#anyway just thinking about on thin ice crowley and maybe i got something in the works... hhh

[mangobeast]

look don't get me wrong i love the walking pancaked ass twig that is crowley, looking like he could blow away in the wind. but also i love athletic crowley with a lean bit of meat on him. not gym bro jacked but lithe and sinewy, just on the side of active and sporty

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Taking the Cake (Rated G)

Summary: When Aziraphale decides to host Warlock and Adam's 12th birthday down at his shop, he tells Crowley they'll be doing it without magic. That's all well and good until Crowley is called upon to finish decorating the cake... (1551 words)

Read on AO3.

“Ho there! Mmph... angel? Ngk... ” Crowley grunts, stuffing himself through one door of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the other holding stubbornly to its frame. He barely makes it through, lugging copious bags bulging with party gear, his long fingers curled around handles strained thin by the weight.

"In here, dear," Aziraphale replies, giving no indication that he's coming to help. Crowley picks an aisle and starts walking, navigating the narrow expanse between late 18th century classics and Roman philosophy. 

“I got everything on your list," Crowley says when he spots his husband. "Goodie bags, balloons, streamers, poppers… “ He pauses inventorying when he comes up behind Aziraphale, deeply engaged in the creation of a buttercream rosette.

By hand, no less. 

Aziraphale insisted they throw together this entire party like natives, and that meant no magic whatsoever. Crowley couldn’t understand why. Miracling together a party is literally a snap. They'd done it hundreds of times over the years. It's how they hosted their wedding. 

With a snap.

That did, however, create a mountain of paperwork, which led to Gabriel and his henchmen finding out about their shindig and showing up uninvited. Surprisingly, they didn't cause much in the way of trouble. They snickered a little, made a few snide remarks, but they mostly spent their time "observing" from a table in a far corner, mingling with no one as if above it all. 

Crowley tensed when they arrived, but having a few party crashers didn't go too badly... until the karaoke began. 

“Is that the cake then?”

“Yes. I’m almost done.“ Aziraphale pinches his tongue between his teeth, steadying his hand as he adds a peony this time.

"It's gorgeous," Crowley says in awe. "Truly stunning."

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale says, glowing from his husband's praise.

"But... " 

Aziraphale's shoulders instantly go rigid. 

Crowley hates to do this to him. The cake really is a masterpiece of confectionary construction. But it needs to be said. "Warlock and Adam are turning twelve."

"And... ?" 

"Don't you think they might appreciate something a bit more... I don't know.... befitting of a pair of former antichrists? Like a zombie with bleeding eyes? Or a raven with sharp, pointy teeth?"

Aziraphale glares over his shoulder at Crowley as if insanity has finally set in. "Ravens don't have teeth!"

"I know! That's why it would be terrifying! Right up their alleys!"

Aziraphale shakes his head, going back to his peonies. "This is a birthday cake! Not a Halloween cake! Besides, I only know how to make flowers. Anything else would require magic, and you know how I feel about that. Besides, I'm certain they only care about the insides anyway, and it's crammed full of chocolate. I don't think they'll mind a crocus or two."

"Fair enough," Crowley concedes.

The clock in the corner chimes, and Aziraphale sighs. He looks over at it, then double-checks the time on his pocket watch. Crowley checks the time on his watch, too, although he doesn't know what for.

"Three o'clock," Aziraphale observes. "Damn."

"Wot's wrong?"

"I’m afraid I’m running a bit behind.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Crowley asks, piling his sacks on a nearby chair.

“As a matter of fact, I have to pop out for a few," Aziraphale says, handing Crowley the piping bag, "but this cake needs one final touch.”

“And that is?” Crowley holds the bag between his fingers the way he would a dead rat, wary that he might be called upon to construct the same delicate flowers Aziraphale has. Without his magic, Crowley doesn't have anything near Aziraphale's talent with icing. 

Warlock and Adam may just get a gruesome cake after all.  

“I just need it to say 'Happy Birthday Warlock and Adam'.” Aziraphale bustles about, grabbing his coat off the tree and throwing it on. “The handwriting doesn't need to be immaculate, just legible. Could you do that for me?”

“Pfft. No problem," Crowley says, secretly perceiving a problem. "Piece of… “ 

Aziraphale stops on his way out the door to give his husband an exasperated look. Crowley snickers. 

“Well, you know,” Crowley finishes, shooing Aziraphale out the door. "Ta-ta now. Mind how you go."

***

"Damned antique dealers and their damned negotiations! Ignorant bast---" Aziraphale stops short of cursing. It doesn't matter what happened, which was extremely upsetting. There is no need for bad language. He hurries down the crowded sidewalk, going over the details of the past hour-and-thirty in his head. "I was doing them a favor, and look how I'm repaid! I'm late to the party I'm hosting! There's a fine how-do-you-do! Ungrateful humans! See if I stop another Apocalypse for you, in your tacky grey suits and your cheap pointy shoes... "

Aziraphale stomps up to his door, keys in hand, but stops outside when he hears laughter on the other side. He peeks through the dusty glass, and his shoulders sag. 

The party is for the kids. He knows. But he was so looking forward to celebrating with everyone from start to finish. That and he didn't think he'd take this long, so he neglected to relocate his first editions somewhere secure. 

He fears for their safety.

Icing is notoriously difficult to get out of parchment and ligament, even through the use of miracles.

He should have never taken that stupid meeting to begin with. He had a feeling it wouldn't pan out.

Oh well. 

No need wasting any more time on that than already has, he thinks, bucking up and unlocking the door. Time to stop feeling sorry for myself and start celebrating while I still have the chance...

Aziraphale takes a step in, ready to announce his arrival, but stops dead when he hears jazzy scatting in a sonorous voice. 

A voice that doesn’t belong to anyone he knows.

Aziraphale walks in further, scanning those gathered, and makes a minor correction to his original assessment - doesn’t belong to any human that he knows. His eyes blow wide, his cheeks burn red, and his husband's name explodes off his tongue before he even opens his mouth.

"Anthony J. Crowley-Fell!"

Aziraphale doesn't say anything other than his name and Crowley starts apologizing. "I'm sorry, angel!" he says, running across the shop to greet him, but not looking the least bit sorry. 

"I gave you one task!" Aziraphale bellows, snapping his fingers and slamming the door shut, his no-magic edict flying out the window. "Just one little thing! And you couldn't do it!"

"I'm no good at writing!" Crowley defends with the shadows of an infuriating grin on his face. "My hand gets all wobbly! I didn't want to risk ruining any of your lovely flowers!"

Aziraphale, splotchy-faced and buggy-eyed, glowers. "You couldn't write a simple Happy Birthday, so you enchanted the entire cake!? That was your brilliant plan!?"

"I'm a demon! Of course, that was my plan!"

"Crowley!"

"They showed up right after you left! I had no time! I panicked!"

Aziraphale drops his head into his hands, shaking it slowly back and forth. Crowley reaches out to put a comforting hand on his husband's shoulder until he hears him counting backward from one hundred... in Akkadian. Then he creeps his hand to his side and quietly steps off. 

Aziraphale breathes in deep through his nose and out through his mouth, struggling to ground himself. He has no one to blame but himself. That's the painful part. In the back of his mind, he knew something like this might happen. 

He's impressed it isn't worse. 

He should have never left his husband alone.

Next time, he'll hire a sitter.

Aziraphale continues counting, continues breathing, and as he does, he pays more attention to the goings-on around him.

The cake singing is quite unsettling, but the children are gleeful, the adults joyful. Joking, teasing, and enthusiastic conversation fill the spaces in between. 

Much like their wedding reception, except there isn't an archangel in sight. 

And Crowley's magic was instrumental in making that day memorable.

Maybe Aziraphale overreacted with that 'no magic' rule. Crowley's face fell when Aziraphale told him they'd be hosting the boys' birthday at his bookshop sans magic, but he'd recovered quickly. The streamers and balloons Crowley managed to toss on the walls look plenty festive, but they don't compare to what could have been had Aziraphale allowed Crowley to tap into his imagination.

Their guests are having a grand time despite the modest decor, but it could have been so much more. They are an angel and a demon! Between the pair of them, they could have whipped up a true spectacle, if for no other reason than they still owe poor Warlock after last year's fiasco. 

What would have been the harm of calling upon a little divine intervention? 

An alarming thought pops into Aziraphale's brain, and his head snaps up. “They’re going to cut into that, you know. Is that when the enchantment ends?”

“Nope.” Crowley rubs his palms together. “That’s when the fun begins.”

"Uh... "Aziraphale's jaw drops. "Good Lord," he moans, Crowley cackling when Adam runs to fetch the cake cutter. Aziraphale's mind whirls with thoughts of what fun could imply, but there's no time to ask. While Crowley starts laying a drop cloth, Aziraphale puts his coat away and relocates his favorite books into his back room for safekeeping.

[lattereadsra]

Faengers AU

A collection of ideas and headcanons about the Rangers as a fae court compiled from the RA Discord server

(It’s real long, so I’m putting it under a read more)

General stuff:

-King Herbert made a deal with a fae court to form the Ranger Corps

-The common folk know the Rangers are fae; it’s obvious

-The nobility know they’re not fae; that’s ridiculous

-The Crown family knows; they have to

-The Deal is automatically renewed with each new coronation. Should someone not part of the family take the throne, they would have to renew it personally. “Family” is not defined, though, so marriage/found family counts

-To this day, all the Rangers are fae

-Like, all of them

-Instead of abducting children, they take them as apprentices. These kids all already have a bit of fae blood in them, even if it’s distant. “Graduation” is when they are turned into full fae

-The Gathering is where their court is held. That’s why no one can find it

-They can’t tell anyone they’re fae unless they are asked first which causes a lot of frustration. Apprentices have to put together the clues and ask the question for themselves, and if they don’t, it’s a good sign they ought not to be a Ranger

-Rangers brag to each other about their apprentices by saying how long it took them to ask. Too long and it’s perceived as unobservant; too soon and it’s considered hasty/surreptitious

The fun stuff (aka character specific):

-Will knows the rangers aren't actually magic. He thinks Halt is just being polite when he pointedly invites him in when they first get to the cabin. He thinks he's just personifying Tug. He assumes Halt replaces the wildflowers in the vase every day. It takes him a while to start putting together the clues

-When Will awkwardly asks if Halt is actually a fairy or something, Halt responds with a sardonic "Took you long enough. I thought I taught you to ask questions, boy."

-And so the training shifts

-Halt believes the apprentices should learn to be as skilled as they can using human abilities before learning to use their fae skills, which is why he didn't tell Will about becoming fully fae until his graduation

-Halt is obviously Hibernian fae

-The inheritance is a funny thing because Ferris is entirely human (he repressed his fae), and Caitlyn only got the Uncanny stuff, not the Wild Skills

-Crowley is full-blooded fae. Will calls him “long in the tooth” because he literally has fangs

-Will’s fae ancestry is on his mother’s side

-Aka desert/sun nymph

-It’s how he was able to survive in the desert in book seven. A normal human would have died out there, but he managed to hold out because the sun has a hard time killing him

-It’s also why that snake tried to attack the kid, and how he was able to win the race; nature was giving him a chance to prove himself

-Will is lucky he was mostly mortal while he was in Skandia. As a sun nymph, he does not do well in the cold. His fae blood saved him in Arrida, but had Halt fully released the boy from his mortality as soon as he was able, had he not been prudent enough to wait, Will likely would not have made it to the desert at all

-They go the first Gathering and Gilan is asking Will sort of cryptic questions that Will is so confused by, and Halt has to interrupt to tell his former apprentice that Will has already asked The Question, so he can speak freely

-There's also another first year (possibly at a later Gathering) who hadn't asked yet, and it's the first time Will is really affected by the third clause of the deal

-His words change to things he doesn't mean to say, eventually becoming twisted tongue-tied noises, and eventually he just stops being able to talk when he tries to explain to the poor kid

-Getting Horace to ask is a hell of a thing

-During Kings of Clonmel:

“Honestly,” said Horace, “I think I kind of – assumed Halt just sprang out of a hill or something.”

Will looked up at him sharply.  Say it.  Ask it.

-Horace gets frustratingly close to some version of a question that would count, and Will gets so annoyed that he can't really prompt him further

-"Wow, Will, it's like you were born in the woods"

-“Why don't you come visit the castle more often?"

-“How are you so good at sneaking up on me like that?"

-“Do you believe there are spirits in the woods here?"

-After many many close calls, Will eventually snaps and tells Horace to just say what is on his mind instead of hemming and hawing about it and Horace says he sometimes wonders if the rangers made a deal with the Fair Folk. Will just stops, tries to say something and gets tongue-tied and very carefully tells Horace that if he wants to know so bad, maybe he should ask

Horace: Uh, okay... Did you make a deal with the fae?

Will: I fubctva hv

Will: sigh

Will: Something like that

-Eventually:

Will: Horace, I need to tell you something important

Horace: Of course, go ahead

Will: I love you

Will: No wait, that's not--well, I do, but I meant to say that I olikarcbacsvberq

Horace: Are you okay?

Will: No, I onialevbunpi;erawvn

Horace: What's going on?

Will: LOJSRNVILHILUABUAV

Horace: What's your deal?

Will: DOES THAT COUNT?

Horace: Does what count?

Will: Say it again

Horace: Uh, what's your deal?

