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goodlucktai · 4 years

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out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3584 title borrowed from a great wagon by rumi part 6 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

Nanael is a Principality. They stand on the front line of the last choir of angels, just before the lower archangels and well behind the Powers.

They know they’re nothing special. The rank is there, but without a station it doesn’t mean anything. One’s strength is determined by how well one does their job, more or less, and Principalities are just as limited as the lesser guardian angels are; restrained in their duties by how quickly their charges die, how regularly their nations rise and fall.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is someone you hear stories about.

The angel of Eden who followed the fall of mankind, who wandered out past the gate and assumed a mortal form and spent six thousand years alongside God’s only imperfect creations.

Demoted, were the first uncertain whispers. Punished. One must learn from him, one must be better than that wayward Principality. When he finally returns to Heaven, you’ll see. He will have burned low from this failure. He’ll have to labor for eons to build himself back up.

Only Aziraphale never did return.

Six thousand years, the stories go, and by the time Nanael hears them they take on the tone of a fairy tale.

Six thousand years, Nanael’s brothers and sisters whisper to one another, awed and frightened. How many years do humans live? Do nations stand? How many years has any other guardian done what he has done? Not six thousand.

The Principality who averted the Apocalypse, who raised his sword against the Lightbringer, who opposed the Archangels, who stepped into hellfire and didn’t burn.

Nanael was unprepared for meeting him— for finding him in a soft body with time-worn clothes and messy curls, smiling with Love and with love at a demon, of all things, standing against a fellow angel as though he would fight all the forces of Heaven combined to keep his Fallen One safe.

They made a poor first impression, and they cringe to remember it, but it was an important lesson for them to learn:

Nanael and Aziraphale are of the same stock, but only in as much as a brook and a river are both flowing water.

“Watch it, feathers,” Crowley murmurs, drawing Nanael back by the hood of their sweater. “Might get singed if you stand that close.”

Nanael goes agreeably, circling behind the demon to stand next to Warlock at the front counter instead.

“This is awesome,” the changeling whispers.

“That’s a good word for it,” Nanael replies, thinking along the lines of Old Testament fury.

The demon that came along to cause trouble is— cowering doesn’t seem like a fair way to describe what he’s doing, because he’s being very brave about it, but Nanael isn’t inclined to be fair.

Not because of his being a hereditary enemy or some rot like that. But because he showed up on Duke Hastur’s orders, with a circlet still clutched in hand that would have tightened around Crowley’s head until it killed him. Hell, it seems, is getting creative.

The wards on the shop made the demon visible before he could get close enough to deliver it. He was visible the moment he walked in, whether he realized it or not.

Aziraphale seems to still be deciding what to do with him. The cold light in his eyes is unforgiving; it reminds Nanael of home.

“Angel, if you make a mess, you’ll always know it was there,” Crowley says, unbothered by the prickly heat his Principality is putting off like humidity before a big storm. “Just send him on his way, would you?”

The demon sneers. The effect is ruined by the nervous dart of his eyes back to Aziraphale, rather like the way a rabbit might watch an owl.

“It’s not over, Crawly,” he says. “Not even close. You may think you’ve won, but everything ends. This world will end. And when it does, you’ll be back in Hell where you belong, and none of your little angels will be there to save you.”

Warlock is bristling, eyes near glowing with anger. Nanael puts a hand on his arm that they hope is comforting, because it’s meant to be restraining more than anything else.

“Not bad,” Crowley assures the demon. “Decent level of ominous, that. Keep up the good work and you’ll see a promotion in no time.”

With a rapid brightening, the demon forgets the tense tableau long enough to ask eagerly, “You think so? Only I’ve been stuck in limbo so bloody long, I’ve never even seen past the first level.”

Nanael forgets, sometimes, that while Heaven has stories about the angel of Eden, Hell probably has stories about the serpent, too. For all that he was sent here to discorporate him, the demon is looking at Crowley with some sort of twisted admiration.

“Are you quite finished, my dear?” Aziraphale asks of Crowley tersely. He doesn’t wait for an answer, snapping his fingers and banishing the unwelcome demon to some far-flung corner of the universe, probably. “The nerve of him.”

Crowley calls, “Safe to come out now,” and Aziraphale seems to remember Nanael and Warlock with a start. He glances back at the two of them with a level of self-consciousness that Nanael thinks is unwarranted.

It goes away when Crowley touches him, though, a cool hand on Aziraphale’s arm that slides down to his hand, fingers weaving easily together like God designed them for no other purpose.

Nanael remembers a time when they wondered how an angel and a demon could ever be together in any sense of the word. Now, with their head full of music and poetry, of films and romantic fiction, they wonder how on earth Aziraphale and Crowley ever managed to be apart.

“They’ll have to do better than that,” Crowley says. It sounds like pride, and it makes Aziraphale smile almost despite himself. It makes Aziraphale lean in to kiss him, like an act of gravity.

They are very gentle with each other. Despite everything else that they are— the very different places they come from— they touch each other with the kindness that comes so naturally to humans. A learned letting down of one’s guard, of letting oneself be known.

Togetherness, the kindness implies. Likeness. We’re here, existing alongside each other. Not quite the same, but not so different, really. Reach out to me. We’re here together, you and I.

Nanael has learned a lot from them, but nothing so important as this kindness.

“I don’t think he was the one I met before,” they offer after a moment. “That demon. The corporation was different.”

Aziraphale promptly looks troubled by this, and Nanael almost regrets mentioning it. Except maybe it’s important, especially if multiple agents of Hell are going to keep showing up to cause trouble.

“Could just be the same creep in a different body,” Crowley points out. He seems pointedly unruffled, as though one of them needs to remain calm for their collective benefit.

“Do you always get different bodies when you come back?” Warlock asks, unbothered by anything that doesn’t bother Crowley.

Crowley scratches his cheek, just under the snake sigil. “I mean, usually, I guess. I always put in for the same one, though.”

“Likewise,” Aziraphale says, slightly distracted. “One gets used to one’s face after a few thousand years.”

Like his clothes, Nanael thinks fondly, Aziraphale’s form is well-worn and well-loved.

It’s a far cry from the crisp, bright uniform cut they’re used to. Even Nanael is not quite the angel they came here as; they have a favorite sweater, one that used to be vibrant orange and has dulled a bit over the last ten years of near constant use, and their dark hair has begun to grow out recently, long enough now that it needs tucked behind their ear.

Daniel was scandalized the last time she came to visit. She asked them if this was some sort of peevish rebellion, a faux-Fall. But it doesn’t feel like that, not really. It feels like— letting go of a breath they’ve been holding for so long they don’t remember why they were holding it in the first place. It feels like being allowed to breathe.

“And—“ Crowley starts, then looks like he regrets it. “Well. Wanted to make sure I was recognizable.”

Aziraphale looks delighted by him. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Shut up, angel, I swear to someone, this is why I wasn’t going to bloody say it— “

Warlock is laughing and Nanael is trying not to, and Aziraphale is smiling with such warmth that Nanael is beginning to understand how he was able to defy Heaven, why he was willing to risk so much. Nanael is beginning to understand what was at stake.

“I’d have recognized you,” Aziraphale says. He seems to have forgotten his worries for the moment, and for all his annoyed bluster, maybe that was partly Crowley’s plan. “No matter what you look like, or what you call yourself. I’d know you anywhere.”

Whether by chance or design— and Nanael is so hoping it’s the former, as the latter is too worrisome a concept to sit well in their stomach— they are alone again in the shop the next time an unfortunately-familiar demon comes calling.

“Hoo-ee,” she says with a toothy grin, knocking on the doorframe to announce herself even after the bell above the door has done that job. Maybe she just likes making noise. “How are sales, little angel? Booming?”

“Heavens, no,” Nanael says, affronted. They clutch the collection of short stories they’re reading to their chest protectively. “Could you imagine what Aziraphale would say if he found out I’d sold a book?”

The demon pauses mid-step. She doesn’t seem to know what to make of Nanael for a moment, and then visibly circumvents her confusion.

“Alright then. Bold business choice.” Her fingers tap the surface of a shelf that hasn’t moved since the early eighteen hundreds. “But if his shop’s been open this long, maybe he knows something I don’t.”

Nanael watches her from behind the counter as she picks her way through the shop.

“You don’t know him,” they say after a moment. “Either of them. You just let me think that you do.”

She flashes another grin, this one much nastier than the first. “Demon,” she says, as if just that says all she needs to.

“I won’t let you hurt them,” Nanael feels it fair to point out. They can feel some ancient sleeping thing inside them stirring at the very thought. Their hands tighten around the book they’re holding and they set it down, to avoid the horror of a cracked spine. “If that’s what you’ve come here to do, you ought to reconsider.”

They could best this demon in a fair fight, Nanael thinks, studying them. And if it was an unfair fight, which they are almost certain it would be, then they’ve had ten years of friendship with Warlock by now, and if that isn’t preparation enough for a dishonorable brawl then nothing would be.

The demon laughs shortly. “You don’t waste any time, I’ll give you that. Believe it or not, I’m not here to start a ruckus.”

Nanael doesn’t believe it. “Just last winter, a demon showed up on Duke Hastur’s orders to kill Crowley. And now here you are again. Checking their progress?”

“Bless me,” she says, the way some humans say “bugger me” when they’ve received unpleasant news. “No, alright? I had nothing to do with it. I told Dagon to leave him to me.”

She visibly backtracks— and physically takes a step back, too— at whatever Nanael’s expression looks like just then.

“I mean I wanted them to leave him alone. I’m certainly not going to do anything to him, and if I’m the only one on the case, he’s golden.”

Nanael can feel their decorative heart racing— not with fear, or excitement, but with the knowledge that something is going to happen. They’re standing behind the counter now, book forgotten, staring at the demon the way they stare at their jigsaw puzzles, trying to make uncertain edges meet.

“You said Crowley was cursed,” they say, still wounded by the memory all these years later. “You thought it was funny.”

She throws up her hands. “Just my luck, that the serpent has an entourage of pet angels. How does he attract your lot, anyway? Holy bird feed?”

Nanael can hear the roar of the Bentley outside. Their family, coming home.

Nanael lifts their hand, and their scepter manifests for the first time in several hundred years. It parts itself from the ether to meet their palm, the grip of it certain and familiar and warm to the touch. They remember, only vaguely, when they last held this weapon and safe-guarded a city, hundreds of human lives kept under their faithful watch. This is not the same— it’s only a dusty little bookshop in Soho, it’s only three people— but it feels every bit as important.

“Go away,” Nanael says.

By the time the door opens again moments later, the demon is gone and Nanael’s hands are empty and the wards have been reset with a thought. Aziraphale primly flips the Open sign to Closed, even though it’s still early yet, and Crowley is unloading bags of take-away food on the nearest table, and Warlock is running a practiced path through the front of the shop to where Nanael is standing behind the counter.

“That movie was wicked,” Warlock says, shining with enthusiasm. “I know you said you wanted to stay in and read or whatever, but next time just smuggle the book into the cinema, okay, you really missed out!”

“Oi, hellion, leave them alone,” Crowley calls over. He takes something wrapped in green ribbon out of one of the reusable supermarket bags, a familiar pastry box with a familiar cake inside. “You know how angels are with their books. Cinema’s overpriced garbage, anyway, some of my best work.”

Warlock rolls his eyes. Aziraphale touches his hair fondly as he goes past, and then touches Nanael’s shoulder in much the same way.

“Thank you for looking after the shop while we were gone, my dear,” he says to Nanael. “It’s such a relief to know you’re here.”

Nanael takes them all in, their noise and their bickering and their aggrieved affection for one another, the mismatched chairs dragged over to a table by the wide window where passersby sometimes get to take pictures of a sunning shop snake, the seat left open for Nanael in front of their favorite tea and their favorite croissant sandwich and their favorite Battenberg cake.

Nanael is nothing special. They know that. But with what little they have— with what little they are— they’ll protect this goodness they’ve managed to find.

Daniel is sitting on the far side of the table, poking at a half-melted milkshake with an inscrutable expression on her face. She never seems to know what to make of Nanael these days.

“You’re trying to…”

“Undo the curse,” Nanael says, hardly looking up from the book they’ve smuggled out of the shop. It’s so old that they worry what might happen if a human were to get their hands on it, which is how they justified the theft to their guilty Aziraphale-shaped conscience. It’s taking them a conscious, extended miracle to keep from doing the brittle pages any harm. “The first one.”

“The first one,” she parrots blankly.

Nanael pauses. “Not that Crowley has been cursed multiple times. Um, that I know of. I just meant the first curse in general. Warlock and I have been calling it the Chapter One Curse. The book had barely even started at that point, and already— “

“Nanael,” their sister says. “You cannot undo God’s decisions.”

They should have known she’d be no help. They go back to flipping pages somewhat petulantly, strengthening their miracle so the fragile book survives a less mindful handling.

“Nanael,” Daniel says, something dangerous creeping into her tone.

“It’s not wrong,” Nanael says, finally lifting their head. “It doesn’t feel wrong. It’s just— helping. I think God must have forgotten She put that curse on him, because he certainly doesn’t deserve it.”

Daniel stands up, so sharply her chair screeches across the linoleum. A few humans glance over from where their own conversations were interrupted, and a distant part of Nanael feels a bit embarrassed for causing a scene in their favorite chippy.

“You’ve spent too much time down here. You need to come home.”

“I won’t,” Nanael says frankly.

She moves around to them, kneels by their chair and takes their hands. “You’re too opinionated. You’ve been thinking too much without anyone to guide you. You’re asking too many questions. You’ll Fall.”

“I won’t,” Nanael says again, squeezing her hands, moved by her sincere, if misguided, fear for them. “I don’t doubt Her, Danny, I promise I don’t. You were there when the holy water didn’t kill Crowley. You’ve seen that he’s different. I don’t think She meant this for him. Or if She did, then maybe She meant for someone to fix it. Maybe She meant for me to be here all along.”

The thought fills them with warmth. It gives Daniel something to think about, too.

“Heaven will be lesser without you, emmer,” she says after what feels like a long time. “Please be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Even if I were to Fall, you’d know where to find me,” Nanael tells her, smiling. “We could still get chips and milkshakes whenever you’d like.”

It coaxes a smile out of her, too. She rises enough to kiss them on the forehead, a blessing slipping over them like cool water, and lets it stand as a goodbye.

Hardly ten seconds later, someone throws their full weight into her vacated chair with a theatrical groan.

“Christ, I thought she’d never leave.”

Nanael is hardly surprised by now to find themself looking across the table at their unfortunate demon acquaintance. She wiggles her fingers at them in greeting.

“You couldn’t think running me off once would be enough to keep me gone, eh?”

“One could hope,” Nanael says grimly. They close their book and miracle it back to its shelf at the shop, and then starts gently bending the minds of the humans in the room around them, urging them to remember important business or forgotten appointments elsewhere. Even the line cook and the cashier step into the back of the restaurant for a well-deserved break.

If there’s trouble to be had, Nanael doesn’t want anyone else involved.

The demon looks mildly impressed by the empty dining room. She stretches a bit in her chair, easing off the tight grip on her mortal form just enough that her horns poke through the ether. It looks like someone kicking off their shoes after a long day.

It doesn’t look like someone about to start a fight.

“I have something for you.” She reaches into her jacket. “A peace offering, if you will. Or— an apology.”

That last word seems to leave a bitter taste in her mouth, but she doesn’t take it back. She slides a parcel across the table, something wrapped in worn but serviceable leather, and Nanael… well. They’ve developed a bit of a weakness when it comes to gifts. They don’t hesitate long enough to constitute any good sense before reaching out eagerly to unwrap it.

A book falls into their hands. The thick, velvety cover is empty of any author or title, and the pages are likewise blank. As Nanael thumbs through it, faint words dart across the empty spaces like a school of minnows, following the path of their eyes.

“I stole it,” the demon says plainly. “Don’t ask me who from. He’ll probably never notice it missing, but if he does, you won’t want to be involved.”

A forbidden book. Nanael clutches it a little tighter. There are always very useful things to learn in books you’re forbidden to read.

“The way I see it, God didn’t curse the serpent, She changed him. You won’t find a cure for something like that. Maybe, though, you can find a counter.”

Nanael’s mind is racing. “Curse him again?”

“With something good.” The demon scratches the side of her nose. “Never heard of any curse like that, but you look a bookish type. Maybe you’ll figure it out. And maybe I’ll pop in every now and again, to see how you’re getting on.”

It’s more of a plan than Nanael had five minutes ago, and after a decade of careful thought. They look at the demon gratefully. “Thank you.”

She relaxes a bit, with the gift having gone over well. “Funny old world it is nowadays, with angels saying thank you to demons.”

“Don’t be tiresome,” Nanael says, exhausted with that party line. “What do you get out of this, anyway? Why are you so interested in Crowley?”

“Not telling,” the demon says cheerfully, and snags what’s left of Daniel’s milkshake. She takes a noisy slurp through the straw, probably just to be irritating, and adds, “Good luck with your curse. I‘ll be seeing you, Principality.”

“Nanael,” they correct peevishly, before she can get more than two steps away.

“Gremory,” the demon replies, shooting them a smile that’s all teeth. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

Well, Nanael thinks once they’re alone again and the chippy is filling up around them with bemused customers, at least that’s something of an arrangement.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #aziracrow #principality nanael #my writing #gomens fic #is there a better bet than love #nanael: its ok we have an arrangement #crowley (squawking): a WOT

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satan-chillin · 5 years

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The Path to Redemption is a Winding One

Summary: Rowena dies at the hands of Sam Winchester in all accordance with their entwined destiny. Let it be said that her afterlife is neither Heaven nor Hell, but rather back in the year 2004 where the first Apocalypse is on the works, and with all her previous memories intact.

