The Fifth World

by Kita Kitsune

The Mayans predicted that The Fourth World would come to an end on December 21, 2012; the same Prophesized date for Michael and Lucifer's Final Battle. Team Free Will finds itself working with the queerest pair of unlikely allies, but, caught between angels and demons with No God In Sight, victory won't come easy. SPN-GO crossover AU. Slash. Cover art by me.

10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 10/24

Word Count: 11,870

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Dean, Castiel, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Sam, Ruby

Warning(s): Language, angelic intimacy, some violence, mentions of addictions, inner conflict, angelic folk tales.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, September 21, 2012

Anno Domini 2,002 = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004 = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

Anno 4,004 Ante Christum = "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

1 Corinthians 9:21

To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (not being outside the law of God but under the law of Christ) that I might win those outside the law.

: : :

-Anno Domini 2,012, January 3-

"Whoa, hold on there!" Dean ducked away from the angel's advancing pair of fingers, quickly retreating. Those electric blue eyes gazed at him in palpable befuddlement, forehead drawing wrinkles together. Dean scowled, warily watching the angel from a few steps away. The angel peered at him, as though by merely squinting it could understand his withdraw.

"Do you not wish to return home?" Dean huffed, still eying him dubiously.

"Yeah, so? What's that got to do with you touching my forehead?" The angel gave an almost-frown, to that, head tipping slightly to one side, as though unconsciously.

"I do not understand. I was merely going to transfer us to Robert Singer's home." Dean paused, carefully sizing up the angel's words and visibly trying to wrap his mind around the concept.

"So it's like some sort of angelic 'Instant Transmission'?" He grinned. "Didn't know you guys watched DragonBallZ." The angel simply stared at him, eyes showing a flicker of exasperation.

"We don't. What is this 'Dragon's Ballsy'?" Dean huffed a short laugh, waving a hand to dismiss it.

"Doesn't matter. You are not 'transferring' me anywhere with any of your creepy angel mojo. Got that?" The angel's almost-frown was a bit more pronounced, now.

"Why?" Dean snorted, glaring stubbornly and pointing at the clueless sonuvabitch.

"Dude, first of all we just met, and you're kinda a creature I've been hunting all my life." Dean eyed the angel, mouth screwing in unease and indecision. "You're also possessing a pal of mine, so consider yourself lucky I haven't tried to exorcise you, yet. …But hey, I figure you'd silence me before I could finish the incantation, right?" The angel's gaze went deadpan at the obvious statement, and Dean hurried on. "Anyway. Point is, I'm not gonna trust you right off the bat, like that. Not my style." The angel frowned at him, jaw tightening in hidden confusion.

"I do not understand. What has a bat to do with this?" Dean exhaled, closing his eyes briefly and shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter, jeez. But you are not magic-ing me anywhere, got that? As my guardian angel, you have to do what I say, right?" The angel's eyes flashed, and Dean hastily backpedaled. "I mean. As my guide, you have to respect my wishes. Yeah? You're supposed to guide me, not force me to do things, right?" There was a tense moment as the angel gazed sullenly at him, processing this. Dean didn't know what it was thinking, and he readied himself to run like hell if he had to. But then it spoke.

"My Orders are to follow your judgements, Dean—even if they do not make sense." The angel seemed to sigh, then. "You are correct. I am here to provide aid, not force you to conform. I apologize." Dean blinked, and the angel stared up at him, a tad soulfully. The next words out of Dean's mouth were not planned.

"So are you, uh, ever gonna get out of Jimmy?" The angel's face closed up, and it looked away. Dean swallowed, but pushed on. "I mean. He's—he's a nice guy, y'know? Got a sister and a young niece to worry about. Why'd you pick him? Why not someone else?" The angel's eyes slid back to him, closed-off and very quiet.

"Neither of us is at liberty to question Heaven's Orders, Dean. My Father commanded it, and so it was done." There was a note of finality, of warning, in that statement, and Dean knew well enough when to back off. But he still watched the angel for another pensive moment, neither of them looking away. Dean shrugged his shoulders dismissively, turning away.

"Yeah, well, that's great and all, but I'm judging that it's best you just leave me alone." He started to head away from the scene of his raised coffin. After a few paces, Dean realized he didn't hear steps in the ankle-high grass behind him. He stopped, looking over his shoulder.

The angel was gone.

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 5-

It'd been two days since Dean was Raised, and Aziraphale was now quite a few timezones to the west of England. Currently, he was sipping a mug of tea in Jody's kitchen, worriedly peering out the windows (which had again been de-angel-proofed, in preparation for his arrival). The house had changed since his last visit, six months ago. It was quieter, sadder. Four months of grief had soaked into the walls, layering on top of the sadness already buried deep within. Aziraphale sighed to himself. He supposed he should've known his return to England would be temporary. What with another apocalypse on the way, and Dean being marked as the Righteous Man… Aziraphale's mouth tightened, and he unconsciously gripped his mug a little firmer. He hoped Crowley had gotten his message, and was already in the States.

Oh, Dean. I do hope Crowley manages to find Sam soon.

The poor lad would need all the support he could get, after all.

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 7-

Sam Winchester knew how to hide—well—and it was bloody infuriating.

Crowley had teleported himself over to America [1], and stuck out his feelers in every direction. In retrospect, perhaps it was good that McLeod had essentially usurped his name, in Hell. Aziraphale's and his names had been stricken from the record, but McLeod officially shared his name, and hadn't been forgotten because he was a different Crowley than the one Adam had protected. This had the ugly side effect of that rotten bastard getting all the praise for his 6,000-year history at work, but if it meant Hell wouldn't come after him, Crowley was fine with that. Unfortunately, McLeod had become a pretty big player in Hell after getting in with Lilith's crowd in the 1880s. It had bothered Crowley at the time, but he hadn't wanted to make trouble over it. It was obvious McLeod had used his name to get in the door (Lilith still remembered the Serpent, after all), and Crowley honestly didn't care what McLeod did, since Crowley wasn't down in Hell much. (Besides, being able to say he was under Lilith's protection had got him out of a few rough spots, with Management. Crowley'd tried not to abuse the rank—because then somebody might notice there was more than one Crowley running around—but it was still a handy ace to play.)

In 1990 that'd all changed, though, and it wasn't until afterwards that Crowley realized McLeod was probably still going around with his name. He had felt a very demonic stab of spite that the Leprechaun would be (quite literally) taking the heat for his insubordination (served McLeod right, for stealing his name). It wasn't until after the incident with the Three Fates in 2011 that Crowley would realize it was possible McLeod was still around, since Crowley's name had been wiped from the records. (It would've been hard to realize this before, as Crowley and McLeod stuck to different circles [2] and Crowley hadn't initiated contact with Hell since 1990.) Adam hadn't known about McLeod, hadn't known about McLeod using his name (because those thoughts had been very far from the forefront of Crowley's mind, during the Nopocalypse), and so couldn't've stricken McLeod from the record, too (it likely hadn't helped that Crowley thought of 'McLeod-Crowley' in his head as 'McLeod', either). Well, Adam had been eleven at the time, and had been rather unpracticed with his powers. Crowley really couldn't blame the boy for the oversight, because politics in Hell were just about as convoluted as those on Earth. How could he have possibly thought to properly convey all the nuances and problems with his life Below in the split-second Adam had read about his life on the back of his skull? (Besides, it wouldn't've been fair to ask Adam to do that. Upon reflection on that thought, Crowley realized he honestly hated the influence Aziraphale'd had on him, at times. He really, truly did. The times when he didn't mind so much didn't count.)

