WIP: Good Omens/Supernatural crossover
The jist of it: In which Crowley is Crowley, and Balthazar is not who he says he is.
Notes: Sadly this fic hinges on a working knowledge of season six, which I don't have. So I'm shelving it until I catch up on SPN (if ever).
“You’ve had your hair cut,” Crowley says at last, having given Balthazar a very thorough once over with narrowed eyes.
“It was time for a change,” Balthazar replies, pouring out a healthy serve of wine and neglecting to offer anyone else a glass.
“You two know each other?” Sam asks, because Castiel is occupied with frowning at Crowley, and Dean is levelling his best look of suspicion at Balthazar.
“In passing,” Crowley replies, a little airily. He gives Balthazar one last considering look and then turns his attention to Castiel. “Now, what’s this I hear about a change of plans?”
~*~
“‘Balthazar’ is not an angel name,” Dean says pointedly.
Balthazar shrugs. “You’re hardly the expert on the matter. It’s my name. I’m an angel.”
“I think you’re lying about at least one of those things.”
Balthazar smiles, and it’s more than a little mocking. “You can spend all the time you like trying to solve a mystery that isn’t there.”
“Oh, there’s something there,” Dean replies, stalking forwards and getting into Balthazar’s space. “Something I bet even Cas doesn’t know. How’s he going to respond when I tell him?”
Balthazar purses his lips then, still smirking at Dean. “Ah, so that’s what this is about. You and Cas.”
“No, this is all about-”
“You being jealous,” Balthazar interrupts smoothly. “You wanting to be the white knight to a creature who has no need for you anymore.” Balthazar leans forwards, pressing into Dean’s space. “You being so very, very lonely.”
Dean shoves Balthazar hard in the chest, and the angel lets out a rumbling laugh as he allows himself to be pushed backwards, taking off with a flap of wings and a cruelly amused look. Dean balls his hands into fists and then releases them again. He’s going to get to the bottom of this.
~*~
“Well,” Crowley says. He doesn’t follow it up with anything, just lets it hang there between them. Well, fancy seeing you here. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Well, it seems you’re not dead after all.
Balthazar grimaces. “Well indeed,” he replies. They study one another carefully from across the room. Even when Crowley finishes pouring their drinks, he passes the glass to Balthazar from a distance, the two of them needing to extend their arms fully to transfer the crystal glass from one hand to another.
“It’s odd seeing you without the tartan,” Crowley finally says. “Though you still have awful taste.”
“It’s odd seeing you in a new body,” Balthazar replies, “given how fond you were of the last one.”
“There’s basically only one real trick to being a demon. You have to act like one.” He takes a mouthful of scotch, holds it in one cheek as he looks Balthazar over. “I hear you’re still picking pockets.”
“I like to think it was a little more ambitious this time.”
“The great armoury of heaven. Well done.”
Balthazar shifts his weight from one foot to another, a swaying movement he’d picked up from Crowley a long, long time ago. “There were a few items I thought could be better used elsewhere.”
Crowley smirks. “You just wanted that flaming sword back.”
Balthazar allows his mouth to twitch at the corners. “I’ll get my hands on it again one day.”
Crowley drinks the remnants of his scotch with a large, base mouthful. Hardly the treatment the fine spirit deserves, but Crowley doesn’t want to appreciate the flavours and texture. He wants to get drunk. Angry and drunk. He turns back to the bar. “So,” he says loudly enough for his voice to carry over his shoulder. “Faking your death, robbing heaven blind, identity theft. You seem to be trying to get as far away from your old life as possible.”
“I’ve also discovered orgies,” Balthazar adds with a self-satisfied grin.
Crowley frowns, though he pushes the expression from his face as he turns around, leaning back against the expensive mahogany of the bar. “Why ‘Balthazar’?’ he asks. “Even the humans know it’s not typical of the heavenly choir.”
“I never was much of a singer,” Balthazar replies with an attempt at a carefree smile that is a little too structured and too forced. “You’ve been talking to Dean.”
“He is very keen to get some dirt on you. Not so keen to pay the price for it.”
“And what would the price for my biography be?”
Crowley shrugs, dusting an invisible piece of dust from the bottom of his jacket. “You’re the expert on stories.” He looks up at Balthazar then, all brown eyes and bafflingly human all over. “But it shall always be too high for him to pay.”
“Many thanks,” Balthazar replies idly, forcing himself to find a point of interest somewhere in the wide view afforded to them through large windows. The city sprawls out before him, but from his idle vantage point the lights and shadows all just look like so much broken glass on black velvet. Crowley crosses the room without a sound, still snakelike in the silence of his movements. They stand side by side, but their shoulders don’t brush and their bodies don’t lean towards one another in response to a familiar gravity.