Will: I'M A FAIRY

Will, to the sky: HA IT DOES COUNT

Will: Can't wait to tell Halt that that worked

-Will plays his mandola and low key charms everyone listening

-Except other fae

-Aka Halt

-Alyss' helper in book five copies all of Will's technical mistakes but he can't copy the feel of the music because the diplomatic corps don't know about the deal. Thus, he doesn't know about Will's music being literally magical to listen to (and wouldn't be able to copy it anyway)

-Berrigan is noted for his very strong musical magic. Rumor has it he once talked a warlord into never picking up another weapon in his life, just by singing, but truthfully his gitarra is his tool

-Sir David was In The Know and flat-out forbade Gilan to "cheat" at his swordcraft, charisma, &c

-And fae are nothing but fair, so Will got the same treatment

-Malcom made a deal with a fae for knowledge of medicine and good luck in his work, and in return, he can't leave his glade. He's able to get away with it in book nine because it's to help another fae, but it’s thin ice

Most of this was copy/pasted from the Discord. Special thanks to @stxrduste for helping to come up with a lot of this. I think they’re working on writing a fic version of this, so keep an eye out

BONUS: 

The Contract of the Rangers

Declared by King Herbert of Araluen, 493 CE

Composed with the help of Conor Porter, Head of Diplomatic Services

*Historian’s note: The contract was likely prewritten and read aloud word for word to minimize the ability of the Rangers to find loopholes.*

The contracted fae agree to thus, so long as I and my descendants rule the country we call Araluen;

The contracted fae will be referred to as Rangers;

The Rangers will serve primarily as an intelligence force and, as needed, a specialized force of uniquely trained warriors and tacticians for the Crown of Araluen;

The Rangers shall not tell those outside the Crown of their nature unless they are asked.

The Crown agrees to thus, so long as I and my family rule the country we call Araluen;

The Crown will not allow for the destruction of the natural landscape in which the Rangers live;

The Rangers will be allowed to take willing children as apprentices to train as new Rangers, one per Ranger at any given time;

The Rangers will be given the authority to self govern within the laws of Araluen, whatever they be, and as an organization, they shall hold equal weight as a Crown Prince or Princess.

So long as neither side of the contract is broken, both parties will be bound to follow it. Unless the Crown or the Rangers wish it otherwise, the contract shall be renewed with the coronation of each of my descendants. I, King Herbert of Araluen, agree to this contract.

*Historian’s note: We have no record of the name of the first Ranger to agree to this contract, nor do we have a record of what was said, but given the current existence and state of operation of the Ranger Corps, it would seem they agreed to the contract as declared.*

*Unofficial historian’s note: I think it was Meratyn*

[stammiviktor]

yuri on ice & good omens: an analysis

No two shows have ever drawn me in as quickly or as thoroughly as Yuri on Ice and Good Omens. I’d only ever written for two different fandoms before these and, for those other shows, I started watching them young and fell in love slowly. I wrote extensively, but the focus was rarely on romance—usually I was somewhat ambivalent toward the possible pairings, or I liked the pairing only because of a one-sided interest in one of the characters. Up until I got obsessed with YOI two years ago, I thought maybe *I* was ambivalent to romance, which was why falling for Yuri on Ice (and Viktor and Yuuri’s love story) was such a surprise. 

Now I feel like something extremely similar has happened with me for Good Omens and Aziraphale and Crowley’s story, and I’m starting to notice a lot of parallels. I think there’s something similar at the core of both shows that has drawn me to them, some fundamental aspects that they share, and I thought I’d share them in case anyone is interested, in this essay I will—

Sections: 

Relationship Dynamics

Character Similarities

How the Story’s Told

Main Themes

1) Relationship Dynamics 

The main couples are the beating heart of each show, and they actually have a lot of similarities in the ways they love each other. 

In both shows, the main couple defies the world’s expectations. Both couples share a similar niche group—elite professional figure skaters in YOI, celestial beings in GO. Within these groups, the main two characters are adversaries, in the case of GO, and competitors (separated by the non-traversable boundary of their difference in skill level, in Yuuri’s mind) in the case of YOI. The relationships they develop with one another are shocking or even taboo to the people in these groups, and even perhaps to the characters themselves in the beginning. But they are drawn together by something important they share, and they just kind of say “screw the world, I love you, you’re mine”. 

In both shows, part of the reason they fall in love with each other is that they understand one another on a level that no one else could. 

Aziraphale and Crowley are the only celestial beings that love the Earth and humankind the way they do, and over the years they come to enjoy it together, drawn together by this shared appreciation. They also have a lot in common in regards to their situations regarding Heaven/Hell. They each know what it is like to take orders from and report to a Head Office where they don’t feel particularly welcome, understood, or appreciated; to live in the earthly plane in their human bodies for thousands of years; to have no one really understand them; to question the way things are.

Viktor and Yuuri are both VERY dedicated to the ice and have let a lot of their life (and love) pass them by because of it. They had sacrificed a lot and understand the mental toll it can take, for different reasons. They know what it’s like to struggle to accept love, to put on a brave face, and to compete anyway. They understand that drive for perfection that gets them up at 5am six days a week. Yuuri always had a secret drive to beat Viktor and to be the best, though he would never admit it out loud and assumed everyone else would laugh at him if he admitted it—but Viktor immediately was on board with this, and basically said, “Yes, you have what it takes if you gain confidence, let’s get you there”. Viktor, on the other hand, wanted to retire because he was burnt out and nothing surprised or inspired him anymore, but he didn’t think he could. He knew the world would think, “What the hell, you’re at the top of the world, what would you even do if you retired?”—but there was Yuuri saying, “Be my coach!” and not telling Viktor he’s insane for not wanting to skate. He validates him, only pushing him back toward the ice because he sees Viktor longing for it and feels guilty (but not because “You’re the five-time world champion you HAVE to”). They understand and accept one another where the rest of the world would not (or at least it’s perceived that they would not).

They meet each other where they are. This is straight up a line from YOI obviously, but it applies so well to Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship as well. This isn’t all that different from the last point about understanding one another, but here it’s important that they always try to let this understanding inform their behavior towards the other person. 

Viktor, as Yuuri’s coach, attempts adjust to his approach to meet Yuuri’s needs. He sees the hang-ups Yuuri has and helps him resolve them (being convinced he can’t do “Eros”, thinking he’s a failure and lacking confidence, etc) instead of just blindly pushing him forward. Yuuri, who previously isn’t shown to be a very touchy person while sober (he doesn’t even hug his mom when he returns home after five years), welcomes and reciprocates Viktor’s touch (which seems to be his love-language, so to speak). Yuuri doesn’t belittle Viktor for his insecurities (like the whole hair thinning issue), just apologizes when he accidentally offends him and only points out the issues again in a sweet gesture (ep7) that means “I see your shortcomings and I still accept you”. They don’t make each other conform to their expectations. They definitely have misfires in communication (aka the “let’s end this” and the “I’ll step down as your coach” scenes) but it’s because they’re trying too hard to meet each other where they are while their understanding of one another is still developing.

Crowley is maybe the definition of meeting Aziraphale where he is— he understands Aziraphale, knows what makes him tick, know he relies on philosophical logic to justify his actions. Whenever he proposes something (like stopping Armageddon or their Arrangement) he works through it logically and doesn’t belittle Aziraphale for his hesitance—he just reframes the suggestion. He doesn’t belittle Aziraphale for things like being a bit neurotic about the paintball stain, or his love of his book collection; when he breaks the news to Aziraphale about the fire (twice), he is so delicate and looks so sad for him. And Aziraphale, despite the whole “You go too fast for me” thing, still meets Crowley where he is, even if he plays dumb sometimes (after all, he does get on board the plot to raise and later kill the antichrist, and the decision to give Crowley holy water). He never ever uses Crowley being a demon as a way to claim he is somehow morally inferior or unforgivable in order to win an argument; he values Crowley for who he is (damned or not). He pushes Crowley by calling him “nice” only because they both know it’s true, and Crowley needs to own up to that in the same way Aziraphale needs to learn to stand up to Heaven. They do this lovely little dance around each other as their relationship develops, respecting one another, getting to know one another and the ways they fit together and it is beautiful.

They just... are so in love with each other in such a healthy way. The way they look at each other with stars in their eyes (there are so many scenes in both shows, but just compare the kiss scene in YOI episode 7 to the 1941 Blitz scene as they stand in the rubble of the church in GO ep3—the looks in their eyes!!). It’s Mutual Pining Up The Wazoo and there is just so much tenderness in the way they love each other. They also each value the things the other person loves (Viktor values and Hasetsu/the Katsukis/Katsudon, Yuuri values Makkachin and Viktor’s skating, Aziraphale and Crowley value each other’s earthly possessions and vices (the Bentley, the book collection, the paintball’d jacket, delicious food). And finally they both take great joy in each other’s happiness and success. 

2) Character Similarities

All of these characters have a ton of depth. They’re complex and flawed, some of them in similar ways.

Yuuri and Aziraphale are anxious kings of cognitive dissonance; they both hold a lot of contradicting things as true and have to find a way to resolve them in order to develop as characters and in their relationships.

In Yuuri’s case, the illogical nature of his anxiety is key. He knows he is objectively a great skater, he’s among the top ten male singles skaters in the world and he qualified for a competition that only takes the top six, but he also feels like an imposter, a “dime-a-dozen” competitor, and he constantly downplays his success and his skill level. Also, in the parking garage scene, he is terrified that Victor secretly wants to step down as his coach, yet he admits a second later that he knows that it’s not true (which I’ve seen people who experience anxiety say is common). Yuuri feels weak and yet he knows he’s strong. He is anxious at the prospect of failure and feels keenly the sacrifices others have had to make for him, and feels like he has a lot to lose even while he doesn’t think his career has been successful. 

Aziraphale is also very good at living with contradiction. For 6000 years, he has been holding on very tightly to the faith that God and Her Plan are Just, and all doubts about this can be chocked up to Ineffability. And yet at the same time, he knows Crowley, a demon cast out from Heaven by God Herself, is fundamentally good. After being friends with Crowley so long, he knows that casting him out was cruel. He knows that wiping out an entire population in the Flood was cruel; knows that Heaven and its angels, and even God, can be just as horrible as demons. Aziraphale has known this from the very Beginning, of course: he gave away his flaming sword, a weapon of righteousness bestowed by God Herself, to the beings God has just cast out for sinning. He loves God, wants to follow Her and believe that She is a being of goodness and love, but he also clearly sees Her destruction and hypocrisy and he’s perfectly willing to act against Her even as he claims She has his allegiance. He has immense sympathy for humans, something he’s not necessarily supposed to feel, but he thinks it’s the right thing to do so he does it. He is just holding onto hope that the right thing to do (the compassionate, empathetic, kind thing to do) is what is going to prevail in the Ineffable Plan. He’s very anxious that his own actions are or aren’t in line with the “good” and he agonizes over that. He feels that he has a lot to lose.

So, it’s only once Yuuri and Aziraphale resolve these mental hangups, these contradictions, that they are able to grow as people and in their relationships. Yuuri gains confidence and starts to undervalue himself less and see himself as worthy of Viktor’s time, and Aziraphale finally rejects Heaven’s demands and stands for what he knows, without a doubt, is good. 

Yuuri and Aziraphale are the epitome of the “looks like a cinnamon roll but is actually a sin-namon role” trope. At first glance, they seem like adorable softies to be protected at all costs, but in reality they are as tough as nails and really don’t need any protection at all.

Yuuri is a tie-grabbing, Eros-laden menace. He is fiercely competitive, the take-no-prisoners type when it comes to his own skating. This is a man who left his family, friends, and beloved dog behind at eighteen to live in a foreign country speaking a foreign language and working his ass off for five years without even letting himself go home. This is a man who skates competitively (a very mental sport) in front of hundreds of thousands of people even with crippling anxiety. He’s a sweetheart but he is tough. 

Aziraphale, according to a reliable source, is “just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing”. He will stand up to God for the things he loves, will gleefully stick it to some Nazis and allow them to be killed in a bomb blast, will steal the holiest holy water out from under Heaven’s nose, will perform demonic acts as part of the Arrangement for the sake of convenience, will possess a woman, will maybe actually almost kill a child, will splash holy water around at some terrified Demons and demand a rubber duck during his would-be execution. Aziraphale is an Angel, but he’s no angel, so to speak.

And now for Viktor and Crowley: they both appear very confident and put together, but are actually very soft and insecure on the inside. They are the characters you start out thinking, “Wow this guy is so confident and he’s got so much swagger,” but it’s revealed that they are actually very soft, unsure of themselves, and (probably) have something in their past that hurt them. 

We don’t know much about Viktor’s past, and as much as I want him to have loving parents, it is very possible based off of s1 that that is not the case. The way he hides himself behind a mask and tries to conform himself to what he thinks other people want could come from a lifetime in the spotlight, or from neglectful parents as well. His behavior speaks of abandonment issues to me, especially the way he tries to handle Yuuri’s breakdown in the parking garage. No matter his past, he’s got some issues behind that confident smile he presents to the world. He’s lonely, afraid of the future, and not quite sure who he is.

Crowley is... probably self-explanatory in this regard. He presents this front of a definitely-not-nice-confident-demon, but in reality he’s *shudder* nice. He refuses to do anything evil (like kill children, or honestly anything more than mildly frustrating people), and he has serious abandonment issues of the divine-parental sort that he takes out on potted plants. 

3) How the Story’s Told

In the context of the series as a whole, both love stories unfold in similar ways that encourage fan engagement.

