#or somehow had angelic wings that he traded in his deals

[fandomrouletteburrito]

I’m actually wondering if Alastor’s own confidence came back to bite him in the ass against Adam in more ways than one

Cuz when I saw the matchup it made no sense to me?

Angelic beings such as Adam(ew) can only be killed/injured with an Angelic weapon

Alastor’s attacks all it could’ve done is tire Adam out but it won’t be able to actually harm him enough to take him out of the fight

Charlie can probably because she is the child of Lucifer, her weapons and status automatically give her access to some of the same weaponry that would injure an Angel. Notice the weapon she uses against Adam seems to be her own Demonic Weapon, not like the ones that the rest of cast used to defend themselves.

And from what we saw Alastor didn’t have any new weapons with specifically Angelic steel in them to cause any actual damage to Adam beyond being a nusiance like a fly. Alastor just used his mic as always and his own powers that we know fundamentally do not work against Angelic beings. He even got a hit to Adams face and it didn’t draw any blood so he resorted to throwing Adam around but even that didn’t make Adam bleed

I fully think a better line up would’ve been if Charlie from the start fought Adam but I can also see Alastor just going: I’ve got this

When he infact, does not got this and knows it but wants to prove he can take on Adam without using Adam’s singular weakness

[a-is-for-abel]

“It’s a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave.” prompt from @givethispromptatry

Crows barked, throaty and dry, from their perch high in the gnarled branches of the tree at the head of the cemetery. The letters etched into the granite before him shined and the heavy mist settled over his shoulders, oppressive and thick.

He counted the crows in the tree, a rhyme coming to mind as the black winged birds called into the fog. "One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral… Four-- Four for..."

A funeral… His brow furrowed. The name on the gravestone drew him back in and he eyed the letters. Bells from the steeple of a church coughed in the distance.

"It's a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave." He turned to see a man leaned against a tall gravestone, a lit cigarette in his fingers. "But you seem to be taking it rather well."

The man flicked a lick of hellish embers off the end and took a long drag. Smoke trailed from his lips and curled over his salt-flat empty eyes. "Say, you haven't died before have you? That'd make this a bit awkward-- See, I don't really do the whole doing someone else's do-over. Those contracts tend to get a little messy, if you know what I mean."

Dressed sharply in a suit jacket and trousers to match, the man didn't stand out quite that oddly against the backdrop of a graveyard. However, with no procession, he was out of place without the rest of the mourners to stand shoulder to shoulder with.

It was even harder not to notice the way he stood a little too tall, a little too pale, and a little too thin...

And the eyes--

He couldn't remember having ever seen eyes like that. Though, he also really couldn't remember how he had gotten here either.

The man frowned, cigarette dangled from his lips. "You're not very talkative are you. That's gonna make this a little hard if you don't at least start asking some questions."

"Who are you?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Ah, there it is-- Everyone always starts with that one. Never a 'where am I, how'd I get here', it's always the who are you?" The man shrugged. "I got a lot of names, kid. Just make one up, it'll probably be better that way."

Paul. It was the first name that came to mind, risen like the valleys of weathered hands and deep-set wrinkles the name brought with it.

"Paul?" The man hissed, eyes scrunching as he flicked the cigarette onto the ground and ground it out with the toe of his dress shoe. "Wow, you're real bad at this. Look, I'll settle for something like, uh-- How's Paal sound? Good? Great."

Even as Paal dismissed it, he tried to latch onto the name Paul and the hands that came with it. Somehow, he knew those hands had shown him how to hold a chisel and carve with the grain and not against it. That they had smoothed down his hair and lain flat against the crown of his skull as the other drew a new line against the door jamb, and he had childishly smiled at the inch gap that had grown between it and the old one below.

"Well, now that we got names out of the way--" Paal reached into his coat and pulled free a scroll. "Let's get down to business."

The parchment unfurled with a dry cough, ink dripped over the page and rearranged itself into letters that shimmered, ruddy and wet.

"So, for starters, my contracts are pretty straightforward. I don't do all that funny business the others do." Paal pointed to the second line. "The overall payment is going to be your eternal soul, of course. The only exception I'll make here is if you can name something of equal value and I also deem said thing of equal value. Now, don't get all excited. Not a lot of things add up to a human soul. Unless you'll be trading someone's else's soul as your payment. Simple math and all of that."

His eternal soul? He looked at the cross atop the gravestone and wine-dipped stained glass and the pulpit of a church flitted to the forefront along with it.

"We on the same page here? You look a little lost?" Paal asked, tilting his head.

"Sorry, I just--" He furrowed his brow. "Am I dead?"

Paal pointed to the grave. "Is that your body in there?"

"I--" He looked at his hands. "I think so."

"I wouldn't say I'm a genius myself, but I think we can both put two and two together here."

He grit his teeth. "Right…"

"Fantastic-- Now, onto the good stuff." Paal pointed further down the parchment. "So, in exchange for said eternal soul, I grant you a few things. First off, you get to get up on your own two feet and walk out of that grave. A pretty good deal, right?"

"Deals go two ways."

"See, now you're catching on--" Paal pointed at him and then tapped the next line on the scroll. "Alright, so it's pretty damn expensive to bring a soul back to life. Maker's got an idea in mind and tampering with that's always gonna cost you a little extra."

"Do you mean money? I don't exactly..." He held his hands out, the empty state of his pockets hopefully obvious.

Paal laughed. "Money? What the hell am I going to do with money? No, no, no-- I need a favor."

"A favor?" He asked, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah! A favor. something pretty simple, actually. But to get that body back and with all your precious little memories intact, you gotta do something to pay for that. More than just signing off your soul, that is."

"And who exactly am I paying back?"

Paal grimaced. "You're asking questions you really don't want the answers to, kid."

"Fine." He rubbed at his jaw. "What's the favor then?"

"Bounty hunting. Or collecting, I guess?" Paal gestured vaguely. "Whatever-- Basically, a few folks deferred on their contracts and I need to collect on their souls a little early."

"How early is early?" he asked, squinting.

"Well, I'd say I'm a pretty generous dealer. I give you about how much worldly time you should've had-- Had things not gone absolutely shit for you." Paal held up a finger. "So, in this case, I'd be collecting these souls well before they croak from becoming all ripe and old like they normally would've."

"So, I get my life back..." He chewed the inside of his cheek and glanced at the cross on the gravestone. "Is that it?"

"Is that it?'" Paal mocked and then grinned. "Look at you, already driving a hard bargain."

"You wouldn't have come to me if my soul wasn't worth something."

"Did you come to that astonishing conclusion all by yourself?" Paal said flatly.

He glanced over the demon.

Or devil... Or whatever hellish equivalent he was supposed to be. The lack of the classic horns or even a tail made it hard to pin any kind of fiendish charm to him. Besides the eyes and the pallor of someone who's never seen the light of day, he looked rather ordinary...

And his memories, few and far between-- muddled even-- like he was reliving them from underwater-- As unreliable as those memories were, he still remembered sitting upon a pew in a sun-washed room, a pastor at the head of the church, attesting how the devil would always wager in ways that would seem fair and just, but never were.

"What else do I get?"

"Greedy, aren't you? Fine." Paal rolled up the scroll part way and pointed at a line halfway down. "You can't die. At least while you're contracted under me to collect souls. If you call on me and I deem the request reasonable enough I can and will help you. Think of it like, uh-- Praying to a guardian angel. Except I'm absolutely nothing like that and I'll actually show up."

"And collecting on these contracts? What does that entail?"

"Killing them, for starters." Paal said simply. "I can't exactly grab their souls when they're still kicking around like that. And a lot of them have found ways to sort of, eh-- protect themselves from me. But you're just a bag of bones, maybe a little bit juiced up when I'm done with you, but you'll be human enough."

He didn't feel like picking that last aside apart too much. "So, you want me to kill for you?"

"Yes."

"How exactly?"

Paal flicked his hand and the scroll snapped out of sight with a thwick. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled free a revolver. Six-shot, shined, scarred with engravings up and down the muzzle and wrapped around the barrel. Handle a bone-white ivory, pale and unblemished.

Paal held it out to him. "With this."

Dropped into his palms with little fanfare, he cradled it, as if a newborn lamb. He glanced up from the gunmetal shine after a beat. "I can't shoot."

"Oh, you won't have to. You just have to aim." Paal formed his fingers into a mock-gun and pointed it at his forehead before mouthing ‘pow'. "It does all the hard work for you. Unless you're into that kind of thing, then by all means I'll take the training wheels off of it and let you do the trigger pulling."

"No…" he swallowed, careful to keep the muzzle pointed away from himself. "Training wheels is fine."

"Fantastic. Do we have a deal then? All of this--" Paal gestured to the whole of him. "--for the meager, one time price of doing a simple chore for me."

He stared flatly.

"And your eternal soul after you've lived a long and happy life, but that's just semantics," Paal laughed, waving him off.

He tilted the gun in his palms and glanced down at his pockets. It wouldn't exactly fit very well… "Is there a holster?"

"Oh, right--" Paal patted his chest and fished around in his suit jacket before drawing out a belt. "Here. It's a bit used, but at least it's already worn in, right?"

Mottled stains scattered the edges of the leather belt and where intricate markings had been stamped and tooled into the holster itself.

"Thanks…" he said, pinching it between two fingers while trying to find a good way to hold the pistol with his other hand.

"Woah, don't sound too grateful there, champ," Paal said. "You'd think I wasn't about to do you the biggest favor of your life."

He paused in his inspection of the holster and gave Paal the flattest look he could muster.

"Get it?" Paal's grin dropped. "Not a funny guy then… Noted."

Finally, managing to holster the gun he slipped the belt around his waist and fumbled with the buckle before fastening it. "How exactly do we seal the deal?"

"Eager, are we?" Paal held out his hand. "Just shake my hand and that's it. None of that writ in blood nonsense."

He wrinkled his nose.

Paal flexed his fingers and held his hand out further. "Look, if you really need me to draw up a traditional contract and give you a copy, I can do that too, but it's dreadfully boring and I do enough paperwork as it is. I mean, what do you have to lose, honestly? You're already dead. I'm just offering you a second chance… and a little bit of revenge."

"Revenge?"

"No one ends up dead in a ditch with a pack of dogs eating their face without being fucked over somewhere along the road."

"I don't…" He knitted his brow. "It's hard to remember."

"Oh, it'll be like that for a bit. It gets better once we get everything settled. Trust me though, you've got quite the bone to pick with someone back up there. And I for one would love to see how it all pans out."

"This is a form of entertainment for you," he said flatly, eyeing the still outstretched hand.

"What's the harm in mixing business and pleasure?" Paal smirked. "Plus it'll be fun to see what you do."

"Can you not bring back the memories now?"

Paal tutted. "That's quite expensive, and we haven't made a deal yet."

"How do I know I even want to go back then?"

"Does it even matter who you were before if you get a re-do?"

He looked at the name on the gravestone. "Won't they recognize me?"

"Oh, no-- Uh, see, you're not going back into your original body." Paal grimaced. "I can only repair so much and those dogs really did a number on you."

"Great…"

"Don't worry though, I got a good one picked out for you. Close enough to be uncanny even. Just some little differences, barely noticeable."

He grimaced.

"Don't you humans love taking leaps of faith? What's with all the hemming and hawing? What happened to all that stupid recklessness?"

"Not all of us are stupid."

Paal groaned. "I would get stuck with the biggest coward this side of the Mississippi."

'Look, it's lil' yellow-bellied Bern!'

'Just take it from him. He's not gonna do shit-- He'd flinch at a fly if it looked at him wrong.'

'Pa said he's soft. That his own daddy made him like that.'

He blinked, flinching and scrunching up his eyes at the sudden, sharp jab that needled at his skull. "I'm not a coward."

"Then take my hand."

His head pounded, and if he really was dead he wondered why he could still feel that out of everything. If the sweat pricked along the back of his neck was more memory than actual sensation, or if the way his tongue had grown heavy in his jaw was all made up too. He eyed Paal's hand and the discolored fingernails, the sheet white skin, the odd scarring along the knuckles and on the palms.

'Leave and don't you ever come back here. And if I ever see you again, you'll be begging the devil to take your soul from me first.'

He grit his teeth, fingers curling into fists.

The voice bit across his cheek like knuckles, like blood on his tongue and smattered across his hands. It curled like snake oil and melted wax, like the dust settled over the rafters of an ever empty church and like floorboards stained with drying flecks of rust.

He reached for Paal's hand and Paal grabbed his wrist instead, wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed, hard enough he twisted with the motion. Paal didn't budge, no matter how he pried at him, and the hand burned-- Burned the way laying your palm across a sheet of ice stung and wormed its way deeper and deeper the longer you left it there.

He stumbled as Paal released him, clutching at his wrist and hissing. "What the hell?"

"Part of the contract. It'll fade in a second."

The burning stopped and when he let go of his wrist, a coiling band of white took its place. Sat snugly, flat and lined with black, was an ivory snake wrapped three times about his wrist. The head of the serpent rested along the heel of his thumb, eyes a nearly translucent blue. It faded, still standing out against his skin, more like an impossibly pale tattoo and less like the actual snake it was a moment ago. His arm ached dully with it, like he had come in from a long frigid day, and his fingers cramped as the feeling returned to the very tips of him.

"Oh, right-- You'll be needing bullets." Paal grabbed his hand and dropped a freezing piece of metal into it.

More followed as Paal fished around in his suit jacket for them. At the fourth one Paal paused. "What was that little rhyme you were doing before I arrived? I rather enjoy that one. The ending is always my favorite."

He watched where the bullets settled in his palm. The casings a blood-red ebony and the bullet itself the shade of bone.

"And four for birth…" Paal dropped another bullet. "Five for heaven..." Another. "And six for hell," Paal said with a smirk, manually curling his hand around the bullets and patting it. "Now keep track of those, they're not exactly easy to make."

He didn't tell Paal that he didn't finish the poem, that there was still one more line that needed to be said to complete it. Instead, he pocketed the bullets.

"Walk with me a sec--" Paal grabbed his shoulder and nudged him forward.

They meandered along the lines of graves, passing headstones that varied in shape and size, some cared for, with flowers and candles and even worn sepia photos left at their feet. Others were less fortunate. Grown over, dulled, and abandoned.

They stopped before one with a less modest headstone. A large stone cross jutted up from the top and an angel carved above the name of the soul that was laid to rest below their feet.

"You know, I really do think this is the start of a great partnership..."

He raised a brow.

"Marcus J. Bern--" He flinched at the name, not expecting it to fall from Paal's mouth so casually. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

He hesitated, shoulders drawing up, hand coming to rest on the gun at his hip. "Uh, you too…?"

Paal smiled, like he found that amusing. And he hadn't noticed how sharp his teeth looked until he was staring the oversized canines dead in the face.

"Now--" Paal said, placing his hands on his shoulders, dusting them off before squeezing lightly. "This might hurt a bit."

"What--"

Paal shoved him.

He fell and fell and the earth swallowed him whole.

Dirt and silt and death surrounded him. Impossibly endless and vast, the grave didn't catch him as it should have. And the chill that bit at his limbs gnawed feverishly, right down to the core of him until he felt a yell clog up with the hallowed ground packed against his tongue. Further and further he descended, gut flipping and twisting with him, until he thought this would be his new forever. That Paal had lied to him, and he would simply be doomed to free fall for the rest of eternity, until all returned to dust as it had once emerged and longer still.

Light broke up the darkness overhead and he reached for it, arm outstretched. The white snake coiled around his wrist writhed and burned at the first touch of it and dripping with pale ichor, his veins stood out a ghastly silver against him. A venom coursed through him as it wound further and further down, closer and closer to where his heart had thrummed to life and kicked against his ribs in a fevered fit. He clutched at his chest as the ground-- as something-- hurtled towards him.

Breath slammed into him with a rattling gasp and his eyes shot open.

Blinded, he blinked and squinted against the grace of a new day, trembling and shaking where he had woken upon the dirt. The cross of the gravestone cast a merciful shadow over him and he could see the tangled fingers of the tree beyond it.

Raucous caws chorused above him. A murder of crows dotted the grey sky overhead, having flighted from their perches high in the dead limbed oak.

One, two, three, four, five, six--

"And seven for the devil, his own self..." he muttered, hand falling to his hip and the gun now holstered there.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job.

He supposed that was to be expected when one was tasked to dealing so closely with death and decay. An unending stream of souls passed his path – no similitude between their age or gender, their species, or even the manner with which they had perished. Phil found them and with the touch of a hand helped them to their feet, waving away all mortal burdens so they could pass on.

His task was merely to play the guide, he did not need to do anything beyond that. Who died was not up to him, neither was where they went after. Moral judgment was better left up to the deities, and Phil was not a god. But he could offer some kind of solace in their final moments, wipe the pain from their face and help them depart to whatever it was they were destined for next. Over time he had gathered expertise at comforting the dying.

Some wanted to be held as they died, both arms wrapped tightly around Phil's waist and rapid heartbeat slowing to a tilt. Others talked until they ran out of breath, recounting snippets of the stories they had lived or simply told Phil how scared they were to die with sobs shaking their chest. Then he would wipe away their tears and console them with the knowledge that soon all pain would fade. Others still were content in the silence, their only fear dying alone and forgotten. Phil sat with them in company, humming a song to himself that he hoped eased their way into death.

Then he would touch them carefully, their soul a bright burning like a flame held to his open palm. He would guide them where they needed to go, and not dwell on if their passing was just or not.

People had mistaken him to be the angel of death before, never mind the fact that this title was an oxymoron by nature. Phil knew it probably had to do with his wings, long feathers stretched out behind him in an arch of dark grays and black. It was a wrong assumption people made about him which he regarded with patient allowance, sometimes even aiding the moniker in its spread. He didn't mind if that was what people thought him to be.

But being an angel of death would imply he brought death with him where he went, a harboring of future loss yet to come. On the contrary, Phil felt as if he was always one step behind, chasing a shadow that fled before him and took lives where it settled. He arrived at the battlefield long after the banners had already been torn down, the ground reduced to a jutting landscape of limbs and discarded weapons. He crossed the sea of corpses – detached to the sense of dread such a scene would induce in normal people – and set about guiding the soul he had been tasked to find onward.

The sight of a man barely into his thirties, frightened expression frozen on his face when the javelin had been driven into his chest, made his heart clench.

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job, no. But it was an obligation that needed to be filled, and he had been the one chosen to do so.

He only strayed from that path a handful of times.

The first time he did, the sunlight was bright. The air was filled with an sense of exhilaration, the rushing of people along cobblestone streets and children shrieking as they played between their parents' legs. Phil drew his robe closer around himself; even after all this time he was filled with unease.

His work didn't often call him to places so full of life – so full of happiness – unless something terrible was about to happen. And he braced himself for the consequences.

But instead, the pull on his soul was languid, small tugs towards the town's bustling square. A slow death then, somebody slipping away into old age? He traced his eyes along the houses, wondering if that was all it was. Natural causes rarely needed his services. Souls that passed on in a tranquil fashion wouldn't require guidance to find the afterlife. It was those that struggled with accepting death that concerned his labor.

Instead, his gaze fell on a shape standing hunched over on the edge of the square and Phil felt his heart drop.

The boy couldn't be too old, barely a teenager to most. His matted, curly dark hair was half-hidden under a beanie and his long legs were slightly shaking beneath his thin frame. Despite the tremble, he was playing an old guitar, deft fingers moving smoothly along the string. As Phil approached he could hear the music the boy was playing, a tune of his own devising no doubt. Phil liked it.

The crowd must not agree. The boy's basket, a small thing with cloth at the bottom to keep coins from falling through the cracks, was empty. People hurried past, barely giving the musician a second glance, and even if they stopped to watch him play for a moment, they didn't leave a contribution behind. Humans could be disgustingly selfish like that.

As Phil observed more closely he could tell why he was here.

How long had the boy been doing this? Traveling around from town to town and settling only long enough to play his music in the hopes some would take pity on him and offer money for his skill. Whatever luck he had found must have been few and far between. His bones were too visible beneath the skin, his cheeks hollowed out and sunken. Bright eyes that Phil somehow knew were supposed to spark with life had become dull in the face of malnutrition.

And still the boy was playing.

After a few minutes more – during which Phil simply watched – the boy grew too tired to continue much longer. He sunk down onto his knees with a sigh, the guitar cradled in his lap protectively. The only valuable possession he was most likely to have. His shoulders sagged as he pushed a hand against his empty stomach, scrunching his face up from what Phil assumed must be pretty horrible hunger pains. He didn't seem to have the strength to raise his head again.

Phil approached, tipping his hat in the belief that it would make him seem less threatening to the starved teen. "That was some lovely playing."

With strenuous effort, the boy looked up at him and despite the circumstances, offered him a lopsided grin. From up closer, Phil could tell how young he really was. "Thanks man, I wrote it myself."

Just as he had expected. It pulled at Phil, the physical thrumming of a soul about to leave its body as it succumbed to starvation. And it was cruel, as the humans behind them walked along the town square, buying food from stands and trading for gold. Meanwhile, a child sat here starving because there was nobody to look after him.

A sharp inhale from Phil to ground himself. Time slowed down around them as he unfurled his wings, all other movement slowing down by the molasses-like pull of his power. Only the boy would be able to see, but his eyes widened nonetheless.

"Oh," he said, a small sigh of resignation. He didn't seem surprised. "You're here to take me away right?"

"I am," Phil confirmed quietly. He wasn't too used to people staying this calm in the face of his true form.

The boy smiled again, more timid and broken through by exhaustion not of his age. He had already reconciled with what was about to happen. Phil knelt down in front of him.

"Are you scared?"

"I guess not," the boy answered. "There's just... just a lot more I wanted to do, you know?"

Phil couldn't. He couldn't know because he had been immortal since the first dawn. He had no grasp on the concept that was the painfully human fear of running out of time. But he nodded anyway. Holding out his hand, he hesitated only a moment before touching the tips of his fingers to the boy's forehead.

His soul glowed dimly in his ribcage, proof that he was running out of life. The color was a stunning yellow, woven through with odd traces of blue. Like a sunrise being steadily overtaken by the noon sky. Within lay the power of creation, the power to bring words and music to completion. Phil didn't know what came over him, but he felt pity for this boy's death.

Then he felt it. The push was subtle, a tingle down his spine and he leaned into it, wondering what would happen. How painful it would be for him. "What's your name?" he asked.

The boy opened his eyes, slipped close from fatigue. "Wilbur."

Phil pushed harder and the horrible feeling of draining that came over him was hard to bear. Dizzy as it made him, he kept at it. Emptiness washed over him, but then he noticed the way Wilbur's eyelashes fluttered, the way his chest heaved in for a deep breath.

Returning life to a mortal had been a first for him.

Wilbur blinked wearily, probably confused by his sudden surge of energy. The absent hunger that had plagued him for weeks. "Wha-"

"Wilbur," Phil said softly, as time resumed its restored flow around them. His wings had been retracted and Phil stood with a feeling like he had permanently lost something important. "How would you like to travel some more? With me."

The second time he did it, the world was struck through with red.

Phil huffed to himself and removed his hat to fan his face with it instead. He quite despised being sent into the nether – something that had only occurred on rare occasions.

It wasn't that his services weren't appropriate to this dimension. Death permeated this place more than any other he had visited during his travels, naturally dangerous terrain and many hostile creatures making it an unwelcoming venture. But the few sentient beings that lived and thrived in the nether did not have the same qualms with death as most did, not fearing it as the end of all things temporary.

Some even revered it as the final blaze of glory to be feverishly sought after.

Most passed on easily, with fervor. It rarely occurred to them to resist the pull of the beyond or make the transition harder than it needed to be.

Not this time apparently. Phil traveled the cracked ground, the unpleasant heat of the lava running beneath it keeping him light on his toes. The pull was strong this time, an urgent tugging like a fish hooked on a line, meaning that whoever was dying had to be in considerable pain. He felt their panic, something bordering on sharp-set denial. A warrior not prepared to lay down his sword?

The boy he found was not a warrior.

In fact, he was barely old enough to hold a sword without the weight of it crushing him. He did have a blade, tiny fist curled tightly around the iron hilt. When he spotted Phil he clutched it firmly and raised it in an ill-concealed threat. Or maybe a gesture of self-preservation.

The warning held little weight when the boy was clearly making an effort to keep standing on his feet. Long strands of pink hair stuck to his face and back – slick with sweat and blood. Fresh cuts and bruises were hardly distinguishable from older scars and the signs of battles wrought long ago. The deepest gash ran along the boy's side and over his chest, still seeping red and probably soon to be fatal. Phil frowned.

"Hey, calm down." He held up his arms placatingly. "I'm not going to hurt you." Not technically a lie, of course.

The boy grunted at him, a low visceral noise that could hardly be called human. Phil realized why a moment later, as he stepped closer and finally realized the person in front of him wasn't human either. Maybe he could be mistaken for one at a glance – aside from the peculiar color of his hair – but upon closer inspection, the illusion quickly fell through.

Sharp claws extended from the hands he used to hold his sword up with and what Phil had mistaken for clunky old shoes turned out to be hooves instead. piglin-like ears were barely visible through the boy's hair and when he made another angry sound, the beginnings of tusks yet to grow in completely revealed themselves. Well, that explained why a child would be all alone in this hellhole.

Another step forward and that was the moment Phil realized that if this child was not human his common tongue would probably not be understood. He was just starting to scour his brain for some distant knowledge of the piglin language he must surely possess when he was hit square in the forehead with a stone.

Phil yelped, blinking just in time to see the kid run off.

Well, that had certainly never happened before. Most of the people he was sent to collect didn't have the stamina left to try and outrun him. Not that it made a difference anyway, as the pull of his soul would inform him of their location no matter how far they went.

A few minutes later he already came upon the boy again, this time lying face-down on the ground, blood loss finally getting the better of him. His sword was still clutched at his side. Phil stalked over calmly, hoping to anticipate any other projectiles coming his way but the child was probably in no condition to try that stunt again. Kneeling at their head, Phil turned them around carefully.

The child's burning red eyes were half-lidded in pain and every inhale rattled inside his chest unsteadily, troubled by his slowing pulse. he was dying fast. Yet when Phil brought his hand forward the kid's own came up to snatch his wrist, pulling weakly at his arm.

It wasn't exactly fear that contorted the boy's face, Phil had seen enough people cower at the prospect of death to recognize the cowardice with which most people faced their demise. This was something else. This was resistance in its purest form, a survival instinct that ran deeper than blood could. The boy let out a subdued whine, lacking the energy for anything more, as he tried to push Phil's hand away or get free from his grip.

Once again Phil felt that familiar pity tug at him.

He pushed through the kid's feeble struggle to touch his forehead, feeling the pulsing of his soul. It became a visible swirl of misty blood, the colors presented in all shades of red - from lightest pink to a maroon so dark it seemed to steal the light away. Phil had to bite down on his own tongue when the first wave of hurting hit him.

He was familiar with pain, but mending another and bringing them from the brink of death was entirely new. It burned along Phil's veins, a liquid fire not unlike the scorching sulfur of the nether itself. The boy shifted a bit in his grasp before finally settling down and slipping into sleep, the worst of his wounds gone. Phil lifted him as he stood up, noticing he weighed next to nothing.

The stinging sensation lingered inside his nerves as he carried the child out of the nether.

The last time he did it was on a dark and stormy night.

The rain came down on Phil relentlessly, soaking his clothes and hair both. Thick droplets clung to his face and he had to wipe at his eyes continually to even be able to see three feet in front of him. He hated this, he'd much rather stay inside on an evening as miserable as this. But when the pull called Phil would answer. It wasn't like he had a choice.

And it was strange, weak in its force but forming almost a mirror image of echoes in his ribcage. Phil wasn't used to that happening often, cautious as to what it would mean. Souls rarely passed in such unison, a synchronized entwinement. The last time he had experienced this he found a mother in labor, alone and afraid as she tried to birth her child into this unforgiven world. Neither had survived the ordeal.

Phil had soothed himself with the knowledge that they would be united in the afterlife.

This pull was slightly different though, and he followed it strangely as it led him deeper into the forest. Any moment he expected a building to dawn in front of him, a secluded cabin or some other sign of civilization. The thicket never thinned out and no light filtered through a window appeared on the horizon. The pull intensified and Phil swallowed, aware of what this meant.

