Chapter XI — An Underhanded Deception
A few hours earlier...
Jack did, undeniably, sleep for quite some time. It wasn't until late into the night that he woke again, the clock on his nightstand reading 1:13am. When his eyes blinked open, he felt sluggish, but rested. He pushed himself up in bed, yawning loudly. Memories of earlier in the day flooded back to him quickly—the feel of Michael in his hands, that buzzing, impossible, ancient wave of celestial intent—and he had just...torn him in half. Like ripping through wrapping paper on a Christmas present. Like it was nothing.
Well, not nothing. He'd felt totally exhausted afterwards. It had taken just about everything he had in him. But still, he was able to do it. For the first time since Lucifer had stolen his Grace, he could be useful again. Something other than a liability to Cas, Sam, and Dean. He knew they'd been trying to be patient with him, but he'd done nothing but slow them all down as a human. Just another weak point to be exploited. Yet in spite of that, they'd still gone to the ends of the earth to save his life.
He thought this often, but he was very lucky to have them as his fathers.
Jack stared down at his hands, watching golden sparks dance between his fingertips. To be whole once more...what a relief. No more butchered soul magic. All was in balance, as it was intended to be. Half human. Half angel...or devil, he guessed. It depended on how you looked at it.
Jack heard muffled laughter and chatter from deeper in the bunker, and pursued it. He hovered by the threshold of the kitchen, peeking in. Dean was in the middle of animatedly telling a story that Jack had heard at least a dozen times.
"So then the Thule goons drag us in, right, and they put us in front of the Nauhaus guy, and I get lippy with him, and one of the Thule dudes says that I gotta address the Fuhrer with some respect."
Aziraphale gasped dramatically. "No!"
Crowley looked similarly stunned. "You can't be serious."
"That's right, fellas. They resurrected Hitler. So," Dean continued, gesturing wildly with his beer, "Hitler orders us fed to his dogs or whatever, but then Ellie, she's all woozy and shit from the blood thing, but she grabs Sammy's gun and nails one of the Thule. He goes down, I grab the Nazi bastard's gun, I punch HITLER in the FACE," he loudly and proudly emphasized, "then I level my pistol at him, and guess what I say."
"Couldn't fathom," Crowley said, grinning.
"I say, 'Heil this!'—and then I fucking shot him. I. Killed. Hitler." Dean spread out his arms, smile a mile wide. "I killed Hitler."(1)
Sam just shook his head. "He wants to get t-shirts made," he told Crowley and Aziraphale, who were staring at Dean with something like impressed confusion.
"Bravo, dear boy," Aziraphale cooed, sloshing a bit of wine out of his glass. "I did always absolutely detest Nazis."
"Well, no one likes Nazis, do they?" Crowley asked, brow furrowed.
The drunken chitchat filtered to the back of Jack's mind, and he focused on Cas, who watched Dean with a mixture of amusement and undisguised affection. Cas looked more relaxed in this moment than Jack had seen him in the entire time of knowing him. Granted that wasn't a huge stretch of time, but he knew that content and calm were feelings Cas rarely got to experience.
"Take me in his stead. Take me. I'm the one you want. I'm the one who woke you up."
"You? But you're already mine."
"Not for years. Eons maybe. But if you'll agree, I will go now, and I will go willingly."
"Deal...but oh, but not now. No, no, no, no, no. No, you see, I-I meant what I said. I-I want you to suffer. I want you to go back to—to your normal life and—and then forget about this and forget about me. And—and then, when you finally give yourself permission to be happy and let the sun shine on your face, that's when I'll come. That's when I'll come to drag you to Nothing."
Horror swelled in Jack's stomach, and he ducked back from the doorway, pressing himself against the wall and pinching his eyes shut as panic seized him. What if this was it? There were no other problems on their plate beyond that of their usual—they had a group of hunters to trust and rely on, the job wasn't nearly as much of a death sentence as it once was. Mary, Bobby, and Charlie were all alive and well. Michael and Lucifer were both dead.
What if this was the happiness the Shadow was waiting for? What if, at any moment, it could appear and take Cas to the Empty?
Jack thought they'd have so much longer. He had assumed that if anything was dependable, it was the uncanny ability the Winchesters' lives had of manufacturing pure misery at an alarming rate. But then Crowley and Aziraphale had come, and in such a short time, their Michael problem had been completely done away with.
But Jack knew there was a much bigger problem.
He looked down, once more, at his hands. Focused on the burning and brilliant energy inside of his chest. Could he...could he kill the Shadow? He'd killed Michael with the only consequence being a long nap.
But he'd felt the Shadow when he'd been in Heaven, and it had been...more than an Archangel. Much more. More than a god. The Shadow and the Empty were one in the same; the Shadow was just a ghostly extension that could be used to manifest in other dimensions not its own. But Jack had sensed distinctly that the being was more massive and unknowable than maybe anything else in the universe. At least their universe, anyway.
