Chapter Text
“Bother,” Aziraphale said to himself, closing the book in front of him on the desk with a quiet resigned thud. “That won’t work either.”
Crowley put down his phone. “What’s next on your list?”
“At the moment? Nothing.” Aziraphale slid his reading glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had sat. “He is very likely stuck here.”
“He won’t be happy about that.”
“No, he won’t,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’m sure I’ll think of something else.”
“I’m sure you will,” Crowley assured him. “Anyway, you’ve been staring at that all day. Scotch?”
“Oh, yes please,” Aziraphale said gratefully. “Your choice, dear.”
Crowley got up from the sofa and headed for the back room in search of Talisker. Aziraphale added the book to a growing pile, then carefully put his pens away and filed his notes in a desk drawer with the previous attempts. There were quite a few of them, and they had all led to the same conclusion: the route by which Castiel had arrived in this universe was strictly one-way, and creating a return path was unachievable by anyone short of the Almighty. He did not relish the thought of passing on this information.
“It’s not as if it’s even a pleasant prospect,” he said, loudly enough for Crowley to hear. “You’d think he’d stop asking eventually.”
“Would you?” came the response from somewhere in a cupboard. It was shortly followed by a much quieter “Ah, there you are. Why are you in there?” and the sound of bottles clinking.
“Well, no, I suppose not,” Aziraphale replied, feeling a little guilty[1].
“Me neither,” Crowley said, heading back into the room. He stopped halfway and uttered a string of consonants. “Um, angel?”
“Yes?” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley. Crowley wasn’t looking back at him; he was staring at the floor beneath the skylight, bottle in one hand and whisky glasses in the other.
“Is that circle still warded?” he said warily.
“Of course. Why?”
Aziraphale got up from his chair to see what had caught Crowley’s attention, and saw the man sprawled on the rug.
“Ah.”
“At least this one is human, I suppose.” Aziraphale scooped the unconscious visitor off the floor and carried him through the wards, then deposited him gently on the sofa. “And seemingly none the worse for wear.”
“Seems so,” agreed Crowley, crouching next to the sofa and peering at the man’s face. “But how did he get here? An angel managing to leave a universe is bad enough, but a human? That’s just ridiculous. The sooner you shut that thing down, the better.”
The man’s eyes sprang open. Crowley jumped in surprise and lost his balance, ending up on his backside at Aziraphale’s feet. He hurriedly checked that his sunglasses were still in place. The man sat up and looked around the room. “What the hell?” he said.
Crowley scrambled upright, trying to recover his dignity; Aziraphale grabbed his elbow and pulled him away from the sofa. The visitor swung both feet onto the floor and stared down at his hands.
“Damn it,” he said to himself. “What’s a guy gotta do to stay dead?”
Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged bemused glances, then looked back at their guest, who was now eyeing them suspiciously.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Who’s asking?” replied Crowley.
“Like you don’t know.”
“We don’t actually,” Crowley responded. “Though if you’re from the same place as the last one, I reckon I could take a good guess.”
“Last one?”
“You’re not the first to turn up here from another world, entirely unannounced,” Aziraphale said. “Though you are the first human. The other was an angel.”
The visitor’s eyes widened slightly. “Cas?” he blurted, then looked annoyed with himself for the slip.
“Bingo,” Crowley said smugly. “Hello, Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you at last.”
Dean glared at him, then stood up and folded his arms. “Right,” he said firmly. “Who are you, where am I, and why am I here?”
“I’m Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale cheerfully, “and this is Crowley. Ah, no relation to the one in your world.”
“Who can’t pronounce his own name,” Crowley sniped.
“Yes dear,” Aziraphale replied wearily, then addressed Dean again. “You are in my bookshop, which is in London. I have no idea why you are here – I was rather hoping you could tell me.”
“And you know about angels?” Dean queried.
“Well I would, I am one.” Aziraphale smiled. “Would you like some tea?”
