#demonologist!Crowley

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen

warnings: swearing, drinking, mentions of sex

AN: Blame Misha for this. He said Cas was basically stealing Constantine's look and then I saw a comment saying 'could u imagine dean and constantine together?' ...YOU ALL KNOW I HAD TO!

“you said bring someone in. I brought someone in.” I said, gesturing to the blond currently raiding the liquor cabinet. Dean gave me a look and I rolled my eyes. “Constantine. Get your head out of the hard stuff.”

“keep your shirt on luv.” John muttered as he drew back with a bottle of whiskey. “Ah there’s the good stuff.” He smiled to himself as he kicked the door closed and made his way to the table. Three glasses sat on the table. John kicked out a chair for me as he started to pour the drinks. He winked at me as I rolled my eyes with a laugh as I took a seat.

“This is your outside source?” Dean asked, watching as John took a drink of his whiskey. “Some British guy in a trenchcoat. We sure this isn’t cas playing dress up?”

“oi. Watch it. I ain’t no fucking angel.” John groused as he plopped down in the chair.

“he’s the devil in the trench coat.” I teased, propping my foot between John’s legs on the chair. He winked at me and I smiled back.

“don’t let luci hear you say that.” John teased.

“I’m sorry. You call Lucifer luci?” Dean eyed John who shrugged as he drained his glass. “What the fuck kind of business are you in?”

“exorcist, demonologist and…”

“master of the dark arts.” I finished, smirking at the frown John gave me. I tilted my glass towards him and he begrudgingly filled it.

“so what? You do what we do?” Dean asked as he finally took a seat. John chuckled.

“more or less.” He shrugged. “Except I leave everyone else alone. Those vampires you take out. The werewolves. They’re just trying to survive mate. They ain’t done nothing wrong.” Dean scoffed as John drank. “The demons I send on a one way ticket back to hell. Somehow I don’t think you realize how many demons you encounter are repeats.”

“Ruby and Meg…” dean started to say. I chuckled as I took a drink.

“Were not the only ones.” John pointed out. “There are plenty others you didn’t even bother learning their names. Now do you want my help or not?”

“if he isn’t gonna take it…I could use your help. Not with this though.” I shrugged. John winked at me with a smirk. Dean gagged. “Hey just saying.” I raised my hands in self defense.

“happy to help with that luv. Even if this partnership don’t work out.” John patted my leg that was still propped between his. I smiled to myself as John poured me another drink. “You gonna drink that mate or stare at it like it’s gonna bite you?” John gestured towards the still full glass sitting in front of dean.

“just trying to figure out if you laced it.” Dean shrugged. I snorted and John laughed.

“oh i like you. Why did you introduce us before luv?” John asked me. I shrugged.

“honestly the special brand of chaos that I just know the two of you would create gave me a headache.” I pointed out. “I’m honestly still not sure this was the right thing to do. But we need you John. Even if he won’t admit it.” Dean grumbled under his breath before downing the whiskey. “There. See? Not laced. Besides if it was the two of us would be tripping out now anyway. Same bottle Winchester.” I tilted my glass at dean. John snickered as he refilled deans glass.

“so what do you have you need help with?” John asked.

“head demon. Named Crowley.” Dean said. “He’s been playing both sides for a little too long. I say we do away with him for good.”

“And I say, along with this one’s brother and angelic boyfriend,” dean kicked my leg. “First off ow. Second off don’t deny it. We’ve all seen the way you two act.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Anyway we all say that we make him choose a side. One way or another. He chooses us great. He lives. He chooses hell. Bye bye Crowley.”

“you talking about the demon who sold his sold for an extra three inches?” John asked, amused look on his face. Dean snorted into his glass and I rolled my eyes.

“men.” I muttered. John tapped his glass against mine.

“you know him?” Dean finally asked. John nodded as he took a drink.

“I know him.” John shuddered. “Those three inches let me tell you…don’t make much difference.” I started laughing, glass slamming down on the table as John seemed to be reliving that moment. Dean stared at John.

“you didn’t.” I laughed, wiping my eyes as tears formed. John frowned at me.

“You know me.” He shrugged.

“sometimes i forget you’ll shag anything that moves.” I sighed as I settled back in my chair. “And that’s another similarity between the two of you.” I shot dean a look. He frowned at me.

“angel or demon?” John asked. Dean sighed before swirling the liquid in his glass.

“both.” He admitted. John raised his eyebrows at dean. I took a drink as I watched the two. “She was in the process of falling when we hooked up.”

“three times. In the back of his car.” I pointed out. “Before during and after.”

“how’d you know that?” Dean asked. I scowled at him.

“who do you think cleaned that shit up?” I shot back. “Let me tell you that wasn’t easy. Leather seats. I can’t sit back there the same anymore.” I shuddered and dean rolled his eyes. John chuckled.

“alright. Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye pretty boy.” John winked at dean. I groaned as I put my glass on the table.

“yep. There’s two of them now.” I groaned as I stood up. “I’m leaving. Have fun. Don’t…” I pointed at dean and got in John’s face. He smirked at me. “Don’t fuck. I mean it John. Don’t.” John kissed me before leaning back in his chair.

“wouldn’t dream of it luv.” He promised. Deans cheeks were tinted pink. “You know you’re the only hunter for me.” I narrowed my eyes at him before walking out of the room to the sound of John’s laughter and dean groaning.

[theinfernalsanctuary]

Greetings all,

To say that research and study are the backbone of theistic Satanism is probably the biggest understatement of the century, though it can be tricky to know where to start. Most of us in this day and age will start our research online, learning the history of the practice, any active groups, how to avoid cults, and so forth, and while this is a wonderful way to start the sad truth is that it can lead to the spread of a lot of dangerous misinformation regarding practices and rituals. The uneducated leading the uneducated. This is the reason I created this page, to spread actual study and knowledge with those of you who look to walk the cinder laden path to Hell, and to hopefully help you recognize the difference between those who share information for the sake of seeming smart, and those who actually wish to educate like myself.