As things were, the Leprechaun had been busy, that was for sure. Crowley had found dozens of McLeod's subordinates sprinkled all over the States. He daren't approach them as himself, because they'd likely know in a nonexistent heartbeat that Crowley wasn't the demon they followed. So he observed them for a while, seeing if he could pick anything up on the demonic communication channels. He'd been relieved he didn't have to watch quite a few people get their throats slit so the demons could communicate with McLeod. (Mobile phones had really become such a wonderful staple of everyday life, and Crowley damned them thankfully, under his breath.)

[1] Well, perhaps 'teleported' wasn't quite the right word. To humans, it certainly appeared as such, but to angels (and those of angel stock) it was simply a few quick flaps of wings, and they were instantly at their destination. Granted, traveling at those speeds required intense concentration and a good dollop of energy, but it was worth it for the time saved, in Crowley's opinion. (He suspected Aziraphale avoided 'teleporting' only because the angel was so scatter-brained and disliked using his Grace for things he had deemed 'frivolous'.)

[2] Oops, a Hell pun.

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 13-

Early one morning, Crowley eventually heard something about Ruby meeting up with Sam, and felt his skin crawl. Ruby was a whore. She was Lilith's, part of the plan, part of whatever McLeod and the rest of Hell was cooking up. Sam was smart, though. Why would he be talking with a demon, of all things? Crowley knew Sam didn't trust demons, and had expected to have to deal with that prejudice right off. Either way, he'd have to move fast. If Ruby was meeting up with Sam, that meant she was close to him. It was the best lead Crowley'd got, and he went after it. The sooner he caught up to Sam, the sooner he could get back to Bobby's and share with Aziraphale what was happening on Hell's end.

(What was happening, anyway?)

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 4-

Dean had wandered away from the scene of the coffin. It was a freaky place, and looked like a nuke had gone off, all the trees blasted flat in a circle going out from his former grave. He found an old gas station and broke in, chugging down bottles of water, getting some food and taking a few bills (no more than he needed) from the cash register. An old powder-blue clunker was parked outside, and by the dust it looked like it hadn't been touched in years. Dean hotwired it to start, and took off in the direction of South Dakota. He didn't bother to call. Why would Bobby believe him? The only way they could sort this out was if Dean showed up, in the flesh, to prove he wasn't a creature or a zombie or… or something.

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 6-

Dean pulled past the sign that read 'Singer Salvage Yard' and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Bobby's van parked out front. He parked, and walked up to the front door, raising a hand to knock. Before he could, though, the door swung open and he was drawn into a tight, fierce hug. Dean blinked, and over Bobby's shoulder saw Jody and Azzy—the angel?—smiling at him. Then Azzy's eyes wandered over Dean's shoulder to the open door, and Dean saw him stiffen. Still caught in Bobby's embrace, Dean only caught a low jab of a comment from the British angel.

"It's lovely to see you." Azzy's eyes were kind, and he was smiling, but it was tentative and guarded. Dean frowned, pushing away from Bobby and eying Azzy, feeling uneasy at his reaction.

"What's wrong?" Azzy's eyes remained fixed behind Dean, but when Dean waved a hand in the path of his stare to get Azzy's attention, that blue-grey gaze at last flicked to him.

"Dean. Are you aware an angel has been following you?" A rock fell into his gut, and Dean swallowed. He'd had a few strange feelings on the trip here, but—without warning, Dean spun around, pointing accusingly at the empty doorway.

"You—You bastard! I told you to leave me alone! What, didn't like my answer and so decided to stalk me?" Bobby looked at Azzy, but the angel didn't glance at him.

"What, is it—?" Azzy answered quietly, still not taking his eyes off the doorway.

"Yes." Bobby turned to stare at the doorway, and right then, in the midst of it, a man looking to be in his twenties appeared. Bobby's stunned whisper of 'Jimmy' went mostly unheard as the man spoke, sounding vaguely puzzled (as though he didn't know what to do with the emotion).

"Brother? I was not aware two of us had been assigned to keep watch." A small furrow dipped between the man's eyebrows. "Under whose Orders are you here?" Dean's gaze swiveled back to Azzy, but the angel was still smiling (even if it looked a bit strained). Azzy advanced slowly towards the other angel, arms spreading out to his sides in a universal gesture of peace.

"Ah, yes—Brother. I apologize. I was—" Azzy carefully maneuvered himself between Dean and Bobby, never once losing eye contact with the other angel. "—that is, I have free reign over this mission." Dean felt himself being pushed subtly backwards by a gentle puff of air, and guessed it was Azzy's Grace. It wasn't forceful, and of the two angels in the room he trusted Azzy marginally more (because Bobby did), so Dean let himself back away along with Bobby, warily eying the angel in Jimmy's body from over Azzy's shoulder. The angel hadn't looked away from Azzy, that unending stare on him, now.

"I do not understand. Zachariah said there was no need for more than one angel to watch over Dean." Dean felt Azzy's Grace draw back from him, sharply, like a quick intake of breath after touching something sharp. But outwardly, Azzy was still calm, slowly approaching the other angel.

"Yes, ah. Zachariah. I do not act under his jurisdiction, I'm afraid." Azzy tipped his head forward, slightly, presumably to get a better look at the other angel (or so Dean guessed). Dean felt a soft ripple in the air, like something he couldn't see was reaching out at the Jimmy-wearing angel in the doorway. "There is residue of Hell on your Grace, my dear. I am sorry for your suffering." Dean could see that the other angel seemed only unsettled by this shift, but it didn't try to move or back away.

"We are Father's warriors. Our suffering means nothing if, through it, His Will be done." The angel squinted at Azzy, then. "Forgive me, Brother, but I do not know your name. I have not seen you in Heaven." Dean inhaled quickly, but Azzy still remained calm.

"All in good time, Brother. Perhaps we should go outside and talk?" Azzy said warmly and now Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "It hardly is worth worrying them, yes?" The angel stared at him for a moment longer, then at Dean—seeming to assess something—and Azzy waited patiently.

"Yes." The angel conceded, finally, turning to head back out the door. Azzy glanced quickly back at Bobby, silently signalling for him to put the Enochian wards back on the windows. It was only for a moment, but Azzy's gaze was steely, uncompromising and heavy with urgency. They scattered for the materials just as he turned, and the other angel reached the edge of the porch.

: : :

They walked for about fifteen minutes, into the depths of the salvage yard, until Aziraphale was quite convinced they were out of range of the other angel noticing the Enochian wards going up. They had gone together in silence, both mutually agreeing to remain so until it was certain they were far enough away from the humans. Aziraphale had been buying time. He didn't know how things had gone in Heaven—didn't know what giving up his name might do. It could have a ripple effect, this other angel could report him for being on Earth unauthorized and—Aziraphale swallowed. Oh, he couldn't be called back up to Heaven—not now! Crowley would be arriving in a few days with Sam, and—

Oh. Oh, dear. He hadn't thought of—the angel would hardly take kindly to a demon being around the Righteous Man. Aziraphale had to handle this very carefully. He didn't want to lie—that was Crowley's department, not his—but perhaps in the interest of… No, no. the other angel would only be more suspicious if Aziraphale gave a fake name. What if he were found out? It would draw more attention than necessary, as Aziraphale was sure Heaven was still looking for Aniel and any of her garrison who hadn't heeded Zachariah's Call. Any angel unaccounted for would draw Zachariah's attention. How, then, to go about this? How to get as much information out of this angel without lying to him, without feeling guilty about it, afterward—

"I am Castiel." Aziraphale surfaced from his thoughts quickly enough, managing a small smile towards the angel—Castiel, then?—at his side.

"Angel of Thursday." Castiel nodded, still staring straight ahead as they continued walking.

"Yes."

"Were you of Brother Aniel's garrison, then?" A slight pause, to that.