There were two of them, curled up close into each other to conserve their dwindling body heat. The smaller boy was unconscious, clinging to life with some stray strings of determination fast slipping away, brown hair wet and stuck in angles to his face. The other seemed to be of similar age and had blonde hair he rubbed out of his eyes. He perked his head up as he heard Phil's approach, and curled his arms tighter around the other one in a clear display of protectiveness.

Phil stood across the clearing and stared at them.

Part of him wanted to ask what they were doing out here – even if it didn't matter, even if they were already dying from the exposure to cold wearing their bones down. Stealing the heat of life from their very skin as they clung to each other in idle hope.

He didn't need to ask, however. The clothes they wore were telltale of the many orphanages Phil had needed to visit over his life, the way the fabric always seemed to come inches short and the shoes were loose on their feet, worn by a child they were not intended for. Nobody had bothered to give them proper care.

"Who's there?!" the boy who was still awake said, voice firm and puffed up with false bravado. Phil could sense the fright hiding beneath, but the boy was doing well subduing it.

He made his presence known, keeping his wings invisible for the moment as to not scare them any further. "Hey, it's okay kid-" Phil tried, volume as low and unthreatening as he could make it while still being loud enough to be perceivable over the storm. The rain made him blink fast, trying to force a smile despite the unpleasant wetness.

"Stay the fuck away!" The boy sprung up with surprising agility for somebody who must be suffering from serious hypothermia. He had a small pocket knife, the blade dull and glistening in the moonlight, which he held in front of him as if it could protect anybody. "Don't come any closer, you weirdo!"

The last word caught Phil off guard and he nearly burst out laughing. "Weirdo?"

The kid bit his lip, probably thrown by his strange reaction. "Y-yeah. Why else would some dude just be wandering the woods at night? You must be some kind of creep." He moved the knife again, but there was no urgency behind it.

He wasn't shivering either, which was a bad sign. Once you got cold enough, your body couldn't even muster the strength to shake. The unconscious boy sighed out a soft sound of discomfort and the other turned around, hastily scooting over to try and rub his friend's arms warm.

"T-tubbo, dude, don't-" he was muttering under his breath.

"What happened?" Phil asked despite himself. He knew it wouldn't help to know.

"It's none of your fucking business!" the boy answered heatedly, but his voice was already breaking down. A few more steps closer and Phil could see the tears streaking down his cheeks. He pressed both hands to his friend's face, shaking him lightly. "Tubbo, please get up we need to leave."

The smaller boy – Tubbo – murmured something but didn't wake up. Phil could tell he was already done for. The other one would be shortly behind.

He hated how the pity swelled up again, bitter and destructively human.

"I can help," he heard himself saying, and unfurled his wings to their full stature. The rain slowed, suspended in the air and the boy looked at him with weary eyes, equal measures of concern and hesitance. "Do you have a name?"

The boy started shaking his head as if he was reluctant to give it up. But then he thought better of it. "Tommy," came the clipped response.

"Tommy," Phil repeated. "May I help you? May I help your friend?"

That same uncertainty returned to his face, brow furrowed in thought and his eyes moved side to side, scrutinizing Phil's form and most likely weighing his options. He must have realized any other plans had been exhausted and gave a short nod.

Phil moved in gradually to show he meant no harm. Tommy still had most of his body put in front of Tubbo, still shielding him in case this turned out to be a bad decision. He flinched when Phil stretched out his hand, which he pretended not to notice.

His soul was almost effervescent, murky green like the shallow waters and mingles of orange and red. It seemed to move beneath Phil's touch, curious as to what was happening. Tommy's skin was clammy and cold as ice.

Feeling that same coldness in his gut, Phil pushed life into the soul. The warmth of divine light flooded out of him, tethered on the edge and he tried not to shiver under the assault, the hollow feeling that entrapped him. Tommy's paleness drew away with his efforts.

When he was done he took off his robe, soaked but at least another barrier against the wind as he threw it over Tommy's shoulders. The boy was wide-eyed, freckles dotted along his nose, and probably confused as to what was even happening. Phil eased him with a gentle smile.

"Now your friend too, yes? You can both come to my home, it will be much better there than out here in the rain."

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job, but he enjoyed the gifts it had granted him.

His wings and the ability they gave him to travel. He had crossed wild lands and sullen deserts. He had passed by oceans and beneath skies of colors unimaginable to most. The world had lain beneath him sprawled out like a patchwork blanket as he soared the clouds, everything below so small he could hardly imagine it being real.

He had witnessed generations. He had seen the best that others could offer – and yes, the worst too but he had made the conscious decision not to dwell on that. He had known cultures and kingdoms, tasted foods and danced to music and admired flowers that had long since been forgotten to the history books.

And now he had a family too.

Phil had paid his dues. Immortality was a strange thing, a blanket that wrapped around you and made you forget you were different from others. Age never touched Phil and it still couldn't, but other things had been granted that ability.

Hunger and thirst, where it used to be that neither bothered him. When feasts were a mere indulgence instead of a necessity, they were now an aspect of survival. A blade could cut him down, where it could hardly slice his skin before. He was not invulnerable to the destroying of his body anymore. And cold and heat became a constant struggle, tiredness pulled at his mind and Phil found himself craving and needing sleep when he never had previously.

His family had made him more human than he expected, in every sense of the word.

But when he looked at them around his table, joking and laughing in jest, the radiation of souls alive and well, Phil knew it was a price he had gladly paid.

[archivingspn]

Entertainment Weekly Special Edition: The Ultimate Guide to Supernatural 2017

SAM AND DEAN WINCHESTER KNOW "WEIRD." Their entire life has been weird, ever since the moment a demon claimed their mother's life. In case anyone has forgotten over the course of the show's past 12 seasons, Supernatural tells the story of the Winchester brothers, portrayed by Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who fell into the family business of hunting creatures after their mother's murder. What began as their father's journey for revenge has evolved into endless monster slayings, near-death experiences and more than a few actual deaths.

By this point the Winchesters have been to Hell and back, killed Death himself, come face-to-face with God and prevented the Apocalypse. But perhaps more impressively, the series has survived three network presidents, five showrunners, a writers' strike and five different time slots. Turns out the only thing harder to kill than the Winchesters is the series itself. "It's one of those shows that has moved a lot, and yet each time it has found that core audience and built on it," Warner Bros. Television president Peter Roth says. "It's been an unsung hero."

If anyone knows about being an unsung hero, it's Sam (Padalecki) and Dean (Ackles), who've dedicated their lives to saving others and asked for nothing in return. Seriously, how many nights have they spent sleeping in their car?And yet that on-the-road lifestyle has paved the way for a number of the show's riskier episodes, which play a crucial role in keeping the audience engaged. In 2015 "Baby" was told entirely from the perspective of their beloved 1967 Impala, and that's not even close to the craziest thing the show's tried.

Aside from the rules the show creates within its canon—yes, they have a historian in the writers' room to keep them honest—not even the sky is the limit when it comes to story ideas. “[Show creator] Eric [Kripke] used to say, 'Smoke 'em if you've got 'em,' which meant: Anything crazy, don't be afraid to run it by us," executive producer Robert Singer says.

That motto led most famously to season 6's "The French Mistake," in which Sam and Dean found themselves in an alternate universe where everyone mistook them for Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, the stars of a show called Supernatural. "Our show's not bound by reality," Ackles, 39, says. "We're rooted in reality, but we're not bound by it. That gives us a fifth wall almost."

But Supernatural's season 12 finale managed to raise the stakes by somehow introducing the boys to something they'd never seen before: a world in which they don't exist and Heaven and Hell are locked in an eternal war. By episode's end, their allies Castiel (Misha Collins) and Crowley (Mark Sheppard) were dead, and their mother, Mary (Samantha Smith), who was resurrected-by God's sister!-in the season 11 finale, found herself trapped in this new reality with the Archangel Lucifer (Mark Pellegrino). If that doesn't seem bad enough, the birth of Lucifer's son is the very thing that opened the rift to this apocalyptic realm. "The world in which Sam and Dean were never born is not a good world," showrunner Andrew Dabb says. "It speaks to the importance of our guys. The world Sam and Dean live in is certainly not perfect, but it's a whole hell of a lot better than the alternative."

Dabb describes the new run of episodes as more melancholy than last year's, with new threats including some long-dead characters. And somehow Scooby-Doo has a role to play. (More on that later.)

"Last season was, in some ways, a very upbeat season for us," says Dabb, who goes on to explain that season 13 will be "darker." In their grief the boys will butt heads when it comes to both Lucifer's son Jack—Dean wants nothing to do with him; Sam thinks he's worth trying to save— and Mary, whom Sam refuses to give up on despite Dean's having lost hope that she's still alive. "The Apocalypse world hangs over our guys a little bit like a sword of Damocles," Dabb says of the season's beginning. "We're definitely going to spend a little time there."

And of course Sam and Dean have this new responsibility thrust upon them before they've had the chance to properly grieve their many losses, including Castiel, who Dabb says will appear, though maybe not the way fans are expecting. "We're not looking to hit the reset button," Dabb says. "We want to give both our guys an opportunity to react to that and ask the question: How would that affect them if their closest friend sacrifices himself for them? There is a certain amount, especially when you look at Dean, of survivor's guilt."

That being said, there will be at least one (animated!) moment of levity, though it's in the season's back half. Episode 16 will be a much-anticipated Scooby-Doo crossover, for which Ackles, Padalecki and Collins have already recorded the audio. "They've often talked about Supernatural crossing over into something." Ackles says. "I love that it's Scooby-Doo."

But even with exciting new ideas on the agenda, there's always the lingering question of how much longer the show can continue. According to CW president Mark Pedowitz, the answer is as long as the guys are happy and the ratings are relatively stable. As for Ackles and Padalecki, they are focusing on the next milestone: hitting 300 episodes (something that would take them 13 episodes into season 14). However, if Sam and Dean have taught the actors anything, it's that Death can be lurking around every corner (and he's usually eating pizza). "If we don't make it to 300, I think Ackles and I will both be truly bummed," Padalecki, 35, says.

Ackles adds, "They're paying us to bring that little bit of magic to what they wrote, and I still feel that magic. The day that I don't feel that magic will be a very sad day, and I hope that day never comes. I'd like to get to 300 before that day comes."

One thing everyone can agree on is that they want to know when the end is nigh. "I think it would be bad for this show to just ride off into the sunset without a finale," Singer says. "I think we've earned that." Ultimately the only thing that's certain about Supernatural's eventual end is the fate of Sam and Dean's Impala, Baby. "He gets Baby," Padalecki says of Ackles. "I get Baby Two." Ackles makes one correction: "No, you'll get Three. Two is a stunt car. It's beat to s---.”

But nobody gets Baby just yet. For now they'll need all the Impalas they can get as they try to solve the problems of not one world but two.

[pg 10-12]

LIFE IN THE FAST LANE

Stars Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki and Misha Collins have rolled with rapid changes and some surprising detours during the series' remarkable run. BY SAMANTHA HIGHFILL

JARED PADALECKI CAN STILL REMEMBER THE exact pitch for Supernatural's first season: “Route 66 meets X-Files, brothers on the back roads of America hunting things that go bump in the night.” That was how he and costar Jensen Ackles were told to promote the show, which, in its first year, was just that-Sam and Dean Winchester chasing urban legends from state to state.

But over time that original pitch added a few sentences. Much like with any good road trip, there have been quite a few turns—and the occasional crossroads along the way. Although the show remains about two brothers on the back roads of America hunting things, those "things'' now include everything from vengeful spirits to imaginary friends and even Lucifer himself. After all, a show doesn't last 13 seasons without adjusting its game plan. For Supernatural that has meant an ever expanding mythology, some shocking deaths, resurrected characters, breaking the fourth wall and so much more.

Yet all the while, one thing has remained true: Sam and Dean Winchester will do whatever it takes to save the world and, even more so, to save each other. And they'll do it while navigating those seemingly endless back roads in their 1967 Impala.

Finding John Winchester (portrayed by Jeffrey Dean Morgan) was the boys' goal in season 1, though that ended up being about as difficult as getting John to stick around once he was finally discovered. The Winchester family reunion was short-lived: Season 1 closed with a car crash and the fates of all three men up in the air. And then there was that demonic deal John made with the same monster they had been hunting.

JENSEN ACKLES Everything up until that point was about finding Dad. We found Dad, we continued to fight as a unit, and then we lost Dad, and now we were two orphans.

JARED PADALECKI And I think that was the first time we ever brought back somebody from the dead, and it was you [to Ackles].

ACKLES I died in the car crash, and he traded his life with Azazel.

PADALECKI I think that was the first time we ever saw a major character die and come back. And that was a total leap of faith. So we told the story of Reapers and the veil and what happens to your soul.

ACKLES That's when we got into afterlife.

PADALECKI That was a big title shift in what Supernatural could do...

ACKLES With the introduction of Hell and making deals with demons—which is funny, because you think about that now, and [creator] Eric [Kripke] must've always known because Mom made the deal with the yellow-eyed demon.

The next shift would come later in season 2, laying the groundwork for the introduction of angels far before Castiel spread his wings in that abandoned barn in season 4.

PADALECKI "Houses of the Holy” was the first time we ever talked about angels on Supernatural. [Jensen] and I both were like, “Whatever your religious beliefs, whatever ours, we're not here to proselytize. We're here to make a serialized television show, but we want it to be universal.” So we actually had a conference call with Eric Kripke, and we were like, "Hey, man, we don't know how we feel about this.”

ACKLES We didn't want to be a mouthpiece for writers' religious views, because it wasn't the show that we had signed up for. Our argument was: “We trust you. You've done good by us so far. However, this is our one concern, and we're just bringing it to the table so that we can discuss it.”

PADALECKI And they heard us out, and I think that's why they waited another year and a half before introducing our second and most famous angel. I think it's the one time we've ever called them together with a complaint. Because I'm not a writer. I don't want to be a writer. I enjoy my job as an actor. But that was legitimately like, “Listen, if you're going here about religion, I don't want to be a part of it.”

MISHA COLLINS And now amazingly, 11 years later, so much of the show has been hung on biblical lore and mythology that is actually drawn from the Bible. One interesting thing for us is that we end up talking along the way to priests and pastors and ministers, or even nuns, who love the show.

(...)

ACKLES It was amazing, but my point being that we're in one of the most religious places on earth, and they're catering to people from a show that deals with religiously inspired story lines.

PADALECKI But not telling the story that the Bible tells.

ACKLES That's the out. That's where we get a pass is that we're not trying to tell the story of the Bible. The writers take inspiration from biblical elements and then elaborate on them. So when we got into that original discussion, Eric came back with: “We're not here to tell the story of Jesus Christ. We're here to take that element and use it as inspiration for the story.” I think that alleviated any concerns that he and I had. And at the same time we really trusted Eric and still do to this day.

Another leap of faith came with season 2's "Hollywood Babylon,” which can be considered the show's first meta episode. It opened the door for everything from season 6's “The French Mistake” to the upcoming season 13 Scooby-Doo crossover.

ACKLES “Babylon” was the first time we took the piss out of ourselves and were poking fun at the industry.

COLLINS That has been a huge [help to know] that you can go to these absurd lengths and break conventions. Reading the script where we are doing a Scooby-Doo episode makes me feel proud. Where else can you do that?

Padalecki What other show does that and has the fandom at large excited that they’re going to do that? Can you imagine if JAG or NCIS did a Scooby-Doo episode? People would be like, “What?” Not only do we break the fourth wall, do we go meta, but those end up being some of our best episodes.

The season 5 finale holds the No. 1 spot on EW's episode ranking, but that hour was important for many reasons, one of which being that it was creator Kripke’s farewell.

COLLINS “Swan Song" was another milestone because that marked the culmination of Eric's original vision for the show. He had a five-season arc in mind that tied up perfectly with a bow, and then he moved on and handed the reins over to Sera [Gamble]. That became, “Okay, guys, now let's figure out how to start a new chapter or a new volume in a series of chapters.”

PADALECKI It's the story that we were all born from, those of us who were introduced in the first five years. So to have the creator step away? I would argue that it was the largest shift.

Gamble served as showrunner for seasons 6 and 7, the latter containing another major show moment: the death of Bobby (Jim Beaver), Sam and Dean's father figure.

PADALECKI Bobby was such a big part. Jeffrey Dean [Morgan] was never as much a part of the show. He was obviously a huge part of the story, but he did [just a few] episodes, and Jim Beaver did 60 or something. And there was something about his death that we knew it was final...or final for Supernatural.

ACKLES Because his character said, “I'm done.” So it wasn't like he got killed accidentally and we found a way to bring Bobby back. He was like, “I'm hanging it up, guys." It was heavy.

PADALECKI That probably was the first big death of someone who'd been there for years...

ACKLES [Interrupting] A fan favorite...

PADALECKI Yeah, and I remember [CW president] Mark Pedowitz saying something to the effect of “As a fan, I hated when Bobby died, but it was great television.” That's how I feel. 

ACKLES Like when Sam Winchester dies for good, it's going to be good television. But when Dean Winchester lives on, it's going to be great television. [Everyone laughs]

The season 12 finale saw the introduction of an apocalyptic alternate world in which Sam and Dean Winchester were never born and Heaven and Hell are locked in an eternal war. And with that world comes the possibility for a number of character returns. But does it feel like a turning point? 

COLLINS Well, I think the rift and the fact that you can go into the apocalypse world and you can all of a sudden revisit every character in a different iteration—there could be a different version of every character—it opens up this incredible panoply.

(...)

PADALECKI And if an alternate universe exists, then how many alternate universes exist? It's hard to say, because I feel like it's impossible to identify a turning point during the turn. In hindsight it will reveal how this story will affect the show, the canon at large and the way we move forward. But I certainly feel like we're opening up doors with the rift and with the son of Lucifer.

(...)

[pg 20-26]

THE CORONER'S VAN JUST PULLED INTO THE driveway. It's the middle of August in 2016, and Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles are filming a scene for Supernatural's 12th season at a farmhouse in the Vancouver countryside, which is standing in for Iowa. Sam and Dean Winchester have ditched their flannels and jeans for sweaters and slacks in order to pose as social workers. They're doing what the two brothers do best: lying about their jobs in order to solve mysteries and kill monsters—in other words, saving people, hunting things.

When Supernatural premiered, Sam and Dean Winchester were born into the family business of hunting creatures, and it's a lifestyle that, over the years, has left them with very few people they love. Turns out, when you spend your days battling shape-shifters, witches and the occasional angel—they're not all nice, you know—nothing is guaranteed, especially not tomorrow.

But no matter how crazy the Winchesters' world gets—or how many worlds they have to face—one thing remains unchanged: At the center of it all are Ackles and Padalecki, whose Dean and Sam are the beating heart of the show (whether theirs are beating or not).

(...)

(...) even pulling up their favorite scenes on their phones to watch at the table. Padalecki can easily name the scripts that made him cry—“Heart,” “Sacrifice" and "Baby" all land on the list. The common thread is a heartfelt moment between the brothers where they get to talk about their crazy life as if, say, having visions of Lucifer is normal. “I feel like those situations where we treat the abstract and the fantastical as just part of life is where the show thrives,” Padalecki says. Ackles adds, “I think the show is truly at its best when it doesn't take itself too seriously, then it does take itself seriously, and it gets scary as s---,”.

But whether Supernatural is making fun of itself, scaring the living daylights out of its fans, or just letting the brothers have a moment on the hood of the Impala, it all works because of our central heroes. “It's about the Winchesters," says Crowley actor Mark Sheppard. “We really do care, and it's a testament to the boys that we still care."

(...)

As the sun sets on the Vancouver countryside, Sam and Dean ditch their slacks for jeans and send the coroner's van on its way. It won't be needed—this show, and the brotherly bond that holds it all together, has a lot of life left in it. Not that death has ever stopped it before.

[pg 32-34]

(...)

DEAN WINCHESTER Jensen Ackles

He was always the good son. Dean embraced the hunter's lifestyle, and he idolized his father despite John's many faults. But with the senior Winchester devoted to tracking down demons, it fell to Dean to help parent Sam, and he went to great lengths to protect his younger sibling-at one point even making a deal with a Crossroads demon (at the cost of his own life) to resurrect Sam from the dead. The two have had their differences, but throughout, Dean's brother was his first priority. "Watching out for you, it's kinda been my job, you know? But more than that, it's kinda who I am." Cynical and initially skeptical of the existence of God, Dean has nonetheless managed to become best buds with the angel Castiel (and on first name terms with both God and God's sister Amara). His self-sacrificing nature means he would do literally anything for those he considers family-and that's a short list: Sam, Mary and Castiel.

[pg 38]

Sympathy for the Devil

EVERY HERO NEEDS A HELL, BUT SUPERNATURAL HAS JUST TWO PROTAGONISTS AND HUNDREDS OF VILLAINS. HERE’S HOW THE SHOWRUNNERS APPROACHED SAM AND DEAN’S MANY FOES, FROM WELL-KNOWN URBAN LEGENDS TO SATAN HIMSELF. By Samantha Highfill

[pg 51]

Stairway to Heaven

SAM AND DEAN MET CASTIEL. AN ANGEL OF THE LORD, IN SEASON 4, AND IT CHANGED THE COURSE OF THE SHOW. BECAUSE ANGELS WEREN’T ALWAYS THE PLAN— AND CASTIEL WAS ONLY THE FIRST. By Samantha Highfill

(on page 57 there’s a small box of print on the corner that says: In what executive producer Robert Singer calls one of the series’ most “iconic images,” Castiel (Misha Collins) is introduced as the show’s first real angel.)

WHILE OTHER CHILDREN WERE LEARNING multiplication tables, Sam and Dean Winchester were hunting monsters. “When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45!” says Sam to Dean in the Supernatural pilot, recalling an episode when he was 9 years old. Clearly creature encounters were par for the course in the Winchester way of life. And when you grow up battling all the evil in the world, it's hard to believe in the good. But in the show's season 4 premiere, Dean would come face-to-face with the one supernatural entity he didn't think existed: angels.

“[Show creator] Eric [Kripke] wasn't in love with the idea of doing angels,” executive producer Robert Singer says of the early days. “But as things went on and we were getting into demons, I would say to him, 'I don't know how we do demons without doing angels.’”

The show tested the waters in season 2's “Houses of the Holy,” when Sam and Dean worked a case that appeared to involve angels then went in a different direction. It wasn't until late in the next season that the seraphim were finally embraced. When Dean was dragged to Hell, they needed to get him out. And if there's a Hell, it stands to reason there has to be a Heaven. "[The season 3 finale] was the gateway into this whole other world of angels and demons," executive producer Andrew Dabb says.

When it came time to spring Dean from Hell, it was Castiel, the show's first angel, who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. But Castiel quickly established that he wasn't a typical cherubic angel. Many of the show's angels were, as Sam and Dean would put it, real dicks. “We have our own brand of angels and the idea that they were these warriors of God,” Singer says. “We introduced Castiel, and we just went from there. Heaven opened up different levels of angels.”

The moment Castiel spread his wings, the show expanded its universe. Castiel came bearing news of something much bigger: the Apocalypse, the ultimate showdown between good and evil-or more specifically between Archangels Michael and Lucifer. “We started with archangels and the idea that Lucifer was an archangel and was cast out of Heaven,” Singer says. “We certainly took some license, but it was all biblically grounded. We just took those things and went a step further to make them work for our story.”

From there the show explored all kinds of angels, from Zachariah and Naomi to Gabriel and Metatron, and, of course, it eventually arrived at God-or Chuck, if you prefer. “We didn't really know that Chuck was God when we first started with him," Singer says of introducing the character in season 4. (He wouldn't be revealed as God until season 11.) “That evolved. We wanted a relatable God, a God with foibles.”

Nine seasons later, what started as one angel in a trench coat has evolved into Lucifer, God, Leviathan and even a sister for God. “We play a little fast and loose with religion, but no one has really complained about it,” Singer says with a laugh. “So we'll just keep going.”

[pg 56-58]

CASTIEL Misha Collins

What can you say about the only member of Team Free Will who wears an overcoat? Cas has become a true member of the Winchester family.

[pg 61]

[starrysupercell]

This is a request from over on AO3, where I'm sharing my works there too. I'll be alternating between the requests, as there's a list on both sides now. This user requested Edgar and Colette, with a surprise theme!

And it might be the new thing... where I get too carried away and just write a full set up for a story, lmao. But here we go!

~🧣~Darker Interests ~❣~

Edgar leaned back in his chair, bored out of his mind. The graveyard shift was quiet, which he usually had no qualms with, but his phone had died around half an hour ago, so he couldn't even entertain himself for the last leg of his shift.

Actually focusing on work? As if.

The little bell above the door rung, and he shifted from leaning back to slumping forward on the counter, holding his head up in his hand. "Welcome," he half-heartedly greeted.

The customer grinned widely. "Hiya!" She said, waving very excitedly.

Edgar gave her a look. Who greets people like that?

The girl broke into fits of giggles, and her only visible eye darted around, clutching a book to her chest. She had white hair that covered one eye, and a very odd sense of style. Her shirt's sleeves were so long they covered her hands.

"Oh, a corner store. Very nice." She said, slipping behind an aisle.

'I wonder what she's on,' Edgar wondered. He looked back down. Whatever. It wasn't really his job to care about the customers. Just a couple more hours until morning shift gets here...

A few minutes later, he heard some sirens from down the street and casually glanced out the glass door. 'I guess I'll read about that in the morning.'

The girl was pressed against the window, looking at the flashing lights. She peeled herself away from the glass and came up to the counter. Her arms were full of cheesy chips, sweets, beef jerky and drinks.

'Weed, huh?' Edgar thought as he began to scan the items. 'She doesn't reek of it though.'

"That'll be 16.73." Edgar told her.

She reached into her pocket, and then frowned. She looked down to her book. "You were supposed to..." and shook her head.

The girl smiled at him. "Well, I forgot to bring the money." She explained sheepishly, "Is there any way you'd be interested in a deal?"

"Uhh.... Cash or card only." Edgar said, feeling uncomfortable.

"I'm not that type." She shook her head. "Two favors, of your choice! Haha, eight dollars for one! What a steal!" She laughed before refocusing. "So how about it, Edgar?"

"Sure, yeah. Okay. A deal." The worker said. "Let me just bag these for you." Edgar said, completing that as quickly as he could.

The white-haired girl grinned. "Thanks! I've been wanting to try these."

Edgar pushed the bag towards her. "There you go. Have... a night."

"Bye-Bye, Edgar!" She waved, walking to the door. The bell rung, and the door closed.

Edgar exhaled. God, the worst night to forget his charger at home. He cancelled the order on the register and decided to make a note to the manager on what was lost.

There was no way that he was gonna try to argue with that lunatic. What were they gonna do, fire him? He was the only one who wanted to work night shift.

Edgar grabbed a piece of paper from the printer, and a pen near the cash register to write the note. He was halfway done when he suddenly realized something and froze. His gaze trailed back towards the register.

His name tag he never bothered to put on that night laid right beside it.

That.... girl somehow knew him!? A stalker? How did a psycho druggie find out about him? His heart beat fast as a million things raced through his mind. Should he close? Call the cops? Quit? Change his name? Move away far from here?

The door swung open, "You know what I forgot to tell you?" The bell ring wildly.

Edgar yelped and jumped at the sudden question. She walked in, munching on alternating bites of cookies and chips as she made her way to the counter again. "My name! Can you believe it? How would you have summoned me?" She laughed.

"Y-your....?" Edgar began to calm down some. She didn't seem like a threat, really. Maybe some oddball girl who went to his school he never noticed before. "How did you get my name?"

"Hm? Well... it wasn't hard to get it. It's all over you. A cry for validation." She said.

"Validation?" Edgar echoed in confusion. "What are you?"

It was the girl's turn to frown. "Whaaat? Are you serious?"

"Um, yeah, that's why I'm asking." Edgar said, annoyed but still cautious. "It'd be kinda crappy if I had a stalker."

"I'm no stalker. I'm a demon!" The girl stomped her foot. "And you didn't know!? What kind of weirdo makes a deal with people like that?"

"The kind who tries to get safely rid of potential murderers." Edgar defended himself. "You know you looked crazy, right?"

The girl didn't know what to say right away, she made an odd face. "Okay, well... no I didn't. Anyway!" She exclaimed. "Even if you are the weird one here, you still get two favors. When you want to cash in, just call my name."

