he worried he might forget his True Purpose. So Castiel curled quietly up in a corner of "Jimmy's" mind, wrapping his Grace around him as a shield for the persona he'd created. He slept for years, conserving his energy for the time to come. His Grace, Castiel knew, would protect his body from any harm, merely by the fact it was held within it. But his Grace was no longer obviously pouring outward—Gwendolyn could no longer feed off it, harmless as she had been, and Castiel would not be overly distracted by human concerns as he slept. The surface persona would keep him safely undercover.

-Anno Domini 2,003-

After "Jimmy's" fifteenth birthday, Castiel began to feel his abilities returning. He started to wake, slowly, and—as it happened more at night—took to running through ancient battles since "Jimmy" was resting and the amount of physical stimuli was lessened. Castiel analyzed and observed his previous strategies—what had worked and what hadn't. He shielded the actual scenes from his persona's dreams, of course, because they would undoubtedly, irreversibly change who he had crafted "Jimmy" to be. Such bloody fighting between the Heavenly Host and the Fallen Legion was not for mortal eyes.

-Annis Domini 2,004 ad 2,005-

As the years went on, Castiel noticed his Grace—likely due to his increased awareness—began to leak through, affecting the vessel. Castiel felt his persona's fear as the body needed to eat less, and quietly soothed the worries away so his mask would not break. "Jimmy" had no reason to fear, because he did not exist. It was all a mere after-effect of Castiel awakening from inside him, and it cost Castiel no moral quandary to think so—"Jimmy" was his creation, a simple, soulless personality he'd crafted out of a multitude of traits and motivations with no real person driving them. "Jimmy" wasn't human because he had never been human, and so it made perfect sense for Castiel to toss "Jimmy" away once he was no longer necessary.

-Anno Domini 2,006-

Castiel, however, still felt a lingering sense of duty to this persona, who had so effectively served as his mask for nearly twelve years. So, when Castiel felt strong enough to speak, he began to call to "Jimmy", ready to explain that he could rest, his duty was done and Castiel would take care of things from now on. Surprisingly, this seemed to be harder than Castiel had initially thought, because—and no one could have predicted this—"Jimmy" almost seemed to be fighting to keep Castiel silent.

What was more worrying was that it was working, and Castiel was running out of time. He only had six years until the Apocalypse, and he had to begin to train himself for battle while in human form. This body had changed drastically from the child Castiel last remembered controlling. He was finding that the years he had been asleep made quite a few muscles bigger and stronger, and the changes would take some getting used to. The sooner Castiel started acclimating to his matured vessel, the better.

If only Jimmy would stop being so difficult.

-Anno Domini 2,007-

After a long and futile year of mentally wrestling with Jimmy to listen to him, Castiel's patience had been exhausted. His solution was risky, but the only option left. It was now four years until the Apocalypse, and he had to be ready.

Jimmy was sitting on the couch, reading. His thoughts were definitely distracted.

Jimmy. Castiel tried mentally, one last time. Jimmy shook his head, as though dislodging a fly, the mental barriers swelling stronger. The angel prepared himself, then quickly skirted around those barriers and flowed straight into the physical.

"Jimmy." Jimmy hadn't seemed to notice he'd spoken. Well, Castiel had only managed a whisper, anyway. Perhaps he needed to speak louder? He cleared his throat—unfamiliar with its use—and upped the volume.

"Jimmy!" The book went flying, and Castiel felt Jimmy panic from within. The angel tried to soothe, but those mental barriers rose up, thick and hard, between them. Castiel firmly held his influence over the physical, however.

"Jimmy, stop shutting us out. Y-You're not real. You're just a voice—Jimmy, I assure you I am much more than that." Jimmy winced, and Castiel felt a little sorry for him, but he had a War to prepare for.

"Jimmy. You need to give back control of this body. It is required for the War. W-War? What War? I don't know what you're—The Foretold War between Heaven and Hell. I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord and—W-Wait, what, an angel? Like—oh, God—like the angel that possessed Claire, when she was four?"

