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Set at some point in season 6 during Cas v. Raphael.
The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the abandoned warehouse. The place smelled of dust and stale air. He glanced at his watch—the angels had better be timely for this one. Though there would be a certain savage beauty to a mix-up. Like watching piranhas work.
Castiel appeared in a flash, some ten yards away. "Crowley," he said, voice clipped. "We need to talk."
“Hullo, Feathers. Lovely to see you again.” Crowley couldn’t suppress a smirk. “I’m going to have to start keeping your card on file.”
“I need you to retrieve something for me,” he said, already with an edge of frustration. “A vial of ambrosia. It must be...authentic.”
Crowley frowned, intrigued.
“You’ll find it in an old, abandoned orchard on the Mediterranean coast,” continued the angel. “There's a gardener angel by the name of Lykaion who tends to it. He’s been missing for centuries, but I know he’s still out there, keeping his stores hidden. It’s essential to our battle for Heaven.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “And what’s the quo we’re talking about?”
Cas stared.
“As in quid pro?”
Still nothing.
Crowley took a deep breath. “And what are you offering me in exchange for this one-hundred percent authentic ambrosia that is so essential in your battle against Raphael’s troops?”
Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll owe you...a favor. A real one, when I win this war.”
“I’m supposed to help you out of the kindness of my blackened little heart?” Crowley. let out a small chuckle. “That’s really your offer? A favor from you?”
“Take it or leave it,” Cas replied. He squared his shoulders. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
Crowley raised a finger. “Ah, but I am.” He shot a glance at demon lackeys hiding above them, in the rafters, making sure Cas followed his eyes. “And just to make sure I don’t get too bogged down by all your angelic nuances, I’ll make it ‘ambrosia or best efforts’.”
Cas didn't react to the phrasing change. “You’re wasting time, Crowley,” he snapped. “The vial must be retrieved. You’re the only one who can manage it without being detected by the enemy.”
Crowley smirked. "Oh, I'm sure I'll manage. But, Castiel,” he said, turning slightly serious. “Just one thing.”
Cas looked at him, eyes narrowed.
“This favor, does it have to be G-rated?”
Cas glared. “I expect results, Crowley.”
“Of course you do,” Crowley replied dryly. “Just make sure I get some recognition when you win the big one.”
Cas didn't respond, simply disappearing mid-sigh. Crowley loved it when he could really enhance the angel’s already-plentiful self-loathing.
Again, Crowley checked his watch. Done, with two minutes’ clearance. He folded his hands where he stood, and waited.
A moment passed, and just as he was preparing to wrap things up, another angel materialized.
Raphael stepped into the room, his presence filling the space like a dark cloud. His expression was stern, and there was an underlying tension to his movements, a sense of barely contained frustration.
And Crowley hadn’t even gotten started yet.
"Well, well, if it isn’t the Archangel himself," Crowley said.
Raphael responded with a cold stare. A moment passed. Then: “I need something,” he said, his voice heavy with authority. “A feather. An angel’s feather. Not just any angel—one who died during the run-up to the apocalypse.”
Crowley blinked. “A feather?”
Raphael frowned.
“You’re an angel asking a demon for a feather?”
Raphael’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. You’ll find it in the hands of a human who believes he is an angel slayer. It’s a special feather—one that contains part of the angel’s essence. It’s essential to our cause.”
Crowley felt his curiosity stir despite himself. “Hmm. And what do I get out of this?”
Raphael’s lips curled into something like a grimace. “You’ll get Heaven’s recognition. A place, if you prove your worth.”
Crowley snorted. “Oh, I’m sure that’s something to aspire to.” His eyes narrowed. “I won’t be paid in favors, Raphael,” he snapped. Well, not twice in a row, anyway.
Raphael didn’t flinch. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Crowley. This feather is vital. You’ll get it, for us, and I’ll give you...the true crown of Purgatory.”
A silence fell.
After a long moment, Crowley spoke. “The what?”
“Just the title,” added the angel. “You’d still have to take the throne by force. But if you want it, we’ve got it.” He waved his hand, and a crusted bronze crown appeared in front of him. “The rightful crown. Once you took the throne, all would follow.”
Crowley’s eyes glittered, but he kept his face otherwise impassive. “I suppose I can get you this feather. Or make best efforts.”
To Crowley’s silent delight, Raphael didn’t argue with his phrasing. “Do it.”
