#i like roman crowley a lot i just need a lot more practice to get him right

[bennibeedraws]

Hey guys here's some new art finally💫

I made this for my first assignment for one of my classes, But this also counts as my first official and finished good omens art, specifically of crowley

[youryurigoddess]

Aziraphale’s wine

It is a truth universally acknowledged in the Good Omens fandom that an angel in need of a drink turns to his secret stash of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back room. He picked up a dozen cases in 1921, and a whole century later there's still some left… for special occasions.

Just to put things in perspective, a standard case contains 12 750ml bottles, for a total of 9 liters of wine. A dozen cases equals 144 bottles, or 108 liters of wine. That’s quite a lot for a single purchase, so Aziraphale — the established sherry and sweet drinks connoisseur — must have had a good reason for it.

One potential explanation is the aura of grandeur around this particular wine. The papal connection, rich history of the region, and recognition of high quality products give Châteauneuf-du-Pape wines a very luxurious status, considerably influencing their price tags. And Aziraphale is known to have standards.

Another one is the way in which their taste differs from Aziraphale’s usual choices: Châteauneuf-du-Pape reds are often described as earthy with gamey flavors that have hints of tar and leather. The wines are considered tough and tannic in their youth, but maintain their rich spiciness as they age.

Since everything in Good Omens has a meaning, it never hurts to run through a quick Strong’s Concordance search whenever a date pops up in a dialogue or, even more importantly, somewhere on screen. More often than not the result seems to match the researched topic, as it’s the case here:

1921: to know exactly, to recognize.

Provided examples: I come to know by directing my attention to him or it, I perceive, discern, recognize; I found out. The general usage of the word usually refers to knowing someone aptly, properly, thoroughly, even biblically. Which might be either a wishful thinking on Aziraphale’s part or just another layer of subtext in this already romantically charged scene. The table dressing, multiple candles, and focus on the lamps with Auguste Moreau’s Young Lovers statues in the background seem to successfully communicate what the angel left unsaid.

Too bad that Crowley remained so adorably oblivious for the next eighty years. At least when he finally came to the realization, he responded with an attempted temptation to another vintage red wine @vidavalor already analyzed.

But back to Aziraphale’s wine. To be exact, it’s a 1921 Châteauneuf-du-Pape from the domaine de Baban. An actual French vineyard from the Rhône region that still exists to this day, even though a few decades ago it got merged with another estate into what is now known as domaine Riché-Baban. According to the local guides, the 11 hectares on the estate are located in the Châteauneuf-du-Pape designation area in the Bois Lauzon and Mourre de Baud districts. At the moment 90% of the wines produced there are sent to wine dealers.

1920s were quite an interesting time for this region, but not because of the flapper cabarets or drag shows usually associated with the era on the Old Continent. To the horror of European oenophiles, right after World War I the whole of France found itself awash with fake wine. One of the worst outrages was the use of lead that magically transformed cheap, acid wine into something deceptively rich and sweet on the outside and one of the most powerful neurotoxins on the inside. People were already well aware of its effects — the poisoning from drinking sweetened wine probably made Handel go blind and Beethoven go deaf, but it shows how desperate for sweetness they were before sugar became available to the masses.

Admittably, it wasn’t a new practice. Far from it — the Romans liked it so much that they even advised to pack lead pans on travels to boil local wine in them to make it sweeter, especially in colder provinces like Britannia. But Aziraphale didn’t buy twelve cases of counterfeit wine for the sake of some good memories of Rome and its many health hazards. No, the fussy angel made sure to get the actually good stuff from the other side of the English Channel.

Henry Tacussel, whose name is mentioned on his wine label, was a French viticulturalist and a close friend of Baron Pierre Le Roy of the Chateau Fortia nearby, a trained lawyer and fellow winegrower from Châteauneuf-du-Pape who established the Winegrowers' Union of the Rhône Valley. Together with the Baron he became one of the founders of Appellation d'origine contrôlée (AOC), a labeling system intended to protect regional products and technologies that is still in use in France and serves as an inspiration to similar solutions worldwide. Their efforts were deliberately centred on Châteauneuf-du-Pape because with such a beguiling name even in comparison to other labels it seemed to attract an undue share of fraudsters at the time.

Soon after Aziraphale’s shopping spree, the local wine producers led by Le Roy and Tacussel began a very long campaign to establish legal protection for the wine from their commune. The delimited area and the method of wine production were finally awarded legal recognition after a decade, in 1933, but it wasn’t the end of the criminal activities on this front. An undercover investigation by The Sunday Times discovered that most of the “Châteauneuf” in the 1960s Britain was actually blended and bottled in Ipswich.

One question remains: was it a purely human affair, or maybe one requiring a demonic or angelic intervention?

[crashdevlin]

Intense

One Night at a Time Masterlist

Author’s Note: Part seven of One Night at a Time series.

Summary: Y/n is trying to move on after Dean gets sent to Purgatory. She's hunting nonstop to outrun the questions in her head...what does she do when Dean shows up after more than a year?

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Benny x Reader (kinda)

Word count: 3575

Story Warnings:  mentions of harm to reader, mentions of scars, poor self-esteem, angst, Dean being Dean (a bit of a jerk),  18+! HERE BE SEX!! DON’T READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!!, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, rough sex, creampie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should have been there, closer, beside him when he stabbed Dick Roman and sent him back to Purgatory. I should have stopped Crowley from getting his hands on Kevin. I should have done something more than just stand there while everything fell apart.

And I tried, you know? I tried to find another way into Purgatory. I tried for months to get Dean back. But it was useless. I was useless. Useless to Dean and Kevin and Sam, but not useless on a hunt. I’ve always been at my best on a job.

So I go back to hunting. Vamps and ghosts and this shifter in Utah...a few demons here and there. I jump from job to job, catching a few that aren’t even monsters because as soon as I slow down, my brain goes to Dean. Missing him, yes. Missing him with everything in me, but also...he might have liked me, but...he never said he dreamed of me until after Castiel fixed my scars. He never got nervous about sleeping with me when I had the scars. He was a bit of an asshole to me, actually.

So I hunt. To avoid questions that plague me that don’t even matter anymore, I hunt.

I haven’t heard from Sam in over a year. He’s not on the radar. He’s not hunting. I guess that’s better, leaves more jobs for me.

I get wind of a vampire sighting in Clayton, Louisiana. No body drop, just someone saying they saw a fanger, but I check it out anyway. I have to do something to keep my mind busy.

I go the normal route, bars and nightclubs are generally the way you find a fang, but there’s not a lot in that area in Clayton. One bar full of blue collar boys and no nightclubs. Still no bodies. I head to a local park overlooking a lake and sit on a small wooden bench. There’s something interesting about cypress trees sticking out of the water, Spanish moss hanging from the branches. It’s not pretty, not in any conventional way, but it is at the same time.

“You not from aroun’ here, are you?” a man says, moving to sit next to me on the bench.

I turn to look at him. A blue-eyed man with a light beard and a hat. He’s not quite the swamp-dwelling men I found at the bar. “What makes you say that?”

“Just got a feelin’ about you. Says you’s a traveler. You got a nomad look,” he says, smiling brightly.

I smile and nod. “Yeah. You could say that. I’ve been pretty much everywhere.”

“I used to do a lotta sailin’, so I been around a few times. Sometimes, I think I can sense people with an envie to roam. Mus’ be what drew me ta you.” He smiles at me again and I chuckle.

“Are you sure it wasn’t the fact that I was a weirdo staring at the water? Didn’t come over here to check me into a mental hospital or something?” I ask, smirking.

“Nah. Pretty lady with her head lost in the cypress? Nothin’ wrong wit’ dat.”

I feel my cheeks heat up and look away toward the trees again. “Thank you.”

“No problem, cher. I’m Benny.”

“Y/n,” I respond, offering my hand. He takes it and kisses the knuckles. His lips are a bit cold, but it’s pretty cool for August.

“Well, iss real nice meetin’ you, Y/n. You gonna be around town a few days?” he asks. Is he flirting with me?

“Maybe. The ‘envie to roam’ might kick up real soon.” Might not be anything here and I have to find a job soon. I have to find a distraction.

“Well, if you don’t roam before tonight, I could buy you a drink?”

I lick my bottom lip between my teeth and nod. What better way to look inconspicuous on a vamp hunt than to have drinks with a handsome man? “That’d be nice, Benny. I’ll meet you at the bar at 7?”

“I’d like that.”

He’d like that. Why would he? Why did he even want to talk to me?

I go anyway. He buys us beers. He's charming and funny, down to earth but not simple. I don't know if it's the quaint Louisiana backwoods of him or what, but he seems like a man out of time. Which should have been the first clue, but my Spidey-sense doesn't go off until he walks me to my car and leans in to kiss me.

It's nice and he's an amazing kisser, but the fact that he's kissing me?

My mind goes to Marco.

I whisper 'Cristo' when he pulls away, but he doesn't flinch, just looks at me a bit odd. "I didn't think I was that good a kisser you gotta call for the Lord, cher."

I nod and smile tightly. "Right. Uh...I had a nice night, Benny. You've got my number. Text me sometime," I ramble out a bit before I slide into my driver's seat and peel out of the parking lot. He must be the fang I'm looking for. Only explanation. It's the only reason he'd flirt with me, kiss me, why his lips were cold. Trying to get me alone so he can drink me or turn me.

I'll set a trap, get some dead man's blood, confirm what he is...Benny's big so maybe I should have some backup but at the end of the day, he's just one vamp and I've taken down bigger.

I'm trying to figure out a way to get some dead man's blood in this nowhere town when there's a knock on my motel door. I grab my gun and approach, looking through the peephole. I almost drop my gun.

Dean Winchester, or something that looks like him, is standing at my door.

“Open the door, Y/n!” It knows my name. “And put the piece away. You can test me as soon as you open up.”

It can’t be him. It can’t but...if anyone could claw his way back…

I open the door and stare blankly at him for a minute. “You...can’t...be.”

He smiles and steps inside. “You got some borax, holy water, silver knife?” I just stare for another few moments. “Okay, well, I got the knife,” he says, pulling out a knife I recognize and slicing it across his arm.

“How are you here?” I whisper.

“Long story,” he says, wrapping a handkerchief around his arm. “Borax?”

I swallow and rush to my duffel bag. After I splash him with cleaner and holy water, I hand him a towel. “It’s really you?”

“Yeah. It’s really me.” He sets the towel aside and licks his lips, grimacing at the taste of the borax. “I was sad when Sammy told me he hadn’t seen you all year.”

I shrug and look away. “I was keepin’ busy...he wasn’t.”

“How busy?” he asks.

“Busy enough.” Had a lot on my mind.

“Sam retired. You hear about that?”

“I assumed. He dropped off the face of the earth and left all the good cases for me.” I sit on the edge of the bed and look at my feet.

“He was in Texas.” He moves to stand over me, looking down. “You been hunting by yourself again?”

“Nothing new, Dean.” I shake my head. “The only time I wasn’t hunting solo was the few months I was with you and Sam. I’m good without backup.”

“But Sam shouldn’t have abandoned you to go play house with some chick in-”

“Does it really matter?” I look up and sigh. “He deserved a break.”

“No, he didn’t! I was in Purgatory and he just quit. At least you kept fighting.”

“I didn’t really have a choice.” I clear my throat and bite my bottom lip. "So you got out."

"Yep. I did."

"How'd you find me?" I ask.

"Friend found you for me...not that he was really looking." He clicks his tongue against his teeth and clears his throat. "So Sam and I just got done doin’ a wolf case in Michigan...got a few days probably...unless you got something-”

“I’m on a fang. If you wanted to-”

“How many victims?” he asks, a little too quickly.

“Well, none but someone I trust saw the thing. Just because they haven’t killed anyone yet doesn’t mean-”

“Y/n.” He grabs my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. He’s still so beautiful but there’s something primal in his eyes. “No body means no monster. You don’t need to be here.”

“I’m s-sure there’s a...there was this guy, B-Benny, he-”

“No, babe.”

“Guys don’t give me attention unless they have a motive, Dean.” I pull away from him and his eyes narrow at me and a chill goes down my spine. Not a good one, though. I’m fucking scared...of Dean. That primal look in his eyes is terrifying and I’ve faced down a lot scarier shit than him.

“Motive? What’s that supposed to-” His jaw ticks as he steps close and crowds me a bit. “You’re back on your bullshit about people not liking you, aren’t you?”

“I don’t get attention, Dean. Benny is just Marco part two.”

“Marco was sent after you, Y/n. Benny just found you.”

“Or I found him! Maybe he’s the one I was here looking for and-”

Dean reaches out and grabs my hair, making me gasp. “Benny is not your concern. No one’s died. You’re after nothing,” he practically growls at me.

“Okay!” I squeak and it’s pathetic...but he’s scaring the fuck outta me. What the hell? What happened to him while he was gone? “There’s nothing here.”

He lets go of my hair and sighs. “Why don’t you pack up and we’ll go meet up with Sam?”

“Dean...I don’t-”

“Y/n.” There’s a warning in his tone and I look away from him.

“Fine. Can we stay here tonight? I’m kinda exhausted.” I don’t wanna go anywhere with him acting like this. Maybe he’ll be less scary in the morning. Unlikely.

He sighs again, obviously annoyed with me, but he nods and pulls his jacket off. He tosses it at the chair in the corner and flops down onto the bed, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call Sam. Let him know.”

I nod and move to the other side of the bed, lying down and turning onto my side away from him.

All the questions I was running from, working to hide from, they all come flooding back as Dean settles into the bed with me. The questions bring friends. Why is he here? Why would he come here? Who found me for him? Why did he want me found? And why’s he being an asshole again?

Not just an asshole, but a scary asshole. And I don’t think I want to hunt with him like this. I’m uncomfortable. I’m anxious. I’m confused. I’m...sneaking out of bed while he sleeps and getting out of Louisiana. I’ll call Sam when I get some miles between me and Dean. I just can’t do this right now.

I know he hates it when I leave without saying ‘goodbye’ so I leave a note.

Then I leave. I make it to a convenience store in Meridian, Mississippi before I have to stop. I get bad mileage in this old car. I set the pump and head inside, grabbing a case of beer and a hand basket full of snacks. I drop them in the backseat and go around to the restrooms, hoping for something clean-ish. I push open the door, but I haven’t stepped into the room when a hand covers my mouth and I get forced into the room.