I have compiled a list of books, all of which are available on amazon, that are a good groundwork for those of us that are actually looking to learn. I would like to add that this list will not include the bible, though it should also be considered even if just for the story of the fall and the first sin. To attempt to distance Satan’s origins from biblical literature is truly incredibly disrespectful, it is to negate the sacrifices that he made to give you the opportunities that you have now. To give you the freewill you have now. I speak not from opinion, or from the nonsensical ramblings of teenagers, but from fact when I say that Satan and Lucifer are one being. It is in the story of the fall and should be recognized if you ever want to be successful on this path.

Admittedly, most of these books are by Reverend Cain (Rev. Cain for short) who is a demonologist and theistic Satanist who has made it his life’s goal to spread the word of Lord Satan and to attempt to right the wrongs that have been done to our community by the uneducated masses. I have great admiration for Reverend Cain and his work, and as far as I am concerned, I believe him to be one of the only writers out there who have any actual qualifications to be spreading knowledge on this subject. Between his religious background, aiming to attend seminary school in the attempt to become an exorcist, and the palpable love and energy that he brings to his writings it is no wonder that his works would be as good as they are.

The first book on my list will forever and always be Rev Cain’s ‘The Infernal Gospel’, Not only is it greatly informative about things like the five Infernal Tenets, but it contains scriptures, information about celebrations and holidays, and so so much more. This should be your first book, if you choose to do your due diligence and study. It can be found here: https://a.co/d/0uFGGVw

The second book on this list, and ideally the second you should consider reading is Rev. Cain’s ‘The Satanic Philosopher’. This book is a deep dive into the five infernal tenets and how they can be applied to life and your practice. It also contains some insight from Reverend Cain detailing his personal experiences. It can be found here: https://a.co/d/8De8HZB

The third book on my list is surprisingly not by Reverend Cain, it is ‘The Lesser Key of Solomon’. The specific copy I will be linking is the one released by Aleister Crowley and S. L. MacGregor Mathers, though they are not the original authors. ‘The Lesser Key of Solomon’ is a grimoire on demonology that was anonymously compiled in the 17th century though the information inside is believed to be a couple centuries older. This one is a difficult read, it is translated from its original text and written as it would have been written then so you can imagine the strain that it has on the modern reader. For this reason I do think that this one, while it should be attempted, can be considered optional, especially when there are easier reads with the same information readily available. If you dare to attempt it, it can be found here: https://a.co/d/bKyv9Gm

The fourth book on this list is actually the “easier read” that I mentioned before, this is Rev. Cain’s ‘Goetia Devils’. The most important information in the ‘Lesser Key of Solomon’ is specifically the ‘Ars Goetia’, a compilation of 72 devils and their abilities, this information is invaluable to any Satanist who wishes to maintain their favor and status among the hierarchy of the Goetia. Reverend Cain takes his iteration one step further, as he also compiles summoning elements for each devil, giving the Satanist a great idea of what they can use for offerings and rituals. It can be found here: https://a.co/d/gLAKZgr

The fifth and final book on this list is another optional one but I thought I would include it for those like me who sometimes struggle to find their words in prayer. Rev. Cain’s ‘The Goetia Hymns’ is a book of prayers and hymns that a Satanist can use to give praise, ask for specific blessings, and otherwise commune with the denizens of Hell. It can be found here: https://a.co/d/8aoB3fF

I hope that this list is useful to all of you who are struggling for information, thankfully, most if not all of these books are available in digital formats for those of you who have to hide yourselves for safety reasons. I am fortunate enough to have been able to distance myself from those who would wish to do me harm over my religious beliefs, and while I hope the same for you I understand that that may not always be the case. I’d also like to look into setting up an outreach program for those of you who want to be able to get these books and continue your study but truly cannot afford to.

May Lord Satan’s light guide you even in the darkest of times.

Ave Satanas!

[crowleybigbang]

Hi! I’ve been binging Supernatural for the first time, and I’m on episode 5 of season 9. A bit after Crowley ALMOST got cured from demon…ism. And I NEED. I NEED fanficitin about cured!Crowley, or at the very least mostlyCured!Crowley. Because oh my good, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. I deep a deep dive into this character RIGHT NOW MAN. I AM FROTHING FOR IT.

I don’t care if it’s shippy or friendshippy either I just need a stories examining Crowley’s guilt and regret and how he screaming “I DESERVE TO BE LOVED” and literally willingly baring his neck for more human blood injections. GUH. HELP. I NEED YOU TO BE LOVED TOO, CROWLEY. SOMEONE LOVE HIM. I want to watch this man break down in tears and sob pathetically on the floor.

They made Crowley so woobie in that episode and I’m not over it.

Well, you came to the right place!

One of the old admins @demonologist-in-denim is no longer active, but he had tons of fanfic about cured!Crowley and on-his-way-to-redemption!Crowley. This is his AO3.

Same goes for @thayerkerbasy - his fics are here.

@walkingaline offers some fics with cured!Crowley, and almost cured!Crowley. AO3 here.

@petrichoravellichor and @greywrenn also had some excellent fics, and series, and tons of fun content to check out about Crowley's life post Hell. Petrichoravellichor's AO3 is here and Grey's AO3 is here.

@additionaladdams also has some fun fics with Crowley and Cas righting some wrongs! Here's the AO3.

Of course, if any minion has suggestions, or I forgot anyone, do come forth!

