#burn heaven to the ground like the king you are crowley

[art-eat3r]

And I present to you........

Good Omens 3; Written and Directed by art_eat3r

[actual-changeling]

considering where we left off after season 1, it's actually not a surprise how the two of them ended up.

yeah, they held hands on the bus and went to the ritz—but did aziraphale ever apologise for all the horrible shit he threw at crowley?

did they ever properly talk about the bookshop fire and what it did to crowley to think aziraphale was gone gone for a few hours?

did they ever address "and i will never talk to you again?" or how much power it must have cost crowley to stop time while the literal king of hell was bursting through the ground? in how much pain he visibly was?

did crowley feel comfortable and safe enough to talk about how triggering it must have been for him to be burned alive in heaven AGAIN? did he tell aziraphale about the holy water he had to use? that it could have easily destroyed not just ligur but hastur and himself too?

fuck, did he get to process ANY of the shit that happened on his way to tadfield?

they got closer and blurred some edges, but fundamentally they functioned exactly like before.

[hellceo]

Her face was scrunched up in pain as she stumbled down the hall towards...well, she figured there must be a throne here somewhere and if there was, that meant Crowley must be around there somewhere. King and all. She clenched her jaw and pressed harder on her on stomach, though stopped just as she entered the room to catch her breath as much as she could. "...Crowley?" It wasn't much louder than a whisper, and she forced herself forward. She walked a few more feet before dropping to her knees. How...ironic. Her, bowing to a demon, even if it was unintentional. "Crowley...?" She asked again as her eyelids fluttered. She didn't know who else to go to. She didn't want to worry Michael. For once...it would be better if he was blissfully unaware. Her free hand held her up as she leaned forward, her fingers grasping onto the cobblestone floor until even that buckled and she fell the rest of the way to the ground. "...Please, help me..." Azrael didn't want to die. Not like this. "Please..." She mumbled one last time as her arms fell limply to the floor at her sides. —@heavenguided

NEEDHAM ASYLUM IS AN ECLECTIC PLACE — a mix of dilapidation and luxury, crumbling walls and ivy breaking through brick and crumbling railings and flaking paint next to beautiful statues, elaborate stained glass, absolutely intricate and detailed woodsculpt. It's also, by it's very nature, complicated and confusing to walk through.

It's mostly empty. This safe haven, taken as refuge when Abaddon had taken over, has become more of a base of operations than Hell ever was — partially because it is topside, and not only limited to those that can travel all the way to the pit.

And so: her trip down these decrepit halls is largely unquestioned, though she's certainly been noticed. And: at the entry to the chamber that he has taken as the throne room, a pair of looming statues dispassionately oversees the crumble, their regard cold and hard and eternal.

When she awakens, it's to the hard, sickening-sharp smell of something burning, and the tell-tale lingering feel of witchcraft. Powerful witchcraft — more so than he can control. A lilting Scottish accent, only carrying because of pitch; bitter and snippy background arguing that can't be made out.

The door opens, and Crowley looks distinctly annoyed, exasperated, on edge for so, so many reasons. " Well. Couldn't let you die here, now could I? Bloody hell. Why me? You know how many strings I had to pull just to keep you alive so Heaven — " Michael — " — didn't come down on my ass? " A flare of temper, milder, and he blows out an exhale. " What happened to you anyway? "

[meganlpie]

Always Sam

Based on this request from Wattpad:  Dean x demon reader the reader got turned into a demon by Crowley and is now the strongest and most feared demon now and is back for revenge and it is dean’s fault it happened because he had to choose between sam and y/n and now y/n is in love with Sam

Here you are lovelies! The first of the new requests! I do not own ANY Supernatural characters. They belong to the writers/creators of the show.

Warnings: ANGST! Mentions of death, demons, SPN magic stuff. Ya know. 

Pairings: Sam Winchester x demon!reader, enemy!Dean Winchester, mentions of Crowley. 

*F/N= fake name

You watched with a glare as once again, Dean rushed to Sam's side. Even as you were lying there dying, Dean went to Sam. You understood that they were brothers, but you had saved both their lives on countless occasions. But, as always, when given the choice between Sam or someone else, Dean ALWAYS chose Sam. Always. So, you accepted the fact that you were going to die knowing that, if there was a chance, you were going to haunt Dean Winchester for the rest of his life. That was your last thought before everything went dark.

         It seemed like mere moments later that you heard an accent you knew very well beckoning you back. "Open your eyes, Y/N. See the world as I do." You grumbled a bit, thinking you may have been dreaming, but opened your eyes all the same. Unsurprisingly, you saw Crowley staring down at you. However, you were surprised that you were in an unfamiliar place. Everything came rushing back to you as you sat up.

         "Am I-?" Crowley smirked as he continued your question, "In Hell? Give the hunter a prize. Although I don't suppose you'll be doing much hunting anymore." You glared at him, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. "Why aren't I being tortured like the other lost souls?" you snapped at him. Crowley chuckled and shook his head before conjuring a mirror.

         "Because you're tortured enough, Y/N." You glanced in the mirror and blinked, only to jump back when black eyes looked back at you from a body that wasn't yours. "A demon?" Crowley nodded. Thoughts bounced around your head as everything came crashing down around you. This was the one thing you never wanted. "Sorry about the meat suit. The boys gave you a hunter's funeral. No body for you to go back to."

         The very mentions of the Winchesters brought back your anger. Not at Sam. But at Dean. It was his fault you ended up here. His fault that you were a demon now instead of in Heaven or, better yet, alive! You ground your teeth as anger filled you in a way it never had before. The need for revenge was stronger than you'd ever felt when you were human.

         "That's it, Y/N. Give into it." You glared at him, but he merely chuckled. "This why you're already a demon. Your anger. Your resentment. It all twisted your soul and made you into the very thing you always hated. But you have power here, Y/N. Power you never dreamed. And once I teach you how to harness it, you can do practically anything." Crowley's words sound like honey and you imagined all the ways you could enact the revenge you so desperately craved.

         "What would you like to do with your new demon status?" Crowley asked. You blinked up at him with furrowed brows. There was only one answer. "Make Dean Winchester suffer."

         "Perfect," came Crowley's reply with a grin.

*time skip*

         It took months of planning, but finally you were ready to get your payback. You harnessed your powers so quickly and ferociously that every demon in Hell, other than Crowley, feared and respected you. But now it was time for you to return to Earth. "I'll be checking in," Crowley told you and you left.

         Finding the Winchesters was easy enough. The second part of your plan was a little more difficult. Getting Sam to fall for you. After losing so many people, Sam did not fall easily. But you were determined and, to make matters better, Dean "introduced" you to his brother.

         "Hey, Sammy! This is F/N. F/N, this is my brother Sam." You stuck out your hand and smiled. "Want a drink?" Dean asked and you nodded. He walked off, leaving you alone with Sam. You started up a conversation and, at the end of the night, you found yourself in Sam's motel room. That was the beginning of the end for all of you.

         For weeks after that, you and Sam texted and called whenever he wasn't hunting. Occasionally, if you happened to be in the same vicinity for "work", you and he would meet up for dinner or coffee or even just a night of passion. It was never the same thing twice with him and you hated to admit it, but you enjoyed it. Still, you plans for revenge were never far from your mind. You didn't know that Dean was keeping a close eye on you.

         You were out with Sam one night when it all came crashing down. Sam took your hands in his and met your gaze. "I love you," he stated so seriously that there was no mistaking that he meant it. Those words threw you. You hadn't been expecting them so soon, if really at all.

         "Sam I-I-" you couldn't form the words. You were a demon. Demons didn't love. Did they? You wouldn't have a chance to say anything more though because the door was practically kicked off its hinges. "Dean?" Dean walked in with his gun pointed at you.

         "Move away, Sam. That's not who we think." Sam merely stared between you and Dean. You chuckled lightly and shook your head as you looked down at the floor. "So, you finally figured it out, did ya, Dean?" you asked. You picked your head back up, flashing your black eyes.

         "What do you want with Sam?!" You rolled your eyes, flashing them back to the color they were. "Okay, so you haven't figured it out. You know, for such a good big brother, your instincts were certainly off this time. Too bad. This makes my revenge a lot less satisfying."

         "Revenge? For what?" Sam asked, holding out his hand to try and get Dean to lower the gun. "You mean you don't know?" you asked innocently before facing Dean again. "Tell him, Dean. Tell him how you always choose him over anyone else. Tell him that it's because of you I'm like this. You know, you could have at least left me my body to come back to. I miss my body." Dean looked confused for a moment before lowering the gun slightly. "Y-Y/N?"

         "BINGO! Give the man a medal!" Sam stepped in, blocking Dean from your view. "Y/N?" Your anger melted slightly as you looked at the giant of a man in front of you. "Yeah, Sam. It's me. Has been." Sam stared at you for a minute. "But why? How is this Dean's fault?"

         "You really don't know? Think back to when I died. The hunt we did. Your wounds were superficial! Dean could have saved me, but instead he chose you! He always chose you! I died angry and resentful and hurt and because of that, I came back as a demon!" you shouted, making Sam jump and causing Dean to raise the gun again.

         With a flick of your wrist, you sent the gun flying. "You know that wouldn't work on me anyway," you stated as you calmed down, moving once more to bring Dean into your line of sight. "You know," you continued, "This wasn't how I planned this. I was supposed to kill Sam, but I can't do that now."

         "Why not?" Sam asked. You turned to him with a smile. "Because, despite everything has done to me, you aren't him. And honestly? I…I care about you, Sam Winchester. I don't know if it's love. I don't think demons can love, but whatever it is, it's close to it. So, I have a better idea." Sam raised a brow.

         "You come with me and I leave Dean here to wallow in his misery." Sam opened his mouth in surprise. But you never got to hear an answer. You felt the bullet from the Colt before you heard it. How could you have forgotten about that damned gun? You crumpled to the ground, knowing you were going to die for real this time. The only one who could save you now was Crowley and he was nowhere around.

         Sam was by your side in an instant. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking. You let out a wry chuckle. "See? I told you." Sam looked confused for a minute. "He will always choose you, Sam. Your life over everything, even your happiness." You groaned a little as the meat suit began dying. "You know, I think I do love you. Tell Crowley that when you see him again, okay?" you managed to mutter before the body finally gave into death.

         Sam sat there, cradling the body that temporarily been yours as his eyes filled with tears. "Sam?" Dean questioned but Sam didn't want to hear it. "Don't, Dean. Just don't." Sam got up, scooping you up in his arms, ready to burn your body once again. He walked with a heavy heart as he his mind raced and his heart was torn between his brother and the demon he'd come to love. A demon that only the King of Hell could bring back to him.

(a/n: How’d I do? It’s been a bit since I wrote anything SPN. I hope you like it!)

Forever Tags: @fizzyxcustard​ @brewsthespirit-blog​ @sirkekselord​ @aikibriarrose​ @lady-of-lies​ @esoltis280​ @stories-by-shanna-p​ @motleymoose​

Supernatural Tags: @jotink78​

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Infection - Good Omens Fic

My second fic for tonight for the @bingokisses prompts! This one fills my second “Wrist Kisses” square, which was paired with “Patching up a wound.” Get ready for some hurt/comfort, strong angst, and Crowley desperately trying to protect his angel. Promise: this one ends in soft bed cuddles.

This will be edited before going on AO3, so let me know if you notice anything is off.

CW: blood, not too graphic but definitely there.

Aziraphale spread his hands before him, still steaming lightly from the force of the holy blasts he had thrown at the demons. They were fleeing, finally, five dark shapes vanishing into the soil before him. He clenched his jaw, holding his cold expression, his pose, and his breath until the dark stain of their infernal presence had dissipated from his mind.

Then, slowly, he lowered his hands to the wound in his side.

“Oh,” he murmured, as his fingers slid through the rents in the fabric of his tunic to find the deep gashes slick with blood. “That’s…a bit worse than I thought…” He pressed harder, and suddenly the pain lanced through him, burning tearing. His power reserves were low, but he’d need to heal that quickly or face discorporation and likely some uncomfortable questions from his superiors.

Lifting his trembling hands, Aziraphlae looked at the deep red blood, and saw a thick black shadow already spreading through it like a cloud. “Oh, very bad, indeed…” Demonic corruption. Already, he could feel the pollution working its way into him – not his corporation, but his true angelic body on the astral plane – seeming in like a toxin, corroding the light of his soul. If he didn’t purge the befouling influence quickly, he would else face something far worse than discorporation.

But that would require focus, quiet, and a spot to work where the world wasn’t filled with fuzzy mist…the ground not tilting alarmingly back and forth…and…

“Blast.”

He toppled over, collapsing into the dew-speckled grass.

--

Crowley tore through the forest, ignoring the stinging slap of tree branches and snaring twists of undergrowth that tried to slow him down. “Aziraphale!”

Another little stream opened up suddenly just ahead of him, and, unable to stop in time, he attempted to leap straight over it. Nearly made it, too, but the soft earth on the far side shifted and slid as soon as his feet touched it, and he rolled back down the bank, hitting the cold water with a splash.

“Stupid bloody – Aziraphale!” Somewhere in this endless ancient forest, on one of the countless hills or ridges or hollows, the angel was fighting, injured, needed his help and Crowley had miles upon miles still to search and he didn’t have time for this.

He set about scrambling up the far side of the bank, digging his fingers deep into the muddy earth.

--

It had started, nearly a hundred years ago now, with a suggestion in a misty field in Wessex.

“Be easier if we both stayed home,” he’d proposed, metal sabatons sinking in the English mud. He could almost picture it already, a nice little cottage and a roaring fire, a few glasses of the local brews.

But Aziraphale hadn’t been interested. “Absolutely out of the question,” and he’d stormed off full of all the sanctimonious indignation an angel could carry. “We aren’t having this conversation” – but he’d certainly followed it up with a strongly-worded letter, ensuring Crowley in the strictest of terms that he would never consider such a scheme, that any cooperation on assignments was simply inconceivable, that he would henceforth devote all his efforts to thwarting any of Crowley’s infernal works that he caught wind of, and do his utmost to ensure that all hellish influences were wiped from this peaceful island, nay, this blessed world and all its inhabitants…

Crowley read the letter twice, then packed up his armor and camp and headed for London.

Once he was dressed in proper, comfortable clothes, there was no chance anyone would recognize the sophisticated red-haired traveler as the dreaded Black Knight, and before long he had settled into an alehouse with his feet resting comfortably on a bench by the fire and set to work telling stories of the immortal warrior dressed all in black, leading raids against unnamed villages somewhere to the north.

Within a few weeks, the rumors reached him of Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table and his band of holy knights, scouring Mercia and Northumbria for signs of the Black Knight. Crowley tossed in a few stories about the rebel band joining up with invaders from the south with just enough tantalizing details to keep the angel on a wild goose chase for months and congratulated himself on a job well done.

When next Hell checked in, he shrugged ruefully and explained that Heaven’s agent (a fierce and terrifying opponent) had effectively stopped him at every turn but also that Crowley (a cunning and devious force for evil who deserved a commendation and a promotion) had prevented the angel from pursuing Heaven’s larger agenda. He added in some gossip about the queen he’d picked up from travelers out of Camelot, broadly suggesting that was somehow his doing, and declared his mission to the island an overall success.

And, incredibly, they bought it.

A very neat solution, Crowley thought several decades later as he lounged by the Mediterranean, sunning himself on a rock and sampling the latest developments in viticulture and winemaking. He was already trying to work out the best way to include “convincing monks to sell wine to a demon” in his upcoming report. It sounded like an appropriately demonic activity.

The countryside was swirling with tales of a terrifying monster ravaging the villages, fighting endless battles against a glowing warrior of light, based solely on rumors he started and allowed to grow and expand in the retelling. Seven different noble warriors – three armed with holy weapons that could only have come from Aziraphale – had come searching for the beast, and Crowley had gleefully sent each to a different corner of the world.

Everybody won, really: Crowley’s reputation was surging Down Below as tales of his narrow escapes grew; Aziraphale and his agents got to parade around being self-righteous; and Heaven and Hell took credit for whatever developments they wished.

What could possibly go wrong?

--

“…which kept me from directly joining the emperor’s invasion of Armenia, as originally instructed, but I was able to stay behind in Constantinople and focus on the corruption of countless aristocrats.” As if wealthy humans had ever needed help becoming corrupt, but it was the sort of result Hell liked.

Beelzebub glared down through the cloud of flies, and as always Crowley wondered if ze believed a word he said. It was impossible to tell, really; the Prince of Hell’s expression never wavered. “Tell me where you were szupposed to go next.”

“Another king’s court, thousands of miles away.” Crowley furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

“Dagobert, king of Austrasia, heir to the throne of all the Franks,” Dagon interrupted, mouth perpetually stretched into a grin with far too many teeth.

“Yeah, that one. And, really, I was looking forward to it.” The Franks had some of the best grape wine in the world, but he’d discovered that the people of the north had done some interesting things with mead and fruit wines, and over in Bohemia they’d started experimenting with hops in their beer instead of gruit, and really Crowley needed to give these developments his full attention. “But, you know, turned out that angel was still on my tail.” At this point, dropping rumors of his devious activities for Aziraphale to chase had become a game, and he’d left a trail of breadcrumbs for the angel all up and down the continent. “We had a great battle in the northern forests, and I barely escaped with my skin intact, but he’ll have a hard time recovering from the wounds I left him with.” He’d not seen Aziraphale in-person since that field in Wessex, but there was always a local legend of warrior fighting beast he could co-opt, and Hell did almost nothing to verify his claims.

“Laszt time you claimed he’d never walk again,” Beelzebub pointed out, looking distinctly uninterested.

“Did I?” Crowley might have gotten carried away. “Right. Well. He healed more quickly than I could have expected. Blasted angel.”

“Why have you not infected him yet?” Dagon wondered. “That would put an end to all this.”

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth. Every demon carried some toxin or venom, the remains of their Grace, twisted and tainted by the Fall, and most could spread it through their claws or nails. Infected humans became more susceptible to suggestion and temptation; but to other supernatural beings, it was far more dangerous. The strongest could eat away at an angel’s true self, as holy water did for demons, only slower and more painful.

Crowley, serpent that he was, carried it in his fangs, which made it difficult to administer; and he’d always found it cheating, and a little cruel. In four and a half millennia, he’d only ever used it in the most dire of emergencies. “Well, ah, I did. Only, as you know, Aziraphale is – is impossibly strong. He seems able to shrug off what I can give him.”

Dagon’s perpetual grin grew even wider. “Good thing we sent a team, then.”

“A…a team?”

