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luckyspike · 6 years ago

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Adventures in America, Ch. 4 - In which Crowley makes a friend and the guardian goobers receive some unexpected news

Chapter 4 is Crowley and Aziraphale centric so enjoy because we probably won’t really see them for a while after this. Maybe. IDK I haven’t written much beyond this.

Not on AO3 yet in case I decide I want to change major plot points later I guess or something lmao and also i dont want to disappoint anybody in case i never finish this

I really like this story leave me alone

Ch 1/Ch2/Ch3

“You really think sushi is a good idea?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, while he watched the demon fiddle with his jacket collar in the hotel mirror. “We are in America, Crowley, and you know I did think we should try to get a bit of the local flavor while we’re here.” He gave up dragging the brush through his hair, still damp from the shower, and turned his attention to his shirt cuffs instead.

Crowley considered this, pulling his t-shirt down and then back up again. “Right. Well, angel, I’m not opposed to anywhere else but let’s put it like this.” He turned to Aziraphale, hands spread. “It’s supposed to be a great sushi place and we’re about to embark on at least 6 weeks of hauling up and down the American midwest, which isn’t exactly known for its sushi. Roadside barbecue? Yeah. Terrible fast food? Absolutely. Hole-in-the-wall diners with great desserts? Undoubtedly. Fresh sushi? Probably not. And if the goal is to minimize miracles during this thing, if you get a bit peckish for some sake nigiri then you’re just going to have to wait until we’re back in civilization.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Well. When you put it that way. I hardly think the American midwest is uncivilized, though.”

“We’ll see about that.” He turned back to the mirror and re-folded his collar once more, flipping it back up and looking satisfied, although Aziraphale would have been hard-pressed to describe what, exactly, he’d changed. “Definitely not known for its sushi.”

“No. No, I suppose not.”

Crowley turned, and then raised an eyebrow. “No waistcoat?”

“It’s hot out.” He frowned as Crowley grinned. “Don’t start with the whole ‘this is nothing compared to Hell’ nonsense, dear, I know that but not all of us struggle with thermoregulation.”

“Fair enough. It’s more casual, too. Very … American.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile a little as he took the offered elbow. “I think we shall, Crowley dear.”

Dinner was delicious, and Aziraphale had to hand it to Crowley - sushi was really a good idea. Especially if he was going to be at least 6 weeks without. The demon didn’t eat, not unusual, but he seemed to appreciate the wine well enough, and when Aziraphale took the opportunity to compliment the chef (in Japanese, naturally), Crowley chipped in that he thought the restaurant was quite nice, too*. They tipped the waitress generously, and took their leave, Crowley begrudgingly sobering up before they clambered into the massive vehicle to start combing the city for any signs of Adam and the other storm chasers.

[* Crowley did not speak Japanese particularly well, and Aziraphale had tried for years to help him with grammar, syntax, and pronunciation, without much success. Still, he had mastered a few phrases, and ‘very nice establishment’ was one of the more socially-acceptable ones he’d grasped.]

“How do they know where the storms are?” Aziraphale asked, as they cruised down a side-road, Crowley looking sharply into the parking lot of a low-cost hotel. “It’s not as if they’re scheduled occurrences.”

“They’ve got laptops and the like in the car,” he replied, distracted. “Radar and GPS and all that. They follow the storms that way and go to the ones that look most promising.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and turned to scan the parking lot of a Red Roof Inn. “Quite technological.”

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing.” Crowley slowed to study a truck in another parking lot, and then shook his head and pulled away. “I brought the stuff to do the same thing, s’back in the room.”

“So that’s what was in that bag.” Aziraphale considered this for a minute. “And, ah, who are you expecting to use said equipment, Crowley?” The SUV stopped at a red light, and Crowley suddenly looked thoughtful.

“Huh. Didn’t think about that.” He shrugged, and looked over to the car next to them idly. Aziraphale, focused on the topic at hand, didn’t notice the revving of the other car’s engine. “You could learn,” Crowley said. Aziraphale, lost in thought about technological advancements in meteorology, didn’t register the distraction and, under that, the devilish glee.

“I’m not much good with computers.” He sighed. “I do have the old accounting machine, but -” He stopped, because the 4-Runner’s engine revved rather loudly. Alarmingly. He looked over to the demon. “Crowley?” Something caught his eye. “Crowley, this car wasn’t … I’m certain this wasn’t a manual transmission when we picked it up yesterday.”

“Wasn’t it?” Another hum of the engine. The radio crackled, and songs shuffled through the speakers, seconds at a time, as the SUV cast around for something that would suit. It paused on a song by - who else? Aziraphale thought - Queen, but then moved on, searching through a few more before settling on something with a heavy bassline, electric guitars, and a prominent drum piece. It was bebop, and Aziraphale didn’t like it. Crowley looked thoughtful. “It’s better.”

Aziraphale did have to hand it to the car: the vocalist’s shouted “Go!” coordinated perfectly with the light changing from red to green and Crowley, predictably, slamming the gas. Relatedly, it also coordinated with Aziraphale’s rhyming yelp of “No!”