And... yeah. The show was... nope. I feel you and I feel for you. Welcome to this pit of despair - we have excellent fanfic.

[blogparanormalexpresso2stuff]

Kabbalah & the Occult - Strange Encounters with Real Golems, Dybbuks and Eldritch Beings

The hidden history of Kabbalah stretches from the Ottoman Empire to modern hip-hop, weaving through mystics, hidden brotherhoods, and forbidden knowledge. This episode uncovers the eerie tale of the Dybbuk of Safed, the Zohar’s cryptic teachings, and their influence on Aleister Crowley, celebrity symbolism, and the modern music industry. From Prague to New York, we explore how occult traditions, Qliphoth magic, and esoteric codes continue to shape culture and power.

#diddy #mystery #kabbalah #lovecraft #demonologist

[demonologist-in-denim]

“Oh, you’re right – just let me wave my magic wand and bibbity-bobbity boo the bastard away!” – Crowley, probably

Crowley’s version of spellcraft would be adapted to life on the road, to limited resources and patience, and indifference towards the craft of magic.

Given his history with witches, Crowley would not be disposed to intensely study or use magic. He would be adept at it only because of its usefulness to him and to the boys. And he would be hesitant about relying on it too heavily, preferring instead to use his wits to obtain his goals. Only when the circumstances required it, or it would have proven more efficient in hindsight, would Crowley bother to rifle through magical texts and lore for useful spells. And he would carry only the most basic of spell ingredients, preferring to use whatever came to hand at the time. There’s no time or interest for in-depth study of herbology or biology. His version of spellcraft would directly reflect the life of a demon-turned-demonologist on the road with a pair of flannelled hunters: straightforward, course, bare bones.

This grimy, practical sort of spellcraft would be lacking in dramatic flair. That sort of nonsense would be reserved for striking fear in an opponent, or delighting a layperson. No, Crowley’s sort of spellcraft – if it could even really be called that – would be brusque, irritated, and impatient. (Which might occasionally cause some mishaps. Oops.) And he would have little qualms about using spells or hex bags on victims or allies, if it moved the case along, or offered necessary protection, or avoided violence. For Crowley, hunting would be one small part of everything he and the Winchesters were attempting to accomplish, and individual cases – while worth their while – would still be somewhat of a nuisance. If magic was the quickest means of resolving a case, he’d make use of it, but never relish spellcraft for its own sake.

Crowley would askew most spell ingredients, be more comfortable with common components, use whatever came readily to hand on the road. Graveyard dust, chalk, the stub of a candle. He would carry a battered tin with the most basic of herbs, salt, and the like. No long hours spent over the mortar and pestle for him. His hex bags would be made of thin swatches of old flannel shirts and worn jeans that could no longer be patched, stained oil rags, and paper napkins collected from all the diners and coffee shops along the road. Along with his angel blade and the demon knife, Crowley would always carry a pocket knife, clean and well-sharpened, to slice a palm with. And needle and thread – not specifically for working magic, but one never knows when such things might come in handy.

He would also carry a flask and a lighter. Not a flask containing whiskey or tea. No, this flask would contain blessed water or holy oil, for spellcraft or expelling demons. All well and good, until one night he’d confuse that flask with his whiskey flask, not knowing he was taking a good, long pull of blessed water until it was too late. (Ouch.) To ensure against future mishaps, Dean would suggest “labelling the damned thing,” and Sam, in an attempt at still slow reconciliation, would commission a flask engraved with “Blessed Water: Do Not Drink, Idjit” on the leather encasement. For a while, Crowley would carry books of matches scavenged from motely motel rooms and beer halls. Then one day, in a grimy consignment shop that occasionally peddled supernatural trinkets, he’d come across a shiny, gleaming zippo lighter. Not a scratch on it. Salt and burn, he’d think ruefully. Crowley would carry it separately in its own pocket, where he could reach in, flick open and then snap shut the top. He would hold the lighter in his hand as he stared out the window on long drives, enjoying the sharpness of the sound it made, the way it would irritate Dean in the driver’s seat in front of him.

Crowley would keep a journal, too. Oh, not for magic or anything like that. No, the journal is entirely separate, and will be written about again, at another time. But he would keep a thin, flat notebook of a sort to scribble in. Half his spells would be frankensteined together from work by the grand masters of magic, and his notebook would be full of mad calculation and annotations. Crowley would otherwise prefer to write with ink pens, but – having learned a little something from the Russians – would carry only pencils, worrying them down to nubs with his frantic, irascible scribbling, as he cobbled together spells while wraiths and other threats raged around them.

Crowley would carry it all in a battered leather or canvas messenger bag, something that had seen plenty of wear and tear. The bag itself, in Crowley’s opinion, would be worth more than all the spell ingredients in his tin, and only slightly less than his engraved flask and angel blade. It would be the only bit of spellcraft he was proud of performing. He’d learned a thing or two from Mary Poppins as well – anything that could fit into the opening of the bag, the bag made room for inside. Entire libraries of lore could disappear into its depths, and be called forth by simply reaching inside. Weapons, medical supplies, supernatural artifacts, iron knuckles, summoning bowls, a change of clothes, car parts, packed lunches, once an entire elementary school class. All without adding an ounce of weight. It would be fair to say there would be a time or two that that bag, and what it contained, would save the world.

Crowley wouldn’t care much for spellcraft, and whether or not he was adept at it, whether or not he was a natural, wouldn’t be of much interest to him. What would matter is that magic would be one of the means by which Crowley felt like he was pulling his weight among the boys. One of the ways he contributed, made the world better, made himself of value. And on the very rare occasions another Winchester prank war broke out, would likely prove to be very useful indeed.

