#no Crowley because I refuse to put those two against each other

[dawn-the-rithmatist]

Tagged by @dykevirgo who had a BRUTALLY difficult poll team link

make a poll with five of your all time favourite characters and then tag five people to do the same. see which character is everyone's favorite

Tagging @voltfruits @newtsnaturethings @linktheacehero @szethsmom and @louwhose :)

[anonymousdandelion]

Out of Battery

Written for the @flashfictionfridayofficial​ prompt “no battery life,” have some more ineffable duo! Featuring the downside of those newfangled handheld telephonic devices, and a demon to the rescue.

Aziraphale stared in baffled dismay at the blinking red light on his new handheld telephone. The screen bore an image of a rectangular bar with a thin red line across one end — that, apparently, being the only thing the abruptly recalcitrant object was willing to muster.

He pushed the On/Off button a few more times, futilely. He shook the device around in the air. He set it down on the desk, put his hands on his hips, and gave it a good, stern talking-to.

No matter what he did, the dreadful object simply refused to turn on.

He had just graduated to cussing at his phone in Sumerian when Crowley sauntered into the bookshop, then stopped, taking in the unexpected scene that confronted him.

“Hey. What’s up, angel?”

“This,” Aziraphale said ominously, jabbing an accusatory finger at the telephonic failure lying insensate on his desk, “is down.”

Crowley stepped closer, following the angel’s gaze, and reached out to pick up the phone. He pressed the On button, and the blinking icon reappeared.

“Ah,” he said, and nodded.

“‘Ah,’ that’s all you have to say?” Aziraphale glared at him. “Two weeks I’ve had this absurd, overcomplicated machine you talked me into using! Two weeks! And here it is, already broken! It won’t do anything other than show me that dull picture. Is that supposed to be modern art? This never used to happen with my old telephone. I knew this was a mistake, I told you it was, you just can’t trust any of this newfangled technology…” 

“Whoa, whoa. Easy there.” Crowley put a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “It isn’t broken, angel. It’s just out of battery.”

“What?”

“That picture with the red line means there’s no battery life left. You just need to plug it in.[1] The phone came with a cable, it’s probably buried under Bibles or something. We’ll find it.” He pushed the key to summon the display again. “You said you’ve had this on for two weeks? The real miracle is that it lasted so long in the first place.”

“I didn’t do any miracles,” Aziraphale said. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he could probably have fixed this current problem with a miracle, if he’d thought of it. But anyway, he’d always have known the problem had been there.

“No, but it’s a smart phone. It was probably trying extra hard because it wanted to make you happy.” The demon’s expression went soft. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.”

“...Oh. Well.” Aziraphale blinked, the sudden change in tone having caught him off guard. “Well, I must say, you… you do a much better job of making me happy than this thing.”

The demon grinned. “Somehow, I get the feeling that’s a pretty low bar right now.”

“It is,” Aziraphale conceded. “And you gave me the thing, so that’s a serious point against you too at the moment. But even so. You still” — he flushed at the audacity of the declaration he was about to make — “make me very happy.”

“Oh. Mrgh.” It was the demon’s turn to be taken aback by the moment of sentimentality. 

They looked at each other for a moment, sharing small smiles. Aziraphale found himself incapable of properly maintaining his previous bad mood with regard to the telephone. It was odd how Crowley could himself be immensely annoying when he wanted to be (and occasionally even when he didn’t want to be)... and yet, his presence always seemed to smooth over other annoyances.

“Anyway,” Crowley said finally, and cleared his throat. “Your phone is fine. I’ll show you how to plug it in so this doesn’t happen again. But in the meantime…”

He lifted the phone, held it to his lips, and breathed gently on it, just as he had once breathed life into a dead dove. 

There was a moment of suspenseful silence. Then the phone vibrated, played a short tune, and the screen lit up.

Crowley handed it back with a flourish. “One resurrection complete. It’s a good thing you taught me how to do that for the Arrangement. Now, let’s go figure out where that charging cable went. What do you say to dinner afterwards?”

~

[1]  Phones were one of the few pieces of technology that Crowley remembered needed plugging in. (And, therefore, one of the few pieces of technology that needed plugging in when he was around them.) This was because he had himself played a fairly significant role in influencing tech companies to make devices with poor battery life; there was nothing like a phone out of power for spreading soul-tarnish. He opted not to mention at the moment that he was probably at least partly to blame for Azirpahale’s new phone’s present predicament.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Make Way For The New

Pairing: Abaddon x Demon!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: demon!reader, minor angst, minor fluff

Summary: You enjoyed your time on Earth, but you love being a demon just a little bit more. You have a new life, and if you’re going to continue to love it, you need to get rid of your biggest obstacles... the Winchesters.

Fandom: Supernatural

abaddon (2019 card) for @heavenandhellbingo​

if you want a thing done well, do it yourself for @as-the-saying-goes-bingo​

missing and presumed dead for @badthingshappenbingo​

betrayal in @ladiesbingo

traveling woman in @spnfemslashbingo​

abaddon for @spnvillainsbingo​

Author’s Note: Yes, there will be another part. Maybe a third depending if you guys want it. This is unbeta’d and all mistakes are mine. If you have any requests, please send them in!

There are two sides to you: the past and the present.

Before, you did everything with the Winchesters. You met them when your life was at stake because a dragon captured you to eat. Yes, you were a virgin back then, but you quickly corrected that issue to prevent that mistake from happening again (or, that’s what you tell yourself). In reality, Dean was just too magnetic to stay away from.

Working with the Winchesters led to some really fun nights and some of the lowest lows you’ve ever seen yourself in. You three trusted each other with your life, always taking risks that the others wouldn’t. You used to put others before yourself all the time. It didn't matter if you know them or not. To you, everyone’s lives were worth more than yours… it’s why you and Dean got along so well.

You two became closer after you two had sex, even if it was the only time it happened. You’ve flirted with him almost every day, and there have been times when you two would make out, but it never went beyond that. It was just easier to sleep with someone you met in a bar and forget they existed the very next day. It was harder to do that with Dean since you lived with him.

Working with them was fine in the beginning, but the more hunts you went on, the more you realized how much you wanted a family. You’re always saving families and watching them reunite, and you long for one of your own. Dean tended to remind you that he and Sam were your family, and while that was true, you really wanted kids and to build one from the ground up.

It’s why you went your separate ways.

Sam and Dean wanted to continue to hunt, and you really wanted a family. That didn’t mean you weren't going to help if needed, you just weren't going to pick up a gun for them anymore. Whatever they needed, you helped from the comfort of your home. You kept in touch with them every day, told them about the men you were dating, and got so excited when one relationship lasted more than four months. They supported you from the Bunker, and you supported them from your apartment on the other side of the country. The only problem was that something was always dragging you back into hunting whether that would be a monster in your hometown, Sam and Dean needing your help on a hunt since they didn’t know anyone else, or whatever it was.

You got sick and tired of bailing on your boyfriends because you had to fight some monster. It wasn’t fair to them and it wasn’t fair to you. You ended up doing something you never thought you, as a hunter, would do. The need for wanting a family overcame the voice inside your head telling you not to do it. Of course, you never told Sam or Dean what you did… in fact, they hardly ever needed you for hunting after you did what you did.

You sold your soul for the apple pie life. Ten years being happy with a family is better than a lifetime of hunting monsters and never getting anywhere.

However, before you could get what you want, you died because you were in an accident. Now, you don’t know if it was some douchebag demon cashing in on souls early or if it was truly an accident, but it didn't matter because you went to Hell.

At first, it was torture getting tortured on the rack. It felt like a century being on there, but only a few years had passed. You’re used to getting a lot of pain from hunting with the Winchesters, but you’ve never experienced pain like that before.

You broke sooner than you hoped you would.

Instead of being tortured, you decided to do the torturing. It was nice to cut into skin that wasn’t yours. You knew Dean had gone to hell and was an excellent torturer, but you were better. You actually came up with ways that haven't even been invented yet. Everyone in Hell feared you, was scared when your name came into conversation. You got so good at torturing that anyone who was refusing to talk, did when they heard you were coming in.

After a few centuries of bringing the worst pain unto anyone that dare get in your way, you were promoted to a crossroad demon. It wasn’t as fancy as torturing souls, but you did get to see Earth. If you missed anything while you were human, it was being on Earth. Hell is great, but an argument can be made for Earth being a bit better.

After doing a few years being topside, you were a free demon, able to jump between Hell and Earth whenever you pleased. Crowley really wanted you to grab demons who were misbehaving and bring them back to him (injured or not), but you managed to slip into your old days of going to bars and picking up men.

Along the way, you met an equally scary demon, Abaddon. The only difference is that she is a Knight of Hell, and you’re not. You’ve never really clicked with anyone since going to Hell, but you did click with her. She never cared for other demons as her only goal was to overrun Crowley and become Queen of Hell, but you she cared for. There is something about you that taps into her emotions like no other.

You two became the dynamic duo, never going anywhere without the other. Whoever got in her way got in yours, and vice versa. There is nothing you two don’t do together, and that includes going to Earth to enjoy human things. You even traveled the world to see what you couldn’t when you were human.

The bar you two are in is lively with chatter, laughter, and all around good energy. You’ve been a demon for way too long, so you actually miss things like this. Abaddon is in one of her better moods which is why she agreed to something like this. The waiter just brought over your fourth round, and you take your glass to clink to hers.

“To us,” you grin.

“To us,” she smiles widely.

You down the shot, feeling no effect whatsoever. When done, you lean in and kiss her tenderly, glad to be by her side. It’s not every day that you can do this with her, so you’re cherishing each second until you have to go back to work. Your assignment: the Winchesters. But, more on that later.

“You know, I’ve never really understood Princes and Knights of Hell. Do you have wings?” you ask, staring at her in adoration.

“No, dear,” she chuckles. She cups your cheek with her right hand and rubs your cheekbone with her thumb. “That’s angels.”

You bite her thumb gently, and she pulls away with a smirk. She is about to suggest something else to do that’s way better than sitting in this dingy bar, but her phone rings. She’s still getting used to cell phones, but she answers it, nonetheless. You don’t know who is on the other line, but by the looks of her face, it’s not good news.

“What happened?” you ask once she hangs up.

“It’s those damn Winchesters… always getting in the way,” she growls. “They just won’t quit.”

You get an idea, suddenly, you and just smirk at the thought of it.

“You know, I used to work with them when I was human. Apparently, we worked pretty well together. I can make them stop… for good.”

“How?” she asks, intrigued.

All you can do is smile widely as the wicked thoughts enter your mind.

Sam and Dean have yet to find Abaddon and kill her before she takes over Hell and becomes Queen. They’re not getting any closer, and the Mark on Dean’s arm is itching for something more… powerful than mindless demons and monsters. Dean slams his bag on the library table with a frustrated huff.

“We’ll get her, Dean.”

“Yeah, when?”

Dean’s phone rings, and he stares at the strange yet familiar name. It takes a few seconds, but it clicks in his mind that it’s you… after all this time.

“It’s Y/N,” Dean gasps.

“She’s alive?” Sam asks, just as shocked.

Dean answers the phone and puts you on speakerphone so that Sam can hear.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

“Hi Dean. Long time no… talk,” you chuckle, keeping up the innocent facade they know you to have,

“Where the hell have you been? We thought you were missing or dead!”

“I’ve actually never felt better. I needed time for myself, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going away.”

“It’s been years, Y/N. That’s a little long for just ‘going away’. Where did you go?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know how to find Abaddon,” you grin and wink at Abaddon herself.

“What did you just say?”

“I heard down the chain of command you’re looking for her. She’s not far from where you are, actually. We can sit here and talk about how I know where she is and all that or you can come meet me and help me trap her. I heard you have the Mark which means you have the First Blade… you can kill her.”

“Where are you?”

“Believe it or not, Wichita, Kansas. She’s always been close just watching you. It’s why you can never find her.”

“Alright, we’re on our way.”

“Okay, drive safe,” you say sweetly.

As soon as you hang up the phone, you lose the sweet facade and give Abaddon a smirk.

“You want them to stop following you? You have to take out Sam first. Dean will be so hell bent on getting revenge, and that’s when we can use the Mark against him.”

“You’re so bad,” she grins and pulls you in by the waist.

“I know,” you chuckle.

You meet her halfway and kiss her, excited to use your skills on your old life… flushing out whatever good that used to be inside you.

Sam and Dean make it to Wichita in less than two hours, meeting you at the local bar. You told Abaddon to hide and wait for your signal. You dressed how you used to so that the brothers wouldn't suspect anything was wrong. If you want them to trust you after being gone for so long, then you really have to act the part.

“Sam! Dean!” you gasp with a smile, rushing over to them in excitement.

“It’s been too long, Y/L/N,” Dean chuckles and gives you a hug.

You remember what it’s like being in these arms, but you want to know what it’s like to watch his blood spill over them. Sam is next, and you silently size him up. You may be a badass demon, but they have been doing this a long time. If you’re going to get rid of them, then you have to be smart about this.

“Is she still here?” Sam asks when you pull away from him.

“Yeah. On the outskirts of town. She’s been there all day. I don’t know what she’s waiting for, but better make our move now.”

“Wait, are you sure you’re good? You seem a little too eager.”

“Let’s just get her while we can. Then, I’ll tell you all about where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to. Spoiler alert, I think I’ve done every sex position there is.”

“Gross,” Sam shakes his head.

“Nice,” Dean says at the same time as his brother.

“Come on, we need to get going.”

You lead the Winchesters to the edge of town where an abandoned farm is. On that farm is a barn where Abaddon is hiding out. You gear up with the Winchesters when you notice the Mark on Dean’s arm.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, motioning to it.

“I try not to think about it.”

You and the brothers head inside quietly, guns drawn. There is no one in the barn, and it takes Dean two seconds to figure out that she isn’t here, or that something isn’t right.

“Where is she?”

“Right here,” Abaddon smirks, entering the barn from where you three came in.

Sam and Dean turn, and yours and Abaddon’s eyes turn black.

“So glad you could join us,” you chuckle darkly.

You raise your hands, and Sam and Dean go flying across the room into the back wall. They hit their heads on the tables, causing them to black out. You and Abaddon high-five each other before heading over to them.

“This is going to be so much fun…”

Wanna get tagged? Add yourself to this document! If your tag doesn’t work, find out why! Follow my library blog @queenofdeansbooty-writes​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can follow that if you can’t be tagged!

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[sushiandstarlight]

For a prompt, what about the first time Crowley found out Azraphaile could sense love?

You Will Still Love Me Tomorrow

Read this story on AO3

Aziraphale had dropped his hand as soon as the bus stopped.  Crowley was pointedly not thinking about it.  He didn’t think about it as they took the short walk up to his flat, the not holding hands anymore.  He didn’t think about it as he unlocked his door with a flick of his wrist and invited the angel into his home.  He didn’t think about it as he sauntered past what remained of Ligur, hoping that Aziraphale would ignore the foul puddle, too.

Crowley did such a good job ignoring the fact that they weren’t holding hands anymore that it didn’t even register that Aziraphale hadn’t followed him into the kitchen until he turned around and took visual notice.  He pressed his lips together at the absence, but continued to his goal anyway: unstoppering a bottle of dark red wine and pouring two glasses.  He took a deep breath and carried the glasses as he retraced his steps.

He told himself that having the angel out of his sight was fine.  They hadn’t always been together before.  Long periods of time passed without catching sight of one another.  It shouldn’t be any different now.  But, his heart refused to listen to his brain, instead thrumming away against his ribs.  They’d scarcely made it this far and tonight might be the last night to drink and talk into the wee hours.  He told himself that it didn’t matter, but he knew that every moment of it mattered.

He found Aziraphale amongst his plants in the atrium, though the angel’s eyes were somewhere else.  Crowley understood; he’d had a home once, too, and it had been ripped away from him without his permission.  His heart beat harder in his chest as he contemplated what he had lost in his Fall.  But, also, what he had gained.  It was worth it, every bit of the pain was worth it.  The torment from hell’s other inhabitants was worth it.  All to be here, even up to this moment, side-by-side with his best friend.

“Wine?”  He held one of the glasses out between them and watched as the one quiet word startled Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”  They both took a deep gulp of wine and didn’t look at one another, examining the plants instead.

“You know...” Aziraphale started, that far away look returning to his eyes even as he looked like he was studying the perfection of the ficus in front of him, “I always thought that maybe they were better at hiding their feelings than I was.”

“They?”

“My fellow angels.”

“Hmm.”  Crowley took another hearty sip, eyes darting from the wine in his glass to Aziraphale and back.

“Before your fall... Oh, is it alright to ask?”

“Sure, angel.  It’s old news.”

“I know it’s not.  But, I’m afraid I’m too curious not to ask.”

“Never one to dissuade curiosity.” Yet, inside he trembled a bit.  Possibly their last night and Aziraphale wanted to know about his fall?  Or before.  He’d said before.  Crowley steeled himself.  If this was going to be their last night, their last chat over wine...  Then he would be as open and honest as he could.  Whatever the angel wanted.  Not that that... was much different than usual, even he could acknowledge that.

“Could you feel love when you were an angel?”

“Nah,” Crowley rubbed at his chin, “can’t say that was ever really one of my talents.  Creation, that was my bag.  Pulling things from the ether.  Real magic.”  There was something pinging around in the back of his brain: a softly sounding siren of warning.  A thought forming, but from far away.

