Chapter Text
"Aziraphale? Are you all right?" The concern in Castiel's tone was almost palpable. The Principality shook himself from his painful recollections and smiled gratefully up at his younger brother.
"Yes, I'm fine," he replied. "Back so soon? Did something go wrong?"
"It has been over thirty minutes since we left," answered Castiel in confusion. "And the incantation was completed correctly."
There was something about the way the younger angel phrased his reply that had the Principality examining him with a more critical eye. The Angel of Thursday appeared somewhat improved, but still quite unwell. Glancing at Dean and Sam as they entered the room behind Castiel, he noted that they were far from happy.
"Well then, how are you feeling?"
Castiel resumed his earlier seat with an exhausted sigh. "The spell was only partially successful," he grimaced. "While I am no longer in mortal peril, I am far from completely recovered."
The Principality nodded grimly and settled back against his still-unconscious friend. "I was afraid that might happen. There are a number of reasons for the incantation to be… inadequate," he posited carefully.
"Oh?" Sam demanded, bristling. "I'm sure it was right, and we had the correct ingredients."
"But Crowley's blood was not obtained with his permission," the Principality countered quietly. "And he is still unconscious, so his blood magic is suppressed." He glanced down to where his own delicate hands were clasped together nervously in his lap, then looked back up and concluded, "And he still doesn't believe that he is the Serpent."
"Of course," Castiel groaned, dropping his head to his hands in realization.
"What? That can make a difference?" asked Sam incredulously.
"Belief is intrinsic to the power of an angel. It's a large part of our basic nature." Aziraphale spoke carefully, trying not to offend, but wanting to get his point across.
"But… blood is blood," objected Sam. "You can't just wish it into orange Kool-Aid."
Perhaps not 'wish'," agreed Castiel. "But if an angel truly believes his blood to be a children's drink, then the blood will do its best to oblige."
Dean stared at him skeptically. "You're shittin' me."
"No, my dear boy, I am afraid Castiel is correct. I frequently find just the right table available at my favorite restaurant because I believe it will be free."
"But Crowley's a demon, not an angel," Dean objected.
"No, he's an angel, Dean. Just a Fallen Angel. Therefore the same rules apply, right?" asked Sam.
"That is correct," agreed Castiel.
"Therefore, we'll have to break through Naomi's reprogramming before Castiel will experience the full effect of your counterspell," added the Principality. "Or at least convince Crowley that he is the Serpent of Eden."
"How do we know that his memories weren't completely erased?" Castiel was depressingly pragmatic.
"No, no," Sam interjected as he finally grasped the problem. "Before he collapsed, Crowley claimed that Aziraphale couldn't be real; that he was a figment of his imagination. Now that implies some level of recognition. If nothing else, he's got memories of Aziraphale rattling around in his subconscious." He pulled a chair up to the group and leaned forward earnestly. "We have to convince him that those dreams are actually his own memories."
"At one point he called me a 'trial-induced hallucination'. Do you know what he meant by that? Was he brought before some tribunal?" Aziraphale mentally cringed at the thought of Crowley being tried by Hell for crimes he no longer remembered.
The brothers shared guilty glances as realization dawned in Sam's eyes. "Dean, it has to be the demon trials."
"Demon trials?" echoed Aziraphale blankly.
"The three trials on the demon tablet meant to close the Gates of Hell forever, banishing demons from this plane of existence."
Their guest glanced at the still-comatose King of Hell, then back to the group. "What does that have to do with Crowley?" he demanded, a little sharply.
Sam cleared his throat. "The third trial… involved 'curing' a demon, and the demon we tried to cure was Crowley."
The mild-mannered bookseller's eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. Sam could instantly picture him wielding a flaming sword. "And what exactly did that entail?" the Principality growled.
"Well, um," he glanced at his shoes for a moment, then back up to the angel's face. "While on hallowed ground, we had to inject him hourly for eight hours with purified human blood, then exorcise him." He shook his head, confused. "But he only remembered his life and crimes as Crowley the crossroads demon, back to the life of a petty 17th century tailor. He said nothing of being a Fallen Angel."
