Welcome to Gaia! ::

“You want to tell me what I’m doing here?”

The voice was deadpan and even, and if you didn’t know better you’d never guess that is was his super special, very nearly pants-shittingly scared tone. If you didn’t know better you wouldn’t have understood why he would be scared anyway, the scene was not one that spoke of terror. It was an airport, brightly lit and surgically sterile, ruler-straight lines formed in front of orderly cues. The occasional latecomer would run past, and the only other chaos seemed to come from a few hole in the wall fast-food places. It could be any airport in any city, the same lines, same colors, and the same food. Perhaps it was to ease the transition for busy travelers. The boy stood there, unmoving in the sea of travelers, and seemed to be speaking to no one. But the statement had not fallen on deaf ears.

Dean had gotten pretty good at knowing when he showed up.

“God has need of you,” came the answer, quiet and rasping and thoughtful.

“Yes, we’ve been over that. I’m Bethany, you’re Silent Bob, and Sam get’s to be the stripper right? But that doesn’t tell me what the ******** I’m doing standing around PHL without as much as a text message to explain why.”

“You don’t like airports.” It wasn’t really a question, even though it should have been. Reading people like that should be illegal. Especially while wearing your very best empathetic eyes.

“No s**t Sherlock. You still haven’t answered my question,” Dean growled, glancing back towards the isles of food, hoping Sam would be back soon, Cinnabon (extra frosting) in hand. No luck though.

“Do not worry; you are not going to board a plane. We are here to pick up an, ah, associate of mine.”

“An angel? What, his transporter malfunctioning? Shouldn’t God be the Scotty to beam him up?”

Castiel ignored him, looking off at one of the terminals, apparently entranced by a small child with a huge stuffed toy trailing behind his mother. After a moment he decided to answer, “He is tied to mortal means of travel, and he has been here a very long time. I suppose you would say he’s… gone native.”

“Gone native? What does that even mean?” Belligerent questions were, as usual, the flavor of the day.

The angel responded as he typically did, with a direct and piercing look that reminded Dean of how little an idea of personal space Castiel had, and exactly how strange the guy was. Perhaps going native wouldn’t be such a bad thing. This associate might know how weird it was to stare at people.

“He comes.”

Dean’s head snapped back around to look at the terminals, eyes searching for an angel. The arrival board said London, which he couldn’t help but feel was ******** weird. He’d figured it would be maybe Rome, or perhaps Jerusalem. Did flights come in from Jerusalem? What was holy about London, anyway? And Dean’s thoughts continued their wild little jaunt for another minute before they were snapped back into reality like a slap in the face.

“Castiel?” came a rather confused sounding call from a rather hassled looking man. He had a roundish face, sandy hair, a distinctly British, and almost unnaturally well groomed, look, and was carrying more baggage than any trip could possibly warrant. Dean didn’t even own that much stuff; the Impala only had so much trunk room and most of it was monopolized by weapons. The guy didn’t look like an angel, but in a way Dean had expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the bedraggled man in tartan and penny loafers, who looked like he’d lose his glasses on his own head and owned a cat.

“You’re shitting me.”

Castiel didn’t answer, seeming distracted and annoyed. Dean couldn’t’ remember the last time the angel had looked that out of sorts, but it had been awhile. Maybe never, he might even be angry.

“What is he doing here?” the angel asked sharply.

It was then that the hunter realized that behind the mass of baggage that, apparently, was the associate, there was another man, whose appearance was best described as cool, and therefore pissed Dean off. He looked like a music producer or something else equally undeserving of the mass amounts of wealth he no doubt had. He was actually wearing his sunglasses indoors. b*****d.

“Well, I couldn’t very well stop him,” said the hassled man with an apologetic tone with a rather pathetic expression on his face.

“Aziraphale.” Castiel began, but he was interrupted by the slick music producer.

“Are you willing to do anything about me? Because if you’re not you can’t expect him to,” a quick smile, sharp as a serpents flicked across his face, “Somehow I doubt you’d get approval either way. Bureaucracy is a b***h, isn’t it just?”

Castiel was silent, but clearly ruffled, and Dean had had about enough of it. All of it. Accents and argyle and acting like he wasn’t there.

“Okay, who the hell are you? Because I guess I can buy the pansy as an angel, but somehow I just can’t picture it from you,” he growled.

“Picture it, kid.”

“Really, my dear,” the other one, Aziraphale, chipped in, dropping the last of his bags on the ground, “Don’t lie to him.”

“I’m not lying; it would just have to be an old picture.”

“He’s the serpent,” Castiel interjected with a hint of bitterness, ”Cra-“

“Please. Name’s Crowley,” the man said, flicking his glasses down easily, revealing unnaturally bright, yellow, serpentine slit eye for a moment before he pushed them back up, “Professional trouble.”

He’d clearly rehearsed the line. It was the sort of thing you said to sound cool. He was not at all expecting the boy the lunge at him with a ragged cry.

“Sonova b***h!” Dean spat between his teeth, very nearly managing to get his fingers around Crowley’s neck before Castiel grabbed him roughly by the arm, pulling him back quickly. Dean moved to elbow him, reflexes kicking in, before the angel grabbed his other shoulder tight and whispered easily into his ear.

“It’s not him Dean.”

“Go- Sat- DAMNIT, not who? What the hell!?” Crowley snapped, losing his cool instantly.

“Oh my, I don’t’ think he likes you very much,” Aziraphale said a bit squeakily, taking a half-step back.

Castiel shot them both a glance seemingly void of expression, not releasing the struggling hunter, before returning his attention to the matter at hand, “He is dead, you know that. Crowley merely bears the mark of a sinner.”