“I always thought that perhaps all the angels I consorted with were better at concealing the love they felt.  I never really understood why, you know?  There’s no need to hide your heart in heaven.  It should be safe there.”

Crowley made an inarticulate noise, unsure how to answer that.

“The truth is, though, that they didn’t love me.  I’m not sure they loved each other, either.  Dare I say, they might not even have loved Her.”

“Likely,” Crowley sighed, drawing closer almost unconsciously, “likely, they only really knew love for themselves and their positions.”  The siren was getting louder, the thought forming but still just out of reach.

“If that.”  Aziraphale swirled the wine in his glass, “But you, you’ve never hidden it.”

“Hidden what?” The siren in his head was nearly deafening now, the other shoe poised to drop.

“Your love.  You’ve never hidden it from me.”

“Ngk?”  Crowley’s fingers went numb as the thought finally coalesced: all this time he thought his feelings had been trapped in his own chest, his own heart, but was it possible... that they had all been laid out at the angel’s feet all this time?  He nearly dropped the wineglass, only thinking to clench it at the last possible moment.  Even so, some wine splashed over the rim.

“On the wall, overlooking Eden, I told you that I had given away my God-given flaming sword.  And you loved me for it.  You hardly knew me.”

“Well, I-” Crowley choked on his own tongue.

“I tried to put it aside, you know.  Demons can’t love, they say.  But, I would run into you again and again and again and it would be there every time.”

Crowley set his wineglass down by the plants.  He wasn’t sure if he was going to cry or pass out, but neither supported his desire to keep a cool demeanor. 

“Your love was always there, bright like any star in the cosmos and warmer than the hearth of home.”

He was definitely getting light-headed.  He sat down on the ledge by the ficus before he lost all dignity and collapsed.  Aziraphale still wasn’t looking at him, despite his continued venture into transparency.

“I daresay, you’ve been more of a loving home to me than heaven ever was.”  And now Aziraphale was looking at him, earnest eyes shining.

Crowley removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the collar of his shirt, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes purposefully because words had utterly failed him.

“I am sorry, dear, that I’ve needed to push you away so many times.  I know,” Aziraphale swallowed hard, “I know I have a lot to make up for as far as that’s concerned.  But, more than that, I’m sorry that you can’t feel how very much I want to be your home, too.”

“You are,” Crowley croaked, unable to hold himself back any longer he reached out his hand and Aziraphale took it in both of his.  Those soft, warm angel hands.  His world stopped spinning sideways, righting itself as the touch grounded him, “you are my home.  Six thousand years, you’ve been my home.  Maybe... maybe before that.  I just didn’t know what was missing.”

“All the same, I wish you could feel it like I do from you.  You don’t know, darling.  It’s like basking in the gentlest sunshine.  Early morning, with all it’s colors and all it’s quiet.  I don’t sleep, but I imagine it feels like waking to a new day.”

Crowley tugged at his hands, pulling him close enough to hug him around the middle.  He peered up at the angel, making sure this was okay.  It was a sight more than holding hands.  Aziraphale moved even closer.  Crowley rested his head against the soft belly in front of him.

“I suppose I could just tell you.”

Crowley squeezed him, again finding himself out of words.

“I love you, Crowley.”  Aziraphale’s fingers had found their way into the soft hair at the back of his head.  Crowley couldn’t breathe and he was, once again, unsure if he was going to start crying, “I love you and I believe in our side- yours and mine.  This will not be our last night together.”

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, holding the angel closer.  He’d said all of that in a way that rumbled and glistened somehow with Truth.  The Truth of an Angel, sent by God Herself.  He wanted to believe in it.  He would believe it.  He didn’t believe in God, outside her existence.  He didn’t believe in Heaven’s angels with their thirst for power and control.  He didn’t believe in Hell, that place could continue to rot.  But, Aziraphale.  He believed in Aziraphale.  Regardless of whether or not he could feel the love he claimed.  He just knew.  His belief in this didn’t need tangible proof, it was written between the lines of six thousand years.

“I expect,” Aziraphale’s hand traveled down his jaw and tilted it so they could meet eyes again, “to feel all of this from you tomorrow.  And all the days after.  Can you promise me that?”

“I promise you, Angel.  We’ll come up with something.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Ineffable Holiday 2020 - “Anathema’s Solid Right Arm” (Rated PG)

Summary: Anathema takes it upon herself to bring together two customers she knows have a crush on one another ... drastically, if necessary. (1694 words)

Notes: I had started writing this for @ineffablehusbandsweek prompt coffeeshop au, but I never got it done. So I have written it for the Ineffable Holiday 2020 Day 2 prompt 'hot cocoa/cider'. Human au. Mainly fluff.

Read on AO3.

“So, Mr. Crowley,” Anathema says, eagerly setting her cocoa and her apple cider muffin on the iron bistro table out front of her shop, right by the door where she can keep track of customers going in and out, “is he here yet?”

“Who?” her reluctant companion, who’d been there first, nursing his mug of coffee while he eyed the people walking by, asks.

“Don’t play dumb with me!”

“Pfft. Who says I’m playin’?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. The man in the cream-colored coat who comes here every day at 2 o’clock for a cup of Earl Grey and a blueberry scone. The one you’ve been mooning over for weeks and weeks but refuse to say two words to.”

Crowley spots a gentleman who fits that exact bill weeding through the crowd. But by the time he reaches the coffee shop, it’s obviously not him, and Crowley groans. “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”

“This is my shop, and you're a customer here, so I think that gives me exclusive bothering rights.”

“I liked you better when all you did was read books behind the counter and ignore the rest of us.”

“Lucky for you, you’re much more interesting than a book.”

“Lucky me,” Crowley grumbles in a put-upon voice.

Crowley isn’t exactly a friend of hers, but he is one of her best customers. He shows up every afternoon without fail at precisely 1:30 and orders the same thing each time - black coffee and the muffin of the day (which he never eats). Anathema had thought he chose her spot over other, more commercial coffee enterprises because of her homey atmosphere and signature, in-house roasted Arabica blends. Many of her customers (an older set among the locals) do. 

Turns out, he stopped by every day because of another daily customer of hers - a pleasant, older man with fluffy white-blond hair, and a positively glowing smile, the kind that can be described as lighting up a room. Anathema has watched the two of them religiously. To this day, Crowley has never once spoken to the man, and the man (Aziraphale is the name he gives when he orders) has made no move to speak to him either. And as it’s already nearing 2:15 with no sign of him, it seems today won’t be the day Crowley gets his chance. 

Which explains his sour mood.

Anathema watches Crowley pull apart his muffin with one hand while he searches the stream of pedestrians, not paying an ounce of attention to the fact that he’s decimating it, crumbs falling through the scrollwork on the tabletop and attracting birds from all around. 

Anathema feels for the man. She really does. She’s watched the evolution of him from the first day he walked into her shop: cocky, condescending, constantly criticizing everything from the smell of the place to the decor. But he’s softened considerably since Aziraphale, almost become a whole different person. 

There are some things about him that have not budged. He still dresses like a wealthy undertaker, sporting a pair of dark sunglasses whether it’s dreary out or fine. Both style choices make him the yin to Aziraphale’s yang seeing as Aziraphale only dresses in tones of lightest cream and pale, sky blue.

Anathem has become invested in whether or not these two end up together. There's no better time than the present. 

Christmas time.

Which Anathema considers the most romantic season of the year

(Stuff Valentine's!)

If Crowley isn’t brave enough to make the first move, and Aziraphale (whom she thought she caught more than once peeking surreptitiously Crowley’s way) won’t, then she needs to make this happen. 

Starting today, if possible.

But what if he found a different coffee shop to go to? 

What if he had been waiting for Crowley to say something and mistook his silence for disinterest?

How tragic would it be for these two to end up star-crossed!

Nope! Not on her watch!

She straightens up and peeks around at the customers enjoying their beverages on this blustery day, then beyond the dining patio to the holiday shoppers hopping from store to store. It’s easy to mistake many an older gentleman for the object of Crowley’s affections, but easier to spot him out the moment he arrives, threading through passersby like a salmon traveling upstream, offering everyone he meets a smile, a nod, and an, “Excuse me! I’m very sorry! I must get through!” 

“Look!" Anathema cheers. "Mr. Crowley! There he is!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crowley says, but she sees the slightest twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he waits for Aziraphale to blow by him into the shop for his daily fare.

Except, he doesn’t. 

It doesn’t look like he’s stopping at all, hurrying through the crowd to continue down the street.

Crowley's twitchy smile withers. Anathema’s jaw drops as she stares at Aziraphale’s back while he walks on. In her peripheral, she sees Crowley’s head bow, his lips tightening into the thinnest of lines as he sinks slowly into his mug of freezing cold cider.

And that's that.

She has to do something! If she doesn’t, Crowley is going to be miserable for the remainder of the afternoon. Grumpy and alone, he'll stay out here well into supper and, in turn, will make her miserable.

She can’t have that.

But she doesn't know how to fix things. She can’t chase after the man. He has a considerable head start. Plus, with the crowd between them, she’s not sure she'll reach him before he gets away. 

She doesn’t know what on Earth possesses her. 

She grabs up the picked apart remains of Crowley’s muffin and, without another thought, hurls it with all her might. She thought she aimed low enough to tag Aziraphale’s shoulder, or brush his arm, but obviously not when she hits the poor man square on the cheek.

Anathema throws her hands over her mouth and gasps.

Crowley launches swiftly to his feet.

Aziraphale stops walking.

“What on Earth!?” Aziraphale mutters, pivoting quickly on his heel and looking over at them in surprise. But he doesn’t see Anathema at all. The second the muffin hits its mark, she says, "Good luck!" and bolts inside the shop, leaving her red-faced companion staring, mouth agape, at the man glaring back with a cheek covered in mascarpone cheese filling.

Aziraphale must recognize the culprit is Crowley because his demeanor changes. He smiles bashfully, feeling his pockets for a handkerchief, but his eyes never leave Crowley's face.

Silently, and from her hiding place just inside, Anathema cheers.

She knew it! She just knew it! 

After a few awkward seconds of searching, Aziraphale still can't seem to find it, and Crowley, realizing that this is the chance he's been waiting for, hurries to the rescue. 

On the brief saunter over, he debates the best opening line for this situation. Hello is first on the list. Hi sounds a bit too casual. Yo pops up to make a short appearance but is brutally beaten to death. What ends up coming out of Crowley's mouth, not even a contender, is, “Here,” as he thrusts a black handkerchief Aziraphale's way.

“Oh!" Aziraphale accepts it gratefully. "Thank you so much, my dear."

"Crowley," Crowley corrects, biting his tongue hard after because what did he have against this man calling him my dear? Not a single, Goddammed thing!

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale offers. "Uh … was that your muffin?”

“No! I mean, ngk … yes, it was. But someone tossed it … I suppose?” Crowley looks over at Anathema, who has the gall to spy on them through her front window, smiling like anything and making, what he can only describe as, encouraging hand motions.

“What kind was it?”

“The muffin of the day - apple cider, filled with …”

“Mascarpone cheese, yes," Aziraphale finishes with a frown. "Was it tasty, at least?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Didn’t get a nibble of it.”

“Pity.” Aziraphale side-eyes Crowley as he watches him wipe the remaining cheese off his cheek. “Thank you for this,” he says, gesturing with the handkerchief. “I’ll get it cleaned for you.”

“Keep it. This way you have an extra, just in case. You never know when some rogue baker might throw a muffin at you again. Or a doughnut.”

“True. A jam-filled would ruin this coat. It’s one of my favorites, too.”

“Is it?" Crowley steps back, gives the garment a casual once over as if he doesn't have the thing memorized - every line from shoulder to hem, the position of the pockets, the lay of the lapels. "It suits you.”

“Thank you," Aziraphale says, self-consciously tugging at the seams, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. 

The two men fall silent. Anathema, palms pressed against the glass, starts dramatically mouthing, "Do something! One of you! Do something!"

Neither of them sees her, but Aziraphale says, "Now I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“I’ve never had one of the specialty muffins. Creature of habit, I’m afraid. Always order the same thing.”

“I think she has one left if you’d like to give it a go.”

Aziraphale bites his lower lip, his cheeks turning a fetching shade of rose. “Do you think … would you mind splitting it with me? Then we can both satisfy our curiosities.”

That last part sounds like an invitation to more than sharing a muffin, and Crowley, admittedly dense to those sorts of flirtations, is determined not to let it pass him by.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

Anathema beams when she sees Aziraphale and Crowley heading her way, flashing them a double thumbs-up that only Crowley catches. Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale looks in time to see the top of her head drop below the sill, another unfortunate chair upturning behind her. “Is that the young lady who runs the shop?” he asks, pointing at Anathema's bun bobbing away from the window towards the counter.

“I believe it is,” Crowley says dismissively.

“Is she quite all right?”

“No.” Crowley sets the chairs right at the small table and offers one to Aziraphale. “Not in the slightest.”

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 5,089 Demon!Dean x Reader Warnings: None really! Summary: Y/N meets Lucifer and moves forward with plans. We learn a little more about what once happened between Y/N and Dean. A/N: This has been a long time coming. I have had writer's block on this story for some time, but I think I've worked through it! This is part of a series! Read the other parts first! Part 1 :: Part 2 :: Part 3 :: Part 4 :: Part 5 :: Part 6 :: Part 7 :: Part 8.

Your name: submit What is this?

The constant thunder served to cover the sound of your approaching footsteps. You entered alone—the demon underlings refused to enter the chamber and were quite literally shaking in their boots. But not you. You strolled into the darkness, broken at first only by the blinding flashes of lightning. As you approached the hulking structure, flames rose up and licked around it in a circle, obscuring any view of what you knew to be inside. You stopped at the edge of the fire, the intense heat blowing back your hair, and raised a hand before slowly dropping it to the ground. The fire abated, obeying your command. The interior of the rectangular cage was cloaked in shadow and stillness. You stared hard into the abyss, trying to pick up some movement or shape. You didn’t have to strain your eyes for long.

There were suddenly two points of fiery light burning deep within the darkness—his eyes. They were red hot, like the irises were made of flame, but after a moment they dimmed and disappeared. Footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, and echoing loudly in the cavernous chamber, even over the sound of the thunder cracking and rolling overhead. You marveled at this inwardly now. How could there be thunder and lightning? Wasn’t there a ceiling of some sort way up there? Something, somewhere above you? But apparently He and His effects defied explanation.

You stepped over the line of holy oil that had been burning at your feet and he came into view. And he was looking right at you with curiosity as he emerged from shadow.

Your heart beat a little faster.

“Yes, I can see that easily,” he said, turning his eyes back to you again, guessing at what you were thinking. His lips curled into a devious smirk. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?” You did your best to keep very still and to keep your face impassive. He pressed his face close to the bars and his eyes bored into you. The intensity of his gaze was unbelievable and you almost quailed under it for a brief moment before you steeled yourself again. Best not to show weakness to the literal Devil during your first meeting. “How is it that a Knight of Hell is walking around with an almost untouched human soul still?”

You gulped at the tightness in your throat but said nothing. He only smiled wider. “Where, oh, where did you get that?” He let out a chuckle and stretched his arms up over his head casually and sighed. “Aren’t we going to meet properly?” he asked.

You gulped, hoping your voice wouldn’t come out strained and tight with nerves. “You don’t know who I am?” you asked him.

“Can’t exactly get the news or the weather down here,” he said in a singsong voice. “And you’re not one of the old Knights of Hell.” The devious smirk grew on his face again. “I certainly would remember you. You’re all shiny and brand new.”

You swallowed again at the tightness in your throat. You hated to admit it, but he radiated power.

“So, you have me at a disadvantage, you see,” he said. He kept his voice low, the tone still casual, like you were two strangers meeting at a bar. “You obviously know who I am because you came looking for me. No way to stumble on this place by accident—and I’m a little conspicuous. But I don’t know who you are, so let’s remedy that.” He stuck an outstretched hand through the bars. You eyed him warily. What was your move here? Could you snub a handshake from frickin’ Lucifer? Was it some sort of trick? Could he really do anything to you? Afterall, he was still in the cage.

You stepped forward and grasped his hand, your heart hammering in your chest. He took a firm hold of yours and tugged suddenly. You couldn’t stop a small, surprised gasp from leaving your lips as you were pulled right up to the bars in front of him. His eyes, no longer wreathed in flame, were an icy gray blue and they were again boring into yours. You felt a chill climbing up your arm from the hand he was clutching. He lifted your hand in his and brought it slightly through the bars, kissing the back of it before his lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Enchanté,” he said. The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. He finally let your hand fall from his, leaving your fingers still feeling strangely cold. You stepped back.

“I’m Y/N,” you finally managed.

For some reason this sent him chuckling again and he hopped a little playfully away from the edge of the cage, one foot at a time. “Oh, you are? …perhaps I do know something about you,” he said. The smile was still on his lips and there was a brightness in his eyes as he turned back in your direction. You gave him a questioning look. He shrugged. “I used to have some loyal followers who managed to get the occasional message to me. Before Crowley put a stop to that… In any case, you,” he said, pointing at you with his index finger, “run with the Winchesters.”

“I used to,” you corrected him. He looked at you with renewed interest.

“Are you sure? From what I’ve seen the only way out with those two is six feet under, you know what I mean?” he said with a fake grimace. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He gripped a bar in each hand and stared at you, seemingly studying your face again. “How exactly did you become a Knight of Hell?”

