#i suppose you could argue that Crowley's not angel stupid and can recognize a face better

[fullmetal-angelgrace]

OK WAIT

metatron specifically asks crowley if he recognizes him, but how would metatron know crowley saw video files of him? unless he has met crowley before and knew that crowley knew him too, and later metatron says that crowley always asked "damn fool questions"

AND

angel crowley in the opening scene talks about putting his questions into a suggestion box for god, which we know IS the metatron, as we see in season 1 when aziraphale tries to talk to god

SO im pretty sure that means crowley asked his questions to the metatron, and the reason he fell at all is because of whatever was said in that conversation, (obviously he wasn't struck down immediately, the war still had to happen, but im sure whatever metatron said made crowley want to 'hang out with the wrong crowd') and metatron left enough of an impression that he remembered what he looked like more than metatron's own fellow angels

just a thought I hadn't seen anyone talk about

[somedrunkpirate]

what we lack in words  (Ineffable Husbands Ficlet)

Read the whole thing on ao3 here!

Teaser:

Crowley sways his way to the front door, the ringing of the bell piercing through his head like a particularly persistent woodpecker. 

The delivery should have been here an hour ago, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent the time drinking perhaps more than was prudent, if one wished to interact with the outside world in a fashionable manner. 

Aziraphale’s pouting while complaining of hunger had been the match to a rumbling fire of frustration, so by the time the delivery girl says, “It was with rice, right?”, there is no stopping the flames of hell. 

“Give it,” Crowley hisses, eyes flashing. “If you are too stupid to do this simple task, I do not trust you to be able to throw it away either! I shall do the honours.”

She makes no move to hand it over, which only reveals more foolishness. Who dares to stand in the way of Crowley, demon of the underworld, giver of choice and creator of sin? 

Crowley is about to set the record straight with some well placed infernal curses, when the kid goes from a defensive stance to a huff of relief. 

Aziraphale pipes up behind him, “What is going on? Why are we taking so long, I’m quite hungry— oh there we are. Thank you, dear, it's quite the weather isn’t it?” 

The teen mutters a very audible ‘Thank God’, under her breath, before saying,  “I am sorry, sir, for the delay. There was a traffic jam because of the rain.” Her gaze flickers between them before clearing her throat. “I think we might have gotten the order wrong too and your husband here is not taking it too kindly.” 

Crowley, in a mist of offence, opens his mouth to snap something— anything to put the fear of all that is unholy into this mortal child— how dare she point to him as the villain in this situation when she forgot the egg noodles. It’s Aziraphale’s favorite. It shan’t be forgiven. 

But just before he can speak, he trips over one peculiar word she said and all thought is scattered in the following proverbial fall.

Husband. 

Aziraphale smiles, the kind of smile that soothes even the most prickly of people, and says, “My apologies for my husband’s behavior. He gets fussy when hungry, you know how it is.” 

My husband? 

“I— we—” Crowley splutters, as Aziraphale steals the wallet right out of his hands and pays the abomination of food-delivery dressed in human clothing. “She forgot your egg noodles!”

Aziraphale pats his arm reassuringly. “I’ll just liberate some of your ramen, dear. You never finish the whole thing anyway.” 

At that, the girl sees her chance to flee and slips away in what should be considered a jog, but might look like a walk to the untrained eye. 

Aziraphale closes the door, seemingly completely unperturbed by the situation. He has no trouble guiding Crowley back to the living room, as he has reverted to a static state of complete confoundment. This is because the tiny metaphorical devils in the corners of his mind are too busy upending the archives of Memory. Short moving scenes and stacks of images are flung about mercilessly, all depicting the same inevitable event set to different settings. The Denial. 

“I’m not his friend” “I don’t know him.” “We’re not.” “He is not my—” 

Because always, without fail, Aziraphale clears the air of any uncouth assumptions that humans invariably make about them. 

Crowley never felt the urge to do the same. He would claim that it was professional curiosity— it can be quite useful to know the levels of intimacy different cultures and times reserve for different bonds, impertinent information for temptation all across the board. Secondly, he might claim that the implication of such intimacy is amusing, and therefore he’d wanted to maintain the illusion for entertainment purposes. Thirdly, if desperately, he could argue that this could up his devilish reputation; the idea that he’d tempted an angel of heaven to his wedding bed should be an accomplishment of his own, however unrealistic it might be. 

But this would not be the truth of it, and Crowley had lost the ability to effectively lie to himself somewhere in the last few weeks. Facing an apocalypse does wonders to one’s self-reflection. So he’s now very acutely aware of the real reason why he likes hearing those false impressions. 

It is proof. Though humanity’s perception is often faulty, they’d been able, over the generations, to recognize something that Crowley has always felt, but Aziraphale could not see. It had given him a little speck of hope, that if strangers could feel the tension between them then it wasn’t all projection and that maybe someday—

Yeah. Right. 

The point is, Aziraphale had broken the pattern, which is why Crowley has lost all ability to function.

“Come,” Aziraphale says, looking completely chuffed as he spreads out their dinner on the table. “I’m starving.” 

Crowley sits. Food is about the last thing on his mind right now. 

My husband. My husband. My husband. 

It grates on him, but sweetly— an ache that makes him understand why some people seek out pain for pleasure. He repeats the sequence of events again and again, trying to make it feel less like a dream. Even merely minutes removed, the complete surprise of it has given it an almost fantastical reality. It shimmers in his mind’s eye. A magic trick. It must be. 

Aziraphale, his bastard worth knowing, had not plucked the assumption from the mouth of a stranger and crushed it mercilessly underfoot. He hadn’t even ignored it. 

He’d confirmed it. 

Realising that for the second time doesn’t help matters. On the contrary, it results in Crowley completely losing his mind. 

“Angel, have I missed my own wedding?” Crowley asks idly. Like the idea amuses him. As if a wrong word on this will not break him— at least for half an eternity, give or take. 

When Aziraphale doesn’t immediately respond, Crowley continues, his voice climbing higher and higher as he goes. “Please tell me it was in a church. I’ve always planned to tapdance my way into your hand.” 

He tries to grin at the joke, but it fits like an earthworm on his face. It isn’t even a joke. It is revealing in a way Aziraphale should be able to notice. Any moment now Aziraphale will look at him with that particular frown of confusion, or the soft-featured face of pity. Or even more nightmarish, the gentle smile of kindness, and then crush this shadow of an assumption as mercilessly he’d almost done— almost always done. 

Crowley braces himself and—

Aziraphale chuckles. 

“Oh dear,” he says, pausing to hide a giggle with his hand. “That would have been quite something.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed with delight, a mirth to his eyes that spells out the kind of admiration of shenanigans, which made him so frustratingly lovable— among other things. 

Crowley should be relieved— the regained security of his most tightly held secret is such a bout of luck that he should be on his knees to thank Her for it. 

But he isn’t. His fist clenches and his breath pushes and pulls with a sudden force. Every huff of laughter from Aziraphale shoots a hot bolt of something painful through his body. How dare he laugh like this? How dare he giggle like it’s nothing but a joke—like it doesn’t matter. As if none of it did. As if there is nothing instrumental and earth shattering about the fact that Aziraphale confirmed it. He agreed with what the stupid kid saw, even if it was just the easiest way to diffuse the situation. He’d never cared about that before. The denial was always more important. So why—

“Why did you—” Crowley stops himself, and takes extra care to keep his voice from climbing. “You always. Always. Denied it. Why did you— Why did you?” 

Aziraphale has stopped giggling and looks at him with wide eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry dear. I didn’t think you would mind.” 

“I—” Crowley sets his jaw and tells the truth. “I don’t.” 

He gets a sceptical eyebrow for his efforts. 