“I bear many marks of a sinner. I am made up of sins. The whole of my being can be said to be one giant sin! Usually it doesn’t nearly get me strangled though!”

Dean felt himself slowly unwind as he realized what he had very nearly done. Violent altercations didn’t go down very well with the airport security guys. It also didn’t seem to go down very well with Castiel, who, it had been established, could kill him six times before he hit the ground, and who currently had his shoulders in a vice grip.

“’Never seen another demon with yellow eyes.”

“Azazel was not alone in them. Just rare.”

“He thought I was Azazel? Are you kidding me? I would never be that tacky.”

“Well, you aren’t wearing a tie,” his mild companion reasoned.

“It’s stylish. You should try it sometime angel.”

“Tartan is stylish!” Aziraphale whined.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked; voice the same confused, vaguely amused, and less vaguely disturbed tone as his face. It was a scene. A pile of bags at the foot of a slightly dumpy Brit yelling at a slick looking corporate lawyer type while his brother was held firmly in place by Castiel, who was giving Sam his patented creepy stare.

“Uhn, how about the shop? Love a shop. Come on Aziraphale,” the demon said, pulling him away.

“What about my things?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Americans are a law abiding people. Trust in the good of man, that’s your job angel.”

“Crowley…”

And with that the two of them were gone and Dean elbowed his way (carefully) out of the Castiel’s grasp. “You’d better have my goddamn Cinnabon Sam.”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Who were those guys?”

“Mff,” was the only answer Sam was going to get from Dean, who grabbed the cinnamon roll quickly and in an amazing feat managed to both shovel it down and complain at the same time.

“”Sk im,” he mumbled, pointing to Castiel before adding, “ere’ m extra s’ing?”

“It was like, another 50 cents dude, you don’t need more icing,” Sam said, exasperated look on his face before he turned back to the man he thought of as his brother’s angel.

“The Lord has need of Aziraphale, the other followed him,” answered Castiel, as cryptically as possible.

“Aziraphale’s an angel then? Who’s the other one?” Sam asked as he glanced at the two strangers.

“He calls himself Crowley. He is the serpent.”

Sam’s expression immediately changed to one of disbelief, “The serpent?”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about?” Dean growled as he tossed the now empty wrapper in the garbage, swallowing the last bit of delicious goodness without much appreciation.

“Really Dean? The serpent? The Garden of Eden? The temptation of man? Any of it ringing a bell?”

“I thought that was an allegory?”

“I didn’t’ know that you knew what an allegory was. It probably is. Isn’t it?”

Castiel looked back to the boys; he’d been watching the two shoppers with eagle eyes and a good amount of displeasure apparently without interest in their conversation. Now that he was back in their world he tilted his head slightly.

“It is an allegory, that doesn’t mean it’s didn’t happen. They both walked in the garden.”

“Both? What did the pa- Aziraphale have to do with it?” Dean asked.

“You may not believe it,” Castiel said, in a way that suggested there was much Dean did not believe, “but he was once one of the Cherubims. He was well respected and has done God’s work on this earth for many hundreds of years.”

“I’m hearing a lot of’ was’ here. What happened?”

“We do not like to speak of it,” Castiel said, in the shiftiest way Dean had ever heard.

Dean opened his mouth again, ready for an argument, before deciding better of it. It had already been a long, long day, and he wasn’t too sure he wanted it to get any longer.

Sam looked between the two of them before finally daring to ask, “So are they, uhm, do they need a ride or?”

“No-“

“Yes.”

And the angel and his ward stared each other down for a few moments before Dean finally sighed mightily and looked away. He knew he couldn’t win this one.

“Apparently yes.”

“I’ll go get the car then,” Sam said, with a slight smile and a shake of his head.

Dean grunted a response as Sam left, rubbing his forehead with exasperation. After steeling himself for the worst possible answer he looked back to the angel.

“You expect us to babysit them, don’t you.”

It was not a question.

“Aziraphale is tied to his mortal form; he cannot go to where my other brothers and I do.”

It was not an answer.

“Why not, exactly?” Dean asked, clinging to something he felt he would get a straight and relatively uncomplicated answer for.

“The form he wears is not a vessel.”

Scratch that, just as complicated. Not willing to dig himself in any deeper he stomped over to Aziraphale’s bags and picked up a couple, marveling at the sheer amount of luggage there was, and wondering if way too much s**t was a mortal sin. If it wasn’t, it should be. Fully loaded he turned back to look at the owner of said mass amount of crap. The angel was holding up some tacky looking souvenir to the demon for approval. The demon responded in what Dean had to admit was a natural way: by snatching it back and slamming it back onto the shelf. The angel appeared to be ready to pick the item back up (Dean thought it had a Liberty Bell on it) when the demon slapped his hand away. He couldn't look away; it was like some sort of train wreck.

“So they seem a little, uhm,” Dean groped around for the word for a minute before shrugging vaguely and settling with, “You know.”

Castiel looked at him, furrowing his brow slightly, “I do not think I do.”

“Well, ah,” Dean, who was usually so good at being as blunt as humanly possible, found himself floundering a bit, “They’re very, ah,” he realized he was blushing.

HE WAS BLUSHING.

Swearing like a sailor on the inside he settled with a completely flat, “Close. They seem close. Right.”

Castiel continued to stare at him which made Dean sure that he’d seen his blush, and even more sure that he knew exactly what Dean was trying to say but was thought it was much better to just ******** with him.

“They have spent much time together. Sometimes you have more in common with your enemy then you would think.”

“They don’t seem like enemies. They seem like a married couple,” Dean blurted out, and then quickly glanced at Castiel to see if he was about to be smote.

Apparently he was not.