“That really isn’t important,” you replied.

A smile flickered on his lips again and he shrugged carelessly. “Right. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Dean being a Knight of Hell…”

You licked your lips a little nervously but said nothing. He seemed to know more than he first let on.

“Hmm. And, uhh, Y/N, that human soul glowing inside you… is that yours? It seems surprisingly unmarred. Pretty unusual. In fact, I can’t think of ever hearing of anything like it in all my eons.”

“I have a proposition for you,” you interrupted loudly, wanting to steer him back toward your purpose and away from your backstory.

“Ooh? Is that so? You have a proposition for me? Because I have several in mind for you.” Lucifer bit his bottom lip. “As you can imagine it has been a very, very long time since I had any visitors, let alone one quite as striking at you are. And I’d really like to get to know you better,” he smirked.

You ignored his innuendo. “How would you feel about running Hell?” you asked him bluntly.

You saw a flash of something in his eyes, maybe desire or surprise. “From in here?” he asked, gesturing to the cage. “Well, that’s quite impossible,” he chuckled. “Besides, I don’t think Crowley would concede.” There was a question in his voice and you knew he was trying to feel you out.

“You don’t have to worry about Crowley. He’s… let’s say, indisposed.”

“Is he dead?” Lucifer asked, an eager and hopeful look on his face. “Because that would be great news. I’m so sick of that little, meddling twerp…”

“So, you’d be interested?” you asked again.

“Sign me up,” he said, again leaning casually on the bars, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “But what’s the catch?” Every time he looked at you, you felt like he could see you without your clothes on… and you couldn’t figure out if he actually could, or if perhaps he was seeing your true form, your soul or some Knight of Hell version of it… It was a vulnerable feeling, and if there was one feeling you hated as a demon it was vulnerability.

“There would be certain concessions you’d have to make. Things you would need to agree to,” you said. “Terms.”

He smiled deviously. “Really? And you’d just take Big Bad Lucifer at his word?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Of course not.”

He pointed at you enthusiastically and chewed on his bottom lip again. “I like you. You have spunk.” He paced slowly in the cage, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. “I’d like to know more about these concessions and exactly how you think you’re going to hold me to them. But more importantly I want to know why you’re even here in the first place.”

You thought about how to answer that question for a long moment. There were several reasons you had ended up where you were… which one should you offer up? Or should you offer up none of them? But, finally, you settled on a half-truth. “Revenge,” you said. This snapped Lucifer’s eyes to your face and a faint smile grew on his lips.

He chuckled and wiped a thumb over his bottom lip. “Personally, one of my favorite reasons for mayhem.” He paused thoughtfully. “On whom, may I ask?”

You crossed your arms a little guardedly. “I’ve fallen into this whole… running Hell thing,” you said. “It’s more a side effect really. Turns out, someone does actually need to do it. And I have essentially zero interest in most of the job.”

“So, revenge on Crowley? You took over just to piss off Crowley and now you’re stuck with it. Amazing how much administration and bureaucracy is involved in running a realm, isn’t it? Not to mention all the eager underlings,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s simple. I have my own plans and I want to be able to do them when I want, how I want.”

“Sounds like what we all want, doesn’t it?”

“Let me be perfectly clear: you would not set foot outside of Hell. You can do whatever you want regarding… let’s call them, day to day operations. But that’s it.”

He held up his hands, palms out, lips pressed into a tight line. “Hey. Considering my current position, I would still call that a huge upgrade…” He leaned on the bars again. “So, when is my coming out party? Where do I sign?” He was looking you up and down without the slightest effort to hide it, and you felt the hair raise on the back of your neck under his gaze, but you weren’t quite sure exactly why. Was it just the pure power that he radiated? Was it some foreshadowing? You didn’t know, but it did make you uneasy. Still, you plunged recklessly ahead. What exactly did you have to lose?

“I have some things to prepare first,” you said vaguely.

“Oh, preparations? Party decorations? I’d like black streamers and Devil’s Food cake,” he quipped. You shot him a blank look which only elicited a shrug. “I get it. Enough with the questions. I just find you so… interesting. I’ve been sitting down here, rotting in obscurity and boredom and suddenly a brand new Knight of Hell shows up at the Devil’s cage wanting revenge on Crowley and some sort of, let’s say partnership. I’m not supposed to ask questions?”

“You can ask questions. Just don’t expect an answer.”

A wide smile broke out on his lips and he pulled the bottom one in between his teeth again. “Are you flirting with me? Because it’s working.”

You felt another prickle run up your spine and gulped at the nervous tightness in your throat which you were trying so hard to hide. “Just… sit tight. I’ll be back.”

“Like I have any other choice!” he said with a smile. “You’re just trying to play hard to get, trying to keep me titillated!” he called after you.

You stepped away back, breaking the gaze between you and him, and flicked a hand and the holy fire sprang up around the cage again. You could feel Lucifer’s eyes on you the whole way to the door, even though your back was to him. It was with some sense of relief that you finally closed it behind you. This was insane. What the hell were you doing? Did you seriously think you could pull this off? The alternative was to keep going the way you were—annoyed, frustrated, angry—you hadn’t asked for any of this. Crowley had turned you. So, whatever happened, ultimately, it was on him… Right? And Dean—just the thought of him sent you reeling with anger, frustration, and… shit. How was it that Dean was somehow still eliciting this whirlwind of emotions? You’d had enough. You wanted control again, so you were taking it.

There was a small gaggle of demons waiting just outside the door looking amazed and scared and you turned to the one in front. “Did you get them?”

He gulped and looked a little sheepish. “We—we still have to find a couple more.”

Your jaw tensed. “Well, do it. Now.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Sam gritted his teeth when he stepped into the kitchen early in the morning to see Dean sitting at the island with a mug, apparently at his ease.

“Sammy,” he said, raising his mug slightly. “Little brother… How’d you sleep?”

Sam let out an irritated scoff. “How did I sleep? How’d I—you want to know how I slept? I didn’t. I didn’t sleep. Because the King of Hell is in one room, and a Knight of Hell was wandering the bunker. So, I didn’t sleep.”

One corner of Dean’s mouth flicked upward. “You really need to learn to relax…”

Sam grabbed the empty carafe off the coffee pot and gestured vaguely. “I thought you made coffee,” he said.

“What do I look like, a barista?” Dean’s gruff voice answered.

Sam glared at him. “You’ve got a mug.”

Dean looked down into it and back up at Sam. “This is whiskey.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. “Whiskey. It’s 6 am.”

“I run on demon time now, Sam,” he said, sipping carelessly at his drink. “It’s where I do whatever I want, whenever I want.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“So, you’re telling me of all the possible things you could be doing, running on ‘demon time,’ this is what you want? Sitting in the bunker with me, Cas, and Crowley.” Dean didn’t say anything, just held his brother’s eyes with a blank expression on his face. “For some reason I find that a little hard to believe,” Sam said skeptically, turning to fill the carafe with water and put some actual coffee on.

“Do you have some sort of point you’d like to make? Something you want to say to me?” There was a dangerous growl in his voice now.

Sam sighed heavily and turned around to face him again. “I’m sick of this ‘I don’t give a shit’ act, Dean! You showed up here because of Y/N, so some part of you, no matter how small or how far down you’ve shoved it, actually cares about something. And yet you won’t even tell us what happened when you saw her! Make up your mind—you can’t have it both ways! You either want to figure out how to get Y/N back or you don’t. …But I don’t know. Maybe you really don’t care. Maybe you don’t care if Y/N ends up dead or—”

Dean was on him so fast that before Sam even realized it he was up against the wall with Dean’s hand on his throat and the glass carafe was shattered on the floor. The puddle of water was slowly expanding, weaving its way around the shards of glass, making them look even more like jagged ice crystals floating in a shallow sea. Dean’s breath was hot on Sam’s face. “Don’t you ever say that about Y/N again. You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” With some effort, his hand shaking as he drew back, he released Sam. His eyes were filled with a savage light that Sam had never seen before and for a moment he was reminded of the power and anger this version of Dean was capable of wielding. Dean gave him one final glare and stormed from the room.

Sam heaved a frustrated sigh and reached up to rub at his throat. Gulping down the sudden wave of fear, he grabbed a broom, starting to sweep up the shards of broken glass into a pile. Cas breezed in.

His face immediately darkened as he took in the mess on the floor and Sam bending to pick up a few particularly large pieces of debris. “I heard something. What happened?”

Sam sighed and tossed the pieces forcefully into the trash before running a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. He gestured vaguely at the mess. “Dean. Dean happened…”

Cas swallowed at the uncomfortable tightness in his throat and gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

Sam sank heavily onto a nearby stool. “I don’t know. Nothing. It’s probably my fault… I was—challenging him.”

Cas’s brow sank even lower over his blue eyes. “Sam—don’t do that. I know it’s hard to reconcile but he’s not entirely the brother you knew… He’s not the same.”

Sam let out a dry scoff. “Yeah. Tell me about it…” He sighed again, deep in thought now. “There’s something though…”

Cas nodded. “With Dean. About Y/N.”

Sam’s eyes shot up to meet Cas’s. “Yes. Exactly. He threatened us about messing with him, warned us about messing with Y/N, and then he just freely shows up here all of a sudden? And then just now… I said something about Y/N and that just set him off. It was like a switch flipped.”

Cas continued. “I’ve noticed it too. If the old Dean, some part of him, wasn’t still in there with this Knight of Hell, he wouldn’t give a damn that Crowley turned Y/N. He wouldn’t care about anything. He wouldn’t be here. Or he would have killed all of us by now...”

Sam nodded. “And yet he called us. He showed up here. He’s furious with Crowley...” He gave Cas a knowing look and the angel nodded.

“We need to know what happened between the two of them. It might explain why Y/N suddenly went barreling into Hell,” Cas mused. “I don’t believe it was only to punish Crowley.” The look in the angel’s eyes grew faraway as he sunk further into thought. “We need Dean to talk to us.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Sam scoffed. “He’s obviously being tight-lipped about it on purpose. There’s something he doesn’t want us to know, for whatever reason.” Sam stood up and resumed his kitchen clean-up. “And no one is going to force it out of him.”

“I just can’t shake the feeling that somehow Y/N is going to be his way back from all of this…” Cas said. Sam gave him a thoughtful looking, his brow wrinkled with worry.

“Then we better try our best to find out what really happened when they last saw each other.”

Cas went in search of Dean and after checking the usual common areas he headed deeper into the bunker, peeking into every open door. He was expecting to find him in his old room but was surprised to see it empty and undisturbed. Just next door, however, was your room, and Cas found Dean inside, standing over your desk.

He cautiously stepped across the threshold and waited patiently for Dean to speak, not entirely sure that he even would.

Dean was studying the books, notebooks, and stray paper spread out all over your desk. He paged through it gently, almost tentatively, with slow, intentioned movements. “All this—all of it… it’s about me. I mean, about Knights of Hell and demons… Every single note, every marked page.” His deep voice was absent its usual gruffness, and Cas noted that this wasn’t the first time he had seen Dean, the Knight of Hell, soften when thinking of you.

Cas swallowed a little nervously. “She wanted to get you back. We all did. But she was the one who refused to give up. Even when I stepped away. Even when Sam couldn’t go on.”

Something changed suddenly and Dean let out a wry laugh. “Waste of time,” he said, dropping the paper in his hand and withdrawing suddenly from the stacks of notes like he had been burned.

Cas’s brow contracted. “Is it?” he asked, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Well, a lot of good it did her. Clearly, I’m still a Knight of Hell. And on top of that, it seems she is too. There is one thing I do know,” Dean said a little quietly, “Y/N doesn’t belong in this world. A frickin’ Knight of Hell,” he said, shaking his head.

“She would say you don’t either,” Cas asserted.

“That’s not the same.” Dean licked his lips thoughtfully and stared back at the angel for a long moment.

“Let me ask you something,” the angel started cautiously. He hoped if he could just keep Dean talking about you, perhaps he would explain what had occurred when you saw each other. “Why the hunting? The monsters? The humans?” Cas asked him. “I mean the demon underlings make sense. Might as well be an annoying fly under a newspaper but… why is going after the human criminals?”

Dean’s mouth lifted on one side and he crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, at first I thought she was just experimenting, trying out her new form and they were convenient targets. But I think it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

The deep bass of Dean’s voice was now touched with gravel again and he paced over to sit on the edge of your bed, glancing at the novel and trinkets on your bedside table, now dull with a layer of dust in your absence. “Think about it. If she just wanted to learn new tricks she didn’t need to hunt down bad guys and monsters. She could have smoked the first thing she came across. But even now she has a conscience or something like it. She isn’t just killing just to kill. She’s clinging to some purpose, however self-manufactured it is,” he said, getting up from your bed and dusting off his hands. “She’s just trying to feel something…” Dean trailed off here and Cas watched as a cloudy veil came over his eyes.

“You saw her?” Cas asked, already knowing that he had, but hoping Dean would reveal more.

“Oh, yeah, I saw her. She threw me into a wall,” he said with a smirk. Cas’s expression darkened.

“Why?”

“Because she could,” Dean said. “But after that I made a point of getting in her way,” he said, stretching his arms out in front of him.

Cas shook his head, not completely understanding, but he felt like he was getting close to something. “What do you mean?”

“I got in the way of her hunts. She didn’t like that.”

“How?” Cas pressed him. For now, Dean seemed content to talk, but the angel continued to press for more details.

“Killing who and what she was going to before she could. She really didn’t like that,” he said, one corner of his mouth flicking upward again. “All I was doing was pushing her buttons, trying to get a response. Payback for what she had been doing to me…” Here he trailed off again and Cas watched a change come over his face.

“What had she been doing?”

Dean’s green eyes flickered up to meet the angel’s and for a moment Castiel felt certain he was about to explain, but the next second the that had passed and he offered only a vague explanation. “There’s some connection between the two of us, probably just a Knight of Hell thing, but… it made it easy for us to get at each other.”

“Hmm.” Cas was pretty sure that it had much less to do with being a Knight of Hell than it did with whatever was between you and Dean.

“I could find her. Somehow, I just knew where she was and where she would be next.”

“Well, where is she now?” Cas asked.

Dean stood up and shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I don’t know. Based on that voicemail she left, my best guess is that she is actually in Hell, and if so then it seems I can’t reach her there the way I could when she was just running around icing douchebags.” He shrugged again.

“And all that happened between you was a fight?” Cas asked again.

Dean seemed a little caught off guard by the question and it took him a long moment to answer. “Apparently.” And with that he strode out, leaving Cas standing alone in your room with a peculiar feeling that wasn’t true and almost more questions than when he started.

Some years ago

The trip to South Dakota and what had happened between you and Dean while you were locked in Bobby’s panic room left you with a hopeful excitement in your chest. As you rode in the back seat of the Impala, heading back to the bunker, you couldn’t help glancing up at Dean behind the wheel and you caught him looking over his shoulder at you several times as well. As soon as your eyes met, both of you broke into nervous smiles and you felt your cheeks respond with a warm flush which lingered long after you turned your attention to the waves of grass whizzing by outside.

Finally making it home late that night, Sam immediately muttered sleepy goodnights and headed for bed. This suddenly left you and Dean standing alone in the front room and the atmosphere was thick with expectation. Dean tossed the Impala keys down on the table with a loud rattle and his green eyes caught yours.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight a little nervously, the eye contact between the two of you magnetic. “Sooo…”

You laughed a little anxiously. “So. Alone again,” you said, unconsciously biting your bottom lip.

Goddamn… Dean couldn’t handle that and he tilted his head at you a little as he gave you an almost desperate look, his lips falling partially open as if he was about to say something. Your blush deepened and you were about to ask him something in return when suddenly he was right in front of you, slipping an arm around your lower back and his fingers into your hair and crashing into you, pulling you against him so suddenly, so forcefully that you were unbalanced on your tiptoes. The heat and passion of that kiss was staggering and you sank into it, giving yourself over entirely to the sensations of Dean—the rough stubble on his jaw, his strong arm tight around you, his lips moving effortlessly with yours, hungry and pleading.

Your lips broke apart for a brief moment and Dean studied your face, you doing the same in turn. The green of his eyes was olive in the dim light and there was a flame burning that you felt spreading straight to the center of your chest, heating you up.

“Is this—was that okay?” Dean asked you, suddenly a little unsure, a little worried he wasn’t reading the moment right. He had told himself for so long that wanting you was pointless, because it was impossible you wanted him back in the same way. He didn’t deserve you. So, the idea that this was happening at all was surreal and he was terrified of screwing it up.

“More than okay,” you replied. Your voice was breathy, like you’d just run a marathon. “Dean—”

His lips met yours again before you could even get the rest of your thought out and the next second it was gone as you were surrounded by, enveloped in Dean again.

You broke apart with no small amount of effort, your arms around his neck, and gave him a shy smile.

His eyes were questioning as he studied your expression.

You slipped your fingers in between his and gave him a warm look, starting to tug him in the direction of your room.

Dean’s heart pounded. He wanted this so badly. There wasn’t a single other thought in his mind. All he could think about was the feeling of you beneath his fingers, the taste of you, the intoxicating scent of your hair… He followed you down the hallway toward your room, but when you both were rounding the last corner there was a familiar rustling noise behind him and he spun to see Cas standing there with a grave expression on his face. His fingers slipped from between yours and you stood beside him, your heart sinking from stratospheric heights to the lowest depths at the shadow that was on the angel’s face.