Crowley’s gaze flickers away, looking at nothing in particular. He feels too warm inside of his skin, like he’s stepped into a sauna without noticing. “I just want to understand, Angel.” 

There is a pause, but then Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, the child was scared, so arguing the point would only draw out the interaction more. I merely wished to end it as soon as I could, granting the both of you peace and quiet.” 

The pitch of Aziraphale’s voice fluctuates in almost a circular manner, reflecting the way he is clearly talking around something Crowley cannot see the shape of, only knowing its existence by the absence of the complete truth. What is he hiding?

“Angel,” Crowley says instead, but the question comes across nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry! I just—” Aziraphale sighs. “It is strange to put words to it so explicitly, but I suppose I agree with the child, in a sense. The English language— as all human languages — is so limited in its descriptions of the higher emotions, which is understandable as they do not experience many of them in their mortal lifetimes… But I have to admit that taking those faults in account, husband is a more accurate moniker than not, relatively speaking.” 

Crowley’s eyes snap to Aziraphale, who is— unperturbed. Not flushed at all. His expression is one of serene contemplation, and Crowley can only theorize that his dearest angel has absolutely no idea what the word “husband” means. 

“I mean, you have to give them kudos for their tireless attempts to craft the right phrases. Poets, if nothing else, are the most determined of all to give language to what they will never understand. But nothing would describe what we are to each other. They could never comprehend a bond stretching over six thousand years; a friendship bridging the greatest divide, that of Heaven and Hell.” 

At this, Aziraphale shakes his head, smiling absently for a moment, and then returns from the far away place his mind had been to meet Crowley’s gaze with sudden intensity. His smile grows larger, but subtly so, like he is trying to tame it unsuccessfully. His cheeks remain un-flushed, but his eyes— his eyes are red and filled with emotion too large to name. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, reaching over to take his hands. “We have saved the world together. We have been godparents, companions through the ages, and no one knows us more than we do each other. What other word is there but husband?” 

Crowley has lost his grasp on words all together. There is nothing to say— nothing to argue, because how can he respond to something so unbearably true and so torturously wrong at the same time? 

If he’d had the capacity to, Crowley would have said— yelled maybe: Yes. We are. We always have been. But no, you blasted angel. No we are not because I love you like human husbands do. And you do not allow me to. 

But he can’t, so instead he nods, very slowly, in a rare moment that is neither the truth nor a lie. 

He’s rewarded with a squeeze of his hands. 

“Oh, I am glad we agree,” Aziraphale says, joyful, and then releases him to gather their plates. “We’ve forgotten all about the food in our excitement. I’m going to heat it up for a mo. Do you want tea in the meantime?” 

The pure casualness of it all is giving Crowley an acute headache. He nods again. 

“Alright, don’t go anywhere dear, I’ll be right back.”  The rest is on ao3!  Tags @proficientatfreakness  @theheirofashandfire  @regvlusblxck @nooraamaliesaetre  @smileatthemoons

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Writing Crowley

So I’ve seen quite a few people say they find writing Crowley to be much harder than writing Aziraphale. As someone who has generally felt the opposite (shockingly!) I thought I’d throw out a few insights into his character. Feel free to add or even contradict (since some of these are more headcanons).

Crowley uses his cool exterior to hide his inner anxieties. This is Crowley 101, but yeah. He pretends to be James Bond so that people don’t see that deep down he really just wants a hug. 

That said, Being the Hero (TM) is very important to him (weelllll being Aziraphale’s Hero) so he definitely has a tendency to go a bit over the top when he can play this role (see: Bastille, Nazi church, basically any time he gets to act like he knows what he’s doing). Conversely, when his plans fall apart, he gets a bit sullen and withdrawn, because he was left feeling exposed.

Despite all this, Crowley IS a happy guy. He likes to have a good time. Or more accurately, when Hell isn’t breathing down his neck and he gets to do something he enjoys (glue rare coins to sidewalks, drive the Bentley like a maniac, hang out with Aziraphale) he’s, well, he’s as happy as an angel with a plate full of crepes. As an example, look at him in the “getting drunk and plotting to become godfathers” scene. Yes they’re talking about the end of the world, but he got to go on a date, get pleasantly drunk, babble for hours, he’s so comfortable he’s taken his glasses off - and leaves them off even when he sobers up - and he’s convincing Aziraphale to spend a very large amount of time with him over the next 11 years. He’s in his element, and he looks genuinely happy.

Speaking of making plans, Crowley has two levels when it comes to planning: (1) Everything is laid out in an elaborate, multi-part scheme that is the biggest of Go Bigs where he gets to be the cool suave hero or whatever the appropriate genre equivalent is, yet somehow he’s failed to think of one essential point which will ultimately blow up in his face; (2) “Uuuuuuh I’ve got nothing but I’ll surely have a plan in the time it takes to stand up and walk three steps.”

Crowley thinks he has a better grasp of the human psyche than anyone in Hell, and he’s probably right. He knows how humans think, knows how to get under their skin, knows how to make them do what he wants better than literally anyone. He thinks all of Hell’s plans are incredibly stupid and has thought this for thousands of years.

That said, Crowley’s idea of “demonic behavior” is gluing a rare coin to the sidewalk and then watching from a nearby cafe. He likes to watch humans being humans. He likes to give choices and see what they decide. He also thinks anything that slightly ruins someone’s day is hilarious.

He’s as disturbed by the worst excesses of humanity than he is by Hell. No, scratch that, he’s more disturbed by humanity (see: Caligula, Spanish Inquisition, French Revolution, bunch of half-witted Nazis). I don’t know if he consciously thinks of it as “I gave them free will and look what they did with it” (since Eve *chose* to eat the apple, she arguably already had free will; he might see the apple as being largely symbolic, regardless of what weight it actually held) but at the very least he probably thinks “F**k humans were supposed to be BETTER than demons, but look at this.”

He’s more of a big-picture thinker than Aziraphale is. Someone else meta’d this better than I could, but in essence, Crowley is the one to recognize that the end of the world is BAD FOR EVERYONE whereas Aziraphale is the one to think of doing something nice for the person in front of him. Demonic “score keeping” aside, I think he rolls his eyes at a lot of the “Good Samaritan” crap Aziraphale pulls (particularly: Anathema) because he doesn’t see the point in helping one person have a slightly less-bad day.

He has been consciously aware of his feelings for Aziraphale longer than Aziraphale has been of his own (sorry that wasn’t an easy sentence). Whether you think he fell in love on the Wall of Eden, or go with the “they didn’t really start connecting until Rome” explanation, Crowley has always been the more emotionally aware one. There probably has been ups and downs and rough times, etc, and you have 6,000 years to explore this in; but by the time you get to the present, this is the Crowley who is fully aware of what he feels, has accepted it, and is now waiting for Aziraphale to come around. 

Note that even in this extreme, apocalyptic situation the most he’s willing to throw his emotions at Aziraphale is “we can go off together” and “I don’t even like you/you doooooooo” (ok the scene in episode 5 goes a little further, but still). He didn’t grab Aziraphale’s shirt and try to force him to admit his feelings, and he never used his own feelings to try and emotionally blackmail Aziraphale into doing anything. He very much respects Aziraphale’s right to make a choice in this, even if Crowley thinks he’s being an idiot.

Related to both his emotional awareness with Aziraphale and his ability to “get” humans - Crowley is by far the more empathetic of the two, able to grasp what people around him are feeling. He does, however, have not-very-much compassion, so he mostly uses this information to mess with them. (I suppose you can argue that Aziraphale is high compassion, low empathy - he doesn’t always GET people, but he genuinely wants to help)

Crowley doesn’t care about labels. Male? Female? Heaven? Hell? Whatever, it’s all the same in the end. For the most part he just doesn’t CARE about fitting in or societal norms, but he’s probably at his most comfortable when he’s rebelling against them just a bit. So when he’s feeling a bit uncomfortable, it might help him to present more androgynously, or wear something inappropriate for his apparent age, or do something “shocking” just for the fun of it.

