XXI — An Unmitigated Disaster
Crowley's estimation was, in fact, incorrect. It did not take Rowena an hour to break out of her chains, but rather thirty-seven minutes. Granted, that was thirty-seven minutes of intensive magic, but nonetheless. She lived to defy expectations. Her ability to defy expectations was perhaps the most influencing factor as to why she had managed to survive as long as she had in a world that seemed determined to kill, disarm, or destroy her at every turn.
But she'd been very good at beating the world, ever since the start.
Just as she was preparing to plunge into the portal and go after her ungrateful whelp of a son, someone stepped through the gash in time and space. The universal newcomer looked young, and bizarre—black eye liner leaked artfully down his face, his outfit was a nonsensical hodge-podge, and his hair, inexplicably, stuck up in two ear-like structures.
He radiated infernal energy. A demon, then. And one from Aziraphale and Crowley's universe. Which likely meant that portal Aziraphale had opened did not, in fact, lead to Heaven, but rather Hell. Perfectly on-brand, so far as the Winchesters were concerned.
"Erm. Hi."
Rowena blinked. "Hello...?"
The demon glanced around, not seeming to know what to make of the dilapidated barn around them. "Sorry. Expected to disintegrate. Where am I, exactly?"
She could play this to her advantage, she knew she could. It was just a matter of figuring out how. "A different universe."
"Oh. Well, we figured that much." The demon eyed her. "I should probably kill you, shouldn't I?"
"And why would you want to do that?" Rowena asked gently, taking a softer approach.
"Dunno. I'm a demon, aren't I?"
Rowena smiled kindly at him. "What's your name, dear?"
"Me?" The demon pointed at himself. "Legion, technically. But everyone calls me DD."
"What do you prefer?"
He almost seemed to blush. "I prefer Erik, actually."
Oh. Oh yes. A demon who had named himself. A demon who liked human culture enough to discover dollar store eye makeup. She could work with this. "Well, Erik, what do you want to do? Do you want to kill me?"
Erik scratched the back of his neck. "Well—being honest with you—not really. Don't really see the point. But everyone always says I should do more killing. Toughen myself up."
"And if everyone else told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?" Rowena challenged.
Erik seemed to mull on the question. "I s'pose it depends on whether their bodies would break my fall...?"
Rowena briefly patted his shoulder. "Here's what I'd like to do. I'd like to go through that portal, and find my son, because he's lost on the other side and he needs his mother. And I'd like to do it without being eviscerated by hoards of demons."
"And you want me to help you?"
"Frankly, I want you not to get in my way, because if you do, I'll have to do something nasty to you, and you seem like such a nice boy."
"But what am I supposed to tell them when I go back? Not that they're really expecting me to come back," Erik said, frowning. "I can replicate myself, see, so they do things like this to me a lot."
Rowena tilted her head. "Erik, dear," she broached carefully, and she could tell he enjoyed being called by his chosen name, "what does 'DD' stand for?"
The frown deepened. "Disposable Demon."
She oozed with false sympathy. "That's not very kind, is it?"
The demon bristled. "We're demons. We're not kind. That'd be bad. Or good, rather, which is bad."
She took a few steps towards the portal, near close enough to dip inside. Erik made no move to stop her. "You said they're not expecting you to come back?"
Erik nodded. "Yeah. Said they'd give it ten minutes, and if I didn't come back, they'd just rope off the hallway and be done with it."
Apparently Hell in Aziraphale and Anthony's universe was as on top of things as Hell sans-Crowley in their own world. "Interesting."
His brow furrowed. "What d'you mean, interesting?"
"It's almost like you could just...not go back. And they would never know." She shrugged, the picture of innocence. "You could do anything you wanted, then."
Understanding seemed to dawn on Erik. "I could...jump off as many bridges as I want."
That hadn't at all been what she was going for, but she enjoyed his spirit. "Exactly."
Erik watched her, eyes narrowed, jaw working. Contemplating possibilities, weighing risk. But if he had to even think about it at all, she already had him. Demons, humans, angels, they weren't so different. They all wanted things, things that they didn't say aloud, things hidden down deadly deep. All you had to do was make that private wish a possibility, a reality, and you had them.