“There was…” Castiel began, and then stopped suddenly, brow furrowing as he pursed his lips. He shifted uncomfortably before looking back to the two in the shop.

Dean glowered for a moment, sure that whatever the angel wasn’t telling him was important, but not willing to pry into it. He’d had really enough already, and the Cinnabon seemed like it was gone ages ago.

“Hey,” Sam called, standing by the doors and swinging the Impala’s keys lazily. When he was sure Dean saw him he smirked cheekily and walked back out, a clear sign that Dean was alone with the bags.

“Wh- SAM!” he swore silently and stomped after him, leaving the rest of the bags standing there as Castiel went to fetch the other two (currently standing in line to purchase something that Crowley wouldn’t even look at). If perhaps one or two of the suitcases disappeared, at least they could be sure that whoever had taken them would find them filled with raw fish and cockroaches.

And if no one would be willing to take credit for it, it wouldn’t really matter.

Dean had a headache.

He’d had a lot of headaches lately. More than he’d ever had before he came back from hell. They had names. One was called Castiel, and then there was Sam, which he was admittedly used to. Of course there was one called Ruby, and the ever present Apocalypse. Oh and his very favorite, the one called Hell.

This wasn’t one of those. Or perhaps it was sort of all of them smashed together into one giant pain in the a**, with the addition of what he assumed were two new headaches, called Aziraphale and Crowley. Or, as he thought of them, the complete p***y and the flashy yellow eyed b*****d.

That would be a fun one to explain to Sam. He hadn’t even had the energy for it yet, a growl to the Demon to keep his goddamn glasses on or else was the best he’d managed.

Ha hadn’t had much time either, trying to get all those damn bags into the trunk had seemed to take forever, especially since neither Crowley nor Castiel seemed to want to sully their hands with such mortal frivolities as helping pack the damn car. Dean was sure there had been more bags before they left the terminal area, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. He pulled Castiel away as Sam helped get the last bits in, apparently having a good enough time asking the others about Eden, which they seemed happy enough to answer, albeit in strangely shallow terms ‘Really awful shade actually, you couldn’t get a place away from the sun for the life of you’.

“So, you may not have noticed but there’s really not that much room in the car, unless you’ve got some sort of miracle in mind.”

“I won’t be going with you; there are other matters of importance I must attend to.”

“Of course you won’t, “Dean said with a s**t-eating grin on his face. Figured he’d get stuck with the two foreigners (very foreigners he supposed) while his angel just flitted away to somewhere with peace, quiet, and probably pie, “What am I supposed to do with them.”

“Just take them with you; there is no need to change your plans.”

“Any more than I already have you mean? Are we going to have to pay for them too, or do they have a holy charge card?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, giving Dean Look Number Five, ‘Sincere Confusion’, “They will have no problems with money.”

“Of course they won’t.”

“Dean! Car’s ready,” Sam called out, sounding a bit impatient, and no wonder, a line had formed at the loading dock and there were some really pissy looking soccer moms who looked ready to run the lot of them down with their silver-bullet minivans.

“Yeah, hold on,” he answered, grumbling a bit before turning back to Castiel, who, of course, was not there.

“OH GODDAMNIT. Sam!” the hunter stomped back over to his brother with a stormy look on his face, grabbing the keys and snapping at their guests to get in the car.

Which was a rather interesting process, all things considered. The Impala wasn’t small, but with the luggage and Sam’s ridiculous height the angel ended up crammed behind him, with the demon looking Dean right in the back of the neck, which was a really pleasant feeling. Just peachy. Honestly.

So there was a car ride. Sam and Dean settled in as they always did, if, perhaps, with slightly more attempt at small-talk from the younger brother and slightly more rearview-mirror glaring from the older. Eventually Dean just cranked the music in annoyance, the angel pulled out a book from god-knew-where (and in this case he probably literally did), and the Crowley stared out the window, seeming rather surprisingly self contained. Sam went back to doing whatever research was currently on the plate, proving him, in Dean’s mind, to be the same giant nerdy bookworm he’d been at fifteen.

Time passed in what Dean had to think of as an agonizingly slow way before the combined stress, annoyance, and pressure in his head caused him to snap, growling impatiently and jumping off the highway at the nearest exit, which was perhaps a bit too near to attempt at the speed they were going. Buy since they didn’t all die he figured it was fine. He cruised the dirty little Podunk street until he found a motel (seedy looking of course) and pulled in with a gravel-scattering stop.

It was, perhaps, a bit cool looking.

He turned the engine off and tossed the keys effortlessly to his brother as he got out of the car, slamming the door for good measure. The little office was everything he expected, dirty, fake plants, an actual key-board (safety first), and a ridiculously small TV. He thought it was playing Jerry Springer without the volume, which brought all kinds of questions to mind.

“Room, two twins, whatever’s closest to the main road,” he rattled off with studied practice as Crowley and Aziraphale entered behind him, one with a stubborn good-natured attitude doing its best to remind him that this was ’all very folksy (or something) and wasn’t it an experience to remember’ despite his urge to wash his hands, and the other with a level of intense disgust only slightly marred by the embarrassing tendency to feel like he was actually being a bit of a bother.

Dean gave them his best unimpressed look until the angel approached the counter (with only a small push from his companion), and clasped his hands neatly, “Ah, can we also get, yes, a room like that please?”

Dean sighed and looked at the office manager, who had more hair coming out of his ears than off of his head and a nasty case of plaid, “Can they get the room next to mine?”

“Sure kid, you boys got a reunion or something?”

“A reunion?” Aziraphale asked, officially in over his head.

“Sure,” Dean snarked, snatching the two sets of keys that were thrown to the counter and sliding his card across.