Tires shrieked and the SUV roared forward, while Crowley laughed maniacally as he shifted through the gears and wove around slower traffic down the long street. The other car - the instigator, Aziraphale tried to assure himself, although he knew Crowley had probably tempted them into it without even trying that hard, the old snake - was a smaller outfit, two doors and sleek, with an iridescent paint job and chrome flashing on the tires. It was also, to Aziraphale’s horror, keeping pace, roaring along beside their car, in spite of surrounding traffic and Crowley’s absolutely death-defying steering.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” he half-yelled, half-groaned. “You’re going to get us killed! Or arrested!”

The demon whooped. “Just a bit of fun, angel. Hang on!” Another gear shift, and the car accelerated, hitting a highway on-ramp and roaring onto the freeway. The other car, momentarily behind, followed suit.

“We’re supposed to be looking for Adam,” he reminded Crowley, right hand with a white-knuckle grip on the ceiling handle and the left with an equally tight grip on the center console. “Crowley, please -”

“We have all night to find him.” Crowley glanced to the left, and caught sight of the other car, prompting him to accelerate. The dashboard in this vehicle was much larger than the Bentley’s vast even, and although Aziraphale was moderately terrified for the state of his corporation - he couldn’t imagine Heaven being inclined to give him a new body these days - he did risk a lean over to check the speedometer.

Ah. That was a mistake. He sat back, and pressed himself against the seat. Silently, as they wove through other cars and played leapfrog with the other racer, Aziraphale prayed. Crowley, for his part, laughed over the song blaring from the speakers, and drove, only ever taking his eyes off the freeway ahead to check the progress of the challenging vehicle. The 4-Runner groaned in protest as Crowley quickly changed gears to slow down, swerve around a box truck on the right shoulder, and then speed back up again, rocking back into the lane in front of the truck and taking off. The other car, slowed by a vehicle only going about 20 miles per hour over the speed limit in the passing lane, had to brake hard, and for a few blessed moments, Aziraphale thought it was over. Crowley would slow down now, surely.

Instead, the demon leaned out of the window to better make a rude gesture at the other car. There was a blaring of a horn, and in the rearview mirror, Aziraphale saw the other car break free of the traffic and start to catch up. He groaned, hand over his eyes, prepared for another round of acceleration, but was surprised to hear, over the rushing wind of Crowley’s open window, someone yelling, “Hey, man, get off next exit!” Crowley yelled something in response - very rude, Aziraphale thought - but slowed down anyway, guiding the car off the freeway, tailed by the other car.

“What are they doing?” he asked, cautiously, as Crowley braked again, and turned hard into the parking lot of an International House of Pancakes. The car lurched into park, and Crowley hopped out. The 4-Runner, relieved, shut itself off without any miraculous input at all.

“Probably looking to fight. Don’t worry, angel, I’ll handle it.”

“Fi - Fight? Crowley, this is America, they probably have guns!” He jumped out too, half-jogging around the back of the massive vehicle until he fell into step beside Crowley. The other car, glimmering under the fluorescent lights of the parking lot, shut off, and two young women stepped out. Yes, definitely American, Aziraphale thought, with a disapproving look toward the ripped jeans and artfully torn t-shirts. The woman who had been driving had a baseball hat on. Backwards. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Americans.

“Dude,” the driver said. “No joke, man!” To Aziraphale’s surprise, when she reached for Crowley, she didn’t attempt a stab or a punch, but rather grabbed his outstretched hand and shook it enthusiastically. She looked to her companion, laughing. “Told you this guy’s like my dad’s age! The fuck you learn to drive like that, man? You drive like a bat outta hell!”

Crowley smirked. “Bat out of London, actually - way harder driving there.”

The other woman crossed her arms, her expression one of pleasant surprise. “Shit, dude, you’re British, too?” She flipped her long braid back over her shoulder and smoothed a lock of dirty blonde hair down. “Now I’m really impressed - you stayed on the right side of the road and everything.”

The driver rolled her eyes. “Shut up Leanne, it’s not that hard to remember after like, a week. This your ride?” She approached the SUV, hands on her hips. “Don’t see too many of these that can race like that, you know.”

Crowley winked to Aziraphale, and then sauntered up behind the driver, hands in his pockets. “It’s a rental. We just flew in this afternoon. Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“Call me Mary. Who are you, dude?”

“Good name, Mary,” Crowley said, grinning over his shoulder back at Aziraphale, who scowled. “Used to know a Mary. Great lady. You can call me Crowley.”

“It’s short for Mariel. Mind if I look under the hood?”

“Be my guest.” He followed her to the front of the car and Aziraphale and Leanne followed behind, Leanne studying Aziraphale and Aziraphale still glaring at Crowley. The hood of the car popped up, and Mary whistled.

“How’d you end up with a rental with a manual and a V8?”

Crowley leaned a hip against the bumper, arms crossed. “Oh, you know, only the finest Enterprise rentals had to offer.” If Mary found that suspicious, she didn’t remark on it, save to nod approvingly and slam the hood of the car shut.

“Well, anyway, thanks for the race. Super fun. Don’t think I’ve pushed Bella up past 110 in a while.” She shook her head at this appalling state of affairs. “Everybody else around here knows me and backs off before we hit the highway. Poor girl never gets room to run.”

“Tragic. Mustang, is she?”

“Yeah, had her from new,” Mary said, smiling fondly back at her car. Aziraphale could see Crowley soften to that. “Leanne and I have put all kinds of work into her - if we hadn’t got stuck in traffic she would’ve had this thing on the straightaway for sure,” she added, patting the hood of the rental. “You got me with the traffic, though.”

