Fic: Adeste Fideles
Title: Adeste Fideles
Author: sidhefaer
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Gen, sort of Dean/Castiel-ish, if you want to squint.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 739 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: How Castiel got into Hell.
Notes: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS. If you haven't seen S4 yet, then this will make absolutely no sense.
"We need to talk."
The bell doesn't even jingle, which is clue one. Aziraphale looks up, startled, from his book and half-drunk cup of lukewarm tea and previously unconcerned thoughts, and says almost timidly, "Oh."
The first thing he notices is that the young man in the ratty jeans is quite plain but his face is stony and impassive, which feels odd and far too nostalgic. Sometimes Aziraphale must remind himself that he's gone rather soft in his old age, no angel in Heaven likes to be reminded of emotions when they're on earth.
He's also shorter than Aziraphale, and that feels odd too, since Aziraphale has always been used to being talked down to by his superiors. From a terribly great height, if you believe Heaven exists above your head. In fact, Aziraphale hasn't spoken to another angel on the same playing field in near six-thousand years. But back then, they at least hadn't needed to use human vessels to hold a conversation. The Garden had been lovely like that.
Sure enough, the second thing that comes into his head is oh dear, have I done something wrong?
"No," says Castiel. "This isn't about you."
"Oh. Well, that's good," says Aziraphale, very relieved. And a little disturbed.
They eventually sit down at the kitchen table in the flat above the bookshop, all the while Aziraphale flitting around asking if his guest needed anything, anything at all, he's got some biscuits in here somewhere and there's half a pot of tea but he's afraid it's gone cold. There's a lot of puttering about and avoiding the topic and meaningless chatter on his part.
Castiel declines everything he offers and says nothing after that. Despairingly, they get to the point far sooner than Aziraphale feels comfortable with.
"I've come to ask a favor," Castiel says. While that's not unexpected, Aziraphale has to wonder why. Heaven likes to pretend he doesn't exist -- Principalities, that sort of thing.
"You are... acquainted with a certain demon."
"Yes," Aziraphale says, cold dread building in his gut.
Castiel's eyes are very clear when he says, "You must bring him to me," and the way he says it leaves no room for questions.
Crowley comes sauntering in about a half an hour later, having answered Aziraphale's phone call with a dismissive snort and a vague ETA. His sunglasses are perched lower on his nose than usual -- presumably to give Castiel a good, yellow glare over the brims. They share gazes in a disconcerting, Mexican standoff sort of way. Aziraphale clears his throat nervously and they both turn to look at him.
"Sorry I'm late," Crowley says first, not sounding sorry at all.
Then, Castiel tells the both of them about things they already know, and some they don't. He doesn't give either of them solid reasoning, but it's clear what he wants, and Crowley is just enough of a terrible demon to agree to let Castiel through Hell's back door. Not that he has a choice.
Aziraphale watches as Crowley grins predatorily, fists a hand in Castiel's shirt, and pulls. They fizzle painfully from existence.
Aziraphale settles down into his favorite armchair and waits.
---
He's in the middle of making himself some breakfast when they reappear, one month later.
Only this time, they're drenched head-to-toe in spatters of blood and bits of stuff that Aziraphale doesn't want to put a name to, and it's staining his carpet. Their wings are out, feathers torn from flesh, packed in tight. Castiel's face hasn't changed, but it's pale and greenish and tight, frozen. Crowley's sporting a look of silent horror and resignation and disgust that's only natural when you've been to Hell and back, even if you're a demon.
"It's done," says Castiel unnecessarily. Aziraphale notices that one of his hands is red, fiery red -- even as he watches, the burn pulses to nothing. Almost curiously, Castiel watches it happen. Looks up blankly with dead, gelatinous eyes.
It becomes terribly clear that Castiel's vessel is no longer alive.
And suddenly, Crowley and Aziraphale are alone.
Crowley looks down at himself and makes a face; the gore instantly disappears from his confusedly immaculate clothing. His wings start growing back feathers as he tucks them back into himself. He gives a little shudder and shake, and rubs a tired hand over his jaw.
"I don't ever want to do that again."
Aziraphale nods dumbly. "What did you do?"
"Ten years," is all Crowley says, before knocking himself out cold on Aziraphale's couch.
---
On the other side of the world, Dean Winchester wakes up his own coffin.