Aziraphale considered this information, then carefully asked, "You didn't actually finish the exorcism, did you?".
"No, I stopped him. It would have killed Sam to finish that trial. He almost died anyway." Dean explained. "The completion of the third trial involved Sam sacrificing himself."
"No, that is incorrect," interjected Castiel before anyone else could comment. "I investigated the spell. The trials were physically wearing on Sam to demonstrate his willingness for self-sacrifice. Like Abraham and Isaac, the offer was all that was ultimately expected. Had he demonstrated faith, he would have been healed at their completion."
Aziraphale was shaking his head vehemently in denial as both Sam and Dean stared at Castiel in horror at his statement. "No, no, my dear, in this particular instance it would have killed him."
"According to my research…" argued Castiel.
The Principality interrupted. "With any normal demon, you are correct - once 'cured', it would be human, releasing the purified demonic energy, and Sam would have been restored." Aziraphale assumed the air of a lecturing professor. "But Crowley isn't human - he is one of the Fallen. The cleansing of that much tainted angelic power…"
"Would have gone off like a bomb," finished Castiel, eyes widening in realization.
"That two-faced lying bitch!" growled Dean, running a hand angrily through his hair.
"Dean?…" Sam only had to speak his brother's name to ask the question.
Dean fixed him with a glare. "Naomi. Again. She popped down to share the Metatron's plans, then dropped the little detail that if you completed the trials, you'd die."
"In this case, technically true," Castiel nodded. "However, it wouldn't have been the trials per se that killed him; it would have been the abrupt creation of a blast crater a half-mile in diameter."
"So, since Naomi thought that Sam was dead either way, she just wanted to hide what she'd done to Crowley," snarled the older Winchester as he jumped up to pace the room.
"Or to keep Crowley unaware of his true nature," suggested Aziraphale quietly, eyes fixed again on the still-comatose demon.
Dean stopped roaming like a caged tiger and stared back at the two occupants of the sofa. "Yeah, OK. That makes sense, I guess."
"He has to be the Serpent, or the potion wouldn't have worked at all." Aziraphale shot an apologetic look at the other angel. "If Naomi was worried about him finding out, maybe we can use that to convince him once he wakes up."
"So…" said Sam, glancing at Castiel as well. "We wait?"
"I'm afraid so, my boy. If I'm right, Crowley's conscious state alone should add strength to the mixture in Castiel's bloodstream." He smiled at the other angel. "You should feel a bit improved almost immediately."
"Then what? We ask him for permission to use the blood we already took from him while he was unconscious?" Dean snorted. "Yeah, right. That'll work well."
"Not… necessarily. I could probably convince him. Crowley and I were once quite good friends." Aziraphale's expressive hands fluttered in agitation as a blush crept up his face.
"Friends," questioned Dean without inflection.
The blush reached his hairline as Aziraphale kept his eyes downcast and nodded. "Just so." Clearing his throat, he added, "After six thousand years of repeated contact, even mortal enemies tend to become… less antagonistic. And we did work together to help thwart an apocalypse, after all." He smiled, fondly smoothing Crowley's hair away from his face once again. "He was going to fight Lucifer armed with only a tire iron."
"What?" Sam choked out in disbelief. "I've been in Lucifer's head. That… would not have turned out well for Crowley."
Aziraphale chuckled. "No, it wouldn't have. After it was all over and we'd consumed quite a bit of excellent wine, he admitted that it had been easier to face the Adversary with a totally useless weapon than with one that might actually do damage. With a tire iron, he knew he was doomed, and that gave him courage."
Dean's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he dropped into a chair. "Wow. That… doesn't sound like our Crowley at all. Ours runs at the slightest hint of trouble."
Sam squinted his eyes consideringly. "No, not really, Dean. I mean, remember when we had Brady? Crowley took on a nest of demons by himself to get Brady to talk, then saved us from the Hellhound by fetching his own."
Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably, then contributed, "When I had the power of Purgatory at my command, I tracked him to an ignominious hide-out and confronted him; he stood to face what he believed was his impending death with… surprising dignity."
Sam and Dean stared at Castiel, but he refused to elaborate further.
