What follows is a long Author's Note that will only happen again at the end, I promise. Please read.

GO is "Good Omens", a novel written in 1990 by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. (There's a four-part BBC mini-series based on it coming out in 2013!) I highly recommend reading it if you haven't, and if you have (and thus know the characters)—sit back and enjoy. :3 It'll take a little while for the GO characters to show up, so please be patient. The slash will also take a while, but it'll be worth it in the end, I promise.

For those SPN fans who don't know Good Omens, don't worry—I'll give you a brief introduction of the pertinent characters, so you're not confused. The only real spoiler for GO is that the world doesn't end (which most people would've seen coming, anyway, but…). It's still a good read—and you would appreciate the GO characters more if you read the novel before reading this fic—but I understand not everyone has the time or money for that.

GO AU is very slight. Everything in the novel happens as it did, and the characters' histories are essentially the same. You'll be made aware of any tweaks I've made to them, don't worry.

SPN AU is for storyline and plot, as I've fiddled with the Winchesters' backstories, when certain things happened, and so on. Hard to warn for spoilers, but knowing up to the end of Season 5 is probably safe.

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 1/24

Word Count: 7,975

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Novaks, Dean, Bobby

Warning(s): Mild cursing, possession.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Saturday, June 2, 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.

Sections labeled for year changes. This notation was meant to be translated ('read in your head') as the old-fashioned "In the Year of Our Lord one-thousand nine-hundred ninety-nine" but since that's so long, "Anno Domini #,###" worked better. [ You should be happy I didn't use Roman Numerals~? x3 ]

: : : : : : :

2 Corinthians 6:01-02

Working together with him, then, we appeal to you not to receive the grace of God in vain. For he says, "In a favorable time I listened to you, and in a day of salvation I have helped you." Behold, now is the favorable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.

: : :

-Anno Domini 1,999-

James Albert Novak was eleven years old when he came home from school that day.

That Day being, of course, the day he found his older sister curled up and hugging her knees in the bathtub. He paused at the doorway, then slowly climbed in over the lip of the tub, sitting quietly at her side. When she lifted her face, it was streaked with ruined make-up, her eyes red and swollen, face blotchy.

"Jimmy." He blinked at her, brow knotting in confusion.

"What's wrong? Did Andy dump you, again?" She laughed—a dry, hurt, broken sound—and buried her face back in her knees, shoulders shaking. After a moment, he put an awkward, gangly arm around her. She leaned into it, but he felt unsettled. Amelia was the rock of their family. Sure, she was only four years older than him, but she brought in the money to keep their apartment and pay the utilities. Their parents, hippies since the '60s, were holed up in their bedroom, high on either pot, LSD or—their favorite—amphetamines. Amelia shifted, burying her face in his shoulder and jarring Jimmy from his thoughts. Her mumbled words dropped like a pit of ice into his stomach.

"Jimmy. I'm pregnant."

-Anno Domini 2,002-

Jimmy hoisted up the bundle on his back, more, peering around the end of the aisle, waiting for Amelia to return. A chubby two-year-old hand suddenly fisted in his uncut hair and he winced, smiling painfully back at his little niece, over his shoulder.

"Aw, Claire, let go. That hurts!" She giggled at him, eyes bright and wide and started to flail her little arms, pulling with the death grip that only babies and toddlers can muster.

"Immy, Immy!" He sighed good-naturedly, moving her to rest on his hip—a firm arm around her midsection for stability—and using his now-free hand to disengage her grip, chiding her softly.

"Claire, you can't keep pulling my hair like that. It's—" But she was already distracted, making grabby hands behind him, eyes lit up, again.

"Mommy!" Amelia crooned at her as she came up behind them, leaning over Jimmy's shoulder and poking Claire gently on the nose, so she giggled.

"Hey there, babygirl. Been good to Jimmy while I was gone?" Amelia grinned at him, kissing his cheek and mussing up his hair as she drew back with a laugh, and started walking towards the checkout, her arm around a bag of pull-up diapers. (Claire was still in the process of being potty-trained, and the cloth diapers just weren't cutting it, anymore.) "Looks like you're in need of a haircut, boyo! Wouldn't want Claire to pull it all out, at how long it's getting."

Things were still normal, at home. Well—their dad still got his compensation check in the mail from the government (for being wounded in Vietnam), and Amelia still managed to get him to sign off on it so she could deposit it into their bank account, for groceries. Whenever she didn't manage to snatch that check, it went straight to the drugs, so it'd become habit, by now.

-Anno Domini 2,002, A Few Days Later-

Jimmy was sitting in the living room playing with Claire (some blocks they'd gotten at some yardsale, somewhere) when he heard raised voices echoing from their parents' room, and glanced over. Claire was mumbling to herself, stacking and moving her toys around, so she didn't notice when Amelia came storming down the hallway, her eyes bright and tears just spilling over. She jumped onto the couch, grabbing an old pillow and burying her face in it. Jimmy just watched her, for a moment, before standing and heading into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water, and sat down beside her. After a few minutes to compose herself, Amelia's face popped back out from where it'd been smushed against the pillow, and Jimmy offered her the glass. She smiled at him, half-faking, but took it, anyway. In silence, they watched Claire continue to stack her blocks and shuffle around the few other toys sprinkled around her. Amelia's voice was soft.

