A/N: Hey everyone, this is my first REAL attempt at writing something decent. I've had this idea in my head for a while and just now got to write it all down. Reviews are incredibly appreciated, seeing as how I'm new to this and also I'm not even sure if my writing is good. This hasn't been beta'd (if you'd like to beta upcoming chapters, let me know!) Anyways, enough rambling. 3
The tanks rolled along dirty patches of snow, crushing whatever was left of the ice into a fine crystal. Three months ago, Russia decided it wanted to play chicken with the United States of America again. They waggled around the fact that they had hundreds of missiles and at least four warheads that could wipe Rhode Island off America s smirking face. Since their dick waving, the United States began turning the Fourth Cold War into World War V. A handful of sociology experts had been brought together to discuss the name of the war. Talk was had about just using Three as the suffix, but a few members said why not just use the letter V? It was sleek, modern, and could stand for Victory .
Such was the way of the United States of America in 2192.
In 2095, Planet Earth was graced with the presence of the angels. Huge, winged beasts that popped out of the ground without a clue as to how they got there. The angels looked as though they were made of splinters and cables. In the bigger angels, their wingspan went over twelve feet, their wings anchored into their shoulder blades with large tendons. The human race, not privy on such occurrences, were unable to eat, fight, or enslave them. They were too stringy to feast on. Their dexterity and fierce nature made them formidable foes. So humans did the only other thing they were good at.
They bred with them.
In the year 2167, the year Dean Winchester was born, there was already a booming population of half angels. The offspring of the humans and angels who'd taken to knocking boots rather than heads were slowly becoming rejected by the purebloods on either side. Instead, the hybrids took to their own communities, usually in isolated bits of forest or desert. There were a substantial amount of pure humans and angels who wanted society to accept their kin as normal and decent, but the more detestable humans found them either too strange or frightening.
Which was odd, because the hybrids looked more like humans than their angel counterparts. While the angels had skin the color of a boring blue sky when it s just a bit hazy but you can still tell that it s too hot to go outside with a coat on, the hybrids usually had the skin color of their human parent. The angels were much scarier, which is the biggest reason the World Government had taken them under their wing, a phrase that warrants many jokes indeed. The hybrids were a direct effect of the angels barging in on their world, and they were much easier to hate with their perfect skin, slightly pointed white teeth, and a collective tendency to have stupidly attractive cerulean eyes.
In the sovereign state of Kansas, things weren't looking too good. Oklahoma and Nebraska had patched up relations for just long enough to take back Kansas for the United States of America. As fate would have it, Dean was fighting on the losing side, per the usual. He was walking home from base camp, their acting Captain had sent him home to watch after his brother, Sam. Sam was seventeen years old but was getting much taller than his older brother. As a child, he d wanted to be a lawyer of sorts, but after the war started, he found a hidden talent that would prove to be much more useful. He d begun spending all of his time in the medical tents, learning from the healers there. In a matter of years, he d gained enough knowledge to help out with minor surgeries and do menial tasks on his own, such as triage and regular check ups. Dean couldn't have been prouder.
He rounded a corner and saw the silhouette of his house. It was a lopsided stack of wood, more of a shack than anything, but it kept him and Sam mostly warm and dry. They lived on the outskirts of Lawrence, occasionally stealing into the woods to find fresh water or food. Their old estate had been burned to the ground about a year prior, effectively killing their parents and Sam s spirit. Dean was still fighting, tiredly and sometimes without result, but at least he was still going. Dean thought he wasn't good at much anything but looking down the scope of a rifle and blowing off some poor sap s head. In the worst of times, he couldn't even pick out his best qualities, let alone just one. He adjusted the burlap sack over his shoulder to a more comfortable position, the fire that had settled in his shoulder blade slowly ebbing away. He was young and strapping, but some days, the military just kicked the shit out of you. His dusty brown hair stuck up at odd angles, his sideburns framing his sturdy face. Bright green eyes peered out from unnaturally long lashes and freckles were bespattered across his nose and under his eyes. Needless to say, many men and women had tried their advanced, only to be shot down immediately. Dean didn't have the time to invest in someone, unless it was Sam.
It was this evening that Dean would come home to his brother to deliver unpleasant news. In a few weeks, they would be invaded by Oklahoma and Kansas. Sam would most likely be forced into volunteering at the first aid station, while Dean would be thrown onto the front line. Lawrence had held out for many years, but now it was time. Dean knew that this would be the sovereign state's final battle before it joined the United States of America once more. Neither of the boys knew what would happen to them if they were captured.
The day of the battle arrived too soon. It was with a heavy heart Dean gave his brother a reassuring pat on the shoulder before retreating to the soldier s area to retrieve his weapons and armor. And so, on a cold night in 2189, with Sam volunteering in a shelter to help people who had been wounded on the field, Dean found himself in yet another compromising position: ass end of the battlefield with a rifle hastily shoved in his hands. The U.S. Forces weren't advancing any farther, but holding their position so the Lawrence platoon couldn't move. Grenades were lobbed into their bunkers and tents. Bullets were sprayed haphazardly over hastily constructed barricades. Dean chucked a grenade of his own over a wall, hearing it explode several seconds after a few men screamed.
Acting Captain Robert Singer was shouting orders to a group when a terrible screech was heard. It began as a low rumble that could only be felt in the marrow of one s bones before gaining decibels and turning into a steady whine. Three B-52s scorched across the sky in less than a second, followed by a deafening blast. Dean followed their trail until they were lost in the gloom, only having to wait a few seconds before he heard the distance clout of several mini-bombs being dropped.
Thirty minutes after this, a white flag and a cease fire were called.