Edgar looked skeptical. "And what is your name?"

She grinned now. "Colette!"

"So.. just say that?" He asked, "And you'll appear?"

"Yup! Those are the rules. Make sure you don't call me for anything boring. This is my first deal, you know!"

"Okay. 'Demon girl.' I'll keep that in mind." Edgar said.

"... I'm starting to get the feeling that you don't believe me, am I right?" She asked suspiciously.

"Wow, what was your first clue?" Edgar asked flatly. "You have to admit. It's hard to believe with the way you've been acting. Aren't demons supposed to be cool?"

Colette smiled. "Cool, huh? You think so? Alright..." She put her bag down on the ground, then slammed her hands on the counter. "I'll show you cool."

She stared straight into Edgar's eyes, a mischievous grin playing at her lips now. A red hue began to crawl across her face, starting from the edges. Her toothy grin sharpened.

Edgar blinked. 'Either I'm having a really vivid dream or I'm about to die right now."

The color of her eyes seeped to yellow with red pupils. Horns emerged from her head, and a tail emerged into a view. Lastly, the book she held sprouted wings and flapped next to her, a green eye staring down the night worker.

"There!" She said, leaning heavily against the counter now. Her tail flicked. "Demon enough for you?"

So demons were real and he had just insulted one that could probably kill him on the spot. "Ah, fuck." Edgar said. "Did I trade my soul away for two favors?"

Colette giggled. "No, it was for the snacks! Remember?" She held a finger up to her mouth. "Although, maybe we can talk about your soul later since you just agree to deals like it's nothing!"

"That's because I saw you as a nutjob, remember?" Edgar snarked.

Colette shrugged. "Anyway, I've got to go. This was supposed to be a quick visit, and I've already spent longer here than I planned." She scooped up the bag, and held her arm out. Her little devilish book landed in the crook of her arm. "See you when you decide you need me, Edgar~" she smiled.

A cloud of smoke puffed everywhere, and she was gone. Edgar felt... dazed about the whole ordeal. Apparently Demons were real. What about Angels?

Edgar looked up and over to the camera in the back right corner of the store. The black camera was always recording.

"Oh...Do demons have to stay secret to humans?..." he muttered to himself. That could be a problem later, but he shrugged. He wasn't gonna call her to probably waste one of his two favors already. He just wanted his shift to be over.

[kimistorm]

X-Men First Class: Reader Insert || Part 6 || Darwin

Once again you and the rest of the mutants were sitting in a room in the CIA base. Much like the one you were previously in, but this one had a window. You silently sulked in one of the couches, apparently you weren’t allowed to wander around the base, so you were asked, cough ordered, to stay in the room.

“I didn’t know the circus was in town.” You were broken out of your sulking when someone outside broke the silence.

“Hey, come on, honey.” The other man looked at Angel, “give us a little…” he motioned towards flapping with her wings. You were too tired to mess with their emotions to make them leave, fortunately, Hank had it under control. “No? Come on, Big Foot, let’s go.” Hank sighed and flipped the switch to close the blinds.

“They’re just guys being stupid.” Raven soothed to Angel.

Angel looked up to Raven, “guys being stupid, I can handle. Okay? I’ve handled that my whole life.” You glanced at Angel and sent her some reassuring emotions, “but I’d rather a bunch of guys stare at me with my clothes off than the way these ones stare at me.”

“At us.” Raven corrected. You all nodded and looked down in shame. Having these powers was cool and all, but it came at a cost, and it didn’t seem like any of you were prepared to pay said cost.

There was a crash and the somber atmosphere was immediately replaced with a tense atmosphere. “What was that?”

“Something doesn’t feel right.” You sent your reach outside of the walls of your room and physically recoiled from shock.

“What is it (y/n)?” Raven noticed your flinch.

“There’s an attack outside.” You whispered, “they’re attacking the base!” you ran to open the blinds and froze when you saw the red man disappearing and reappearing, causing guards to fall from the sky.

“Nope!” Hank declared as he shut the blinds.

You snapped yourself out of your reverie and just barely managed to make eye contact before the blinds shut. It was enough for you, you let yourself fall to the floor as you exchanged emotions with the red man. You traded his anger for your calmness. ‘You don’t want to kill them, you just want to stun them.’ You didn’t have telepathy like Charles, so it’s not that he actually heard what you said, but he could feel it with your emotions. You could faintly hear in the background someone shouting at you to get away from the window, but you were too engrossed in your work to even care. You kept up the constant exchange of you taking his fury while feeding your own calm emotions into him, you couldn’t see out of his eyes, but you had a feeling it was working, because there no longer was a constant barrage of death.

Someone grabbing your body snapped you out of your reverie. Alex had grabbed you away from the wall as the wall on the other side crumbled. The glass you were in front of shattered only a moment after you and Alex were out of the way. The entire gang was huddled against one wall of the room. On your right, a man with tornado powers was steadily advancing, on the left, the red man stepped into the room through the window.

There was a banging on the door in front of you, “you want the mutants? They’re right through that door. Just let us normal people go. We’re no threat.” You felt tears prickle at your eyes, they were selling out you and your friends to save their life. You didn’t blame them, but it still hurt.

The door burst down and a third man walked into the room. You quickly glanced at the three intruders and noticed that the last man was clearly the leader. “Where’s the telepath?” he demanded. You tried to get into his emotions to convince him to back off and go away, but for some reason, when you tried, it was like a barrier was keeping you from entering his mind.

“Not here.” The red man replied.

“Too bad. Well, at least I can take this silly thing off.” The man took off the metal helmet that he was wearing. You quirked an eyebrow when the helmet came off and you could feel all his emotions. That helmet was clearly no ordinary helmet. “Good evening. My name's Sebastian Shaw. And I'm not here to hurt you.” You glanced dubiously at your friends and then back at him. If he wasn’t going to hurt you, then what did he want? “My friends, there's a revolution coming. When mankind discovers who we are, what we can do, each of us will face a choice. Be enslaved or rise up to rule. Choose freely, but know that if you are not with us, then by definition, you are against us.” You narrowed your eyes, so this was what he was after. He wanted to recruit you guys. You tried to get in his mind to convince him otherwise, but you were at a loss as to what emotions you could play with, so you just let yourself sit back. “So, you can stay and fight for the people who hate and fear you. Or you can join me, and live like kings and queens.” He put out a hand as if waiting for someone to break away from the group and join him. You sent him an emotional arrow of pure hatred that seemed to actually affect him, as he winced for a moment. There was no way any of you guys would go leave with him-wait what? Angel stepped away from the group and took Shaw’s hand. You felt your jaw drop. Why?

“Angel?” Raven’s voice was wavering.

“Are you kidding me?” Alex demanded.

You sent yourself into Angel’s emotions and felt the determination and anger towards humans. Of course. The sort of offer Shaw just gave her was clearly what she would want. And the event that happened minutes ago probably fueled some of that anger.

“Come on. We don't belong here. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.” Angel explained to the rest of the gang.

“Stop, I’m coming with you.” You gaped as Darwin walked over to join Shaw and Angel.

“Good choice.” Shaw smirked, “so, tell me about your mutation?”

“Well, I adapt to survive.” Darwin answered, “So, I guess I’m coming with you.”

“I like that.” You wanted nothing more than to slap that smirk off of Shaw’s face, but you didn’t have to.

“Alex!” Darwin shouted as he turned himself into a rock and protected Angel. Alex unleashed a barrage of red energy towards Shaw who somehow was able to contain the energy without dying. In fact, he collected the energy into a small ball of concentrated seething energy.

Once again you found your mind at a loss for words. Obviously he was a mutant, but that is a scary skill if you’ve ever seen one.

“Protecting your fellow mutants? That’s a noble gesture.” Shaw gave a sinister smile and held Darwin up by his neck.

You threw your mind into Shaw’s and frantically siphoned the anger out of him and into yourself while replacing it with a more amiable emotion.

Shaw faltered and glared at you before he placed the helmet back on his head. You forgot about that helmet. You shouted in frustration as you helplessly watched him take the ball of energy and force it into Darwin’s throat, “adapt to this.”

You watched in horror as Shaw’s gang, including Angel, disappeared with a flash of red smoke. Then to Darwin who rapidly tried to deal with the fiery energy inside his body as he went from metal, to rock, and then finally exploding with fire.

“Darwin!” you wailed, even though you had only known him for a little bit, his death was still a huge toll on you.

Masterlist (Originally posted in 2018)

[bi-bard]

Invisible String- Dean Winchester

Title: Invisible String

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Reader

Requested: Nope but PLEASE SEND IN SOME REQUESTS!

Word Count: 2,279 words

Warning(s): Mentions of character death

Summary: (leads up to the end of season 3/beginning of season 4) No one knows how but Dean and (Y/n) always seem to meet each other. (Y/n) isn’t from a family of hunters yet they seem to bump into Dean in every town he moved to. Maybe there’s a reason for that... maybe it takes something terrible to bring that reason to light.

Author’s Note: Inspired by “Invisible String” by Taylor Swift

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

It all started our junior year of high school. I remembered it distinctly. I was the one with the highest grade and got told to work with the new kid on the next project. 

The new kid. Dean Winchester.

Dean... didn’t think he should’ve had to do any of the work. He had been able to get others to do it for him before. I wasn’t having any of it. I snapped at him when I noticed him slacking.

It must have stuck with him. We ended up getting a good grade on the project. He tried to be kinder to me after that. He had been a kind of friend for a while.

Then, he was gone. Without a single word, gone. 

I didn’t end up seeing Dean until the following summer. I had gone to visit my aunt in a state over. She lived on a lake and thought that it would be a great way to spend my summer before I had to apply for college and scholarships and all of that stuff. 

He had been dropped off by a car and ended up on the shore next door. He barely recognized me in my bathing suit, which was far. I had cut my hair and started lifting weights in the hopes that I’d be able to defend myself one day.

The conversation last for hours. He was keeping an eye on his brother, Sam, while we were talking. It was nice to be able to catch up with him again. He just wouldn’t answer where he had gone off to during the school year. 

He stayed at the house next door for another two weeks.

We were both sitting and talking on the shore when a loud and gruff voice yelled for Dean. I turned around to see a man- who I assumed was his dad- directing Sam into the car. Dean got up quickly. 

I followed him, giving him a tight hug. It seemed to catch him off guard. It took him a moment to hug back but he seemed really happy to be getting a hug from someone. He left with a quiet goodbye and his head down.

I didn’t see him again until late into my junior year of college. I had given up any hope of seeing Dean again. Then, my roommate went missing. She went to a party and then never came back after that. I was terrified because I could’ve been next.

I knew something was off when Dean showed up, claiming to be an F.B.I agent. I called him out instantly. Dean was shocked but smiled at me anyways. I hugged him tightly, just needing some comfort.

“How are you holding up,” he asked, after sitting on my couch. I shrugged. “Your roommate wasn’t the first one.”

“What,” I asked. 

“There were other disappearances around here,” he explained. “Their bodies were found torn up. We think we know what it is.”

“Do you mean ‘who’,” I tried to correct him. He shook his head. “Was it a wild animal?”

“No,” Dean sighed. “It was a vampire.”

“Okay,” I let out a sigh, trying not to get angry. “My roommate’s gone and you’re trying to be funny. I need you both to leave.”

“(Y/n)-”

“Leave,” I repeated. “It was nice seeing you.”

I should’ve listened to him. But when you lose someone so close to you, would you believe a man who runs in saying it was a vampire? Or would you think that someone was trying to make light of a really serious situation?

However; I knew I was wrong when I was almost attacked and Dean busted down my door. He had gotten tackled by the creature and I picked up the machete that Dean had dropped.

Dean had managed to shove the vampire so it landed on its back. Without hesitation, I lifted the machete up and brought it down to cut off the thing’s head. I flinched a little when the blood splashed before throwing the machete down.

“Are you okay,” Dean asked, touching my arm. I nodded, not looking away from the corpse. He hugged me tightly, hiding my face. “How did you know to decapitate it?”

“I thought it was a safe bet,” I mumbled. “Take out the head and the whole thing goes down.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “How about you go get in the shower and change? When you come back, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“O-okay,” I replied. 

I went upstairs and did what Dean had told me too.

He was right. I came downstairs and everything was gone. The blood, the machete, the corpse... even Dean. It was almost like I had imagined the whole thing. The only indication that I had actually seen anything was the smell of cleaner and my door, which had been kicked in.

Then, there were another three years. 

Now an active member of the working world, I had noticed something was off with a co-worker of mine. They went to the bathroom and I subtly checked out their cubicle. There was some yellow powder in the corner.

Also, there were a few people missing. I was scared it was going to be like what happened back home 

Oh, and then a familiar-looking F.B.I agent showed up at the office. There was someone with him... holy shit, was that Sam? When did he get so tall? I almost chuckled when they asked to talk to me in an empty conference room.

“Small world,” I commented after the door had shut. Dean chuckled before sitting in the chair next to me. “Is that you, Sam?”

“Nice to see you again, (Y/n).”

“Damn, you’re tall,” I noted. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“Well, have you seen anything strange,” Dean asked. 

“Yes,” I nodded. He seemed shocked that I was so honest. “Besides the missing co-workers, there’s a guy about two cubicles over from me that has been acting different lately.”

“Did you find anything there?”

“Like...”

“Sulfur-”

“Yes,” I exclaimed. “Sorry, I couldn’t figure out what it was but sulfur is a yellow powder, it makes sense. I found it by his desk.”

“Were there any nights he worked late,” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “About three weeks ago, I asked him if he was heading out but he said he had last-minute work to do. I thought it was weird but it wasn’t my place to question him.”

“Thank you,” Dean said before standing up. I stood up with him and hugged him. 

“We keep meeting, Winchester,” I chuckled.

“Maybe it’s fate,” he joked in my ear before going to step back. 

“Good luck,” I waved before going to head back to my desk.

It wasn’t another three years until I saw Dean after that, I saw him a few days later. I had been sitting in my living room, reading a book when someone knocked on my door. Dean stood there in his normal jeans, shirt, and jacket with a small grin on his face. 

“I just wanted to stop by and thank you for your help,” he said. “We caught the demon because of you?”

“Sulfur equals demon,” I asked.

“Sulfur plus disappearances plus strange behavior does usually equal demon,” Dean replied. I nodded before chuckling. “I umm... you’re a natural at all of this.”

“What is ‘this,’“ I asked. 

“My family... hunts... things,” he explained. “We hunt monsters.”

“So that’s why you were always moving?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “And then we kept meeting. And you killed that vampire and helped us with that demon... you are a natural hunter. I know I can’t ask you to abandon everything and join Sam and me but I figured I’d let you know that the option is there.”

“Can you teach me to actually hunt and not just get lucky about it,” I asked. 

“Definitely.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it,” Dean asked. “You’re just gonna accept right away?”

“Either I accept now or we meet over another monster trying to kill me or people around me,” I replied. “I don’t want another multiple-year gap, Dean.”

“Oh.”

I smiled and looked down for a second. With a small moment of confidence, I leaned forward and kissed him softly. He moved closer to me and put a hand on my back and a hand on the door frame. 

���Come on,” I mumbled after pulling away. “You can help me pack. I am not leaving with one set of clothes.”

“Okay,” he nodded, following me inside. 

--Time Skip--

One year. That’s what I got with Dean. One year of hunting and staying in crappy motels and sometimes eating the crappy food that he somehow survived on. One year of being loved unconditionally and protecting each other.

I wouldn’t trade that year for anything. 

The only thing I wanted to get rid of was the memory of him getting dragged to hell. It haunted me. I couldn’t sleep. I could barely eat. I was pretty much useless when it came to hunting after that.

I ended up going home. Sam had dropped me off. I never unpacked completely. I had suitcases sitting in my room, a bag full of books, and a backpack of toiletries and supplies. I just wanted to go back to normal.

I thought I had... for about four months... and then a man in a trench coat and suit showed up on my doorstep.

“Um... how can I help you,” I asked awkwardly. He looked confused. 

“(Y/n),” he said.

“How do you know my name,” I went tense, ready to jump for one of the many weapons I had in my house.

“It’s me... Castiel,” he furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh my god... you don’t remember. They wiped your memory.”

“Who did? Who are you?”

“I’m Castiel, an angel,” he explained. “You’re (Y/n), an angel... a guardian angel specifically.”

“I’m calling the cops,” I sighed. 

“No,” Castiel mumbled. Before I could react, he put two fingers to my forehead and we were in a warehouse or barn of some form. “Now, look.”

He pointed at the wall behind me before putting some distance between the two of us. I jumped at the lightning but caught sight of the wings in the shadow.

“Holy shit,” I put my hands over my mouth. “Okay, okay. Who am I supposed to be a guardian angel to?”

“Dean Winchester,” he answered.

“Well, I fucked that up,” I mumbled.

“I understand why,” Castiel said. “I wasn’t aware that they had wiped your memory. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s why we kept meeting,” I said. “I was supposed to stay with him and protect him.”

“You couldn’t keep him from making that deal.”

“I didn’t even think about it.”

“We can fix this.”

“How?”

“I’ll teach you.”

--Time Skip--

“Stay here,” Cas directed me to the corner of a room. “You may overwhelm him. We need to approach this carefully.”

“Okay,” I nodded, practically shaking from nerves. 

I watched the entire interaction closely. Dean looked scared and nervous and confused. I wanted to help him.

“So you just yanked me out of hell,” Dean asked.

“No,” Cas shook his head before looking at me. I took that as a signal to move forward. “I just taught (Y/n) how to do it.”

“What,” Dean looked at me in shock. I felt tears in my eyes as I looked at him. Another flash of lightning went off, showing Dean both mine and Cas’s wings. “Holy shit.”

“To be fair, I only knew after you were gone,” I explained. “Heaven apparently wiped my memory before shoving me at a vessel. I grew up thinking I was a human.”

“You pulled me out of hell?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “It’s part of my job description.”

Dean ran over and hugged me. I felt myself breakdown. I was finally able to hug him again. Four months and he was back.

“I missed you so much,” I mumbled. “I’m so happy that you’re back.”

“I missed you too,” he said. “I... I love you.”

“I love you too,” I placed a hand in his hair.

“I’m guessing I should go,” we both looked over a Castiel. 

“Wait,” I stepped away from Dean. “I’m still new to this. How am I supposed to know what to do?”

“I’ll be there to help you,” he promised. “Also, you should be able to use your grace to help him. You know what to do. You just have to do it.”

“Thank you,” I nodded. Cas nodded back at and in a flash, he was gone.

“Come on,” Dean grabbed my hand. I turned to look at him again. “Baby’s waiting outside.”

“One second,” I mumbled. He furrowed his eyebrows at me. “God, you’re clueless.”

I stepped over and kissed him softly. Dean smiled against my lips and wrapped his arms around my waist. I pulled away and smiled before kissing his forehead.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” I grabbed his hand and started walking. “Come on, I want to get back on the road.”

“So do I,” Dean replied before pretty much dragging me to the car. “Plus, Sam’s waiting for food in a motel and is probably losing his shit.”

“How did he look,” I asked. I hadn’t seen him since he dropped me off at home. 

“He’s getting better.”

“He has an older brother to whip him back into shape,” I joked before jumping into the passenger seat. “Oh, Baby, I’ve missed you.”

“That’s exactly when my first reaction was.”

“I’m telling you... we’re connected by destiny.”

“And whoever’s calling the shots up there,” Dean chuckled before starting the car. 

It was really nice to be home. 

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

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When Worlds Collide (Doctor Who Crossover Series) Masterlist

[fragmentedink-archived]

Hell to Pay: Chapter Thirty-Four

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII

cowritten by @lux-scriptum​

A/N: Trigger warning for grief, excessive violence, heavy drugs, implied sex for drugs, just nik being :/

The can of gasoline hit the sidewalk with a dull thud. Amara tipped her chin up, glaring at nothing in particular. This was long overdue, but Cameron had gone and stolen her thunder, burning his club down first. Still, if she was going to stay sober, she needed some sort of outlet. So. Gasoline.

Amara turned around and unloaded the second can. She lugged it up the path, and pushed her way inside Lev’s old house. The stains on the floor, both old and new, damn near made her see red. Swallowing the bile that rose up, she started in the bedroom. This was her second trip, and she’d wasted too much in the bathroom and kitchen. She was impatient; she wanted this over, and this awful reminder of every awful thing that had happened to her cousin deserved to be burned to the fucking ground.

The second can went around the living room, and then she backed out the door. The smell of gasoline followed her. For a long moment she stared in the house, more than just the acrid scent making her throat tighten.

It was overkill but she stood there and lit every match in the box she’d bought, flicking them into the house one by one until they were gone. Only when she turned away did she notice the car idling. She stared down the sedan for a full minute before she shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and headed over.

Sorin lowered the window, frowning up at her. “Arson’s illegal, you know.”

“Do I look like I give a flying fuck?” Amara leaned over. “No one lives near here anymore, and following laws is low on my priority list.”

“Noted,” Cyrus said, turning off his car. “Why did you ask us to meet you here?”

“You were on my way. I want to discuss what you owe me.”

“Amara,” Cyrus said, voice even. “I’m not going to kill anyone for you.”

“I’m not going to ask that of you. I can kill anyone I need on my own.” She straightened. “We’ll talk at my apartment.”

She hopped on her bike, gunned the engine, and took off without bothering to see if they'd follow.

---

Nik had been wandering the streets of the Obsidian Court for gods knew how long. He didn’t quite care either way. Cameron was off doing Cameron things and he managed to slip loose of Ash’s leash, and now he was free to wander.

It didn’t take him long to find the darker parts of the city, especially when this entire city was filled with monsters of varying lethality. It definitely wasn’t hard to find dealers, however, it was hard to find a dealer who would deal to him.

Fucking Cameron.

Nik finally found one in a dive, sitting in a back booth smoking and looking at his phone. It hadn’t taken much to sit down across from him. Even if Nik’s wings weren’t showing, the demon’s silver eyes were well aware of the fact Nik was an angel. “Well, you look like shit,” he observed, mildly.

“Hm, I imagine I do,” Nik said. “Hangovers.”

The demon’s mouth tilted and he put down his phone. “You’re wanting to buy.”

“Was it that obvious?” Nik asked, leaning back. “I got the cash.” Cameron’s cash, but still.

The demon leveled him a look, mirroring Nik as he leaned into his booth. The way he looked Nik over, almost curiosity more than anything else. “And if I don’t want your money?” he asked.

“I mean, I can suck your cock,” Nik replied. “I got the skills for that, too.”

“Oh I’m sure you do,” the demon said. “But what if I said I didn’t want your mouth?”

Nik felt a smile tilt up on his face and he arched a brow. “I have an ass,” he said.

The demon snorted. “Never fucked an angel,” he mused. “I think I can make the trade.”

“Poor you,” Nik said. “Luckily I can help. Provided you give me what I want.”

“Oh I will,” he said, “However. I feel like I should tell you that this product is aimed at demonic biologies. It could quite possibly kill you- and I am not so sure that I want Cameron Luain showing up on my doorstep because his cockwarmer decided to overdose on demonic drugs.”

“Hm,” Nik mused. “That does sound like a pickle, doesn’t it.”

“So you better make the fuck worth it.”

---

Cyrus parked the car and looked over at Sorin. “You going to behave?” he asked, still gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“I don’t like how she roped you into this,” Sorin muttered petulantly.

“I agreed,” Cyrus replied mildy. “I could have said no.”

“I don’t like it,” Sorin insisted, and got out of the car with a huff. Cyrus had to jog to catch up with him, grabbing his wrist. Sorin glared at the ground, baring his fangs at nothing, before adding, “But fine, best behavior.”

Cyrus held onto Sorin for an extra moment, waiting until Sorin looked up to let go. By the time he finished crossing the parking lot, Amara was already stomping up the stairs. She’s in a wonderful mood, Cyrus mused drly, taking the lead rather than have Sorin on her heels.

By the time they got upstairs to her open doo, Amara was already kicking the two people on her couch out of the apartment. Sorin all but jumped back from the curly haired blonde man, despite having a solid inch on him. Cyrus tried not to purse his lips, and held the door for the petite ginger who followed, discreetly wiping her face as she passed.

Tension lined Amara’s body, drawing her taut as a bowstring as she watched them. “Well?” She finally bit out. “Sit.”

Cyrus wrapped his hand around Sorin’s wrist, and tugged him down onto the couch before Sorin could get bitchy. Rather than sit herself, Amara started pacing back and forth. “You wanted to discuss what spell you wanted from me?” Cyrus finally prompted.

“Is it possible to bring back the dead?” Amara asked with abrupt bluntness.

“I beg your pardon?” Cyrus asked. Beside him, Sorin had gone stiff as a board. “Back from the- you can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious. Is. It. Possible?”

“Not that I know of,” Cyrus said. He sat back. “But-” He hesitated.

“But what? What exactly would stop you from bringing my cousin back?” Amara demanded, stopping to fix him with a look so fierce Sorin growled beside him.

A thud on the door broke their staring contest before Cyrus could figure out how to word what he wanted. A moment later a very clearly inebriated angel stumbled through the doorway.

“Demon. Goth boyfriend.”

Cyrus assumed those were greetings of a sort, because they were immediately dismissed in favor of Amara.

“I’ve got drugs. Wanna get high?” He waved said drugs in Amara’s direction to prove it.

Amara scowled. “No. I’m busy, and I’m still pissed at you.”

The angel squinted at her. “Are you sober?” He somehow managed to sound accusatory and confused at the same time.

“Sober as a priest during mass,” she replied. “Is that all you want, Nik? If so you can go.”

Nik continued to stare at her. Even Cyrus was getting uncomfortable by the time Nik said, “Are you pregnant?”

“No,” Amara said shortly. “I’m not. Unlike some people, I know how to cope with death.”

What, with necromancy? Cyrus thought, but he kept that to himself.

They all watched Nik saunter across the room. “Do you want to be?” He all but slurred, leaning in close as he slid his hand under her shirt.

Without hesitation she twisted his wrist, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and slammed his face in the coffee table. He dropped like a rock and lay on the floor. After staring at him for a moment, she crouched and checked to see if he was breathing.

“I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” she said mildly, sitting back on her heels. “Give me a minute, I have a phone call to make.”

Sorin and Cyrus exchanged a look as she pulled her phone out.

---

She should have been less hasty to react, and she knew it. Nik was grieving, and she had no intentions of telling him what she was trying to do. Fuck him, especially after calling her a liar and blaming Lev’s death on her.

Cameron picked up immediately, like he knew she was going to call. He probably did, too. “Come get your brat,” she said in place of a greeting. “I knocked him out after he offered to knock me up.”

“I don’t think he can get it up,” was all Cameron said. “Don’t kill him.”

The phone call ended with a decisive click.

“Bastard,” she muttered, standing. She looked Sorin and Cyrus over, and said, “We’re just gonna have to wait until Cameron comes to pick up Nik. Use that time wisely, witch, and think about your answer.”

She proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes with her arms crossed as she slouched in the armchair, glaring at the door until Cameron deigned to show up. She knew damn well it took half that amount of time to get there even if you followed the rules of the road.

The first thing Cameron did when he walked in the door was to look right at the witch and demon seated awkwardly on her couch. The witch met his stare steadily, not blinking, which... Amara had to give credit where credit was due. A lesser man would have broken eye contact, or at least squirmed. Cyrus simply waited calmly for Cameron’s attention to turn elsewhere.

The suspicion in Cameron’s gaunt face when he looked to her finally didn’t sway her from her stony silence. Eventually Cameron scooped Nik up. “Thanks for babysitting him. I’ll be sure to pay you.”

Amara lifted her chin just a little, just out of pure stubbornness. She didn’t owe him a goddamn thing, least of all this. She washed her hands of owing him anything when she gave him Lev’s ashes.

Silence reigned in the apartment for a full five minutes before Cyrus spoke up.

“It might be possible. With a heavy emphasis on might.” Cyrus leaned forward. “Ignoring the fact you’re asking me to break the very laws of nature, this has never been done before. Never, in the history of angelkind, demonkind, or humankind. No one has managed to bring back the dead.”

“My family has a reputation for beating the odds,” Amara replied flatly. “Figure it out.”

“Circling back, and not ignoring it, you’re asking me to break the laws of nature. Do you not understand what a witch is?”

Amara narrowed her eyes. “I know exactly what a witch is, and that’s why I’m asking you right now.”