"You were such a different kid when you were her age, Jim." Jimmy blinked at her, surprised by the sudden comparison, then looked back at Claire, swallowing. Amelia never talked about their childhood.

"Was I?" Amelia laughed a little—still too brittle to be a real laugh—and rested her chin on the pillow, staring at but not seeing her young daughter.

"Yeah. Ever since you were a baby. You never babbled nonsense to yourself, never just laughed and smiled—you just stared at everything. You were always frowning, always quiet. You know, you didn't say your first word until you were five?" Jimmy started, he hadn't known that. "Mom—" Amelia's voice started to break, on that word—"Um, Mom always said you had the face of a constipated professor." Against his better judgment, Jimmy huffed a small laugh, to that, glancing over at his sister with a smile.

"Guess it's good I changed, huh?" Amelia peered over at him, quiet, but then her face broke out into an answeringly feeble smile.

"Yeah. It's funny. You were a totally different kid until your first day of school. We didn't have the money for kindergarten, and back then Mom was still working the graveyard shift at the grocery, so…" Amelia rubbed at an eye with the heel of her hand as her shoulders shrugged, and Jimmy's heart ached with her. He didn't remember a time when Mom had been responsible, much less sober. Amelia's voice softened. "And you just came back from your first day of school with a huge smile on your face, talking a mile a minute and just like every other six-year-old in existence." Here she laughed, shaking her head. "Guess we should've introduced you to other kids your age before then, but there were no kids living around here and it costs money to take the bus, and Mom didn't want to let you out of her sight—"

Jimmy tried to remember a time when Mom would've doted on him—he really did. But he just couldn't see it. She stayed holed up in the room with Dad, doing drugs or having sex so loudly it was a miracle Claire didn't wake up. But it'd been like that even before her—their parents just didn't care anymore. Amelia had thought they should all just pack up and run away, numerous times, but every day it came down to the fact that Dad still got a government check, and that Amelia's job didn't pay enough on its own to support one just-turned-eighteen-year-old, her fourteen-year-old brother and her two-year-old daughter. Not to mention that without emancipating Jimmy, Amelia could be charged with kidnapping, but—

He'd tried to convince Amelia to move out on her own, to find a place and take care of Claire and not have to worry about him or Mom or Dad. But she'd just smiled sadly at him, shook her head and ruffled his hair.

"I couldn't leave you like that, Jim. You're the only family I've got left. And besides, who would watch Claire while I'm away at work? I can't afford babysitting or daycare—"

Jimmy didn't have many memories of his childhood, and Amelia wasn't often in the mood for sharing. He'd never told her—because childhood memories were more painful for Amelia, since she actually had them—but he really didn't remember anything before that first day of school, back when he was six. He didn't think it was that strange, really—he'd heard most people couldn't remember their childhoods very well. But there was a niggling sensation in the back of his head, every time Jimmy gave himself that answer. It almost felt like an excuse, like he was just covering something up that he couldn't understand. And anyway, the pictures of his childhood had stopped around age six, when Mom had her nervous breakdown. It was like she couldn't deal with the world, anymore. Like as soon as Jimmy had headed off to school, she couldn't stand being away from him and still be sane. Dad had always been bad, but he'd been doing all right—or so Amelia told him—until Mom collapsed. He'd been regulating it, but when Gwen had just given up on any semblance of being an adult, Charles hadn't been far behind. So they drowned whatever they couldn't deal with by being constantly high on some substance or another, but mostly keeping it to their bedroom. It made some nights easy, others nightmarish, depending on how awake and coherent they were. If they'd just pass out, the nights would be quiet, but more often than not there were loud giggles and shuffling, followed by a hard, rhythmic pounding that left nothing to the imagination.

As a result, Amelia kept a baby gate wedged in the hallway so Claire wouldn't accidentally wander in, and had long enforced the rule that only she was allowed into their parents' bedroom. She didn't want either of them getting exposed to that, and Amelia kept a sharp eye on her parents, declaring that any drugs they left lying around outside their bedroom got flushed down the toilet. As hard as it was for Gwen and Charles to remember, at least that had gotten hammered into their frizzled brains over the years. But still, Jimmy would always do a check of the living room before letting Claire play in it. No sense introducing a toddler to those substances. And so far, it had worked pretty well.