Jack glanced back into the kitchen, watched Crowley pour Aziraphale another glass of wine with mixed success, a small smile playing on his lips.
They were strong enough to jump-start his Grace when nothing else could...strong enough to do what even Archangel Grace couldn't. Perhaps, with the two of them in tow, the Shadow could be stopped—or maybe at least confined to the Empty, so that it couldn't take Cas before his time. But the strange angel and demon had already done so much for them. Surely this was asking too much. Asking them to risk their lives. They'd never agree.
Jack walked back down the hallway, racking his brain.
Maybe...maybe they didn't need to know the whole truth of the situation. Maybe just the bare bones.
I can do it, Jack told himself, eyes glowing gold. I know I can. If they help me—we can end this. They'll understand when it's all over.
The sun was just forming a thin white line on the horizon when Castiel found Aziraphale in the library, surrounded by several leaning stacks of books. Reading glasses were perched on his nose, and he was, with great care, leafing through Vasa Pessima Mala, an incredibly old lore book on demons that had been in the bunker's library when the boys had first moved in.
Aziraphale looked up at him when he entered, smiling at him. "Hello, brother."
"Hello, Aziraphale." Cas tilted his head, noticing the faint buzz still in his temples from their night of drinking. "Why are you wearing glasses?"
"Oh, these old things?" Aziraphale tapped the side with a finger. "To be perfectly honest with you, I just like the look of them. My eyes are perfectly fine."
Castiel took a seat across from Aziraphale at the table. "You seem to greatly enjoy human things."
"Well, is there much else to enjoy in the world?" Aziraphale asked lightly. "Angels and demons haven't made much. Even the things Crowley and I created, it was more...acting as a spark of inspiration to a human with gumption. But humans, ah...endlessly inventive creatures."
Cas nodded, noting the fondness in Aziraphale's voice. "You'll have to forgive me, I...haven't been on Earth very long. Not in comparison to you and Crowley. Not even twenty years."
"Understandable, of course. You're still very new to all this. But I can see you've already developed a similar appreciation for humanity. Or, at the very least, a few choice humans," Aziraphale's eyes held a knowing glint. "I must say, Castiel, I wonder what it's like for you. Crowley and I have had many human friends over the millennia, but we always made sure to maintain something of a distance. Ingenious though they may be, their lives are frightfully short in comparison to ours. Infinite versus finite."
"You're asking me how I'll cope when they're gone?"
Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I didn't mean to be quite so forward about it..."
"I don't know what I'll do. I'll still have Jack. I suppose the two of us will...carry on their legacy, as best we can," Cas replied haltingly.
Castiel felt deeply saddened, to think that someday, Dean and Sam would no longer be here with him. Even if natural causes took them, and not a hunt gone wrong, how many more years would he have with them? Forty, fifty if they were very lucky. He often forgot that in human years, Dean was rapidly approaching middle age. He and Sam both seemed so young to him, still the twenty-somethings he'd met when he first pulled Dean from Hell. Still...children, almost.
But they were anything but, and their lives were likely past half over, by now.
"I'm sorry, brother, this is all rather dire—I shouldn't have mentioned it. Merely curious. You and I, we're very..."
"Similar?" Cas filled in. "Two angels who rebelled against Heaven for the sake of the world?"
"Yes. In our universe, I'm...very much alone in that," Aziraphale said, something soft in his expression. "Call me Heaven's Least Wanted, I suppose."
"Be grateful for that much, Aziraphale. Here, half of the angels decided to align themselves with me after the Apocalypse. Nothing good came of it."
Aziraphale looked revolted by the thought. "I should think the Heavenly Host would know better than to ever try to follow me in anything. Of course, if some of the other angels were to come down to Earth, to remind themselves that we were made to be shepherds, not butchers...I would very much like that. But I'm no leader. No soldier. Not like you."
Cas cocked his head, silently questioning.
"I know a warrior when I see one," the other angel explained, "you at least managed that much. I was never quite what Heaven had hoped for."
"I don't think that I was either," Cas responded quietly. "Something Naomi said to me years ago...that I had come off the assembly line with a crack in my chassis."
Aziraphale surprised Cas by shutting Vasa Pessima Mala and looking at him sharply. The angel even took off his reading glasses. "Nonsense," he said firmly, meeting Castiel's eyes. "My dear brother, you saved the world. If that makes you—ill-made, then I shudder to think what would have happened if you'd been properly made." Something sad but hopeful ghosted over Aziraphale's face. "Maybe every universe needs one. One broken angel."
"And one humanity-loving demon," Castiel added.