“Don’t fuckin’ scream.” It’s Dean. Fuck. At least the bathroom’s clean, I’m not grossed out when he presses me into the wall with his body. “The fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

He pulls his hand away from my mouth and I take a deep breath. “You’re scaring me, Dean,” I whisper.

“Oh, I’m scaring you?” he snaps, grabbing my shoulder and twisting me around to face him. His eyes are wild and full of rage. “You know I hate it when you disappear on me. You didn’t even stick around an hour before you left this time! Ya know, you’re always worried about how people don’t like you, but you’re the one that’s not givin’ anyone a chance to get close.”

“Dean, you’re being a dick. Why would I stick around when you’re scaring me?” My voice is squeaky, my body almost shaking. I can face monsters any day of the week, but I’m shaking over this man.

His face softens, his eyes losing a bit of their edge, and I think he’s gonna step back from me for a moment, but he doesn’t. He steps closer, leans his head down, hovers his lips over mine. Suddenly, I’m feeling a tingling lust between my thighs on top of the fearful shaking in my limbs. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be a dick, baby,” he whispers, his breath warming my lips. “Just spent a year in Purgatory. Came back a little...intense.”

“That’s an understatement.” My head’s getting a little dizzy as my heart thuds in my chest.

“Spent all that time missin’ you, wanting you, dreaming of burying my cock in your tight little cunt.” I gasp as he grabs my waist with one hand and braces himself against the wall next to my head with the other. “Intense isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Y/n.”

"Dean," I whimper. I want him. I always want him, but hearing those words...that he was thinking of me… "Why would you miss me?"

He rolls his eyes, and it's this aggressive thing that chills me. "You gotta stop this shit. I spent all those months buildin' you up, showin' you how much I appreciate you and all that work I put in...it's just gone?"

"Why?" I whisper before I can stop myself. His eyebrows come together and I close my eyes. "I'm not...worth...any-"

'Shut it!" he growls and I jolt against him, eyes opening and finding his. "You are worth everything I could ever fuckin' give you. I put the effort in because you deserve it, because I need you, Y/n. The last year of my life has been death and destruction, and fear and adrenaline, and the only thing that kept me going was the thought of makin' it back here to you and my brother. You're like family.”

‘Family’. I’m like...needs me? He-

I lean forward and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him close. My brain’s not working right, I’m overwhelmed and confused, but my body knows what I want. He groans and presses me harder into the wall, pushing my shirt up and grabbing my breasts over the bra. He drops his hands to the front of my jeans, popping open the button and sliding his hand into my underwear to cup my mound.

I suck his tongue into my mouth as he starts fingering me. He’s going a little rougher than he used to. That scary primal energy is translating into something...so sexy. “Oh, god,” I whisper as he works two fingers against my inner walls. “Shit! Dean, fuck!”

“You make the prettiest fuckin’ noises.” His voice rumbles in my ear, makes me clench around his fingers. “You gonna cum on my fingers, baby?”

I whine and grind against his fingers. I’m so close. God, he’s so good at making me feel good. “I’m gonna--Dean, I’m gonna--Don’t stop!”

“I’m gonna make you cum ‘til you can’t fuckin’ stand it, Y/n,” he promises, pressing the heel of his palm into my clit. I squeal as my toes curl in my shoes and my orgasm crashes over me. I don’t even have a chance to get my wits about me before he’s spun me around and pushed me over the sink. He yanks my pants down to my boots, but he tears my panties off. I hold back the shriek that wants to bubble up as the cotton rips at the sides. He starts sucking at the skin of my neck, digging his teeth into my shoulder as he fumbles with his belt and jeans. He knocks my knees apart and leans over me, sliding his cock along my slit a few times before he slides in all at once.

“Dean!”

He’s rough, fucks me hard, digs his fingertips into my waist, my boobs, my thighs. He bites into my shoulder through my shirt, punches air out of my lungs with each thrust. He moves a hand between my thighs to pluck at my clit and I scream as I cum again, but he’s not done. He’s making good on his promise to make me cum ‘til I can’t stand it, definitely ‘til I can’t stand, because my legs are shaking and weak, the sink is the only thing holding me up as he keeps going. How is he still going?

“Dean, please! I need--I need you--”

“What’d’you need?”

“Need to feel you fill me up,” I whimper. Oh, that’s stupid. I’m not on the pill. But why is it so hot?

He hisses and kisses my jaw and pinches my clit. “One more, Y/n. Gimme one more.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” he demands. He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and nibbles on it, rolls my clit between his thumb and first finger. “Cum for me, one more time, cowgirl.” He moves faster, fucks me hard and plays with my clit more and I cum screaming into the mirror over the sink. “Good girl.” He moves his hand away from my clit and braces it against our reflection. He hammers into me, lasts another few thrusts before his breath catches as he cums, his cock twitching as he gasps in pulls of air. “Fuck. That was...so worth it.”

I don’t disagree. Fuck.

He pulls out, holds me up as he fixes his clothes, then moves to fix mine. He caresses my cheek and leans in to kiss me passionately. I’m a bit breathless when he pulls away. Intense. He’s definitely...intense.

“You changed,” I whisper. “Purgatory changed you.”

“Of course it did,” he responds, licking his lips. “But what are you, specifically, referring to?”

I look away. His eyes are too green, too hypnotic. “You were gentle before you left...almost awkward with me after Castiel made me kinda...pretty again?” I don’t know why that turned into a question.

“You were always pretty.” He bites his bottom lip and sighs. “Last time we were here, when you gave me your motel key...I was gentle then too, right? And that was way before Cas healed you. You’re right that I wasn’t awkward then, but I wasn’t tryin’ to build a relationship back then.”

My eyes go wide. “Relationship?” I squeak.

“Well, duh.” He seems amused by my shock. “What’d you think this was, Y/n? An extended one night stand?”

I shake my head. “I...I, um...relationship? What kind of-”

He shrugs and leans against the wall he originally pushed me into. “Why we gotta label it? It’s...I mean, I like you. You like me. We like bein’ around each other. We like fuckin’ each other.”

“Oh, for a second I thought you might be saying something real,” I snap. Thought he might want something like he had with...never mind. “You’re right. Why label what I mean to you?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “You comin’ with me or not?” he asks.

I swallow and bite the edge of my tongue. “Yeah. I guess. Since you chased me off from Clayton.”

He licks his lips. “Full disclosure, babe...there was a vamp in Clayton. Benny. Benny was a vamp, but he really approached you just because he thought you were hot and he’s not bad. Dude’s practically vegan.”

My eyes go wide. “I was right? And you know him?”

“It’s a long story,” he says again. “I met him in Purgatory. He helped me stay alive, helped me get free. Like I said, he’s a good guy and he hasn’t been a danger since before he got sent to Purgatory, okay?”

I blink at him a few times. “You…”

“Look, he’s the whole reason I knew where to find you, so you should be thankin’ him for callin’ me.”

“Wh--how’d he even know who I was?” I ask.

“Recognized you from my description.”

“You talked about me? To a...some fang?”

He steps close to me again. “I missed you. So I talked about you. So he recognized you and he called me.” He bites his bottom lip and reaches out to touch my cheek again. “Label or not...you’re important to me. Benny knows that.”

I lick my lips. “Okay...I guess?”

“I’ll tell Sam we’re comin’.” He starts to walk away but he stops at the bathroom door. “Don’t tell Sam about Benny. Please. Not yet. He’s not...we’re still gettin’ our footing. Please.”

I nod and push off from the sink. “Guess he doesn’t need to know yet.”

“Awesome. Let’s get out of here.” He reaches out and I take his hand and he pulls me out of the bathroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[touchstarvedsam]

cw: miscarriage, depression, and eating disorder

It’s the constant pain that forces him to stop looking for Dean.

The first three weeks after Dean and Castiel disappeared with the death of Dick Roman, Sam spent his time researching Purgatory, summoning demons, and praying to any angel that would listen. He was looking for any alternate entrance to Purgatory he could find, but no one knew anything and Crowley... well, Crowley never answered when Sam called, especially after he took Kevin.

He’s been beaten and bloodied, brutalized by the demons he managed to get his hands on. He blamed his weakness on the loss of his brother, but truthfully he hasn’t felt right in weeks.

His stomach aches, cramping in a worse way than the pain his heats put him through. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. Can’t even keep water down anymore, let alone food. The weight loss probably has a big hand in how he’s letting lowly demons get the drop on him and he’s just so sad all the time. Sam just wants his big brother back.

This morning, though, this morning the pain is at an all time peak. He can barely get out of bed in the motel room he has been laid up in hoping for the flu or whatever is plaguing him to pass.

He barely makes it to the bathroom to throw up.

It isn’t until he stands back up after heaving for five whole minutes into the toilet bowl that he feels it, the uncomfortable wet feeling in his sweats. He clutches his stomach, curling up in pain, before he finds the strength to get his sweats off. They hit the floor and Sam almost does too when he sees the blood pooled in the fabric. “Wh- what the hell...” he whispers, panic stricken.

He pulls his boxer briefs off too and scurries to turn on the shower and get inside the hot spray. He doesn’t know where the blood came from because he knows he wasn’t cut anywhere below the belt, but now he’s more scared than anything. He curls up on the bathtub floor and cries until well after the shower water is clear again.

When the pain doesn’t stop after several more hours, and he bleeds through two more pairs of boxer briefs and sweats he realizes he actually needs help.

* * *

Miscarriage.

Sam had a miscarriage.

Fourteen weeks pregnant, he hadn’t even been showing. The doctor said he was malnourished, gave him some pamphlets on domestic abuse after asking about the bruises, and Sam just laughed, said the father wasn't in the picture. Then he cried again.

He was carrying a piece of Dean with him all this time while he was looking for him... and now he has nothing again.

He’s completely alone.

* * *

He pays for another week in the motel. Flips the blood soaked mattress over so he doesn’t sleep in the evidence of his failure as a parent and brother.

He can’t carry a child to term let alone find his big brother when he needs him. He continues not eating, does nothing but lies awake in a lumpy mattress with a dried bloodstain on the other side, staring at the ceiling.

He cries for Dean.

* * *

After the week is up, he leaves without looking back. He never wants to see this town again. He doesn’t think he ever wants to see Texas again.

He hits a dog.

If he didn’t think life could get worse, he couldn’t have been more wrong. Amelia and Riot are probably the only things that keeps him sane while he's alone. He doesn’t love her, but he could if he stays. He doesn’t know if he wants to be loved. He lost his and Dean’s child; he doesn’t deserve love at all.

When Dean comes back, months later, it hurts less having Dean hating him for “never even looking for him” than it would to tell him he lost the child they accidentally conceived out of love. He lets Dean keep thinking he didn’t look because Dean would hate him more if he knew Sam couldn’t keep their child alive. That Sam wasn’t nurturing enough to carry a growing fetus.

He’ll never forget the pain he felt.

* * *

It’s hard, pretending. Trying to get back into eating like normal. Amelia fed him, but most of it ended up on the floor with Riot eating all the evidence. He told her he just never gained weight because of his metabolism.

Here, back on the road with Dean, he has no dog to sneak his food to. His stomach hurts all over again.

“C’mon, Sammy, you’re skin ‘n bones! Did your girlfriend neglect to feed you?”

He closes his eyes and takes another bite. It tastes like ash.

* * *

It all goes to hell when Crowley shows up. Sam’s a couple weeks into the trials and the first trial really took a lot out of him. He’s tired and weak and hurts all over again.

He hates this feeling.

“Moose!” Crowley greets, all fake smiles. “Squirrel! So good to see you, my favorite Americans. Glad to see you’re out of the hospital, Moose.” It’s laced with false concern, but it has Dean whipping his head to look at Sam. “Oh, does Squirrel not know about your stint?”

“Crowley...”

“I saw your bed in that dingy motel room, Sam, so much blood.” He shakes his head. “I’ve even got your hospital records right here.” His smile is malicious. “And I’ll burn them right here right now if you promise to stop these silly little trials.”

“Cr--”

“Give them to me,” Dean says. His voice is deep, gruff, and angry. Crowley looks from Dean to Sam, Sam whose eyes are practically pleading with Crowley to burn the records.

“Going once--”

"Please,” Sam whispers.

“Going twice--”

Dean rips the files from Crowley’s hand and Sam lunges. But he’s too weak, slow, and Dean’s strong and practiced from fighting for his life in Purgatory. He’s got the manila folder open and is reading every test result, every symptom, everything that Sam went through in that hospital on one of the worst days of his life: the day he realized he didn’t have his brother or his baby.

Sam’s crying, on his knees on the floor, begging, pleading for Dean to stop reading.

Green eyes meet Sam’s teary hazel ones and Sam sees emotion, real emotion there for the first time since he got Dean back.

“Sam,” Dean whispers. He hits the floor beside Sam, the papers falling and scattering everywhere while Dean grasps Sam’s hands in his own. “Why didn’t you tell me? You let me think you never looked, when...”

“I--” he swallows the tears, sniffles, looks down at their joined hands. “I could-couldn’t stand the thought of you kn-knowing,” he hiccups, “that I- that I let you down like that. That I couldn’t...” his hair falls in front of his face and he whispers, “Keep our child safe.”

Dean pulls Sam against his chest and just holds him as he cries. If Sam’s hair gets wet, well, none of them have to admit it’s because Dean’s crying too.

[amuseoffyre]

In keeping with the season, here’s the Crossing Paths chapter about the resurrection because I still love it and it makes me grin every time I read it.

Outside Jerusalem - Sunday Morning - 33AD.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Crowley squinted over her shoulder in the dark. “Nothing.”

The bloody angel was standing there, all agog. Good word, agog. Plenty to gog at. Gogging about. “I don’t believe that,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He looked down at the two Roman guards in a heap on the ground. Only sleeping. Wouldn’t even notice a thing. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Crowley sniffed, then turned around and put her back against the bloody stone, pushing it. The edges dug in between her shoulder blades, but at least this time, it moved. Sort of. A bit. And then moved back. She said a rude word.

“Crawly!” The angel stepped closer and grabbed her arm. “Wasn’t the nail enough?”

“S’Crowley!” She flapped her hands. “Geroff.”

