AN OLD, CLICHE-LOOKING WAREHOUSE, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, wondering where to start. There was too much that needed to be said, needed to be discussed. Too much laundry that needed to be aired.

Too many topics that they'd been avoiding.

He decided to begin with the obvious one.

"I don't appreciate," he stated, "you running off like that."

Crowley's gaze darkened, and the angel knew that they were in for a very lengthy conversation. "I don't appreciate," he mimicked, "you acting like my mother. There was a problem, I took care of it. I saw no reason to get you involved."

Aziraphale refrained from pointing out that Crowley did not actually have a mother. (1) Instead, he went with: "No reason to get involved?" he questioned. "No reason? Might I ask what you would have done if I hadn't arrived?"

Crowley's jaw tightened. "I don't need protecting, angel," he snapped.

"I'm not saying you do. I'm saying that sometimes, you need help. Sometimes, you can't do it all on your own. And sometimes, you shouldn't." He held the demon's gaze. "Tell me, Crowley, if I had come along, how many corpses would you have ended up leaving behind you on this endeavor? Don't try to deny it, I found you by following the body trail. If I had been with you, I could have saved the people those demons were wearing." He bit his lip at the stony expression on Crowley's face, but continued. "There was a time when you would have been smarter about this, Crowley, instead of going after Hastur with no regard for consequences."

This pronouncement seemed to hang in the air and echo across the warehouse in the silence that followed. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in place.

"That time was twenty years ago, Aziraphale. Maybe it seems like only a few days ago for you, but it was twenty. Years. Ago. Twenty years, and you weren't here." The deadly quiet statement buzzed like a swarm of wasps, and Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at the perceived accusation.

"Are you saying that was my fault?" he demanded.

"What? No, that's not what I-"

The angel's throat tightened. "Well, I'm sorry that you feel that way, but I'm not the one who made you decide to become the King of Hell. What on earth is that about, anyway?"

Crowley blinked - with golden eyes, Aziraphale noted, when had that happened? - and took a slight step forward. "You really couldn't guess?" he whispered harshly. "Really? You were gone, Aziraphale, and you were gone because Heaven killed you. I wanted revenge, and I wanted to be in a position to get that revenge." He spread his arms wide, with a grin that didn't reach the rest of his face. "And look at me now. Isn't this just the high life?" The tone was full of bitterness, and for a moment, Aziraphale was lost for words.

"But..." He hesitated, mentally stumbling over the words, words that just didn't want to form properly. "But… But I'm back now, aren't I?" he finally managed, knowing as he did so that this was going to come out all wrong. "There's no need for it anymore, Crowley. I'm back."

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, you are," he agreed, and in his voice was none of the demon that Aziraphale had grown to love. This wasn't Crawly, the Serpent of Eden, the best friend that Aziraphale hadn't known he needed. This was Crowley, the King of Hell, the ruler of the damned, the demon who didn't let anyone or anything get in the way of what he wanted.

This Crowley was a stranger, and it frightened him.

"Yes, you are," Crowley continued. "You're back, after twenty years, and you just don't get it, do you? The world didn't stop spinning after you died, Aziraphale, and neither did I. I had to adapt, I had to change, I had to survive, and now you come waltzing back in and expect everything to be exactly the same?" His voice raised to a near shout. "That's not happening, Aziraphale. I'm sorry, but it's not! I can't…" He broke off, looking away and running a hand across his face.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. "You can't what, Crowley? Go on, you may as well finish."

Slowly, Crowley met his eyes, and the angry, defeated look in them made the angel want to simultaneously hug him and slap him. "I can't be who you want me to be, Aziraphale," he said. "I can't be who I used to be. I can't be who you expect." He laughed grimly. "What else you want me to say? I could write a book of all the terrible deeds I've done since you last saw me. I'm sure you could follow the trail of bodies through the last twenty years if you wanted to. And I can't erase that. I can't erase any of it, any more than I can suddenly revert back to who I was twenty years ago."

"You've been trying, though."

Crowley shrugged. "Sure I have. Even got the Bentley out again, for old times' sake. Not that it's helped much. I mean, I'll hardly get much of a chance to use it, if I want to avoid questions about why I have it."

"You can avoid those questions if you give it up," Aziraphale said, giving it one last try. "Crowley, I swear, I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to do this anymore."

Crowley eyed him. "And who would be King of Hell, if I were to step down?" he demanded. "The Knights are all dead or missing and Alastair's been dead for years, so it would be a power vacuum. I imagine it would be Belial who'd win in the end, him or Beezelbub." He shot the angel a look. "You want either of them in charge of Hell? Really?"

Aziraphale paused to consider that a moment. It was true. In Crowley's absence, someone far more unsavory would likely take charge. Who knew what would happen then? Yet… that wasn't the only reason why Crowley was staying in charge. "You like the power," he said.

Crowley stared at him for a moment. "Yes," he said at length. "I bloody well hate it down there, but yes, I like the perks. Did you honestly think I didn't?"

Aziraphale struggled with his response for a moment. No, but I had hoped, he thought. It had been a vain hope, though, and he knew that. Yes, Crowley enjoyed that power. Of course he did. Why wouldn't he; it was in his very nature. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think I forget just what you are."

The demon stiffened for a moment before slumping. "Yeah," he replied. "So do I."