“It’s an art.”

Leanne had since circled around to the front of the car with the rest of them, and gently slid her hand into Mary’s. She looked to Aziraphale, head cocked. “Who’s your friend?”

“Ah, Azir - er, Ezra,” he corrected quickly.

“Nice.” Leanne looked from Aziraphale back to Crowley. “Are you guys -”

“What do you drive back home?” Mary asked, ignoring Leanne’s line of questioning, for which Aziraphale felt he should probably owe her a debt.

“The Bentley. It’s a coupe - vintage.” Crowley added.

Mary’s mouth opened a little. “Woah, no joke? Shit, dude. You got pictures?” His phone was already clearing his pocket before she’d finished the question. Aziraphale shook his head.

“It’s cool,” Leanne commiserated, patting Aziraphale on the shoulder as Mary stepped away, the better to look at probably all of the photos of the Bentley Crowley kept on his phone. She was already marveling at the condition - “I’ve looked after it,” Crowley said proudly - and Leanne went on, “She’s got like four thousand pictures of her car on her phone, too.” She shook her head, and then brightened up. “So what’re you guys doing in Texas? You come in for a festival or something?”

“Oh, no, no, we’re here on holiday. Vacation,” he added, in case she hadn’t understood. She giggled.

“Yeah, I got it. That’s cool. Why Texas?”

He thought about it for a second. “Just seems very American. I’ve never been, and it’s been years since Crowley last left England. Thought we would mix it up a bit.”

Leanne nodded solemnly. “Greatest state in the nation. Well, Mary’s partial to Nevada, but she’s wrong. Anyway, that’s cool. So you just driving around, checking out the night life?”

“Something like that,” he lied.

“You should try Rain on 4th,” Leanne suggested. “I think you’d like it. Great music, really great drinks and uh, I think you guys would fit in with the crowd there.”

Aziraphale pretended to think it over. “Rain on 4th. I’ll say something to Crowley. We were just thinking of turning in, though, finding somewhere to stay.”

“That’s why you kept slowing down in front of hotels.” Leanne, suddenly, sounded relieved. “We were wondering about that. Like, Mary thought you were looking for a race, obviously, but I was like ‘what if they’re murderers stalking their next victim’?” She laughed. “That’s a relief, anyway!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale forced a laugh, but he was sure he hadn’t been able to hide the shock on his face before she noticed. Murderers? “Oh, my dear, no, no definitely not murderers. No. But, ah, would you have any recommendations? For places to stay, I mean.”

Leanne put her head to the side. “What kind of place you guys looking for?” She looked from Aziraphale, back to Crowley, and then to Aziraphale again. “I mean, the nicest chain place is going to be the Marriott, probably, or the Westin, but like, there’s the Omni and -”

Aziraphale held up a hand, and resisted saying that yes, the Omni was very nice, pity they wouldn’t actually be using the room. “We’re looking for something a little more … economical. But clean,” he added.

“Oh, okay.” She thought about it. “Well, steer clear of Red Roofs and Motel 6’s, then. I found blood in the bathroom of a Red Roof one time**, and like, they totally acted like I should be cool with it. Super weird.” She shrugged. “Microtels are usually pretty clean and super cheap. Uh, I dunno, the chain places. Hiltons or Doubletrees or whatever.”

[** Author’s note: True story, I totally did. Stayed in a Red Roof the night before I flew to Austin to stay at the aforementioned Westin for a conference (all expenses paid, hell yeah) and boy those could not have been two more polar opposite experiences. From bloody bathroom tiles to five-star service BOY did I get some whiplash.]

“Microtel,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Cheap and clean, you said?” He glanced over to Crowley, and found that he and Mary had left to discuss Bella’s engine in more detail.

“Yeah, over by the airport.” Aziraphale started walking leisurely back towards the Mustang and his demon, Leanne falling into step beside him. “You going to be in Austin the whole time?”

“Hm? Oh, no.” He shook his head. “No, we rented the vehicle for easier travel - we’ll be moving around for a few weeks, seeing the sights, you know.” He nodded his head toward Crowley. “He loves a good, ah, road trip.” He raised his eyebrows as Mary and Crowley started crouching down in front of the car, obviously considering sliding underneath it to get a better look, right there in the International House of Pancakes parking lot. Mary even had her phone out to use the flashlight, but Aziraphale pointedly cleared his throat. Crowley paused.

“What, angel?”

“Aw,” Leanne whispered, exchanging an affectionate glance with Mary.

“Hotel, remember?” he said, jerking his head back toward the car, hands folded behind his back. “We were looking -”

“Yeah, I remember. We’ve got a minute.”

“I’m quite tired.”

Crowley was looking at him flatly. Had there not been unfamiliar humans around, he probably would have lowered his sunglasses to really fix Aziraphale with a look. “You’re tired?”

“Yes,” he replied primly. “Miss Leanne was kind enough to recommend some reasonably-priced hotels that will be clean. By the airport.” He raised his eyebrows significantly. Crowley continued staring. “With excellent freeway access.”

The demon groaned. “Yeah, alright. Alright, I get the point.” He held up a hand. “Five minutes?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Very well. Five minutes.” Crowley nodded, enthusiastically, and then he and Mary slid under the Mustang, Mary talking excitedly as the flashlight beam flickered from one mechanical piece to another. Aziraphale sighed. “At least he’s having fun.”