“Oh good Lord…” Aziraphale sighed like an annoyed mum. Not like… not like his mum. Not when she stood and watched and couldn’t do anything but be there for him. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

Crowley scowled at him, trying very, very hard not to sway on the spot. “None your business.” She turned and shoved her shoulder against the stone again. Stupid damn thing had to move. Had to. Needed to make a disappearing act. Give the stupid humans something to go ‘Oooh!’ over. Piss off the stupid tin cans of the Roman legions.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled her back. “Leave the poor man to rest in peace!”

“No!” Crowley squirmed against his grip. “Need to take him!”

“Why?!” Aziraphale demanded, tightening his hold. Angel was strong. S’pose he had to be. Guardian of Eden, he was. Not very good at it, but still like trying to wrestle an octopus. Octopus strong as a tank. Octo-tank?

“Cos!”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Cos!” Crowley repeated, wrenching and wriggling and squirming and finally going all floppy in the angel’s grip. “Cos…”

“Because what?” Aziraphale sounded grumpy.

Crowley stared down at the groove where the stone rested over the entrance to the tomb. Shouldn’t have been so bloody hard to move it. Just a rock. Not like humans hadn’t put it there. How hard could it be to get it out the way?

“He believed,” Crowley said finally, a whisper. “An’ if they come an’ he’s gone, maybe they’ll… maybe it might not have been for nothing? Maybe they’ll think he was…. He did….” She shrugged, all floppy limbs. “Wanna take him. Hide him. Somewhere safe.”

Aziraphale’s arms went all loose and he made a small sound like ‘oh’.

Crowley rubbed her nose on the back of her hand. “S’stupid.”

“No,” Aziraphale said very carefully and gentle, like Crowley was a scared lamb that’d run off.  “No, I understand. A last kindness for the poor fellow.”

Crowley sniffed hard. “Not kind. Stupid.” He peered at the angel. “Why’re you here anyway?”

The angel’s smile was sad. “A blessing,” he said. “The women, his followers, they’ll be coming to anoint him now that Shabbat is over.” He looked sideways. East, Crowley supposed. Sky was turning custard yellow over that way. Morning. Should’ve come earlier. Angel looked back at Crowley. “I know you have the best of intentions, my dear fellow, but–”

But they were coming. But she was too late. But voices were coming closer and he recognised several of them.

“Oh bugger,” she yelped. “Angel! They know me! They saw me! There! By the cross!”

The angel’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “So they won’t be surprised to see you here, then.”

“Not like…” Crowley waved wildly to her ripped dress, the blood and muck all over it. Sleeping in the gutter did that to a person. And now bits of stone and all and she hadn’t done anything useful or helpful or anything and she gave a stupid useless whine, plopping her face in her hands. “I just wanted– I bugger up everything!”

Warm hands grasped his shoulders. “Stand back,” Aziraphale said urgently.

Crowley stumbled, tripping and landing right on the middle of one of the Romans, who groaned and blinked.

Stone grumbled on stone. Aziraphale’s face was all pink with effort, but it moved. It all moved and the tomb was open and Crowley just had to get up and–

“What–?!?”

Crowley hissed in panic. Mary, the mum, the brave little thing, didn’t cry out, not the whole time, not until it was done, and then she had sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and Crowley didn’t– Crowley couldn’t–

White wings spread, hiding Crowley from them, shining and dazzling as the sun came over the edge of the world. “He is not here,” Aziraphale’s voice rang out like a bell. Crowley felt it all the way down to her bones, edged with miracles and divine influence, searing away what was left of her hangover. For a human, it was probably even worse. “He is risen!”

One of the Romans – the one Crowley was sitting on – gave a girly scream and fainted.

The women – the mother and the followers – lit up like Saints, belief dancing through them like fire, and Crowley peeked around Aziraphale’s wing as they turned and hurried back the way they came, talking urgently and excitedly.

Crowley struggled back to his feet. “What did you do?”

The angel folded in his wings self-consciously, twisting his hands anxiously together. “Er. I– do you think that was a bit much?”

“A bit?” Crowley echoed, gesturing after the women. “That was practically a multiple conversion!”

“I was trying to distract them!” Aziraphale wailed.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Crowley exhaled, shuddering. “A bit much, he says.”

Aziraphale sheepishly fiddled with his ring. “Well, now you can…” He waved vaguely towards the tomb. “You know. Take care of things. Secret and safe and what have you.”

“Suppose I can.” Crowley warily edged around him, then paused. “Why did you do that?”

Aziraphale shrugged, staring at his toes. “Technically, it qualifies as a blessing. And they didn’t notice you, did they?”

Technically. Too bloody good at technically, that angel.

“Right,” the demon said, then bent and ducked into the tomb.

And then she bent and ducked back out.

“Angel,” she said, very, very carefully. “You know you told them he wasn’t here because he was risen?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance their belief that he was gone would make it true?”

Aziraphale frowned. “No. Why would it do that?”

Crowley, feeling more than a little off – backwash from a full-blown angelic conversion would do that to a demon – jerked her thumb towards the tomb. “Funny thing,” she said. “It’s empty.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he squeezed passed Crowley to duck into the tomb too. Not much point really. Tiny room. Not exactly like there was a hidden door at the back or enough space to swing a cat or anything.

“Where is he?” he demanded as he popped back out into the morning light.

“How should I know?” Crowley demanded. “Last I checked, they chucked him in there!”

“Maybe the Romans took him?” Aziraphale suggested.

“And stationed guards on an empty tomb? Come off it!”

“Well, if they knew it was empty…”

Crowley shook her head. “No! I–” She flushed. “I kept an eye on it.” She jabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Had to be you. You and your whoooooo angel of the Lord bollocks! You went and…” She flapped her hands all… angelically. “You’ve… somethinged him!”

“Somethinged?” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “If anyone’s going to… something anyone, it’s you!”

Crowley stared at him, then back at the empty tomb. It had the shape of a hell of a lot of trouble in the near and the distant future. “I wasn’t here,” she said at once. “No one saw me. No one saw anything. You… well, you can take credit on this one. However it pans out. Mystical disappearances, angel visions and stuff.”

“Crowley!”

The demon backed away a couple of steps. “Nice miracle, by the way. Thorough.” And she turned, hiking up her robes, and bolted off, bouncing off the bellies of the two supine Romans as she went. “Bye, angel!”

“Damn it, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s yell echoed after her.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

What Might Have Been - 17

@goodomenscelebration - Theme Prompts

Continuing to post as many as possible in one evening!

If you missed a chapter, they are all available on AO3!

CW for briefly described but very bad injuries; and for creepy abandoned towns

For those who need a reminder: “Crowley” is our Crowley, while his “mirror image” is the Alternate Universe version. “Aziraphale” (or the “Guardian of Humanity”) is the Alternate Universe angel, while “Kasbeel” is ours, in disguise.

I apologize for that being confusing.

Holiday

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley’s mirror image slumped against the wall, looking blankly at the space between them.

It was the only thing he ever asked. He never spoke of his own Aziraphale.

At first, Crowley had thought it was a trick. He’d kept his responses vague, evasive. What do you want me to say? Smug bastard with white wings. The mirror image had simply nodded.

Over time, Crowley started telling stories from their past, short ones, ones he thought over carefully, to ensure they wouldn’t reveal too much.

He likes oysters, way too much. Just. Salty, briny disgusting oysters, and he’ll eat a dozen of them in one sitting. Slurps them, too.

He can’t stand Charles Dickens. No idea why. Might just be that his customers are always asking for him, but I think they met once.

He’s been trying to learn to pull a coin from someone’s ear for over a century. Still drops the damn thing half the time. Isn’t it only supposed to take ten thousand hours to learn a skill? He’s coming up on a hundred thousand hours I think, and he still can’t get the fingers right.

And then, somewhere along the way, he stopped even guarding himself that much.

“He helps people,” Crowley said, turning his leg, which was still stiff and sore from the last torture session. The floor around him was black with demonic blood. “Even…when it’s really not worth it, even when there’s something way more important going on. One time, we were at this little restaurant in Italy. I turn my back for a minute, and there he goes, off washing dishes. He hates doing that sort of stuff, you know, always leaves them in the sink until I take care of it. But the girl in the back had been sick, and he sent her home and took over the job himself. Didn’t even use miracles, by the way, and couldn’t figure out how the machine worked, so he did it all by hand.”

“What…” the mirror image asked. “What was the more important thing?”

“Oh, uh, I’d been planning to ask him something. Not important what. We picked up the conversation later, but, um, he really ruined my first attempt.”

--

A hundred and forty miles to London.

Alone, Kasbeel could fly the distance in just under five hours. He would be exhausted, but he’d had a lot of practice the last few years.

He was not alone.

A Roman legion could walk twenty miles a day, setting up camp every night and breaking it in the morning. They could have made it in a week. Harold Godwinson had crossed from Yorkshire to Sussex in a little more than that.

But Kasbeel wasn’t leading an army.

He was leading nearly three hundred tired, hungry humans, most of them young, through enemy territory. Where they could be spotted at any moment and taken from him.

He took a deep breath, and walked through the crowd.

“Patrick, how’s the leg? Healing well? Ollie, make sure you hold onto Jennifer’s hand. Mrs. Sherwood, that’s not too many children? Please let Mrs. Kumar know if you need help. Amiyah, why don’t you move up to the front where we can see you? Alex, please, stay with your group, I don’t want to ask you again.” He greeted as many as he could, clasping shoulders, grasping hands.

When he reached the front, Lyla was waiting. She’d arranged her hair to hide the Mark on her cheekbone, as many did if they could. He bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. It was her choice.

“Are we ready to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards the highway, cutting south towards London.

“I believe so.” He glanced at the sky, black, filled with stars once more. It was comforting, and frightening. What else would change? “Let’s get as far as we can before sunrise.”

--

Ishliah had never seen the world before the apocalypse. Just barracks and training until the day the war started, then fighting, and fighting and fighting.

What spread before her now was almost incomprehensible. Little short plants growing everywhere from the ground, a vibrant, impossible green. And the taller ones – the trees – reaching almost to the top of the wall, branches spreading thick with fruit. Little animals sat in the branches, singing, not as varied or interesting as the singing of angels, but music nonetheless.

All that, and the sky above, brilliant blue again – it was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Ishliah of the Seventh Battalion. Welcome to New Eden.”

She turned, and her heart stopped in her chest. That face – she knew him, would never forget it, though now he was in uniform, flaming sword in hand. But the pale curls – the round face – the blue-grey eyes…

“You…” she managed, weakly.

“That would be the confirmation I need.” He stepped closer, still smiling. “I am Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth and Guardian of Humanity. I believe you met someone claiming to be me, three years ago, according to your report.”

“That…it really was…you?” Her hands began to tremble, and she wondered if this was what fear felt like. She never felt it on the battlefield, but this was much, much worse.

Ishliah had lied in that report.

“No, it was not.” He patted her on the shoulder. “And I don’t believe many others understand what you truly witnessed. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I mean to. Now. You said this angel…” a screen appeared in his hand and he scrolled down, lips pursed as he read. “Here it is. He took you into a hidden room and tortured you for information? Is this true?”

“Yes?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. There was a great deal of pain and…he asked me questions…”

Something caught her eye down in the garden. A group of humans, being led to a smaller walled area not far away. The human in the lead was shouting, and they all seemed to be bound together on some sort of chain.

“Even here we have our troublemakers,” Aziraphale said, with something like regret. “Sometimes the children don’t grow obediently as we’d hoped, and sometimes the Retrieval teams make mistakes when identifying the Elect. Not often, but we have been very busy lately.” He nodded towards the smaller walled section. “The holding pen is their last chance. Gabriel will arrive in a week to deliver the final Judgement on them.”

“And…if they’re found wanting…?”

“They’re cast out, of course. Far from here. The Eastern Gate, you understand, is purely ceremonial.” He gestured to the outer wall beside them.

Ishliah glanced down to see, not quite directly below them, a single stone missing from the completely smooth face of the wall. It hardly looked large enough for even a young human to slip through. She checked the inside curve of the wall. No breaks there – the missing stone didn’t even reach all the way.

She looked up again to find the Guardian scrolling through her report with pursed lips. “Ishliah. I wonder if, perhaps, you weren’t completely honest in what you said?”

She clenched her jaw, the fear suddenly reaching a height she had never suspected. Was this why traitors deserted? She would do anything not to feel this way again…

But the Guardian merely smiled, stepping close, lowering his voice. “My dear. Do not worry. What you witnessed was…truly extraordinary, and of course you thought no one would believe you. But this is no longer an isolated incident. There have been…other reports, curious ones, and yours doesn’t quite line up. But if you tell me the truth now, all will be forgiven.”

Her eyes slid again to the holding pen. “All?”

He rested a hand on her back, turning her away, until she faced him and only him. “Now, Ishliah. Tell me about the angel.”

--

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley tried to sit up straighter. His leg had healed, but now there was some great gaping gash across his stomach, and the way his manacled arm hung kept stretching the wound.

“He’s a complete hedonist. Foods. Wines. He goes to the barber every month. His hair doesn’t grow, he’s never had a beard, and he never even changes his look. I have no idea why he does it, except to have someone wash his hair and buff his nails. But he always comes out smiling, like he’s found the secret to peace on earth.”

“Nh,” the mirror image said. Crowley looked up to find he had a hand pressed to the bleeding wound on his neck. But it hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain. “I…uh, yeah. I know the look.”

“He likes to spoil me, too, when he has a chance. Trying to cheer me up, I think. I don’t tell him when it works, though. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. One time in Rome, there was this place with oysters—”

“Stop.”

Crowley looked across the cell, but his mirror image might as well have lost interest, tugging himself towards the corner to sleep.

--

After three days of travel they reached Burton-upon-Trent.

The gang of wanderers divided into teams to explore, looking for supplies: food, medicine, clothing, shoes, anything that could be used as a weapon. Kasbeel and Lyla walked together with Squad A down the empty street, hot with the kind of blistering heat that only comes on a sunny day. Barricades were put up here and there, signs of the Marked painted on the walls, but no one came out to challenge them.

“I don’t like this,” Lyla muttered. “I don’t want to fight, but…where is everyone?”

All of the villages they’d passed had been abandoned. Apart from the angelic patrols, England was apparently empty.

