XXIV — An Unparalleled Relief

Aziraphale woke slowly, groggily. He wasn't much accustomed to waking at all, as he so rarely slept, but he knew this was not how it was supposed to go. He found himself drifting through a fog, trying to find his way out, but not really having the energy to do so.

"I think he's waking up," an unfamiliar voice said from nearby, sweet and feminine.

"About time," came another voice, a very, very familiar one.

Aziraphale grunted, somewhere deep in his throat. He registered pressure in his hand...not just pressure, no, a hand in his, long slender fingers slotted through his own, and squeezing. Maybe a touch too tight.

"Angel?" Crowley still sounded so far away, but the demon's voice called to him, and he fought with his eyelids to open. They split apart incrementally, just enough to be blinded by fluorescent lights. He cringed and turned his head to the side.

"Bright," he managed.

"Angel, thank Somebo—" a pause, and then, "Thank humanity, I s'pose. I thought—I thought you—"

"Slow down, dear," Aziraphale requested, voice hoarse. He was slowly becoming more and more aware of his body. "Still catching up."

"Right, right, sorry." He heard Crowley mutter something to the nurse about giving them a second, and she abided, if the corresponding footsteps were any indication.

Crowley clasped Aziraphale's hand between both of his. "What's the last thing you remember?" the demon asked quietly.

That was an excellent question. He remembered...ah, yes. They'd been in Crowley's flat. Arguing. Over what to do, how to handle the Gabriel situation—

Aziraphale grimaced. "Gabriel. And Beelzebub. I recall being stabbed." With monumental effort, Aziraphale lifted his head enough to look down at himself. He lifted the thin sheet over top of him, peeking down the front of his hospital gown in an attempt to get a glimpse of his stomach. He spotted the staples, the area raw and red and freshly mended. Oh yes. He was starting to feel that now, a dull throbbing in his gut.

Aziraphale fell back against his pillows, and Crowley briefly dropped his hand to tuck the sheet back over him. "You're alright," Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley with dim wonder. "I was so worried..."

"A Lord of Hell eviscerates you, and you worry about me?" Crowley flashed him a fleeting smile, something that met at the intersection of relieved and terrified.

"I always worry about you. You can be reckless," Aziraphale told him, brow creasing. "What happened? After I..."

"Gave Gabriel what-for? That was brilliant, by the way."

"Yes, I rather thought so," Aziraphale laughed weakly. "The others...everyone is okay?"

"Everyone's fine. Great. In the waiting room. Only family's allowed in here," Crowley explained, nodding to the small post-surgical ward they were in.

"Family," Aziraphale repeated.

"Erm. Yeah. I uh, told them—might've said I was your husband. You know, just standard demonic manipulation type stuff. Don't need to talk about it. So anyway—"

"You are my family," Aziraphale interrupted him, shakily raising his other hand to grasp at the first thing he could reach, which happened to be Crowley's forearm.

Crowley looked like he was trying very hard to process a great deal of feelings at once. Evidently said processing didn't go well, as his response was, "Ngk."

"Though I do say we should at least go on a date before we talk about marriage," Aziraphale joked.

"Picnic?" Crowley asked, and he seemed to loosen, some of that tight fear in his features draining.

Aziraphale gently removed Crowley's sunglasses, folding them and setting them at his bedside. He returned Crowley's smile, not dropping the demon's eyes, now that he could see them. "I think a picnic would be lovely."

Crowley leaned forward, something seeming to snap in him. He pressed his forehead against Aziraphale's temple. "I really did think you were done for," he told him lowly, a quaver in his voice. "Couldn't bear it. If you. You know."

"Will you hit me if I say that God must have a plan for me?"

"Might."

They both laughed. And then they kissed, and that was quite nice.

"I love you," Crowley said when he broke away. "You stupid, mad, brave angel."

"I've never been called brave before," Aziraphale acknowledged, eyes still half-lidded, and feeling a bit giddy between the medication he was no doubt on and Crowley's kisses.