“‘Balthazar’,” Crowley repeats, bringing the angel’s mind back to his earlier question.
Balthazar takes a sip of the undoubtedly expensive scotch and wrinkles his nose, never having acquired Crowley’s love for the spirit. “It was a code name. All angels assigned to interfere with a demon were given a second name, so that their reputations in tangling with the other team were never tarnished. Uriel was the contact for those of us assigned to demons, Uriel was the one who knew the identities behind the code names.” Balthazar looks down at the drink in his hand, at the ice cubes sweating against one another. “Uriel is dead, and it seemed like a perfectly good time to slip out of one state of being and into another.”
“You were reporting on me.”
“Of course I was. And you were doing the same.”
“But I’m a demon.”
Balthazar looks at Crowley and can’t help the fond, if patronising smile on his face. “Not exactly the best one, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I happen to have done quite well for myself,” Crowley replies frostily.
“Oh yes, you’re certainly suspiciously good at management. But you always said that humans were better at raising hell than the demons ever were, and you’ve never had the stomach for the pit.” Balthazar gives Crowley a considerate look, staring into the completely human eyes of his old friend. “Not a very good demon at all.”
“You’re hardly one to talk, angel,” Crowley replies. “Stealing everything that isn’t nailed down.”
“You’re just jealous you never managed it.”
“I don’t need to steal anything from hell; I own it all now.”
“Yes,” Balthazar comments, raising his glass to his mouth but not drinking from it, resting the rim of crystal against his jaw. “Congratulations, by the way.”
They stare at the city below. “Why come back at all?” Crowley finally asks. “If you’re going to fake your own death, why not stay dead? Or play at being a human?”
“Immortal humans have an unfortunate habit of becoming conspicuous. Where better to hide an angel than among more angels? I couldn’t return to heaven as Aziraphale. I’d trodden on too many toes over the years with ignoring the call to return and dropping out of contact. But Balthazar, someone who was a known spy to the demons, a code name that had been around since shortly after the garden? It held far more weight. Any angels I ran into down here were far more likely to help Balthazar than the old me.”
“And you happened to run into one angel in particular,” Crowley muses.
“He’s an old friend.”
“I wasn’t aware you had other friends.”
“Don’t you?”
Crowley is silent for a moment, his jaw shifting. “The king of hell can’t afford to have friends.”
“I suppose not,” Balthazar replies. They stare out at the city, faces angled away from each other, momentarily lost in their own thoughts.
Notes: Sadly this fic hinges on a working knowledge of season six, which I don't have. So I'm shelving it until I catch up on SPN (if ever).
“You’ve had your hair cut,” Crowley says at last, having given Balthazar a very thorough once over with narrowed eyes.
“It was time for a change,” Balthazar replies, pouring out a healthy serve of wine and neglecting to offer anyone else a glass.
“You two know each other?” Sam asks, because Castiel is occupied with frowning at Crowley, and Dean is levelling his best look of suspicion at Balthazar.
“In passing,” Crowley replies, a little airily. He gives Balthazar one last considering look and then turns his attention to Castiel. “Now, what’s this I hear about a change of plans?”
~*~
“‘Balthazar’ is not an angel name,” Dean says pointedly.
Balthazar shrugs. “You’re hardly the expert on the matter. It’s my name. I’m an angel.”
“I think you’re lying about at least one of those things.”
Balthazar smiles, and it’s more than a little mocking. “You can spend all the time you like trying to solve a mystery that isn’t there.”
“Oh, there’s something there,” Dean replies, stalking forwards and getting into Balthazar’s space. “Something I bet even Cas doesn’t know. How’s he going to respond when I tell him?”
Balthazar purses his lips then, still smirking at Dean. “Ah, so that’s what this is about. You and Cas.”
“No, this is all about-”
“You being jealous,” Balthazar interrupts smoothly. “You wanting to be the white knight to a creature who has no need for you anymore.” Balthazar leans forwards, pressing into Dean’s space. “You being so very, very lonely.”
Dean shoves Balthazar hard in the chest, and the angel lets out a rumbling laugh as he allows himself to be pushed backwards, taking off with a flap of wings and a cruelly amused look. Dean balls his hands into fists and then releases them again. He’s going to get to the bottom of this.
~*~
“Well,” Crowley says. He doesn’t follow it up with anything, just lets it hang there between them. Well, fancy seeing you here. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Well, it seems you’re not dead after all.
Balthazar grimaces. “Well indeed,” he replies. They study one another carefully from across the room. Even when Crowley finishes pouring their drinks, he passes the glass to Balthazar from a distance, the two of them needing to extend their arms fully to transfer the crystal glass from one hand to another.
“It’s odd seeing you without the tartan,” Crowley finally says. “Though you still have awful taste.”