Ok, that’s what I’ve got. Anyone have anything to add?

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Daniel 7:4

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

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

A/N: This chapter is brought to you by Gatwick Airport's free wifi and also sheer spite. Mine, not the airport's.

I'll only be able to be online on my phone for a couple of days, until I sort out my Internet key because wifi is still a mirage where I'm going. So I might be slow to reply to comment - but I'll get to it as soon as I can, I promise!

***

“I-- I didn’t mean to! He came out of nowhere-- I couldn’t brake on time-- oh God I never go that fast, I don’t know what came over me…!”

It sure had been a bad crash: as they ran up to the scene, Crowley could see that the car’s windshield was shattered and the bonnet crumpled by the force of the impact. A shame, that: it had been a nice car. As it was often the case with traffic accidents, there was a lot of confusion: the cries of the distraught driver, a small crowd of bystanders stopping to watch in horror, a few people trying to help and screaming for someone to call an ambulance. 

The person closest to Gabriel was a woman kneeling over his mangled form - hands hovering over him but without touching anything, the way humans do when they desperately want to help but don’t know how. Aziraphale had always found it endearing: without realizing it, they were holding their hands exactly the way an angel healing the sick would. 

“A doctor!” she was screaming. “Is there a doctor here? Anyone?”

“We’re doctors,” Aziraphale spoke quickly, causing Crowley to roll his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses; it’s not a clever lie to tell when you have just stepped out of the shop you have owned for something like two hundred years. Luckily, angels and demons both had a knack for getting mortals to believe them if they just willed it hard enough. 

“I’m not touching him,” Crowley muttered as the woman stepped back to make way for them, only to be entirely ignored. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale called out, turning Gabriel’s face towards him. He was alive and conscious, at least, eyes wide and fixed on him. He tried to speak, but he could only cough up frankly concerning amounts of blood. His legs were bent at an odd angle, too, and stark white bone poked out of his left arm; the shirt he had just miracled on him was in tatters, asphalt embedded in his skin. “All right, all right - could be worse. I’ll heal you.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, and lifted his hands quickly at Aziraphale’s exasperated look. “No, I mean it! Have you considered that if he dies, he might just-- go straight back to Heaven? I would be a win/win. Wouldn’t he want that? Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, nod if you want that. Or, uh, on second thought, do not. I think your neck is broken. How about you blink?”

Put like that, Aziraphale supposed it would make sense. He probably wouldn’t return as an angel the way he used to be, but he would at least be home… or would he? “We don’t know that,” he muttered. “For all we know he might go straight to Hell, given that-- oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aziraphale protested, looking down to see Gabriel had somehow found it in himself to look offended, even with his face and… just about everything else a literal bloody mess. “You were cast out, and-- and--” Ah, they really had no time to argue, not with so many people around to watch and an ambulance approaching. “Crowley, can you buy us time?”

A sigh. “If I must,” Crowley muttered, but raised a hand without further ado, and snapped his fingers. Everything and everyone around them - time itself - came to a standstill. “There. Now we can end him without witnesses.”

“Crowley.”

“Just kidding.”

“No, you were not.”

“Mostly kidding,” Crowley admitted. Truth be told, the only reason why he wasn’t being very serious was the sheer relief upon finding out, in the most unexpected way, that not only Aziraphale was not in danger: somehow, he was under the direct protection of God. 

Not bad, that. It looked like Gabriel, the insufferable first of the class, had already received due punishment for what he’d tried to do to his angel. So maybe he shouldn’t give him an easy way out, after all. He may as well stay and face the music, live like the humans he so dismissed. And, as a perk, Crowley would take every chance to make the experience just… a little bit worse.

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps able to guess them all too well, Aziraphale sighed and looked down at Gabriel. He was still, like everybody else, staring at nothing. It did make him easier to deal with, Aziraphale though, and proceeded to pass a hand over him for the second time in less than a couple of hours.

Ghastly as they looked, the injuries were made by mortal means, and closed much more readily than the deep holes on his back had. Within moments the bones were set, the neck straightened, the wounds closed. Gabriel’s eyes maintained that distant cast, of course, but he’d be fine as soon as time restarted. 

“Well, you’re welcome,” Crowley muttered sarcastically. 

“He can’t talk. His mind is frozen in ti--”

“What, you think he’d be thanking you if he could?” Crowley groaned, and stood. “All right, let’s drag him back in. Then we come back out, restart time, and convince everyone the car only ever hit a pole.”

“Sounds sensible,” Aziraphale agreed, miracling away the blood on the car’s shattered windshield and pooling on the ground with a wave of his hand. When Crowley began to drag Gabriel back - literally drag him like a potato sack, he just grabbed his arm and began walking towards the shop - he almost protested, then decided against him. 

Given the scope of the headache he was giving him, Aziraphale was fairly sure he deserved it.  He didn’t think he was supposed to have headaches, but then again angels are not supposed to turn human as punishment for trying to destroy other angels, and yet there they were.

The world was even more full of possibilities than he’d previously thought.

***

“It’s not possible. You must be mistaken.”

“I am not, my Lord. It was definitely the Archangel Gabriel - I met him when I went upstairs with the Hellfire, for the angel they couldn’t burn. Oh, I knew something was off about him. This Aziraphale, I mean. When I saw him I wanted to try punching him, but he looked at me and--”

A furious buzzing noise caused the demon - someone so insignificant, Beelzebub didn’t know his name nor cared to - to abruptly fall silent, cowering. Beelzebub stood from their throne and took a step forward, towering over him. Figuratively, of course. It’s hard to really tower over anyone when the form you use the most is several inches shorter than most.

“Are you telling me,” Beelzebub spoke slowly, “that you went there to have a look at the angel they couldn’t burn, tempted a passing driver into speeding while you were at it, and that the car struck the Archangel Gabriel.”

“It did, sir. It was him. Didn’t recognize him until a moment before the impact, but I’m sure.”

“And he stayed down. Bleeding. Like a mortal.”

“Yes. It did seem really odd. Then the demon Crowley came--”

More furious buzzing at the mere mention of the name. The demon swallowed. “I mean-- the traitor came. Along with the other traitor. The one from upstairs.”

“And?” Beelzebub snapped. It got tiresome, really, how underlings kept pausing while reporting as though waiting for a reaction. Why do that, anyway? It wasn’t like the Prince of Hell was known to offer pats on the back and cookies - although at one point in time they had appreciated the traitor’s idea to get humans to bake cookies with raisins instead of chocolate chips, as well as the samples he had brought to the meeting.

“Well-- the traitors ran to him. I think they told the mortals they were doctors, and talked to him.” 

“Did you catch what they said?”

“No. I don’t think he answered - he was in pretty bad shape. For a moment I thought he was dead.” There was a laugh, echoing in the mostly empty room. Standing by the throne, Dagon stood silent. The underling shifted. “Er… it’s funny because that would be absurd, of course. Angels don’t die in car accidents.” 

“Nor they lie bleeding,” Beelzebub said quietly, frowning. “Yet he did.”

You can’t have him, Michael had snapped when Beelzebub had inquired about the fallen angel who had, apparently, not fallen all the way to Hell. He's not a demon. He’s not one of yours. 

“I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--” 

“He is unavailable.”

… Well. Now that certainly painted an interesting picture. Could it be that the one to fall, and yet not to Fall, was an archangel? And Gabriel, out of all of them? Had he been punished with mortality for… for what? Strategic meetings aside, which were needed to maintain a certain… order until their final war, Gabriel had always done everything painfully by the book. 