Author: sidhefaer
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Gen, sort of Dean/Castiel-ish, if you want to squint.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 739 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: How Castiel got into Hell.
Notes: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS. If you haven't seen S4 yet, then this will make absolutely no sense.
"We need to talk."
The bell doesn't even jingle, which is clue one. Aziraphale looks up, startled, from his book and half-drunk cup of lukewarm tea and previously unconcerned thoughts, and says almost timidly, "Oh."
The first thing he notices is that the young man in the ratty jeans is quite plain but his face is stony and impassive, which feels odd and far too nostalgic. Sometimes Aziraphale must remind himself that he's gone rather soft in his old age, no angel in Heaven likes to be reminded of emotions when they're on earth.
He's also shorter than Aziraphale, and that feels odd too, since Aziraphale has always been used to being talked down to by his superiors. From a terribly great height, if you believe Heaven exists above your head. In fact, Aziraphale hasn't spoken to another angel on the same playing field in near six-thousand years. But back then, they at least hadn't needed to use human vessels to hold a conversation. The Garden had been lovely like that.
Sure enough, the second thing that comes into his head is oh dear, have I done something wrong?
"No," says Castiel. "This isn't about you."
"Oh. Well, that's good," says Aziraphale, very relieved. And a little disturbed.
They eventually sit down at the kitchen table in the flat above the bookshop, all the while Aziraphale flitting around asking if his guest needed anything, anything at all, he's got some biscuits in here somewhere and there's half a pot of tea but he's afraid it's gone cold. There's a lot of puttering about and avoiding the topic and meaningless chatter on his part.
Castiel declines everything he offers and says nothing after that. Despairingly, they get to the point far sooner than Aziraphale feels comfortable with.
"I've come to ask a favor," Castiel says. While that's not unexpected, Aziraphale has to wonder why. Heaven likes to pretend he doesn't exist -- Principalities, that sort of thing.
"You are... acquainted with a certain demon."
"Yes," Aziraphale says, cold dread building in his gut.
Castiel's eyes are very clear when he says, "You must bring him to me," and the way he says it leaves no room for questions.
Crowley comes sauntering in about a half an hour later, having answered Aziraphale's phone call with a dismissive snort and a vague ETA. His sunglasses are perched lower on his nose than usual -- presumably to give Castiel a good, yellow glare over the brims. They share gazes in a disconcerting, Mexican standoff sort of way. Aziraphale clears his throat nervously and they both turn to look at him.
"Sorry I'm late," Crowley says first, not sounding sorry at all.
Then, Castiel tells the both of them about things they already know, and some they don't. He doesn't give either of them solid reasoning, but it's clear what he wants, and Crowley is just enough of a terrible demon to agree to let Castiel through Hell's back door. Not that he has a choice.
Aziraphale watches as Crowley grins predatorily, fists a hand in Castiel's shirt, and pulls. They fizzle painfully from existence.
Aziraphale settles down into his favorite armchair and waits.
---
He's in the middle of making himself some breakfast when they reappear, one month later.
Only this time, they're drenched head-to-toe in spatters of blood and bits of stuff that Aziraphale doesn't want to put a name to, and it's staining his carpet. Their wings are out, feathers torn from flesh, packed in tight. Castiel's face hasn't changed, but it's pale and greenish and tight, frozen. Crowley's sporting a look of silent horror and resignation and disgust that's only natural when you've been to Hell and back, even if you're a demon.
"It's done," says Castiel unnecessarily. Aziraphale notices that one of his hands is red, fiery red -- even as he watches, the burn pulses to nothing. Almost curiously, Castiel watches it happen. Looks up blankly with dead, gelatinous eyes.
It becomes terribly clear that Castiel's vessel is no longer alive.
And suddenly, Crowley and Aziraphale are alone.
Crowley looks down at himself and makes a face; the gore instantly disappears from his confusedly immaculate clothing. His wings start growing back feathers as he tucks them back into himself. He gives a little shudder and shake, and rubs a tired hand over his jaw.
"I don't ever want to do that again."
Aziraphale nods dumbly. "What did you do?"
"Ten years," is all Crowley says, before knocking himself out cold on Aziraphale's couch.
---
On the other side of the world, Dean Winchester wakes up his own coffin.