Crowley made a show of considering Raphael’s words, before standing up and walking toward the angel. He extended his hand. “I’ll get it for you, Raphael. Shake on it?”
Raphael stared at his hand coldly. “I’ll wait for your result,” Raphael said, and disappeared.
Crowley stood there a moment, then let out a small laugh. “Guthrie!” he called upwards. “We’ve got work to do!”
###
Crowley’s satisfaction was palpable as he leaned back against the cool stone wall of the abandoned Greek church. His fingers curled around his glass of scotch, already mentally congratulating himself on a smooth win. His network had traced down the reclusive gardener angel Lykaion within a day and he and his lackeys were about to storm the ambrosia stores.
The thought of handing over the vial to Cas and then dealing with Raphael’s nonsense all in one day was almost too satisfying. He'd have to be back before dinner. Another day, another fleeced angel.
That is, until the doors of the church burst open, and there stood the gardener angel, Lykaion himself, wings aglow under the dimming light. Crowley’s smile froze, his mind immediately running through possibilities—his lackeys were on the other side of the grounds.
Lykaion took in the lone demon with a glance. His posture was tense but unyielding. "State your business, foul fiend.”
Crowley adjusted his stance, his eyes flicking to the window, where Guthrie had appeared. He signaled “not now” and Guthrie nodded. Two more demons appeared at his side, but they stood in silence.
“No need for formalities, my feathered friend," he said smoothly. "I’ve come for the ambrosia, as requested by one of your colleagues. Castiel. A small vial, nothing too grand."
Lykaion eyed him, his expression guarded. "I’m no friend of Castiel. Or any in Heaven." He stepped forward, closing the distance between them with eerie precision. "You don’t know what you’re dealing with."
Crowley blinked, his pleasant smile faltering for a second. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, his tone cool. "You think a simple demon can’t handle a humble orchard tour?" He let power collect in his fingers, glad that Guthrie was watching and ready.
Lykaion didn’t flinch. "No," he said flatly. "You’ll find you can’t take it by force." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And as for payment, I require something...unique."
Crowley’s grin returned, though more cautiously. "Of course you do," he muttered under his breath. "What’s your price, then, angel?" He didn’t exactly feel like bargaining with someone that even other angels found odd.
But then, it was just another deal—what was the harm?
Lykaion’s gaze locked onto him. "I need a fragment of the shattered archway of Hell’s gates," he said.
Crowley stiffened, his heart sinking. “Word is, they were all destroyed." His voice barely contained the edge of irritation.
The angel’s gaze hardened. "You will obtain the fragment or I will not give you the ambrosia. It’s that simple."
Crowley thought about walking away from the whole thing. He really did. But if he could get that crown...
"Alright, alright," he muttered, walking to the center of the sanctuary. "I’ll get you your fragment. Or best efforts,” he added.
But Lykaion shook his head. “No best efforts. The fragment, or nothing.”
Crowley let out a sigh, rubbing his temples for a moment. "Of course," he muttered. "Just keep your damn ambrosia ready for me.”
###
The "angel slayer" had set up shop in a dingy little apartment above a pawnshop. Crowley could smell the incense wafting through the cracked windows before he even knocked on the door. He knocked, and the door creaked open with such unnecessary drama that Crowley almost rolled his eyes.
"Are you here to see the Slayer?" A tall, gangly man in his mid-thirties with far too much enthusiasm. He was wearing a too-tight black T-shirt with a Satanic goat on it.
Crowley raised an eyebrow, surveying the apartment—there were black candles, pentagrams, the lot. Bloody hell. He cleared his throat. "I’m here to speak to you about your... activities. I hear you have a particular feather."
The man lit up like a Christmas tree. "You're... you're him! Crowley!”
Crowley’s eyes widened slightly. “Always nice to meet a fan,” he said, tone cautious.
“You’re him! You’re the demon prince of the heavens! I knew you’d come! I’ve been training for this moment my entire life!" He gestured widely, almost knocking over a cheap candle on the counter. "You see, I’ve been collecting all these angelic feathers and relics, and I’ve been practicing with holy water and—"
Crowley blinked, his lips curling into a bemused smile. "The demon prince of the heavens, you say?"
"Yeah, you’re all-powerful, aren’t you? The top dog, the one who commands all demons—"
"I’m quite sure I am," Crowley replied dryly. "But let’s move past the formalities, shall we?"