“And why do you get to bring someone back?” Cyrus challenged. “Who says he wants to come back? DId you consider any of this? I get you’re grieving, but wedging that door open is not a reversible act. What’s to stop anyone else from doing the same thing?”

“Not my problem,” Amara snarled. Despite that, she looked away. “I don’t care about the rest,” she said finally. “But- we’ll ask him. Before. I know someone who can see ghosts.”

Cyrus sighed, and when she looked up, he was rubbing his temples tiredly. “Again, I don’t even know if it’s possible-”

“Then find out,” Amara said, and even she could hear the desperation in her voice. “Please. I have to try. He was- he was just starting to be happy, and I let him get murdered.” She swallowed, hardened her tone again. “I can describe it for you. What that demon did to him. He didn’t deserve it.”

Cyrus’ stupid stare didn’t waver, even if beside him Sorin had his head down and his fists clenched. Finally Cyus said, “I can look into it. I’ll do my best to figure it all out. I promised you a spell, and I’ll do everything in my power to find it. But this does not get out. I don’t want people lining up at my door to find out how I raised the dead, if it even is possible.” Cyrus paused, long enoughs he thought he wouldn’t go on. His hand found hers, and she couldn’t bring herself to shake him off. “Before I agree to do the spell, I want to talk to him myself. Either through a seance, or through your friend. And... are you sure he’s a ghost? I won’t be able to do anything if he’s moved beyond.”

“Lev’ll stay. Nik’s a wreck. I know him too well. He’s here somewhere. Crying, if ghosts can even cry.”

Cyrus nodded slowly. “I'll do my best,” he promised, and stood. “Is there anything else you need?”

Amara shook her head. She waited for Cyrus to gently pull Sorin to his feet and herd the demon out the door with an arm around his shoulder before she lowered her head in her hands. She’d done all she could for now. It didn’t feel like enough.

---

Cameron dropped the stone cold unconscious omega back at home, ordering the sentries to make sure he did not leave his house and could not get to the alcohol. He called Ash and told him to come babysit as well before he went back to Amara’s shitty apartment.

He hadn’t bothered knocking on the door and walked inside. Amara was sitting with her head in her hands and Cameron had the feeling she had been sitting like that for a while. “That can’t possibly be good for your back,” he said, mildly.

“Like you care,” Amara said, in a muted sort of tone.

“I don’t,” Cameron said. “What was the witch doing here.”

Amara finally bothered to look up at him. “Doing me a favor.” When Cameron didn’t say anything, she said, “He’s going to try to bring Lev back.”

The only reaction Cameron gave her was furrowing his brows. “And what makes you think that any of us have the right to play with life like that. We trade in death, our hands are too dirty for this.”

“I take what I want.”

“I know plenty of people who take what they want,” Cameron said, coolly. “Doesn’t mean any of you have the right to alter the laws of nature. Then again, you are a hypocrite.”

Amara stared at him with a blank tone that he chose to ignore. “He didn’t deserve that. We should have done better.”

“He didn’t,” Cameron said. “And we should have. But he got it and we didn’t. We live with our choices.”

“I won’t. And you can’t stop me.”

“I’m sure I could,” Cameron said, mildly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“But you won’t. You miss him too and Nik’s a wreck. I’ll take the consequences.”

“And what about the consequences your cousin will face if brought back from the dead? Surely you don’t think he will be symptom free from necromancy.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she said. “It can’t be any worse than him watching the three of us flounder. You know he is.”

“And you’re so sure about that?” he asked dryly. “I hadn’t realized you were so well versed in the arts of bringing back the dead.”

“Then fine,” she said. “I’m a selfish bitch and I want him back. And I don’t care about anything else.”

“Well. At least you’re self aware. And what would you do if your plan doesn’t work? I’m sure you wouldn’t be happy with your witch’s failure in resurrection. Considering his magic would be derived from the very nature you plan on breaking.”

“Then at least I tried,” she said, her tone too hoarse for his taste.

“Have you considered what the ginger is going to have to say about this?”

“If Ash didn’t want me fucking with the laws of nature then he should have saved Lev when he had the chance.”

Considering Ash’s magic, his very being was tied to Nature, Cameron was sure Ash had plenty to say on the matter, and if he cared, he might consider telling him. But instead he said, “Does your witch have any idea of how to do it?”

“No,” she admitted. “He just said he’d try and figure it out.”

“How reassuring,” Cameron deadpanned.

Amara seemed tired when she said, “Fuck you.”

“Did you consider that I might have had information to give you regarding this idiotic idea of yours?”

Amara sighed. “No. I didn’t want to think about you; I don’t owe you anything.”

“Going to be hard resurrecting your cousin if you lack the key ingredients, don’t you think?” Cameron said. Even with the reading he had done, it didn’t take a genius to piece together the fact Lev’s ashes were probably going to be required.

Amara rubbed at her face. “I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. We’re still trying to figure out if it’s even possible.”

“Does anyone know? Besides you, the witch and his demon?” Did you idiotically tell Nik.

Amara shook her head. “Cin knows. He doesn’t approve either.” She looked up, leveling him a look. “I don’t owe Nik anything.”

Cameron lifted a brow. “Trouble in paradise? Are you saying Nik is no longer your best friend. I’m sure he will be hurt at the revelation.”

“He told me Lev’s death was my fault because I introduced you. As if you both didn’t make Lev the happiest he’d ever been in the 137 years he was alive.”

“Lev’s death is my fault,” Cameron said, flatly. “No one elses.”

“Fuck you. It’s Destris’ and we both know it.”

Cameron didn’t give her the satisfaction of a blink. “I’ll let you think that,” he said, coolly. He moved over to the coffee table and dropped the bottle of whiskey next to her. “Your payment.”

“I don’t want it. Take it back. I’m sober.”

“Not for long,” Cameron said, already turning around and walking out the door. He pulled out his phone, looking at the time and map. He had the feeling the witch and his lover lived in demonic territory somewhere.

----

Cyrus ran his fingers through Sorin’s curls, stifling a sigh. Reopening old wounds hadn’t been the point of seeking out Amara all those weeks ago. The conversation about Fax this afternoon, as soon as they’d gotten home, had taken a lot out of both of them. The look on Sorin’s face when Cyrus had gently pointed out Fax had moved on months before haunted Cyrus.

For the last hour Sorin had just lain there with his head in Cyrus’ lap. Cyrus had let him, giving him time to process and grieve all over again. Two steps forward, one step back. As always.

Cyrus’ wardings warned him right before Cameron stepped through the front door. The demon settled in Sorin’s armchair, crossing one knee over the other without so much as a greeting. “So. You want to bring back my omega from the dead.”

“Want is a bit of a stretch,” Cyrus replied, keeping his arm on top of Sorin to keep him from sitting up. “Coerced into it is a more accurate description. But yes, I will be attempting it.”

Cameron looked at him for the longest time before saying, “Why? I’m sure you could defend yourself from Amara just fine. And if not, you boyfriend can.”

Cyrus inclined his head. “I could,” he agreed. “But I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. I made the mistake of keeping that promise open ended, and I won’t be making that mistake again. At the time it seemed worth it, for Sorin’s sake.” He dragged his fingers through Sorin’s curls again, and Sorin hid his face against Cyrus’ thigh in response.

Cameron leaned back. “I thought witches had morals.”

“We do.” Cyrus arched a brow. “Just because they don’t line up with what you expect doesn’t mean I don't have them.”

“Oh, I don’t have morals,” Cameron said. “However, you answer to a higher power than me.”

“I expect this spell will have a hefty price,” Cyrus said. “I know I’ll be breaking the laws of nature. If I can even manage it. Nature will demand something in return. Amara will have to decide if she’s willing to pay that price. Though I’m sure she’ll not care what the price is.”

“No she does not,” was all Cameron said. Eventually he said, “And what about the price Lev will have to pay?”

Cyrus closed his eyes, grimacing. He only opened them when he knew what to say. “Part of my conditions for bringing Lev back is ensuring I minimize whatever cost there is for him. And he has to agree to it. I’m not yanking him back into this life if he doesn’t want to come. No one deserves that. If I can’t promise both of those with the spell I create, then I will not perform it, and Amara will have to live with that. You all will.”

“Are you prepared for that kind of blood on your hands?” Cameron asked.

Cyrus considered that too. He couldn’t not. Every time he thought about what he had to do, he had to face that truth all over again. “I don’t know,” he finally replied. “I’ll have to decide when the time comes.”

“And that will be your price.”

“I know,” Cyrus said softly. “It’s a lot to pay, for one omega.”

The blank look on Cameron’s face didn’t go away, even as he stared at Cyrus. Seconds stretched into minutes, until Cameron said, “You don’t even know him.”

“No,” Cyrus said. “I don’t. “But Sorin’s cousin did.” He could feel Sorin tense underneath him. “We’ve been meaning to come talk to you about him, as soon as Sorin was ready.”

Cameron’s pale gaze shifted to Sorin. “Well? Are you ready?”

Slowly, Sorin sat up, fingers clenching into fists as he stared right back at Cameron. “I don’t think I’ll ever be,” Sorin said. “But Levant is the reason Fax was killed. I want to know what he was like. Why Fax loved him enough to get killed for him.”

Cyrus could see Cameron thinking. “He cared. Too much. He was afraid, too much.”

“So Fax wanted a mirror,” Sorin said bitterly, mostly to himself.

“What else did you want to know?” Cameron asked.

“Everything that comes to mind is not something you could answer,” Sorin replied. The temperature in the room spiked as grief showed plain on his face. Cyrus put a hand on his shoulder gently, and it settled, somewhat. Sorin swallowed hard, and added a quiet, “But thank you. At least I know that.”

Cameron inclined his head ever so slightly, giving Sorin a mild, “You’re welcome,” before returning his attention to Cyrus. “How exactly are you planning on bringing Lev back from the dead.”

Cyrus pushed down his annoyance. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t even begun my research. Amara only told me what she wanted two hours ago, and I’ve yet to have a chance to figure out where to start. I may need another witch to help me, and the whole process could take months. There’s no way of telling this early.” He spun one of his many rings, thinking about it. “I’m assuming you’re going to want progress reports.”

“Yes,” Cameron said shortly, and then added, “Do you know any witches?”

“None I’m particularly fond of. Or trust,” Cyrus admitted. “Again. I haven’t had nearly enough time to sit down and plan this all out. I’m not going to dive into this head first.”

Cameron stood up, looking at the black and silver watch on his wrist. “Well. If you would like my resources, let me know.”

With that, he was gone, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Cyrus sighed, flicking it shut with a brief spell, and then leaned back, dropping his head on the back of the couch. Sorin resumed his place in his lap, sighing as well.

“You shouldn’t have agreed to that spell,” Sorin muttered. “Now we have Cameron fucking Luian barging in our house.

“I know,” Cyrus replied dryly. “Believe me. I know.”

----

Cameron spent the drive home mulling over the witch’s words, and Amara’s words. And his own words. He thought about the possibilities and the consequences of bastardizing the balance of forces outside of any of their control.

He assumed Lev would want to come back, just because Lev wanted to piece together Nik again. It only made sense, seeing as how the angel tried putting everyone back together besides himself.

Cameron made his way back to the house after parking the car, snow crunching under his shoes as he walked inside. The sentries didn’t move an inch while Cameron walked down the hallway to the bedroom where he could smell the angels.

Nik was indeed still passed out cold on the bed where Cameron had left him. Ash was stewing in his corner in the chair, heat radiating off him as his glowing green eyes snapped onto Cameron. He got up from his chair and came over to Cameron. “Your house reeks and you owe me for once again babysitting him because you can’t be bothered to deal with the mess you got him into.”

“Well I do appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule,” Cameron said, mildly. “I’ll make sure you’re paid.”

“I don’t want your money,” Ash snapped, storming around him.

“How about information?” Cameron said, getting Ash to stop dead in his tracks at the doorway. “I���m sure you’d be pressed to learn that Amara plans on bastardizing nature.”

Ash slowly turned around and looked at him. “Excuse me?” Ash asked, in a softness that had Cameron’s brow arching.

“You might want to pay her a visit,” Cameron said, hands sliding into his pockets. “She wants to have Levant brought back from the dead.”

Ash stared through him, eyes hard and sharp and cutting into him. Cameron waited for him to say something, to start shouting or to light something on fire, seeing as how he could feel the heat curling in the air. But Ash turned on his heel and disappeared out of the room.

-----

Ash drove straight from Cameron’s house to Amara’s shitty apartment building. He had his magic going full force, keeping his eyesight crystal clear as he started from the parking lot to her apartment. He hadn’t bothered shutting off the car or knocking on her door before barging into her apartment.

Amara was staring at a bottle of whiskey on her table, and he could tell she had been staring for quite some time. “Well I clearly cannot blame this idea on alcohol soaked desperation.” His magic wilted at the mere thought of someone being bought back from the dead.

Amara hadn’t bothered looking up at him. “I haven’t had anything to drink since he died.”

“So you finally curb booze in order to have necromancy performed?”

“Yaaaay,” she said, in the most unimpressive deadpan tone Ash had ever heard. “Got it in one.”

“This is pathetic,” Ash said. “You’re pathetic. You do not hold a monopoly on grief. You do not get to decide who gets to die and who gets to come back. You have absolutely no fucking right to bend the laws of nature to fill your own grief.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “You make it sound like I care.”

“Oh I don’t give a shit if you care or not,” Ash said. “You need to learn to handle your grief like a damned adult instead of turning your cousin into the undead. We all have lost someone,” Ash said. He had watched his entire family being slaughtered in front of him. He had never once considered fucking necromancy to bring them back. “Lev will pay the price for this. Nature will have its balance and it’ll come right out of him.”

“Cyrus will figure it out.”

Well, Ash would have to add another idiot to the list, then. “And who is Cyrus? Someone you conned into enabling your stupid plan?”

“A little bit yeah; didn’t exactly give him an out.”

“A witch?” She stared at him blankly. When she didn’t elaborate, and her blood pressure altered, Ash said. “A witch, then.”

“Who else would be able to do that kind of magic?” she said. “A stupid question.”

“Well,” Ash said, “As far as I could know you conned some angel or demon into breaking even more laws of nature. Seeing as how I am connected to nature, you bitch. So yes, someone else would be able to do that kind of magic.”

Amara gave him a thoughtful look. “Noted. If Cyrus can’t, then I’ll go to someone else.”

Ash’s magic tore through him. He wrapped flames around her neck. “You know,” he mused, “I really could have you not.”

“You say that like I haven’t been suicidal my entire life,” she said.

“Yeah? Well get in line.” He tightened the flames, but didn’t let them burn her. “Like I said, you do not own a monopoly on grief. You are not the only person who wished they were dead at sixteen years old.” Bay flickered in his mind. “And you are not the only one who has not outgrown suicidal ideation. You aren’t special.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m tired of watching Nik. And I’m tired of watching Cameron pretend he’s not hurting too. They’re both ticking time bombs.”

She made it sound like Cameron hadn’t been a ticking time bomb for the last five hundred years. She made it sound like Nik hadn’t been trying to kill himself for the last nineteen years either. “Then get them in therapy,” Ash said, evenly. “This will just put a bandaid on it.”

She laughed at him. “You’re not going to convince me. The only one who could is Lev himself. But thanks for giving me the mental image of Cam and Nik in therapy.”

His magic felt like acid in his veins. It- it wanted him to push further, to make her not do this. “I could kill you,” Ash said. “No convincing involved.”

She watched him steadily. “You make it seem like you didn’t know the moment you met me that I was a selfish bitch who would do anything to get what I want.” She closed her eyes. “Kill me, if you really feel like it's necessary. Not like I can stop you.”

No, you really couldn’t, Ash thought. The temptation he had- he could feel the sharp sweetness of blood in his mouth. The hard pounding in his head definitely didn’t help matters either. But he snuffed out the flames. “I don’t kick a downed dog,” he finally said. “But I will stop you.”

Before she could even respond, if she even would respond, Ash turned back around and stalked out of her apartment. The way he slammed the front door echoed through the entire building, chasing him back to his car.

Tagging:  @idreamonpaper @incandescent-creativity @solangelo3088 @halstudies @alittleyellowdinosaur @mis-lil-red

[silverlightqueen]

Olympus - Jeon Jungkook

Hermes, God of boundaries, travel, communication, trade, language, thieves and writing, and Hemera, Goddess of day

(greekgod!au - Hermes!Jungkook x Hemera)

Summary - High up in the clouds of Mount Olympus, the tallest of its kind in the ancient country of Greece, live a community of the most powerful beings to exist on this Earth. Their communities are not unlike those that they watch over, those of the humans. A clear political, economic and social hierarchy exists between the beings, some ruling over the others, some more wealthy than the others, some more powerful than the others. Their lives are much like those of humans, all of them working and living in homes with their families, normal names, normal jobs, normal lives. Some could even be considered ordinary. But those that are considered ordinary… our stories do not focus on those. Our stories focus on those that are positively extraordinary, to say the least. Our stories focus on seven Gods and seven Goddesses, powerful and strong, learning the most basic and human thing to exist; love. 

Word Count: 5.7k+

a/n: finally part two !! I hope y’all like this, lmk what you think, hmu if you wanna be tagged in the next part, and make sure you read the first part before this one !! x

Disclaimer: This is no way accurate to Greek Mythology, so please don’t come in my asks correcting me lmao

Warnings: a lil bit of profanity I think and discussion of sex but no actual sex lol

Character List:

Kim Seokjin – Dionysus

Min Yoongi – Hades

Jung Hoseok – Hephaestus

Kim Namjoon – Apollo

Park Jimin – Poseidon

Kim Taehyung – Ares

Jeon Jungkook – Hermes 

Three weeks after Dionysus and Hestia’s wedding, and Olympus is back to usual, everyone working from dawn ‘til dusk every day. Dionysus has changed, it is clear to see, the God of chaos tamed and laidback, and Hestia has changed too, the Goddess of the hearth and home out and about much more. One morning, a particularly ordinary morning of a particularly out-of-the-ordinary day, the Gods of Olympus make their way to the biannual meeting, held by Zeus at the town hall. The seven Gods that our stories focus on walk up the long road to the town hall together, six out of the seven exhausted. Hermes, though, is positively energetic. ‘Herm, can you tone down the enthusiasm a bit? I’m getting tired just watching you,’ Hades complains. ‘What’s gotten into you recently? You’re never usually this bright and bubbly, you’re always worse than the rest of us in mornings,’ Apollo asks. ‘Are you getting laid?’ Ares enquires, and Hermes laughs. ‘No, I’m not, Ares,’ he replies with a roll of his eyes. ‘What is it then? Because something must have changed,’ Dionysus asks. ‘Nothing, really. I’ve just been getting more sleep, I guess,’ he replies as they reach the entrance of the town hall. They each sign their names in the signing-in book before heading into the main room, taking their usual seats in the front row. ‘How’s Tia?’ Poseidon asks Dionysus gently. ‘She’s good, she’s good. She usually comes with the girls, and I come with you lot, so we thought we’d continue on like that,’ Dionysus says, explaining why he and his wife aren’t together. Hestia arrives then with her six friends, sitting in the other half of the front row. They all wave to each other, close friends after the events of the wedding, before going back to their own conversations. 

Zeus appears on the stage then, his wife, Hera, stood beside him. Hera, the Goddess of marriage, officiated Dionysus and Hestia’s wedding, so he waves at her, getting a kind smile in return. ‘Good morning, Olympians. It’s been a fantastic half-year, and I’m sure we can keep this going for the rest of the year,’ Zeus begins, before droning on about different statistics over the year, very few in the room paying attention, especially our main characters in the front row who believe they’re above it all. The meeting ends eventually, everyone practically running to escape, but being in the front row means it’s not so easy to leave without being cornered by Zeus. ‘Hermes!’ Zeus’ voice booms from behind the group of men, Hermes groaning before turning with a smile. ‘Yes, your grace?’ he asks, polite as ever, burning on the inside. ‘I’m very impressed with the way you’ve been getting through your work during the past few weeks. I thought I’d check your workload for today before the meeting, and you have around twenty minutes work, max. Take the day off and do that work tomorrow,’ Zeus says, the other men’s eyes wide at his benevolence. Zeus wasn’t a dictator or tyrant, but he worked them all hard, so for him to give a day off is somewhat a big deal. ‘I… really?’ Hermes asks, lost for words, and Zeus nods, ‘You’ve earned it, my boy.’ ‘Thank you for your kindness, my grace,’ Hermes says, bowing his head. ‘Thank you for your hard work,’ Zeus replies before turning to his wife.

‘Has Hekate been up to something?’ Ares asks, looking around for the Goddess of magic. ‘I doubt it, don’t you remember the consequences last time she cast a spell on Zeus?’ Apollo says, thinking back to what happened to the poor girl. ‘How have you been getting through your work so fast, Herm? it doesn’t make sense,’ Dionysus asks Hermes, who shrugs. ‘Hasn’t anything changed?’ Hades asks, and Hermes ponders this for a moment as they head towards the exit. ‘I guess…’ he says, and the other men prompt him for a proper answer. ‘The days seem to last longer when I’m down on Earth, so I can get more done on one day than I normally would. And then night seems a little longer too, so it feels like I get more sleep,’ Hermes explains. Gods like Hermes, whose work focuses down on Earth, rarely spend more than a few days at a time on Olympus. Sometimes for weeks at a time, he’ll be down on Earth doing work. And for Gods, time works differently down on Earth. Where an hour has passed for humans, for Gods, it could be seconds, or days. Depending on the God of time, and the Goddesses of night and day. ‘That’s suspicious,’ Apollo says. ‘It’s just a coincidence,’ Hermes says, waving it off, and Dionysus laughs. ‘I doubt that, Herm. I have a feeling Nyx has something to do with it. She’s obviously dragging out the night, and making Hemera make the days longer too,’ he says. ‘Ooooh, does someone have a crush on our little Herm?’ Hephaestus teases, putting his arm around Hermes’ shoulder, the latter trying to push him off. ‘No, she doesn’t,’ he says, frowning.

‘Go speak to her, Herm. The girls are all at Tia’s; they’re having a girls’ day,’ Dionysus says, with a roll of his eyes. ‘Haven’t they, like, got work?’ Ares asks in annoyance. ‘None of them have urgent work like we do. Nyx and Hemera have schedules set in place for day and night. Athena only needs to work when there’s conflict. Nemesis works part time to cause conflict. Tia has schedules and spells set up already and only has to check on them every now and then. Demeter’s like Poll, only gets called up when needed by Zeus. It’s only Aphrodite that has to work every day like us, but apparently she’s been allowed to take a day off,’ Dionysus explains, and Ares rolls his eyes. ‘Zeus has always had a soft spot for A, it’s not fair,’ he complains. ‘Anyone with a brain would have a soft spot for A,’ Poseidon says, speaking for the first time. ‘Why’s that, P?’ Hades asks, all of the other men falling silent to listen. Poseidon doesn’t join their conversations very often, opting to stay quiet and listen, so when he does contribute, they all naturally want to know what he has to say. ‘Have you met her? Have you seen her face?’ Poseidon says matter-of-factly. ‘Have you seen her ass, more like?’ Ares jokes, laughing with Hephaestus and Hades. ‘Don’t be disrespectful,’ Apollo says, launching into a speech about not treating women like objects and Aphrodite being an amazing woman besides her looks and body. ‘Listen, Herm, speak to Nyx, find out what’s going on,’ Dionysus says to Hermes, who nods.

The group of friends split up as they exit the town hall, heading to their different workplaces, promising to meet at Dionysus and Hestia’s house after work. ‘Go now, Herm,’ Dionysus instructs over his shoulder, and Hermes nods, heading towards Hestia’s house. The walk there, he wonders what he’s going to say to Nyx, nervous about sounding like a fool. When he reaches the front door, he knocks tentatively, hearing female voices inside. The door flies open a few seconds later, Nemesis stood in the doorway. ‘Hey, it’s Herm. Come in,’ she says, moving aside to let him in. Hermes is definitely terrified of Nemesis; the girl may be much shorter than him, but her presence is twice the size. Her hair, falling to her waist in big, bouncy waves, is a bright red, and her face is always set in a determined look. The God steps in, Nemesis leading him through the living room, where the girls sit in comfy clothes, glasses of wine in hands, the fire roaring. ‘Hey, Herm,’ Hestia says with a smile, patting the empty seat beside her. ‘How did you guys get back so quickly? We left a little after you,’ Hermes says confused. ‘A has somehow managed to get her hands on some winged horses, so we flew back,’ Hestia explains as Hermes sits down, Aphrodite smiling at him angelically. Poseidon was right; she really is beautiful. Her long black hair falls to her waist and her tan skin is clear and smooth, her eyes round and dark, and her lips plump, almost always stretched into a smile, revealing pearly white teeth. But she’s intimidatingly beautiful, like one of those queen bees at high school. Always kind to the weird kids, popular and loved, everyone wants to be her or be with her. But obviously she isn’t the perfect angel everyone makes her out to be, Herm thinks, now that he knows she has a multitude of human lovers. Not that that’s anything to frown upon, of course. Just… not the norm.

‘What’s up, Herm? Why have we been blessed with your presence?’ Nemesis says sarcastically, leaning against the door frame. ‘Um, I actually came to speak to Nyx,’ he stutters, Nyx’s eyes widening in surprise. ‘Me?’ she asks, and he nods. ‘Um, okay. Come into the kitchen,’ she says, leading him through into the other room. ‘What’s up?’ she asks curiously, the volume suspiciously low in the living room. ‘Zeus praised me today, for having gotten so much work done in the past few weeks, and the boys were asking me how I did it. I said that the days were longer, so I had more time to do my work, and the nights were longer, so I was getting more sleep. Di said that you were probably the one doing so he made me come ask you why,’ Hermes explains, Nyx’s face becoming more and more amused by the moment. ‘Ah, Herm. How do I explain this? It’s not me doing it,’ she says, and Hermes becomes even more confused. ‘Who is then?’ he asks, and she raises an eyebrow. ‘Come on, you’re a clever boy. Work it out. If it’s not the Goddess of night…’ she trails off, and the sentence finishes itself in Hermes’ head. It’s the Goddess of day. ‘Hemera?’ he whispers, and Nyx nods with a small smile. Hemera hadn’t even crossed his mind; the small timid girl that hid behind her blonde hair all the time is not someone he would’ve ever guessed.

‘Why?’ he asks, and Nyx grins. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the girl has a bit of a soft spot for you, if you know what I mean,’ she says. ‘Oh. Ohh,’ Hermes says, realising that Hemera has a crush on him. ‘What does she achieve from it though?’ he asks. ‘Nothing, Herm. It makes you happier, though, right? And I guess that’s what she wants,’ Nyx shrugs. ‘Oh. Do you think I should speak to her?’ he asks the girl. ‘Obviously, you idiot! The girl likes you, for God’s sake, of course you should speak to her,’ Nyx says exasperatedly. ‘What do I say?’ he asks, panicked. ‘You don’t have to ask her to marry you straight away, Herm! Just make general conversation, small talk, get to know her first, you moron,’ Nyx says, and Hermes nods, hanging on her every word. ‘Oh, and don’t do it in front of everyone because she’ll get super embarrassed and clam up. Do it when everyone else is talking between themselves, or involve her in a conversation with other people, okay?’ Nyx advises, Hermes making mental notes. ‘Come on,’ Nyx says, the two heading back into the living room. ‘Are you staying, Herm?’ Athena asks, her kind eyes on the God. ‘No, I should probably get going,’ Hermes says. ‘Do you have work today?’ Hestia asks, her eyes narrowed at him. ‘I… no, Zeus gave me the day off,’ he admits. ‘So, have you got plans?’ she asks, her eyes even narrower now. ‘Um, no, I don’t,’ he says, scratching his neck. ‘So, you’re staying then,’ she decides, and Hermes gives in, knowing there’s no point arguing against Hestia; she may be kind but she’s the most stubborn Goddess he’s met.