A silent acceptance stretched between them, and Aziraphale knew what had to happen next.

"We can't go on like this, Crowley," he said. "We've been doing this all wrong."

Crowley glanced away, nodding sharply. His hands were stuffed deeply into the pockets of his suit now, likely in an attempt to appear casual, though it wasn't working. (2)

"We… we need to figure this out," the angel continued. "I… I can't expect you to be the same as you used to be, and… I'm sorry for making you feel that you had to." He sighed and glanced down at his shoes. (3) "But you need to give me time, time and a little space."

Crowley nodded again. "Right. I get it." There was bitterness in his voice, and Aziraphale frowned. He was misinterpreting this, he could tell.

"Now, don't be like that, dear." He smiled gently and stepped forward. (4) "I didn't say a lot of time and a lot of space. It's just like you to jump to the worst possible scenario." He reached out and took his hand in his, gently. Crowley stared at it, then back at him.

And then they were kissing, and for a moment nothing else in all the world mattered. For a moment, everything was right.

xXx

SOUIX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Cas was gone.

Dean knew that there were so many other things that needed worrying about right now. He knew that Aziraphale and Crowley were off doing God-knows-what, that Sam wasn't doing nearly as well as he claimed (5), that at any time, Raphael could send some of his forces after them, and he really, really needed to be on guard. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

Because Cas was gone. Cas was out there right now, fighting for all of them, and Dean couldn't do a thing about it.

For all he knew, Cas could be…

No. He wasn't going to think like that. No way in hell.

There was still a possibility, though, and as much as he hated to think about it, the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

"Quit that," Bobby said, and Dean jumped slightly, turning to see the other man beside him, leaning against the porch railing. Apparently, he was in such a state of mind that he hadn't heard his approach.

This did not help his mood.

"Quit what?" he snapped.

Bobby raised an incredulous eyebrow, and, okay, maybe he deserved that one. "Quit what?" the older man repeated, gesturing with a hand. "Quit this, Dean. Quit mopin'. It ain't gonna bring your angel back home any sooner."

Dean glared. Yes, Bobby. Thank you. I'm not an idiot. "I know that," he replied. "I'm not moping."

Bobby gave him a look that stated quite clearly what he thought of that sentence. Dean refused to relent.

"Seriously," he persisted. "I'm not. I'm…" He trailed off, seeking for a word that wasn't moping, angsting, brooding, or any synonym of the three. "...thinking," he decided. Yeah, that one was nice and neutral. No connotations. Except, when a Winchester was 'thinking', it never turned out well, and Bobby had caught on to that pretty quick after meeting them. (6) The man snorted.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Pining, more like it."

Dean bristled, because what the hell? "I'm not. Pining," he gritted out.

"Coulda fooled me," Bobby said, but sighed. "He'll be back soon enough. He's not gonna let some archangel get the drop on him."

Dean frowned and stared off at the salvage yard, his eyes tracing over the familiar outlines of the wrecked cars. The sun was just beginning to set, and he vaguely realized that today was the thirtieth. Tomorrow would be December, and about time, too. It seemed as if the month, and especially the past few days, had lasted for nearly a year. (7) "Right," he said at length. "I know." And he did, really. Cas could handle himself, he'd proved that on more than one occasion. But there were times when he looked at the angel and could only see him as he'd been after the whole Anna Incident: laid up on the motel bed, practically comatose and looking as vulnerable as a human would.

That was in the past. Dean was well aware of that. Cas wasn't falling anymore, and never would again, if he could help it.

But the angel still wasn't invulnerable. He could still die.

Dean closed his eyes, turned his head toward the setting sun, and prayed.

xXx

(1)- Though, the identity that he'd created for himself did. And that was just a complicated mess.

(2)- Aziraphale had learned a long time ago that when Crowley had his hands in his pockets, it was usually to prevent himself from doing something else with them. The 'something else' varied, but the results were typically the same.

(3)- They were covered in dead maggots. He looked up again very quickly.

(4)- Encroaching on the demon's personal space as he did so. Crowley didn't mind.

(5)- He hadn't said anything about the nightmare the other night, so Dean wasn't going to push him, but still. No way was Sam feeling as good as he was acting.

(6)- The vast majority of Bobby's conversations with John had started with the other man saying something along the lines of 'I've been thinking...' It got to the point where Bobby just took out his shotgun every time the man opened his mouth. Much safer that way, for him and for everyone else in the vicinity.

(7)- ...Occasionally, Dean could be uncannily accurate.

A/N: Welp. That happened. Yep. (I apologize to non-shippers. Feel free to interpret that as perfectly platonic... if you can, that is. You're welcome to try. That's about the shippiest it'll get, though, I promise.)

We are indeed nearing the one-year anniversary of this fic. And if I keep my head on straight, it just might be finished by then. One more chapter to go, people. Yup, just one, and then an epilogue to wrap it all up.

(...And 149 reviews. Can we break 150 this go-round? Please? -insert puppy dog eyes here-)

(I also just so happened to have published a couple of oneshots. One's a kinda weird Destiel multiverse AU, and the other one's an angsty GO/SPN fic. If you wanted to check them out and leave a review, I would love you forever. (grins) )

Next Chapter: The actual Final Battle, in which Cas and Co. implement their plan, and someone dies.