“Do go on,” Beelzebub spoke quietly.

“Well, I remember they knelt next to him, and then… nothing. I swear I blinked and they were gone, and everyone was acting like the car had hit a pole - they must have done something.”

“Time,” Dagon spoke. “The traitor can pause time. They must have taken him somewhere else."

"Or destroyed him," Beelzebub mused. They crossed their arms, their scowl deepening. "I doubt either has warm feelings for him." Or for us, they thought. 

"But one of them is an angel - surely he wouldn't… er." The demon - Beelzebub settled to call him Disposable 24601 - paused, having clearly realized how utterly stupid the statement was. Angels had killed plenty of times, and there had been that business of drowning out a sizeable part of Earth's population which, as far as Beelzebub was concerned, amounted to Heaven taking over what should have been Hell’s job. 

It was almost as annoying as the swarms of flies unleashed upon Egypt. That had been nothing short of a personal insult given that those were supposed to be their trademark. Was God the Lord of the Flies? No. Was Moses? No. That was Beelzebub and Beelzebub only, and yet of all of the insects they could have picked, it just had to be flies. 

It was one of many things they had meant to make God regret dearly once the Armageddon was underway, but now it looked like they’d have to wait indefinitely for a new chance. That really pissed them off. 

"But they could have left him to die," Dagon was muttering, unaware of Beelzebub’s thoughts of vengeance. She was better at quiet observations than at rallying troops, really, and her observations were rarely wrong. She wasn't the Lord of the Files for nothing. 

"Or ended him there while time stood still," Beelzebub agreed. "No need to take him elsewhere."

A nod. “The situation is-- unusual. Even by the current standards of unusual. Shall we send--”

“I’ll look into it myself,” Beelzebub cut Dagon off, causing her to blink. For good reason, too - they rarely left Hell, leaving work on Earth to lesser demons - but this was no ordinary matter.

 An archangel had been cast out of Heaven, one of those most loyal to God’s plan, and they had every intention to find out why. Plus, as far as they were concerned, Gabriel belong in Hell now - just like every angel cast out of Heaven up to that point. Beelzebub wasn’t going to give him a pass, losing out on a new soldier for Hell, because Heaven had decided to pull a distinction between fallen and Fallen out of their halos. 

Michael could take the fine print and shove it; Hell had a claim on the being formerly known as the Archangel Gabriel, and Beelzebub had every intention to uphold it.

***

“I can’t stay here.”

“I agree with him there.”

“Can you not agree on-- listen. You need to at least eat something.”

“I am not eating that. Never.”

“It’s sushi. It’s good, I told you. There’s the soy sauce, and--”

“And you drink it.”

“Crowley, please.”

“Oh, come on. Let me have some fun. Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, see the green thing? It’s wasabi. Eat a spoonful.”

“Gabriel, you absolutely do not do as he says.”

“I have no intention to consume any of this. The smell alone makes me sick.”

“Mhh, maybe you should try having a toast…”

“Whatever that is, I refuse.”

“All right. You should at least drink some water, you must be dehydrated.”

“Give up, angel. It’s worse than trying to force Warlock to eat his vegetables.”

“You never tried to get Warlock to eat any vegetables.”

“And it made meal times a whole lot easier.”

“He got scurvy!”

“And you healed him, so no harm done. He sent Nanny Ashtoreth a postcard, by the way. He and his mother are going to the States now that his father was moved. Said he’d have preferred to return to England.”

“Oh, I received one as well! He said he’d try to convince his mother to come back for a visit. He’d like to say hi to Brother Francis. A darling boy, considering his upbringing.”

“Yes, his father is a prick.”

“... We also raised him as we would the Antichrist.”

“Don’t all nannies do that?”

“You and I remember Mary Poppins very differently.”

The discussion went on, and Gabriel paid attention to precisely none of it. The word ‘Antichrist’ would have made him listen intently before, but not anymore. What did it matter? The Armageddon had not happened, the war had not happened, the plan he’d spent his existence following and preparing for was null and void. And even if it weren’t, he had no say in such matters anymore. No mortal did.

They should have let me die. Let me go home.

The thought made something ache in his chest. He had never thought of Heaven that way - home - until now. And why would he? Heaven was simply Heaven, his obvious and natural place; he’d never been anywhere else for this long, nor wished to be. You don’t quite think of any place as home until you’re away from it and longing to return.

I want to go home.

For all we know he might go straight to Hell. Oh, don’t look at me like that! You were cast out.

No, not Hell, never, not him. It was impossible. Incomprehensible.

Ineffable?

Gabriel had never needed to ask himself as many questions as he did now, nor had he ever felt so lost. It made his head hurt in ways even the earlier incident and the bickering going on in the background hadn’t. Was this what humans had to do day by day? Question everything and make choices without guidance, on the hope they weren’t the wrong ones as they played a game whose rules were unknown? No wonder they had turned so self-destructive. Gabriel held back a groan - why oh why was his throat so parched - and tried to stop thinking. He could not. 

How could this be happening? Why was it happening to him-- he had done everything right. He had followed the instructions, the orders. He’d done everything he had for the greater good, and yet there he was, exiled and doomed to walk on Earth for… how long? Was it temporary? Would he have to wait for the end of a mortal lifespan before he was allowed to go back?

… Would he be allowed back at all?

Too many questions and not a single answer. It would drive him mad; however insignificantly short human lives were, the idea of spending the next decades with that doubt in mind and no answers made it feel like half an eternity. Was he supposed to do something to return home? Was he supposed to earn it, to atone for… whatever he had done wrong? But how? He had no plan, no instructions, no nothing. If only God could send him a sign, any sign as to what he had to do--

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

There was a low, keening noise; Gabriel didn’t even realize it had come from him. All he was aware of through the veil of despair was a sudden silence as he burrowed his face in his hands, the bickering gone. There was a touch on his arm. He didn’t flinch away. 

“There, there.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded just a touch awkward. He slid something across the table - the glass. “Have this, at least. It’s only water.”

“I don’t want--” he croaked, his throat and mouth so dry it hurt, but Aziraphale cut him off by waving a hand. How many times had he done that, silenced him with a gesture because his blabbing was of no importance? He shut his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

What he had meant to say was that he couldn’t stay on Earth; where that would leave him, since Heaven was closed to him and the thought of descending to Hell filled him with yet more dread, there was no telling. The universe was vast, but he lacked the power or means to travel it now. He was trapped.

Aziraphale, however, seeed to understand it differently. “Yes, it is a little awkward-- listen, there is a decent hotel nearby. The Underlook Hotel. You can stay there for now, all right? You’ll be safe. A room has just been reserved and paid for.”

“A hotel-- that’s--?”

“A place where humans like to get naked. You walk in the hall and take off your clo--”

“You definitely do not take off your clothes,” Aziraphale cut him off, giving him an annoyed look. “I’ll explain you everything you need to know, Gabriel. But you need to drink.”

Gabriel stared at the glass; there was ice in it, and the sight made the thirst even worse. He almost spoke again to say he didn’t know how - he knew it went in through the mouth, but then humans did something with their throat to get it down and he wasn’t sure what it was - the thirst was so bad, he just reached for the glass and brought it to his lips, anything to make it end. 

The water was cool relief in his dry mouth, and the act of swallowing for the very first time came without any thought at all; the water went down the right way, he didn’t choke and oh, the relief was immediate and so great he couldn’t even muster the pride to pretend otherwise.

The demon, Crowley, looked more than slightly disappointed. “Well, you know how to drink,” he muttered. “By the way, do you know what to do when the water needs to come out again?”

Still reeling over how good that drink of water had felt, Gabriel blinked at him in confusion. 