Warnings: Trigger warning for graphic description of torture.

Notes:

It’s a time-travel fix-it fic, dearies.

It’s a 20k words fic, so yes, it’s a long ass read.

The fic is also written long before the 15x03 “The Rupture” episode so don’t expect it to be 100% canon-compliant.

Also, this is a Gabriel/Rowena fanfic with mentions of SamWitch/Samwena that’s why it’s posted under the SamWena/SamWitch tag. It ain’t a Sabriwena, nor is it a triangle. Sorry, chiefs, but I do hope you enjoy this for the Rowena content alone. :)

Don’t worry, I’m planning to write a SamWena/SamWitch time-travel fix-it too.

Also available in Ao3 & FF.net

Rowena was no stranger to death.

She had had her encounters throughout the centuries, but there were only three deaths she deemed significant. This was the third; an expected one, in fact, since two years ago when she was told who would have done her for good. It hardly came as a surprise that it would be Sam because a witch dying by the hands of either Winchester wasn’t exactly news. Rowena took comfort knowing who would it be, and she supposed there could be worse candidates (i.e., Lucifer in whatever vessel). A girl couldn’t really choose who would kill her, but, morbidly it might sound, she lucked out that it would be by Sam Winchester’s hands.

What she wasn’t expecting, however, was the bond that formed between the two of them, how their shared trauma paved a way for the tentative understanding that in turn formed an occasional alliance. The trust came in last, brought by desperation and necessity that had her make decisions she would hardly consider a year ago. Rowena hated it, at first, that this huge lumbering man could make her uncharacteristic. She blamed it at her prolonged exposure to the brothers that she likened to letting a wound fester bare to infection until she was forced to live with it, to live with the knowledge that she was inching closer to the Winchesters’ inner circle.

Rowena had kept her distance when she came to understand how Fergus had become lapdog to the brothers. Rowena never felt the need to justify her actions before, and yet there was something satisfying to be in the side of good—at least, the Winchester brand of ‘good’ that was primarily concerned with the safety of many. For all her claims that the brothers owed her, Rowena liked the feeling of giving her natural talents as an aid. It had felt like an accomplishment.

She remembered Sam’s knowing look, and he understood.

Rowena pretended to be reluctant, but she was always there. She was there when there was an alternate universe with people that needed saving; she was there when Dean was ridden by an archangel equally as terrible as Lucifer; she was there when Jack was close to dying; she was there when Jack lost his soul; she was there when God left the world to ruin. Rowena was there until the end that brought pretty much everyone together.

And against her better judgment allowed herself to grow close to the Winchesters Bunch who was bad news.

Rowena observed how the dynamic of the Winchester brothers worked with their resident angel and noted that each shared varying degrees of relationship with each other. She learned that Castiel, while he treated himself as the guardian of the brothers, was more prone to exchange his life for Dean than Sam. She hadn’t been privy to the exact nature of the connection between the older Winchester and the angel, though she had noticed the subtle—blatant, in her opinion—signs that hinted stronger affections that surpassed that of mere friendship. What was ridiculous that it went both ways that had the person in the nearest vicinity of the two, usually the younger Winchester, painfully overwhelmed at all the unrepentant eyesex.

While the exchange had been around for an uncomfortably long time, it had an unforeseen consequence of Sam drawing nearer to the first person also left out of the Dean-Castiel loop: her.

Unlike his brother, Sam found it mandatory to connect with the people in their side, and often Rowena was his target, thinking that she might not have fitted in a group largely composed of hunters who would have hunted her kind if not for the present end of times then. Rowena didn’t indulge him with the knowledge that he assumed right, instead reveled on the unspoken sort of protection that came with being a trusted and proven ally of the Winchesters for some years, reluctant or otherwise.

The thing was, Rowena wasn’t expecting the small talks and sharing of secrets during sleepless nights, where there was also a point in time that talking about Lucifer included making fun of him. Sam was a naturally curious lad who asked several things about the 17th century on some evenings, and there were questions about how Rowena maneuvered through the witch trials, the subject which usually led to memorable anecdotes and informal lectures on little tricks that someone of Sam’s skill could manage when in a tight spot.

During the small spaces of free time when they weren’t both poring over thick volumes, Sam had the irrational habit to take her words personally, always under the notion that Rowena was telling him her deepest secrets and feelings; they weren’t, or at least, she thought they were not. Sam must have noticed the sincere fondness in her expression when recounting about Fergus in his wee age, when she spoke of her eagerness to learn and prove herself to be the strongest witch in her youth, when she told him what made her immortality worth it, and when she shared about the places in the world she would like to see again after all this, if she survived this.

Rowena remembered how Sam’s large hand gently squeezed her small ones and promised her that she would, that they would. Together.

And the fool that she was for a strong and honest man who liked making promises, Rowena believed. She relished in the fact that Sam told her numerous experiences in and out of hunting, of his encounters with various women who usually met unfortunate ends as if talking to Sam alone sealed their fates. She heard about a special woman named Jessica that Sam still held dearly in his heart and whose passing was dulled with time and the deaths of the demons responsible for her death. Rowena knew of this; after all, she had read Chuck’s books and had muddled through the terrible writing to get information before, but hearing the words came from Sam himself was quite different, especially when hearing bits and pieces that weren’t included in those Chuck-forsaken books.

She caught herself wondering one night if Chuck would write her as a rather disposable character whose intelligence and a strong sense of self-preservation she used to have pride in decayed overtime after allowing herself to grow close to the person she should have avoided in the first place. Mayhap she was finally the vapid heroine that starred in cheesy novels.

Though if Rowena was to be a character in a book, she would like to think it was in a work of tragedy of epic proportions, especially when the last passage of her story was about her and a killing blow delivered by none other than Sam Winchester.

Personally, Rowena approved of the choice: a knife in the heart was the most intimate manner of death by a man that she could think of, and trust Samuel Winchester to make the affair poignant and, pun intended, very close to the heart.

What ruined it was Sam’s profuse whispers of apologies, cradling her close and his face hovering over her as he spilled ungodly manly tears. The old her would have found such display irksome, that she wasn’t someone worth mourning over, but she was that woman no longer, was she? Enough that something affectionate in her regretted that Sam Winchester ended up with another blood on his hands, that she would be leaving him like this, emotionally vulnerable and raw. Belatedly, Rowena thought that maybe she should have kept up the evil, bitter, and petty skank image, just so Sam wouldn’t blame his lonesome self for finishing who he now considered a friend that he promised he would bend his fate for.

Rowena wasn’t stranger to death, but this wasn’t as simple as the previous two, was it? It wasn’t about the finality of it at all but rather on the person who was on the other side of it.

Touching his cheek was a chore after the immense bleeding, but Rowena hated that Sam would cry over this, over her, a less significant character compared to Chuck’s protagonists. For all they knew, Chuck could be writing the scene with the need to finish a character that overstayed its welcome; or probably for additional angst; or perhaps he didn’t know what to do with Rowena’s role in the story; it could be out of keeping tradition of killing off the female who connected with Sam Winchester; it could have been plain boredom while Chuck watched his story unfold.

If Rowena was truly subjected to Chuck’s will, then it wouldn’t be incongruous of a dramatic woman that she was if she told Sam that it was alright and had to be done, that she was thankful that it was him who would put her at peace.

Rowena’s life ended with a final kiss to one of the big bloody heroes of the story.

Rowena sat up, gasping, with the sharp pain of being stabbed in the chest ebbing away.

She rubbed on her skin, and there was nary a trace of the wound there, not even a scar. Faintly, she recalled that she must be in what passed as limbo temporarily while the whole Chuck ordeal resolved itself to bring back the order in Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Frankly, she was amused that she wasn’t delivered straight to the pits of Hell just yet.

In a world with varying sets of beliefs and only one true creator, Rowena guessed this was what encompassed as a limbo: a familiar place to the person in it. It was pretty underwhelming for an afterlife; it wasn’t even a particular memory she held fondly.

Rowena sighed. She would have to get used to having a long stay at this three-star hotel in Scotland.

Or was she?

There was something that nagged inside her mind aside from the familiarity of her surroundings. She had been here before, yes, but more than that, it felt lived in.

Tentatively, Rowena pulled the drapes aside and saw the city’s roads with a couple of vehicles and a few people out in the early morning Scotland weather. Alright, so it was quite detailed for nitpicking.

She backed away from the window and believed that she was thinking too much about this when she should be having her peace for Chuck’s sake. She would think that this included plenty of beauty sleep she had neglected.

There was ringing coming from the nightstand. Rowena raised an eyebrow at the flipped phone and picked it up to answer.

A harsh exhale could be heard before a tirade passed through the speakers.

Rowena pulled the phone away with a grimace, muffling the irritating sound. Amidst her growing annoyance and confusion, the nagging returned in a manner that she recognized.

Rowena knew she’d been here before; she’d been here in this exact moment in time years ago that seemed distant.

And it came back to her in increments: the angry woman on the phone was someone who accused her of fraudulence, a person who had insulted her capabilities after Rowena purposefully gave her a love potion that failed to work. Rowena remembered the handsome man intended to receive the potion and how she greatly desired the man for herself. The woman she conned was wrong—Rowena’s creation did work, only that it served its purpose to its creator instead.

Blearily, Rowena cut the call and focused on the displayed date.

2004.

Bullocks.

By some twist of fate, she traveled back in time.

Trust her to interpret it as a wrench thrown in the works than a second chance that shouldn’t be possible for a person like her.

It shouldn’t be possible for anyone, certainly not after the creator of the world decided to leave it all to shambles and discarded his creation like his old used toys that a child overgrew. Chuck wouldn’t be this generous to bring someone back in the past with the memories of the future intact.

Angels could, but as far as Rowena knew, Castiel was the only angel left on their side, not to mention fallen and with hardly any grace left. He wasn’t even around when she died.

And she did die. That wasn’t some dream or a scrying session, of that she was sure. She couldn’t have imagined Samuel’s weeping over her body. She couldn’t…

Oh, god. Samuel.

He was young around this time, not that seasoned hunter that she got to know better. He was practically a child compared to her. He was free of the burden of Lucifer. And if her calculation was correct, he wasn’t even back on hunting just yet, enjoying his respite from that life and thinking he completely escaped it for the mundane and normal pursuits.

Her mind reeled at the possibilities in her hands, the changes she could make not only for herself but for those that she cared for. She didn’t know whether to take the situation as a gift or a curse to relive all her terrible choices once more.

But by Morgana, this was something she wasn’t aware she needed until now.

Innocent Oskar was alive, and with all her power she would keep him away from her. What happened to that kind boy was all on her and no one else’s.

Her son was alive in Hell, not yet the King of the Damned, but a King nonetheless. Fergus could bloody well be a low-level salesman of Hell and she wouldn’t care. She could see him again, the person she once thought a remembrance of her greatest mistake. She could do it right this time.

Rowena crumpled on the floor in a torrent of sentiments, a mess in every sense of the word.

She put aside the planning for the meantime. For now, she allowed herself a moment to wallow in a curious mix of grief and elation.

Rowena was onboard the first flight to States by evening.

Fortunately, the travel time gave her some quiet time to carefully plan the moves she intended to make once she landed. She had been sorely tempted to prepare a summoning ritual for Fergus the minute she started to keep it all together; the ritual was, after all, a walk in the park for a witch of her caliber. But a more rational introspective reminded her that Fergus around this time wasn’t the same Fergus she reconnected with after three centuries.

There was more Crowley in Fergus now, wired closely to a callous demon than a humanized one. There was no love lost between them that would allow a semblance of affection from Crowley.

If she had attempted to summon Fergus, he would kill her quickly, at best.

It was difficult to sleep by the time she was settled in, her mind brimming with ideas on how to best make use of the situation. Was she alone in this venture? If not, then she has to find them soon. Working alone was ideal in most cases but not on this. Hopefully, if she did manage to find someone, it was a person previously on the Winchesters’ side, else it would pose as a huge hurdle she would have to deal with as well.

Rowena gave up on rest, getting a pen and paper instead to write down a temporary outline that followed a chronological flow. She disliked having to rely solely on her memory of Chuck’s books in regards to the major events that happened since the year 2005 onwards, but then again, having a single Supernatural book at hand would make things a bit easier, and she wasn’t under the illusion it would be so.

There was always the option to approach the Winchesters in person and explain the circumstances. Rowena scratched the idea away. Knowing them and their former black and white moral compass most especially to witches, it was the riskiest move. Not to mention, the notorious John Winchester who she wasn’t keen on meeting.

If she was truly well and alone, then she would make do.

The Crossroads Demon that greeted her was a woman with full lips curled into a sly smirk, appraising Rowena and humming in appreciation at what she saw.

“A witch,” the demon purred. “To what do I owe the pleasure of meeting such a pretty little thing?”

“I’m sure you already know, dearie,” Rowena replied with a saccharine smile.

“Perhaps,” the demon agreed, circling Rowena and trailing a finger across her shoulders. Rowena shivered. “But witches don’t usually come first to our branch. They prefer the direct approach than through a mediator, which, as they say, is faster, but I’d say they tend to forget the risk.” She sighed wistfully, twirling a lock of Rowena’s red curls. “Nonetheless, I’m here to provide you the best service. You may borrow from a demon and remain bound to my contract that guarantees security against an untimely death before ten years. What do you say, darling?”

Rowena has no time for petty sales talk, though she couldn’t help but mock. “I’m sure you’re not blind, dear girl, and you can see that borrowing a meager amount of power from a demon is the least of my needs.”

The demon’s smile faltered slightly and then twitched back to amusement. “Interesting. A strong, immortal witch. Old too,” she drawled. “Pray tell what you desire, madam. Is it eternal youth?” She cupped Rowena’s face, sharp nails grazing her cheeks. “Perhaps not. Neat work on the beauty spell.”

Rowena didn’t bother to hide rolling her eyes. Eternal youth for a ten-year contract? Please.

“Oh.” The demon’s look turned predatory as if it found what it was looking for while she searched Rowena’s face. “A man. Had the potions not worked?” She grinned knowingly. “No matter. He’ll be worshipping the ground you walk on, and he shall pour all his unconditional love for you.” Her eyes trailed lower with unadulterated desire. “As early as tonight he’ll make love to you like he hadn’t known passion, yearn only for you and no one else. He’ll know no greater beauty and derive pleasure only for you and from you.”

“Aye. It is a man,” Rowena said, swallowing thickly. She hated that she had been neglecting her needs. No matter; two could play this game. “And you might have known him by the name of Crowley.”

The demon tensed, pulling away in surprise at hearing the name directly coming from a human.

“Your boss, dearie. The King of the Crossroads.”

“I see that you know him,” the demon said once she recovered. “Left you used and empty?” She snorted derisively. “I must say, I didn’t know he got involved with witches. The others don’t know it, but I’ve noticed his strong dislike for your kind. You must be special.”

“Very,” Rowena said dryly.

“Unfortunately, I can’t give you the boss. Protocol and all that. I admire your gall, though.”

“Och. Nothing drastic like that. I simply want to give him something.” Rowena pulled out an ornate envelope.

“A love letter?” The demon kept her hand from plucking the letter from Rowena’s hands. She noted how guarded the demon became. “Charming. And you want me as your glorified mail courier? As unexciting this is, this is a first in my career.”

“Far from a love letter, but a letter written in love.” Rowena handed her the envelope. “Now don’t go be stupid to take a peek. It’s enchanted to be opened only by the person intended for,” she advised playfully.

Rowena could see how it irked the demon, though she relented, and with a snap, the letter was gone. “Done. Delivered to the boss’s pile.”

Well, who would have thought it would be this quick? Rowena grinned in satisfaction. “Now come here and let me pay you for the job well done, dearie.”

The demon was enthusiastic to get into Rowena’s space, latching a firm hand on her hip. Rowena ran her palms on the demon’s waist and slowly crept from her breasts to shoulders, lips making feathery touches from the jaw to an earlobe.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much I’ve been missing my son,” Rowena whispered breathlessly, slipping an inconspicuous ball of cloth before abruptly pulling away.

The demon let out an inhuman screech, violently coughing out black ooze as she doubled over. “You!” It seethed, wailing in pain. “What is—How did you—”

“Consider it a treat, darling.” Rowena flipped her hair. “Give a kiss to my son for me, will you?” She watched as the demon writhed in utter suffering on the ground for several seconds, cursing Rowena and her entire bloodline, before slumping lifelessly. “Or not.”

Rowena blinked, and with a pang of pity for the poor vessel, she crouched down to gingerly shut her eyes. She murmured a quick spell and the hex bag and the body burst into a bright flame, engulfing Rowena with heat that seeped to her bones.

Out of respect for the dead, Rowena lingered until the body was no more.

Rowena caught herself staring in front of the mirror and noticed a younger face in the reflection.

It was an odd thing to take note of given her age that was nowhere near youthfulness, but the subtle differences were there, like the laugh lines and small crow’s feet that she gained in the last five years were gone, replaced with smoother and firmer skin. She closely resembled the person she used to be, the proud witch untouched by time that never had the pleasure of meeting Lucifer.

If there was something else she took comfort in her newfound situation, it was that Lucifer remained locked up in a cage. She would’ve hoped for eternity, though with the amount of Apocalypse that happened in the previous years of her time, it was probably asking for too much.

Rowena frowned in the sudden realization that with her foreknowledge, she could stop that herself.