While Aziraphale busied himself in the back room, Crowley hovered by the desk and watched Dean inventory his pockets. He was trying to look casual, which was proving tricky because many of the alarming items on brief display were blessed[2]. Among the more mundane things was a set of car keys, which Dean’s eyes lingered on for slightly longer than anything else. Crowley made a mental note.
“Found what you were after?” he said as Dean finished.
“Looks like everything I had on me when I died.” Dean waved an intimidating bladed item in Crowley’s general direction, by way of demonstration. “Handy.”
Crowley looked back at him, unimpressed. “I take it you weren’t sleeping at the time,” he deadpanned.
“I’m a hunter.” Dean put the thing away sullenly. “We don’t go gently.”
“No, I imagine not,” Crowley mused. “Or just the once, in your case. I had no idea the Ferryman did season tickets.”
Dean bristled. “What do you think you know about me?“ he demanded.
“What Castiel told us,“ Crowley said. “You’ve had quite a life, haven’t you? Technically several.”
Dean eyed him doubtfully, then turned away. “He’s here, then?”
“Yup. Arrived the same way you did, just showed up without warning. Said he was supposed to be somewhere called the Empty.” Crowley noticed Dean tense slightly, and made another mental note.
“He in any trouble?” Dean asked, with artificial casualness.
Crowley shook his head. “He’s fine, more or less. Moping around America, mostly. Pops by occasionally.“
“Give it time,” Dean said dryly.
Crowley made an amused noise. “He’s an angel from another universe, no-one here’s ever seen that before. I reckon both Heaven and Hell don’t know what to make of him, so they’re leaving well alone. And no human would stand a chance. He’s scary.“
Dean’s face cracked into a brief furtive smirk then shuttered again. Crowley made a note of that too.
“So do demons routinely hang out with angels around here?” Dean observed.
Crowley blinked. He’d been caught completely by surprise. “Meaning?” he inquired.
“You guys are freakin’ colour-coded. You’re not subtle.”
While Crowley tried to think of an appropriate response, Aziraphale re-emerged from the back room bearing an antique silver tray loaded with tea and biscuits. “Where were you before?” he asked Dean, while pouring out the tea. “Do you have any idea how you got here?”
“No,” Dean said, ignoring the tea. “Was in Heaven I guess. Got mad, demanded to see Cas, woke up here. Wherever here is.”
“I suppose we should give you an overview,” Aziraphale said, sounding enthusiastic. He settled into his chair and waved the others over to the sofa, then launched into a brief history of the world, from Creation to Dean’s arrival. Unexpectedly, Crowley found himself watching Dean instead of Aziraphale – he listened to everything impassively, even the account of the peacefully-thwarted Apocalypse that had so baffled Castiel.
“I must say, you appear to be remarkably unperturbed about all this,” Aziraphale said, once he’d finished. “Travelling between worlds, being resurrected…”
“It’s not the first time,” Dean said bluntly.
“Mm,” Crowley replied, fascinated. “Most people would be devastated by either of those. For you it’s just a Thursday. Don’t suppose you want to share your version of events?”
“Not really,” Dean replied. “How do I get back?”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. “I have been looking into it since Castiel arrived, kept the link open just in case, but everything I’ve tried leads to the same conclusion. Nothing short of divine intervention could get you back to your own world.”
Dean visibly sagged and sat staring into the floor, unmoving. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged worried looks. Aziraphale fidgeted uncomfortably.
Crowley pulled out his phone and broke the silence. “Better give him a call, I suppose. Let him know you’re here.” He made the call, listened to the voice on the other end, and then rolled his eyes.
“Cas, it’s Crowley, sorry to interrupt your packed social calendar but you’re going to want to come to Aziraphale’s place sharpish. We are having a surprise tea party with Dean Winchester. Cheers.”
He hung up and muttered. “Typical. First time ever that I’ve called Mr Have-you-found-something-yet and got voicemail.”
