#a perfect kiss in the rain like crowley deserves

[hansoeii]

[whothehellisrosee]

I NOW HAVE THREE CANON OTP’S?!?!? ABSUDWBSNKXSBBSJXXKN

[ayellowbentley]

I’ve pondered about what type of last scene I’d want for a S3.

I definitely agree that we all deserve a happy, not just a happy ever after.

But I do think the entire point of season 2 was to prove what they had was little different to what they wanted, except of course in terms of how they referred to it.

Meaning I personally don’t want a kiss in the rain, or anything like that.

I think my perfect ending (as of my current mood) just has Crowley throw himself onto a couch and go for a couple good nights sleep while Aziraphale - well, fills up his diary, sorts his books, something along those lines. Giving Crowley just the briefest glance before smiling & hurrying back to work.

The domesticity of that would do it for me. Crowley being not worried in the least of wasting his time in the bookshop sleeping when he *could* talk to Aziraphale, because there’s no limit anymore.

Aziraphale doing the things he always did with the comfort of knowing neither one is just biding their time until they see each other again.

[moveslikebucky]

Coming January 31st for the @do-it-with-style-events​ Reverse Bang!

Crowley is hopelessly, completely, and unequivocally in love with Aziraphale.  This has been true for ages, not a new thing by any means.  But in the days after the end of the world, these feelings can be embraced rather than hidden, and Crowley has been enjoying every moment of his angel’s affections, now freely given.

But he wants to take it all a step further, wants to make sure Aziraphale knows he’s serious, that this love of theirs will outlast the very stars in the sky.  And what better way than the human way?

And so they pack up the Bentley, set off on a trip to the South Downs.  There’s a small box in Crowley’s pocket, a question waiting to be asked.  Aziraphale deserves only the best and grandest gestures - and what could possibly go wrong?

---

Y’all I'm over the MOON to share this snippet and art preview of my second fic in the Good Omens Reverse Bang - this one with the amazing atelier_de_licorne (instagram).  A five and one of botched proposal attempts as Crowley continues to out-Crowley himself in the year after the world doesn’t end.

This one is coming your way on January 31st!  And I cannot wait to share our hard work with all of you <3.  There’s a snippet under the cut, a soft and tender moment on the water of the River Meon.

The walk to the shore is leisurely, as most of their walks are these days. Crowley feels like he’s floating rather than walking, the tandem energy of nerves and happiness warring inside of him. The ring-box in his pocket feels like it’s burning him, just begging to be brought out and placed on an angelic finger. But not yet, there’s more to be done.

Crowley resolves not to overthink it too much, to enjoy this moment. The soft rustle of the grass under their shoes, the feel of Aziraphale pressed in close to him, the lilt to the angel’s voice as he talks about the last time he was in Venice, back in the 1820s; Crowley commits all of it to memory, not wanting to miss a moment of this day, wanting to carry it with him for the next six thousand years.

He guides their steps, charting a course for what he had left here the day previous. He finds it right where he left it, because it wouldn’t dare not be. A little rowboat, just the right size for two.

“Look! A little boat,” Aziraphale says with an air of wistfulness, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to take a boat out? The water is so nice and calm today.”

“I have good news for you, then,” Crowley says as he presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, “Because that’s our boat.”

There’s an audible gasp of delight from the angel next to him, and Crowley allows himself half a moment of pride at a job well done. He lives for these moments, lives to make Aziraphale happy and to give him what he wants. Always has, for as far back as he can remember. Ever since this shining angel shielded him from the rain in the early days of the world. He’s been a goner for quite some time.

“A picnic on the water, Crowley, that sounds positively delightful,” Aziraphale says as he hurries just a bit ahead, runs his hands along the coarse wood frame of the boat, taking it in. He pauses, just for a moment, and turns back to Crowley. “Darling, it’s not that I don’t love all of this, but is there a special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

“Does it need an occasion?” Crowley asks as he secures the picnic basket in the back of the boat. “Can’t it just be Thursday?” Aziraphale scrutinizes him a bit, appraising him like one of his many tomes. Crowley smiles and takes the angel’s hands in his, threading their fingers together and pulling him close, kissing him like he means it. He always means it, always cherishes it.

“Well, I suppose Thursday is as good of a day as any for a picnic. Oh, how romantic, a picnic on the water. Ah! I know just the thing I need for this…”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and he’s suddenly holding a straw boater hat, straight out of the 1920s. A dorky thing, complete with a blue ribbon. He turns it over in his hands before finally placing it jauntily on his head and looking up at Crowley expectantly with open arms. “Well, how do I look?”

Crowley suppresses a laugh. It’s a ridiculous thing, completely unnecessary. They’re celestial beings, they don’t get sunburns or even too warm if they decide they don’t want to be. But Aziraphale is smiling and clearly proud of himself, and Crowley’s heart is full to bursting. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and nuzzles his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, “It’s perfect, angel.”

[animeangelriku]

Crowley wants to propose to Aziraphale.

He’s got a ring in his pocket since humans thought of adding pockets to trousers, having forgotten when and why he first thought of getting it.

(Which is actually a lie—he knows perfectly well the answer to both questions, except he pretends he doesn’t. He got it in Rome in 41 AD, the day after he and Aziraphale had lunch together for the first time. As for why, well—he had just had lunch with Aziraphale for the first time.)

Before that, he carried it around his neck, always hidden beneath his collar, and learned how to miracle it to a safer location (which then became the safe at his flat) at a moment’s notice, just in case he was caught off guard.

He’s been thinking about finally giving it to Aziraphale, just because he’d like to see the angel wearing his ring, if nothing else. On the one hand, he knows it’s not a big deal. It’s not like they’re bound by human laws, so they don’t really need to get married. (Not that humans need to get married, either, but that’s not the point.) Giving Aziraphale a ring doesn’t necessarily mean that they have to do the whole marriage ceremony thing. On the other hand, even if they don’t do the whole marriage ceremony thing, he still wants to propose to Aziraphale, and he knows the angel deserves the most perfect proposal Crowley can think of.

So he starts to come up with all of these different, really elaborate plans, which he ends up not carrying through for one reason or other. It’s mostly him being an awkward, anxious wreck who’s still somehow pining after his husband even though they are married in every way except legally.

Aziraphale notices that Crowley has been acting a little weird lately, like he’s nervous about something, but since Crowley has assured him that he’s fine, it’s nothing, everything is cool, Aziraphale takes it into his own hands to help Crowley relax and to remind him that he’s there for whatever Crowley needs. They’re on their own side, remember?

So Aziraphale prepares this lovely evening with a nice candlelit dinner and soft music and it’s basically a domestic date night so Crowley can unwind from whatever it’s worrying him. He doesn’t need to share it with Aziraphale if he doesn’t want to, but Aziraphale still wants to reassure Crowley that he’s got him.

They have their lovely candlelit dinner and then the music from the turntable Aziraphale brought to their cottage from his bookshop turns all soft and romantic and Crowley gets up from his chair and holds out a hand to Aziraphale and they start to slow dance in the middle of their living room. “Slow dancing” might be too generous of a term, though. They’re swaying gently from side to side, holding each other close, and Aziraphale’s chin is on Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale’s temple with his nose and presses his lips to the skin there and Aziraphale sighs happily and the words slip out of Crowley’s mouth.