Kasbeel shook his head. “The Sainsbury’s should be up ahead. Why don’t you…” he trailed off, looking at a few unbroken windows up the side of the street. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I have something to investigate here.”

Two hours later, Squad A emerged with four shopping trollies loaded with cans of soup, vegetables, powdered milk – everything they thought might still be edible after seven years. Lyla doubted it would last them more than a day or two.

No sooner had she stepped into the overly-bright day – she’d forgotten how painful the sun could be – then she heard a shriek, a high-pitched scream of a small child.

She spun, grabbing a can of food, ready to throw it at whatever angel, demon or human threatened her people ���

The wanderers had gathered in the parking lot of the carwash across the street, and jets of water filled the air. She could still hear the children shrieking, but everyone else looked relaxed, calm, many of them smiling.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, prepared to push her way through the crowd, but they parted, pressing her forward until she saw the set up.

Four chairs, padded and high-backed, stood in a line across the parking lot. In each one, a child sat, dripping wet, while behind them the adults scrubbed and combed their hair, snipping with delicate scissors. They passed a hose up and down the line of chairs, rinsing the children off.

On one side, Alex had mastery of a single hose, waiting until a chair was free. “Next!” Ollie ran up, bouncing eagerly for his turn. Alex turned on the hose and drenched him, from head to toe, while the little boy shrieked, jumping up and down in the water. “Alright, you’re clean, go get your hair cut.”

On the other side, Kasbeel had set up a small table with two chairs. He sat on one side, and delicately rubbed at Mickey’s nails with an emery board, a pair of glasses she’d never seen before perched on his nose. “Ah, Lyla, you’re back. Join the queue, but be careful, many of the older customers are finding Alex’s methods a little intense.”

“What are you doing?” Lyla shoved at the table, causing little bottles of nail varnish to rattle. “You could have been helping us find food, and instead you’re – you’re wasting time!”

“I most certainly am not. Time is a precious commodity, you know, and ought never to be wasted.” He put down the emery board. “Do you want a color, Mickey? I think the pale pink would look wonderful.”

And Mickey – tough, stoic Mickey, veteran of five battles in the demonic army, Mark emblazoned on his brow for all to see – asked, “Can I try the gold? I like the way it shines.”

“Of course. A wonderful choice.”

“Look at me!” Lyla slammed her hand onto the table again. “What is wrong with you? We need to get everyone ready to move, we’re still weeks away from London. We don’t need—”

“My dear, you most certainly do need.” Kasbeel pulled off the glasses, brows snapping down. “Look at our people. They’ve been living in the mountains, in the dirt, covered in their own filth. It isn’t right.”

“So what? Who cares how we look? Humans lived like that for thousands of years. Our ancestors didn’t need to be pampered, they survived with the bare minimum—”

“Oh, no, who told you that?” Kasbeel shook a jar of nail varnish and began applying the first coat to Mickey’s nails. “I was there, and I can tell you. People bathed. People spent hours on their hair, and their eyebrows, and their nails, and elaborate henna tattoos, although I wasn’t able to find any supplies for that. It isn’t about wanting to look good, or to impress anyone. It’s about taking care of yourselves.” He blew a breath across Mickey’s nails, encouraging them to dry. “Being clean, being groomed, it makes humans feel human again.”

Lyla’s lip curled in disgust. But she looked back at the crowd, the smiling faces, the way the kids splashed in the puddles with bare feet, the way the adults laughed behind the stolen salon chairs, passing the hose back and forth. The teenagers all tugged at each other’s newly-short hair, running their fingers through it, marveling in how light it felt on a hot day.

She hadn’t seen her people like this. Hadn’t seen anyone like this. Not in so very long.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. And since we’re clearly going to spend the rest of the day here, I might as well look for a place to sleep. Something that’s actually necessary.”

She stormed up the street, past the shattered windows of the salons and nail parlors, past the Sainsbury’s again, and around the corner. She kept walking until the sounds of the crowd at the carwash were long gone, then just stood, quietly, in the street.

She wanted to scream, until the knot in her stomach was gone. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, and she couldn’t find the voice for it. So, she just stood there, in the street, fists clenched.

Until Kasbeel’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, my dear?”

“Talk about what? I told you – I’m – I’m looking for a place for us to stay.”

“There were plenty of townhouses in the other direction, you know. And I’ve already sent a team to explore them. Unless you think a, er, door stripping establishment would make a better place to spend the night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m mad, I feel like I don’t have any control over my mind. I’m just – I have a million thoughts racing in my head and I can’t even slow down long enough to actually think any of them, I just know we have to keep moving.”

“You’re afraid,” he told her. “You’re stressed, and although I forget it sometimes, you are still very young. I shouldn’t ask so much of you.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, you can. You handle it very well, taking care of the others, taking care of your brother before that. But, you know,” his hand rested under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s perfectly alright to take care of yourself, too. Indulge a little. Let yourself be happy. They deserve it. You deserve it. And it will make you feel better.”

“I just…I’m not sure I can relax anymore. What if they come for us while we’re all standing around, or—”

“If they do, I will be ready. I promise. I have not let my guard down for an instant.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her back like a child. “That fear you feel. You know if the angels come back, there’s nothing you can do, but you want to be ready anyway. Your mind is telling you to find a solution that doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. But there is something you can do, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“There are many of my former colleagues who believe that anything which makes humans happy is a sin. I believe it is always worth indulging, just a little, to show them how little you care.”

--

“Oh. And one other thing.” Gabriel wasn’t happy. He often wasn’t happy these days. Bringing about the end of the world, it seemed, was more complicated than anyone had expected.

Aziraphale kept his face carefully blank.

“We have reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south, but the scouts can’t seem to get near it. Vanishes every time they try. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Yes. I’ve been following up on these rumors for some time. The circumstances appear to me, well, nearly incomprehensible.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “It would appear these humans are being led by a rogue angel, posing as a scout or a messenger.”

“Rogue? You mean a deserter?” A brief flash of anger in Gabriel’s eyes, but it quickly vanished, smoothed over by something calm and patient. “Well. At least my best agent is already on this. Glad you took the initiative. Now. Tell me about the angel.”

--

The mirror image didn’t say anything today. He wasn’t a mirror image, either. He’d angered the angels who had come in earlier, refusing to cry out as they hurt him. Shoftiel had left him as a serpent, coiled mutely on the ground, and then they’d turned to Crowley.

“I can tell you about the angel,” Crowley offered. His throat was still raw from the screaming. They hadn’t even asked any questions, simply given him back his wings and broken every bone in them. It hurt, worse than almost anything else in the last three years. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

The serpent lifted his head, then let it fall heavily.

“He…he…” Crowley closed his eyes. It was so hard to think of a story. Not just the pain. His mind longed to be blank. “He is so soft. Like a cloud, like a warm blanket, like a pile of feathers. And that’s all most people ever see of him. A fool and a pushover and a – a – a lazy pleasure seeker who likes his books and his chair and his food. It’s what he wants, though. He wants to be soft.”

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, ignoring the way his wings felt like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

Far away, an angel led a troop of humans down the motorway. He laughed as he walked, carrying one of the youngest on his back. In the week of travel, they’d grown dirty again, their nails had lost their color, their clothes become faded and stained. But they still smiled, still tossed their heads, running fingers through their hair. The young woman beside him had hers cropped almost completely off, exposing the Mark on her cheekbone.

Suddenly, the angel stopped walking, his eyes locked on the sky above. None of the others had heard or sensed anything, but he knew what was coming. Three hundred humans gathered close in the shelter of his wide white wings, and his eyes took on the color of steel.

“But then…when he needs it…when the things he cares for are threatened…he isn’t soft at all.”

[obaewankenope]

work your sad magic on my fluff headcanons! 1. Azi is responsible for Crowley's current hair. He'd kept it long for a lonnng time and Azi wondered (after some wine) if maybe it was time for a change, and they found some scissors, and then this bouffant happened. Azi is very sorry, and Crowley is very happy. 2. Crowley retains a lot of snake-habits esp. when he's tired/stressed/his brain turns off. Such as hissing/lisping, curling into a ball, taste-smelling etc.

Okay, you’ve got one of these filled for now :)

.

“To be trustedis a greater compliment than being loved.” - GeorgeMacDonald

When Crowley had been in heaven, his hair had been oneof his most favoured things about his Appearance. The locks rolling down hisback to his hips, curling and bouncing with motion and celestial power. Deep,burning red like some of his most beloved parts of the cosmos.

The fall had dulled the shine, taken much of thecelestial glow from his hair, but the curls remained. Shorter, less beautiful,but still beautiful. Different yet the same. Or the other way around. Like him[1].

Several hundred years and he rarely cut it. Perhapsthree times before the 18th century came and went. Once was out ofnecessity—too much hellfire being tossed around—but the other two were becausehe wanted—needed—a change.

Now, in this twenty-first century, full of a lot morevanity and confusion and self-doubt, Crowley’s hair stands out as a tad bitunusual—especially when he doesn’t bother to pull it back into a bun or braidit or any of the other myriad of ways humans have developed over the ages fortheir hair[2].

One of the styles he often uses is a simple bun,sometimes scraggly as all hell, that pulls enough of his hair back that itdoesn’t get in his way but he still feels like it’s got something to it. Someweight.

People probably don’t even realise how heavy hair is—especially people who are used to longhair and suddenly have it short. It’s very much like having a tonne weighttaken off you and being replaced with a cloud[3].

Back in Rome, Crowley had cut his hair but he hadn’t liked it. It just fit in with the styleof the times. Marked him as Not Briton and thus not a slave—he’d had enough ofthat after one day and he may or may not have caused a lot of suffering tobefall an entire line of Roman leaders for making the mistake.

In the 1970s, he’d cut it to be a little less obviousthat he was Different to the humans, especially since he needed to blend in andnot Stand Out[4]. He’d let it grow outafter and in the mid-90s it was a decent enough length that he quite enjoyedit. Of course, then he was informed he’d be taking the Antichrist to his DesignatedStarting Point on the gameboard called Armageddon and he’d forgotten all abouthis hair for a Good Long While.

Until Aziraphale touches it reverently after imbibingfar too much wine and declares, “it’s time you had a haircut dear” as though itwas the most normal thing to declare when neck-deep in your cups and half-fondlingyour demonic not-friend friend without any awareness of what said fondling was doing to said not friend demon friend.

This is how Crowley finds himself sat on a ricketystool—knees bent at odd angles so his feet can perch on the cross beam on thebottom of the stool legs, head back, shoulders taut—while an angel runs his fingersthrough red locks and hums appreciatively.

In short: it’s sheer fucking agony.

“You really ought to take better care of your hair,Crowley, it’s far too lovely to—to—be—left to get all tangled like this,”Aziraphale says, tripping over words because of his state of inebriation and nothingelse. Obviously.

Crowley wants to reach out and touch the angel whenAziraphale comes to stand in front of him but the demon keeps his fingers to himself and firmlycontrols his reactions. He may be drunk as all hell himself but he’ll be blessed if he fucks up now just for afew seconds of gratification.

“Been a rough few weeks, angel,” Crowley sighs, unableto stop himself from leaning into the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his templewhen the angel touches the hair there with a gentle grace. “You’d be a littlebedraggled yourself in my place.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale disagrees, smiling, “I’d be anabsolute mess—a ‘hot mess’ as the kids say, right?”

No. No that is notright but Crowley doesn’t correct the angel, too distracted by the softness inthose angelic eyes affixed to the demon. “Something like that, yeah.”

It’s no wonder at all that Crowley agrees to letAziraphale cut his hair and doesn’t even complain about it—well, not muchanyway, he has to complain; it’s what he does—afterthe angel has given him an absolutely idioticcut that works for him only because Crowley has one of Those Faces.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale says for what is probably thetwentieth time in as many minutes and Crowley waves him off.

“It’s fine, angel,” he says, turning his head left andright to look at the style from both angles. “This is—yeah—not—not bad.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaims, clapping hishands together, forgetting entirely that he’s holding a pair of scissors thatdon’t impale his hands only because Crowley doesn’t want them to. “I really wasworried you wouldn’t like it!”

Crowley has no way to explain to Aziraphale that evenif the angel had made him bald hewouldn’t have said he disliked it without sounding Supremely Pathetic And Besottedand revealing far too muchat an inconvenient time. Instead, the demon miracles the scissors into his ownhands and gives Aziraphale a smirk. “My turn to return the favour,” he jokes,snipping with the scissors in the air.

Aziraphale instantly backs away with his nervousno-thank-you-very-much-I’d-rather-not smile and Crowley laughs.

“I’m only joking, angel,” he says, banishing thescissors away to wherever. “Your hairsuits you just fine.”

[1]No matter how much Crowley may argue to the counter, he is—and always has been—fundamentallythe same person whether he is Archangel or Fallen. It is revealed in the wayshe refuses to leave children to suffer, injuries to fester, and death to happenunless it’s Deserved or Entirely Necessary. Yes, he is only onedemon-eternal-being and thus cannot prevent all the suffering and pain anddeath there is, but—and this is the most important part—he tries. Oh, how he tries.

[2]Haircare—or hairdressing, as it is known—is something humanity developed thousandsof years ago, with Greek writers mentioning the habit of hairdressers. In someunabridged versions of Aristophanes works, hairdressers are referred to as both‘blessings’ and ‘nightmares incarnate’, likely owing to the tendency of ahairdresser to either be the nicest person on the planet or someone who likelyneeds to be strangled with a hair extension. Those specific works ofAristophanes are not to be found bythe common websearcher or archive-hunter; indeed, they can be found only in Aziraphale’s shop on the thirdshelf from the bottom of the first aisle of shelves on the right of the door.But that’s not a hint to go looking. The Principality is very protective of hisbooks, even the ones documenting HairdressersFrom Hell (published 1902 by anonymous). He will hurt you.

[3]This metaphor comes from the author’s own experiences with long ass hair thatis just Too Long To Be Practical and thus was cut short in a rebellious act ofFuck You Mum and turned out rather well in the long run.

[4]Ostensibly, Crowley argued that it was to be better at demoning but the truthwas so he would be less obvious to any demons in the area and also—mostly actually—because he had to reportregularly to hell in the 1970s and 1980s and he wanted to spice it up a littleconsidering the last time they’d seen him he’d had… well… sideburns.