"The garrison has disbanded. Seven of my brothers were lost in Hell." Aziraphale couldn't know what it felt like (as he'd never been in a garrison, only stationed on Earth, alone), but it was obvious the experience had been painful for Castiel. He put a hand on the angel's shoulder, and Castiel looked at it, then him. Aziraphale offered a sad, honest smile.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Normally he would've given the poor, dear boy a hug, but Aziraphale hadn't quite found his footing with Castiel, yet. He didn't want to push, just in case it was too hard. Castiel merely stared at him for a moment longer, before dropping his gaze back to Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale gave a gentle squeeze before withdrawing it, and Castiel focused back on his face.

"And you, Brother?" Aziraphale sighed, offering a slight smile.

"Aziraphale." Castiel's brow furrowed, the straight line of his mouth pulling downward, and Aziraphale kept his expression calm and patient, waiting for the reaction.

"I do not recall hearing of you." Aziraphale nodded, glad the pressure was off and he was more-or-less free to speak the (unaltered, but vague) truth, as it were.

"Yes. I wouldn't expect you to." Aziraphale chuckled quietly to himself, letting his gaze wander over the heaps of junked cars. "I have been stationed on Earth for over 6,000 years, Castiel. I haven't been to Heaven in a very long time." Barring Metatron trying to yank me back there in 1990, of course. He admitted privately to himself. [3]

"I do not understand." Castiel's voice brought him to the present, again, and Aziraphale glanced back at him. He attempted an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, dear. I haven't had the chance to talk to another angel in quite a while." Aziraphale paused, because he realized it was true. (Metatron in 1990 still didn't count—that had been business.) Still, an angel he had just met—brother or not—would not interfere with his loyalty to Crowley. They had been through too much together for Aziraphale to consider throwing the dear demon 'over the car', now. They had found where their allegiances really fell, twenty-two years ago, and hadn't regretted it since. Aziraphale smiled a little warmer at the memory, even despite Castiel's puzzled frown.

"That is unfortunate. Surely you have received Orders, Brother?" Aziraphale bit his lip, and looked away. Well, it wasn't really a lie (Castiel hadn't said whose Orders, now had he?). He dithered.

"Well… Yes. Some years ago." Castiel's frown deepened.

"Heaven hasn't tried to make contact with you?" Aziraphale coughed quietly, politely covering it with his fist.

"Well, no. Not as such. My last Orders were rather… definite." Aziraphale fought the urge to wince, and glanced back at Castiel, worriedly. But the other angel was looking at him oddly, and Aziraphale beat down the sudden surge of anxiety, firmly sending it to the back of his mind. "Brother?"

"Your Grace. I just noticed. You are different." Castiel took a step back, and Aziraphale felt a quiet surge of panic as a silver dagger dropped into Castiel's hand, from his trenchcoat's sleeve. Aziraphale brought up his hands in a show of surrender, smiling gently.

"Castiel. I am your brother. I would do no harm to you." Still, Castiel squinted at him, suspicious, slowly leaning back into a half-crouch. Aziraphale recognized the form. He had to stop this now. "Please, Castiel. Why do you fear me?" Aziraphale remained where he was—not trying to run, not trying to advance—a hand raised on either side of his head, palms-out, smile genuine and steadfast.

"How do I know you are an angel. 'Aziraphale'—no angel in Heaven has that name. You are trying to trick me." Aziraphale kept eye contact, keeping himself very still, so as not to spook the other, more.

"You believe I am Fallen?" Castiel glared at him, and the silver dagger shifted in his hand. Stabbing position. Aziraphale recalled dimly, from his training regimen over 6,000 years ago.

"I have been to Hell, have experienced the Fallen brethren's tricks. What other creature could mimic Grace? Why else would you seek to separate me from my charge? No brother of mine would challenge my Orders, unless they had already Disobeyed." Aziraphale hesitated, his hands dropping a little. He didn't look away, meeting Castiel's eyes firmly.

"Castiel. I am not challenging your Orders. I am not Fallen." A corner of Castiel's vessel's mouth curled up, wryly. Aziraphale really hadn't expected to be believed so easily as that, but he had had to try.

"You lie. Your Grace bears the mark of Darkness—Lucifer's hand." Aziraphale allowed himself to frown, just slightly, until it came to him, and he closed his eyes, briefly. Adam. But Castiel was part of the Host, so he wouldn't remember… Aziraphale took a slow breath, letting his hands drop completely. No way to talk Castiel out of it, apparently. He leveled a serious stare on the other angel.

"Castiel. I am not Fallen." Castiel bristled at him, but Aziraphale kept his tone even. "If you want to be sure, try to smite me." Aziraphale gestured around him, eyes never leaving the other angel's. "If I am truly Fallen, I will be burned." Castiel sneered, defensive and obviously scared, although he was hiding it well under a sheen of bravado.

"Since you are Fallen, you will take the chance and run. You will leave your vessel and tell others of my mission, thereby jeopardizing it." Aziraphale frowned at him, feeling a prickle of annoyance at this angel's thick-headedness. He strode forward and predictably Castiel lunged at him, but Aziraphale caught his hand by the wrist, staring straight into Castiel's eyes as they each vied for control. Castiel's gaze burned at him in holy affront, and Aziraphale slowly brought his other hand up to the angel's cheek. Castiel tried to jerk away, but Aziraphale curled his fingers around his neck and held firm.

"Castiel. You are my brother, and I would never hurt you. I am not Fallen." He brought their foreheads together, then, closing his eyes and willing a tiny portion of his Grace to leak into Castiel's vessel, through his fingertips. The tendrils slid into the tendons of Castiel's throat and down the veins in Castiel's wrist from his grip there, pure white-blue lines of light snaking inward, towards the core of Castiel's Grace. [4] Castiel thrashed, but Aziraphale held steady, control exact and full of simple intent. If Castiel would not believe him, then Aziraphale would show him he was not Fallen. Aziraphale's Grace danced around the bristling fire of Castiel's core—not trying to smother or overpower it, only soothing and truthful—offering up only what was. Castiel lashed out at him, not understanding and like a fox in a cage. Aziraphale took the metaphysical blows in stride, his brow furrowing on the physical plane, sweat beading at his temples. Physically, Castiel was stiff, unresponsive at first glance, as all his energy was focused inward on driving Aziraphale out. Castiel didn't take the time to wonder that no demon—Fallen or not—could bear such undiluted contact with angelic Grace without risking them both simply neutralizing each other and ceasing to exist.

After a minute, Aziraphale withdrew, slowly pulling back his Grace from Castiel's vessel (it was a good one, to have been able to stand such an intense level of conflict—although Aziraphale had been careful, of course, as he knew precisely what and how much a human body could take). Castiel slumped forward onto him, spent, and Aziraphale tried to support, but the effort had drained him, too. He sank to his knees, pulling Castiel down with him. The angelic blade dropped from Castiel's hand with a soft melodic 'clang'.

Aziraphale shifted his shoulders, and realized his wings were out, arced over them both protectively. He swept them back behind himself, as—with at least one of them aware of their surroundings—the defense was no longer needed. Castiel's wings were limp, sprawled out behind him in the gravel and Aziraphale tutted at the state of them. Poor dear clearly hadn't had a good grooming in years. Castiel shifted against him—face buried into Aziraphale's shoulder—and Aziraphale sighed, gently stroking his hair. After a moment of this, one of Castiel's hands came up and grabbed his wrist (stopping its fingers' stroking), and Aziraphale remained quiet as the other angel sat back, peering at him in unmasked confusion. Aziraphale smiled gently. After a moment, however, it appeared beyond Castiel to respond (the poor darling was still just staring at him), so Aziraphale broke the silence, as well, his voice soft.

"I am not Fallen, my dear brother." Castiel just continued to stare at him, and Aziraphale awkwardly shifted his wings again, letting them fold up off the ground and behind his shoulders. He refrained from calling them back as Castiel's gaze flickered to them (drawn by, no doubt, the holy light with which they naturally glowed). It took another few seconds before the other angel responded, releasing his wrist and simply kneeling across from Aziraphale, looking off awkwardly.