“Angel, will you marry me?”

He freezes as soon as he realizes what he’s said, especially because Aziraphale pulls back and stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Crowley,” he says, “did you just—”

“I didn’t mean to,” Crowley cuts him off, but then he sees Aziraphale’s expression fall (and has a millisecond of panicked thinking, ‘wait, does he want to marry me?’) and quickly adds, “I mean, I did, but I had this plan, you see— actually, no, I did not have any plan, except that I wanted to do it right, the way you deserve, and you— angel, you did all this for me—”

Aziraphale has been smiling throughout Crowley’s rant, his smile widening with each of his words, until he can’t help himself from grabbing Crowley’s face and kissing him.

“My love,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s mouth, his thumbs brushing Crowley’s cheeks. “My darling, my dearest heart.”

Crowley tries (and fails) to suppress a shudder. It’s still so overwhelming, sometimes, feeling the strength of Aziraphale’s love, how much and how openly and how fearlessly Aziraphale loves him.

“I wish I had known this was what had you so troubled,” Aziraphale says, leaning their foreheads together, and Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. “You hadn’t needed to worry. I would have said yes whenever, however you decided to ask. Oh, Crowley, my dear, of course I will marry you.”

And Crowley feels, all of a sudden, unbearably relieved, unbelievably light, the weight of his panic and anxiousness lifting from his shoulders, and he quickly kisses Aziraphale and then gets down on one knee and Aziraphale grins and yelps, “Crowley!”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says with a grin of his own, holding in his hand the ring he’s carried for millennia. “I know I’m doing this all out of order—”

“No, no, you’re doing wonderfully,” Aziraphale assures him, his eyes looking a little wetter than a second ago. “Jolly good, my dear.”

Crowley huffs out a choked laugh. It’s almost ridiculous how in love he is with this angel.

“Aziraphale,” he begins, and his own eyes start to get a little wet and he has to swallow to dampen his suddenly dry throat. He knows he could say something sappy, like the fact that he has been hopelessly enamored with the angel since the Garden, that he has loved him more than anything else in the world since Aziraphale lifted a wing to cover him from the rain, that he wants to continue living among humans and learning from them by Aziraphale’s side for as long as humanity remains, for as long as the world remains, and when this world ceases to exist, Crowley will build them nebulas and star systems for them to visit and marvel at together, they can go to Alpha Centauri and live there for all he cares, it does not matter where they are or what they do, as long as they’re together.

But Aziraphale already knows all that, and Crowley has always thought less is more, anyway.

So he just asks, “Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale nods and nods and says, “Yes, my dear, yes, yes!” and pulls Crowley up to his feet to kiss him senseless and then Crowley pulls back with a cute laugh to take Aziraphale’s hand and slide the ring onto his finger.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful!” he cries, gazing at his (his, his, his) ring like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. “I will have to get you one as well, my dear!”

“Oh, angel, you don’t have to—” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale is having none of it, which deep down makes Crowley feel all fuzzy and warm because Aziraphale wants to get him a ring!

It’s up to you whether they end up having a ceremony in whatever measure they want to; maybe they have a small simple one where they exchange their rings again in the middle of their garden, under an arch that Aziraphale miracles for the occasion. Maybe they have the whole wedding shebang and blow it out of the park in style. Maybe they end up doing nothing and simply start calling each other “husband.”

(In the meantime, Aziraphale giddily brags about the ring his betrothed gave him to pretty much anyone and everyone, especially if they happen to notice the ring first. Crowley is all embarrassed and flustered about it, but his Pride wins more often than not and he stands up a little taller whenever Aziraphale mentions that his dear Crowley proposed to him and they might have a lovely spring ceremony, yes, that does sound rather marvelous, doesn’t it? And Crowley smiles and stares, unabashedly in love, and if anyone’s got a problem with it, they can shove it because that’s his husband and he’s allowed to stare, thank you very much.)

[nimwallace]

Hard to Love

Hating oneself is truly a cliché. Crowley knows this, one of the reasons he hates hating himself, it's such a fucking classic “oh poor me” set up that it makes him angry to think about.

“I hate myself” is something that slips out either ironically, or as a ploy for attention, not when one is genuinely a monster, as he is. But, there you have it. One could even argue that Crowley invented self-hatred, he was one of the first to feel it, right? He couldn't remember a time he felt secure, holy, right. Not even when he was in the highest order of angels—long before he was cast out. Being cast out didn't help, though. He was a bad healer and now he's a demon, and a part of him hates being a demon. He hates that he is meant to be evil and sadistic and not feel love. He would never say it out loud, but he misses helping people, rescuing them. He misses making people feel peace with a wave of his hand. And he hates how he lost all that. For the record, he does still feel love. He doesn't even just feel it, he still senses it. When Aziraphale said Tadfield felt loved, he would never admit it, but he felt it too. He felt that aura that radiated off of siblings playing together and old couples holding hands and friends out for drinks. Didn't matter much what type of love it was, he could still sense it. That made it all the worse, really. Because he didn't sense love radiating from people when he was around. Aziraphale, sure, but the angel constantly radiated love. It was probably just a side effect, not meant for Crowley to feel. He supposed that Aziraphale could feel the love coming from him, and he worried that the angel would take notice, and he'd be revealed. This horrible, self-loathing monster loved him. This unforgivable deserter. Demon. Traitor. Fallen angel. But if Aziraphale did sense it, he didn't mention. Crowley wasn't sure if he was or wasn't grateful for that. Aziraphale, to Crowley's knowledge, did not have any self-hatred issues. He seemed perfectly content with himself, having very few insecurities at all, and all of them being in vain. He was touchy when it came to his weight (though Crowley thought his softness was rather endearing) and also his intelligence (again, Crowley thought he was very clever, and need not worry himself over it). If Aziraphale had a flaw, it was that sometimes, he was a bit of a bastard. Of course, Crowley also loved this about him. Seeing his angel, a being who prided himself on Light and Kindness and Good, completely throw away those morals for the sake of a rare book or a good meal was utterly hilarious and charming to him. Hubris. It was all a bit funny, really. Crowley's Garden of Eden was in Central London, in his flat, where he was God. He could pick and choose as he pleased, cast plants out of the garden like She cast him out of Heaven, he could grow and destroy and make everything as perfect or flawed as he pleased. He was this garden, this garden was his God-complex, quite literally, and he could be senselessly ruthless and induce fear and rage and punish himself with it. Relive his trauma on a smaller stage. He told himself it helped him heal.