[ogygia]

What the fuck is the hexagram ritual?: a guide

By reader request, welcome to the sequel to my guide on ‘What the fuck is the LBRP?’, taking you from a five to a six (Thelemites will appreciate the numerology there). I answer a less-asked but still equally common question: what the fuck is the hexagram ritual?

Recalling that the pentagram is a star with five points, the hexagram is one step up from that, a star with six points (d’oh). In the classic Western paradigm, while the five points of the pentagram represent the elements (including Spirit), the points of the hexagram are typically understood to represent the seven classical planets—

Wait, how the hell do seven planets fit into six points?

—I’m getting there. The six points represent (in clockwise order from top, based on the Golden Dawn/Thelemic schema) Saturn, Jupiter, Venus, the Moon, Mercury, and Mars, while the Sun is represented by the centre of the hexagram.

Hence the hexagram and the pentagram generally work on two different levels: the elements making up the pentagram are right here, with us, in this material realm. The hexagram, representing the planets, are out there, floating in the great inky space that lies beyond.

In other words, the pentagram primarily represents our microcosm: the hexagram, the macrocosm.

Okay, who made that shit up?

Probably the Golden Dawn. Ish.

This assignation of the points isn’t arbitrary: the modern Hermetic Kabbalah assigns planets (including the modern ones, i.e. Uranus, Neptune and Pluto – yes, Pluto) or the Sun or the Moon to each of the Sephiroth, or spheres on the Tree of Life.

The Tree of Life?

It’s hard to explain Hermetic Kabbalah concisely and satisfactorily here, so I’d recommend a book such as Lon Milo DuQuette’s The Chicken Qabalah of Rabbi Lamed ben Clifford. In essence, the Kabbalistic Tree of Life is a diagram that visually represents the ten spheres (the Sephiroth) that embody the process of how creation emanates from the original Source, i.e. God with a really big G. Imagine a light shining through ten different filters, the last of which crystallises it into the thing we perceive as Creation.

It’s probably easier to show you:

Do you see the hexagram in the middle of the Tree, centred around Tiphareth/the Sun? That’s exactly where the hexagram correspondences come from.

I thought you said ten spheres – why are there eleven? Also, Uranus is at the top point, not Saturn.

... because Daath (‘Knowledge’), the sphere to which Uranus is assigned, isn’t a ‘real’ sphere, so to speak. The theory is rather more than this primer can cover, but in short, Daath is more of an ‘illusory’ state that sits right on the gap between the spiritual consciousness attainable by humanity (culminating at Chesed) and the ‘pure’ Divinity that lies beyond the veil separating us from the source of all things. This is the gap known as the Abyss, and is a trap for any spiritual seeker. The next 'real' Sephirah after Daath is Binah, which in Thelemic cosmology is also the seat of Babalon, the Great Mother, who assists us safely beyond the Abyss. This is why Saturn takes the top point where Daath should be – it’s the culmination of the journey over the Abyss.

The Earth isn’t included in the correspondences, because the Earth is a given: we have our foot planted firmly in Malkuth, the realm of physical manifestation, of this tangible world around us. This is where the four classical elements live, and where we are. It is from here that we have a base from which to manipulate the six spheres above us, and being rooted here ensures that the higher influences in our lives are balanced, pleasant and stable.

So how does the hexagram ritual fit into all of this?

Easy-peasy: just as the LBRP is our key ritual to balancing and harmonising the influences of the four elements in our life, the hexagram ritual is our key to accessing the power of the macrocosmic forces of the planets. 

I’m not actually going to post the full ritual text here, as it would make clutter this post, but you can find it here, in Crowley’s Liber O. Note: Make full use of the illustrations included by Crowley.

Blimey, looks complicated.

... it’s a lot less complicated in practice. 

To break it down, the ritual opens and closes with a series of steps known as the Analysis of the Keyword, which is essentially an enacted analysis of the symbolic meanings of the word INRI (which, if you know your Christianity, was the abbreviation the Romans placed on the cross of Jesus, identifying him as Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum, ‘Jesus, the King of the Jews’). Thelemistas has a fantastic analysis which I won’t repeat here, but if you have any questions feel free to drop me a DM or an ask. But in short, the Analysis of the Keyword is a method of accessing and drawing down macrocosmic energy. It’s like making sure you’re the right shape of plug before you stick yourself into the power socket of the universe. Terrible analogy, but you get the point. It’s analogous to the Qabalistic Cross in the LBRP.

What’s with all the Egyptian stuff?

Blame the Golden Dawn again.

The Cliffs Notes version is that the Golden Dawn was deeply influenced by the major developments in the study of ancient Egypt – and fashion for Egyptian ~aesthetics~ – that exploded during the Victorian era. There was a strong association of Egyptian religion with the mysteries of life and death (for good reason, however), and so its pantheon and symbols became a language for expressing the mysteries that the Golden Dawn was obsessed with. 

Isis, Apophis and Osiris don’t just represent three deities – they are also symbolic of a process of deification and rebirth. Isis is the Mother that generates, Apophis the Serpent that destroys, and Osiris the King that is reborn. And of course, the initials spell I-A-O, a Gnostic god-name that appears everywhere in the Golden Dawn and in Thelema.

After the opening Analysis of the Keyword, you go to each of the four quarters and, as with the LBRP, draw hexagrams and vibrate ARARITA. 

AR— what?

ARARITA, the notariqon, i.e. acronym for Achad Rosh Achdotho Rosh Ichudo Temurato Achad, a Hebrew phrase sometimes translated ‘One is his beginning. One is his individuality. His permutation is one.’ The meaning and analysis of this phrase is beyond the scope of this post, but perhaps it would suffice to point out that the word has seven letters. Now, where did we just see that number?

Oh, I know! [answer redacted]

Yup. It all comes back to the [answer redacted].

Okay, great. But what’s with all the triangles? Some of these aren’t actually hexagrams ...

Technically they are; they’ve just been sort of ‘deconstructed’. I don’t myself know exactly why or how they’ve been taken apart the way they are (answers on a postcard, please), but as you can see the interlocking triangles of the hexagram have been rearranged to form four ‘variants’ that are each assigned to a different element. My theory is that, for example, the hexagram for Fire has two upward-pointing ones, which symbolises the upward-moving nature of the element. 

I thought we were done with the classical elements.

... I know, I lied. 

Well, I kind of didn’t. We are done with the classical elements, or rather, we’re done with the four elements as they exist in our regular mundane world. We’re looking at these elements as symbolic of more idealistic, transcendental realms – this is why they’re assigned to different cardinal directions from the LBRP. In the LRH, Fire is in the East, Earth to the South; Air is in the West, and Water is in the North (as opposed to the LBRP schematic, with Air=East, Fire=South, Water=West, Earth=North). This assignation is based on where the four fixed signs of the Zodiac are found: Leo (Fire), Taurus (Earth), Aquarius (Air) and Scorpio (Water).

It shouldn’t be a surprise now that we’re talking about the zodiac signs: we’re operating on a macrocosmic plane now, where the stars and the planets are.

One thing we should also point out: another possible reason why the two triangles are taken apart is because they technically are two separate symbols: an upward-pointing triangle and a downward-pointing one. In the traditional Golden Dawn association the former should be visualised in red, symbolising Fire, and the latter should be visualised in blue, symbolising Water.

Crowley, being the sort of person who wasn’t going to be tied down by such silly things as traditional correspondences, suggests in Chapter 69 (yes, I know: Crowley being Crowley, this isn’t actually an accident) of The Book of Lies that the magician swap these associations around, so that the upward-pointing triangle is blue and the other one red.

... the descending red triangle is that of Horus, a sign specially revealed by him personally, at the Equinox of the Gods. (It is the flame descending upon the altar, and licking up the burnt offering.) The blue triangle represents the aspiration, since blue is the colour of devotion, and the triangle ... is the symbol of directed force.

The fuck.

Do what thou wilt, mate.

Anyway, unlike the LBRP, there is then no invocation of archangels or anything after the quarters are called: we simply return to the Analysis of the Keyword, neatly closing up the ritual by going full circle (ha-ha). My theory is that because the LRH functions on a macrocosmic, and thus more conceptual level, there is no need to invoke figured beings to ‘ground’ or personify the work. 

Thanks, I’m cool with the symbolism now, sort of. But how do you use all this ... stuff?

My own understanding of how one employs the LRH draws on the work of Scott Michael Stenwick on the ‘operant field’. According to this technique the LBRP and invoking form of the LRH (or LIRH) are employed in tandem as a standard opening to ceremonial work. The LBRP clears and creates the vacuum within which magical work occurs, while the LIRH opens up a channel to ‘higher’ energy, rather like plugging yourself into a spiritual power-point. Put another way, the LBRP proclaims your decision to perform magic to the ‘lower’ realm, and demands that your work remains unsullied by it, while the LIRH then announces your intention to the ‘higher’ spheres of power and invites them to charge your work with pure energy.

The operant field technique is in my experience a powerful and effective method of initiating any ceremonial work, and is just good practice in general.

What about the banishing form of the hexagram ritual?

Most of the time I’ve used the banishing form of the LRH is when I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked up some planetary magic and/or an imbalance of planetary energies are causing trouble in my life, or in my magical work. I wouldn’t advise using it too much, if only because the level on which this ritual operates means that trivially employing the banishing form is rather like using a gun to kill a fly.

At the end of the day, it’s all about using the most appropriate tools for the most appropriate purpose. Hopefully this guide has given you some idea of what the hexagram ritual is appropriate for.

Just don’t use it to kill a fly. A swatter will do. 

[emergentanimism]

Every Magician is a Thief

Cultural appropriation in magick has always been a sticky issue. From Crowley incorporating yoga into his magick outside of the Hindu belief structure, to the Romans stealing entire pantheons of gods, people seeking spiritual experience have always seen the neighbor’s grass and felt envy. Most of this comes from a genuine respect of those cultures, and a feeling that their own culture doesn’t have what they need to express their own spirituality. So they steal.

For the magus, the biggest danger here comes from taking things out of context. No spiritual practice occurs in a vacuum. The people whose traditions are being stolen have every right to say, “No. You’re doing it wrong. That’s not how that works.” Because their practice only works in their specific cultural milieu. In most instances, you will never get it right and you will never understand because you were not raised in that culture.

Not to mention that this kind of stealing most often comes in the context of colonialism. Greece was Rome’s colony when they decided to make off with an entire pantheon of gods.

But this doesn’t mean you can’t learn from other cultures. It doesn’t mean you can’t use their concepts as a part of your own practice. It takes some work. But if you’re willing to do it right and put things in the context of your own culture and your own locality, it’s going to work better for you in the long run.

Here’s an example. In my attempt to rebuild by own paradigm with a stronger foundation, I’m still doing a lot of ancestor work, but I am thinking about the next step. In the working theory of Emergent Animism that means contacting a wider range of spirits, which includes spirits of place or spirits of the land. Recently, one of my followers (thank you again @aweandimagination) reminded me about Shintoism’s strong animistic beliefs. So I did some poking around, and one thing I noticed right away were the shrines, some huge and elaborate structures, but others tiny roadside shrines dedicated to local Kami.

They instantly reminded me of the Thai Spirit Houses I learned about from Jenx and his interviews on Runesoup. (Go and listen to those episodes if you want to learn how to be respectful to other cultures.) 

So I want to do something similar. I think building a shrine to leave offerings and make a connection to land spirits would be extremely beneficial in getting to know those spirits and honoring them. But I certainly don’t want to build a “Thai Spirit House.” I’m not in Thailand. Why would the spirits near me understand the symbolism and motifs of that culture? So I did some more research.

Actually, I already knew that the Ancient Greeks created thousands of tiny shrines to local ancestors and spirits. In fact, the general populace in Greece were much more concerned with those spirits than they were with the fuckery of Zeus, Apollo, and their buddies. Those are gods for the nobles. They have rich people problems. The commoners were much more concerned about how they can appease the spirit of that big ass rock so they don’t piss it off when they go plowing all the land around it. What I didn’t know was that the practice continues to this day. The names have changed, with the shrines being dedicated to saints, but they sure look like a continuation of the ancient traditions.

Chances are, if you see a magical practice in another culture that appeals to you, dig just a bit, and you’ll find something similar in your own culture. That practice will probably make more sense to you, and even if it doesn’t, why not give it a try? You should also be tailoring it to local traditions and listen to the spirits and ask them what they want.

So I’m not going to build a Shinto shrine or a Thai Spirit House. It won’t have peaked and curved Asian architecture. I won’t leave strings of tropical flowers as offerings. I won’t be including Eastern Orthodox icons either. Incense, water, beads, these things are universal, and appropriate. But I will be using local products and things that resonant in my culture. 

You should research other cultures and be inspired by their magick. You should be awed by the great variety of spiritual practice in this world. But you should also be amazed when you learn that the core concepts themselves cut across cultures and across time. A true thief steals because they are lazy and don’t want to do the work themselves. Do the work.  

[a-winchester-fairytale]

Memories ~ Welcome Back

Summary:  One phone call from a familiar voice. That’s all it took to bring back everything that had happened in the last year.

Dean x Reader, Sam, Bobby, Castiel, Charlie 

Word Count: 1642

A/N: This is a Supernatural series that I have been working on.  The "Memories" are meant to provide a backstory between the reader and the Winchesters, so they will span over a few years.  I did change a few things about the timeline, but I tried to stick as much as possible to the events of the show.  I appreciate all feedback!  Thanks a bunch!

**I tried something a little different with this one, and to be honest I'm not sure if I'm happy with the way it turned out, but I'm posting it anyway.  It goes back and forth between different events over a year's time.  The flashbacks will be in italics**

Memories Master List

When your phone rang, waking you up, you groaned and flipped it open without even looking at the number.

“This better be important!”  You said without opening your eyes.  You heard a muffled laugh, and then his voice.

“Y/N?”

Your eyes shot open and you sat straight up in bed.  You glanced now at the caller ID and saw the name you were hoping to see.

“Dean?”  You practically whispered, afraid you were dreaming.

“It’s me.” The familiar voice came back to you and you smiled.  But how was this possible?  Where had he been for the last year?