As quick as the idea formed, there came in the numerous issues she could already see. First, the Apocalypse was a divine concerto planned for several millennia, with both sides actively working towards the same goal. Second, Heaven and Hell were both in their peak, the former with its garrisons of angels and the latter with its generals loyal to Lucifer. Third, Rowena was working alone with neither the Book of the Damned and the Black Grimoire, which the lack of either shouldn’t pose much of a problem with her intimate knowledge of the contents of both.

Unfortunately, unbound magic or not, Rowena wasn’t suicidal enough to risk facing both Heaven and Hell, and most certainly not without a card up her sleeve.

Or she could let it all play out the same way it did before; the Winchesters would surely put a stop on the end of the world anyway, with or without her aid. Except that choice was making her strangely guilty like she owed the boys this. Hell, Sam himself admitted that they unknowingly caused the first Apocalypse, and Rowena had been occupied with skipping cities and conning desperate women to even know the world was ending.

But no Apocalypse also meant no Lucifer not only for Sam but also for her, and Rowena could see the appeal in that despite the stack of odds. Besides, it wasn’t like she wasn’t there when it was God and The Darkness duking it out, though there were allies back then and God was on their side.

Bloody hell, this was the main reason she was a pagan in the first place.

The initial plan was to indirectly give Sam Winchester an ample protection a witch could provide, until a serious reconsideration forced her to try a different approach that she wasn’t looking forward to try.

Mildly miffed, Rowena took a sip at the stale tea that dared call itself herbal; it did nothing but worsen her ire on the terribly rowdy surroundings and the gaudy shade of green and pink all over the place.

“That bad, huh?” said a male voice. She looked up to the barista who served her earlier. At her raised eyebrow, the young man elaborated, “The hangover.”

No, it was the bloody temporal displacement and the baggage that came along with it, Rowena was close to saying. “Not a hangover,” she muttered in disinterest.

“Not that I’m judging,” the boy said, raising his empty hands slightly. “So where’s the renaissance fair?”

She vaguely wondered why the boy won’t sod off already. “The fair,” she repeated testily.

“You look like you came from one.” The boy smiled impishly. “Or going to.”

If that was supposed to be endearing, then he was failing miserably. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing, dearie?” Rowena asked sweetly.

The boy shrugged. “Hey, you’re rocking them. Just saying you don’t fit with the elements, is all.”

Rowena wrinkled her nose at the gaggle of loud whippersnappers that came in. “Then pray tell how do pajamas in afternoon fit in.”

The barista followed Rowena’s line of sight. “Uh, because this is a university campus and that’s a college student wearing one? And this place is literally named Coffee Beans and Tea Leaves,” he answered like it was the most obvious thing.

“Ah, yes, I forgot I’m blending in with a bunch of hippies.”

The boy chuckled. “First time?”

“What gave it away?”

The tone earned her another huff of laughter. “So will I be seeing you around here often?” He seemed delighted at the prospect. The boy was sorely lacking in propriety.

Kids.

Rowena gazed up at him, found that the boy’s name was Louis, and simpered. “No.”

Rowena stalked the hallways of the campus, getting a few attentions here and there that she ignored for the purpose of finding the damned library of the building, her best bet in finding Sam Winchester and be done with this place.

The clicking of her heels reverberated through the corridor barren of any students except the lone janitor mopping the marble floors. The man looked up as she passed him, and she paid the man no heed as he stopped working and stared.

Rowena slowed once she could see the end of the hall with an opened door. Pausing, she let out an exhale and—

The surroundings changed abruptly to a warehouse.

Whirling around in alarm, Rowena found the janitor behind, observing her with a frown.

He might have done something with her vision as well—she could see his face shifting without a fixed set of features as if its face was scrambling to maintain its looks.

“What are you?” she demanded, fingers twitching in preparation.

“Okay, hear me out, lady,” the man—creature or whatever—suddenly said in a voice that sounded distantly familiar. “If I’m wrong, I’ll remove this encounter from your memory, but if I’m right… You’re here for Sam Winchester too, aren’t you?”

Rowena was immediately on high alert, raising her right hand. Was somebody following her movements? “Again. What. Are. You?”

It let out a sigh that resembled relief of all things. It snapped before Rowena could react, and its face began righting itself in a recognizable one.

Rowena’s eyes widened. “You—What are you doing here?”

Gabriel shrugged, eyes lit up amusedly. “I could ask you the same thing, lady.”

“Same circumstances, huh?”

“Except you missed out on the next two years.”

“No regrets here. Don’t want to see Dad wrathful.”

“Only on humans, Jack, and Castiel.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Dad doesn’t do things by halves. He was probably mad at everyone.”

“Are you here long?” Rowena asked.

“Last I remember was dying in the Apocalypse World, then I woke up a month ago,” he said. “You?”

That was roughly the same time she arrived, give or take a few days. “Same.”

“I’d say this is the Winchesters last-ditched attempt to fix everything, but I doubt it if neither of them knows anything.”

“You mean it’s not you?” Rowena rolled her eyes when Gabriel looked nonplused. “You’re the one who likes faking his own death and with enough mojo to pull it off.”

“That was one time,” Gabriel retorted. “I did die for real, and, no, my grace back then was too low for this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of them. “Actually, I believe it’s Jack.��

“That boy is dead,” Rowena told him somberly. She quite liked the kid and how little of Lucifer there was in him despite being soulless. His heart had been in the right place.

“Sure, but he could be awake where he ended up to, and I don’t know either whether it’s the Empty or Heaven.”

It wasn’t Gabriel, the Winchesters, and they have no proof that it was Jack. And if it really wasn’t the latter, Rowena couldn’t think of anyone else who would trouble themselves and strong enough to hide her and Gabriel’s situation from Chuck.

“Do you think He knows?”

Gabriel took a while to answer. “I won’t be surprised if Dad does.” He then smiled wryly. “As of now, trust me when I said he won’t bother us.”

Rowena wasn’t assured by Gabriel’s nonchalance and certainty. “Why won’t He? He knows about the future we came from, and from mine where his favorite characters pissed him off. I’ll understand if he won’t write off a son of his, but I’m not really held in the same regard.”

“But you are now, one of his important characters, I mean,” Gabriel said with a slight grin. “Dad is a writer—a shitty one, admittedly—who’s damn proud of his magnum opus. The two of us are his greatest plot twists in the story at this very moment, and if there’s one thing writers like the most, it’s creating a major revelation that’ll go down in history.”

When Gabriel put it like that… Rowena couldn’t really speak for Chuck, and if there was anyone who knew him better, it would be an archangel of his. “What do you propose we do?” she asked for the principle of it, knowing the inevitability of how to proceed from then on.

“I may have a few ideas,” Gabriel replied noncommittally, rubbing his chin in thought. “Honestly, I haven’t thought out this far.”

Rowena wasn’t fooled by the mischievous grin that widened almost imperceptibly.

Almost.

She has a bad feeling about this.

When Gabriel suggested they actively participate in the game on board named the Apocalypse 1.0, Rowena wasn’t told that it involved integrating themselves on the university population.

“If Hell already placed one of its agents near Sam, then so should we,” was Gabriel’s excuse.

“Then replicate yourself,” Rowena countered.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

An instructor in World History had apparently been given a grant by a rather generous (and mysterious) organization to pursue his research on the fallen civilization of Greece, promptly making him leave his post at Stanford within the second month of the semester. The faculty was sad to see an esteemed colleague go, while the students were pretty indifferent to the news, mostly claiming that they took part in the class for easy addition of units.

There was a distinctive change in opinion among the student body when Professor Gabe Shurley came in.

Prof. Shurley was a man in his early thirties with a charming personality and a love of puns and innuendos, who knew his stuff though he tended to make outrageous claims out of vague facts, such as insisting that Alexander the Great and Hephaestion’s favorite activity was swordplay, in more ways than one, which his students learned to take in jests. He was creative in his exams and papers, and so was in punishing cheaters that any attempt to commit the act was intentionally causing oneself grievous harm.

Prof. Shurley was a known sweet-tooth in his adorable 5’8’’ glory, with an infamous oral fixation and a notorious crush on the new nurse from the annex building.

Nurse MacLeod was of Scottish descent with a sexy accent, wildfire hair, milky-white skin, and a dancer’s physique that must have meant she was flexible, as per Prof. Shurley’s exact words. She was, more often than not, found with a perpetual scowl as if seemingly displeased with life in general. It intimidated quite a few male students who have no business to be staying in the clinic other than to check out how skimpy Ms. MacLeod’s skirt was for that day, while Prof. Shurley only found the attitude incredibly attractive, occasionally referring to her as ‘Firecracker’ or ‘Tigress’ in his long, wistful waxing of poetic in between lectures.

“I wanna be that stick up her ass,” Prof. Shurley let slip once.

Unbeknownst to everybody else, Prof. Shurley and Ms. MacLeod were living under one roof, occasionally enjoying kinky sex that made Casa Erotica a nursery rhyme video in comparison, though often out of working out some frustrations and clearing their heads. They were, after all, two major players on the replay of the first try at the end of the world.

For two people whose first interaction was a hook up in a library some distant past-future ago, they’ve easily fallen in a routine of keeping up appearances throughout the day, with Rowena taking up to reading volumes upon volumes that Gabriel would give her during the empty clinic. Sometimes with sex included, sometimes they schemed, and sometimes they did both simultaneously (you would be surprised at how ideas sprang during such moments). Gabriel, meanwhile, would pop in and out of town between breaks, bringing her with him on occasions, off to the other side of the globe on multiple occasions for something as simple as a unique ice cream flavor or doing his other job (exacting discipline to those he deemed needed it the trickster way), though frequently for gathering the rare ingredients that Rowena would need for usually modified spells she had taken a particular in, claiming they would be useful for worst-case scenarios.

“I saw some of Azazel’s minions today,” Gabriel said one evening, idly playing with a curl of red hair when Rowena didn’t bat his hand away.

“And?”

“They can’t get in the perimeter,” he answered. “The experiment worked.”

They had drabbled with an experimental spell that consisted of defensive Norse runes and a strong containment curse from the Book of the Damned that Rowena had memorized and repurposed to a repellant hex, which they then tested on the outer walls of the campus. The first layer was done, and all that was left was to weed out the demons within the campus grounds.

“I still don’t understand why you can’t just smite the rest,” Rowena muttered. “Clear them all in one sweep.”

“I would, but, well, I’ll be earning some attention using that much grace, and I’m hiding not only from my original family,” he sounded sheepish.

“Oh?” Rowena leaned on an elbow with interest.

Gabriel blinked, turning. “Right. You don’t know the story.” He glanced away briefly, though his eyes remained distant even when they met hers.

What passed as pillow talk consisted of Gabriel sharing about his time mingling with the pagan deities, making a deal with the actual Loki of Norse Mythology, and of Lucifer’s escape and Odin’s death by his hands that Loki had solely blamed on Gabriel, that in retaliation had him sold to Asmodeus.

Gabriel stopped speaking, and by then Rowena had pieced the bits and pieces she knew from Sam. “I won’t ask if you don’t want to tell,” she said carefully, realizing they fell on a touchy subject.

There was a minute shift in Gabriel’s features that Rowena mistook as a trick of the eye, and he began talking again, though of his early adventures in serving just desserts that caught the Winchesters’ attention, and of shacking up with porn stars in between. Gabriel spoke of much earlier times with the rise of great empires and cities that eventually fall; of the species that once roamed the Earth until it was the time for humans; and of the birth of stars and constellations that Gabriel witnessed himself and tremendously admired.

Rowena didn’t remember falling asleep, though she couldn’t be blamed if it was to the voice of God’s messenger and his fingers carding her hair.

Gabriel left the next day, claiming a sudden business he has to take care of.

Rowena didn’t pry, sending him away with a dismissive hand, chiding him to be quick since, for all their planning, they were yet to make direct contact with Sam Winchester who was an important factor to the sodding Apocalypse and their primary reason in mingling with the college children in the first place.

Gabriel left with a smile that didn’t reach the eyes, and whatever his business was, Rowena thought it must have been personal.

She wasn’t imagining the storm of fury brewing behind his eyes.

A week of Gabriel’s absence, Crowley materialized one evening in the middle of the room.

“Cozy,” he commented, idly looking around. He was thinner and younger, but it was the same vessel she came to know. He raised an eyebrow at a hanging green bathrobe. “Not interrupting, am I?”

Gabriel’s leave was an awfully convenient thing, and it was a stroke of luck that Crowley didn’t appear at the room where she conducted her work. “Took you long enough to drop by,” Rowena said in greeting, cautiously making a move to stand.

“Well, places to be about and paperwork to be done,” Crowley answered, approaching a wall and trailing a hand. “I’ll be honest. I’ve only decided to visit to avoid a… caterwauling group of fanatics situated near my department. One can only hear so much of the untimely death of their dear prince.”

Rowena pretended not to perk in interest at the offhanded remark. She didn’t know the princes of hell aside from Azazel and Asmodeus, and there was one that briefly kept Kelly Kline during her pregnancy. One of the princes died, and if it was one of the three that shouldn’t have prematurely, it only meant that something already changed in this timeline.

“Imagine my surprise when a letter made its way to my desk, delivered by an absent employee when I came looking.” Crowley regarded her fully after checking behind the drapes. “The years have been kind to you.”

“They’re not, my dear,” she disagreed ruefully. “But that is flattering of you.”

“I assume this is related as to why you asked for me,” Crowley said flippantly, stepping closer towards her. “What can I do for you, mother?”

“Have you not read the letter? I only wish to—”

“See me, yes, share a cuppa and trade gossips, yadda, yadda, yadda,” he drawled, producing the letter out of thin air. “Forgive me, Mum, if it all sounds so bogus.”

“Yet you’re here anyway.”

“Color me intrigued when a half-done contract contained my mother’s name,” Crowley said. “All that trouble to earn my attention. For once, I feel the motherly affection.”

Rowena sighed though completely expecting this flair for the dramatics. She was fortunate that he was yet to make a move to hurt her. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No,” Crowley said shortly. “What I’d like is to get to the point and tell me what the Hell you want.”

“Then I have nothing to say, Fergus,” said Rowena patiently.

Crowley raised a finger. “Actually, I think there is one more thing you can tell me.” He crowded Rowena, drawing up to his full stature and stopped by mere inches. “You’ve asked my employee for her boss specifically, meaning you knew where and what I am now after all those years. I would have known if you made a contract with another to come by this information, but I do believe you have a certain aversion to demons and those who deal with them.”

Rowena hesitated. Should she tell the truth? She would, and while she was confident that Fergus would wisely make use of what she knew of the future, it would also mean telling about Gabriel who was in hiding. It wasn’t a matter of Gabriel handling a horde of opposition but rather his confidence in her and the mutual understanding they’ve reached.

“I wish I could tell you, Fergus—”

Crowley’s hand found Rowena’s throat. “I could snap your neck like a twig,” he spoke. “Always wanted that—dreamt of it in the racks.”

Rowena’s lips pursed. “Not that I expect any less. I would have done the same to the mother who had as good as abandoned me in a ditch to pursue her career. I’m glad you inherited my sensibilities, that there’s more of me in you than your father.”

“So I do have a father,” he muttered, despondent.

“Witchcraft can’t stand for a substitute, unfortunately.” Rowena walked away when the fingers loosened, putting a distance. “Also because your dear mother was weak and made a dire mistake.”

Crowley snorted. “Ah, yes, yours truly.”

“I thought so too,” she acquiesced softly. “Learned otherwise the hard way,” she murmured.

Rowena heard a light hum. She hazarded turning her back once she got the intuition that Crowley wasn’t there to kill her. Not yet anyway. She could see him frowning, gauging her critically.

When she turned around, Crowley was gone.

“Hey.” Gabriel was leaning against the doorway when he appeared without a sound by midnight. “Started without me. I’m hurt.”

“I’m sure you can make more.” Rowena watched the red swirl on the wine glass. At the current lighting, it resembled blood. “Salud.”

“Vintage,” he observed, frowning at the taste. “But not old enough.”

An hour of Indian-sitting on the floor and passing bottles after bottles back and forth without speaking, Rowena began feeling the signs of intoxication.

Huh. That answered what her limits were under a sobriety charm. “There’s tingling in my fingers.”

“Okay, that’s it, Legolas.” In swish of his index finger, Gabriel cleared the floor. “We can drown ourselves in a pool of red when all this is over.”

“When will that be, another century?”

“I hope not. Can’t stomach another millennia of family feud.”

“Makes sense, with you picking off Princes of Hell who’s not supposed to die yet.”

Gabriel’s face went stony. “Doesn’t matter if you’re getting all friendly with a demon. The future King of Hell at that,” he shot back sardonically.

Rowena scoffed. “I can’t reconnect with my son now?”

“Except that’s not the same person you knew and died before you. That, what, just because he’s your son he won’t use what you told him?” He laughed humorlessly. “Like, c’mon. You should know him well.”

“You think I don’t?” Rowena challenged. “I do, and that’s why I didn’t say anything. I’ve turned soft and depressingly moral, but I’m not an idiot, you bampot.”

Gabriel huffed. He believed her words, surprisingly, that had him look terribly chastised afterwards.

He slumped heavily next to her, their backs against the side of the bed. “How did we even get here?” he asked after a while.

“I thought we already established that we don’t know.” Rowena sounded defeated.

“Nah. I mean, why are we even here? And that’s not an existential question.”

Rowena’s gaze flickered. She didn’t really have the energy to think at the moment, though she could pinpoint where it all started going shit. “Because your Daddy felt threatened by his dear ‘ol grandson.”