Thank you to @additionaladdams for suggesting a witch!Crowley mood board. As I tried to decide on what images to use, I began to think about how Crowley would use untraditional ingredients and implements for spellcraft that were better suited to life on the road and his own distaste for magic. And that led to all this wonderful character development, which gave me a great deal of insight for my Bergamot & Sulphur series, as well as my One of the Boys series. The bottomless messenger bag has been with me a very long time, well before I actually began to write spn fanfiction, and I’ve always imagined Crowley – as one of the boys – would utilize it. The bag actually has quite a bit of backstory that, like the journal mentioned above, I won’t bore you with here.

The non-quote at the top is what I imagine Crowley snarking back at the boys with after one of them suggests using magic to take out some opponent that they are ill-equipped to defeat. I think it sums up his opinion of spellcraft – and occasionally, the Winchesters – rather well.

[kaesaaurelia]

you are here

For @whumptober day 15: Emotional Damage, using the prompt "lies."

Continued from day 6, wherein Hell sent Aziraphale a ransom video of Crowley, captured and beaten up, and day 10, where Crowley endured searing torments and discovered that truly, Hell is other people.

When the demons came back around to dip them in lava again, Crowley, having learned his lesson now, permitted the damned souls to be encased in lava over time, until they were weirdly cocoon-shaped geodes of entitlement, and they were unhooked carefully from the candle-dipper and carried somewhere else. By this time he was very badly burnt and just wanted to hole up somewhere and shed all his skin as soon as possible. He tried to slip away while the supervisor was looking the other way, but the weird pink tentacles sprouting from her nose swerved in his direction as soon as he tried to get past her, and she dug her claws into his shoulder to stop him. "Where d'you think you're going?" she asked.

"I've, er, got an appointment," Crowley invented.

"Blessed right, you do. They told me to keep you here 'til they came and took you to it."

Crowley tsked loudly, trying not to be annoyed that the demon's claws had pierced both his jacket and his shoulder. "Well, all right, if you like, but don't be surprised if Someone's very upset with you," he said, going for ominous and managing slightly bratty.

The demon looked deeply unimpressed. "Did you really think that'd work? Come on, you saw the kind of humans we work with here, did you think I'd say 'Oh yes, of course, sir, whatever you say, I must have been mistaken, sir, I'm so sorry'?"

Crowley had to admit she had a good point. "Right, okay, yeah, but look --"

"No," she said.

"Look, could I just --"

"No," she said again.

"I'll wait here," Crowley promised, "I just want to let someone know I'm going to be late. To my appointment. Could I... is there a payphone or something?"

She considered this for a moment. "You did defend us out there. You also made our job harder."

"But I did defend you, yes!" said Crowley, seizing on this one thing.

After another long pause to consider this, she finally drew a black rectangle out of her pocket. "One of the humans gave me this to hold while we dunked them. I can't fucking use it, I can't see, but it's electric," she said, tapping it with one of her nose tentacles. "I assume it's one of those awful newfangled things they have now."

Then she held it out to him. It was a phone.

"There are mobiles in Hell?" Crowley asked. He'd assumed from all the interruption of all his radio and television programs that such things were beyond Hell's comprehension.

"Apparently they make the younger humans anxious, and the older ones get angry about them," she said, "so we import them specially. I ate one once by accident," she added, making a face. "Very crunchy, not a lot of flavor. So I don't really want it."

"What do I have to do for it?" Crowley asked.

"Just don't give it back to that bitch, I'd love to hear what she has to say when I tell her I lost her stupid thing," said the demon. "And don't say I did you any favors."

Crowley almost thanked her as he took the mobile from her, but thought better of it at the last moment. "I won't," he said.

--

Aziraphale had spent several hours sneaking through the bureaucratic offices of Hell already, trying to find Crowley without anybody finding him, and he'd had no luck at all. He found himself blankly staring at a wall full of memos and notices, wondering where to go next, when one of the notices caught his eye.

ANGEL, it started.

He supposed at first that it was a very poorly-designed wanted poster for himself, but to his astonishment it was not.

ANGEL - BEING TAKEN ON GRAND TOUR OF TORMENT. HEADED TO CENTRAL DIS TO BE GNAWED BY SOMETHING? FOR A WHILE, WILL PROBABLY TAKE 2-3 DAYS. HOPE YOU HAVE A MOBILE.

He folded the notice and put it in his pocket. He was going to have to get to Dis.

Dis proved more difficult than he'd expected, however. He had trouble at the ferry, because of course Aziraphale had what he thought was the requisite two coins, but the fare had gone up a lot, and so, having missed his first chance, he had to wait for an hour and a half for the next one, only that one didn't come, and it was the last ferry of the day. Aziraphale ended up waiting, frantic with worry for Crowley, in a nasty-smelling station where all the chairs had mysterious liquid pooled in them, for twelve hours before he was finally able to cross the Acheron to get to the outskirts of Dis.

By which point Crowley's location had changed again.

HAVE BEEN GNAWED. SORRY FOR TOPICS, MISSING 3 FUNHOUSE. OMW TO BE ENCRUSTED, said the absolutely baffling notice that was plastered to an electric pole in Dis.

A nearby billboard was a little more helpful. FIGURE! ENSTOATED!, it shouted, next to a photograph of a smiling demon in a suit and tie. (It was not Crowley. Aziraphale had to assume the demon was the Infernal equivalent of a personal injury lawyer, since the telephone number at the bottom, helpfully transcribed in both letters and numbers, was +666 3472 677678, which translated to the extremely clunky +666 DISC ORPOR8.)

Aziraphale didn't know what was missing three figures, nor whether being Encrusted or Enstoated was worse, but the especially frustrating part was that there was no hint as to where Crowley was.