"Right, right! Of course!" the man practically shouted, his eyes wide with hero worship. "So, uh, you can turn water into wine, right? I’ve heard that’s one of your, uh, divine demonly qualities!"
Crowley froze. "You—what?" He took a step back and stared at the man.
"Yeah! You know, turning water into wine! Like, the big miracle! Show me! Prove it! I know you can do it!"
Crowley felt an involuntary snort of laughter bubbling up. "It doesn’t exactly work like that."
The man looked disappointed for a moment before his face lit up again. “What about healing the sick? You can do that too, right? I’ve got a couple of sick friends! I’m sure they'd be amazed!”
Crowley rubbed his forehead, trying to stifle his rising irritation. "Oh, I’d love to help...heal them. After you give me the feather.’”
"Please! It’ll be so cool!" the man urged, practically bouncing on his feet.
The idea of this buffoon standing here, demanding miraculous feats from him, was quickly growing unbearable. Crowley was about to turn around and leave when the man pulled out a small bottle of holy water, waving it around like a child who'd just discovered an adult's tools.
“Oh, for God’s—" Crowley muttered, his patience wearing thin. "Fine. I’ll play your little game."
He grabbed the bottle from the man, unscrewing the cap. The thing was practically radioactive to demons, but Crowley couldn’t resist the joke. He waved a hand dramatically over the bottle and replaced it with some of his cheapest vintage.
“Voila,” he said in a theatrical tone.
The man stared, slack-jawed. "Whoa, you really did it!”
Crowley smiled, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Now, if you'll please fetch me the feather.”
"Wait!" The man yelped. "One last thing! Can you, um, help me find this lamb? It's from this prophecy I found online. If you’re really him, you’ll be able to find it and bring it to me unharmed.”
Crowley froze in his tracks. “You’re kidding me.”
"I’ve got to be sure you’re him! Please, it would mean a lot. It’s out in my dad’s orchard, outside of town.”
Crowley sighed and massaged his temples. He considered killing the man where he stood. But the novelty of having a fan, however misled...well. Maybe he could handle this one non-lethally. "Fine. Let’s go find your damned lamb."
FOUR HOURS LATER
Crowley’s formerly glorious suit was covered in straw. He was expending a not-insignificant amount of demonic energy to prevent blisters from forming on both his big toes, care of his now-ruined dress shoes. Nonetheless, the sheep he’d cornered against the fence line had other plans, and wouldn’t be herded in the right direction. He’d chased it, using some amount of magic, across the better part of four acres of orchard, dress shoes slipping and sliding between saplings.
The stupid thing was nibbling on grass. Crowley’s face contorted with disgust. He was supposed to be a demon of Hell, not a shepherd. Just as he considered killing the sheep, the man, and possibly everyone who’d seen him that day, Guthrie appeared.
"Any luck with the...creature?" Guthrie asked, deadpan.
“Not a word,” Crowley grumbled. "Any news on a fragment for Lykaion?"
Guthrie nodded. "I’ve located one. It’s in the hands of a witch. She was nearby when the gates collapsed, and pilfered it for future spellwork."
“Good work,” said Crowley. At least something was going right. He stared off into the middle distance for a long moment. “I’ll handle the witch,” said Crowley finally. “And Guthrie?”
“Sire?”
“Handle the sheep.”
###
The witch’s lair was hidden away deep in a mossy forest that smelled like wet earth and decay. As he approached the crooked little cabin, he had the distinct feeling he was being watched.
He knocked sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the dense woods. A moment later, the door creaked open just enough for a single eye to peek through. The witch’s eye was a murky green, like stagnant water.
“Good morning, demon,” she said, voice crackling.
“Charmed,” said Crowley, who pressed hard on the door, pushing the witch aside, and walked inside. His heels clicked against the creaky wood floor as he ignored her sputtering. The air inside smelled of burning herbs, and the place was filled with dark red vials, jars that doubled as terrariums, pieces of what looked like gravestones, and other artifacts.
“I’ve heard you have a fragment of Hell’s gates?” Crowley asked, standing tall as he scanned the room for any potential hazards. His patience was running thin.
The witch chuckled darkly, her bony fingers reaching up to stroke the side of her nose. “Oh, I have it,” she purred. “But I have my price.”
He would kill her where she stood. “It had bloody better be in cold, hard cash.” Crowley glowered.