Gabriel seemed like he wanted to defend his father and yet not finding the strength for it. “Sounds about right,” he muttered listlessly. “Frankly, I don’t see the logic. A Nephilim is made up of both his first and favorite creations. Doesn’t that mean it’s two specials in one? And they’re called abominations.”

“Because one with an archangel father can rip the world a new one,” she pointed out. She wasn’t siding in Chuck’s defense, but she could understand how that would be problematic among a bunch of normal humans.

“Please, that one’s on Lucifer for not using a condom,” Gabriel argued, annoyed. “We lucked out with Jack’s good other half and the influence by his three better dads.”

“I’m surprised Michael didn’t do the same to another poor girl. I’m surprised nobody in Heaven thought to use Nephilim as weapons in the Apocalypse.”

“Michael and Raphael are known stickler for rules, but they’re not so—not that heartless, lady.” Gabriel frowned, reconsidering when he realized he used the wrong word. “But angels are no different from men when driven to desperation, so, yeah, I could sorta see them using that as Plan X.”

Rowena let out a delicate snort. “That’s reassuring.”

“Mmhm. They won’t, though. They’re too proud to lay with those they consider beneath them.” Gabriel playfully nudged her shoulder with his. “I’d say they’re missing out a lot.”

That has to be the worst come-on Rowena received from him. She rolled her eyes. “I’m pleased you never bothered lecturing your brethren.”

“Lecture them? Please.” Gabriel jutted his chin in thought. “Though it did enter my mind. Siring one, I mean. But it wouldn’t have been a Nephilim. There’s no word for it.”

“An offspring of an archangel and?”

“A Hindu Goddess,” he said with a toothy grin. “Kali, specifically. Think what a ferocious little beast our kid’s gonna be. His Mum’s a war goddess, his Dad’s the best-looking trickster angel there is. He’ll be getting good genes.”

“Aye. Or he could be short with ten heads, ten arms and legs. Ferocious little beast, indeed.”

Gabriel mock-pouted. “You wound me. What about ours though? If I don’t love Dad enough to fuck him over, I’d suggest we make a Nephilim. Can you imagine one born from a natural witch and an archangel?”

And unlike Kelly Kline, Rowena would make sure not to die from childbirth. “Better a girl to inherit my abilities,” she added, sliding on Gabriel’s lap easily.

“A witch Nephilim.” Gabriel’s grin was stretched too wide at the prospect. “Dad will hate her more than Jack, and not only because of her mojo. The sass that kid’s gonna have.”

“Imagine the mouth she’ll have,” Rowena murmured against Gabriel’s neck.

“I think I can,” he said, patting the side of Rowena’s head when she nibbled on his earlobe. “The mother’s, ah, proof of it.”

Rowena pulled away, chuckling a little. “Bit too sweet, dear,” she said slyly, standing to disappear to the bathroom, leaving him ambling around for the better part of three minutes until the bathroom door went ajar.

Gabriel didn’t need any prompting to take it as an invitation.

Autumn break rolled in without much fanfare and any difficult encounters; Sam Winchester included. After finishing the layers of defense that theoretically should resist both angels and demons alike, it was tremendously dull, the days dragging and with hardly anything to distract Rowena.

The peak of the month was when Gabriel had enlisted her assistance the week previous on a project that Rowena didn’t get many details on aside from setting a special ‘surprise’ for someone, which Gabriel worded with utter enthusiasm and a glint of mischief. With the specific warding he asked of her and upon discovering the abundance of sulfur and salt on the ingredients he had fetched for her, Rowena concluded that the someone was a demon.

While she knew Gabriel wouldn’t keep it from her if she asked, Rowena didn’t want to indulge him. She was happy to be occupied in the meantime.

Rowena should know better than to trust a trickster.

Apparently, Prof. Shurley was well-liked by practically everybody that when he instigated a Halloween party and handed out an invitation by word of mouth, double the amount of students of a single class appeared at the front steps of his bloody frat house conjured out of the blue for catering to a single party that Gabriel deemed special.

Rowena wouldn’t have been there, with the drunk and children in garish costumes exchanging spits left and right, if she didn’t read more into his giddiness belying a hidden agenda that Gabriel didn’t deem necessary to say outright.

Perhaps it was for the best, seeing as not an hour in, Gabriel sought her with his arm wrapped around familiarly to a tall boy who he introduced from his class.

“Ro, I want you to meet Sam Wesson, the finest student of World History 101,” Gabriel eagerly introduced.

While the flannel was a familiar sight, Rowena first noticed the long hair that extended above Sam’s eyes, then made an observation that answered the question of whether a younger Sam was already a tall drink of water. She imagined quite a few scenarios before how her meeting with a young Sam would go down.

Sam reminding Rowena of a cattle breed from Scotland wasn’t one of them.

“Sam, this is Ms. MacLeod which I’m sure you’ve heard of from me every day,” Gabriel told Sam in turn, winking saucily. “Who is now a muse of mine after my own heart.”

Sam looked abashed to be within the proximity of Gabriel’s hyperbolized flirting. “Hello, ma’am,” he greeted politely.

“Aren’t you a little shy for your own good, Samuel?” Rowena couldn’t resist teasing, making Sam flinch a bit at the name. “It is Samuel, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam smiled tightly, a tad sadly. “If you’ll excuse me. I think I just saw my friend stumble and hit his head.”

“You scared the kid,” Gabriel said, watching with Rowena Sam’s retreating back after a hasty exit.

“I’m not the one who’s acting like his long-time friend,” she retorted.

“Technically, that’s right,” he replied cheekily. “’sides, that’s Prof. Shurley for you. He’s friends with everyone, to the reluctant or otherwise.” Gabriel jerked his red solo cup to the direction Sam disappeared to. “Also, I don’t think Samsquatch’s lying. I did see someone about to hurl his guts out.”

“What in the world are you giving these kids?” Not that Rowena could care less; she simply wasn’t looking forward to a couple of mewling children complaining about the most massive hangover of their lives tomorrow.

“Nothing harmful, trust me,” Gabriel said before tipping the contents of his cup in one gulp. “To humans, that is.”

A boy was making his way to the door in a stumble, unnoticed, and as if ran over by a truck, sweaty and disheveled. Sensing eyed on him, the boy whirled, his eyes unfocused and furious like a cornered wild animal.

When his eyes zeroed on Gabriel’s steady ones, the boy’s face drained of what little color it had.

Brady almost tore the door off its hinges in his hurry. He would have if every fiber of his self-preservation weren’t screaming for him to flee this deathtrap of a house.

He couldn’t believe he was caught off-guard after his instincts already picked up a weak thrum of protective magic surrounding the place, the kind that he chalked up to the house being old and previously in possession of a religious family. Brady would have been suspicious, but that meant putting credit to this hedonistic dunce of a man who called himself a teacher. See, this was the kind of humans Hell profited on.

Brady took comfort on the human stupidity, particularly those of people around Sam Winchester. It made his job easier, albeit dull and mawkish when keeping up appearances as Winchester’s close friend. Still, a job well-done to Lord Azazel was a job without any form of hindrance.

That was until a small dose of holy water inexplicably made its way to his drink.

Brady had felt the liquid burn his throat and esophagus first before it burned his mouth, making him rush to the restroom and vomited what he could heave out. What he excreted was a mix of red chunks and black phlegm that had him forcing two more fingers down his throat in order to remove the contaminant out of his system before it killed the vessel from the inside.

The regeneration of the portion of his tongue and lips was slow, and for a second, he feared that the concoction—he refused to believe it was as simple as holy water at this point—did lasting harm to his vessel. He couldn’t afford a change now, not when the vessel was personally given to him by Lord Azazel. His vessel’s death meant death for him as well.

Brady left the restroom, deliriously looking around every face in the cramped living room. Was it a hunter? He knew of the restlessness among the lower ranks. Rumors had been floating around that Lord Azazel’s foot soldiers were being put down one by one, and judging by the skill and how precise the tracks were covered, it was a seasoned hunter that, much to his surprise, wasn’t John Winchester. That was the last news Brady had heard from Hell.

No, it couldn’t be that hunter. Only Lord Azazel and he were aware of his mission, the main reason why Brady couldn’t risk an attempt to investigate on his own the sudden disruption in his connection, not to mention the lack of reachable henchmen he could order.

Then who the fuck was it? Who was stupid enough to dare obstruct—

Brady chanced to turn around and he realized too late that he got his answer.

A fucking archangel.

No, no, no—it was supposed to be only Michael and it would be years before they deal with him! The Apocalypse would officially start when Lord Lucifer was finally freed, and only then would Michael and the Heavenly Host in his back would make their opposing move. Nobody said that Heaven would send out an agent to foil the plan.

With Raphael known to be on the side of bringing the Apocalypse to fruition, there was only one archangel left who remained neutral on the matter and who hadn’t been seen for thousands of years.

Gabriel’s divinity was obscured by the pagan entity he was wearing, though it wasn’t enough to completely dim the intensity of his grace. He could wear layers upon layers of pagan entities and they wouldn’t suppress his true identity.

Or maybe that was exactly what Gabriel wanted him to see.

Brady should have known there was something fishy with the little weasel shit.

“Brady!” He heard Sam called from behind before running towards him. “Are you—what’s wrong? Do you need help—”

“Don’t touch me!” Brady seethed when Sam turned him by the shoulder. Sam looked surprised at his reaction, and Brady didn’t really need the added problem of Sam suspecting him; the oaf was too fucking perceptive. “I’m sorry, Sam. I just—I feel sick after starting too early.” He gave a wry chuckle. “But I’ll be fine going back.” He smacked Sam’s arm lightly. “Go on and get wasted. All study and no play makes you a dull boy.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Seriously, though. If you need anything, call me. Or Jess. We��ll be there.”

How awfully kind and ridiculously soft. It was in situations like this when Brady doubted this kid was truly Lord Lucifer’s true vessel. “Thanks, Sam.”

The more time Sam took to watch him go, the more pathetic Brady looked for not being able to escape somewhere in a blink. Brady cursed Sam Winchester and his abominable family under his breath until he reached the other side of the street.

With a gesture, Brady escaped under the darkness of the night.

And fell.

The drop was a sudden thing; one moment he was standing, and next the back of his meatsuit was slamming the ground. Every bone of his vessel was broken in five ways, and when he looked up he was outdoors, in an open pit of freshly-dug earth.

A silhouette above took shape, peering below at him.

“Get me out of here. Now,” Brady demanded but what left his mouth was a pitiful set of squeaks no better than a rat’s.

The figure clicked its tongue. “Look at that,” it said. “Another victim. Poor lad.”

“I said, get me out of here!” A gurgle came out in place of his yell.

The figure didn’t appear to hear any sound, starting to shovel back the earth on the pit.

Brady’s attempts at movement were fruitless and at best a writhing gesture that made him seem like a worm convulsing underneath the soil that began piling up quickly until the earth was on his eyes, inside his ears, nose, and mouth.

He let out a noise that went unheard six feet under.

Rowena murmured, hovering her hands above the young man’s chest and forehead. “He’s still there. Weak,” she confirmed.

“Good. That’s good,” Gabriel muttered distractedly, pacing. “Oh, man. This demon sucks at obstacle challenge.”

Rowena ignored him for the meantime in favor of saving the vessel and communicating with the person that remained inside while keeping the demon possessing him unaware.

She would have preferred it if the body was lying down on its back instead of sitting and roped tightly against the chair carved with demon traps. She tipped his chin and tore his shirt. Rowena wrote swiftly with a brush dipped in a special concoction. She wasn’t sure how long Gabriel could keep the demon occupied; probably for as long as Gabriel was entertained, but the quicker Rowena move, the greater the chance to pull out the young man back safely.

“Dico vobis levate manum, eo cui corporis huius,” Rowena chanted. “Sequimini me, et audi vocem meam. Imperium accipere gratiam immundos fugare templum tuum, qui aues…”

It took her two repetitions for the body to respond by convulsing on the chair before a sharp gasp broke through and wide, terrified eyes unfocused as he took in his surroundings in panic. “W-Where—”

“Hush now, lad. You have to calm down,” Rowena told him, clicking her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. “Brady. Brady Wilson,” she called firmly. “Look at me and me alone.”

Brady Wilson’s attention snapped to her as his face crumpled in fear and agony. “Help me. P-Please, help me.”

“I will help you with the demon expulsion, but you have to calm down or you’ll alert it.”

Brady shook his head frantically. “No. Help me. Let it end. Please.”

Rowena froze at the request, and before she could form a reply he spoke again, pleading as he gripped her hand on what little movement he could make against the ropes.

“I know what they’ll do. They’ll kill me, you, my family, my friends Sam and Jess. They don’t know what happened to me. Kill me and the demon.”

And that was the fastest way to finish it, wasn’t it? Gabriel told him that this mole was an integral part of Azazel’s scheme, and irreplaceable unlike the rest of his followers. Killing him early would at least hinder Jessica’s death and in turn Sam’s immediate return to hunting. The boy was asking for it, and not only it would be saving them the time, effort, and resources, it would be mercy.

Had it been some time ago, Rowena wouldn’t have hesitated.

She cut the ropes, propping him on the chair properly while she methodically let the blood flow back to his wrists. She was conscious of him blearily looking at her and leaning to her touch on his forehead and hair. She could no longer feel Gabriel’s presence behind her, and she knew he was in that crafted world of his, personally taking care of the vermin because Gabriel always wanted to have fun with those that actually deserved the trickster experience.

“I don’t want to hear that again from you, you hear me?” Rowena said, mildly reprimanding. “I won’t let you, young man, and the angel won’t either.”

Rowena didn’t let him get a word in edgewise and began the exorcism.

It was a peculiar thing to see Gabriel use the door, Rowena thought idly.

“Done,” he said. “He won’t remember getting possessed, and his memories of the past year will be fuzzy once he wakes up tomorrow, but that’ll be better for him.”

“And the demon?”

“Killed in a trial by combat in Westeros.” At Rowena’s confused frown, he waved his hand. Gabriel jumped on the bed, unwrapping a bar of chocolate and tossing another to her. “Good job on the exorcism.”

Rowena wasn’t a fan of sweets, but she would rather have something that wasn’t alcoholic right then. She scooted beside him and tore a small piece of the Swiss dark chocolate. “The lad wanted to die, you know,” she said absently, careful not to spill any bits on the comforter.

Gabriel was looking at her silently.

“I don’t know him,” she continued. “It would be nothing personal, and he would thank me for it.”

She saw numerous times demons getting killed while inside their meatsuit—she had killed a couple—and perhaps that would make any forget about the living person within. It wasn’t a particular issue she and the Winchesters dwell on, but what happened earlier made her rethink her approach and outlook on a few things.

He was still watching her, and whatever he saw, it was enough to make him smile genuinely. “You did good today, Rowena.”

She did, didn’t she? In a relatively general sense of ‘good’.

Rowena wanted to huff a denial, to insist on maintaining an image within the morally gray area, but it wasn’t often that she got something of an acknowledgment for a deed.

It was… nice.

Rowena met Sam Winchester again the next day.

He didn’t pose a flattering sight, propped by a tall blonde girl who helped the giant to the clinic. Taking pity, Rowena assisted her in lugging Sam to the cot.

“I’m sorry for barging in this way, Miss MacLeod, but you’re the only nurse on duty I know during the holidays,” the girl said immediately. “He’s been feeling under the weather since yesterday, and I thought it was just a hangover since he never really drank heavily. But then he got a mild fever this morning. I did my best lowering it down, but—” She sighed glumly. “It’s out of season but I think it’s flu.”

Rowena felt mildly guilty for the girl’s apparent concern. “He’ll be fine, dearie. I’ll give him mefenamic for the migraine he’ll surely have when he wakes up. Just let him rest here for a few hours if you have somewhere to be.”

The girl appeared slightly hesitant to leave but grateful nonetheless. “Alright. Thank you, miss. I’ll leave Sam to you for a bit. I might as well get him lunch.”

“A meal with hot soup will do nicely,” Rowena suggested. The girl politely bid her goodbye and was already at the door when Rowena called her. “What’s your name again?”

“Jessica. Jessica Moore,” she said with a bright smile. “I’ll see you later, Miss MacLeod.”

Rowena remained staring at the closed door. So the sweet and caring pretty lass was Jessica. Rowena wondered why she hadn’t piece it together the moment she saw her enter.

But maybe it was the years knowing Sam Winchester too; she was a little familiar with his taste in women in the later years.

“I don’t know what happened to your standards, Samuel,” she muttered.

“Tastes change, you know,” Gabriel said, appearing closely behind her. He grinned at her jolt of surprise. “Also, can you fault him for liking dangerous women?”

“The good lot they did to him,” she scoffed. “No wonder he thought he was cursed, with the women he got involved with dying left and right.”

Gabriel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If I remember the books correctly, only those he slept with, then some.” He paused. “Wait. Does that mean you and him—”

“Och. No.”

Gabriel looked skeptical.

Rowena rubbed her temple and shooed Gabriel away with her free hand. “Do your bloody thing, you angel.”

It was anticlimactic watching him touch Sam’s forehead and chirping it was done. “Did what Castiel placed on him and his brother before. Enochian carvings on the ribs. Pretty ingenious, actually. I put back his anti-possession as well. Should hold up against demons with a class as high as a Prince.”

“And the malady you gave him?”

“Squashed like a bug.” Gabriel grinned impishly. Rowena didn’t share the same appreciation for the pun.

“You mean to say you could have done that months ago in less than two minutes,” Rowena said lowly. “What the Hell, Gabriel.”