Castiel felt Jimmy's thoughts turn to anger, and he forced Jimmy's right hand to close around his own throat, cutting off the rambling. Castiel felt Jimmy radiate silent fear, and he regretted being forced to use such violence. The hand loosened, allowing Castiel to speak.

"Jimmy, the angels are on the side of God. We will win, but require the use of your body. W-Why do you need my body? Why me? I'm just—You were chosen before you were born, Jimmy. I have always been here, sleeping, and you have done well. Your mission is over. Be at peace, and rest." Castiel exerted his Grace, billowing over the part of their mind that was Jimmy's, trying to gently lull him away from consciousness. But Jimmy fought, instead, surging against the lapping tide and crying out.

"N-No! Jimmy— No, I said! This is my body, Castiel, and I can't just leave Amelia and Claire to— They will be safer if you leave." Castiel felt Jimmy give pause, at that, and continued, voice low and gravelly.

"Do you think no one will notice the amount of Grace it is taking for me to physically speak with you? If you had listened to me when I tried to speak in your mind, I could have remained undetected. Now, within the hour, demons will be swarming this place in search of you." There was a shaky pause. Jimmy didn't respond, and Castiel felt the seconds ticking away. He hadn't lied—it was true, every word of it. If they left now, the demons would follow the trail of Castiel's Grace. But only if they left right now!

"Jimmy— W-Why." Castiel paused, listening. Jimmy seemed close to tears.

"Why do I have to leave now? Claire's only seven, and Amelia's finally started dating again, and it's not fair because we were finally starting to— Jimmy, we realize this is hard." Castiel didn't mention that Jimmy was only a creation of his. It would seem to be detrimental to the conversation if he didn't pretend Jimmy was an actual being with an actual soul (which Jimmy didn't have, of course—Castiel had seen to that, when he redirected the soul meant for Jimmy's body). It was all very inconvenient, but Castiel felt as though he couldn't do otherwise.

"No. You don't realize. They're my family, Castiel. I can't just— Jimmy, if you do not make a choice, I will be forced make it for you. W-What? Wait—" Castiel made a sound of pressured annoyance. He could already feel demons headed their way—zoning in on his active Grace. He did not have time to further explain.

"I have been lenient with you, but now we cannot afford to wait. Demons are beginning to circle, and we must leave immediately so as not to compromise the safety of your family. Wait, no—Castiel! Please, just let me leave a note, o-or—" Castiel shut his body's eyes, silently asking for forgiveness for not showing mercy. Not that Jimmy was human, really, but he was close enough that ignoring such heartfelt entreaties was very… difficult.

"I am sorry." Castiel took a breath, and did what he should have done a year ago. The angel let his Grace shoot outward and overwhelm Jimmy, seizing control of the body. Its back arched off the couch, engulfed in outpouring light as his wings furled out behind him, crashing into the lamps. He was airbourne a moment later and Castiel was so concentrated on getting away from Pontiac, Illinois, as fast as he could that he didn't notice as Jimmy managed to stutter something past the steel will of Castiel's control.

"P-Pizin noco iad!" With a cry of pain, Castiel's wings buckled and he curled into himself, lips dripping blood as they careened downward. Lake Michigan welled up before his body's eyes and Castiel grunted, wings flapping jerkily as they spread out again, aiming to catch the air currents. The tips of his primary feathers skimmed the water's surface in a particularly strong downbeat, resulting in uneven splashes on either side, making him wobble. The angel focused on getting them to the land he could feel was nearby.

Where did Jimmy learn that phrase?

Castiel's insides felt like they'd been punctured and half-ripped out, and he coughed up more blood as his sense of balance wavered, dipping the edge of one wing—down to the secondary feathers—under the lake's surface. It disrupted his momentum, caused him to spin in that direction and the angel felt briefly dizzy while the world flipped. Now he was facing the sky, shooting fast on his back just a few inches above the lake's surface. One wing was wet, useless and dragging in the water as the other grew steadily soaked from the spray, and Castiel went under as gravity finally won and pulled him beneath the sloshing waves.