Slowly, slowly, the demon backed away from the portal.
He eyed her suspiciously. "And you won't tell them anything?"
"Oh, darling. They won't even know I'm there."
That seemed to comfort the demon. "Well...alright then."
Rowena watched as he hesitantly left the barn, stepping out into the bright, brilliant early spring sunshine. When the barn doors creaked shut behind him, Rowena strolled into Hell, heels clicking all the way.
They did eventually find their way out, even though AJ's directions weren't as helpful as initially hoped—there was more than one life-size statue of Dick Cheney in Hell. To absolutely no one's surprise. Still, the three of them burst out into a London office building soon enough, trailing their pack of friendly hellhounds and unfriendly demons close behind them.
"You remember Crowley's address?" Dean asked, breathless. He hadn't been listening as closely as he should have been when Aziraphale had explained how to get there from the Heaven/Hell escalators.
"Yeah, yeah—he said it's not far from here, eight blocks. Apartment building, sixth floor. Crown Place," Sam provided promptly.
"There's that Stanford memory. Okay, so, just gotta outrun demons for eight blocks. We've done more with less," Dean said, flinging himself out of the revolving door of the office building and onto the damp London pavement. "Home sweet home, right Crowley?"
"I'm Scottish, you idiot," Crowley shot back, glancing over his shoulder. "Faster, would you?"
The three tore down the street, jeering demons staying practically in step with them, only impeded by the growling pack of hellhounds occasionally ripping off a lower limb that slowed them down.
Crowley sped up, taking the lead, demonic nature allowing for a speed Sam and Dean couldn't physically reach. He surprised them both by winding sideways into the street, stalling out the midday London traffic with a series of slammed brakes and blaring horns.
"Get outta the fuckin' road, you cunt!" roared the driver in a nearby taxi.
"Isn't everyone going to question the giant crowd of demons and hellhounds running through the city?" Sam called after Crowley, sliding over the hood of a car that came dangerously close to hitting him.
"They're not seeing this," replied Crowley. "Can't tell you what they're actually seeing, but humans are brilliant at lying to themselves."(1)
A mail van bravely zoomed past, dodging the demons crossing the street. Dean's head snapped to it, overcome by sudden tunnel vision.
Chase it. Gotta chase it.
Crowley slapped him on the nose, growling, "Bad dog!" at him.
Dean shook his head, and managed to break the enchantment of the mail van. Damn dog aspect!
And then they were off again.
"Where are you going?" Dean gasped Crowley as they sprinted, dodging passerby on the sidewalk, earning nothing more than irritated looks from those they passed.
A gunshot fired off in the background; all three of them instinctively ducked. "Oh, neat! Demons with guns! Love that." They got points for resourcefulness; Dean really didn't like the fact that demons could just miracle shit into existence in this universe. If demons could do that back home, they would have been dead years ago. Permanently dead, anyways. Maybe there'd been more things working in their favor over the years after all; mainly how dumb every fucking demon barring Crowley was.(2)
Another shot. Two more shots. Three more.
"Someone miracle up an RPG!" yelled one demon.
"Please tell me you have a plan," Dean begged Crowley. "'Cause Sam and I can take a lot of hits, but rocket launchers are where I draw the line."
"Of course I have a plan. Who do you think you're talking to?" Crowley once again took a sudden turn, heading down an alley. Gunshots continued to ring out behind them(3) in a cacophony.
"Your plan is a dead-end?" Sam demanded.
"Have a little faith, Moose."
The hounds followed dutifully behind them, and Dean started to see the logic in what Crowley was going for—they'd back themselves into a corner, sure, but they'd also form a choke-point for the hounds to properly eat their way through the crowd of demons, killing the lion's share of them. Or discorporating them, rather, and the bastards couldn't do much to them if they were floating around somewhere, disembodied and useless.
Crowley halted when he hit a brick wall, and turned. "Watch the show, boys."
And they did. The demons, like lemmings, poured into the narrow, dirty alley between a cafe and a notary, and were quickly bombarded by the waiting hellhounds.