“... I’ll take it as a no. So, you’re fully human, no? With all that it entails?”

“What?”

“Got anything in your pants?”

“In my--?” Gabriel reached down, entirely missing the way Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and stilled. There was something, a bulge beneath the fabric that hadn’t been there before. He’d seen enough humans naked at the dawn of time to have a vague idea of what it would look like if he disrobed. Which he had no intention to do. “... This wasn’t here before.”

“Well, there you go. A pair of wings for a pair of testicles.”

Gabriel gaze him an unimpressed look. “It doesn’t seem a fair exchange.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, and turned to Aziraphale. “Well, angel, I won’t be the one to explain him biology. For when, you know, the water needs to come out.”

“The water needs to come out?” Gabriel repeated, now rather lost. “But I just consumed--”

“And he’ll have to eat at some point.”

“What-- I’m not-- I have a book,” Aziraphale said suddenly, and stood. “I’ll go fetch it - you’ll find it useful,” he added quickly, and left before Gabriel - who would later read the children’s book about potty training Aziraphale was about to throw at him, and come to the conclusion that humans are positively disgusting - could say anything. 

He gave Crowley a wary look. “What are you talking about?”

The demon grinned widely. “Oh, I could tell you,” he said, letting the dark glasses slip down his nose to look at him with snake-like eyes. “But why spoil the fun when you can find out all by yourself?”

***

“Ah, to be a fly on the wall!”

Beelzebub knew that was something mortals said often, whenever they wished to be able to see something they shouldn’t be able to. They were on to something: there was a lot to be said in favor of being, literally, a fly on the wall. Or rather, right now, on the window. 

Not quite as good as being inside, but it offered them a good view of their target. He looked… bad.  Relatively bad, because when you dwell in Hell your idea of looking bad is very, very different from that of most being in existence. And they liked bad, anyway; Beelzebub took no small measure of satisfaction in knowing that, should they show themselves to mortals with their true visage, they would run screaming. 

However, for an angel’s standards - and for what had been Gabriel’s standard, especially - he did look bad. More dishevelled than Beelzebub had ever seen him and tired; dark shadows under his eyes, skin gray-ish, his hands shaking as he drank some water. 

There he was, one of the Almighty’s lap dogs until he’d been kicked out by his master to become Hell’s newest recruit. Maybe he wouldn’t make too much of a fuss; he was ill-suited for life as a mortal, and there were perks to joining the forces of Hell. Either way, Beelzebub had said they were going to claim him and they would. Their honor was at stake, at that point, however questionable said honor was.

Hell’s concept of honor was a tiny bit skewed, too.

As they kept watching, both traitors stood and so did Gabriel, more slowly, slipping something that looked like a small book in his pocket. Honestly, Beelzebub have burst in to claim him already if not for the traitors sitting right there. 

So, you're probably thinking, "If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" And very, very soon, you're all going to get the chance to find out. 

It wasn’t that Beelzebub was in any way scared of them, of course, it would be laughable, but...

I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you?

… Well. Best to avoid unnecessary confrontations. Gabriel would be alone, at some point. And when that happened, the Lord of the Flies would be ready to act.

***

The Underlook Hotel, where they dropped him off after an unnecessarily fast car ride that would have made Gabriel throw up if his stomach hadn’t been emptier than a pint glass after Nigel Farage’s passage, was a small but clean establishment, with large windows that let in what sunlight was to be found in London, which wasn’t much that day. The entrance hall had a long front desk and a smiling receptionist sitting behind it, and Gabriel headed towards it - more on a guess because he actually knew what the process was supposed to be at that point.

“Good afternoon,” the woman at the reception said, voice entirely too cheery. Truth be told she would have been very happy to personally set fire to about half the guests and a quarter of the staff, as do many people who work in the hospitality sector once their will to live has taken enough blows. This usually happens within the first two months and a half, a scant couple of weeks more than it takes to destroy the soul of a retail worker. Still, like most people working in the hospitality sector, she could hide it with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Gabriel nodded. “I have a reservation,” he said, and glanced down at the card. “Room 217.”

“Let’s see...” The woman typed, stared at the screen, then nodded. “Gabriel F. Archer?”

No. I’m the Archangel Gabriel. The Messenger. That’s all I ever was and will ever be, it can’t be gone forever, it just cannot. And what does that F stand for, anyway?

But of course, that was not a viable answer. With a knot in his insides and a weight in his chest, he nodded. “That’s me,” he said, and managed to smile. It would have probably looked more real if he’s pulled up the corners of his mouth with his fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Lovely. Now let me-- oh, I see you completed your check-in this morning.” That was good, he supposed, because he knew nothing of what a ‘check in’ would entail. “Need help with your luggage?”

“I don’t have any--” Gabriel began, then paused, and glanced down. By his feet there was a single, black suitcase. He stared down at it for a few moments, and worked his jaw before speaking again. “... I think I can manage,” he said, and picked it up. It felt heavy, but of course it was not. He was just laughably, ridiculously weak. His very name - God is my strength - felt like a mockery now.

“Good. The lift is that way - your room is on the second floor. Do you need anything else?”

Gabriel hesitated. He didn’t want to ask, he really did not; it would feel like admitting defeat, that he truly was a mere mortal in need of gross matter for nourishment. But his stomach was almost cramping up, and he felt faint, and he gave in. After all, he couldn’t really keep pretending after finding himself, bleeding, on the hard ground. “Would you happen to know where I may be able to acquire some edible matter?”

That gained him a startled look. “Some... what?” she asked. In the back of her mind the Weirdo Alert light - it comes free after the first month working in the hospitality sector, along with several neuroses - began flashing yellow.

Right, they had a name for it. What was it, again? “You know… food?”

“Oh! Of course. It’s a bit late for lunch, but dinner is served from six - would you like to reserve a table? I’ll do it for you. You’ll find some snacks and drinks in the mini fridge in your room.”

“... I see. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Here for business, or are you on vacation?”

“Exile,” Gabriel muttered, turning her Weirdo Alert light red, and walked towards the lift without another word, dragging the suitcase and focusing on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. Once alone in the room, he’d-- he didn’t know. He’d tried to ask, after Aziraphale gave him a mobile phone and his number, desperate for any indication of what he should do.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You figure it out, Gabe,” the demon Crowley had muttered, still sitting behind the wheel, sneering. “It’s the gift of free will.”

It didn’t feel like a gift at all; it was terrifying, and he’d thought at least Aziraphale would understand, but he… didn’t. 

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You do whatever you want from here on.”

Wanting was a foreign concept to Gabriel. He’d never wanted anything, only ever done what he had to do for… for the greater good. The only thing he wanted now was to shut his eyes and open then again to find he’d been living some sort of nightmare, to be vanquished by daylight. He only wanted things to go back the way they were.

He only wanted to go home.

By the time the lift stopped on the second floor, something peculiar had happened - his vision was blurry. Gabriel blinked it away, and found his cheeks wet. Oh, wonderful, now that mortal body was leaking the water he’d been forced to consume. Was that what the demon had meant when he talked about the water coming out? He’d probably have to read the book he’d been handed, although the illustration on the cover looked absolutely puerile and unlikely to hold any meaningful information about his condition. It would give him something to do, if nothing else. 

Or maybe that could wait. Maybe he’d pray, first thing - throw himself on his knees as soon as he found himself finally alone and pray like he never had before. Maybe God would listen. Maybe he’d receive a sign, guidance, anything that would tell him what to do. Yes, he’d do that; it wasn’t much, but it was still the closest thing he had to a plan. 

As he walked down the corridor and to the door of his room, he didn’t notice the fly that buzzed after him.