The witch smirked, her lips curling into a toothy grin. “Oh, your highness,” she drawled, her voice dripping with amusement, “you think money can buy everything?” She waved a hand, and suddenly the room seemed to grow colder. “No. I’ll need something more... personal.”
Crowley groaned. “Of course you will. Why would anyone take the simplest, most gloriously straightforward form of payment? No, let’s make this complicated.” He sighed. “What do you want?”
“Blood,” the witch said with a gleam in her eye. “Blood of a Knight of Hell.”
Crowley froze, his eyes narrowing. “That’s... That’s a new one. They don’t exactly swing by the Red Cross.”
“Oh, don’t be coy, Crowley,” she said, her voice light, almost playful. “What’s a bit of blood in exchange for such a powerful artifact?”
“Give me the damn fragment, or I’ll—” Crowley started, but the witch cut him off, holding up a hand.
“It’s not here,” she told him. “And without the blood, you’ll never get it.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was already in, so deep.
And the crown of Purgatory, it...glittered, in his mind.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But this had better be worth it.”
###
Crowley had barely stepped over the threshold of his office when Guthrie appeared, as always, a few steps behind him, his usual air of calm unshaken.
“Guthrie,” Crowley said, throwing his coat aside, his frustration evident. “Tell me you cornered the lamb?”
Guthrie simply handed Crowley a small piece of paper. Crowley unfolded it, only to find a hastily written note from the “angel slayer.”
"Feather. Pure angelic. Yours for the taking. Will meet at 2 p.m. sharp. Come alone."
Crowley stared at the note with a deadpan expression. “This is a joke, right?” He glanced up at Guthrie, already knowing the answer.
Guthrie folded his arms, looking unbothered. “He’s waiting for you.”
Crowley groaned. “If he does anything but simply hand me the feather, I will burn the entire bloody city to the ground.”
###
When he arrived at the apartment building, the door swung open with the same dramatic flair as before. The “angel slayer” was standing in the same position, looking far too excited for Crowley’s taste.
“Well, well, well,” Crowley said, narrowing his eyes. “Here we are again.”
The slayer grinned and stepped aside. “It’s ready for you, Crowley. One authentic angelic feather. I know this is going to blow your mind.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, the pungent scent of nag champa wafting from within the room. He stepped inside, wincing as he put weigh on one post-orchard blister he hadn’t gotten around to healing. The slayer immediately pulled out a small, delicate object wrapped in cloth and handed it over with a proud smile.
“Here it is. I told you I’d get it for you, King Crowley,” he said, looking pleased with himself.
Crowley unwrapped the cloth with exaggerated slowness, revealing the “angelic feather.” He stared at it for a moment. It looked… wrong. He could tell immediately it wasn’t what he had been promised. He looked closer, and his nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Is this a joke?” Crowley asked flatly. “You’re giving me a seagull feather?”
The slayer’s smile faltered, and he visibly flinched. “What do you mean? It’s real! I swear!”
Crowley’s eyes flickered with annoyance, and he held up the feather between them. “I’ve seen the real thing before. This belongs on a beach, under a pile of garbage.”
The slayer’s expression fell. “But—but I got it from a reliable source! It’s the real deal, I promise you. I swear on my life!”
Crowley stared at him for a long moment, his fingers curling around the feather with growing irritation. “You’ve wasted my time, you’ve wasted my patience, and now you’ve wasted my entire bloody day.”
Before the slayer could speak, Crowley flicked his wrist, sending a blast of energy that sent the man flying across the room. The slayer crashed into a table, knocking over a lamp as he struggled to rise. Crowley turned his back to him, making his way toward the door.
“I didn’t come here to be played for a fool,” Crowley muttered, his voice low but lethal. “I want the real feather. Now.”
The slayer, groaning on the floor, fumbled with his hands. “I didn’t—wait! Please, don’t—!”
Crowley didn’t wait to hear any more. He flicked one hand towards the man’s chest, and his body fell lifeless to the ground. The faintest hint of smoke rose from his chest.
Crowley wiped his hands on his suit. “What a disaster.”
He reached down to grab the fake feather from the slayer’s lifeless hands, giving it a quick glance.
“Though,” he said aloud, lips curling into a smirk. “This does looks like best efforts to me.”
###
FOUR DAYS LATER
“Do you have any idea what I had to trade to get this?” demanded Crowley, following the witch around her cabin as she worked the spell of revealing. “A genie needed a cursed necklace.”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“A ghoul demanded I produce haunted kneepads.”