Leanne laughed. “Hey, mind if I ask about your coat?” When Aziraphale looked confused, she went on, “I do some costume design on the side for a little theater company, and that’s a really neat coat. Like, looks like it could have been straight out of the nineteenth century.”

“I suppose it does, yes,” Aziraphale laughed. “I have had it for quite a while.” He shrugged, grinning, and parroted Crowley’s earlier assertion. “I’ve looked after it.”

“So what’s it made of? Was it custom or - ?”

In reality, it was probably more than five minutes, but Aziraphale was more than happy to discuss his coat with a young woman who appreciated good tailoring. Eventually, when Crowley and Mary emerged from under the car, brushing themselves off, it was Crowley who reminded Aziraphale that they really ought to be going, but only after he and Mary had exchanged numbers***. Leanne had been highly appalled at Aziraphale’s statement that he didn’t actually have a cell phone, but he assured her she was welcome to text Crowley any time she might have questions about period clothing, and Crowley only grumbled about it a little.

[*** When Mary had expressed concern that texting or calls wouldn’t work with an international number, Crowley assured her that his cell carrier was very accessible worldwide, and could pick up messages from anywhere she could think of, and probably a few places beyond that.]

“Hey, enjoy America though, alright?” Leanne added, as the two pairs started to draw apart, backing away toward their respective vehicles. “You guys ever have any questions or whatever, you can hit this girl up!”

Mary looked at her disapprovingly across the hood of their car as she opened the driver’s door. “What, you’re a tour guide now?”

“No, but like, they’re in a strange country, I’m just being nice.” Leanne stuck her tongue out at Mary. “I’m allowed to be nice if I want to.”

Mary snorted. “Yeah, I guess.” They smiled fondly at one another, and then, as one, turned and waved at Aziraphale and Crowley. “Anyway, bye guys! Nice to meet you. Thanks for the race!”

Once back in the 4-Runner, with the roar of the Mustang fading behind them, Aziraphale settled in, pulled his seatbelt on, and smiled happily. “What nice young ladies. Miss Leanne was quite helpful with local hot-spots, too.”

“Yeah.” The key turned in the ignition without Crowley’s input, as the car grumbled to life. Hesitantly, the radio flickered on, the volume so low as to be almost inaudible, and Aziraphale clicked it off. “Good catch on that hotel tip, by the way.”

“You know, if we find Adam,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley steered back onto the freeway, following signs to the airport, “and there’s enough time, she did tell me a nice place to get a drink, if you’d like.” Crowley hummed in noncommittal acknowledgement. “Rain on 4th, she said. She was very complimentary - what are you laughing about?”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley shook his head, and tossed his sunglasses into Aziraphale’s lap. “Never change.”

“You know the place? I thought you said you haven’t been to America -”

“I have Twitter. And the internet. You read things.” He glanced sidelong at the angel. “Bit like your club you went to at the end of the nineteenth century.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “A gentlemens’ club? Oh, it’s been years since I’ve been to one.”

Crowley was looking at him. “Do you -” He trailed off and looked back to the road, fingers drumming pensively on the steering wheel.

“Do I what, dear?”

“Never mind.” He jerked the wheel to the right and swerved from the left lane and onto the exit ramp, while the horn of a car he’d cut off blared behind them. “You do know what a gentlemens’ club is, right?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course I do, dear. I rather liked spending time with those lovely men - we all really did have similar tastes.”

“Ungh?” Crowley said, hastily looking out the window and into the first parking lot they came across - it was for a Jiffy Lube, which was most definitely not where Adam was staying.

“Of course,” Aziraphale went on, “they also used it as a cover to engage in their sadly-taboo love affairs. I didn’t partake in that, but the dancing was nice all the same.” He reached across the console, which was so broad that it made what would normally be a comfortable gesture physically impractical and somewhat awkward, and rested his hand on Crowley’s leg. Crowley made one of his little noises, still looking out of the window, and Aziraphale smiled. “I think you would have liked it, if you hadn’t decided to sleep through that portion of history. I am rather sorry about that.”

“Ngh, I know, angel.” Suddenly, the car lurched, as Crowley slammed on the brakes. “Hang on.” He squinted. “What’s it say on the side of that red truck?”

“Dear, you stopped in the middle of an intersection.” When Crowley glared at him and failed to move, in spite of Aziraphale’s pursed lips and the honking of various cars cautiously steering around them in the middle of the intersection, he sighed. “Get closer, I can’t read the front from here.”

“Right, fine.” Crowley pulled forward, drove across the sidewalk, and pulled up alongside the truck. “S’that it? Says it’s it, right?”

“It says ‘Big Sky Severe Storm Spotters’ just there.” Aziraphale indicated the front of the truck, where a small decal had been placed. “Is that them?” He looked up to the hotel, while Crowley nodded. “Oh, Microtel.” He smiled. “She does work in mysterious ways.”

“Huh?” Crowley slung his arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders, the better to look behind them as he reversed back over the sidewalk. “Who?”

Aziraphale considered it. “Leanne,” he settled on. “This establishment was her first suggestion when I asked for a hotel recommendation.” Crowley snorted. “I know, quite the coincidence, wasn’t it?” He frowned, as Crowley pulled back onto the freeway. “Why are we leaving?”