"Ah yes, I heard you mention your Crowley in passing last night...uncanny that even their names are the same. I do wonder if they aren't just alternate versions of one another. Very different, obviously—for instance, the Castiel in our universe is a dreadful bore."
"On the surface, they definitely have their similarities. I think our Crowley would have liked your Crowley very much. But your Crowley...he's an angel, Fallen or not, demon or not. Crowley was a human who fell to demon."
"A fundamental difference," Aziraphale agreed.
"Yes. But still. They would've been friends. I'm sure of it."
Aziraphale frowned. "I do wish they could have met. I think it would do well for Crowley to meet another demon even remotely like himself. I know meeting you has been...important. For me. I'm more sure now than ever that I did the right thing, stopping Armageddon."(2)
"Even given the state of our universe?"
A faintly anxious look formed in Aziraphale's eyes. "Well, surely that won't happen to us."
Castiel wanted to point out that if you bucked the natural order of things, sometimes there was no telling what the consequences would be, but he didn't want to dampen the other angel's spirits. And their God seemed a great deal less capricious than Chuck—assuming it was indeed a different God. Michael assumed it was all one God, all Chuck, moving from draft to draft, trying to find the proper story. Castiel didn't know if he believed that or not.
Then again, Crowley and Aziraphale's God was a She...perhaps they weren't one of Chuck's universes. Perhaps Amara had constructed her own after departing theirs.
Questions Castiel was still not quite sober enough to entertain at the moment, so he merely said, "I'm sure it won't, brother."
Aziraphale smiled brightly, seeming perfectly content with Cas's weak reassurance.
9am found Sam in the kitchen, blearily making a pot of coffee and trying to ignore the pounding in his head. He hadn't drank that much in months, and he wasn't as young as he used to be. Every time he burped, he wondered if a run to the bathroom was going to be necessary. After a moment's consideration, he placed a kettle on the stove and started making tea as well. Something to combat the nausea while the coffee gave him the energy to do more than lay on the couch for the rest of the day. Plus, it seemed likely that Aziraphale and Crowley would tend more towards tea then coffee, being Brits (or at least Brit-flavored entities.)
Sam stirred when he heard footsteps behind him, expecting Cas. Instead he found Crowley, barefoot and with his shirt unbuttoned halfway, his hair mussed. Still had his sunglasses on, though. Sam didn't understand why he bothered. They all knew what he was, and the creepiness of the snake eyes had worn off pretty quickly.
Crowley sank down into a chair at the table and stared at Sam's back. Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable, wondering if the demon remembered last night or not. Alcohol probably did a lot more damage to human memory than demonic memory.
After about a minute, Sam determined Crowley did remember.
"You, uh, you do realize you can't actually pierce me with your glares, right?" Sam asked nervously, pouring himself a cup of coffee while the tea boiled.
"You'd be surprised," the demon said, his voice rough from sleep.
Sam blushed. "Look, man, I'm sorry. But why not just..." Oh wow, he was already hating this conversation. "Pick up where you left off? You guys've really never been interrupted before?"
Crowley's lip curled. "You think that was a NORMAL thing for ussss?" he hissed. "It took us six thousand years to get that far, and you managed to cock it up in less than six seconds!"
"Wait," Sam shook his head, absolutely lost. "You—you two aren't together?"
"No!"
Sam stared, trying to reconcile that information with every single interaction he'd seen between the angel and the demon. "Cas was actually right. Wow." The three of them had a brief argument while Aziraphale had been dealing with Crowley's wounded shoulder about whether or not the two of them were an Item, with Sam being very much in the camp of Yes, They Might Even Be Married, Dean voting that they were at least sleeping together, with Cas insisting that they were both wrong, and the two were just close friends.
"So what you're saying is...you were...and I...?"
Crowley did a wonderful job of filling in the blanks. He crossed his arms, and Sam didn't need to see the demon's reptilian eyes to know they were burning with rage. "YES."
"Oh." Sam's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. Skin crawling with how tense the room had grown, Sam tried to act natural and take a sip of his coffee. He promptly spat it all over the kitchen counter, choking. "What—what the hell is wrong with this? It tastes like—" Understanding dawned on him.
He whirled around, the words, "Crowley, did you turn my coffee into motor oil?" ready on his tongue, but the demon was already gone.
Dean could cook, but was passed out in bed, sleeping off his bet with Crowley. Sam could cook, but was too hungover (and also very occupied trying to scrub the motor oil taste out of his mouth) and Crowley just wasn't in the bloody mood, so breakfast came in the form of several platters of cream, chocolate, and fruit-filled pâte à choux that Aziraphale had miracled up for everyone, everyone at the moment being the two of them, Jack, and Castiel.
Even with their stunning lack of ability to pick up on social cues, both Jack and Cas seemed to be at least tangentially aware that something was Not Quite Right between Crowley and Aziraphale, and it didn't take long for Cas to excuse himself to "go check and see if Dean is still alive."