“Francis Vandaberg?” Aziraphale began, “I th-“

Dean twitched slightly as Crowley shut up his angelic companion with a firm hand on the arm and whisper in the ear, sliding his own card out like liquid and tossing it behind Deans.

It read ‘Anthony J Crowley’.

The manager (Dean was sure his name was Herbert) eyed the card suspiciously, “Thought you were here for a reunion.”

“We are,” the snake responded silky smooth, “AA reunion. You know, Alcoholics Anonymous,” he added, stressing the anonymous. He said it with such confidence and the distinct look of a complete boozer that the Herbert found himself nodding, suddenly completely sure.

“How many days?”

“We try not to keep score, it’s discouraging for some of our less successful members,” Dean answered, nodding to the angel easily, grabbing his card back and clomping back out to the car and his brother (who was currently stacking bags up by the trunk and trying not to get anything blessed or cursed mixed up in them.

“Idiots. Complete idiots,” Dean glowered, tossing one set of keys to Sam, “Go open their room, will ya?”

Sam nodded, giving his brother an amused look and slinging a couple of bags across his shoulder. Rooms six and seven, irony be damned, and he didn’t even know which key he’d tossed his brother. A quick check revealed that their guests were in room seven, and didn’t it just figure. With an annoyed sigh he grabbed a couple bags himself, passing the idiots leaving the office on the way to the room.

“Room seven, Sam’s got your keys.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale responded sincerely, which made Dean feel like a bit of a d**k. He’d told Castiel he thought that angels were fluffy and nice, and the other had told him that he was sorely mistaken. However, compared to the rest of the ones he’d met Aziraphale was basically a saint, if a slightly uninspiring one. Perhaps that’s the trade; you either get a glorious flaming d**k or a rather pathetic nice guy. Dean wasn’t sure which he preferred yet.

He sighed and dropped the bags at the entrance of the room, going back to gather another handful as Crowley pushed past him into the room, apparently still not up to being a bellboy. Sam was doing his best to put things in convenient places, but the room was small and he was running out of them. He was also fairly certain that these weren’t’ the accommodations that their heavenly and hellish wards were used to. When the demon entered the room he barely glanced up from his work. Demons were old hat by Sam’s standards, even the serpent seemed less amazing than the angels, after all, he’d helped kill the seven sins.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with me,” Crowley said suddenly, flopping down onto the rather hideous paisley covered bed. He might have to fix that later, but he was hoping he could get Aziraphale to do it. He liked being right.

“Should I?” Sam asked carefully as he set some of the smaller bags onto the hideous mustard yellow dresser.

“Your brother seems to,” Crowley responded, deciding for now that he wouldn’t mention the eye thing to the boy. Who knows how this one would react?

“He doesn’t like demons much,” came the rather wry answer, “it bothers me a less.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t scare me,” the boy answered as he finally looked up at the Crowley.

“That seems ill-advised. I mean, I don’t plan on causing you any trouble but I am evil, and my word is hardly good.”

“I’m used to Demons, and your glowing force power crap doesn’t work on me.”

“Pretty sure you still bleed,” was his response. He felt strangely obligated to push it. He wasn't the sort to demand respect, but he couldn’t’ resist the urge to stir the waters.

“Pretty sure I can exorcise you before you could get to your feet.”

“Ah, really. Here’s a tip though boy,” came Crowley’s answer as he stood slowly, “ You can’t exorcise what isn’t possessed,” and with that he exited, hoping to find what was keeping Aziraphale. Sam wasn’t’ the antichrist, but he wasn’t natural either, and while Crowley didn’t think he was in any danger, he also wasn’t completely sure the boy didn’t’ have any other tricks up his sleeves, and with the current issues going on downstairs he figured it’d be pretty hard to get a new body. Bloody Lilith.

Sam frowned at the Crowley’s back as he exited, wondering what the hell that meant. Dean might know but finding time to ask was going to be a problem. People kept popping up and he wasn’t sure his brother was even willing to discuss their new luggage yet. He was pretty pissed; somehow Sam doubted when Dean thought warrior of god he considered having to stop tourists from visiting the world’s largest ball of twine.

He eventually just sat the last thing down where he stood, going back to the door to drag the bags Dean had just dropped there back into the room, strolling out to meet his brother who’d grabbed their few bags and was about to head into their own room.

“Would you like any help?” Aziraphale asked from his position near the trunk, Crowley leaning against the Impala lazily.

“No, thanks though,” Dean replied in his best utterly sarcastic tone, “I am going to go to my room and pretend none of this happened now.”

“Ah, hah, uhm, if you guys get settled in we’ll go find some food later. If you need anything we’ll be right next door.”

“No we won’t,” Dean yelled back from near the door of room six.

“Right then. Come on angel,” Crowley smirked, heading back towards room seven with the sort of self-satisfaction that came from knowing something that someone else didn’t.

Sam pursed his lips and put on his bitchface, knowing that his brother was going to be a royal pain for the whole rest of the night, and would be almost no help in finding out what was going on.

“Dean,” voice number seven, ‘You’re being ridiculous, act your age’.

“Sam,” a muffled response, voice number twelve ‘You’re not my mom’.

The younger brother sighed; officially sure it was a lost cause. Dean had buried his face into the disgusting motel pillow and gave no sign of coming out anytime soon, a pair of headphones jammed in his ears, probably blaring ACDC directly into his brain. Dean was the only person in the world who fixed headaches with hard rock. He was dead to the world for at least the next half hour and Sam knew it; his brother had never believed in confronting his problems and solving them, he much preferred to sulk like a little girl for awhile and then pretend none of it happened. It was the manly way of dealing with things. So Sam was sure he wouldn’t be able to find out what Dean knew or what, perhaps more importantly, he didn’t. And while he could have probably gotten him riled up by mentioning Crowley’s little statement earlier, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. His brother tended to push it with the angels, and he wasn’t sure how much further he could get before someone smote him.