“What? I like roleplaying. I’ve been a janitor in another uni for six years last time. I get to be a professor this time. Maybe I’ll be a student next.”

“I wasn’t told you’re the angel of universities.”

“It’s not the university itself, lady. It’s the people,” Gabriel reasoned. “Why the ungratefulness? You get to see Sam again.”

“Frankly, I’d rather didn’t.”

“Yeesh. Trouble in paradise before the time travel?”

Rowena fixed him a look. “No.”

She moved past him, leaving no room for argument. Gabriel remained by Sam’s bed, squinting his eyes down on the unconscious man. He dropped the subject, or so she thought.

“Is it the height?”

“Gabriel!” she hissed in irritation. Any louder, Sam could possibly wake.

Gabriel shrugged. “Not that I blame you. It might have occurred to me once to climb that tree.”

“What?”

“What?” he asked.

Rowena blinked.

“I’m not blind, and I can appreciate both kinds of Dad’s creations.” He definitely sounded defiant.

“Of course, dear.”

“Right.”

Jessica returned not long later, unknowingly stumbling on the awkward silence when she checked on her boyfriend. She recognized Gabriel and the two were engaged in an animated talk that led to him seeing her out of the clinic.

“Hope you didn’t mind I stole your coin,” Gabriel said when he returned inside. “That girl’s a walking target, if you remember.”

Hard to forget, though admittedly Jessica’s importance had been trumped by prioritizing Sam. “I’ll keep her protected,” Rowena promised.

As long as Azazel and his fellow Lucifer fanatics were alive, Jessica was yet to be out of the clear.

Rowena was just as unprepared as the first when Crowley visited the second time the following week.

By some luck, Gabriel was absent once more when it happened, sauntering somewhere off the coast, he said with a worried frown. Either he was away to check on something concerning or it was an absurdly good coincidence that probably wasn’t at all. A thought for later.

She watched him survey the walls all over again. Somewhat amused, she quietly let him look under the drapes before he decided there was nothing out of the ordinary. Crowley considered her as if trying to figure out a puzzle. Rowena was fine with getting used to this routine if Crowley were to visit her again.

Rowena busied herself with a nightcap, and for a minute, she thought he was gone, until he asked to be poured one.

Crowley grunted appreciatively after taking a sniff. “Developed a fine taste, I see.”

“Hard not to when you have a man who can give them to you in a snap.”

“Who’s the poor rich lad?”

“Loki,” answered Rowena, sitting across her son. “That’s what he likes to be called. In his homemade movies, I mean.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would have thought you’re cohabiting with a porn star,” Crowley said. Rowena enjoyed the disgust that fleeted across his face. “But I did know better. Say, why’s a pagan god—what’s that term? Putting his finger in the pie?”

Rowena made no reply to refute the discovery. “And the pie is?”

Crowley sat back, seemingly challenging that Rowena tell him herself.

Rowena feigned nonchalance. “We enjoy each other’s company enough without being upfront with each other’s business. It’s a decent arrangement.”

“For sure,” Crowley agreed patronizingly. “A witch in the guise of a nurse. The outfit alone. My, how scandalous.”

Rowena could see what he was trying to do. She would bite; she was curious how he happened with the information after supposedly cutting off the communication between demons in and out of Stanford. “How did you find out?”

“I have my sources.” His tone was noncommittal. “What piqued my curiosity was the choice of location. While I didn’t know what possessed you to moonlight as Florence Nightingale, I wonder if there’s a specific reason why Stanford. It just so happens that a very important person, to the Netherworld, is attending there. Then there’s also the sudden demise of a secret field agent that I only found out about recently. Ironically, Hell’s been having several consecutive deaths recently.”

“Sounds like a lot of funerals in your workplace, Fergus.”

“Good riddance on some, though. That department isn’t known for their competency. The losses are not that impactful.” Crowley frowned. “I’m getting sidetracked. My little birdies also told me you’ve been hooking up with a college professor with an interesting name of Gabriel.”

“What can I say, his father is deeply religious.”

“Yes, that’s one way to put it,” he said dryly. “They said that the Messenger of the Lord has been missing for a while now. Nobody claims he’s dead, though some speculated he went native. What I think is that he has migrated to another pantheon, mingling with the indigenous tribe. They’re lesser than him in terms of divinity, but I heard they’re more fun compared to the prudes upstairs. Being a pagan deity is less conspicuous if you’re hiding from the Family, though it makes one think how he believes he can stay hidden while messing with some grand plans that involved the said family.” Crowley inclined his head. “The pie that I’m talking about, mother, is the Apocalypse itself.”

With Crowley intently watching her reaction, Rowena smoothly schooled her reaction to that of intrigue and surprise. Suffice to say, Crowley wasn’t happy with what he found, which made Rowena wanting to ask why.

If he believed her lie, was he displeased to be proven that she didn’t know any? If he was aware she was lying, was he displeased that Rowena was involved? Rowena knew of Crowley’s stand on the Apocalypse based from the previous timeline, and the sole reason he wouldn’t like Rowena’s complicity against the end of the world was that she would throw a wrench on Crowley’s own schemes.

“What are you really doing here, mother?”

Rowena wanted to laugh. “An oft-asked question to myself, Fergus,” she replied, languidly pushing herself back on the armchair.

“A question for next time then.” Crowley began to look impatient when he couldn’t gather what he sought. Funny that he wasn’t resorting to force if he was in dire need of information. It should be the easiest to employ the method to her, of all people. He stood, flicking nonexistent lint off his suit. “Something to keep in mind: a certain faction in Hell is outsourcing a rather efficient team to look into the mysterious deaths. Not only that, a cavalry is bound to arrive soon to express their displeasure on the turn of events.” His mouth pursed, too quick for Rowena to discern whether from d. “Farvel.”

He vanished, leaving Rowena startled at his parting words.

She wasn’t under the illusion that Fergus cared, but she would take the ‘next time’ at face value.

“We have a problem,” Gabriel said, the grimmest Rowena had seen him.

“Great. We’re having a shortage on surplus at the moment,” Rowena replied sarcastically. She turned to him, suddenly concerned when she was met with uncharacteristic silence. “Gabriel, what is it?”

“A Devil’s Gate is opened earlier than anticipated,” he said, running a hand on his hair. “Something’s wrong.”

“The Devil’s Gate?” Rowena repeated confusedly. “I thought the gate to Hell has always been opened. You do know that Fergus can visit me after all.”

“There are a few other doorways to Hell, and very few know of them. Crossroads Demons can go to the human plane since they can technically be summoned here, and because your son is the King of the Crossroads, he gets to move freely in between whenever he wanted,” he explained. “This gate I’m talking about is the main one where multiple hordes can exit all at once.” He looked up to her. “That’s where Lilith will come out per Azazel’s arrangement.”

“Then we kill her too!”

“No, you won’t like that. Her death is the final seal of Lucifer’s cage. The best we can do for her is to trap her for eternity. But, no, that’s not really the issue at hand. We forget another important person we should be keeping an eye on.” Gabriel smiled wryly. “Dean Winchester.”

Of course. Of course, they neglected Dean who was another vessel, albeit for the lesser of the two evils. “If Heaven already made its first move to rally Michael’s vessel, you’ll speak of it. Pray tell how does forgetting about the older Winchester factor in this timeline.”

“With the Devil’s Gate opened, Lilith will possibly be out within the week. That can only mean one thing: they’re pushing ahead of the schedule, probably because of our interference. All that’s left are to break the rest of the 65 seals.”

“You said killing Lilith is the last, then that means there are still 65 seals before her and those are plenty which should buy us enough time.”

“Not enough if they’re moving in an organized manner and with Azazel alive helping her.” Gabriel worried his lip. “The first seal is the righteous man spilling blood in Hell. Dean was the one to do so in the original timeline. He was there after he made a deal to save Sam’s life.”

“But Sam should be safe now. We put every bit of protection on him. He has you protecting him.”

Rowena didn’t want to think it would be all for naught. Gabriel, seemingly reading her mind, reached over to squeeze her hand reassuringly.

“We are, and that puts them in a bind. They can’t take a step that involves Sam. Not yet, at least. But they can switch up a couple of things. They killed Jessica before to push Sam back to hunting—they needed him in top shape for Lucifer—and on the road where Sam discovered about his abilities. Hence, the addiction to demon blood. Sam might be away from Dean as of now, but you do know those two love each other to death no matter the distance that if something were to happen to the other, they will do everything in their power to save one another.”

Rowena was starting to see where Dean would factor in. She let Gabriel continue.

“An accident befalling Dean will be enough to push Sam back to hunting,” Gabriel said. “As to sending Dean to Hell, it’ll be easy with John Winchester around and hunting with him. I imagine that it won’t be a difficult choice for Dean to sell his soul if, say, John mysteriously died or if they gullibly get baited with a piece of information about Yellow Eyes.”

“Targeting Dean now means killing two birds with one stone,” she concluded. “Or three, counting the death of his father.”

Gabriel nodded. “That about sums it up.”

Rowena sighed. “Then we protect him too. Now, without all the role-playing nonsense we did.”

He chuckled. “We can, but that means springing it all on him, who we are, what we are, and when we came from. Here’s to hoping that he’ll simply take them in a stride and will be reasonable to talk to.” Absently, he fiddled with her fingers. Rowena completely forgot she was holding hands with him. Huh. “Actually, I think you should let me handle this. I’m telling you so you know what we’re dealing with and who might be after you and me. I’d rather you’re prepared in case—”

“No.”

“… No?”

Rowena smiled sweetly. “No, dear. Let me take care of Dean.” She shushed him when he was clearly about to protest. “If Hell is already getting hints who’s working against them, don’t you think they’re ready to strike in the open who it is? Now, I won’t put it past them to not know a way to at least put you out of commission for a short while. They’re bound to know a trick or two, and remember that you’re only one angel against most of Hell’s faction.”

“I’m just one archangel!” Gabriel protested. At Rowena’s raised eyebrow, he grumbled, “Fine. I can see your point.”

“My point, darling, is you need to lay low a bit and let me be less conspicuous.”

“Not to offend, quite the opposite, but you enter a room and you can get everyone’s attention on you.”

“Why thank you.” Rowena preened. “And that should work nicely. I do need to get Dean’s attention, and there’s only one way I can think of how without raising his suspicion.”

As expected, Dean was by his lonesome self, nursing a bottle of beer by the bar. He was eyeing the bartender, a short-haired brunette with striking blue eyes that showed a mutual appreciation directed to her admirer.

Well, interesting to know Dean started young with a certain type.

When it was clear that Dean was about to ask the bartender when her shift would end, Rowena actually felt bad for intervening. She quietly slid to the empty stool to the left of Dean, ordering a top-shelf bourbon and flicking her hair daintily in the process.

There were several variables that could possibly catch Dean’s attention: the shock of red hair that streaked across his peripheral vision; or the scent of lavender and raspberries that was proven to work like a charm; or the slinky black and purple dress that showed skin around the shoulders; or the sound of her manicured fingers tapping against the mahogany top as she waited; or maybe her gall to sit directly next to the person who was sending an obvious signal that he wanted to be left alone.

It could be any of those, but the fact remained that Rowena could feel Dean’s eyes on her that lingered heavily.

Rowena turned to him, her own eyes bright with coy and red lips turned up coquettishly at the ends, and found Dean Winchester staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.

That wasn’t what she expected.

Dean blinked at her once… twice unbelievingly, his jaw fixed and face draining of color, and under the lighting, he appeared as old as when she last saw him.

“Rowena.”

It barely registered that Dean called her by name without uttering any word so far, and, oh. Oh.

Dean was like her.

The inside of the Impala was the same as ever: it smelled of manly sweat and stale pine fresh, and the car seat with unexplainable bumps. With how worn the backrest, Rowena would hazard a guess that the vehicle was more often slept in than before.

For once, she was at the passenger’s seat, a blanket of silence between her and Dean that wasn’t pierced by his cacophonous choice of music. Oddly enough, they were both fine with the quiet.

“Where are we going?” Rowena asked after Dean made a turn on the road.

“A different motel. Dad is there where I’m staying. We need to talk somewhere.”

That was just as well. Rowena wasn’t excited meeting the Daddy Winchester. Within five minutes, Dean pulled over a 24-hour motel and parked on the almost empty parking.

Rowena exited once Dean killed the engine and waited out on her side of the car, and to her utter surprise, Dean enveloped her in an embrace.

Dean was no less short younger. She knew he was the more emotionally constipated Winchester, and the fact that he initiated a hug meant he was in dire need of it, of this. Rowena let him, squeezing him briefly before he pulled away hurriedly, awkwardly, probably thinking it cheesy to do so.

Rowena rolled her eyes fondly at him. “I missed you too, you big lug.”

“Yeah, you’re the only witch I missed.”

After the check-in at the front desk with the attendant tossing them a weird look that they pretty much ignored, they made way with to the room, each taking different parts of the room and sitting heavily.

“How long have you been back?” Dean asked, breaking the stillness that yet again settled on them.

“I’ve been here since June last year. You?”

“January last year.”

“You’re early. Earlier than us,” she commented. “I forgot to tell you that Gabriel is also the same.”

Dean’s mouth hanged open before a bark of laughter escaped him. “Why am I not even surprised that he’s also here?”

Rowena smirked. “He was the one who suggested that we seek you out. For your own protection.”

“My protection?”

It was going to be a long story, Rowena decided as she got comfortable beside Dean. She told him of what she and Gabriel had been up to since their return. She mentioned disposing of Brady, and while Dean didn’t interrupt her retelling of events, Rowena could see his gratefulness.

“We took Sam under our protection—well, Gabriel’s, specifically, and I took Jessica under mine. The entirety of that school of his while we were at it. We managed to eliminate a few from within and those waiting outside by cutting their communication. It was apparently vital to the mole disguising as giant’s friend,” Rowena said, not bothering to hide her smugness.

There was an imperceptible softness in Dean’s eyes at the mention of Sam. “Did you tell him? Did you tell Sam about the… the situation?”

“No. And if you’re asking me, that means you don’t as well,” she said wryly. “Then we both try to keep him away from his fate for as long as we could.” There was a note of wistfulness in her tone.

“’The things we do for love’,” Dean said. Rowena quirked a brow, and he shook his head. “I’m quoting someone. I did want to tell Sam, you know, because he’s the only person I know who will believe me and be at my back no matter what. I figured you were tempted to tell him with the same reason, especially with,” Dean shifted slightly, choosing his words carefully, “the thing between you and him.”

“Do you mean him killing me or something else?”

He sighed. “Both? I don’t know. There is something else there that you’ve danced around, right? I’m not blind, Rowena.”

Ironic thing to say when he and his angel had their fair share of ‘dancing around’. “Maybe there was, or maybe none,” she said noncommittally. “All of it are in the past now. He’s not that Samuel anymore, and with the rate we’re trying to change to change it for the better, he’ll never be the person we knew. We can tell him who we are, and he could sympathize, but he’ll never understand.”

“But he’ll be happy to be free of what would be in store for his future self,” Dean said. “We’ll be strangers to each other, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

It seemed rather selfish of them to decide what was best of Sam, but Rowena couldn’t find it in her to disagree.

“Anyway, you were telling me something about my protection?” Dean abruptly asked, a change in topic that Rowena was thankful for.

She told him of the sound theory that Gabriel formed before he sent her after Dean. Dean took it quietly, nodding grimly in agreement for the most part. In turn, he told her of his escapades as well, of trying to stop known followers of Azazel, for example, his children.

“I don’t understand why can’t we kill Lilith ahead before the first seal is broken. Her death will be out of order, hence should be useless.”

“Not saying it’s impossible, but they’ll just find a way to resurrect her until she served her purpose. Also, it’s kind of difficult ganking demons in one strike now without a demon or angel blade,” Dean admitted. “I had to resort with quick exorcism, which is preferable since the person inside can be saved, but it’s a slow process.”

“Don’t you have those at your mancave?”

“Sadly, we won’t have the bunker until 2013. The key’s still with our grandfather and Abaddon won’t be—it’s a long story for later.”

“Fine. Gabriel then. He’ll be happy to provide you with them. The demon blade, at least,” she said. “Would you like me to call him now?”

Dean looked hesitant. “I’d like to see Gabriel too, but I don’t think I can handle another reunion with a familiar face tonight.”

Rowena relented with a tired nod. “I understand, but tomorrow morning I have to. For your Enochian warding and reinforced anti-possession tattoo.”

“Do you have those too?”

“No. I never asked for them.” Dean’s face was disapproving. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Bold of you to assume I don’t have ample protection on my own. Witch, remember?”

Dean snorted. “It’s not a jab on your pride, Rowena. But don’t you think you’re much safer with Gabriel’s protection? Dude’s an archangel, for Christ’s sake. That’s a lot of firepower on our side.”

“It’s not like the subject often comes out. We were occupied enough as it is without thinking of the Apocalypse.” Rowena crossed her arms haughtily.

Dean’s expression was sour. “I don’t want to know.” He made his way to the other bed and dumped himself face-first.

“That bad?”

Dean grunted against the pillow. He turned his face to the side without moving his body. “You have an idea.”

“I can still sleep if that’s what you mean, and it’s not as if I have too many ghosts of the past. I avoid them aside from Fergus.”

“Crowley? You met with him?”

“Twice, and it’s him fishing out information from me and the mysterious beau of mine who he believes is Loki. Technically, I’m not lying.”

“Does Crowley know?”

Rowena scoffed. “Be stupid to tell him when there’s not an ounce of humanity in him. He’s still my son, but he’s an opportunist without a shred of conscience.”