Despite having two fairly clear main characters, both shows are dominated (in terms of screen-time) by assorted other characters and storylines. In YOI this starts on the back half of the show once the competitions begin and we are introduced to a huge ensemble of other skaters and their programs; in GO, this happens pretty much from the beginning with all of the various side characters and plots that lead up to the Apocalypse. This leaves somewhat limited screen-time for relationship development in both shows (which total around 4-5 hours each).

Because of this, there is a lot that happens off screen in both shows. In YOI, we have the famed Summer of Mutual Pining of which we only get a couple of glimpses; in GO, we have Six-Thousand Years of Mutual Pining that we only see bits and pieces of as well. When we catch back up with the characters, a lot has undoubtedly happened—they get much more comfortable with one another, and in YOI ep7 Viktor says “Should I just kiss you or something?” almost as if they’ve done that before; in GO ep3 in the Globe Theater scene, Crowley references their Arrangement as if they’ve already started helping each other out long before then. The audience is left out of a lot (big examples being Viktor’s POV/the banquet reveal in YOI, and the Body Swap reveal in GO) and left guessing on the infinite possibilities for those moments we didn’t get to see.

And so in both stories, you get a handful of very important relationship scenes spread throughout the show intermixed with other characters and plot. These moments are so rich in subtext and other between-the-lines meaning. How many metas have you seen analyzing every word of the engagement scene in ep10 of YOI, or the parking garage scene in ep7? How many analyzing the “you go too fast for me, Crowley” scene in ep3 or the bandstand “we can go off together” scene in GO? These moments are open to so much viewer-engagement, to analysis and reinterpretation and re-contextualization. These scenes can be read so many different ways but that’s how real life works, isn’t it? We don’t always just say exactly what we mean. Conversations are loaded with subtext and shared experience and preconceptions and the dialogue isn’t always easy to understand, and that’s wonderful.

These important scenes can sometimes be hard to connect to each other just by virtue of how spread out and between-the-lines then tend to be. But it’s not because they are poorly written or opaque— it’s because there is a lot happening off screen and in their heads that you need to figure out and connect. With the way the shows are structured, with immensely meaningful moments peppered throughout with a lot of stuff in between, there’s a lot to unpack. But this is also part of what makes both shows so engaging—by nature they welcome metas, headcanons, fanfiction, and other fanworks to fill in the gaps. I can’t tell you how many fill-in-the-gaps fics I’ve read for YOI that connect the exact same moments in canon, but each is so unique. I’m sure the same can be said for GO.

4) Main Themes

The most obvious overall similarity between these shows is that they both center around love stories between two (mostly-)male(-presenting) beings in genres where this is rare. But to call this a superficial comparison misses some important, deeper similarities.

Both exist in a narrative without homophobia and their love is so normalized. The love stories (between two men in YOI, and between two genderless celestial beings played by male actors) are never reduced to or defined by their sexualities or genders. Yuri on Ice is a love story between two men that is just straight up set in a world without homophobia. In GO, there are bits where outsiders allude to Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship being romantic (Uriel calling Crowley Aziraphale’s “boyfriend”, and the man on the street after their fight saying “You’re better off without him”), but unlike a lot of other shows/movies this isn’t played for laughs—if there is a joke, it rests on the strangeness of applying such banal human terms to their six-thousand years of illicit celestial-being-companionship. Their relationships are treated so respectfully and beautifully and it’s so refreshing.

At the same time, the narratives are still very tied into LGBT+ experiences. People who can speak to this much better than I can have already analyzed this in detail; I’ve seen so many metas about how GO can easily be read as a queer allegory of accepting yourself and letting yourself love who you love, despite what your family (aka Heaven) might think. Yuri on Ice hits a lot of the same points. They are both stories about learning to give love and accept love, unapologetically.

Love itself is also a central theme of both stories, and not just romantic love between the leads. It’s also about Crowley and Aziraphale’s enduring companionship, their love for the Earth/humanity, and their love of God (in a complicated way). It’s about Adam loving the world, his friends, his family, and his dog. It’s about and Newt and Anathema, and Shadwell and Madame Tracy. Yuri on Ice is about Victor and Yuuri, but it’s also about the Katsuki family and friends’ love and support. It’s about loving and taking pride in your craft. It’s about Yuri’s agape with his grandfather and his relationship with Viktor and Yuuri, the skaters he looks up to. And yes, it’s about Michele and Sara’s and Georgi and Anya’s love, too. These shows are not shallow romances. Their scope is huge.

They are fundamentally happy and optimistic stories, despite dealing with very real and very serious problems. Good Omens is about the freaking apocalypse and Yuri on Ice deals with mental health issues. They could have been very gritty and dark and tragic, but they aren’t—they’re the polar opposite and are, imo, all the more impactful for it. 

And at the heart of both shows is a common theme: overcoming who you think you have to be by choosing the life you want to lead and the love you want to surround yourself with. They both end with the main couple sharing a more intimate moment than ever and looking forward to a future of endless possibility that they have worked hard to shape... And then moving forward together.

tl;dr - There might be a reason so many of us have found ourselves drawn over and over again to both of these stories...

[i-llbedammned]

Memories of the Fall

Title:Memories of the Fall

Word Count:1,963

Summary: Despite being a demon for thousands of years, Crowley is still haunted by the memories of the Fall from grace. He normally does such a good job of hiding it, but Aziraphale happens to walk in at the wrong moment and senses something is wrong.

Link to Ao3 is here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146882) or read the fic below the cut.

Screaming. The first thing Crowley was aware of was that there was an awful lot of screaming around him. Wait. Not around him. Coming from him. The sound of screaming that seemed to blot out all of existence was coming from his own throat. He barely recognized it with how ragged it sounded.

The next thing he was aware of was the tremendous cold feeling of falling. One moment he was up in the clouds and the next he was screaming, falling through more time and space than he had ever imagined existed before. His stomach jumped up into his throat as he tried to bat his wings desperately but fruitlessly against the inexorable pull of the ground. The last thing he was aware of was the pain. Every artist liked to portray the turning of an angel’s wings to demons as pretty, but most of what he was aware of in the moment was pain. With each feather that turned black it felt like someone pulling out slowly each tuft and then forcibly inserting another one into his skin. It was like needles being plunged into the most delicate parts of his body and that was before the impact hit him.

As the ground rushed up towards him, he fell not into it but instead through it. He just kept falling til an icy plane came up to greet him, smashing against his wings and face. Silvery blood poured from his lips and skin as it scraped along the ice, his wings were so twisted that it took months to get them properly straightened out and healed. This was long before he realized that he still retained the ability to do miracles even in a demonic state. Hell, the term demon didn’t even exist yet. He was just a lost, fallen angel trying to make sense of the world.

After laying there on the ice for a few moments he ascertained that he was indeed not dead and instead something else. He stood up and saw that all around him were friends in a similar state of disarray. Hastur was still screaming, clawing at his once beautiful skin as it oozed with pus and grime. Beezlebub stared in a stunned state, clearly barely registering that all of this was even happening as flies crawled over her flesh and into her ears- too stunned to even bat them away. And there at the center of them all was Lucifer himself, lovely faced with large swooping bat wings and the fury of a man who knows the system he had served previously was unjust. His rage coalesced around him and he threw chunks of ice at the nearest hapless victims, trying to make anybody pay for what had just happened. Fear lanced through Crowley as he tried to figure out what had changed about his form. There was no smell of rot about him nor extra limbs that grew. He combed over every inch of skin, finding patches of black scales which in retrospect didn’t seem that bad. He could have been the demon with maggots crawling from their skin eternally.

Wait, what was that?

A glint of gold caught his eye in the ice below him. Looking through the warped image, he stared at the face he thought was his own. But his eyes were all wrong. Instead of swirling with the energies of the galaxies they had gone matte gold and slitted. Hissing he turned away and covered his eyes with his hands, finding that the hissing sound went on far longer than he intended it to. It was then he figured out how far his punishment would go. One hand touched the ice as he struggled to get away from his own reflection and it became stuck there, frozen fast in the mire. In panic he tried to pull it away and instead it detached from his shoulder. With his remaining hand he tried to pry it loose, but then his left foot touched the ice and became fixed there. One by one his limbs started falling off, becoming frozen in the ice as he tried to move. More and more scales grew over his skin as his pleas for help became gargled hissing. No, no. It wasn’t supposed to be like this! He was supposed to be a goddamned angel!

Gasping Crowley sat straight up in bed, covered in a thin layer of sweat. In fear he checked his limbs, ascertaining that they were all still there. Also he was no longer in an icy hellscape, but instead a rather cozy bed with black sheets in a flat in London. His heart raced in his chest and the world felt like it was going to cave in on him at any second. Logically he knew he was safe, but memories were not tied to logic.

The dreams of the fall never got any easier. You would think they would at least get less frequent as the years went on, but no. One of the many hidden punishments of falling was never being able to forget the fact that you had betrayed everyone you had formerly sworn to serve. It was enough to make him never want to sleep, save for the odd hours where he got bored enough to wonder if anything about them had changed. They didn’t, for the record. They never did.

“Hello?” He heard a familiar call at his doorstep and his blood ran cold. No, damnit, not his angel. What was he even doing here at-What time was it anyway? Crowley looked around the room and saw the clock read 11.

Okay so maybe he had overslept, that still didn’t mean he wanted Aziraphale to see him so panicked. Then he would want an explanation and that wasn’t something Crowley thought he had words for. But what could he do?

“Hello, Crowley. I know you said not to bother you for a few days after the Apocalypse, but there is a lovely play going on-“ Started Aziraphale, shuffling around something in the living room.

“Hey, angel,” the demon growled from his bedroom, “Now is not the best time. I think this mortal shell is sick.”

“Sick? Crowley you haven’t gotten sick in two hundred years.” The sound of the angel’s light footsteps were coming down the hall.

“Yeah, I know. It’s unlikely, but I am pretty sure it is tuberculosis and still contagious.” He fired off quickly, only remembering that tuberculosis wasn’t a plague in London in this century after he said it.

“Tuberculosis? I can fix that!” Aziraphale said brightly from right outside his door and Crowley raced to his feet, throwing his weight against the wood. The feeling of a divine miracle washed over Crowley with a familiar itchy burning sensation.

Of course the angel had tried to miracle away the disease. The door began to move and was only stopped by one large demon slumped against it.

“Crowley, your door is stuck.” Aziraphale sounded pleasantly confused but patient, “I’m going to have to push it really hard to get through. Hold on.”

“No really, it’s quite al-“ began Crowley trying to control the panic in his voice, but soon found himself punched in the face with his own door as Aziraphale shoved it backwards and sent him sprawling. Sometimes he forgot that the chubby angel who loved books and cake was a trained soldier capable of great feats of strength which in this case included shoving one stubborn snake demon away from his own door.

“There we go!” Aziraphale proudly beamed, looking at Crowley’s bed at first and then confusedly at the floor where Crowley lay, pitifully holding on to his own head and bringing his body up into a curled ball. “My dear, what are you doing down there?”

Steadying his breath, Crowley said into his own knees, “Oh you know, just enjoying the view.”

“I-“ The angel’s voice stopped as he reflected, no doubt feeling the traces of panic at the edges of Crowley’s emotions. Damn him and his god-given gifts. “Crowley, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just hungover, that’s all.” He barked, now climbing to his feet and never letting his gaze settle on something for more than a few seconds. CD player, Dresser, Bed – where was a safe spot to look.

“We both know neither of us get hungover. We just sweat out the alcohol.” A soft hand reached towards Crowley and that would be too much right now, so he moved towards the bed and pretended not to see it.

“I know. Normally I do, but I wanted to know what it felt like. It feels awful, by the way.” The demon took a spot on the bed, flopping down roughly on his stomach and burying his face in his pillows.

“If you don’t want to talk then you don’t have to, but at least look at me. My dear, it is like you are another person right now.” The sound of his bed shifting as the angel sat next to him and touched his shoulder. Oh no. Here it came. The revulsion and hatred for his betrayal. “I- Oh!” Aziraphale’s voice changed, softening and becoming delicate. Crowley could swear he heard a tinge of shame in there as well. It was easy enough to look past the fact that he was a demon most days, but he just knew this would be the line for his ineffable partner. It was one thing to hear someone was demon, it was another to feel the emotions from the fall from grace.

Without saying more he grabbed ahold of Crowley’s hand, petting it softly. That was all. It was such a simple gesture, but the wave of love that the demon felt in response was enough to overwhelm his senses. Stupid Aziraphale and his delicate hands, treating him with a wonderful care that someone like him didn’t deserve. The angel just held his hand and waited, his care showing in the touch of his fingertips as he gently stroked up and down the muscles. He just held his hand and waited, his care showing in the touch of his fingertips. The tenderness was enough to finally break the demon, causing tears to start sprouting which were blessedly hidden by the dark cloth on the pillow in front of him. It was the pain of the fall and the torment of forgiveness that tore at his heart and made it ache like a hole had been torn in it. However this pain was not filled with panic, just a wave of emotions. Whatever he had done, or hadn't done, to deserve this companion made all of this pain worth it.

“Angel, you don’t need to dirty your hands with mine. Not this time. I’ll be fine, really.” Crowley halfway mumbled, hoping it sounded stronger than he felt and knowing that he failed badly at keeping that hidden.

“They could never be dirtied by touching you. There is such a profound pain that you carry gracefully.” To emphasize his point, the hand was raised to his lips and a tender kiss was placed upon the knuckles. “My poor dear, I don’t know how you walk with such a hole in your chest.”