“We have a big problem,” Cas said. And just like that, it was like you were yanked out of the perfect dream into a nightmare.

[ineffable-endearments]

Waking up in July

(Rating: G. Approx. 1917 words.)

July 1, 2020.

On reaching for the snooze, Crowley discovers an envelope he definitely didn’t leave on top of his phone. (Mail doesn’t usually get delivered to his bedside, of course, but given the handwriting on the front, Crowley has the impression divine intervention was involved this time.)

Dear Crowley,

I am writing to you in frustration. Not with you, you must understand, but with myself. There are a few things I do believe need clarifying.

Given everything that’s happened, I feel strongly that I ought to be behaving in solidarity with the guidelines the people of London have set for themselves. I must admit, it was a surprise to hear you express the same sentiment. I’ve always known you aren’t cruel enough to want to see innocent people fall ill (don’t you roll your eyes at this letter; you said it yourself), but I thought surely you would have your own ways of getting around the lockdown, carrying on outside the rules and indulging in mischief as you always do. Were this the case, it would only be responsible to invite you over here, to decrease your bad influence.

And yet, this was not the case. Still, after declining your offer when we spoke, I felt somehow unsatisfied, or perhaps at loose ends. It would have been very nice to share my baking with someone who is not attempting to steal my cashbox.

If you read this letter before July, do know you’re encouraged to reach out. We could at least speak telephonically. And if you don’t read this before July, know I will be immensely happy to meet with you again as soon as you awaken.

(There’s a long gap between the end of the paragraph and the end of the letter itself.)

Crowley...I suppose the truth is I miss you very much.

Yours, always,

Aziraphale

“Sentimental old sap,” Crowley says out loud. How else is he going to dislodge the painfully fond lump in his throat? “Right. Time to see what’s going on, then.”

=

Continue below or read the rest on AO3

One rushed mobile search and five minutes later, Crowley has an approximate idea of where the humans stand. They haven’t done the greatest job of getting the virus under control, but they seem to have made...progress? Arguably? Ugh, they could have done better. At any rate, if he and Aziraphale want to see each other, they’re going to have to form a...a “support bubble.”

The notion of asking Aziraphale out loud if he would like to be in something called a “support bubble” together almost makes Crowley want to turn around and go back to sleep.

On second thought, the angel would probably get a kick out of it, and the awful naming scheme would give Crowley something to gripe about, so all’s well that ends well, really.

The bookshop phone barely rings before Aziraphale’s voice is on the line. “Hello. I’m afraid we’re closing early--”

“Good,” Crowley says. “I’m not calling you to buy books.”

“Crowley!”

Oh, that’s a familiar delight in his voice. That’s rescuing-from-the-Bastille, cleaning-paint-off-his-coat, showing-up-for-Armageddon-in-a-flaming-car delight.

“Good morning, angel.”

“So very much has happened. I’d like to fill you in, but oh, I don’t even know where to begin...”

Crowley frowns at his phone, worried. “A lot has happened? What, at the shop?”

“No, no, I mean in the world.”

“All right. Well. Just start in...I dunno, start off from our last conversation, I fell asleep pretty much right away--”

“Come to the shop,” Aziraphale blurts. “You have to wear a mask, and-- and don’t go anywhere else, but it’s allowed. It...it’s okay now.”

“I’ll be there in five,” Crowley says, grinning, ready to ignore any admonishments about speed limits.

“Wait! Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Actually. If you come see me before July 4, we...we have to be in, ah. A support bubble.” There it is. “Have you heard about that yet?”

“Sure I have.” Crowley does his best to sound gruff and unaffected.

“You couldn’t be in anyone’s place but mine, you know. And even after the fourth, you couldn’t...get closer than two metres to anyone but me, even though you could visit--”

“Aside from the fact that all this is totally for show anyway, stop worrying, it’s fine,” Crowley insists. He miracles himself the least-ugly mask he can contemplate and bustles out the door, hurrying irritatedly back a minute later to grab the “something drinkable” he forgot.

They don’t even sit down right away, much less get within the 2 metres of each other. Aziraphale does, however, give Crowley a long, pleasantly intense look (it appears to be a proper drinking-in) when he enters the shop.

“Did you, ah,” Aziraphale clasps his hands together. “Did you get my letter?”

“I did,” Crowley says. “Got a bit bored, did you?”

Aziraphale sighs, impatient. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

“I’d have come over, you know,” Crowley says softly, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. “You could have called. Had my phone right by the bed.”

“I know,” Aziraphale responds, not any louder. He looks away to the table next to him, makes a show of studying a book that wouldn’t have moved from the shelf since 1949 if it weren’t for Adam’s reorganization. “But if you’d...stayed here, wouldn’t you have been bored?”

Crowley shrugs. “Maybe. I’m sure being bored here wouldn’t be worse than being bored at home.”

“If you were here, hunkering down as you put it, we might have got in each other’s way. I’m sure it would have been lovely for a while, but what about after a day or two? Or after a week? A month?”

“You have always liked being left alone with your work,” Crowley muses. “I could have gone to sleep here, too, though. I know you’ve got that little flat with the single bed you haven’t used since 1993 upstairs.”

At this, something in Aziraphale’s face loosens, and he looks almost as if he might smile. “Oh, now what kind of host banishes his guest upstairs for bedtime?”

“You absolutely would. Or I could just come visit and leave. Rules only apply to us if we decide they should, right?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Aziraphale says. “I was stuck. It seems silly, I know, I know, but it’s such a strange time, everyone out there struggling - I would have felt terrible for choosing not to align with the humans’ rules myself. I was hoping…”

“That I’d help you get around them,” Crowley finishes.

“As you always have,” Aziraphale admits. That confession alone pushes the air out of Crowley’s lungs, a surprising sensation even considering his breath is optional.

“Those were...stupid rules. Dangerous for an angel to break. I felt like I was sort of doing you favors while also being a proper demon when I did that. This isn’t quite the same.”

Aziraphale nods. “No. Perhaps it’s not.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, urgently needing eye contact. Aziraphale cooperates, drifting even a little closer as he does. Not quite 2 metres away now. “This is our side.” Crowley gestures vaguely at Aziraphale and everything around them. “I can sneak around other people’s rules all you want, but I’m not gonna force my way around yours.”

“I don’t know what’s right,” Aziraphale says, plaintive. “People aren’t supposed to be seeing each other, so if we’re going to live here, neither should we. I missed you every day, though, Crowley. Isn’t that strange? We don’t even meet every day under normal circumstances, but something about being forced to stay apart reminded me so much of old times - bad old times…”

The angel is getting himself worked up. “No point worrying about it now,” Crowley interjects. “We’re a...we’re a ‘bubble,’ aren’t we? We’re following the rules just fine and I’m even allowed to come and go. Problems solved.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “For now,” he agrees, smiling in earnest this time. “It did get me thinking about an awful lot of things, though.”

“And none of them have to be resolved this second,” Crowley reassures. “Would you like to talk over wine? I’ve been thinking about this bottle since April.”

“Certainly, yes.” Aziraphale waves his hand. “One more thing before we do, though. You know, it’s alright for people in a bubble to get close to each other.”

“You sure?” Crowley asks, not because he doesn’t know the rule, but because he doesn’t know what Aziraphale’s rule is going to be.

“Yes. I was actually hoping you might - and you can refuse, Crowley, really, it’s a bizarre request - but I was hoping you might allow me to hug you.”

Crowley feels a big, undignified grin breaking out on his face. He schools it into the best semblance of a smirk he can manage, but he’s definitely not going to fool Aziraphale. That’s fine. “All right,” he says. “If it makes you happy.”

There is a different sort of delight on Aziraphale’s face as he sidles nervously up to Crowley. It’s not as blatant as what he’d sounded like on the phone. It’s quieter, but deeper. It’s rescued-books-after-a-fallen-bomb delight.

“Come here,” Crowley murmurs, pulling his very favorite fusspot into a hug. Upon resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathing in that cologne and the scent of various baking experiments, soaking in Aziraphale’s warmth like a...well, like a serpent in the sun, Crowley realizes this is as much for him as it is for Aziraphale.

And he doesn’t want to stop. Sod the wine; let this take hours.

“Do you still get the feeling we’re not supposed to be doing this, no matter how safe it is?” Aziraphale asks, voice muffled. He’s sort of talking into Crowley’s jacket.

“Not really the same for me,” Crowley says. “My lot weren’t big on guilt. Fear, more like. Terror, yes. Not guilt.” He lifts his head so he can rest his cheek against the angel’s ridiculous fluffy hair.

“Oh. Yes, that makes sense. Sorry.” Aziraphale presses his head into Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley rolls his eyes, knowing Aziraphale won’t see it, more attempting to reassure himself that he hasn’t gone completely, entirely soft. “Let’s take it one moral crisis at a time,” he whispers, stroking Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale shifts and breathes out, snorting very lightly (although he’d never, ever allow it to be called a ‘snort’ out loud) in a way that indicates he’s trying not to giggle.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, apparently regaining his composure, “they might tighten restrictions again.”

“It’s possible. It might be the smartest option,” Crowley agrees.

“We should consider what we’re going to do if that happens.” Aziraphale has not removed himself from Crowley’s grip. “If you’re really sure you wouldn’t mind…”

Crowley finds himself chuckling, progressing to a full-throated laugh. “What, sleeping upstairs?”

“Well, no--”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee, it’s that I wouldn’t want to sit around and chatter 24/7. You’d have your reading time.”

Aziraphale sighs. “And wouldn’t you miss your things?”

“Sure, possibly. Not like I was using them when I was sleeping the months away, though, was I?”

“All right.” Aziraphale pulls away enough to gesture toward the sofa, leaving Crowley wanting more. Days. Days more. Aziraphale is beaming, though, and Crowley might be, too, and Aziraphale doesn’t end the hold entirely because now their hands are clasped. “Now, bring the wine over here and let’s go sample the desserts. I’m especially interested to hear what you think of the devil’s food cake.”

[nimblermortal]

OH HEY @pilfered-words it occurs to me that I should send this to you.

It’s Good Omens fic, I never posted it because it was mostly written in spite.

Aziraphale showed up at Crowley’s door at an hour of the morning that should never exist, which was 7:00. He was crying, Crowley thought, like an astronaut or a Studio Ghibli character: water welling in his eyes and refusing to fall, making pools of grief. Crowley noticed this particularly because he was in shock. He had never seen Aziraphale cry before.

“Angel - ?” he began uncertainly.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale wailed. “I’ve Fallen!”

“Well - come in,” said Crowley, pushing his door wide. “Have some cocoa.”

It was American cocoa, specially imported because it was waxy and grown on farms blazing with the life of freshly-cut Amazonian rainforest. Crowley had agonized between that and the overpriced Fair Trade box at the local, which lied about every part of its process, before deciding that the fossil fuel used shipping the American stuff made it suitably demonic. After all, he had resolved in the checkout lane years ago, if he did ever have the angel over it had to be for proper temptation purposes.

He had neglected to obtain a kettle, and had to miracle one into existence while Aziraphale wept like Lot in Crowley’s only chair.

“There there,” Crowley announced from his makeshift kitchen, where the kettle was rapidly coming to a boil under the heat of intimidation.

“Where?” Aziraphale asked, looking up.

“It’s just what people say,” said Crowley haplessly.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “People. Six thousand years I served people, averted the Apocalypse for people, and for what? I’ve Fallen.”

“Did it hurt?” Crowley asked.

“What?”

“When you fell from heaven.”

“Oh. No, not really. Not that I noticed, anyway.”

“It hurt quite a lot, for me,” said Crowley. More his soul than his body, but since angels were mostly soul it amounted to the same thing. Or else they didn’t have souls at all, he forgot which one it was. “Well how did you know you Fell, then?”

“I just woke up this morning and it had happened,” said Aziraphale. “Oh dear, I woke up - was it the sloth that did it? I hadn’t slept since the Apocalypse and I dreamed - that was new - I dreamed about sin, and when I woke up - this had happened.”

He punctuated ‘this’ by manifesting his wings. Crowley, turning with two cups of unethically farmed cocoa, dropped both of them.

“Now see what I’ve made you do,” Aziraphale said, his eyes welling up again. His wings stretched out from the sole throne in Crowley’s flat to the very tips of the flat and they were a lustrous, glossy red. Red as a cardinal’s coat. Red as a star Crowley had crafted and hung in the sky, looking shyly back at Her for approval. Red as roadside mums for sale, or genetically modified strawberries that would rot the next day, as stop signs or stop lights or tea boxes, red as the blaze of sunset across a polluted sky. Gloriously, earthly red, they looked completely detached from the angel’s cream coat, except that they were part of him.

“You see?” said Aziraphale, slumping miserably, he never slumped - “Fallen.”

“Angel,” Crowley promised him, his boots slowly soaking up cocoa as he refused to move, “There is no demon in Hell with wings like that.”

“Really?” asked Aziraphale.

“None,” said Crowley.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” said Aziraphale, but he was starting to sound dubious.

“All demons have raven wings with ebony luster,” Crowley recited, though his had gone a bit matte in recent centuries, almost greying with, he had assumed, age. “You’re something different.”

“What, then?” asked Aziraphale.

“One way to find out,” said Crowley, and snapped his fingers, stomped one foot, and manifested his wings. The cocoa vanished beneath his maybe-a-boot, but it hardly mattered because his wings knocked the kettle over. Crowley yelped and drew them close, gently fanning the scalded region. He turned to look over his shoulder.

His wing was not even close to grey. It was blue, striped with white and black and - and cerulean. It was a nightmare. It was a travesty. It didn’t match the décor. Aziraphale matched the flat better than Crowley did.

“We should have done this outside,” he growled.

“What, in London?” Aziraphale asked. “Around the humans?”

“Tadfield, maybe. Angel! Do you think Adam can put them back?”

“Didn’t Adam swear off that kind of thing?” Aziraphale asked, his eyed wandering across Crowley’s wings. Crowley got the distinct sense that if Aziraphale’s wings had not been so large, his hands would be tracing Crowley’s wings as well, stroking to discover whether those bars were replicated on each feather or layered black on white on blue. “He said people were always messing each other about, and as long as they were being messed about they wouldn’t start thinking properly and and stop messing the world around. They’d never get a chance to see what they were meant to be, to see what a human being is.”

“He said if he started sorting things out then people would keep coming to him to get rid of all the rubbish and he didn’t want to tidy people’s bedrooms,” said Crowley. “I remember it distinctly.”

“Yes, but in the principle of the matter, he said humans ought to be left to human being.”

“Angel,” said Crowley, “If we’re not heavenly angels, and we’re not demonic demons, are we just - angels being?”

“Angel beings,” Aziraphale corrected, wrongly, and frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe She means us to find out,” said Crowley, glancing hopefully upwards. There was no sound, from up, down, or otherwise.

“You said,” said Aziraphale suspiciously, “You said that you thought the next one was going to be all of Us against all of - Them.” His eyes flicked rapidly up and down, before meeting Crowley’s again. “Does that make us - Us?”

“I think we’re beings now,” said Crowley slowly, “and we get to decide what that means.”

“Crêpes,” suggested Aziraphale. “Oysters. Sushi. Those little things on the sticks.”

“Mozart,” said Crowley. “Borodin. All of the Bachs! We can mount a raiding party on Hell and Heaven both, no one deserves an eternity of harps and the Sound of Music, we can save them all -“

“Breakfast,” said the angel grimly. “I’m hungry.” He paused. Crowley’s stomach growled. “That’s never happened before.”

“We’ll watch the sun rise and eat ready-made dinner,” said Crowley enthusiastically. “And ice cream. Chocolate-vanilla-strawberry. I can’t think of anything more human than that.”

“The sun’s already risen,” said Aziraphale.

“The sunset, then,” said Crowley. “We’ll be ready for it.”

And they were.

[vvivacious101]

Re-rewatching S06E20 - The Man Who Would Be King

I have no words. This episode manages to floor me every single time. In 2020, when we have season 15 with all it’s blatant focus on Cas and Dean and their relationship, I’m still astounded by the sheer depth of this episode. It is so good. It is so heart-wrenching. It’s like witnessing a break-up. Wait, scratch that, it’s exactly like a break-up.

Rachel: What does God want?

Cas: God wants you to have freedom.

Rachel: What does he want us to do with it?

Cas: [narrating] If I knew then what I know now, I might have said, "It's simple. Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it."

This is Cas’ side of the story and it’s humbling. I mean a lot of the choices Cas makes aren’t bad. He realises that angels aren’t really built for freedom but he forgets he’s an angel too and literally freedom isn’t such an easy thing to deal with because as Cas realises with freedom comes responsibility and even so late in season 6, Cas wants to give up the responsibility.

In 4x16, On the Head of a Pin, when Cas first considered rebellion he went to Anna because he wanted her to make the decision for him but she refused which prepared Cas for just how treacherous the path he was preparing to walk on was but in a way, he never really understood it and I feel like Cas only ever learnt responsibilty after this disastrous attempt to do the right thing.

Those first weeks back in Heaven were surprisingly difficult. Explaining freedom to angels is a bit like teaching poetry to fish.