“After hearing your reports, Hastur and Ligur volunteered to take on the angel themselves. We had them bring a few specialists along as back up.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s stomach dropped down to the ninth circle and kept falling. “And…and when did they leave?”

“Two daysz ago,” Beelzebub offered. “Ligur reported they’d tracked the angel down momentsz before you came in. They’re ambushing him asz we szpeak.” For once, the Prince of Hell shifted forward, studying Crowley’s reaction with unreadable eyes.

“Oh. Well. Good for them. Ngk. Glad they can…glad to see…” He clenched his jaw before his two superiors could see how his teeth chattered, how the panic threatened to overtake him. Swallowing it down, Crowley tried again. “I mean, Aziraphale is one of Heaven’s greatest warriors, as I’ve personally experienced many times. I’m glad he’ll finally get what’s coming to him.” He tossed his head and continued as casually as he could, “Any chance I can join up with them? I’d love to, to witness this glorious…victory for our side.”

Crowley stood for an eternity, pinned between the sadistic gleam of Dagon’s eyes and the inscrutable calm of Beelzebub’s. His fist tightened, nails digging into his palm as he struggled not to show a single sign of worry, no trembling knees, no sheen of sweat.

Although the game wouldn’t exist for another twelve centuries, Crowley had already perfected his poker face.

Finally, finally, Beelzebub nodded. “It might be too late. Catch up if you can.”

--

The Germanic forest that seemed to stretch on forever, rocky ledges giving way to soggy river land and back. Humans lived here – humans lived everywhere – but there seemed to be none for miles in every direction, not even as much as a road. The night was silent as the grave, completely still, even the stars shrouded in clouds.

At first, Crowley crept along quietly, looking for hints of the demons’ passing, listening for the sounds of battle. Trying to maintain his cover as an interested observer. He could sense them – somewhere – not close, but not far.

After an hour of this, his façade began to slip, the worry bubbling to the surface. Soon after, there was no longer even a trace of demonic presence in the forest, apart from his own. Which meant they’d done their work and left. And that meant…

As the sun began to rise, he flung all caution to the winds, racing through the forest like a hunted deer, calling the angel’s name again and again. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe they suspected, maybe they were just waiting for him to slip up.

Or maybe they’d already killed Aziraphale. And it would be all his fault.

As he pulled himself out of the muddy stream, he felt it – the faintest hint of angelic presence, ahead and to the left. “I’m coming,” he whispered, his voice too thick to shout.

It took another half-hour before he found the clearing, bursting out of the trees into ground burned black, twisted and churned in a ring as large as a basilica, and there in the center, in a circle of grass incongruously untouched, lay a motionless white figure.

“Aziraphale!”

The ruined ground was hot on his feet, like hallowed ground, but he raced across it without a second thought, collapsing onto the blood-soaked grass. It seeped into the ground, too much blood, red turning to black before his eyes.

“No, no, no, no.” When last he’d seen Aziraphale, they’d both been dressed in sixty pounds of armor, Aziraphale’s surely blessed for extra protection; but now he wore the simple clothes of a traveler, pale blue tunic shredded, four deep lines carved into the flesh of his side. A bag lay beside him, loaves of bread spilled across the grass, as well as ceramic jars of alcohol, oil and honey. “Aziraphale, please…”

“C…Crowley?” His eyes fluttered open just for a second. “Looking…for you…”

“Don’t try to talk, Angel.” He shifted, lifting Aziraphale’s head to his shoulder, cradling the angel in his arms. “I’ve got you now.”

“Certainly…” Aziraphale’s mouth worked for a moment. “Got me…Clever trap…”

“I…Aziraphale, I didn’t know…I swear, I never thought…” Oh, Satan, he was getting paler every second. “I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.” One hand braced the angel against his chest, the other wandered down to the deep cuts in his side. The bleeding had slowed. Because it was healing? Or because he was running out of blood? “This might hurt.”

“Hurts…already…”

Crowley rested his fingers against the cuts, trying to ignore the way Aziraphale gasped, sounding too weak to draw breath. “I know, I know.” He closed his eyes, looking instead to the astral plane, searching for the heat and glow of Aziraphale’s true form. It should have been blinding; instead he found an endless sea of dark energy, pulsing, growing.

It was devouring Aziraphale, smothering him, infiltrating his Grace and turning it…necrotic. Killing him.

“Crowley…I…I…”

“I told you, don’t talk.” Crowley’s face felt wet. Without thinking, he brought his hand up, wiping his cheeks, leaving smears of angel blood under both eyes. “I…I can do this.”

Bracing himself, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s side, digging his fingers into the cuts. He pressed Aziraphale against him as the angel arched his back, crying out in pain, voice breaking –

Crowley – in a shape loosely approximating his human form – waded into the black mass. It sucked at his feet like a bog, and smelled even worse; thickening around his legs with every step, trying to hold him, pull him down. It stung where it touched bare flesh, and he tried to keep his hands clear as he searched.

At last he saw it – there – at the center of the twisted mass of decay, a single ember, flickering fitfully, sinking into the morass. He struggled towards it, as the dark energy nearly solidified, tendrils forming to pluck at his tunic and belt.

He reached out his hands and, yes, he could reach it, cradle it in his hands, lift the tiny spark of power free from the sea of death. All that was left of Aziraphale, a single brilliant gemstone, not even strong enough to burn him. He lifted it to his face, even as more dark tendrils formed, angrily trying to snatch back the treasure he guarded.

“Angel, Aziraphale, please…” But at the touch of his breath, the light stuttered and nearly extinguished. Of course. Angel, demon – incompatible.

One black coil snagged his wrist, searching, crawling towards the light.

“No,” Crowley snarled, transferring Aziraphale’s light to his other hand, “I won’t let you have him!” Closing his fingers carefully around the last fragment of Grace, he held it above his head, as more lines and waves grabbed at him, trying to pull him under. “You messed with the wrong bloody demon.”

He grabbed the tendril that held his wrist, twisting it around his arm like an anchoring rope. Once it was secure, he relaxed his arm, letting it become insubstantial as mist. The dark coil sank into him.

He’d hoped that the demonic taint would be compatible with his body, allowing him to handle it as easily as Aziraphale did holy water. No such luck. It burned and sizzled, like solid potassium into water.

Crowley braced himself and pulled.

Somewhere back on the physical plane, he writhed and screamed, body convulsing as another demon’s toxins ran through it, filling his veins like fire and ice. He thought his corporation would burst, torn apart, that his true form would be shredded to pieces under the pressure. He almost lost his grip, on both planes, almost broke the connection, almost dropped the precious light of Aziraphale back into hungry black chaos.

But however much it hurt Crowley, Aziraphale must feel it tenfold. Which made his silence all the more terrifying.

Hang on, Angel. Just a little more…

His body strained against him, trying to fall away, contact only maintained through his grip on the dark energy, taut as a bowstring even as he pulled it into him until –

POP!

The last of the infection broke free of its connection to Aziraphale, snapped into Crowley. On the astral plane, he collapsed to his knees, skin swollen from the effort of holding it all in. Carefully, so carefully, he lowered the last glowing fleck of Aziraphale’s soul, setting it free. “You…” he sucked in a painful breath. “You’re alright now. Just rest…”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, back in reality, body clammy with sweat, every joint and every organ burning with pain. He scrambled away from the angel to the edge of the grass just in time to cough – heave – and retch out what felt like gallons of boiling black vapor, steaming out of him, swept away by the wind.

When he finally felt empty again, his arms and legs were trembling from the effort of holding him up. He could feel the blood coating his face, dry and flaking except two wet channels under his eyes.

Still coughing, he managed to crawl back to Aziraphale. The wound at his side was bright red, no sign of the dark corruption that had nearly killed him. But the angel still twitched and jerked fitfully, and his skin was fever-hot. The demonic infection was gone, but a mundane, earthly one had taken its place.

“D’n w’rry, Angel,” he muttered, mouth numb with exhaustion. “Just gotta…” He miracled up a length of cloth, almost as long as he was tall, but that was the last of his strength; healing would be impossible.

Reaching for Aziraphale’s bag, he found a jar of strong Roman-style wine, alcohol mixed with vinegar and salt water. He pulled at the seal, wax and cloth breaking free and a stream of wine spilled across the cuts, rinsing them clean. Aziraphale flinched and whimpered, but Crowley held him in place with one hand on his hip.

“Almost done.” Remembering something he’d seen a human do in Athens, centuries before, Crowley broke open the jar of honey and smeared it across the gashes, sealing them under a thick, sticky layer. He hoped it would work. You never really knew with human medicine. “Alrigh’ Angel. Time to…to sit…”

He slid an arm under Aziraphale’s shoulders and lifted him as far as he could, nearly collapsing under the angel’s boneless weight, until Aziraphale’s head was on his shoulder again. Crowley shook out the cloth and began wrapping it around his middle.

--

Aziraphale felt a burst of heat, sparking through every part of his body, like he was being boiled alive from the inside out.

Then, just as abruptly, it passed, and he was resting against something sturdy and warm.

His side still ached and burned, but in a distant, fuzzy way. He couldn’t focus on it, but he could feel the gentle pressure of fingers moving here and there.

Wasn’t he supposed to be worried about something? Something important. Of that he was certain. His eyes felt heavy as the weight of the world, but he forced them open.

A pair of hands, stained red and black, tied a knot in a cloth that seemed wrapped around his middle. They moved slowly, awkwardly, as if they didn’t know what they were doing. He could feel breath stirring his hair, and it sounded heavy, laden, tired.

Aziraphale tried to tip his head back to see who he leaned against, but all he managed was to turn slightly, his eyes finding a vast expanse of impossibly black fabric. “C…Crowley…?”

“Nh. Told you…” The body behind him shifted, and Aziraphale lost track of his surroundings. When they cleared again, he was lying on soft grass. One hand brushed across his forehead, pushing away the curls, and a cool breeze prickled across his skin. “Better?”

The face hovering above fuzzed in and out of focus. Yes, it had red hair, and a narrow face streaked with blood. “You…” Aziraphale tried to lift his heavy arm, reach for the already-fading form. “You’re hurt…”

“Nah.” The figure scrubbed at his face, not noticing the blood. Was Aziraphale dreaming it? Did he also imagine the eyes turned solid-gold with exhaustion? “’m fine. Jus’ rest now.”

“No…I was…” his hand managed to reach his side. “Toxin…bleeding…”

“Don’ worry. All better.”

Better? Every angel knew nothing in Heaven or Earth could heal demonic corruption. Well. Perhaps he’d dreamt that, too. Perhaps he was dreaming now.

He managed to roll onto his uninjured side. There was a frightful chill, but trying to curl up pulled at his wound painfully. “Nf,” he managed, without even the energy to cry out.

“Cold?”

“Y’s.”

A moment later, all the cold melted away, replaced by something warm pressed against his back, a light touch resting protectively on his hip. “Got you,” the voice whispered, a gentle brush of air across his ear. Then a sharp snap some sort of blanket draped over him, shielding him from the wind and the sun. “S’good. Sleep now.”

“Can’t,” Aziraphale objected. “I never…”

--

With a sharp breath, Aziraphale woke up. For a moment, he was disoriented – it was dark, everything tilted and strange – but, no: black sheets, grey walls, a few books resting on the bedside table near a mug of tea. The bedroom in Crowley’s flat. Which meant that the arms gently wrapped around his chest, the body pressed against his back, and the face nuzzling his shoulder…

“Mhf. ‘Wake already?”

“Sorry, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“S’fine.” Crowley shifted, bringing his chin up to Aziraphale’s shoulder, wriggling his body into a more comfortable position.

“I’m still not used to sleeping.” He doubted he’d been out for more than an hour. “Not sure I’ll ever quite get the knack.”

“Told you. S’fine.” Crowley’s voice was still thick and heavy. He clearly had no intention of waking up so soon. “You wanna read now?”

“Not just yet.” He patted Crowley’s arm and leaned into his embrace, feeling lips brush absently against the back of his neck. “I think I dreamt this time.”

“Really?” He could hear the grin in Crowley’s voice, practically feel it against his skin. “Thassa first. Dream ‘bout me?”

“You know, I rather think I did. We were in a field…”

“Hmmm. Picnic?”

But Aziraphale’s smile faded as the details came back. “Your hands were…they were red. And I was in so much pain. Crowley, I think it was…” Without realizing it, his hand was pressed against the four scars on his side. “It was when I…”

In seconds he shifted from comfortably at rest to alert and awake, heart thundering as if it wanted to break free. He remembered the attack – fourteen hundred years ago now – the struggle for his life – the wound – and waking up, a week later, lying alone in a dying field, weak and hungry. He was never sure how much of what he remembered was a fever dream – but someone had bound his wounds…and then left. The cloth was soaked with blood; it had never been changed.

He hadn’t seen Crowley for another thirty years. Aziraphale only ever alluded to the attack once, and the demon had just growled learn to take better care of yourself. Never a hint of why the forces of Hell had ambushed Aziraphale, or why they never returned, or if Crowley had really been there to heal Aziraphale afterwards.

He hesitated to mention it now.

But Crowley’s fingers glided down his arm, twining with his, pressing lightly into the scars as if to ensure they were fully healed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I…I mean…it wasn’t the attack, though it felt as though it had happened only moments before.” Aziraphale shuddered at the memory of five demons, bursting out of the woods, claws and fangs and… “No, it was…surprisingly pleasant. I dreamt you were there. Afterwards. Taking care of me.”

“Oh.” Then, softer. “Oh.”

“You dressed my wound. Talked to me. And…and held me. Just like this.” He tugged Crowley’s arm across his chest again. “Stayed with me until I woke up.” His fingers played around Crowley’s, massaging knuckles. “I…ah…back then…I always wondered…”

“Yeah. That was…yeah. It was me.”

A lump formed in his throat, and all Aziraphale could do was nod, bringing Crowley’s fingers to his lips. How strange, to have confirmation after all this time. It shouldn’t have affected him, brought tears to his eyes, but, oh…

“Thank you,” he whispered, when he could speak again, and he pressed a kiss into Crowley’s palm. “I…I’m glad you were there.” More kisses, trailing to his wrist.

“Didn’t stay.” There was no mistaking the regret in his voice.

“Oh, no, I know you couldn’t.” Another kiss to the wrist. “It was a different time…we were different and…just that you stayed long enough to save me from an inconvenient discorporation…truly, thank you.” But when Crowley didn’t relax, Aziraphale switched to a teasing tone. “I used to think it couldn’t possibly be you. Why would a demon help an angel his own side had left for dead?” Ah. That wasn’t funny at all, was it? He continued, more serious. “I…I don’t wonder anymore. I know why.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, you silly old thing. Yes. I was quite fond of you back then, too, you know, though I didn’t trust you at all and very much wanted to throw you off a cliff for your…absurd pranks.” He smiled in memory. “And I would have helped you the same way, if you ever needed it.”

He lay there a moment longer, in the warm circle of Crowley’s arm. “I…don’t think I’ve ever told you…how very safe you make me feel.” Aziraphale turned over, just enough to meet Crowley’s eyes, expecting them to be warm and soft. Instead, he found them filled with pain. Aziraphale quickly reached up, cradling his demon’s face. “Darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It…it was my fault.”

“What?” The words slid down his spine like ice, and Aziraphale scrambled to sit up. “No, it’s not your fault. It was Hastur and – and those other demons who attacked. I don’t know why they suddenly decided…Ah. You mentioned me?”

“More than that.” A tear ran down Crowley’s face, just one, and dropped unheeded between them. “I – I thought I was so clever. If I didn’t want to do a job, just say you stopped me. Told them how – how fierce you are. Fearless. Strong. And you are.” His eyes were pleading now. “I wanted them to…to think you were a-a-a worthy opponent.”

“And instead they decided to eliminate me.” He reached up to brush the tear track from Crowley’s cheek. “My love, no, it wasn’t your fault. I’m sure I gave Hell plenty of reasons on my own. You weren’t their only agent on earth in those days, and the rest were certainly not as fond of oyster dinners.”

“They wouldn’t have sent five demons if I hadn’t…”

“You don’t know that.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek. “And glad as I am for your help, I was fine. Really, my injury looked much worse than it was.”

But Crowley shook his head. “Angel…you almost died.”

“What? No, I…” He remembered hands, coated with red blood, and something black.

“I pulled all the toxin out of you. I…I held your soul in my hand. It was almost gone.” The tears started again. “You were almost gone. I…a few minutes later and…”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled him into his arms, felt Crowley’s arms twist around him, tight as only a serpent’s embrace could be. “I didn’t know…”

“I stayed as long as I could, I swear. Two days.” Crowley shuddered. “Then they came back. Even more of them.”

Fear boiled through Aziraphale, as if Crowley’s words could summon the demons into their bedroom. Calm down. That happened fourteen hundred years ago. “What…what did you do?”

“Told you. I left.” His voice was strained, broken. “When I sensed them coming. I just…abandoned you. Led them on a chase. Told them you’d attacked me. Had reinforcements. Everything I could think of, until they gave up. And then I went back to Hell with them. Left you there.”

“Crowley. Look at me.” He pushed the demon back until he could see his eyes. “Thank you.” Crowley started to shake his head, and Aziraphale gripped his jaw firmly. “No. Don’t blame yourself. I was in no condition to fight, even if you could have woken me. And I would never ask you to fight a horde of demons. By leaving me, by leading them away, you saved me. And more importantly, you saved my best friend.” He leaned in and kissed Crowley lightly on the lips. “So. Thank you.”

“I wanted to stay.”

“I know. I…I wanted you too as well.” His fingers searched for Crowley’s, crept between them, and squeezed. “I hope, er, your former side didn’t do anything too bad when you returned.”

“Nah,” and there was that smile, the careless grin Aziraphale adored so much. “I was a legend. Only demon to ever face you and walk away unscathed. Even Hastur was afraid to face you again. Dagon had me develop a whole training course on angelic combat.”

Aziraphale threw back his head and laughed. “They thought you could beat me?”

“Oi! Mind who you’re mocking, I am the Serpent of Eden, Hell’s fiercest and most effective agent!”

“Only because you lie about everything.”

“You’re one to talk!” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pushing him back down into the pillow, laughing just as much. “You invented lying! To God!” His lips brushed against Aziraphale’s ear, but it was a serious voice that whispered, “I will protect you always, Angel.”

“I know.” He kissed Crowley’s jaw, then rested against his face, cheek to cheek. “Thank you.”

Eventually, they settled down to try sleeping again, Crowley pressed against his back, long fingers resting on the curve of his hip. With a snap, Crowley’s wing emerged, covering Aziraphale in a feathery cocoon. Just like in his dream.