Dean and Sam dragged several dumpsters to form some kind of cover against the demons who were still armed unloading on them, and after a few hectic, bombastic moments of gunfire, barking, and screaming, Crowley joined them, passing them both semi-auto pistols. "Demons discorporate as easy as humans die. Do what you lads do best, hmm?"
Dean and Sam happily accepted the weapons, and then did exactly as they were bid. Crowley sat back and watched, seemingly satisfied that he'd done his part.
Some of the demons wisened up enough to run screaming from the altercation, but many stayed, trying to fend off the opposing canines to little effect.
It was looking like they were finally going to win and be able to get on with their lives when a sharp voice rang out in the cramped space of the alley—"STOP!"
The hounds fell back on their haunches. The demons still alive collapsed to the ground, bleeding, either gasping for breath or gasping in pain, not that it really mattered either way. Back-lit by daylight and stomping like they were furious they had to even show up to this bullshit at all, the fly-demon from earlier, Beelzebub, trudged into Dean's line of sight. The demons and hounds alike parted for Beelzebub, the hounds bowing their heads in something like reverence.
Beelzebub stopped about fifteen feet from the dumpster barricade. Dean wasted no time, firing off half a magazine at them. The bullets almost made it to their destination, before stilling in the air and falling to the ground, much like when he'd tried to shoot AJ days ago.
"Thought you could take my hounds from me? They answer to power. And I've got a lot of that," Beelzebub said, unimpressed.
Crowley sprang up from behind the dumpster. "Oh, love, I don't think you know who you're dealing with."
"And I don't care to...oi!" they yelled, and the hounds stood at attention, jaws slathering. "What do you think you're doing? Kill them! You know who's really in charge here!"
Hackles raised everywhere, expect notably the bull terrier hound that had originally been tasked to eat them, who looked at Crowley quizzically, rather than like he was her next meal.
Crowley vanished for a moment, reappearing just a stone's throw form Beelzebub. "Don't move a muscle!" Crowley ordered, voice just as booming, just as commanding as Beelzebub's, eyes blazing Crossroads red.
The air buzzed with demonic energy around them. Dean could feel it—not in any 'sixth sense' kind of way, but in a 'you might want to get out of here right the fuck NOW' flight-or-fight kind of way. Self-preservation had never been much he and Sam's strong-suit, but still, his eyes did wander to the nearby fire escape, a possible exit if they were able to climb to the top before getting killed.
"You're not a Crewman Jones type demon, I'll give you that," Crowley said, "but I'm Crowley. You don't stand a chance."
The hounds seemed baffled, heads swinging back and forth, not knowing who to obey, what to do.
Beelzebub gritted their teeth. "Unless you want your fur as carpet in my office, you'll kill them! Do it, now!"
Dean wasn't much for praying, but it seemed like a good time. Sam lifted his head, accidentally banging one of his antlers on the dumpster. He swore, but then said, "There's gotta be something we can do."
"Like what? Can't shoot them."
The ground began to shake underneath them. Beelzebub's eyes flashed too—also red, but not like Crowley's, rather a multi-lensed fly-esque nightmare. "ATTACK!"
"STAY!" Crowley bellowed back.
But it seemed the hounds were more afraid of Beelzebub than Crowley. They started to stalk forward, snarling, all but the bull terrier hound, who whimpered.
"Crowley, we gotta get the fuck out of here!" Dean yelled.
"I can control them!" Crowley insisted. "I'm the bloody King!"
"Of course you are, Fergus, but you're not the King here," came a sing-song reminder from the fire escape. Next came the sound of heels on metal, and a fluent chant in Chinese.
Beelzebub, and all the remaining demons, froze in place, a vague purple light suffusing them.
Rowena jumped nimbly down from the fire escape, landing with impossible grace and looking very pleased with herself.
Crowley was incensed, clearly, but his next firm, "Stay!" worked on the hounds, and they all calmed, no longer ready to rip their throats out. The bull terrier hound trotted up to him, pushing her nose into his hand, and Crowley obliged her with scratches between the ears.
Sam and Dean both sagged in relief. "That's some really good timing," Sam commended. "Thanks for the save."
"Hardly deserve it, seeing as you all abandoned me without a thought." She stopped next to Crowley. "I could have just left you all. Would have been well within my rights to."