“Oh, well this is a nice place, my dear,” Aziraphale said, gazing around lazily at Crowley's flat. He was here because it was raining, and their trip to Regent's Park had to be delayed (Aziraphale wanted to look at the statue of Artemis) (no, angels cannot control the weather, or it would always be exactly 21.1 degrees c.) so they had gone to Crowley's flat instead, to chatter and maybe drink and perhaps go out for dinner later. Crowley shrugged. “'s'a place to stay,” he muttered. It was strange that Aziraphale had never been here, but then, Crowley was always the one chasing him, he supposed. If Aziraphale wanted him around, he simply rang for him to come over. “Oh! Are these yours?” Aziraphale was suddenly in his garden, stroking the leaves of a pothos as it reached up for the unexpected affection. “Gorgeous things,” Aziraphale cooed. “Beautiful.” He looked at Crowley. “You should be kinder to them, my dear. They are doing their best. And look how stunning they are!” All the plants in Crowley's flat were now gravitating towards the angel, reaching for his kind touch. Crowley suddenly felt a warmth swell in his chest he hadn't expected, a warmth and an ache, and then he could hardly keep his eyes from clouding. Aziraphale suddenly put a hand over his chest, startled. He felt, very abruptly, a profound feeling of love in the room. “Crowley,” he said. “Is that you, dear?” Then Crowley was shaking, and sinking, and Aziraphale was catching him, lifting him into his arms as he wept. “I'm sorry, angel,” he murmured, gripping Aziraphale's coat. “I-I didn't mean to-to love—“ “Don't apologize, Crowley,” Aziraphale said in shock. “Surely you can know that I love you too? I daresay, my aura has reeked of it for centuries.” He chuckled softly. “That-that was for me?” Crowley said. “I-I just thought that's how angels are. Full of it.” Aziraphale gazed down at him tenderly. “No, that was for you,” he said. “What's wrong, Crowley?” He brushed the tears from the demon's face. “Hmm?” “I'm a demon,” Crowley said. “I don't—I don't deserve love.” He sniffled pathetically, then shuddered in anger. Aziraphale looked aghast. “Not deserving of love?!” he cried. “Of course you are! How could you say such a thing? What nonsense you think sometimes.” Fondly, he kissed the top of Crowley's head. The way he said it, with such ease, as if it were the silliest thing in the world, made Crowley feel whole in a sort of way he hadn't before. “You're sure? That you love me, I mean,” he said, red and still a bit hazed. “I'm quite certain,” Aziraphale said kindly. “And I hope that you will learn to love yourself, too, Crowley. You deserve that.” Crowley tucked his head back into the angel's shoulder. If Aziraphale could love him, perhaps he wasn't so bad after all.

[taizi]

without knowing how, or when, or from where

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley, crowley & warlock word count: 3517 part 4 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

x

Crowley is keeping a secret.

Come now, you old fusspot, Aziraphale scolds himself immediately after the initial thought. It’s not as though we live in each other’s pockets. A fellow is allowed to have his own life.

It’s just that— well, there’s no reason to live separately anymore, to be apart, not really. Weeks after the almost-end of the world, they’ve settled into the same side, their own side. There’s no need to be skulking about at odd hours so their superiors don’t get the wrong idea, no need to force distance and affect indifference.

And Crowley is such a darling now that he has room to be. Slinking in to share Aziraphale’s company every evening— and then, soon after that, to share his bed. He presses into Aziraphale’s hands at night, into the curve of his body, like a heat-seeking missile, like a creature left out in the cold. Not entirely sure of his welcome, not quite yet, but coming closer with every morning he wakes up in Aziraphale’s arms.

(They kiss, and they hold one another, and they go no farther than that. Crowley isn’t interested in carnal pleasures, and Aziraphale would only be if he was. It’s a blessing just to have him; to reach out and trace the curve of his cheek or the red of his hair and feel him lean into the touch; to finally love him as he deserves to be loved, utterly and with gleeful abandon.)

This intimacy they have found is something precious to the both of them. Aziraphale doesn’t want to begrudge his snake a single thing, but he doesn’t understand what place any secret might still have between them.

He brings it up to the Reading Circle one dreary Thursday morning, hoping for advice.

They’re a group of six or so seventy-something year old women who have taken to the shop twice a week ever since the church whose basement they used to meet in snubbed Greta’s gay granddaughter and henceforth incited the Circle’s collective, not-inconsiderable wrath.

The women refer to Crowley as Aziraphale’s “charming young man,” and keep Aziraphale up-to-date on all of the juicy Soho gossip, and have never attempted to make a single purchase. He quite adores them.

To his immediate consternation, the women exchange weighted, knowing glances.

“Well,” Laura says, “he’s a flash young thing. It could be that he’s not quite ready to settle down yet. Lord knows my Hector was flighty at that age.”

It takes Aziraphale longer than he’s proud of to realize what they’re implying, and then his first impulse is to laugh aloud despite all the feathers he ruffles in doing so.

“Forgive me,” he says, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ve got quite the wrong idea about my Crowley.”

After six thousand years of not-very-subtle adoration and foolhardy devotion, the demon’s commitment can hardly be called into question; but Aziraphale can’t very well explain as much to the ladies in his shop. He pours out more tea and smiles to himself while they witter, deciding he might as well stop beating around the bush and just ask Crowley directly when he comes— here, a happy thrill at the concept— home.

And so that evening, after dinner together and a half a bottle of very fine red wine, he does. Crowley doesn’t look surprised to be caught out. He rubs a hand through his hair thoughtlessly, leaving it a charming mess, and can’t seem to meet Aziraphale’s eyes even from behind those silly glasses.

“I’d hoped to get away with it for just a bit longer, angel.”

Aziraphale is more relieved than anything that it wasn’t just the product of a restless imagination. He sets aside his crossword and beckons Crowley closer, having had quite enough of him existing outside of arm’s reach.

Crowley slinks across the room readily, climbing over the angel’s lap to get to the corner of the sofa he prefers. Tucked up against Aziraphale’s side, under his arm and against his chest, the tension ebbs out of his body like water down a drain.

“This is the part where you yell at me, I’d imagine,” he mumbles into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I should certainly think not,” Aziraphale says primly.

They bicker over just about everything— from any manner of theological issue to whose turn it is to pay the cheque at dinner to who cheated who in an Olympic game they both competed in nearly three thousand years ago— because it’s fun, even at its most annoying. Aziraphale’s fellow angels are humorless, and Crowley has implied that an argument in Hell is likely to spiral into a knife fight within the space of a few ill-chosen words, so they tend to pounce on any argument that lands between them with all the full-ahead eagerness of jousters in a tiltyard.  

But they don’t raise their voices in true anger. It would hardly be worth the two steps back, when each step forward is a thrilling victory. It would be hard to summon the vitriol in the first place, really, when life is so pleasant anymore.

It’s still raining outside, and Beethoven is playing on the gramophone in the front room, and even Crowley’s plants are waving ever so slightly back and forth in perfect contentment.

Aziraphale says, “Tell me, love. I’m listening.”

#

Nanael has discovered poetry. They have spent countless hours curled up in an overstuffed armchair with a pile of books that refuses to shrink, doing nothing but drinking in the art of language that humans have dreamed up.

They are new to the concept of time, of seasons and changing things, but it has been about a year since they arrived in London. A year and four days, to be precise, marked by Crowley coming by with a clear pastry box containing a Battenberg cake that he plopped without ceremony on top of the jigsaw puzzle Nanael was picking their way through.

It looked very much like the same cake they’d eaten on their very first day here at the shop, right down to the expertly quilted pattern on the white marzipan.

“What’s this for?” Nanael asked, touching the green ribbon gingerly.

“Sort of your birthday, innit,” the demon had muttered before stalking off to the back room, leaving a fondly bemused Aziraphale to explain the concept of anniversaries and celebrations and birthday gifts.