It had been months, several long months, and you hadn’t seen or talked to the brothers.  You had gotten a message from a burner phone that just had Bobby’s old house phone number in the message.  You knew it had to be Sam.  Bobby hadn’t used that phone number since you were a kid.  On a guess you drove the six hours to where the salvage yard used to sit.  Looking at the ruble that was left gave you an empty feeling in the pit of your stomach.  You leaned back against the back windshield and looked up at the sky.  For a brief moment you allowed yourself to remember back to your childhood and Bobby.  You could feel the ache in your chest growing and your eyes started to well up.  You quickly shook it off and sat up, taking a deep breath and letting your anger push the hurt back down.

“How do you turn it off like that?”  You heard a voice behind you.  You slid off the car and spun around abruptly to see Castiel standing next to the back door of the car studying you.

“Castiel.”  You breathed his name.  “How do I turn what off?”  You asked, glancing around for anyone else.

“Your pain.”  He said simply.

“I don’t know.  I just do.”  You answered, rubbing your palms on the legs of your jeans.  “What are you doing here?”

“Sam says that’s not healthy to do that.”  Castiel vocalized, ignoring your question.  He was still trying to process what he saw you do.  Human emotions still fascinated him and he often tried to get some kind of understanding of them.

“Yeah, well, not much about being a hunter is.”  You replied sarcastically.  “Why are you here, Castiel?”  You repeated.  You had never been alone with Castiel.  Truth is that there were still a lot of things about Castiel that made you nervous.  You were still leery of him since he went behind the brother’s back to make a deal with Crowley and started this whole Leviathan situation.  You tried not to blame him, because Dean had told you he did it all with the best intentions in mind, but you weren’t ready to trust him yet.

“I came to make sure it was safe.”  He answered and then he disappeared.  You rolled your eyes.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”  You yelled into the air.

A few moments after Castiel’s disappearance, you saw headlights in the distance.  You couldn’t see the car or the driver and you readied yourself for a fight, trying to ignore the knots in your stomach.  When the car turned off and the lights dimmed, you recognized the passenger as Sam.  You were running half way down the driveway when you saw Dean get out of the driver’s side of the car.  You hugged them both, now understanding what Castiel had meant by making sure it was safe.

“Where’s the impala?”  You asked, looking at the car they came in.  You heard Dean curse under his breath and turn away.

“Sore subject.”  Sam told you, explaining that they had to put the impala in storage for a while so they wouldn’t be easily detected.

“Oh, you must hate that.”  You couldn’t resist.

“You have no idea.”  Dean admitted, looking up at you and kicking some of the rocks in the road.  Even his thick eyelashes couldn’t hide the frustration in his green eyes.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but what’s with the midnight rendezvous?”  You asked Sam.

“We need your help.”

“Purgatory?”  You couldn’t help but be shocked.  “Castiel too?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story.”  He said.  You could hear the exhaustion in his voice.  No telling what all he had been through.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”  He answered.  “Have you seen Sam?  I can’t get ahold of him.”

“He’s okay.  He has a new number.”  You told him, biting your lip to keep from saying more.

“Can you meet me at the cabin?”  Dean asked.

“You bet.  I’ll bring you some food too.”  You told him, knowing that no one had been out at the cabin in a very long time.  That brought a laugh on the other end.

“You’re awesome.”  He added.

So once again you joined Team Free Will in an attempt to stop Dick Roman.  The next thing you knew, you were sitting on a rooftop across from Roman Enterprises, focusing a sniper rifle on the window of the office Charlie was trying to break into.  Although a bullet wouldn’t stop the Leviathan, in a pinch it would give Charlie a chance to get out of the door.

You could see her down the hall talking to a security guard, listening on the radio lying next to you as Dean tried to teach her how to flirt.  You could imagine the look on Sam’s face when you heard Dean say, “Stop laughing, Sammy.”  You had to fight to keep from laughing yourself.

When things went south, and you could no longer help from the roof, you ran down the stairs and out into the street.  You skidded to a stop at the sight of Bobby’s ghost throwing Charlie out of harm’s way.  The shock of seeing him made you freeze.  You couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Y/N” You heard Dean’s voice through the fog inside your head, breaking the spell.  You immediately went to help Charlie.

You saw the miles ticking by as you got closer and closer to the old hunting cabin.  You tried to keep yourself from speeding through most of the country side, pretty sure that no drive ever seemed longer to you.  Although you had heard his voice, his laugh, none of it would really be real until you saw him for yourself. 

You had given Dean the phone number that Sam had given you when he had left.  Although you tried to respect his wishes and never use it, you got a message from Sam once a month that just said he was okay.  The last time, he had sent you a picture of him and some girl.  He was your best friend and you kept telling yourself that he deserved to be happy.  He wanted out of the life.  He always had. 

You had left with Charlie, promising to keep her safe until she got to where she was going to start her life over.  By the time you got back, Dean and Castiel were gone.  Sam was off the radar. Crowley had taken Kevin, the profit they had told you about, to who knows where.  You tried to find out something about Dean and Castiel, but no one knew anything.

You managed to trap an angel in a fire of holy oil, only to find out that Castiel hadn’t been in heaven for a while, and there was no word on angel radio about Dean.  It took a while to get your hands on a demon high enough up the chain to get you to Crowley.

Crowley had been studying the Leviathans and Purgatory for a year.  He was one of the last people to see Dean and Castiel.  If anyone would know where they were and how to get them back, it would be the Crowley.  So, here you stood, performing a spell you never thought you would ever do; one aimed at bring the King of Hell straight to you.

Dean was on the porch when you pulled up.  He stood up and took a few steps down to the grass.  His movements were a little stiff, but he was all in one piece.  You jumped out of the car and ran straight into his arms, not waiting for the hunter tests to prove it was him.  You were so relieved to see him, you didn’t care. 

“Okay.  I missed you too, but formalities.”  You heard him say and you stepped back.

“Right.  Sorry.”  You said, a little embarrassed now.  You each went through the routine – holy water, silver, and borax.  Once that was done, you grabbed the bags out of the car and followed him inside.

You pulled out burgers and fries and set them on the table in the kitchen.  Dean, while grabbing some beers from the fridge, saw the pie in the bottom of one of the bags.  You heard him moan a little and smiled when you saw his face light up as he pulled out the pie.

“Have I told you how awesome you are?”  He asked, smiling.

“You might have mentioned it.”  You said through your laughter.

As the two of you ate, Dean explained some of what happened, but he only provided the highlights.  You could see the darkness flash on his face every once in a while and he quickly changed the subject.  You asked about Castiel, but he only said, “He didn’t make it” and walked away to start a fire so you let it drop there.

When you heard Sam pull up in the impala, you made a polite, but quick exit.  You didn’t want to be there for the conversation they were about to have.  You only hoped that Dean wouldn’t hold it against Sam that he had walked away, at least not for too long.

Next...

[talesmaniac89]

Fatherhood

Summary: Dad!Crowley & Daughter!Reader - Crowley comes home to find his daughter playing hide and seek.

Word Count: 1877

Triggers: None, just father/daughter fluff

Y/N = Your name ¦ Y/E/C = Your eye colour ¦ Y/H/C = Your hair colour

Note: So, as promised, a little fluff after yesterday’s angst in Phone Call. This was fun to write so might do more little one shots featuring this duo!

—

Crowley had been called a lot of things through his well over 300 years alive, or well… Somewhat alive. Demon, sure constantly. Bastard, pretty much his middle name. Vindictive, who wasn’t? Son of a bitch, well, they’d clearly met his mother. King of Hell, soulless, heartless, crazy… Hell the list went on and on… But father, that was not a title he’d ever thought he’d hold again.

Fatherhood never suited Crowley. Therapists would likely say it was his own issues with his wench of a mother, or possibly his lack of a father figure or some similar obnoxious bullshit. He himself however just believed there wasn’t room for children in his existence, more now than back then. Emotions were chains and children were an extra weight on those chains made to slow you down on your rise to greatness. And he wanted to be great. Roman emperor level great, except of course without the backstabbing, iron poisoning and inevitable loss of power.

Plus, as all the stupid souvenir t-shirts said… He’d been there, done that, and completely screwed up his first child. His philosophy was simple, really. Child-rearing wasn’t one of those get back up on that horse kind of moments. If you failed the first time around you shouldn’t try again.

So, when Juliet, his favourite trusted hellhound, brought a crying infant back with her after reaping the ripe soul of a dealtaker, Crowley was clearly… Well, in a bind was putting it mildly. The hellhound was somewhat smitten with the baby girl. Taking a protective stance in front of the child if anyone but Crowley tried to come near and curling up around her to calm her hiccuping sobs.

Having just had pups Juliet was still a bit… Motherly. Which was probably why she brought the baby with her. The child had been the only family of the latest soul added to his collection. So, with her motherly instincts, and having just claimed the soul of the baby’s single mother, Juliet had probably been unable to help herself. Honestly, considering the woman had squandered her deal and sold her soul on a wish to be in a very specific TV show, which didn’t really pan out for her career wise… She clearly didn’t have the knack for planning ahead, and from what Crowley knew, which was a lot more than he often let on, she had been a horrible mother.

Still, bringing the child back to hell… It was more than he’d expected from his hellhound, but as always, she constantly surprised him.

And so, Crowley had been faced with a dilemma. It wasn’t just a pup. It was a baby, a human baby. A living, breathing, innocent child that really didn’t belong in hell, not even in his more… Luxurious private slice of it. Yet, he didn’t want to leave the kid with the Winchesters. They weren’t really the poster boys for a healthy upbringing and he doubted they could provide the kid with the apple pie life of a perfect made for TV family.

Sure, he could leave her at some stranger’s door in a some strange version of ding dong ditch… But he’d been there himself, the traded for three pigs type of been there. And though that might have been back in the 17th century in rural Scotland he knew for a fact, seeing some of the poor sods that walked past his not-so-pearly-gates, that the “modern” foster care system wasn’t all daisies and teddy bears either.

Crowley was evil, sure, and cruel, definitely, but he wasn’t a monster. At least not past the tiny little fact that he was a literal demon. So he had taken it upon himself to raise the child. After all Juliet had seemed like she would rip the head off anyone who tried to take her new human shaped pup away from her. And Crowley very much preferred his head where it was.

It was like something out of a rejected sit-com script. Crowley, King of Hell, leader of the crossroads demons, and now a single father. And that, that was how hell got its princess, a full five years ago, though only those closest to the king knew of her existence.

—

“I’m home,” The words that over the last few years had been coming easier each time he spoke them now rolled off Crowley’s tongue as if they were the most natural words in the world. As if hell had somehow, after hundreds of years, actually become his home due to the little girl who waited for him there whenever he was out on business. Loosening his tie he raised his eyebrows in slight confusion when he didn’t hear the distinct sound of tiny feet rushing to greet him.

“(Y/N) where are you hiding now you little chipmunk?” Crowley fully lost his patented king of hell tone as he looked around the hallway, knowing the little princess couldn’t be far away. A warmer smile than he ever offered to anyone else easily lighting up his face and deepening the smile lines around his eyes to make the man truly look like the father he was trying to be for the small child that had turned his life upside down.

“Hmmm… I know she’s hiding somewhere,” He said to the room, pretending he wasn’t able to sense her presence behind the decorative curtains further down the long hallway. The small childish giggle he was rewarded with better than any amount of riches he could possibly wish to get.

Walking toward her he made a show of looking under tables and behind pictures on the wall and teasing more poorly suppressed high pitched laughs out of the apple of his eye. Adding a few small surprised noises and confused head scratches to the mix for comedic relief he slowly made his way over to where his little girl was hiding. The bulge in the curtain larger than her little shape should have been, which meant she’d once more dragged Juliet along with her. The hellhound was practically her domesticated house pup by now and seemed to have taken well to the role as nanny.

“I wonder, could the little chipmunk be hiding behind the curtains?” He asked the empty hallway in front of him when he was only a few steps away from where the five-year-old was doing her very best to stand completely still. Which, for a five year old was the equivalent of rocket science.

“Nooo,” The laughed denial only making Crowley beam brighter at his little ninja before playing along.

“Oh really? Well, then she must be in the other room,” The King of Hell pretended to take a few steps forward and did a quick turn back towards the curtains with a shocked gasp as (Y/N) gleefully laughed at his little performance. She was the only audience a father would ever need. Even if the Winchesters didn’t appreciate his little jokes, she always laughed and played along.

“Wait a minute,” Crowley said as he tip-toed over towards the expensive velvet curtains. “I’m pretty sure curtains can’t talk,”

“This one can! It’s Mr. Curtain!” The small darling voice of his little girl was shaking with laughter and as he looked at the movements in the curtain it was easy to tell the whole girl was shaking right along with it.

“Really now, well Mr. Curtain, but… What’s this lump here then?” He reached out of the curtain with a curious gesture and his princess squealed in her hiding place. “It kind of looks like it’s (Y/N) shaped. You didn’t eat my little girl did you Mr. Curtain?”

“Noooo, I jus’ had ice cream,” The small voice giggled as Crowley placed his hands on the curtain, pretending to measure up the part of the curtain where she was hiding.

“Ice cream before dinner?That doesn’t sound like something Mr. Curtain would do. No, you know what I think?” Crowley let his hand reach for the side of the curtain with a warm smile as he crouched to be at the same height as his baby girl.

“What?” (Y/N)’s voice had that cute little lilt it always got when she was truly curious. And she was always curious… Ah, the struggles of raising small children.

“I think this little lump is actually my princess!” Crowley said with a laugh as he pulled back the curtain to reveal his adopted daughter. Her surprised squeal automatically brightening the room and Crowley’s day as he caught her up in a big hug whilst Juliet nudged at them both with her snout. A bit jealous of the interaction as she felt as if she was just as big a part of the tiny little family as the two other members and just as entitled to a hug or at least an ear scratch.

“Daddy!” (Y/N) squealed as her little arms went around his neck to hug him back as hard as she could. Which honestly wasn’t very hard at all, but she always put all the strength in her little body into it.

“What have you been up to today pet?” Crowley said, standing up and lifting his princess with him as he focused on her brilliant (Y/E/C) eyes and her slightly messy (Y/H/C) hair from her time behind the velvet curtain.

“Walkies with ‘Ette!” She said, arms still around his neck as she looked down at the hellhound which he had yet to understand if she could see or not. Children all had a bit of magic in them, so it wouldn’t surprise him if she could. “Then Mr. Curtain ate us,”

“Really, did he gobble you up on your walkies?” Crowley asked with over-acted shock as he shifted the little girl so she was against his side like a little monkey. Teasing out another little laugh with a small tickle before carrying her easily towards the living room to ensure she got her dinner and possibly rewatch Moana, or whichever Disney movie she was obsessed with at the moment.