Still, Jimmy didn't have many friends at school. Most of the other students' parents knew their situation, and told their kids to stay clear of him. But Hana was different. In the morning, she always greeted Jimmy with a smile, and at the end of the day patted him on his shoulder as he went home. They had lunch together, more often quiet than not, just enjoying the company. It was his one saving grace, because every time they had gym class, the bigger boys would stuff Jimmy into lockers and jeer and taunt him because of his parents' failings. But when they were gone he kicked himself out of the locker, brushed himself off and held his head high. He wouldn't let it get him down, and he wouldn't seek revenge. Amelia had always been religious—she'd gone to Sunday school when the family still went, even—and had taken charge of Jimmy's religious education. Granted, it wasn't much, but being able to find fortitude in Jesus' teachings to "turn the other cheek" gave Jimmy a righteous will to endure whatever was thrown at him, in this life. It would get better. The trials he had now would give way to angelic singing and the Light of God illuminating his soul in the afterlife. So he would not seek to cast down his enemies, would not seek to bite back at them with hard words. He would only take the beatings, knowing in his heart that those bullies were doing more harm to themselves when they hurt him, than he could ever consciously do to them.

And everything was fine, everything was normal, until the day they shoved him in front of that bus.

-Anno Domini 2,003-

Amelia and Claire had come to pick him up from school, that day. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Amelia said they could go see a movie at the theater and get some popcorn. It was something they never did, and he was so excited when he saw them that, without thinking, he waved at them across the street. Some of the bullies caught it, and sidled over to him, leering over his shoulder.

"Izzat your sister? She's pretty hot! Too bad she's got a kid, though." Jimmy whirled, eyes wide and something very hot boiling in the back of his throat. The bully grinned down at him, at his reaction, leaning in close enough to taunt. "What, that bother you? That your sister's a slut?" Something red warmed up the back of his head and Jimmy didn't realize he was breathing hard until a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. He glanced to his right, and saw Hana's face, set and hard. The bullies leaned back in surprise.

"Calm down. They're not worth it." She cast him a meaningful glance, then took her hand away and turned, heading off down the sidewalk. Jimmy took a breath, closing his eyes and regaining control over himself. Hana was right—they weren't worth it. Nothing was worth violence. So Jimmy turned around, too, stopping at the crosswalk and waiting for the light to turn green. But the bullies would have none of that—they advanced on him, circling around behind him like hyenas, garish sneers painting their faces.

"What, you're gonna listen to a girl?"

"You're even wimpier than we thought!" They started to jostle him back and forth between them, but Jimmy kept his eyes fixed on the crossing signal, tuning them out. He'd cross, and he'd go have a birthday outing with Amelia and Claire, and it would be wonderful and fun and they'd all be happy and—

"Hey, you listening to us, geek?" And then one of the bigger boys shoved him harder than ever before, and Jimmy stumbled into the traffic lane, a horn blaring and his body unable to do anything but look on as the bus' metal vent grate came speeding at him—

And then.

And then he was on the other side of the street, gasping for breath, staring unseeingly at the dumbfounded bullies on the other side of the road as the bus passed by, horn still blaring, while his legs gave out beneath him and Jimmy collapsed. Amelia's worried voice was muffled, her hands comforting but unfelt as they landed on his shoulders, half-sobbing and Claire bawling at the top of her lungs as she threw herself at Jimmy's stomach, clinging there, and then the bullies scattered across the way but the only thing Jimmy could focus on was Hana's eyes.

They were steadfast and aloof, watching him from out of her pale face as she stood on the opposite sidewalk. Her hands were flat, almost limp, against the sides of her dress and her shoulder-length shock of red hair—pulled back with a bow barrette to keep it off her neck—shifted just slightly with the wind.

Jimmy blinked and she was gone.

Ever since then, Jimmy felt like he was looking over his shoulder for something. Like something had fractured, that day, and he was no longer safe. It was a ridiculous feeling, he kept telling himself—but it just wouldn't go away. What was stranger, was that Hana's presence no longer made him feel better. They would still have lunch together in silence, but every time Jimmy looked away from her—whether it was at his lunch, or across the cafeteria, or at his book—he felt her stare burning into the side of his head. She'd never stared at him like that, before, and it unnerved him. The bullies had stayed away from him ever since the bus incident, spreading rumors about what had happened. It wasn't very believable, thankfully, so Jimmy's teachers just wrote it off as another attempt by the bigger boys to leave him out.

But Jimmy didn't know what it was, because nothing with him had changed, except for the headache he got right after. He knew it looked like it had been something odd, but wasn't it just as likely that he had sprinted, in a surge of adreanaline, to the other side of the street? Couldn't that be a possibility? After all, Jimmy was just as normal as everyone else, neverminding his parents' addictions. He was just like everyone else, so why did those bullies always single him out? Why did Hana talk to him less, even as she hung around him more? Why was everything changing?

Jimmy brought this up to Amelia and she chuckled at him, messing up his hair and saying it was a natural part of growing up. And so Jimmy believed her, he really did. Amelia was his big sister, and she had never been wrong about anything before. Why should she be wrong now?