Crowley's lip curled. "If you're expecting tearful gratitude from me—"
"Please. I'm a realist," she interrupted him.
"I don't owe you anything. Not now. Not ever." He shouldered past her, clearly not interested. Sam and Dean rose to their feet, skirting around the dumpsters. Mother and son needed to talk, sure, but he really wished they would pick a different time—they kinda had a to-do list they needed to work on.
"That's fair enough...but I do owe you something," she said, crossing her arms. "Three hundred plus years of something, actually. Consider this me starting to repay the debt."
"You haven't changed, Mother."
"You could have run," she said suddenly.
"What?" Crowley snapped, turning back to look at her.
"You could have run. From this. Would have been well within your rights to strike off into the great unknown as soon as you were resurrected. But here you are, still risking your neck for the Winchesters. Still...trying."
"What is your point?" he demanded.
"You've changed. You're not running anymore—and neither am I. Not from you."
Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen Crowley speechless before, but the demon truly seemed like he didn't know what the hell to say to that. Sam took the opportunity to break in. "Uh, guys, this is awesome that you're having an open and honest dialogue, and—and you definitely need to have one, not denying that, but—Crowley and Aziraphale are waiting on us, and—"
"Please shut up," Crowley begged him. "Fine. If you're coming, let's go—how long will this spell of yours last?"
"Lovely little Chinese paralytic. Should give us ten minutes." She gestured to the alley's mouth. "Lead the way, Fergus."
Crowley reeled on her. "You want to start paying back the debt?" He leaned close to her, anger clear in his expression. "It's Crowley."
Rowena seemed a bit taken aback, but she did nod slowly. "Fine then. Lead the way...Crowley."
Beelzebub was not frozen for the exact ten minutes that Rowena predicted, but rather seven minutes and twenty two seconds, upon which they were unfrozen by the Archangel Gabriel.
Beelzebub sagged when they were free to move their limbs again. Gabriel pointedly kept the other demons immobile.
"Looks like you're having a productive day," he observed coolly. "Hellhounds and demons running through London? Seriously? I know your side isn't great at damage control, but come on."
"This is to do with Crowley and Aziraphale, I know it," they said immediately, shoving past him and stomping back to the street. "Three demons I've never seen before turn up in Hell—one of them named Crowley, says he's the King of Hell—and two of the demons were humans in disguise. I tried to have them killed, and they stole our hounds and broke out of Hell. And they were heading towards that idiot snake's flat." They stopped curbside, fists clenched. "Something's going on here, and I don't know what it is, and I don't like it."
Gabriel turned back to the crowd of frozen demons. With a wave of his hands, they were gone, back in Hell.
"What did you do that for?" Beelzebub demanded.
"It's not really a good look for me, is it? That many demons on the surface?" Gabriel gave them a look as if it was a stupid question to even ask. "You and I can handle this."
"You and I?" Beelzebub repeated. "There's no you and I."
"If it comes to Aziraphale and Crowley, there is. If we both marched back to home office with their heads..." Gabriel raised his eyebrows high. "Redemption, Beelz. If they're causing this much trouble on Earth, we're justified in ignoring the 'hands off' orders, right?"
"Don't call me Beelz. But, maybe you're right." They stretched out their hand, and a moment later, a blade appeared in their palm, strange and three-sided, walking the line between dagger and short sword. Gabriel's eyes widened at the celestial power that radiated from it, impossibly bright and powerful, reminding him of Michael's own lance, or Raphael's caduceus. God had never seen fit to give him a weapon. He was the Messenger, the protector of children, the provider of Divine Truth. Which basically meant he had a Horn gathering dust in a closet in Heaven and no useful arm to speak of.
God should've given him the flaming sword. He certainly wouldn't have handed it off to a human.
"Holy water and Hellfire didn't kill them. Maybe this will. It kills demons at the least," Beelzebub explained.
Gabriel carefully took it from them, weighing it in his hand. Experimentally, he sliced a shallow cut on the top of his knuckles. He hissed, jerking his hand away, feeling as though lightning was sparking from the wound back up his arm, to the very center of his being—his actual being, not the well-tailored human costume he wore on Earth.