With an exasperated sigh and only a hint of a b***h face settled down to do research on their new companions. Crowley and Aziraphale were mysteries, but he hopped a little digging would turn up something. With the patience of kings he worked through the mess of internet references, tirelessly filtering through the crap until finally Dean deemed it the right time to speak.

“So, don’t freak out, but the d**k’s got yellow eyes.”

“What?”

“Crowley? His eyes are yellow. He’s not the yellow eyes, Castiel assured me, but, you know, felt I should warn you,” Dean gruffed as he sat up on the bed, glancing at his studious brother.

Sam had a feeling that he knew why the angel had been hanging onto his brother back in the airport. Which was a bit of a relief, all things considered.

“Ah, thanks. Now you want to tell me why they’re here?”

“I don’t know much,” the older hunter answered, glaring slightly as he stood up, heading to stand by his brother’s side, hoping to see that Sam had uncovered something, “Aziraphale has been here a long time. His body is not a vessel, whatever that means, and he can’t go wherever Castiel goes when he’s not lurking around. God has need of Aziraphale for some reason of another. Crowley followed him here, and for some reason Castiel isn’t willing to do anything about him. Oh, also? He’s not a normal demon; he used to be an angel, which I didn’t even think was possible. Oh, right, and they seem pretty gay.”

“Dean, angels can’t be gay.”

“Tell that to the gay angel, no one else would be able to use the word ‘dear’ in a sentence like that.”

Sam sighed, used to his brother’s rather exotic outlook on life. Not to mention his tendency to make everything about sex. It was a talent.

“So, what are we supposed to do with them?”

“Babysit, drag them around with us until Castiel decides what to do with them. Apparently we can just keep doing what we do.”

“With an angel and a demon?”

Dean grunted, moving away from the computer (from what he could tell Sam had found nothing), and back to the bags, grabbing his basic necessities, “Guess so. Hopefully they’ll stay the hell out of our way. Come on, let’s get some food.”

“We’re going to go get them, right?”

“Yes Sam, we’re going to go get them,” his brother said in a sarcastic sing-song voice.

“Right then,” Sam answered, shutting his laptop and following after his brother on the way to the door, shutting it carefully after them. He’d found some leads in his research, but he wasn’t willing to tell his brother about them yet, because frankly they were ridiculous and he couldn’t believe them himself. Not without proof at least, which he wasn’t likely to get.

Dean was already knocking in his best completely-annoying way (barber-surgeon; shave and a haircut, no legs) as loudly as he could. After a moment the bolt was drawn and Aziraphale peaked through the door as if he didn’t know who to expect, seeming honestly surprised to see the both of them there. Dean was just glad he had the brains to bolt the lock.

“Oh, hello, yes?”

“We’re going to go get some food.”

“Oh, oh, right, of course! Come in please,” he said, as if he weren’t in a cheap motel and they weren’t his unofficial chaperones. As the brothers stepped into the room neither of them could think of anything to say. It was quite possibly a first.

What should have been a pokey room with a paisley and duck motif, smattered with very tasteless fake wood trims was not that at all. It was rather a classy, rustic room, comfortable tartan designs and real wood accents, a warm glow from a fireplace (which didn’t seem to have a chimney attached), plush rugs, and clean and comfortable looking beds. It looked rather more like a high end resort that used the word rustic as only the very rich could.

“What the hell?” Dean finally managed, looking to the demon, who was lounging on the bed watching How I Met Your Mother on a 42inch flat screen.

“It’s too much, isn’t it,” Aziraphale asked, chewing on his lip, “I know, it’s too much.”

“I don’t think so,” Crowley answered from the bed, “Seems perfect to me.”

“What did you do?” asked Sam, incredulous as his brother explored every inch of the room with a mixture of anger, awe, and appreciation.

“He holied things up a bit,” Crowley answered smugly, in the same tone he’d use to say ‘he whored it up’.

“I can change it back,” Aziraphale said, with obvious worry, “I just got a bit out of hand I’m afraid, the excitement got the better of me.”

“Don’t change it back,” Dean answered finally, “just do the same to our room.”

“Really Dean,” came a voice who’s owner hadn’t existed moments before.

Aziraphale jumped slightly, “Oh my,” he managed to say with the dedication of one who didn’t make a habit of swearing.

“Damnit!” Dean swore, with the dedication of one who made it into an art.

“Are all angels above doors, or are you just unusually rude?” Crowley finished.

“Aziraphale,” Castiel said, ignoring the others in favor of the current problem, “please change it back. You will attract unnecessary attention.”

“Of course, very sorry, I was planning on it,” the meek angel responded, and just like that everything was different in that it was exactly the same as it had been before. It made the eyes water, and Sam actually sneezed.

“God bless you,” Castiel said without irony.

“What are you doing here,” Dean asked, his headache returning with a vengeance, “usually we’re only blessed by your presence once per day, and that’s usually plenty enough.”

Castiel responded by shooting him a look that shut him right up. He’d been willing to be patient with Dean in the airport, but it was pretty clear that here he would be less understanding of his rebel without a cause attitude.

“I have been told to keep an eye on you while in public. I believe you were going to dinner.”

“The heavenly host trying to avoid more embarrassments?” Crowley asked from the bed, clearly irked by the fact his TV had disappeared in the middle of a Barney joke with a large buildup and that the sheets he was now laying on bore a couple of delightfully worrisome stains.

“You are pressing you luck,” Castiel responded, bright eyes giving him a piercing look.

Before Crowley had a chance to respond Sam decided to butt in, “Dinner, right?”