Of course, Cas with his talk of freedom comes in direct conflict with the new boss in town, Raphael who just wants the Apocalypse TFW averted back on the road. Cas tries to resist but it is made amply clear that Cas has nothing on Raphael.

So he turns to someone for help. Is it any surprise that he turns to Dean? I still regret that Dean actually doesn’t know this but the first time Cas was in trouble and he wanted help, he went to Dean but it was only his love for Dean that prevented him from breaching what he saw as Dean’s sanctuary.

And, that’s when Crowley saw his opportunity to strike. He convinces Cas that with the untapped potential of Purgatory on their side, he can defeat Raphael. Crowley of course already has a plan in place to figure out just where Purgatory is and Cas reluctantly agress. He starts a civil war in Heaven and teams up with Crowley to figure out where Purgatory is.

Presently, Crowley wants to get rid of the Winchesters but Cas won’t allow that no matter how good of an argument Crowley presents.

Cas: Don't worry about the Winchesters.

Crowley: Don't worry about... what, like Lucifer didn't worry? Or Michael, or Lilith, or Alistair, or Azazel didn't worry? Am I the only game piece on the board who doesn't underestimate those denim-wrapped nightmares?

Meanwhile, Sam, Dean and Bobby who, now that they know Crowley is alive, are looking for him behind Cas’ back. What they don’t know is that Cas is spying on them and he knows exactly what they are doing? Unfortuantely, Cas let’s slip something he couldn’t possibly have known and that’s when it shatters.

Dean’s trust in Cas. This entire episode is Dean defending Cas against Bobby and Sam but even more amazing is the fact that Dean doesn’t denounce Cas even when Cas admits to working with Crowley. Dean tells him that they can fix it and despite, everything Dean is ready to mend fences and move on and it isn’t till the very end when despite Dean begging Cas not to follow through on what he has set out to do, Cas refuses that these two truly break.

God, the dialogues in this episode are just so good but the ones between Dean and Cas... like, are so intense, like it’s unbelievable. We have Bobby, Sam and Dean confronting Cas and Bobby and Sam are just throwing accusations but you know what Dean’s says, Dean says this -

You got to look at me, man. You got to level with me and tell me what’s going on. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not working with Crowley.

Like, I literally explode every time I hear this dialogue, like look me in the eye. All Dean wants is for Cas to meet his gaze and it literally doesn’t take him more than a few seconds to read Cas. Like the moment their eyes meet Dean can tell Cas is in fact working with Crowley. How has anyone not noticed just how blatant this moment is?

Cas: Raphael will kill us all. He'll turn the world into a graveyard. I had no choice.

Dean: No, you had a choice. You just made the wrong one.

Cas: You don’t understand. It’s complicated.

Dean: No, actually it’s not, and you know that. Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, huh, unless you knew that it was wrong? When crap like this comes around we deal with it, like we always have. What we don’t do is we don’t go out and make another deal with the devil!

Cas: It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?

Dean: I was there. Where were you?

Like if this episode was trying to kill me it is doing an amazing job of it.

Dean: It's not too late. Dammit Cas we can fix this.

Cas: Dean, it's not broken.

The whole moment of hesitation that Dean has at the doorway... I don’t even have words for it.

And Cas wants to explain himself to Dean and specifically Dean because after the initial encounter goes to hell in a handbasket, Cas goes to explain himself to Dean, again.

The most important thing that Cas stresses on is that he is doing this for Dean, he doesn’t even try to bring up anyone else because after all Cas’ biggest motivation and truthfully his only motivation to avert the apocalypse and prevent it from ever going down is Dean.

The scene just before the last one in Bobby’s study/kitchen is oddly reminiscent of a similar scene from 4x02 - Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester. It’s like these two scenes are bookending their own little saga of Dean and Cas with that initial meeting and now with this breakup.

Before, I get into the meaning of it all, I would like to discuss another piece of dialogue. This one -

Sam: Look, Dean, he's our friend, too, okay? And I'd die for him, I would. But... I'm praying we're wrong here.

Bobby: But if we ain't, if there's a snowball of a snowball's chance here, that means we're dealing with a Superman who's gone dark side. Which means we gotta be cautious, we gotta be smart, and maybe stock up on some kryptonite.

Dean: [to Sam] This makes you Lois Lane.

This is a metaphor with Cas being Superman and no one needed to bring up Lois Lane but Dean does, which immediately puts a love interest into mind, specifically Cas’ love interest and the weird thing is Dean declares Sam as Cas’ Lois Lane when we all know that if anybody is Lois Lane in this metaphor it’s Dean. So, thank you, Dean for pointing that out.

Over time, I think I have often come back to this episode to point out that this was the episode that established that Cas loved Dean beyond any shadow of doubt what motivates Cas, what distresses him, the person he needs most on his side are all answers you can find in Dean Winchester. The person who teaches Cas free will and gives him his freedom, the person he turns to for help, the person he wants to protect at all costs and finally the person he desperately wants on his side. After all, he specifically goes to Dean to explain his reasons for doing what he’s doing. At this point, I don’t even think I need to point out that Dean and Cas are very, very different from Cas and Sam or Cas and Bobby. Though Cas betrayed all three of them, he only seems to really care about what Dean’s saying.

But, I think just because the narrative’s focus is on Cas, I forget how important this episode is for establishing Dean’s feelings for Cas. Like the whole “look me in the eye thing”, like that line spearates Dean and Cas and puts them in their own universe like Dean knows Cas can’t lie to him and Cas doesn’t even say a word but Dean knows. I mean for a relationship that consists of the most intense eye contacts in history, I seem to forget how much they seem to communicate with their eyes. And despite everything Cas does Dean wants to help him fix it, he doesn’t give up on Cas not even the second time Cas comes to talk to him, he wants to help, he wants Cas to abandon his plan of action and it’s only when Cas draws a line in the sand that Dean really consider a different course of actions.

It’s amazing how much drama Supernatural can generate simply by pitting Dean and Cas against each other, just a simple line of dialogue and the stakes sky rocket because we all know waht Dean and Cas mean to each other.

[c-is-for-circinate]

On Good Omens, queerbaiting, and heteronormative bullshit

Theory: Good Omens the miniseries and the way it treats relationships feels maybe a little weird and hits some of the same mental buttons as queerbaiting not because Aziraphale and Crowley are insufficiently gay, but because the entire rest of the show is.  In this essay I will actually write this essay, because no, really, I think it’s A Thing and I might even be able to prove it.

There’s a lot of nuance to both sides of the whole queerbaiting/not-queerbaiting argument, and I don’t want to neglect any of it, but I think my big takeaways have been as follows:

On the ‘this is uncomfortable and queerbaity’ side:

Good Omens the miniseries ramps up the emotional relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale to be the heart of the entire show.  Both demon and angel are coded as gay in a number of different ways, both individually and in terms of how their relationship is portrayed as a romance.  And yet despite being the core of the show, they never make any of it explicitly romantic.  There’s not a kiss, there’s not an ‘I love you’.  The entire relationship is built from implications rather than explicit statements.

Years and decades and centuries of storytelling have given us gay relationships that we have to look for.  That we have to find in implications rather than explicit statements.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so that content creators could keep mainstream/straight fans happy while also luring queer fans with crumbs and promises.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could slip hidden gay messages past censors.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could stay literally, physically safe.  But either way, it’s exhausting.  It’s been so long.  We want to see ourselves on screen.  We want somebody to admit out loud to what we’re seeing.  We’re tired.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are apologists and boot-lickers, ready to bend over backwards to defend their Precious Author Faves in hopes of receiving whatever crumbs they can get.  (Please note: this is an ad hominem argument with like ten different logical fallacies in it, and also it’s just mean.  We will be assuming that all parties in this discussion are attempting to act in good faith with a healthy dose of frustration, and largely ignoring this point.)

On the ‘no, this is Good Representation, really’ side:

Aziraphale and Crowley are in a queer relationship--it’s just not a gay one.  They are two genderfluid beings who mostly present as male out of preference or convenience, surrounded by additional similar genderfluid beings who may present as male, or female, or both, or neither.  Their relationship is both romantic and asexual.

The fact that those ‘explicit milestones’ of kissing, sex, etc are absent from the show is in fact part of the point.  Not only does it make sense for the characters themselves, but it means so much to see a relationship that is obviously romantic, that is the center of an entire story, where the key turning point is about something other than sex or marriage.  A relationship can be super important, can be important enough to build an entire life around, without sex, without kissing, without wedding rings.  It’s so good to see one that is.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are aphobes and probably transphobes, whiny babies who don’t really care about representation, they just want their kind of representation.  (Please see above note about ad hominem attacks and logical fallacies.

There are a few points that everyone can agree on.  Crowley and Aziraphale follow the plotline of a romance, and their relationship is the core of this show.  They do not kiss, or have sex, or explicitly fall into any behavior that conventionally says, ‘yes, this human couple is dating’.  Other characters in the show mistake-them-for-dating, but those characters are always uninformed about the real complex nature of this relationship.

One side says: it all comes so close to being a thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting ourselves on screen.  Why promise and not deliver?  Why come so close and then shy away?  Aziraphale and Crowley, with all they are to each other (with Aziraphale’s shop in Soho and his time in a discrete gentleman’s club, with their so-religious families that will disown them or worse for this relationship, with everything they are an have been) are a metaphor for gayness that refuses to commit past the point of metaphor and just admit it already, and it hurts.

The other side says: it has exactly hit the nail on the head of being a different thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting a different portion of ourselves onscreen.  It just so happens that the thing it’s reflecting is by nature a little confusing and undefined, is close to the kind of queerness you’re expecting without getting there.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who’ve been alive for six thousand years, who have seen so many different ways humans love each other and swear to each other, who are not bound by our conventions or definitions and maybe show us that we don’t have to be either) are a metaphor for nothing.  They parallel a lot of familiar narratives of a lot of kinds of queerness, without trying to be anything but what they are.

Two sides, everybody so starved for representation that they’ll grab for it and name-call and scrabble desperately when they almost get it.  One relationship.  One divided fandom.

.

Look, it is obvious by this point that this is a case of everybody fighting over our one specific instance of representation because there isn’t enough to go around, right?  If gay relationships were more common throughout fiction, it wouldn’t be so important that Aziraphale and Crowley were among them.  If ace relationships and alternative relationship dynamics were portrayed as frequently or given as much weight as sexual ones, it wouldn’t be so important.

And it’s not just about what’s important, it’s about what’s noticed.  If there were gay relationships--or if there were ace relationships, or other kinds of queer relationships!--all over fiction, then being explicit would matter so much less.  It is important, in this world, that queer relationships in fiction announce what they are out loud, because in this world they are so often brushed over or ignored.  They have to clear a much higher bar than conventional straight, sexual relationships.  If there were more representation in the world, everybody would be primed to notice Aziraphale and Crowley as a romance.  We wouldn’t need it spelled out--one, because we’d already know, and two, because it wouldn’t be such a big deal if somebody else didn’t.

Of course, there’s more representation these days than there used to be--little dribs and drabs of it all over.  There’s just enough out there that somebody can say, ‘look, we’ve seen basic gay romances, let us have this thing here, let us have this nuance’.  And meanwhile half the audience (who may be gay, or bi, or ace, or transgender or genderqueer themselves in all sorts of ways) is gaping, because...okay, maybe gay romance exists in some places, in corners, but there’s still so little of it.

We’re all living on crumbs.  It’s hard to appreciate nuance when you’re just a few steps past starving.  It’s hard to appreciate the grace of ambiguous and open endings when you’ve seen them twisted against you again and again, and you just want something that’s yours.

.

Here’s another thing, an important thing.  Humans are used to seeing patterns and we’re used to seeing stories.  It can be very hard to tell whether a storyteller is trying to give us something new and strange told well, or something more familiar told badly--especially if we’re used to seeing the familiar thing told badly.

And: if the audience cannot tell whether an author is portraying Thing A well or Thing B badly, at a certain point it doesn’t really matter which it is.

And: sometimes the only way to tell if a story is trying to show you Thing A and succeeding or Thing B and failing, is to look around the story to see if you can spot Thing B done right, anywhere else.

In other words: How do you make a difference between an audience that is collectively sure that Crowley and Aziraphale are some specific, slightly-hard-to-define but very definitely queer thing (and sometimes being hard to define is an intrinsic part of queerness), versus an audience divided amongst themselves over whether or not they’re just a bad, cowardly approximation of ‘gay’?

You put actual, explicit gay somewhere else in the story.

And that’s where we run into problems.

.

The problem with Good Omens the miniseries and how it does queer representation, how it does Crowley and Aziraphale and their romance, is the same problem that Good Omens the miniseries has across the board.  The problem is that half the writing team is gone, and so is half the story.

In the miniseries, Aziraphale and Crowley are, hands down, the main characters.  This is their story, and everyone else around them--Anathema and Newt, the Four Horsemen, Heaven and Hell, the Them, and even Adam himself--are just bit players.  I don’t fault Neil Gaiman for that, exactly.  I’m sure he did his best, and his best meant he poured the heart and soul of the story into these two characters and the relationship they share.  He gave them as much richness and depth as he possibly could.  (That’s part of why we all love them enough to fight over them.)  But the fact is, the rest of the story around them suffered.

Adam and the Them, Anathema and Newt, even Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell--humans, all of them, and very much the people who actually stop the apocalypse.  Considering the way Anathema kick-started Adam along his path towards Armageddon, they’re even the people who started the apocalypse.  Very, very fundamentally, Good Omens is a story about how humans don’t need heaven or hell--not to be evil, not to be good, and not to keep being human.  Except that the miniseries wrote the humans off to the side, and that cracked things a little.  In some places, it cracked things a lot.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the miniseries.  I love Crowley and Aziraphale at the heart of it, and the richness and depth of their relationship.  I love the story about how an angel and a demon are so very very human, even though they think they aren’t.

But it’s a story that only works with enough of a contrast.  We can only appreciate Aziraphale and Crowley as an angel and a demon who’ve become very-nearly human if we know what the differences are in the first place.  We can only appreciate their similarities if we see enough humans acting the same way: with want, with fear, with desire, with pettiness, with love.

The difficulty with the miniseries is that we see a great deal of Crowley and Aziraphale being full of very, very human emotions and reactions.  We see their worry and desperation and how much they care about each other.  Nothing we see from any other character in the whole show comes close.

Anathema lives a life in service to (a prophecy, not a Host, but is it so different?) a thing she doesn’t quite understand and nobody can explain to her, that she just has to trust--but we see Aziraphale deal with Gabriel and Heaven again and again, and we see so little of Anathema’s fear and doubt.  Newt is fired from (a nothing job, not God’s endless love) a world he vaguely understands but isn’t good enough for, and finds himself in a strange, confusing place where he’s probably smarter than his boss and everything smells a bit weird and it might technically be his job to hurt people except maybe he doesn’t want to--and we get none of it, compared to what we see of Crowley, six thousand years post-Fall.

Adam is human and not-human, full of powers that can bend the world around him to his whim, that can make things how he thinks they should be.  He decides not to, because of love and selfishness, because he’d rather be human.  He makes the exact same decision Aziraphale and Crowley make.  We just get so much less of the weight of it.

The thing about telling the story this way is that it turns Crowley and Aziraphale into the only real people in the whole show, with everyone around them in silhouette and abstract.  It stops being a story about how this angel and this demon are, effectively, exactly the same as everyone else--oh sure they’ve got some differences, powers and abilities and age and shape-shifting (and mutable gender, and vague non-existent sexualities), but hell, people in general are full of differences in all of those things anyway.  

All of a sudden, the differences between baseline human and celestial being start to feel weird and cheap.  If Aziraphale and Crowley are the only real people in the story, and they’re not reacting in the way most people would react--it’s not just because they’re individuals, with specific individual wants and needs and reactions.  It’s either a statement or a weird error.  If the only real people in the story aren’t people, everything starts to fall just a little bit apart.

.

And so we come back around to sexuality once again.

A deeply, deeply unfortunate side effect of the Good Omens miniseries fleshing out Heaven and Hell and neglecting the humans is that all of the queer content--all of the nonbinary characters, our one shining non-heterosexual relationship, all of it--went to characters who were not human.  It makes so much sense, on one hand.  That’s where all the new depth came from, so of course that’s where all the new queerness went.  And why should non-human characters subscribe to human definitions of gender and sexuality?  Of course they wouldn’t.

Because, right: the idea that sexuality is in and of itself a primarily human thing, which most non-humans lack but some experiment with for fun (and that is Word of God and that is explicit in the text of the show and the book)--that idea’s not actually inherently bad.  The idea that sexuality is a requirement of humanity, that it comes part and parcel with love and ‘becoming more human’ (which is, after all, the best thing you can do according to show or book)--that idea is in fact bad.  But if all of your desire for sex goes to your humans AND all your queerness goes to your non-humans...that gets real unfortunate, real real fast.

The problem is, just like the show neglected to give the full depth of human characterization and emotion to its actually human characters, it failed to give them the full depth of human sexuality and gender, too.

The humans in Good Omens are painfully heterosexual.  It’s not simply that the Newt/Anathema and Tracy/Shadwell relationships are straight--it’s that they fall into place as though straight is the only choice.  Both relationships are so very much a picture of no other options.  Anathema and Newt are facing the end of the world, about to probably die, and also have been prophecied to get together under these circumstances for centuries.  Shadwell and Madame Tracy are both very deeply alone, and getting older, and if they want to be anything but alone their only choice appears to be each other.  These four people appear to default their way into traditional m/f relationships, whether it’s falling into (under) bed or moving to the country to retire together.  They hit all of those ‘explicit markers’ we were talking about before, and they don’t do it with emotional build-up.  They don’t do it with any real exploration of the individuals involved or why they’re making these choices.  There’s barely any acknowledgement that these are choices.