"Mm. Don't like that." He handed the blade back to Beelzebub, and he let himself smile. "It's perfect."
"There," Anathema said, dusting the chalk off of her skirts. "Done."
"An exact replica," Aziraphale complimented. "Well done, Miss Device."
"I haven't really worked with Enochian before, but the learning curve isn't particularly steep." Anathema deposited the chalk on the kitchen counter, and Aziraphale noted that she had a sharpened steak knife from Crowley's knife block tucked into the belt around her waist. Human she may have been, but he rather thought he wouldn't want to cross the young witch.
"So what do we do now?" Newt asked, pushing up his glasses with two fingers and looking like he was doing a middling job at trying to appear a great deal calmer than he actually was.
"Wait for Other Me and the Winchesters," Crowley said decisively, from where he leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, radiating tension. "Back-up."
"If all goes as planned we won't need back-up," Aziraphale pointed out. "I fooled Gabriel for several thousand years, surely one last ruse is within my capabilities."
"He's wise to us now, though," Crowley argued. "Knows where we really stand."
The silent, with each other, did not escape Aziraphale's notice. "You tricked him well enough in Heaven. And I can lie better than you."
Crowley removed himself from his moody slouch in an instant. "Like Heaven you can!"
"You always believed me," Aziraphale said mildly.
"I don't count! You could tell me the sky was purple and I'd believe you!"
The angel tilted his head in confusion. "My dear boy, why?"
"It's what you do when you love someone," said Anathema. "You want to believe them, always."
Aziraphale and Crowley blushed as one, and Aziraphale felt remarkably guilty, all the more committed to what he had promised Crowley yesterday—"I'll never lie to you again."
Footsteps pounded up the flat's stairs. Newt went to the door, opening it just in time for Sam, Dean, Rowena, and the Winchesters' Crowley to stumble in, accompanied by—
"Oh God!" Newt spiraled back, falling on his arse, glasses askew on his face. "What—what is—?"
Crowley sniffed, unfazed by the infernal bull terrier panting at the side of the King of Hell. "Adopted a hellhound, did you?"
The hellhound woofed.
"Always been an animal lover," explained the King.
Anathema helped Newt back to his feet, her eyes wide and skating over their inter-dimensional allies with awe. "Your auras...what are you? Demons? Humans?"(4)
"Yes, mostly, depends on who you ask, and no," Dean explained, pointing at himself, then Sam, then Rowena, then his Crowley.
"Right, yes, introductions—this is Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod, and Crowley, the King of Hell. Note the pronunciation." Aziraphale then gestured to Newt and Anathema. "And this Anathema Device and her young man, Newton Pulsifer."
The Winchesters' Crowley inclined his head. "Pleasure, etcetera."
"Oh, this one's a witch, isn't she?" Rowena asked, eyes sparkling. "And a young one. Lots of potential, though, I can feel that much."
Rowena was going for motherly, Aziraphale was mostly sure, but it came off as somewhat predatory.
"Everyone got weird-ass names in this universe?" Dean asked, bouncing his eyebrows in mild surprise.
"Anathema Device...I mean, doesn't that basically mean 'fuck this doohickey'?" Sam posited.
"It's a family name." Anathema looked at Aziraphale. "I'm not sure I like your new friends."
"They grow on you. Like toxic mold," said Aziraphale's Crowley. "Back to the matter at hand, what are we—"
"Wait wait wait," Dean held up a hand, looking back out into the hallway. "Where are the rest of the dogs? Didn't they follow us up the stairs?"
Sam went to the window. "Uh...guys..."
All of them went to the wide bank of windows by Crowley's desk. Sure enough, a hoard of hellhounds were tearing through the street, headed for the cinema down the block from Crowley's flat.
"Adam. Damn it!" his Crowley swore from beside him. "They must be attracted to him, Antichrist and all that."
"But he's forsaken Lucifer as his father!" Aziraphale protested. "Surely that makes a difference?"
"It does, it makes an incredible difference, but not so much of a difference that things that don't understand 'water of the womb vs blood of the covenant' will take notice. They know their master, their real one," the demon replied.