“I don’t,” Crowley laughed, bitterly, “I slither for a reason, angel.”

That was all that needed to be said, at least for the moment. Love was not always trying to fix the problems, but simply being there while the emotions were sorted through. Silence was needed and Aziraphale gladly gave it to his friend. However he never let go of his hand and Crowley never forgot that. The angel sat there, holding on and sending the most profound emotions of care through their connection til the pain subsided.

[codicesandflora]

Ineffable Inktober-Day Twenty-Six: Confession

Yep...I’m going to finish these, late or not....

This one takes place about six months after the Nearpocalypse.

De Facto (AO3 Link)

“Crowley, I don’t deserve you.”

Crowley blinked hard. Up until just now, it had been a typical evening post-Almostpocalypse. Two months ago, they had decided to take a long holiday outside of London and had moved in together at a cottage Aziraphale had bought fifty years ago as a backup residence.

That morning, Crowley had made crepes, and Aziraphale had read some of Donne’s poems to him while he worked. After spending a relaxing and vocal afternoon in the garden, Crowley had come in to find Aziraphale sitting near a window with a book in his lap that he wasn’t actually reading.

So, Crowley made a cup of the angel’s favorite cocoa and poured himself two fingers of scotch. He sat on the couch next to Aziraphale and silently encouraged him to share whatever was bothering him.

When Aziraphale finally worked up the nerve to say that he had a confession to make, Crowley had hoped that it would be something prosaic. Like “I threw away that terrible sweater you gave me last week” or “I never liked watching The Golden Girls with you” or maybe even “that one temptation that happened in Berlin ten years ago was actually one of mine that had gone horribly wrong”.

He certainly wasn’t expecting anything as painful as what Aziraphale actually said.

“You think that an angel doesn’t deserve the love of a demon?” Crowley said, his voice both tight and deliberately humorous. “I’d say that makes two of us.”

Aziraphale shook his head, waving his hands back and forth for emphasis. “No, no, that’s not what I mean at all, my dear. I, I mean….”

The angel paused and took a deep breath while Crowley’s stomach clenched. Aziraphale had that look on his face when he was certain that he was about to be punished for something and was trying to figure out how he would deal with the consequences. But then hopeless resignation took over, and Crowley’s heart broke even more at the sight.

“I haven’t loved you as much as you have loved me,” Aziraphale said in a whisper, his eyes fixed on the floor, the fingers wrapped around his angel-wing mug trembling.

Crowley gulped down the rest of his scotch with one loud swallow. There were a lot of directions that he could take that statement, several of which were the old and bitterly familiar ones. However, when he saw how Aziraphale’s eyes shined and the wobble in his lip, Crowley knew which one of them was hurt more by this confession.

“So what?” he said with a nonchalance he did not feel. “Last time I checked, being in a relationship is not a competition.”

Aziraphale’s fingers shook even more, and Crowley worried that the angel would shatter the mug in his hands. He took it from Aziraphale and set it down onto the settee. The angel gulped, his chest heaving.

“No, it’s not meant to be one.” Aziraphale raised his head. “Oh Crowley, I do love you with all my heart. But I, I can’t stop thinking about it. What I feel could never come anywhere close to your love.”

“Aziraphale, what are you…?”

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale cried, turning his face away. “You told me that you’ve loved me since we met, since Eden. But I…it wasn’t that way for me. It was so much later before I knew. And then when I did know, I was too much of a coward to act on it. I never told you. Not until you told me. I never…I never….”

“Angel….”

“And, and before that, I was so terrible to you,” Aziraphale continued, his voice cracking. “I threw the fact that you’re a demon in your face like a condemnation. No…like a justification. And oh, that’s so much worse. Because I wanted to believe in Heaven. I wasn’t just a coward. I was selfish too. And, and how…how can you…?”

Crowley grabbed one of Aziraphale’s hands. “Angel, listen to me. It’s not….” He sighed and took a deep breath. “Look, I forgive you, all right? I forgave you a long time ago. So don’t worry about it. Please?”

Aziraphale looked at him again just as a pair of tears slipped down his cheeks. “How can you?” he asked, his garbled by the wet squeak in it. Crowley reached over and wiped the tears away.

“Because I remember what Heaven was like,” Crowley said, his tone hard, but not harsh. “And whatever you might have said or think you felt…Aziraphale, you’re really a terrible liar, you know that?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I, I don’t….”

“Sure, you were always going on and on about the righteousness of Heaven and what they believed in,” Crowley said. “But if you really believed all that, why did you choose to be kind to a demon who had just initiated the Fall of Humanity? You could have just smote me.”

“I, I knew you were just doing a job…you…She didn’t destroy Adam and Eve, so I thought…I thought that it would be wrong to punish you for a mistake.”

“Right, and since when does Heaven forgive demons for their mistakes?” Crowley said, nodding. He brushed away more tears and then cupped Aziraphale’s hand in both of his. “And that’s on top of what you did for those humans. You gave them your sword so they’d have a chance out there, even though they made their own mistakes.”

“Yes, and we’ve seen the use War got out of my sword,” Aziraphale responded, bitter.

Crowley shook his head. “That wasn’t you, angel. That was Free Will. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me whenever I’ve felt bad about how far one of my temptations went? How many mistakes have I made that you’ve forgiven me for even though it meant so much suffering for the humans?”

“I…I….”

“And ok, maybe you didn’t fall in love with me right away in the hearts and flowers and romantic dinners sort of way, but so what? You think I forgot about what happened when you found me in that pub during the Spanish Inquisition? About how you took care of me?”

“I, I thought…well, we did have an Arrangement, after all….”

“Yeah, but did that Arrangement mean you had to stay with me for over a month? Staying at my bedside when my corporation reacted so badly to all that alcohol? Taking care of me whenever I got sick all over myself and when I didn’t have a lucid thought in my head for a week?”

“You could have died,” Aziraphale whispered. “Er, been discorporated. And it wouldn’t have been a pleasant sort of way to go. I, I had to do something.”

“Of course you did,” Crowley said, squeezing your hand. “Because you loved me. Call it what you want, but I’m pretty sure it was love. Same as when you risked being burned alive to save me from that armory during that huge fire in New Orleans. Remember that one? Back in 1788?”

“I remember,” Aziraphale said with a sniff. “For a moment, I thought I was too late.”

“Yeah, well thank Somebody you didn’t give up and went in there anyway,” Crowley said. “I was already on thin ice with Beelzebub over a botched job in the city a few weeks ago. If I had been discorporated too…let’s just say it would have been a lot longer before you would have seen me again.”

Crowley gathered up Aziraphale’s other hand into his. “Point is, angel, I knew you loved me, no matter what you said. Or rather, what you parroted from Heaven. Did you think it mattered to me that it wasn’t the same kind of love I had? That I’d care about whether or not we kissed or exchanged soppy love letters when I, an actual demon, had the love of an angel?”

Aziraphale gasped, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I thought you liked my letters.”

Crowley snorted. “Of course I do. But even if I never got a single one, even if we always stayed at where we were at the beginning of the Arrangement, it didn’t change anything. Not for me.”

“Crowley….” Apparently unable to elaborate on that, the angel scooted over and wrapped his arms around him. Crowley immediately reciprocated, relieved that the choked sounds he heard were not reaching down any further than Aziraphale’s throat.

“I love you, my dearest,” Aziraphale murmured into his ear, his lips ghosting around the edges of it. Crowley ducked his head down so he could start kissing the angel’s neck.

“I know you do,” he said. “I’ve always known. Always.”

[goodlucktai]

so take another breath

good omens pairing: adam & warlock word count: 1465 title borrowed from “icarus” by bastille part 5 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

x

Warlock magicks up another ball for Dog and gives it a hard throw down the hill. The terrier tears after it like a mad thing, folded ear flapping in the wind, and Adam shades his eyes against the melting summer sun to watch him go.

“Nice one,” he says approvingly.

As far as Antichrists go, Adam is alright. He’s easier to get along with than anybody at Warlock’s school ever was, anyway.

Dog’s breakneck pace takes him past the stupid little picnic table Aziraphale miracled up for the afternoon. He closes in on the plastic ball where it rolls to a stop against a tree stump and snatches it up in victorious jaws.

Their parents are down there, too. Crowley’s lounging to one side, drinking two-hundred pound wine like it’s going out of style while Mr. Young talks his ear off about vintage cars, and Aziraphale and Mrs. Young are deep in enthusiastic conversation. It looks like they might be stuck in The Middle of Nowhere, Oxfordshire for awhile yet.

Warlock rolls his eyes and sits in the grass next to Adam.

The Them didn’t come along today. Warlock’s glad for it. He likes them well enough, and Pepper is cooler than all the rest of them put together, but he feels outnumbered around all four of them. Sometimes he feels outnumbered when it’s just him and Adam.

“What are you thinking?” asks Adam. It’s nice of him to ask, when he could probably just find out by looking a little harder than usual.

Dog is coming back, dropping the slobbery ball in Warlock’s lap and sparing him scraping together an answer for as long as it takes to send him hurtling back down the hill in pursuit once more.

He’s thinking it’s odd, that this life could have been his. He’s thinking it’s odd that he hates the idea.

If Adam hadn’t come along, if the Dowlings had been left alone, then Warlock would have been raised here, in Tadfield, as Albert or Baldwin or Oscar Young. He would have gone to school with Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper, and he would have had a mom who baked birthday cakes with his name written in crooked icing, and a dad who went over homework with him that neither of them understood and he maybe would have been a pretty happy kid. He maybe would have turned out like Adam.

But he wouldn’t have his parents. Even though Aziraphale can’t cook, and Crowley would rather climb the walls than look at homework for very long, Warlock would still pick them over the Youngs or the Dowlings. He’s pretty good at maths on his own, anyway. That's why he majored in it.  

“I’m thinking it’ll be a miracle if the bookshop’s still standing when we get home,” Warlock says, leaning back on his hands. If he gets muddy, it will only take a thought to clean himself up again. “Considering who we left to look after the place.”

“Nanael’s there, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but so’s Grem,” Warlock points out. It’s hard to say Gremory’s name without rolling his eyes and most of the time he doesn’t even try. “She’d start a fire just to have something to talk about later.”

“Bookshop’s fireproof,” Adam says matter-of-factly. “Made sure of that this time.”

Warlock looks at him sideways, weighs his options, then decides that it’s way too late to pretend he has a healthy dose of self-preservation in face of someone who could rearrange his entire existence with a blink.

“Fireproof doesn’t mean Gremory-proof. Those guys spend so much time reading weird grimoires they probably know plenty of stuff you don’t.”

The Antichrist tips his head back with a grin. “That’s pretty cool. Y’know, I could probably fix it myself. How many years have you been sneaking around behind their backs at this point?”

Warlock scowls. “None of your business.”

“I mean, I guess not.” Except Adam’s business is whatever he sticks his nose into and they both know it. “I won’t always be around, you know. A hundred years from now I won’t be able to offer again.”

“A hundred years from now we’ll have figured it out for ourselves,” Warlock snaps, sitting up straight. “Nanael’s close, I know they are.”

“I didn’t mean to fight,” Adam says peaceably. He never gets riled up. “I was just saying.”

Feathers ruffled, Warlock slumps back down again. “Well, quit.”

Dog was waylaid by a sausage that rolled under the picnic table. He’s begging for more scraps now. Adam brings his fingers to his mouth and whistles, which is something Warlock has never been able to figure out, and the Hellhound comes running right away.

He left the ball behind, so Adam just tussles with him for awhile. The terrier ends up in his favorite spot, pressed against Adam’s side in the sun-hot grass, a small and trusting thing.

“You wouldn’t have to be gone,” Warlock says after a moment, surprising himself. “You could still be here, if you wanted to be.”

“If I wanted to be,” Adam agreed. “I wouldn’t, though. Not when everyone I love is human. Not when they’d all be gone without me.”

He says it very easily, like it’s not even worth thinking about. Warlock has always envied how certain Adam is about everything, from as far back as the first time they both met, when Adam took one look at him and said in a self-satisfied way ‘you and I will be good friends.’

“You do, though,” Adam goes on. “Want to, I mean. You said ‘we’ earlier, when you were talking about the future."

A prickle of unease works its way into Warlock's stomach, the way it always does when he looks too far ahead.

He doesn’t think Aziraphale would approve of this conversation, given how much of Crowley’s existential dread (and Murmur’s general dread) that Warlock has inherited; but Aziraphale is down the hill playing human the way kids play house, and Adam probably wouldn’t let him overhear, anyway.

So Warlock says, “Of course I do. Your family may be human, but mine isn’t.”

Adam considers him, the shadow of something much older than the two of them in his eyes. “You can’t take it back once you make up your mind.”

Protective of the ones he loves, of his place in their lives, Warlock loses his temper. His words come out in a tone sharp enough it makes Dog lift his head.

“I don’t care what you say, Adam. You may have nearly ended the world or saved it or whatever, but you can’t boss me around. Crowley’s my Nanny and Aziraphale’s his angel, and the two of them, and Nanael and Grem and Murmur, are more my family than my mom and dad ever were. If I want to stay then I’m going to stay.”

The air is thin and dry, like brittle paper, heat building around them in a dangerous way. Adam’s curls are sticking up with static electricity from simple proximity to Warlock in a snit, but his expression is caught between amused and fond.