The thing is, gay humans do exist in the world of Good Omens!  We spend time is Soho, and we hear about a very specific extremely gay gentleman’s club, and we know it’s there, somewhere, hidden.  We just never get to see it.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who are our only touchstone to those queer areas, which the other human characters never seem to encounter) are the Only Queers In The World.  And it sucks, and I think it happened completely by accident.

I suspect that the lack of human queerness was literally just a side-effect of the lack of human anything--Crowley and Aziraphale are in fact the only queers in the world specifically because they’re the only people in the world.  None of the already-existing human characters were given enough additional development to add much of anything, including any new gay.  The human world of Tadfield and the Witchfinder Army wasn’t given enough development to make it worth creating any new characters, let alone queer ones.

It just means that, all of the sudden, straightness gets accidentally equated with every single non-child human we spend more than two lines with, and queerness becomes exclusively the province of demons and angels.  That’s really bad.  It’s one of those unfortunate accidents that happens sometimes, because the world ain’t perfect, but it’s pretty not great.  And that’s where our problems come from.

In particular that’s where this current debate comes from, because if sexuality = human and human = straight, and nonhuman = asexuality and queerness = nonhuman, then we’ve accidentally said some pretty damning things about humanity and equated all queerness with lack of sexual desire all at the same time.  And it’s subtle, and it’s easy to miss, because it’s all about a lack of queer humans that’s all mixed in with the lack of humans at all, but it feels off.  So we go looking for reasons and we go looking for scapegoats.  It’s so easy to fixate on and blame the only queer relationship (the only developed, real relationship) we get at all, writ huge and impossible-to-miss all over our screen, rather than all the invisible ones we don’t.

.

Here’s what I take away from all of this: Crowley and Aziraphale are, in every real sense, the most important characters in the Good Omens miniseries, and their relationship is without doubt the most important relationship.  It’s a well-developed, believable relationship.  It’s neither a straight relationship, nor an explicitly sexual gay relationship.  It is a different thing all its own, a thing that does not easily fit conventional human labels, that may or may not include sex at some point but certainly does not require it to be devastatingly important.

And I like that.  I, me, personally, who would rather find a reason to feel heartened than a reason to feel angry, am really glad to see something so extremely not-straight at the emotional center of a story I care about.  That’s me.

In the absence of anything that is an explicitly sexual gay relationship, this nebulous complicated thing at the core of this story looks an awful lot as though it’s trying to be gay and not getting there all the way.  And that sucks.  And for a lot of people, that hits some very specific buttons that have been made tender over many years of stories that try to be gay and refuse to go there all the way.  The flaw, though, is in the contrast and the context around the relationship--not in the relationship itself.

Stories are hard.  Telling stories, and making sure that they get heard on the other end the way we want them to, is hard.  Figuring out why certain things resonate the way they do, why some people feel connected while others feel alienated when we’re just trying to make our point, is sometimes the hardest thing of all.

I don’t blame Neil Gaiman for not magically figuring out that this would happen with the story he was trying to tell, partially because I haven’t seen anybody else in this great big argument of ours notice it either.  He tried to tell a story that was similar to but distinct from a story a lot of people wanted, and he didn’t make it clear enough.  I still really like the story we got.  I like all the slightly-different fanfic versions, too.  I like liking things.  That’s me.

If you’re still mad, if you’re still hurt: legit.  That’s valid.  But I don’t think arguing over this one specific relationship, what it Should Be and Shouldn’t Be, is helpful.  

Basically: I don’t want to sit around getting angry at each other over why Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t get the same traditional markers of Happily Ever After as Newt and Anathema, as Tracy and Shadwell.  I want to know why those couples didn’t have to (didn’t get to) EARN their happily-ever-afters with all the feeling and wanting and fearing and deciding that Aziraphale and Crowley did.

[maxineswritingcenter]

Home - Dean Winchester x fem!reader

@happy-little-winchester: could i maybe ask for a slightly angsty deanxreader, where after they fight on a hunt, she goes missing, and it takes them a while to find her, bc demons kidnapped her, and over the like six or so months dean realizes his feelings and he gets v protective when they find her, and then just soft dean refusing to let her go, also i loved the prequel to the other one i requested, thank you!! :)

Okie dokie! Let’s get into it! Also took some inspiration from the song Home - X Ambassadors, Bebe Rexa and MGK

TW: there may some some added violence as requested but nothing more than what would be shown in the show, we’re keeping it PG - 13.

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When it came to hunting, one would think the last thing anyone would have to worry about were the people you ran with. Hunting was hard, there was no doubt about it. All the years of blood, sweat and tears  you pour into the job. All the loss and mental strain it puts on should be forever in the back of your find.

But lately, the hunts were nothing to the scraps (Y/N) would get into with Dean. When a match hits gas there is bound to be an explosive reaction. It baffled Sam to say the least, it seemed like recently his friend and his brother were constantly butting heads and having screaming matches late into the night until someone would leave the motel and sit in the impala for a few hours. 

They were on their way to, what was at this point in their lives, a routine demon exorcism.  In and out with a flask of holy water and some Latin. 

(Y/N) sat in the back seat, thinking back with when she first joined the Winchesters. She had been a runaway who turned to hunting for cash. But even that wasn’t enough. After the hunt, Sam had offered for her to join them and she accepted. Dean had made her feel welcome with a six pack of beer for them to share and soft rock playing on the radio while Sam had gone to make a supply run.

“When do you think you’ll find home?” She asked. And he had smiled and took a swig from his beer before answering. 

“I don’t know. But’ll know it when I find it. Home is the place where I can go to relax, get some stress off my shoulders. Maybe we’ll all get there someday.”

“Hey!” Dean’s bark had shook (Y/N) from her memory, and her disdain for him returned, “You gonna quit daydreaming or are you gonna finish this hunt?” Sam was rolling his eyes from the passenger seat. 

“Ya know what, I was daydreaming. Of the day when I shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting the leather of my boot.” She spat. 

“That’ll be the day, sweetheart.” He sneered. 

“Can you guys stop for five minutes?” Sam got between the two of them before they could continue, “After this hunt, we need a vacation or something because you’re at each other’s throats all the time.”  

“That’s a good idea, Sam. Maybe Dean will finally relax a little and get off my back.” 

“Ya well, after this vacation maybe don’t come back at all.” Dean looked at her in the reflection of the dashboard mirror. (Y?N felt the hurt and anger build up in her chest but she swallowed it down. 

“Fine,” She opened her car door, “Dick.” 

“Bitch.” Dean opened his car door and they both exited to impala. Leaving Sam to rub his temples for a moment and dread the upcoming hunt. 

- 

After the demon was dead, Dean and Sam had taken the body to the back for a salt and burn before it was buried. (Y/N) stayed behind in the house to recollect her thoughts. Sam was right. This whole situation with Dean getting out of hand and it needed to end. But after what Dean said, would he even be willing to make amends. With how stubborn he was, how could-

The floorboards creaking made her spin around, pistol in her hand. 

Outside Dean and Sam had just finished putting the last shovel fulls of soil onto the body when they heard three gunshots come from inside the house. They spared each other a glance before they ran back to the abandoned building. Dean was the first to go back in, going to the living area where he had last seen (Y/N). There were three spent shell casing and blood. 

“Get your hands offa me you SORRY SONS A’BITCHES!” He heard her shout. He drew his gun and ran towards her voice. 

“(Y/N)!” 

“DEAN!” 

Dean ran out the front door, Sam trailing behind him, in time for him to watch an unmarked car speed out of the driveway. The brother quickly got into their car, starting her up and speeding behind them. Dean gripped the steering wheel, getting closer and closer to the car. Through the back window, the brothers could see her struggling against the men in the back, fighting with all her might. Dean eventually made his way so he was driving besides them on the two lane highway. The man in the front, eyes as black as night was jerking the car, trying to ram them off the road, but Dean was jerking right back. Sparks and metal was flying between the two vehicles. 

“Dean!” Sam’s eyes were wide as he spotted the semi truck heading their way. Dean looked back at the road in time to swerve out of the way and driving into a ditch. The car was in rough shape. Dean frantically tried to restart it but she just wouldn’t turn over. He just had to watched as the impala puttered and demons’ car faded off into the distance with (Y/N) inside it. 

- 

“Hello, boys-” Before Crowley could even comprehend where he was or what was going on when Dean’s fist made contact with his face. He stumbled back, Dean grabbing him by the collar of his suit and pressing him against the wall. Squirrel had on his angry eyes and that didn’t mean anything good. 

Crowley wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, “Kinky, didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“Where is she?” Dean growled through his teeth. The bunker was littered with maps and papers since they had gotten home last night, trying to find any sort of information on where (Y/N) could be. 

“Where’s who?”

“Don’t act dumb, I watched your guys drag her into a car and drive away with her. Now either you tell me where (Y/N) is, I’m gonna personally send you back to whatever hell pit you came from.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the hunter for a moment then sighed, “For just a moment, I would like you to think if it isn’t too hard for you. Minks is the only person makes negotiating with you two tolerable so why in the unholy hell would I take her?!” Dean stared a moment but then let go, back away and going back to the world map table. 

“Look, Crowley, no offense, but when comes to demons; you’re the one to go to.” Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“None taken. So some demons take her and you have no idea where she is? Getting a little rusty, are we?” The demon king taunted. 

Sam shook his head, “We’ve tried a dozen locator spells, Cass has got angels searching all of creation at this point. It’s like she just disappeared.”

- 

(Y/N) woke up slowly, it didn't take much for her eyes to adjust seeing as she was in a dark room, handcuffed and tied to the chair she was sitting in. Suddenly, a door opened across the room, shining bright light inside causing her to wince. But now she could see all the warding that were painted on every inch of the wall. A woman walked in, her heels clicking on the cement floor. In her hand was a glass of what looked like water. She stopped in front of (Y/N) and held the glass to her lips. She only looked from the woman to the glass. 

“We didn’t bring you here to kill you, just drink it.” She said, tilting the glass so the water touched her lips. (Y/N) drank the water, it soothed her aching throat. When it was gone the woman back away and crossed her arms. 

“Alright, as soon as you tell us what we want; you can go. Deal?” She smiled. 

“I’m not really one to make deals with demons, you’ll have to talk to my associates about that one.” (Y/N) smirked. The smile left the demons lips and her eyes went black. 

“Just tell us where the Winchester’s home base is and we’ll kill you quickly.” She threatened. 

‘Why? You gonna send a postcard? Oh! Could you send one of those edible arrangements, I heard they’re to die for-” (Y/N) was cut off by a sharp smack to the face. (Y/N) paused a moment before looking up at the demon, licking the blood from her split lip. 

“Listen, bitch, any minute now Dean and Sam are gonna be busting down your doors and I’ll be outta here dancing on your grave just in time for dinner. So why don’t you do us both a favor and take the loss.” (Y/N) spat, blood and spit landing on the woman’s face. The demon wiped it away with the sleeve of her shirt. 

“Girly, they have no idea where you are. But if they do, I’ll take pleasure in showing them what’s left of you before I use them as a chew toy for my hell hounds.” 

“Bite me, bitch.” (Y/N) snapped. The demon hummed to herself. 

“Agares.” She called and a man entered holding a very sharp looking knife, “Why don’t you give our guest a warm welcome.” The demon walked out the door and shut it behind her. As she walked away, she could hear the screaming and crying from their prisoner fading as she walked.

----------------

So this will be part one for this new series! I’m excited for it. Also don’t come for me for how I spelled Castiel’s nickname, that’s how its spelled in Sam’s phone. Fight the writers, not me

Read part 2 here!

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[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Familiar Things

Good news for anyone who thought they were free of my strange writing predilections! Not only am I back on writing for @drawlight‘s advent challenge, but I’ve once again taken what really should have been a fairly light story and taken a sharp turn into angst land!

14 - Eggnog (1,933)

Nanny Ashtoreth would never admit how good it felt to walk into that bookshop after months away.

Every Christmas, the Dowlings gave all their staff two weeks off while they traveled, visiting various heads of state. It was a great relief, not least because demons preferred to avoid elaborate Christmas celebrations.

Aziraphale’s bookshop was much as it always had been – crowded with dusty books on every surface, embarrassingly tacky angels tucked into every corner, gramophone playing an ancient, warped disc because someone refused to even upgrade to vinyl. The only concessions to the season were a few sprigs of holly and a string of lights in the window, drawing attention to the sign: CLOSED TODAY – TRY AGAIN TOMORROW!

The sign had sat unchanged for just about ten years.

Stepping through the door, the hat came off, the hair shook loose, and just for a little while Nanny Ashtoreth was Crowley again.

“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m so glad you could make it.” Aziraphale had all the boisterous cheer of the host of a banquet – though as always, it was only the two of them.

“Nh.” Crowley went straight to the sofa, flinging himself down, kicking his feet up onto the armrest. “Next time I have the brilliant idea to create a persona who only wears heels, remind me of this moment.” He settled down deeper into the well-worn cushions, feeling the ache in his back, legs and feet lessen just a bit. So good.

“Crowley, I’ve told you before, I don’t like your shoes on my furniture.”

“And I’ve told you, Angel, I don’t care.” He pulled off his glasses – small lenses, emphasizing the sharpness of his face; he’d need a new pair soon, and good riddance – then looked Aziraphale up and down. Another thing he’d never admit to missing: that tartan bowtie. “No more Brother Francis, then?”

The angel straightened his waistcoat and smoothed his lapels. “I arranged to have myself let go after the gardens were settled for the winter. I have a few ideas for next year, but I’ll need more time as myself to…prepare.”

“I’m staying on through the end of the school year,” Crowley said, leaning back to study the ceiling. “That only gives me about two months but…not as much to prepare, I suppose.”

Neither of them needed to say what they were preparing for. They’d hardly mentioned it for ten years, though they each thought of little else.

“Let me get you something to drink. Eggnog?”

“I’d rather have brandy.”

A moment later, Aziraphale pressed the glass into his hand. Crowley glared at the white liquid. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

“There’s more than enough brandy in there. I just thought I’d be a little festive.”

“Festive.” Must be all that time around the humans, going to his head. “That’s the last thing we need right now.” Crowley raised the glass to his lips just as Aziraphale circled the sofa and suddenly grabbed at his foot. “Oi!” Crowley jerked his leg away.

“Too much brandy?” Aziraphale asked with the sort of innocent expression that had never fooled anyone.

Crowley glared at Aziraphale, his foot, and his glass. “Too much nutmeg, actually. And leave me alone. My feet are killing me, and I’m keeping them up until they stop.”

The angel sighed. “I was going to help you remove your boots. So you could sit however you like without ruining the furniture.”

“Ah.” Slowly, Crowley lowered his leg back to the arm of the sofa. “Well, I suppose that…that makes sense.”

Not quite meeting his eyes, Aziraphale set to work loosening the first high-heeled boot. “These shoes are atrocious. I’m sure you weren’t wearing them ten years ago.” He finally worked it free, and Crowley gave a grunt of pleasure, which he tried to hide with another sip of eggnog. Aziraphale held up the boot by its four-inch heel. “Was this entirely necessary?”

“It felt more in-character.” Crowley shrugged. “Be careful with that, it needs to last until June.”

“I think you just like playing up for the humans.” Aziraphale got to work on the second boot.

“Oh, I’m the one playing up? And what was the purpose of that pirate accent?” Crowley smiled slightly, taking another sip of eggnog. It would probably be quicker to sit up and remove the blasted boot himself, but the angel seemed determined to try.

“It’s a rural accent! Brother Francis was a simple farmer from a rural community and needed a voice to match.”

“Was he? A caricature of a farmer, you mean, with a Mummerset accent.” Crowley chuckled, tilting up his glass. “Next time we do this, remind me to give you a lesson in deep characterization.”

The hands on his boot fell still, and Crowley lowered the glass. Neither of them wanted to say it. That this might be the last time.

“Here, let me get that,” Crowley grumbled, sitting up.

“No, you stay put.” Aziraphale grabbed the boot with both hands, pulling it free, probably casting a small miracle to get it off so easily, and tossed it aside. “There. Now you can put your feet wherever you want.”

Two feet sat crossed on the arm rest of the sofa. To a human, they may have appeared to be covered in some sort of black fishnet stockings, but supernatural eyes could see that the pattern was part of the flesh, wrapping around the toes and fading towards a regular skin tone somewhere above the knee. Every demon had to have some sign of what he really was.

Without warning, Aziraphale lifted his legs and slid under them, lowering the feet to instead rest on his lap.

Crowely went very, very still. “What. Uh. What are you doing?”

“Well, I thought…” Aziraphale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank. “Since they’re so sore, you might like a foot rub. It’s, you know, supposed to help.”

He put the glass of eggnog on the table by his head. “Angel. What’s going on?”

“Is it so strange I want to do something to make you comfortable?”

“Yes. It is.” Crowley shifted a little, sitting higher, which actually moved his feet to the middle of Aziraphale’s lap. But he wanted to look the angel in the eye. “We don’t…do that sort of thing. We never have.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, smiling – a soft, sad, uncertain smile, another thing Crowley would never admit to missing during the Brother Francis years. “I suppose we don’t. But I wanted to, well, give you something.”

