A/N: Soooo sorry for the wait; my laptop has been busted and I hate writing in front of people, where the house computer is... Just got a new one, so hopefully I should be able to start churning out more chapters. Although the new writing program sucks, and I want to brutally murder Windows 8, so, we'll see.

On a happier note, I was at a used book sale yesterday at the local library and picked up 'A Dictionary of Angels (including the fallen angels)', which made me ridiculously excited. Surprisingly, it actually does have Castiel listed, but he only gets one line. And, dang, the devil has a lot of names. Except now I want to revise some of my stories. It says Lucifer being identified with Satan was a translation error? He had twelve wings? His original name was Sataniel? Bleh.

Thanks to all reviewers! And thank you everyone for your patience. And now, on to the fic...

Woe to the idol shepherd that leaveth the flock! the sword [shall be] upon his arm, and upon his right eye: his arm shall be clean dried up, and his right eye shall be utterly darkened.

-Zachariah 11:17

Heaven had been a happy place, once.

Long ago - before the humans, whisper some - Heaven had been a paradise of its own, in a way. Sure, it was a little empty, as Lucifer and Castiel had always said, but it was a peaceful sort of blankness. Not a hospital-sterility or morgue-silence, but a meditative day in the park, a rocking boat in the middle of the deep sea. When one wanted to explore, the angels would fly to the far edges of Creation, flying through space and time and wheeling around stars in their slow, slow orbit as millenia slipped away.

Then there was Earth, which was even better, an ever-changing mystery and adventure. A tiny utopia...

Until the humans came.

Every angel remembers that sweet, sweet time before the Fall, and even the most faithful will admit to missing it.

And, well, they aren't very many Faithful left.

Castiel kills six angels in one week.

Some flee; he doesn't try too hard to stop them. He tells himself that it is a matter of philosophy. Lucifer is Just, he thinks. Lucifer will not kill angels who bar his way to the future. Why should Castiel?

"You realize," says Sam, "That we don't trust the angels, and we're counting on the potential help of an antichrist?"

"That's life, Sam," Dean retorts breezily, flipping off a driver who cuts in front of them.

"Our life. Who the hell decided we deserved this shit?"

"If Cas - " Dean's lips tighten, "is to be believed - God."

Sam is quiet a moment. "...I'm pretty sure Cas isn't much of a believer in God these days, Dean."

Dean can't really respond to that. So he doesn't.

They drive the next hour in silence.

Before the humans came, Lucifer taught Castiel how to swim.

"I do not understand why this skill is necessary, Brother!" Castiel had protested after Lucifer had cajoled him to Earth. "I can fly, or if necessary simply move water away. Why should I learn to swim?"

"It's relaxing, Castiel, and pleasant. Besides, what if your wings or Grace are injured in battle? Last time you fell to Earth against the Leviathon it was actually quite fortunate that you fell on land; most the Earth is water, you know. You really should learn this skill eventually."

"It seems a wasteful pursuit."

"Gabriel swims all the time," Lucifer wheedled.

"Gabriel also finds it amusing to teach parrots derogatory language."

Lucifer paused to consider an argument to that, and couldn't really find one. "It is not such a great thing to ask," Lucifer said instead. "I am certain you will see the value after you learn."

Castiel hesitated; then his wings ruffled ruefully. He has never, really, been able to say no to Lucifer. "Very well, Brother. It is not a painful process, is it?"

A laugh. "No, Castiel. This is not training. And I would never ask you to do anything dangerous."

"What you have to understand," Lucifer instructs, "is how to cause the strongest, freshest pain. Sometimes psychological damage is even better, but you can't keep using the same methods. Their bodies will just go numb eventually, and that's no fun at all."

Castiel looks at the two strung before him. "Should I not be hunting angels, Brother?" he asks, hesitantly.

"You need to learn this eventually, Castiel." The devil tells him impatiently. A whip is pressed into Castiel's hand. "Let's start with the human, shall we?"

So Lucifer leads Castiel past the bound angel (Teraniel, Castiel's mind supplies automatically, Teraniel whom Castiel patrolled with a thousand years ago) and they stop in front of a mundanely-bound man, whose eyes are wide and terrified.

"The first lesson," says Lucifer. "When you cause pain, you have to mean it."

And the screams begin.

Bobby does what he can. He truly, sincerely does. Even wheelchair bound he's more than useful. He's on the phone constantly, getting information from hunters and warning everyone of the apocalypse and Lucifer's newest acquisition, handing out instructions to anti-angel wards like candy on Halloween. The hunters are quick to demand more information, and Bobby's ready and willing to provide - anything to help in the war, with his two boys on the line.