“I’m really not trying to fight,” he says. It bleaches the venom out of Warlock like a poultice, like the easiest thing in the world. Warlock resents it a little bit, at the same time he's grateful.

I’ll miss him when he’s gone, Warlock realizes. The thought settles in to stay, uncomfortably heavy, somewhere close to his heart.

He scowls anyway, and pulls up some grass just to feel the satisfying give beneath his hands, and they sit together in the silence of two almost-brothers who almost-entirely understand one another.

“You could stay if you wanted to,” Adam says after awhile, an unnecessary olive branch. “If you really wanted to, you could do it. You could stay forever. I mean, you’ve got a pretty good start.”

They were born at exactly the same time, and Adam will be thirty in another year, but Warlock is still nineteen. He rather feels as though he’ll be nineteen until he gets bored of it.

“I could make sure of it, if you’d like,” Adam offers kindly.

Warlock doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

Adam turns his hand, and reality turns with it, and they both feel a little bit better when it’s done.

“C’mon,” Adam says, standing with Dog tucked easily into the crook of his arm. “Mum made hummingbird cake.”

The heat has dissipated, typical English gray sponging across the sky and cooling all the sun-touched planes of the countryside. It won’t rain, not when it would ruin the picnic, but petrichor is thick and syrupy in the air as if it already had.

Warlock sinks into the chair next to Crowley, soaks up Aziraphale’s fond smile, and looks forward to the future.

[stusbunker]

Known: Angels are Assholes

A Supernatural DARK Fan-fiction

Summary: Chloe faces what was following her in the woods. Dean gets a monologue, before going darkside and all knifey on some angels. Crowley toys with our reader. Cas squints in confusion. Somebody wakes up and somebody doesn’t until they’re gone.

Warnings: Suggested child rape (past, unfounded), blood, feelings, mind-fuckery, revelations, character death. This chapter is super long.

Series Masterlist

The clouds rolled in behind her as CC came to a stop in her usual spot, kitty-corner from the porch. Her bike had been miraculously refueled once she found her way back to it. The fog of the subconscious haven thinning as she put her boots on the ground and faced the figures looming in the shadows. She opened her mouth to call out but thought better of shouting at bits of her past. They’d find her anyway.

She stepped through the trees, letting the path unwind itself as she faced what she needed to know. Now that she was focused and no longer running the opposite direction, it all started to come together. Her granddad kneeled along the bank of a dusty river, strong hands timidly comforting a young girl, who was visibly shaking in her sparkling new school clothes.

“It’s alright, my Falling Star,” his voice was low, but CC recognized the nickname he had given her mother. The child whimpered and shook her head, an infant’s cry broke through the forest’s peace.

“I didn’t mean it now,” was all she heard her mother say.

As Chloe turned to look for the baby, she found a weathered neighborhood sidewalk, houses in need of paint jobs and new shutters stretching before her in every direction. A long sedan with police lights on the roof parked in front of a yellow Cape Cod with wooden siding. A woman with oversized glasses held a file in her arms as she talked to CC’s granddad, her mother and her watching them from the front porch. She hadn’t remembered her mother ever being that young, small and nearly fragile.

“Mr. Longfellow, we understand that the original complaint is unfounded, given the child’s other genetic markers, but there has still been a crime committed. Please, let us put the bastard away.”

“I know you mean well, ma’am. But my Candace is fine and we came here for a job, we won’t be staying long enough for any investigation. Thank you for your time.”

“Sir, if you’re protecting someone—,” the officer spoke for the first time. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and he visibly flinched when her granddad’s eyes fell on him.

“The only ones I am protecting is those girls, now get. We’re done here.”

CC stepped forward, wanting to ask what the social worker was talking about and possibly glimpse the blood tests that must have been among her paperwork. But her mind held her in place until the memory faded and she found herself on another street, sleet-slick and freezing. She saw the old station wagon fish tail and the driver try to over-correct, completely losing control and wrapping the car around an old oak tree.

“Chloe!” Her mother screamed against the static of falling ice crystals.

“Mama?” Chloe was frozen watching her mother limp around the hood of the car to get to her.

“It’s okay, doll-baby, it’s okay,” Constance reached her hand in through the shattered passenger side window, to touch CC’s forehead. “You’re going to be fine.”

But she lost consciousness, the blood flowing through her hair as her mother continued muttering in Tsėhésenėstsestȯtse. Then she saw it, the blue magic flow from her mother and coat her in a golden light.

“You can’t die. You can’t die. You can’t die. You’re going to be fine.” Constance inhaled and then fell against the untouched edge of the tree’s trunk, her strength leaving her as she joined her daughter in unconsciousness. The sirens came an hour later, the back roads impassible, but miraculously the woman and the young girl were found in stable condition. CC didn’t even know they had ever been in an accident.

The darkness followed her to the small back bedroom in Montana as she saw her barely teenaged self staring at the ceiling. The argument wafted through the walls like a television left on.

“You’re just going to leave her? Clean up your own mess,” her granddad spat.

“That’s not fair. She’s safer with you, you know that. There are things that I need to do, that only I can do.”

“Yeah, you do too much of that and they’ll find you. They aren’t stupid, Constance. You shine like a beacon and they will follow you home,” his voice was desperate, Chloe couldn’t remember ever hearing him sound so worried.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t come back.”

There was an agonizing pause.

“Maybe not.”

Chloe didn’t realize it, but both versions of her wiped at the same tears of betrayal with the heels of her hands.

“It’s okay, child, just relax now,” Missouri’s voice was soothing, despite her own skepticism. CC opened her eyes, she was in the memory this time, not looking at it from the outside. “Well, this is a new one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” CC heard herself say it but had more pressing questions at the moment. She began to speak over herself, “What’s happening Ms. Mosley?”

“Girl, you’re going to have to slow down, I can’t hear all of you at once.”

“All of us?” CC remembered eyeing the corners of the room as if this woman was seeing things.

“I’m not the one asking if she’s crazy, so don’t you go thinking ill of those helping you, Chloe Cathleen,” Missouri snipped.

“Yes, ma’am,” CC said in unison with her past self, Missouri always had a natural command of respect and if she wasn’t shown it, she demanded it.

“Now, you’re gonna come back here, in a good long while, but I hope what I say now makes sense to you,” her dark eyes lingered, a burden near pity overtook the psychic’s soft features. “You are a miracle, made unique and uniquely made, but that also means you need to be careful. It’s like you have a glowing vacancy sign on the front door, next to the one screaming there’s nothing to see here. It gets confusing. But know this, you need to fortify your own house, because certain guests are welcome, but most are not.”

“Thanks?” CC’s past self said through squinted eyes, but her current-self locked onto Missouri’s weighted stare, certain she had sensed her the entire time.

A voice sounded behind her and Chloe suddenly remembered who had told her about Missouri in the first place.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” John’s easy grin turned sour when he saw the confusion on CC’s face. “Hey, everything okay kiddo?”

CC nodded, the grief of seeing Dean’s father again brought up the events that had led her to Missouri’s front door. Her granddad’s death and knowing she would have to face her mother again after years apart. “Yeah, or, it will be, in a good long while,” CC parroted Missouri.

“Somethings are like that,” John patted her back and walked her to his massive truck. “Where to? Dean’s got something in Illinois this weekend, but we could probably salt and burn things faster without him, what’d’ya say?”

CC smiled at the offer, but thought better of tagging along with the Winchesters, especially without Sam. “Just take me to Bobby’s, or close enough for me to hitch there,” CC corrected, seeing the tension roll in as John’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Thanks, though.”

*^*

May 13, 2014

The Bunker

Dean stalked down the hallway passed his room, ignoring Sam who lingered in front of his own bedroom door. The infirmary was the only place that made sense to keep CC, so that’s where he headed as soon as they got home. Dean hadn’t wanted to put her back in her old room, not after he gutted it. They had her on a simple cot, jacket set on the back of a chair and an old quilt from her truck tucked around her chest. Her gun and her knife rested easily on small bedside table. She never moved, still in a state close to sleep, her heart beat and her lungs expanded, but she never woke.

Dean watched her and chewed over the spreading numbness inside him. Between the two of them, they were a butchered collage of folk stories, each broken parts of different tales, cursed and waiting to be saved or charging the castle and any monsters that stood in his way. He was on a narrow path, one down, two boss fights to go in the grand saga of the Mark of Cain. Dean was alight, focused, up until he tried to start talking.

“Hey, Cease,” Dean’s voice caught in his throat. “I, uh, well, I ganked Abaddon. It was pretty unreal, actually, but yeah, put her down for the count this time.”

Dean had done his fair share of talking to the unconscious, especially if one counted the time spent praying to Cas, listening to his own voice wasn’t as uncomfortable as it should have been. He settled on to the empty cot next to CC and balanced his elbows on his knees.

“You know I had a feeling, about you, about that thing inside you. And I know it was there longer than that day at Magnus’s. But I didn’t say anything, because, hell, who am I to judge, right? But it was worse than I thought, I thought it was just a chip on your shoulder after that case in North Carolina, but I was wrong, and for that, oversight, I apologize.” He shifted and he cleared his throat, “But, I don’t know why I’m sorry. Am I sorry because I missed the obvious? And never tested you? Or because I let you in and got hurt? What exactly is my fault here because I’m used to taking it all on and I can’t really feel it. Any of it. I’m just pissed and the only thing I want to do is the job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He stood up, energy gnawing at him once more. His voice grew angrier, no waver to his jaw and no moisture in his stern eyes.

“So that’s what I’m going to do. Because I owe you that much, even if it’s not going to bring you back. I am going to gut that black-eyed bitch.”

The certainty hummed along his veins like a tuning fork, vibrating in the key of Cain and the decided fates of his enemies. Blood and destruction his new anthem. Gone was the righteousness and purpose that had carried him this far. Inside, his soul flickered.

He continued to watch CC on the cot, thoughts and memories warring with the need to move. Luckily, Cas called, giving him the excuse he needed, allowing him to walk away.

*^*

The Bunker

Tail end of Stairway to Heaven

“Cas, you just gave up an entire army for one guy,” Dean explained across the table. “No, there’s no way you blew those people away.”

Castiel didn’t realize how much he needed to hear Dean say that, to know that his friend believed in him once again. “Do you really think that we three will be enough?”

Dean gave Cas a company smile. “We always have been.”

Cas cautiously watched Dean as footsteps approached from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Guys!”

“I’m not here to fight,” Gadreel announced with his hands up. Dean locked on to the fugitive angel, his sights set, and his senses primed. Gadreel spoke pointedly to Cas as Sam challenged his honor, but Dean wasn’t listening, he was busy keeping the Mark in check. Then it happened, an olive branch, an opening to add to their numbers. To strengthen and inform their dwindling resolve. Dean reached forward with his lesser hand, extending hope, if a tenuous partnership. The moment their palms touched and their eyes locked, Dean knew. He didn’t hesitate, he swung, blade teeth up, slicing Gadreel hip to collar bone, a broad seam of grace gaping in his chest.

Sam dove for him, but it was already done. Dean pushed on, the Mark craved more, it demanded death. Both Cas and Sam had to hold him as bestial grunts escaped his lips, he wouldn’t be stopped, not yet.

They listened to him, but still left him in the fortified space behind the storage in 7B, the dungeon. There was that other thing they needed Cas’s help with and after Gadreel had escaped, however bloodied, they took the five minutes and headed deeper into the Bunker.

“I can’t believe she was possessed this whole time,” Cas muttered, hand drifting inches above Chloe’s body.

“What? You knew? How long?” Sam spat as he loomed overhead, head tipped, watching every motion of the angel’s fingers.

“Since Nebraska, since the fall, Sam. She, the demon, almost ran me over with her truck,” Castiel explained, huffing against the flickering grace inside him.

“And you didn’t think to tell us?!”

“Dean wasn’t exactly willing to lend me an ear, I suspect it had to do with hiding, who he thought to be Ezekiel, from the other angels, who were hunting me.”

Sam settled back on his heels, processing what that meant for his brother and CC and their, situation. “It’s been a rough year, I’m sorry. But, is she going to wake up?”

“I don’t know, probably. But there are layers to her mind that I can’t get through. She isn’t just dreaming, and she’s not an empty vessel. I don’t think... I don’t think she’s human, Sam.”

Sam froze, “Well, what the hell is she then?”

“Nothing I have ever seen before.”

“Any idea?”

“Some sort of hybrid, when I search her mind it literally tells me she is human, nothing extraordinary.” Cas’s brows pitched up, hoping Sam understood.

“Someone put that there to hide her.”

“More than one person did this.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“No, if she did, she wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place. She probably has no idea who or what she is.” Cas stood up, eyes still on the sleeping woman before them. “Or what she can do.”

*^*

A Demonic Massage Parlor, The Tropics

“You see, Y/N, there are perks to working with the throne,” Crowley muttered into the towel that held his face. The demon working him over was wearing an unnaturally beautiful vessel, every detail coiffed for seduction. Which she used to her advantage as she whispered poorly veiled taunts of demonic unrest.

Graciously, your vessel had died from cardiac arrest shortly after you walked him away from harassing the woman at the bus stop. You couldn’t have bothered letting him live much longer anyway, his mind was two parts alcohol, one-part abuse and a few too many pinches of misogyny. But he had means, even after his license had been revoked, so you kept on his identity and found your way back to being Crowley’s gofer.