Another notice, this one the caption for a poster depicting a lost bat, clarified things very slightly. FINGERS. MISSING 3. SORRY. DUCKING AUTOCORRECT.

The description of the lost bat was briefly an actual description of a lost bat, but Aziraphale blinked, and it suddenly resolved into I'm in the 9th Circle. Don't come here.

Aziraphale did not take the poster; whoever had put it up would still be missing their bat, and resolved to find his way to the Ninth Circle if it killed him.

He puzzled out the universe's least helpful map -- "YOU ARE HERE" was the title, and there was no indication as to where he actually was -- and then waited three hours for a bus that was supposed to be coming in 15 minutes. Eventually he decided to walk to the train station he needed to get to. There were no sidewalks, he was nearly run over several times, and it began to rain a searingly hot green liquid that ate pits in the sidewalk and ruined his umbrella and coat.

Aziraphale was utterly exhausted by the time he got to the train station. It was -- because of course it was, this was Hell! -- it was not underground, or at ground level, or even elevated one or two storeys up. Oh no, it was attached to the ceiling of the cavern.

Aziraphale sighed and brought his wings out, or tried to, but pain shot through him like electricity, and he realized he'd missed the ABSOLUTELY NO FLYING notice on the sign pointing upwards to the station.

As Aziraphale climbed the rickety, ancient staircase, he could see the way the track plunged down into a great gaping hole in the ground a bit further on, and was relieved that it probably did go to the Ninth Circle, if it ran at all, which he doubted.

But when he was, oh, perhaps five or six stories from the station, there was a great rumbling noise that rattled the staircase and made it shake so hard Aziraphale nearly fell off. He began taking the stairs two at a time. He made it to the platform just in time to watch the train roar off into the abyss.

The electronic sign at the station suggested that the next train would be along in twenty minutes. Aziraphale knew this was a lie. Wishing he could miracle away the stitch in his side, he sat down on the one single bench at the station, which had armrests built into it just wide enough that Aziraphale fit, but they dug into his legs painfully. He wondered if Crowley would've been able to sit here comfortably, or whether the armrests would have adjusted to make him uncomfortable too.

Aziraphale had the brief and uncharitable thought that Crowley had probably suggested they do this, since it struck him as a very human thing to consider, and then he considered what Crowley was going through, the enstoating, or ensconcing, or encrusting, or whatever he had tried to type, with three missing fingers, and he felt ill.

As he waited, the station went from empty to crowded, and by the time the train came, about an hour later, he and the other commuters had to sardine themselves into it. All the damned human souls seemed to have mobiles, but none of them had headphones, and so the train was a cacophony of music, repetitive videos, and distasteful political rants playing tinnily on tiny speakers, with the sound of screaming infants piped in over the tannoy for realism.

That was all right, though, because it all sort of blended into a disagreeable white noise. Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to relax as the train pitched down into the lowest circles of Hell, and no matter how badly the cars jostled, nobody fell over, because they were far too tightly packed.

In fact, something about the familiarity of the whole thing and the heat of the poorly-ventilated train car must have got to Aziraphale, because the next thing he knew, his cheek was resting on a frigid and slightly sticky floor. It was pitch black, and the train was rattling around him.

Aziraphale hauled himself his feet and walked face-first into a pole before grabbing onto it to stay upright. He looked around. There was a dim light at one end of the car, and he made his way carefully towards it, thinking perhaps in the next car there was light.

But as he approached, a terrifying visage came out of the darkness, with staring white eyes and knife-sharp teeth; the little point of light was suspended from an antenna sprouting out of its forehead as a lure for the unwary. Aziraphale recoiled.

"Oh, there you are," said the anglerfish demon, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"What have you done to the lights? Where are we going?" Aziraphale demanded.

"Oh, that just happens on this train, especially in the Ninth Circle," said the demon pleasantly. "You fell asleep. They were going to kick you off at the end of the line, but I figured you probably meant to get off earlier than that."

"But I was going there!" said Aziraphale, frantically. "Stop the train! Or, or -- when's the next stop?"

The demon sighed heavily, and though his countenance still looked vicious, Aziraphale realized that might have been more because of the teeth than because he was particularly aggressive. "Look, even I don't come down here if I can help it, and I'm a Duke of Hell," said the demon. "Also, if they found out I'd allowed an angel to get all the way down here without ripping his throat out, they'd look at my records. Things would be called into question. I may have been fudging certain quotas over the years, here and there, because frankly it's very hard to get to Earth what with all my duties in Hell. I'm sure you understand; I remember Heaven well enough."

Aziraphale didn't trust this demon, but he was almost friendly, and Aziraphale was so tired. His whole body ached in various ways he could usually escape on Earth. "I'm trying to find a friend," he admitted.

"In the Ninth Circle?" The demon drew closer. "Oh! You're Crowley's angel, aren't you?"

Aziraphale stepped back hurriedly. "What? No! I don't know who that is," he said, unconvincingly.

"Relax, I'm not here to snitch on you. Like I said. People will ask inconvenient questions. Anyway, I used to be his supervisor, back before he got to be such a big shot with all that apple stuff. I'm still in contact with a few people we worked with, here and there," he added, cheerfully.

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "But I thought Lucifer..."

"Oh no, Lucifer was the big boss. I was the little boss," said the demon.

"Ah. And you were... friendly?" Aziraphale knew that Crowley had done good work during Creation, doing... things with stars.

"Oh, no, he was an exhausting little shit," said the demon, "but he was talented. And honestly? I like Earth. I only get to go every now and then but it's nice up there. Quieter. I have a friend up there who keeps trying to talk me into moving up there to teach physics -- she's an angel, she's my assigned rival for some reason, but I don't really think of her like that, we're just friends. Anyway, the only reason I don't take her up on that, honestly, is I have a bunch of Erics to look after, and I don't need grad students on top of the Erics. But Earth seems nice, you know? And I didn't want to lose another war. And I didn't really like our odds. So you go on and enjoy your lack of apocalypse."