He sinks into the seat beside Hestia, instantly being handed a glass of wine, as the girls launch into gossiping about who’s doing what, or rather, who’s doing who. Hermes listens dutifully, getting caught up in the gossip himself, hanging on every word, gasping in all the right places. It’s almost as though he belongs there with the girls, the group of them speaking about almost everybody on Olympus through the course of the day, getting through bottles (upon bottles) of Dionysus’ wine, becoming more and more relaxed. Until they begin speaking about relationships. ‘I just don’t know what to do anymore,’ Aphrodite slurs, having had more wine than the rest of them put together. If Hermes had had the same amount of wine she’d had, he’s sure he’d have passed out around an hour ago. ‘It’s just not fair. I’m the Goddess of love, and I’ve never even been in love myself! It’s like I’m destined to just be a matchmaker, nothing more. No one’s even ever loved me!’ she wails, eyes beginning to water, and Hermes becomes alarmed at the thought that she might start crying.

‘Aphrodite, you are kidding, right?’ Hermes asks without even thinking, the group turning to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’ she sniffs, still looking ethereal despite the tears dripping down her face. ‘I think at least 90% of the Gods on Olympus have been in love with you. And even some Goddesses,’ Hermes says. ‘But they don’t love me! They just think I’m pretty! They don’t care about what’s beneath! No one’s ever loved me for me! Do you know how that makes me feel? So inadequate, and never good enough! They just want to get me into bed, so they can say they’ve slept with me! That’s it! And even then, they probably won’t be able to fulfil my needs!’ she wails, Hermes’ cheeks being tinged with red at the mention of Aphrodite’s needs not being fulfilled. ‘Okay, A, that’s enough wine for you, babe,’ Hestia says gently, taking the glass from the other Goddess’ hand. ‘Who do you know that’s been in love with her?’ Hemera asks Hermes, speaking to the God directly for the first time as the others comfort Aphrodite. ‘I… um… well, I’m pretty sure Ares had the biggest crush on her, for years. Apollo did, too. And I think Hephaestus as well. Just look at Zeus! He has the biggest soft spot for her! If he weren’t married, I think he would’ve tried to get with her by now,’ Hermes says, opting not to mention his own crush on the Goddess a long while ago. ‘He already has,’ Hemera says dryly, Hermes laughing at the girl’s bluntness.

‘See, that’s the worst thing; we can’t even comfort her, and tell her it’s not true, because it is. She’s right. No one has ever loved her for her. They’ve only ever loved her for her appearance, and for the reputation that comes along with her being the Goddess of love. It’s hard for us to see her go through this,’ Hemera says, Hermes watching the Goddess with interest as she speaks. Hemera has always been timid and quiet, but watching her speak about her friend, the confidence and conviction comes out. She clearly feels strongly about Aphrodite’s situation, as her passion comes through in her words. The hard set of her jaw and the way her small hands run through her bright blonde hair makes his heart contract, realising with a jolt how gorgeous she is, the fire in her blue eyes beautiful. ‘She’ll find someone, some day. If she can’t, where’s the hope for the rest of us? I’m absolutely doomed if she can’t,’ Hermes jokes, Hemera not really laughing along with him. ‘Don’t be silly, Hermes. There’s plenty of Goddesses out there who find you attractive,’ Hemera says stiffly, Hermes becoming embarrassed.

He’s suddenly aware of a pair of eyes on him, and looks around to see Aphrodite watching him keenly, her eyes narrowed with a small grin on her lips. The other Goddesses are still trying to give her a pep talk, but Aphrodite looks much better now, smiling at the God slyly. Her eyes flit to Hemera before meeting his again, her smile growing slightly before she juts out her chin. Hermes suddenly feels a wave of confidence hit him, and he turns back to Hemera, saying the first thing that comes into his head; ‘Are you one of them?’ He’s taken aback at his own brazenness, the low confidence and arrogance in his voice nothing he’d ever heard before. But Hemera’s reaction, a slight blush appearing on her small face, fingers beginning to twirl her hair, eggs him on further. ‘Because I’ll be ecstatic if you are. Nyx told me you’ve been making the days longer, and asking her to lengthen the nights whilst I’m on earth, and I really appreciate that. Maybe you can make the days even longer for me, so I have time to come back and see you sometimes,’ he says, not even realising that these words he was speaking had been thoughts, but as they come out, he realises they were. That he’d been thinking them as he’d watched Hemera throughout the day, realising that maybe he has a little crush on her too. ‘I… why?’ she asks timidly, and he smiles gently. ‘Because you’re really quite beautiful, Hemera, both inside and out, and it’d make me the happiest God on Olympus if you agreed to let me take you on a date one night,’ he says, and her mouth drops open. Hermes suddenly realises that the room is silent, the other six Goddesses in the room staring at them, and Nemesis finally breaks the silence. ‘Did you just ask her out?’ she demands, and Hermes nods confidently. ‘About time,’ Nyx huffs, Hemera still staring at the God. ‘Is that a yes, Hemera?’ Hestia prompts. ‘Yes! Yes, it is. I’d love to,’ Hemera stutters nervously, the other Goddesses cheering.

They hear a knock at the door then, all looking up out of the window to realise that it’s dark, and they’d been gossiping all day. Hestia waves her hand and the front door clicks open, Dionysus’ jovial voice booming through the house. Seconds later, the six Gods troop through the door, taking seats around the room. Ares sits as far away from Athena as possible, the Goddess regarding him with an amused grin. Dionysus makes a beeline for the floor beside Hestia’s seat, resting his head against her knee as one hand of hers comes to rest on his shoulder. Apollo also makes a beeline, but for Demeter, the two instantly beginning to speak about work. Hades takes a seat beside Ares, he and Nemesis eyeing each other with frowns. Hephaestus takes the seat beside Hermes, trying to avoid Nyx’s watchful gaze. Poseidon stands beside the door, leaning against the doorframe broodily, no seats left for him. Loud conversations break out, Hephaestus asking Hermes how his day was, but the God is completely unfocused, thinking about the events that had just occurred. Only when he spots Aphrodite’s inky locks disappearing around the corner does he excuse himself, following her into the garden.

‘Aphrodite!’ he calls into the darkness, the Goddess stopping in her tracks, and walking back towards him with a small grin. ‘What did you do?’ he demands, fists balled up at his sides. ‘What do you mean?’ she asks amusedly, her raised eyebrow and crossed arms making her look more like the high school queen bee than ever. ‘What was that spell you cast on me? Making me ask Hemera out like that?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t cast a spell on you. I read your mind and then gave you the confidence to do what you wanted to do,’ she smiles serenely, Hermes being caught at a loss for words. ‘Wait, what? You can do that?’ he asks. ‘Yes, I can, Herm. I’ve known for a while that you’ve had a bit of thing for Hemera, ever since you saw her at the wedding, even if you didn’t know it yourself, and I knew that she had a thing for you, so I made what you both wanted to happen, happen,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Oh, right,’ Hermes says, slightly embarrassed. ‘So you should really be thanking me,’ she says with a grin, and he begins to stutter out his gratitude. ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Just remember, I only ever want to make people happy, okay? Tenfold for my friends. So if I ever do anything, I do it to make you happy,’ Aphrodite smiles, a slight sadness to her tone, before turning away. That’s when he spots a flash of blue hair at the bottom of the garden but, before he registers it, he hears a cough behind him. He turns to see Hemera stood there, the Goddess smiling. ‘So,’ she asks, ‘when’s our date?’ 

-

‘You can open your eyes in 3… 2… 1… now!’ Hermes says, Hemera instantly opening her eyes. She gasps instinctively, looking around in wonder. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispers. ‘Do you like it?’ he asks shyly. ‘I… I love it, Herm. It’s beautiful,’ she replies, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Hermes and Hemera had already been on two dates, those both on Olympus, and they’d got on like a house on fire. The hours had flown by, and the two had been counting down the time until they could see each other again. For this date, Hermes had decided he wanted to surprise Hemera. He decided to take her down to Earth for the first time. Deciding not to show her the stereotypical tourist places like Paris or Venice or Tokyo, or the popular picturesque places like the northern lights in Iceland, or the fjords in Norway, or the Niagara Falls in Canada, he took her to a place he’d stumbled across once. ‘These are the Rainbow Mountains of Zhangye Danxia, in China,’ he says with a small smile, watching as Hemera’s eyes scan the colourful peaks with vigour. ‘I thought I’d take you somewhere unique for your first time on Earth. Somewhere unique, like you,’ he says embarrassedly, scratching the back of his neck, and Hemera meets his eyes with a small smile. She pulls him up against her, and tilts her head up, closing her eyes. Hermes gets the message and gently presses his lips against her. Within seconds, their hands are roaming over one another, mouths passionately moving against each other.

Hemera breaks away after a few minutes, both of them breathing heavily. Looking at him, Hemera realises that she’s ready. She’s ready to let him in, more than she’d ever let anyone in before. ‘Are we going back to Olympus after?’ she asks, and Hermes shakes his head with a smile. ‘I found us a beautiful house to stay in, in the woods. I think it’s some sort of place that can be hired, but no one’s there at the moment, so…’ Hermes trails off, Hemera nodding. ‘Is there, um, any chance we can go there first? And then come back here tomorrow?’ Hemera asks, and Hermes looks at her in confusion. ‘Do you not like it?’ he asks. ‘It’s, um, it’s not that, Hermes,’ she says, waiting for him to understand, thinking he’ll be embarrassed once he does. But the smirk that spreads across his face surprises her. ‘Why do you want to go then?’ he asks, tongue rolling in his cheek amusedly, and Hemera looks up at him in embarrassment. ‘You know why,’ she says, blushing, and Hermes pulls her up against him. ‘I want to hear you say it, babe,’ he says lowly, looking down at her with a smirk, and Hemera blushes again. ‘I… I want you, Herm,’ she says quietly, Hermes’ eyes darkening at her words. Their surroundings change instantly, a result of Hermes’ powers, the two suddenly stood in the middle of a big rustic bedroom, one wall windows revealing the darkening woods outside. He regards her with a dark and lustful gaze, Hemera’s eyes wide and innocent as he speaks; ‘That’s all I needed to hear.’ 

-

‘Sit your ass down and tell us everything,’ Nyx commands the second Hemera walks into the living room of Dionysus and Hestia’s house. The Goddess of day takes a seat between Demeter and Nyx, all of the other Goddesses watching her intently. ‘It was amazing. I never knew Earth was that beautiful,’ Hemera says, and Nemesis huffs impatiently. ‘We can talk about the boring humans and their boring Earth after. I wanna hear the juicy details about little Herm,’ she says, Demeter and Athena rolling their eyes, Hestia looking amused as Nyx nods in agreement with Nemesis. Aphrodite sits in the corner with a smug, knowing look on her face, grinning at Hemera. ‘I had a really good time with him. I really like him, a lot.’ ‘Did you guys… do anything?’ Nyx asks, wiggling her eyebrows at Hemera, who promptly blushes. ‘Oh, my God, you did!’ Nemesis exclaims. ‘We don’t have any virgins in the friendship group anymore!’ Athena exclaims, just as Dionysus steps into the room. ‘Did not need to hear that. Pretending I didn’t hear that. Going to the bar with the boys. Goodbye,’ he says, promptly leaving without looking at any of the girls. ‘Was he any good?’ Hestia asks, getting caught up in the gossip too. ‘Well, it’s not like I have any experience to compare him with but, yeah, I think so. It… it felt good,’ Hemera stammers out, the other girls squealing save for the love Goddess.

‘Aphrodite, you’re awfully quiet,’ Demeter observes, and the girl grins. ‘You guys do know that I already knew this was going to happen? I knew about Hestia and Di, and I knew about this. I know about what’s going to happen to all of you. And, no, don’t even bother asking me what, because I can’t tell you or it won’t happen,’ she says, the revelation a shock to the other girls. ‘Why did we not know that you know the fate of our love lives?’ Nemesis demands, and the girl shrugs elegantly. ‘It never came up in conversation. That’s my job. I know what’s going to happen to everyone’s love lives, and I just help to speed things up. I’m a catalyst,’ she says, the girls listening attentively. ‘So you know how we’re all going to end up?’ Nyx asks, and Aphrodite nods. ‘I know all the boys’ fates too. Except Poseidon. He’s hard to read. But anyway, that’s why I’m so quiet. I knew all this was gonna happen. I knew exactly what Hemera and Hermes were gonna get up to in that house in the woods,’ she says with a knowing smirk, Hemera burying her head in her hands as the other girls shriek.

‘Why is it I always walk in on you all screaming?’ Hephaestus says as he enters the room, the other boys behind him. ‘We’re just excited to see you,’ Nyx says with a grin shot his way, the God grumbling under his breath as he takes a seat beside Hestia. ‘What happened to the bar?’ Hestia asks as Dionysus pulls her up from her seat, and sits down in it, pulling her back down into his lap. ‘Ares started to a fight,’ Apollo says as he squishes into the armchair with Nemesis who complains, but makes space for him anyway. ‘Seriously? You were there for, what, five minutes?’ Athena says, and Ares scowls at her. Hades throws himself down onto the floor beside Athena as Ares squashes up between Nyx and Hemera. ‘Guess I’m better at war and conflict than you are,’ he says, Dionysus shushing him before a fight begins. Poseidon loiters at the door as he always does, and Hermes loiters there beside him. ‘Come sit, Herm,’ Ares says with a sly grin, and Hermes dithers. ‘Where?’ Hemera looks over to Aphrodite who sits quietly in the corner, observing the scene, and the girl juts her chin out to the Goddess of day, who promptly stands up, despite not recalling wanting to do so. ‘You can sit here,’ Hemera says, Hermes turning slightly red in the face. ‘Where will you sit?’ he asks, and she laughs. ‘Well, on your lap. If you don’t mind,’ she says, and Aphrodite interferes once more, Hermes smirking. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ he replies, everyone, even Poseidon, looking shocked at the exchange. Hermes sits down between Demeter and Ares, and Hemera sits on his lap, leaning back into his chest.

‘Well, I’m guessing you two enjoyed your little trip to Earth,’ Apollo says amusedly, and a laugh ripples around the group. ‘Maybe we should look into a little holiday,’ Dionysus says to Hestia who nods in agreement. ‘Yeah, you definitely should. I know some great places on Earth you can go,’ Hermes says, Hemera nodding. ‘It’s true. He took me to this amazing place,’ she begins, but is cut off by Ares. ‘Let me guess; Paris?’ he says, and she shakes her head. ‘Venice?’ Hephaestus asks, and she shakes her head again. Everyone begins guessing at this point, naming all the romantic places on Earth they’ve heard of. ‘Santorini?’ ‘Hawaii?’ ‘Bruges?’ ‘Bora Bora?’ ‘The Maldives?’ ‘The Amalfi Coast?’ As the room is distracted listening to Hemera explaining where they went, Dionysus turns to speak to Poseidon. ‘Sit down, P, have a drink or something,’ he suggests quietly, but the blue-haired man shakes his head. ‘I should head home. I’ve got a long way to go,’ he says, just as Hemera finishes speaking.

‘That sounds amazing, Hemera,’ Poseidon says, obviously not wanting to take the attention from the newest couple in the group. ‘Don’t try to change the subject, P. We’ve been telling you to move to Olympus permanently for ages now. Why don’t you just do it? It’d save you all the hassle,’ Hermes says, and Poseidon shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes. He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him up, hating being the centre of attention. ‘I have to be near the sea, you know that,’ he says quietly. ‘Doesn’t mean you have to live in it, miles and miles away from the rest of us, P. You know Olympus is short journey from the nearest ocean on Earth,’ Apollo says, and Poseidon shakes his head again. ‘I have a castle there now. I can’t just abandon it. And I like it there. It’s my home,’ he says, Ares scoffing. ‘Bullshit. You just like living where you can get to all those nymphs easily, without any of us seeing,’ Ares says, tension quickly descending on the room. Poseidon’s face sets with anger, but he doesn’t say anything, opting to turn and leave the room instead, and the Gods and Goddesses can hear the sound of the front door opening and closing a few seconds later. ‘Good job, Ares,’ Apollo says angrily, Ares shrugging with a roll of his eyes, though the guilt in his face is plain. ‘Go after him, Di. Or Hades,’ Nemesis prompts, but Dionysus shakes his head. ‘Aphrodite, you should go,’ Dionysus says, Aphrodite looking startled, and the boys only just notice her sat in quietly in the corner.

‘Me?’ she asks. ‘Yeah. You’re good at things like this,’ Dionysus says, and they all know it’s true; she’s definitely the mother figure of the group, the mediator in moments like this. ‘And it doesn’t hurt to see a pretty face when you’re angry,’ Hestia says, a laugh running around the room. ‘I’ll go in that case,’ Hades says, prompting more laughter as Aphrodite rises from her seat and leaves, going after Poseidon. The conversation soon moves back to Hermes and Hemera, Poseidon and Ares’ little argument completely forgotten about. ‘So are you guys dating now?’ Nyx asks, and Hemera and Hermes exchange a glance. ‘We haven’t actually discussed it,’ Hemera says, eyes still locked with Hermes’. ‘But we can discuss it now. Do you wanna be my girlfriend?’ Hermes asks, a shock running through Hemera at the words. She looks into his big brown doe eyes, shining like the stars, and he smiles his endearing little bunny smile, his face crinkling adorably. ‘I’d love to,’ she replies, their friends all bursting into cheers. ‘God, I really need a man,’ Nemesis says a few moments later, everyone bursting into laughter. ‘What about Tartarus?’ Hephaestus suggests, more laughter rippling around the room. ‘Oh, yeah, the God of the pits of the underworld seems like a right laugh,’ she says sarcastically, and Hemera takes the chance to go after Aphrodite whilst everyone’s distracted, quickly whispering where she’s going to Hermes before she sneaks off.

When she steps outside, she’s surprised to see that the sky is dark, time having gone extremely fast since she arrived. Poseidon is sat atop his winged horse at the bottom of their front garden and Aphrodite stands beside him, the two speaking in hushed tones. Poseidon is visibly more relaxed, and looks as though he is about to crack a smile before he spots Hemera. Aphrodite follows his gaze and instantly heads up the front garden path. ‘Hey, Hemera, you okay?’ Aphrodite asks, and Hemera nods. ‘I just… wanted to ask what you did to me,’ she says, and Aphrodite smiles. ‘You needed a prompt to do what you wanted to do. I gave you that prompt. Now go back inside and join your lover boy,’ she says, still smiling, but Hemera can’t help but focus on her eyes, and the sadness that seems to be in them. ‘It’s cold out here. Make sure you guys come back in soon,’ Hemera says, and Aphrodite nods. ‘Um, we’ll be inside in a few,’ she says, and Hemera goes to enter the house once more before she stops. ‘Are you okay, A? You don’t seem yourself,’ she says, and the Goddess of love smiles an inexplicably sad smile. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’m fine. Now go, be happy,’ she says, shooing Hemera back inside, and Hemera shuts the door beside her. Her heart nearly breaks when she spies through the peephole and sees the smile slide from Aphrodite’s face, her eyes filling with tears.

[mrsunderhill678]

Hehe, guess who wrote more shit? Well, it’s not shit, but uhhh... Yeet

“Hope for the future is just optimism based in dead realities.” - West Von Sparrow

“He's claimed me as a butcher would a carcass, he's bled me dry and left me ta hang on this hook. I have been flayed of my soul, of my flesh, of my fucking humanity, guess I should'a learned he who rolls against the house, never holds the damn die.” - West Von Sparrow

“You may be a monster, but I'm just a little less than human, and that's what makes me, dangerous." - West Von Sparrow

“It's the break of a new dawn, and though the dusk took my last sunrise, I ain't giving in, cause after all, the sun doesn't rise only once. So when the night comes, just remember, bravery gets you through the night, love gets you through the day.” - Delilah Coraline

“It's beautiful, isn't it? When you find someone to share your world with?” - Evangeline Frights

“Guess I'm an oaf that's seen some shit, but so long as I'm her oaf, I bet I'll be fine.” - Crane Hemmington

“I haven't been in the trenches, but blood spilled is a war in of itself, thing is, you become the enemy.” - Crane Hemmington

“Everything that is yours, can just as easily be mine, possession of self is all you have, and even that can be taken.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Life is the most precious thing to steal, is it not? Not only do you steal a life, but the joy the memories of the poor bloke you slew held in those who loved him's mind.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Greed is such a twisted thing, and I suppose that is why I am tangled.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“If you want to speak in the language of what haunts you the most, you'll find yourself speaking the tongue of your mind.” - Damon Watkinson

“I, can do whatever I want, cause in a game with no consequences, why would I choose to lose? You don't reach the end of the checkerboard without the words, "King me," rolling off your tongue. You don't trap the other player's King without saying "Checkmate," so why would I get this far just to say, "Sorry?" - Damon Watkinson

“I have seen the truth, and a thousand lies, and perhaps, I am nothing more than one of the thousand.” - Damon Watkinson

“Our love is magical in the sense that it is beautiful in all it's simplicity and complexity.” - Gracie Hangers

“Life's been a struggle, of black eyes and bloody knuckles, the betrayal of false love and hopes, but whenever my heart falters and threatens to stop, I look into the eyes of my children, and find a reason to fight.” - Camille Trueblood

“I thought I fell in love, when all I really did was tumble off the fucking cliffside. God, I dived into those waters so willingly, drowned for a man who doesn't God damn care. All he's ever been is a false promise, and I guess those hurt more than lies, don't they? Lies are so easy to catch, but a false promise of love is so seductive, especially for a girl with... Nothing. All I had was my heart, and I guess he took that too.” - Jenna Coleburg

“The sun always fades into the night, you're guaranteed to spend some of your days in darkness, but that ain't what matters. What matters, is that you fight through it, and come out God damn smiling. It's what I did, ain't the strongest man of all, the one that comes out of hell still smiling? Or perhaps, the one who walks into hell, smiling.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“I was swung from the gallows for sumthin' I never would'a done.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Just because something is damaged, don't mean it can't deal some.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Funny, huh, how in these thirty odd years of mine, I knew her for three, and if you think about it, those were the only three years I lived.” - Avelice Bevelriks

“I lost everythin', really, Sandy, my darling wife, she was my rope, and I guess ever since she snapped I just been floatin. It's cold in these hands of mine, these memories of her. I'm tryin' so desperately ta hold onta em, but they're slippin, they are. Her smile, her laugh, it's all faded. Don't even remember the sound of her heart no more. Though... I can still see her, in my daughter. Her eyes, her laugh, hell, even her smile or the way she sits. Sometimes it's hard lookin' at my daughter, some days it's like I'm lookin' back at Sandy's ghost.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“I've seen the devil's dreams, where young men die by young men's hands, where boys turn ta men and mothers ta widows.” - Casimiro Boeheken

 “Got a noose round my neck, and the floorboards are creakin' underneath me. Either I can cut the rope, or let them floorboards give way, cause either way, I'm free.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“Everything we do has a song, a melody, a voice. And I can hear the song in his smile, harps and echoes of angels, but I can hear the tinge of pain that haunts him.” Marinda Weathers

“I live to love, I live to lift up those around me and tell them, "You're strong, you're brave, and God, are you beautiful, live life like a butterfly, flutter those wings and fly. Because life is short, and you, are loved." - Marinda Weathers

“Day in day out, I fight, I win, and I move on. That's life, these days. Days pass, but I don't.” - Garret Weathers

“Everyone loves the angel with broken wings, huh? Cause they fight the hardest to get their wings back, only to realize, they're the savior of nothing, and they're ripping their own damn wings.” - Garret Weathers

“We can fight the dark, punch it square in the jaw and tell it to back off, cause the dark's only got place in our life when it's lightin' up the stars, and we ain't here to stay in the shade.” - Bob Weathers

“He who won't accept all of ya, don't accept ya at all. The bravest thing you can ever do is be you in the face of the man who hates ya.” - Bob Weathers

“My lullaby sings of secrets I cannot possibly understand, and my heart plucks the chords of joys forgotten and tragedies resurfaced, such a melancholy tune, this melody of my scars.” - Beatrice

“It's like Amethyst and Wanda are my lighthouse, constantly guiding me home. Even if I'm drowning I can see their light from underneath the waves.” - Gracie Ace

“Perhaps I ain't got no stars leadin' the way, but I got my heart givin' me direction. Sure, it's scarred, and God is it battered, but it's flutterin' them wings with everythin' it's got, and me? I'm still pumpin', blood's still coursin' through my veins, so I'm alive, and by every God, I'm fuckin' kickin.” - Crystal Bones

“It's kill or be killed, and I guess we just ain't dyin.” - Alfred Godsel

“In the eyes of many, I'm a hero, but in my eyes, all I see is a man with a gun, who pulled a trigger, and ended a life, but still somehow managed to make the most egregious of sins look like a hero's doin. How the hell did we manage to make spillin' blood somethin' noble?” - Alfred Godsel

“I've lost a lot, but I'll save my grievin' for the livin', for those who've managed to die before they ever hit the dirt.” - Alfred Godsel

“They say dead men tell no tales, but when I come knocking, oh, you'll be wishing that was true, you can pray to every god you know, but that won't save you, no one can. Because he who you silenced, have ripped the stitches from their mouth and out tumbled your secrets, right into my ear.” - Celestia Cloven

“At first I thought it a curse, the whispers of the dead, but not anymore... Not anymore. They speak to me their secrets only so they may find rest, and so he who wrought him demise, may be brought what they deserve. And I, am what they deserve.” - Celestia Cloven

“Belief can be either beautiful, or oppressive, it's up to the morals of the man who believes to create the damn definition.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“Until the fires of this revolution swallow us whole we will shout, we will cry and weep, cause freedom ain't so quietly taken away.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“You wanna kill us, go ahead? Show us just exactly who, you, are. Cause we already know, all yer doin' by killin' us, is provin' us God damn right.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“I've been running all night, trying to find myself, but sometimes I feel... Lost. But maybe that's not a bad thing, you know? The lost boys found a purpose in Neverland, after all.” - Gayle Flint

“I've got scars, and God do they show, the markings of a lonely child lie on my wrist, and they hardly compare to the ones in my heart and my mind.” - Emma Flockheart

 “If a warrior isn't a woman who's been through hell but came out a better person, than I don't know what is.” - Emma Flockheart

“My father was the one who built the crumbling pillars of my heart anew, but now, without him, I'm crumbling, God, I'm crumbling.” - Juno

“Some days, I feel perfectly comfortable in my body, and other days it feels like a cage and I wish I could just scratch at my skin until I tore my way out.” - Juno

 “No matter where you run, or where you hide, your mind gives you up to your demons every fucking time.” - Juno

“You can't explain love, just feel it, and trust it.” - Lynsey Aldallen

“You have the strength of a thousand lions, you shed your mane, and traded it for the hunt, and as you were always meant to, you led the pride, with your claws and your strength, the remnants of your mane fluttering behind you. And that's beautiful, to be brave and vulnerable all at once.” - Lynsey Aldallen (For context, she’s talking about her sister, who’s trans)

“My mother rescued me, I rescued her, she's my hero, but sometimes, we have to fight for our heroes, because their strength falters. And when it does, it's up to us to save them.” - Lexie Rebhan

“I'm already swingin', I reckon, these gallows were made for selfish men like me, I imagine everyone'll cheer. All hail! All hail! The wicked man is dead, strung by his neck, payin' for his sins with the devil. It's damn well the fate a man like me deserves.” - Ron Jameson

“So oh gravedigger, vengeful angel of death, put me down as you would a wolf wearin' the single dead sheep's wool in the flock, watch me bleed. Cause that's what I did to you. I caused you're pain, I caused mine, just be lucky you don't have to live with me... Cause I do.” - Ron Jameson

 “I was born to be damned, as they say, they speak of me in such terrible ways, history is written by the victors, the patrons, the saints, never by she who made it.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“All who burned me at the stake only had to live with themselves, but I, I have to live with the actions of every single one of them, and, worst of all, I have to live with my death. The scalding of my flesh and the charring of my bones, the screams of my two daughters still haunt me. They way Eldridge begged and howled, or how Autumn cursed at those who damned her. And all I could do was howl in grief as we burned away, but I imagine we were lost, just as tears in the rain or stars upon the waking of the sun.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“I like to say I'm tough, but it ain't because 'a what I look like on the outside, but who I am on the inside. You could be strong as all shit and still be a weak man. All you ever gotta do ta be weak, is push another down, and all it takes ta be strong, is helpin' a man up.” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“I 'ave been made anew by the love I been showed and given, my heart no longer beats 'a regret and pain, but for my lovely wife and children. Cause if your heart don't beat for no one, what's life worth?” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“To be completely divine is as inhuman as it is to be entirely damned, entirely broken or whole, we are never one hundred percent, we are many pieces, smelling of ash and smoke, and the fire that created it.” - Diaze Calico