“Gotta get our stuff, don’t we? Don’t!” He reached over and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand as the angel lifted it to snap his fingers. “No magic, if we can help it. Don’t want him to know we’re here. And we’ve got time to grab our stuff before we stake them out.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded, and didn’t say anything when Crowley relaxed and let his arm fall to the console, his fingers still wrapped around Aziraphale’s. “That does make sense.” He settled back into his seat, more comfortable, breathing a small sigh of relief when he saw that Crowley was barely going over 90.

It was the work of an hour to pick up their bags, load back into the car, and return to the Microtel where the truck was still parked. Crowley pulled into a parking lot across the street, with a good view of the hotel entrance as well as the truck, killed the lights, and hissed something to the car. The engine, to the car’s great surprise, idled more quietly. Crowley nodded, approving, pulled his phone out, and tilted the seat back, his heels propped up on the steering wheel.

“So now we wait?”

“Now we wait,” Crowley agreed, scrolling through something. He paused, squinting at the phone, and zoomed in on something. “Oh, hey, wait a second before you start in on whatever book you’ve got.” Aziraphale stopped moving, his hand halfway to his briefcase. “Got an email from Lucky.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale stopped, and held out his hand. Crowley dropped the phone into it. “Here, I’ll read it. Oh, bother.” He puzzled over the phone for a minute, taking a moment to zoom back out and then a further minute to actually open the email. Crowley remained silent, eyes closed but a small smirk on his lips. “Don’t look so smug, Crowley, it’s unbecoming.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Very well, here it is. It reads:

“‘Hi, Nanny,

‘Wow, sounds like you and Brother Francis have had a nice spring! Glad to hear you had an okay time at the flower show, even if you didn’t win anything. Hah, I’m sure Francis reminded you winning isn’t everything but whatever, it is kind of great to win sometimes -’”

Crowley sighed fondly. “He’s always been so competitive.”

“‘ - but having fun is cool too, I guess. Anyway, I graduated from high school! I attached a few pictures of my graduation - the cool cat next to me in most of the pictures that isn’t my mom or dad is my friend Hal, I think I’ve told you about them before. Wish you could have come to meet everybody, but I get that traveling trans-Atlantic is rough, especially if you don’t like flying.

‘Are you guys doing anything this summer? I’m super excited - I told you I’m starting college for climatology in the fall, but I didn’t know until a week or two ago that before I do that, I get to go on a road trip this summer! Sort of road trip. Like, weather-related road trip. I’ll be’ ….” Aziraphale trailed off, blinking at the text on the screen, before he swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry, and continued, “‘ I’ll be storm chasing across the midwest this summer. I’m really excited to see some severe weather close-up, and I’ll be working with a couple of researchers so hopefully I’ll learn a lot, too.’”

Aziraphale looked to Crowley, who was staring at him. “You’re kidding,” Crowley said, eyes wide. Aziraphale shook his head, and bent back over the phone, picking up the tempo as he read.

“‘Although I’m sure you’re probably super excited about me chasing the hellish fury of a vengeful God, just in case Brother Francis is worried please let him know that it really is very safe, and the researchers I’ll be working with often take meteorology and climatology students on storm tours, to teach them - me, I guess! - about severe weather patterns, how to spot developing dangerous weather, and other stuff like that. I mean, I know you’re probably all about widespread destruction or whatever, but sorry to disappoint you since I guess I’m hoping to learn how to prevent casualties and warn people to get to safety! Brother Francis is super proud, I’m sure!

‘Anyway, I’ll email or text you from the road if you want. I can even send videos and pictures! I’m sure you’ll get stuff on snapchat too. Plus, the researchers - Rachael and Noel - update their Facebook page with events from the road during chasing season too, if you want to see their videos and stuff, which’ll probably be way better than anything I take on my phone. You might even see me in a cameo haha! I’ll be internet famous. Discovery Channel, here I come! Their company is called ‘Big Sky Severe Storm Spotters’, they’re the only one on Facebook I think.

‘So that’s the update! Hear from you soon!

‘Infernally missing you guys or whatever,

Lucky’”

Silence permeated the interior of the car for a few minutes. The engine, embarrassed, idled more quietly still. Wordlessly, Aziraphale handed Crowley’s phone back to him, the two of them staring fixedly out of the windshield for a long, long time. Across the street, the red truck sat in the parking lot lights, and somewhere in the hotel, two anti-Christs^ were sleeping soundly.

^ Sort of.

Crowley was the first to break the silence, reaching his hand up slowly to cover his eyes, and pulling his knees in closer to his chest. He sighed. “Well, shit.”

Now with Chapter 5!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #adam young #warlock dowling #he goes by lucky now in case you missed chapter 3 #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #the one where they go to america

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idreamofhazel · 8 years ago

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Chapter 10: The Runaway

Series summary and masterpost here.

Summary: You attempt to complete The Trials.

Characters/Relationships: Sam x reader, Dean

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: heavy guilt themes, suicidal ideation (think, 8x23)

Beta’d by the ever-amazing, super talented @impala-dreamer

The air inside the forgotten church was heavy, saturated with the scent of mildew and swaths of dust dancing in the air. As you stood in the front of the empty chapel, you could see trails of uncovered wood on the floor where you had dragged the massive chair into the center of the room, mounds of dust on either side like miniature ditches running across the floor. The dirt had accumulated that much inside this once sacred building. The land remained consecrated, though, which is why you chose this location. It’s what the ritual called for.