"Well you are. Don't forget the stupid and mad parts though. Stabbing an Archangel—"

"Wouldn't be the first Archangel we've gone after in the past few days. I recall walking in on you having a sword-fight with Michael."

"Didn't say I wasn't mad and stupid, too."

"And brave," Aziraphale added meaningfully. "Always brave, Crowley."

Crowley grinned broadly at him. He heard the pointed clearing of a throat from across the room. Crowley blinked. "Oh, right, yeah—you need to get checked up on. I'll catch you up on everything after, then we'll worry about getting you out of here." Crowley slid his sunglasses back on as the nurse approached.

"Surely they won't let me go home tonight?" Aziraphale asked, befuddled.

Crowley smirked. "We'll see."

"You really did just take everything, didn't you?"

Crowley and Aziraphale stood in the doorway to Crowley's bedroom in his flat. Or, what used to be Crowley's bedroom, but was now a fully-functioning hospital room, with all contents therein miracled there by Crowley. Sans the bed. He wanted Aziraphale to actually be comfortable while he recovered. And of course, there were books piled high on both bedside tables, to keep Aziraphale occupied.

"A week in the hospital. Please. You'd lose it. 'Specially with how little you sleep," Crowley pointed out, thumbs hooked in the miniscule corner pockets of his jeans. "We'll keep this stuff around 'til you're back to normal."

Aziraphale huffed out something close to laughter. "We've matching scars, now."

Crowley didn't understand him at first, but then Aziraphale reached over and lightly tapped his shoulder. "Mm. Kinda forgot about that," Crowley admitted. "Bit sad that getting impaled was low on my list of concerns, past few days."

Aziraphale rubbed his forehead. He looked like hell, still drawn and paler than usual, but he was back in his normal outfit, and that was something. Crowley would be keeping him in the wheelchair for a few days at least, though, much to Aziraphale's consternation. He wasn't about to risk any ripped stitches, inside or out.

"Want me to get you into bed?" Crowley asked, leaning down and making sure the question had just the edge of suggestion to it.

"I thought you were concerned about me ripping stitches?" Aziraphale replied knowingly. "But, yes...the humans have come a long way so far as medication is concerned. This morphine, I tell you—oh, dear boy, I feel like I'm melting."

"Better than moonshine and bone saws," Crowley said, wheeling Aziraphale to the bed. "Alright, come on then."

He scooped Aziraphale up in a bridal carry, as if he weighed nothing. Demonic strength, etcetera. Came in handy once in awhile. He paused before laying the angel down in his bed.

"Never again," Crowley told him. "No more faffing around with the Winchesters."

Aziraphale smiled at him. "You like them," he accused.

"I do not."

"You do. I do, too. I daresay we've made friends, Crowley."

"Some friends!" the demon hissed, lying Aziraphale gently down in his bed. "You want tucked in? Bed time story? Sing you a lullaby?"

"Missing Warlock, dear?"

"Maybe. How about a cup of tea?"

"Oh, I think that'd be lovely." Aziraphale leaned over to the bedside, searching for something to read. His hand paused in mid-air when he realized what was in the stack. "Crowley."

"Yeah?"

"You...the books," Aziraphale said haltingly. "The books Sam gave to me."

Crowley slouched, a faint red tinge to his cheeks. He pretended to be very interested in a scuff mark on his shoe. "Thought you'd want them."

The warmth of Aziraphale's smile melted Crowley into little more than a puddle. "Oh, Crowley."

Crowley had no intelligent response for the angel. "Uh, tea. Right. I'll be back in a tick."

And then he went out into the chaos of the rest of his flat.

A massive tent could be seen in Crowley's solarium, underneath the verdant leaves of his plants—it was the kind that suburban parents took along on camping trips with their children, ones that had windows and hammocks and mobile generators to run tiny TVs off of, the kind of tents that let you forget you were camping, which seemed to be what humans were into, nowadays. He had stocked it thoroughly with snacks and games, and the Them were currently inside, armed with high powered flash-lights and seeing who could make the best shadow puppets. A bigger shadow could be seen within the tent—they had dragged Jack inside, insisting he play with them. Jack had seemed unsure at first, but pleased nonetheless.