"Adam? The eleven year old? We got a pack of hellhounds heading for a tweenager?" Dean asked, clearly concerned.
"They won't hurt him, but I don't know about everyone who gets in their way—we have to do something," said Aziraphale's Crowley.
Dean turned to his Crowley. "You're good with the dogs, can you handle this?"
"Can I handle it," the King scoffed.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Go. But be careful."
The demon stilled, seeming surprised by Dean's wording.(4) "...Right."
With his new four-legged friend dogging loyally behind, the Winchesters' Crowley left them. As soon as the door shut, Sam turned to Rowena. "Go with him."
"He'll love that, I'm sure," she said dryly, arching an eyebrow.
"Buddy system," Dean said by way of agreement.
She shrugged. "If you insist." Then she followed after her son.
"We need to summon Gabriel quickly," Aziraphale reminded the room at large. "He'll no doubt notice the chaos soon, and he'll be less likely to go with me through the portal when asked."
"Then fuck trying to trick him!" Dean protested. "Let's just dog-pile the son of a bitch. Between all of us, we can take him."
Newt cleared his throat. "Erm...all of us?"
Sam shot him a sympathetic look, then amended, "Me, Dean, and Aziraphale and Crowley." Turning his attention to Aziraphale, he continued, "And from what you've said, it doesn't sound like he's all that battle-hardened, as far as angels go."
"Yes, but he still has a great deal of raw power that undeniably eclipses mine and Crowley's!" Aziraphale argued, voice ratcheting up an octave or two. He wished they would understand that to try to take down Gabriel in an honest fight was beyond foolish—and it was a risk he was unwilling to take. The Winchesters' lives were not worth the slim chance they would succeed in capturing Gabriel.
More than that—Crowley's life wasn't worth it.
Nothing was worth losing him.
"It's safer this way," Aziraphale said, with what he hoped was finality, but finality seemed not to matter much to Dean Winchester.
"Dude, forget safe," he said, shaking his head. "Look, I get it. You and Crowley's way of doing things...sometimes, it's better than ours. Lower casualty count. Less deeply rooted psychological trauma. But...man, don't you ever just wanna go apeshit?"
"Like it's worked so well for you!" Crowley burst out.
"We're alive, aren't we?" Dean spread out his arms.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, how many times have you died?"
Dean's arms dropped. "I...lost count about ten years ago."
"And that is precisely my point," Aziraphale said primly. "Crowley can hide you all with a miracle—stow away somewhere in the flat, and I'll handle things from there."
"But if things go pear-shaped—" Crowley began, but Aziraphale cut him off.
"Best not to think that way."
"Actually, since we're here, thinking that way is probably a good idea," said Sam.
"Did he say he's lost count of how many times he's died?" Newt whispered to Anathema, startled.
Anathema looked between Crowley and Aziraphale, clearly having no inkling of what to make of the Winchesters. "You two have a lot of explaining to do when this is over."
"If we survive, I've got a book series you'll just love," Crowley said with no small amount of sarcasm. "And we have to have a back-up plan. If he figures out you're lying, I'll come out and—"
"You'll stay away from Gabriel. You won't go anywhere near him." He would not lose Crowley, not now, not after everything they'd been through, not after finally finding it within himself to tell Crowley the truth about how he felt. This tentative thing they'd brought to life together—simultaneously brand new and old as time itself—was nothing he was willing to sacrifice. Not for anything.
Gabriel could take Crowley. Could hurt him. Could, yet worse, kill him. He wouldn't even allow himself to entertain the thought for more than a few moments, fearing he'd lose his nerve entirely and tell the Winchesters that saving their version of Heaven was firmly a them problem.
Not that Crowley would ever let him do that.
Crowley shook his head, lost. "Angel, don't be thick about this."(5)
"I'm not a child, Crowley. I can handle this. Just trust me."
"Yeah, Crowley. Just trust him."
Aziraphale's blood froze. He turned.
Gabriel stood by the door, violet eyes smug, smile all the smugger.
"Hey Aziraphale."
He snapped his fingers, and time stalled to a halt, everyone in the room frozen in expressions of shock, or in the Winchesters' case, confusion.