A fond smile came to Aziraphale's lips as he continued to stroke the demon's hair. "My Crowley was always full of surprises."
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The previously invisible walls in Crowley's mind, already cracked and damaged by Sam's attempt to 'cure' him, had started collapsing completely at the sight of Aziraphale. A tidal wave of disjointed memories had crashed across the rubble, swamping the demon and leaving him lost and bewildered within his own insensate mind. Unfortunately there was no rhyme or reason to the recollections, so they swirled and crashed into his consciousness in random snatches of sight and sound. Each time Crowley tried to catch and examine a specific memory, it would slip away. It was simultaneously both frightening and frustrating.
He was seated behind the wheel of a large, powerful, vintage black touring car, the engine purring as the wind whipped through his hair.
He was coiled at the feet of a white-robed angel as raindrops pattered on the thick, green canopy of leaves overhead.
He was sitting at a small, sturdy table sipping a truly excellent Bordeaux as he leaned forward to make a point to the blond figure seated across from him.
He was racing into the inferno of a burning bookstore, screaming for his friend.
He was standing next to that friend, tossing bread at a duck that floated just a few feet from shore, and laughing as it snatched up the pastry and promptly sank.
He was slumped at a rickety table in a dingy tavern in 15th Century Spain, half-blind from alcohol poisoning, staring dejectedly at a Commendation from Hell for the Inquisition; a warm arm draped comfortingly over his shoulders as a suspiciously well-groomed hand relieved him of the bottle.
He was seated behind a desk watching with horrified relief as a Duke of Hell melted into a mound of burning, foul-smelling goo just inside the door. Moments later he was fleeing for his life through the phone lines with the creature's partner hot on his electronic heels.
He was sitting with his frumpy blond friend with the tartan jumper at a discrete table in a Sushi restaurant, explaining the proper application of ginger and wasabi.
He was threatening a potted dieffenbachia with discorporation unless it started leafing out.
He was determinedly flying across a hellish sigil disguised as a highway as his beloved Bentley caught fire around him.
He was seated at a small café near Notre Dame, watching with amusement as passersby tried to pick up a French Livre which remained obstinately stuck to the ground.
He was standing next to his Angel, an old tire iron in his hands, ready to battle Lucifer himself.
He was rushing into a hospital run by Satanist nuns with a basket in his hands that he carefully kept at arm's length, as if it contained a flesh-and-blood bomb.
He was sauntering into a bookshop he knew better than his own flat, only to discover his Angel being held against his will by two heavenly thugs as some angelic bureaucrat verbally threatened him with physical violence…
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"Well, while Sleeping Beauty over there naps, why don't you tell us about your version of Crowley," suggested Dean. He had just returned from the kitchen with a beer for himself and Castiel, having declined the tea Sam had already made for Aziraphale. Dean wasn't sure if a person could overdose on tea, but the Principality was certainly trying.
The angel became flustered as a blush crept up his face. Dropping his eyes, he worried a loose thread in his tartan pullover and stammered, "Well… um… well, I really don't know where to begin…"
"The beginning is always good," suggested Sam kindly, missing the book dealer's cringe as he sipped his sugared tea as a distraction.
"The Serpent was one of the Fallen, was he not?" prompted Castiel.
The angel's head jerked up defensively. "Well, not originally. He didn't fall with Lucifer. He fell later… or rather, he always said that he'd 'sauntered vaguely downwards'. It was an accumulation of the little things - bad choices in friends, questioning the ineffable plan, things like that. He was never really all that evil."
"Dude, the Crowley we know is pretty much pure evil," snorted Dean derisively, indicating the comatose demon with a nod of his head. "Murder, torture, whatever it takes to advance his personal schemes."
Aziraphale followed his gaze sadly. "That is what Naomi made him - 'true to his nature', she said. It's not what he was before, so I suppose she succeeded."
Dean snorted. "I'll say," he agreed, taking a long pull from his bottle. "So, what else?"
The frumpy angel smiled fondly and sipped his tea. "When I first met him, Adam and Eve had just been kicked out of Eden. He was always more of a mischief-maker than truly evil, encouraging people to give into their baser natures rather than acting on his own auspices. Likewise, my job was to inspire those same people to be better than their base nature, or at the very least thwart his tempting. We never intervened actively until the almost-apocalypse, and then it was only as a last resort."
