(5/17/2018) SEASON FINALE IN AN HOUR! SEASON FINALE IN AN HOUR! At least where I'm at.

I threw myself into this fic with my eyes closed. Kind of didn't know what I was signing myself up for. But every kind word you leave helps!

Thank you Sailor Dragonball 87, Lovingh3art, booklifeforlife, ngregory763, Mystery Guest, Samuel William Winchester, DreamFeathers, ShadowDancer1629, and WhymustIpickaname (I don't know!) for the reviews! And everyone favoriting and following get Pygmy Puffs!

Meg was bored.

Her history as a demon was nothing less than illustrious. She'd apprenticed under Alastair, Hell's Grand Torturer. Azazel, a Prince of Hell, was her adopted father. Lucifer, the greatest of the archangels, was her liege.

In her many years of existence she'd become intimate with all nuances of pain, whether doled or received, learned to enjoy the infliction and the sounds, had broken the toughest soldiers and the most serene church officials down into quivering, pissing wretches. Therefore these pustules, with their repetitiveness and lack of imagination, bored her.

Oh, sure, it hurt. She screamed. She cried. But those were natural, physical responses. Anything screamed and cried when you peeled strips of skin off or put splinters into their nail beds. It was just so… mundane.

So when Crowley appeared for one of her sessions she played up her agony and used it to alter the game a bit. In a false show of forced bravado, Meg asked the so-called King if he'd even stopped to consider that there was more to the planet than just North America. After all, Crowley's own birthplace lay over there in the land of redheads and kilts. Who's to say Lucifer hadn't dumped crypts all over the globe?

She laughed at his consternated expression. He dunked her head in a vat of bleach.

The next day Meg found herself in a devil's trap in Glasgow.

The Winchesters' meeting in Dumbledore's ostentatiously filled office was a lot more simple than they'd thought it would be. He verified that McGonagall had sketched out their duties and asked whether or not they had an idea for their first lesson. Sam explained that they merely thought to do a quick introduction to the course and to a hunter's arsenal with the most common creature, ghosts, as their first unit.

Dumbledore had smiled and nodded before allowing them to ask questions. First and foremost Dean wanted to know if Umbridge was some kind of a previously unknown creature that they needed to keep an eye on. He was mostly assured that she was human, to which Dean sullenly replied that he wouldn't kill her. For now.

Sam tentatively asked if there was anyone who could introduce him to wand-work. Dumbledore said he would ask the staff if anyone would be willing to spend the extra time tutoring the newly unearthed wizard.

Just as the brothers were finally starting to feel the debilitating effects of international travel and a well consumed meal, McGonagall arrived. She listened in to Dean's queries about some of the objects in Dumbledore's office (like the pensieve and the rather scraggly looking bird) before wondering if the Headmaster had informed the new teachers about OWLs and NEWTs. As if on cue, Sam's jaw cracked in a tremendous yawn and Dumbledore offered to explain those another day. The Winchesters then followed McGonagall to their castle quarters.

Their classroom ended up being modestly sized with a staircase leading up to the office. A door within that private space led to a bedroom with canopied beds, dressers, a private bathroom, and a large-eared creature with enormous, eager eyes. "Sam Winchester, sir! Dean Winchester, sir! I is Dobby, sirs. Dumbledore asked me to helps you with clothings."

The brothers blinked blearily at McGonagall. "I realize that you are used to a more casual wardrobe. However, with… certain elements currently present in the castle it would be advisable to adhere to some of our dress codes."

"We understand," Sam said. After Umbridge's speech no one was in any desire to bring the government's attention to their presence. "But… But what is he?"

"We call them house-elves. He is quite trustworthy, I assure you. We have also asked Dobby here to help you with adjusting to how the castle works. He is relatively new himself. All you need to do is call his name if you have a query."

"Dobby is loyal to Hogwarts, sirs!" piped the creature. "Especially those who is helping Harry Potter, sirs!"

"Thank you," Sam said to both the house-elf and the professor.

"Dude," Dean warned after McGonagall left, "I'm not wearing a freaking dress like Dumbledore."

Dobby shook his head. "Oh no, Dean Winchester, sir. There are pantses and skirtses as well! Dobby is bringing both."

"Great," the elder Winchester said flatly.

