Happy Accidents

A Supernatural, Good Omens Crossover

A/N- I'm honestly surprised my muse decided to continue this. I think she couldn't let go of badass Aziraphale.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed.

Part Two: Waking Up On The Wrong Side Of The Bed.

Bobby was sleeping off too many bottles to count when his phone rang. His mouth was filled with the taste of mothballs and ash, his skull felt like it was trying to crush his brain, and his neck had developed a twinge from passing out over his desk and an open book that had been old when Elizabeth, the first, took the throne.

It took him about two minutes to realize it was his actual phone that was ringing rather than one of the many switchboards that he ran for Hunters. A quick blurry glance at the clock, and the still dark window, told him it was half past three in the morning.

Who the hell called at three in the morning? (1)

"Better not be a telemarketers..." (2)

He eyed the phone suspiciously before picking it up. "Who's this?" Mentally, he slogged through oceans of coping mechanism for an exorcism.

"Good morning! Is this Robert Singer?" A too-cheerful and accented voice called through the speaker.

"It is three in the God-Damn morning. What do you think?" God save him from idiots that didn't understand time-zones (3). "Who are you and what do you want?"

There was something that sounded like a struggle with near hysterical laughter as background noise. It only served to increased the ache in Bobby's head. "Listen, spit it out or I'm hanging up."

"You see, Singer-" A new voice spoke before being cut off by the sound of fumbling followed by the original voice hissing, "-you demon!"

Bobby's eyes widened. He knew it. He fucking knew it! Telemarketers were agents of Hell, and now they were possessing phones instead of airplanes! "Dues, et Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi-"

The aged Hunter pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. Bastards had hung up on him.

"Crowley." Aziraphale said in a voice thick with disappointment. The angel had his arms crossed, with his head tilted at the slightest angle, and Crowley was suddenly reminded off all the times before the Arrangement (4). "Was that really necessary?"

"You heard him. I don't fancy being dis-corporealized by phone (5), just to get blasted back downstairs. Especially not now." The demon replied quickly, slipping his phone into a coat pocket that through the powers of assumption acted very much like a certain Poppin's infamous carpet bag.

The angel shook his head and relaxed, summoning a bottle of wine. "It seems awfully strange for a human to start reciting exorcisms-"

"No thanks to you!" (6)

"It's not like it would have killed you."

"That's not the point." Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes. When he opened them again, the blonde angel was, if they were anyone else, uncomfortably close. Blue eyes peered up at him in concern.

Funny. The new body seemed a bit shorter then he remembered... but still wearing that ghastly tartan.

"Then tell me what the point is, dear. I've worried about you, and do you know I've had to smite about a dozen of Lucifer's little hybrids that have been sniffing around? What. Is. Going. On." There it was. The stuff that stood against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell. Determination. Care. Aziraphale could give lessons to other angels on what it meant to be one.

Crowley sighed. "What is it ever about, angel? The Apocalypse." He cracked a smile, and snagged a cookie from the tin. "Though, to be fair, seems you've stopped it. Congratulations!"

"Oh." Aziraphale stared straight ahead, before mechanically walking over to the counter and guzzling the entire bottle of wine. "Is that where you've been the past year?"

Two decades. Twenty years. One thousand, forty weeks (7). Seven thousand, three hundred days.

Give or take.

For a twenty years Dean had been strung up on the rack, twisted into every uncomfortable position imaginable, had so many things stuck in so many places he couldn't remember them all, and he almost couldn't believe it was over. Maybe he had been dreaming when the creature dodged into his personal Hell Hole. Throughout all the pain he could still dream, but that had been a whole other torture in itself, so maybe...

No. Dean fought his way back to consciousness, mind flickering back to the memory of a soft, apologetic voice (8) as wings -great, big, fluffy wings- spread out.

Dean took a deep breath, savoring the dusty, non-brimstone smell of the air, and smiled into the couch. Even with all their mind tricks, Hell hadn't ever been able to get the smell right. They could put him in a room with a demon wearing Sam's body, in a construct straight off of route sixty-six, but the underlying smell always gave the game away.

The Hunter rolled over, eyes closed, letting the sense of painless freedom soak in. The scent of old paper, books and ink, tea and coffee filled the room reminding him of Bobby's. Dean frowned. He'd been downstairs for twenty years.

Was Bobby even still alive?

Was Sam?

Despite the warmth of the room, and the blanket around his shoulders, Dean felt a sudden onset of cold.

Twenty years...