“That’s right,” Dean answered, “And either you all get in the car now or I’m leaving you all behind,” he quipped, stomping out of the room with finality, already considering what an awful life he had, and wondering what he possibly could have done to deserve it. The only comfort was that things couldn’t get much worse.

Except that they could. The car could set five, but nowhere near comfortably, and apparently Castiel was in for the drive this time. The five of them stood outside of the Impala awkwardly for a minute before Aziraphale finally volunteered to take the center seat. Sam decided to avoid further arguments by saying he’d stay in back too, and Aziraphale gave Crowley a look until he agreed to sit next to him. That left Castiel sitting next to Dean, which caused Dean to very nearly crack another god is my copilot joke, except the whole situation was just way too weird. So when the first building they pulled up to that served food was a bar Dean didn’t spare another thought before pulling in and parking in the first available spot. He needed a drink. Badly.

ANOTHER FICLETTT



“This is the God’s A-Team home base?” Dean asked incredulously.

“This is my ‘home base’.” Castiel corrected him carefully, “I obtained the room just after I brought you back.”

Dean shot the angel a surprised look before his eyes were magnetically drawn back to the room. He couldn’t help but stare; he’d discovered Cas’s dirty secret. Literally. Castiel, paragon of justice, holy tax accountant, stick up his a** Castiel was a complete slob.

The cheap motel room barely even looked that. It was more like the den of some animal, piles of crap strewn across the floor and on the furniture with no sense of order. Not food wrappers and beer bottles like what plagued every room Dean had ever inhabited, but piles of clothes and books and things. It looked like the angel just popped in, dropped things were he stood, and popped back out again. Button down shirts and old manuscripts on religion and poetry, with the occasional bright wrinkled cover of some novel or another littering the floor. What intrigued Dean the most, though, was the seemingly random junk. He bent down to pick up a sheet of paper as he walked through the room. It was a picture from a magazine or something, advertising god knew what, and featured a happy family with a dog. Dean had to admit there was something almost beautiful about it though. That seemed to be the theme of things. A few coins, clearly the sort you’d pick up off the ground. A fortune from a cookie. A bottle cap with a flower design. A scattering of creamy broken seashells. Rocks with spots and stripes that Dean knew would be wonderful colors when they were wet. A cheap necklace with a blue glass bead. A handful of random feathers. Dandelions, wilted on a shelf. Just things, probably discovered on the side of the road, on sidewalks or street corners. And Dean thought that maybe angels had more in common with birds than just wings. Only instead of spoons and tinsel and tin cans Castiel gathered things, simple, beautiful things, the sort that fascinated children. The whole room reminded Dean of a box that he’d had as a kid, all “old” coins and key’s he’d found and dinosaur figures. Treasures.

He noticed suddenly how quiet it was. Castiel had said nothing since he’d entered the room, even as Dean had, he realized, been incredibly nosey. He’d actually walked through the angels whole room just looking at and touching things, grounding himself in the angel’s sanctuary; he’d let his guard down. He looked back at Castiel, who was studying him with the tilted head that Dean typically thought of as dog-like but now couldn’t help but compare to a bird. Something noble and proud, an eagle or a hawk perhaps, with sharp talons and sharper eyes. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“It’s a bit messy.”

And Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

Dean's inferno pt4


“A bar?”

“Yes Sam,” Dean growled, slamming the door, “a bar.”

“You don’t think it’s a little,” the younger boy lowered his voice nervously, “inappropriate?”

“Couldn’t care less,” Dean answered coolly and stomped his way to the door of the run down building. ‘Rays’s Bar and Grill’ a neon sign announced, the grill flickering uncertainly. It didn’t seem to bother the patrons any, as it was pretty clear that ‘Bar’ was the emphasis of this particular establishment.

Sam shot their guests and apologetic look. They, however, didn’t seem too fazed. Aziraphale was the only one who was even, apparently, paying any attention to the argument, and his response was merely to look sympathetic. Castiel looked, as usual, as though he were waiting for something important to happen. Crowley was studying the bar with equal parts interest and thinly veiled disgust. Sam took a deep breath and followed his brother through the dingy little door, hoping they weren’t just taking one step closer to a holy smack-down.

The interior of Ray’s was exactly what Sam had expected. Barely lit, with a pool table at one end that attracted a small crowd, smoky air clinging over the pokey little tables, one of which Dean had already commandeered. An actual jukebox and a small stage at one end that boasted Karaoke. The place attempted, as all bars did, to differentiate itself from its contemporaries. With crap they hung on the wall, fishing poles and old Polaroid’s of customers and bottle caps. As always it failed to make the place stand out at all, it could have been any seedy tavern in any Podunk town. Sam would know; he’d practically been raised in one.

He pulled another chair over to Dean and sat down, giving his brother his very best disapproving look. Dean didn’t seem to notice, or at the very least didn’t care.

“Waitress’ll be back with beer and a menu,” he drawled to no one in particular.

“This is a, uh, nice place. Very genuine,” Aziraphale said hopefully as he seated himself carefully next to Sam, trying not to notice the stain on the seat of the chair.

“Genuinely foul,” Crowley answered snarkily as he threw himself into his own chair across from Dean.

Castiel didn’t say anything, seemingly content in merely taking a seat at Dean’s side and studying the surroundings.

Moments later the waitress showed up, a tray covered in mugs and some laminated printouts rather ambitiously called menus.

“You boys just tell me when ya’ll’re ready to order,” she said lazily, clearly bored and uncomfortable in her uniform, which was obviously designed for a girl twenty years her junior and by a man ten years her senior.

“Thanks Pam,” Dean answered as he passed the mugs around, throwing the menus in the middle. She popped her gum once before striding off again.