When he's called every number he can think of Bobby hits the books. Summoning Castiel would attract Lucifer's attention. Summoning Lucifer would be suicide. So, Bobby just needs to... well. Find a way to kill the devil.

...He loves those boys, honest, but his life was so much easier before the Winchesters came along.

The home is, at first glance, perfectly normal. Eerily so, in fact, when Dean looks at the printout map Sam had found, with its highlighted house and that one word, antichrist, scrawled incongruously across the top, because Sam is organized like that.

Jesse. His name is Jesse. The greatest hope for the future is an eleven year old kid who does slightly below-average in school, from what Sam has found, and plays outfield in the local Little-League. His adopted parents are perfectly normal people, a teacher and an accountant, and neither of them are lawbreakers or drunks or anything. Apple-pie life, Dean thinks, and has to hate himself a little. Now with a side of devil's cake.

The Impala rumbles to a halt in front of a neat green lawn with a row of even, bright roses. Sam already looks both hopeful and resigned, eyes sad, mouth twitching in a way that forebodes protest. Sure enough;

"Dean, do you – I mean, are we doing the right thing, here? He's just a kid – "

"There are a lot of kids in the world." Dean doesn't look at his brother. "Everything goes right, they all live – this Jesse guy included. We walk away, they burn. Which sounds better to you, Sammy?"

Sam doesn't answer. But he opens the door and gets out, and after a short beat Dean follows.

Sam rings the doorbell. Dean half expects a huge, deep boom to resonate from inside, like something out of a horror movie, or some deep, sepulchrous church tones to echo, echo, echo. Instead there's just a little chime, bright and fleeting, and suddenly his stomach is twisting all over again.

Suddenly he wants to agree with Sam, just leave, abandon this too-perfect home and the oblivious demon-child, but it's too late. The door opens.

"Can I help you?"

A middle-aged woman, sandy-blonde, with age-worn creases and smile-lines wearing down her face. It's a pleasant, peaceful sort of age, the kind accompanied by years of quiet afternoons and soft happiness, and Dean tries to imagine her facing down demons and fails. Tries to imagine her with an absent son, a dead son, and for the twelfth time that day curses God in whatever hole he'd squirreled away in.

"Local police, ma'am. We need to talk to your son."

"Jesse?" Honest surprise. "Why?"

"That's, uh, classified, ma'am." An irritated look from Sam says Dean is going a little too far; right, classified would be more military, CSI, FBI – "that is, we're keeping things quiet for now – but he's not in any trouble, I promise."

" – Well – " She hesitates. "Alright. One minute..."

Moments later they're seated on an uncomfortably homey couch, a puzzled and slightly suspicious pre-teen in front of them, doors shut. Dean senses the parents sitting just outside the doors. Doesn't matter; Dean can tell at a glance that they're too thick to hear through.

"Jesse," Sam starts, carefully. "This is going to sound – a little bizarre. Just bear with me, okay? Have you ever experienced anything, well strange?"

"… Strange?"

"Ah, unusual… supernatural, maybe? Super-human? Odd thoughts or visions, things seeming to move when you think of them…"

"…No."

"Perhaps you hear things – dark things, maybe, or singing…"

Dean grimaced at his brother's awkward guesses. The guy was an antichrist, not one of Yellow-Eyes' demon kids, Jesus.

"This sounds like the set-up to a bad hero movie," says Jesse. "This isn't a superhero thing, is it? Am I being punk'd?"

"…Um," says Sam.

"You're the antichrist," Dean deadpans.

Because, seriously, no amount of leading will ever make that statement acceptable.

"Points for originality," Jesse decides. "Can I go now?"

"They... lost the antichrist?" Castiel questions, dubious.

""I created demons for convenience," Lucifer explains. "They were never meant to be intelligent."

"The antichrist is meant to be one of the greatest weapons against Heaven."

"But he also has the potential to be one of the greatest weapons against me," Lucifer says, aggravated. "Even if he agreed to join us, he's a child – a flawed, human child, with human whims and deception." The devil, bemoaning deception; even Castiel can appreciate the irony. "He's too dangerous; he must be eliminated."

Castiel waits.

"I need you to kill him – preferably before he talks to the Winchesters."

Castiel blinks. "How could I kill the antichrist?"

"He should not yet be aware of his full potential. Bluff him."

That day people from around the world blink and stare at the sky in confusion as it ripples and glows and sparks. In the United States the lights are barely visible under the sun, but in dark parts of the world the traitor-angels stream down like a thousand falling stars, bright and fierce and deadly, vanishing from mortal sight before they hit the surface.