"Do I look like I have a death wish, angel?" An irritated, somewhat familiar voice hissed. "He's a Hunter. You know what hunters do to things like me? They throw Holy Water at us. Holy Water."

That caught Dean's attention. The eldest Winchester snagged a leftover bit of pie-crust and edged quietly to the thin door the separated the back room from the rest of the shop. Dean had a sudden desire for a knife (9), or something (10), because while he didn't know who, or more probably what, was speaking, and he didn't trust it.

There was a sigh. "I can't take him. Those men in black coats and sunglasses have been hanging around again (11). I don't even want to think of what they would do if I left the shop. Besides, the Colonies seem to be chalk full of you side. You could... mingle... or something equally diabolical." Dean wondered at the sudden urge of protectiveness (12) that welled up in his chest. "Crowley. Dear."

"You know, there's plenty of your side flapping around, too." The now named Crowley grumbled petulantly.

"Apparently." The angel sighed, and Dean knows that sigh. It's the sigh that comes from noticing that you've just stepped in a wad of fresh gum after a hard day and no matter how hard you try the damned pink stuff keeps getting everywhere. "I had wondered..."

"Look, we called the number. Just, I don't know, give him a plane ticket and send him on. Release him into the wild!" At the suggestion of a plane there is no doubt in the freshly resurrected Hunter's mind that the Crowley is evil. He must be a demon. Possibly a Daemon.

"He's not a pet, Crowley."

"No, he's not! He's a perfectly capable killing machine that you just pulled out of the Pit!"

"Exactly! The Pit! You've been there, you can't just take someone out of Hell and expect them to be fine!" There's something that sounds like a strangled sob, and something that sounds like glass breaking, and Dean has had it.

Twenty years. Twenty goddamned years of pain, of torture, of sucking it up and taking it because no matter how much he wanted the pain to stop he wasn't wasn't wasn't going to give in to Allie, that smarmy bastard, and when, by some Miracle, he gets out he finds that there is some thing messing with his angel...

"Hello, Crowley." He emphasizes the name, just a tad. His knuckles are cracking as he flexes his hands with pent up violence. "Nice to meet you."

There's a broken wineglass on the ground, soaking into the floorboards, and two men looking to him in surprise. One of them is all kinds of light, in an outfit that looks dated and somewhat ridiculous tartan. He doesn't look the same as he did before, less glory and more human, but Dean can feel it in his bones see the reflections in the way his golden curls wisp around his head and his eyes shine, that the blonde is the angel. Aziraphale. The other is dark and everything James Bond would be if he decided to go rogue.

Dean is struck by the random thought that Crowley probably has a really, really nice car tricked out with all sorts of options that shouldn't exist (13.)

"I wonder." Dean continues as he forcibly drags his mind back on track while brandishing a heavy teapot he found among the pie crust. "Does Holy Tea work as well as Holy Water?"

1. Aside from Hunters, but they generally used the switchboard phones.

2. Bobby had paid a psychic good money to install wards against them. (a)

2a. There was an underground movement that believed telemarketers to be crossroads demons that had adapted to technology much like the crocotta Sam and Dean had hunted two years ago.

3. It wasn't that Aziraphale was an idiot, or that he didn't understand time zones, he just wasn't used to dealing with people who actually needed to sleep.

4. That particular pose used to be given after Aziraphale had discovered some new wile to be thwarted - painfully.

5. Bad memories to do with ansaphones, metaphysical races, and Holy Water.

6. Aziraphale had been expected to fight the War on Earth, but when Lucifer's little abortions started sneaking their way dirt side the logistics made that impossible. Whispering in an influential priest's ear had been infinitely easier than trying to track them all down by himself.

7. Estimated time, leap-years played merry heaven on Hell's calendars.

8. Normally, Aziraphale would have sent lost souls straight Upstairs, but he didn't want to deal with the paperwork that an unauthorized excursion Downstairs would have caused.

9. Particularly one with a serrated edge and covered in runes.

10. A Magic Colt loaded with Magic Bullets would be preferable.

11. Do to unforeseen changes in the local financial sector, Aziraphale's bookshop tended to be targeted by both legal and illegal businesses. This included local gangs out for bribes, drug lords looking for a new headquarters, major business tycoons wanting to buy real estate, and various government agencies that happened to notice how undesirable elements tended to disappear after entering the small privately owned bookshop who's owner had a record so clean it might as well not even exist.

12. Some might have said possessiveness.

13. Hell tends to mess with the mind, often resulting in psychosis, black outs, severe cases of ADD, and in one instance the urge to dress up like a little girl and have endless birthday parties.