“Yes! You saved me from Mr. Curtain daddy!” Her big bright eyes widened as she nodded profusely, happy that her father was playing along with her little story.

“Did I? So is daddy your hero then?” Crowley said, his heart swelling like it always did when he held his world in his arms. Because shortly after Juliet had brought the little ray of sunshine into his life that was exactly what she’d become. His world.

“Yes! My daddy is the bestest hero!” Her little smile beamed up at him with so much love and admiration is nearly made the demon’s no longer beating heart burst. Her little hands holding onto each other as she gave him another big hug whilst he opened the door to the colorful and warm living room where he was just a father, and never the King of Hell.

To think he could love someone so much. With his little princess, his darling (Y/N), around everything was always fine. No matter what the world threw his way during the day.

It didn’t matter to him if the whole world saw him as a villain. Because to his little girl, Crowley was a hero.

Please do let me know if you wish to be removed from the tag list

Tags:  @auszimbo @upon-a-girl @gallifreyansass @mogaruke @skybinx-blog  @delisp @jensen-jarpad @supernatural-jackles @deathtonormalcy56 @27bmm @wildfirewinchester @just-another-busy-fangirl

Also tagging a few Crowley fans I know ‘cause I’m shameless that way: @roxy-davenport @crowley-you-sinnamon-roll @scheherazades-horcrux, @ajacentlee, @chelsea072498 @annabellerosemasters @alangel1895

[meganlpie]

Dreams Become Reality pt. 2

Requested by @mrscrowley and @a-queen-and-her-throne

Here you are, lovelies!! I do not own Crowley or the Winchesters. They belong to the creators of Supernatural. 

Part 1

Warnings: Fluffiest of fluff! Implied sexy times

Pairings: Crowley x fem!Winchester reader, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

“You want us to do what?!” Dean barked at Crowley. Crowley straightened his tie and repeated his request. “I want you to cure me.” Your brothers had a silent conversation between them before turning back to Crowley. “Why, Crowley? Why would you want us to cure you?” Crowley groaned and ran his hand over his face. He’d given this a lot of thought, but he hadn’t expected your brothers to question him about it.

               "I don’t have to justify my decisions to you, Squirrel. Are you going to help me or not?“ he snapped. A look of understanding passed over Sam’s face. "You want to be human for Y/N. You want what you had in the dream world.” Crowley’s frown deepened and Sam exhaled loudly. “Crowley…as much as it pains me to admit it, our sister loves you. For who you are. If you become human again, you won’t be the same Crowley she fell in love with.”

               Sam and Dean turned and left the room. Crowley sank back down in to his chair and contemplated Sam’s words. Could he still have what he did in the dream even if he stayed a demon? Would you even want that? Running his hand over his scruff, Crowley decided to find out. Snapping his fingers, Crowley appeared in your room at the bunker.

               You weren’t there, but the music was on, leaving Crowley to believe that you’d be back shortly. He sat down on the bed and glanced at the picture on your nightstand. It was a picture of the two of you at the Roman Colosseum. Crowley had taken you there for your anniversary a couple months before. He had been reluctant to take the photo, but you had convinced him. You were laughing as Crowley kissed your cheek. Crowley smiled at the memory.

               A pair of familiar arms wrapped around Crowley from behind. “I had a great time that day,” you said softly and Crowley chuckled. “So did I.” He fell silent and you kissed him cheek. “What are you thinking about?” you asked him. He set the picture down and put his hand on your arm. “You, dove.” You kissed his cheek again and let him go. “I know you better than that. You only say ‘you, dove’ when you don’t want to tell me what’s on your mind. Is it the dream world again?”

               Crowley sighed. You knew him far too well now. He couldn’t even lie to you anymore. “Yes. I want that with you, Y/N.” You smiled. “I know, Crowley. I’ve known since the moment you came back to reality and kissed me the way you did.” Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. Even after so many months, that memory was fresh in his mind. “I asked your brothers to cure me. To make me human again.”

               "You what? Why?“ The confusion was obvious in your voice. "So my dream could be real. So we could get married and have children.” You sniffled, touched by the fact that Crowley was willing to do that for you. “Oh, Crowley. You don’t have to change. I fell in love with you. Just as you are.” Crowley kissed you. “That’s just what Moose said,” he replied making you giggle. “My brother’s pretty smart.”

               "I hate to say it, but yes he is.“ You could tell he was still thinking about it, so you got up and changed the song playing. You extended your hand and pulled Crowley up. Crowley’s brows rose but he let you pull him close. You began to sway. It only took Crowley a minute to take to lead. You sighed happily and rested your head on his chest. The room was quiet except for the music and you were both just happy to be there in that moment. You picked your head up and kissed him deeply.

               The next morning, Crowley opened his hazel eyes when he felt a pair of lips pressed against his jaw. "Good morning, Kitten.” You propped yourself up on one arm and looked down at him. “Good morning.” Crowley reached up and cupped your face with a hand. You instinctively leaned into his touch and kissed his palm. “I love you, Y/N. Marry me?” Crowley blinked in surprise at his own words.

               A smile spread across your lips. “You know I will,” you whispered. You leaned down to kiss him again, but your moment was short lived. Your bedroom door was flung open and Dean walked in. He stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the situation he’d just walked in on. “SAM! I’m gonna need eye bleach! Lots of eye bleach!” He turned to you with a grimace. “I just wanted to let you know that Sam and I are going on a supply run. Do you need anything?”

               You opened your mouth to respond when you felt a foreign weight on your ring finger. Grinning, you said, “Maybe some (f/s) and a few bridal magazines.” Dean nodded and turned to leave. He stopped and glanced back. “Did you say bridal magazines?” You smirked and held up your hand with the ring. Dean’s mouth opened and closed like a fish several times.

               "Squirrel, if you don’t mind, I’d like to celebrate with my future queen. Close the door.“ Dean visibly shuddered before he practically ran from the room. You giggled and looked at Crowley. "Your future queen, huh?” Crowley rolled so he was hovering over you. “Of course, Kitten. The queen of my dreams.” Crowley captured your lips once more. .pr���_�

(a/n: I hope you like it!!)

Tagging: @fairytalesexistxx @brewsthespirit-blog

[mittensmorgul]

7.06: Ah, the first in Robbie’s series of “______ Fiction” series (Slash Fiction, Meta Fiction, and Fan Fiction)

(This was Robbie’s first episode ever, and I think he kinda set the standard for new writers proving they know and love canon, the way he used the past to drop clues to Sam and Dean about the present... and as showrunner Dabb has taken that bull-- let’s call it Larry-- and run with it in s12, so even on a conceptual level this episode feels like a forerunner of s12 as a whole.)

This was the point in s7 where the leviathan began stripping away Sam and Dean’s identities, and they’re spotted by law enforcement at a Gas N Sip a thousand miles from where they’d just apparently committed a mass murder during a bank robbery. Talk about pushing then into a corner where they can barely even show themselves in public.

And we get to meet Frank Devereaux. Another character I wish we got to see more of. But to this day, Dean’s really retained the best bits of his paranoia practicality and computer hacking skills. 

FRANK:: Little tip from a pro -- there is no such thing as a random series of robbery murders by your evil twins.

Plus we get Jody back, and she (again!) insinuates herself into their world and practically stumbles over the solution to Bobby’s problem. (I mean literally, she accidentally kicks over her mop bucket and the solution in the bucket drips through the floorboards directly on the monster, and it’s the first thing that hurts the leviathan that Bobby’s managed to find in days of looking.)

It’s also the episode they lose Baby, because their evil doppelgangers are driving an identical car.

(Dean dramatically lip syncs along to All Out Of Love as they drive away in their first stolen car of s7, to Sam’s creeping discomfort...)

LEVIATHAN!DEAN:You know, he has one of these... LEVIATHAN!DEAN indicates the burger he is eating. LEVIATHAN!DEAN:...every day. And in his heart, he thinks they're almost as good as sex. This...is disgusting. LEVIATHAN!SAM pushes a plate of salad away from him. LEVIATHAN!SAM: Dead plants with creamy goo. It's like eating self-righteousness. I mean, you tell me which is worse. LEVIATHAN!DEAN: I mean, honestly, I just... You know what? I can't stand the guy. Talk about a hero complex. And he doesn't have relationships. No, he has applications for sainthood. Oh, and he thinks he's funny. He thinks he's a damn comedian. LEVIATHAN!SAM: Who has two thumbs and full-blown bats in the belfry? LEVIATHAN!DEAN points at LEVIATHAN!SAM and LEVIATHAN!SAM points at himself with both thumbs. LEVIATHAN!SAM: I'm serious. It's nothing but Satan-vision on the inside. I mean, how he's walking around in a jacket with detachable arms is beyond me.

We learn more about Sam and Dean from the various monsters that have impersonated them, I swear.

Reminds me of the burger Dean ate in 12.18, that he called “Heaven.” Almost as good as sex, indeed. From a guy who has applications for sainthood instead of relationships.

And Sam, we finally get an idea of just how much he’s suppressing with the “Satan-vision” so far this season. In case everyone’s forgotten, he really is “full-blown bats in the belfry.” Nice reminder that Dean wasn’t entirely without justification in trying to “clean up his mess” with Amy. And how little Dean trusted Sam’s judgment back then.

At the end of 7.05, Sam was the one pushing Dean to open up about whatever it was that was bothering him, but honestly, Sam hasn’t been exactly forthcoming with Dean here, either. It’s a two-way street, and neither of them are really getting anywhere on it.

Contrast that to s12, and yeah they’re both still keeping their own council about some important details, but none of it is quite on this level of holy crap...

So Bobby’s interrogating the leviathan who got inside his own head while Sam and Dean get arrested and locked up, and have to somehow convince then police they’re not only innocent, but they’re all in danger. Bobby calls with the Borax tip just in time, but not before Leviathan!Dean gets a chance to rattle Sam with the secret Dean’s been keeping from him about having killed Amy.

I will never get over the fact that Sam needs to be TOLD he’s not looking at Dean when the Leviathan comes in, but Dean JUST KNEW it wasn’t Sam after one glance.

LEVIATHAN!DEAN: I just want to let you know how much I've really grown to hate you and your brother since we've been wearing you. I just don't get it. You could be anything. You're strong, you're uninhibited. You're smart enough, believe it or not. But you're so caught up in being good and taking care of each other. SAM: What do you care? LEVIATHAN!DEAN: Because it pisses me off! You're wasting a perfectly good opportunity to subjugate the weak.

He tells Sam that Dean thinks he’s “off his game.” And then Dean barges in and beheads “himself,” and says, “wow, that felt good.”

After the Sam and Dean are declared officially “dead” again, and we get our first look at Dick Roman... His minion suggests cloning Sam and Dean again, but Dick says:

“...but sometimes less is more. Those boys coming back from the dead again starts to strain credulity...even for the American media, am I right?”

Heh.

Crowley also has his first meeting with Dick Roman, who is just as disdainful of demons as humans.

At the end of the day, Sam finally tells Dean he knows about what he did to Amy, and suddenly the “talk to me” he’s been pushing on Dean for the last few episodes becomes, “I can’t even talk to you right now.” Yes, he’s angry that Dean lied to him, kept this from him, but he’s keeping just as big of a secret with his Hell-O-Vision. AND THAT’S A SECRET THAT COULD HAVE REAL DIRE CONSEQUENCES, SAM.

Yeah, Sam feels betrayed and rightfully so, but he’s also selfishly not seeing this from Dean’s perspective either... not seeing that Dean can tell that Sam has been continuously keeping the truth about how much his hallucinations are affecting him, and the fact it’s difficult for Dean to trust Sam’s judgment while Satan’s whispering in his ear and he’d been having difficult telling the hallucinations apart from reality-- to the point where he nearly SHOT DEAN.

I mean, this is why Dean keeps stuff from Sam in the first place.

And why Sam keeps stuff from Dean. Like the whole ugly story about the Colt. He knows how he reacted to learning that, and he knows that Dean’s reaction is gonna be a lot worse...

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 33AD - Outside Jerusalem - Sunday Morning

Notes: I know, I know. I keep coming back to this particular arc. But I was pressganged into Church for 18 years. It sticks with you.

33AD - Outside Jerusalem - Sunday Morning

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Crowley squinted over her shoulder in the dark. “Nothing.”

The bloody angel was standing there, all agog. Good word, agog. Plenty to gog at. Gogging about. “I don’t believe that,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He looked down at the two Roman guards in a heap on the ground. Only sleeping. Wouldn’t even notice a thing. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Crowley sniffed, then turned around and put her back against the bloody stone, pushing it. The edges dug in between her shoulder blades, but at least this time, it moved. Sort of. A bit. And then moved back. She said a rude word.

“Crawly!” The angel stepped closer and grabbed her arm. “Wasn’t the nail enough?”

“S’Crowley!” She flapped her hands. “Geroff.”

“Oh good Lord…” Aziraphale sighed like an annoyed mum. Not like… not like his mum. Not when she stood and watched and couldn’t do anything but be there for him. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

Crowley scowled at him, trying very, very hard not to sway on the spot. “None your business.” She turned and shoved her shoulder against the stone again. Stupid damn thing had to move. Had to. Needed to make a disappearing act. Give the stupid humans something to go ‘Oooh!’ over. Piss off the stupid tin cans of the Roman legions.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled her back. “Leave the poor man to rest in peace!”

“No!” Crowley squirmed against his grip. “Need to take him!”

“Why?!” Aziraphale demanded, tightening his hold. Angel was strong. S’pose he had to be. Guardian of Eden, he was. Not very good at it, but still like trying to wrestle an octopus. Octopus strong as a tank. Octo-tank?

“Cos!”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Cos!” Crowley repeated, wrenching and wriggling and squirming and finally going all floppy in the angel’s grip. “Cos…”

“Because what?” Aziraphale sounded grumpy.

Crowley stared down at the groove where the stone rested over the entrance to the tomb. Shouldn’t have been so bloody hard to move it. Just a rock. Not like humans hadn’t put it there. How hard could it be to get it out the way?