It's a couple weeks after the bus incident that Jimmy starts having nightmares. They're not horrible—actually, he can never remember them—but he wakes up with a scream dying in the back of his throat as Amelia shakes him awake, Claire upset and screeching in sympathy for him on the other side of their shared bed. Her eyes are always terrified, always asking if he's all right, but Jimmy can only blink up at her and give a dazed smile and say—

"Sorry. I had another nightmare?" It's more of a question than he wants it to be, and after a few nights of this Jimmy takes to sleeping on the couch in the living room, on his stomach so he can muffle his shrieks. The nightmares don't come every night, but they pour out suddenly like a deluge after the first one comes, and the others are more frequent. Eventually he starts to get used to them, Jimmy thinks, because he no longer remembers waking up in the middle of the night, and Amelia doesn't look nearly so tired, anymore. So Jimmy thinks that maybe he's stopped screaming. But he still wakes up, choked and seeing images fleeing before his eyes even as he tries to hold onto them, to try and understand what it means. The only things he can remember are a slimy sensation dripping over his entire body and a distinct lack of being able to discern his surroundings. It's like everything's been bleached, so the scenes he even half-remembered are only landscapes, and he can't tell you how he knows but he does—he knows there were people in those scenes. So he's blocking out the real images, whatever they are, and only seeing the basest form of them—the background.

But Jimmy is all right with that. He can deal with nightmares he doesn't remember, because they don't leave any weight on him. They just slip right off his shoulders, right out of his mind, and so he goes about his business as any other teenager would. Almost everyone has forgotten what happened a year ago on his fifteenth birthday—mostly because none of them know about the nightmares. But Jimmy is more alone than he was, too, because Hana's family has up and moved away by the time his sophomore year of high school starts.

-Anno Domini 2,004, A Monday Afternoon-

Claire is four years old when it happens. It's afternoon and Jimmy is doing his Economics homework, Amelia is out working for the evening (Jimmy will put Claire to bed and set out dinner for her, since she gets home late), their parents are passed out in the bedroom, as usual, and Claire is coloring in a notebook from two years ago that Jimmy didn't fully fill up with Chemistry notes. She scribbles with a fat crayon around his equations and diagrams of chemical interactions before she suddenly sits up, ramrod-straight. Jimmy doesn't look up, at first, but when a red crayon is smacked down on the paragraph he's reading in his textbook—pinned, by a chubby hand—he jerks back, blinking in surprise at his niece. Claire's eyes are narrowed and dark, her eyebrows knit together and her face set as still as stone. She doesn't speak. Jimmy regains himself.

"Claire? Does your tummy hurt?" If possible, she glares even harder at him as he starts to stand up, and snatches his wrist and drags him back down to her level in an impossible show of strength. He's gasping in pain at the tightness of her grip, blue eyes wide as she appears calm, as though this is nothing to her. Jimmy's mind is racing, trying to find an answer, but then Claire speaks, her voice oddly low and mature and allowing no room for argument or interruption. Her eyes on his are like the sun on a seed, and Jimmy abruptly feels at once tiny and as though that gaze is too much for him to stand in its full intensity. As though Claire is looking at him through a filter, so he doesn't burn up.

"It is you." He shudders under the force of that voice, raising a hand as though to ward off whatever is claiming him, shaking his head and babbling.

"N-No, I—w-what're you talking about, Claire, it's just Jimmy—I'm—" The thing with Claire's face glowers at him, grip tightening and Jimmy cries out weakly, moving a hand to hers, trying to pry it off even as the thing's words rumble out around them, imprinting themselves into Jimmy's brain.

"Stop fighting. I am here to—"

"Hold it!" Claire looks up, focusing somewhere behind his head (towards the door, Jimmy vaguely realizes) and her face turns into a frightful mask.

"You—" She hisses, and her grip on his wrist tightens, but an instant later a round of two shots goes off and Jimmy cries out, seeing a line of blood drip down from a sizzling wound on Claire's cheek, as though the casing was dipped in acid. Her eyes have darkened further in fury, a fiercesome stare Jimmy's not sure he can ever forget. But then Claire slowly grins, her voice broad and powerful, like a lion playing with mice.

"You wouldn't harm an innocent, now would you?" Jimmy can't look behind him, can barely move, but he can hear someone beginning to chant in the background as another yells, the sound of shells reloading stupidly fast and next a gun being cocked echoing in the room.

"Omni potentas dei potestatum invoco,omni potentas dei potestatum invoco—"

"You get outta that little girl or my next shot won't miss!"

"—aborbe terran, hoc angelorum in obsequentum—"

Claire begins to twitch, her eyes start to glow and her mouth opens in a gape, revealing more of the light welling up from within. Jimmy can hardly see it—it's as though it's too bright for him to handle—but he can't look away, can't tear his eyes from the glow even though he feels it starting to burn in the back of his head and Claire's grip is loosening—

"Get down!" Jimmy's tackled to the ground, face-first, and he hears Claire stumble as the light grows brighter, the voice still chanting near the door firm and unrelenting. A hand fumbles messily across Jimmy's face, clamping tight over his eyes.

"—domine expoet, domine expoet, hodie abba tempere—" Claire shrieks from somewhere above him, there's a rattling of everything in the room as something swirls around in it, and then, in another moment—it all stops. The boy pinning him to the floor jumps off him, and Jimmy sits up dazedly, blinking away the spots in his vision. He focuses, sees someone in a leather jacket bent over his niece's prone body and then, suddenly, he surges into action, every protective instinct in him making him grab the man's jacket—

"Hey!" —and pull him off, and despite his shaking legs he half-crouches before Claire's prone body with wild eyes while brandishing the TV remote.