“You don’t say.”
He brushed a modicum of dust off his shoulder. “And I had to dig up an ancient mirror that shows your worst nightmares, for my ex-girlfriend.”
She clucked sympathetically, but didn’t look up.
“ALL FOR THIS BLOODY FRAGMENT.”
She remained impassive, focusing on her craft, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to let her work. The witch drew a circle in the air, spun around three times, then reached into thin air and pulled out an uneven piece of stone.
Crowley handed her a vial of very expensive blood, and she handed him the fragment.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice almost a sing-song.
Crowley glared. “Don’t think for a second I’ll forget this, witch. Next time, I’ll make sure you’re the one who dances.”
The witch only smiled.
Crowley left her cabin quickly, muttering under his breath with increasing venom.
###
Crowley stormed back into the orchard, the small piece of Hell's gate tucked carefully in his jacket. His mind was still simmering from his encounters with the witch, and the absurd deals he’d had to make for something that, in the end, wasn’t even his bloody problem. As he approached the gardener, Lykaion stood waiting, his wings flickering in the dimming sunlight.
“Here,” Crowley said shortly, tossing the piece of stone into Lykaion's hands. “This is your little piece of Hell’s gate.”
Lykaion accepted it with a solemn nod. “A fair trade,” he said. He took a step back, reaching for a vial of ambrosia with a soft, eerie glow.
“Pleasure doing business, demon,” Lykaion added. He extended the vial to Crowley.
Crowley eyed the vial suspiciously, his hand still gripping the piece of Hell’s gate. "...sure.'"
Lykaion didn’t respond, only raising an eyebrow as he waited.
Crowley narrowed his eyes at the vial of ambrosia, rolling it between his fingers. The liquid shimmered but something about the glow was off.
Angels were always so pathetically straightforward. He’d just ask.
“You’re sure this is the real stuff—authentic ambrosia?” he murmured, reaching for the cap.
“It was absolutely authentic,” assured Lykaion, then froze.
Crowley stared at him, then wrenched the cap off the vial. He was assaulted by an unmistakable sour scent. “Oh, bloody—it’s gone off!” The unmistakable stench of rot mixed with what had once been divine.
He was on the angel in a moment, power mismatch be damned. Crowley pulled Lykaion’s robes tight around his neck, the demon’s eyes red with menace. The gardener angel actually quailed.
“You try and cheat me?” demanded Crowley. “You give me the real stuff now, or so help me—”
“I—I can’t!” wailed Lykaion. Crowley released him, and he slumped to his knees. “It’s all like that.” The angel stared down. “All gone. There was a hex on the crop, and through my negligence, my foolishness, I let it spread. It’s all ruined.”
Crowley shut the vial with a snap and stormed back towards the orchard, leaving the angel behind him to wallow.
What the hell was he going to do with spoiled ambrosia? He thought for a moment, the idea blooming in his mind like a flowering vine.
He’d never promised fresh.
Crowley had to admit—much as he liked to avoid unnecessarily provoking Heaven—it was should be perfectly acceptable to produce to Cas the 100% authentic ambrosia. Any issue with the intended spellwork would be Cas’s fault for failing to be specific.
Crowley snapped his fingers, and was gone.
###
Crowley’s heels clicked against the stone floor as he walked into the abandoned warehouse, where Cas was already waiting for him, perched against an overturned crate. His trench coat fell nearly to the ground, and the light from the half-closed windows caught on the tips of his dark hair. Crowley could tell Cas was stewing in his own thoughts, but that didn’t matter—he had the goods.
Technically.
“Feathers, charmed as always,” Crowley drawled, tossing the vial of ambrosia toward the angel.
Cas caught it with a small, ungrateful gesture, eyeing it with faint curiosity. He examined it with solemn gravity. “This will suffice,” he said.
Crowley quirked a brow. “Will it now.”
Castiel looked up. “You have my thanks. The favor will be honored.”
“That’s the part I care about.” Crowley stepped back, brushing an invisible fleck from his cuff. “Do try not to waste it.”
Crowley lingered, hands still clasped, waiting for something—rebuttal, rebuke, recognition of the sour tang wafting faintly from the vial.
Nothing. The angel just stood there, looking theatrically solemn. He wasn’t—he wasn’t even going to...well, good. It was good. Better than good. After all, he loved getting one over on an angel, even Castiel.