"I… apologize. Brother. I—" Aziraphale beamed at him, affectionately sweeping Castiel's vessel's hair back from his forehead, causing the other angel to blink at him in startled surprise. Aziraphale cupped the other angel's jaw, thumb running up over Castiel's cheek. He felt warm from the inside, a warmth he hadn't felt in, well, millennia, and was buoyed up in the same way he had been in the time of the Son.

"Forgiven, Castiel." Aziraphale found himself unable to stop smiling. Finally, after all this time, he had another angel for company. Oh, wouldn't Crowley be happy for him! (Aziraphale still remembered that drunken night after Golgotha, after all, and really, the dear demon had been so sweet about it, every time Aziraphale felt overcome with grief, refilling his wineskin and all, and—)

"Aziraphale." He blinked, refocusing on Castiel's face and the concern he saw there.

"Castiel?" Castiel hesitated, tentatively lifting a hand (as though to mimic Aziraphale's earlier gestures), but then drew it back. Aziraphale let him. He understood not everyone was as demonstrative as he was (Bobby was certainly evidence of that). Castiel's brow furrowed, perplexed. "What is it, dear?"

"Why does your Grace have Darkness in it, brother?" Aziraphale sighed, and shook his head. He patted Castiel's cheek before withdrawing his hand and looking off, quietly winching in his wings from the physical plane. (He couldn't tell him, not yet. Not when Castiel's loyalty still so obviously lay with Zachariah—and Heaven. Aziraphale couldn't afford to be called back.)

"All answers in their proper time, dear." Aziraphale stood, and squinted quietly as he saw movement near the house. "I believe we might have worried them." Castiel hastily drew his own wings back from mortal view, as well, scrambling to stand.

"Dean." Aziraphale glanced at him, really quite glad he hadn't given in to the (Crowley-esque) urge to lie to Castiel in order to reassure him.

"Castiel." Castiel glanced back at him, attention drawn from the hubbub at the house. "What are your Orders concerning Dean?" Aziraphale saw the other angel hesitate, but ultimately Castiel's faith in his fellow angels won out.

"I am Dean Winchester's guide." Castiel's eyes on his were quiet, but open—trusting. "I was the one who found his soul and Raised him. Zachariah's Orders were for me to remain beside him to ensure his safety." Aziraphale felt another sharp stab of reality. Yes, of course. Even if Castiel was his brother, he was still an angel taking Heaven's Orders—an angel who would be reporting to Heaven on a regular basis. Aziraphale had to be very careful. If he worded something wrong, he could be reported, and then who would be there for Crowley—or help those dear boys of Bobby's with the coming apocalypse? Dean was right in the middle of it, after all, and Aziraphale couldn't help but think there was more to this mess than met the eye. He'd have to wait for Crowley to return with Sam and have the demon weigh in on it, though. He smiled at Castiel, reaching to pat his hand.

"That's lovely, my dear. Perhaps we'd best let you get back to it, then?" Castiel stared at him, gaze affirming, and Aziraphale withdrew his hand, taking a slow breath as they headed back towards the house. It would be a tricky line to walk, but Aziraphale knew he could do it. He wouldn't need to lie to Castiel, merely—keep him from overhearing certain conversations. He could do that.

Aziraphale's head went up as someone yelled at them from the door. It sounded like Bobby. Aziraphale guessed they'd probably all been frightened of the sudden surge of Grace, and possibly even been worried (or perhaps hoping, although Aziraphale would vehemently object to the idea) that someone had been sent back to Heaven. As hunters, Bobby and Dean were quite aware that angels could be exorcised. As an angel, Aziraphale wouldn't wish that experience (of an exorcism) on anyone, and could only shudder at the thought if Castiel had been forced to return to Heaven like that. Zachariah likely would not have been pleased, and Castiel's unexpected return could have only brought more questions.

Aziraphale doubted very much that Zachariah had Dean's best interests at heart. Castiel was faultless, only blindly following Orders (as Aziraphale had been trained to do, so very long ago) and hopefully as he spent more time down here, Castiel could be made to see that Heaven wasn't always right. Heaven wasn't always acting in the right, or of their Father's will. Aziraphale had no wish to tarnish Castiel's faith, as—in the younger, less-Earth-experienced angels—that could too easily lead to a Fall. Aziraphale himself still believed in his Father, after all, just that Heaven could be a bit… misguided in its interpretations of His Will. Aziraphale very firmly felt it wasn't intentional, but some angels—like Zachariah—had forgotten what humility was like. It was an important trait in an angel, one Aziraphale had always noticed Metatron had a tendency to forget about. Not that pride—or any one of the Seven Deadly Sins on their own, really—could make an angel Fall, but it was always better to be prepared.

Aziraphale remembered the tale of Zaphiel, the Third Archangel. He had been brought into existence on the same day as Aniel, before Michael, Raphael, Lucifer and Gabriel had even been created. The legend went that on a day long after the Fall, Zaphiel—living up to his title of 'the Benign'—had shown kindness to Lucifer, and been speared with a Damned iron weapon for his trouble. Uriel and Michael had not been happy with Zaphiel. Aniel and Gabriel spoke of Forgiveness, siding with Zaphiel's actions, and telling of embracing the Virtues their Father had laid out for Man. Raphael—being a healer, and not wanting to fight—had merely remained silent, not joining the debate but nonetheless healing Zaphiel of his wound.

They were all brothers, and still reeling from the loss of Lucifer. Yet, Zaphiel—unable to take Uriel and Michael's harsh judgments—made the choice Descend to Earth. He was the first angel to do so. Many millennia later, Gabriel had declared Zaphiel to be right, and had also Descended, never to be heard from again. With Aniel's recent Descent fresh in his memory, Aziraphale could only conclude that perhaps Heaven was no longer as just-minded as before. [5]

Uriel, Michael and Raphael did no longer converse with Father, Zaphiel, Aniel or Gabriel. As his time on Earth lengthened, Aziraphale had found himself understanding why Zaphiel would so go against Heaven's mandates. Lucifer was the Devil, but he was still each Archangel's brother. Over time—as Aziraphale's own battles with Crowley began to lessen in intensity—Aziraphale began to realize how easy it was to give Charity instead of hoard Wrath. He admitted to privately admiring Zaphiel for his courage to do what he deemed right, and not be swayed by Heaven's rules concerning 'sides'.

Fallen angels were still their brothers, and it took 5,024 years for Aziraphale to realize that Crowley was not so much an immoral spawn of Hell as an agent, just like him—the only differences were, they worked for different sides and had different tastes. God had sent Aziraphale a Revelation in 1020 AD emphasizing just that, actually, and although Aziraphale had never shared the specifics with Crowley, he took God's Word to heart. His acceptance of Crowley as a being, not just an enemy was apparently too important for him to brush off in favor of Heaven's official stance on such topics. God had told him so, himself—this was yet another reason Aziraphale had remained unswayed in his opinion.

Perhaps it was merely another marker to tally off, and yes—perhaps Aziraphale had been foolish to assume Heaven would not want the then-Apocalypse-now-Nopocalypse to occur. Perhaps he shouldn't've assumed Father to have informed Heaven of His opinion. But it wasn't until Metatron tried to recall him that Aziraphale realized God had given him Orders meant expressly only for Aziraphale, and no other angel. It wasn't Aziraphale's place to understand why, but he knew enough that Father had given him that Revelation in 1020 for a reason, and even if it meant his death, Aziraphale had to follow it through to the end.