Lines have been drawn, and the war is official.

"Dude. Of course it's not the apocalypse. That's not until gas rises to five dollars a gallon, not four. I read so in a book somewhere. So we have at least, like, a year."

Sam had stopped looking sympathetic awhile back, and now seems to be contemplating suicide via the pointy wall-ornaments. Dean sympathizes with the feeling.

"This isn't a joke, kid."

"You know, you actually look serious," the kid starts, slowly. Dean straightens, hopeful. "Are you guys nuts? Did you steal those badges?You did, didn't you."

Dean sags back against the couch, and sighs. This guy, he decides, totally deserves the title of antichrist.

"You kinda look like perves," Jesse continues blithely.

"Excuse me?" Sam sputters.

"Dude. The hair. Seriously."

...Okay, Dean thinks. Maybe he's not so bad.

"This would be a lot easier to prove if we could summon an angel to show off," Sam mutters, and Dean suppresses a flare of anger. Rubbing salt on the wound, Sammy.

But it does give him an idea.

"Oi! Crowley! We could use your help!"

Sam looks at him dubiously. Jesse, apparently resigned to putting up with two psychos awhile longer, just gives him the stink eye and picks up a magazine.

Crowley does not appear.

Dean scowls. "We're not in a fight or anything, dude, we just need to prove to Jesse what's going on!"

"And you called little old me?" A distinctly British voice drawled. "I'm touched."

Dean rolls his eyes – of course the guy wouldn't help in a fight. Typical. But his presence seems to help – Jesse is watching him with interest.

"Who're you?"

"Crowley, at your service." The demon, uncharacteristically respectful, bobs his head. "There's a certain aura around your house that most of my kind can't cross – or wouldn't dare to cross – but being called for changes everything. Truly an honor."

Jesse eyes him petulantly. "I don't get it."

Crowley settles himself next to Sam on the couch, blithely at ease, and smiles a sleazy, mock-sincere smile as he folds his hands into the expensive pockets of his new designer suit. "Come now, kid, can't you sense anything about me?"

Jesse stares at him. "Well, you're definitely into dudes, and you totally have a pedo-goatee going on. Is this going to get weird? Because, seriously, these guys might be talking about magic and levitation and shit, but I'm not stupid enough to play with your 'magic wand', okay?"

Okay, maybe Dean likes the kid. A little.

Crowley seems to ignore the comment. Instead he deliberately leans back into his chair, smiling that same greasy smile, and lets his dark eyes slide right into blood-red. "I'm a demon."

Jesse... looks unimpressed.

"S'that all you got?"

Crowley deflates.

This could take awhile.

Dean really wants to shoot something. It can't be a sin to kill the antichrist, can it?

"Totally not buying it, dudes. And, seriously, if I go missing, there were witnesses. My parents would sue your asses, got it?"

"That will not be necessary."

Dean jerks to his feet.

Because there is Castiel, stubble-faced and worn and sharp-eyed, looking just like he had weeks ago before Lucifer had risen. Before he'd Fallen. Before he'd betrayed humanity.

"How'd you find us?" Dean asks hoarsely. Sam scrambles up beside him.

Castiel ignores him. Instead he turns to a wide-eyed Jesse. "Jesse Turner. I have come to bring you to my brother, the great dragon Lucifer. He bids you to join his cause. You do not yet realize your power, and will not be able to access it for many years, but you shall be richly rewarded nonetheless."

"What are you?" Jesse asks, already rapturous, like he knows Castiel can't possibly be lying.

Castiel, Dean recalls with a sinking feeling, has some of Lucifer's own grace. Can Jesse feel that? Does the antichrist sense a kindred spirit?

"I am Castiel," says their once-friend.

And behind him, behemoth black shapes rise, ephemeral and gleaming with soft silky shadows, wisps of moonlight that suck in the sun and exude Sin. They are wings, terrible, twisted perversions of wings, and for the very first time in his life Dean resists the urge to fucking cross himself like a priest.

"I am an angel of the devil."

"Wicked," Jesse breathes.

Dean's stomach sinks like a stone. He blurts it before he can think. "Do you want your family to die, Jesse?"

"What?"

Jesse snaps around, eyes filled with fury. Dean hurries on.