The main room was a mess of cots, miracled in for all relevant humans. Rowena was in the shower, Dean, Sam, Cas and Other Crowley had gone out to walk Beatrice and Pepper's new dog, who she'd named Dorothy.(1)

No more broken glass and blood. All cleaned up. And no more portal, either. Jack had seen to that.(2) They'd be taking the Hell portal back, which could come with its own problems, but it was the only real option, as only Cas and Jack would be able to go through Heaven without being incinerated.

Newt and Anathema were at the door, bags over their shoulders and ready to head home.

"You sure you don't want us to stay?" Anathema asked.

"You two are probably dead-tired. Go home. And, err, thanks. For helping Aziraphale find me," Crowley said.

"You're our friends," Newt said simply, with that trademark nervous smile.

There was that word again. Friends.

"And you can definitely give the Them a ride home tomorrow?" Anathema's voice was stern, and she peered over the top of her glasses at him.

"I was a nanny for six years, I do know how to handle children," Crowley reminded her. "I'll take them home in the Bentley tomorrow morning."

"And you'll go the speed limit."

"Well..."

"And you'll go the speed limit."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Take all the fun out of it, will you?"

Newt and Anathema bid their goodbyes to the Them, and then to Aziraphale, and then to Crowley, who waved them off from the door and wished them safe travels. When they were gone, he went to the stove, intent on making that tea he'd promised Aziraphale.

Just as it came to a boil, the Winchesters and their angel came trudging through the door, Dorothy scuttling behind them. Beatrice was nowhere to be seen.

Sam blinked at the living room. "Wow. Looks a lot better than when we left."

"Most demons like the blood-and-gore aesthetic, but I'd like to think I've got finer tastes," Crowley called over his shoulder. "Where's Other Me?"

"Said he was 'clearing a path' for us to get through Hell when we leave tomorrow. No idea what that means. Not sure I want to know," Dean said with a yawn.

Sam pressed an ear to the bathroom. "Ugh, I can't believe Rowena's still in the shower," he groaned.

"These looks don't come easy, Samuel! Not at my age!" hollered Rowena from within.

Crowley snapped his fingers. Another door appeared a few feet away. "There."

Sam stared a for a moment, then shrugged. "Cool. Thanks." He dipped into the newly miracled bathroom, where Crowley made sure he would find fresh towels and clothes to change into.

Dean turned to Cas. "Wish you could do stuff like that."

Cas didn't seem amused by the comment. "Yes, I can think of many times that being able to will a bathroom into existence would have been helpful." He departed the living room, heading for Crowley's bedroom. "I'm going to check on Aziraphale."

Crowley let him go. Aziraphale would enjoy the company, no doubt. And he did have an ever-growing soft spot for Castiel.

Dean trundled up to the kitchen counter, leaning next to Crowley. "Hey."

Crowley grunted a response, then said, "Tea?"

"I hate tea. But Crowley and Rowena will probably take some."

Crowley poured four cups, trying to find the right thing to say. "Look...what I said..."

"High-stress situation," Dean said, mercifully cutting off his miserable attempt at an apology. "I get it. Trust me, I do."

Crowley turned to look at Dean dead-on. He seemed exhausted, had his fair share of cuts and bruises from the past few days. And from all accounts—this was just the Winchesters' lives. This was their day-to-day, every day, ad nauseum, with very little respite in between. He was struck again by the tenacity of humanity; how had these two not given up and called it good enough long ago?

"You kept your promise," Crowley said quietly. "So...thanks." He was doing a lot of thanking today. That was something new.

Dean pointed to Crowley's liquor cabinet. "Can that be my thanks?"

Crowley snorted. "All yours, mate."

"Sweet."

"Pour me a glass, too."

"Got it."