Crowley stepped forward, raising an eyebrow. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
But he couldn’t stop himself. “And that’s it?” he heard himself say. “No witty banter? Just a ‘thank you’ and a half-hearted nod?” He paused, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Come on, Cas,” he purred. “Even a demon can give a more satisfying...transaction.”
Cas finally looked at him. “Even you can be useful, Crowley.” He nodded. “You may call in the favor when the time comes.” His voice was distant, flat.
“Well, thanks for that,” Crowley muttered. “Pleasure’s all yours.” But the angel was already gone.
Crowley scowled, vanished in a puff of displaced air, and reappeared in his office two seconds later, pacing.
“Didn’t even sniff it,” he muttered. “Remarkable.”
He turned to Guthrie, who was already writing something down in a black notebook.
“Put eyes on our feathered friend. If Heaven’s finest can’t tell vinegar from vintage, I want to know what they’re planning to pickle.”
###
The cathedral where Raphael waited had no roof, just ribs of scorched stone against the sky. Amidst the ivy and rot, the place was chilled with the distinct, oppressive weight of his archangelic power. Crowley arrived with practiced swagger, one hand behind his back.
Raphael was already mid-step across the altar. “I assume you have it?” the angel’s voice was sharp.
“Raphael,” Crowley greeted with a lazy smile. “You’re as punctual as you are anal retentive.” He held out the feather with mock reverence. “As requested. Best efforts for one pure, angelic feather.” Come on, he was soft-balling these in.
Raphael didn’t react to the jibe, his eyes only narrowing as he accepted the feather. To Crowley’s mounting disbelief, he pocketed it without inspection. This time, however, Crowley managed to hold himself back from commentary.
The angel raised his hand. The crown to Purgatory appeared again in mid-air—brass, sharp-edged, and practically humming with leftover violence.
“The throne of Purgatory,” Raphael intoned with a hint of mockery in his voice. He waved a hand, and it clattered to Crowley’s feet.
Crowley’s smile faltered. He eyed the crown again. On second look, the damn thing looked like something a child would craft out of scrap metal, not a royal relic.
“Is this it?” Crowley asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “This?” He gestured toward the ugly, tarnished thing, refusing to kneel down to pick it up.
Raphael’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t respond. He turned, dismissing Crowley with a flick of his fingers. "You wanted the throne. There it is." He shrugged. “Perfectly enforceable—key word being force, of course.” And he smiled like a shark.
Crowley knew exactly what he’d have to overpower to actually take that throne. He was furious that Raphael had dropped it. Nonetheless, he swallowed his pride, took two stepped forward and snatched it up from the ground, holding it gingerly as though it might bite. He repressed the urge to hurl it back through the angel’s smirk.
It felt heavy, in all the wrong ways.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But next time I want something shiny. You angels really need to work on your taste.”
Raphael ignored this. “I shall require one more item in exchange for the crown,” he said instead. “The remains of a fallen angel. Within three days.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You’re stacking favors, love.”
“Be grateful you’re still useful,” Raphael said, with a glance sharp as a blade. “Though I’m rapidly reevaluating that.”
He vanished with a crack of ozone.
Crowley stood in the wreckage for a moment. He briefly examined the crown, using both his human senses and his demonic powers. It appeared authentic, if currently rather useless.
He tucked it away carefully.
He sent a text to Guthrie: “Stick a tag on him. I want to know where our heavenly tyrant goes when he thinks no one’s watching.”
A pause. Then, quietly, he muttered, “They didn’t even look. Not him. Not Cas. They’ve already decided what I’m worth.”
His smile was slow and dangerous.
“Let’s give them exactly what they bargained for.”
###
Somewhere in a forgotten wing of Hell’s archives, a vulture was having a second, deeply undignified death.
Crowley leaned over a basin, swirling with black water and flecks of gold. Images flickered on its surface—Raphael pacing before a summoning circle, an effigy of Lucifer encased in sigils, and angels aligning candles with surgical precision.
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “He’s actually doing it. The idiot’s really going to try to free Lucifer and jump-start the apocalypse. Again.”
“Only one more day before they plan to begin the ritual,” reported his minion. “According to our sources.”
Crowley nodded. “They’ll wait. They’re expecting a delivery.”
Behind him, something cracked.