The boy raises his eyebrows at him, lifting both hands by his head, palms out, in a show of surrender. But there's a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth, and Jimmy bites his lip, nervous upon seeing the gun in the boy's left hand, not sure what to expect.

"What're you gonna do with that, huh? Adjust my color balance?" Belatedly, Jimmy realizes what his idea of 'defense' includes and, frustrated, he just chucks the remote at that grinning face. The boy laughs as he dodges, keeping one hand up as he makes his way around Jimmy's defensive stance—giving him a wide berth—eyes staying on him, steady and sure, his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.

"Woah there, tiger, I'm not gonna hurt anyone, okay? I just wanna check on her." Jimmy tenses, and the boy slows, joker's smile disappearing. "I'm just gonna check on her, I promise." He sets his gun down, and takes out a device with bulbs all along the top from his jacket's inner pocket, turning it on and nodding slightly as it hums on the low end. "Good, good." He mutters, and Jimmy's about to ask what it means, but a gruff voice makes him jerk his gaze upward.

"You a'ight, boy?" Under the shadow of the trucker's cap, a pair of kind eyes regards him. Jimmy feels his mouth twitch into an aborted smile, and then it falls as his mind catches up. He grasps onto the man's arm with a cry, voice returning with a vengence.

"W-What was that? What happened? What about Claire, is she—what—" The man claps him on the back, hard enough to stop Jimmy's stuttering, and smiles at him kindly, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

"Don't worry, the little one'll be fine, with that angel outta her." Jimmy's mind boggles, and his first thought stumbles out of his mouth as—

"A-Angel? But—that's impossible, they're just stories, and—"

"And one of 'em jumped right outta those stories and inta the little missy, there." The man gestures at Claire, and Jimmy finds his gaze drawn inexorably back to her slack face. The boy looks up from his device, and gives Jimmy a small, reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, though." That smile morphs into another grin as the boy hoists himself up to a standing position, extending a hand to help pull Jimmy up, as well. "We'll give you some stuff to keep 'em away. I'm Dean, and this is Bobby." Jimmy stares at his hand, for a moment, then accepts.

"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak."

-Anno Domini 2,004, Tuesday Night-

"And that should about cover it." Dean finished writing off the last sigil with a satisfied flourish, looking over the paper before handing it back to Jimmy, who let his eyes scan the diagrams and spells scattered over it. His eyebrows screwed together at some of the words, though.

"Wait. Dean, how do you pronounce this?" The other boy made a curious noise, leaning over by Jimmy's shoulder to see.

"Huh? Where?" Jimmy's index finger prodded at one line in the mess of chickenscratch.

"Here. The Latin I get, but—"

"Oh, that's Enochian! The 'language of magic~'" Dean winked, wriggling his fingers 'magically', and Jimmy grinned in response, shoving his shoulder.

"Sure, sure. But how do I say this?" Jimmy pointed to one short phrase, Pizin noco iad.

"P-zorian noh-koh eeyah-deh." Dean rattled off, smirking a bit when Jimmy shot him a look as he scribbled down the pronunciation beside it. "What? It's not my fault I've been learning this stuff since I was a kid."

"Right. And these'll really help?" Jimmy motioned skeptically, curled fingers indicating both the so-called 'hex bags' as well as the paper in his other hand. Dean huffed at him, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What, you don't trust us? They'll work. These are really just for angels, but—" Jimmy peered over at him, suspicious.

"'Just for angels'? What else is there?" Dean's good-natured expression fell, to that, and he looked away, grabbing the book and his bag.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know." Jimmy frowned, but let it be.

"Well, how long will you guys be in town?" Dean blinked, looking up at him in surprise.

"H-Huh?" Jimmy scowled at him, impatient.

"I can't let you go saving Claire's life and not thank you, somehow." He could've sworn Dean pinked a little, but he was quick to dismiss it, laughing and waving a hand at Jimmy, palm out.

"Oh! Oh, nononono—See it's just part of the job, me 'n Bobby are used to it." Dean quirked another smile, turning to head for the door, but Jimmy only found himself more irritated at the refusal. He stood, following Dean and grabbing his wrist just before it found the handle.

"I insist." He stated, firmly, blue eyes earnest and determined on Dean's green ones. "We Novaks don't accept charity. We pay back our debts." Dean blinked at him, staring for another moment before slowly starting to smile, again. He turned his wrist easily out of Jimmy's grip, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

"Yeah, all right." Jimmy relaxed, relieved, and took a step back as they shook, an answering smile peeking out.

"Good! How about Thursday? Will you guys still be in town?" Dean nodded, grinning a little.

"Yeah! We're on the trail of a—" Dean cut himself off as he saw Jimmy's attention perk, and shook his head, laughing softly to himself and shoving the younger boy's arm, eyes narrowed playfully. "Incorrigible, dude. We're huntin' somethin', and it's gonna die. That's all you need to know." His tone was firm, and Jimmy huffed, grabbing Dean's shoulder and pushing him out the door.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up, I don't care. Just meet me here at six."