Dean smirked. “That’s him, alright.” He glanced away. “And he’s not a friend. Not yet. The thing about this time travel, you see a lot of people from the past who died a different person than what they are now. You can change them again, but it’s a gamble whether for better or worse.”

“Aye. We’re gifted with foreknowledge, but we lost the friends we gained in the past.”

“Yeah. It’s lucky that she brought you and Gabriel too. When she spoke to me and said she’ll bring me back, I thought—”

“She?” Rowena repeated numbly. “You know who brought us back.”

Dean sat up slowly before answering, “It’s Amara. She appeared to me when I died because I did die for real. With Sam.” He exhaled sharply. “When she told me she’d bring me back, I expected Sam would be here with me. He wasn’t, and in the long run, as much as I hate to admit it, it’s for the best that he didn’t.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why bring us back?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Honestly, I give up trying to figure what these fucking bigwigs are thinking. Amara brought me back, and yeah, I guess I should be glad for the chance, but part of me keeps thinking too that you, me, and Gabriel are just another pawns, only to a different entity.”

“What choice do we have, Dean, but play on their board? Because I am playing no matter how insignificant I am compared to you and your brother and an archangel. What am I? A wee witch who has a few tricks up her sleeves and who died because she had to. I didn’t ask to return, but I don’t doubt that my end will be the same sad end as a footnote in an epic novel.”

“But your death wasn’t for nothing,” Dean insisted. “Not for me, and definitely not for Sam. For someone who’s too proud of what she is, you sure give yourself so little credit. You went out as part of us. You were family, Rowena. You came back, and you still are.”

“You certainly learned how to sweet talk,” Rowena said, unable to stop herself from giving Dean a good ribbing. “You should have—” she suddenly stopped speaking, cocking her head with a frown. “Do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.” Dean was immediately on alert, his back straightening. “Rowena, what’s wrong?”

There was an incessant buzzing ringing in her ears that turned louder and louder and rang inside her head. Rowena’s head began to hurt that she hardly noticed Dean rushing to her and kneeling, shaking her by the shoulders in both fear and concern.

Amidst the sharp stab of pain in her head was a sudden realization that something was approaching them at fast speed.

There was already the sound of breaking glass the moment Rowena forcefully pushed Dean down on the floor.

Great flames swarmed them a matter of seconds, and they burned.

The walls, the ceiling, the drapes, the blankets, the pillows—the whole room was enveloped by the heat that intended to devour her and Dean. Knowing it wouldn’t let on unless both of them were charred crisps, Rowena had to think. Fast.

“Rowena?” Dean coughed and wheezed. “Are you—”

She held Dean firmly under her, and in quick successes snatched a knife from Dean’s waist and sliced her palm. She did a simple pentagram on the carpet by Dean’s head and muttered an incantation.

Despite the smoke, Rowena persisted with the spell, occasionally breaking mid-chant to heave a lungful of breaths. Dean watched her from below, his face covered by his forearm, though his eyes watering from the amount of smoke were stubbornly kept open, wide with unwavering resolute.

Dean firmly believed that she could and would tame the demonic flames, and Rowena did.

A strong gust of wind whirled in and sucked the fire in large increments through the broken window. The smoke within was cleared as the fire was smothered out by magic. Faintly, they could hear the fire alarm that set off outside the room.

Rowena staggered backward from Dean, drawing her breath with great effort and hissed at the stabs of searing pain making themselves known all at once, mostly coming from her back that she could feel from her neck through the arms and legs. Dean was about to scramble on his feet when a force suddenly knocked him aside.

“Dean!”

Rowena collided with a hard body behind her. She whirled and grimaced in pain at the sudden jerky movement, and found a strange man with ashen skin and yellow eyes towering over her within arm’s reach. She tested her right wrist and fingers, and albeit the aching, she could flick them to hurl the demon out.

“I won’t do that if I were you,” the demon warned in its raspy voice. He cocked his head at Dean’s direction and raised a closed fist. “You chant, I snap Dean’s neck here.”

Dean was telekinetically lifted up the ceiling, his throat closing from within, and worrying choking noises were coming from him the longer Rowena stood idle.

Fuck it.

“Abite!”

While it was satisfying to watch the strike of purple lightning hit the demon squarely in the chest and throw him back with a crack, Rowena had to catch Dean as he rapidly slid down, fortunately against the wall, once he was freed from the demon’s hold.

“Dean, wake up,” Rowena called him urgently, shaking him. “We have to go, and I can’t carry you!”

But Dean refused to budge even as a presence loomed heavily behind her. Before Rowena could react, the demon pulled her up on her feet by her hair, twisting and tugging at her scalp.

“As expected of an angel’s bitch,” the demon sneered, voice grating on her ear. “There’s more magic in you than you look.”

Azazel, Rowena’s mind supplied. It was bloody Azazel.

Gabriel.

It was the last thought in her head before blackness completely overtook her.

There was a trickle of water.

Rowena woke to the acrid smell of sulfur that was palpable in the air. What she believed to be water falling in droplets against her face seemed sticky and thick. Rowena blinked her eyes open and regretted that she did.

Above her was a body of a man hanging limply and whose blood was dripping down on her. Rowena had seen revolting sights in her years, and while this hardly churned her stomach, it was the familiar stature, blond hair, and the drab flannel that had her let out a muffled scream against the gag.

Rowena turned away, struggling on her bound arms and legs on the metal table. Her eyes darted wildly in the dark and found nothing. Once her vision adjusted, the place turned out to be bare like the inside of an abandoned warehouse.

It wasn’t Hell.

Rowena calmed her breathing with deep inhales and exhales, turning her attention back to the body hanging above.

It wasn’t Dean.

In hindsight, it was ludicrous to think Dean could be killed this easy; death was infamously evasive of the Winchester brothers after all. Not to mention, Dean should be considerably experienced when it came to demonkind in his second life.

Dean could have escaped, or Gabriel could have arrived in the nick of time. Rowena might be tied down in some dank hole, but she took comfort that she was alone for now.

She tested her hands. Iron. Figures.

There was a loud clang of heavy doors before a shuffling of feet could be heard approaching her. It was no use pretending to sleep when a faint light shone once the lifeless body above was casually set aside. A figure hovered over her, reeking of sulfur and the smell of blood and rotten flesh. He was thin and bony, with a sallow complexion.

The unfamiliar demon watched Rowena with scrutiny and the total focus of a boffin studying a specimen. He didn’t react at the glower Rowena was sending him, merely humming and mentally taking notes of his observations.

Rowena could hear the same buzzing from before when they were assaulted in the motel, and it wouldn’t be farfetched to think it was some sort of a signal of impending danger.

Something cold settled in her stomach.

“Fascinating,” the demon muttered in rapt attention. “Your body has experienced numerous deaths and yet retains its form.” His eyes darted on her right thigh. “An embedded resurrection seal. Brilliant.”

He rounded the table, producing a scalpel that gleamed under the dim lighting. He addressed her directly. “I expect your threshold is higher than most I’ve laid here on the table. Such a shame. It would have been preferable if we’re in my office downstairs.”

The cold blade dug lightly near the crook of Rowena’s left arm, and she writhed in pain when it cut down and peeled a portion of her skin.

“Shh,” the demon shushed, unperturbed at her futile attempts to twist away from the blade where a small, thin slice of flesh was sitting atop it. To her horror, the demon brought it to his mouth and ate the bit of her skin.

Rowena turned away from the sight, wanting to puke against the gag.

The demon hummed, seemingly satisfied at the taste. “Not bad,” he said, and proceeded to calmly incised on sections of Rowena’s left arm.

Rowena screamed.

Eventually, Rowena passed out against her will once the demon practically peeled most of her upper arm, and one could only see so much of their skin getting eaten and savored right in front of them.

When she came to, her mouth was freed from the binding though her jaw ached. She hadn’t been unconscious that long, it seemed, once she could feel her own magic struggling to mend her broken skin in gradual surges.

The demon didn’t miss the healing raw flesh, and in an expression of disapproval, he dipped the end of his blade at the tip of her pinky finger and flayed the top half.

Rowena’s howl of agony came out unhindered that rang loudly even to her own ears. The demon didn’t flinch at the sound and was in fact rather delighted if his triumphant smirk was anything to go by.

“What do you want?” she demanded, gritting her teeth in spite of the torn nerve endings that she could feel in her whole body.

She would not beg.

“Lord Azazel had asked for my service. He intends to conduct an inquiry about a mysterious party working behind the scenes,” the demon replied matter-of-factly, more interested with working on Rowena’s fingers one by one. She bit her lip to stop the cry from escaping her lips when a nail was pried off.

She would not beg.

“I was told that you’re working with an angel to stop Lord Azazel’s plans to free our Dark Father, and the quickest way to get answers is through the Grand Inquisitor.” The demon made a show of bowing. “Alastair, at your service.”

As expected of Hell, giving out fancy titles to a lowly profession of torturer. Just her luck that it was apparently one of Hell’s finest that was sicced on her.

She had had worse, she kept reminding herself. Rowena had been at Lucifer’s mercy once. Alastair couldn’t have been worse than the Devil himself.

Rowena’s teeth sunk on her bottom lip while tips of her fingers and toes were being skinned to expose the muscles underneath. By the time Alastair was done, her lip was bleeding, blood and spit mingling down her chin.

“Within ten minutes, you’ll ask for them to get cut off, and I will for every piece of information you can give me. I only need three: a name, a reason, and hm—other names, I suppose?”

Rowena would not beg.

“The countdown starts now.”

She bit back her tongue.

Rowena didn’t beg.

Somewhere in her addled mind, Rowena registered one thing: Alastair kept referring to Gabriel as an angel.

They didn’t even know what he was.

In the middle of Alastair hammering down a nail on a knee, Rowena laughed.

In her experience with tortures and torturers, it was entertaining to see them arriving at the brink of desperation when they couldn’t pry from her what they wanted.

Alastair was a different case.

He never tired of asking the same questions, and instead becoming more and more methodical and endlessly inventive with his ways. Rowena’s sense of time has faded, and she wondered how long she had been there with only the company of his demon. Had the situation was different, she would have admired his dedication and ingenuity.

It was exhausting, with her body continuously agonizing over the torment, and on one hand her innate magic was doing its best to repair her in its own way. She might not felt the strength to build it in a ball in her palm, bound by wards etched on the iron that was keeping her down, but her magic was there still and wouldn’t let her just die.

Rowena held on nonetheless.

She knew she could handle it once she found a footing by imagining in turn how she would inflict the same kind of cruelty on Alastair the moment she was freed.

Calmly, Alastair humored her ideas, until Rowena became more vocal than he expected and he changed his tactics.

Rowena couldn’t see them, though she did sense when three hellhounds came in with their inhuman growling and heavy steps.

She wasn’t detached enough to not react in terror when the hellhounds mauled her to bits.

“A name?”

Rowena spat on his face.

It earned her a throaty chuckle.

Alastair left her eyesight for last.

She blinked, painstakingly and lasting for more than a millisecond, and wished that she hadn’t dared to do so.

Her father stood there where Alastair had been, his face the same as she remembered as a girl, when her father was done after a hard day’s labor but wouldn’t forget cooking her dinner and putting her to sleep at night.

“Rowena,” he said, tender and soft as he brushed her hair and kissed her temple. “My child.”

It hurt when he gutted what currently remained of her, and it began to hurt where Alastair’s tools couldn’t reach before.

With only her eyes intact and voice box and tongue ripped out, Rowena cried noiselessly when her father pierced her cheek.

It was Fergus next.

She almost didn’t recognize him, her one good eye aside. It was the nose, the mouth, the ears that resembled Gavin’s—but not quite—that clued her in.

Fergus was taller and thinner compared to Crowley’s meatsuit, and the fact that Rowena didn’t get to see this version of her son when he was alive was a testament on the kind of mother that she had been.

The Fergus that was staring back at her bore no recognition in his face, and when he sat down to gouge her eye out, Rowena knew she deserved it.

Rowena woke to the shrill sound of an infant’s cries. Exhaustion seeped to her bones, and with utter difficulty held the fussing bairn to her chest until he calmed down.

She was tired, with sleep close to lull her back to its arms. She didn’t notice the makeshift bed dipping with additional weight until he spoke, leaning over to her and their son.

“He got your nose,” Roderick said fondly, his index finger reaching out to touch the baby’s small nose that twitched adorably.

Rowena didn’t answer, though she wasn’t out of it yet to not smile at him affectionately.

“I have to go, my dear,” Roderick said. “You still need blankets and food to replenish your strength. Oh, and hot water. I’ll be back, my love. Don’t wait up for me.”

She hummed distractedly, quite taken with the baby to pay attention to what he said. She knew he understood.

“I’ll give him your name,” she said when Roderick was almost by the exit.

It took him a moment to turn around, and when he did the meager lamplight wasn’t able to illuminate his face. “Yes, I’d like that,” he said, sounding oddly distant and so very far away.

With Fergus garnering all of her attention, Rowena didn’t care.

They grew up fast, Fergus and Oskar, as quick as a blink of an eye.

It was a swirl of haze how they came to be whenever Rowena tried to think and remember. It didn’t matter a bit; Rowena loved her sons dearly that she would gladly give up her life for them, as any mother should.

That was why she couldn’t understand why and how her hands found themselves around Oskar’s delicate neck and twisting it cruelly as if breaking a twig.

She turned to Fergus who froze after seeing the incident, and Rowena stomped on the poor boy with all her strength until the white showed. Unlike Oskar, Fergus remained alive long enough to cry. Rowena burned him while he pleaded for his mother for mercy.

“It’s okay.” It was Roderick who appeared beside her when she crumpled on the ground once she got back a semblance of control. “You did good, Rowena.”

But there was nothing good in it. There was nothing good in killing her sons.

There had been nothing good in Rowena’s entire life, with only regret and several mistakes for company.

She was her own making, what she was now.

“It’s okay,” Roderick said again, with a handsome smile that used to twist her stomach pleasantly, except now she detested that particular look that reminded her of someone she struggled to recall. “You were amazing, Red.”

Red. It was only the Devil who called her that.

“Lucifer.”

Roderick caressed her face, causing Rowena to flinch at the touch. His hold was strong and his tenderness jarring.

Rowena would not beg.

“Even better,” Lucifer said, in Roderick’s voice and face, and without preamble kissed her lips. “I’ve returned, my dear.”

She didn’t fight when Lucifer sent her ablaze.

Rowena had drowned once.

Afloat in a void that she unknowingly fell into felt like it—the oppressive nothingness that weighed heavily on her lungs and the lack of foothold and to grab on to pull herself up.

There was no choice but to drift or fall down, whichever direction she was being directed to.

And would she know it, it actually gave her a sense of peace.

“Rowena.”

Oh, it was Sam.

Not the young one she met recently but the one she knew longer, who had those wrinkles and laugh lines on his face that showed his age.

Sam looked well, and Rowena had a burning hatred to Lucifer and to that demon capable of playing with her mind like this.

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m not—you’re not there at the moment.”

Lucifer has to be more convincing than that.

Sam’s expression was patient, contrite and concerned rolled in one. “I’m sorry that you haven’t quite found your peace yet. After.”

“I suppose you know of that too.” Rowena snorted in derision. It was a surprise they were only using the knowledge now against her.

“Why shouldn’t I? I am you. I am a part of you, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware my conscience looks like Samuel.”

“The appearance is all on you, I’m afraid.” Sam grinned impishly. “And, no, I’m not your conscience.”

Rowena bit, getting frustrated with the uncalled for mystery. “What are you then? The part of me that has been keen to die because I never really asked for a second try? It’s not surprising given that you look like the person who killed me. Terribly unoriginal.”

Sam hardly looked offended. “I’m the part of you that believes you deserve a second chance.”

And if it was true of course it would have Sam’s face because the giant was the first person to saw her merit. It was probably appropriate to laugh; she didn’t, though, finding the metaphor stupid.

“The mind works like that,” Sam said sagely. “It’s fascinating.”

On any other occasion, she would have agreed. It was a confounding thing, in her present opinion, that tried to fill up the gaps she hadn’t noticed, like the surroundings and what she and Sam were wearing. If it was her unconsciously doing so, then it was a strange choice to put them both in white, situated among the fields of the highlands from her childhood.

Rowena began walking, with Sam following beside her wordlessly. He wouldn’t speak if she didn’t want him to.

Yarrow beset them on both sides, and Rowena could think of a couple of spells she could do with a single ingredient. There was one for servitude that tended to boil the person’s brain; there was a charm for the home’s safety; and there were two for either good or bad luck.

She wondered idly if there was any for a swift getaway.

“You don’t have to use any to get out of here,” Sam said. “This is your domain.”

Rowena could sense a ‘but’ despite the wistful tone. “What is it?”

“You still have to call him. Gabriel.”

Well, Rowena felt sort of bad that she had completely forgotten about him, though caring about someone who was vastly more powerful than her and the demons who had gotten her seemed a useless notion.

“He wasn’t asking you to,” Sam said, reading her mind—the concept was funny seeing as where they were. “He respects your own power, and he trusts your strength, but like you he’s also someone who believes in having a fail-safe plan. You two are in-tuned with each other in little aspects like that.” Sam gestured at himself; white suited him, Rowena noted, though it wasn’t in character of the Sam she knew. “He’s the reason why I’m here with you, how I can insist that you put yourself back out there again. It’s not too late yet.”

Sam had to do better if this was him trying to persuade her. “What if I don’t want to go back?” she asked. “What if I simply want to be here, on my own and away from everything else?”