It was one of the reasons he had tried so hard to get to Lower Tadfield, the night of the Nopocalypse. Standing with Crowley as Lucifer's Essence rumbled up from Below was something Aziraphale had never regretted. Amazingly, they hadn't been punished for it afterwards, and it was then that Aziraphale felt that God had been watching out for them, all along. Ineffable. It was an unavoidable conclusion, because how else could he and Crowley have gotten off without a scratch, after their respective acts of insubordination? It was too telling that the hand of God had been in it—on their side, not Heaven's or Hell's—and Aziraphale was not one to take such support lightly. And so he merely continued to live by those conclusions, allowing Crowley to satisfy his paranoia even though Aziraphale felt neither side would dare to touch them, now. The incident with the Three Fates in 2011 had only helped solidify his theories.

Aziraphale and Crowley were safe. No matter what would happen, they would be taken care of. Not even Clotho's allusion to their deaths could shake Aziraphale's belief in this. Everything and everyone died, it was an inevitability of nature, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent too long on Earth not to be touched, in some way, by the daily influences around them. If death was one of the consequences, then so be it. Aziraphale did not regret these past 6,016 years. Earth was worth every one of them (so was his friendship with Crowley, if it came down to it).

[3] Aziraphale had actually almost crossed the Aether Gate and gone out of the Earthly Dimension entirely, but—after his physical form had expired once out of Earth's atmosphere—had managed to pull his Grace free of Metatron's grip. With the blue light of Heaven no longer pulling him in one direction, Aziraphale had plummeted back towards Earth, landing quite hap-hazardly in a random body. It had taken a few tries to get back to England (traveling was so inconvenient when one didn't have a single body to physically align with), but at least the teleportation hadn't been as tricky as when he had a corporation to worry about.

[4] It was not the more common technique (from hands-in instead of forehead-in), but it would do. Aziraphale did not wish to overwhelm the vessel, and he did not have as much practice nor control as Aniel, Second Archangel (now Descended) and Castiel's former superior.

[5] After all, with the Archangels embodying Kindness, Charity, Humility and Temperance gone, all that remained were those associated with Chastity, Diligence and Patience. These three Virtues alone did not guarantee Heaven's (not God's, they weren't the same anymore, apparently) judgments to be unquestionably beyond reproach. It had taken time, but gradually Aziraphale could reflect and begin to see how Heaven's Orders had changed over the millennia. The truly worrying difference, now, was Aniel's departure—for if the Archangel known as 'the Just' had abandoned Heaven, what hope could be had that Heaven was thus still acting 'justly'?

Oh, after Gabriel's Descent Heaven still acted as though its intentions were pure, and it remained dutiful, and did not act rashly, but without the steadying factors of generosity, kindness and humility, quite the pressure was placed on Aniel to keep Heaven acting righteously. With her having Descended, Aziraphale could only assume the worst. Great atrocities had been done in human history—he had seen them, himself—with the perpetrators thinking their cause was pure and untouchable, their efforts meticulous, and as though they acted mercifully. Why should Heaven be subject to any less scrutiny?

[ To refresh your memory:

Listed by age of creation, the original Seven Archangels embodying the Seven Heavenly Virtues were referred to by the following titles among their brethren: Uriel the Pure (of Chastity), Aniel the Just (of Temperence), Zaphiel the Benign (of Charity), Michael the Dutiful (of Diligence), Raphael the Merciful (of Patience), Lucifer the Devoted (of Kindness) and Gabriel the Brave (of Humility). ]

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 15-

Crowley spent the day taking a nap in a five-star hotel in a part of the city that was kid-friendly. He'd been doing a lot of traveling in the past week—all for one blessed angel he'd give a right good piece of his mind to, when he saw him—and needed the uninterrupted rest. The more shady part of town was pleasant enough (with all the drug deals and other temptations going on), but Crowley was a light sleeper. He couldn't very well keep the yelling and gunshots silent while he was asleep, now could he?

Around eight 'o clock at night, Crowley rolled out of bed and headed for the rendezvous point. Ruby and Sam were meeting in a run-down old warehouse—probably Sam's idea, to limit the number of bystanders. Crowley scoffed to himself as he approached, sensing no less than six demons (and they were demons, not other Fallen, which was a relief) hovering around the warehouse. Two approached him as he strode up, and he gave them a winning smile from behind his sunglasses.

"Hey, gents." They peered at him for a moment—dark, Hell-twisted human auras reaching out to check his. Crowley let them, shoulders relaxed and hands in the pockets of his expensive black slacks. He had nothing to hide, and no one in Hell knew his name. But he was still a cut above the average human-turned-demon, and every Fallen had a different energy. Demons were more homogenous (as they all had started as human souls), but each Fallen had had to figure a way out of his angelic True Form on his own—the end result being that no two Fallen's Essences were shaped alike. This wasn't Heaven he was trying to get it by, either, so Adam's 'messing about' shouldn't cause any suspicion. (After all, Adam had the same type of energy as his father, Hell's 'master'.) Briefly, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale—when he'd been tracking down those angels, years ago—had met with any trouble from Heaven, due to Adam's 'altercations'.

Well, no time to worry about it now. The demons had finished their check.

"So who're you?" Crowley huffed, giving them an incredulous look.

"What, Ruby didn't tell you? I swear, I told her I'd be dropping by." He gazed at them in disappointment, tone pitying. "Good girl, that one, but she does so tend to forget important details." The demons gave each other a sidelong look, and Crowley smiled to himself. Hands still in his pockets, he raised his voice, just loud enough to be startling. "What, you don't recognize your own boss? The help these days." He shook his head, stepping forward and the demons hastily scuttled to get out of the way.

"Sir!"

"Crowley, sir!" Crowley paused after a few steps, peering behind him and putting a finger to his lips with a slight grin.

"Shhh. Don't go letting her know I'm here. It's a surprise." The demons straightened up in fear, nodding, and Crowley graced them with a snakish smirk.

"Good lads. You'll go far in this business."

He turned to walk away again, silently laughing to himself at the sheer stupidity. Any demon worth his salt (not literally, because ouch) could fake McLeod's mannerisms—another reason Crowley tended to work alone. Lesser demons were so unimaginative—it was like Hell bleached all the creativity out of them. You also never knew when they might betray you, or get tricked by someone smarter, or let something slip. Stupid or not, information was precious and the less people to spread it around, the better.

(Lucky for Crowley that McLeod's current vessel had a British accent, though.)

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 15-

Sam warily eyed the brunette across from him. It'd been four months since Dean was dragged to Hell, and she'd appeared sometime before then, saying she could help. The demon's name was Ruby, and she'd saved Sam's life a few times, recently. That meant nothing, of course. Ruby was still a demon, but at least she wasn't Crowley. She said she still remembered what it was like to be human, and that she wanted to help Sam get Dean back. Sam didn't care if she was lying, if it meant he could use her. And they'd worked together pretty well, meeting off-and-on, usually just with Ruby giving him hints and sending Sam places. He never got ambushed, so Sam knew her intel, at least, was good.

But what she was asking, now…

"What do you mean, I'm 'special'?" Sam frowned at her from across the room, careful to keep his distance. Ruby smiled.

"C'mon, Sam, you had to have noticed. Remember those dreams, a few months ago? The ones you never told Dean about? The ones that saved the lives of that single mom and her two kids?" Sam's mouth tightened—he and Dean had seen Mary Winchester's ghost, on that case. Ruby's face softened from its persuasive tone, turning understanding. "Look, I know it's hard. But you're meant for greatness, Sam. This is just another little step along the way." Sam frowned at her, unsure.

"I don't see why you'd think drinking blood would help." Ruby smirked at him, tilting her head, long brown hair falling over her shoulder.

"Not just any blood, Sam. My blood. Demon blood. With special people like you, it can work wonders." One fine eyebrow raised, her mouth curling up. "If you get good enough, you can even exorcise without killing. Would save a lot more people, that way." Sam eyed her.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ruby heaved a sigh, shoulders rolling as she turned around, tone bitter.

"C'mon, you still don't trust me? After all the help I've given you to try and get Dean back?"