The next few hours involved many more beers, a teapot that seemed to never run out of Earl Grey, and stories of a demon who at worst could be considered 'chaotic neutral'. 'Heck, Gabriel seemed more evil than this guy', Dean reflected silently, listening to the tale of a children's magic show gone wrong, 'Naomi definitely had him beat.' Crowley's unthinking resuscitation of the dove had them all gaping, only to smile at his subsequent panicked realization that he had lost the antichrist as an infant. Story after story, and the group slowly discovered that Aziraphale's fondness was contagious.
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Crowley slowly swam to consciousness some time later, negotiating the tide of jumbled new memories in the process, on a rather comfortable yet well-worn couch. A cool, damp washcloth was draped over his eyes by this time, and he could feel the weight of someone sitting next to his hip. That same mysterious someone was holding his left hand in theirs, and was absently rubbing a soothing thumb over it as murmured conversation drifted through the room. The sensations were so comforting that the demon nearly allowed himself to fall back asleep; at least, until he remembered that his last conscious location was in the basement of a warded bunker with an angel, two hunters, and a ghost as company. He forced himself to remain awake as he tried to sort out what had happened.
Unlike all his past dreams, the images he'd just experienced were still as clear and bright as a sunny day, and he remembered them all. They were overwhelming, and he was having trouble processing them into any meaningful order. He finally decided that they could wait until later; right now, he was very possibly in mortal danger. He was at the mercy of the Winchesters, after all. He ruthlessly suppressed all the new recollections, storing them carefully away to be dealt with at his leisure, and concentrated on the outside world. He managed to keep his body motionless as he did so, but it was a near thing. Best to listen to the hunters while they thought him unaware; he might discover something useful. With a little concentration their words began to make sense.
"Seriously? Crowley?" Squirrel was saying in disbelief. "Likes fine cars?"
The demon felt he should be offended, but wasn't certain why. Why drive a car when he could just snap himself places?
"Oh, yes. He owned a 1926 Bentley, in pristine condition. His pride and joy. Had it since it was new." The voice was soft and reassuring for all that it was strange to him. Strange, yet not-strange as well. And it triggered memories that he'd been unaware of actually possessing.
Images of the sleek, black, purring monster of an automobile suddenly popped to mind, as well as the sensation of racing along a thoroughfare at a truly spectacular speed.
"He never seemed to care one way or the other about Baby," countered the hunter.
"Dude, do you know what a Bentley is?" asked a voice that was recognizably Moose. "That's like comparing a can of Coors to a snifter of Armagnac."
"Hey!" his brother began to object, but the soothing voice of the stranger somehow overrode him as he continued.
"I've kept the car garaged, with regular maintenance. Hope springs eternal, as they say, and my Crowley would never forgive me if anything happened to that car. I've kept his flat as well, and water his plants twice a week." A low chuckle. "However I'm afraid that I don't have his knack for floral intimidation, so they might not be quite as green as they once were."
"I'm sorry. Did you say 'floral intimidation'?" Sam's voice questioned as if he truly doubted his own hearing.
"Why, yes my dear. He heard about the benefits of talking to plants on Radio 4, you see, so decided to try it. In true demon fashion however, he found that his plants responded better to threats than compliments. Additionally, every couple of weeks he would pick up the poorest performer, announce that it 'didn't measure up' and for the rest of the group to bid it farewell, then leave the apartment with it in his arms. A few hours later he'd return with a large, empty pot that he would set down where the rest of the room could see it. His plants grew phenomenally well!"
"What did he actually do with the plant he left with?" asked a low, grating voice that had to be Feathers.
The newcomer replied, "Oh, gave it away, replanted it in the park, things like that. But the flora in his flat had no way of knowing that." Another warm, soft chuckle. "You never saw such verdant, yet terrified, houseplants in your life. I'm afraid that I just don't have the knack."
"It's been what, twenty-five years?" asked Dean in astonishment.
"Give or take," agreed the visitor.
"That's an awfully long time," commented his brother.