“He believed,” Crowley said finally, a whisper. “An’ if they come an’ he’s gone, maybe they’ll… maybe it might not have been for nothing? Maybe they’ll think he was…. He did….” She shrugged, all floppy limbs. “Wanna take him. Hide him. Somewhere safe.”

Aziraphale’s arms went all loose and he made a small sound like ‘oh’.

Crowley rubbed her nose on the back of her hand. “S’stupid.”

“No,” Aziraphale said very carefully and gentle, like Crowley was a scared lamb that’d run off. “No, I understand. A last kindness for the poor fellow.”

Crowley sniffed hard. “Not kind. Stupid.” He peered at the angel. “Why’re you here anyway?”

The angel’s smile was sad. “A blessing,” he said. “The women, his followers, they’ll be coming to anoint him now that Shabbat is over.” He looked sideways. East, Crowley supposed. Sky was turning custard yellow over that way. Morning. Should’ve come earlier. Angel looked back at Crowley. “I know you have the best of intentions, my dear fellow, but–”

But they were coming. But she was too late. But voices were coming closer and he recognised several of them.

“Oh bugger,” she yelped. “Angel! They know me! They saw me! There! By the cross!”

The angel’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “So they won’t be surprised to see you here, then.”

“Not like…” Crowley waved wildly to her ripped dress, the blood and muck all over it. Sleeping in the gutter did that to a person. And now bits of stone and all and she hadn’t done anything useful or helpful or anything and she gave a stupid useless whine, plopping her face in her hands. “I just wanted– I bugger up everything!”

Warm hands grasped his shoulders. “Stand back,” Aziraphale said urgently.

Crowley stumbled, tripping and landing right on the middle of one of the Romans, who groaned and blinked.

Stone grumbled on stone. Aziraphale’s face was all pink with effort, but it moved. It all moved and the tomb was open and Crowley just had to get up and–

“What–?!?”

Crowley hissed in panic. Mary, the mum, the brave little thing, didn’t cry out, not the whole time, not until it was done, and then she had sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and Crowley didn’t– Crowley couldn’t–

White wings spread, hiding Crowley from them, shining and dazzling as the sun came over the edge of the world. “He is not here,” Aziraphale’s voice rang out like a bell. Crowley felt it all the way down to her bones, edged with miracles and divine influence, searing away what was left of her hangover. For a human, it was probably even worse. “He is risen!”

One of the Romans – the one Crowley was sitting on – gave a girly scream and fainted.

The women – the mother and the followers – lit up like Saints, belief dancing through them like fire, and Crowley peeked around Aziraphale’s wing as they turned and hurried back the way they came, talking urgently and excitedly.

Crowley struggled back to his feet. “What did you do?”

The angel folded in his wings self-consciously, twisting his hands anxiously together. “Er. I– do you think that was a bit much?”

“A bit?” Crowley echoed, gesturing after the women. “That was practically a multiple conversion!”

“I was trying to distract them!” Aziraphale wailed.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Crowley exhaled, shuddering. “A bit much, he says.”

Aziraphale sheepishly fiddled with his ring. “Well, now you can…” He waved vaguely towards the tomb. “You know. Take care of things. Secret and safe and what have you.”

“Suppose I can.” Crowley warily edged around him, then paused. “Why did you do that?”

Aziraphale shrugged, staring at his toes. “Technically, it qualifies as a blessing. And they didn’t notice you, did they?”

Technically. Too bloody good at technically, that angel.

“Right,” the demon said, then bent and ducked into the tomb.

And then she bent and ducked back out.

“Angel,” she said, very, very carefully. “You know you told them he wasn’t here because he was risen?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance their belief that he was gone would make it true?”

Aziraphale frowned. “No. Why would it do that?”

Crowley, feeling more than a little off – backwash from a full-blown angelic conversion would do that to a demon – jerked her thumb towards the tomb. “Funny thing,” she said. “It’s empty.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he squeezed passed Crowley to duck into the tomb too. Not much point really. Tiny room. Not exactly like there was a hidden door at the back or enough space to swing a cat or anything.

“Where is he?” he demanded as he popped back out into the morning light.

“How should I know?” Crowley demanded. “Last I checked, they chucked him in there!”

“Maybe the Romans took him?” Aziraphale suggested.

“And stationed guards on an empty tomb? Come off it!”

“Well, if they knew it was empty…”

Crowley shook her head. “No! I–” She flushed. “I kept an eye on it.” She jabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Had to be you. You and your whoooooo angel of the Lord bollocks! You went and…” She flapped her hands all… angelically. “You’ve… somethinged him!”

“Somethinged?” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “If anyone’s going to… something anyone, it’s you!”

Crowley stared at him, then back at the empty tomb. It had the shape of a hell of a lot of trouble in the near and the distant future. “I wasn’t here,” she said at once. “No one saw me. No one saw anything. You… well, you can take credit on this one. However it pans out. Mystical disappearances, angel visions and stuff.”

“Crowley!”

The demon backed away a couple of steps. “Nice miracle, by the way. Thorough.” And she turned, hiking up her robes, and bolted off, bouncing off the bellies of the two supine Romans as she went. “Bye, angel!”

“Damn it, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s yell echoed after her.

[ogygia]

What the fuck is the LBRP? appendix: FAQs

I promised in my guide to the LBRP that I’d deal with some miscellaneous points in a separate post. Because so much of it comes in the form of questions, I’ve decided to present in the form of FAQs! 

(Source)

Here goes ...

1. I read your guide and it was interesting and stuff, but isn’t the LBRP just a fancy way of banishing, casting a circle and calling the quarters? It’s not really that special.

Technically, you’re not wrong. But you’ve put the cart before the horse. The butter before the bread. The jam before the clotted cream (fellow Brits will not argue this point with me). Because the likelihood is that modern pagan notions of banishing, casting a circle and calling the quarters (in that order) probably derived from the LBRP, rather than vice versa.

Now’s a good time to remind ourselves that Gerald Gardner, the father of the modern witchcraft revival – and the person who introduced the term ‘Wicca’ into the fold – probably borrowed heavily from Freemasonry and (shock, horror) Aleister Crowley himself. There’s no real reason why modern (organised) Wicca should have a degree system, or employ specific liturgy or ceremonies: these are likely to be based on a Masonic template, with some influence from the Great Beast’s writings. One of the early manuscripts of Wiccan material contain rituals and quotations copied from Crowley and the Golden Dawn, though what this tells us about the actual nature of Crowley and Gardner’s relationship is a matter of debate. 

Either way, the whole procedure of banishing, casting a circle and calling the quarters you find in a lot of post-Wicca witchcraft may have its derivation in the LBRP itself, or at least late Victorian occultism. Remember, I’m not saying these practices themselves, on their own terms, originate from the LBRP; I know that banishing is a thing all over the world, as is circle-casting (which has a long history in the grimoire tradition), as is calling the quarters (in Taoist craft, for instance, the four directions are invoked as well). What I’m saying is that the recognised ritual procedure in modern witchcraft which involves all three steps probably has a ceremonial origin, so it would be putting the cart before the horse to dismiss the LBRP as a glorified circle-casting procedure, without recognising its role as an original model for modern Wiccan-based practice. 

I’d suggest using the right tools for the right purposes: you wouldn’t kill a fly with a shotgun (not that you can’t). If you want to banish, actually banish. If you want to cast a circle, cast a circle. If you want to call the quarters, actually call them. Familiarise yourself with various non-ceremonial methods for doing these things – Gemma Gary and Nigel Pearson are a good source of information – and experiment. It’ll probably do a lot more for you than a quaint Victorian procedure based in badly appropriated Kabbalah.

In fact, you might find out that your craft only needs one or two of these steps, or none at all. Depending on tradition and the kind of work you’re doing, you may not need to formally banish, or cast a circle, or call the quarters, as long as you’re maintaining good spiritual hygiene, and/or already have a good working relationship with the spirits. 

2. Should I use a wand to do the LBRP? Or a dagger? Or will my finger do? Is there a difference? 

The First Knowledge Lecture of the Golden Dawn instructs the student to use ‘a steel dagger in the right hand’; Crowley in Liber O says to ‘make a pentagram ... with the proper weapon (usually the Wand)’. So basically, you can use whatever the fuck you want, especially if you don’t care for either the Golden Dawn or Crowley. Or try it with different things over a period of time and see how it feels. Experiment, make notes, see what works.

Advanced-level thoughts: I suspect Crowley diverges from the Golden Dawn because of the centrality of Will to his philosophy of magick. The steel dagger in the GD version appears to be a more functional, or perhaps less fussy alternative to the Magical Sword, which according to The Golden Dawn ‘is used in all cases where great force and strength are to be used and are required, but principally for banishing and for defence against evil forces’.

For Crowley, however, ‘The Magick Wand is ... the principal weapon of the Magus; and the "name" of that wand is the Magical Oath.’ (Liber ABA, Part II, Chapter VI). I feel it entirely appropriate that the Wand is the more Thelemic approach, not just because of Crowley’s phallic obsessions but mainly because asserting one’s individuality and celebrating one’s True Will is so central to Thelema. To employ the Wand in one of ceremonial magick’s key rituals symbolically reinforces the sovereignty of the Magus and their True Will over their universe.

3. Ew, Christian stuff! Can I change the names/symbols/words because I had a bad childhood experience with Christianity/hate Christians/hate God/ love the Goddess and want to do a Goddess version/don’t want anything to do with the Judeo-Christian system/am rebellious and just want to be different?

Short answer: Did you read the fucking guide?

Long answer: Listen, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t call it the LBRP, or claim that it’s ‘the same thing’, or works the same way.

Much has already been said about this elsewhere, but your knee-jerk reaction to Judeo-Christian elements in ceremonial magick reveal a lot more about you than it does the ritual. We know the LBRP is rooted in a Kabbalistic tradition; your feelings towards it doesn’t change its effectiveness for generations of practitioners. 

You don’t need to use the LBRP if you’re not comfortable. I don’t even use it that much these days. My only advice to you is to i) not be dismissive about it, especially in the presence of newbies and inquiring beginners; ii) recognise that the LBRP is a whole ecosystem of a ritual in itself, and simply changing the names and words willy-nilly and claiming it to be a legitimate alternative is at best misguided, at worst misleading for others. 

Being an asshole: ‘Why would you want to use a ritual that calls out to an oppressive God? Here, I wrote a version where the names are all replaced by pagan deities, and calls on the Goddess. It’s the same, in fact, it’s better. Fuck Xtianity.’

Not being an asshole: ‘Hmm, I would suggest you research it carefully before deciding whether to use it or not, but if you prefer something non-Christian, as I would, why not try X method to banish, or doing Y to cast a circle, so you avoid the whole ceremonial thing altogether – if that’s what you’re looking for?’

My point being, I don’t care if you don’t like the LBRP. I care if you poison the mind of impressionable new seekers with your own knee-jerk prejudices.

That said, there are certain alternatives that in my opinion are legitimate, or close enough in effect, or possess a similar potentiality:

The Olympic Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram (notes) – I personally think this is an excellent alternative, especially for those who work within a Greco-Roman paradigm, or a Gnostic/Neoplatonic framework.

The Star Ruby – You’ll probably be aware of this one already if you know your Crowley. Frankly, this is not recommended to anyone who isn’t already working in a Thelemic context.

I can’t think of any other ones right now, but I’ll post them if I come across any.

4. Okay, in your guide I’ve noticed that you can use an Invoking pentagram. How does that work?

One thing I didn’t have space to clarify in the original guide is that the LBRP is not in fact a ritual; it is a variant of a ritual. Think of the structure of the LBRP as a basic template; you can adapt the template for different purposes by drawing the pentagrams in different ways. You can use the LRP (as the basic ritual is called) to invoke or banish any of the five elements, including Spirit; but, as explained in the guide, Earth is chosen as the basic banishing variant because it deals with influences in the mundane sphere of existence.

I didn’t go through the Golden Dawn system myself but as far as I’m aware, part of the work in the outer order involves invoking the elements separately using the LRP and recording what differences they make in your life. I imagine you can easily adapt this to raise specific elemental energies for specific purposes, but I feel like there’s a lot more power in using the planets for practical purposes anyway, rather than the elements. But that’s another discussion.

Also, if you’re wondering, there is indeed a Greater version of the ritual, and in fact there’s also a Supreme version of the ritual, but you don’t need to bother with those unless you’re a Golden-Dawn-type ceremonialist and/or want to work with Enochian energies. And there’s also a hexagram version of the ritual, but I’ll discuss that in a separate guide, perhaps ...

5. This has all been very interesting! Any resources on the ritual that you might suggest, so I can do further research?

Lists! I love lists. My thoughts on useful resources for the LBRP:

To begin with, the aforementioned First Knowledge Lecture is always worth looking through.

Crowley’s ‘Notes on the Ritual of the Pentagram’ – a surprisingly short essay for a usually verbose man, but succinctly explains some of the key mechanics of how the ritual works, and how to perform it properly. Can get a bit technical.

Thelema and Skepticism’s blog post on the LBRP – the blogger in question here has very strong views about what Thelema is or isn’t and I’ve seen him get caught up in all kinds of drama on forums, but his post on the LBRP is one of the best and most comprehensive discussions of the ritual I’ve ever seen. Read with a critical mind, of course, but this is about as orthodox an explanation of the ritual as it gets.

Mark Stavish’s Additional Notes on the LBRP – an excellent, if occasionally jargon-y, further discussion of the ritual, including thoughts on how the angels might be visualised, based on Golden Dawn colour correspondences.

Scott Michael Stenwick’s blog post on the LBRP – a miscellaneous collection of thoughts on the ritual, including some brilliant myth-busting. Stenwick is an excellent magical blogger and his work on the method of the operant field is frankly brilliant. Honestly, I just recommend his whole blog. 

Not directly relevant, and a book, but Lon Milo DuQuette’s The Chicken Qabalah of Rabbi Lamed Ben Clifford is a top-notch and very funny introduction to the Hermetic Kabbalah – i.e. the Kabbalah as it is used in the Western ceremonial tradition.

That’s it, folks. There’s more to be said, but probably as miscellaneous throwaway conversations when they arise. I emphasise my earlier point that I write this from my own understanding of and experiences with the ritual, and therefore don’t expect everyone to agree with all of my points. Feel free to send me asks or something if you have any questions or thoughts.