Dobby had brought them a trunk full of an assortment of items from storage (the fact that there seemed to be a lot more clothes than the container's size would warrant registered ever so slightly in their overwhelmed brains) and the brothers did their best to compromise, Sam more than Dean. They managed to scrounge up black and gray suit pants that were reminiscent of their faux FBI uniforms for bottoms, but they differed on tops.

Sam decided to conform as much as possible. He selected vests and collared shirts as well as a few black robes with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned over his heart. The only reason for that final item was the fact that there were pockets inside specially designed for quick wand and ingredients access which Dean couldn't deny were useful for his brother, Merlin the Massive.

Dean conceded to the pants and several gray and black blazers but refused outright to spend every day wearing a monkey suit. Much to both Sam's and Dobby's chagrin, Dean proved that slacks and some of his less careworn, solidly colored shirts served quite well as Muggle semi-formal. He promised to wear the jackets, and even a school sweater or two, if necessary.

"Thanks, Dobby," Dean said, a seemingly harmless expression that earned him a good deal of genuflecting and wails of, "Dean Winchester, the most kindest, most honorable Muggle that Dobby has ever known!" The elder brother was forced to bid the house-elf a loud, "GOOD NIGHT!" over the creature's praises in order to make him leave.

The brothers forced themselves to do some preparatory work in their classroom before performing their nightly ablutions and heading to bed. They thankfully spent their first night as professors at Hogwarts in relative peace.

On the way to breakfast the next morning, Dean was surprised to find himself subject to a water balloon attack. When he swiveled around to find the culprit, water dripping down his neck, the students that were about all pointed up. There, sitting on a chandelier, was the most ridiculous looking ghost the Winchesters had ever seen. It appeared to be a short, black-haired court jester, complete with bells on his hat. Several more missiles were in his hands.

The girls and boys who were unlucky to be sharing the hallway with the brothers were then subject to a bombardment. Indignant shrieks echoed off the stone as students sprinted for the Hall. Dean, however, had gotten out his handgun, and despite Sam's, "Wait, don't!" shot down the jester's perch.

With a terrifically loud clamor the chandelier crashed to the floor. Shocked students stood where they were with their eyes either on the insane professor or the destroyed light. Sam merely glared. "What?" Dean snapped.

"We're in a school."

"A haunted school."

"You don't carry your gun around in a school!"

A tremendously irritated Snape rounded the corner and took in the sight. Dean had yet to stow his handgun and hastily put it behind his back. After ordering the remaining children to breakfast, Snape pulled his wand and uttered, "Reparo." Gaping, the Winchesters watched chandelier flow back up to the ceiling and relight itself. The jester reappeared a second later holding his sides and laughing uncontrollably.

"Peeves," Snape called. "Do I need to find the Bloody Baron?" The ghost, Peeves, gave the three of them an extraordinarily spiteful raspberry before vanishing again. He left the brothers under the scorching eyes of the Potions Master. "Is there a reason you feel the need to carry a gun in our school?"

Sam glared at his brother in a manner Dean knew to mean I told you. "Force of habit," the elder brother explained.

"This is not the United States," Snape scoffed. "We do not condone the reckless possession of firearms."

"They'll need to know about them," Sam said pedantically. "Dumbledore asked us to teach them alternative ways to defend themselves. It'd be detrimental to their lessons if we didn't have them."

The Potions Master sniffed derisively. "Very well. Keep them out of the halls."

A swirl of black robes and Snape was walking away. "Dean!" Sam hissed; the elder of the brothers had brought his gun back out and was casually aiming at the other professor's head.

"Fine," Dean grumbled. He reached over, opened up Sam's robe, and dumped the gun inside. "I don't got a big enough pocket," he explained.

"Whatever," Sam sighed. "I'm starved."

They entered the Great Hall through the picture room again and found the staff table piled high with toast, eggs, grilled tomatoes, and sausages. Sam partook a little of everything while Dean loaded his plate with meat.

As the brothers sat they saw that the students were being handed slips of parchment by their heads of houses. Some of them gazed at it curiously, others with despair. "Must be their classes," Sam inferred.

"Dude," Dean said through a mouthful, "we gonna eat like this every day? Because, wow…"

"Can't wait to see you get fat."

"Suck it, bitch."

"Jerk."

After they were done eating they stood to go. Surprisingly, they were waylaid by a voice from nowhere asking, "Excuse me, Professor Winchester?"