"Yes, thank you," said Aziraphale, impatiently. "I'm glad you appreciate, er, the great service Crowley and I did, but he's in the Ninth Circle. I'm trying to retrieve him."

The demon shook his head, his little lure-light bobbing back and forth. "You're not getting him from there. Not and getting out alive. Didn't they kidnap him to trap you?"

"Well... yes, but I've been getting these, these text messages from him --"

"If he told you to come find him in the Ninth Circle, he's not worth saving," said the demon.

"Oh, no," said Aziraphale. "Actually, he told me not to come, he's very considerate, he's really a dear, but how could I just leave him --"

He stopped.

The demon looked at him expectantly.

"How could I just leave him?" Aziraphale repeated to himself. "And why would he have told me that, if he really didn't want me to come find him?"

"Do you think," said the demon, "that every message you get is guaranteed to come from Crowley?"

"Ah." It had had a suspicious lack of typos, especially for having been typed with three fingers missing. "It was a trap, wasn't it?"

"Definitely a trap," said the demon.

As they spoke, the lights in the train had gradually come back on, and scenery began flashing by -- Hell scenery, but still, scenery. Aziraphale watched two nude ice-skaters flee down a frozen river from a phalanx of crocodiles, then saw an unlucky third ice-skater further down the river being devoured by several of them. "Do you think he actually was in the Ninth Circle?"

"Maybe," said the demon. "Do you know what was supposed to be happening to him?"

"Something about encrustment? Or possibly enstoatment?"

"Oh!" said the demon, brightly. "Yeah, that's pretty bad. But it's not Ninth Circle bad. It's like, Eight and a Halfth Circle, at worst. Although they're actually thinking about drilling down further to make room for all the weird new sins humans are inventing, which is kind of exciting."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He did not much care about that.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of static from the tannoy, cutting into the screaming infant soundtrack. "The Next Stop Is..." said the announcer, fuzzily, and then came Crowley's voice. "Aziraphale! Can't talk much, look, please hurry, they're taking me to the Lethe, I don't know what's going to happen if they do that. Fuck, I hope you're getting these." There was a long, staticky pause before he added, "I love you."

Then the screaming baby sounds began again, as if they had never stopped.

Aziraphale stared at the demon, Crowley's supposed former supervisor. "Did you hear that?"

"I mean, kind of? But I can never figure out what stop that's supposed to be. I think we're coming up on Dat, or maybe Dose," said the demon. "It'll be a while 'til we get back into the actual city of Dis."

Either he was lying, or he hadn't heard it. Aziraphale chose to take a leap of faith. "If I had to get to the Lethe, very quickly, and as safely as possible, how would I go about doing that?"

The demon's white eyes widened. "Ah. Another message?"

"Yes. You don't think it's --"

"I have no idea whether it's real," said the demon. "But if you want to get to Lethe... either you're looking at a six-hour bus trip with three transfers, or you're going to have to get someone to drive you. Traffic will be terrible this time of day, but --"

"Do you know anyone who could take me?" Aziraphale asked.

The demon made a pained face. "Well, not me, I'm not a bad enough driver to get a license." He seemed to take pity on Aziraphale, though. "All right, okay, look, it's a pretty long shot, but... I might know someone who can help you out, if the stories I've heard about you are true."

"The stories? What stories?" Aziraphale asked.

"But I guess you'll have to find out. And no promises." He began checking his pockets, and fished out a pen. "Do you have any paper?"

"Yes!" said Aziraphale, gratefully presenting him with the notice he'd taken days ago from across the Acheron.

"Okay, great. Also, sorry, my pen's out of ink because I think most of them just come like that in Hell, so you're going to have to be able to read the indentations." With some difficulty, the demon chiseled instructions into the paper, and hurried Aziraphale off at the next stop. As the train pulled out of the station, Aziraphale frowned down at the paper, puzzling out the directions and the address. He started off, still daring to hope he was going the right way.

[to be continued on day 16]

[spnreverse-promptchallenge]

Uncle Crowley's Goodness Level by @demonologist-in-denim

Ship: N/A

Helpful Hints from Artist: I would be interested to see Crowley's reaction should Jack or the Winchesters share the crayon drawing with him. But it would also be fun to see them hide it from him, either out of their own embarrassment or because they don't want to embarrass him.

[threshasketch]

An art commission for the lovely (and patient!) @demonologist-in-denim ! I tried both hand lettering and typed lettering and decided the latter looks nicer. ♥

[hekate1308]

(insp.)

[witch333s]

valac (coolor, ualac, volac)

rank: prince/ president ;;; appears as a child with wings riding a two-headed dragon he giveth true answers of hidden treasures and where the serpent may be seen governeth 38 legions ;;; 62nd on Solomon’s key

wItch333s

[weedoccultadvice]

I have (at least) SIX COPIES of the Goetia.

The Lesser Key of Solomon | Occult Book Club

There's no hiding it when you're a demonologist. Your own bookshelves out you.

Some of these books aren't possible to buy directly anymore. Here's the links for the ones that are. Using these links to buy the books gives me a referral bonus so clicking on them is appreciated!

The Lesser Key of Solomon edited byJoseph Peterson The Goetia of Solomon the King (Fascimile Edition) Aleister Crowley's Illustrated Goetia Sexual Evocation The Key of Solomon the King

Lucian Stephenson's Goetia (and other!) art can be found at @misterlucian and here.