It was lucky Amelia had always insisted Jimmy save up the money from his own part-time job. Granted, it wasn't much, but he at least had enough for three dinners at the small diner nearby.

: : :

-Anno Domini 2,004, Thursday Evening-

Bobby watched over his menu as Dean joked with Jimmy across the table. He was grinning, gesturing wildly with the charm on full-blast, but Jimmy wasn't buying any of it. He was still having fun, though, if the way he was smiling was any indication. Bobby guessed Jimmy didn't have many friends, either. Probably a sheltered kid.

"You're full of it!"

"No, no really! In this one town they actually had a goddamned curfew—and—oh, sorry man." Dean blushed as he noticed Jimmy wincing at his language, and Bobby smirked a little on the inside.

Sheltered kid, indeed. His parents are probably religious.

Bobby shook his head, putting down his menu and interrupting the awkward silence between the two teens.

"So, how's your sister?" Jimmy looked at him in confusion.

"Huh?" Bobby fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Your sister. Y'know, the kid who was possessed?" Jimmy actually looked uncomfortable as he looked away, rubbing his index finger over the handle of his fork, which still rested on the table.

"Um, Claire's—she'snutmhsstr." Bobby blinked, but Dean beat him to it.

"What? Dude, speak up." Jimmy lifted his head, his jaw set, and Bobby was a little surprised how determined he looked.

"She's not my sister." He stated quietly, if clearly, then glanced away again, with a frown. "She's my niece." Now Dean looked confused.

"Huh? But I thought you said your sister was only twe—" He cut himself off just as they both realized it. "Oh, uh." Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry, man, we just assumed—"

"I know. It's okay." Jimmy sighed, as though steeling himself, and then looked up at Dean again, obviously plastering on a reassuring (fake) smile. "Can we talk about something else?"

And so Dean took it upon himself to launch into another finely-spun tale of Americana, and Bobby could've sworn the whole table breathed a sigh of relief as the tension dispersed. At the end of the meal, Jimmy treated them to whatever dessert they wanted—Dean, typically, chose a slice of their famous rhubarb pie (no ice cream, as it was practically a criminal addition when trying to appreciate the taste of the pie on its own—or so Dean claimed, anyway) while Bobby just had another cup of coffee. When the bill came he eyed it—Dean too wrapped up in devouring his generous slice—but Jimmy met his eyes with a fixed stare, taking the bill with a firm hand.

"Sir. This is my thank you for saving her. It's the least I can do." Bobby nodded, to that, raising his coffee cup for a sip, but he didn't miss how Jimmy pulled a few crumpled bills out of his pocket, carefully counting them and smoothing them out before placing them on the counter, under the bill. A second later, Dean's hand added a few bills, and when Jimmy looked up Dean was grinning, a loaded fork innocuously suspended before his mouth.

"You pay the bill, I get that. But you forgot the tip~" He then slurped the pie off its fork, and Jimmy blinked—but then his lips pursed as though he was angry about something, and his cheeks tinted pink as he looked away.

"I-I have enough to—" Dean smoothly cut over him, mouth still a bit full of his last bite as he speared another bit of rhubarb filling and crust with his fork and turned his full attention back to his dessert.

"Nah, 's okay. You look like you don't get out enough, so we'll call it even." Dean winked at him, then. "Besides, I liked our waitress, and greasing the wheels can't hurt." Jimmy looked at him as though he couldn't believe Dean had just said that, but then his face crumpled and he brought a hand up to hide his laughter.

"You—you're—" Dean grinned into his next bite, very obviously enjoying Jimmy's lack of composure.

"Awesome. I know~" Jimmy sent him an exasperated glance over his hand, and Bobby had to chuckle to himself. It was about time Dean had found himself a friend.

Afterwards—outside the diner, in the parking lot—the boys were a bit awkward around each other and Bobby rolled his eyes, clapping Dean on the shoulder and irreverently shattering the anxious atmosphere.

"Just give him yer phone number, y'idjit. Good friends are hard to come by." And then Bobby walked away towards his van, without looking back.

: : :

As Bobby left, Dean laughed—a little nervously—and Jimmy smiled at him. Dean watched him, then shaking his head and fumbling out a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket. He scribbled his cell number on it and held the scrap out to Jimmy, not quite looking at him.

"H-Here. Uh. In case anything happens, again. Or, you know. If you just want to, uh—" Jimmy snickered at him and Dean settled a glare on him, shoving his shoulder. "Hey! I'm tryin' to be nice here!"

"I know. But it doesn't suit you." Jimmy pointed out, earning a full-on pout that actually made him grin. He punched Dean in the arm, playfully. It felt a little awkward, but nice—in that 'wow I actually have a friend I can pretend to beat up' way. "Don't worry, I won't lose it." Dean huffed at him, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and turning away, muttering something that sounded like 'chick flick moment' under his breath. Jimmy rolled his eyes, leaning against the side of the diner as he watched Dean get in the car. Bobby started it up, then, and Jimmy looked on as they backed out, lifting one hand to wave at Dean in the passenger's seat as they pulled out onto the road. As he watched the truck diappear, Jimmy felt his smile fall along with his hand. After a moment, he quietly headed off to walk the few blocks home.