Aziraphale stumbled back, wishing desperately he was armed, wishing he had more than the angel cuffs and holy oil stored in the inner pockets of his overcoat. The Winchesters' gifts seemed wholly inadequate now.
"You're probably wondering how I pulled this off," Gabriel said, obviously in the mood for a monologue. "I figured—well, if Crowley could do it, a demon—an Archangel has to be able to do it, right?"
Aziraphale actually wasn't wondering that at all, rather thinking entirely about how he could break Gabriel's hold on the passage of time so his friends could once again move. Better than move, run, because suddenly face to face with an Archangel radiating vindictiveness, he didn't feel half so sure of himself as he had moments earlier.
The holy oil. Maybe he could—? But he would need an opening, need to be able to move without giving Gabriel a window to dodge.
"But then, I figured out the secret," Gabriel wagged a finger, smirking. "You have to have a pretty big Something behind a miracle as strong as grinding time to a halt. A belief...or an emotion...and thanks to you, Aziraphale, I found that." He paused in front of Aziraphale, and leaned his face in close. "I hate you, so, so much. And that gave me what I needed to be able to do this." He gestured around them proudly. "I owe it all to you."
Aziraphale shoved him away. "You tried to kill me once and failed, Gabriel. I didn't think you would be so eager to fail again," he said, trying to convey a confidence he didn't feel. He dove a hand into his inner pocket as subtly as he could, grasping the holy oil. A splash in his face would hopefully break his concentration enough that time would resume moving along.
"You know...actually, I've been thinking about that. And didn't click for me until now—that 'aha! moment'—it didn't hit me until I saw your wings." Because of course, on the higher planes, they were always there, plain to angels and demons, even if humans were none the wiser. "You're not Fallen."
"Almost as if stopping the apocalypse was God's plan all along," Aziraphale said, wrapping his hand around the holy oil, which he and Crowley had carefully poured into a flask so it would be easier to handle, easier to use as a weapon if needed.
And it was needed.
Everything was falling apart.
"Nice try. But if it wasn't the plan before, it is now, and She isn't doing anything to stop us," Gabriel countered dismissively. "Now shut up and listen. Hellfire didn't kill you. Which, okay, made sense if you were on your way to full-blown demon. But you still haven't Fallen. Wings are as white as ever. Somehow." Gabriel's eyes held a malicious, knowing glint. "It's almost like that wasn't you in Heaven. Almost like it wasn't Crowley in Hell, because—" he glanced reproachfully at the unmoving demon, "still looks like Crawly to me. Fallen. Black wings and all."
"His name is Crowley, and he's worth a thousand of you!" Aziraphale said, utterly scathing, a tiny release of thousands of years of black thoughts kept safely pent up in his head. Aziraphale ripped the flask out of his pocket, uncapped it—
He felt a pressure in his stomach, and the base of his spine. Then electricity, agonizing, tearing through him, the real him. He let out a small, broken gasp, felt blood rising up his throat.
What...?
The holy oil fell from Aziraphale's limp hands. Spilled on the ground, barely missing Gabriel's divinely polished shoes. Aziraphale looked down, and the point of Michael's Archangel blade greeted him, stabbing through his abdomen, point glistening red.
"Nice one, Beelz," Gabriel complimented.
"Told you not to call me that," said Lord Beelzebub, who Aziraphale now sensed directly behind him.
Aziraphale fell to his knees. Gabriel towered over him, brimming with satisfaction.
"Surprise," Gabriel said with a vicious smile. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Hellfire can't kill you...but this..." He bent down, nearly nose-to-nose with Aziraphale. "This will."
1. Drivers and pedestrians alike in London's Peckham were in fact convinced they were seeing a very poorly coordinated flash mob, which to some is indeed very much like Hell, but not inherently Hellish.
2. Meg would take great offense to this, were she still alive.
3. Flash mobs with steel drums, who knew?
4. "Don't get dead" had been the extent of Dean's ability to show anything barring malcontent towards Crowley in the past, so to have something so bordering on affectionate as "be careful" said to him—well, it was a shock to say the least.
5. Crowley likes his angels Thicc, but not Thick.