Everything was perfect, even more so than your last attempt at this trial. You knew Crowley wasn’t on your tail and you were alone, save the seething demon you had trapped. You possessed enough confidence to push you through the eight hours this ritual would require. The whole world would be saved by closing up Hell, and because of that, you might finally be able to forgive yourself for your sister’s death.

Her image was placed deliberately in the forefront of your mind as you readied for your task, faded memories repeating themselves like movies on scratched film. You placed the empty vials in a row across the table, the metal tapping ever so slightly against the soft wood, as you remembered playing tag in the park. You surveyed the table, making sure all the vials were in place as you recalled teaching her a song on the piano. The incantations were sitting out, you even had food and water to help combat the blood loss. There was nothing else to prepare.

You stepped down from the platform and walked around to check the devil’s trap and the demon’s bindings. The female demon was eerily quiet.

You looked around the vacant space for a good spot to kneel down. There wasn’t a confessional booth. Termites had long since rotted away any wooden structures inside and scavengers gutted the leftovers. You imagined what this place once looked like, how it may have been quaint, but sturdy, a refuge of solace to its attendees. There would’ve been rows of oak pews, lined perhaps with blood-red cushioning or left bare for uncomfortable seating that reminded the congregation more of penance than peace. The floors would’ve shined and sunlight would have filtered through the tall stained glass windows, filling the vaulted ceilings and casting a rainbow of colors across whatever relics and symbols were arranged around the podium. Now, the windows were cracked and broken, and whatever was left of them covered in a thick layer of grime. The wooden cross still hung front and center, steadfast like the man it represented, the man you were about to confess to.

You’d never had practice with confession of any kind, so the whole idea of crouching down and whispering to the void seemed awkward and unfulfilling, but it couldn’t be any more difficult than killing a hellhound. You settled on a far off corner decorated with a couple empty cardboard boxes left by the scavengers. They would provide what little privacy you could afford, creating a flimsy wall that was more an ideal than a reality. There was no doubt the demon could still see your feet poking out from behind a box once you kneeled or still hear the faint echo of your soft voice in the emptiness, but embarrassment was something you could not afford.

You slowly lowered yourself to your knees in the corner, hearing every movement of your joints, the swipe of your sleeves against your shirt, your jeans shuffling across the grimy wood, before you got into a comfortable position. Then you folded your hands and bowed your head, closing your eyes and falling into sacred darkness. Quietness slowly turned into loneliness as you focused on what you were going to say. You let the thoughts of your prayers swim around like fish in the inky black of your guilty mind. Nothing you read was too specific with the confession instructions, but this is how you’d seen most people do it on television.

The words started off slow, and you whispered as you began, unsure of how exactly to explain your blame and release every thought and emotion that grew out of your childhood tragedy. The memory seemed so monumental, so defining, but this moment was small and contrived, a cheap replica of the real deal. You had no audience, no priest to absolve you, no rosary to hold or communion to take. There was only you, God, and the terrible silence in between.

“Dear God, I, uh, don’t know if this is how it’s supposed to be done, but I’m here to confess my greatest sin. I’ve completed the other two trials and have now come to the third. There’s so many things I’ve done wrong in my life. I’ve lied, I’ve said hurtful things I didn’t mean, I’ve stolen and I’ve hurt people. Lying to and hurting Sam was one of the lowest things I’ve done, but, that was not my greatest sin. I’ve always known what my biggest sin was. My sister. I do these trials for her.”

Some strong emotion overtook you and you began to imagine talking to your sister. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I should’ve been there for you and I wasn’t. I hope that someday, when we meet each other in the afterlife, you can forgive me. So until that day, just know that I regret what I did that night more than I regret anything else in my life and I ask you, and God, for forgiveness.”

You looked up and unfolded your hands, wiping the tears that had begun trailing down your cheeks mid-prayer. It had been so long since you talked that deeply about everything, even with Sam, yet you still felt no closure. That’s what the vials of blood were for, though, to thoroughly scourge you of this sin.

Turning your attention to them, you walked back up the platform and grabbed the first vial. The needle was sharp and menacing. Cold to the touch, you jumped as it touched the skin in the crook of your elbow and you winced as it slid in, a tubular intrusion sucking out the thick red liquid. That was the part you hated most, the sucking motion, but it was over with quickly. You made efficient work of it. Walking towards the demon, vial in hand and poised for injection, you watched her sitting. That’s all she did. She didn’t fuss or pull at her chains or even insult you. The whole process was eerily absent of any interaction or sound, save the breath from your own lungs and the tapping of your feet across the floor. Silence was usually saved for sacred, important moments, but you felt as if this silence were ruining the whole ordeal. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.

You approached the chair, stopped and waited for an attempted attack, and when there was none, you gently placed your free hand on the demon’s head, tilting it to the side while you raised the vial. Your hand came down and the needle slid in her neck just as easily as it had slid into your veins. You pushed the warm liquid in and then pulled it out quickly, watching for any bleeding that may happen. There was none. And the demon still said nothing. You waited. For a reaction, for a sign, for anything. Even steaming skin or cries of pain, but there was nothing.

You waited some more. Twenty minutes went by with no sound. Not until you bothered to check on the demon once more, turning around and staring at her deeply, checking for any changes, small or large. You’d be satisfied with even minuscule shifts, a flicker of light in her eyes, a sheen of sweat that revealed human nervousness, a muscle twitch that signified a burn or ache, but you couldn’t see them until she began speaking.