Four days later, Nanael still smiles when they think of the cake. They have been on earth for a year, and they’re beginning to understand why Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, never came home. There are certainly no birthday gifts in Heaven.

The door above the bell rings, and Nanael looks up from their book in time to watch a man step inside. At the very least, they mentally amend a moment later, a man-shaped entity. He isn’t doing a very good job of suppressing his demonic energies, letting them flare and catch about Nanael’s periphery like fire.

Nanael tenses, but doesn’t leap from behind the counter or issue any Holy demands. They’re a little bit embarrassed about that sort of thing now, and waits instead for the demon to make his own introduction.

“To hear Hastur tell it, Crowley’s lost the plot,” he  remarks snidely, by way of hello. “Far as I’m concerned, this sounds like the place to be. Where is he?”

His— her, Nanael can see now— voice is incongruent with her form, not entirely human, as though she hasn’t quite mastered this whole mortal flesh malarkey. It’s reminiscent of Poe, and makes Nanael think of talking ravens, and they’re rather charmed by the whole thing where they should probably rightly be horrified.

“Oh, you know Crowley,” Nanael says, relieved. “He and Aziraphale are out to lunch.”

Nanael was invited along, but one of the ladies in the Reading Circle gave them a Meaningful Look and said it was important for couples to have Alone Time every now and again. Nanael isn't sure what they meant by that, because there’s no stopping Aziraphale from looking at Crowley as though he hung the stars even when they’re surrounded by company— and that’s perfectly reasonable, Nanael thinks fairly, because Crowley did— but they went alone to lunch, anyway, and Nanael got to know Yeats instead.

And that is why, now, they are alone in the bookshop with an unfamiliar demon. They don’t regret it, though; Yeats has been worthwhile.

(There is a whole stack of nineteenth century poets, shelves and shelves of them, and Aziraphale says they’re dear to him; he says they kept him company when he was quite lonely, but he never says it when Crowley is around to overhear. For this reason, even though Nanael doesn’t fully understand it, those poets are dear to them, too.)

“Out to lunch?” the demon looks nonplussed. It’s a more pleasant look than the sneer had been. “Is that code for something?”

“What would it be code for? They went for Italian.” Nanael doesn't know if that meant an Italian restaurant nearby or the country of Italy, and they didn't think to ask.

“The Serpent doesn’t eat, ” the demon says. She sounds as petulant as a child Nanael overheard the other day, discussing the existence of Santa Claus with her mother. “It’s one of the oldest curses in the Book. ‘On your belly you shall go, and you shall eat dust all the days of your life.’ The punishment for creating original sin would have to be steep, wouldn’t it?”

She says it with a strange, backwards sort of delight, almost awe. Nanael’s heart— fragile, unreliable human thing that it is— gives a painful lurch.

Surely not, they think, but it’s more out of reflexive horror than anything else, desperation to deny the very idea.

All of those pleasant afternoons at all of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants swim to the front of their mind; trying dish after dish of unfamiliar cuisine with their fellow angel while Crowley only nursed a glass of wine.

They think of their birthday cake.

Hands curled into loose fists, Nanael’s eyes stray from the stranger before them and toward a certain selection of books at the back— books that they were told to steer clear of until they had a better grasp on things.

“Tricky business, occult science,” Aziraphale had said. “You’re just as likely to lay a curse as break one if you don’t get the inflection right. Best keep out of it for now, hm?”

Nanael, in what was becoming habit, had looked to Crowley for the final word on the matter. Crowley leaned back on his elbows and said, “No knowledge is off-limits, Feathers, but you wouldn’t give an eight-year-old a book on astrophysics and expect them to work it out for themselves, would you? If there’s something you want to know in particular, just ask.”

And that had been that. But now… well, things have changed, haven’t they? That’s what things do, here on earth, is change, almost constantly.

The demon leaves with an unsettling lack of farewell, but Nanael hardly notices her go. They’re venturing into the stacks they’ve never ventured into before, abandoning their poets to reach instead for a book in weathered blue binding. The title has mostly faded; all that’s left of it reads Tractatulus Hyprocratis, and Nanael isn’t sure what that translates to.

But there are dictionaries here. There are encyclopedias and thesauruses. One of the first things Nanael learned was how to learn, and they lock up the shop with a thought and circle back to the chair that has become theirs.

If Crowley is cursed, it hardly seems fair that Nanael should have to sit around all this knowledge that might be of help to him and not be allowed to pursue it.

#

“I heard your parents are sending you away,” Roman says in a rather nasty tone of voice.

Warlock sizes him up, and Roman sees him sizing him up and puts a healthy extra step of distance between them. It isn’t that Warlock is very big or very strong, it’s just that Warlock doesn’t think twice about starting fights, and he’ll go to twice as much length as anyone else will to finish them.

“Whoever told you that’s a liar,” Warlock bites out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s thirteen now, with grades near the top of his class after that dismal year between ten and eleven. His teachers aren’t sure what to make of him, but he’d tell them if they just asked; that Nanny said Warlock could do much better than he’d been doing, that it’s one thing to punish the people who hurt you but a whole ‘nother when that punishment bends back around onto you.

It wasn’t hard to tidy his grades up after that. He’s not an idiot.

“That’s not what dad said,” Margo pipes up. “Dad told me your dad told him that you’re on the waiting list for a program for troubled youth. Very private. Almost like they want to keep you a secret.”

The rest of the group gets a big laugh out of that, and Warlock glares at the bunch of snow weighing down a low-hanging branch above the sidewalk, willing it to fall on their heads.

Whether by nature or influence, it does. They shriek in surprise, and it’s Warlock’s turn to laugh.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, just so they don’t get any more stupid ideas. “I’ve got plans, you see.”

And then he rushes the rest of the way home, careful not to slip on the icy pavement, because it’s Friday, and Friday means Nanny will be there to pick him up after school.

#

“Oh, I forgot,” Nanael says. They’re hiding whatever book they’re reading in an open magazine, and Aziraphale hasn’t come around to asking why yet. Some things are better left untroubled. “Crowley, someone came looking for you. A demon. I didn’t get her name.”

Aziraphale sharpens, pen going still above his ledger. Crowley doesn’t look half as worried. He hardly looks up from his phone.

“As long as it’s me they’re looking for,” he says. “I’ll tighten up the wards tonight.”

“As long as— “ Aziraphale frowns mightily. “Danger to you is still danger, Crowley. We’ll tighten up the wards right now.”

“It's not as though they'll be back before dinner,” Crowley grumbles, but he picks his feet up off the ottoman and pushes himself upright nonetheless. He makes a show of it, making sure to look impossibly put-upon, and Aziraphale feels himself bristling.

“After what happened the last time we had unwanted guests,” he says tightly, unhappy, “I hope you’ll forgive my taking extra precautions.”

Crowley winces. Nanael looks stricken, and then miserable. “I’ve told Daniel not to come here again,” they say, picking guiltily at the edge of their strange amalgamation of reading material. “She promised she wouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s one angel we can cross off the list, then. We only have the rest of the combined forces of Heaven and Hell left to worry about.”

Aziraphale bustles into the front room, feeling prickly and restless. The idea of danger looms in all the dark corners of the dimly lit shop. Crowley follows, as silent as a winged creature, or in this case, one with scales.