Two glasses of scotch waited on the island once Crowley returned from delivering Aziraphale his tea—and a cup for Cas as well, not that he was sure the angel would drink it.

Crowley grabbed his glass, and Dean grabbed his. "Cheers. To saving everyone's asses. No casualties. Well, other than Michael—but fuck that guy, am I right?"

Crowley laughed and clinked his glass against Dean's.

"So," Dean said after a few sips. "We'll keep the mirror."

"Yeah?"

"And you've always got those dumbass sunglasses on, so...just a call away. Kinda."

Crowley scrutinized Dean. "You're saying if something happens, ring you? Something not good?"

"I'm saying your Lucifer and your Michael are still kicking around. I'm saying that Beelzebub's probably pissed and ready to kill you, and knows where you live."

"Please. They're all too afraid of us to try anything," Crowley waved him off, trying to quell his own concern at Dean's words—Aziraphale had told him after he woke up from his surgery that Beelzebub and Gabriel were wise to the fact that he and Crowley may have swapped places for their trials. Which meant that someone could be knocking down his door with holy water, and Aziraphale's with Hellfire.

But, he had literally crushed Beelzebub last time they crossed paths, and so far as Hell or Heaven were aware, they'd wiped Gabriel from the face of the Earth. So, hopefully that served as enough of a nuclear deterrent to keep forces from Above and Below away—so long as he and Aziraphale didn't make any antagonistic moves towards either side, of which they had no plans of doing.

What they wanted now, more than anything, was some goddamn peace and quiet.

"Still. We've got your back, if you need it." Dean drummed his knuckles on the countertop. "And...if we need you?"

Crowley groaned. "Quid-pro-quo, is it?"

"You can just say no."

"Your high-and-mighty King of Hell says you use people up 'til their husks," Crowley said, still watching Dean intently. "Any truth to that?"

"We don't use people...but...yeah, people who hang out with us, they don't have that long of a lifespan, usually. I'm not gonna pretend it ain't like that, because it is," Dean told him honestly, and Crowley could see a hundred deaths reflected back in his eyes, eyes that looked far older than forty.

Crowley stared contemplatively into the depths of his glass. "If you need help," he said slowly. "I'll come. But not Aziraphale."

"Shouldn't that be up to him?"

"No. Not this." Crowley drained the rest of his glass. "I can't lose him. I won't lose him. Especially not now."

Dean nodded slowly. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but he wasn't going to argue, Crowley could tell that much. "I get it."

"Oh yes, I've seen you and Castiel. I suspect you do get it."

Dean's eyes widened comically. "The—the fuck do you mean, me and Castiel? We're not—we're not, you know. We're not like you and Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale and I weren't like that until literally yesterday," Crowley pointed out mildly, enjoying watching Dean squirm. "Then again, Other Me seems to fancy you too—and I've never been one to discourage polyamory—"

"I'm straight!" Dean exclaimed, voice strangled and face turning redder by the second.

"That's what Freddie told me too, first we met."

"Who the hell is—wait holy shit did you know Freddie Mercury!?"

And thus came a flood of over-excited questions from Dean, which Crowley answered as best as he could, and he even found himself smiling a few times, as he refilled both he and Dean's glasses thrice over. Eventually Rowena joined them, then Sam, then Cas, and then there were many drinks, and they migrated into Aziraphale's room so he could join in the conversation. They stayed up late, talking, exchanging stories. Celebration wasn't quite so thick in the air as it had been the night after they'd stopped Michael—it was something different.

It was the feeling of being among friends, just because you could.

Crowley decided, begrudgingly, that he liked it.

By the time the King of Hell returned to the now unwrecked flat, it was nearly five in the morning.

All was quiet, save for Dean's log-sawing snores. The Winchesters, Jack, and Rowena were spread out on a variety of cots, all sleeping peacefully. He sensed the Them in the solarium, burrowed into sleeping bags in their tent, dreaming of things that only children could dream of. Innocent things, hopeful things. Dorothy promptly left Crowley and slipped through the flap in the tent to curl up next to Pepper. None of the children woke, though he heard a quiet yip from Dog.

