Somehow, Heaven managed to screw up twice.

When Castiel was ripped from Jimmy Novak’s body all those years ago, Heaven didn’t just eject an angel — it accidentally duplicated the vessel. One Jimmy Novak remained in Heaven’s peace, and another was left as Castiel’s permanent host. Two identical bodies. One angel, one confused churchgoing family man.

Years later, the Winchesters still can’t believe it. The bunker’s quieter now — post-apocalypse quiet — but not peaceful, not when they’ve somehow ended up living with two trench coat disasters.

Dean’s coffee cup hits the table with a thunk. “So let me get this straight,” He says, squinting across the map room. “Heaven made a copy for you—” He gestures at Castiel, “—and now the original’s back from Heaven. Like some kind of divine cloning experiment.”

Jimmy, who’s halfway through a plate of pancakes, just shrugs, his voice slightly muffled. “Guess God wanted a two-for-one deal.”

Castiel blinks at him, wings twitching invisibly. “I am not a ‘deal,’ Jimmy Novak.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Jimmy replies, smirking. “Just saying, I’m flattered Heaven thought I was worth duplicating. You’re welcome.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re gonna need a new system. I can’t keep calling both of you ‘Cas.’ It’s confusing.”

Dean grins. “Nah, it’s hilarious. Look at ‘em — like a before-and-after ad for divine possession.”

Jimmy looks down at his flannel and frowns. “You know, I liked my trenchcoat. I don't even wear flannel.”

“You do now,” Dean says, tossing him one from the laundry rack. “Bunker rules. Uniformity builds morale.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Dean, that is not how morale works.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, “Neither does having two of you.”

The days in the bunker get stranger from there. Jimmy insists on using the kitchen (“Because angels don’t eat, Cas”), Castiel insists on “supervising” him (“You are a liability with butter knives”), and Sam’s constantly running interference before Dean loses his mind. Sometimes, late at night, Jimmy and Castiel sit across from each other in silence — two identical men, one glowing faintly with grace, the other trying to figure out how to make toast without triggering a smoke alarm.

“You ever think it’s weird?” Jimmy asks one night. “Seeing yourself eat?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies flatly. “Every second of every day.”

But somehow, between the hunts, the research, and the daily chaos of two Novaks under one roof, it starts to feel… normal.

A miracle gone wrong. A divine clerical error. A family of misfits in a bunker that’s somehow still standing. Dean sums it up best over beer one night, staring at the two identical faces arguing over whether angels can do laundry.

“Y’know what?” He says to Sam. “We’ve seen worse.”