Dean's eyes immediately went down to the source while Sam continued looking confused. When the mystery person cleared their throat, and his brother began snickering, Sam's gaze drifted to the floor. There, a very short, very distinguished man was looking back up at him. "I am Professor Filius Flitwick," he announced. "You may call me Filius. We are colleagues, after all."

Much to Dean's amusement, Sam was forced to bend at the waist to reach the proffered hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Minerva thought it might be best if I begin your own education with some basic charms. We can start this evening if you like."

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be great!"

"Very good! Please meet me in my classroom after dinner. I'm certain we can get a few in before bedtime."

They shook hands again. At Dean's muffled chuckles Sam turned to him, irritated. "What?"

"You're literally twice his size."

"Bet he could still flick that wand of his and knock us both on our asses." (At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George quickly mouthed the phrase, "knock us on our asses," to each other for future reference. An exasperated Hermione smacked herself in the head.)

"Ain't denying that. C'mon, we better go get set up."

Sixth-years and first-years had already experienced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with the Professors Winchesters by the time lunch rolled around. There were two vastly differing opinions regarding curriculum and they were split between the two grades.

The sixth-years were intrigued to be getting practical lessons on dealing with less-than-friendly magical creatures and were looking forward to some hands on work. While the spell-work aspect was a bit lacking, the apprehension from having to take their NEWTs in the spring made the prospect of getting to smash things to bits greatly appealing. It could turn out to be the best school sanctioned stress relief ever.

The first-years were terrified. It wasn't the subject matter or the potential for bodily harm. According to one first-year at the Gryffindor table, it was the professors themselves and the tools they'd displayed that were frightening.

Immediately after lunch would be the third-years, and after that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would get to see whatever was going on for themselves. A few hours later they stood in front of the door to Classroom 3C with the rest of their year-mates and waited impatiently for their turn. Hermione had pulled out a dull looking text called Defensive Magical Theory and was looking back and forth from it to the class. "I wonder if we'll still need this?" she wondered.

"What is it?" asked Ron.

"Well, when we first got to London I asked the gentleman at Flourish and Bott's if he knew what the required texts would be for fifth-year and I bought them early. Except when we got our official lists it wasn't there."

"Maybe he was trying to pull one over on you," Harry suggested.

"I suppose. I mean, it a terribly uninteresting book and quite outdated in its philosophy, but if the proprietor was telling the truth then it makes me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"If perhaps something changed."

They were saved from further speculation by the opening of the classroom door. Third-years piled out, most chattering excitedly, a few looking deeply apprehensive. As soon as it cleared the fifth-years headed in.

Every Defense Against the Dark Arts class had greeted them with a different learning environment, from Lockhart's expansive collection of self-portraits to the false Moody's immediate demonstration of the Unforgivable Curses. This was, expectedly, as varied as the others, but not in the way that anyone could have ever expected.

The desks were there, per the norm, except each one was now decorated with a sinister mandala. It contained a pentagram and several, jagged runes, all in black. The same design, far larger in size, was on the ceiling and the floor. Behind the professors was a second mandala, this one wrought of completely unknown sigils and included more angular features.

The usual teacher's desk in the front of the room was completely covered with a great array of objects including, quite shockingly, a number of firearms and bladed weapons. On the chalkboard were the names "Professor Sam Winchester" and "Professor Dean Winchester" as well as a list of creatures:

Demon
Angel
Ghost
Vampire
Werewolf
Shapeshifter
Skinwalker
Ghoul

All the students talked, pointing from one thing to another, unable to quiet themselves even when the taller professor cleared his throat. The shorter one then picked up a shotgun, cocked it, and fired a round into the ceiling. Judging by the spattering of holes already present, he'd already used the technique on the previous classes. Regardless of the unconventionality, it worked. Silence immediately descended.

"Welcome," said the unarmed one. "I'm Professor Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Professor Dean Winchester. We'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts. Because we have the same last names we've decided that, if you're comfortable doing so, you're allowed to call us 'Professor Sam' or 'Professor Dean'."

"We're going to be using practical, Muggle ways," said the shorter one, Dean. "Stick waving'll happen later."

A Ravenclaw raised his hand. "Excuse me, but how is it that Muggles know how to do these things? Magical creatures tend to stay away from them, don't they?"

"Unfortunately, no," answered Professor Sam. "Not all the time. And for those people it's normally fatal."