He steps into Aziraphale's space, looping those long arms around his middle, and Aziraphale is distracted by him, the warmth of him. His hands come up almost on their own to hold Crowley where he is.

“You’re working yourself up, angel. There’s no need. We’re safe as houses, here in your little shop. I’d like to see old Michael take a swing at one of us behind these walls.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Aziraphale murmurs. “The last thing we need now is to invoke one of them.”

“We’ll tighten the wards,” Crowley says, giving, as always, where Aziraphale is stubbornly set in his ways. He's rubbing small circles against Aziraphale's back, the original tempter, convincing him to let go of all this reasonable worry despite himself. “Not even a mouse will get in without our knowing about it."

"I'm hardly worried about mice, my dear," Aziraphale says sternly, but it's a losing battle. "If anything were to happen to you— "

"I know, Aziraphale." Truly, he must. He watched the shop burn down and for a few bleak hours believed half of his soul was lost for good. Aziraphale can barely stomach the idea of such grief, and holds him tighter, as if to make up for not holding him then. "Nothing will. As long as we're together, we can weather anything they throw at us. It's worked out this far, hasn't it?"

"For better or worse."

Crowley leans back, eyes fully yellow, pupils round in the low light.

"They won't take me," he vows, vehement, full of a caring that crouches in his chest like a creature with teeth. "And they won't touch you. I swear it."

And what could he say? Aziraphale leans in to kiss him when the words all fail, on the corner of the mouth, the cheek, the stark lines of his tattoo, the lid of his eye, that stubborn brow. Faith and love and trust coalescing inside him into something fearsome, something next to divine.  

He's afraid he's gotten used to being afraid, but for Crowley, Aziraphale would brave anything.

#

“Oh, darling, there was no need for secrecy and subterfuge. You need only tell me these things.”

Crowley squirms. Aziraphale lifts his sunglasses away with a proprietary air, then lifts his chin and holds him there. He strokes Crowley’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, one of those throwaway moments of intimacy that still blow Crowley’s mind. He hasn’t reconciled himself to this new normal as easily as Aziraphale has. He has to fight not to shiver when all of the angel’s attention or affection bends his way.

“After six thousand years of doing whatever I’d like to do,” Aziraphale says fondly, “it’s rather past time I indulge whatever whims of yours that I can, hm?”

“This is more than a whim, ” Crowley hedges. He was expecting more of an argument; he doesn’t know what to do with such an easy victory. “It’s a— it’s a whole kid.”

“He's important to you,” Aziraphale says, as if it’s that simple.

And so Warlock Dowling comes to the bookshop in Soho for a visit, wide-eyed and clutching to the hem of Crowley’s jacket, incredibly small, infinitely human.

But there is nothing fragile in the way he lifts his chin and seems to dare Aziraphale or Nanael to tell him he isn’t welcome. As though a child should expect to be told he isn’t welcome.

“Hello, dearest,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can see him remembering the boy when he was very young, when he still toddled around the gardens asking about all the flowers and bugs. “I’m not sure if you remember me.”

Something like fondness springs into Warlock’s eyes, as if it was just waiting for the invitation.

“Brother Francis,” he says promptly, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “Nanny said you fixed your teeth and left the church.”

Nanael makes a noise like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on, and turns bodily away to look with such pointed indifference at a shelf of self-help books that it’s obvious they’re suppressing laughter.

Aziraphale says “oh, really” and Crowley favors him with his most devil-may-care grin.

“Nanny said I could call him Crowley now, but it’s okay if I don’t,” Warlock goes on. “Is there something different you want to be called, too?”

A polite little Hellspawn when it suits him, Crowley thinks with displaced pride. He can see Aziraphale melting like butter, opening his mouth presumably to tell Warlock he can call him by whatever name he’s most comfortable with, when someone knocks on the shop window.

She’s a harried looking middle-aged woman, tapping her knuckles right next to where the Closed sign is hanging and seeming adamant about coming in anyway.

Warlock glares, and the shade comes crashing down with enough force that it knocks the window display clean over. The tapping, at least, stops dead.

“Oops,” says Warlock, shamefaced. He scurries over to pick up the fallen books, though he doesn’t bother lifting the shade. “Sorry.”

Crowley glances back at Aziraphale to find him stunned, staring at the books on the floor in bewilderment. Crowley rubs the back of his head, and says, “Yeah, um— there’s that, too. I think we may have believed in him a bit too much, during his formative years. Put some thoughts in his head that, er, took root.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says faintly. He comes to stand at Crowley’s side, watching Nanael crouch next to Warlock and show him how much more fun it is to order reality about with a snap of one’s fingers rather than a glare.

“If you’re Crowley’s child, you’ll pick it up right away,” Nanael says with perfect confidence.

Warlock brightens, and Crowley pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale is smiling at him.

[thesmalltowngal]

Snowbaz 13- For Real This Time

Otp Prompt #13: Baz and Simon keep fake proposing to each other in restaurants to get free food, but when Baz finally proposes for real, Simon doesn’t get it.

Honestly, I was pretty exhausted when I wrote this, but I’m hoping it’s at least half decent. Enjoy!

27 days and counting that Simon and I have been doing this. We’ve discovered (by watching other couples do it) that of all the bloody things, proposing at restaurants gets you free food. We decided to test this theory out by doing a fake proposal at a Normal restaurant called ‘Chuck-E-Cheese’. (I wouldn’t recommend it- the fake animals seemed to be spelled to play music and follow you around with their eyes). We went to the dollar store (Crowley, the dollar store. Normals are so cheap) and bought a bag of fake rings. Simon popped down on one knee and said some total fucking shit like ‘Man, I’ve loved ya’ forever’ and I said yes with feigned surprise. He slipped the fake ring on my finger (which later stained green) and kissed me. 

Some restaurants’ standards are so bloody low it’s ridiculous. Once I just popped down on one knee and said ‘will you be my bro forever?’ and the waiters went fucking wild. I’m fairly certain we used a ring pop that time. But every time, no matter how either simple or extravagant the proposal, my heart glows. I don’t know about Simon, but around the twentieth time he proposed, it started feeling real. We’ve not been doing it quite as much anymore. 

But now, I’m sure of what I want. After everything went down with the fucking Humdrum (we never refer to him as just the ‘Humdrum’; it’s always the fucking Humdrum or the bloody Humdrum. Sometimes the ‘rat bastard Humdrum’) and The Mage and everything, I took Simon out on a real date. Not a ‘We’re-dying-in-a-forest-so-kiss-me’ date. Not a ‘We’re-surrounded-by-vampires-that-want-to-kill-us-but-I-would-still-gladly-fuck-you’ date. A proper date at a restaurant. After everything Simon went through, it felt a little silly going to a Normal restaurant for dinner. (Plus, I feel as though he was still a bit thrown by the fact that he was snogging and dating his mortal enemy). (He’s since gotten over that). But after that night, he thanked me profusely… and it was then that he told me he loved me. I’ll never forget it. 