Beatrice stayed loyally at Crowley's side.

Crowley swung his head around the room; not a creature was stirring, except for Castiel.

He sat on the edge of Anthony's desk, which had been shoved up against the window bank to create more room. In his hands was Good Omens.

"Standing guard, Kitten?" Crowley asked lowly, padding over to join the angel.

"Trying to be quiet and let the others rest," Castiel said pointedly, glancing up at him. "Don't wake them."

"I would never dare." He seated himself next to Castiel.

"Crowley left a cup of tea in the microwave for you," the angel informed him.

"How sweet." Crowley snapped his fingers, and the tea was in his hands, warm again. "Enjoying the book?"

"Yes..." He glanced up at Crowley. "It makes me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"How many other universes are out there. How...even when we feel most alone, we're not, not really."

"And makes you wonder just how many gods there are," Crowley tacked on. "Is our dear Chuck universe-hopping, or are there millions of apathetic almighty entitities out there, playing poker for infinite stakes with the lives of their so-called children?"

"Maybe God in this universe isn't like that," Cas said. He gently closed the book. He was almost finished. Angelic reading speed. "It seems like...their God had a plan. And Crowley and Aziraphale followed through, and they got a happy ending."

"And now you're wondering where yours is?" Crowley guessed.

Cas didn't seem to know how to answer that. "Maybe this is it. Michael's gone. My deal with the Shadow is broken. You're back to take care of Hell. Jack is healthy, and happy, and has his powers restored alongside his soul—maybe this is our happy ending."

"Do you really believe that?" Crowley asked, genuinely curious.

Cas closed his eyes, seeming to deflate. "No. Not really." He set the book down on the surface of the desk. "So, what did you do in Hell?"

"Ah...rearranged some pieces on the board. It's a long story. But we'll have safe passage in the morning."

Cas looked at him sharply. "What did you do, Crowley?" the angel demanded, in that holier-than-thou-I-shall-smite-thee growl of his.

"I simply put a better offer on the table for the average working-class demon. Starting bonuses. Infernal wage increase across the board. Performance-based advancement. And I convinced them that I am bigger, meaner, and scarier than their Dark Council."

"And how exactly did you do that?"

"Well. Anthony convincing Michael he was Lucifer may have given me some inspiration..."

"You convinced them you're Lucifer, from another world?"

"I heavily implied it. And the Lucifer in this world didn't step in to stop me, so." Crowley smirked. "All's well that ends well, Kitten. We'll go home unhindered, and I'll have an army to retake Hell and restore order."

"And when Hell's yours again? You'll still give it up?"

Crowley hadn't allowed himself mentally to get quite that far yet. He always liked the taking of things, the working upwards, the chase. But he knew himself well enough to be aware of the fact that once he sat on that throne again, he would be right back where he was years ago. Miserable. Empty. Alone.

No. That beach sounded better and better.

"I've no interest in ruling. Not directly. May keep the title just because, if I do say so myself, it's quite fitting. But I'll pick someone else to rule. Someone you lot can have a working relationship with, keep the cogs moving right. Someone not ambitious enough to try to cut me down," Crowley explained.

Castiel looked like he was fighting a smile. "You have changed."

"No, I haven't."

"You have."

"...No, I haven't. And shouldn't you be disappointed? Still waiting on that promise of yours to carve the heart out of me, Cas. No one likes a tease."

And then, Castiel did allow himself to smile, and he said, "Shut up, Crowley."

When morning came, Crowley miracled up a suitable breakfast, and the flat was ripe with chatter and laughter and forks scraping plates. He had just grown accustomed to the Aziraphale-esque noises in his flat, and now this? He felt like he was running a hostel.

The Winchesters ate their own weight in bacon and eggs, and then declared that they needed to get going.

"Positive you don't want me to go with you?"

"I've got your Hell well in hand," the King provided smugly. "We'll be fine."

"Famous last words," chimed Rowena.