“Savagery suits her like a well tailored suit, or a ball gown on the most royal of queens. She is savagery, she wears blood like wine on her teeth, and your pain like the finest of shawls, and in the end, she shall wear that shawl of your scars and dance before you in it, she shall make a mockery of your death, for that's all you ever were.” - Diaze Calico

“You can believe that hell is not where you'll go, but that's the greatest lie the devil ever spun, that there was an option other than her, that there was a loving God watching us.” - Diaze Calico

“The wicked doth not sleep, they doth not live, only breathe this blood on their breath.” - Diaze Calico

“Out of all this pain I've been through, I've found that even if bullets had flown that day, and planes had been torn from the sky on burning wings, it was in my sleep, when my mind was at rest, that I felt the most bloody chaos.” - Duke Benson

“I should've died the day a bullet pierced me fucking skull, but all that's left is this scar on the Earth known as Duke bloody Benson.” - Duke Benson

“I'd ask for a prayer or an amen if I thought it'd saved our damned souls, but a single prayer won't save a man who's sinned.” - Duke Benson

“A prayer won't save a man who's lost his fucking faith.” - Duke Benson

“With a foe as cruel as myself, I was bound to bloody lose.” - Duke Benson

“Bury me six feet deep, mate, deeper if you can, because I am a soldier, a sinner, a beast, not a bloody man.” - Duke Benson

“Reckon me 'ands are as stained as the soil wifin' da trenches.” - Angel Benson

“Inside me is a boilin' angah, at da world, at dis pain, myself and anyone in point blank range. I imagine me angah's shot me point blank, left the man I was fokin' bleedin', dead from a single shot.” - Angel Benson

“I've always condemned what I can't fokin' understand. So if I fear meself, wot does that make me, aye?” - Angel Benson

“You know wot's fokin' funny? You don't 'ave ta fight in it, ta be bloody broken by it. You could be livin' untarnished boi it, next thing you know, a soldier's knockin' on your fokin' door. War breaks all. They who fight, and they who bloody don't.” - Angel Benson

“Raise a glass ta da sinner full 'a anger, raise a glass for the poor bastards and blokes war touched, cause all who 'ave known her embrace 'ave known pain no loving God could create. But never, mate, NEVER, raise a glass, to the bloody Bensons.” - Angel Benson

“When I'm finally in da dirt, where I belong, da world will keep spinnin', the sun will rise again, as it shall sink, and though it may rain, da world won't weep a single fuckin' tear, for da man known as Jerry Benson, cause mate, why should it?” - Jerry Benson

“Us soldiers, we're cheered for, celebrated, but dey care only for da actions, not for da man.” - Jerry Benson

“As I've learned, 'e who tastes death will find dat da aftertaste is an eternal stain on one's tongue. Da tang of iron and blood is all dey'll ever fuckin' know.” - Jerry Benson

“God created us to love 'im, and expected us ta be more selfless den he.” - Jerry Benson

“War don't change a man, no, it kills him, and replaces the soldier with itself.” - Mordakai Benson

“He who runs with the wolves is bound ta be ripped inta the moment he stops runnin', no wonder there's blood on my teeth.” - Mordakai Benson

“War don't give a damn who you are, what kinda pain you been through, it'll putcha through more while promisin' glory! That's the picture they paint. Soldiers woopin' for victory and glory for all who fight, but they always forget he who catches the fuckin' bullet.” - Mordakai Benson

“The only thing you and I got in common is that we were made by God, difference is, I was forgotten by him.” - Mordakai Benson

“Don't raise no glass for this soldier, don't pour no wine on my casket, cause I'm the lamb that strayed from the flock, only ta learn he always wore a wolf's fur.” - Mordakai Benson

“I’m one dead dream away from blasphemy.” - Calliger Cougar  

“They say life is short, Tommy, that it goes by in the blink of an eye, so why ain't we fucking dead yet? I blinked a hundred times, and I'll blink a hundred times more. Cause no matter what they say, it don't go by in the span of a blink, or like a bullet speedin' through the air. It's slow, and God damn miserable, this here ward is proof of that.” - Ben Stilts

[obaewankenope]

Immune to Destructive Devices - Good Omens fic

[AO3 LINK]

Crowley hadn’t mentioned it to Aziraphale after everything had been sorted and settled down. He hadn’t really thought about it until he saw the flask on his desk later that evening after spending hours at the Ritz with his angel. The spray bottle was just a sad nozzle on the ground beside his throne and Crowley kicked it, not bothering to bend down and pick it up. Too much effort when kicking it got it out of his way nicely.

He’d offered Aziraphale his place last night but neither of them had ventured into his little office-slash-throne room[*]. They’d remained in the lounge area, supping on perfectly acceptable wine—though it hadn’t been all that great a vintage it had done the job of getting them both drunk—until daylight arrived and Crowley had gone to the bookshop in Aziraphale’s skin for their ruse.

The hell fire had been surprisingly pleasant for him up in the sharp, white lines of heaven—pretentiousness in physical form was either Gabriel or the disgustingly minimalistic design of heaven, Crowley hadn’t quite decided. But he’d been glad to get out of there[†]. Even if they had believed him to be Aziraphale and had treated him like they would his angel, Crowley had wanted to both get away from the artificial coldness of heaven and terrify these angels for speaking to Aziraphale in such a way.

He didn’t mention it to Aziraphale though. Crowley knew the angel wouldn’t really approve of his almost discorporating—killing, let’s be real here, it would have been killing—his superiors just because they were mean.

Crowley also knew that Aziraphale would be secretly pleased and amused by it all. Especially since he’d obviously done something down in hell that terrified Beelzebub into complying with their demands. Angels were easy enough to convince; an angel able to withstand hell fire? They’d back away and wouldn’t come anywhere near said angel for quite a while. But demons were a little different. Most of the time.

He’d also been impressed to learn that Aziraphale knew him well enough to impersonate him and was convincing. Though, the way he’d sat on the bench in Berkeley Square… Eh, Crowley let that slip up go. They’d been home and dry at that point—if that was how the saying went, what did Crowley care, the words got the point across well enough.

Crowley almost wished he’d been able to see Hastur’s face when Aziraphale had been in the bath of holy water and not burned. He smirked. Maybe he’d ask his angel to show him the memory of it—he’d offer Gabriel’s expression of supreme confusion in heaven as a trade.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to resist. Not—Crowley knew—that he’d particularly want to at this point in their existence.

But back to the matter of the flask on his desk. A nasty matter for sure.

The flask was empty. He’d used almost all of it in the bucket that had fallen on Ligur and erased him from existence—quite painfully by the sound of it, too. But some of it had gone into the spray bottle as a second line of defence. Or offence, depending.

Crowley looked at his desk, at the stain on the ground beside his throne from the water where it’d seeped into the stone. He couldn’t wish away the stain, not with holy water. And not as a demon.

But… was he still a demon?

Once he’d been an angel and then he’d fallen. His wings had turned from white to black. The pain of his landing in hell was one that Crowley would never forget, like a phantom limb that forever ached even when it had long ceased to exist. The pain was eternal, as was his damnation.

The problem was, although Hastur had called him on his threat and exploded the bottle in his hands, Crowley hadn’t actually been bluffing. It had been filled with holy water. Not much, pretty much diluted to be perfectly honest, but even one drop of diluted holy water could harm a demon in a permanent way[‡].

Except… the diluted water hadn’t done a thing to Crowley. He hadn’t even received a little burn like the type you get whenever you touch a hot pan on the stove for a split second, yank your hand away and curse like a—well—a demon around your finger because you’ve stuck it in your mouth to sooth the burn.

All demons were harmed by holy water, no exceptions. Even Satan himself could be harmed by it. Not necessarily destroyed, but definitely severely injured.

And here Crowley was, with not even a scratch on him.

Thinking about it, that fact alone down in hell was probably sufficient enough to terrify Beelzebub into letting Aziraphale-as-Crowley go. Especially if Satan had been watching the trial through their eyes.

Crowley wondered for a moment—a long moment considering he could stop time if he wished to—what the possibilities available to him were, as a demon-who-happened-to-be-immune-to-the-destructive-effects-of-holy-water. They were, considering the circumstances, much the same as the possibilities he’d had before he’d returned to his flat and seen that stain on his stone floor in his office-slash-throne room.

Aziraphale. Earth. Some freedom from the controlling natures of heaven and hell.

Crowley fell into his throne, swinging a leg up over one of the arms and hanging his head back over the other, an arm wrapped around the back of the throne to brace him. He smirked up at the ceiling.

“Is this part of your Ineffable Plan?” he wondered, giving the ceiling a thoughtful look. “Having a demon that can’t be made extinct? Why would you allow that to happen? To a fallen one? To me? Is saving the world really that big a deal that you’d make a demon basically invulnerable? Bit odd.”

Not that Crowley was complaining, not really. If—when hell came calling again, they’d be at a disadvantage. He could literally just toss water balloons filled with holy water at them. That’d be a right old laugh that would.

Crowley frowned. Hold on. If he was somehow immune to holy water but was still a demon—at least, he still felt like a demon, his wings were still black he was sure of it, and his own fiery demonic abilities were still there—did that mean Aziraphale was possibly immune to hell fire?

Maybe.

Not that Crowley would ever let the angel find out. He didn’t want to watch his angel get caught up in a torrent of hell fire, not knowing if it would kill him or not. No thanks. Do not pass go.

The most obvious way of telling if an angel was fallen was their wings—namely, none of them really had them anymore. Lucifer had his, obviously, and so did Crowley. He knew of maybe five or ten other demons who retained their wings but the rest were mostly… well, Crowley figured they hadn’t seen the point in them anymore and had changed them into more useful appendages for demons to possess.

Like tails.

Crowley missed his tail. But this human form was good enough. Even if he still wasn’t that big a fan of legs most of the time. Awful things to coordinate when drunk, or dizzy, or on a boat[§].

Aziraphale, like the weird angel he was, seemed fascinated by them. Of course, the angel had about as much coordination in his whole body as Crowley had in his left foot when drunk but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from loving boats and their awful-for-leg-coordination-ways.

Speaking of Aziraphale and wings and not-quite-demon-slash-angel-anymore possibilities, Crowley angled his head to look down at the stain beside the throne. If he really was immune to holy water, putting his hand on the stain would do nothing to him. He might, possibly, be able to miracle it away too.

But if it turned out he wasn’t immune to holy water then his and would be burned by celestial holiness and he’d probably end up losing it or having it horribly scar for the rest of eternity.

Decisions, decisions.

“Oh, fuck it.”

He put his hand on the stain, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the sizzling and the burning agony.

If this test prevented him from having to figure out a way to determine if Aziraphale was in the same boat as him then, well, Crowley wasn’t a particularly good demon because he was much, much too nice and for his angel he was far too good also. He was more than willing to suffer burning agony so that Aziraphale with his soft kindness and constant politeness and lack of appreciation by heaven for being kind and good and loving wouldn’t have to be harmed by any hell fire unnecessarily.

Crowley felt his hand and the stone beneath it. He felt the dampness of the stone from the holy water that had seeped into it but he felt no burning agony, no nerve destroying fire obliterating skin and muscle and ligament and bone of his body.

He just felt like he’d put his hand on a bit of damp ground.

He opened his eyes and peeked down at his hand, visually confirming that—yep, hand still there, in one piece, all fingers accounted for, thumb too. Well then. That answered that then, didn’t it?

Crowley scrambled upright, fumbling for his phone that he’d left in the lounge with his free hand as he clung to the throne tightly. He hit the dial pad and watched as his phone automatically rang Aziraphale.

Speed-dial had been a wonderful invention. Crowley might have claimed it as his idea or Aziraphale had, he couldn’t quite recall, but that didn’t make it any less of a brilliant idea by the humans.

“Fell Bookshop, how may I—” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet with a hint of frustration at being called so late at night. Crowley felt no sympathy for the angel, not when he refused to get a bloody mobile phone—oh to—to—to existence with it! He was going to buy him one tomorrow and refuse to let Aziraphale refuse it.

“I’m immune to holy water.”

What was the point in beating about the bush when the bush had been torched? Crowley wasn’t in the mood to play out their usual conversations on the phone. Not with this.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I am immune to holy water,” Crowley repeated, emphasising the ‘immune’ part because as smart as Aziraphale was, sometimes he was very, very stupid. “It doesn’t even make my skin blister.”

Aziraphale was quiet on the line and Crowley just knew he was making that face he did when he was deeply confused by something. It was an adorable expression and Crowley would never admit that fact to anyone or anything—unless he was asked very nicely by Aziraphale. Maybe.

“You’d best come over,” the angel says after a long, long pause, voice far graver than even Aziraphale usually managed. Obviously the angel was as disturbed by this development as Crowley himself.

Good. It wasn’t nice being disturbed by something alone. Always much easier to tolerate with company.

“Don’t go sticking your hand in any flames while I’m on my way angel, you hear?” Crowley half ordered, half asked, giving his best stern look at the wall he was staring at in lieu of Aziraphale’s face.

“Of course not!” Aziraphale sounded so offended that Crowley had to crack a smile—a smirk, demons don’t smile, they do smirk though… As a potentially not-demon anymore, maybe Crowley could smile? He’d have to brood on it at a later date. “Just hurry up and get over here.”

Crowley quirked a brow. Hurry up, eh? Well, if the angel insisted.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley unfurled his wings and used them to fly across London to the bookshop. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever done it, but for the last hundred years at least, Crowley had relied on more human forms of transportation—as had Aziraphale. It was easier to go under the radar of both heaven and hell that way.

But now—well, it didn’t matter now because heaven and hell had no idea what to do with them and wouldn’t for a long, long time yet. So Crowley flew.

And landed in front of Aziraphale in the shop beside the old phone the angel refused to part with.

“Crow—oh lord! Don’t do that Crowley!” The angel flailed, almost dropping the telephone receiver from the surprise of Crowley’s sudden appearance before him.

Crowley found the sight of a surprised, somewhat flustered Aziraphale to be quite enjoyable.

“You said to hurry up,” he pointed out, ending the call and slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. Crowley gave the angel an expectant look. “So. Holy water. Immune. Me. How about you?”

Aziraphale frowned, replacing the receiver on the hook. “I’m not entirely sure, if I’m honest,” he said, moving across the bookshop to sit in the chair at his writing desk. Crowley followed behind him and dropped into the sofa which Aziraphale had always refused to admit was for the demon—ex-demon—for him.

Crowley had found the sofa considerably more comfortable than he’d ever admit, but the fact that he always enjoyed sprawling across it was indication enough of his appreciation to the angel.

“I haven’t checked since I don’t have any hell fire on hand,” Aziraphale finished, giving Crowley that Look he did.

Crowley knew that look. It was the one the angel wore when he wanted to lecture him about the dangers of holy water and reckless decisions and suicide pills.

“How did you figure out you were immune to holy water?” Aziraphale asked instead and Crowley cocked his head.

“Mmmm, think I had some inkling of an idea after I melted Ligur and threatened Hastur with a spray bottle,” he confessed. “But I only knew for certain when I decided it was a great idea to stick my hand on holy water-saturated stone.”

Crowley shrugged. “Surprised myself when I didn’t start to sizzle.”

A strange silence fell then and Crowley shifted on the sofa, looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, for his part in the silence, was turned at the waist in his desk chair, staring at Crowley with an expression that flitted wildly between emotions. Emotions that were easily identifiable on the angel’s face as, in order: surprise, horror, fear, surprise again, some more fear, anger, and, finally, thunderous anger.

Thunderous anger, unlike regular anger, was the type that often made thunderstorms seem mild and gentle in comparison. Before rain had been invented, and storms along with it, thunderous anger was more often described as godly rage.

Crowley felt like Aziraphale was leaning more toward the old term rather than the newer one.

That…was definitely not a good thing considering.

He wondered if he could pop out of existence in the immediate vicinity and survive that way. Aziraphale would follow him though—he hadn’t ever followed Crowley before but, well, things had changed hadn’t they? Expecting the angel to do what he’d done before was just asking for trouble.

Crowley didn’t actually like trouble unless he was the one making it[**].

“You put your hand in holy water.”

Oh, that was a surprisingly calm voice.

“Not in holy water, on holy watered ground,” Crowley corrected, squinting behind his glasses in a way that was completely wasted on the angel since Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. “Bit different.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face obviously disagreed.

“Of all the—the—foolish, reckless, idiotic things to do Crowley! YOU PURPOSELY RISKED YOUR LIFE TO TEST A THEORY!”

Ah. There was the wrath.

Oh dear.

“Well, I had to make sure didn’t I?” Crowley didn’t cringe—he was a demon, demons don’t cringe—but he did lean back a little. Only a little. “Wouldn’t do to get caught unawares and find out in the middle of a fight, would it?”

The logic of Crowley’s actions made perfect sense to him. Unfortunately, they didn’t make the same sense to Aziraphale.

“That doesn’t mean you do something so reckless without me there to make certain you’re all right, Crowley!” Aziraphale stalked right up to Crowley, pointing an angry finger at him—actually, he jabbed Crowley in the chest, at that point of the sternum where you had to move back a little from the pressure because it was just on the left side of painful. Not that Crowley really registered pain, demon and all[††], but the body had its pressure points and the jabbed spot was definitely one of them. “What if you were affected by the holy water—diluted as it was—and the only way I’d know would be the sensation of your burning out of existence like that demon in sixteen-oh-nine?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale.

The angel had felt Marmur being made extinct by his own stupidity? Really? That—had Aziraphale felt Ligur go up in bright light inside an orange bucket too? Had he panicked, assuming it was Crowley and then he’d been discorporated, unable to actually know for sure because he’d ended back up in heaven? The idea was, well, it was absurd and crazy and implied that angels could sense whenever a demon died in the very-permanent-way[‡‡].

Crowley had sensed the same but, well, he was a demon, it was to be expected of him to know when one of his fellow demons went and got themselves killed.

“You know,” Crowley said slowly, tilting his head to the side. “You never actually mentioned how you knew I was in Hull that year—” he narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses “—didn’t mention why you showed up in Hull either when you had a miracle in Arabia to perform.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “That—that is not the point, Crowley!” He exclaimed, shaking the jabby finger at the demon. “Stop trying to distract me!”

“You’re the one who brought up Marmur!” Crowley shot back. “If anyone is trying to distract from the point it’s you!”

Crowley slouched a little more comfortably on the sofa, a smirk working its way on his face. Aziraphale stared at him, doing that little spluttery thing he did when Crowley had left him lost for words in an argument. It was quite endearing.

Much more endearing than the thunderous anger of twenty seconds ago, too.

Crowley was much more likely to survive with his ego intact when Aziraphale was spluttering and struggling for words than when he was all-but shivering in his body and his wings were threatening to unfurl[§§]. In anger, that is, not anything else.

Although…

“What if something had happened to you Crowley? I wouldn’t have known where you were, I wouldn’t have known if you were—” Aziraphale’s voice broke as the angel stood up suddenly, leaving Crowley behind on the sofa.

Crowley immediately followed.

“I had to test it, Aziraphale,” Crowley pointed out, quieter. He had a realisation, staring that the angel as Aziraphale stood in the middle of his shop, beneath the compass skylight, that Crowley had truly upset him. The kind of upset that humans caused each other with thoughtless actions—actions that risked their safety. Well, Crowley really had to test his theory.

Better him than Aziraphale.

“Why? Why did you have to test it?” Aziraphale demanded, turning around sharply to face Crowley. The angel had to look up to stare at him, but they’d known each other for six thousand years and the action was automatic—just as Crowley’s slight slouch that allowed his head to dip a fraction. “I’ll admit, holy water no longer harming you is a relief, especially considering heaven’s penchant for the stuff, but you didn’t have to test it alone.”

Crowley swallowed awkwardly. He had. He really, really had.

“I’m running on the logic that if I’m immune to holy water then you’re immune to hell fire,” Crowley explained, shifting on the spot. “I figured it was safer for me to test with holy water if you weren’t around to—I don’t know—try and stop me.”

“Of course I’d have stopped you!”

Crowley gave the angel as unimpressed an expression as possible with his sunglasses still on. It was unimpressed enough that Aziraphale pulled that sad face he always did when he was upset and didn’t want to admit Crowley had a point.

“I’d have at least prepared for the worst,” the angel muttered, gaze flitting around the bookshop.

“I did.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, confused. “How was testing your immunity alone and without informing me first preparing for the worst?”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t want to say it. Not really. Well, he did, because it’d be nice to say it. But he also really didn’t want to say it because it’d change things.

Things had already changed though, hadn’t they? He wasn’t exactly your traditional demon anymore. Admitting his feelings… it’d just be another thing to deal with.

Fuck it.

“I didn’t want you watching me die if it didn’t work,” he confessed, ducking his head and scratching the back of his head. “It was bad enough me finding your shop on fire—I don’t—well, I don’t think you’d have enjoyed witnessing my demise if I was wrong.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Oh.”

Oh. Yeah. Oh.

“Anyway! It turned out all right! Hand still in one piece, no sizzled flesh, no screaming oblivion. Just an impossible immunity to holy water when it ought to wipe me from existence!” Crowley turned away, heading back to the sofa. He dropped down on it and flicked a hand, summoning a nice vintage from… well… wherever he felt like summoning it from[***].  “Figures you’re immune to hell fire yourself now!”

Aziraphale slowly crossed the bookshop to the sofa, sitting down on it next to Crowley when the not-quite-traditional-demon shifted enough to allow the angel to perch on the edge.

“I’m not quite certain of that, we haven’t tested it after all.” Aziraphale summoned two glasses from wherever he kept them—Crowley knew there was a kitchen above the bookshop but, well, he hadn’t actually seen it since Aziraphale bought the place back in the 1800s, so for all he knew, it could have more books stored in it than the bookshop itself—and handed one to Crowley. “The only way to confirm a theory is through experimentation, after all.”

Crowley grimaced. He didn’t like that idea.

Well no, he liked the idea of testing things—he had great fun doing tests and experiments. There had been a time in the 1970s when he’d participated in a dozen psychological tests and completely screwed up the results for the sake of it. So yes, he liked tests and the like. He just didn’t particularly like the idea of his angel testing his own tolerance of an angel-extincting substance.

But the idea of Aziraphale testing his potential tolerance of hell fire… Well. Crowley would rather go toe-to-toe with the end of the world again thank you very much.

“You can—I presume—summon some for us to use, yes?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the rim of his wineglass.

Crowley squirmed inside, feeling like a trapped snake. He didn’t particularly like the feeling. Especially when it was usually Aziraphale that made him feel it in this particular capacity.

“I’m just a regular demon, angel,” Crowley swilled his wine, avoiding looking at Aziraphale who totally, completely, most definitely, didn’t believe him for a second.

“The serpent that tempted Eve is no regular demon, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quite firmly. “There is a reason heaven had considered sending Michael to replace me, you know.”

“Because they’re idiots?”

Aziraphale lips quirked a little. “Yes well,” he said, “other than that reason.”

Crowley snorted out a laugh. The angel seemed to have finally gotten past his defence of his heavenly brethren. It was nice to witness. Especially the flicker of genuine amusement in Aziraphale’s bright eyes. That—that was very nice to see.

“Tempting humanity was supposed to be Lucifer’s job you know,” Aziraphale said conversationally, shifting a little on the sofa and taking up more space, forcing Crowley to move to accommodate the angel. “He is, as I’m sure you’re fully aware, very good at tempting with his words. It’s quite an ability. To tempt Eve was supremely difficult, no matter what any of my fellow angels had to say on the matter. That Lucifer refused, instead rebelling, and that you were the one to do it… It speaks greatly to your ability.”

“So I’m good with words, that’s not the same as summoning hell fire all wily-nily angel!”

This was starting to feel a little bit—Crowley had to admit—well, a little bit like Aziraphale was complimenting him on aspects of his personality that, before today, the angel likely would never had thought complimentable. He wasn’t entirely sure he disliked that fact.

Of course, Aziraphale had complimented Crowley on his actions in the past, but those had almost always been ones Aziraphale could safely label ‘good’ and ‘right’. Performing a miracle that saves lives; preventing some senseless deaths from an idiotic lack of bathing based on absurd fear of hygiene; those sorts of thing. That the angel would compliment Crowley for ensuring the world’s first act of sin came to pass… it belied belief.

“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask, only half-joking. It was possible, just as it had been possible for them to switch appearances, that Aziraphale wasn’t really Aziraphale right now.

“What—honestly, Crowley! I offer you compliment and you instantly assume I’m not really me!” Aziraphale threw a hand up, giving Crowley a cross look. “I suppose nothing will convince you that I’m really me except—oh, I don’t know—showing holy water has no effect on me and then, perhaps, using hell fire too! That way, if I am immune from demonic hell fire, we’ll also rule out demonic chicanery!”

Crowley just blinked at Aziraphale.

“Honestly!” The angel exclaimed, using the hand he’d been throwing around during his miniature rant at Crowley to conjure a small flask of holy water. The sensation of holiness emanated from the flask to such a degree that Crowley, still very much used to being vulnerable to the stuff, stiffened and leaned away from it.

Aziraphale wasted no time in upending the bottle into his wine which he then, quite uncouthly, downed in one long gulp.

“That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” Crowley stared at the angel open-mouthed.

“No more than your own actions, I think.” Was Aziraphale’s sharp response.

Crowley hummed. That was a fair point. The angel certainly could be quite biting when he wished to be.  Just enough of a bastard worth knowing, indeed.

“Now, holy water still has no effect on me, divinity intact,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley an expectant look. “Time for the—the—well—the hell fire.”

“I’m not summoning hell fire, angel!”

Crowley shoved himself up from the sofa and paced around the room, wine in one hand that swung the glass wildly—somehow not spilling a single drop no matter how much physics said the liquid ought to be on the ground and not still in the glass. Aziraphale followed after him, standing in Crowley’s way and preventing the demon from pacing as much as he’d wanted to.

For being shorter than him, Aziraphale was astonishingly capable of causing Crowley no end of trouble with movement within a confined space. Or any space really. Crowley had come to the sad, sad conclusion about five hundred years ago that he had gone and well and truly screwed himself by befriending the angel and forming some attachment to him. No matter what, Crowley always ended up gravitating toward Aziraphale.

Even when he really didn’t want to.

Like now.

“Crowley, we need to test this to be certain.” Aziraphale sounded so much calmer than he had any right to in Crowley’s opinion. Discussing a substance that could—if their theory was wrong—destroy the angel in an extremely painful way.

Stepping into the hell fire up in heaven had been easy for Crowley. Even if he’d worn Aziraphale’s face and part of him had panicked at the idea of his angel—false as the guise had been—being anywhere near the demonic substance. It was like pretending to be your partner and facing down a gun that you knew had blanks in but it was still a gun.

Fear of death didn’t disappear just because the threat was illusionary.

Somehow, apparently, Aziraphale didn’t understand that.

Or, perhaps he did.

Crowley stared down at the angel, tense and poised for some attack of any type. He was so wound up, so unhappy with this. He didn’t want to see Aziraphale burn.

Not after seeing the bookshop burn.

He—Crowley didn’t think he could handle that.

“I—I can’t.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at Aziraphale. Not when he felt like—like—like his heart was breaking. Even demons had hearts. They were what had been broken when the Almighty had cast them out. Betrayal hurt. Judgement hurt. The fall hurt most of all.

But this? Having to imagine Aziraphale standing in a ring of hell fire, burning? Oh, that was so, so much worse than the fall had ever been.

Love.

Bloody buggering love.

Nimble fingers removed his sunglasses gently.

“Crowley look at me.”

A hand pressed against his cheek, cupping his face ever so gently. Featherlight.

Crowley opened his eyes.

“Trust me,” Aziraphale said with so much tenderness, so much affection, and Crowley caved.

“I hate you, angel,” he whispered, calling forth hell fire and letting it wrap around them both. “I hate you so bloody much.”

“The feeling is quite mutual,” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Oh, look—I’m not burning. How lovely.”

Crowley ignored the flames, ignored the bookshop, ignored it all. He kept the fire contained, controlled, even though he wanted to put it out with extreme prejudice. The look on Aziraphale’s face however, when the angel reached out and touched the flames with a curious hand… he kept them going a little longer.