I will probably do individual videos on most of these books at some point. Let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see!

[hobbitual-psychick-art-stuff]

Christmas Crowley inspired by the fic by @demonologist-in-denim A (Very Supernatural) Christmas Carol

Pop over and give the author some love

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35672374/chapters/88942957

[crowleybigbang]

Hello, servants of Hell and affectionate Crowley's minions!

We're finally ready to post and share with you all the impressive fanfics and fan art created by our participants for the 2022 Crowley Big Bang! We’re thrilled with the narrative range of fics and diversity of art styles produced for this round of the bang! Be sure to follow this blog to see all the awesome Crowley-centric fanworks any demon’s black little heart could desire.

2022 Crowley Big Bang Fanworks & Posting Dates

Let’s get this Hell-themed party started!

@additionaladdams @sinister--potato @hectatess @wigglebox @pimentogirl @samatedeansbroccoli @dmsilvisart  @hobbitual-psychick-art-stuff @reblogging4thewin @ncdover1285 @vibe-howie @ichbinnurzugast​ @angelhannah​ @rauko-is-a-free-elf @writingfromkitchenator​ @fruitmixtape​ @sirlsplayland @walkingaline​ @demonologist-in-denim ​ @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @jenniferb-art ​

[raidens-realm]

For: @demonologist-in-denim 's Crowley Bingo

Square: Road to Redemption

Title: ƒεαรƭ σƒ αℓℓ ૨εαℓɱร

Author: raidensrealm

Rating: Gen

Word count: 3.2k

Pairing: Crowley & Jack

Characters: Crowley, Jack Kline, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Jr, Dean Winchester, Adam Milligan, Bobby Singer, Castiel, Jimmy Novak, Amelia Novak, Claire Novak, Kaia Neives, Jody Mills & family, Garth Fitzgerald & family, Kelly Kline, Gavin McLeod, Rowena McLeod, Kevin & Linda Tran, Charlie Bradbury, Benny Lafitte

Warnings: None Apply

Summary: Jack asks for Crowley’s help with a unique New Year's event he hopes will continue. Crowley’s in no position to refuse. 

@petrichoravellichor

[demonologist-in-denim]

My first Hunter!Crowley moodboard was way better, but since I made it, I’m posting it. For @thayerkerbasy​.

[risingphoenix761]

Going Up

Summary: "One aspect of humanity it was taking time to get used to was how bloody slowly they had to move."

Pairing: Dean x Crowley

Word count: 1,863

Tags/warnings: Show-level shenanigans. Bickering. Innuendo. Post-cure Crowley. @spnquotebingo ("I don't sweat under any circumstances") Belated fills for Rare Ship Bingo and Dean Bingo. 

A/N: Thanks to @slytherkins for looking this over and @firefly-in-darkness the fancy divider. Gif credit to @slashersivi . Incidentally, you can blame Slytherkins and @demonologist-in-denim for their combined influence in putting this in my head in the first place. It's finally finished!

One aspect of humanity it was taking time to get used to was how bloody slowly they had to move. He had gotten used to the ability to blink himself anywhere on the planet, and now every form of transportation left to Crowley seemed to move at half the speed of eternity. Admittedly, things were a lot faster nowadays than they were in Fergus MacLeod's lifetime, but they were still a downgrade from his time as a demon.

The adrenaline rush that came with taking out a monster, one of the better parts of hunting, was as close as he could get to vanishing from one place and rematerializing in another. Before they got to that point, though, it was a long slog of research, followed by an even longer road trip to the case itself, which left Crowley plenty of time to decide how much he disliked driving.

"You know, we could fly and be there in less than half the time," he remarked as he stowed his duffel in the trunk of the Impala on the morning of their second day on the road.

"Or," Dean replied before he slammed the trunk shut on their luggage and the arsenal hidden underneath, "we could not fly and not worry about getting half our gear through security."

Fair point.

"We'd make better progress on literally any major highway," he argued hours later as they moved along some podunk back road lined on either side with fields and one-traffic-light towns.

"I make better progress when I'm not staring at the same set of tail lights for hours on end," Dean argued back.

Fine, so maybe the scenery was a little better than what the interstate offered...sometimes. It still ate up more of his existence than he cared for. It was insulting, really, to go from teleporting from one side of the globe to the other, to needing to stop and gas up before crossing certain states only to pull over for the night halfway through the journey.

"Would it really kill you to get on a plane once in a while?" he asked after their journey finally saw them parking outside a high-rise in a reasonably sized city. Their first interview was with a wealthy heiress whose father robbed his own bank two days after he dropped dead of a heart attack, and according to the address in Dean's hand, she lived on the top floor.

"I don't trust planes," Dean groused. "I trust my Baby, and she's never let me down."

"Trains, then? Something, Dean. Think of it. Time, efficiency, fossil fuel and emissions, save even more than the innocent public."

"Don't listen to him, sweetheart," Dean said over his shoulder as they walked away from the car. "He's just cranky that he can't pick the music."

"Well, while we're on the subject…" Crowley muttered.

"If I'm going anywhere," Dean insisted, "my Baby is taking me. And no commentary from the peanut gallery about going faster is going to convince me otherwise."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. When we're done with this case, I'm taking a cab to the airport."

"You know what? You do that. You enjoy the delays, and the crowded terminals, and the bad food, and the kids that keep kicking your seat or the lady in front of you reclining back into your personal space or the guy snoring and farting next to you, and Baby and I are going to enjoy the open road, just the two of us. And you know what?"

Crowley turned to Dean, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Dean drew out the answer far longer than was necessary, clearly relishing the fantasy in his head. "I'm...going...to love it."