“We’ll just have to wait for him to get back to us.” Aziraphale sighed. “I can’t imagine it’ll be all that long. In the meantime, Dean, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
Crowley looked over at the eager Aziraphale, then at Dean, who looked like he would rather pet a Hellhound. At great personal risk, he threw a lifeline. “Saw your car keys earlier,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“’67 Chevy Impala,” Dean said immediately.
“Very nice,” Crowley nodded. “Mine’s a ‘26 Bentley. Want to see?”
It just wasn’t as much fun, thought Crowley, while taking the Hammersmith Flyover at a hundred and thirty miles per hour, when the passenger actually approved. Encouraged, even! Some people have no sense of self preservation.
Eventually, after a nevertheless enjoyable couple of hours spent terrorising the A-roads of London and swapping car stories, they ended up in Richmond Park. Crowley pulled up somewhere the Bentley was definitely not supposed to be and turned off the lights. A few low clouds drifted by overhead, stained orange by the city. The car’s occupants, out of safe anecdotes for the time being, sat quietly.
“Lotta airplanes,” Dean remarked eventually.
“That’s the Heathrow Airport flight path,” Crowley said with a grin. “Got me a commendation.”
“That’s what passes for demonic activity around here?” Dean said incredulously.
“Don’t knock it, it works.”
They went quiet again. Crowley watched another flight come in, looking pensive.
“S’funny really,” he mused. “Saw Her knock a tower down once ‘cause that was getting too big for their boots; now they make their own wings and there’s not a word. She just doesn’t get involved any more. There’s a nudge here, a prophet there, the odd psychic, but nothing much. Whatever She’s playing at, it’s light-touch.“ He caressed the steering wheel absent-mindedly. “I think She’s done with writing stories. I think She wants to see what stories they come up with.”
“Sounds nice,” Dean said apathetically, barely listening.
Crowley turned to him. “You’ll be alright here, once you get used to it. You’ll like not having to be on guard all the time.”
“Why are you doing this?“ Dean replied. “What’s in it for you?”
“You’re important to Castiel,” Crowley confessed. “He’s a friend of ours, sort of. I think it’s done Aziraphale good, having another angel around who’s not on speaking terms with Heaven. I’ve got his back for that if nothing else.“
Dean nodded and turned away again.
“So what is he to you, anyway?“ Crowley inquired. “He thinks very highly of you.“
“None of your business.”
“Fair enough.”
Dean continued gazing through the windscreen at nothing in particular. “What’s Aziraphale to you?” he asked.
Crowley thought for a second, then shrugged. “Everything.”
“Cute.”
“He got me out of Hell and I got him out of Heaven,” Crowley said pointedly. “That’s not exactly a casual acquaintance.”
Dean glanced at him cynically, then turned away again. There was another awkward silence.
“Is he right about there being no way back?”
“Probably. He’ll keep trying, but it’s not looking good.”
Dean looked down at his hands again. They were in his lap, fingers digging into his jeans.
“Look on the bright side,” Crowley tried. “That life you had back there, you didn’t even like it, did you? It was all just stuff that had to be done. Well, now you don’t have to do it anymore. You can go muck about with cars or something. You’re retired. And alive to enjoy it.”
“And all it’ll cost me is never seeing my brother again.”
Crowley winced. He really should have guessed, he thought, that Dean Winchester the lifelong soldier could even use a crack in his own armour as a weapon. He watched Dean clench his fist and glare silently downwards as if trying to destroy the floor beneath him with sheer force of will.
“He might come over as well?” Crowley suggested tentatively. “You did.”
“Not if Mister Tea back there shuts the door.”
Crowley shook his head. “He won’t.”
Dean frowned and loosened slightly. “He won’t?”
“I’ve known him a very long time,” Crowley explained. “He’ll say he will, might even think he will, but he won’t. He’s not going to close an escape route from a world like that even if it’s a terrible idea not to.”
“I thought he was supposed to be smart.”