There, in the embrace of his demon, Aziraphale felt safe, and warm, and welcome, and other things he’d never expected to feel. Whatever came next, they had each other. Forever.

[drop-of-infinity]

I have continued my weird destiel fic thing! This part is canon compliant with season 6.

Chapter one is here

Chapter two is here

<><><><><><><><><>

Chapter 3: season 6

The Third Man

{“I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here-“ and then suddenly Cas was there in all his trenchcoated glory. He hadn’t come when Sam had prayed all those times, but Dean had called once and here was Cas. Well, no time to think about that now.

{“Dean and I do share a more profound bond..” he’d been very careful with his wording, yet the that was too honest feeling had returned. Cas sighed inwardly. He was not built for emotions. He was not built for choosing his words.

{“You’re gonna torture a kid?”

“I can’t care about that Dean! I don’t have the luxury.” Cas’s voice cracked as he said it, and Dean knew he did care about it. After all, if there was one thing he knew about Cas, it was that he cared more then he should.

6-7

{“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but I do want to help.” Couldn’t that be enough for Dean? Cas had a war to worry about, he didn’t have time for this. Yet he was helping Dean anyway, because- no. Shut it down. Yet he was helping Dean anyway. Wasn’t that enough? Aren’t I enough?

{“Of course. Your problems always come first.” Coming from anyone else, Dean would think that was sarcasm, but this was Cas. Plus, the look the angel gave him... well, he was pretty sure Cas was being honest. The guy had a war to fight, and he was still helping them. Dean felt a twinge of guilt, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Cas was already gone. Fricking angels.

Caged Heat

{“I learned that from the pizza man.” Dean couldn’t help but stare at Cas and the demon he had just been making out with. Since when has he been interested in that stuff? He watches Cas smooth a hand over swollen lips. An odd burning sensation roots itself in Dean’s stomach. Suddenly, he wants to strangle Meg. Because she’s a demon, probably, he tells himself. It’s just instinct.

My Heart Will Go On

{“You have me confused with the other angel. You know, the one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you?” Dean’s brain wisely decided to shut down at that. When Balthazar left, the only thing he let himself think was Cas’s coat isn’t dirty. The other thoughts-well they weren’t so much thoughts as half formed screams and fast heartbeats-he pushed to the back of his mind to be taken out and examined never.

{“You need new friends Cas.”

“I’m trying to save the ones I have, Dean.” It’s always strange to call Dean his friend. The word friend encompasses so much to humans, everything from ‘this person makes me happy’ to ‘I don’t want to live without you.’ Humanity is still fascinating. Cas will keep Dean safe. It is his priority, always. This person makes me happy.

{“50000 new souls for your war machine.” As fate talks, Cas can only be grateful that the Winchesters can’t hear her. If they knew... well, it wouldn’t be pretty. Dean takes trust so seriously. Cas has the odd feeling that he is digging himself into a hole. This is the only way, he thinks. Lie, beat Raphael, keep them in your life. Simple enough. He stops Balthazar from stabbing fate, because her sisters would come after the Winchesters, and he can’t have that. As time unfreezes, and Cas watches Dean startle awake back into his own timeline, green eyes flying open, he realizes something terrifying. He is an entity, an eldritch being millions of years old. He has known Dean for less then a fraction of his immortal life and yet... I don’t want to live without you.

18-19

{“I think you call him when you need something.” Rachel’s words cut deeper then they should. Dean considers Cas the best friend he’s ever had, but their life means friendship is built in the middle of life threatening situations. There was another thought too, buried deep. At least needing something gives me an excuse. At least if he doesn’t show up I can pretend he doesn’t want to help, not he doesn’t want to see me. It’s strange to need an excuse to talk to someone, but Dean can’t help it. Instead of studying either of these revelations, he denies what this angel has said, and resumes arguing with her.

{“There are millions of lives at stake here not just two!” Even as Cas says it, he feels the weight of his words on his own actions. How many people had he sacrificed to save two recently? Cas doesn’t stop Dean from leaving with the children. He could have, but he knows how hypocritical it would be. The greater good doesn’t always mean everything, he reasons.

{When Cas gets his powers back, the first thing he does (well, after smiting all the monsters in the diner) is heal Dean. The bite on his neck vanishes as Cas places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He tells himself it is for grounding purposes, but he knows he doesn’t need to touch someone to heal them. He also knows he doesn’t usually want to. He also knows that he’s had to use the word usually instead of always a lot more since he met Dean.

The Man Who Would Be King

{“But Cas, you’ll call right? If you get into real trouble?” There is more Dean wants to say, but he can’t. Usually they would be hunting Crowley together, but Sam and Bobby think Cas-their Cas, who has saved their lives more times then he can count-might be working with the king of Hell. It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And yet... his instincts are telling him they’re right. He always goes with his gut, but with Cas... there’s something in his heart straining against it. Innocent until proven guilty, he thinks stubbornly. As Cas teleports away, Dean wishes he could believe the angel will call if he has to, but he has a feeling those words will be ignored.

{“I still considered myself the Winchester’s guardian. After all, they taught me how to stand up, what to stand for.” As he goes over the story in his head, Cas thinks about what else he’s learned from them. From Dean. How to smile, how to cry. How to feel so much and then repress it like your life depends on it. How to love.

{“This is Cas guys!” Dean knows it’s a weak argument, but they don’t know the guy like he does. He thinks of Cas saying “profound bond” and realizes it’s true. Sam and Bobby weren’t there in Hell. They weren’t there sitting on that park bench, or in that bar. They didn’t sit in the Impala afterwards, actually laughing for the first time in years. Dean blinks a few times. There is an emotion hovering at the surface of his mind that he does not want to look at too closely right now.

{“Where were you when I needed to hear it?”

“I was there. Where were you?” There are tears in Dean’s eyes as he looks at Cas over the fire. I hurt him again, he thinks numbly. Sam and Dean don’t understand the stakes of the war in heaven is all. They don’t understand that this betrayal was necessary. But as Cas looks at Dean, his certainty wavers. It feels like the moment before he chose to stop Lucifer, except this time he is already in the wrong, and it is too late, and he hurt Dean.

{“I’m doing this for you Dean. I’m doing this because of you.” Dean stares at the angel in front of him. Cas is always saying shit like this, but this time it’s a lie and they both know it. Has it always been a lie? What were his real motives? Of course he wasn’t always doing this stuff for me. I was stupid to believe it. His father’s words ring in his head. Useless. Pathetic. Cas betrayed them. Cas betrayed him, and it hurts like hell.

{“Next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things I have to family.” It feels like a knife, sliding below Cas’s layers of self righteousness and belief and inserting itself into his chest. He stops breathing. Dean did legitimately care about him, and now he’s gone and burned it all down. What choice did I have? He thinks desperately. It is too late now.

Let It Bleed

{“I do everything that you ask, I always come when you call, and I am your friend.” Dean wishes he could accept that. All he wants is to hug Cas and tell him it’s okay, and have everything go back to normal. But Cas betrayed them, and now Lisa and Ben are in danger, and Dean feels like he’s falling through the floor.

{“I wish this changed anything.”

“I know. Me too.” He ruined it. Castiel, the broken angel, the fallen angel. Whatever he might have had with Dean he ruined it like he ruined everything else. It feels like a black hole opening up inside him. He feels something on his face, and lifts a shaky hand to touch his cheeks. They are wet. Just keep going. All you can do now is defeat Raphael. Now you have no reason not to. Now you will do what you must. Dean clearly doesn’t care anymore, so there is nothing holding Cas back.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

{“we were family once. I’d have died for you. I almost did a few times. I’ve lost Lisa, I’ve lost Ben, I’ve lost Sam. Don’t make me lose you too.” It was the closest Dean could come to saying what he meant, which was please, I need you here. He thought he saw Cas’s expression waver for a moment, but then the angel steeled himself and Dean felt a sinking sensation. He knew it-whatever it was or had been-was over before Cas opened his mouth.

{“You’re not my family Dean. I have no family.” He almost choked on the words as he said them. It was true, he told himself. Dean wasn’t family, he never would be. He was just a human. He is more than family, whispers the traitorous part of himself that had made him betray Heaven for this one human. But Cas sees his words hit Dean like a javelin, and he knows there is no going back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

{All the souls from purgatory are in Cas, and he remembers why he wasn’t supposed to fall. This is his destiny.

{As Castiel tells them to kneel or die, Dean remembers why he’s been scared to fly since forever. There’s always a crash.

Then all hell-well, all Purgatory breaks loose, and neither of them have time to get lost in memories.

[chamyl]

Good Omens fic recs, part two

Find part one here!

All are completed. Sorted by rating and then by length, NSFW ones under the cut.

Entwined in Every Step I Take by Ghostinthehouse Gen, 1842 words "You do know," he said after a long moment, "that angels can sense love, don't you?" "Going to smite me down for it, angel?" "I think you're quite smitten enough, without adding to it."

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm Gen, 99421 words As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Too Generous by rfsmiley Teen and up, 1501 words “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” Or: what happened after the [ we all got hit by a ] bus scene (aka "you could stay at my place, if you like")....

Birds of a Feather by idiopathicsmile Teen and up, 3608 words “Isn’t this nice?” says Aziraphale with badly feigned casualness the next time Crowley stops by for a late night drink. Crowley is all set to reply, words lined up in his mouth waiting to go, when Aziraphale adds, “I mean, all of the books and furniture and bottles of wine and things?” Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.

forgotten (but not gone) by writeonclara Teen and up, 9541 words “Angel,” this demon accuses, somehow managing to hiss the word despite the lack of sibilant letters. Aziraphale tips his chin up, wondering why his heart had stumbled strangely at the title. It’s what he is, and has been so for millennia. Coming from this demon, though, it has the feeling of—of an endearment, somehow, which is just foolish beyond all words. “Serpent,” is what his mouth says, but then his teeth click shut around the word. The demon’s eyes widen. “You know me then?” Aziraphale shakes his head.

Dearly Departed by attheborder Teen and up, 29774 words Finally, Aziraphale spoke. “You mean to say— you got us married?” “Just as a precaution, I never really thought I’d end up discorporated again, it’d been ages, you just don’t get stampedes or assassinations like you used to —” “You got us married, and you didn’t tell me?” *** Crowley gets inconveniently discorporated. And it’s not like it’s ever been easy to get a new body, but this time around, things really aren’t looking good. His new innuendo-obsessed lust-demon of a coworker honestly isn’t helping things. Meanwhile, Aziraphale has a dead body to contend with, and an occult mortician & his very normal daughter to fend off. What lengths will he go to in order to get Crowley back to Earth?

Pray For Us, Icarus by Atalan Teen and up, 65836 words For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Four-Letter Words by idiopathicsmile Mature, 3081 words Prompt: "humiliation kink by way of compliment, Aziraphale gets Crowley hot and bothered by accusing him of goodness." It’s a chilly day in November of 1987, and Aziraphale badly wants a drink.

These Captive Stars by darlingred1 Explicit, 6433 words Over the centuries Aziraphale learned many things about the human form, as well as his own, and among his lessons was this: most humans do not have thighs so exquisitely sensitive as his. (Aziraphale has very sensitive inner thighs. Crowley finds out, and things get smutty but also incredibly sappy.)

Consecrated ground by equestrianstatue Explicit, 8263 words Aziraphale’s mouth burned. But not like hellfire burned, cruel and destructive, sizzling a hole through whatever it touched. This was that same terrible charge of ethereal electricity, conducted in the very fluid of Aziraphale’s being. Something that had seemed so outside of him, something of heaven, something that wasn’t part of the Aziraphale who had lived six thousand years here with Crowley on Earth, careful and petty and kind. And yet here heaven had been, all this time, just past his lips.

Yield Under Pressure by writeonclara Explicit, 9934 words Aziraphale’s eyes crack back to him, like a pistol whip. The fixed look enters his gaze again. Crowley stares flatly back. He’s been an apex predator for far longer than Aziraphale ever has. But then Aziraphale wrenches his eyes away and roughly shakes his head. “I really don’t. I—that is to say—she—” “Who?” Crowley demands furiously. “Michael? Beezlebub?” “Second.” Anger bubbles up in Crowley’s chest, but he tamps it down. It can wait. “What did she do?” “I don’t know, Crowley!” It’s almost like their normal bickering, except Aziraphale is shaking so hard that Crowley can hear his wings rustle. “She said—she—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “‘Fall, or die. The choice is yours’.” OR: Aziraphale is hit with sex pollen. Crowley helps him through it.

a soft place to land by PaintedVanilla Explicit, 10005 words Crowley isn't sure how to ask for something when he doesn’t even know what it is that he wants. [My notes: this one has a special place in my ❤️]

To Give and To Receive by TheGypsyQueen Explicit, 10397 Or: Is That Really All It Took? Crowley likes to give Aziraphale things. Food, drinks, rides, whatever, it doesn't matter. It's all worth the praise and the gratitude and those glowing angelic smiles. He cannot imagine that Aziraphale would want to return the favor, and doesn't think he should. Aziraphale disagrees with that sentiment.

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss by juliet & laurashapiro Explicit, 10522 words “The rules are: apart from kissing, you don’t touch me, I don’t touch you. For the next two days.”

End with Hope by PepperPrints Explicit, 15888 words In 537 A.D., the Black Knight enters King Arthur's Tournament of Champions, with quite disastrous consequences, and Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table takes it upon himself to intervene -- which, naturally, also turns out to be quite disastrous in itself. [My notes: one of my favourites EVER. How I want to write? Like this like this like this]

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan Explicit, 17381 words "All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?" Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval. "The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening." AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it. [My notes: this has been rec'd all over tumblr already, but hey. with good reason]

For the Longest Time by darlingred1 Explicit, 20370 words “You…” Aziraphale sounded baffled, and suddenly quite sober. “You liked that? But, my dear, you said it was torturous. ‘Six thousand years of torture,’ as I recall.” “Yeah. Yeah, but the anticipation, and the yearning, and…and how every moment with you was so maddeningly intense, and…” And what else could Crowley say? How could he expect Aziraphale to understand that after six thousand years of torture he’d actually got a bit used to it? That he’d felt like a band strained further and further, and now he found himself permanently stretched, flopping about with too much slack and no way to hold on to what he’d been reaching towards for so long? (Crowley kind of misses the pining when it's gone. Aziraphale comes up with a solution.) [My notes: AKA 'that 20k edging fic']

[nerdyfangirl67]

Supernatural ReaderxDean Imagine

Imagine Dean having to decide who lives, you or Sam.

Warnings: language, themes of torture

A dull throbbing pain settled into your head. For a moment you just listened, trying to figure out where you were. You couldn’t hear much of anything, aside from some heavy breathing and a slow, constant drip of water. Taking a deep breath, and recognizing the pain of a broken rib, or ribs, you forced your eyes open. 

Blackness. You couldn’t see anything and you tried to remember what happened but was coming up blank. You tried to get up but couldn’t stand up fully. You pulled on your hands, realizing they were chained to the ground. A shiver ran through your body and you realized you were missing a shirt, wearing only what you determined to be a sports bra. The heavy breathing off to your left got louder, followed by a groan of pain. 

“Dean? Sam? Is that you?” You asked softly, praying that you weren’t in this situation alone, but hoping it wasn’t either of the two boys. 

“Y/N? Fuck, Dean is going to kill me.” Sam hissed. “How do you feel?” He asked quickly.

After taking a moment to comprehend what Sam had said, you were pretty sure you at least had a mild concussion, if the pounding in your head was any indication, you say, “I think I got a concussion and some broken ribs. Beyond that, I’m not sure yet. I can’t move very well either. I think I’m chained to the ground.” You pulled again on the chain hoping it would give but to no avail. 

“Sammy, what happened?” You questioned, the fear you were feeling breaking out in your voice.

“I’m not sure but I know that Dean isn’t here. They made sure that I knew that when they brought me into this room where you are.” Sam stated. You felt your blood run cold when you realized what this was, a trap.

“Sam, this is a trap. I know it. And I think it has something to do with Crowley.” You whispered urgently, trying with more intensity to free yourself.

“Fuck!” Sam shouted. You flinched, wishing, and hoping, that this was a dream.

A loud crash reverberated through the room before light flooded in as a door was opened. Slow clapping echoed through, what you could tell, to be an open room, most likely a basement of some kind. 

A voice, one you recognized as Crowley’s, filled the room. “Congratulations! That didn’t take you long Y/N.” He snickered before shouting behind him “Bring him in, it’s time.” 

Two burly men, you knew where demons because each had a pair of black, soulless eyes, came in dragging a cussing and fighting Dean into the room. He had a black eye and blood staining his grey T-shirt. Other than that, he appeared okay.

“Dean.” You spoke his name quietly but somehow he still heard it. His eyes flew to yours, searching your body for physical injury. His green eyes lock with yours. Tears sprang to your eyes, seeing the pain and anger in his. He turned his head towards where you knew Sam to be. You turned towards Sam as well, taking in his appearance for the first time.

You gasp in surprise. Sam looked like he had been drug to Hell and back, which was saying a lot because you knew Hell to be, well, hell. “Oh, Sammy.” You whispered, your heart clenching in pain at seeing the two most important people in your life hurting.

Crowley’s snickering brought you back to reality. “What a happy family reunion for Moose and Squirrel. Now Squirrel what happens next is up to you.” You turned back towards Crowley, glaring at him.

“You can walk out of here, but first you have to make a decision.” Crowley spoke slowly, with a tone of delight in his voice. 

“Spit it out demon.” Dean growled. 

“Well, you have to decide who is leaving with you, and who is staying.” Crowley’s statement made you turn from him to Dean.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean shouted.

“Ah Squirrel, don’t make this worse for you. I’ll give you some time to decide, not much though, so hurry up.” The two goons holding onto Dean let him go and the three demons proceeded to leave the room, slamming the door shut behind them. 

Light flooded the room, coming from some fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. You squeeze your eyes closed in pain before opening them to adjust them to the light. You hear a soft, “Go to her” before you were brought into a gentle hug. Dean’s masculine scent of sweat, leather, and whiskey surrounds you. 

“Y/N.” His broken voice tore through you. You squeezed your eyes shut as tears threatened to fall. 

“No. Don’t.” You stated, your voice thick with emotion. “You choose Sammy, Dean. You need him.” You felt Dean tighten the hug before pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I am NOT choosing Y/N. We are all walking out of here.” He said, his voice low and intense.

You opened your eyes, committing his face to memory. His green eyes spark with anger. You smile softly. “I love you. Now go to Sammy.” Your voice broke the moment between the two of you.