“Give me something.” The eggnog soured in his stomach. “Angel. We’ve never given each other Christmas gifts. Or Solstice, or whatever came before that. Not ever.”

“Well.” Fingers hovered above Crowley’s scaled feet, not touching but not pulling away. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any to start.”

Crowley swallowed, trying to think of an objection. But those eyes, that smile – they did something to him. Always had. Finally, he slumped back down on the sofa. “Do what you want, then.”

The fingers trembled as they touched him, just slightly, and he fought not to pull away. Then a thumb found the point where the strain from wearing heels crossed the bottom of his foot and pressed and – oh, that felt good.

“It would seem you do like it after all.”

Crowley pushed a hand against his jaw, determined not to make that sound ever again. “’M just tired is all.” With growing confidence, the thumbs and the heels of Aziraphale’s hands worked their way up and down one foot, then the other, and back to the first.

It felt…not pleasurable, not intimate, whatever humans might say.

It was a relief, that’s what it was. The opposite of the pain that had been building up for months and months since he’d decided to put on those frankly magnificent torture devices.

And it was comfortable, like finding himself back on this sofa, so perfectly molded to his body.

Familiar, like a bottle of his favorite wine, discovered in a back room when he thought he’d drunk it all and it was gone forever.

It felt…right. Like this was something they should have been doing all along.

And, he supposed, if you got down to it…it was intimate. How else would you describe a relationship that spanned six thousand years? Intimate in ways humans could never imagine.

It occurred to Crowley that he was no longer describing the sensation of the foot rub, and he wasn’t doing a good job of stopping the tiny sighs of relief that kept finding their way out of his mouth.

There was a smile on Aziraphale’s face, that smug little bastard grin that always made Crowley feel lightheaded. “Let me guess. After this, you want me to do your feet.” He wasn’t even planning to argue.

Blue eyes shot at him, just for a second, then focused back on his toes. “Oh, no. Quite unnecessary. Unlike you, I’ve been wearing practical footwear.”

He didn’t like that light joking tone. “You must want something.”

“Well, if you insist, I…would like to talk.”

Crowley could have pulled his feet back, walked away. This wouldn’t end well, he could already sense it. “Talk about what?”

“Oh. You know.” He swallowed, the motions of his thumbs slowing against Crowley’s soles. “How do you suppose…things are. With Warlock.”

“I’ve told you. He’s normal. Almost too normal. You said that meant it was working.”

“Most certainly.” One thumb moved in an idle circle. “I just… We are prepared for… your final report, aren’t we?”

“Aziraphale. What are you getting at?”

The hands fell still. “Crowley. If we succeed, if Warlock refuses his role…what do you plan to tell your side?”

“I tell them my clever adversary outwitted me again. The angel Aziraphale turned the Antichrist to the side of good, nothing I could do against his brilliant scheming.”

“And they’ll just accept that.” Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s foot, not massaging now, just holding it. “They’ll just let you walk away?”

“That isn’t your concern, Angel.” Aziraphale shook his head, holding a little tighter. “It isn’t. The world will be safe, you’ll get all sorts of accolades in Heaven, and I…” He tried to keep his tone casual. “I’ll think of something. I always do.”

The angel shook his head again. “And if…if we fail? If Warlock does come into his powers?”

“No, Angel –”

“I’ll fight you, you know. If they order me to.” He turned to face Crowley, eyes hard and determined. But they were betrayed by the gentleness of his hands, and the way his lip trembled. “They probably will. So if the war comes, I’ll fight you.”

Crowley finally sat up, pulling his feet away. “I won’t.”

“They won’t give me a choice.” Already his expression was crumbling. “I can’t disobey an order. We’ve been adversaries so long and – And they’ll want me to hunt you down and – I – I will…”

“I won’t,” Crowley repeated, as gently as he could.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders, but there was no strength in his grip. “I c – I can’t choose – If it’s you or – or my side – please, Crowley, don’t make me choose.” His breath was ragged now, all but sobbing.

“I won’t.” Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, pulling him close. “I won’t.”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale sobbed, his voice tiny with fear. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” Over and over, as many times as he needed to hear it. “I won’t.”

And as Aziraphale cried into his shoulder, Crowley swore to find some way to keep that promise. To hold onto his angel and the life they’d built. No matter what the future brought.

[orionsangel86]

I'm tired of this discussion about Saileen or Samwena. Why can't be both? I recognize the potential that Sam and Rowena had for a romantic relationship, they really seemed to be going in that direction, and as Rowena said, they'd grown fond of each other. But I also recognize the potential that Sam and Eileen have for a romantic relationship, for reasons that we all saw at s11, s12 and s15. What do you think?

Hi there!

Is this discussion still ongoing? Since I have blocked it all out to be honest and refuse to engage in drama on the topic. But since you asked I will give you my thoughts on the whole Saileen/Samwena thing.

First of all I like your thinking! Why not both indeed! I don’t care for shipping wars but here’s the way I see things. I have never been a “death of the author” kind of person. My whole process for writing meta is what I think the writers and creators of the show are intending to convey when they tell the story that we see. In season 11, Eileen was introduced as a clear love interest for Sam. She has always been portrayed this way even after her untimely death (which I still believe only happened because they didn’t have any other close characters to the brothers at the time to kill off whose actors they could get last minute and whose death would be equally shocking - I know it’s just speculation but it’s my belief). I wrote a long post here about my love for Saileen and how it has been portrayed in the show. I am firmly still a Saileen shipper because it was just perfect from the start, but also I only ever “ship” things that I see within the show as being planted purposely by the creators. I ship Saileen because Saileen has always been a thing ya know? It’s not imaginary and never has been.

However, following Eileen’s death in Season 12, Sam and Rowena’s relationship has been heavily developed on. They bonded over their shared Lucifer trauma, their experiences with fear and their interest in magic. The relationship between them is complex and very much an enemies to friends (to something more?) set up. Sam is canonically Rowena’s protege and now her heir. The mutual respect they hold for each other is clearly noticeable and their destinies tied by fate through Billie’s death books could arguably be considered romantic. Basically, Sam and Rowena as a love story is certainly a dramatic and interesting one that ticks a lot of boxes for a lot of people. I do believe that for a time, the writers flirted with the idea of them as a romantic pairing and that there was clear authorial intent to code their relationship in a romantic way. Especially in seasons 13 and 14. Whilst I never “shipped” Samwena, I guess I saw it the way I see Drowley. I believed that it was being intentionally written with romantic undertones. I was all for it as a romantic pairing, have never been against it, but it didn’t feel me with “feels” either I guess. I love both Sam and Rowena individually, and whether the story took them in a romantic direction or not wouldn’t have bothered me. Had Eileen never come back, I would have squee’d and enjoyed it with the rest of you, even if I wasn’t super invested ya know?

I think a lot of people saw their relationship as romantic after the Billie death book reveal. It was a nice idea that Rowena’s “death” at Sam’s hands might be a metaphorical death where she would choose to give up her immortality for him. (It’s also an idea generally adored by Destiel shippers so it’s not surprising that this was something people got excited about).

Unfortunately this idea didn’t pan out and Sam literally had to kill Rowena. I am one of the people who really loved her death scene, because it felt like a true redemption and moment of empowerment for Rowena. I know that there are people who will disagree with me on that and that is absolutely fine. I guess for me, Rowena making that ultimate sacrifice just felt right for her character journey at that point because true redemption was something she still needed. Rowena was always previously an anti-hero character. She had still done a lot of bad and hadn’t really repented or redeemed herself for the bad she had done in the earlier seasons. She was still generally motivated by selfish desires and still pretty much made decisions for herself, though like Crowley, her respect and care for the Winchesters conflicted with her own selfish motivations and in the later seasons she chose to help them even at risk to herself, which put her well on her way to redemption of course. But this death was her actual redemption. Her true sacrifice, purely selfless deed, in order to not only save the Winchesters, but also the world.

Therefore I see her rise to power again as Queen of Hell as a reward for her sacrifice and redemption. I never believed that 15x03 was the last we’d see of her (too much womb and maternal imagery there). I believe that Queen of Hell is a satisfactory end point for her, having reached her full potential and freeing herself of all the former oppression and bindings that she faced. She is now one of the most powerful beings in the universe along with Chuck, Amara, Billie, the Empty, Eve, and Jack. It’s a position that makes sense for a character who has always desired unlimited power.

I also think that Rowena will continue to be a big player in the story. This definitely isn’t the last we’ve seen of her in terms of fighting the final boss battle, but her position as Queen of Hell I do think will remain a fixed position from here. Though if it isn’t, and the writers have something else wonderful in store for her, I will also be happy with that too.

Given that canonically Sam and Eileen desire and want each other, and are only being separated by Chuck (and look, I’m not gonna get real deep into it, but I felt that 15x09 did go far to stress that whilst Chuck set up the reunion because he wanted “romance” in his story, the feelings, the connection, and everything else between Sam and Eileen is 100% real. Sam textually states that it’s real after all (in a nice and also emotionally destroying mirror to Cas saying the same thing to Dean in 15x02 by the way - Forever a Destiel shipper here :P)) it is logical that Sam and Eileen will reunite and rekindle their romance at some point in a coming episode. I am of the belief that Saileen is probably our endgame here. I don’t think that they would have gone to the trouble to bring Eileen back in the final season, make her a love interest for Sam, only to either kill her off, kill him off, or separate them again and not have them be endgame.

But I could be totally wrong. Could Sam and Rowena still reunite and start a new love connection? Sure it’s possible. Rowena is coming back as well I would put money on it. We don’t know how the show plans to end after all. Who knows, maybe Sam will also sacrifice himself and go to hell and that whole Boy!King dropped story arc from season 3 will finally get picked up again! Sam and Rowena as Queen and consort of Hell could be quite an amusing and somewhat fitting end for them! The two characters who suffered most at Lucifer’s hands taking over and ruling Hell as a big fuck you to their tormentor is certainly poetic.

Maybe Supernatural will go super progressive and send Eileen to Hell too. Maybe the Queen will find herself in a loving polyamorous threesome for the rest of eternity?

Wouldn’t it actually be really fun if Supernatural ends with Castiel choosing humanity, and saying goodbye to his son Jack, who takes over the rule of Heaven, and at the same time Dean chooses to stay on Earth, and says goodbye to his brother (aka son) Sam, who takes over the rule of Hell as consort to the Queen in his new polyamorous relationship with both the Queen and his girlfriend? Dean and Cas live out a happy human life knowing they are the proud parents of the new rulers of Heaven and Hell?!?

Lol. Look I’m just trying to find a compromise here that all Samwena and Saileen shippers can agree on and if there is one thing we can all generally agree on it’s that Dean and Cas need to stay together whatever happens and fuck it out on the map table. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I’m joking of course. (or am I?!?)

So yeah. I follow people who are passionate Samwena shippers, and I follow people who are passionate Saileen shippers. I consider them all people who I care about and respect. I just want everyone to get along and if a polyamorous love threesome in Hell is how we go about that then I am totally down for that. :D

I haven’t got beef with anyone regardless of who they ship with who unless they plan to start harassing people for holding a different opinion, but I’ve already blocked all those people anyway. It makes for a much easier life. Trust me. :P

[sunandmoonkeeper]

Sweet Tooth

for @top-crowley-central for your protective dom crowley needs

Aziraphale pouted as he sat in their nest made out of clothes, blankets, and pillows. His heat for the first time since coming to earth was due any day now and Crowley was driving him insane. His dom had him under house arrest and though the first few days were fun, Aziraphale now really wanted to be able to wonder!!

“Sir please!!!! Can i please just take a walk outside!!!” pleaded aziraphale as crowley played on his phone next to him. 

“No dove too dangerous….your heat is due any day now and i'm not risking any alphas smelling you in heat” crowley tried to soothe sending calming pheromones to his omega. Azira had been restless lately and was starting to act out. His sub knew the punishments but Crowley was being lenient this time because he understood why. 

“But i can walk with you!!!” aziraphale pleaded. 

Crowley sighed and gently kissed Aziraphales head “the answer remains the same as it always has for the past week dove...no” 

“....your chicken aren't you? Scared of a couple of alphas” Aziraphale spat out only to have his collar yanked on and pulled to face Crowley who was hissing.

“Now dove i have been lenient with your outbursts this past week but don't forget for a moment who is in charge, or would like a reminder in the form of a firm spanking?” crowley hissed 

Aziraphale looked defiant at first before submitting and mumbling no

“No...what?” crowley ordered

“No sir” grumbled aziraphale 

Crowley let go of his collar and laid back again rubbing aziraphales back and playing more games on his phone. Suddenly Aziraphale had a brilliant plan to get crowley to release him and smiled at his dom.

“Sir…...could you please grab me another book?” pouted aziraphale.

Crowley smiled though and nodded and got up and had his back to aziraphale. Aziraphale grinned and snapped his fingers causing crowley to go down like a lead weight and caught him and put him in the nest.

“Its only for an hour or so darling….be back in a tic!” aziraphale said before wiggling a bit and bolting out the door to his favorite bakery. 

Aziraphale grinned as he walked into the bakery. It smelled divine!! Aziraphale grinned as he looked through the case and chatted with the lovely young women about her upcoming baby. He choose out an Oreo cheesecake and a strawberry cheesecake. The women started packing it up when the door to the bakery opened again. Azira was just about to turn around when he felt the cold barrel of a gun against his head. 

He heard the owner gasp out and back away from the counter. Then the man behind him spoke “give me all the money in the register or I will blow his brains out all over the counter” he ordered. The women nodded weakly and went to the register. 

Azira was quiet for a moment before speaking “my good sir, we do not have to point guns to each other….let us talk civaly about this matter” said azira gently 

The barrel dug deep into the skin on his scalp now causeing a slight wince “shut the fuck up fag! Or I will shoot you once I have the money” he shouted. 

“Oh my….if it's money you're after i can give you plenty…..but leave the poor girl alone” azira said only to be grabbed by the shoulder and turned around with the gun pointing right between his eyes now. “Where is your fucking money then fag!” yelled the man

Aziraphale took a deep breath “just give me a moment to find it and-” he was cut off as he heard a click from the gun and the trigger was pulled. There was a loud bang but….no bullet. The robber looked confused but then a very angry alphas scent flooded the store. 

“How dare you…….HOW FUCKING DARE YOU POINT A GUN AT MY MATE!!!” screamed crowley scales all over his body. Crowley grabbed the man's hand and snapped it backwards, the man hollowing in agony. Crowley then uses his claws to dig into the man's back, tearing all the muscles in it to shreds. Finally Crowley uses his devil's tail to strangle the man to death and drops his dead on the floor before looking up.

The woman at the register has fainted and aziraphale is right behind her fanning her face. Crowley snaps his fingers getting rid of the body and blood. And then storms over to aziraphale grabbing him by the arm and lifting him over his shoulder.

“Crowley put me down!!! That poor woman will be traumatized when she wakes up!!!” aziraphale complained. Crowley snapped his fingers without word wiping her memory before storming to the Bentley and shoving aziraphale inside. 

Aziraphale went dead silent from the scent his Dom was edmitting as Crowley floored it back to the bookshop without another word. Finally they arrived at the bookshop and crowley carried azira inside and set him down in the nest pacing before speaking. His voice ice cold and controlled.

“Aziraphale…..what did i say about leaving the nest right now?” crowley demanded to know. “......................not...to?” Aziraphale whispered back. Crowley hissed so aziraphale quickly added “sir” 

“Thats right….i did. Funny, i dont think a bakery is your nest Aziraphale…..in face i would argue its a solid mile from where your nest is!” hissed crowley as his scales shimmered in the light of their bedroom. “..........i just wanted a bit of fresh air sir!!! I didn't feel like I was going into heat any time soon!!!” azira argued

��ANGEL THAT IS NOT THE POINT!!! You could have been in danger and then there was the robbery!!! Do you feel it was perfectly fine to trick me with a spell and leave just to have a cake!!” hissed crowley

Aziraphale pouted at his dom. “I feel it was justified sir” Aziraphale said, fluttering his eyelashes in hopes of calming crowley down. His dom had a look equivlent to murder though. “Your overdue for your heat any day now and you had the brillant idea to sneak off to the bakery without me….where there was a fucking robery….AND THEN TRY TO STOP THE ROBBER!?” yelled crowley.

Azira paled a bit as when Crowley put his actions in that light it seemed really bad. “I..i...i was just trying to protect the human crowley darling! And that poor human was very confused. He didn't know what he was doing wrong!!” aziraphale tried to argue but shrunk back at the glowing gold eyes. Crowley paced the floor of the bookshop quietly snarling and hissing at the floor. “....he had a gun angel!!! He was pointing it at your bloody skull and pulled the bloody trigger!!” hissed crowley. 

Azira had nothing to say and looked at the floor ashamed and red faced. Crowley sighed as his rage left him and he looked at the shamed and guilty sub. 