It was absolutely pouring out, and Simon and I were trying to run to my car from inside the Italian restaurant (something the Normals call ‘Old Spaghetti Factory’. Superb). I couldn’t find my keys and we were caught in the rain like in that one movie… The Notebook or some bloody shit like that. (Simon made Penny and I watch it. He cried. Penny teared up. I laughed). I was cursing, running my hands through my increasingly soaked hair. My suit (Gucci- I couldn’t believe it was getting ruined) was nearly all the way soaked through and Simon’s t-shirt was clinging to his torso. (Which only distracted me more from finding the keys). 

I heard something loud beside be, and I turned my head to see Simon doubled over in laughter. The rain roared around us and I couldn’t hear anything but splattering on the ground and Simon’s laugh. “What in the bloody hell is so funny, Snow?” (I only called him Simon when we were alone together and being soft) (I don’t know when the fuck I started saying things like ‘being soft’- it just happened). He gained his composure (as much as was possible for Simon, anyway) and wiped away a falling tear as he walked toward me. 

He wrapped his arms around me, and I let myself melt under his touch. “Oh, Baz. This is perfect!”

“Perfect? What about this is perfect?” He looked up at me, eyes glinting in the street lights. He was still the sun… but it no longer felt like I was going to get burned.

“Because it’s us, Baz. Of course it would start pouring at the end of our date. And of course we would lose our keys and get stuck in the rain. It’s just…” He shook his head and sighed. He leaned in, giving me the slowest (and quite honestly most arousing) kiss we had ever shared. He leaned back, only our noses touching and looked me right in the eyes. It was like looking into my future. “I love you.” My heart swelled and I couldn’t help the complete fucking grin that spread across all of my futures.

“I love you too, Simon.”

We’ve been together for two years now. I know we’re young, but I have wanted Simon Snow since we were children. And now that I have him (and he wants me; sometimes I still can’t believe it), I will never let him go. It’s not just that I don’t want to let him go- it’s that I simply won’t. Because if Simon Snow ever left me, I would die. But anyway, my point is that I want to marry him. I want to marry Simon Snow, and I have everything all planned out. We’re going to the restaurant where he told me he loved me for the first time tonight (we haven’t been back since). I have the ring (a real one this time) and a full speech (not just ‘please marry me bro’) and reservations. 

Right now he’s sitting in my lap while I read (just an hour before the reservations) and he watches a movie. He absentmindedly plays with my hair (he had me grow it even longer just for his pleasure) and I can’t help but feel my stomach flip while I look up at him. He’s just… amazing. If you would have told 16 year old Baz that Simon Snow (whom past Baz suppressed his emotions for every waking day) would one day love him back, he would have laughed in your face. And then spit on you. And then probably would have punched you.

I place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck (he smiles like he’s trying not to) and I try to maneuver him out of my lap without getting slapped with his wings or tail (which are fucking hot, by the way). I go to get dressed, and five minutes later, we’re both ready and in the car driving for restaurant.

When we arrive, the waitress finds our name on the list and shows us to our table. I feel the weight of the ring box in my jacket pocket like a weight. Simon smiles brightly at me as he proceeds to order virtually everything on the menu. (He really breaks the bank- one thing he definitely didn’t lose after losing his magic was his appetite). I just have a salad.

Halfway through dinner, I take his hand and begin my speech. “Simon Snow…”

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch…” He laughs and squeezes my hand lightly. (I’m so nervous. And I never get nervous). (Only around Simon fucking Snow). 

“I love you so much. I have loved you since the day I laid eyes on you when the Crucible cast us together. Simon Snow, I have never believed in fate. None of that destiny bullshit or ‘meant to be.’” I pause, looking at him. A small smile still plays on his lips, but he doesn’t say anything. “But Simon… meeting you was fate. It was destiny, and it most certainly was meant to be. When we were first cast together, I thought it was a curse. A curse that I had to room with the one person that I was destined to love, and destined to kill. But really, Snow… it was a blessing. A blessing that for seven and a half years, I got to watch you grow on your own. A blessing that of all the people at Watford, I was cast together with you. Because before you, I thought I would never love. That I never deserved love.” He squeezes my hand tightly, and his eyes are watering. I just love him so much it hurts. “But then, you let me open up. You let me be vulnerable. I learned to love, and what it felt like to be loved. And for that, I can never thank you enough. It was here that you first told me that you loved me- it was here that my life started. Every day that you stay and love me feels like a day that the sun shines a little brighter. Because when I was younger, I thought that love was foolish. It just made you blind. But now, Simon, I realize that’s anything but true. Being with you makes colors brighter, sounds louder and sights even more beautiful. I want to feel like that every day of my entire life, Simon Snow.”

I get up from my seat and get on one knee, getting the ring box and opening it for him to see. (I feel like a proper bloody fool, getting my trousers dirty on the floor) (I would do it again for him. I would do anything for him). “Simon Snow… will you marry me?” All around us are quiet gasps, but I’m focused on only one person. His face is flushed and he seems rendered speechless- but he nods his head vigorously and snatches the ring out of my hands to slip it on his finger before I get the chance to do anything. He leaps up out of the chair and kisses me with as much passion as he did all those years ago, cupping my face while I run my hands through his hair. There are cheers all around us and the waiters come over to tell us that dinner is on them (no surprise there). 

When we sit back down, Simon finally says something. “Holy shit, Baz! Where in the bloody hell did you get this ring?! It looks so real!” Oh fuck. He doesn’t know that this isn’t another fake proposal. God fucking damnit, fuck me in the bloody ass. I should have known better than to propose him at a restaurant. Before I can interrupt him, he continues on. “This is the coolest proposal we’ve pulled off! And when you were talking, I thought you were serious for a second! Crowley, but did you really mean everything you said anyway?” 

Before he can keep talking, I nod my head and try to clarify. I get up out of my seat, squatting down in front of Simon. “Simon, it was real. That’s a real ring, and this was a real proposal. And I meant every word.” He looks at me for a long moment, thinking, before he finally responds, a ghost of a smile still dancing on his features. 

“Okay, good one, Baz. You don’t have to keep pretending- we got free food! But Aleister Crowley, where did you get this ring? We should use this kind more often.” It’s taking everything (and I mean everything) in me to not yell at him or storm out of the restaurant. 

“Simon, I’m serious. I want you to marry me. A real wedding. Like legally married. I got that ring at a jeweler. This isn’t fake- everything I’m saying, everything I’m feeling… it’s real, Snow.” I hesitate to get up as he keeps thinking. (Crowley, how much fucking thinking does he need to do? I think this is the most he’s actively thought for in his life). 

“It’s really real?” He whispers it so quietly that the only reason I can hear it is because I’m a vampire. I nod my head slowly. He looks at me and I move to go back to my seat, head falling.

But before I can make it even an inch, he’s grabbed my suit collar and pulled my forward, smashing my mouth into his. It’s sloppy and slobbery, but it might just be the best feeling in the world. He pulls away and we’re both breathing too fast to care about the people staring around us. 

“I would love to marry you, Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” He smiles again before he pulls me back in. 

I have never been happier in my entire life- all because of my fiance (I could get used to that)... 

Simon Snow.

[67midnightwriter]

Price

A/N: This is a reader insert version of a fic I already posted, enjoy!

Summary: Sam wants you back no matter what the cost, but when it comes time to pay will he be able to pay the price?