"Dean's still in Hell." Ruby looked at him over her shoulder, smiling.

"Not for lack of trying, Sam. C'mon, I did my best. So did you. But sometimes you've just gotta take a different tack, try something new if the old doesn't work. Right?" Sam stared at her, forehead folding in on itself, his whole being radiating indecision. Ruby quirked another confident smirk.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I think you're leaving out a few pertinent details, Rubes." At the sudden (British?) voice, both Sam and Ruby jerked in surprise. Ruby's hand went to the knife sheathed at her belt, and Sam's went into his jacket, grabbing the sawed-off salt shotgun there. He didn't pull it out just yet, though. Ruby snarled.

"Who's there!" Sam heard a chuckle from off to his right, and a smartly-clad man in a fashionable black suit and matching sunglasses stepped out from behind a pile of boxes, smirking slightly. He tipped his head towards Sam.

"'lo, Sam." Sunglasses' head turned, slightly, square black lenses now aimed at Ruby. "Taken to hanging around quite the low lot, haven't you?" Ruby took offense, taking a step forward.

"Who are you? One of Lilith's?" Sunglasses smiled.

"Playing that card, are we? Quite daring of you. …Sam." Sunglasses' tone was suddenly sharp, his mouth pulling down in anger even as he kept staring at Ruby (presumably, since Sam still couldn't see the guy's eyes). "Don't believe a word out of her filthy, lying mouth." Sunglasses' head canted towards Sam, then, but Sam still got the feeling he was watching Ruby.

"Why not? She's helped me, at great risk to herself, and—"

"All a trap." Sunglasses cut smoothly across Sam's defense, smiling a little as Ruby growled.

"He's the one that's lying, Sam. Don't buy into it. When have I ever steered you wrong?" Sunglasses laughed, a short ironic stab of a sound.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Sunglasses' grin turned wry. "And you're planning to pawn off demon blood as a 'magic elixir'?" Sunglasses scoffed. "Please." Ruby's upper lip curled, and Sunglasses smirked. Sam was confused.

"Wait, what's wrong with demon blood? What's it do?" Sunglasses' tone turned bored, but he still didn't glance away from Ruby.

"Well, she's right in that it would help quite a few abilities along. She's right about the exorcising without death, too. But—"

"Don't believe him, Sam!" Ruby exploded, demon-killing knife in hand, lunging for Sunglasses. "This guy's just another demon, jonesing for a piece of the action!" Sunglasses chuckled, dodging her swipes and neatly backpedaling on his—were those snakeskin?—boots with all the grace of a tap-dancer. "We have to kill him before he smokes out and squeals to Lilith!" Sunglasses laughed, again.

"You've got to be kidding me! Playing your hand a bit loosely, there, Rubes! Page." That last word was Enochian, and Sam didn't understand, but Ruby froze. Sunglasses stepped out from beneath her latest thrust—still in mid-air—and tutted, plucking the knife out of her hand and examining the inscription on the blade. Sam heard a low whistle. "Wow. Nice piece. New, but effective."

"What did—you do to her?" Sunglasses looked up, his forehead knitting together in confusion.

"Eh? You can still move?" Sunglasses huffed, shaking his head and muttering to himself. "Must only work for the angel, then." He sighed, then took the knife in hand, extending the handle towards Sam. "C'mon, we'd better get out of here." Sam stared at him, then back at Ruby. Sunglasses scowled. "What, you trust her but not me?" Sam frowned at him, straightening a little, slowly taking the sawed-off salt shotgun out of his jacket and aiming it carefully at the man—demon, rather.

"Give me one good reason why I should." Sunglasses sighed, and took off his sunglasses, looking down and folding them up to hold in one hand. Then he looked up. Sam jumped a bit at the yellow, reptilian eyes, quickly cocking the gun and aiming it at the demon. Sunglasses smiled, warily.

"Don't tell me Dean didn't mention us. Bobby's bibliophilic angel friend and the big black snake?" Sam frowned, but didn't lower the gun.

"That's still not a reason to trust you. Demons can read minds." Those reptilian eyes rolled, and Sam held his gun steady.

"Fine. What about the fact that Rubes, here—" He gestured over his shoulder with a vague wave. "—was trying to sell you on demon blood?" Sam eyed him, not lowering the barrel.

"Well, what's wrong with it? You even said it could—" Sunglasses gave him a wry grin.

"It's not like a nutritional shake, Sam. 's not all good, and also happens to be highly addictive." Sam blinked.

"What?" But Sunglasses' attention had already moved back to Ruby, those odd yellow eyes calculating.

"You're being awfully quiet, in all this. Care to share?" Ruby glared at him.

"Stay out of this, Crawly." Sunglasses actually blinked.

"Oh. Well, that's inconvenient." He sounded annoyed, and Sam watched as the knife shifted in his hand in a quick movement—now, he was holding the handle. Sunglasses smiled like a snake. "Guess Adam missed a bit, then. Can't have you spreading that tidbit around." Ruby sneered at him.

"Who's going to stop me? You?" Sunglasses grinned.

"Check who's holding the knife, Rubes. I'd reconsider your tone if I were you." Sam took a step forward, but stopped as one of Sunglasses' hands went up to stop him. Sunglasses didn't face him, though. "Hold on, Sam." There was no otherworldly effect, just a simple gesture to stay where he was. Sam frowned, glancing at Ruby.

"She still saved my life, you know. I can't just let you kill her." Sunglasses sighed, finally glancing over his shoulder and gracing Sam with an annoyed look.

"What's with this loyalty, eh? I've heard loads about little Rubes since she first arrived in Hell." Sunglasses eyed her, again, and Ruby bared her teeth at him. Sunglasses smiled, a little sharply. "She's a double agent. Got to be. She'd never betray Lilith." He peered back at Sam. "Which means that anything she's told you about killing Lilith has got to be a lie, or—" Sunglasses paused, eyes narrowing in thought as he moved to stare at Ruby, again. She glared at him, and a slow look of comprehension dawned on his face. Sunglasses let out a quick breath of a laugh. "Oh. Oh! Oh sweet Manchester, that's clever!" There was a little bit of glee in that tone, and Sam had to interject.

"What? What is it?" Sam heard a grin in Sunglasses' voice.

"They've got Dean to break the first seal, and were anglin' for you to break the last. Oh, this is rich." Sunglasses purred, leaning in towards Ruby's frozen arm. "Oh, what'd you tell him? What'd you say to try and get him all riled up to kill Lilith? Is that where this was going?" Ruby snarled, again, and Sam was shocked into silence (especially at the truth of it), but Sunglasses just went on, sounding far too amused to be healthy.

"You… You conniving little—Did you come up with this all by yourself, or was it Lilith? Nah, it's got to be all you, right?" Sunglasses shook his head in amazement. "That's some pretty good manipulation, right there, but… if you're the type I think you are, you can't be allowed to wander around freely." His tone sobered, sounding almost rueful. "Sorry. But I hear Purgatory's nice, this time of year?" And just like that, before Sam could react, Sunglasses had swept in (with the speed of a striking snake, as it were), and stabbed her in the gut. Ruby choked, gasping as lights played against the skin of her meatsuit. Sam watched as her eyes slowly dulled, Sunglasses pulled out the knife, and she pitched forward onto her face. Dead. Dead and gone. Ruby was just—Sam looked up at Sunglasses, who was eying the blood on the blade with distaste, his nose wrinkled. Sunglasses squatted, placing his free hand on the corpse's back.

"Why'd you do that?" Sunglasses peered up at him, face quiet with disbelief.

"What, you still don't get it?" He removed his hand from her back, and stood. "You're not stupid, Sam, c'mon." Sam frowned, then blinked, face opening up in realization.

"Wait, what did you—What was that about Dean?" Sunglasses grinned at him, sliding his sunglasses back on and pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

"Catch that, did you? Well, I've got some great news for you, Sam. Dean's out of Hell." Sam's eyes widened.