After a struggle against both the water and the powerful weight of his own sodden wings, Castiel dragged himself onto a beach. He collapsed on his side, allowing the body to take great gulps of air, Jimmy's clothes drenched and covered in sand. His wings were sprawled in a messy array of white feathers from the back of the ripped shirt. He didn't sense any humans nearby—indeed, only plants and animals, and a large inland lake—and closed his eyes. He reached inside, to where he could feel Jimmy trembling.

Jimmy.

Castiel?

You will not speak aloud without permission. He said this firmly, the words closing like a steel trap of truth. He couldn't afford to have Jimmy able to incapacitate him with a single sentence. It couldn't happen again. Jimmy sounded contrite, at least.

I-I'm sorry. You just surprised me, and I—where are we, anyway? Castiel sighed, and moved to sit up, spreading his wings up into the air before shaking out his feathers behind him, trying to get rid of most of the sand. The waves had been lapping at them, though, so it did no good—they were coated in wet sand. He tried to ignore the grainy feeling sandwiched between the layers of feathers. (Oh, but was it unpleasant.)

An island in Lake Michigan. The angel paused, getting his bearings. South Manitou Island.

Oh. Um, are you— Castiel interrupted him, voice low and decidedly critical.

Where did you learn that phrase? The body almost drowned.

I said I was sorry! Jimmy shot back, defensive. I… learned it from a friend, a few years back.

Castiel was silent, for a moment. He stood, raking an impatient hand through his hair to clear the sand from it. He otherwise paid no mind to his unkempt state, staring gravely across the water, lost in thought. Jimmy piped up again, after a bit.

Hey, I—uh, since I don't seem to have a choice… What is this War, anyway? Will it last long?

Castiel detected a note of hope. He poked further and saw that the comment was connected to the memories of Amelia and Claire. Jimmy hoped he would see them, again. Castiel barely hesitated.

It will last until it is over. The angel stated, firmly avoiding lying or giving a real answer. He turned, heading inward to where he sensed the freshwater lake. It wasn't so much that he didn't want humans to see him (angels could render themselves invisible, of course), but Castiel's tactical experience made him prefer being out of the open. Besides, he had to clean his feathers, since he couldn't wish them clean. [3] More importantly, Castiel knew his next mission was to find his garrison, meet up with them on Earth and take his assigned role in the Apocalypse. He pictured them in his mind—their major, his fellow captain, their respective lieutenants, the outspoken officer cadet called Hester—and found his resolve strengthen. He had not seen them in nineteen years, but that was nothing to their kind. They would be waiting for him, he was sure of it, and Castiel could not disappoint his garrison. As a captain, they depended on him. The angel came at last to the end of the beach. Now, he began to clamber up the great perched sand dune which flanked the entire west coast of the island.

The whole way up toward the tree line, Castiel made sure he was still invisible. He tried not to think about how his wings itched, but couldn't help but beat them every few minutes or so, trying to dry the feathers as well as dislodge that accursed sand. Jimmy was quiet. Castiel did not seek to converse, thus leaving them both alone in the silence with their respective thoughts.

[3] Every angel's wings were part of their True Form, and they could no more wish their wings clean as they could wish their Grace, if pierced, into being whole again. This was the reason many angels preferred vessels on Earth, as their Grace (if they so wished it) could stop time for the body, resulting in a perpetually-clean human. Shielded in such a vessel, this resulted in the angel's True Form remaining untainted (so long as nothing pierced their Grace, of course). Wings, however, were another matter entirely. Wings required attention to remain functional—especially while moulting—and so roughly every year, angels would assemble in droves to groom each other. It was either this, or self-groom (which was much harder). Castiel preferred the latter, as it was not nearly as inconvenient as trying to remember when the Grooming Day was scheduled for, each year. Besides—with so many angels not at their usual posts, due to the mass grooming—he felt better doing something productive. (This was, of course, in the six-thousand years before Castiel dropped into a human body. Due to being hidden—inactive—in Jimmy's body for nearly twenty years, his True Form had remained rather clean. Now, however—especially after all that sand and seawater—Castiel's wings could definitely use a good grooming. It was a shame he didn't really have the time to do anything more than clean them just enough so he could fly, again.)

~END CHAPTER TWO~