The low, comfortable laugh again. "My boy, I've lived on this planet for over six thousand years. Twenty-five is very little in comparison."
There was an awkward clearing of a throat, followed by a hoarse, "I believe that Mr. Crowley is awake."
'How could Wings know that?', the demon thought in panic. Still, the jig was up, so he went ahead and carefully cracked open his eyes, hand reaching up to pull off the washcloth as he did so.
"Dearest!" exclaimed the stranger sitting next to him. Crowley was a little disoriented to find that it was the frumpy blond from his dreams. Huh; he hadn't dreamed the scene in the basement after all. He ignored the stranger for the time being as he propped himself up on his elbows and stared suspiciously around the room. His tone was accusatory as he snarled, "Someone messed with my brain!" He swung his legs to the floor and sat up, then swayed woozily with the sudden change in position. He angrily shrugged off the gentle hand on his shoulder that steadied him while focusing on the Winchesters. "Was it you lot? Thought you'd get your jollies messing me about?"
Dean's face twisted in disgust. "No, man, I wouldn't touch your mental processes for a million bucks!"
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, then quickly added helpfully, "We're pretty sure it was Naomi."
Crowley's eyes narrowed further. "Convenient, since she's dead. Or at least, so you say." He now remembered snatches of an earlier dream, but suppressed them angrily. Instead, he swung on the stranger who was still sitting quietly beside him on the sofa. "I know you, don't I?"
The visitor nodded his head enthusiastically, ignoring the demon's hostility. "Yes. We've been friends for… a very, very long time."
"Who are you then, and why can't I remember you clearly?" He didn't add, 'And why are you haunting my dreams?' even though he wanted to. His voice was already shaking more than he was comfortable with. He was certain that, given time and privacy, he'd be able to root through his own newfound memories and gradually sort it out, but it was easier for the time being just to ask. He could check the veracity of the answers later at his own convenience. Besides, if he remembered right, the guy was an angel; he'd probably tell the truth anyhow.
The blond smiled beatifically. "I am Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Principality of Heaven."
"Oh for crying out loud," Crowley groused as the implications set in. "Are you guys back to that? How many times do I have to tell you, I am not the First Demon?"
"If by 'First Demon' you mean Serpent of Eden, then I am afraid that you are, my dear." The disheveled visiting angel shrugged apologetically.
"That's ridiculous," Crowley scoffed. "I think I'd remember something like the Garden…" He trailed off, eyes glazing as he did recall sunlight filtering through lush greenery. Birds chirped unconcerned as he slowly slid along the ground, reveling in the sensation of fresh vegetation rubbing against his scales.
Eyes wide, he focused once more on the bookish blond and whispered, "I… I think that I do remember it…" His tone grew accusatory again as he glared around the room, "Why am I remembering this now? What did you imbeciles do to me this time?"
Dean waved his hands in front of himself in denial. "No, no way. You don't get to pin that on us; we didn't do a thing! You freaked out when you saw Mr. Fell here."
The nearby angel nodded vigorously in agreement. "Just so, just so," he concurred. "You were Hell's field agent on Earth for over six millennia. I was Heaven's representative for the same time."
The King of Hell squinted one eye closed dubiously and cocked his head. "Shouldn't we be mortal enemies, then?" he asked. "Every recollection I have of you seems to be…" he grimaced with disgust, then plunged on recklessly, "fond."
Aziraphale shrugged. "We were enemies, for a time. But as the centuries began to pass, we discovered that life went better for all concerned if we helped one another out. We came to a formal Arrangement several centuries ago."
"Huh," Crowley commented neutrally, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly do you remember?" inquired the visiting bookshop proprietor carefully. His impeccably-manicured hands, clasped tightly in his lap, twined fretfully. Crowley found that disturbing for reasons he couldn't quite place.
Trying for nonchalant, the demon shrugged, then drawled, "I do mind, but I guess I'll share with the class." He pointedly stared straight at the blond, ignoring the rest of the room. Somehow, speaking to the strange angel was easier than talking to the people he'd been harassing for years.