“If that’s really what you feel, then you could banish me anytime. I told you: this is your domain. You have power here. And should you want it, I can stay here with you for as long as you want me and for as long as we’re allowed.”

Rowena wouldn’t have minded. She missed him, and she was in favor of spending the rest of the time with Sam.

But who was she fooling? This wasn’t Sam. He was nothing but an idea of the real person, of the man Rowena had formed a genuine connection with since Roderick. This Sam was nothing but a chaste memory of the man who cared enough to weep for her death in his hands.

This Sam was but her version of what-if should she had survived with him and lived out the rest of their days together.

It was a piss-poor way to remind her that she had wanted that, once.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, wrapped around her like a friend that he had been, and Rowena latched on to him equally tight. “You have to let it go, Rowena.”

Rowena let go and called.

Behind the closed eyelids, Rowena could make out the harsh white light.

In contrast was the gentle fingers cradling her head and brushing her hair. Rowena couldn’t find the strength to open her eyes yet, burrowing on the comfort that came with the kind gestures and the delicate lifting.

Rowena didn’t have to look to know who the balmy presence belonged to.

She knew.

It was a messy bedroom that greeted her when she came to, with half-peeled wallpapers yellowing and wooden ceiling and foundations with chipped-off light-green paint.

When she maneuvered herself on the bed, there were springs in the mattress poking her back uncomfortably, not to mention the scratchy comforter above her.

It might be the most unflattering situation Rowena had been, but the regularity was unmistakable. There was a quality of rightness—at the lack of better term—from the dusty smell of stacked books and the pile of clothes on a chair in the corner.

Rowena was finally out and in a place that felt safe.

Or at least, what she kept telling herself, rubbing on her arms barren of any scar from the misery she underwent, and murmuring repeatedly that she was fine, that the phantom pains would pass and she would be right as rain again.

Rowena slumped down against the side of the bed and let out a choked sob.

A quiet swish of air came and so was Gabriel who pulled her up and guided her back to the bed protectively. He never promised that it would be alright because he understood firsthand that it wouldn’t be the same after that kind of trauma no matter how short the experience.

Gabriel held her close until her cries died down to hiccups, ruining his shirt with her tears and snot. Not that he cared, carding his fingers through her hair and wrapping the itchy comforter around them both.

Against her better judgment, Rowena fell into a dreamless sleep.

Gabriel was always silent whenever he stayed with her, and Rowena allowed the silence to settle over them like a newfound routine, along with him holding her to sleep until waking up the following day.

He didn’t prod when Rowena refused to eat, and she supposed he had something to do with her lack of the pang of hunger. Rowena took her time to think of eating food without fighting down bile.

For an entity who couldn’t possibly stay long-term in one location, Gabriel was patient with her, surprising her even with a book at hand when she was woken up once in the middle of the night by thirst. Since then, she would found him occupied with trinkets in between her waking moments; sometimes Gabriel was playing with a Rubik’s Cube, though often he was playing a low tune on small wind instruments like a kazoo and harmonica.

By the estimation of the slow drag s of daylights and evenings, Rowena guessed that it has been already a week.

“Where are we?” was the first thing she asked since the rescue. Her throat was dry, her voice raspy from being unused.

Gabriel snapped her a glass of water, eager to answer. “Bobby Singer’s house. It’s the most warded aside from Stanford, courtesy of Dean-o and Roberto, and, well, the uni became a known location to the demons.”

“What happened, Gabriel?”

Gabriel recounted from the night she was with Dean. Azazel had attacked the motel they were at, with an intent to capture her and Dean both. Dean had narrowly avoided becoming a bargaining chip to lure John Winchester after Gabriel arrived at the motel in the nick of time, but not soon enough to get her from Azazel who had hidden her from angels and demons alike, with only he and Alastair aware of the location they were keeping her. He told her of bringing Sam and Jessica to the Singer’s Salvage Yard after Lilith let loose a horde of demons after them in order to capture Sam and to kill Jessica in front of him. Gabriel told Rowena how she steadfastly didn’t break under Alastair’s hands, and that when he finally heard her call, Azazel and Lilith’s combined force bunked topside was unprepared for the assault of an archangel with two seasoned hunters—Dean and Bobby armed with the appropriate weapons.

“Your son had been helpful,” Gabriel said.

Rowena perked up at the mention of Fergus.

“Crafty, that one. He kept Lilith from escaping before I could get to her,” Gabriel told her with a wicked grin. “He got a few tricks from you, I noticed.”

When what felt like pride came over her, Rowena gave a little smile. Maybe it wasn’t too late for her and Fergus.

Gabriel continued, telling of a short trip to an alternate universe where the Winchester brothers existed as actors with different names and whose roles were Sam and Dean Winchesters in a show called Supernatural. Gabriel was particularly impressed at the very minute existence of magic in that world, making it the most ideal place to trap Lilith in their deepest ocean trench. Meanwhile, Rowena was just fairly impressed that somebody deigned to think of adapting Chuck’s awful books into a show.

Rowena started taking in food by afternoon, starting with a croissant that came directly from Paris. She wasn’t a fan of sweets, and Gabriel showered her with plenty, but the sugary and milky taste was a welcoming change in her bland pallet. The strawberries dipped in chocolate syrup were a blessing.

The hours moved faster that day compared to the days Rowena spent in the bed recently. By evening, Dean knocked to check on her.

“Huh. So that’s what you look like without the heavy make-up,” Dean said gruffly in greeting.

“Yes, because seeing my face bare is as bad as seeing me naked,” Rowena said flatly. “Not that I care with the latter.”

Dean huffed out a chuckle. “Damn it, I thought Gabe was lying when he said he has the best bedside manner.”

“Well, it’s not like that’s his only use…”

“Oh, c’mon. TMI.”

Rowena didn’t suppress the smirk. It was entertaining to make fun of Dean. “There’s strawberries involved if you’re curious to know.”

“I’m not!” Dean’s expression went aghast when his gaze landed on the bedsheets. “Bobby’s gonna kill me. Then he’ll kill you and Gabe. Just saying.”

“Noted, dear. By the time he finds out, we’re already gone and Robert will get nice silk sheets and a new mattress. He’s in badly need of one.”

“I’m telling you, he’ll appreciate those less than a simple ‘thank you’,” Dean said dryly. He observed her briefly before taking on a more somber note. “How are you doing, Rowena?”

“I’ve been better,” she said as nonchalantly as possible. Dean wasn’t deceived by it, looking sympathetic without saying anything else. Rowena was drained to bother wiping the look from his face. “Is that concern I see?”

Dean seemingly caught himself, glancing away. “Kinda.” He tilted his head to the side, adding, “Alastair got what he deserved.”

“I know,” she said, though Gabriel didn’t mention personally smiting Alastair. ”And you? How are you feeling, Dean?”

“Fine. Like always.” Dean seemed like he wanted to believe that. “I mean, I’ve had better days.”

“I never asked, but have you tried reaching Castiel?”

Dean seemed perplexed at the abrupt change of subject. “What for? As far as I know, Gabe’s the only angel who got back with us.”

“How do you know? Maybe he’s like you, the same way you purposely don’t involve yourself with Sam despite knowing what you know.”

“Assuming that’s true, there’s still the technicalities between Heaven and down here.”

She snorted. “That never stopped you before.”

Dean was miffed at the topic, and something told Rowena that he thought of the same thing before but kept making excuses otherwise. “Yeah, but judging from Sam’s reaction when I told him, it’ll probably take Cas centuries for that to sink in.” At Rowena’s astonishment, Dean smirked. “I told Sam yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t like that I put it off this long, but he’s glad that I told him. Better late than never, I guess.” Dean’s mouth twitched. “He asks a lot of things, and sometimes it’s a bit tricky to give him a straightforward answer, but what’s more difficult is when he looks at me and he tries not to see a stranger.” He shrugged, as casual as he could muster for the sake of appearance. “Could be worse, all things considered.”

Rowena decided that the last thing Dean needed was an assurance that they would be alright.

Rowena was startled to see Sam ambling outside the room not an hour later after Dean’s leave.

“Uh, hi, Ms. MacLeod,” Sam fumbled shyly in an adorable kind of way that Rowena would have teased the older Sam for. Instead, she was fairly stunned that Sam approached her first. “Can I come in?”

“Come in, Samuel.”

He was carrying a pot of tea, setting it down on the bedside like a peace offering. He stood there awkwardly as if waiting for permission to sit.

Rowena smiled and gestured at the foot of the bed. The mattress was beginning to grow on her if she must say so herself.

“It’s probably not a good time to ask, and it’s fine if you want to kick me out, but can I just—” He ran his hand through his hair.

“Ask away.” She took pity on the boy. “Dean told me that he told you.”

“Uh, yeah. He told me a lot. He also tells me about Prof. Shu—I mean, Gabriel, who’s an archangel.” Sam furrowed his brows at that. “And you. He said you’re a witch.”

“That I am.”

“And that you’re friends with us—well, Dean and the future me—after a rocky start.” Sam fiddled with his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s not that I’m against it, but thinking about getting involved with angels and demons alone… it’s insane. Time travel aside, it’s already insane.”

Rowena wondered how he would react to alternate words, but that was clearly a topic for another day. “You’re right; those are a lot to take in one sitting.” She sat back. “What do you want to ask me, Samuel?”

“Right. I’m—It’s not really a question, per se.” Sam shifted properly to face her. “Dean also mentioned to me about the supposed deaths. Jessica, first and foremost. I just want to say thank you for saving her, and by extension, me.”

“Och. It’s but a wee role in my part,” Rowena said, flattered, nonetheless. “I’m afraid Gabriel gets most of the credit with his creativity,” she admitted reluctantly, not that she would openly tell Gabriel that his idea of infiltrating Stanford was actually effective.

Sam shook his head. “We owe you just as much. Even Brady.” Sam glanced downwards. “I know I’m not the Sam that you know and grew close with, but I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

It should be strange that Sam referred to his older self as another person, and yet it wasn’t. Not really. At this point, Rowena no longer saw this young Sam becoming her Sam.

This Sam wouldn’t know of most hardships his other version experienced, and he would be happier and more liberated for it.

And seeing this untainted boy full of earnestness and optimism, Rowena thought that perhaps it was for the best.

They left the next day.

Of course, not without expressing their gratitude to their gracious host, Bobby Singer, who might have taken Gabriel’s leave as thanks of its own after the archangel-slash-trickster was said to have fooled around the salvage yard by changing it to different sceneries that Bobby didn’t particularly like.

While Rowena wasn’t a fan of the redneck appearance and Bobby didn’t appreciate her criticism on his mattress, she liked Bobby’s straightforwardness and literary knowledge. They formed a tentative association, with both lines kept open in case Bobby would be in need of advice on dealing with witchcraft.

“And I’m one pray away, Dean-o,” was Gabriel’s farewell to Dean.

Gabriel then popped them both back to their shared unit, and upon their arrival, Rowena was swept off her feet and was tucked to bed like a child. She huffed out an annoyed sigh, knowing she was bound for coddling by an angel, no less, though in the end the desire for a softer bed and familiar sheets eventually won her over.

These days, she just wanted to lie down and rest like an old person, which technically wasn’t wrong on normal circumstances.

Oh, well.

Gabriel jumped on the space next to her, sidling close with Rowena turning him to a makeshift pillow which was nice in a cozy way. Rowena wasn’t the cuddling type, though she supposed it was too late to assert that now after practically hogging Gabriel to herself in the past few days.

“We should take a vacation,” Gabriel suggested. “Niagara Falls is the perfect spot at this time of the year.”

Rowena could name at least three issues in taking a holiday dab smack in the middle of three waterfalls, but she humored him anyway. “Perfect for what exactly?”

“Skinny-dipping.”

She snorted. “Of course, dear. We’ll see in about a week.”

“Nah, no rush, Ro. Just putting the suggestion on the table. Take your time, Niagara could wait.”

Rowena lifted her head and setting her chin on his chest. Gabriel raised an eyebrow at her, and Rowena couldn’t resist taking his face in her hands tenderly. “What if it takes me years to fully recover?”

“Then I’m with you,” Gabriel said firmly. “It’s not time-wasting, Rowena, when it’s us walking together every step of the way to get better.”

Goodness, he could be romantic if he wanted to. “Thank you,” she said, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“I should be saying that,” he said humbly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “But you’re welcome.”

Rowena was lulled by Gabriel stroking her arm and carding her hair, and it wasn’t long until her eyes became heavy and she fell in an unbroken sleep at a place she started calling home.

“Good night, Rowena,” Gabriel whispered.

For once, he joined her in her dreams.

fin

…

English translation for the Latin exorcism incantation:

I beckon you, the person who owns this body. Hear me and follow my voice. Take control and expel who fouls your temple.

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #rowena macleod #rowena #gabriel #gabriel x rowena #gabriwena #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #destiel #sam winchester #jessica moore #dean winchester #time travel #fix it au #samwena #samwitch

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clairekatswritingcorner · 6 years

Text

Her Guardian Angel

Word Count: 5,102

Summary: Alexys discovers a stranger in her house who ends up turning her whole world—and her heart—upside down.

*Author’s Note*: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising! I always love writing for her because her ships are just so great and lovely ;~; this is yet another fantastic one, involving an angel and a prophecy that was destined to bring them together. Beyond adorable and heartwarming and cute!! I hope you enjoy!

Another day had come to a close, and Alexys couldn’t help finding herself a little relieved. She was headed home from work, following the same route she always did, acting more on autopilot than anything else. As much as she enjoyed her job, doing what she could to save and heal as many animals as possible, sometimes even she needed a break. She needed time to recollect herself, to recoup after a long day of dealing with all the people and animals that had crowded the clinic. She often soaked in their energies as they mixed in with the other smells and sounds that swirled around her. She was a fairly sensitive person, both socially and emotionally, and being around too much commotion for too long tended to wear her out.

Even the simple, short stint of silence she had on her way home was refreshing. It wasn’t unusual for her to finish her shift late, often staying after hours to help wrap up last minute duties or manage emergency cases that had come in just as they were closing. She was never one to turn away a patient, no matter the circumstances; she had always been the type of person that put others before herself.

Sometimes she was glad to be able to offer any kind of aid in the first place, but occasionally she’d overtax herself in kindness. In those cases, it was nice to make her way home after night had fallen, blanketing the world in its quiet shadow. She loved basking in the beauty of the glittering night sky. An inky black expanse dotted with pinpricks of dazzling stars that complemented the moon’s gentle glow. It was so infinite, and so radiant, and so peaceful…sometimes she wished she could disappear into that sky and become a star of her own.

Such wistful, silly thoughts must have been a byproduct of her exhaustion. They were childish, and outlandish, and unrealistic…but sometimes the best thing she could do for herself was indulge in the impossible. She’d always had a lot of impossible things to ponder on thanks to her father. A man who many had criticized, whose memory was marred by their defaming rumors, who was dismissed for his philosophies and the prophecies he preached. Even if Alexys hadn’t entirely settled her feelings towards her father and his beliefs, the idea that he was truly crazy had never crossed her mind. At least not entirely.

Thomas Daggett was a smart man, an irrefutable fact that was evident by the intricacy and complexity of his writings. Essays and books and folders full of warnings about Heaven and angels and a coming crisis…yeah, on the surface it all sounded like some sort of dream, or eccentric speculation. But between reading his works and recalling what she could of her own hazy memories, her suspicion only continued to grow. She was able to piece things together about him, and about what he’d been saying all along, that cast considerable doubt on his apparent lack of credibility.

As eager as she was to uncover the truth of her father’s teachings, she still couldn’t discuss her discoveries, her postulations, her interpretations with anyone. Having to maintain such strict silence only became more frustrating with each new finding she made. She knew it was best to keep to herself, especially concerning the nature of this particular subject matter. But she couldn’t seem to shake the thoughts and feelings that pestered her, whose influence only intensified with time. Maybe she was taking things too far, just like many had accused her father of doing; look how well that had turned out for him. But she also figured doing some investigating, some theorizing of her own couldn’t hurt, right? She hoped it wouldn’t; she certainly didn’t want to end up falling prey to the same unfortunate fate.

Getting sidetracked by all that complicated nonsense ruined the relaxation she’d been looking forward to enjoying on the way home. Finally arriving at her apartment, she glanced at the sky once more as she approached the front door. Her eyes fell upon the austere sight of the moon and an eerie chill seized her spine, making her skin crawl. What an unexpected sensation, and an unwelcome one at that…maybe this was just going to be one of those nights. The kind where things felt off, and she couldn’t really sleep, and she knew she’d be going into work tomorrow with even less rest than she had the day before.

She sighed and pushed the door open, shuffling inside and putting her belongings away as she switched on a few lights. She was hoping to feel some sense of relief from whatever oppressive force had affected her outside, but something still felt wrong, unnerving, uncomfortable. She was on edge, body tense and senses sharp; it almost felt like she was being watched. She hadn’t seen anyone outside when she got here, and all the lights in her apartment were off when she’d come in. Her fatigue must have been taking a greater toll on her than she thought.

She took a few deep breaths and tried to settle herself, focusing her senses on the things around her. Tangible things like the couch, the side table, the lamp. She glanced at the coffee table that was situated in front of the couch, currently littered with the papers and books she’d chosen to sift through this week. Maybe she shouldn’t think about those and risk the possibility of her thoughts becoming even more unsettling and jumbled. She went to the couch and pulled a blanket over herself, closing her eyes. Surely she just needed a little rest, that was all; she’d be back to her normal self in no time.