***

“The first beast was like a lion with eagles’ wings. As I watched, its wings were pulled off, and it was left standing with its two hind feet on the ground, like a human being. And it was given a human mind.” Daniel 7:4

***

[Back]

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[wormy-business]

When the Highest Fall

Chapter 4: A Tense Reunion 

Gabriel goes looking for help from familiar faces, but those faces don’t find him so familiar. 

Word count: 1,802

Read on AO3

Start from the beginning

Gabriel tensed as he stepped out onto the street. It was bright, must have been midday. Despite all the hellfire, the offices of hell were rather dark, and his colour shifting eyes had become rather used to it. As he raised his arm to shield his eyes he felt a sudden sharp pain rip up from the small of his back, reaching all the way to his fingertips. He winced, his face contorting. The pain started right where his wings used to be, the smallest pair that had broken during his free fall. As his face twisted, he felt a different kind of pain, this one more stiff and cracking as the wound on his face opened once more and he felt blood trickling down his cheek. 

His whole body began to ache as he took a few steps onto the sidewalk, leaving behind him a trail of dripping blood from not only his face, but his wrists where the chains had dug so deeply. Part of him felt a tugging, a desire to return to the relative safety of Beelzebub’s office, but he persisted forward. He remembered the way, didn’t he? His hands tightened into fists as he walked, his shoulders tense and his head aching. The further from Hell’s fire, it seemed, the more intense his pain would become.

Crowley was lazing around in the back office of Aziraphale’s bookshop. With the crisis of the armageddon averted, and Heaven and Hell off their backs, he felt he finally had a chance to relax. He wished Aziraphale would relax with him, but he was fine letting him run around the bookshop and entertain. His body was warmed by the light of the sun streaming into a window, his glasses sitting on his chest, one of his arms behind his head, and his legs splayed out in a way that would look uncomfortable to any normal human. He hummed softly as he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. He smiled, hearing the office door open and close.

“How’s business, Angel?”

“Oh, doing just fine.” Aziraphale responded, taking a moment to gaze softly at Crowley, whos attention was fixated out of the window.

“That’s good.” Crowley noted, finally turning to look at Aziraphale, who seemed to be searching for something. “We should go out for-” Crowley stopped mid sentence and dawned his glasses, which gained Aziraphale’s attention.

“Go out for what, Crowley?” He tried enticing the demon into continuing his thought.

“Ahh, yeah, hold on.” Crowley moved awkwardly until he was standing up, and he slunked to the door, cracking it open. His nostrils flared, and his tongue escaped from his lips for just a second. That was most definitely the smell of a demon.

“Angel.” He spoke softly, shutting the door. “We’ve got company. I don’t,” He stuck his tongue out again, making a rather bewildered face. “I don’t recognize them. Which is, I mean I know just about everyone down there.” 

“It’s, oh, how odd.” Aziraphale crept closer to the door, and to Crowley. It was much harder to discern, to him practically all demons smelled the same, though Crowley’s was a tad more distinct. But the smell of evil coming from his dearest Crowley and whoever had just entered the bookshop were too similar.

“Leave it to me, alright? I can handle this.” 

“Crowely, wait!” Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s chest to stop him. “Don’t you think, perhaps we should, you know?” Aziraphale was extending his hand out to Crowley, his eyes full of worry and his tone dripping with anxiety.

“No, no, angel, I’ll be alright. Besides, only one of em. If they try anything, step in. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Before Aziraphale could protest again, Crowley was in the main area of the bookshop. He watched from the doorway as Crowley walked in that distinct way he did to the stranger.

“Can I help you with-” Crowley cut himself off again as he stared at who was leaning against a wall, dripping with blood and in clear pain and distress. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “In the name of, what, what is, ehh, all of, this?” He motioned lazily to Gabriel, who picked his head up to smile weakly at Crowley. “When did all this happen?”

“I, I want to speak to Aziraphale.” Gabriel stammered as he tried to take a step forward, his knees weak and trembling. 

“Aah, that’s not, a good idea.” Crowley awkwardly placed his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders, keeping him not only from walking forward, but from falling as well. “It’s not even a good idea for you to be up here, look at the state of you!” 

“He’s my brother!” Gabriel choked on his protest, too weak to shake Crowley off of him.

“Crowley, you must tell me what is going on this instant!” Aziraphale demanded from behind him, trying to get a look at whoever he was struggling with.

“Aziraphale!” Both of the demons called out to him, one much more desperately than the other.

The angel took a sharp breath in and stepped back from the pair. “Why do you know my name? Who are you and what business have you in my shop?”

Crowley could see the heartbreak on Gabriel’s face. His expression, slack-jawed, wide eyed, and pained. Tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes as the realization hit him square in the chest, ripping his breath from his lungs. 

No matter how different he seemed, no matter that hellfire could no longer hurt him, Aziraphale was still an angel, and angels are not permitted to remember the fallen. 

“Don’t worry, angel!” Crowley chirped, slowly dragging Gabriel back towards the office. “Just need a few private words with my friend here, nothing to worry about!”

Aziraphale straightened out his jacket and watched as the two passed him. He was going to have to have a serious talk with Crowley about lying later, but he supposed it wouldn’t help at all to intrude again, in fact he quite regretted walking in on the two just now. Seeing that demon, there was something about him, a painful familiarity he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

Crowley was surprisingly easy with Gabriel, sitting him down with less force than expected in a chair in Aziraphale’s office. Once Gabriel was down, Crowley took a seat himself, having a dragged a chair to be across from his.

“That’s why I said you shouldn’t talk to him.” Crowley chided.

“Oh, can it!” Gabriel snapped, sitting stiffly in the chair, still dripping blood.

“No point in arguing now. So, what’s the name?”

“It’s still Gabriel.”

“Aww, oh no, don’t tell me you’re one of those redemption seekers.”

“Beelzebub has already warned me against it. Besides,” he raised a finger to tap the ear in which a fly was comfortably nestled, “they’re keeping an eye on me.”

Crowley gagged, briefly turning his head away. “Awck, I hate when they do that, feels so nasty in there.”

There was a silence between the two for a moment, neither of them speaking though both wanted to.

“So did Michael just, what, give you a stupid name or, what?”

“She didn’t.”

Crowley furrowed his brow as he leaned closer. “Well, that’s not like her at all.” He mused. “She’s a bitch anyway, in my opinion.”

Gabriel sneered at him as Crowley leaned back in his chair again.

“Well she is.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to make them as loose as his defense was. “She remembers us all. I know she does. She’s some weird exception.”

“How are you so sure?” Surely if Aziraphale couldn’t even remember Gabriel, Michael wouldn’t either.

Crowley was silent for a moment as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “She almost called me “Raphael” once. Got halfway through before realizing her mistake.”

Gabriel was quiet for a moment. He could feel the pressure in his chest from where she had placed her hand and pushed him. He could see her face, peering over the edge and watching him fall, and he swore he could remember seeing her smile just before he opened his wings.

“Cool down, hothead, we don’t need the shop to burn again!”

Crowley’s words snapped him out of his haze. He looked down at his hands, they were red and smoke was rising from them, and also from the burned insignia of an inverted cross in the center of his forehead. This was wrong. It was all wrong.

It should’ve been water.

His eyes burned a fierce red, yellow and orange retreated back towards his pupils as new shades of red formed and moved inside of his irises. 

He could remember so clearly water running over his blue-tinted hands, sliding it between his fingers as he filled paperwork, amusing himself by pushing it back and forth in a bowl or cup, that was his nature.

Fire felt wrong. It was compulsive, unstable, and erratic. Gabriel was none of those things. At least, he didn’t used to be.

He closed his eyes and took a few long breaths. Breathing was not a necessary thing for beings such as angels and demons, but it helped to calm him enough that he felt he wasn’t about to set the entire strip ablaze. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” Gabriel asked, dejected and cold.