The male demon who had been assigned your massage was too busy lusting over the one trying to get in good with the King. You kept having to move his hands as he worked. He was not utilizing his vessel’s muscle memory, at all. The entire scenario wasn’t much of a perk, it was more of one more thing to endure in order to stay on Crowley’s good side. You hummed in agreement, the deep voice still uncomfortable in your throat.

The walls began to shake, and you rolled your eyes at the bimbo’s obvious statement.

“Sir, I believe you’re being summoned.”

The next thing from her lips sent a pitfall through your gut.

“It’s a Winchester.”

You had no idea how she knew who was on the other end of the spell, perhaps it was an acquired skill or an enchantment to the room placed for her own protection. Either way, you remained quiet as Crowley waved the help off and dressed himself.

“Sir?”

“What? You want me to give your regards?”

“I’d rather you didn’t mention me at all.”

Crowley watched you with a slight distaste, “Fine, just don’t let Tarisette clock out, just yet.”

You nodded, rolling over as the man’s large gut shifted uncomfortably to the side. You really needed a new vessel and a plan.

*^*

She hadn’t seen her in eleven years, hadn’t even spoken in five, but her mother was just as beautiful and menacing as she had ever been. She remembered this conversation because it was the one that changed her life.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Words that were the perfect greeting for someone like Constance Collins to her estranged daughter, Chloe forced a chuckle. Playing tough, her past-self spoke, but she now watched her mother’s wandering eyes, the telltale fear and alarm of a trapped animal. She was scared of her, not just what else could find her. Find them.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on out there?!”

“No, Mama,” both of her replied, the past defiantly, the present sadly.

The edge wore off, maybe it was reliving it, but Chloe had let go of her anger with her mother somewhere between there and now.

“The angels are everywhere, you need to be careful,” Constance mumbled, stepping closer to her daughter, her hand coming up to brush away a strand of hair mindlessly. As if they were familiar enough for such intimacies.

“Is Gram’s angel back?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t heard that name, but we need to be careful. They will find you if they need to.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Me, they’ll kill on sight.” The fear resurfaced in those chilling words, nearly apologetically.

 Chloe turned and faced the bright and unnervingly blue eyes of a weaselly business man.

“Chloe is it?” The man’s voice was nasally but pressing.

“Maybe, depends on who’s asking.” She wasn’t in her body, but this memory wasn’t that old, she had seemed to have travelled sequentially thus far.  The missing memory set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. She watched herself talk to the weird man, confusion burning through her.

“Someone who knows your family, on your grandmother’s side.” He lost all pretense as two more angels stepped behind her past self.

“What do you want from me?”

“Relax, we just need to run a few tests, you won’t remember a thing.”

The scene changed, but she still hadn’t returned to her part in the memory.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“The Contingency?”

“What about her?”

“She’s waking up.”

“Well, knock her back out. She isn’t going to tweak herself.”

Chloe couldn’t see most of her body, only a strip of arm behind the angels surrounding her. The room felt like a surgical bay, pure white with lots of metal. A spare bed and what looked like dental equipment remained untouched on a side table. The metal rods looked long enough to pierce both ears, simultaneously. As soon as she arrived, she returned to the street with the presumptuous man.

“You can call me Zachariah. Do me a favor? Reach out as soon as you hear from those Winchesters again.”

“Uh, sure thing,” Chloe pocketed the business card, and before she turned to go the guy vanished. Figured, good thing she never intended to help the creeper in the first place. She crossed her arms over her chest recalling how she hadn’t been able to shake the sense of Déjà vu for a week.

There were ridges along the ground that rose and fell with each new memory, the woods cracking open and rearranging as she navigated the path toward her decision. She watched them sink and settle, unaffected by the new topography she walked on. After an hour or twelve, she came back to the clearing that held her Granddad’s cabin, spotting him eyeing her through the sun-bleached curtains.

She stomped toward the small house, feeling the anger and frustration churn with each step. He could have said something, anything, years before. This wasn’t just on Mama, this was on the Old Man too. She tried to center herself, tried to hold back the rage and the betrayal their secrets created. CC failed at composure, never one to tip toe into an argument.

She yanked the storm door open and stepped inside, eyes like saucers at the state of her granddad, her words sticking behind the latch in her throat.

“There’s our girl,” his voice fell flat, the mutilated side of his face rippling as he clenched his jaw.

“I guess this look is better than the bull elk,” CC mumbled as she took the familiar course to the battered sofa. “Let me have it, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. I’m not here to speak for the dead.”

“So, what are you here for then?”

“The choice.”

“Right, well, I want to wake up, figure out just what she got me into.”

“That’s not what you need to decide.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What do I need to decide?”

“Whether you are going to go back to life as a human, forgetting everything you’ve seen and losing all those burdens and pain from years in the dark.”

Chloe stilled, though her hand reflexively worried the handle of her knife, worn and familiar beneath her callused hands.

Her granddad’s corpse continued, “Or, you go back. With all of the hard truths and the responsibilities of one brought into being by a simple childish wish from a being who had yet to grow into her powers or place in the universe. You can go back knowing who and what you are, but that comes at a terrible cost. For Heaven’s eyes will never be far from you now and the minions of Hell will seek you out as a fortress against the light.

Either way, you wake up. But, first, you must choose.”

His beetle black eyes watched her, the emptiness threatening to consume her as CC realized the elk was her true family. He never wanted her to come here, but now that she had; the choice must be made. Knowing she wouldn’t die wasn’t so reassuring anymore, and twisted laughter erupted from her chest. The part of her mind that became her worst memory watched her, unwavering.

As she closed her eyes, CC inhaled.

And chose.

CC opened her eyes, dragging in a deep breath through her nose as her body protested her every shift. She pulled her hands into fists and clenched her back through the clammy shivers of waking up. The air was cold and stale, a raw discomfort reassuring her that she was back in her body. She appeared to be with the Winchesters, there wasn’t any other place she could think of that had brickwork like theirs. She sat up and looked around, scanning the abandoned sick room. CC stood, staggering on pins and needles, and clumsily took her knife and her gun.  Carefully, she made her way down the hall. Every room was empty, or locked. Every room until the one she remembered. CC almost missed him, he was below eye level after all. But she found him, off to the side and flat on his back. Dean.

Dean sticky with blood and unnaturally still.

Dean.

Dead.

No.

“No.”

She stumbled from her perch in the door frame, reaching the edge of the bed to fall beside Dean. She grasped at his shirts, shaking him.

“What did you do?! Damnit Dean,” she howled, voice cracking from lack of use. She slapped him, the cold skin of his cheek stung as she fell face first against his pillow and fissured. This was not the reality she fought to get back to, she wanted to go back. But there were no more memories to seek out and now there would be no new ones made. Not with Dean. Her arms clutched to his face, pulling him up, his bulk anchoring her as she sobbed. Nothing felt connected, rage, guilt, grief flowed into a noxious mix and Chloe had to step back. Hurling all over the floor as her body rejected the trauma as much as her mind had.

Once the putrid yellow liquid had emptied itself, she focused. Where the hell was Tweedle Dum?

“Sam!” CC walked backwards, keeping her eyes on Dean’s body as if he would disappear at any moment, just another nightmare she needed to pass through. “Goddamn it, Sam, where the fuck are you?!”

She was still crying but clutching the door knob and shouting through the cavernous Bunker had given her some slight release. If anyone was going to hear her, it wasn’t going to be misunderstood for more than it was. There was a faint rumble and the sound of doors closing.

“Sam?” CC’s voice broke and she whispered to herself, “Oh, Maheo’o, please.  He’s okay. He has—”

Sam rounded the corner, dirty and mystified.

“—to be.”

They fell at each other, Sam tucking his gun in his belt before his arms could hold her to his chest, keeping her upright. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”

She felt his words more than she heard them, her head clouded, ribcage unhinged and gaping. She kept looking over her shoulder, watching Dean’s body, but Sam turned them both away, unwilling to let her dwell on it like he had, the entire drive home.

“What happened?”

Sam swallowed. “Metatron.”

Angels. Of course.

She nodded, trying to remember everything she could about what they had been hunting last. “But what about Abaddon? And Crowley? How long have I been out?”

“Yeah, well, hey are you alright? Do you need anything?” Sam held her at arm’s length, taking in her eyes and her steadiness. “Because I was going to summon Crowley, make him fix this. Since he was the one that started this whole suicide mission with the Mark of Cain.”

“Suicide? Sam, what are you talking about?”

Sam sniffed. “Oh, Chloe, tell me you know. That you--”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, dumb ass.”

Sam almost laughed at that, inhaling with a mirthful pout. “Let’s get you some water and then how about we see what we can do?”

“How can we just leave him like that?”

Sam gave her a sad smile. “We’re not going to. Let’s go.”

Sam led her to the kitchen, keeping his right arm over her shoulders, at the ready should she lose her balance. But he needed her there more than she ever could.

“Finally,” Crowley muttered as he watched Sam and the empty vessel slink off together.

*^*

This was new. It was as if a seatbelt had been strapped to his soul, barring him from escaping the wreckage that was his body. So much for meeting his new Reaper and getting the spiel that was once reserved for Tessa. He tested the barriers of his body, unsure what would happen if he couldn’t crossover. Would he go vengeful? Was Sammy going to have to go full blowtorch on his ass? He started to separate, slipping from solid to gas and back to liquid as the darkness pulled him apart. He folded in on himself, twice, twenty, two thousand times until he was frayed and knotted and mangled beyond belief. The unscratchable itch remained the same, the Mark the source, but not the remedy. Dean stretched, reaching out to gain control in a space only he could navigate. It was disgustingly fragile to him now. Everything felt, lesser. It still reeked of humanity and its pathetic mortality.

Then he heard him, Crowley. That smug bastard really could spin yarns, but Dean wasn’t convinced, yet. He settled back, as easy as slipping into an old flannel, finding his arms and toes and all the other places he liked to control. Once Crowley made his true offer, Dean knew what he sold to be true, or as available as any other fate to him now.

And so he opened his eyes to bask in their shared damnation.

Next Chapter: Too Good to Be True

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Damages 10

A/n: Sorry for the delay. This chapter has been a while in the making. If you need a refresh here is a link to Chapter 9. Sophia goes into labor and Gabriel is still MIA

Words: 2,214

_________________

Sophia spent the next few days waiting for Gabriel to come back home to her. They had talked a few times but nothing like Sophia would have wanted. Every time she tried to ask him when he would be back Gabriel would change the subject. Sophia had finally had enough one night.

“Gabriel I need to know when you are coming home. Our baby is going to be here soon. I am having contractions off and on. You’re time is ticking. You are just going down the road you were on before. You’re pulling away from me just like last time.”

Gabriel had sighed.

“Cupcake please don’t do this.”

Sophia was quiet for a few minutes.

“You’re doing this Gabriel. You’re missing everything. I get you are trying to prove to me that you know how to be a man and a proper husband. Perhaps I am being too hard on you but I need you to be a proper father and be here for your daughter.”

Gasped from the other end of the phone.

“We are having a girl?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel smiled on the other end of the phone.

“We’ll be together soon.”

After that conversation, Gabriel didn’t call for two more days leaving Sophia even more depressed. What was the archangel thinking? How was this supposed to rebuild her faith in him?  She wasn’t sure what he was doing but it had to be something extreme. Part of Sophia feared he was out messing with Michael and Raphael. She knew that they had to be dealt with but she would prefer that someone else do it.

The angel in her scoffed though. No one but Gabriel would be able to properly handle his brothers. Maybe if Cas could turn into God again or if she could get a hold of Chuck he could deal with his less than desirable sons.

Sophia had been awake since 5 am after a nightmare involving Raphael. Over the past few nights it had been the same thing. Sophia would wake up nearly screaming. It always started the same way. She would be in a dark room beside Gabriel. Everything was perfect. He wrapped his arms around her lovingly cupping her stomach.

“Our baby girl will be perfect.”

Gabriel’s voice was loving as he pressed tender kisses to her neck. Right as things began to get heated, Raphael’s cold voice would come from nowhere.

“Well, well what have we here.”

Suddenly Gabriel was gone. He literally vanished into thin air. Raphael would walk out from the shadows with that sneer he always wore.

“Look at you Sophia. You’re father along than I expected….all ripe with Gabriel’s bastard child.”

Sophia always tried to keep herself as brave as possible. The last thing Raphael needed to know what  that she was afraid.

“You are not to touch our child.”

Raphael rolled his eyes.

“This is just a dream but keep in mind. I will find you and I will kill both you and that bastard child. You should never be with an archangel.”

Just like that she would wake a in a cold sweat desperately wishing Gabriel was there to comfort her.  

A knock at the door jarred Sophia from her remembering of the nightmare.

Dean’s voice was calm from the other side. Sophia struggled to get out of the bed. Every day was getting to be a struggle to move.

“Who is it? Is it him?”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

“No its not Gabriel. I’m sorry.”

Sophia sighed as she stepped out of the bedroom. Dean’s eyes looked sympathetic at his friend. Poor Sophia looked miserable. Over the past few days her sparkle was seeming do dull. Dean knew Sophia’s pregnancy wouldn’t last as long as a normal humans and her time was ticking.

“Its all right. Maybe he will turn up tomorrow.”

Sophia said softly. Dean rolled his eyes mentally cursing the archangel.

“Yeah…well um come with me.”

Sophia nodded following Dean into the dining room where a red headed woman was placing a tea set at the table. The woman turned with a smile.

“Well you must be the nephilim girl. My my you are certainly pregnant. That archangel certainly has done a number on you. I am Rowena. Charmed to meet you.”