But with her eyes closed, her nerves only seemed to worsen. There was something in here with her, something in the same room, something she’d missed. Had she stared right at it and not noticed, could she be hallucinating something sinister due to the amount of exposure she’d had to her father’s research? She wasn’t sure if she wanted any answers, or if it would just be best to force herself to sleep through this inexplicable episode. Maybe she really was more tired than she’d assumed and was already falling asleep, suspended in the limbo between awareness and unconsciousness. Such circumstances could easily explain away the cause of this overwhelming paranoia, this atmosphere of fear, couldn’t they?

“Alexys?”

Her eyes shot open and she sat up straight, clutching the blanket with white knuckles. There was someone here, or at least something, some sort of sentient being that knew her name. Her eyes whizzed around the room looking for the source of the voice, ears trying to remember and relay which direction it had come from. Eventually her gaze fell upon a desk in the corner of the room, yet another surface that was piled with books and papers and other evidence of the work she’d been dedicating herself to in her spare time. Her lungs froze and heart pounded as she examined the unfamiliar form that had become her temporary company.

“Alexys Daggett?”

“How do you know my name?”

Her voice trembled as much as her body, but thankfully she’d managed to get that question out. The form remained perched on the back of the desk chair, at least that’s what it appeared to be doing, and if it was an animal it may not have been that bizarre. But if it was an animal that spoke, she couldn’t judge by those standards, and although it was still mostly obscured by shadows she started to think whatever she was looking at resembled the form of a man. His voice had certainly sounded that way, and the more effort she dedicated to figuring out exactly what she was looking at, the less she had left over to panic with.

A grown man perched on the back of her flimsy desk chair while it sat unaffected, like there was nothing on it. Maybe she really was having a vision, or hallucination, or a dream; this certainly would have been the most realistic one she’d ever experienced. Part of her wanted to get up and turn on another light nearer him, so she could properly see what he looked like, but she was too paralyzed by fear to even blink. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, though, as if he was an old friend who’d stopped by for a visit. But she was sure she’d never known anyone who acted or sounded like him, and when she finally saw his face she confirmed she’d definitely never seen him before.

He stood up on the back of the chair before stepping to the floor with an ease and grace that startled her. Perhaps it shouldn’t have, considering he’d just been balancing his entire weight on the back of such a weak object with supernatural steadiness. He was simply dressed, like any normal guy you might pass on the street, and he had shoulder length red hair with a matching goatee. In her opinion he was very handsome, but she wasn’t sure now was the best time to be having such thoughts, since he also happened to be an intruder that had broken into her home.

“How did you get in my house? Who are you?”

As the gears in her brain started turning again, she was hit with a fresh wave of confusion and panic. She scrambled to the edge of the couch, getting as far away from him as the furniture would allow. She thought about climbing over the back of it for a moment, using the seat as a shield between them, but when he started moving toward her, her limbs locked up. What was he going to do to her, why was he here, why was all of this happening? A small part of her mind wondered how he’d managed to get in without leaving any kind of visible damage or disturbance, but she was currently dedicating more attention to self-preservation than determining the logistics of his break in techniques.

“Calm down, calm down,” he spoke with a soothing voice, holding his hands up in a gesture to demonstrate he meant no harm. He knew before he’d even come he probably wasn’t going to be received well; he almost never was, considering the nature of his arrival. People weren’t particularly fond of discovering such an unexpected intruder in their home, and were usually even less fond of what he had to say. “I’m not going to hurt you. There’s no reason to panic, I’m not here to do anything bad to you.”

“Tell me who you are!” Alexys demanded, grabbing a pillow and holding it in front of her. If nothing else, it could serve as a momentary distraction if she ended up having to hit him with it and make a hasty escape. “What’s going on, I don’t understand what’s—”

“You’re not supposed to understand,” he informed her, coming to a standstill. There wasn’t any point trying to get closer to her while she was like this; he needed to gain her trust. “I mean, it makes sense that you don’t understand. It’s to be expected. And I know I’m not something you expected either, but please, you need to hear me out.”

The longer he dodged the subject, the more worried Alexys became. He seemed to recognize the mounting panic in her eyes and started speaking again before she could make her demand a third time. “My name is Simon. I’m an angel.”

Well, he wasn’t being very angelic right now. “Is that some kind of joke? Angels don’t break into people’s homes, and if you really were an angel, wouldn’t you have wings—?”

Once she got started her interrogation was like a steamroll, so Simon jumped in at the first breath she took. “It’s not a joke. I am an angel, and I do have wings, but I don’t think showing them off for you would make the best introduction. Look, I’m not here for me, I’m here because there’s something I need to tell you, something you have to hear.”

If he’d been willing to show her, at least it would have solved the mystery of whether or not he was lying; but maybe he had a point. It wouldn’t do her any good to find out the truth just to get overwhelmed and transition into another fit of hysterics or something. She honestly didn’t know how she’d respond if it turned out he was telling the truth, or if he showed her something like that…she was still just trying to get over the shock of someone breaking into her home. He had been doing that weird balancing act a moment ago, but maybe that was an illusion, or a trick of the light? Too many questions, too much confusion; Alexys was starting to give herself a headache.

“Am I correct in assuming you are Ms. Alexys Daggett, daughter of Thomas Daggett?”

An alleged angel who also happened to know her father’s name…now things were starting to get too coincidental. Alexys relaxed a little, but only a little, adjusting into a more comfortable position. Her fingers were starting to ache from her iron grip, and she’d twisted her spine in a weird angle against the back of the couch. Now she was starting to breathe a little easier, and think a little clearer, but the more she was able to comprehend, the more apprehension pooled in her gut. Her father hadn’t had the most pleasant relationship with such heavenly beings, at least according to what she’d read in his writings. If one really was standing before her now, she may be in more trouble than if he’d just been a regular burglar.

“What’s going to happen to me if I say yes?” That was a safe enough answer, right?

The redhead narrowed his eyes a bit. “I can’t tell you until I know if you’re really the person I’m supposed to deliver this message to.”

Going back and forth like this was already agonizing, and there was something about this man…the way he spoke, the air he carried. Now that she’d had a moment to breathe, Alexys realized she really didn’t feel any sense of danger coming from him. At least, nothing that he was going to direct at her. “Yes, I’m Alexys Daggett.”

He nodded and continued. “Once again, I’m Simon. Just in case the first introduction didn’t stick. I’m an angel, the same kind you’re probably thinking of, and I’m here to give you some very important news.”

Important news from an angel? Was she turning into a prophet now? “And what kind of news could an angel possibly have for someone like me?”

“The stuff you’ve been reading, the information your father left behind,” Simon gestured to the clutter on the coffee table. “It’s all true. The adversity he faced, the circumstances that led to his death, all the things he feared and fought against. Your father wasn’t a liar, and he wasn’t crazy, he was just an unfortunate soul that was forced into the midst of all this. And now, that position has been passed to you.”

“Position? The position of being thrown into some sort of incomprehensible mess?” Alexys asked a bit sarcastically, but Simon’s tone didn’t change.

“The heavenly realm isn’t as heavenly as people think it is. Not anymore. Storms have been brewing, conflicts mounting; a terrible war is coming. Your father knew about it, and although he was damned from the start, it was all part of God’s plan.” It sounded like a speech from some overzealous religious fanatic, but Alexys recalled reading about the things he mentioned in her father’s books; her blood ran cold.

“You are his daughter, and you’ve inherited his legacy. In other words, whether you want to or not, you’re involved in this. You adopting your father’s role is another essential part of God’s plan. Even if it’s not a very pleasant one, it was inevitable.”

“So, I’m going to die just like him?” This was definitely turning out to be worse than if he’d just been a petty thief. “I’m going to face the same fate?”

“The way things turned out for Thomas was regrettable, to say the least,” Simon admitted, almost seeming a little melancholy having to recount such events. “But that’s why I’m here now. Or at least part of the reason. You are correct in assuming that you will end up encountering the same threat as your father. The position you’re in is a risky one, one that almost guarantees enemy interference at some point.”

“What sort of enemy could angels be fighting?” She realized after she’d spoken how silly her question sounded. “I mean, are you telling me that demons are going to start coming after me?”

“Not a fight between angels and demons—a civil war between angels.”

Alexys’s eyes widened. “What does any of this have to do with me? Why didn’t this position end with my father?”

“It’s just how things are meant to be,” he reiterated cryptically. “But there’s no need to start panicking. Like I said, I was sent here with a purpose. That purpose is to protect you, to guard you from the threat looming on the horizon and lurking in the shadows.”

She was getting all sorts of answers from him, but none of them were as straightforward as she would have liked. More than that, she wasn’t even sure if she could believe any of it, if she should…but if he was wrong, did it really matter? If he was right, going along with what he said was essential to her survival, so perhaps she’d be better off just doing that. There was no denying many of the things he’d said corresponded with things she’d gleaned from her father’s writings, the experiences he’d left behind as a warning more than anything else. She’d never entirely doubted her father despite all the pejorative things she’d heard about him. Maybe all of this was validation of the hope she’d secretly held in her heart for him all this time.

The more she thought about it, the more she started to consider that things might not be so bad after all. She didn’t want to be used as a bargaining chip in some feud between supernatural beings, but if this guy was going to stick around, maybe things would be better than she expected. At least for a little while. As awful as that sounded, it wasn’t just because she found him attractive (although that was definitely part of it). There was something about the look in his eye, the aura he emitted that filled her with a calm unlike anything she’d felt before. No worries or stress or disappointment lingered in her body, not as long as he was here. Then again, this feeling could have been nothing more than another involuntary reaction to the ludicrousness she was being presented; but something in the back of her mind encouraged her to take his words at face value.

Even if she decided to believe him, how was all of this going to work? Was he going to live with her, follow her everywhere she went, monitor her every move from dawn to dusk, even as she slept? She enjoyed the comfort his presence provided, but he was still a stranger claiming to be an angel, and it wouldn’t be wise to jump to any conclusions too fast. Just because his answers seemed to coincide with the things she’d learned from her father, shedding some light on the incomprehensible nonsense that he’d been ridiculed for in the first place, she still needed some sort of reassurance, some kind of proof. In her heart she wanted to have faith in this man’s words, and she felt like she really could entrust him with her life. But she needed to know more about the person who’d be serving as her guardian angel (quite literally) before she gave her full consent.

“Let’s say I accept what you’ve told me and decide to go along with this plan.” She crossed her arms, trying to make her expression more neutral and unreadable. “I still need to know more about who and what you are. You claim to be an angel that goes by the name of Simon, was it? Why were you the one sent to protect me? What exactly is this protection going to entail?”

“My name is Simon,” he repeated once again, stepping around the coffee table cautiously. The quiet, careful girl didn’t react in any noticeably negative way. He took that as permission to approach her, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. “And I am an angel in every sense of the word, or at least the one you recognize. I use this appearance on Earth so that I blend in, don’t draw attention to myself. I have to work discreetly, keep the evil angels off my trail, especially since I’ve been working in such close proximity to people like Thomas and yourself. You’re both essential to bringing this contemptable conflict to an end before it gets out of hand. Some of the information your father discovered through his experience and research is extremely valuable, and extremely dangerous. That is, if it fell into the wrong hands. There is a truly terrible dark soul that exists, and it’s managed to make its way here, to the mortal realm. Just by the name I’m sure you can predict what kind of threat such an object poses not only to the entirety of humanity, but existence itself.”

“It doesn’t sound very pleasant,” Alexys agreed, once again squeezing the pillow she’d set in her lap. “It’s not inside me or anything, is it?”

“No, absolutely not,” Simon answered with a vehemence that alarmed her. “You would know if it was…I would know if it was. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here to protect you, but to dispose of you.”

“Well that sure makes me feel better,” she quipped with a fearful tremor in her tone.

Simon got back to his explanation before she could start worrying again. “Excuse my wording, sometimes I get a little carried away when I discuss stuff like this; I don’t usually share it with humans. And it’s important for you to understand the gravity of the threat we face; how dire the situation has become. All hope isn’t lost; the fact that you’re sitting here with me right now is evidence of that. Things have only deteriorated in your father’s absence, and it was impossible for me to contact you before the time was right. But now I’ve spoken to you, I’ve delivered the message I was instructed to pass on, and I can be here to protect you. With you on our side, under the watch of those that can help you, I’m sure things will start to turn in our favor.”

“What does this dark soul have to do with me?” Alexys asked, her voice still quivering. “And you never explained exactly what it is you’re protecting me from.”

“Just knowing about its existence puts you at risk,” he elaborated, trying to make his tone more understanding and comforting. “Learning what you have from your father and now me, the knowledge you possess is invaluable and desired by everyone involved in this conflict. You needed to be aware of it in order to play your designated part, something you’ll come to understand over time, but not before you’re ready. Right now, knowing what you know is enough. But it’s also enough to get you in trouble, to make you a target of the malicious angels that want to get their hands on that soul.”

“Other than being evil, what makes it so special?” She tilted her head in curiosity. “Why don’t they just steal another sour soul, something easier to obtain.”

“This dark soul contains a power unlike any other. It has no counterpart in all of creation, and its power can be harnessed as a weapon that will change the tide of this war in favor of whichever side ends up claiming it. Naturally, the enemies who want to create a sort of second Hell on Earth, cannot be permitted to have it. Armageddon really would come to pass if they did. They want to wreak havoc on humanity due to how favorably God looks upon his creation rather than them. They’ve been corrupted by envy, and bitterness, and there’s no reasoning with them. They’re going to fight until there’s no one left to keep doing so, or we manage to gain the power to stop them for good.”

Alexys took some time to reflect on all he’d just said, resting her head on the pillow and staring at the couch’s dull upholstery. Simon started to think she’d zoned out, and he was going to have to do something to snap her back to reality, but she started speaking before he had to. “So I’m part of a fatal feud between angels just like my father was. His involvement ended up being his downfall, and now the only one left to fill his spot is me. I have to do that because I’ve looked into the things he left behind, which happen to include information about the nature of this conflict, whether I realized it or not. Since I never completely doubted him, there was always a risk I’d find out the truth, and now I have. And both he and I have something to do with finding this dark soul, practically the only thing that has the power to prevent this war or cause it. The angels that want to cause humanity harm will try to take advantage of what I know, and what I can do, so now you’re here to make sure they never can or will.”

“That just about sums it up,” Simon nodded, a little more relieved now that she appeared ready to cooperate with him. “I may not look like a very formidable body guard, but I promise I’ll never let anyone or anything hurt you. Apart from how much you mean to this cause, I don’t like seeing innocent lives being taken or wasted just because of petty otherworldly squabbles. I guess petty might not be the best word, but the rebel angels aren’t fighting for a noble cause. Their behavior can’t be tolerated, and neither can any harm coming to you. I know this seems very intimidating, and scary, and complicated, but you don’t have to do anything more than you’ve already done. You’re aware of the truth, you know where you stand in all this, and now you’ve got me to watch you like a hawk. I’ll make sure nothing ever even comes close to bothering you.”

Such knightly words…they made Alexys blush. She covered her cheeks with the pillow, peeking at the redhead lounging across from her. He spoke clearly, and softly, and regarded her with tender eyes. He’d answered her questions to the best of his ability, and now he vowed to preserve her safety at all costs. She’d never had anyone dedicate or even offer a level of devotion remotely close to this before. She knew he was just doing his job, at least that’s what he’d said, but she also couldn’t help feeling a little flattered. She couldn’t help repeating the thought that he wasn’t that bad looking, either.

On the other hand, Simon really did care for her. It surprised him, the way he felt when he’d first laid eyes on this human girl. Going about her life like always, completely oblivious to the chaos that was closing in around her. He wished she could have held on to that peacefulness, but he also knew that all of this was happening for a reason. It was necessary, as disappointing or upsetting as that may be, and he thought about the possibility of trying to find a way to make this up to her.

Now she was responsible for the same struggle that had claimed her father, ruining both his potential in life, and his reputation in death. It was a grim sacrifice, one that Simon wished could have been avoided, but this time he’d make sure it was without fail. The timid girl that sat before him was a treasure to be guarded, a jewel to be defended, a life to be preserved.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I will be staying with you from now on,” he interrupted the silence, yanking Alexys out of her thoughts. “I’ll try to make myself as scarce as possible, if you’d like. I noticed you’re not living with anyone here, so at least you won’t have to come up with any stories or excuses. I won’t pester you any more than I have to, and I’ll do everything I can to make this transition as smooth as possible.”

“I really don’t mind your company,” she blurted, the red in her cheeks deepening. “I mean, it’s not going to bother me. You staying close to me. I don’t do much except for work and shop and hang out here, so having someone around will probably just make my life more interesting. Well, I guess the whole angelic war thing is interesting enough, but I’d consider that the bad kind.”

Simon chuckled and gave her a friendly smile; Alexys could feel her heart kick into overdrive. “It’s good to know you don’t consider me part of the bad kind. I know this is sudden, and surprising, and a little confusing, but it will all come together in time. For now, I think the best thing would be for you to tell me a little bit more about yourself. In terms of your day to day life, so I can get an idea of what kind of routine I’ll be adapting to.”

So that’s what they did. The two spent the rest of the evening exchanging idle chatter and learning as much as they could about one another. The air around them changed, from that of tense strangers to old friends. Even if the rest of her life could collapse at any moment, Alexys was happy. When she finally went to sleep, her dreams were filled with the image of that kind angel and a hope that one day she might get lucky enough to know what it was like to be enveloped in his warm, soft embrace.

#self insert #selfinsert #self ship #selfship #oc x canon #self insert fic #self insert fanfiction #selfship fic #selfship fanfiction #my writing #claire writes #one shot #bad-blue-moon-rising #commission

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