Dean stepped forward. "Okay, goodbye for real this time." Before Crowley could protest, Dean hugged him.

"Oh. This is a thing," Crowley said dimly, patting Dean on the back. And lo and behold, a hug line formed, because this was apparently how the Winchesters did things with the people in their lives, and he and Aziraphale received a squeeze from all but Other Crowley and Rowena.

"We don't do hugs in my family," the demon provided. "But it's been fun."

"Perhaps having you appear in my summoning circle wasn't such a bad turn of luck after all," added Rowena.

"Depends on your definition of luck," Crowley replied with an arched eyebrow.

"Please, do call us on the mirror when you get home, so we know that all of you are safe," Aziraphale requested.

Dean snorted. "Okay, Mom."

"We'll call," Sam promised.

Jack lingered nearby, the Them gathered around him.

"Do you have to go?" Adam asked, with just the slighest touch of petulance.

"I do...I'm sorry. But, maybe I could come back and visit sometime," Jack told Adam.

"That would be wicked," Adam said, eyes lighting up. "You promise?"

The Them pestered him as one—"Promise? Promise? Do you promise?"

"I promise," Jack called over them, smiling. "I will, okay? And you can show me that clubhouse you were talking about."

The Them cheered.

And then, the Winchesters and their friends were out the door, Beatrice toddling in their wake. Out of Crowley and Aziraphale's lives just as quickly as they'd entered, it seemed.

"How come we can't go with them?" Brian whined almost as soon as the door was closed. "I want to see another universe."

"Me too. And if they can go through the portal, why can't we?" said Pepper.

"Bet it'd be loads better than that field trip to the nuclear plant," Adam concurred.

"Or the one to the dairy farm," Wensleydale piped up. "That manure smell was actually really difficult to get out of my clothes."

"I'm afraid it's just not safe," Aziraphale said apologetically, trying to let the children down easy. "You're far too young. Wandering through other universes just isn't age-appropriate, you must understand."

"Hey, wait a minute," Adam said, seeming to remember something. He turned to Aziraphale. In his wheelchair, the two were eye-level. "You said you'd get me a souvenir. What did you bring me?"

The look on Aziraphale's face told Crowley that he had entirely forgotten the boy's request. "Ah, yes, well..." He blinked. "Oh! Oh, I did bring you something, where did Castiel put it...?"

Aziraphale rolled his way to Crowley's desk, scooping up the copy of Good Omens that rested there. He handed it to Adam. "This is from their world—and I think you may like it." Aziraphale smiled brightly. "You're in it, you know. All four of you."

The Them were delighted, clamoring over the book.

"Come on you lot, you can start reading it on the way home. Your parents are going to be expecting you back from...well I've already forgotten the lie you've told them, but they'll be expecting you back from somewhere," Crowley said.

The Them all said goodbye to Aziraphale and told him they hoped he'd get better soon and that it was wicked cool that he got stabbed and survived and a mix of other chatter that Crowley could only make out half of. Then, with Dog and Dorothy in their wake, they trundled down the stairs.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "You'll be alright for a few hours?" Crowley asked, already feeling a thrill of anxiety of leaving Aziraphale alone in his current, vulnerable state.

"Tickety-boo, my dear."

Crowley leaned down and kissed Aziraphale. When he pulled back, he said, "Never gonna get used to that."

"And I'll never grow tired of it. Now go— imagine the trouble the four of them can get into between here and the curb."

1. "Dorothy? Like The Wizard of Oz?" Dean asked.

"No, I named her after Dorothy Vaughan, obviously," Pepper retorted, as if it was common knowledge. Dean stared at her blankly. "The famous mathemetician that worked for NACA and NASA?"

"I don't think he watched Hidden Figures, Pepper," Anathema told the girl with a pat on the shoulder.

2. Anathema pointed out to Aziraphale that while he had asked her to close the portal after forty-eight hours, he had not told her how to go about doing so and she had no earthly idea where to start, so essentially his time-limit was utterly self-imposed.