A/N – Diverges from Supernatural canon after s5e01. Sherlock is somewhere between Hounds and Moriarty, and Doctor Who is between s6e11 and e13. Enjoy!

Near London

July 1983

When he manifests himself on Earth, Azazel doesn't waste any time. He's not picky about his meat suits. It hurts, dragging the dark smoke of his incorporeal form through the fire and the night and into the hard shining physical world, and the moment he appears he pounces. The man – middle-aged, muscular, short greying hair – doesn't notice a thing amiss before Azazel is down his throat and into his mind. He takes a moment, sparking synapses, stretching limbs, exploring neural networks and complex, fragile tissues. Human bodies are such complicated things, and he's been Downstairs for so long that he's out of practice. He's quietly impressed by the struggle the man puts up, bawling and raging in a corner of the subconscious, battering vainly at Azazel's defences. He listens for a brief interval, amused, before burning the remnants of the man's personality out of his brain. If all goes to plan, he'll be on Earth for a good while. He'll need a reliable, docile vehicle.

Ah, yes. The plan. Whose plan, he isn't certain. Above his pay grade, and that's saying something. Demons, for all their chaos and hatred, set a lot of store by rank. Nevertheless, Azazel can't help feeling misgivings. There's something big here. Tonight's little drama is only a part of it, a single element of a far older and infinitely more intricate strategy. It's beyond Azazel's comprehension, and it makes him uncomfortable.

But orders are orders, he reminds himself. And he really doesn't want to find himself on the eternal torment list. So he finds the little pocket of space where he stashed the knife and the hip flask, and untwists reality just enough to allow him to reach in without simultaneously stretching and compressing the matter of his meat suit to an infinite degree. Physical bodies do have their disadvantages.

The hole closes with a somewhat incongruous popping sound, and the knife and flask are in his hands. Azazel allows himself to enjoy the sensations: the deep crackling hum of Enochian warding magic; the minuscule crystalline grain of the metal; the lingering smell of sulphur and ozone. Humans really don't know how lucky they are...

Azazel focuses. Things to do. Worlds to change.

His first stop is in England, a manor house in the country quite close to London. A child's bedroom. All dark wood panelling and antique furniture. It has an austere, unfriendly feel to it, not what one might expect of a baby's room. Not that Azazel has any idea, of course.

He crosses the room and stands over the baby in its cot, something predatory in his gaze and stance. The creature is small and thin-boned, with pale eyes and a few strands of dark hair. It stirs and whimpers as it becomes aware of Azazel's presence. He holds the flask gingerly, as if the contents might burn him. Who knows? Nothing remotely like this has ever been attempted.

Azazel unscrews the cap and tilts the flask slightly. The Enochian symbols flare up blue. A single drop of blood swells and shivers, about to fall.

Outside, clear and sharp to the demon's keen senses, there's a scrape and a low curse. Azazel goes very still, before turning and prowling over to the window. He throws it wide and leans out into the night air. He looks left and right, across the lawn. His gaze skates over... something, a space that doesn't want to be seen or noticed.

And the next moment, he's forgotten it completely.

Azazel frowns. Something niggling, an itch in his meat suit's primitive mind. He's missing something. Something important. It's not a good feeling. He shifts slightly, thinking of hunters. They'll have moved on since his last visit to this cold rock, back in the 1800s. Samuel Colt. That hadn't been a pleasant encounter.

The demon jerks his head impatiently and switches his attention back to the task at hand. No more interruptions. Get the job done. He strides back to the cot, to the baby. The weapon, one day. He watches it for a moment, then – finally – lets a few drops of blood from the flask fall. The Enochian symbols blaze, protecting him from the Grace still lingering in the blood. A small pointed tongue comes out and licks at the dark sticky liquid. Azazel is almost surprised – he had been expecting... a flare of white light, or fire, or something. But the baby shifts slightly and slips into a deeper sleep, angel blood congealing at the corner of its mouth. Angel blood. Whose idea had that been anyway?

Almost done. Azazel seals the flask and tucks it away inside his meat suit's jacket, before producing the knife. He nicks his inside forearm with the blade and lets a trickle of his own blood fall, thick with darkness roiling like smoke. The baby screws up its face at the unpleasant taste, but laps the stuff up anyway.

Azazel nods with satisfaction and, to any human observer, simply vanishes. A watcher with keener senses would have seen huge wings of pure shadow unfurl and beat. Both demons and angels have wings and use them, although they exist on a plane of reality incomprehensible to all but the most powerful of creatures. So angels and demons do fly, but in the mundane dimension visible to humans, they simply appear and disappear with a flutter of unseen wings.

Azazel leaves. Next stop: Lawrence, Kansas.

A/N – This was a bit short, I know... later chapters will be longer, I promise. Reviews are love?