They sat in awkward silence for several minutes, Jack sipping at a glass of milk, Aziraphale seeming to try and then subsequently fail to enjoy his breakfast, and Crowley stared mournfully at his cup of coffee. He'd turned the entire pot into motor oil, but now found himself too glum to reverse the process.
He tried not to be hyper-aware of Aziraphale at his side. Tried very hard not to think about the angel's hands on him the night before, his shallow breathing, the heat and weight of him, the sound he'd made in the back of his throat when Crowley had grazed his hands down his chest.
Tried, anyway.
Jack eventually broke the tense quiet, clearing his throat: "I, um. I know we've already asked a lot of you two. And I feel bad asking for something else, but I wanted to at least bring it up. I might be able to do it myself, but I'd feel better if I had..." he seemed to search for the word, "backup."
Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "I thought we rather tied up everyone's loose ends when Michael was dealt with?"
"We did," Jack confirmed, gazing evenly at Aziraphale. "But, there's just something extra I'd like to do. I don't really want the others to know. They would tell me it's too dangerous, but I don't think it is. Now that I'm back to normal."
"The anticipation's killing me," Crowley mumbled, still glaring at his motor oil. "Just tell us what it is."
"Crowley...I'd like to save your favorite character from the Supernatural books."
Crowley did perk up ever-so-slightly at that, actually letting his eyes slide to Jack. "Save Other Me? Thought he died trying to stop Lucifer the second time? Or third time? Whatever time you lot are on. Love beating a dead horse, your God does. But why d'you want to save him? Thought he died before you were even born?"
"He did, but I've heard stories. I think it would be good to have Crowley back to take over Hell again. Heaven isn't a problem because there's not very many angels left, and the hunters are keeping things under control on Earth. With Crowley back in Hell to stop the chaos, things could...be in balance again, for the first time in a really long time. Also, I think it would make Dean happy, if I could find a way to bring Crowley back without something bad happening because of it, like with how Rowena was trying to resurrect him."
Crowley snorted. "She's lucky she ended up with me in her summoning circle and not something worse."
"What exactly would this entail, Jack?" Aziraphale asked, clasping his hands on the table and leaning forward.
"In our universe, when an angel or a demon dies, they go to a place called the Empty," Jack began.
"Creative name," Crowley snarked.
"It's just a...a really big void. But when Cas was there, I woke him up. So I don't see why we can't do that with Crowley, and then bring him back. He can just find another body, so we don't have to worry about that."
Jack explained it all quite succinctly, but it all sounded far too easy for Crowley's liking. "So we just, go, get him, leave? Doesn't sound like you need us."
Jack pursed his lips, as if weighing his next words very carefully. "There's a...an entity that protects the Empty. That's why I'd like you two to come. I think we can hold him off long enough to get Crowley out."
"And what exactly is this entity like?" Aziraphale asked, clearly concerned.
"Just...a Shadow," Jack said vaguely. "We can handle it."(3)
"I don't know about this," Crowley said, absentmindedly massaging his wounded shoulder. He needed to change the bandage. "Seems dodgy. How did you four get anything done before we showed up?"
"Mostly by making terrible deals," Jack said honestly, something dark dancing in his eyes.
"I think we should help," Aziraphale said haughtily, not looking at Crowley. The angel, as it happened, had not looked at him once since what Crowley was now mentally referring to as The Incident. "Not often someone wants to save a demon...I'm rather in support of it."
Crowley didn't even know where to begin with that statement. "Most demons don't want, need, or deserve it."
"Some do," replied the angel stiffly. Still not looking at him. "Do you think this one does?"
Crowley sighed, looking back at his motor oil "S'pose so. Still got a bad feeling about this."
"It'll be okay," Jack said cheerfully, and he extended his hands to them. "Can we leave now? I'd like to do this before the others realize we're gone. I don't want them to worry."
Crowley made a face. "What could possibly go wrong?" He took Jack's hand.
Aziraphale took the other one. "Really, my dear. Would it kill you to be an optimist, just this once?"
Before Crowley could retort, the three of them were gone.
1. For those who are not caught up on Supernatural, or have never watched in the first place: yes, this happened. No, the Authoress could not make this shit up if she tried.
2. In Aziraphale and Crowley's minds, they—with some credit given to Adam for being very un-Antichrist like and Madame Tracy for lending her body for a bit—are solely responsible for saving Earth.
3. It should be understood that Aziraphale and Crowley are connected in many ways, beyond just being the scales that balance the universe, two equal and opposite forces, hereditary enemies—they also share one brain cell, which they pass back and forth without any real say in the matter. Today, unfortunately, is Aziraphale's day with the brain cell, and he is far less talented at detecting deceit than Crowley is.