"The only thing that stops God from sending another flood is that the first one was useless."
—Nicholas Chamfort
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For the sake of "political correctness" on fanfiction-dot-net: I don't own anything. If I owned anything I wouldn't be posting it on this site. I would be publishing it, raking in millions, and carefully monitoring fanfiction for people who didn't put disclaimers so I could sue their proverbial asses off. Scratch that last. I'd probably be too busy trying to break out of my little white room to sue anyone's proverbial ass off.
I use more fandoms (sparingly) than fanfiction will allow me to select. Rather than risk seeing this drowned with the innumerable others in the miscellaneous section, I'll just stick it here. Good Omens and Supernatural are the important, over-arching ones. If any others show up, I'll put a note at the beginning of the chapter.
Pairing(s): Not entirely sure. I'll warn you at the beginning of a chapter if anything shows up.
Warnings: Mild language, violence, bashing all sides of the political spectrum, the writer's own particular brand of humor.
Fandoms involved in this chapter: Supernatural, various movie references.
Prologue
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Dean Winchester said he didn't believe in angels.
That was okay. The angels didn't much believe in him, either.
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In February of 1942, C. S. Lewis published a satirical Christian novel, The Screwtape Letters. The story took the form of a series of letters from a senior demon, Screwtape, to his nephew, a junior "tempter" named Wormwood.
There was also, ostensibly, some sort of well-buried plotline and overlying theme about how you had to be constantly wary of any secular thoughts or you'd be going to Hell in a hand basket, but that wasn't the really interesting thing about the book. The interesting thing was the portrayal of Hell as a bureaucracy. Contrary to the popular version involving fire and brimstone and the wailing of damned souls, Lewis proposed that Hell might be run much like a corporate American office building.
While anyone who has ever worked in such a building might be able to vouch for the validity of this idea, Hell was actually something of a mash-up between the two. For damned souls, sure, it was just a suffering pit. But for the demons, it had a certain nine-to-five feel, often making it difficult to distinguish who was in more pain.
Heaven was a different matter.
Heaven – the intelligent, thinking portion at least, not the Eternal Bliss portion – was the rough equivalent of working and living in an office building where 1) you could never let a question pass your lips, 2) your boss never left his top floor office, from where he sent out blank memos, 3) your co-workers all seemed to know something you didn't, and 4) there were no lunch breaks.
That being said, Castiel rather enjoyed his job. At least, as much as any angelic being could be said to enjoy anything. There wasn't much to do, really, since Section 787 of Code 46999721.3 had gone into effect two centuries ago, banning any gratuitous meddling in Human Affairs. (To be fair, Castiel had heard rumors about a certain angel named Clarence who'd been allowed an exception to the rule one Christmas. Nothing had ever been confirmed, however.) The lack of work meant that he could give his undivided attention to each task he did receive.
Even so, monitoring the Cherubim was getting to be a bit grating. They'd discovered television – which Castiel was sure had to be an invention of the Enemy – and were using it to watch such things as How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Valentine's Day, and Two Weeks Notice. The grammatical error in the title of that last one was particularly irksome.
When Castiel had tried to convince them to stop, they'd cried, accused him of not understanding love, and said that the movies gave them ideas for how to get human couples to "find one another." Castiel argued that humans found one another just fine before television, though he conceded that the invention of the compass had probably helped some of the more directionally challenged ones. The Cherubim shot him poisonous glares and said that he was "out of touch."
They were halfway through Titanic ("I don't understand," Castiel said. "This ship sank in 1912. How is this possible?") when Cherubim duty ended abruptly.
"Castiel, what in heaven's name are you doing?"
Razael was standing over him, brandishing a scroll like a rolled up magazine over a disobedient puppy.
"We found an impassable portal into what seems to be a time-loop," Castiel said, pointing to the television.
The Cherubim made loud shushing noises.
Razael didn't look at them. "You have orders," he said, holding out the scroll so that Castiel could see the Burning Bush seal. "Dirt-side."
"I was just there."
"That was two millennia ago. And this is important. It is in regards to…" He shot a look at the Cherubim to check that they were truly immersed in the movie before leaning in and dropping his voice to a whisper, "Dean Winchester."
Suddenly, watching Jack and Rose "get down" seemed a lot more appealing. Castiel stared at the scroll as if it had just transformed into a poisonous serpent. "This has to be a mistake," he said.
"Nope, orders are orders. It's that time already."
"Perhaps another of our brothers would be more suited—"
"It's got your name written on it. Dean Winchester is your charge."
Castiel started to speak, but stopped himself. He needed to phrase this correctly, so it didn't sound like he was questioning a direct order. "Dean Winchester," he said delicately, "may be beyond my skill."
"Standard Hell-retrieval mission. And then just watching him. Making sure he doesn't light himself in fire like the last one. I'm sure you remember that – it was messy."
"It's possible that given Dean Winchester's unique personality—"
"He's a big meanie," one of the Cherubim translated, and began muttering something about "Cassie" and "Lisa" and looking tearful.
"—this mission might be better suited to someone of a… higher caliber," Castiel finished.
"I thought the same thing," said Razael. "In fact, I thought it rather loudly. And I was promptly reminded of why angels are cast out."
Castiel took the scroll.
"Don't worry," said another of the Cherubim, the one who'd proposed they watch Titanic in the first place. "It's just like in the movies. Everyone hates the other person at first. And then they eventually see the goodness in each other, and grow to like each other, and it's just like that movie, A Walk To Remember. You remember that movie?"
It was difficult not to. And with that, the Cherubim were off and discussing various movies that were apparently based on the books of someone named Nicolas Sparks and arguing about if The Notebook was romantic or just depressing.
Castiel looked down at the scroll in his hand, and, for the first time in a millennium, allowed himself to give a huge sigh.
I won't be That One Writer who promises to update every week, and then begs the readers to forgive her whenever she takes months to post a new chapter. I don't know how often I'll be updating, but I can say that the next two chapters are almost finished, and I promise to post as often as humanly possible.