“Curiosity killed the cat, as the humans put it,” Crowley pointed out, taking Aziraphale’s raised hand and pulling it back toward them, away from the flames. “Stop tempting fate, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Perhaps,” the angel said slowly, “fate ought to be tempted for once, demon.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile at that. A small smile. But still a smile. The flames died away and there they were, stood together, in the middle of the bookshop, hands on each other in such intimate expressions of affection.

The demon-now-something-else and the angel-also-something-else-now smiled at each other as Crowley ducked his head and whispered, just moments before lips touched: “temptation achieved.”

__________________________

[*] It wasn’t really either of those to be entirely honest, but depending on Crowley’s mood, he referred to the room as one or the other. Occasionally, both.

[†] In fact, he’d been so glad to get out of there he’d been happy to be on earth even before Aziraphale had shown back up from hell. Of course, he’d also been quietly counting the seconds and panicking thinking all manner of things about what could be happening to his angel down in hell. But that was to be expected of Crowley. He was the paranoid type: kept him alive.

[‡] Some idiot demon back in the 1600s had found that out the hard way when he’d gone up top and proceeded to try and tempt a father into misleading his entire congregation. Although religious leaders were capable of blessing water to be holy, this particular father had dropped the small flask of pre-blessed holy water into the puddle the demon had been standing in and, well, that had been that. No more demon.

[§] Crowley had a gentle dislike of boats—not a hatred, otherwise he’d have probably sunk every boat he came across over the millennia.

[**] No one with any sense would like trouble if they weren’t the ones causing it in the first place. Though, to be fair, Crowley technically was causing this trouble, he just didn’t particularly care for it when he would be the victim of an angel’s wrath for—how would Aziraphale put it?—acting recklessly with his continued existence.

[††] Crowley would continue to refer to himself as a demon until he was at such a point where it was an entirely inaccurate term. Like how someone would refer to themselves by their nationality up to and long after the point when said nationality was no longer accurate owing to a couple of wars, some treaties, and a new name for the country of their origin. Stubbornness, some would call it. Crowley was just used to calling himself a demon—it was a habit, as ingrained in him as his penchant for sunglasses was.

[‡‡] It also implied other things that Crowley didn’t want to really contemplate when faced with an irate angel who was far too appealing for his serpentine eyes hidden, fortunately, behind dark sunglasses.

[§§] That has, as far as Crowley was aware, happened just the once back in 334AD. Too much Roman wine and too many suggestively dressed humans had left the angel very much flustered and Crowley had had to drag him out of the room before those wings showed. It was only due to Crowley’s attention that the whole room hadn’t had to be made dead or something because of Aziraphale losing his cool and revealing proof of the divine to some humans.

[***] As it was, Crowley had three specific places he summoned wine from. One was, of course, his own wine cellar which contained some of the rarest vintages in the world—including Greek wine from before Christ had even been a glint in God’s infinite mind. The second was a well-known, highly-elite winery that produced some of the best wine in this century. The last… the last was Aziraphale’s collection of wines. This particular wine was from the latter.

[ineffably-effable]

summer camp/dystopian au

For the fan-fiction trope merge ask (give me two tropes and I’ll tell you how I’d combine them).

Sorry for the delay, this one kind of got away from me.

-----

Crowley is a pediatrician and Aziraphale is a head-chef of some suitably fancy restaurant. They’ve both been volunteering at the same summer camp (for disadvantaged youth) for the past six years.

As the camp’s doctor, Crowley is on-call 24/7. Most of his time is spent dealing with mysterious rashes, cuts, broken bones, fevers and viruses. While he’s gruff and unfriendly with the majority of the staff, he’s a soft-touch with the children. Without doing anything more miraculous than simply listening to them, Crowley has somehow managed to become the camp’s unofficial therapist. (This is a fact that infuriates the camp’s official therapist Gabriel, but comes as no real shock to anyone that’s met him).

As the camp’s head cook, most of Aziraphale’s time is spent preparing for the breakfast, lunch and dinner services. It’s a poorly kept secret that the camp’s food budget is inflated heavily from his own pocket (Fillet Mignon Fridays are possibly the biggest factor in the phenomenal staff retention at the camp). Despite his refusal to serve pancakes (“They’ll get crepes and they’ll love them") his popularity amongst campers was cemented when he made a 5-ft tall croquembouche tower to celebrate the Camp’s 5th anniversary. 

Crowley and Aziraphale have neighboring rooms in the staff quarters but their erratic schedules means that one of them can often be found flirting  hanging-out while the other is working (Aziraphale, has set up a nook in Crowley’s office where he can chat or read until a patient comes along (most patients are happy for him to remain) and Crowley can often be found prattling about this-and-that while Aziraphale is doing food-prep).

  When they’re both miraculously off-duty at the same time they can usually be found by the lake, chatting and feeding the ducks. Or sneaking back into the kitchen after-hours to drink from Aziraphales hidden wine stash. (Crowley can never have too much, being on-call, but he likes to watch how the wine relaxes Aziraphale - how his friend becomes a little less reticent).   

Crowley fell for Aziraphale in the first year. An awful virus had swept through the camp, and Aziraphale had made several visits to the hospital wing, bringing food and coffee to keep Crowley and the nurses going throughout the night. When handed the coffee Crowley had called him “angel” and the nickname had stuck.

Aziraphale fell for Crowley in the second year. They had been having an animated argument about what does and does not constitute “bebop”, Crowley had been gesticulating wildly and his sun-glasses had fallen off his nose, and Aziraphale had stared at him and thought “I love this idiot” and that was that.

The dystopian aspect of this story (which I’ve more or less stolen from Logan’s run) is that they live in a not-too-distant future, where the over-population crisis has been “solved” by enforcing euthanasia of adults at age fifty. Certain professions (including doctors, teachers, research scientists etc..) receive an extra ten years due to skills shortages (when the policy was first implemented many people decided living-their-best-life did not involve 5-10 years of medical school).

At the end of their sixth camp (spurred on by the knowledge he only has one year left before his fiftieth birthday) Aziraphale confesses he’s in love with Crowley. He asks if (“maybe- possibly- do you think, perhaps-”) they could see each-other outside of camp. 

Crowley (who had been operating under the assumption Aziraphale was around forty-five) freaks out and proposes they run away together. Aziraphale refuses. For one thing runners are hunted down and executed along with any accomplices. For another, he doesn’t believe it’s ethical to circumvent the law.

They fight.

At the end of it, exhausted, Aziraphale repeats he’s in love with Crowley, and just wants to spend the time he has left with him.

Crowley (viciously) says he doesn’t see the point in getting attached to someone who will be dead in a year.

Crowley regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, but when he attempts to apologize Aziraphale cuts him off - bidding him farewell and wishing him the best for his future (all without making eye contact).

The camp ends with the two of them devastated, and avoiding each-other.  

A week later Crowley appears at Aziraphale’s restaurant. He shows him a copy of a legal document that indicates he’s traded five years from his permitted life span to Aziraphale. With his extra allotment this gives them another six years together. 

They have a huge row about it, but eventually Aziraphale accepts Crowley’s decision and they move-in together and do their best to make six years feel like six millennia.

[monicawoe]

Supernatural fic masterlist

(updated 9/22/19)

I’ve written over 100 spn fics (ranging from ficlets to 70k big-bangs). Most of them are Sam-centric. The whole collection can be found here on AO3

newest fics:

Thirteen Taps of the Ivory Beak - Death is a transient thing. The bird knows this, because she herself is both alive and not. Her creator made her this way, not by choice but because of who he is. (1k; a companion piece to @denugis​ brilliant fic The Holy Grail Bird , told from the point of view of the bird)

Whosoever Holds - Just when Sam Winchester needs it most, Mjölnir returns to him. But is he really worthy? (2k, gen Sam Winchester, Steve Rogers; MCU/SPN crossover)

The Devil You Knew - Brady, not Azazel, had killed Jessica, all those years ago. And now he was sitting across from Sam, bound. Trapped. (1k; an alternate version of Sam’s confrontation with Brady in 5x20)

Wednesday - It’s Wednesday. It’s always Wednesday, he thinks, as he stands up and leaves the motel room, not sparing a glance at the other bed. (2k, Mystery Spot boyKing!Sam AU)

Last Drop - art by @quickreaver​ -written for the Twisted Tropes event - Sam/Brady AU set while Sam’s at Stanford:  Sam is slowly adjusting to his new life at Stanford University. He’s left his life of hunting behind, and traded it for endless studying and tests, but he’s plagued by dreams of Dean and Dad in danger, dreams of blood and violence. Then he meets Tyson Brady, who’s always there with a smile and a cup of coffee to get Sam through all-nighters. Sam’s dreams start to fade, but just as he’s getting used to a nice normal life, he starts to develop abilities—powers he can’t control. Brady thinks they’re great, but Sam knows power never comes without a cost. (14k, Sam/Brady)

Some other favorites, in no particular order:

Make Angels of Us All - art by @amberdreams1960​  - Sam has a guardian angel. It’s been with him his whole life, trying to keep him safe. The angel gives Sam power he can’t control: power to move things with his mind, power over fire, and wings that nobody else can see—bony and jagged with scaly feathers. Dean says monsters aren't real, but Dad thinks they are. Sam's power scares him, and he’s not always sure what's real, but what he does know is people keep trying to kill the three of them, and he won't let that happen. (~20K, gen)

Burdens, Doublefold - cowritten with @quickreaver​, art by ileliberte What if Dean left Sam at Stanford after the fire, hoping it would keep his little brother safe and make things better? Somehow, 'better' never seems to be in the Winchester Family cards. Sam gets tangled up with his ex-roommate Brady, tracking psychics, but dealing with demons is never honest business. Dean carries on until his father is put in grave danger. He is left on his own to deal, stumbling into Harvelle's Roadhouse for help, where Dean gets just a little more than he bargained for. Eventually, the brothers’ paths twist and turn their way back to each other, but the results could mean the End of Days. (67k, gen, AU of seasons 1-2)

Before the One You Serve When Dean comes to get Sam at Stanford, he finds him living with Brady. And Dean doesn't trust Brady, even though he can't quite put his finger on why. Not at first. (5k, Sam/Brady)

Many more under the cut:

He Who Fights Monsters - cowritten with nwspaprtaxis, art by @quickreaver​ AU of the summer between Seasons 3 and 4. Dean's dead, dragged down kicking and screaming to Hell. Sam's not dealing well. And Ruby’s got her work cut out for her. (52K, Sam/Ruby)

John Winchester is Dead They say those Winchester boys're crazy. Drive around in a big black beast and drink too much and laugh about mean things. They say their daddy's worse, but you never see him. He's just a voice on the other end of the phone or a darker shape in the back seat of their dark car. They say John Winchester died two years ago. (2k, gen, horror)

Breathing, Talking, Dead Man Walking   -  John Doe, male, approximately thirty-seven years old. Subject was found by EMTs in close proximity to the site of a sizable explosion in Lebanon, Kansas. (2k, gen, Sam & Dean)

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea - featuring art by @quickreaver​ When Sam opened Lucifer’s Cage, the only thing he found inside was Lucifer’s grace – his grace. With the return of his grace, Sam remembered his past – his war against the Host, his Fall, and his plans to bring about the End. The thing is…he doesn’t want the Apocalypse anymore. He likes things the way they are, and tries everything to keep his identity a secret- especially from Dean. Of course, the four Horsemen, Hell and Heaven have other ideas. (13K, gen)

The Last Days in the Land of Nod - comic adaptation by @quickreaver​ The year is 2014. The Devil is wearing his finest, the Angel is human, and the Brother protects the survivors at Camp Chitaqua.

The Two Ravens - art by @quickreaver​ Your brother he is, and heir to my throne. He’ll feed on the damned and he'll turn them to bone. (4k; fairy-tale)

Counteroffer About two weeks after Sam gutted a hellhound, completing the first trial, he started acting weird. (5k, psychological horror, gore)

Pattern Recognition: A Hannibal/Supernatural fusion AU  -  Sam and Dean split after River Pass, and their confrontation with the Horseman, War. Since Will’s escape from the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, he and Sam have been in hiding. They have a cabin, in the middle of nowhere, that keeps them off the radar; they find comfort in each other. But they can’t stay off the chessboard forever, especially not when Lucifer, wearing Hannibal Lecter as a vessel, is tearing the world apart around them. (33k, Sam Winchester/Will Graham)

Impala's Run - cowritten with @quickreaver, art by adrenalineshots Sam and Dean Singer (aka Winchester) aren’t your average young Kansas farmers. Their home is very, very far from Kansas, in fact. Many light-years worth of ‘far’. The boys may look human, but certain talents set them apart: Dean speaks the language of machines, and Sam can heal through manipulating energy. Hidden on Earth by their father, their agricultural lifestyle gets rocked when warring alien races discover where they’ve landed, and Sam and Dean are forced to make the run of their lives. (23k, gen)

All Our Wrath and Cutting Beauty - art by @quickreaver - Sam killed Alistair, but not before Alistair reminded Dean of who and what he’d become in Hell. Dean knows Sam can take down Lilith, and he’ll make damn sure Sam gets strong enough to do just that. They’ll stop the Apocalypse – together, no matter how many bodies stack up, or how much blood is spilt.(11k, horror) 

Diary of a Madman -Lydia’s newest patient, Sam Winchester, suffered from hallucinations, delusions, and regular bouts of insomnia. He also thought he was Lucifer. (4k, gen, horror)

Some other bundled links, for your convenience

Demon-blood Sam

King of Hell Sam

Powers!Sam

Horror

Crossovers & Fusion ‘verses

Hannibal|SPN

SPN/Preacher

SPN/Hannibal/MCU

[incandescent-creativity]

Camp NaNo: EVERY EXCERPT

That’s right, folks, every excerpt I posted during the month of April can be found here in this post! There would be thirty of them had I not met my goal early and missed a few days of posting, but there’s at least twenty.

Enjoy!

(Oh, and if you’re new here, this is an angel/demon romance. Summary and WIP Page can be found there!)

Day One: Maluka’s POV

I can tell they’re about to dismiss me, so I take one last chance. “Legion, I have a formal request to submit on top of my report.”

“Is it about your fake angel?” the female guesses, a playful, mocking smile on her lips.

“I didn’t make Olufemi up,” I snap. “What reason would I have to lie about this?”

“To get out of a Focus,” the male supplies, slouching back on the couch.

“We’ve heard a lot of bullshit excuses in our time,” the female adds on.

“Never an angel, though,” the non-binary Legion says, that smirk on their face again.

“Honestly, Mal, you couldn’t think of something a bit more realistic?” the female mocks me.

There’s finally a pause in their weird, back-and-forth way of talking, but I have no idea what I could add to this conversation. The three of them wait for me to say something, pleased half-smiles on all of their faces.

When I can’t come up with anything, the male stands up and dusts his hands off. “Maluka of Wrath, your formal request has been denied.”

Day Two: Olufemi’s POV

Rae and I may comment on how everything is planned, but I’m not sure the Lord’s design ever accommodated demons. I mean, I’m sure it must on some level, but He doesn’t have any omniscience over them or us like He does the humans.

Then again, Mal said something about “focusing” on Nora. So if she was somehow tied or connected to my Guarded, maybe she would be in the grand design.

The real question I have is why.

Why me? Why couldn’t this test be given to an older, more experienced Guardian? Or even one of the original archangels? They would be more qualified to handle a demon than I am. I couldn’t even strike out at it.

But I might get another chance tonight, so I have to be prepared.

Day Three: Maluka

I’m mostly just fucking around, but Olufemi takes the question seriously. “What if we… traded?”

The idea would be hilarious if it wasn’t so stupid. “Oh, that’s a bright idea. You can plant the intrusive thoughts, and I’ll use all the Heavenly connection I don’t have to protect her.”

“I didn’t mean trade places!” Olufemi snaps, and my eyes flash to their hands. They’re not glowing, so I’m not in as much danger as I could be. “I meant… trade information. You tell me what a Focus is, and I’ll tell you… something else.”

For a second, I almost can’t believe it. The angel… is suggesting they hand me all the information I need for my reports? I didn’t have to bring that up by myself?

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit. This is too good to be true. 

Day Four: Olufemi

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” I snap. “For He will not leave you unpunished if you do.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says, laughing at me and ignoring everything I just said. “Leave me unpunished?” she quotes.

I open my mouth to tell her yes, that’s literally what we have been taught, but I’m interrupted by the way Maluka abandons any pretense of laughter. Without warning, her expression drops into something much darker. Glaring at me, she stands up from leaning against a wall and walks toward me.

“Let me tell you something about punishment, angel.” The word is an insult from her mouth. “The very first memory I have is falling through the realms, my wings burning with the aftereffects of the magic that cast me out.

“I don’t even remember what I did to get exiled from Heaven,” she says, fangs poking out over her bottom lip, “but I would do it again, just to see the look on the bastard’s face. So don’t talk to me about punishment, because you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Day Five: Maluka

“Have you ever, like… said something… to someone… that you probably shouldn’t have?”

The smile he gives me is pitying, and I very nearly flip him off. “Oh, sure. I’ve pissed off many a person in my time. And so’ve you, if I recall.”

“I didn’t piss them off,” I criticize, gesturing with the bottle. “I just… it probably wasn’t smart to show my hand so early. You know?”

He waves off another patron, and I know I’ve got his attention. “Show your hand?” he repeats, not letting me look away. “What kind of enemy are you dealing with, Mal?”

Six-foot-five, rich black skin, hair cut close to their skull, lithe fingers that sometimes glow with Heavenly light that’s powering up to burn me to a crisp. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I tell him.

“Uh-huh. You can totally handle it, that’s why you’re sitting here with a half-empty bottle of my vodka in one hand.”

“Fuck you.”

Day Six: Olufemi

“Anyway,” I point out, “I was suggesting you lie, not me.” 

“Me?” she asks, her eyebrows raised high and her hand pressed to her chest in mock misunderstanding. “But Olufemi, I have been nothing but truthful to you this whole time! How could you possibly expect me to lie?”

“Truthful?” I repeat. “What have you been truthful about?”

The mockery slides off her face like water off feathers. “Let’s count, shall we?” she says, back to disdainful. “I told you what a Focus was, and how it worked.” She holds up two fingers.

“That should count as one,” I object.

She ignores me. “I told you about my memories, and how I don’t give a flying fuck about blasphemy.” Okay, that one is true. “And I’ve told you about what will happen if I don’t do my job.”

Waving her now open hand at me, she continues, “So with all of that in mind, I am going to go plant some thoughts so my life doesn’t end up ruined by some liar angel.”

Kissing her middle finger and blowing it towards me, Maluka turns around in the hallway and walks towards Nora’s bedroom.

Day Seven: Maluka

“Uh, hi. Are you done with… whatever you were doing?” I ask, wary of those hands. If they glow again, I’m outta here.

A faint smile lifts one corner of their mouth. “It’s called praying, Maluka,” they tell me, smug and superior. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Oh, duh. Thinking quickly, I reply, “Actually, no. Care to enlighten me?”

I expect them to back off, but Olufemi calls my bluff instead. “Of course. Come and sit down.”

The hundreds of ways this could backfire on me running through my head, I venture into the living room and sit across from an angel.

Day Eight: Olufemi

Glancing over, I notice the Book open to Proverbs. Half of 13:3 is highlighted in pink: but those who speak rashly will come to ruin.

Everything makes sense all at once. Maluka is not an intriguing person with unexpected biblical knowledge, she’s only a deceptive demon who will use anything she learns to her advantage against me.

I almost want to cry. How could I be so stupid? Everything Michael had taught me, I had forgotten everything he ever said. 

Day Nine: Maluka

I’ve never seen their expression stay as cold for as long as it has now. “You have had plenty of opportunities to apologize for arguing and accusing me of being a liar, yet you haven’t. And worse, you’re a hypocrite because you’ve lied to me.”

There is no way I’ll be able to deal with this sort of judgement for a month. Throwing my hands up, I say, “Fine. You win, angel. I apologize.”

Olufemi mirrors my frustrated gesture. “It doesn’t count if it isn’t genuine,” they say.

“It’s completely unrealistic to expect a perfectly genuine apology whenever you decide you want one,” I argue. “You sprang this on me a few minutes ago, and you want me to just roll over and obey you?”

Day Eleven: Olufemi

My point is only proven when I touch down in Nora’s living room and hear a voice coming from down the hall.

Feathers puffing up with anticipation, I call the power of God’s grace into my hands. They start to glow, illuminating the hallway enough for me to see Nora’s door. It’s still shut, which means it isn’t a robber; it’s Maluka.

I’m tempted to burst through the door and scare her, but I resist. It will be more valuable to me to know what she is saying to my Guarded, in order for me to do my job better.

“—it’s just so stupid, you know? Like, how was I supposed to know they wanted an apology. They never said that until they were jumping down my throat for not reading their mind and knowing it automatically. It just feels unfair. 

“Like, I don’t think they know how terrifying that glowing hand shit is, but I still don’t explode on them because they don’t know! And it’s not their fault they don’t know, it’s mine, because I haven’t said anything. You know?”

As expected, Nora says nothing. Which makes sense, as we are in a different realm. And she’s asleep.

I hear Mal sigh. “Ah, I guess it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t be surprised they don’t like me. Everyone around them must be so pure and holy and whatever, that’s all they know.” She laughs for a single second. “I guess I must have come as quite a shock.”

I let the glow die from my hands and walk through the door. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Mal nearly falls off the bed. “What the fuck,” she exclaims, out of breath in her surprise. “You can’t just do that to someone, angel, Jesus. I thought you left.”

Day Thirteen: Olufemi

“Wait, why are you taking notes?” I ask.

“For my reports,” she says, her tone making it obvious I should have realized this.

I push myself up to my feet, wings spreading to counterbalance. “Wait, what? No, I can’t—you can’t put this kind of stuff in reports.”

Incredibly, she actually asks, “Why not?”

I hold up a finger as I list each item. “You file a report. The report gets read. Demons assemble and execute an assault on Heaven, succeeding because they have had insider information. Angelkind falls. Humanity falls.” Putting my hand down, I meet her eyes and finish, “I will not be responsible for all of that.”

Maluka laughs at me, apparently amused by catastrophe. “Damn, angel, paranoid much?” When I don’t respond in favor of maintaining a serious attitude, she sighs. “Nobody reads Focus reports, especially not from someone like me.”

Day Fourteen: Maluka

“So, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you had a good idea.” This catches their attention, eyes darting up to mine. “We trade information, none of it personal, in order to satisfy our mutual curiosity, until the month is up, and we don’t tell our superiors. Deal?”

I stand up, extending my hand like I’ve done so many times before. Olufemi stands from the floor in one fluid motion, and grasps my pale hand in their dark one.

“It’s a deal,” they announce.

My palm starts to itch, and I pull it back in a hurry. You’ve got to be kidding me. Olufemi takes a step back as I take my hand away, but I’m too busy staring at my right palm to bother comforting a nervous ball of feathers.

Ink blooms in a dark spot in the very center of my palm, and travels across my skin to rest on on the inside of my wrist. It solidifies and sharpens into an elongated T shape—one all too familiar.

When I finally look up at Olufemi, a simple cross tattoo is resting on the inside of my wrist.

They are glancing between my face and my wrist, as if unable to comprehend. “What…” they ask slowly, “just happened?”

I let out a sigh as I process that question for myself. “Well, the long and short of it is that you accidentally made a binding magical deal with a demon.”

Day Fifteen: Maluka

“Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Hanael, Camael, and Kepharel.”

The list is too quick for me, so all I end up doing is staring at them. “I’ll be honest,” I say, “I have no idea how to spell most of those.” As if that’s what my problem is, and not the speed at which they fired them at me.

Sighing, Olufemi leans forward with an open hand. “Let me. I’ll even match them to whatever section they lead for you.”

Score. Names and angelic jobs make for a great foundation for the wealth of information I can provide my superiors at the end of the month. Offering a smile, I watch them carefully scribe the names into my page.

Olufemi seems careful to avoid brushing hands with me when they hand the notebook back to me. It’s a tiny detail that might not even be there, but it pisses me off. Do they think they’ll explode on contact if they touch me? I know I’m not any creature of light or whatever they are, but still. It’s insulting.

Day Sixteen: Maluka

“You’re going to have to cross the street,” I tell her, lacing my voice with magic to ensure that she hears it.

In a brilliant moment of a perfectly executed thought, Nora takes it seamlessly and steps off the curb.

In the blink of an eye, Olufemi is in front of her. “You’ll do no such thing.”

But they’re not talking to me. Their eyes are locked on Nora, and their voice is rich with power. Nora stops in her tracks, blinking as if confronted with a bright light. The instant after they stop, a car races through an intersection. It almost looks like it caught some air on that hill.

Nora stumbles back onto the sidewalk, and I let her walk through me so I can face Olufemi.

There’s a lot of things I could say, but the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Where are your wings?”

(later - Olufemi’s POV)

Jutting her chin out at me, Mal says, “I’m not letting you off the hook so easily. You,” she continues, pointing a finger at me, “are stuck with me.”

I bite my tongue until she lowers her hand, smirking and thinking she has won. Only when she leans back on the heels of her boots do I reply.

“Correction, Maluka: I have been stuck with you.” Her expression lowers into one of confusion at the past tense. “From this day on, you will be stuck with me.”

I didn’t expect the threat to land, but when Maluka asks, “How so?” her voice is purely cautious. There is no hint of superiority anywhere—a welcome change.

Opening myself to God’s grace for the second time in an hour, I channel the power into my hands and my eyes. I step forward, and watch Maluka step away from me. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are wide, glancing between my wings held high and my glowing eyes.

“I have tolerated your presence as best I could,” I say, “and allowed you to survive upon the basis that you will not harm my Guarded. Having shown yourself incapable of even that, you will find her now under my full and active protection, specifically against you and your work.”

Straightening my shoulders, I allow my wings to snap open to their full length. They pass through shelves of potted plants, but the effect still causes Maluka to stagger away from me. “Leave now, Maluka of Hell. Return to whence you came, and know that your continued attachment to Nora would be unwise.”

Day Seventeen - Twenty: Maluka

Oh, who am I kidding. Dealing with an insulted archdemon is intimidating in the way that a human dealing with their manager is intimidating; I could lose a lot if it goes badly, and my entire life would be flipped upside down, but I’d probably survive.

A radiantly nuclear Olufemi is an entirely different thing to deal with, if the shaking in my knees is any indication. I don’t even make it home before my legs decide to go on vacation. Without their support, I’m left to stagger to the building corner and drop onto the sidewalk.

~ ~ ~ later… ~ ~ ~ 

After all, I can’t be the only demon in Hell who’s met an angel before, right? I hope not.

I might be the only one who has survived, though. But I may not be able to hold that title for long if I don’t get more information. I was hoping to get information from the angel themself, but I suspect that getting answers from them will be significantly harder in the coming days.

But, if I’m lucky, it won’t be impossible. If I learn something from the demons around me, I might be able to surprise some conversation out of them.

And I’ll only need one conversation to explain how mandatory the inspector is and how I can’t get around it. If this angel can’t appreciate the inescapable responsibility of a Focus, maybe the urgency of an intruder to our fake peace will light a fire under their feathers.

Day Twenty-One: Olufemi

She pouts, but we’ve lived together long enough for me to remain unaffected. “It was just a rumor,” she explains. “He might not even be coming.”

“Raenel,” I say, her voice a short huff of air from my mouth.

“Aw, come on,” she pleads. “You don’t even want to guess? I could give hints.”

I get up and shuffle my wings to loosen them. I have no time for Rae’s festival plans, I have to get to the Pyramid and review the threads of fate. If I’m lucky, I may even be able to peer farther ahead and discover what the festival day has in store. That’s never guaranteed, of course, but—

“Okay, fine,” Rae calls as I reach her doorway. “It’s Michael.”

I freeze. Refusing to turn around, I ask, “Michael? As in, Head of the Council, Archangel of Justice, the First Ascended, leader of the Original Seven? That Michael?”

“Don’t forget your mentor,” she adds. I can’t see her, of course, but her voice is hesitant. There is no pleasure in the delivery of this news. “That seems like an important title, too.”

Having scared her enough, I let a grin grow as I turn on my heel back into her room. “Rae, why didn’t you lead with that? Of course I’ll come to the festival.”