"What?" Sunglasses nodded, striding towards him with a bit of a smirk.

"Yeah. What say you and I pay a little visit to Bobby's?" Sam frowned.

"Why Bobby's?" Sunglasses peered up at him in amusement. (Even with the sunglasses on, now, Sam could tell.)

"Where else would Dean go, after breaking out of his coffin?" Sunglasses' face broke into a grin, and he offered up the demon-killing knife, handle-first. "C'mon, I know you want to see him." Sam glanced at it, then back up to Sunglasses' face, suspicious. He slowly reached for it.

"I guess…" Sunglasses' shoulders relaxed as the demon smiled at him. Sam snatched the knife from him and drove it into his chest. Sunglasses staggered back a step or two, and then cast him an irritated glance. Sam's eyes widened.

"Nice, kid. Is this how you treat all your friends?" Sunglasses peered up at him, obviously peeved but not really violently incensed (or dead, as he should be). Sunglasses put his hand to the knife and pulled it out, wincing a little before glaring at the tear in his suit. It mended itself before Sam's eyes, the spreading bloodstain disappearing completely.

"But… you… you're a demon!" Sunglasses rolled his eyes (his tone suggested it more than anything else, really).

"I'm a Fallen. Get your facts straight." Sam gaped at him, and Sunglasses frowned.

"Look. I'm Crowley." He waved off Sam's gasp, obviously impatient. "No, not that Crowley, but I'm sure you can tell the difference, anyway." He grinned at Sam. "Now that you know you can't kill me, what say we head back to the ol' salvage yard? In fact…" Sunglas—Crowley smirked to himself, hands sliding to the pockets of his black slacks as he rode back on his heels, a bit. "Why don't you call Bobby and ask if the angel's there?" Crowley smiled like a snake. "I'm sure he'd be happy to confirm Dean's Resurrection." Sam pursed his lips at him, not liking this turn of events one bit. Crowley simply smiled smugly back at him. "Either way, we should get out of here, soon." Crowley glanced over his shoulder, at Ruby's corpse. Sam frowned, eyes trailing to her, as well.

"She was just possessing that girl. We shouldn't just leave her here, like this." Crowley's head snapped back towards him, his tone tight, guarded.

"We're not burying someone who's got no need of a grave. Let's go." Crowley made to stride past Sam, but Sam caught his arm, voice low and dark as he glared at the demon, grip tight and unyielding.

"She's human. I know you can't understand that, but humans don't leave other humans' corpses out to decay. Have some respect." Crowley's mouth twisted in a scowl, but the demon didn't look up at him, trying to jerk his arm out of Sam's hold. Sam held firm, gaze steady. Crowley made a small noise of frustration, and glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye—just a sliver of yellow—tone testy.

"Don't talk to me about respect. I know more about humans than you'll ever even dream about, so you should know that if you have the nerve to imply that all humans are 'so good as to' bury their dead, you're wrong." Crowley almost hissed, then, and Sam swore he saw a forked tongue flicker out of his mouth as the demon clenched his fingers against Sam's bicep, straightening up, jaw set—proud and defiant.

"Ssso don't preach to me, ssssSam, becausse you know nosssing about humanity." Crowley jerked his arm out of Sam's hold—inhuman strength, right there, because Sam had the grip of a wrestler (or so Dean had said)—and stalked off, presumably to wait for Sam outside. Sam frowned after him, but blinked as he heard a small pained sound, behind him. He whirled around, eyes wide as he saw Ruby's corpse moving to push itself up on shaking hands. Big brown eyes slowly moved upward, locking on him.

Those weren't Ruby's eyes. (The girl's lip trembled.)

"W-Where am I? What happened?" Sam was shocked for another moment before he moved forward, whipping out his cell phone to call 911 and doing his best to reassure her that no, he couldn't stay, but help was coming, she just had to wait. Sam's head jerked up as he heard the sounds of demons screaming outside, but he dismissed it, calming her down, again, by saying those sounds had been nothing.

No demon Sam'd ever met had done what Crowley just did.

He didn't know what to think, but the trembling, scared brunette in his arms was too much evidence to the fact that Crowley had simply saved her life. Crowley'd stabbed Ruby, killed her and the girl Ruby was possessing, and then had healed the corpse and brought the girl back to life.

It went against everything Sam had ever known.

…Maybe he should call Bobby. Just to be sure Crowley was on the level.

: : :

-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 7-16-

Castiel was a good lad, Aziraphale decided. He was quiet but faithful to his duty—he never left Dean's side. More than once Aziraphale had to hide a smile against his mug as Dean turned around, only to find Castiel right in his face. Dean'd asked about Sam first thing, and Aziraphale had assured him that Crowley was on the case. Dean had given him a dubious look, but Aziraphale had only smiled reassuringly and said that Crowley was as good as his word. Castiel didn't seem to care about the conversation, although Aziraphale noted he stilled, attentive, when Sam was mentioned. There must be plans in Heaven for both brothers, then, Aziraphale thought to himself sourly. Heaven's plans never boded very well for anyone involved. Oh, he still had faith in them, certainly, but after the Nopocalypse, when Aziraphale had been quite certain Father did not wish for the world to end, even if Heaven and Hell did—

Aziraphale shook his head. He had still tiptoed around Castiel in certain matters, writing off his absence from Heaven as being stationed on Earth. Aziraphale very carefully avoided mentioning Adam—the boy had wiped everyone's memories, after all, and there was no use dredging it all up, again. Castiel remarked that Aziraphale looked rather familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, and Aziraphale had chuckled and said he simply 'had one of those faces'. (He didn't dare try to clarify that it was because of the broadcast to all of the Host and Legion in 1990 that had likely exposed his current corporation to Castiel's mind.) They were small evasions, tiny lies of omission and Aziraphale felt horrible for lying to a brother, but the alternative would alert Heaven of his location and possibly involve Michael. The incident with the Three Fates had helped to bring it home that he and Crowley were not safe simply because Adam had wiped their names from Heaven and Hell's records. There were a number of possibilities that they could still feel retaliation from their respective superiors, and Aziraphale felt very firmly that it was best if everything remained as it was—at least until December 21, 2012. After that date, Aziraphale would gladly submit himself for punishment. He would've earned it, by then.

The angel felt a brief stab of guilt that his giving himself up would leave Crowley alone, but he had had over twenty years to think about this. Crowley was a dear friend (and Aziraphale wouldn't put him in danger for the world, not now), but this was Heavenly business. Aziraphale knew he had to face his punishment for insubordination, and he would do so, once this was all over. Crowley simply wasn't worth all the guilt Aziraphale would feel over completely abandoning Heaven. His brothers were still his brothers—still angels, albeit led astray by superiors like Zachariah. Castiel had shown him that. Perhaps when Aziraphale returned to Heaven, Father would reveal himself, would be on his side, and would—

Aziraphale sighed. He hoped he could do some good, Above. Perhaps, if he explained his point of view well enough, they would understand? Aziraphale knew he was only a Principality, but that didn't make his opinions any less valid. The angel felt his mouth quirk, warmly, at what Crowley would say to his thoughts, were Aziraphale to share them. The dear boy would likely try to talk him out of it, bringing up any number of reasons including (but not limited to) it being a waste for Aziraphale to go, it being pointless (as Aziraphale couldn't possbily convince them, they were too set in their ways), it being bloody stupid of him to go, as he'd likely get killed on-sight with one of those silver daggers—

Ah, yes. Castiel's dagger. Aziraphale had politely requested to examine it, and Castiel had furrrowed his brow but handed it over. Aziraphale's chest ached at the trust inherent in the gesture, and knew then that it was his duty to do his best to make Heaven a better place for his brothers. If he failed, he would be punished, and Aziraphale would gladly accept that. But Aziraphale could too-easily see Zachariah asking for Castiel's sword, only to turn it on him. He winced to himself. Such suspicion didn't become him, but dear Castiel was so faithful, and narrowly followed his Orders to guide and protect the Righteous Man.