Sam x Reader

Angsty. Heavy, heavy angst.

Warnings:  Talk of suicide

Sam was amazed at how much of a difference three words could make. Your first ‘I love you’ brought him to life, your ‘we’ll be okay’ held him together after Dean died, and ‘one more hunt’ changed his world forever.

It should have been easy. It was a cut and dry, in and out, slash and burn vampire case. The plan was to find the nest, clear them out, and put up the hunter hat for good. White picket fences and cul-de-sac barbeques as far as the eye could see. You deserved it, and after everything you had been through no one would dare argue with that. Life had other plans.

“Stay with me Y/N, you’re going to be okay.”

Sam held you in his arms as he tried to stop the bleeding at your neck. A massacre of headless vampire bodies lay around you, the most recent still oozing blood as it lay within touching distance. His eyes never left your face, as though the horrors around you didn’t even exist. His entire world was in his arms, the very glue of his soul, and he was watching the light fade from your eyes as the color drained from your face.

“I’m sorry Sam, I didn’t see him.” Your words were barely more than a whisper on a ragged breath.

“Shhh it’s not your fault, it’s okay Y/N. We’re going to be fine.” Tears burned the back of his throat as they trickled their way down his cheeks.”

“I love you.” The last word died on your lips as he watched your soul burn out.

Sam let out an animalistic scream as he clutched you close to his body. Your blood on his hands was still warm, and he refused to let you go like this. He had promised you that you would have a good life together, and he was going to make good on his promise. He choked back a sob as he stood up, holding your limp form close to his body. He stumbled out to the Impala, a single mission on his mind.

Dean would kill him if he was still alive. So would you for that matter, but you weren’t, and that was the problem. He couldn’t do this alone. He wasn’t anything without one of you. He had lost Dean, and saved Dean, and finally accepting letting Dean go, but he couldn’t lose you.

He drew up the sigails one last time. He mixed the ingredients one last time. He said the spell one last time. He called upon the Queen of Hell one last time.

She appeared before him, blood red from head to toe. She replaced Crowley after he sacrificed himself, and she made them regret closing that book.

“Sam Winchester, what have I done to be blessed with your glorious presence?” Her voice dripped like venom from her lips.

“Bring her back. I don’t care what it costs me, I’ll do anything. Just give her back to me.”

Her eyes flicked from Sam’s face to your lifeless body on the floor. She tsk’d her tongue and shook her head.

“What a shame. I loved her spunk. It would have been nice to be the one to take her down. We both know the two of you would have never stopped hunting. I wanted to be the one to bring that pain to your eyes.”

“Asmodeus,” Sam’s voice dropped dangerously low before he hung his head and dropped his shoulders in utter defeat, “please.”

“Sammy it’s no fun when you beg.” Asmodeus whined.

Tears burned down Sams face.

“Fine. I can bring her back, but for a price.”

“Anything. You name it, you can have it.”

“Oh, I won’t be collecting now. I’ll bring her back, perfect and whole as the day she was born, and you won’t have to pay anything now. I won’t collect my payment until she dies again, be it in ten minutes or fourty years.”

Sam studied her, trying to find out where the loophole was.

“No tricks. I won’t send anyone after you to kill her. I’ll even sweeten the deal and I’ll make the two of you off limits to all demons.”

“What if we stop hunting?”

“What you do with your borrowed time is none of my business.”

“Why? This doesn’t seem to benefit you at all.”

“I’ve got a soft spot for you Moose, and I hate seeing you in this much pain if I didn’t cause it. Shall we?”

Sam stepped forward and pressed his lips to Asmodeus’, signing the contract. Behind him you sucked in a breath and coughed. He turned and instantly dropped to your side, pulling you close to his chest as he felt your heart beat strong beneath him. Your body warmed beneath his, and he held you close, as if the more he held you the more he could put himself together.

You stopped hunting. Sam finished college, you bought the house, you put up the fence. Sam woke up every night for the first year in a cold sweat, pulling you closer to him to prove to himself that you were real. The second year it happened once a month. The third year it hardly happened at all.

Three words changed his life once more, in the middle of a very stormy March night.

“It’s a boy!”

Sam had never felt something as fragile as the fresh life of his newborn son. He sat next to you while you slept, holding his sleeping son in his arms. Nothing from his past mattered any more. Here in his hands lay a fresh start, a clean slate, the reason for life itself. Sam Winchester thought that he had known love, but he knew nothing until this moment.

In the short time span of twelve borrowed years, Sam had locked away the memory of his deal with Asmodeus until one day it came forth, hitting him square in the chest and knocking the life out of him. It had been an accident, but then again it’s hardly ever intended. John had a little league game on Friday that he would never play in. You had chicken thawing in the fridge that would never be made. One minute you were there, holding him together, mending every single broken, scared and fractured piece, and the next you were gone. Your smiles and laughs turned into ghosts, burned into his eyelids and haunting every blink.

Sam had known what he would do ten minutes after he saw you there, lying on the morgue tables. John looked impossibly small once more, even though he was overly large for his age. He had a few marks from the accident, the tips just poking out above the white sheet. His face, miraculously unmarked, was frozen in a blank expression and looked naked without his wide goofy smile. You looked as though you might have been sleeping off the flu. Your face was peaceful yet pale, the scars from your hunting years blending in with the creamy whiteness of the death that had finally settled upon you for good.

Sam arranged your funerals, mechanically going through the motions. He accepted twenty casseroles at least, a few cases of beer, and the wayward houseplant or two. He didn’t pay much attention, they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, accept for his end goal. A few more gray days and this would all be over.

It was raining the day he went to say goodbye. He knelt on the soft disturbed earth, not caring about muddy jeans or wet knees. The rain mixed with his tears and helped hide his brokenness from the world. He reached out and touched the cool granite, giving himself a solid reminder of why he couldn’t fight this fight anymore.

He sloshed through the house afterwards, carrying the box from the bunker. He went to Johns room, and sat down at the foot of the bed. He spread pictures around himself, tears falling as he looked at each one and remembered the happier times.

There was one with him and Dean and the Impala, looking ragged after a hunt. There was one Dean snuck of you and Sam kissing for the first time. There was you on your wedding day, you while you were pregnant, you and John moments after he was born. You were seared into every fiber of his being, and now you were gone.

In a way he figured this would be poetic justice. Dean had gone down at the end of the barrel of a loaded gun just like he prophesied, it was only fitting Sam followed him the same way.

The barrel was cold as it sat between his lips, and the metallic tang had a bitter aftertaste of gunpowder. He pulled up his happiest memories, searing them into his mind as he took a breath and pulled the trigger.

Asmodeus’ laugh rang out through the bedroom as the gun clicked in his hand. Ignoring her he check the gun over, saw that it was in working condition, and tried again. It gave the same soul shattering click as before. Sam pointed it at the wall and pulled the trigger, and it fired beautifully.

“It’s no use Moose, I’m here to collect, and you need to pay your price.”

“You already took John.” Sam growled, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh, that wasn’t me dearie. Oh no, my prize is much more fun.”

Throwing down the gun Sam picked up another from the box of old hunting supplies with the same result. Weapon after weapon he tried, until he was sobbing and surrounded by a pile of broken blades and unfireable guns. Asmodeus’ eyes danced as she laughed at his growing desperation.