Her wings sag with relief. “Stars, I don’t know! I didn’t want you to get excited and then have him not show up. I mean, what kind of friend would I be if I lied to you?”

Hearing her speak the same question I’ve been asking myself causes a guilty stabbing in my chest, but I endeavor to keep my smile in place. “A terrible one, but that wouldn’t count as a lie. Jerusalem is a long flight, even for one like him.”

Day Twenty-Three: Maluka

Walking the streets of Pride isn’t something I do often, and I hope it doesn’t show.

The atmosphere is completely different from my hometown of Wrath. Gone are the comfortingly dark and dirty streets, replaced by glistening, tidy pavement and extravagant homes. Gone are the sweet smells of sweat and gasoline; the sprawling city of Pride smells clean. Like rubbing alcohol.

The only similarity is the crowded streets. You can’t walk two blocks at home without encountering a fight of some kind, and I can’t take more than a few steps here without bumping into some human gazing over something fancy.

I don’t find someone like me until I’ve been wandering the city for at least an hour. The demon I do find has gathered a crowd of humans, but I can’t tell for what reason. The only thing they’re doing is standing there, behind an empty table.

Day Twenty-Five: Maluka

In the center of the city is home to a skyscraper that isn’t curved or graceful. Instead, it is formed with straight lines and uniform windows. It’s completely symmetrical until three quarters of the way up, where it starts to narrow until it reaches the spike at the top. The whole thing is manufactured from some sort of dark steel, giving the whole thing a cold, grey look.

Lucy’s tower. Luckily, not my destination today. Turning my head and tilting my body, I manage to veer right and start looking for the columnar structure of the Archive.

When I spot the blinding white stone of the domed building, it looks deserted. Obviously no humans can get to it, but even the demons who can cross the magical wards aren’t on the grounds. Weird.

I very nearly fall onto my knees when I land, but I manage to run forward and catch myself. There’s one benefit to nobody being around. Carrying on as if nothing has happened, I walk up to the building with my shirt gone and my wings out.

Trying to maintain confidence despite my look, I knock on the door.

A window slides open, and a demon with the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen pokes her head out.

“Can I help you?”

Ignoring the way she looks me over, I run a hand through my hair and say, “Yes, I’m looking for any information you have on angels.”

“Angels?” she repeats, unimpressed.

“Specifically how anybody has survived encounters, and anything you have on their weaknesses,” I clarify.

This doesn’t impress her any more than I already have. “And who is asking for this information?”

“Just a curious citizen of Wrath,” I answer. No way I’m going to give her my name. If they want to trace me, they’ll have to go to the Legion first. Who will probably be able to connect the dots between a request about angels and the Focused demon who was just talking about angels, but at least it will be an extra step.

Evidently, my answer doesn’t pass. “We have no such information here,” the archivist says shortly. “Please do not come again.”

The window slides shut, and I’m left standing alone out in front of the Archive with no answers and no plan.

Dang, did you really read all of those? You’re awesome!

If you’d like to see more, I’ll provide these again: Summary / WIP Page / Comic Sans Presentation

And my inbox is always open if you’d like to come and chat or ask stuff!

[katychan666]

The Smol Angel

''Saaaaam,'' came a particularly annoying whine from Sam's right and as he was typing on his computer and he slowly looked up, arching an eyebrow.

''Yes?'' asked Sam, but as Gabriel didn't say anything, Sam rolled his eyes and then decided to get back to it. It seemed that Gabriel was in the mood to fuck around again and Sam was pretty used to it. However, he wasn't falling for it and he'd try his best to ignore the angel. After all he had years of experiences on how to deal with Gabriel, so he got this.

“Sammy!” was another whine and the hunter didn’t even budge this time. With a pout, Gabriel sat up and crossed his arms on top of his chest and glared at his boyfriend, who was now paying more attention the computer now. Gabriel swore revenge on it; Sam always liked his laptop better than him and he was then sulking. “Sam-o!” tried Gabriel again.

“Not in the mood,” said Sam absently and Gabriel clicked with his tongue.

“Samshine, come on!” said Gabriel. At the nickname, Sam’s fingers twitched a bit and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. Sam wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he quite liked it all of the different nicknames Gabriel could come up for him. His boyfriend was pretty creative, clearing his throat as he went back to ‘’working’’. However, the fact that he was flustered didn’t go unnoticed from Gabriel’s eyes and he snickered.

“Maybe later,” replied Sam.

“Samsquach, you should really pay more attention to me,” said Gabriel. “After all I am the archangel,” he then said and then slowly crawled to the edge of the bed and Sam only shook his head.

“Does it hurt your back to kiss your own ass like this?” asked Sam with a grim expression and Gabriel hummed.

“Well I am pretty flexible, but I suppose you know all about that, don’t you, kiddo?” asked Gabriel and waggled his eyebrows and Sam grumbled under his breath, the flush intensifying. “So, Shnookums,” said Gabriel and Sam finally snapped, turning around.

“What’s with all of the weird nicknames, Gabe?” asked Sam as he wanted to know what the hell the angel was on about.

“I just realised we don’t have any pet names for each other,” said Gabriel. “So I decided to give it a try, my honeybun,” he then added and chuckled when he saw how done Sam looked like. He had his trade-marked bitch face on now and Gabriel tried his best not to laugh.

“Can you please quit it and-”

“Don’t be a grumpy Moose,” said Gabriel, who was having far too much time and Sam slammed his laptop shut. “Ready to pay more attention to me now, my lollipop?” asked Gabriel and Sam had to laugh at that.

“Lollipop? Really?”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I just wanna lick you all up,” explained Gabriel and Sam looked up at the ceiling. This was unbelievable.

“How am I still dating you?” asked Sam himself, but Gabriel heard it and he had an answer for that as well.

“Well, because I’m adorable and badass, you see,” said Gabriel. “And I have these,” said Gabriel, extending out his beautiful golden wings and Sam choked on his breath. It was really a low move from Gabriel. He knewthey were his weakness and Sam pressed his lips together. “You really do bring real meaning to wing-kink, I mean-”

“Stop talking,” said Sam.

“Fine, my cookie and-”

“Oh for the love of-”

“I don’t really get what’s your problem, Samwise,” said Gabriel and fluttered with his wings on purpose, gently smacking Sam’s cheek with one of them and the hunter sighed. “Sweetie, you should relax more,” said Gabriel and Sam had it enough with the cheesy pet names. However, he was Sam fucking Winchester and he wasn’t going down without a fight. So, he knew just what to do or say to give Gabriel a taste of his own medicine.

“I think you’re right, maybe pet names would be kind of cute,” said Sam and Gabriel narrowed his eyes. They would? For real? “So, my little lemon drop,” said Sam and stood up, walking over the bed, where Gabriel was sitting. At little Gabriel quickly stood up and glared at Sam. Now his big ego was hurt, because he was notlittle, okay?!

“I’m not little,” grumbled Gabriel and Sam arched an eyebrow.

“Aw you’re adorable when you get angry,” said Sam and gently patted Gabriel’s head, ruffling his hair. “Little ball of anger and fury,” he then said, still patting his head and Gabriel quickly shoved his hand away.

“You take that back, you giant!”

“Why don’t you come up here and make me,” said Sam, softly laughing when he saw how red Gabriel’s face was. Yes, it was what happened when someone would insult Gabriel’s height. Quite honestly, Sam was the only one who dared to go there and wasn’t afraid.

“I’ll kick you in the shin and I’ll make sure it’ll hurt,” grumbled Gabriel, his wings angrily flapping and Sam was laughing even louder.

“Oh, you’re so cute and smol,” said Sam and gently pinched one of Gabriel’s cheeks.

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“Maybe later,” said Sam back.

“I’ll fight you,” said Gabriel, still bitching away and Sam was softly laughing. Oh, this was so much fun, but because he didn’t want Gabriel to put a curse on him for real, in the end, he just stepped closer to him and wrapped his arms around him. Gabriel was still grumbling away, hissing like an angry kitten in Sam’s arms, but then Sam kissed his forehead and he calmed down. Somehow. Gabriel’s wings went around Sam, who then started laughing when he saw the offended expression on Gabriel’s face. “What was that? You were really mean just now,” said Gabriel with a pout.

“And you were annoying,” said Sam, folding his arms on top of his chest.

“Yes, but in an adorable way,” explained Gabriel.

“Ah,” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Gabriel, Sam kissing the pout from his lips away and in the end, Gabriel just sighed, anger slowly slipping away. “You’re just lucky that I love you, or you’d be nothing but a pile of ashes now,” said Gabriel and Sam held back his laughter then. So, he was still angry and Sam just found him adorable, not intimidating at all. Like he said, like a little kitten, hissing and scowling.

“Yes, yes… you’re one big scary archangel,” said Sam sarcastically.

“Damn right I am,” said Gabriel, happy with that.

Gabriel got a taste of his own medicine after that and stopped getting on Sam’s nerves… for that day. However, if he would ever start to bring up any weird pet names, Sam always attacked back with the word little. In the end, Gabriel realised that it was probably for the best they didn’t have any pet names for each other.

[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 14:  No Refunds or Exchanges

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13

Series masterpost

On AO3

Well, it’s all well and good to be hopeful.  Hope is the first step to solving your problems.  But unfortunately, the second step is usually some variation of actually doing something to solve your problem, avenues for which Crowley had precisely zero available.  

Crowley spent a good amount of time slithering forward in search of a way out of the Pit.  Then he had a good session of sniffing about and investigating, then a spate of time spent roving and wandering.

He had heat pits as a snake, of course, but they weren’t helpful.  The entire place was hot, glowing in his UV vision like a blazing supernova.  He had to turn it off after a while to avoid the sensory overload.

His tongue flicking out and tasting the air provided an overwhelming array of scents, all jumbled up on one another, an unread story with a thousand layers on top of one another like a hellish lasagna.  He occasionally caught scent of someone nearby, sensing a shift in the air, the vibration of footsteps against his scaly belly, snaking towards it in a predatory way, but unable to reach anyone before they ran off. He called out for them to wait, always, but they never did.  They moved at the edges of his periphery like the ghosts of timid rodents.

Crowley coiled up, considering changing back into his human form.  The forked tongue was useful for now, and there was something comforting about being in his original shape.

The soft tmp tmp tmp of footsteps sounded in the pitch-black.

“Hello?” said Crowley, periscoping up.  “Don’t run away!  Please!”

There was suddenly a bright light, the light of the innermost layer of Hell.  Crowley would have slammed his eyes shut had he had eyelids.

He felt a hand on him, clamping on his neck, and dragging him out.

The light of Hell’s throne room felt like the piercing brightness of Heaven after the darkness of the Pit; it took several moments for Crowley’s vision to adjust so he could see:

Satan was holding him, his coils looped around the length of her arm and squeezing as a panicked reflex.  Behind her was the archdemon Vycra; her face bore a gnarly set of fresh talon marks, and she looked chastised and cowed.

Crowley stood statue-still like a panicked deer as Satan lifted him up to meet his eyes.  “What’s so special about you?” she demanded.

He flicked his tongue out.

“You must know something,” said Satan.  “Some information they need.  Or some ability you’ve kept hidden from me.  Whatever it is, they can’t want you for anything good.”

Crowley’s muscular coils slid along her arm, pulsing with enough force to crush lesser beings to death.  He let out a hiss like a tea kettle.

“Maybe if you tell me, things will go a lot easier for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Crowley croaked.

“Someone wants you very, very badly,” she said.  “And I can’t imagine why.  But I intend to find out.”

********************************************

The group dawdled and bickered about what their next step should be while they waited to be contacted again by Hell.  Which finally happened about an hour later, a message to tell them to meet Satan in the same spot as before, at sunrise the next morning.

The delay was unnerving.  Their precious time in this universe before having to return was burning up.  Three days and two nights it had been, and at sunup when Satan wanted to meet they would begin eating into their third day. They were due back at 7PM, which meant that, if anything in this trade-off went wrong, they would only have about 12 hours to scrape up some alternate plan.

They sent down to Hell a very polite request to meet earlier, which was summarily and unambiguously rejected.

So they flocked together in the eaves of the church like bats huddled up, trying to get some anxious rest while they prepared themselves.

Uriel kept the Book of Life cradled in her wings.  Aziraphale caught her in the middle of the night reading it; it was open to Lucifer’s page, and she caressed it gently, as though comforting a lost loved one.

The morning of the third and final day in this universe came soon enough.

They had decided Aziraphale should appear again, but the previous encounter with Vycra made them hesitant to risk Aziraphale’s physical safety in the same way, so at least one of the higher-ranking members of the group would go with him.

If they all stood there waiting for Satan to show up, they figured Satan would probably suspect (rightly) that it was a trap, get suspicious, and call it off.  Seeing Uriel and Victoria would be a tip off that something very strange was happening and would probably shift the focus of the meeting towards the fact that their un-fallen doppelgangers somehow existed, and who knew how they would react to that?

Again, they were caught up in the unpredictability….They would have been able to have some kind of idea what to expect in their home universe, but this Satan was new, a different animal entirely.  And they had to figure out how to outsmart her, to double-cross and walk away with both Crowley and the Book of Life, unless they wanted to let this universe burn down behind them when they left.

But how to finagle it so they had the upper hand?  What if Satan brought four archdemons with her and matched their firepower?  What if this meeting turned into a battle?  What if she concocted up a way to thwart their attempts to keep both Crowley and the Book of Life, or worse, keep them both herself?  What if she got wind it was a trap and slaughtered Crowley before they could get him?

That led Aziraphale to visions of his beloved being slain as a consequence of their attempts to play dirty, and it sent spikes of anxiety through him. He was tempted to actually give over the Book of Life and let this universe fall to ruin as long as it meant he would get Crowley back safely.

But the others wouldn’t let him, because they at least had some sense of propriety remaining, and he was shocked to discover that was probably the only thing holding him back from such a selfish action.

They eventually decided it had to be Maltha to stand by Aziraphale and assure his safety.  It couldn’t be Victoria or Uriel, and Mykas would probably be troublesome as well. They decided the best course of action would be to mask Maltha’s aura with the angel dust spell.  This would obscure her identity and make it difficult to tell if she was an angel or a demon.  This would likely be better than being up-front about a demon and an angel working together, because that kind of thing was still scandalous and unheard of in this place, and the revelation would, again, draw an unpredictable response from Satan.

All they had to do was get Crowley close enough that they could grab him. Aziraphale would have the Book of Life, and Maltha would be next to him.  They would say whatever outlandish thing they had to in order to get Crowley within snatching distance.  Aziraphale would drop the Book, grab Crowley, and Maltha would fend off any resistance until Mykas, Victoria, Uriel, and Ramial arrived for backup.

They would, they assumed, be able to overpower Satan and whoever she brought as backup.  That was a big assumption.  And they only had to grab Crowley and the Book and then run away; they didn’t have to win the battle, just hold their own. It might, just might work.

Creating the angel dust for Maltha unfortunately required quite a good deal of feathers, which were taken from Aziraphale, Ramial, Victoria, and Uriel. Maltha healed the poor plucked sods because they had taken so many feathers it was doubtful they would be able to fly, but it was still a quite unpleasant experience.

They didn’t have all the ingredients they would need to make the drinkable version of the spell, so they hastily put together the dust version and sprinkled it on her.  They ended up needing to go back and make more, and even then it just barely covered her entirely.  The sun was rising by the time they finished and got into position.

The dead grass crunched under their feet as they took up position, the exact same place Aziraphale had stood last time.  The others were far enough away to not be felt, to preserve the element of surprise, and it unnerved Aziraphale that their backup was so far away.

But he had seen how fast Mykas was capable of moving.  And he had Maltha by his side now, and frankly, Aziraphale had been pretty thoroughly convinced by now of Maltha’s ability to get away with pretty much whatever she wanted, even moreso than him.  Aziraphale and Maltha both had flare guns, which they would set off to let the others know to rush over.

So there Aziraphale stood, the hefty Book of Life in his arms, with Maltha and her masked aura hovering behind his shoulder.  He didn’t dare pray; he didn’t know what might happen.

A towering inferno of flames and billowing white smoke erupted in the distance, and winged figures could be seen in the flames.

“Here we go,” said Maltha.

Leading the way was Vycra, bearing fresh wounds on her face, likely the result of talking back earlier.  Behind her, snuffling across the dry bracken was this universe’s version of the archdemon Mykas, a bearish figure crisscrossed with scars and looking incapable of more than the most bestial instincts.  A chain around his neck led to the hand of—

Satan.  She had a skeletal frame and awful, terrible wings full of eyes.  And in the other hand she held a sack, which writhed faintly.

Aziraphale eyed the sack hungrily, desperate.  He knew what was in it.  Despite the circumstances, he managed a small laugh.  “They just brought him in a pillow case.”

Satan stopped within shouting distance, Mykas on her right, Vycra to her left.  Satan, and two archdemons.  They might be able to win, if the others could get here quickly enough.  A sneer crossed Satan’s face.  “And who exactly might this be, principality?”

“An escort to ensure you play fair,” said Aziraphale darkly.  “Considering what you tried to pull last time.”

Satan’s faced crunched into hatred.  “What kind of angel is this?  What’s wrong with her aura?”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Aziraphale.  “Do you have him?”

Satan reached into the bag and pulled out a black and red snake, hand firmly behind his jaw and out of biting distance.  She dropped the sack and held him up, his thick body coiling around her arm.

The panic in his eyes and frantic movements of his serpentine body broke Aziraphale’s heart.  Crowley writhed and made eye contact with Aziraphale.  Still, he trembled.

Aziraphale thought that he needed a way to signal to Crowley that this was his Aziraphale, not the other one who had tried to kill him.  So he very subtly spread his fingers, lifting his ring-finger up slightly to draw Crowley’s attention to the golden band there.

Crowley’s eyes wheeled about in his head, and he snapped at Satan, trying to bite her hand.  It was unfortunately a futile gesture, but the renewed attempts at escape made Aziraphale think Crowley had gotten the message.

“This creature is what you want, isn’t it?” said Satan.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.  “Let him go.”

“Not yet,” said Satan.  Crowley’s sides heaved, expelling a fearsome hiss.  “First, I demand an explanation.  Something very strange is going on.  Who is this ‘archangel’ next to you, and for what purpose do you demand this demon, that you would trade Heaven’s most holy artifact for him?”

Maltha’s hand grabbed the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, and it was only then that he realised he had started forward to pummel Satan’s face in.  “Patience,” Maltha hissed.

“That is none of your concern,” Aziraphale yelled.  “You agreed to the trade, now let’s trade.”

All she had to do was put Crowley down, Aziraphale thought.  Just put him down, and he could slither far enough away for them to reach him before Satan could retrieve him.  As it was, she had a death grip on him, and there was no way to snatch him without risking retaliation.

Just put him down.

“Put him down,” Aziraphale said.  “And we’ll get on with it.”

Satan narrowed her eyes at him.

Vycra drew her sword, laying it across Crowley’s neck.  “Let me rephrase this,” said Satan.  “This demon must be of some considerable value to you, and I stand to lose nothing.  So if you wish to re—”

She was interrupted by an ear-splitting blast from a horn, and all heads looked up to see the sky parting, Heavenly warriors pouring out, led by Kris.

Maltha hissed.  From Satan’s side, Mykas barked and snarled viciously.

“Villain!” Kris’s voice boomed.  “I knew you were up to no good.  You intend to hand the Book of Life over to the Adversary.”

“I knew this was a trap,” Satan shrieked.  “Vycra, take him back down.  They won’t trick us out of our leverage so easily.”

This was the point at which Aziraphale dropped the Book of Life, which landed with an Earth-shaking thud to the gasps of all present, and sprinted with all his force to bridge the gap between them.  He had killed Satan once, and he was prepared to do it again, and now that he had Crowley in his sight he wouldn’t let him out of it again for anything.

The sky disgorged an impressive amount of angels.  Maltha set off the signal for their reinforcements to come and snatched the Book of Life of the ground.  Satan dropped Mykas’s chain, releasing him.  Aziraphale pumped his wings and rocketed at Satan, who was handing Crowley to Vycra.

Aziraphale drew his sword.

Vycra also drew hers.

Aziraphale’s lunge at Satan was easily deflected with a sneer and a wave of her arm, sending him careening into Vycra and landing heavily at her feet.

Vycra lifted her sword to ram Aziraphale through.

This diverted her attention away from the serpent in her hand, briefly, just long enough for him to twist and spit venom in her face.

It splattered on her cheek and hit her left eye.  She recoiled, screaming, but she dropped her sword instead of Crowley.  Whatever damnable reflex was responsible for it, she dropped her sword instead of him, holding onto him like her life depended on it.

Aziraphale stood to try and wrestle Crowley off of her, but she kicked him square in the chest and flung him back.  Crowley erupted into a stream of hisses, flicking venom everywhere, but she had pointed him away from her face by this point.

“I told you to take him and go,” Satan growled.

Vycra’s gaze—one good eye, one swamped with black, crawling venom—went from Satan to Aziraphale, then she turned and spread her wings.

“No!” Aziraphale shouted.

Vycra kicked off into the air, Crowley still coiled around her arm, zigzagging around the descending heavenly forces and veering out of their path. Aziraphale leapt up to follow, unsuccessfully trying to grab onto her ankles before she got out of reach.

Vycra was a much stronger flier than he was, and it was obvious from the moment she took off he wouldn’t be able to catch up to her, but that didn’t stop him from trying.  She rocketed up into a cloud bank out of sight, and Aziraphale followed, breaking through the mist.  The sounds of the freshly started battle below faded with distance.

Aziraphale exited the cloud into an empty sky, panting and wheeling around to try and find them.  There. He spotted the archdemon diving towards the ground, where a portal to the underworld had opened up to admit her.

“No you don’t!” said Aziraphale.  He tucked in his wings and dived.  He could faintly see the serpentine figure in Vycra’s grasp writhing and struggling as they plummeted.

The portal swallowed Vycra up.

Please, Aziraphale thought, stay open just two seconds longer.

It had begun to close by the time Aziraphale reached it, but he was able to tuck and roll to fit through it.

He hit something hard and felt his nose break, his vision filled with white blurs as he tumbled over.  He finally lay motionless on the ground for a moment, his head ringing, then sat up as quickly as he could, vision spinning.

He had made it through the portal, all right, into the infernal dimension, but he hadn’t made it past the gate.  In front of him loomed a massive white stone door patterned with an eye set into a cave wall, firmly closed.  The blood smear on it told Aziraphale he had collided face-first into it.

He wiped the blood with his sleeve, springing to his feet.  Vycra must have gone inside already, somehow. Aziraphale marched around, but the little antechamber was empty, and there was nowhere they could be hiding.

Aziraphale’s heart sank as his brain began to process the fact that he had failed.  He jogged around, looking vainly for some sign that he was wrong, but the only logical conclusion was that Vycra had gone in and someone had managed to close the gate with impeccable timing to lock him out.

He marched up to the door, huffing, and knocked on it.  The eye on the door shifted to look at him.

“Let me in!” he demanded.

The eye blinked.

“I demand you let me in.”

“No,” said a voice, and the eye closed.

Aziraphale beat at the gate and yelled till he was hoarse.  Then, he sunk dejectedly down into a siting position with his back against the gate.

Now this was a predicament, wasn’t it?  What was there left to do?  They were basically back to square one.  Aziraphale’s instinct was to march in and resort to force….but he couldn’t very well do that alone.  Could he?

Tears sprung to his eyes.

No, he couldn’t even get past the gates.  He had failed.  He was a failure.

Wait a minute.  Crowley was still in danger, and Aziraphale was sitting around crying?  When had that ever accomplished anything?  There would be time to feel miserable later.  For now, he had to put his anger aside and act smartly…something he hadn’t traditionally been very good at.

The first step would be to regroup…Except he had left the rest of his party in the middle of a huge battle with Heaven.  His mouth felt dry thinking about it.  Maybe there wouldn’t be anyone else to help him when he got back.

Surely they all had good enough survival instincts to get out of there alive?

Yes.  He had to trust them.  Now he just had to regroup with them.

Except…

This Hell did not have a static exit like the Hell in their home universe had. The antechamber he found himself in was just a smooth unbroken cave.  The only exit was the stone door behind him, which remained firmly shut.

“Oh bugger,” he said.

The only way to leave must be through the same kind of magic used to access it in the first place.  Aziraphale patted his pockets, trying to gauge whether or not he had the spell ingredients necessary to concoct such a ritual.

He thought again about the Heavenly armies pouring down onto Satan’s head. No way Hell would win that fight. Satan would probably be retreating soon, so he’d better hurry before she showed up.

Unless…?  Maybe he could hide and then when the gates opened, sneak in?  That seemed incredibly dangerous, and very foolish.  Maltha, or Mykas, or even Uriel would probably be able to figure out a way to get through the gates; the opportunity to get in wasn’t so rare he needed to risk going in alone.

He got out a piece of chalk and started drawing a circle he supposed might get him back up to Earth.  He laid out the ingredients in his pockets and frowned as he noticed he was short on the prerequisite amount of sulfur needed. Best to try it anyway.

Aziraphale mixed everything together and laid it out, lighting the candles and saying the incantation.  The candles fizzled out, but nothing happened.

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale.

A portal zoomed open in the wall.

“Ah, there we go,” said Aziraphale, paying no mind to the fact that it decidedly hadn’t come from his spell.

Maltha’s head peeked in.  She had a volley of fresh claw marks scored down her face and leading into her neck. “Aziraphale,” she hissed.  “Get out here.  Satan is coming.”

“Is everyone else here too?” said Aziraphale.  “They must’ve gotten not too far, I was thinking we could—”

“She called for reinforcements,” Maltha said tightly.  “You will die.  Get the fuck out here.”

Aziraphale, chastised, stepped out without further argument.

Maltha grabbed his belt to haul him out faster.  He found himself on the roof of the church they had convened at earlier.  The portal to Hell closed behind him.

In the distance, where the sky had been rent to produce Heaven’s armies, the two forces could be seen retreating to their respective strongholds. Satan’s escort had swelled to include an arm of cavalry mounted on Hellhorses, and Azirpahale could sense the presence of at least three archdemons that definitely hadn’t been there before.  The fiery hooves of the horses and the miscellaneous flames on the infantry glowed faintly in the darkness of the black gate swallowing them up.

Maltha was right, Aziraphale would have been trampled.  He tugged at his collar, sweating.  He looked to Maltha, who had plopped herself down tiredly on the roof shingles.  Besides the injury on her face, it looked like most of the feathers on her right wing had been torn off, as well as a few injuries to her arms and torso that had been partially healed.

He looked around.  Mykas was lying out, whining faintly under a crisscross of lacerations from holy weapons on his snout and all over his body.  Victoria had lost her left arm, which had been lopped off just above the elbow and cauterised with infernal fire, by the looks of it.  Poor Ramial was sitting on a pipe with a leg injury that looked like it would make her unable to stand.

Only Uriel, sitting on the edge of the roof with the Book of Life on her lap, was uninjured.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked.

“They weren’t quite sure what to make of us,” said Victoria with a pained smile. “So we got attacked by both sides.”

Aziraphale sat down heavily, his head in his hands.

“I don’t suppose you managed to catch up to Vycra?” said Uriel.

“No, of course I didn’t,” Aziraphale snapped.  “Don’t be stupid.”

Uriel turned red.

“I see you managed to get away with your precious Book, though,” Aziraphale fumed.  “For all the good it does us.”

“Aziraphale, I gave the Book of Life to Uriel and told her to run to keep Heaven from getting it again,” said Maltha.  “It’s our best leverage over Satan right now.  She still clearly wants it.”

She was right, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale had to be polite.  He glowered without apologising.

“All right,” said Victoria, still breathing heavily.  “So that was a failure.  But we all made it out alive, and we’ve still got the Book, and there’s still time.  We’ve got…” She struggled to count on her fingers with only one hand.  “…eight hours left.”

“Eight hours…”  Aziraphale grappled with a hard dilemma:  if the time came and went, would he go back home and try to think of an alternate plan? …Or would he stay here in this universe, even if it meant being trapped, to try and get Crowley back?

Maltha exhaustedly leaned onto a gargoyle for support, running her hands up and down her injuries.  “All right. There’s no way around it.  I was really hoping there was, but there isn’t. The time for clever plans and bargaining is over.  We have to stop pissing around.”

“Full-frontal assault,” said Mykas.

Victoria nodded.  “Then let’s go.”