“I love you.” He firmly pressed his lips to yours before moving a few feet away to grab Sam in a brotherly hug. Seeing the brothers embrace brought you back to the time when you first met the two.

Three years ago -

You were hunting a small vampire coven in northern Washington. You had pinpointed the coven’s location to a small warehouse in the old business district of a small town. You had just stepped out of your 1990 Deville when you saw a figure creeping towards the warehouse.

“Fuck.” You spit out, seeing that another hunter was moving in on your takedown, for lack of a better word. You shook your head before moving to the other side of the warehouse. You would just have to work this case with another hunter, whether they knew it or not.

Upon entering the empty warehouse, you quickly decapitated three unsuspecting vampires. You snuck through the rest of the warehouse before reaching the spot where the other hunter was fighting the vampire you had determined to be the leader.

“Hey, bloodsucker.” You shouted, getting the vamp’s attention. The other hunter quickly chopped the vampire’s head off. You got your first opportunity to study the hunter, a tall, shaggy-haired guy. He was cute, you decided.

“Fuck Sammy. A girl had to help you take that bloodsucker down.” A deep, laughing voice came from a corner of the warehouse. The tall one, you now know was called Sammy, sped towards the voice. You trailed behind out of curiosity.

After Sammy had helped the other guy, who was a bit shorter and just as attractive as the first one, if not more so, out of his restraints. The first hunter pulled the second into a hug.You felt that you were spying on an intimate moment so your eyes flew down to your feet, studying your shoes. Well too bad, you thought, all the handsome ones are taken or gay. 

“Hey, who are you?” The second guy questioned, moving towards you. 

“Y/F/N Y/L/N.” You stated. “And you?” 

“I’m Dean and this is my brother Sammy.” Dean stated gruffly, eyeing you. Thank goodness for that, you thought, at least we aren’t batting for the same team, so I have a chance with this one.

“Actually it’s Sam.” Sammy, or Sam, corrected.

The rushed talking off to your left brought you back. 

“Don’t you dare try to leave here with both of us Dean. You are gonna take Y/N, get out of here, and start a family. You are gonna live a normal life, one we could never have.” Sam stated roughly to Dean. You opened your mouth to protest but Dean beat you to it.

“Knock that off. We are all leaving here.” Dean barked at Sam.

“Dean.” You called softly. Dean swiftly turned around, closing the distance between you two. He placed a gentle hand on your cheek.

“We won’t all leave here Dean. Crowley is the King of Hell. He wouldn’t let us go that easy.” You continued, placing your chained hands on his chest. His green eyes bore into yours. 

“I can’t leave here with just one of you.” He whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. 

“But you will. You are taking Sammy.” You spoke firmly, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck. If you were gonna die, it was gonna be with his scent etched into your brain so on the off chance you make it to Heaven, you could take it with you. You pressed a kiss to his neck before pulling back. 

“Fuck, I love you.” He whispers, his voice rough with emotion. Your brain was flooded with one of your most cherished memories, the memory of when Dean told you he loved you for the first time. 

A few months earlier - 

You were lying down in the back seat of the Impala, Dean relaxing in the front seat, and the only sound was of one of Dean’s cassettes playing over the radio. You and Dean were waiting for Sammy, who had gone into one of the health food stores he liked for groceries. Dean had protested loudly, but you shut him up with a peck to the lips and a gentle “Be quiet”.

“Y/N?” Dean asked, turning just enough in the front seat so that he was facing you. You pushed yourself up on your elbows.

“Yeah?” You voiced softly. Dean’s green eyes searched yours. He was quiet for a moment, before saying “I love you.” 

Your face stretched into a smile. You move until your lips are only inches from Dean’s.“I know Dean. You show me every day. And you know that I love you.” You whispered. 

Dean weaved one of his hands into your hair, pulling you into a passionate kiss.

The door flew open, causing Dean to stand in front of you protectively. 

“Oh, Dean-O. It’s time. What did you decide?” Crowley sang out as he entered. “I sort of favor the girl so who knows, maybe I’ll make her my pet.” 

Dean growled. “NO. I am not leaving with just one.”

“Ah, Dean. You are breaking the rules. Someone will have to pay. Or better yet, maybe two someones will pay.” A fiercely hot pain shot through your chest causing you to cry out. You clawed at your chest before yanking your hand back as one of your fingers brushed across a fresh burn about your heart. Sam was experiencing something as well because you can hear him spitting out obscenities.

“Stop!” Dean shouted. “I’ll choose okay. Just don’t hurt them.” Your eyes met Dean’s. His green orbs glowed with determination. 

“Lovely. Let’s hear it Squirrel. The suspense is killing me.” Crowley said, a smile breaking out on his face. 

“You’ll let them both go and I will stay here.” Dean bit out, his jaw clenching in frustration.

“Well, I can make that work.” Crowley said before snapping his fingers. You start to protest but suddenly, you are no longer in the basement room chained to the floor. Neither is Sam.

“Dean! NO!” You shout, standing up and trying to figure out where you are.

“Y/N, they are gone.” Sam said quietly, stepping towards you. You could barely look at him. 

“No, please no. Castiel, do something. Bring Dean back Cas!” You screamed before sinking to the ground, onto your knees. Sobs shook your body and you could barely breathe through your tears. You felt something cover your shoulders, a shirt, Sam’s, before you were pulled into a hug.

“We will get him home Y/N.” Sam whispered. “We will bring him back.”

[archivingspn]

2018: Twitter- pasladeuxieme, battingpractice, and TeamFreeWillBT

Context: After the SPNUK 2018 J2M panel question about eyefucking being a stage direction in scripts between Dean and Cas, several factions began engaging in discussions and arguments about the intent behind the spn writers’ word choice. In response to this, on May 8th 2018, pasladeuxieme tweeted out a series of tweets and screenshots from 8x02′s yellow pages to show where they remembered seeing the use of “eye-fuck” in the script as shorthand for an intense stare for the brothers, Sam and Dean.

pasladeuxieme: “Was telling Bri while I couldn't remember one between Dean and Cas, I could vaguely remember seeing 'eyefuck' in the stage directs of one of the scripts we have - found it :p ‘[image:

"What's Up, Tiger..." Yellow Pages 7/26/12 9. 2  CONTINUED :                                         12

SAM So things like that don't ever happen again.

Ms. Tran takes that in the pain of Eunis still fresh. Then-- she EYES Kevin.

MS. TRAN Prophet of the lord, huh? (then, a warm smile) That does have a nice ring to it.

A note of approval-- Kevin smiles sweetly...

MS. TRAN I'll get packed. Ms. Tran makes for her bedroom.

Dean turns to Sam--

DEAN We're gonna need a new safe-house, since Crowley's been to the cabin--

MS. TRAN (stopping in her tracks) Safe house? I thought we were going after the tablet?

DEAN We are. You're taking a trip to the demon-free zone.

MS. TRAN And risk letting Kevin fall into the hands of this Crowley, again? (then, firm) I don't think so.

Sam and Dean exchange an EYEFUCK-- here we go.

SAM Ma'am, Dean's right. Crowley-- he's not just a killer. He trades in torment. And if he can find a way to separate you from your soul? He'll take it to Hell and roast it 'til there's nothing but black smoke...]’”- 9:19 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

pasladeuxieme: “So many EXPRESSIONS being swapped between these hunter sibs. 5 dollars says Dabb wrote these stage directions with a thesaurus at hand ‘[image: "What's Up, Tiger..."   Yellow Pages   7/26/12   10.  CONTINUED: (2)                                              12

MS. TRAN So, a soul is more valuable than a life?

SAM Ma'am, a soul is forever. Your life is just a vessel... (then) It would really be best if you left this to us.

Ms. Tran takes a good long beat to consider that. Then--

MS. TRAN I understand. (then) But it's not my soul I'm worried about-- it's my son's.

She's STRONG. Sam and Dean trade an OMINOUS LOOK-- fearing the worst. Then turn to Kevin.

DEAN Gonna back us up here, Kev? (then) We came all the way out here to pull her ass out of the fire and now she wants to jump back in.

KEVIN Like I can tell her what to do.

Sam and Dean exchange a KNOWING NOD.

DEAN Coming with has conditions. Hex bags to keep you off the bad guys' radar. And you're gonna have to ink up.

KEVIN Do what now?

SAM You too, short stop--]’” - 9:24 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

battingpractice: “wait i found it ‘[image: (then) Sunshine and sandy beaches.

Satisfied, Dean goes all-in for the PIB. Kevin processen that for a beat-- watching Dean take a fork to the pie.

KEVIN Dean. My Mom's all alone-- And surrounded by Demons. (then) Can you really not understand why I want to make sure she's okay?

That stops Dean COLD-- fork hovering by his mouth. Dean looks over to Sam-- remembering his own Mother. Sam gives him a slight shrug, knowing the kid's right.

Dean eyes his pie, perched beautifully on the end of his fork-- he wants that bite so badly.

DEAN Son of a bitch.

Dean STABS his fork into the PIE, moving out of the BOOTH. Kevin SMILES, victorious, and we're on the move--]’“ - 9:26 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

pasladeuxieme: “Here's an eyefuck involving everyone's favorite King of Hell ‘[image: SAM all good-- just need to come up with a Plan B.

Then-- a familiar VOICE from off-camera.

CROWLEY (O.S.) what, pray-tell, could possibly have been Plan A?

The boys BURN-- and TURN to see CROWLEY.   Standing smug.

CROWLEY Bring the prophet to the most dangerous place on earth, memorize the tablet and then-- va-moose?

That one's pointed at Sam-- a weary eye-fuck from the boys.

CROWLEY Oh, and salutations, by the way.

BLACKOUT.

END OF ACT TWO]’”- 9:27 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

battingpractice: “Meanwhile, the same episode's direction for D-C is "Dean locks eyes with Cas, FIRM" which ends up as an actual eye f-u-ck but was not actually spelled out that way in the script ‘[image:

DEAN No. (then, to Cass) Cass, we're getting outta here. We're going home.

That word hits Cass hard-- something about it makes him visibly ANXIOUS.

CASTIEL Dean, I can't--

DEAN Yeah, we can. Tell him.

He's talking to Benny. The monster shrugs.

BENNY Purgatory's got an escape hatch, but I got no idea if it's angel friendly.

Dean locks eyes with Cass, FIRM.

DEAN We'll make it work. (then) I need you, Cass. And if the Chompers wanna take a shot, I say let 'em. We ganked those bitches]’”- 9:32 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

pasladeuxieme: “Not an eyefuck but here are some Destiel-y stage directions around the iconic "too much heart was always Castiel's problem" 😢 ‘[image:

what's Up, Tiger..."   Yellow Pages   7/26/12   28. CONTINUED: (3)                                             25

ALFIE You know, there are some in Heaven who still believe that, despite mistakes, Castiel's heart was always in the right place.

DEAN You one of 'em?

ALFIE I think... too much heart was always Castiel's problem.

Alfie moves off and we hold on Dean-- the angel's words hitting home. CUT TO--

EXT. CLEARING - PURGATORY - DAY (FLASHBACK)]’“- 9:49 PM May 8, 2018

[source]

pasladeuxieme: “No textusl eyefucks in 9x23, but check out the stage directions for Cas reacting to Metatron advising Dean is dead - "Castiel reacts - stunned" got turned into everything Misha did there.... ‘[image:

"Do You Believe in Miracles?" Pink Pages 4/16/14 39. 44  CONTINUED:                                                    44

METATRON Ah. So, Gadreel bites the dust, the Angel Tablet, arguably the most powerful instrument in the history of the universe, is in pieces... And for what, now? That's right. To save Dean Winchester. (then) That was your cause wasn't it? You draped yourself in the flag of Heaven but, ultimately, this was all to save a human, wasn't it? Well, guess what? He's dead too.

Castiel reacts, stunned, as-- CHUNK! His arms are suddenly CUFFED to the chair.

METATRON And you're sitting in my chair.

45        INT. ABANDONED PLANT - NIGHT                45

Dean bleeds out on the ground. Alive, but barely. Sam tears up bits of his shirt to fashion a tourniquet. All business.]’“ - 2:48 AM May 9, 2018

[source]

Context: Three years afterwards, May 20 2021, TeamFreeWillBT made a different thread on three additional instances of eyefucking plus the ones found in 8x02:

TeamFreeWillBT: “Eyef*cks in the Supernatural scripts 8.02 What's Up, Tiger Mommy? 13.08 The Scorpion and the Frog 13.21 Beat the Devil ‘[image:

A note of approval-- Kevin smiles sweetly...

MS. TRAN I'll get packed. Ms. Tran makes for her bedroom.

Dean turns to Sam--

DEAN We're gonna need a new safe-house, since Crowley's been to the cabin--

MS. TRAN (stopping in her tracks) Safe house? I thought we were going after the tablet?

DEAN We are. You're taking a trip to the demon-free zone.

MS. TRAN And risk letting Kevin fall into the hands of this Crowley, again? (then, firm) I don't think so.

Sam and Dean exchange an EYEFUCK-- here we go.

SAM Ma'am, Dean's right. Crowley-- he's not just a killer. He trades in torment. And if he can find a way to separate you from your soul? He'll take it to Hell and roast it 'til there's nothing but black smoke...]

[image: SAM all good-- just need to come up with a Plan B.

Then-- a familiar VOICE from off-camera.

CROWLEY (O.S.) what, pray-tell, could possibly have been Plan A?

The boys BURN-- and TURN to see CROWLEY.   Standing smug.

CROWLEY Bring the prophet to the most dangerous place on earth, memorize the tablet and then-- va-moose?

That one's pointed at Sam-- a weary eye-fuck from the boys.

CROWLEY Oh, and salutations, by the way.BLACKOUT.END OF ACT TWO]

[image: As Dean turns the key in the lock-- it opens with A CLICK to REVEAL-- BONES. A WHOLE DUSTY SKELETON'S WORTH.

SHRIKE Bart's bones. You burn them, he dies too. THAT'S my leverage. (then) You're on the wrong side of this, boys-- (a loaded beat) Just gotta ask yourselves if you can live with that.

The boys eye-fuck. Can they?

BART (O.S.) He's right, those ARE my bones.

Sam, Dean and Smash look up-- THERE'S BART! Standing next to Shrike.]

[image:

GABRIEL My tank's a little low right now. Getting vengeance took a lot out of me, and even on a good day, I-- (sheepish, defensive) I have a long refractory window, okay? (then, confident) But archangel grace? It's like, the Four Loko of angelic emissions. It'll be more than enough to get the job done.

Off Gabe's confidence, our heroes eyefuck. It's go time.

QUICK CUTS:

--Our heroes LOAD UP for battle, dressing/ARMING themselves for Apocalypse World. Angel blades, knives, guns. Apocalypse World-appropriate clothing.

INT--MEN OF LETTERS - LIBRARY MOMENTS LATER   4]’“- 7:39 PM May 20, 2021

[source]

TeamFreeWillBT: “9.05 Dog Dean Afternoon ‘[image:

DYLAN --and it's not like we could go to the cops--

OLIVIA --so now we look like total douche bags *cause we have to wear sunglasses inside.

Olivia and Dylan removes their sunglasses to reveal... puffy, bloodshot eyes, surrounded by dead tissue? It looks like textbook gangrene. As Sam and Dean eyefuck--

DEAN (PRE LAP) Necrosis?

INT. MOTEL - DAY

Sam sits in front of his laptop. Dean looks over his shoulder, bottle o’ beer in hand.]’”- 7:39 PM May 20, 2021

[source]

8.02 What's Up, Tiger Mommy?

Written by: Andrew Dabb and Daniel Loflin

9.05 Dog Dean Afternoon

Written by: Eric Charmelo and Nicole Snyder

9.23 Do You Believe in Miracles?

Written by: Jeremy Carver

13.08 The Scorpion and the Frog

Written by: Meredith Glynn

13.21 Beat the Devil

Written by: Robert Berens

[sparkkeyper]

Whumptober Day 11: Defiance

Aka "Crowley is furious at God". Whoops, it's sad. I've had this in my head for a while now, and well...

Warnings: child death, animal death, Old Testament-typical mass death (it's the Plagues of Egypt, folks, it's not pretty)

***

An angel and a demon stood on top of a rocky outcrop as the wailing and the screams rose up from the city. The angel's expression was very carefully blank. The demon's was most definitely not.

"Proud of yourssself, are you?" Crawly's voice dripped with disgust, his mouth twisted with horror and rage. Yellow filled his eyes to their edges and his nails dug into his palms until they drew blood.

Aziraphale flinched. "I told you before, nobody consults me on things like this." He was trying so very hard to set his face into a look of determination but the wringing of his hands betrayed him. "I didn't have a hand in any of it, not this time. All of this came directly from the Almighty."

Crawly's gaze roamed over the ravaged streets. Animal carcasses lay scattered, attracting flies by the thousands. Locusts flitted about, mingling with the occasional frog. Grief-stricken parents sobbed and clung to each other, ironically in every doorway where the blood wasn't.

"She promised she wouldn't do it again," he hissed. "She promised."

"She promised not to send another flood."

"But every other kind of extinction is fair game, is it? Sounds exactly like the sort of fine print She'd employ."

"Now, it's...it's hardly extinction..."

Crawly turned his anger onto the shrinking angel beside him. "They have no harvest! No livestock! What are they to eat next season?"

"Pharaoh had every chance to make the right choice..." Aziraphale's mumble trailed off weakly but the demon rounded on him anyway.

"They have no future! No children!"

"I didn't call down any plagues, Crawly!" The angel stumbled backwards, hands up in surrender. "All I was told was that this was punishment for Pharaoh-"

"Then punish Pharaoh!" Crawly screamed, sweeping his arm wide across the city. "Not the children! They didn't do anything! She was five!" He stabbed a finger at a house below them, then at another. "He was three! Just because he had the bad luck to be born first, that makes him the scapegoat for the Almighty's games?!"

"I didn't choose this!" A horn blew off to the east, where a great crowd of people were beginning to move at the city's edge. Aziraphale bit his lip hard. "Look, I've got to leave-"

"Not even going to stick around for the aftermath? Not going to help bury the dead or heal the sick or try to revive the ruined crops? How good of you."

"I have my orders, Crawly! I'm to go with the Hebrews, Michael was very clear on that point."

"Where will they go?"

"Nobody knows really. The general consensus is anywhere is better than here. They're taking it on faith."

"Faith!" Crawly spat on the ground at his feet. "Faith that the Almighty won't kill them after watching Her rain every kind of destruction down on innocents here? They'll starve, Aziraphale. There's no harvest left for anyone anywhere, no game. You'll watch them die out in the desert."