“It’s odd seeing you in a new body,” Balthazar replies, “given how fond you were of the last one.”
“There’s basically only one real trick to being a demon. You have to act like one.” He takes a mouthful of scotch, holds it in one cheek as he looks Balthazar over. “I hear you’re still picking pockets.”
“I like to think it was a little more ambitious this time.”
“The great armoury of heaven. Well done.”
Balthazar shifts his weight from one foot to another, a swaying movement he’d picked up from Crowley a long, long time ago. “There were a few items I thought could be better used elsewhere.”
Crowley smirks. “You just wanted that flaming sword back.”
Balthazar allows his mouth to twitch at the corners. “I’ll get my hands on it again one day.”
Crowley drinks the remnants of his scotch with a large, base mouthful. Hardly the treatment the fine spirit deserves, but Crowley doesn’t want to appreciate the flavours and texture. He wants to get drunk. Angry and drunk. He turns back to the bar. “So,” he says loudly enough for his voice to carry over his shoulder. “Faking your death, robbing heaven blind, identity theft. You seem to be trying to get as far away from your old life as possible.”
“I’ve also discovered orgies,” Balthazar adds with a self-satisfied grin.
Crowley frowns, though he pushes the expression from his face as he turns around, leaning back against the expensive mahogany of the bar. “Why ‘Balthazar’?’ he asks. “Even the humans know it’s not typical of the heavenly choir.”
“I never was much of a singer,” Balthazar replies with an attempt at a carefree smile that is a little too structured and too forced. “You’ve been talking to Dean.”
“He is very keen to get some dirt on you. Not so keen to pay the price for it.”
“And what would the price for my biography be?”
Crowley shrugs, dusting an invisible piece of dust from the bottom of his jacket. “You’re the expert on stories.” He looks up at Balthazar then, all brown eyes and bafflingly human all over. “But it shall always be too high for him to pay.”
“Many thanks,” Balthazar replies idly, forcing himself to find a point of interest somewhere in the wide view afforded to them through large windows. The city sprawls out before him, but from his idle vantage point the lights and shadows all just look like so much broken glass on black velvet. Crowley crosses the room without a sound, still snakelike in the silence of his movements. They stand side by side, but their shoulders don’t brush and their bodies don’t lean towards one another in response to a familiar gravity.
“‘Balthazar’,” Crowley repeats, bringing the angel’s mind back to his earlier question.
Balthazar takes a sip of the undoubtedly expensive scotch and wrinkles his nose, never having acquired Crowley’s love for the spirit. “It was a code name. All angels assigned to interfere with a demon were given a second name, so that their reputations in tangling with the other team were never tarnished. Uriel was the contact for those of us assigned to demons, Uriel was the one who knew the identities behind the code names.” Balthazar looks down at the drink in his hand, at the ice cubes sweating against one another. “Uriel is dead, and it seemed like a perfectly good time to slip out of one state of being and into another.”
“You were reporting on me.”
“Of course I was. And you were doing the same.”
“But I’m a demon.”
Balthazar looks at Crowley and can’t help the fond, if patronising smile on his face. “Not exactly the best one, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I happen to have done quite well for myself,” Crowley replies frostily.
“Oh yes, you’re certainly suspiciously good at management. But you always said that humans were better at raising hell than the demons ever were, and you’ve never had the stomach for the pit.” Balthazar gives Crowley a considerate look, staring into the completely human eyes of his old friend. “Not a very good demon at all.”
“You’re hardly one to talk, angel,” Crowley replies. “Stealing everything that isn’t nailed down.”
“You’re just jealous you never managed it.”
“I don’t need to steal anything from hell; I own it all now.”
“Yes,” Balthazar comments, raising his glass to his mouth but not drinking from it, resting the rim of crystal against his jaw. “Congratulations, by the way.”
They stare at the city below. “Why come back at all?” Crowley finally asks. “If you’re going to fake your own death, why not stay dead? Or play at being a human?”
“Immortal humans have an unfortunate habit of becoming conspicuous. Where better to hide an angel than among more angels? I couldn’t return to heaven as Aziraphale. I’d trodden on too many toes over the years with ignoring the call to return and dropping out of contact. But Balthazar, someone who was a known spy to the demons, a code name that had been around since shortly after the garden? It held far more weight. Any angels I ran into down here were far more likely to help Balthazar than the old me.”
“And you happened to run into one angel in particular,” Crowley muses.
“He’s an old friend.”
“I wasn’t aware you had other friends.”
“Don’t you?”
Crowley is silent for a moment, his jaw shifting. “The king of hell can’t afford to have friends.”
“I suppose not,” Balthazar replies. They stare out at the city, faces angled away from each other, momentarily lost in their own thoughts.