“Beer Dean?” Sam asked in a strangled voice.

“Yes, and?”

“Come on man!” Sam cried out in exasperation, “I’m really sorry about this,” he added, turning to Aziraphale, “he’s just being, well, Dean.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Sam” Aziraphale answered easily, raising his brows as he slipped his hands over the mug.

“What? I mean, you’re, uh, allowed?” Sam asked lamely. Crowley rolled his eyes magnificently, which was, he realized, a loss considering the glasses. He decided he’d better sigh as well.

“Look kid, for hundreds and hundreds of years beer was the only thing to drink, “he said.

“And wine,” Aziraphale added helpfully, pulling a face at the rather cheap, watery, bitter taste. Americans, really. He changed it into something better without thought and hoped Castiel wouldn’t notice.

“Right, you drank booze or you died of dysentery.”

“Water into wine,” Castiel said suddenly, turning his sharp eyes back to the table.

Aziraphale choked. Crowley glared at him.

“Oh, right,” Sam said, flushing slightly and looking back to his brother, who just finished taking a swill out of his own glass. The elder hunter licked the foam off of his upper lip and gave Sam a cheeky grin.

“Yeah Sam.”

Sam bitchfaced.

“Anyway, I think it’s about time to pull the stick out of your a** and pick up a menu,” Dean continued, earning a kick from his brother, which he ignored. Sam continued glowering but picked up one of the sheets anyway, glancing over it even though he already knew what would be on it. Cheeseburger. Potato skins. Cheese sticks. He would order a cheeseburger. Dean would order a bacon burger. They would both watch their cholesterol rise. Their guests though, Sam realized, were a little more lost. Castiel glanced at the menu but didn’t even bother to pick it up. He had probably already learned during his time on earth to never eat anything from a place with more cigarette butts on the floor than carpet. Aziraphale and Crowley, however, were reading them and apparently dealing with the information in their own ways. Crowley’s eyebrows raised and then lowered again quickly and he actually had to shake his head. Aziraphale read a passage, stopped, and reread it.

“Ah,” he looked back at them before posing a question, “What, uhm, would you suggest?”

“None of it,” Dean admitted, seeming a little ashamed, “but you can’t go too wrong with a burger.”

“Oh.”

Crowley ran a hand through his slicked back hair and looked towards the pool table as a necessary distraction.

Aziraphale looked at him a little suspiciously, eyes narrowed, asking finally, “Did you decide what you’re having?”

“Just order for me, alright?” he answered smoothly, standing up and angling his way towards the table with purpose. Dean watched him go with an inscrutable expression.

“Are we gonna have to bail him out of trouble?”

The angel sighed, setting his menu down, “No, he can take care of himself. Perhaps a bit too well, actually,” he frowned, clearly disapproving.

“Isn’t that to be expected though?” Dean asked quickly, giving the angel a sharp look. He couldn’t figure out what the deal with them was, angels and demons should not consort; they should not share rooms and have catty little arguments. They should not seem so natural, “He’s a demon after all. Concentrated evil and everything.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” the angel responded airily, waving his hand around in a dismissive manner.

“Really?” Castiel asked, a bit sharply.

Aziraphale seemed taken aback. He studied his associate carefully for a moment before he responded, hands wrapped around his drink, swirling it slowly, “Sometimes, Castiel, there is not always such a clear line between right and wrong.”

Castiel remained quiet.

“Sometimes there’s not a line at all.”

He still would not answer.

“Sometimes there are more than two sides.”

He looked away.

Dean watched them, brow furrowed. Sam was entranced. He had always understood heaven as all knowing and pure, united in a holy task. But yet… Castiel was a warrior, he was willing to make sacrifices, but he was not without compassion. Uriel was a killer, who didn’t care who fell, and who would fulfill his goals even if his orders did not call for such desperate measures. And Aziraphale, he was almost human, seeming to balance on a thin line that he himself defined.

Dean threw his hands up finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “Arg, whatever! Pam?”

The waitress looked up from at them from where she stood; half-leaning over a table and chatting with some obvious regulars, and nodded, flipping open a notebook and dodging her way to their table.

“Decided then?”

“Seems like it,” Dean said, sounding friendly enough in a country sort of way, “I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, Sammy here’ll have a cheeseburger, no onions,” he glanced at Aziraphale who merely gave him a panicked look, and continued, “And then another two burgers- ah, wait, three burgers I guess. That’s it I think.”

“No problem, you order will be up soon.”

“Thanks,” Sam said with an open smile.

“Thank god for that,” Dean grumbled and glanced away towards the bar proper, cheek propped on his hand, elbow on the dingy little table. Uneventful minutes passed as Dean purposefully ignored the rest of them, and it wasn’t long before the ever-attentive Pam returned with carefully balanced baskets of greasy meat and potato, setting each one in front of its owner with precision that came from years behind an apron.

Dean grabbed his burger and bit into it with very little care; he didn’t even make his usual check to assure that it didn’t contain cigarette butts or rat. There were bigger problems he was trying to ignore.

“So, uhm, what are you guys here for, exactly?” Sam asked, attempting to ease the tension.

“I can’t really say,” Aziraphale said, sheepish.

“Oh,” came the flat response, “Well, I suppose I understand that.”

“No, honestly, I can’t say, I’m afraid I don’t really know,” the be-scarfed angel answered, an apologetic look on his face.

“What do you do then?” Sam asked, interested again.

“Me? Mostly I just run my shop.”

“You’ve got a ‘shop’?” Dean interjected a little line between his brows.

“Mm, a used book store. It’s more of a place to keep my collection.”

“Books?” the younger brother tilted his head, “What kind of books would an angel collect?”