The horn sounded again and Aziraphale turned to leave, glancing back for a moment like he wanted to say more, but ultimately finding no words.

Crawly seethed, watching him turn his back on the destruction of the city. But it wasn't Aziraphale's fault - it was Hers. She who claimed to love Her creations and then set fire and death and pain upon them if they didn't bow to Her every changing whim, if they interpreted Her signs wrong, if they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time! She coddled one blameless child and struck down another all according to Her fucking ineffable mood and it made his blood boil like the sulfur pools. Why should Her game be allowed to play out the way She wanted it to? Why should all of Egypt have to roll over and cede the world to Her special pets?

Crawly was running through the streets with fire in his eyes. Every dead animal he passed, every vagrant covered in sores, every weeping mother only made it burn hotter. It took him no time at all to reach the palace grounds and no one stopped him as he burst into the inner chambers with the force of thunder.

"Pharaoh!"

Ramses was knelt over the body of his son, so similar to all the other fathers in the streets. Guards turned to the newcomer but Crawly had no patience for them. A demonic miracle held them in place as he stormed up to the king, grabbing onto all the threads of grief and pain that spilled from the human and twisting them into hatred.

"Your brother has turned on you and you'll let him get away with no consequence?" The demon slammed his hands down on the marble bier that held the dead prince. "Avenge your child! The God of the Hebrews has cursed your land, your people, to devastation, and you're just going to take it? Get up, Pharaoh, and show them that they can't bring such horror here and escape unscathed! Remind them who is lord of this kingdom! Make the rivers run red yourself with their blood this time!"

Ramses surged to his feet and Crawly knew he had him. Revenge pulsed through the human's soul, and through the demon's as well. The hold on the guards released as their pharaoh began bellowing orders and within moments the whole of the palace was in a frenzy, marshaling what soldiers remained into a force bent on slaughter.

Crawly rode with them, commandeering the biggest, blackest stallion from the royal stables despite his usual hatred of the animals. He hated a lot of things today, and horses were now down at the bottom of his list. Death and bloodlust were not part of his traditional repertoire but She had pushed him too far with this and he was not going to let Her get away with it, he was not!

By the time the remnants of the pharaoh's army had mustered and given chase, the Hebrews had reached the shore of the sea. As Crawly watched, the distant water split in half and the Almighty's pets began to cross the dry riverbed. He snarled out loud, knowing such a miracle was far too great for one angel. This was God Herself, of course it was. He gripped the reigns of his stallion harder. Aziraphale would be fine in the chaos, he had miracles on hand to make sure of that. But he couldn't say the same for the rest of the throng.

Four hundred foot soldiers, riders, and charioteers surged onto the seabed as the Hebrews climbed out on the opposite back. Only a few minutes more and the army would be upon them.

A horrible roar echoed from behind them and Crawly looked back just in time to see a wall of water as tall as the palace itself crumbling inward towards him. Screams assaulted his ears but he didn't even have time to open his mouth before the wall struck him with the force of an avalanche, tearing him from his horse and smashing him into the ground.

There was a terrible stretch of time where Crawly couldn't make sense of anything. He was pummeled from all sides by water, stone, bodies, armour. All air was forced out of his lungs and seawater took its place. He had no idea which way was up, and after the roar subsidied a deep oppressive silence filled his ears.

If Crawly had been human, he would be dead. But he was a demon, and the broken bones and crushed sternum could be reversed with a series of miracles. His chest rebelled against the water that filled it, but he didn't truly need to breathe so he could bear the ache.

Eventually the churning ocean around him settled down enough for him to realize he was pinned to the sea floor by a chariot wheel. It took some wriggling - during which a normal human would have certainly drowned three times over - but he managed to free himself. The water around him was full of debris and bodies as he swam for the light above.

Crawly burst to the surface with a gasp that lost itself in gurgling. He dragged himself half onto a nearby rock and doubled over, choking up seawater and trying to clear his lungs enough to breathe.

On the opposite bank, the last of the Hebrews were disappearing over the hill.

He screamed the moment he had the breath for it, a sound of betrayal and failure and impotent rage, directed solely at the heavens. Dead men and dead horses filled the water around him. Dead crops and dead children filled the kingdom behind. Death and pain were always the clearest signs of Her interference. And now She waltzed away from him like always, leaving him powerless. Caring nothing for the ruin in her wake.

He wouldn't face any punishment from Downstairs, he knew. Four hundred souls dead while steeped in the throes of Wrath was quite a consolation prize. More than enough to keep Hell happy and off his back.

But it was no consolation to Crawly.

He screamed until his throat was sore, then collapsed alone on the rock in the sea and wept with Egypt.

[yamisnuffles]

The Angel and the Serpent

Part 7 of Too Much of a Good Thing

Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round must go into battle on behalf of Arthur and Heaven. What's an unemployed Seraph to do when he's left behind?

Read on Ao3

- - - - -

Wessex 537

Crowley wriggled about to try to get his armor to sit comfortably. Despite it having been miracled on, it never seemed to sit right. He wasn’t sure whether it was something about the armor itself or if the cold rendered everything uncomfortable. It all made him long for the days of togas and long evenings under the stars in more pleasant climes. He didn’t relish the idea of spending the foreseeable future out in the damp but he disliked the idea of being left behind again even less.

After one last adjustment of his cloak and a quick check to make sure his long braids weren’t in any danger of being snagged by a joint in his armor, he hurried out the door.

“Aziraphale! Good, I caught you.”

Aziraphale was just finishing armoring his horse and didn’t look away as he tugged at the saddle to ensure it was sitting where it was meant. “I hope you’ll excuse me for slipping out. You were just sleeping so peacefully. But here you are anyway. I do apologize if I disturbed you, my dear.” With the steed all ready to go, Aziraphale finally turned to face Crowley. The bright smile on his face flickered and he blinked. “Whatever are you doing in your armor?”

“Thought I might ride along. You know how these things with Arthur can go. There’s no saying when you’ll be back.”

“Oh, well, I mean, I wouldn’t want to trouble you. And I know how you are with horses.”

As if to prove a point, Aziraphale’s horse flicked its long, silvery tale at Crowley as though he was a bothersome fly and not an angel. Crowley stuck the tip of a slightly forked tongue out at it which didn’t improve the situation in any way, but it did make him feel better when the horse shuffled nervously off to the side. Or it did until Aziraphale leveled him with an exasperated look which he had to defuse with a smile.

“No trouble at all. Besides, think about how cold and damp it is and how nice it would be to have someone else around to warm your bedroll.”

“It is rather damp, isn’t it?” Aziraphale replied, though the scarlet at the tips of his ears said that wasn’t the part of the statement he was really considering. “Still, it will mostly be a lot of fighting and I know how you detest combat. Not that- oh, that wasn’t-” He flapped his hands before winding them up in each other. “I wasn’t referring to your performance in the War. Or, ah, lack thereof. I only meant these human squabbles I’m handling on behalf of the king. Dreadful things and there’s no reason for the both of us to get dragged in.”

Crowley lifted and dropped his slim shoulders. “Eeh, misery loves company and all that.”

Aziraphale scuffed his boot and then scowled when the armored tip of it dug into the damp earth. “Be that as it may, I think it would be best if you sat this one out. I had a word with Gabriel the other day and he said-” A snort from Crowley that only caused Aziraphale to square his shoulders. “And he said that I ought to be working on my own. And he’s right! This is my job to do and I shouldn’t be passing it off on you. Which isn’t even to mention that Uriel rightfully pointed out how distractible I can be when you’re about or Michael’s point that my paperwork tends to come in a bit tardy.”

Crowley waved it all away with a sweep of his hand. “Eh, forget all that. None of them are ever happy with you.”

“That may be but if I only-”

“No ‘but.’ It’s not on you, Aziraphale. You are always trying to please them and for what? You always get the job done. That should be enough.” Crowley ran a hand over one of his braids and smiled in a way that never failed to make Aziraphale blush, even after hundreds of years. “So what do you say? I can help you out, you can finish in half the time, and then we can get back to more enjoyable things in our warm, dry home.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted toward their home before he broke it away. “Crowley, no. Absolutely not.”

Crowley backed away a step, surprised by Aziraphale’s vehemence. “Why? Look, if it’s about the Archangels, you know they don’t check into these things. Just leave me off the report and nobody ever has to know.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I said no.” The pink in his cheeks mottled with red. “This... this-” He flapped his hands at Crowley. “Flouting of authority. All these questions and temptations-”

Crowley flinched. “Temptations?”

“Oh, whatever it is you wish to call what you do. It’s trouble, Crowley. It’s why you were removed from your place on the Round Table. It’s why you aren’t allowed back in court and why we live all the way out here and why-” Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut and turned away. He looked back with a flutter of lashes that betrayed the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. “Why I’m the only reason things aren’t worse.”

The way he said it, Crowley knew he didn’t just mean Arthur. If this was all about some human monarch, they wouldn’t have been having this argument. There was no denying that was what this had become. Heat burned in Crowley’s cheeks and blazed a path right down into his gut. Embarrassment. Guilt. Whatever it was, it sharpened into anger.

“Well, I never asked you to stick your neck out for me,” he spat. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.” He snapped and all at once his armor was back inside and he was shivering in a doublet and leggings. “There. See? Didn’t really want to go anyway. Go play knight on your own.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale put a foot in a stirrup and swung himself up onto his horse. He started to ride without another word. When the mist was just about to swallow him whole, he stopped. Despite Crowley’s desire to hang onto his anger, he could already feel it dissolving under the tidal pull of Aziraphale.

Turn around. Turn around. Turn around.

He should call out, he knew, but he didn’t and Aziraphale didn’t turn around. Instead the Principality rode on, leaving a vexed Seraph in his wake.

Crowley threw himself to the ground and stared up at the unrelentingly grey sky. He knew if Aziraphale was still there he would have clicked his tongue and told Crowley he was being dramatic. And maybe he was, but Aziraphale wasn’t there to say anything, so Crowley thought he was well within his rights to enjoy a proper sulk. The mud sucked unpleasantly at his limbs. He couldn’t properly glower up at the sky because it was raining just enough that droplets would fall in his unblinking eyes if he didn’t shield them with his arm. There was a growing chill in the air. All in all, it was perfectly miserable.

When it started to rain in earnest, the whole tableau lost its appeal. He could only abide being out in the rain for so long before something tight would coil up in his chest and leave him short of breath. Besides, all that water had kicked up something unpleasant judging by the smell that was wafting through the humid air. He sucked in a breath to sigh and instead ended up coughing over the stench that filled his nostrils.

He wrinkled his nose. It smelled like the mud had somehow gone rancid. Mixed with the smell of wet earth was something like mold and rot and an after note of-

“Evil,” he said in a low growl.

He lifted his legs enough to throw himself up onto his feet. Lightning struck where his head had just been. Crowley watched wide-eyed as fire spread. It should have been impossible but the tingling down his spine told him what he already knew. This was no normal fire.

“Crowley.”

Crowley spun around. “Duke Hastur,” he said, the corner of his eye on the spreading hellfire behind him. “To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?��

“You’ve been a real thorn in my side, Crowley.”

“Me? What did I do that has a duke of Hell making a personal visit? I was under the impression that I was making work easier for your lot. At least that’s what my lot's been saying in all the interdepartmental memos. Dunno why I even get those, since I don’t, strictly speaking, have a department anymore.”

“This! This is what you did,” Hastur said, a bit of angry spittle flying from his mouth. “I shouldn’t have to make ‘personal visits’ to some blathering wank wings, yet here I am. All because you keep discorporating every other demon we send topside.”

“You could just… stop sending them after me.”

“We did, two thousand years ago, but every idiot with an eye for advancement has decided bringing in your head would be a good way to get there.”

“And that’s my fault, how?” Crowley eyed the fire. It had formed a half ring around him. He’d be cornered if Hastur was there for a fight and the fire was too close for him to extend his wings. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to be up here. I don’t want you to be up here. So why don’t you make both our lives better and just-”

Crowley waved his hand. Hastur did not, as he’d half hoped, leave. In fact, the demon stepped closer, a scowl on his face that matched the frog on his head.

“You really think I’d be talking to you if it was up to me?”

Well, that wasn’t good. That meant Hastur was there on orders from higher up. Further down? Whatever the case, someone even more important than a duke of hell had eyes on Crowley and the Seraph didn’t like that one single bit.

“Well, what is it?” Crowley asked, crossing his arms. “Let’s get it over with already.”

“I’m here to extend an offer.” Hastur groaned. “To join us.”

“You want me to- you’re offering- you what? I ssswuh…” Crowley sputtered. “Why would I want to Fall?”

“I think it’s a stupid idea myself. Why should we want a sorry excuse for an angel who’d probably be an even sorrier excuse for a demon? But there’s certain parties that think it would be in Hell’s best interest, since you’re already working for us. Guess it looks better to have a demon doing it than some halfwit angel.”

Crowley felt the suggestion on a visceral level. He wasn’t sure whether Hastur was weaving in some demonic suggestion, but every part of him wanted to recoil. He would have, if he hadn’t been hedged in by hellfire.

He wanted to know who exactly wanted him badly enough to make this offer. He’d known Lucifer back in the day in a vague coworkery kind of way. Old Lucy had worked on some of the oldest, biggest projects in the celestial department while Crowley had been nudging stars into binaries and fiddling about with nebulae. They’d spoken a handful of times. He’d known Lucifer had thought to get him on the rebellion’s side of things but he’d hidden away instead in hopes of waiting things out. Was this an extension of that ages old offer?

Crowley had considered enough times where he’d be if he’d acted differently then. He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it again.

“No.”

Hastur shrugged. “You’re only delaying the inevitable, Crawly.”

Crowley’s stomach turned, twisted at the reminder of the snake he knew was still inside him. He’d grown somewhere close to comfortable with the idea. In this context, though, he suddenly felt less of an angel. Less of himself. But it also gave him an idea.

“Maybe so,” he said. “But I never did know what was best for me.”

His bared, smiling teeth lengthened to fangs and he fell to the ground, pearlescent scales shining dangerously in the fire light. Before Hastur could react to the sudden transformation, he struck. His fangs sank deep enough to keep him from being flung away. Although the smell was putrid and the taste was worse, he wrapped his coils around Hastur to immobilize him.

“Let me go, you snake!”

Crowley only clamped his jaws further and tightened his full body grip on the demon. This had to end here. He couldn’t take the chance that the demon would go after Aziraphale as a means of convincing him. Some wild, feral pleasure coursed through him at the way Hastur howled in anger. Smiting demons the usual way just wasn’t as satisfying. He rarely took pleasure in it, regardless, but Hastur wasn’t the sort of threat he could ignore.

Unfortunately, Hastur also wasn’t the sort to go down easy. Though he could taste the change in the blood and knew his venom was doing its job, Hastur continued to struggle. Worse, he’d managed to stumble his way closer to the hellfire. The heat of it doused Crowley in cold dread. He pulled Hastur’s legs out from under him by tightening a coil just under the knees. Hastur responded with a flick of his wrist that closed the circle of hellfire around them. One wrong move and Crowley would be worse than discorporated.

“Let me go,” Hastur growled, writhing on the heat dried earth, “and I’ll extinguish the flames.”

Crowley considered. He didn’t trust Hastur as far as he could throw him and, given that he didn’t even have arms at the moment, that was saying something. The problem was, trust him or not, he had no other way out at the moment. He reluctantly released Hastur but remained ready to strike again, should he need to. 

Hastur staggered to his feet. His eyes had gone completely black and veins filled with gold shone from his sallow skin. He looked ready to croak and Crowley was sorely disappointed he couldn’t find his voice to make that exact joke. 

Hastur looked at him with a sneer. “You had your chance.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the ground, leaving the fire behind. Crowley would have shouted after him but words continued to escape him. He was finding it harder and harder to find anything of himself. No legs or arms and certainly no wings. Worse, a mind that increasingly narrowed to fire and danger, a heart with too few ventricles that didn’t feel as much as it should. He hadn’t transformed completely since he’d been freed of this form. Had he trapped himself? Had he unwittingly thrown away the gift of himself? He still didn’t understand how he’d earned it back in the first place and now he worried he’d never regain it.

He longed to burrow into the loose earth Hastur had left behind. Instead he curled in on himself and fixed his eyes on the sky above. It was hard to see anything above the glare from the flames. He had to remind himself that it was all still out there. There were clouds and above them sky and space and stars. And somewhere, out in all that, was Aziraphale.

Even if he forgot himself, he wouldn’t forget Aziraphale. He wouldn’t forget the mercury of his eyes, the honey of his laugh, or balm in his words. He could sink away and become nothing in these flames and Aziraphale would remain.

He wrapped thoughts of Aziraphale around him like armor. While hellfire burned around him, he felt only that angelic warmth. As day became night became day, he thought of all the days they’d spent together and all those he hoped they still had. He lost track of everything- the time, the place, himself- but still he held onto that image of Aziraphale.

Rain came down in a torrent. He could hear the roar of it and feel the vibrations in the ground beneath him. He didn’t feel it, though. It was also, he realized, extinguishing the hellfire at last. He’d have blinked if he was able. Shouted. Sworn. Instead he looked up.

There was Aziraphale, still in full plate, with radiant wings outstretched. There was a hole in the clouds directly above him that allowed sunlight to bathe him. He was golden and glorious and Crowley couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so safe.

Once the fire was completely extinguished, the rain stopped and the clouds cleared. Aziraphale descended to the ground, light as anything. He snapped his fingers and his armor vanished. One last flap of his wings and they disappeared as well. Dressed in soft, cream colored linens and swathed in his fur trimmed cloak, he bent low. He ran a gentle finger along Crowley’s spine. Crowley wondered silently if there had ever been anyone who’d looked so kindly upon a snake. There was nothing but fondness in those eyes.

“So sorry to have missed whatever happened here, my dear. I do hope you weren’t waiting on me long. I’m glad to see you’re alright, of course, though I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you like that. It’s been… well, it’s been quite some time now, hasn’t it, since you last took up that form?” Aziraphale noted. He waited a beat, expecting a reply. When none came, he said, “You can change back. The fire should be well and truly gone. I, er, may have blessed the rains. A bit.”

Oh what Crowley would have done to comply with that request, to fall into Aziraphale’s arms and laugh. He writhed in place, willing his body to obey him, but he could do nothing. Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit in concern. He offered an arm, which Crowley slithered onto as fast as he was able. Aziraphale cradled him close with his hand raised high enough that they were eye to eye.

“Crowley? What’s the matter.”