Guthrie, gloved to the elbows, held up a desiccated wing with the reverence of a museum conservator and the expression of a man silently judging the curator. “Bit brittle,” he said. “Do you want it majestic, or plausible?”
“We’ve established the buyer’s a bloody pillock. I want it feathered and not actively disintegrating.”
Guthrie shrugged and resumed wrapping the corpse in linen, as if it were sacred—and not, in fact, a vulture who’d suffocated on a cursed corn chip in 1911. A clawed foot dropped off. Guthrie replaced it without comment.
Another demon sidled up with a scroll. “My Lord? About the ambrosia.”
Crowley accepted the scroll and skimmed. His brow twitched. “Castiel’s building containment structures,” he said. “Siphons, focus stones. It’s keyed to Lucifer’s frequency.” He rolled the scroll tight with a snap.
“Of course. Raphael wants him loose. Castiel wants him leashed.”
The scry-basin shimmered again—Raphael’s voice, distant but distinct:
“Once we reawaken him, the sword will fall again. All will be made pure.”
“Castiel’s going to use him like a bloody power plant.” Crowley sighed. “Two suicidally arrogant idiots.” He looked back up from the water. “And I’m the one doing the shopping.”
Guthrie held up the bundle of bones. “I added incense,” he commented. “For ambiance.”
“Lovely. Make sure it smells expensive.” Crowley stood, rubbing his face. “If Heaven wants to fight over Sky Daddy’s little nightmare, far be it from me to stop them.” He smirked. “Let’s just make sure they do it with vulture jerky.”
###
The ritual circle was flawless.
The glyphs had been etched into the stone floor by blade, not chalk—sharp lines, cut with sholy iron. Each symbol precise. Aligned with the firmament. Saturated in the blood of willing cherubim. Even the altar hummed with restrained voltage.
Castiel stood at the circle’s edge. His coat was dusted with ash from the burned offering. His hands, steady. His mind, not.
“He is beneath us,” said Camael, voice like bells trapped in frost. “And yet, we require him.”
“He is a necessity,” Castiel said. “Not an ally.”
Raziel shifted beside him, uncomfortable. “This is unorthodox.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Failure is unacceptable.”
A lesser angel—Hadramiel, perhaps—approached with the vial. The ambrosia. The final component.
Castiel accepted it. Crowley had given it to him in exchange for almost nothing—a nameless future favor. Likely thought himself clever. Likely thought he could sneak something past them.
“He thinks this will fail,” Castiel said aloud.
Camael raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”
A moment passed. “No,” Castiel decided. “Because our cause is just.”
He uncorked the vial and poured the viscous, shimmering liquid into the basin at the circle’s heart. It hissed as it touched the runes.
The room dimmed. The air stilled.
Cas thought he could almost hear Lucifer stir in his prison, faint and far.
The angels began to chant. Castiel pressed his palm to the invocation sigil. The spell surged upward, power thickening like oil in the room. The basin glowed—
—and then emitted a wet splat.
The glow died. The spell collapsed. A sulfurous, vinegary stench filled the chamber.
There was a long silence.
Then Raziel coughed. “Was… was that part of the working?”
Camael leaned down, stared into the basin. “There’s sediment.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed.
He took the empty vial, turned it slowly in his hand, and sniffed.
“…This has spoiled,” he said.
Another pause.
From the far side of the circle, Hadramiel offered, helpfully: “Perhaps it was aged?”
Castiel said nothing. He stared at the basin. At the dead sigils. At the sour smell rising into the sacred air.
Crowley’s voice, smug and infernal, echoed in his memory: “Best efforts, darling.”
Cas’s expression didn’t change. But behind him, the shadows flickered.
“I hate that demon.”
###
Guthrie stood at the edge of the celestial transfer ring, arms folded, watching the cherubim carry off the “fallen angel remains” with reverent care. The vulture's wings had been brushed. Its bones polished. Its museum toe tag, he’d removed himself.
One of Raphael’s soldiers saluted him.
“Thank you for your service,” she said, solemnly.
Guthrie inclined his head. “Happy to support the cause.”
He waited until she was gone before rolling his eyes nearly hard enough to strain a vessel. “Angels,” he muttered. “No idea what rigor mortis smells like.”
Then he pulled out his phone. “Package delivered,” he texted.
A moment later, it buzzed back.
FROM: CROWLEY
Lovely. Fetch wine. I want front row seats for the fallout.
Guthrie vanished to the cellars.