"When Moose over there," he jerked his head in the direction of Sam, "tried to 'cure' me of my demonic nature by injecting me with his purified blood, I started having both human emotions and a need to sleep; with the sleeping came… dreams. I became addicted to both, which I won't elaborate on for the moment, but once I'd been… detoxed," he grimaced in distaste, "The emotions gradually resolved. The sleeping, and the dreams, did not."
He paused and took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I could never quite remember them; not well, at least. More… vague impressions, feelings. Comfort, terror, anger, resolve… that sort of thing." He gestured widely with both hands, trying to imply all the emotions he couldn't quite name. "The nightmares where I was angry and afraid usually did involve Naomi, interestingly enough. The good dreams, the ones where I felt… safe, secure…", he looked away in embarrassment, unable to meet anyone's eyes, "I could never quite remember, but I think they involved you." He grimaced. "There was this… hole... inside. I can't really explain it, but the dreams helped."
The Winchesters both looked surprised at the verbal admission, but Castiel was nodding his head. "It feels like something missing; like there is something important that you should remember but can't."
It was Crowley's turn to look surprised, and he stared at the Angel of Thursday in shock for a long moment before recovering himself and resuming his air of nonchalance. "How do you know that?" he demanded with suspicion.
"I was a recipient of Naomi's hospitality as well," replied Castiel factually.
Crowley scrutinized the other angel, and could see no sign of deceit. His erstwhile partner also looked healthier than he had over the last several days. "You're looking better," he commented warily. "What happened?"
Three mouths opened to reply, but Castiel sent quelling glances at the others and was the only one to actually speak. "We took a small vial of your blood while you were unconscious and completed the ritual. While it was not completely successful, the fact that it worked at all proves that you are, indeed, the Serpent of Eden." He solemnly held out a test tube that was about half full of blood. "Thank you for your help; we only required five drops so I am returning the rest."
Instead of the expected outraged explosion, Crowley reached forward to gravely accept the glass container, nodding grudgingly. "You're welcome," he grunted, eyes never leaving the angel's face. "I guess I really can't object," he growled, "since I was trying to help you earlier. Thank you for the courtesy of returning what you didn't need." The vial disappeared from his hand, presumably into one of the pockets of his uncharacteristically-rumpled suit.
Castiel suddenly sat straighter in his chair, blinking in surprise. The movement was so abrupt that everyone's eyes turned to regard him. As they did so, he began to physically glow. Shadowy wings began to manifest behind his trench coat, and his eyes shone with ethereal brilliance.
"Cas?" snapped Dean in concern, half rising from his chair.
The angel turned a wondering gaze towards the hunter. "My Grace…" he murmured in astonishment.
Aziraphale was beaming, his smile threatening to split his face. "See, my dear?", he asked. "I told you that the potion might respond better if a conscious Crowley consented to the use of his blood."
"Even after the spell was cast?" demanded Sam in surprise.
The Principality nodded. "Certainly," he replied in surprise. "What difference would that make?"
Sam just shook his head slightly, unwilling to press the issue. "Never mind. It's not important."
Crowley narrowed his eyes in distrust. "What just happened?" he snapped.
Aziraphale regarded him fondly, then patted his hand. The demon widened his eyes in horrified disbelief at the gesture, but didn't pull away. "Spells of this nature have quite a few nuances," the angel explained. "Since it is meant to restore the Grace of an angel, it stands to reason that all the ingredients should be obtained by the most forthright method possible. As you had not given permission to use your blood, the amalgam was not as effective as it might have otherwise been. Once you did grant permission, the spell's effectiveness increased automatically."
The demon king looked dubious. "So… it specified the blood of the First Demon?", he clarified.
Castiel, Sam, and Dean nodded their agreement. Crowley stared at them unblinkingly for a long moment before grunting, "Huh. I'll… have to think about that a bit." Silently he decided that he needed some time to sort out all the memories that had crashed into his consciousness earlier as well. "Nothing personal, boys, but I think I need a little 'alone time'. I'm gonna head to my office for a bit."
While the hunters nodded dubiously, the Principality looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. The demon blinked at the sharp pang in his chest at the sight of the hurt expression. "Oh, come off it , Angel, I'll be back before you know it", Crowley added instinctively in response.