Crowley sighed with fond exasperation. “He is. He’s stupid too. He’s brave, and soft, and obstinate, and sometimes a right bastard, and when he thinks he knows the right thing to do he’ll do it come what may. He’s the only angel in this world who sees love as anything other than background radiation. Well, was. Reckon there’s two now.”
There was another awkward pause.
“Anyway, my point is,” he continued, “there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re going to have to trust your brother to find his own way. You can do that, right?”
Dean went quiet for a bit, clearly packing all that away for later consideration or possibly burial at sea. Then he turned to Crowley with a carefully-constructed wry smile. “So this is what passes for demonic activity around here?”
“I’m retired, I’ll do what I like,” retorted Crowley self-consciously. “But don’t tell Aziraphale, will you? He’ll be insufferable. Any idea what you’re going to do now?”
“I better stick around here. If you’re keeping that door open you might need me.”
“Dean. Aziraphale is the Angel of the Eastern Gate and I can literally stop time. You’re human. No offence, but...”
“You don’t know what’s over there. I do.”
Crowley sighed. “We’ll keep you on speed dial. Happy?”
Just then, Crowley’s phone rang. He glanced at the caller’s name and answered it immediately. “Oh finally. Right. Yes, right. On our way. Bye angel.” He hung up. “Time to go.”
“You said he was here.”
“He’s with Crowley, they’re bonding over carburettors[3] or something. Shouldn’t be long.”
Aziraphale handed Castiel a glass. They were standing in the back room making small talk, being the kind of people who gravitate to the kitchen at parties. Castiel had not bothered to call ahead; once he got Crowley’s message he simply turned up as quickly as possible. Aziraphale was entirely unsurprised.
“How is America?” Aziraphale asked.
“Good,” Castiel answered. “Still no monsters. Just people. Being people.”
Aziraphale smiled. “How are the miracles coming along?”
“I’m getting stronger, I think, and more accurate. It is still strange.”
“There’s certainly a knack to it. You’re doing very well, I think, considering your unconventionality.”
Castiel nodded and sipped his drink. “I was called on by your old bosses today,” he said. “They asked me to work for them.”
“I see,” Aziraphale said curiously. “And how politely did you decline?”
“I don’t think they’ll ask again,” Castiel said, with a hint of a smile.
Aziraphale smiled back. They clinked glasses.
“Have you found anything?” Castiel asked.
Aziraphale shook his head. “No luck. It appears to be strictly one-way.” He studied Castiel intently. “But somehow I think that’s no longer the priority it was?”
Castiel made what he liked to think of as an unreadable expression, but there is very little in existence that an attentive Aziraphale can’t read.
“Your young man is certainly interesting,” Aziraphale said enigmatically.
“How did he get here?” Castiel asked.
“I’m as clueless about his arrival as I am about yours. All he said was that he was in Heaven and asked to see you, then found himself here. Those could be related, but that doesn’t tell us much.”
Castiel didn’t hear the second half of the answer. “Heaven? Why? Did he...?”
“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale confirmed. “He is very much alive now, though.”
“What happened? When?”
“He didn’t say. He was very reluctant to talk about himself at all. From his apparent age and demeanour I presume it wasn’t long after your departure.”
Castiel stared into his glass, which he was gripping tightly.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, gently and a little uncomfortably. “I trust he’ll find a safer occupation now he’s here.”
“I hope so. Even if I will not be needed.”
“He asked for you specifically,” Aziraphale reminded him. “It seems likely that he wants you around, whether your services are required or not.”
Castiel shrugged and they both fell silent again.
“Will someone else ask for him, do you think?” Aziraphale mused, “And someone else for them? Could there be a slow exodus from your world?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.”
Aziraphale topped up his glass. “That could make things interesting.”
Castiel nodded. “Very interesting.”