"They will, if you go with Cas. With Lucifer. They'll destroy earth. Hell on earth? That will be reality if you go with them. You're more powerful than the devil himself, and he knows it. But if you go with us, we can win this war, Jesse. We could win so easy. Heaven on earth. Or, fuck heaven, you could screw them too and leave earth to humans, don't change anything, go back to school and little league and playing with your friends like nothing happened. You can't do that if you go with Cas, Jesse." Dean's rambling, but he sort of can't stop. "They'll destroy all of it, I swear to God, they'll fuck you over, I've seen Hell and you don't want that shit on earth - "

"Enough!" Castiel snaps. Dean and Sam gasp, and Crowley, cowering silently against a far chair, cringes and writhes at the shade of Grace tainting Castiel's voice, deep and high and piercing. Jesse just twists his head again to blink at them in plain confusion. "Jesse, chose."

Sam is shifting.

"I – I - " Jesse stares between the groups, wide-eyed and shocked and suddenly not at all sarcastic. He's just a damn kid, Dean thinks, just a fucking kid...

A drop of blood hits the ground.

"I can't - " Jesse's eyes turn to Castiel -

A hand smacks down. Flashing light.

And Castiel is gone.

Jesse gapes. Crowley gapes. Dean gapes.

Sam grins, and holds up a bloody palm.

"Angel wards apparently work on Fallen angels, too," he says brightly.

"I could kiss you," Dean swears fervently.

"Please don't."

Fair enough. Dean lunges at Crowley instead.

"Woah!" This, from Sam, more shocked even then the pale demon under Dean's special knife. "The fuck, Dean?"

"I would like to ask the same," Crowley chokes, wide-eyed. He is very, very careful not to move at all, and Dean feels the host's pulse fluttering against the side of his hand.

Dean presses down the blade until a glare of dark light shines from the skin. Crowley whooshes out a breathe, trying to make himself smaller. "What are you doing?" He croaks.

"I wonder," Dean muses grimly, "how Castiel learned where the antichrist is. And isn't it a coincidence we dropped by on the same day?"

Crowley stares at Dean.

Then he vanishes.

"Motherfucker - !"

Dean falls onto the couch without Crowley's weight to press against, nicks himself with the knife, and curses again.

He rights himself, scowling. "We need to get out of here. Now. Before Cas comes back."

He turns around. Jesse is standing, tall and pale and defiant. Still, his voice trembles a little when he asks, "Where do we go?"

"I can't – well, okay, I can see Crowley betraying us," Sam concedes. "But he has to know that Lucifer will ditch him first chance he gets, so what does he gain from this?"

"Hedging his bets," Dean says darkly. "Lucifer gets Jesse, and Crowley has an in; we manage to get him, but don't find out about Crowley, Lucifer has a spy but we're still working with the guy... win-win."

Sam sighs. "I really don't like this, Dean, leaving him - "

"He's the antichrist. He'll be fine for a day, until we deal with the demons. You really want to take him through that?"

Sam just sighs again.

Dean and Sam meant to take Jesse and scram, honestly. But then Bobby called saying there were half a dozen demon sightings in the area, all gathered on the main road – the only road – out of Jesse's tiny town. Ten guesses to who set that up.

So with some fancy wordplay from Dean and Sam (and a weirdly cryptic antichrist, who was very good at convincing his parents of things, that being the one portion of his power most practiced) Jesse and his parents were holed up in a hotel at the opposite end of town, in a room surrounded with salt and armed with anti-angel sigils on every wall.

It's only a few hours, Dean thinks. They just need to clear out the demons first. What could possibly go wrong?

In the hotel, shadows stalk Jesse.

They whisper and crackle and moan and groan, rattle and hiss, and some take on the forms of serpents. Jesse tosses around salt haphazardly, smacks the angel sigils and watches the resulting bright crack of light so many times he's fearing a seizure, and they keep shifting, shifting, shifting -

The phones don't work; the door is locked. Jesse Convinces his parents to fall asleep, and they do, with tiny smiles on their faces and their shadows writhing and laughing behind them.

The Antichrist tosses bolts of crackling energy at every shadow, which dissipate harmlessly when each hits nothing.

Jesse could reach out with his power and seek the source that harasses him with lightning and whispering shapes, but he does not Believe this, and therefore the power does not exist.

Even abominations require sleep (when they believe they require sleep) and so Jesse, huddled against the wall on the stained hotel floor, eventually can't resist allowing his head to sink against his own thin chest, slipping into a fitful doze. And that, naturally, is when Castiel arrives.

A sword flashes. In a whisper of wings the place is empty again, a child's glazed eyes staring blankly as blood dribbles down onto cheap carpet.

And so one of the greatest hopes for saving the known world is ended in an anonymous hotel room, quietly and without fuss, as oblivious life thrums on around them.

Reviews are love!