“Come to terms, move on, and raise some hell.”

He stared at Crowely, who had taken to lounging in his chair. 

“It’s what I did. It’s not gonna do you any good to reminisce on the old days when none of the angels are ever gonna remember who you were or what you accomplished.”

Raphael had been a starmaker, Gabriel could remember that now. He had worked on constellations and galaxies, but he was most proud of his work on nebulas. The angel Muriel was the one who had been listed as creating the art that came from Raphael’s hands, when in fact she had only had a hand in the creation of the Constellation of Cancer. 

“Over six thousand years I served Her.”

“And now those thousands of years of service belong to Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon, Metatron, Jegudiel, Ariel, anyone except you. You’ve been wiped from their history.”

Gabriel stood, though unsteady on his feet. 

“Careful.” Crowley reminded him as he grabbed the wall for support. “You should really head back down. Get close to the fire, you’ll heal faster. And do let me know when you’ve got the name figured out!” Crowley called these things after Gabriel, who managed to make it out of the front door and back onto the streets of London.

“Dear boy, who was that?” Aziraphale asked, sliding up in front of Crowley.

“An old friend, I’ll tell you about him later.”

[caspinn]

Repeating Apologies - Chapter 3

Summary: The Winchester’s start their search for Dean’s soulmate (who is supposed to help him get rid of The Mark of Cain) by travelling to England.

Warnings: Some more violence.

“Why would I even help you if you couldn’t even kill Crowley for me, boy?” Rowena asked with a big mischievous smile. Dean glanced at Sam. What was Rowena talking about? But Sam ignored Dean’s questioning eyes.

Awesome, so if Rowena wasn’t going to help them, neither would Crowley, thanks to Sam. Dean turned around and walked out of Rowena’s cell without saying a word, leaving his brother alone with the witch. Dean didn’t want to give Rowena the pleasure of seeing that she managed to piss him off.

Dean walked upstairs to get a beer. He passed Cas and Charlie, who were sitting at the table; Charlie behind her laptop and Cas in front of her, talking while she was working. He had a book before him and must have been shifting through the pages. Probably just to keep him busy, because Cas knew that there wasn’t any lore about the Indigo Children.

“Whaddup, Dean?” Charlie asked when Dean sat down next to her.

“Rowena doesn’t want to help us, like we predicted,” Dean mumbled while he unwittingly ripped the brand off the beer bottle.

“Okay, so what does she want?” Charlie tried.

“What does she-?” Dean didn’t finish his sentence. This here was yet another sign that Dean couldn’t focus or concentrate on things as well as he used to anymore. He was constantly distracted by his own anger.

Oh, no. Dean cursed as he jumped back of his chair startling both Charlie and Cas, and sprinted to the stairs to get back to Sam and Rowena. He ran into his brother, who was just walking upstairs. Dean grabbed his shoulders and grasped them unknowingly hard.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Dean hissed in a menacing whisper. Sam clenched his jaws by Dean’s strong grip. It was clear on his face that he knew exactly what Dean was talking about.

“She wanted a deal, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“No,” Dean answered curtly.

“We can always hunt her down later, Dean! You need to survive the Mark of Cain first!”

That was when everything started to look red in his eyes. Dean’s head simply exploded. His brother promised freedom to a freaking evil witch?! Wasn’t this kind of thinking what put them in trouble again and again?

Sam seemed to know what was happening immediately. As if he saw Deans fist coming before he even decided to throw the punch, the younger hunter quickly dove away, freeing himself from his brother's furious grip. He ran to the room where Charlie and Castiel were sitting, still seeming a bit confused about Dean’s sudden departure. The fact that they’re no longer sitting down was clear enough that they were about to go in pursuit. They both looked surprised when Sam sprinted towards them and picked up the chair Cas had been sitting on not five minutes earlier.

“Sam, what-?” But the angel never managed to finish his question when he saw Dean stomping in right behind Sam.

“Get Charlie out of here, Cas!” Sam yelled. His voice was just vague inside Dean’s mind, though. He immediately recognized that he had reached the blind part of his anger. The one he couldn’t really control anymore the moment it was triggered. Though right now all he wants to do is smack his brother on the head until he realized how stupid he was being, he couldn’t help but agree. Cas should get Charlie back to safety, pronto!

Charlie protested immediately, because that was just the thing she would do, though. Somehow, in this twisted world, this brave woman wanted to help Dean. Dean, the person who didn’t even deserve anything like that at all.

After some small arguing that Dean clearly missed, Charlie huffed out a breath and hurried back upstairs. Cas didn’t follow her up, instead staying down there to help Sam.

No, Dean thought. Don’t make me hurt you, too.

But it was hard to concentrate any further. The animal inside of him finally broke through completely, and instantly, the only thing Dean could focus on was smacking Sam’s face. Who did his brother think he was, making stupid decisions like that?!

When Cas tried to hold him back, Dean quickly turned around, freeing himself from Cas's hands and planted his fist right in the angel’s face. This didn’t really hurt Castiel as much as it would hurt a human, but he still backed off a little by the shock which gave Dean, in less than a second, the chance to attack Sam. Or so he thought.

Before Dean could turn back around to Sam, the younger Winchester smashed the chair he was holding with all his strength on Dean’s head, making Dean see black immediately. He fell down with a grunt and laid still. The last thing he could remember before he blacked out was how he was messing up the floor with the blood that was probably dripping from where the chair hit him.

  The next morning Charlie was reading a book in the old sofa that had never been replaced since the men of letters left this place, when Dean walked in. He sat down in a fauteuil that was standing in front of Charlie’s sofa. Dean rubbed his sore head and just sat there, thinking, silently.

He watched Charlie as she was reading The Hobbit, again. It was a peaceful sight, or well, it should have been a peaceful sight. But nothing felt peaceful for him anymore and it was exactly that thought that was already giving Dean stress that morning. He looked for something that could distract himself, so he took a chair, put it behind Charlie and read her story along with her over her shoulder. It was a weird sight, but he really needed to empty his mind. Dean never read the book, nor did he see the movie, so he couldn’t really follow what was happening. The fact that she was near the end didn’t help either.

“Wait what?! Is Thorin going to die?” Dean asked, figuring that this Thorin-character was quite a big deal in the story. In return Dean got himself a smack on the arm for speaking.

“Dean! Don’t spoil it!” Charlie snapped back, but clearly faking the anger because of the sudden grin that showed up on her face. Of course she knew how the book ended, she had read it, like, a thousand times. She even said that her mother used to read it to her as a bedtime story.

At that moment, Sam walked in, stretching his back. Dean stood up and looked a little bit awkward.

“Sam, did you knock me down with a chair, yesterday?” he asked carefully, trying not to sound too angry about it – which he wasn’t, of course. Sam nodded slowly and watched Dean with watchful eyes. Dean nodded back with a sad smile.

“Smart move, look, I’m-“

“Yeah, I know,” Sam looked at Dean, and the older brother felt a bit of annoyance upon having his apology interrupted like that. “We have to take action, right now, though.”

It took a few hours before Rowena could locate the three Indigo’s. In the meantime, Sam, Dean, Castiel and Charlie were discussing their plans.

“Should we go alone? You know, at the same time but split so one of us goes to Greece, one to Belgium and one to England?” Dean proposed. Sam looked doubtful, but it was Castiel who answered.

“I don’t think that would be wise, we all don't know that much about the Indigo Children. We don’t know their powers, their weaknesses, so we better face them together.”

Dean nodded. “So who comes along and who stays here? Someone has to keep an eye on the bunker…” He really wanted to finish that sentence with ‘and the witch, but oh no, wait, Sam let her free’ but he knew they would just start to argue about it and he would get mad. Again. So he chewed on the inside of his cheek as hard as he could, just to shut up and not trigger himself.