"Honestly, Dean, I worry you'd love it too much," Crowley replied. "And rather than tag along as a third wheel, I'd rather fly home and leave the two of you to your…" He paused for consideration, then finished. "Fascinating affair."

Dean's brow furrowed for a moment, then he rolled his eyes with a grimace. "You know, I'm not even gonna ask…"

Crowley smiled and they entered the building. It was everything he expected it to be on the inside: sleek and pretentious without an iota of elegance.

"I suppose you want to take the stairs," he remarked as they crossed the lobby, "given your commitment to the path slowest traveled by."

"Actually…" Dean thought it over, then gave a pleasant smile. "We should take the elevator. Why go slower than we have to every time?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows in surprised amusement. "Oh, indeed? Without the slightest fuss? I didn't expect such character development." They reached the elevator and he signaled it, then stepped inside the car and stood aside to let Dean on.

Dean made to follow as Crowley hit the button for the top floor, then ducked back out. Crowley did a double take, then started forward. "Dean! What the hell are you--"

"Race you to the top, smart ass," Dean replied with a sly grin as the door slid closed and the elevator began to move.

Crowley threw his hands in the air, exasperated, then leaned back against the wall of the car. What, was he going to take another elevator?

Bloody Winchesters.

A soft ding sounded and the car shuddered to a halt, called to a stop on the second floor. The door opened and he stood aside to let the newcomer in, but the hallway revealed itself to be empty. Crowley glanced out just in case, and there was no sign of anyone at all.

The door slid shut again and the sudden motion of the car nearly threw him off balance as it resumed its journey up, but he recovered and returned to his place against the wall. He should have known by now that taking shots at Dean's precious car was a surefire way to ruffle his feathers, but was Crowley to blame if Squirrel made the business of feather ruffling so bloody easy? And was it too much to ask that they shave some time off their commute once in a while? He was prepared to argue his case again, but that damned fool had jumped ship at the last possible moment.

He snapped out of his reverie as the elevator stopped again. He heaved a sigh and let his head fall back against the wall and the door opened, but there was no sound of anyone getting into the car. He lifted his head and frowned slightly, in search of whoever called the elevator, but there was only silence.

His eyes narrowed and the elevator began to move. A glance at the readout above the door told him he was on the third floor out of fifteen, and he would already be nearly to the top if it wasn't for--

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. 

"Oh, for the love of--" He broke off with a huff of annoyance, folded his arms, and tapped his foot. A sneaking suspicion introduced itself in his mind, and it was a stupid, childish, ridiculous idea, but so very Dean…

When the elevator stopped at five, he leaned out far enough to listen, but there was no sign of the bowlegged menace. At six, he could almost hear retreating footsteps in the distance. At seven, he distinctly made out labored breathing and heavy footfalls, and it became more and more obvious. Dean was running the stairs and calling the elevator on every floor.

At the ninth floor, he leaned against the wall beside the call button and bent nearly double as he gasped for breath by the time the elevator stopped. Crowley slid his hands into his pockets and raised an eyebrow at him. "Can I give you a lift?"

Dean didn't seem to have the air to answer.

"I don't know how long it's been since you ran stairs, Squirrel, but if you pass out halfway to this interview, I'm going to leave you here and talk to Little Miss Heiress on my own, then maybe pick you up on the way back down."

A dismissive wave was the only reply.

Crowley put out a hand to hold the door open. "Dean," he said sharply, "get in the bloody lift."

Dean rolled his eyes, but got onto the elevator.

"Stubborn arse," Crowley muttered. They made the rest of the trip to the top floor uninterrupted, leaving precious little time for Dean to catch his breath and plenty of time for Crowley to roll his eyes and shake his head at the absurdity of it all. They paused outside the heiress' door and Crowley smoothed his hands over the wrinkles in Dean's jacket, straightened his tie, and gave him a pat on the cheek. "Given the varying states you continually put yourself in, you clean up rather nicely," he remarked. "Have I ever told you that?"

Dean blushed slightly and knocked on the door.

"It's remarkable, you know," Crowley said as they left a quarter hour later. "You ran nine flights of stairs and winded yourself so severely you nearly lost consciousness, but you didn't even break a sweat."

"I don't sweat under any circumstances," Dean scoffed as he called the elevator.

"Is that so?" The elevator arrived and they stepped on, and Crowley added, "I seem to recall you were a bit hot under the collar a few nights ago when, in quite the role reversal, I wasn't moving fast enough for you." He glanced sideways just in time to see Dean shift awkwardly and swallow hard, and he grinned to himself. "How long did I keep you on the hook? I'm afraid I lost track of time, I was so entranced by the way you whimpered, squirmed, and begged--"

"I don't beg, either," Dean cut in gruffly.

"Not in so many words, darling, but trust me, there wasn't a single, glorious inch of you that wasn't desperate for that sweet release I just wouldn't let you have. From the way your toes curled, to the tension in every muscle, to the twitch and throb of your swollen, needy, much-abused co--"

Dean grabbed him by his lapels and forced him back against the wall. He leaned in until there was only a scant inch between their faces, and Crowley could smell the morning's coffee on his breath. "You know, you've been running your mouth an awful lot the last few days," he said, low and serious, "and I'm getting kinda tired of it."

Crowley looked from those plump, perfect lips to those Disney princess eyes, and down to the fists clutching his jacket. "And manhandling me in a lift is your solution? Come on, Dean, you know I'll enjoy it too much."

"Not hardly," Dean replied. "I'm thinking we should finish this hunt, get you somewhere I can go as slow as I damn well please, and we see how long it takes until you're begging for it."

Crowley smiled. "Well. You certainly know how to get a girl's attention, don't you. But you forgot one thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

He leaned to the side and hit the emergency stop button. "Patience isn't one of my virtues."