Malfoy was next. "Shouldn't we be learning how to use our wands instead? Since we're not Muggles."

"How quickly can you draw your wand?" The Slytherin boy shrugged. "Do you think you could draw it, wave it, and call a spell while a werewolf is charging at you? Or would it be easier to pull a gun and shoot it full of silver?"

"Depends on the wizard," Malfoy replied cockily.

"Try it," Professor Dean suggested.

Confident in his abilities, Malfoy stood up. He squared off down the aisle from the new teacher. The latter stood still and tossed a small object up and down in one hand. A few tense seconds passed before Malfoy quickly reached into his robes… and was clocked between the eyes with whatever Professor Dean had been holding. "Ow!"

The thing clattered to the floor. As Malfoy sat back in his seat (one hand rubbing the small red mark on his face), the shorter-haired teacher picked up what he'd thrown. "Silver bullet," he announced. "Moves a hell of a lot faster through a gun."

"Wands are breakable," continued Sam. "Your voice isn't reliable. Suppose you're facing that werewolf and you've got a sore throat and can't speak?"

"We're not sayin' toss the sticks," added Dean. "We're sayin' that you gotta have more than one tool in your bag."

Professor Sam walked up to the board and gestured to the list of creatures. "These are some of the things we're hoping to teach you about this year. There's a whole lot more than this out there, but these are the most common monsters we've come up against."

Hermione raised her hand. "What sort of demons will we be looking into? Water? Fire?"

"The ones from Hell," Professor Dean said grimly.

After a moment of incredibly tense silence, during which the students digested the idea of an actual, viable underworld, Hermione ventured, "A-And angels? There are angels?"

"Yes." A few of the Muggleborns began whispering excitedly. Dean shook his head. "But they ain't like you think."

"We'll get to that," Sam said hurriedly. "In the meantime, let's take a look at some tools."

The professors spent the rest of the class explaining the various items that they'd put on display. Handguns for bullets, either silver or engraved with the same pentagram and circle that was all over the room. Shotguns with rounds full of rock salt. Knives made of silver, steel, bronze, and stakes of different woods. Large blades for creatures that required beheading or evisceration. A bottle filled with holy water, another with holy oil, and a third with "dead man's blood."

Professor Sam allowed the varying bullets, stakes, and bottles to be passed around as he and his brother quickly skimmed through their usages. Professor Dean prowled the class to make sure no one pocketed anything, a precaution that ended up being necessary; at some point a silver bullet stopped making its rounds. After walking about a bit, the shorter-haired teacher knelt down at Goyle's desk and whispered something in the boy's ear that made him blanche. Miraculously the bullet reappeared in the rotation.

"Homework this week," called Professor Sam. "A page—a foot of parchment on the differences between poltergeists and ghosts. Feel free to interview the castle ghosts for info. Have a good week!"

"No, don't—"

Castiel cut Dean's objections off with his fist. The man's head snapped to one side and then the other as the angel rained blows down upon his friend. Eventually Dean was reduced to begging on his knees, his face bruised and bloodied. The angel flexed his arm, his blade fell from its sheath, and wrapped reddened fingers around the haft.

Then he hesitated.

What was he doing? Why was he killing Dean Winchester? Where was Sam? Shouldn't Sam be here, too? Wasn't there something he was looking for? Wasn't there someone who—

Bright lights clicked on. Dean's mangled features disappeared. An exasperated sigh echoed through the vast room as two other angels grabbed Castiel's arms. "Still no good," Naomi said, frustrated. "Strap him back in. Time for another session."

"No," Castiel whispered. He knew what that meant, what horrors were about to visited upon him, the needles and the suggestions and the pain. "Let me go," he shouted as he struggled uselessly. "LET ME GO!"

Naomi turned to a subordinate as they bore the screaming delinquent away. "Get the room set up again. We'll get it right eventually. Then the tablet will be back in Heaven where it belongs."

Author's Note : According to Pottermore, kappas and kelpies are sorts of "water demons," thus Hermione's desire for clarification. I'm jumping to the conclusion that there are other elementals out there, too.

Religion doesn't seem to be a big thing with the wizarding world, but a Muggle in modern day England would have been exposed to a church of some sort at some point. I assume. Thus the excited Muggleborns at the thought of angels but the "meh" from the others.

And yes, I know there's windless magic. But they don't know that.