Soon afterwards, Dean and Crowley arrived. Castiel and Aziraphale made their way to the front of the shop to meet them, carefully avoiding the circle. Crowley was lounging in the doorway behind Dean. Aziraphale stood near Castiel with his hands behind his back, smiling expectantly.
“Hello, Dean.” Castiel spoke in a carefully controlled tone of voice. Dean stood silently, face blank and hands in pockets.
“We’ll just leave you to it then, shall we?” Crowley said. He went over to Aziraphale, grabbed his elbow and steered him towards the back room. Once they were gone, Dean took a deep breath.
“Asshole,” he spat. Castiel flinched.
“You can’t,” Dean continued, “say all that and then just leave forever.”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said sadly. “I had to.”
“The hell you did,” Dean retorted. “We’ve gotten out of worse. I thought you were dead, Cas. I prayed to you all the time, hoping you were wrong, that you’d come back, like you always did before. But you never answered and you never came back. Not even when I was dying. And yet here you are, alive and well in some Disneyland bookstore. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know what happened,” Castiel stated. “I couldn’t hear you from here. I did try to get back, but it’s not possible.”
“So I’m told,” Dean simmered. “Dumb self-sacrificing son of a bitch.”
“You of all people understand sacrifice, Dean,” Castiel said sharply. “And yet you are no different from when I last saw you. How little time did I buy you? How lightly did you throw away the life I died to save?”
“So your stupid heroics had no staying power,” Dean hit back. “What did you expect? I’m a hunter. There’s a new way to die every day.”
“Not any more,” Castiel declared. “Not here. There is nothing to hunt here. You are going to have to find another way to live.”
“Well so are you.”
They glared at each other in tense silence while the words sunk in. Then something broke.
Suddenly they were in each other’s arms, hugging desperately, each at once a drowning man and their rescuer. They had picked each other up and knocked each other down so many times. They had made impossible choices and terrible mistakes. They had lost everything, again and again. But right now, none of it mattered.
Some moments split the world into what came before and what comes after, the world that was and the world that is. There is no going back. But going forwards is worth a try. Reliving the past is a poor substitute for a future.
“Love you too, dumbass,” Dean whispered, barely audibly. “Don’t die on me again.”
A short while later, Castiel peered into the back room, where Crowley and Aziraphale immediately began pretending they hadn’t been listening. “We’re going now,” he said.
“I could use a beer,” Dean added, from behind him. “A good one.”
“Dean wants beer,” Castiel echoed. He sounded slightly dazed.
They said their goodbyes and set off into the night without fuss or ceremony. Angel and demon watched them walk away.
“Oh, close enough,” Crowley said, once they’d left. “Bloody made for each other.”
Aziraphale smirked. “I think that’s quite enough invective for one day.”
He went to retrieve the Scotch from the back room. When he returned, he joined Crowley on the sofa and passed him a glass, which was accepted gratefully.
“At least that’s over,” Crowley said, stretching out.
Aziraphale looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Crowley looked up at him. “You think his brother’ll show up as well?”
“Perhaps. Maybe others. It’s happened twice now, it’s bound to happen again.”
“Oh dear,” Crowley grinned. “America’s not going to know what hit it.”
“Nor is my rug,” Aziraphale said with resignation.
“You’re not going to close it, then?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale looked pained. “I do need to, it’s dangerous. But I should give them a chance first. A week or two, perhaps.”
Crowley smiled into his glass, fondly and knowingly. “Sounds good, angel.”
1. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to imagine what being stuck in another world without Crowley would be like – he had, but his mind slid off it like suspicion off an Antichrist. Some things were just unthinkable. [back]
2. The little bottle of water wasn’t at all holy, thankfully. Crowley suspected that a) this would be news to Dean, and b) he owed Aziraphale lunch again. [back]
3. Aziraphale had no idea what a ‘carburettor’ was, he just kept hearing it in that bebop song about the much-loved car. Every time the Bentley played it he resolved to look it up, and every time he forgot. He couldn’t possibly just ask Crowley, that would be silly. [back]