The face the angel made then must have been where the British concept of 'stiff upper lip' originated. He patted Crowley's hands again reassuringly and gave him a watery smile. "Yes, my dear, I'm sure you will. I understand completely."
The demon's eyes widened at this apparent lack of faith. "I will ", he protested vehemently. He gestured towards the remainder of the group. "Even if I didn't want to, these idiots have summoned me four times in the last two days! I'm sure they'd be happy to give you a group discount."
"Now wait just one second…" began Dean, but Castiel elbowed him in the side. The angel jerked his chin towards the couch, where the two occupants had now turned to face each other, oblivious to the remainder of the room.
"I understand, my dear," smiled Aziraphale, more warmly this time. "Once you've had time to think it through, I'm certain that you'll know where to reach me. But, just in case…" he produced a battered business card with a Soho address and handed it to the demon, "Here is my number. I don't have an ansafone, but I'm there most days and nights, if you want to talk… or drop by for a drink."
Crowley stared down at the card dumbly, then nodded. "Right. Yes. I'll…. do that, then. Thanks, Angel."
The Principality practically beamed at the nickname. "You are very welcome, dearest."
He stared at Crowley as if the sun rose and set in his eyes, which made the demon squirm uncomfortably. Taking a deep breath, he announced decisively, "Right, then, I'm off." With a snap, he was gone.
Sam and Dean blinked at the sudden departure, then Sam shrugged one shoulder. "He said he'd be back," was his only comment.
Aziraphale rose gracefully to his feet, prompting everyone else to do the same. "Yes, well, I'm afraid that I have business to attend to at home, so I will take my leave as well."
"Don't you want to wait here for his return?" asked Castiel in confusion. There was a glow to his cheeks that hadn't been there previously; his Grace had clearly been restored to a significant extent.
The visiting angel shook his head with a smile. "He'll know where to reach me should he desire to do so. I certainly won't force myself on him before he's ready to accept who he is. Please keep 'The Conundrums of Esau' with my compliments, and if you ever need any other rare books obtained…" He produced another weathered business card, handing it to Sam. "Just call me at that number. It may take some time, but I usually come up with the requested volume eventually."
Sam gaped at their guest's generosity, but then returned the warm smile, while Dean nodded politely. "We'll be sure to do that, Mr. Fell. Thank you so much for everything."
Aziraphale turned to his younger brother at that point, clasping his outstretched hand with both of his own. "And you take care of yourself, my dear. I don't want to hear of you having any more life-threatening problems, understand?"
The corner of Castiel's lip turned up, and he snorted. "I can only promise to try, Aziraphale. Thank you. For everything."
The older angel nodded in response, then the group saw him to the door. With a final wave, he headed towards the passenger side of the rental vehicle, remembered that he was in the United States, and corrected his trajectory. He shot them an embarrassed grin as he climbed in and drove away.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" asked Sam, sotto voce.
"I think we all will," replied Castiel fondly.
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A few weeks later Aziraphale was reshelving some books a customer *shudder* had left sitting haphazardly about his shop when he heard the muted tinkle of the bell above his front door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself not to snarl as he turned to greet the new shopper, only to have his breath catch in his throat. There in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, stood his Demon. He was taking in the entire store with wide eyes, clearly recognizing the familiar surroundings yet still seeing them as if for the first time. The angel's eyes warmed at the sight as he hurried forward to drape a welcoming arm around his friend's shoulders.
"Crowley, my dear! I'm ever so glad to see you," he enthused.
"Well, umm, you did say to drop by?" hazarded the demon hesitantly. He was surprisingly circumspect for being the 'King of Hell'.
"Yes, yes, of course. As a matter of fact," with the hand not steering the demon towards the small room at the back of the shop, Aziraphale made a discrete gesture that locked the front door and flipped the sign to 'closed', "I have a 1945 Chateau Mouton Rothschild that I have been saving for a special occasion, and I do believe this qualifies. Would you like to share it with me?"
Crowley smirked, suddenly on comfortable ground. "Oh, I could be tempted, Angel." At the sight of the battered old table and its two familiar chairs, his smile became genuine. "I could definitely be tempted."
The End