“Well, Dean has to go, of course. Cas knows at least about the existence of the Indigo Children, so he has to go too.” Sam looked at Charlie, who already knew she would lose. “Rock paper scissors?”

Charlie seemed surprised that the younger Winchester really wanted to give her a chance to go. She looked so mollified by Sam’s trust that she played the game with big sparkly eyes. Charlie threw rock and Sam scissors so she won. Grinning she threw her arms in the air.

“YES! YES!” she yelled out. Sam scratched his head, looking a bit surprised that he actually lost – normal, since he normally always won with Dean.

“So, I guess I have to stay-“ he started, but Charlie shook her head.

“Nah,” she interrupted him “I’ll stay, I wasn’t really planning on going, you know. Just wanted to see if you would actually have let me go.”

Dean snorted. That sneaky girl, he thinks fondly. “I wouldn’t. You know I love you, Charlie, but-“

“Yeah, I know.” Charlie smiled widely and side-hugged Dean, and then Sam. “I’ll babysit the bunker!”

“And don’t go hunting on your own!” Dean said. Charlie gasped in shock then, putting a hand on her chest as if she was offended.

“Why, Dean, why would you even think I would do such a thing?” she asked, and then she winked at him. Dean just snorted again, already knowing he was going to miss her sense of humor.

The moment they were packed, the guys put their luggage in the car and said goodbye to Charlie. Rowena was freed one hour before that, the moment she went to give them the specific addresses of the people they were looking for.

“I know you’re scared of planes, Dean, but don’t try to faint!” Charlie called out jokingly, but Dean didn’t think it was funny at all. He really, really, really wasn’t looking forward to the flight. Their first stop was going to be London, England. Besides, how the hell did she even know about that? He never told- oh right, she read the books.

When the plane moved to take off, Sam didn’t do a thing to calm Dean’s nerves, who was freaking out a little. This felt like revenge for all those times Dean laughed with Sam’s fear of clowns. Dean, who was biting his nails and was constantly checking his belt, really wanted to smack the grin from his brother’s face. In the meantime, Cas, who was seated next to Sam but with the hallway between them, was really enjoying this very human thing to do (much to Dean’s surprise, because honestly, he just felt like dying on the spot). He normally only used his wings to fly, which was way quicker of course. The fact that his wings were fried (literally), meant that he couldn’t fly off anywhere, anymore, until they were healed. Cas explained once to Dean that it could take years until they were back to normal, and Dean had noticed how regretful Cas had sounded about that.

Dean didn’t know what was passing through the Angel’s head right now. His stare seemed ensless, as he was looking all the way through Dean’s window.

Dean was still gnawing his fingers when his ear started to hurt from the pressure of the take off. Sam grinned and offered his brother a piece of chewing gum. Dean grabbed the package and took three out of them, instead.

“Casssh,” Dean said with his mouth full of unchewed chewing gum “You’re ssshitting by the aisle. When you see a ssshtewardesssh, assshk a drink for me, will you?” And because Cas was Cas, he first ordered a lemonade, then looked at Dean’s face and heard Sam snorting, and seemed to remember that Dean loves to drink alcohol. So he corrected himself and told the stewardess to bring some cognac instead.

“Is that okay?” Cas asked Dean after the stewardess walked away. Dean nodded while trying to chew the big amount of chewing gum he stuffed in his mouth.

After some time in the plane, Dean started to feel the sorrow leaking back into his brain. When Sam noticed his elder brother’s grim faced, he asked what was wrong.

“These Indigo’s, they are killers, Sammy. So whoever my soulmate might be, it is something we would hunt…”

Sam nodded softly. “You know Rose and Violet said that they weren’t sure that all the Indigo’s killed the persons they were fighting with, right? Maybe not all three are killers.”

Dean remembered, indeed, but he couldn't help doubting.

 “Avebury, please,” Sam said to the taxi driver after they got into his wagon. They had to drive two and a half hours to get to the small town. After driving this amount of time, they passed some typical English cottages some fields and… some freaky, big stones actually standing in these green fields.

“What are those?” Sam asked the cabdriver curiously, feeling like he was a little bit of a tourist after all.

“These are megaliths, a stone circle like Stonehenge, but they say these megaliths are even older than the Stonehenge,” the man explained with a thick accent on his voice. One Dean couldn’t really place, since he would just simply call it ‘Brittish’.

“Did they have a purpose?” Sam wondered out loud. The nerd…

The cabdriver scratched his nose before answering. “They believe the stone circle had some kind of prehistoric astronomical meaning or use. But nobody knows for sure,” The man explained. “The only thing I know about them is that every year there are teenagers dancing around the megaliths, with bed sheets wrapped around their bodies. First time I saw that, I thought it was a cult, you know? But actually it’s a yearly school trip from god-knows-what-school from somewhere in the Benelux. Oh and the sheets? Well, I’ve an aunt living in the neighborhood and she walked past the field one day and she saw these teens, so she got curious and asked them what the heck they were doing. You’ll never believe it! They were dressed as druids for a school assignment. And the teachers were laughing with them of course, because these teens were dancing in sheep-shit, dressed as a bunch of idiots. I laughed my ass off when I heard that and my aunt –“

Dean wasn’t listening to the cabdriver’s chatter. This town looked so peaceful and innocent. It was hard to imagine the weird creature, the Indigo, walking around here and not being noticed. The Indigo must act strange, different than normal people. Dean was sure about that and his hands already started itching. It felt like a good hunt, he could take this Indigo down and it would be one creature less that lives from killing humans.

The cabdriver dropped the guys off at their hotel. The hotel was located close to the address of the first Indigo, that’s why Sam booked it. Dean watched as Sam plumped down on his bed, mumbling something about sleep. Dean felt tired too, his eyes burned of exhaustion, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep. If Dean would lie down at that moment, he would be alone in his head, overthinking things. Just him in his own head could be very dangerous, or maybe just depressing. His stomach already hurt from just thinking about it. Cas was, as curious as he was, reading the hotel brochure.

Dean grabbed his coat and decided to search for a bar nearby, when Castiel suddenly said something. Dean wasn’t really focused so he hadn’t heard what the angel was saying.

“Sorry, Cas, what did you say?” Dean asked after turning to Cas, while putting his coat on.

“I want to play Ping-Pong!” What? It took Dean a second to get what the angel was saying. Cas saw Dean’s confusion and tried to explain himself “Look, they have Ping-Pong tables in the hotel and I thought that it would be better for you to play some Ping-Pong than go to a bar to distract yourself with alcoholic beverages.”

Ah, Cas was just the same old blunt Angel he always was. The Winchester felt kind of busted, like a teen who wanted to sneak out of the house, but he didn’t have the chance to argue about it with Cas as the angel already opened the door to leave the hotel room.

“If you really don’t want to go to bed and save yourself from a jetlag tomorrow, then just go play some Ping-Pong with the angel, Dean…” Sam muttered sleepy with his face buried in a pillow. He just laid there on the bed with his clothes still on.

“Weren’t you supposed to be asleep?” Dean grumbled bitterly while hanging his coat back on the coat rack.

It took a while before Cas got the game, but once he understood how it went, he became as competitive as Dean. Watching the angel struggle and grumble when Dean scored, actually enlightened Dean’s mood a bit. He still wasn’t happy, but his little smile every now and then didn’t feel so fake or plastered on his face.

But as soon as they stopped playing, he felt his mood already going backwards as they were climbing the stairs back to the hotel room. Castiel’s happy chatter drummed in his ears. Cas didn't talk that much, though, but it felt that way in Dean’s head. And with every word, Dean felt a thick, dark wave going through his head.