Sophia tiled her head to the side.

“You’re Crowley’s mother the witch right?”

Rowena blinked before smiling.

“You angels are amusing. So blunt. I am actually here to help you dear. Here you are trapped in this testosterone kingdom and about to give birth. From what my gut tells me you have not a clue as to what you are doing either do you?”

Sophia smirked at the slightly offended look on Dean’s face

“She likes out testosterone kingdom!”

Rowena crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m sure she loves it as much as I love going to Sunday morning services. Now Dean if you will excuse us.”

Dean nodded.

“Hells yeah. I’m gone.”

When Dean walked out, Rowena turned looking back to Sophia.

“Time for some tea!”

Sophia sat slowly.

“I apologize but I don’t think my stomach could handle anything at the moment.”

Rowena raised an eyebrow before walking over taking Sophia’s cheeks in her hands. She gently stroked over her face.

“You poor dear. That archangel’s baby is sucking the life out of you…and quickly. I’ve made peppermint tea, no potions or spells. Peppermint is most soothing on a sore stomach. You need to drink something.”

Sophia slowly took the china cup of tea from Rowena sipping slowly. To her surprise the tea seemed to sooth her aching stomach and nerves. Rowena sat down with a smile.

“I don’t give you that long until you deliver. From what I have ready with the younger Winchester have put together you won’t carry much longer. Where is the prick that put you in this mess child?”

Sophia looked down.

“I don’t know. We were together in Dubai. It was almost like a honeymoon. I found out that I was pregnant, we met his brothers, I found out who my father was, Gabe and I had this huge fight, and he made me come back here to keep me safe. He said he would be here in a few days…that’s been many many days ago.”

Rowena crossed her legs.

“I don’t think he has abandoned you. There is a lot of bad things I can say about the archangels but I am not going to. We have to plan on what to expect when this child is born. I’m trying to decide if we should expect some chaos or biblical explosions. Do you know what happened when you were born being a half breed and all?”

Sophia chuckled.

“I don’t know. My mother…I’ve never had a relationship with her and my father I don’t even know if he was there. Knowing him he was off having an orgy someplace.”

Rowena smirked.

“You’re father is Balthazar.”

Sophia nodded.

“That would be him. I love the guy but he is no father. I wish I had a clue what to expect but there is nothing in the books about this. Gabriel has no idea either. Hell we never really had much of a discussion about it anyway.”

Rowena looked if not a little more annoyed. In all of the conversation she was at least holding out hope that at least Gabriel would have known something.

“We shall make it just fine peach.”

Sophia winced feeling the baby deliver a powerful blow to her ribs. Wincing she looked up to Rowena.

“Why do you want to help me?”

Rowena sighed.

“I haven’t always been the best of people. I had a child myself. Granted we do not and will never have a good relationship, You seem like a sweet girl. Sam and Dean have been kind to me when I haven’t deserved it so why not help them out with a friend? Maybe when your archangel boyfriend gets here you can convince him to give me the same kindness.”

Sophia held her hand out.

“Deal.”

Over the next few days Rowena followed Sophia around like a puppy making sure she ate and took care of herself. Sophia meanwhile, had again not gotten through to Gabriel. Every time she called it was just voice mail city.

“Gabriel, its me again…i know you haven’t forgotten how to check your voicemail…..at lease I hope not. I hope you are still alive! By the way I am still pregnant with your baby….shes still just shoved up in there…I’m going to keep calling and bugging you until you answer.”

Rowena looked at her with a sympathetic expression.

“Men are pigs.”

Sophia nodded.

“Couldn’t agree more at the moment. I should have fallen in love with Cas. At least he went and got me ice cream at 2 am and didn’t care to go back because he got frozen yogurt instead. That was cute. I love Gabriel. I love him more than anything but he can be so damn annoying and childish at points.”

Rowena nodded as she took a sip out of her tea.

“Youngest child syndrome. The first time I had a run in with the man I knew he had it. Of course I thought he was just a trickster then.”

Sophia looked up.

“You’ve met Gabriel?”

Rowena nodded.

“Its been many many years ago. I would have never pegged him to be an archangel. He hated the angels so bad. Crafty darling sure fooled me.”

Sophia stood walking to the table where Dean sat with a empty plate in front of him. She reached down to take the plate. Dean shook his head.

“Nah you aren’t cleaning up after me. You go sit over there and be cute.”

Sophia shook her head ruffling Dean’s hair.

“Taking a plate to the kitchen isn’t going to kill me.”

Dean shrugged going back to the TV show that he was watching until he heard the plate in the kitchen smash onto the tile floor. He and Cas quickly stood running in to the kitchen where Sophia stood holding her stomach.

Cas was able to reach her first.

“Sophia are you all right?”

Sophia shook her head looking up.

“Either my water just broke or I peed everywhere.”

Cas looked down before looking to Dean with wide eyes.

“Dean situation!”

Dean looked petrified as Rowena rushed in her eyes blazing.

“Oh my it is time. Dean, help me get her into her room. Cas I suppose you will have to be your brother’s fill in. Sam try to find someway to get a hold of the archangel.”

Dean stepped forward pulling Sophia into his arms bridal style carrying her into the bedroom. He looked back at Sam.

“Get that dickwad angel here like now!”

Sophia winced through the pain. She wanted to tell Dean to stop yelling. His voice seemed 1,000,000 decibels louder than normal. She tried to focus on the searing pain that seemed to be ripping her apart. When the lights flickered Dean looked around nervously.

“You good?”

Sophia nodded.

“I will be Dean.”

Over the next few hours everyone could only watch as Sophia went through the worst pain in her life. Cas tried to be as helpful as possible with hand rubs and gently whispers however, that didn’t seem to help for too long. Rowena would check her every once and while each time never looking too pleased with her progress.

“I need to get up and walk or something. This lying here is killing me.”

Sophia moaned trying to stand up. Cas started to shake his head in protest but Rowena nodded.

“Yes! Dear that is a wonderful idea! Castiel help her!”

Cas spent the next hour walking the room over and over. Sophia froze grasping onto Cas’ shoulders crying out. Cas stood with wide eyes watching the tears roll down his friend’s face.

“We should get you back in bed. I think it is time for you to push.”

“Cas don’t leave me.”

Sophia manged to get out.

Cas shook his head.

“I’m never leaving you. You mean the world to me. I won’t let you down.”

Sophia smiled as Cas helped her back into the bed. Rowena took her place gently easing the poor girl’s legs up.

“My goodness child you need to start pushing unless you want that child to remain stuck up in there forever!”

Sophia shook her head focusing hard on Rowena’s face as she pushed. Despite Cas’ soothing rubs and Rowena’s encouragement the pain was more than Sophia could stand. The world seemed to start going black, white, and fuzzy. Focusing was becoming more than she could handle.

“Just a few more pushes. Jesus Christ where is that damn archangel?”

Rowena shouted over her shoulder. Her eyes went back to Sophia’s face widening.

“Sophia? Stay awake child! Sophia!”

…..and the world went black….

_________

@greenappleeyes

@1-more-internet-kid

@1-more-internet-kid

@djs-lacrimose

@graysonatbest

[not-a-space-alien]

The Gay Gordons

Characters:  Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Aziraphale, Crowley

Rating:  G

Word count: 3,800

Warnings: None

Summary:  Sam and Dean pick up an investigation as a favor to Castiel and find something a bit unexpected.

 On LJ

 On AO3

Somewhere in the world, under a highway in the shape of a wiggly sigil, there stood an angel.  This angel was wearing a trench coat.  He liked wearing trench coats.  It was a good thing no one had ever asked him why he liked wearing trench coats, because he would not have been able to give a sufficient answer.

A black car pulled up beside the angel, and two men got out.  One of the men was the size of a moose and had flowing hair that must surely have gotten into his eyes at inconvenient moments.  The second man would only be called short in comparison to the first; he could only be summarily described by the word “gruff.”

“All right,” said the gruff one as he slammed his door shut.  “What was so important that you asked us to come all the way out here?”

“Thank you for coming, Dean,” said the angel, whose name was Castiel.  “I wouldn’t have asked it unless it was important.”

“We had to book tickets on a red eye,” said Sam, a bit annoyed.

“A plane!” said Dean.  “A freaking plane!  This better be good, Cass.”

The angel shifted from foot to foot.  “I don’t know if I’d say it’s good, but it’s certainly very important.”  He took a deep breath.  “Sam, Dean, I am desperately in need of a favour from you two.  You’re the only ones I know who can pull it off.”

“All right,” said Sam.  “What do you need, Cass?”

“Well, I…”  Castiel look uncomfortable.  “Please remember that I do not ask this lightly.  This is a very touchy subject.”

“Just spit it out already,” said Dean, who was already running out of patience for this whole endeavor.

“One of my brothers has been behaving suspiciously.  An angel named Aziraphale.  I have tried to confront him about it, but he refuses to engage me.  I cannot get near him.”

“What?  Why not?” asked Sam.

“He is avoiding me,” said Castiel.  “I would like to leave it at that.”

“Okay…” Dean began, gesturing to the trunk of his car.  “So you need us to take out some asshole angel?”

“No,” said Castiel with barely contained exasperation.  “Dean, I didn’t say to kill him.  Would you please contain your bloodlust for a moment?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“What exactly do you want us to do, then, Cass?” said Sam, sounding annoyed with both Dean and Castiel.

“Find out exactly what he’s up to,” said Castiel.  “He can sense my angelic presence a mile away and avoid me, but he wouldn’t really take notice of humans observing him.”

“All right, we can do that,” said Sam.

“But you owe us one,” Dean interjected.

“Yeah, anyway,” said Sam.  “You said he’s been behaving suspiciously?  What’s he been doing?”

“He’s been having regular meetings with a demon,” said Castiel.

“A demon?” said Dean.  “Doing what?”

“That is what I need you to find out,” said Castiel.  “To be frank, Aziraphale doesn’t have a very good history with Heaven.  I’m not the only one concerned about this.  An angel and a demon working together...  It doesn’t bode well.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sam agreed.  “Something big must be up.”

“Okay, do you have any leads?” asked Dean.  “Where we can find this Aziraphale guy?  Who’s the demon he’s hanging out with?”

“Well,” said Castiel hesitantly, like he was about to shatter thin ice, “the demon’s name is Crowley.”

Sam and Dean both rushed to comment, but Castiel talked over them as quickly and loudly as he could:  “It’s a different demon, Dean.  It’s definitely not the same Crowley.  It’s a different class of demon altogether.  Apparently it’s not that unusual for demons to steal each other’s names.”

“You’re sure?” said Dean.

“I’m sure.”

Dean got a sour look on his face, as though he were disappointed with that news.

“Okay, Cass,” said Sam.  “We’ll take care of this.  Don’t worry.”

“Oh, as for where,” said Castiel.  “I have the name of a certain bookshop where you might find Aziraphale.  If you can manage to get there while it’s open…”

Dean absolutely insisted on stopping by the palace so he could try and antagonize the guards into breaking their motionless vigil.  It didn’t work, of course.  It never works, Sam told him, but Dean tried anyway.  

“They get this all the time, Dean,” said the exasperated Sam fifteen minutes in.

“I’ve never been here before.  Give me a break, okay?” said Dean.  “I deserve a little something for surviving that plane ride in and driving this lame rent-a-crap instead of Baby.”

When Sam finally pulled him away, they made their way over to Soho.  Upon finding the described bookshop, they parked the disparaged SUV across the street and sat outside for an hour to observe.

The only activity was a woman going in at about 2PM and coming back out five minutes later empty-handed and looking harried.  They could see nobody moving around inside the shop through the storefront.

“All right, I’m tired of waiting around,” said Dean.  “Let’s go see what’s up.”

The bell on the door jangled as they pushed it open.  “Excuse me,” said Sam, and then stopped when he saw the inside of the shop.

It was a chaotic mess.  There were stacks of books covering every shelf in a disorganized panic, riots of volumes shoved anywhere they would fit: every inch of the cabinets, the floor, stools, the windows, on top of a ladder that was swaying unsafely.  The shelves crowded so close together that it looked like it would only be possible to pass between them by turning sideways.

“My God,” said Dean.  “There’s somebody alive in here?”

“Feel free to browse,” echoed a bored voice from somewhere within the labyrinth.

Sam hesitantly started forwards, picking his way across the floor where he could find empty space to step.

“Nice aesthetic he’s got going on,” said Dean.  “Very Temple of Doom.”

“Can you maybe take this seriously?” said Sam.  His stern tone was defeated as he knocked a shelf and a slew of books cascaded onto his head.  Dean exploded into laughter.

“Watch your step,” said the bored voice.

It was a few minutes of trekking before they finally managed to reach the other side of the store, where a rotund man with unkempt curls of hair leaned on a counter with his nose buried in a thick volume.  The only clear space in the entire corner was a sunny spot in the window behind the man, where an enormous python lay curled up.

Dean recoiled at the sight of the snake.  Sam bravely stepped towards the counter.

“Good afternoon,” said Sam.

“Americans,” the man muttered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Sam.

“You just have it loose in the store?” said Dean.  “Where anyone could walk in and step on it?”

“He doesn’t bite,” said the man behind the counter, snapping the book closed.  “Usually.  What can I do for you two?”