-Anno Domini 2,004, A Few Weeks Later-

It's not as though Jimmy intended to put off calling Dean. It's just, well, he didn't have many friends, and sure, he could get along well with people at first, but often they turned out to not really be trustworthy, and—l guess you could say Jimmy didn't have faith in his peers. Even at sixteen, they were all still kids, and although Dean was a few years older and possibly out of that phase—well, Dean's dad was actually around. Bobby was nice, and if it was a little odd that Dean called his dad by his first name, who was Jimmy to judge? Dean was so put-together, so ready to face the world, but all Jimmy was good for was watching Claire when Amelia went to work and being a punching bag at school. The other boys had developed faster than him, and it had started light—with just shoving and stuffing him into lockers—but soon that wasn't enough. They had started to fill out, started to bulk up, and since Jimmy stayed as scrawny as ever, he was a natural target. He'd be bruised for days, his mouth or an eye swollen and he'd come home and have to fend off Amelia's worried hands, sit down with a pack of ice and do his homework as she went to work. Usually, when he was like that, Claire played doctor with him.

And Jimmy meant to call Dean, he really did. But the more time went by, the more Jimmy thought that Dean had probably forgotten all about him, and the more he realized that what would a guy like Dean want anything to do with him? Dean was everything Jimmy wasn't—tall, muscular, with well-defined face like a male model's so that Jimmy knew he couldn't have any trouble getting a girlfriend. Amelia had a cell phone that she left at home when she went to work—they didn't have a landline, and it was actually cheaper this way—just in case there was an emergency and Jimmy had to call her or 911. And every time Jimmy sat by that phone with the small scrap of paper scrawled with Dean's number in his hand, he could only stare at it. He hadn't even put it in the phone, yet—scared that Amelia would find it, ask questions about who 'Dean' was, and that would lead to things he couldn't explain. Like how that 'angel'—or so Dean and Bobby had said—had possessed Claire. Some things were best just left alone, and Amelia had enough to deal with. He couldn't lie to her, and it wasn't like Claire remembered, anyway, so the best thing to do would be to pretend it never happened.

So one day—almost a month after Claire's 'angel' incident—Jimmy hears the cell ringing in their bedroom, just as Amelia's getting ready for work. He thinks nothing of it as she answers, figuring it's something to do with bills or rent, but after a few minutes she walks into the room and he looks up, sees her uniform buttoned up but the apron and nametag not on, hands on her hips and the phone in one of them obviously disconnected. Her face is suspicious, and he tenses.

"James Albert Novak." He swallows, attempting a smile and wondering what he's done.

"Y-Yes?" She holds the phone out in front of her, like she's pushing its existence into his face.

"Didn't I tell you not to give this number out?"

"I-I—Y-Yes, you did." He winces, fingers curling around his pencil as he drops his gaze back to his notebook, biting his lip. Amelia sounds more angry than disappointed.

"Well, can you tell me why someone from Mount Angel Pest Control called asking if we had considered changing services?" Jimmy swallows, again, breaking out in a cold sweat. He knew he'd never given this number out—and he won't tell Amelia, but he has a sneaking suspicion who called, based on the name of the company. Trying so hard not to lie, Jimmy shakes his head, remaining mute.

But now Amelia sounds disappointed, and Jimmy swallows past the lump in his throat, begging silently for forgiveness, his eyes glued to his notebook, the knuckles around his pencil white.

"Jimmy. I put us on the 'Do Not Call' list years ago. Suddenly we get a telemarketing call? Did you give out our number?" Amelia sounds a bit gentler—perhaps realizing how her being angry at him upsets Jimmy. But for this, at least, Jimmy can tell the truth. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly and forcing himself to calm down. He didn't do anything wrong. He shouldn't be nervous.

"N-No, Amelia." He looks up at her, then, blue eyes fraught with equal amounts anxiety and honesty. "I didn't give our number out. I know we can't afford to go over our minutes." Jimmy attempts a smile, and Amelia's expression softens. She walks over and ruffles his hair, the question disappearing from her eyes. It's replaced by faith—her belief that Jimmy's telling her the whole truth—and he feels something twist in his gut.

"Okay, Jim. Calm down. Guess it was just a fluke." He nods, focusing back on his schoolwork and listens to her footsteps fade away into the next room. Jimmy can barely concentrate over the next twenty minutes as Amelia puts an eye-rubbing Claire down for bed (after a story, of course), hugs him and heads off for her late (starts at eight and goes until two in the morning) shift at the diner down the street. After the door closes and he hears her lock it, Jimmy waits five more minutes before dashing into their bedroom and grabbing the phone off the battered bedside table they got at a yard sale for five bucks. He chances a glance at Claire—no, she's fast asleep, completely out of it in the way only kids can be.