“I heard your little prayer over there. That’s some real sad, sorry shit.” the demon suddenly sneered, her head tilting to the left ever so slightly, hanging somewhat limp. You’d only just noticed once she talked. You thought the stance was from boredom, but now you could see it was involuntary as she did not shift once she began talking. The first vial had done something.

If you were going to get through all the vials, you had to remain calm. Buckling under one verbal attack would do no one any good. So you turned away from the demon once again and put your palms on the table, leaning onto it to steady yourself.

“You couldn’t save your sister so now you’re in this dump, emptying out your blood into a demon. That’s hilarious,” she laughed, “It isn’t gonna help you, though. You’re still the reason your sister is dead.”

“And you’re still trapped in that chair, so I don’t know what you’re so cocky about,” you snapped.

The demon’s smile widened with glee at something unknown to you, the picture of her teeth sinister and unsettling. “I bet the Winchesters don’t even know you’re here. Poor Sammy lost his girlfriend all over again. How tragic.”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seems like you got a history of running. You ran from your sister, you’ve run from Sam twice now, you’ll probably run the next time one of them gets hurt, too. You’re just a pathetic, cowardly run-away and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

“I said shut up!” you screamed at the demon, lunging towards her with your fist up.

You stopped as she began cackling, her voice shrieking and popping hollowly against your eardrums, her eyes alight with mockery and sadistic fun.

Her laughing tapered off, replaced by more mockery. “Come on, hit me. I know you want to.”

You lowered your fist and walked away. You had to before she truly got under your skin. She wasn’t going to break you this easily.

“Come back here! You’re no fun, come on!” She continued to taunt you until, finally, your silence bored her.

It was boring you, too. You had prepared everything, you thought, except something to do while waiting. You thought of the phone in your pocket, the one line of communication to Sam turned off; dead to disable the GPS. Turning on the phone, as you so badly wanted to do, would be a mistake. The signs of your betrayal would slap you in the face, seeing the missed calls and texts, and Sam and Dean could find you, making you face what you had done once more. You were in this too deep to call them. You were alone. There was no option to bring them in.

Thirty more minutes passed with nothingness, boring to the demon, but electric with expectancy for you. When the time for the next dose came, you were ready right at the second. Again, the demon did not fight you and this time she didn’t say anything, either. No mockery, no laughing. It was unsettling, more so than the vicious insults. You didn’t know what was happening to her. You didn’t know if it was working. But still, you carried on.

As the third and fourth hour rolled around, your demon became increasingly more limp. She was somber, really. Quiet less in a defiant way; more like she had little energy left to protest and nothing she wanted to say bad enough. After the fourth dose, you thought about provoking her yourself to see how she had changed, if her eyes would still turn black, if her laughing was still bone-chilling. But you didn’t.

You were changing too. It was subtle and gradual, like a sunset, the way your body felt weaker and your guilt ran deeper. It wasn’t until halfway to the fifth dose that you really noticed it; the burning sensation in your arms and legs, barely there, tingling just under the skin; and the chest pain of heartache and regret, sharpening and twisting right under your sternum as thoughts of your family became louder and more frequent. It was just the blood loss, you were sure of it. The woozy, floor-tilting sensation was nothing more than a physical reaction to losing blood. And the guilt, that was the product of having nothing to do for four and a half hours but think about the reason you were doing this.

You drank some water and ate a granola bar before preparing the fifth vial. They didn’t help. You felt cold, almost feverish; a sheen of sweat developing on your forehead as your eyelids drooped. But you would press on. You stuck the fifth needle in, pulled it out, and set it back on the table. That’s when something major shifted, both in you, the demon, and the stale air of the church.

“Please, please, stop sticking me with that needle,” she whined, her voice faint and more human-like, riddled with physical exhaustion and emotion. “I can’t stop thinking…about all the things I did, who I was, please…ple…”

You could barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, barely see her through your blurry vision. You fell, catching yourself on a step. As you sat, dizziness continued to hit you like waves.

Eventually the feeling went away and stayed away until the sixth vial. When your blood touched the demon’s veins, you suddenly understood what this demon was going through. The voices in your head grew loud, too, pounding from the inside of your eardrums. You fell over as the earth swayed under your feet with another wave of vertigo. guilty….guilty….GUILTY the voices chanted.

You crawled back up to the table, scraping your knee across the edge of a step as you reached your hand over the top of the table to find your phone. Your fingers grazed the cool metal and you grasped it, yanking it down and turning it on with desperation. The bright screen burned your eyes, making you squint until it booted and showed your lock-screen photo: Sam, content as he sat on the couch, somewhat involuntarily posing as you had asked. Just one picture, was all you had wanted. Then the notifications began popping up. Four….eight….thirteen missed calls, at least that many texts, voicemails to match each call. You selected one and called back. The pick-up was almost instant.

“Y/N!” Sam’s voice was loud, desperate. You pulled the phone away from your ear.

“Sam, I’m-”

“Where are you? Are you ok?”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, “So, so sorry…” You were delirious, your voice shook.

“Never mind that, what vial are you on?”

“Six...seven, I’ve got,” you stopped to think, “two more to go.”