(When Crowley arrived, they would have to take special care that Castiel not try to smite him. But Aziraphale was certain it could all easily be explained over a pot of tea. Castiel didn't seem the over-zealous sort, after all.)

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-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 16-

A little over a day later, the Impala rumbled in under the 'Singer Salvage Yard' sign, and Crowley gazed uneasily out at the stacks of cars from the right-hand passenger's seat. Over the hours of driving, Crowley had scrolled through Sam's playlist and they'd found something they could both agree on. The tension between them had diminished considerably after Sam came out of the warehouse, giving Crowley an awkward grin and suggesting he pick the music. Crowley had taken the gesture of peace as it was meant, and they engaged in a silent truce in the long drive back to Sioux Falls. Thankfully, they were not more than ten hours' drive away, and had spent the night at Sam's motel before heading out for South Dakota in the morning.

And now, Crowley could vaguely sense the pulse of Aziraphale's aura closeby, and relaxed a little. He tensed up immediately, though, when he felt another angelic aura, and felt his skin grow cold.

"Uh, Sam." He started, glancing nervously up at the house. The second aura was getting stronger, the closer they got. Sam peered at him out of the corner of his eye, but kept going, working his way through the junked cars.

"Yeah?" Crowley tapped his fingers on his thigh.

"Do you—"

The front door burst open as they rolled to a stop, Dean silhouetted against the hallway. Sam gasped and quickly untangled his seatbelt, hastily shoving his door open as Dean descended. Once both brothers' feet were on stable ground, they ran, then clung to each other in a (manful) brotherly hug. Crowley wrinkled his nose at the blatant show of affection and looked away as he got out, then glanced back at the door. He paled.

There stood an angel.

Not his angel. The scruffy-looking angel narrowed his eyes at him, extending a hand. Crowley recognized the gesture and panicked. He disappeared.

Crowley stumbled to a stop somewhere else about fifty miles away and breathed out slowly, relieved. But his hackles went up as soon he heard a gravely voice behind him.

"There is nowhere to run, demon." Crowley slowly pivoted, spying that same white-scrubs-and-tan-trenchcoat angel he'd seen in Bobby's doorway glaring at him. He tried a weak smile, putting his hands up (palms out), backing away.

"N-Now, let's not be hasty, let's talk about this—" A tiny furrow dipped between the angel's eyes.

"No. You are a threat that cannot be allowed near the Righteous Man." Crowley laughed, nervously, keeping his eyes on the angel but still backing away, hands up in surrender.

"No, I-I promise I won't be a threat to him. Nope, not me." The angel's mouth tightened, and Crowley noticed with horror that his still-extended palm was beginning to glow.

"Demons only lie." Crowley quirked an anxious grin, and beat it the Hell out of there, again, before the angel could flash him into nonexistence.

He went back to Bobby's, storming past the front door and looking frenziedly around for Aziraphale. He spied the angel at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, blinking at him. (Bobby and Jody had presumably gone outside to greet Sam, something in the back of Crowley's mind guessed.)

"Crowl—?" Crowley didn't waste any time and lunged for Aziraphale, snagging him by his arms and whimpering into his neck.

"Don't let him kill me, angel." Aziraphale made a soft tutting noise in his throat (which vibrated against Crowley's nose), one hand lifting to card through the hair at the back of the demon's head.

"Crowley, dear, he's not going to—"

"Demon. Unhand my brother." Crowley shivered, glancing back over his shoulder and, sure enough—there was that angel, again, glaring at him as though he were smaller than scum. He hissed without realizing it.

"sssZira, pleasssse." Crowley felt Aziraphale sigh against him, and was a bit reassured when the angel's other arm looped gently around his waist. He heard a calming smile in Aziraphale's voice.

"Now then, Castiel, there's no need for this. Crowley's a friend. An ally." Crowley swore he heard a growl from the angel—Castiel?—behind him, but didn't dare glance back, just hunkering down against Aziraphale, pressing close and firmly trusting Aziraphale to this. The weight of Aziraphale's arm against his hip was warm and steadying.

"Brother. He has corrupted you. You should—"

"He has not corrupted me, but thank you for your concern." Something in Crowley rejoiced at the cool politeness of Aziraphale's voice, but he didn't dare make a comment. "Castiel. Do be reasonable." Crowley heard a frown in Castiel's voice.

"Brother. This goes against the laws of Heaven. Falling in with a demon can only lead to ruin." Crowley flinched at that phrasing, but he stilled as Aziraphale softly squeezed his middle, his voice firm.

"Castiel. You shall not smite Crowley while I stand. He has done nothing to deserve it." Crowley tensed a little as he felt Aziraphale shift, slowly turning and maneuvering Crowley behind him. Crowley contemplated clinging, but Aziraphale wasn't looking at him, his grey-blue eyes narrowed at Castiel. Angelic stand-off. Crowley knew enough not to get in the middle of that, and so carefully slunk back to hide under the kitchen table, peering up at Castiel from the upside-down 'V' of Aziraphale's legs. Castiel did not glance down at him, but was still visibly displeased, mouth twisting ever-so-imperceptibly to one side.

"Aziraphale. Brother. He is a demon. His mere existence is a sin. Do not do this." Crowley cowered back as Castiel glared straight down at him, then, but Aziraphale's stance was set, his voice unyielding and just a touch chillier, but still matter-of-fact.

"Crowley has returned Sam to Dean's side. Surely, in the interest of Dean's welfare, this can only be good?" Castiel's expression turned affronted, although it was barely there, his eyes flashing.

"Sam Winchester is not a good influence. Surely you know what is Foretold, that—" Castiel paused, then, squinting at Aziraphale. Crowley felt a small surge of unease as the angel's eyes widened, slowly. "You do not know the Plan?" Crowley felt Aziraphale's aura spike with panic.

"Now, Castiel—"

"You are not with Heaven, at all! You have Descended." Castiel's tone was blank but still aghast, somehow, and Crowley felt the fear for his own safety overcome by fear for Aziraphale's. If Heaven got word—Crowley realized Aziraphale's voice had become a tad pained.

"Castiel, please, it's not—"

But Castiel was gone. Crowley slowly crept out from under the kitchen table, and as he straightened he noticed Aziraphale's hands were trembling. Not thinking, he caught the angel by his wrists and forced him to face him. Aziraphale's face was pale, drawn of all color, his eyes wide and looking off at some place beyond Crowley's shoulder—but otherwise, he looked calm.

"Castiel—he's gone to—to tell Heaven that I—" Crowley frowned, letting his hands slide up to grasp Aziraphale's arms.

"Angel." No response. He shook him, once, irritated. "Aziraphale." Blue-grey eyes shifted slowly to him, still too wide for comfort. Crowley felt his frown deepen, and found himself squeezing Aziraphale's elbows, firm for an instant. "It's fine. They won't remember who you are." Aziraphale laughed, shortly, and shook his head, looking down.

"Oh… Oh, Crowley, you don't—" He sniffled, and Crowley huffed to himself, drawing the angel in for a quick (if grudging) hug around the shoulders. Aziraphale's arms wrapped around his middle, grip immediate but shaky.

"Shut up. Don't worry about it." Aziraphale shook his head, cheek pressed against Crowley's shoulder.

"Dearest, you don't understand. Once Heaven hears of a rogue angel, if won't matter if they don't remember me. They'll still send someone down, and then—" Crowley's grip tightened, and Aziraphale went silent.

"Fuck that, angel. They're not taking you without a fight."

Not this time, Crowley added fiercely in his head.

~END CHAPTER TEN~