(Thankfully, the sleeping schedule they have Claire on means that she'll stay asleep until between six and eight in the morning. Jimmy will be up by six—to shower and get himself breakfast—and Amelia's alarm is set for eight, aiming for a solid six hours of sleep after she collapses into bed. If Claire's up by the time Jimmy heads out to the bus stop at seven-ten, he'll wake Amelia up to watch her. Amelia will be able to shower and maybe even doze a bit during Claire's two-hour nap, and Jimmy will have a few hours of free time after school lets out at three. He's always home by seven, though, so Amelia can put Claire to bed and leave for work by seven-fifty. Then the cycle will repeat.)

Jimmy rushes out of the room, fumbling in his pocket as the other grips the phone and he's got that crumpled scrap of paper in his hand by the time he's sitting on the floor, in front of the couch. He unlocks the screen, navigates to the 'Recieved Calls' section and he feels a chill when the numbers match. Glancing behind him at the door—due to the irrational feeling that Amelia will come home any second—Jimmy takes a deep breath. He has to handle this himself, because he can't risk Amelia finding out. He can always delete the number afterwards, right? A few extra minutes shouldn't be noticeable on their plan, and they don't use many, anyway, so—

Jimmy's thumb presses the 'Call' button. As he puts it to his ear, he can hear it ringing. He swallows as a gruff voice picks up.

"Kayser." It doesn't sound like Dean at all, but—

"Mr. Bobby?" There is a pause, and that voice grows suspicious.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?" Jimmy licks his lips, nervously, and coughs, trying to summon his courage.

"J-Jimmy Novak, sir." Bobby grumbles under his breath, cutting him off and yelling away from the phone.

"Dean! Git over here!" Jimmy hears a brush of static as Bobby's hand probably covers the phone, then silence, then, a few seconds later a breathless—

"Jimmy? Hey, buddy! Sorry I called earlier, I just—"

"That was my sister, Dean! You can't just call here! Amelia doesn't know about what—" Jimmy takes another breath, trying to calm himself. Yelling won't solve anything. Dean cuts in.

"Hey, don't yell at me! I haven't heard from you in a month, dude, what's up with that?" Jimmy can feel anger welling up within him, but he keeps his voice to a hiss, not wanting anything to attract the attention of his stoned parents.

"Dean. We barely know each other! And you can't just call—how did you get our number, anyway?" Jimmy's voice turns from exasperated to angry as he realizes that, yes, that's part of the problem, here! There is an awkward pause, and Dean's voice sounds a bit contrite, if defensive.

"W-Well, that's what we do. I just had to look up your sister's name and address, and it gave me a phone number!" Jimmy's gut goes cold, stealing the breath from his lungs and his next comment is a whisper.

"You… Are you—a—?" Dean immediately springs to his own defense.

"Dude, don't jump to conclusions! I just—" Jimmy's mind is working fast, now, processing all the implications of Dean having access to such information, and of Bobby answering with a fake name—

Dean probably has them, too. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? They're probably criminals!

"—it's not as though I lied to you, man, and I—"

"Dean." Jimmy works to keep his voice calm. "I-I think it would be best if you don't contact me again." Dean continues to talk, but Jimmy doesn't hear him, too distracted by his mind whirling with worry.

"Hey, c'mon—it's not like—you know what we do! We hunt things, remember? Sometimes… Sometimes that means we have to lie. But I didn't lie to you, I swear! I just—forgot to mention it. But we're really on the level, honest. We won't hurt you or your family, I just thought that, maybe—" The Novaks don't need this—they're already treading on thin ice, barely keeping their parents' addictions under the government radar so they don't lose their father's check, and this—this is too much.

"—maybe, we could be friends?" Jimmy catches Dean's closing comment, and softens his voice. He feels bad, because maybe Dean isn't as together as he'd been thinking, and maybe he does just want a friend, but—Jimmy can't. This is too big for him, and Amelia doesn't need Jimmy mixing himself up with potential-criminal types.

"I'll always be grateful for what you did for Claire, and I'll remember everything you taught me to keep us safe, but—I-I really don't think it's a good idea if we keep in contact." He winces, to himself—yes, Dean had seemed nice, but there are too many other factors coming into play. He knows it could go from bad to worse very fast. He can't. Even if it had been fun to think that he had a friend, somewhere—Jimmy just can't. For the sake of his family, for Amelia, for Claire's future—it doesn't matter what he wants. And then he hears Dean, his voice a little choked, even though he's trying to sound like he's joking.

"H-Hey, that isn't fair, I—" Jimmy shakes his head although Dean can't see it, voice quiet.

"No, Dean. I, um, I'm hanging up now. Please don't call again. Good-bye." Jimmy presses the 'End Call' button and pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it. After a moment he scrolls into the 'Dialed Calls' screen and deletes the call he's just made from the phone's memory. He feels guilty doing it, but he can't do anything else if he doesn't want Amelia asking questions. He tosses the phone onto the couch behind him and stands, moving to shred that scrap of paper over the nearest trashcan. He hasn't copied it down anywhere else.

Jimmy feels like a jerk as he stares down at the shreds, but it's for the best.

~END CHAPTER ONE~