Walking over he hugged azira tight to his chest. “.....i just…..ive already lost you once in that damned fire….i will be blessed if i lose you again so simply to something i can easily prevent…..angel….those alphas wont care your bonded or anything…..and i refuse to let you be hurt like that. Thats why it scared me to wake up and find you gone...do you understand?” crowley asked softly

Aziraphale nodded quietly, hugging Crowley back. Finally crowley let Aziraphale go and paced the room. “That doesn't mean your off scott free...i need to think of a punishment that will stick in your head!” he said pacing 

Finally Crowley faced him and walked over and yanked aziras face up to look at him. Azira went reder at the grin that now covered his doms face. Crowley smiled and hissed in aziras ear “I know just how to punish you my precious dove….when your heat comes….im going to tie you up and have my way with you...but you will not be allowed to touch me” he smiled. 

Aziras face went shocked as he whispered “you wouldn't….” but Crowley only grinned bigger. Of course Crowley himself knew he wouldn't do that for the full heat…..just two days of it to really make it clear to azira that when he says don't leave the nest….it means….DON'T LEAVE THE NEST!

“.....you made your bed angel….now lets lay in it” snickered crowley as he lead his sub to their nest. 

He was right though, Azira did not disobey His Dom after that heat….for at least 6 months. Back to the drawing board crowley.

[ineffable0husbands]

(Fic) A Simple Touch

tag list: @adoratato @iamdevilantlysatan @bri-cas @that-gender-bender @scum-of-the-earth @pieces-of-annedrew @scampycat4999 9 @elrilsf @my-emo-child @always-reading2  @larrklopp @l-garnxtt @halbarryislife @ninjacatinsanitycrazy @impossiblynervouscycle @audder17 @theratatethekingsclothes @boredafsposts @i-really-dig-the-purple @mycrappylife01 @lostwolf-fandomlover @hamiltrashphannerd @she-who-must-not-be-named @sundry-whovengerslocked @deceitfullyanxiousprince @booklover223 @twdlover03 @drunkinfandomstuff @catsarebestest @sonic-spade @reprehensibleghost @to-dance-among-stars-in-dreams @afternoon-sunlight @danifandxm m@oddpopsicle @rise-abxve @shipping--hell

Inspired by this post by @sundry-whovengerslocked​

Warnings: Touch starvation, self-doubt, negative self-talk, crying, and tooth-rotting fluff

Ship(s): Ineffable Husbands and, Possibly if you squint, past Gabriel/Aziraphale

The last person who had ever given Aziraphale a hug was Gabriel before he’d been consumed by a need for perfectionism and constant doubt regarding his worth in the eyes of heaven. When they were still good friends, or perhaps they could have even been more than friends, the two angels were very affectionate with one another. Even after all Gabriel had done, Aziraphale still looked back on those times with fondness. He did not remember what a hug felt like at this point, but he imagined it was pleasant if not a stifling sensation.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale hadn’t been touched at all since then, but it was never enough to really count to him. Every time someone touched him it seemed to almost burn him, spread rapidly through his entire body and make him so dizzy he would almost faint, so he tried to avoid being touched. It would take years for him to realize what was happening to him.  Aziraphale had heard the terms ‘skin hunger’ and ‘touch starvation’ thrown around here and there, but had never taken it too seriously. 

The burning...the burning didn’t always hurt. Sometimes, it felt good; really, really, good. Rather, the burning had felt good three times in Aziraphale’s experience. The first time was in the ruins of a recently bombed church. Aziraphale had frantically searched for his books, his precious books that he thought had all been destroyed, when Crowley sauntered over to the rubble and pulled the case full of books from Mr. Harmony’s hands. Aziraphale had already been astonished, but when Crowley handed him the books and their hands brushed, his heart practically burst from his chest. It burned, but it felt good. It felt good and warm and he wanted to drop the book and grab Crowley’s hand, keeping it there, until the burning ebbed away to a faint glow, but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring down at his still tingling hands and the books and marveled at the wonderful feeling.

The second time was in the Bentley nearly three decades later. He’d felt a calling like he was meant to be there that night, and when he’d discovered Crowley’s plans he was glad he had shown up. He got Holy Water and put it in a canteen, screwing the lid as tightly as possible and praying that Crowley would never have to use it. Just sitting in the car, being so close to Crowley after such a long time made Aziraphale’s skin crawl. And when he’d handed Crowley the thermos...dear Lord, he saw stars. It was just a small touch, a simple touch, but it had lit his soul on fire. He’d almost started shaking, but kept himself together until he managed to refuse Crowley’s pleas and got out of the car. 

When Crowley had slammed Aziraphale against the wall at the old convent, the poor angel had almost fainted. Having the demon’s body pressed against his, their noses brushing, Crowley’s hands tangled in the front of his jacket, it was like new heaven. Aziraphale had to resist the urge to lean into Crowley’s touch. He’d only been able to stare at him somewhat longingly, the touch deliciously overwhelming and enveloping him in a warmth he hadn’t felt since Gabriel. 

When he had held Adam’s hand during the Apocalypse, he had felt nothing, almost as if they canceled each other out. When Shadwell had backed him into the summoning circle Aziraphale had felt the burning without even being touched. When Gabriel had ‘playfully’ poked at his stomach, Aziraphale had nearly gotten sick at how intensely the burning ate away at him. He never felt that with Crowley. The burning could not even be described in such a way; it was more of a gentle heat that spread from his fingers to his ears straight down from his toes. It was remarkable to him what a simple touch could do. Oh, he’d considered telling Crowley about his lack of touch, especially after all the modern studies saying how touch was necessary for proper function and mental health. He knew the demon had no issues with physical contact if he knew it was wanted. But he couldn’t do it. That is, he couldn’t do it until the choice wasn’t really his anymore.

It was the night following the almost-apocalypse. Crowley had instructed the bus to go to London and they drove to his flat, just as he had promised Aziraphale he would. Their shoulders brushed every so often and Aziraphale’s heart fluttered with each touch. He’d realized he liked Crowley’s touch because he loved him; it seemed only natural. He loved Crowley, and not just in the all-encompassing way angels love God’s creations. He loved Crowley in the ‘I want to kiss you and wake up with you next to me each and every morning and then kiss you again’ kind of way. On the few occasions Crowley let his guard down, Aziraphale could sense that love pouring out from the demon as well. He just hadn’t known it was directed his way until later.

“We’re here, angel,” Crowley said softly, tilting his head towards the flat. Aziraphale blinked and snapped out of his train of thought. He nodded and smiled at the demon. 

“Ah, yes, I see that,” he said, quickly standing and allowing Crowley to walk in front of him and lead the way. Crowley smiled and Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin as the demon squeezed his hand affectionately as he passed by him. Trembling, the angel clutched the hand to his chest and followed Crowley into his flat. They went into Crowley’s bedroom, discarding their jackets and standing there in silence. Aziraphale sat in the chair in the corner of the room and Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the angel and considering him. The silence was suddenly broken as Crowley let loose a rather foul stream of language and shot to his feet. 

“I can’t fucking take it anymore,” Crowley, hissed, sounding angry but radiating waves of love so intense Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. He clung to the arms of the chair he was in as Crowley drew closer to him, his snake eyes filling until the whites were gone. Whatever he was about to do, he was terrified. Crowley swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you, angel, because I do. I love you with every fiber of my being and at first, I hated it, but I realized that I don’t need to hate it. I shouldn’t hate it, especially now,” Crowley said, his voice soft and his eyes filled with tenderness as they slowly went to their normal, more human appearance. Aziraphale tried to keep his breathing steady as the demon came closer, digging his nails into the chair as Crowley delicately raised a hand to cup his cheek. As soon as the fingers touched his cheek, Aziraphale let out a choked gasp and tensed up, eyes blown wide. He wasn’t used to being touched, let alone touched in such a meaningful and affectionate way. Crowley immediately drew his hand back as if he’d just touched a hot pan, worried that he’d hurt the angel.

“No!” Aziraphale cried out, springing up from the chair and grabbing Crowley’s wrist, trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. “Don’t...Don’t let go, please,” he begged, voice strained. Crowley’s eyes flickered over him in concern and he carefully cupped Aziraphale’s cheek again. The angel shuddered and leaned into the soft touch, eyes fluttering closed and his hand keeping a steely grip around Crowley’s wrist so he couldn’t back away again.

“Is this alright, angel? Is it alright that I’m touching you?” Crowley whispered, voice full of understanding because even though he hadn’t been an angel a long time ago, he understood. He understood feeling trapped in those too white walls and steeled looks and lack of all contact. Aziraphale nodded and grabbed desperately for Crowley’s jacket with his free hand, whimpering for more, and the demon happily complied. He didn’t kiss him, not yet, that would be too much; he wrapped Aziraphale in a warm embrace, pulling him to his body and letting him bury his face in his chest as he clung to Crowley’s wrist and the back of his jacket. Crowley closed his eyes and ran his fingers through the angel’s soft, blonde hair as his breathing went from sharp, labored pants to gentle breaths.

“Don’t let go, please,” Aziraphale whispered, voice muffled slightly in the demon’s chest. Crowley’s lip quivered and he fought back tears as he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s head. 

“Never, angel. I promise.”

[destiel-love-forever]

15x08 CODA

Read below or on AO3 HERE

“Who wants to speak first?” Rowena asks with a knowing smile, crossing her legs and tilting her head. She has a notepad and a pen. One of her men had brought it to her upon request. There’s now a coffee table in between her throne and the two chairs Castiel and Dean are in. Tea is on one coaster, whiskey on the other.

Sam has been sent off with a few of her men to look for Adam and Michael. It was never considered that Dean and Castiel would accompany him. The most likely explanation is that the two worked together on this. It’s a trap.

Dean looks out of the corner of his eye at Castiel. When Castiel’s chin jerks, Dean quickly looks away.

Castiel looks at Dean for half a second, holding his breath, before his eyes dart elsewhere.

Rowena releases a long, drawn out sigh.

It reminds Dean of Crowley, which makes him smile.

The smile disappears when Rowena fixes him with her gaze and says, “Dean, you’re the one that started this nonsense, so why don’t you go first?”

“How do you know I’m the one who started it?” Dean asks defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s pretty sure he hears Castiel scoff under his breath. “What? You got somethin’ to say over there, feathers? Go ahead.”

“You know what, sure. Why not? Nothing left to lose anyway.” Castiel sits forward and looks at Rowena, putting a hand out like he’s explaining something. “You know it’s his fault because this is what Dean Winchester does. He pushes people away!”

“Oh, here we go,” Dean mutters, sitting back in his chair as he rolls his eyes.

Castiel and Rowena ignore him.

“There’s always an excuse with him! Always! It’s like one step forward, twenty steps back. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. And yet here I am, Rowena. Here I am. His punching bag - again. I thought I got away but nope. Here I am. Because he’s Dean. He’s - he’s Dean.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean shouts. “Hell yeah I’m me. No one asked you to come back. No one wants you here!”

“You want me here, Dean! You fucking want me here! You just can’t admit it!”

Dean shakes his head and laughs. It’s a cold, cruel sound. Castiel feels it in his bones.

In the silence, Rowena does a slow clap. When she has both of their attention, she grins at Castiel and puffs up with pride. “Well, hello there, Castiel. That’s the angel I’ve heard so many legends about.”

Castiel puffs up too. He’s noticed that lately. He’s been more like his old self, but with an edge. It’s cut-throat and calculated, but not because he’s following orders and refusing to feel anything. Instead, it’s because of his emotions. Because of his humanity. Because he feels everything. And it’s exhilarating - this difference. He wishes Dean could experience it with him.

“Now Deanie boy, what do you have to say to Auntie Rowena about your lover’s concerns?”

If it bothers Dean that she calls Castiel his lover, he doesn’t show it. He just takes a sip of his whiskey and stares straight down at the glass like neither of them are even there. “I know my truth.”

“Excuse me?” Rowena asks.

“I know my truth.”

“Your truth…” Rowena looks over at Castiel, one eyebrow cocked.

The angel is fuming. “Yes, Rowena. His truth. Dean Winchester’s truth. You haven’t experienced that yet? He gets it in his head that things should go a certain way. Daddy said I shouldn’t talk about my feelings, so I won’t talk about them. Daddy said my job is to save other people, to take care of Sammy, so I’ll risk my life every fucking day because my life isn’t important. Daddy said-”

“Stop it!” Dean growls.

Castiel looks straight at him. There’s no malice in his tone. No hatred in his eyes. Just betrayal and desperation. And that’s so much worse for Dean. If he wasn’t so angry, he’d be sobbing.

“Daddy said boys are supposed to be with girls - daddy said the fags are just as bad as the monsters - daddy said ‘if I ever catch you doin’ any of that faggot shit boy I’ll kick your ass so bad you’d wish you were dead.’”

“I never should have told you that you stupid son of a-”

“Daddy said,” Castiel screams over Dean. “I can’t love a boy, so I won’t let myself be happy and in love with Cas!”

At some point, both of them had launched to their feet. They’re breathing heavily as they glare at each other without glaring at each other, because - god forbid - they look at each other yet, right? No. They’re still angry.

Always so angry.

“Now, now, my boys.” Rowena gives them both scolding looks. Castiel collapses back into his seat. Dean turns his back to them, putting his hands on his waist and hanging his head. “Castiel, why don’t you try explaining yourself a wee bit nicer, yes? Perhaps while leaving John Winchester out?”

Castiel sighs heavily. He stares at the ground for a very long time. Long enough for Dean’s anger to simmer and cool. For it to morph into a deep, empty kind of longing that clogs his throat and burns his eyes.

“I just thought we finally had it,” Castiel whispers after an eternity. “Things were calming down. Mary was back and adjusted. The three of them got to have some closure with John. Jack had solidified our family. I - I was a father. Dean and I were fathers, and we were happy, and I felt-” Castiel cuts himself off, clearing his throat a few times like he was about to start crying.

Which he was, but no one will point that out.

Surprisingly, it’s not Rowena who pushes Castiel further.

It’s Dean.

“You felt what?” he whispers, turning toward the sound of his lover’s voice. Because that’s who he is. Castiel. His lover. He always has been. Always will be.

“I felt loved.” Castiel looks away from Dean, turning so his entire face is hidden. “I was stupid. It was stupid.”

Dean’s knees weaken and he falls back in his chair.

Rowena sits forward in her throne. She waits. And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Dean wipes a hand down his face and looks away. He grabs his whiskey and takes a long sip.

Castiel wants to drink his tea but his hands are violently shaking and he’s terrified he’ll spill.

“Oh for hell’s sake!” Rowena yells in exasperation. “The world is comin’ to an end! God - literally god - is the enemy right now. Whatever the issue is here, fix it. Look at the angel, my boy. He’s devastated.”

For the first time in… so damn long, Dean openly looks at Castiel. His breath catches at the base of his throat as he takes in the details he’s been purposely glossing over lately. It all shows in his eyes. The bags beneath them. The way they struggle to flutter back open after each blink. The dull blue that used to shine as bright as his grace. The red rims. The tears.

Dean cradles his head in his hands.

Fix it.

That's what she keeps saying. That’s what Sam said a few times too. Even Eileen once. Jody a ton of times, considering she sends almost daily texts asking if Dean’s ‘fixed it’ with Castiel yet.

Jack asks Dean in his dreams.

Mary asks Dean whenever he looks in the mirror and sees her eyes in his face.

It’s all tangled. All of his grief and joy and emptiness and hope and betrayal and depression and hopelessness and confusion and rage and terror and love. So much love, all tangled in with everything else, and Dean doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know if he even can.

Overwhelmed, Dean accidentally admits out loud, “I don’t know how. I - I don’t know if it’s fixable anymore.”

Surprisingly, Castiel speaks up. "If it's fixable, or of I'm forgivable?"

"Cas," Dean looks up at him, tears in his eyes. It feels so good to say his name again. To look at him. To speak to him. No wonder these past few weeks have been hell. He was shutting out the one person he needed the most. "There's nothing to forgive."

"But - but I failed you."

"No."

"I messed up."

"No."

"Dean, it was my fault your mom-"

"No, Cas! No. Just - no. All of that was a fucking lie. I was an idiot. I was pissed at Chuck and frustrated with Jack and then mom died and then Jack died and I just - I shoved you away." Dean leans his elbows on his knees and hangs his head. "If anyone needs to be forgiven, it's me."

The silence is suffocating.

Rowena doesn't let it last.

"Castiel?"

"Yes?" Castiel whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears.

"I think Dean needs to hear you say you forgive him."

Dean shakes his head. "No, no, he doesn't have to-"

"Of course I forgive you." When he senses someone in front of him, Dean looks up. Castiel is standing with the toes of his shoes against those of Dean's boots. He runs a gentle hand through Dean's hair and they both hum under their breath in relief. Dean's not even embarrassed when he nuzzles the palm of Castiel's hand once he cups Dean's cheek with it.

Dean looks into Castiel's eyes. They're brighter now. Dean focuses on that and breathes out his truth. His truth. No one else’s. "We are, Cas. We are."

Castiel's knees buckle and he lowers to the ground. His hands rest on Dean's knees and Dean leans forward, resting his forehead against Castiel's. He gently cups the back of the angels head and kisses him. It's soft. Tentative. Brimming with love.

When they have to break apart for Dean to breathe, their foreheads continue to stay pressed together. Castiel is nearly panting as he looks into the bright green eyes of the man he gripped tight and raised from perdition. Two daddy's boys who never believed they were worthy of love. Now here they are, so many years later. They may be in the same place, but so much has changed.

They've changed each other.

They changed together.

Castiel smiles. "I love you too, Dean."

And neither of them hear it, but Rowena walks out of the room with a smug, “And my work here is done.”

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