###
The chamber was carved from white stone, lit with golden flame. Twelve angels stood in formation, each bearing a sigil etched in their flesh. Raphael presided at the center, arms lifted, robes pristine, wings flared like twin declarations of authority. He radiated righteousness like an illness.
“Bring forth the remains,” he intoned.
Two lesser angels stepped forward, reverently setting down a linen-wrapped bundle on a marble pedestal. The chamber hummed.
Raphael inspected the bundle, nodding once. “The last known relic of a fallen brother. Sacrificed. Twisted. Cast down. And now, as it should be—redeemed in service of Heaven’s higher will.”
No one moved. The angels did not blink. This was holy work.
Raphael turned toward the circle. “Today, we correct the imbalance. Heaven, diluted by compromise. Earth, infested by mongrels. And Hell—” he sneered, “—soon to be defeated.”
A few angels glanced at each other. No one dared speak.
Raphael extended his hands. “With this remnant, and the feather of the Host”—he gestured to the second artifact, unexamined—“we seize what should have been ours. We reclaim the light from the pit. We extract His essence.”
He did not name Lucifer or Michael. He didn’t have to.
“And when the apocalypse comes, as it must,” Raphael hissed, “Heaven will rule, finally, not as shepherd—but as sovereign.”
He stepped into the circle.
“Begin.”
The light swelled. The angels chanted. Sigils bled. The pedestal cracked with divine pressure. Power surged up—
—and then sputtered.
A sudden whiff of something sharp and slightly avian hit the air.
Raphael blinked.
Then sniffed.
“…Is that…?”
A flicker. The sigils dimmed.
The chamber’s hum became an awkward drone. One of the cherubim shifted uncomfortably.
The feather in the bowl caught fire and disintegrated with a faint pop.
A pause.
Then the bundle on the pedestal sagged. A single, blackened vulture claw flopped out of the linen like a protest.
The silence stretched.
“…Is that a bird?” one angel whispered.
Raphael stared down. He ripped aside the shroud. The vulture skull, eye sockets empty, seemed to grin up at him.
His eye twitched. “No,” he growled.
Another angel spoke, hesitant: “Sir, I think we’ve been—”
“NO.”
Raphael raised his hand and smote the pedestal. It exploded. Feathers—distinctly non-angelic—flew everywhere.
“I will flay that little cockroach,” Raphael snarled. “I will grind his bones into sacrament. I will salt his crossroads and piss on the chalk—”
“Sir—”
“DON’T INTERRUPT ME, ILON-IEL.”
He turned back to the remains, now a smoldering heap of bird bits and celestial embarrassment.
Raphael stood in the smoke, fuming. Wings still spread, fury too vast to contain.
“Crowley,” he breathed, voice trembling with divine fury. “Crowley…” He raised a fist to Heaven. “You...you traitor. You arrogant, slimy, greasy...petty motherf—”
But alas, his last word was drowned out by one collective, very shocked angelic gasp.
###
Crowley lounged behind his desk, legs up, a glass of something expensive balanced neatly in one hand. The room was warm with lamplight. Guthrie stood across from him, serene as ever, with the latest report.
“Raphael?” Crowley asked, not looking up.
“Unwell.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“Loudly,” Guthrie added. “Alleging unlikely things regarding your parentage.”
Crowley gave a little smile, pleased. “And Castiel?”
“Still officially attempting to blame inclement weather.”
A beat.
Crowley exhaled, long and slow. The tension that had been curled beneath his skin like a serpent finally unwound. “I thought they might compare notes.”
“They didn’t.”
“I thought they might question the feather.”
“They didn’t.”
“I thought,” Crowley said, rising and walking to the bar cart, “that perhaps—just once—the forces of Heaven might stop underestimating me.”
He poured a second drink and held it out to Guthrie. Guthrie paused, then took it with a small nod.
Crowley sipped. “But then, where’s the fun in that?”
He wandered to the window. The city lights flickered far below, oblivious.
Guthrie tilted his head. “And yet you did deliver.”
“Technically,” Crowley said, with a lazy grin. He shrugged. “Not my fault Heaven doesn’t do quality assurance.”
Guthrie allowed the barest flicker of amusement. He sipped his drink.
Crowley turned from the window, suddenly serious. “You understand what this means, don’t you?”
“Sire?”
Crowley’s eyes glinted. “It means they still don’t know who they’re dealing with.”