“Honestly, anything really, but my specialty is books of prophesy mostly, a few religious things too.”

“Oh- Oh, hey, yeah, that’s probably why you’re here then,” the younger hunter said, sounding excited, his nerd voice in full action.

“You think so?” Aziraphale said, mild interest in his voice, “That may be it.”

“Yeah, I mean, you probably know more about prophesy than most, you’ve been here quite awhile. There’s probably something they want to know about the whole, uh, you know…”

“Apocalypse?” Dean interjected, turning his attention back to the table, sarcastic again. He doubted that the angels shipped the apparently troublesome Aziraphale here just to recount some prophesy. Not enough to also keep the demon out of trouble. No, there was something more.

And apparently Castiel agreed; he was looking away, an inscrutable expression on his face that to Dean said guilty. He apparently realized that Dean had noticed and he turned back, returning the gaze, piercing eyes meeting Dean’s with the intensity that was typical for him. Dean looked away, and cursed himself for it.

And that’s when Dean heard trouble from the pool table. He looked over instantly, brows lowering at the sight. A few of the big rednecks had gathered around the noticeably smaller demon, and menacing was to be had.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t get into any trouble,” Dean snapped at Aziraphale instantly.

“No, I said you wouldn’t have to get him out of it. He can handle himself, I’m afraid,” Az said, sounding embarrassed as he looked away. Dean opened his mouth again, nostril’s flaring with annoyance, and that’s when he noticed that Castiel wasn’t sitting with them anymore. Dean hadn’t even seen him stand up, but in those few moment’s he had managed to approach Crowley’s little lynch mob.

Dean swore.

“Excuse me,” Castiel murmured to them, elbowing his way to stand before the demon, giving him a look. Crowley’s face stayed impassive.

“What do you think you’re doing buddy,” one of the big hillbillies growled, trucker hat advertising something lewd as he turned the angel around roughly, jabbed a finger at Castiel’s chest, “You think you’re just gonna waltz over here and git your buddy outta trouble?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said honestly, “I am merely trying to prevent you from sustaining any injuries.”

The red-headed goon who was behind the trucker hat guy stepped forward, all drunken anger as he reached to grab the angel’s lapels, “What’d you say you little-“

“-Oh, hey now,” Dean interrupted him cheerfully, reaching his arm around Castiel’s shoulder in a lazy manner, “easy guys, sorry, my cousin here’s a little drunk if you can’t tell, just rolled in from the city, you know how it is,” he drawled, all friendly, “I hope there’s not any trouble?”

The men shifted, uncomfortable in the face of Dean’s aura of good-natured buzz. The red head let go of Castiel’s coat slowly.

“This ******** vampire was cheatin at pool,” the trucker hat guy said suddenly, angry again as he remembered what they were so whipped up about in the first place.

Dean whistled lowly, “Aw man, really,” he rubbed the back of his head as he stood back up straight again, “Let me buy you guys a drink okay?”

“A drink ain’t nothing!” the third of them yelled out, a shorter man with a mess of black hair that seemed to come from everywhere, “He took two hundred off us, the b*****d!”

Dean’s eyes flickered to the still silent Crowley, who was glancing off at the bar, apparently bored stiff. Castiel was watching Dean like a hawk, and Dean just hoped he’s have the sense to keep his goddamn mouth shut.

“Alright alright, how about this then, we’ll put the money back on the table and I’ll play a game with you, right? Whoever wins keeps the cash, fair?”

The men shifted and mumbled to each other for a moment, stepping back a bit further to consult with each other.

“Yeah, fine,” trucker hat guy growled, “I’ll break.”

“That’s fine, “ Dean said cheerfully. While the men racked up and got the table moving he turned back to the two pains in the a**.

“Why don’t you go sit back down,” he said, voice friendly but expression pissed.

Crowley gave him a lazy, sarcastic two-fingered solute before sauntering back to the table, where Aziraphale began to berate him. Castiel didn’t move.

“Well?”

“I believe I’ll watch.”

Dean pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything. He strolled over to the table, talking friendly with the men, ordering some drinks as they started the game. Castiel stood to the side and watched with calm interest.

As the game neared its end the atmosphere became tense again, and then it broke.

Dean lost.

He laughed and scratched his arm and the guys laughed with him and drank, and he nodded finally, saying goodbye with a little wave as he headed back to the table. When he reached Castiel the angel walked with him.

“You lost on purpose.”

“What?” Dean was short tempered. He’d apparently used up all his good nature on the smelly inbred truckers.

“You were winning, and then, at the end, you adjusted your aim. You lost on purpose.”

“Yeah well,” Dean grumbled as he lowered himself into his chair, shoving a cold french-fry in his mouth angrily.

“You lost my money?” Crowley asked, amazed. Aziraphale elbowed him.

“Yes, I lost your money,” Dean mocked him; “It was that or scrape your a** of the floor.”

“I could have handled them,” Crowley hissed.

“Hah,” he answered, giving the demon a dark look.

Castiel looked like he wants to lecture the lot of them, but didn’t know what he could say. After all, he had only made things worse. Sam looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“Should we hang around much longer?” he finally managed to say through his embarrassment.

“Nope,” Dean said, tromping over to the counter to have a one on one with Pam, hopefully to deal with the bill.

“I think it’s time to leave then,” Sam managed with a painful smile, “Castiel will you-“

And he just barely managed not to swear.

“He left,” Az said helpfully. Crowley was still pouting.

“I noticed,” Dean growled, returning to the table long enough to grab another French fry before strolling out the door. Sam trotted to catch up with him, and their two otherworldly guests followed, the Impala already unlocked and waiting for them.

“That was fun,” the demon said.

“Shut up,” the angel answered.