“Please,” he begged, “just let me die.”

“Why? This is just getting to the good part.”

[luciisthebest]

It's Good To Be Queen

Pairing: Former Dean x Reader (Demon!Reader)

Summary: It’s good to be queen. That is, until the Winchesters keep interfering.

Warnings: ANGST, this is super dark, several major character deaths, somewhat graphic deaths, mentions of blood (lots of blood), language, slight descriptions of wounds, just lots of violence and death. 

Word Count: 1461

A/N: This is super dark, like I'm not sure where this came from  I guess I wanted to come back with a bang. Please head the warnings this is dark and twisted and not your typical fic. But yeah I'd say enjoy but probably not, but hey feedback is always welcome.

You never thought being queen would be fun. And yet as you sat on your throne and looked upon your domain you felt completely at home.

When you had sold your soul, it had been to save one of those stupid Winchester brothers. At the time you had fancied yourself in love with Dean, but it was all a lie. You had died and he had moved on with his life. After earning your black eyes, you had quickly moved through the ranks of demons until you were the right hand to the King. That was when things became fun. Crowley was a weak king, he allowed his subjects to run rampant while he traipsed about with the Winchesters. But his biggest mistake was trusting you. You were the one that plunged an angel blade into his back and laughed as his empty meat suit fell to the ground. The demons had watched in fear and awe as you stepped over his cold body and ascended the throne. Since that day you had ruled Hell with a steel fist. Your subjects feared and respected you and Hell was once again at its full glory.

All was right with the world, well except the Winchester brothers. Once they’d found out Crowley was dead they’d made it their mission to find out who was responsible. So far they hadn’t figured it out, they knew there was a new queen in power but your identity remained hidden. Even though you remained safe, something needed to be done about them. They were killing off some of your best demons and there were whispers that perhaps you weren’t as competent as was first perceived. It was now or never. Taking out the Winchesters would solidify your claim up on the throne. All you had to do was come up with a perfect trap, a trap that even the Winchesters couldn’t escape. If anybody could come up with one it was you. Every dark secret, every fear you were privy to. You knew everything about the Winchesters, and you were going to destroy them. 

A storm was brewing. Lightening split the clouds and thunder rumbled in the distance. Your trap had been set and now you were just waiting. You smiled at your reflection, you had done quite well. You actually looked like you did before you died. So pure, so sweet. Dressed in all white you appeared almost angelic, that was until you flashed your black eyes. Hopefully this image you had created would throw the boys off and give you the upper hand. Currently, you were in an abandoned motel in an rundown town. You had pulled in a few favors and now to the hunting world this motel was haunted by an extremely dangerous ghost. And who better to take care of such a thing than the Winchesters. You knew they were on their and would be arriving soon. Everything was going as planned and this time, you were going to win.

The stage was set, now all you needed was the players. Standing up slowly, you took one last glance at the mirror and then you left the room. Gliding down the stairs you made your way into the front office. This is where it was going to happen. Either you would be victorious or dead. Looking out the window, you watched as the storm drew closer. It was so full of power and danger. The lightening crackled and the thunder shook the building, it was almost as if the heavens knew what was coming.

As you were watching the storm, you heard the front door creak open, it was time. Now was the time for you to play your part. “You’re finally here…” you whispered, filling your voice with pain and sorrow. The footsteps that you had heard approaching halted, waiting to see what would happen next. “I’ve been waiting but you never came.” You begin to walk quietly towards the main hallway knowing they would be somewhere near there. Standing in the open doorway you delivered your line. “Sam…. Dean… I waited. And you left me here.” As you said this you stepped into the hall revealing your presence. The moment the boys realized who you were shock and pain filled their faces. Everything was going perfectly.

“(Y/n)?” Dean’s green eyes were filled with sorrow.

“Dean.” You tried to smile but your eyes remained cold and angry. “Was it worth it? Did you use the life I sold my soul for well?” Dean flinched at your words.

Turning to Sam you opened your arms up to him. “What you’re not going to give me a hug Sam?” Sam didn’t move. “Oh come on, I didn’t really hurt anybody. I just started rumors in hopes that you guys would finally come to me. I need closure, I can’t keep existing like this. I was supposed to go to Hell but I somehow ended up a spirit. I need to move on.” You paused looking back and forth between Sam and Dean. “Please.” You pleaded.

Opening your arms again, you gave a small sigh of relief as Sam began to move towards you. When he finally stood in front of you, he reached out and pulled you into his arms. “Thank you Sam.” You whispered in his ear. “You don’t deserve this but it has to be done.” With a snap of you fingers, an angel blade appeared in your hand. With as much force you as you could muster, you plunged the knife into his back, severing his spinal cord. Pulling the knife out, you let go of him, allowing him to fall to the ground. You had granted him a swift death, with a soft gurgle and one last breath he was gone.

“No! Sam!” Tears were in Dean eyes as he rushed forward. With a wave of your hand you sent him flying up against the wall. Now it was time for the fun part; slowly stepping over Sam’s body you walked up to Dean. Getting close to his face you allowed your black eyes to show and you laughed cruelly as understanding crossed Dean’s face. “Poor Sammy. He never even knew what was coming.”

“You bitch.” Dean spit in your face and tried to struggle against your hold.

You just laughed, there was no escape. “Oh Dean, I knew the best way to fuck with you was to make you watch poor little Sammy die. I granted him a swift death though, I actually kind of liked him.” You paused glancing over at Sam’s body. “But you, I hate you. You’re the reason I went to Hell, but I guess I should thank you considering I’m now the Queen.” You kissed him on the cheek. “But don’t worry, you’ll be joining Sammy soon.” You cooed softly in his ear. “But first we need an audience, executions are never fun without an audience.” You clapped you hands in glee. Snapping your fingers, several demons appeared in the hall. These demons would be your witnesses and your pawns to make sure every demon in Hell knew of this moment. “Ah yes much better. Now where were we?” You gently grazed Dean’s chin with your blade.

Dean’s eyes were angry and cold. “You know we'll just come back. And when we do your dead.” Venom drilled from every word.

Pulling the blade away from him, you pretended to be surprised. “Oh wait. Did I forget to tell you?” You looked around perplexed. “You aren’t coming back. You’re going straight to Hell, and you’re never coning back. A deal made in blood has been made. It can not be broken or changed. You are going to die by my hand and then you will be tortured for all eternity.” You gently caressed his cheek as horror filled his eyes. “Well let’s get this over with.” Gently tracing the outline of Dean's jaw you allowed the blade to rest at his throat, with the flick of your wrist you slashed Dean’s throat. Blood sprayed everywhere and you laughed as it rained down upon you. Leaning close, you placed a kiss upon Dean’s lips. “I’ll see you soon my love.” You whispered as the light went out of his eyes. Sam and Dean Winchester were dead and gone forever and your claim to the throne was forever solidified.

Turning around you faced your subjects, Dean’s blood soaked your white frock and lightening flashed behind you. You looked every inch the Queen of Hell that you were.

“All hail the Queen of Hell. May she rule until the end of time.” A demon proclaimed as all the demons in the hall fell to their knees and basked in your glory. It was good to be queen.

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