Now, the man-shaped being behind the counter did not look like the type of person who would have much experience with anything besides staying indoors doing dull activities like puzzles and Sudoku and reading.  If Sam and Dean had suspected that this particular individual had plenty of experience scaring away intimidating men in suits asking invasive questions, they might have tried a different approach.*  But they didn’t, so Sam dropped his wallet open to reveal his badge.  “We were hoping to have a word with you.”

*Little did they realize the quickest route to their goal would have been to simply remind him that lying was a sin, which would have caused him to break down crying and tell them everything they wanted to know.

“And may I ask what exactly the American FBI is doing investigating a matter in Soho?” said the man.

“We’re looking for someone named Aziraphale,” said Sam.  “Do you know anyone by that name?”

“It’s just sitting in the window unsupervised,” said Dean, who still had not approached the counter.  “You don’t think that’s freaky at all?”

“He is an invited guest here, while you are not,” said the man behind the counter grumpily.  “If either he or you should leave, I would think it should be you.”

“Aziraphale?” said Sam, desperately trying to get back on topic.  “Name ring any bells?”

“Afraid not,” said the man, scoffing.  “What kind of name is that?”

“What about Crowley?” said Sam.  “Sound familiar?”

“Never heard of him,” said the man.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll be closing soon, so if you aren’t going to buy something I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“The sign on the door said you’re open until 5,” said Sam.

The man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “You have the nerve to walk into my shop, insult my snake, and then argue with me about my business hours.  Americans!”

They found themselves booted onto the street with the door locked behind them.

Dean stormed back over to their rented car darkly.  “Okay, it was definitely that guy.  He’s the angel.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” said Dean, opening the door.  “Get in.”

Sam suggested they should go back to the motel to think up a plan and do some research, but Dean insisted on driving around and passing the bookshop regularly for the next few hours.  When it started to get dark, Dean parked across the street and stared into the dimly lit storefront.

“Dean, what are we doing?” said Sam.

“Surveillance.”

“Surveillance.”

“Yeah.”

“The store’s closed.”

“So what?”

“So I don’t think there’s anything to surveil, Dean!”

They sat in silence for a while.

“It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

“Nobody just keeps a snake in their shop, Sammy!” said Dean.  “It was just sitting on the windowsill!  I mean, at least that creeper in Colorado kept them in his house.  This is out in public!  Anyone could just walk in!”

“Dean, it’s not like the snake is relevant just because it creeped you out.”

“You know what, Sammy?  Shut up.  I know the snake is relevant somehow.  I’ve got that gut feeling.  Did you see that guy?  Nerd.  Top to bottom.  One-hundred percent ultra-nerd.  What kind of nerd has a pet snake?  What kind of bookshop owner has a snake?”

“Dean, would you forget the snake!”

They both stopped as the door to the shop jingled open and a man in a black suit walked out.

“You see,” said Dean, gesturing to the man with both hands.  “You see?  What did I tell you?  Surveillance.”

“Where the hell did that guy come from?” said Sam, trying to get a good look at him without drawing attention to himself.  “I definitely didn’t see him walk in.  And I’m pretty sure there’s not enough room for there to be an apartment or anything attached he could be coming from.”

The mysterious man put his hands in his pockets and whistled as he walked down the sidewalk leisurely.

“Surveillance,” said Dean again, cranking the emergency break.

They tried to follow the man, but they couldn’t make the car go slow enough without going at a suspicious crawl, so they ended up circling around.  But they saw him walk from Soho to Mayfair like he was savoring a nice, sunny day.  He stopped for a moment to duck into a dark alley and knock a trashcan over, and at another point they saw him walk into an electronics store and walk back out with a stereo he had purchased and a pack of batteries he had stolen.

“What is he doing?” said Sam as they observed him open someone’s gate and let their dog loose.

“What is he doing?” said Dean as they watched him take someone’s mail out of their mailbox and put it into their neighbor’s.

The evening proceeded in this manner without deviation until the mysterious ne’er-do-well received a phone call while tying knots in someone’s garden hose.

“Yes, angel, I went straight home,” he said as he cranked the water on ever so slightly.  “I’m back at my flat right now.  No, not causing any trouble at all tonight.  No, of course I’m not lying.  Me?  Lying?  I’m hurt.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and scampered across the street, where he accessed a gated apartment building without a key and finally disappeared.

Dean shoved the car into a parking spot across the street.  The two brothers sat in silence for a minute.

“Okay, that was weird, right?” said Dean.  “It’s not just me?”

“I mean…” Sam had a puzzled expression on his face and was thinking very hard.  “Demons are agents of chaos, and Cass said it was a different kind of demon.  Maybe this is like a…mischief demon?”

“You think that’s him?  The demon?”

“Maybe?  I don’t know what else that could have been.  Just a really lame human prankster?  A trickster with very weak supernatural powers?”

“I’m done messing around with this,” said Dean, getting out of the car.  “Let’s go.”

“Dean, wait,” Sam said, then scrambled to follow.

As they approached the apartment complex, Dean veered to the side, distracted by a shiny black automobile.

“Whoa, look at that!” said Dean, whistling.  “Hey, dude, this is definitely the demon’s car.”

“How can you tell?”

Dean pointed to the license plate, which said AJC666.

Sam gave him a sarcastic look.  “It’s not the demon’s car, Dean.”

“It totally is.”

“Why would a demon need a car?”

Dean looked at him sourly and turned towards the doorbell.  He scanned the tenant directory.  “Hah!” said Dean, pointing to one name.  “Look!  AJ Crowley.”

They rang the bell.  “Top floor flat,” said a suave voice from the intercom.

“Hi, we’re looking for Mr. Crowley,” said Sam.  “May we come in to talk for a minute?”

“Certainly,” the voice purred.  “I’ll have a bottle of wine waiting for you.”

What happened next was a bit blurry for the two brothers.  They both clearly remembered going up an elevator and knocking on a door, but after that it was blank until they came back out, foggily walking towards their rental car.

“Wh…” said Dean, finally becoming aware of himself.  “Huh?  What happened?  Sam?”

Sam looked like he was struggling to resolve his vision against a bright light.  “Huh?”

“What just happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What time is it?”

Sam looked at his watch.  “Quarter to eight.”

“What time did we go in?”

“”bout…seven thirty wasn’t it?”

Dean looked at the car muzzily.  “Did we meet Mr. Crowley?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

He turned back around and buzzed the intercom again, but no one answered this time no matter how many times he tried.

Sam and Dean were beginning to despair of their skills as detectives.  A rude bookshop owner a man who liked to be a pain in the ass for others wasn’t much as far as results go.  They ended up doing more surveillance than they usually did, going back and forth between Soho and Mayfair aimlessly.  Dean morosely watched out the windshield while Sam typed on his computer for research.

“I got nothing,” Sam sighed, clapping his computer closed.

“I might have something,” said Dean, noting that the door to the book store had opened.  The man who had been behind the counter appeared outside for the first time in days, slinging a scarf over his shoulder and walking off into the night.

“All right, let’s see where he’s going at midnight on a Tuesday,” said Dean.

He tried to start the car quietly and follow the bookshop owner surreptitiously; fortunately the man did not seem to care much about observing his surroundings and simply motored forwards like he was late for an appointment.**

**He was.

They followed him until he disappeared into the confines of a fancy building which definitely did not look open.

There was a black car out front.

“I told you!” said Dean, punching Sam’s arm.  “It’s the demon’s car!”

“All right,” said Sam.  “Whatever.  Let’s just go see what they’re up to.  This must be what Cass was talking about when he said they were meeting regularly.”

The building was definitely closed; they ended up having to pick the lock to get in.  They tiptoed around, making their way up to the second floor and peering out from a balcony overlooking an empty ballroom to see that Crowley was sitting alone in the middle of the floor, legs crossed, looking bored.  The stereo he had bought earlier sat on the floor next to him.

Sam and Dean leaned back to avoid being seen.  “All right,” Dean whispered.  “Now let’s just wait and see what they’re doing.”

It was only a few seconds until the door at the far end flung open and the bookshop owner, who at this point they figured was Aziraphale, strode forwards, shedding his jacket and hat in an irritated way.

“You’re late,” said Crowley.

“You say that like you aren’t late every other week,” snapped Aziraphale.

“Did those two bother you again?”

Aziraphale paused.  “Those two?”

“The Americans.”

Sam and Dean tensed up.

“Oh, them,” said Aziraphale.  “All the customers tend to blend together, to be honest.  No, I haven’t seen them.”

“They followed me to my flat,” said Crowley.  “They’re demon hunters.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.  “That must have been awfully frightening for you.”

Crowley waved a hand as he stood up.  “Never mind them.  A bit of hypnosis did the trick to get rid of them.”

“Hah,” said Dean.  “That’s what you think.”

“All right, then.  Shall we get started?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley tapped the stereo, and chipper accordion music filled the room.  “Absolutely,” he said with a wicked grin.

“What are you doing, you bastard?” said Dean.

Aziraphale held his hand out, and Crowley took it.  Aziraphale put one hand around Crowley’s waist, and they held their joined hands up and began to sort of gallop around the room to the tune of the music.

Sam and Dean watched this incredulously.  It went on for a solid two or three minutes.

“You’re seeing this right?” said Dean.  “I’m not dreaming this?”

They both went tumbling down to the floor.  Crowley smacked the polished lacquer face-first.

“Angel, what was that?” the demon hissed angrily.

“Your feet got in my way.”

“My feet got in your way?” Crowley said, rising and stomping over to him.  “I was perfectly in step!”

“No, you got out of line a bit there, my dear.”

“I was perfectly in line!”

“You were off a bit, I’m afraid.”

“You had your arm around my waist and steered me right into the ground!”

“I did no such thing!”  Aziraphale crossed his arms and flicked the music off.  “Your rhythm is all off.”

“If you would just let me lead this would be so much easier!”

“Demons cannot dance,” said Aziraphale.  “Not at all.  I lead.”

“Angels don’t dance either!” Crowley fumed.

“Not true.  I can dance the gavotte.  You can’t dance anything.  Between the two of us, I’m the more experienced dancer.  It doesn’t make any sense for you to lead.”

Crowley smoothed his hair out, looking like he was fighting the urge to throw a fit.  “Fine.  Fine, whatever.  Let’s just try it again.”

He clicked the music back on.  They assumed the same starting position.  They eased into the rhythm, feet clicking on the floor, their stormy expressions contrasting sharply with the upbeat, cheerful music.

It only took a minute for them to go down this time.

“It’s one-two-three-four-spin,” said Crowley, seething as he righted himself.  “You’re not doing it right.”

“I’m doing it perfectly fine!” Aziraphale shouted.  “You’ve got it wrong and keep tripping me up!”

“Listen,” said Crowley.  “I was in Scotland when this dance was invented.  Why did you ask me to help you learn it if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

“I was also in Scotland when this dance was invented, and you didn’t do it correctly then either!  You were too busy preening about how good you looked in a kilt.”

“I don’t recall you complaining about how I looked in a kilt, you know,” said Crowley.  “Maybe if you had spent less time staring at my arse you could have learned the Gay Gordons properly.”

Aziraphale looked angry enough to argue, but he simply pulled a phone out of his pocket.  “Here, let’s watch the video again.”

They both sunk to the floor and crowded around the phone as a YouTube video played, loudly enough for Sam and Dean to hear all the way up on the balcony.

“The next dance is a march called the Gay Gordons,” said the tinny voice from the phone.

“There, you see!” said Crowley viciously, pointing to the screen.  “You were doing it wrong.”

“I was not,” Aziraphale said indignantly.  “I was doing it exactly like that.”

“No you weren’t!”  Crowley dragged the video feed back and replayed it.  “You see!”

Sam and Dean watched as the arguing went on for much longer than the dancing had.  They were able to glean from the conversation that the pair had been doing this regularly for months now but had made no progress.

Time dragged on into the early hours of the morning.  They did not reach the end of the song even once.  Every attempt was punctuated with increasingly violent commentary upon the other’s performance.  Every failure was accompanied by an argument that lasted longer than the time they had spent on their feet.  Every passing minute was infused with more and more frustration.  The replay button the YouTube video was beaten half to death.

By the time the light of the sunrise began to stream through the windows, the demon unplugged the stereo and hauled it up, clutching it to himself.  “I’m done.  I’m done with you.  You’ll never learn how to do anything but gavotte.  Never.  Good luck on completing your New Year’s resolutions without me.  Goodbye.”

“At least I know how to gavotte!” Aziraphale hurled after him.  “That’s more than you can say!”

“I never want to dance with you again!  If I never see you again in my lifetime it’ll be too soon!”

“So next Tuesday at the same time, then?”

“Yeah, all right, Tuesday is fine.”

The demon disappeared through the door.  The angel slumped onto the dance floor, looking defeated.

Sam and Dean looked at each other awkwardly.

The angel turned his head up and looked directly at their hiding spot.  “You don’t think I’m that bad, do you?  I should be able to learn it eventually, right?  It only took me a few decades to get the gavotte quite right.  What do you think?  It was mostly him messing it up, wasn’t it?”

Sam and Dean high-tailed it out of there without answering him.

They found Castiel at the meeting spot under the highway where they had last seen him.  The two dragged their feet up to him, looking haggard and bewildered.

“Thanks for meeting me,” said Castiel.  “Did you find anything?  What are they doing?”

“Those regular meetings?” said Sam.

“Yes?”

“I, uh…” said Dean.  “I don’t think you really need to worry about them accomplishing anything malicious.  Or anything at all, really. They’ll be stuck on the Gay Gordons for years.”