Title: old and new horizons to presume
Summary: Michael may be the good son but Raphael is the good brother
Rating: PG-13
Notes: My theory regarding season 6; this has got to be the oddest combination of characters I've ever written. No, I did not roll a die though it would make more sense if I had wouldn't it?
Characters: Raphael, Crowley
Disclaimer: Borrowing Kripke's boys again, don't worry I'll give them back... someday –shifty eyed–
Warning: Spoilers up to 6x07
Word count: 700+
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Raphael manifests in a roll of thunder, his grace splitting particles and permeating the air with the smell of ozone. He is dressed in his battle armor, chains of interlocking silver and chrome titanium woven into his flesh. There is a splash of blood on his metal-clad toes and a hint of bone on his swarthy face.
Crowley pours himself a glass of scotch, perfectly unimpressed. He sips a dry mouthful of amber before engaging in a staring contest with the angel of the lord. He looks away first, his eyes flashing colors of coal braziers.
"An Archangel at my humble abode," he mocks, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Fergus McLeod?"
"Please," Crowley smiles, all teeth. He sets his glass down and leans against the heavy oak table. "Crowley if you don't mind."
Raphael stares at him searchingly then snorts in disdain.
"We require certain services of you."
"Sorry mate, but you're not my type." At the angel's blank look he reiterates. "I don't make deals with overzealous twats with wings." He turns to make his escape, abandon his meat suit if he absolutely has to. But he finds himself unable to take another step, the stark lines of a devil's trap eating its way through the walls, his Persian rug and the ceiling. "Oy! Do you have any idea how much that cost?"
At their master's anger, the hell hounds pour into the study, pale-eyed and bristling. Their tongues hang out obscenely, their nostrils flaring in eager burst of air. These, Raphael destroy with a touch and a thought, their hairless hides splintering into powdered glass. "My dogs!"
"Abomination" Raphael pronounces grimly, rubbing his fingers together as though he had touched something dirty.
"You!" Crowley swears, forgetting himself in the eyes of the Archangel. "Are a particular bastard."
The angel opens his wings, the pearly gray of his primaries extending past the very roof. With a breath, he sucks out all the oxygen in the room and Crowley falls to his knees, his lips turning blue. Only when the demon soundlessly begs for him to stop does the air return, time flowing once more as the demon collects himself, properly quelled. "And what," he rasps, "would Archangel Raphael want from me?"
Raphael replies tactless—"Lucifer"
Crowley stares at him in disbelief.
"You're joking. I helped to ice the devil, he wants my buggered arse on a silver plate. What makes you think I plan on letting him free any time soon?"
Crowley chokes on his words. Raphael presses a palm over his receding hairline, light erupting from where they touch skin to skin. He can feel his body sizzling, burning like an overcooked sausage over a hot frying pan. He lets out a whine, unable to move. The Archangel has an expression of smug satisfaction on his face.
"Because," he rumbles, each syllable rocking his bones. "What I can do to you is far worse that what my brother and his limited imagination will. You, Fergus McLeod, is a tainted, destitute filth, unworthy of standing in my presence. But you are a soul, still capable of redemption. I can absolve your sins one by one and piece you back together in my image—and no one shall know greater torment than you." Crowley shivers, his blood boiling to steam beneath the Archangel's hand.
"You're asking for the impossible. Even if you could drag the righteous man back to hell, Lilith is. still. dead."
Raphael lets go and Crowley falls against his desk.
"No, not dead for your kind can never truly die."
"Purgatory" he says flatly.
The angel gives him a single nod.
"Do us this service and we will reward you beyond your imagination."
"Fat good that'll do if Lucifer lops my bloody head off." The demon snarks, his fingers curling into the frayed edges of his fifty-thousand dollar rug. Raphael drops something in his lap and he picks it up tentatively, expecting it to blow up or at the very least, burn his eyes out. "What's this?"
"The Vine of Sodom which bears a bitter fruit; and a cotton rope which can bind anything to its holder."
"You're off your rocker if you think this is going to work." Crowley says, passionately resentful. "And when the world burns down your ears, what will daddy say?"
"God does not care."
Crowley shrinks back, the angel's voice like a crack of lightning.
"Do not mistake me demon, I do this for my brothers. Apocalypse is merely the beginning."