Still Crowley could say nothing. Do nothing. Panic flooded his system. He wound tighter around Aziraphale’s arm, trusting that the Principality’s strength would protect him from harm.

“If this is some game, I’m not amused. I know it’s you, you silly serpent.” Crowley could feel a shiver run through Aziraphale, could smell the fear come off him. “Crowley? This isn’t… Gabriel said he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No, I’m sure you’re not- you haven’t been-” A sharp sliver of unease cut into Aziraphale’s voice. He closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and when he let it out, he’d collected himself. “Whatever has happened, I’m here. No matter what. I’m with you.”

Crowley had forgotten how confining this form was until his heart filled to bursting with want. Want to reassure and to be reassured. Want to love and hug and hold. Want to go back to the early morning before Aziraphale had left, when they’d still been warm in bed together, before they’d fought and everything had fallen apart.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale assured again.

He walked them both into their home. He ignored any chair in favor of the bed. The feather mattress sank under their shard weight as he laid back. He didn’t try to talk to Crowley anymore, simply ran a warming hand over Crowley’s sinuous form. It was nice, in its way. Crowley found it hard to fret over his fate when he was enveloped in a world that smelled of the two of them. It might just be alright, somehow, no matter what happened. He relaxed into the continued touch of calloused fingertips.

Aziraphale’s eyes were pointed toward the ceiling but he turned them down to Crowley with a wobbling smile. “We’ll be alright,” he said, echoing Crowley’s own thoughts. “You know this, I hope? I love you, Crowley. I don’t say it enough, perhaps. It’s simply that I’m frightened.” He worried at his lower lip. “The things the other angels say sometimes… They mean well, surely. Only trying to caution me, to prepare me for the worst. But it troubles me and I think perhaps I’ve tried to keep you at a distance to protect you. That’s all that foolish fight was.”

Crowley nuzzled into the soft curve of Aziraphale’s jaw. He couldn’t tell him how much he regretted fighting. He’d been frightened, too. Not of Falling or whatever it was the Archangels had put into Aziraphale’s head, but that he’d finally gotten to be too much. The last thing he wanted was to push Aziraphale away and yet that seemed all he was good at these days.

And yet, there they were still, together. They might have been in different forms but they still fit just as well. Aziraphale bent his neck, delicately lifted Crowley’s head, and kissed him.  Yes, there they were and there they would remain in blissful accord. Warmth blossomed from the point where lips met scales. Crowley sighed and closed his eyes before he even realized he had eyelids to close once more.

“Well, hello there,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle.

Crowley blinked rapidly. He was no longer a snake. He was, instead, a very delighted jumble of limbs collected haphazardly in Aziraphale’s arms. He wrapped his own arms around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and captured his mouth in a joyful kiss. While he had other senses as a snake, many of his angelic ones were dulled. He could have cried at the sudden return of love that blanketed him. Instead, he pressed in his lips more emphatically, let his teeth nip, and tongue explore deep into the inviting mouth beneath his own. Aziraphale moaned and quickly dug his fingers into the looser hair at the base of Crowley’s long braids.

“Love you, angel,” he panted between breaths. “Couldn’t say it before. Couldn’t say anything, but I do."

He fully planned on showing just how much but Aziraphale caught his face between his hands first. Aziraphale had a determined set to his face despite how wide his pupils had blown.

“What happened? How did you get stuck like that.”

Crowley laughed. “Do we have to talk about that right now?”

Aziraphale wiggled. “I suppose not. Only… I was terrified for you. I want to know it won’t happen again.”

“I know that tone. No matter what you say, you’ll fret silently over this and neither of us will enjoy ourselves until it’s settled.” Crowley groaned and rolled off of Aziraphale. “Don’t know if I can do that, though. Settle things, that is. I can tell you I didn’t change because of some divine punishment if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Tension visibly smoothed from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “What happened?”

“Some time after you left, Hastur came for a visit.”

Aziraphale sat up so suddenly that he nearly knocked Crowley out of bed. “What was a Duke of Hell doing here?”

Crowley cringed. Now that it came down to it, he didn’t really want to say. If Aziraphale was already worried about the state of his immortal being, that wasn’t going to help. “Oh, ehn, well, just came for a chat really.”

“A chat? About what?”

Crowley rolled onto his side so that Aziraphale could no longer look him directly in the face. “Wanted to see if I’d take the old swan dive from Heaven,” he replied with a wrinkle of his nose. “Fall. Become a demon. Make it official.”

“Make it- There’s nothing to make official!”

“I mean, I do sort of have a bad habit of stirring up trouble. You said about as much yourself.”

“You are not a demon.” Aziraphale’s face crumpled. “And I’m sorry I said all that. I’m so frightened for you. It’s no excuse, I simply need you to understand that.”

“I do. Trust me, I do. And you wouldn’t have to worry so much if it wasn’t for-” Crowley gestured vaguely at himself and then wrapped his arms around each other. “Besides, s’nothing. Do you think I ended up surrounded by hellfire because that conversation went well? Even if I’m halfway down there already, I’m not just going to… saunter the rest of the way down because they asked nice.”

“I know, I know. I don’t doubt you. I just-”

“Worry. I know. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’ve got plenty, but let’s not beat that dead horse right now, yeah?”

He wriggled closer and buried his face in Aziraphale’s broad chest. For a moment he thought Aziraphale would actually let it drop. One hand rubbed soothing circles on Crowley’s back and the other stroked over his hair. It was quiet and nice and so of course it couldn’t last.

“Wait, you still didn't explain how you ended up as a snake. Did Hastur-?”

“Nah. It was me. He taunted me. Called my Crawly. Seemed like a good way to get rid of a demon at the time. Didn’t think I’d get stuck.” He nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s collar, pressed his nose in and found the downy edge of chest hair. “Thought at first I’d ingested too much demon blood or something to do with the proximity of all that hellfire. Or maybe that She was mad at me for, well, take your pick.” 

“And now? What do you think now?”

“Still not convinced this isn’t some joke on Her part but I think in this in particular, it was just me. Panicked. Lost myself. The more I panicked, the more I lost. Probably would’ve got stuck without you.” Crowley stretched out his limbs and crawled back on top of Aziraphale. Propped up on his elbows, he looked down, kissed one cheek and then the other, the tip of a nose, and finally lips. “Never feel more myself than when I’m with you. Different, too, but good different. Great different.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was transcendent, sending the skin around his eyes crinkling in pleasure. He took Crowley’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lowered it for a kiss.

“The feeling, my dear-” Another kiss. A gliding touch. Pale fingers tangled deep in crimson hair. “-is most certainly mutual. Now-” A testing, upward roll of hips. “Perhaps you were right before  and there were more pressing concerns to consider. I have no assignments in the near future. I think it best we catch up on lost time.” 

Crowley smiled into another kiss. “You read my mind.”

[shirtlesssammy]

8x23: Sacrifice

Welcome back to what might be our longest (and last) hellatus. This was a request that we were going to do after the series ended, but here we are. Enjoy!

Then:

Dean Winchester loves needs one (1) angel.

Now:

Jody Mills is on the Bumble date from Hell with “Roderick”. And by that, I mean she’s trying to put herself back out there after grieving the loss of her husband and son --and Roderick is really Crowley. 

Jody heads to the bathroom to pull herself together and Crowley starts his spellwork to threaten the Winchesters --again. Jody starts puking blood in the bathroom while Dean tries throwing his weight around negotiating the trials and demon/angel tablets. They make a deal, so YAY.

Kevin retrieves the demon tablet for the brothers. Dean gives him the key to the bunker. 

Cas, meanwhile, is chilling with his new friend, Metatron. He asks about God. Metatron describes God as “larger than life, gruff, bit of a sexist. But fair --eminently fair.” Hm, Metatron always did like to spin those stories. They’re outside a bar waiting for signs of the next angel trial --retrieving cupid’s bow. 

The brothers head to Sioux Falls to Bobby’s (probably theirs now?) salvage yard. Crowley is there waiting for them and ready to exchange tablets. He’s got a contract for them to sign --well, Sam to sign since he’s doing the trials. Dean demands to read the fine print before Sam signs anything. Sam unleashes his inner Veruca Salt and grabs the pen to sign. The brothers are not on the same page about this it seems. 

In Heaven, Naomi learns where Cas is --and that he’s with Metatron. 

Dean continues to read the contract and Crowley continues to needle him about how his humanity is a handicap. It’s revealed to all be just a ruse to distract Crowley when Dean throws some demon binding handcuffs on him. They tell Crowley that making him mortal is the third trial. 

Cas tries to speed up the love train for the bartender but fails awkwardly.

For Who Gives a Fuck if He’s Awkward Science:

Naomi and her squad show up. They take Metatron, leaving Cas alone. 

The brothers head to the church where the final trial will happen. They tie Crowley up and go over the game plan. Sam will inject purified blood into Crowley once an hour for eight hours. He’s going to have to confess to God to purify his blood and isn’t sure where to begin. Dean has some ideas, and, like, No ? He lists Ruby, Lilith, losing his soul, not looking for Dean in Purgatory ---and Chuck really would like a clip show of his favorite torture moments I’m sure, but support your brother a little, hmmm?

Anyway, while Sam heads to confession, Cas flaps in to ask Dean for help (like, is this the last time he flaps in to see Dean? I...really miss his wings.) He tells Dean that Naomi took Metatron, and explains that they were working on the angel trials --and planning on shutting Heaven and Hell down. 

Naomi wants answers from Metatron, and she pulls out a hand drill to extract them from him. 

Dean tells Cas that Sam needs his help more than Cas does. Sam pops up and tells Dean to go with Cas. Dean agrees and they fly off together while Sam starts the final trial.

Cas and Dean head to the bunker to have Kevin translate the angel tablet. There’s one problem: Kevin has never laid eyes on the thing before. He’s also done with all the prophet stuff. Cas, not done with all the angel badass stuff, begs to differ.

Sam continues to look SUPER rough. He’s doing so poorly, in fact, that Crowley gets the drop on him despite being tied to a chair. Crowley chomps a hole in Sam’s arm so that he can make a bloody phone call to any demon in range as soon as Sam steps away. GROSS

Dean and Cas get shot at by cupid’s arrow as a bow hunting demo airs on the bar’s TVs. Er, they wait for the cupid to arrive while continuing to strike out in the bar. Er, they wait for the cupid to arrive.

*Fourth Wall Dialogue Alert*

Cas: “You really think it’s wise to be drinking on the job?”

Dean: “What show’ve you been watching?”

Dean asks Cas about his plan to board up Heaven. He expresses worry that Cas is going to meet a bloody end locked away with the other angels. “So this is it,” Dean says fatalistically. “ET goes home.” He lingers on something unsaid, before a delivery worker arrives and distracts them. (“Nooooo,” I cry. “What were you going to say?”) The delivery lady is super cute. At last the love interest arrives! Is Ed finally going to meet his constant companion?! She bestows a glowing smile on Ed and Rod, the regular patron seated at the bar. Patting them both on the shoulder, she bids them farewell. Astonished, Dean watches the woman just…leave. 

Meanwhile, Ed and Rod mutually admire the drawing of a hunting bow on the TV. They lock eyes. Music swells! It’s love! While Dean stares gormlessly at the two lovebirds, Cas is already two steps ahead and on his way to track down the delivery driver - their cupid. 

Crowley sings Bowie to Sam as the floor cracks and ground shakes. Abaddon enters in all her stitched up glory. 

For Yes Please Science:

Sam gets hurled through a window, but Abaddon….isn’t exactly aiming to help out the current King of Hell. She wallops Crowley instead, intending to claim the throne for herself. Sam races back in, douses Abaddon in fire, and sends her smoky demon form into the night. 

Dean and Cas corner the cupid outside of the bar. Cas demands her bow, blade sliding from his sleeve. In what could be a first for him, Dean counsels, “Talk first, stab later.” MADE FOR EACH OTHER!

The cupid tells Cas that she’s avoided Heaven as its leadership has fallen. She offers the bow freely and Cas raises his blade to cut it from her palm. YIKES

In Heaven, Metatron confronts Naomi with a bloodied eye. (We clutch our blankets to our chests and think of Cas’s “re-programming” with renewed horror.) Metatron reflects that losing God was the worst thing he endured, and then he was run out of Heaven by the upper echelons of Heaven. “Did you really think you could do all of that to me and there would be no payback?” he asks. 

In Hell Quest Central, Sam sets Crowley upright again now that Abaddon has fled the building. He repaints the devil’s trap and continues the trials. Crowley drops movie reference after movie reference and I can’t help but point out that he’s targeting the WRONG WINCHESTER with those overtures. “I deserve to be loved!” Crowley declares at last, and emotion crests over him, taking both Sam and Crowley by surprise. As the cure continues, things get quiet. Crowley asks Sam how he asked for forgiveness because he doesn’t even know where to start with his own soul. 

Kevin can’t find the Heaven trials anywhere in the tablet and while Dean’s arguing with him, Naomi flaps in to talk to Cas. 

Naomi insists that Metatron is playing Cas, lying to him so he can get help enacting his revenge. “This is what you do,” Cas growls. “You twist things.” VALID mistrust! Naomi tells them that Metatron’s plan is to expel all angels from Heaven.

“Our mission was to protect what God created,” Naomi says with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know where we forgot that.” She offers up an overture, telling Dean that if Sam finishes the trials then he will die. Naomi picked that knowledge directly from Metatron’s head. 

After Naomi flaps away, Dean orders Kevin to find out if it’s true that Sam will die. Cas flies Dean to Sam, then flaps away to finish what he started. Just as Sam is about to do the final rite, Dean races into the church and shouts for him to stop.

In Naomi’s office, Cas discovers her sprawled out (mostly) dead on the desk, her probe jabbed into her brain. Metatron confronts Cas with an angel blade to his throat. Naomi was telling the truth! That rumpled eccentric is out for revenge!

Meanwhile, Dean explains to an actual, GLOWING Sam that he’ll die if he completes the trials. “So?” Sam asks. SAM BBY.

Upstairs, Cas is strapped to Naomi’s torture chair while Metatron placates him. 

He cuts a slit in Cas’s throat to extract his grace, and counsels him to go back to Earth and settle down for the rest of his life. Metatron tells Cas that he didn’t endure trials. Instead, he helped Metatron to gather ingredients for a powerful spell. He gathers Cas’s grace to finish the spell and just before he zaps Cas on a one way trip to Earth, he tells him to come see him when he’s dead so he can hear his story. 

Sam argues with Dean about the trials. He insists that Dean absolutely CAN fight the forces of evil on his own. Sam tells him that he’s been a lodestone around Dean’s neck for a long time. His greatest sin was “how many times I let you down.” OH SAMMY! 

“I know we’ve had our disagreements,” Dean argues, “I killed Benny to save you. I’m willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches who killed mom walk because of you, so don’t you dare think that there is anything past or present that I would put in front of you.” 

Sam listens to this and finally gasps, “How do I stop?” Dean wraps a handkerchief around Sam’s hand and tells him to let go of the spell. Sam stops glowing…which is great! Except he collapses in agony which is…less great. Dean calls for Cas desperately. 

Cas wakes in a field and strides out to a lakeshore. 

Sirens clang in the bunker, locking Kevin inside. And outside…stars fall. The angels are being expelled from Heaven, their wings burning as they plummet to the Earth. 

We’re just going to end this recap with a bunch of gifs, ‘kay? 

Waiting for a Quote to Fall:

It’s not a date until I’ve cried

This is a secret lair. You understand me? No keggers

Would you say that you're looking for, uh, a partner in crime? Or someone who's into nurse role-play and light domination?

There is no out. Only duty

Do you really think it's wise to be drinking on the job?

Talk first, stab later

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[moveslikebucky]

Chapter 4 of my Raiders of the Lost Ark fusion is up and this chapter has The Boat Scene (that’s right y’all, they kiss in this one >_>!!)  There’s only one chapter left after this!  

In this chapter: Drinking contests with French archaeologists!  Snakes unionizing!  Aziraphale being Strong As Fuck!  A car chase!  And, as mentioned previously, some tender lovely kissing <3

Excerpt below, with the link to ao3 at the bottom <3

As always I’m thanking @narumikaiko for the amazing beta work, @luritto for britpicking and keeping me honest, and @yamisnuffles for doing the art that inspired this in the first place <3 <3   Also tagging @mcbitchtits cuz as always I would hate for them to miss this xD.

We’re almost at the end, one chapter to go after this!

---

Belloq’s Tent, Dig Site at Tanis.  Almost dawn.

Crowley downs his third glass of brandy, feeling the burn as it runs down his throat.  He’s still perfectly sober, but making a show of not being.  Belloq has devolved from one rant to the other, finally settling on Nazis in general.

“I don’t even want to work with them, they’re just the only ones taking me seriously!  Even then, they really aren’t.”

“Facist regimes usually only take themselves seriously.  Big reason why they happen.  It’s all me, me, me, I, I, I and off they go.”  Crowley gestures broadly as he speaks, playing up the motion, creating a false sense of security.

“You must’ve seen quite a few of them.”

“In my experience,” Crowley says, adding a hiss into the word for effect, “humans are pretty much all the same.  You’ve seen one regime, you’ve seen them all.”

“The knowledge of humanity you must have.  I wonder how many history books have it wrong?”

“Ah- here, let me,” Crowley extends a hand and Belloq passes him the bottle.  “You’d be surprised how much they get right, actually.  And how much of what’s right they say is false.”  He pours himself another glass, tops off Belloq’s when he extends it out.  “King Arthur, for example: great fella.  Bit too great, spreading his good will all over the bloody place.”

“King Arthur was real?”

“Oh yeah, whole thing.  Lady of the Lake and all that nonsense.  Dinosaurs, though.  Completely fake.  Big cosmic joke, that one.”

“Astounding.  You could completely rewrite human history!”  Belloq exclaims as he throws back his liquor.  Crowley laughs and makes a show of spilling his glass.  “Oops,” Belloq slurs at him, devolving into laughter of his own.

Crowley watches the brandy at the edge of the circle as it streaks the red paint where it drags through it.  He sighs and cracks his spine, feeling his power start to trickle back.  Be a few minutes yet before it’s enough for him to break out, but not much longer.

Crowley passes the bottle back with a smirk, tosses his own back again.  It’s good, better than a lot of the swill he had in Nepal.  “This is some good stuff.” Crowley downs the little bit left in his glass.  “Where’d you get it anyway?”

“I grew up with this,” Belloq is, at this point, unable to even sit up straight.  Swaying from side to side, face red and splotchy.  All according to plan.  “It’s my family label!”