“Ok, ok we’re on our way. We’re coming, we’re tracking your phone, just put the vials down, ok? You don’t have to finish this,” You heard things moving in the background, Dean’s voice, car doors slamming, the engine rumbling, “Listen, if you finish this, you’re gonna- it’s going to kill you, baby. Please, just stop.”

“No, I-” The voices kept chanting guilty…guilty…your fault…your fault… “I’ve got to go.”

“No! Y/N wait-”

You hung up and laid there for a long time.

Waking from a feverish dream, you remembered to check the time on your watch. It was close. In haste, you rose quickly, only to stumble forward into the table violently, knocking vials and things off. The demon’s laughter behind you was faint in your ears as you began picking up the mess. You had to pull yourself together. After this one, there was only one more to go and if you gave up now, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

You scrambled on your hands and knees, gathering the vials and leaving the other things. The food and water didn’t seem to be helping much. Your ailment was not physical, it was spiritual; a pain brought on by metaphysical purification manifesting physically, but with no cure but to finish. You had decided long ago you should’ve been the one to go before your time instead of her.

As you approached the demon once again, your head swam with the images of the blood under your sister, soaking into the carpet so many years ago, and now, the blood in the vials, the shaking of your fingers and the limp rolling of the demon’s head. Side to side and hanging down and back to another side. You stabbed her in the neck again, mustering up the force. She grunted, and then closed her eyes, squinting them tight then releasing, like a wave of silent pain had hit her and subsided. You walked away, resting on a step. You’d have to sit until the next dose or you might not make it. Spreading your knees apart, you rested your arms and head on them, closing your eyes and pretending you were on a pillow, on your bed, next to Sam even.

You accidentally fell asleep again. You woke up gradually as a burning pain built underneath your skin. You didn’t notice it until you were on fire, the flames beginning in the capillaries and rising through the veins until they broke skin, raising the temperature of your body and producing a desire for you to scream. But you didn’t. You winced, tensed your muscles, leaned back, riding the waves of pain.

“Serves you right, bitch.” The woman, demon, whatever she was at this moment, spoke again. “God, I’m so glad you’re suffering. Do you have any idea what you’re putting me through? I’m old, so old…I’ve lost track, I’ve forgotten what this feels like, having actual emotions and I hate it!” Her words came out with spite, but you barely had the energy to care. You listened without response. “I’m not only remembering my human life, no,” she laughed, “I get to remember what I’ve done as a demon with all these damn emotions attached! But you’re such a saint, ridding the world of demons, while no one cares what happens to me. What kind of life will I lead now? No one cares, no one ever cared about me!”

The woman broke into a fit of sobs. Your shoulders drooped with exhaustion and your vision was inked over with black spots. Just one more vial to go, you could make it. Sam was on his way, you’d see him and Dean soon, reunite, share the victory, maybe a couple days later, after you’ve rested…maybe…

The pain still came in waves, from somewhere deep inside, burning away blame, you imagined, purifying you gradually like the demon. A dose for her, a wave of fire for you.

As the hour of the final dose came closer, you felt a sense of finality through the thick haze that had surrounded your brain. The light at the end of this tunnel was almost shining on your face; your guilt would be absolved, Sam’s life would be made easier, demons would be vanquished. You had no thought of whether your life would continue or not; your life was but a tiny speck in the grand scheme of things, a willingly given sacrifice for the sake of the world. To consider saving it now would be the paramount of selfishness, an even darker stain on your already blemished record. Sam would understand. He had done the same before.

The woman was sleeping when you approached her for the final time, unaware of the impending assault. She gasped awake as you stuck the needle in for the eighth time, pushing the last of the blood into her veins. Her eyes were wide, watching you take the needle out, chest heaving with deep breaths and exerted energy as you awaited some shift, some sign in the woman or in the air that your sacrifice had changed something. You saw nothing, felt nothing. Instead, you fell. Crashing onto the floor, floating into darkness, aware of absolutely nothing.

Sam and Dean came running in, stopping just inside the door to let their minds catch up to the scene before them. The woman sat, crying, still bound to the chair, pleading with the silence for someone to let her go. You were lying on the ground at her feet, face to the floor, the vial inches from your limp fingertips. Sam ran to you, dropping at your side and flipping you over. He whispered his denial as he moved the hair from your face and took in the state of your body. There was a faint pulse underneath your dirty skin; he felt it as one of his hands held your neck. Your skin was sallow, there were purple circles under your eyes. He could feel the lack of energy in your muscles, the way they had gradually and eventually given out.

He pulled you onto his lap, continuing to whisper your name. “She needs a hospital, something,” Sam ordered.

Dean had been untying the woman, noticing that she had no trace of demon left in her. But when he looked at you, he knew whatever trace of life you had was slowly seeping out. You wouldn’t make it anywhere. “Sam, she’s-”

“No! I told her to stop, I told her we’d figure it out. She’ll be fine, you said she’d be fine!”

Your eyes fluttered open briefly, seeing a fuzzy outline of the man you loved hanging over your face. “Sam.” You tried to lift your hand to touch his face, but he grabbed it and held it down tight, shushing you. “I did it.”

You felt something warm and wet hit your cheek, a tear maybe, sliding down the side of your face. It wasn’t your own.

“You…you did, baby, you did it,” he whispered.

With those words, you contentedly let yourself go. You imagined you were drifting off to sleep while lying in Sam’s lap, as you had done many times before, lying on the couch together, or in the back seat of the Impala, or in bed.