Crowley can feel the tingle of hellish power creeping back to the center of him.  Spreading along his fingers and toes, up the lines of his bones.  A dark and creeping thing.  Spooky.  Like the chill you get in a dilapidated old house.  The feel of something foreboding.  He almost has enough to break through.  The barrier is weakening.

“Tell me more, demon—“

“The name’s Crowley, if you don’t mind.”

“Right, Crowley,” Belloq corrects himself and leans forward to pour Crowley another glass.  “What about the Bible?  How much of it is wrong?”

“The Heaven should I know?  I’m a demon, I can’t even touch those.”

“Ah, sorry, silly assumption.”

“Just a bit,” Crowley says with more than a hint of offense.  He’s still not over the time Aziraphale left an old misprinted copy on the sofa in the back room.  Hadn’t been able to sit for weeks after that.

A dead silence falls between the two of them.  Belloq still sways a bit where he sits, knocks back another glass, leaving the bottle nearly empty.  The creeping dark continues, the four points of it meeting in the center of Crowley’s chest.  He does a quick test, snaps his fingers behind his back, feeling the sparks light there.

He snaps again and the paint on the floor evaporates from around him.  In one smooth motion he lunges for the bottle, smashes it on the edge of the table and brandishes it in Belloq’s face.  A shift in ozone, just a bit of demonic energy, and the edges of the glass glow with heat and hellfire.

“You!” Belloq exclaims, looking behind him to the rug.  “How!”

“Notice your fancy jewelry is missing, what’s up with that?”

“I-I-“ Belloq’s eyes keep darting behind him as Crowley slowly backs towards the tent flap.

“Not so powerful without it, eh?”  Crowley smirks at him.  Humans are so fucking easy when the cards are played right.  “I really must be going now.  Was a fun time!  Maybe we’ll meet again on a better occasion.”

Crowley turns to make his escape, manifesting his wings.  Great black feathers fill the tent, more void than true color, blocking out the scant amount of light that remains.  He ducks out and kicks off the ground into the breaking dawn light, taking to the sky to search for Aziraphale.  A hill just to the west, a lightning strike and that telltale divinity in the air.  Gotcha.

He has about five seconds to pat himself on the back before he’s frozen in midair.

[Continue on AO3]

[d20owlbear-deactivated]

Discorporation VII

From the Ineffable Bingo prompt I4, “Temple kiss”

538

“You ride with Arthur then?” A low, subdued voice asked from behind Aziraphale, who turned on his heel, hand on his sword hilt. A woman was there, with a particularly familiar voice. She wore a veil that hid her hair from him but her dress was black velvet with burgundy stitching around the hem of subtle scenes of serpents and hares. He had no doubt her hair matched the color underneath the veil.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whispered sharply, frowning loudly and dropping his hand from his sword. “Just what do you think you’re doing here? I told you, I won’t be helping you– helping foment your chaos!”

“None of that, angel.” Crowley scoffed with a frown Aziraphale could only barely make out. She stepped into a shaft of light from the tall, thin window and Aziraphale’s breath caught. Her eyes were bare and piercingly golden, though she had forced her pupils round, and wisps of her hair curled seductively from underneath her head covering. The fabric of it was thin and nearly transparent except for it’s dark color and her wine-red hair could be seen through it if one stood transfixed long enough.

Aziraphale quickly pushed the observation from his mind and narrowed his eyes at her. “And if that’s not why you’re here, then why are you?” 

“Morgein!” King Arthur called solemnly from down the hall, having caught sight of them in passing. Her back was to him and her eyes remained on Aziraphale as she smiled. It felt like a sword in his chest for some reason he didn’t care to look into.

“Yes, Great King?” Crowley said back after some moments of silence, waiting patiently for the King to come to her. Aziraphale huffed at the indignity of it, and eyed King Arthur dubiously.

“There is supper to be had, and it would delight me if you were to join us.” Arthur said, offering her his arm. “And perhaps we may speak then of why you have come.”

Crowley looked up at Arthur, who was only just barely taller than her, “My heart may never cease to rejoice when I hear such pretty words from you, Great King.” And then she turned her golden gaze onto Aziraphale pointedly.

“And which knight is this?” She asked Arthur, placing her hand on his elbow without bothering to look, obviously familiar with this charade of hers. “I have not seen him before now.” Arthur laughed in reply and proceeded to guide Crowley away, presumably for her to pretend to eat and break bread like she wasn’t a demon in his castle, and regaled her with the tale of Sir Azira Phail and how he’d saved him and his lot from a dastardly beast in the woods only a few months ago.

Aziraphale, of course, followed. 

Over the course of the next fortnight Crowley was everywhere. Each time Aziraphale attempted a miracle to aid who he could, Crowley was there doing something nefarious. Aziraphale was forced on his toes at all times, he could not sleep—not that he had before, but he had no time to read at night as he liked anymore—he could not eat, nor could he take any leisure time to himself with her presence around the castle. She was constantly fomenting her evil mischiefs and damning the days of those around her, under the guise of being witty and well-liked by those in court. 

She inspired envy and lust alike, Aziraphale was sure. And by the end of two weeks, she seemed no longer content to simply run him ragged as he did his best to contain the ill she caused. Another fortnight passed and she still avoided him except to wile her way around and worked her way up to timing things just so, so that his miracles would be truly reversed, fully nullifying them in their entirety.

“Sir Phail,” Crowley greeted him, circling his shoulders like she made a habit of these last few days, from his right to his left, as if he might ever be inclined to hide her behind a shield. Well, perhaps, if there was suitable cause, but Aziraphale was finding himself less and less inclined to do so the more she vexed him like this. 

“Lady Morgein.” He replied dryly, his distrust of her was not something he was particularly opaque about, cautioning King Arthur to keep his eyes on her. The King’s affirmative reply was not as assuring as it could have been, with his eyes on her barely-hidden hair. 

Crowley offered him her hand and he took it, drawing her roughly to his side and placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. It would have been unbearably rude for him to do otherwise, and he had never loved and hated the social morasses Humans created more than now. His hand remained atop hers, holding her there so she wouldn’t be able to pull free so easily and swan off before he was done speaking, but the words left his mouth when she smirked at him and laid her remaining hand over his. As if to say check and mate.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale growled lowly, the rumble of his lion’s head in the ether seeping into his voice and he turned all of his eyes onto her, sharp and staring. He watched for every movement of her incorporeal form and every nuance of her human body, standing so still even moss may have grown on him given the chance.

“Aziraphale.” She sneered back, the void-black hood of her occult form flared and she reared back on that other plane, and between two human-like bodies there were nearly sparks of lighting for how charged the air grew between them, the smell of burning ozone filling the room.

“King Arthur is under my protection, foul fiend. I will not let you corrupt him.” Aziraphale intoned, Heaven in his voice.

“You can have him,” She replied, a hiss threading through her throat and her fangs sharpening even as Aziraphale watched. Crowley didn’t bother to flinch when Aziraphale’s eagle head screeched and snapped at her spiked tail, which had snuck up behind Aziraphale when all his eyes were so trained on the less hidden parts of her.

“Then what is it you’re here for?” He grimaced, not noticing the way servants and other nobility alike fled from their path, even as they couldn’t comprehend why two mildly upset looking individuals were so abhorrent to pass by. 

“That’ss not for you to know, now is it, angel?” Crowley stood to her full height, both in the mortal plane and the one above it, flaring her wings in challenge. The way she said angel was an insult this time, no longer some secret adoration. “We have no sssuch Arrangement.” And with that Aziraphale pulled his hand out from under hers, feeling her magics pull together for a retreat, and he snapped a circle in place beneath the two of them. One meant for binding a demon in place and rendering it harmless.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale accused her with nothing but her name, disengaging from her and stepping out of the circle and remained unflinching when she screeched, enraged, and pounded fists that quickly turned into scaled claws at the invisible barrier. She opened her mouth again to scream before quickly pulling all her demonic form inside her mortal body. With his eyes on her, Aziraphale could see the seams of her corporation glow an uncomfortable Hellfire orange with the strain. 

She tumbled to the ground with a grand performance of grace, seemingly boneless in her fall, and began weeping great, fat tears and her veil became artfully shaken, hair dripping from its previous confines in sultry curls.

“Azira!” The King shouted from down the hallway, but he was too far away to do much, and certainly not god-blessed enough quite yet to stop a smiting.

Aziraphale unsheathed his sword in a smooth gesture and moved with divine poise to take his sword in both hands and dropped his body along with the point to pierce her unguarded back which she had presented him on her knees with her show for the Humans. 

She died dramatically, writhing and screaming like a snake, and snarled that the entire court would rue the day they allowed her in to be killed, before scrabbling her clawed fingers up Aziraphale’s chest to sink her nails into the back of his neck and pull him close to whisper in his ear.

“Remember, angel,” she murmured throatily, and Aziraphale could not help but be held entranced at the seduction in her voice, even as he didn’t let go of the sword that ran her through, “This could have been easy.” 

And with that she turned her head to kiss his temple, and let her grasp on her corporation whither as she was shunted back to Hell, leaving him with an alarmingly, rapidly decaying corpse and a blackened, burning imprint of her lips on his face. And Hell to pay in the form of the ire of the king he was meant to empower.

[desperateground]

boughofawillowtree Good Omens Fic Masterlist

Decided to compile all my fics (so far) into one big post! There’s something here for everyone, I think...fluff, angst, smut, crack, etc. and range from ~1k word one-shots to 50k+ word multi-chapter fics. <3

Low-Angst One Shots

A Different Kind Of Light (G) 4,408 words - A nesting fic! Five years after they find themselves “on their own side,” Aziraphale is compelled to buy a bunch of new things for his flat, which leads to a realization about his feelings for Crowley.

Roll for Initiative (E) 6,120 words - A few decades after the Notpocalypse, Gabriel has become good friends with Crowley and Aziraphale. The couple introduces their pal to some fun earthly hobbies, including sexual role-play. Shenanigans ensue.

Raptus (E) 6,504 words - Aziraphale is stuck babysitting a bunch of misbehaving Roman soldiers at the outskirts of the empire. Crowley shows up to make some sexy mischief. The two have a consensual non-consent scene in front of the Roman legionnaires who are not in on the joke.

Heaven in Hiding (T) 4,291 words - Aziraphale wears a variety of elaborate outfits through the ages. Crowley can't stop thinking about them for reasons he doesn't understand. Written for a gift swap where my giftee requested “snuggling and cuddling, soulmates, slow burn, and the exploration of a fetish.” 

High-Angst One Shots

Always One More Time (T) - Now that they’re able to be openly together, Aziraphale struggles with just how truly and earnestly Crowley trusts him. When Crowley asks him to look after the plants for a while, things come to a head. Happy ending!

A Songbird With A New Track (T) - Heaven tricks Aziraphale into believing that Crowley has never cared for him. Aziraphale takes out his hurt on Crowley (violently) before realizing the truth. Written for a GO Kink Meme prompt. Happy-ish ending.

Cosmic Violence (M) 1,296 words - After Hell wins the Great War, the demon Aziraphale takes the angel Crowley as his war spoils. Aziraphale sets rigid rules for his new slave, and punishes Crowley brutally when he catches his angel sleeping. Written for a GO Kink Meme prompt. No happy ending.

Victory’s Contagion (M/E) 1,561 words - After Aziraphale calls a halt to Crowley's caning of the demon Medoc, Crowley has to face his reasoning for pushing Medoc past his limits - and he has to face Aziraphale.A continuation of @HipHopAnonymous's story Enough, which in turn uses @Vitreous_Humor's excellent OC Medoc and Sadist!Aziraphale from Sorrow and Sighs and Mickle Care.

Like A Fern, Unfurling

Chapter One (E) 7,682 words - The first chapter features some dubcon and was written for a GO Kink Meme prompt. Aziraphale and Crowley try some BDSM play together, with Aziraphale, as the top. Aziraphale realizes Crowley is refusing to safe word and wants to show him that it is safe to do so. He pushes Crowley to safeword, then praises him for it afterwards

Chapters Two and Three (T) 3,782 words - No more dubcon. The rest of the story diverges significantly from the initial prompt, so chapters 2-onwards are just fluff, communication, and fully consensual smut. These two chapters feature no smut, but include Crowley and Aziraphale negotiating kinks and taking a shared kink quiz together. Also, Aziraphale discovers lolcats.

Chapter Four (E) 4,024 words - Sweet smut! Aziraphale and Crowley try out some of the things they both like, including bondage and overstim. (More chapters are coming, so feel free to send requests here or in the comments of the story.)

St. Dymphna’s

Fields of the Fatherless (G) 5,706 words - Aziraphale, disguised as a nun in 18th century Ireland, is sent to investigate some strange reports about a mother & child home. He finds that their new Abbess Antonia is running things quite differently than the church might prefer.

Where You Go I Will Go (G) 4,032 words - Two young women in need of help arrive at St. Dymphna’s.

Repossession Recovery

All of these fics take place after the events of Repossession by @dreamsofspike-blog.

King In Your Story (M/E) 4,496 words - As Crowley tries to recover from the events in Repossession, Aziraphale suggests that they try some D/s play to help Crowley get some power back, but flashbacks make it impossible.

Intention of Consoling (M/E) 4,052 words - Crowley's PTSD following the events of Repossession makes it difficult for him to leave the bookshop. Aziraphale decides to push Crowley into running a solo errand, not realizing the triggers Crowley will face out in London.

Every Word You Say Calls The Thunder (M/E) 6,670 words - After the events in Intention of Consoling, Crowley is on edge and struggling with flashbacks. He takes some of his frustration out on Aziraphale, who tries to balance comforting his husband with setting his own boundaries.

Ego Culpa (M/E) 19,109 words - Co-written with @dreamsofspike-blog. When a waiter flirts with Crowley over dinner, it triggers Crowley’s terror of being blamed as a ‘tempter,’ and activates his brainwashing from Heaven. Aziraphale doesn’t see it that way.

The Dawn of Redeeming Grace (T) 5,654 words - Aziraphale, frustrated with his inability to fix all of Crowley’s trauma, and hurt by the way those trauma symptoms impact him, decides to take a break and visit a mall at Christmastime. But a nativity display featuring Gabriel sets him off, and he ends up speaking with a human crisis counselor. 

Call the Night by Name (M/E) 7,549 words - To cope with Gabriel’s sexualized violence and his demands that Crowley never fight back, Crowley lets himself pretend it’s actually Aziraphale who’s hurting him. This comes back to haunt him once he’s home with his angel.

Desperate Ground

Desperate Ground (M/E) 55,877 words - Hell captures Crowley and Aziraphale and attempt to use them against each other as punishment for the botched Armageddon and executions. Full of hurt/comfort. As of this posting, the fic is finished.

Adularescence

Adularescence (M) 37,946 words WIP - A number of powerful angels have harnessed the power of a mysterious crystal to subdue and enslave demons. After misunderstanding Aziraphale’s relationship with Crowley, they initiate him into their brutal society. Currently a WIP updating weekly.

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - 2 Kings 1:6

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael. Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N:  my keyboard sort of died halfway through the chapter, so I've been typing directly on the screen of my tablet. Haaaaate. If you notice any misspellings in this chapter, now you know why.

***

In the end, finding Gabriel had been a simple matter of looking for reports of sudden, unusual lighting. And as far as such phenomena go, ball lighting is among the rarest of them all; for it to be reported right above Soho Square the previous night, along with a curious hole in the ground… well, it was quite the red flag. A red flag that let out the most distinctive fishy smell. 

And if there was something Sandalphon was good at following, it was fishy smells. In this one specific case, he didn’t think he’d have to follow it very far. He knew exactly who he’d find only a couple of streets away, close enough even for a weakened Gabriel to stagger to.

“... You think he might have turned to Aziraphale?” Michael had asked, seemingly unconvinced. Uriel, on the other hand, had been quicker to agree with his theory.

“Assuming that is the spot where he fell, Aziraphale is the closest angel he could hope to find.”

“If he is indeed still an angel, given that Hellfire did not harm him.”

“He has God’s protection,” Uriel had muttered, her voice bitter. “We have to assume he is.”

“And Gabriel was hurt. We were not allowed to heal him before he was sent down. He might have thought he could do that,” Sandalphon had added, despite not really knowing whether or not Gabriel had been able to think at all. When they let him go after taking his wings from him, to be cast out, he was barely coherent - barely conscious, falling limply from their grip. 

“And why would he think Aziraphale of all angels would help him?” Michael had asked, only to gain herself a long look from Uriel. 

“Who else could he turn to? He has nothing and no one on Earth.”

He still has us up here, Sandalphon had thought, but it had remained unspoken. “He used to be friendly enough with this human tailor,” he’d said. “He made him good clothes. Gabriel always had a taste for human clothing.”

“... And when was that?”

“Well, that was in the middle of the Regency, so-- ah. Right. Humans and their life spans.”

In the end, he’d volunteered to go check himself; despite having no desire to see Aziraphale up close ever again, just in case he shot Hellfire towards him again somehow, he was the one with the best knowledge of London. 

And it hadn’t taken long for him to know his intuition had been correct: he’d been just across the street - it looked like someone had smashed their car into a pole - when the door had opened. And out they had walked, all three of them: the demon, Aziraphale... and Gabriel, somehow unsteady on his feet but unharmed.

He’d almost lost them several times in the few minutes that followed, because the driving of whoever was behind the wheel positively insane. The cab driver he’d flagged down - and who’d reacted to his request to follow that car with a frankly puzzling “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this all my life!” - could barely manage to follow, and would have probably been left in the dust if they hadn’t stopped only a few streets away. 

Gabriel had looked… just a little green in the face when he’d left the car, and had paused to speak to Aziraphale, who from his part didn't seem in the slightest bit antagonizing. It was a relief, really, considering that Gabriel would be powerless to defend himself should he decide to take revenge. Or the demon, certainly the demon would want to harm him; if he hadn't, Sandalphon could only assume Aziraphale had him on a tight leash. Even from across the street - entirely unaware of the fly sitting on the roof of the Bentley - he could smell sulphur and evil.

In the end, both Aziraphale and the demon had left, and Gabriel had gone inside the hotel. Sandalphon had decided to wait a short while before going in as well, in case those two came back for whatever reason. So he walked in a bar across the street - if he’d known humans only marginally better, he would have also known that ‘an angel walks in a bar’ would be an excellent start for a joke - and ordered a mug of the bitter beverage humans enjoy. 

“... Coffee?” a waiter asked, only slightly perplexed; soon enough, waitressing would destroy what was left of his will to live and he would no longer feel surprised at anything anymore. 

“Yes, that,” Sandalphon agreed - he would know, he reasoned, it was his job - and sat there, sipping the bitter liquid that was brought to him, before he pulled out the phone Michael had given him. A special sort of phone, with a reception and data plan that was, quite simply, not of that world. 

Michael answered in the middle of the very first ring. “Well…?”

“I found him.”

A long sigh of relief. “How is he?”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet, but he seems… reasonably well, all things considered. He did turn to Aziraphale. The demon was there, too.”

“And they didn’t harm him?”

“Not that I could see. They left him in a hotel. I’ll go in as soon as I have finished this…” Sandalphon paused. “Hey, uh… servant?” He wasn’t entirely certain what they were called nowadays, but that was the gist of it, he supposed. “What is this beverage again?”

As another small part of his soul withered and died, the waiter - a young student who was wondering if a history degree was truly worth nine thousand pounds a year, considering that those who study history are doomed to watch those who don’t repeat it anyway - forced himself to smile. “Coffee, sir.”

“Coffee. Not bad, perks you up. Maybe Gabriel would like some.”

“... Do ask him. But first and foremost, make sure he knows that we’re here to help him.”

“Of course,” Sandalphon said, and ended the call with the absolute, idiotic certainty that Gabriel would be overjoyed to see him. 

***

“Ugh.”

The book sailed through the air in an elegant arc to land somewhere in the vicinity of the wastebasket. Sitting on the bed, face contorted in disgust, Gabriel faintly wished he could will it to catch fire. What he’d just read about human bodily functions was… ugh. Ugh.

‘Disgust’ wasn’t something he had often felt towards humanity - usually there was a vague interest at times and polite disinterest most others - but now it certainly was his strongest feeling. His current condition suddenly seemed even more of a punishment; all the showers he could possibly take wouldn’t help make it better. He was never going to feel clean again.

Never going to feel whole again, either.

On his back, over his shoulder blades, the ragged scars where his wings had been ached. Not the physical sort of ache he’d had a quite literal crash course in over the past twenty-four hours, but something deeper, throbbing worse than any infection - worse than the hunger he was desperately trying to ignore, the contents of the small fridge in his room untouched on the desk. Gabriel’s voice rang through the empty room as a raspy whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

Could God hear him? Or rather, would God lend an ear to what he had to say - a disgraced angel cast out of Heaven, away from Their glory? He didn’t know. All he had was hope and he would cling to that. After all, however much he felt like it, he was not in Hell. So maybe… maybe there was hope for him yet. Gabriel looked up, and sank on his knees beside the bed.

“I meant well. I thought I was upholding the greater good. I never meant to take Your judgment upon myself. If I did-- I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please, let me come home. I won’t fail you again.”

There was the faintest echo of his own voice, and then… silence. Outside someone in the road shouted an insult that might have been meant for someone’s mother or their cat, it was hard to tell. A door somewhere in the hallway was opened and shut again. Nothing else happened.

Of course not. I need a Circle to speak with God, or at least to his Voice.

Only that of course, he had no idea how to make one, because he never needed to try contacting God - or rather, Metatron; no one had spoken directly to God in eons - all the way from Earth. Even if he could, would God take his call at all?

Why would They? Who do you think you are, that God would give you audience?

The Archangel Gabriel.

Not anymore.

I thought I was someone important.

You never were.

I thought…

Prideful fool.

Gabriel’s missing wings ached, his stomach cramped, and he went from kneeling to curling up on the floor, eyes shut. A memory tried to resurface, that of being held on the ground by two pairs of hands, of a weigh on him as his wings were torn away, and he shut his eyes tighter.

“At least tell me why,” he choked out. “Why me? Why only me?”

Silence. Something bubbled into the pit of despair in him, something hot and bitter that was not, as Sandalphon would have gleefully suggested, coffee. It was burning anger, against his predicament and, even more dangerously, against God.

Am I hearing you say God got it wrong? That you know better than the Almighty?

A crime born of pride.

Or you admit that God got it right, and you deserve this? You can't have it both ways, Gabe.

“They assisted me! Worked with me, made decisions with me-- we were equals in everything!” 

And they truly had been, him and Michael especially, utterly loyal since even before the first war. God’s warrior, and God’s messenger. How could it be that, for the same crime, one was condemned and the other carried out the sentence? How could it be fair, how could it be just?

I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God.

Not anymore. I am no one, and I am alone.

“I always did my best - I… I deserve an explanation!” Gabriel choked out, beyond caring how blasphemous the notion was, that God owed him anything. “A word! A sign! Anything!”

“Ah, give up. Either God has the worst reception, or they really don’t care to speak to any of us,” a voice rang out suddenly, and it caused Gabriel freeze - both because it was unexpected, and because it was a voice he knew; one that couldn’t possibly be further away from God’s.

Sitting on the bed like it was a throne, towering over his huddled form on the floor and surrounded by a cloud of sulphur, was the Prince of Hell.

***

Beelzebub quite enjoyed towering over others. They enjoyed lording over others as well, being a Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, which generally came easier. ‘Towering’ is honestly the hard part, when your usual form is fairly diminutive in size. Therefore, they quite appreciated Gabriel’s choice to lower himself on the floor; it was a promising start for their new work relationship. 

Of course it wasn’t them he had lowered himself for, but it mattered not. He would, in time. Sooner or later. Possibly sooner.

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, was not known for their patience.

“What-- you? What are you doing here?”

That was… no appropriate way to greet one’s new superior either; Beelzebub supposed they could excuse it, if anything because Gabriel had a lot to process at the moment and, last they had met, they had worked on opposite sides essentially as equals. It was a big change, something  angels did not do well with.

Yes, they could excuse him. They just chose not too. As Gabriel scrambled to sit up, Beelzebub gave him an unimpressed look.

“That is no way to greet your superior. I believe ‘your Lordship’ or ‘sir’ would serve better.”

That gained them a rather stupid look as Gabriel sat up, still on the ground. “But… you’re not.”

All right, so maybe he either wasn’t as clever as he made himself seem, or was still quite deep in denial. Beelzebub rolled their eyes and stood, coming to tower - ah how they loved that word - directly above Gabriel. “You are Fallen,” they said, in the slow voice you’d use for a very slow child. Or at least, so Beelzebub assumed. It wasn’t often they spoke with very slow children or any children at all, with the exception of the not-Antichrist. Although dealing with especially slow demons probably came close enough. “Therefore, you now belong in Hell. I am here to claim you. You will work under my supervision and--”

“What-- no!” Gabriel protested, and moved to stand; a look from Beelzebub was enough for him to reconsider, but he did glare up at them. "That voice in my head, telling me all the worst-- it was you!"

"Uh, no. You're just going crazy."

“Ah." Gabriel had the good grace to look embarrassed before speaking again. "I-- I am not Fallen.”

“No? You seem to have landed quite heavily.”

If the remark stung, Gabriel did not let it show. “On Earth, not in Hell,” he argued. “You have no claim on me!”

Beelzebub snorted. “You still fell, and I expect you to tell me the reason why. Am I supposed to care for the fine print?”

“You-- always cared about the fine print!” Gabriel protested, and truth be told, it was one thing they had in common… with one important distinction. 

“I care about the fine print when it benefits me.”

The notion seemed to downright offend him. “You can’t do that! And… and if I were meant for Hell, I would not have landed on Earth! It must mean something."

Ah, look at him, clinging to details because it was all he could hold onto in his desperate certainty he was still special, one of God’s golden archangels. With another roll of their eyes, Beelzebub held out a hand. To a casual observer, it might have looked like a nice gesture to help him up; Gabriel, knowing better, stared at that hand like one would stare at a claw about to tear the soul out of their body.  

“You bore me. Now, come. No reason to make it more difficult for yourself. We prepared a nice spot for you in Hell.” As nice as a spot in Hell got, anyway. Which wasn’t very nice, or else it wouldn’t be Hell, but Gabriel could probably guess.

Somehow, the former Archangel Gabriel - who at the moment looked like garbage, however much Beelzebub tended to appreciate garbage - found the audacity to sneer. “You cannot claim me and you know it. Mortals are beyond your grasp unless they offer up their soul, or get to the end of their life doomed to Hell.”

Taking a mental note to leave leave him to Dagon for a bit once they got back - they didn’t call her Master of Torments for nothing - Beelzebub sneered right back.

“That is not a long wait,” they pointed out. The reminder of how pathetically short human lives were knocked that smirk off his face, at least. “And I could make it even shorter with a snap of my fingers.”

“I--” fear twisted Gabriel’s features for a moment, then he forced himself to scowl. A valiant attempt, Beelzebub had to concede. “But you won’t.”

“Oh?”

“There is no telling whether my soul would be claimed by Heaven or Hell if you destroy this vessel now,” Gabriel retorted and, for Satan’s sake, of course he was right. Trying to claim his soul now against his will could very well backfire, giving him a ticket straight back to Heaven and leaving them empty-handed. Still…

“... You’re not certain yourself, are you?” Beelzebub tilted their head on one side. “Or else you would have already ended it.”

“I…” Gabriel scowled, cheeks reddening like the Prince of Hell had just unveiled a shameful secret, a shameful weakness. “E-either way, you won’t take the risk.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “So, you won’t make this easy. Very well.” They sneered, leaning forward and causing that infuriating, pompous idiot to shrink, trying to scoot back on his hands and backside across the floor, away from them and towards the door. “I’ll claim your soul the old-fashioned way. I’ll be your shadow from now on. I’ll whisper temptations in your ear every day of your sad, little, short human lifespan - until it runs out and you’ll be ours.”

Truth be told, as a high-ranking demon mostly based in Hell, Beelzebub was severely out of practice when it came to tempting humans to their side… but that was a detail Gabriel needed not know. And besides, how hard could it be? They would brush up their skills in no time, the Lord of the Flies was sure of it.

“Y-you-- I--” Gabriel, who had paled a little more with each word Beelzebub uttered, had to swallow before his spoke. When he did, his voice was probably shakier than he would have liked. “It won’t work. I won’t let you tempt me. If this is God’s test for me--”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. God doesn’t care about you all that much, and besides I am not their delivery boy. I am here for Hell’s sake. And once I do claim you, you will regret making me wait.”

Gabriel swallowed, then - showing a good deal of idiocy - scowled again. He looked about as threatening as a panda, but at least there was an attempt. “Your plan will not work. I won’t allow you to tempt me. You can’t have me.”

“Yes, yes. Many have said the same. And they have failed.”

“I will not!” Gabriel snapped, and began to stand up. “I am the Archangel Gabriel, and there is no force of Hell or Earth that will ever get me on your side. Begone, foul bea--”

“Hello? Gabriel? Anybody in?”

After the voice rang out, something interesting happened: Gabriel shrieked, and ended all attempts at getting up as though every muscle in his body had turned to cooked asparagus. He fell back on his backside to stare at the door, which was now open, with wide eyes. 

Beelzebub followed his gaze to see a familiar enough face; Sandalphon may look unassuming in that form, but they knew he could be a force to be reckoned with. The few times they had met, Sandalphon had been firmly by Gabriel's side… but right now, the former archangel looked far from pleased to see him.  He looked terrified, actually, in a way Beelzebub had failed to make him, which was rather annoying and more than slightly insulting.

What happened upstairs, anyway? Why was he cast out?

"Gabriel! Oh, here you are - we were worried. It's, er, good to see you?"

Beelzebub blinked, gaze shifting between Gabriel - who was scrambling again to get up, but mostly scooting away on the floor - and Sandalphon, who seemed to be doing his best to come across as harmless, hands raised and a nervous smile on his face. Of course, all pretense of harmlesses was gone the second his eyes fell on Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies and so forth. 

“What-- you! What are you doing here!”

Ah, the arrogance of angels - acting like the Prince of Hell owed him an explanation for being on Earth, as though they had just showed up uninvited in Heaven itself after getting on the wrong elevator. Which had only happened once or twice in millennia, really; Beelzebub considered it a pretty good going.

“Did you buy the hotel? Got carried away with your game of Monopoly?” they asked drily. The invention of Monopoly - or rather, the twisting of its intended purpose and the violence it prompted at the tables of the most respectable households - was one of Hell’s proudest achievements. Not quite up there with the absolute, brilliant chaos a game of Uno could wreak, or the utter ruin of compulsive gambling, but close enough.

Sandalphon bared his teeth in a gesture that made him look fairly threatening, Beelzebub had to concede, although Dagon certainly pulled it off better. “If you so much lift a hand on him--” he began, only to trail off when Gabriel managed to find his knees and scrambled to hide… behind Beelzebub.

Well. Now that only added to their confusion, and the hands grasping at the lapel of their jacket added to their annoyance. Beelzebub turned to look down at Gabriel, who stared up at them - still on his knees, a nice change - with wide, terrified eyes. Which was… also a change, but not necessarily a nice one. Beelzebub would have enjoyed it a lot more if they had the slightest inkling as to what the Heaven was going on.

“I’m sorry,” they said, tilting their head on one side. “Do you want to lose those hands?”

“Beelzebub! Don’t you dare touch him!” Sandalphon barked. 

Oh, for Satan’s sake, had those two decided to share one single brain cell that day? 

“He is the one touching me!” Beelzebub snapped, and glared down. That gaze had made demons burst crying and, upon occasion, burst in flames. “What did I do or say that made you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

No flames, and no tears. While Gabriel looked paler, and the grip on the lapels of their jacket only tightened. “Don’t let him get me.” 

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, opened their mouth. Then, failing to think of anything at all he could retort to that, they closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. 

What. In. The. World. Is. Going. On. 

Still near the door, Sandalphon sputtered. “Gabriel what-- I’m not going to-- that was God’s order, I couldn’t-- didn’t want to--”

Well well well. The more they talked, the more interesting the picture became. Confused, but still interesting. Something had happened, and the more Beelzebub knew, the more they could use to make their case and convince Gabriel to take his rightful place in Hell. “What did you do to him?”

“I-- it wasn’t me, Michael--” Sandaphon began, then trailed off when his brain caught up with his tongue. His lost expression turned into anger again. “I have nothing to explain to you, demon.”

Beelzebub sneered. “It is Prince of Hell to you,” they said. “So-- Michael. What did Michael do to him? What did God order you to do?”

“I owe no explanation--”

Beelzebub looked away from him, down at the… former archangel still holding on the lapels of their jacket. He was looking at Sandalphon, too, hiding behind them like a scared mortal child, but looked up when Beelzebub spoke. “What did they do to you?”

Gabriel swallowed, and his voice was barely audible when he spoke. “My wings.”

Gone, of course. Mortals have no wings. They took them.

Now that was… callous. Heaven wasn’t tender with those it deemed unworthy of being there anymore, but even them - even Satan - got to keep their wings. As a whole, making him mortal was callous; more powerless than any demon. And of course, of course God would get other angels, his friends, to do the dirty work for them; they rarely struck anyone personally nowadays. 

There was a degree of sadism in that way of handling things that, Beelzebub suspected, even Satan himself could not hope to match. Not that they would go saying as much aloud; Satan would most certainly take offense.

“Did you at least try to argue? Or did you just turn on him like vultures on a carcass?”

“Argue with God?” Sandalphon looked horrified at the mere thought. “Of course not, we-- you-- ah, you’d do that, wouldn’t you? You did, and look where it got you!”

“And so you threw him down rather than leap yourselves,” Beelzebub muttered, and scoffed. “Of course you would. No surprise there.” 

Not that Hell would precisely flock at the defense of a demon condemned by Satan himself, but that was entirely beside the point. The point there was making Heaven look bad - and it wasn't like they got many chances to do that. The guys upstairs had infuriatingly good PR and fan clubs across the world, some of which would put most demons to shame. An amazing percentage of them did, in fact, turn up in Hell once their life was done. They were rarely happy about their placement, but who ever was?

The angel’s features twisted in fury. “We had no choice, and you know it!”

A scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you did. You could have chosen to refuse and take the fall with him.”

“I...” Sandalphon hesitated, and looked down at Gabriel, once again looking very lost. Beelzebub felt the grip on the lapels of their jacket tightening, heard a sharp intake of breath. “Gabriel, we--”

“You dropped him the moment God told you to,” Beelzebub sneered. “God forsook him and so did you.”

“We didn’t want--”

“But you did. And now you think you can come uninvited and force your presence on him?”

“He’s not yours, Beelzebub!”

“Neither he’s yours. And you don’t want him back.”

“You know nothing! We do want--”

“Oh? And what are you going to do? Argue with God to allow him back? Please. You won’t do it and you know it.”

No answer; Sandalphon had enough sense, at least, not to deny that. He stilled, face pale, and looked back down at Gabriel - silent, helpless. Beelzebub held back a sneer, and glanced down as well. 

“Want me to get him to leave?”

For a few moments, there was no reply; Gabriel stayed on his knees, gaze low, saying nothing. Then, slowly, he let go of Beelzebub’s jacket, reached up to wipe his face - ah, yes, humans leaked that way - and stood. Sowly, still behind them, but he stood and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse,  but with a degree of coldness to it that hadn’t been there before. 

“... If you please,” he said.

Sandalphon’s eyes turned wide as saucers. "What? No, Gabriel, you can't-- listen to me--"

"I begged you to stop."

"Gabriel--"

"You didn't listen."

"It was God's will, you know we couldn't-"

All right, that was enough. A gesture of Beelzebub's hand, and a swarm of flies materialized right outside the open window. They barged in, buzzing furiously, and surrounded Sandalphon, who could only cry out and stumble back through the door. Another gesture, and the door slammed shut - a curtain of Hellfire covering it, to keep any angel from coming in again. 

"That ought to keep them out for a good while," they muttered. There was no answer; behind them there was only a long sigh, the creak of a mattress' springs.

They turned to see Gabriel sitting back on the bed, burrowing his face into shaky hands. He drew in a deep breath before uttering something that was… rare for the Prince of Hell to hear.

"... Thank you."

Well, look at that. Maybe, entirely by accident, they were on to something. The long-held belief that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar was quite frankly a load of crap - especially in the case of fruit flies who are attracted by vinegar like nothing else - but perhaps, when it came to catching a former archangel, a different approach may be needed.

And Beelzebub might have just found the right angle.

"... All right," they said calmly, and sat down at well, chin resting on their fist. "Tell me what happened."

***

"And they said to him, a man came up to us and told us to go back to the king and give him this message. ‘This is what the Lord says: Is there no God in Israel? Why are you sending men to Baal-zebub, the god of Ekron, to ask whether you will recover? Therefore, because you have done this, you will never leave the bed you are lying on; you will surely die.’" 2 Kings 1:6

***

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