See Master Post for disclaimers, warnings, etc.
Part 1 ----
The golem walked up the stairs with no concern for the people running and screaming in its presence. Its ears had been built only superficially, and these humans did not speak in the tongue it knew. Neither were any of them its Creator, or the One who superseded its Creator.
It would have avoided their presence - as the One who superseded its Creator instructed after the first death - but at this location that desire proved impossible.
A door on the correct elevation presented itself, and the golem walked through it, the metal moving under the pressure of its Body and its Will. Another door close to the correct location was similarly moved, and the golem was soon in the presence of the Important Man’s last location.
His presence filled the room, his gaze lingering on the walls and cotton-stuffed decorations, his body marking treads in the floor and imprints in cushions that the golem followed with its feet, its hands.
Everywhere that the Important Man had been, so too would it be.
It took ten seconds.
The new location of the Important Man was very far away, but not impossible to reach. It would have to move more quickly this time - the One who superseded its Creator was growing impatient with its lack of progress.
It left the room, faced with more of the humans. These were not screaming in panic, but screaming at it. Ignoring them, it proceeded on its way.
Several small projectiles struck its chest, momentarily stopping it from continuing.
The humans continued to shout at it, but it did not have time for this. The One who superseded its Creator would not be pleased, but necessary measures must be taken.
The golem stepped closer to the humans, hands held outwards. When it was close enough, it touched their respiratory openings, and filled them.
More projectiles were launched at it, but proved ultimately ineffective, as it went on to fill the openings of each of the humans attacking it.
When it had finished, it walked back down the stairs and out of the building, keeping to the shadows as it left the populated area.
----
Dean blinked into awareness and stumbled, disoriented. He shook his head, slowly, but the dizziness didn't stop. Instead, it increased to such an extent that his stumbling became more like falling. A hand grabbed his arm with a familiar preternatural strength and tugged, and Dean found himself back on his feet without memory of how he got there. He turned, slower this time, and was somewhat relieved to see it was only Aziraphale. The angel pulled a short stool out from behind a desk and offered it to Dean, who sunk down on it reluctantly but thankfully.
“I'm sorry about that,” Aziraphale was saying. “It’s been a long time since I last did this; I'd forgotten how humans react to the change in pressure and whatnot over large distances.”
Dean snorted. “What's an angel call a large distance?” he asked, voice only slightly slurred. Now that he was getting used to the difference, it wasn't so bad. He figured he'd be able to walk, run, or do a fucking pirouette same as normal, given a few more minutes to adjust.
“The Atlantic Ocean,” Aziraphale said primly, leaving Dean's side now that he wasn't swaying on his seat. He walked to the other side of the room, which Dean guessed was part of a bookstore if the cash register and walls of books were anything to go by. Then what the angel had said sunk in, and Dean looked around with greater interest.
“No kidding? This is Jolly Old England?”
“Yes.”
It was colder than America, Dean decided after a minute of observation. And it smelled weird - like fish and must, though the second one might just be because of the bookstore, which was probably the dustiest room Dean had ever seen that was still occupied. He was kind of disappointed. He'd thought a foreign country would be more… well, foreign.
But this wasn't the time for him to play at being a tourist. Blinking heavily, Dean sat up straighter and coughed. Aziraphale looked over at him, from where he was pulling books off a shelf. “So,” he said, “This thing that's been following me? The, uh, what did Becky call it?”
“A golem.”
“Right. That. What are we gonna do about that?” Aziraphale stared at him, confused. Dean sighed, and clarified. “How are we going to kill it?”
“Kill a golem?” Aziraphale asked disbelievingly. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Uh, because it was trying to kill me?”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Oh, don't be ridiculous.” He waved a hand at Dean, and then turned back to his books. “It was trying to catch you.”
“Catch me?” Dean repeated. That was kind of new.
“Golems aren't, strictly speaking, supernatural creatures as you know them,” Aziraphale said, pulling a few more books off his shelf. “They aren't something you'll find a lot of mythology about, because the people who know the most about them keep them a secret. It's only rogue golems, the ones that kill their masters or go on rampages, that people have noticed.” At Dean's confused look, the angel added, “They're created by humans, to do things for humans. Specifically, by rabbis who have studied the Sefer Yetzirah.”
“The Sefer what?”
“The Sefer Yetzirah.” Aziraphale took one of the books out of his stack and slid it down the desk to come to a rest by Dean. He opened it, flipping through the pages carefully - whatever it was made of, it was older and stiffer than any paper he'd ever touched. It was all written in thick curls of squared off lines - Hebrew, probably. Some of it looked kind of familiar. He'd probably seen Hebrew before, on a hunt sometime. “It's related to the Jewish concept of Kabbalah, religious mysticism. Trying to find a connection between an eternal, mysterious God and a mortal, comprehendible world.” Dean scoffed, and Aziraphale frowned, looking up at him. “Rabbis used it to perform miracles back in the day - creating sacrificial animals, summoning things, even creating life.”
“Like golems.” Dean turned a page, and found himself staring at a picture of circles connecting by lines, Hebrew words written in the circles. He traced the line that had been inked in a shimmery gold color, which connected all of the circles, and wondered what it meant.
“Only golems,” Aziraphale corrected. “No matter how great their understanding of the universe, humans can't quite match what He did. So they can create life from the earth, as He made Adam, but it lacks something.”
Dean snorted. “Free will?”
Aziraphale stilled. “Among other things,” he said after a minute.
Dean flipped through the rest of the pages quickly, slamming the back cover loudly against the rest of the book when he was done. Aziraphale winced sympathetically for the text. “Well, fat lot of good free will's done us,” he muttered.
Aziraphale put his books down and walked over to Dean. Taking the Sefer Yetzirah in careful hands, he leaned down and made eye contact with Dean. Wincing, but unable to avoid it, Dean glared at the angel. What was it with angels and eye contact? This was almost worse than Cas, though; Cas either looked at you like he was trying to understand you or like he was trying to see through you, but this guy looked at Dean like he already understood him, but was looking anyway because he was curious. When he blinked, breaking their gaze, Dean couldn't hold back a sigh of relief.
“Free will is invaluable, Dean,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Some angels may try to make you think otherwise, but the choices you make, that your brother makes, that any of us make, can easily destroy or save the world.”
Dean shifted where he sat, looking away. “Yeah, well, all my choices these days seem to be destroying it. The angels are so convinced I've gotta let this happen. Maybe I do. Maybe that's the only way to save people.”
The angel made a sympathetic noise, taking his book back to the shelves. Putting it back, he said, “Heaven has been wrong about the Apocalypse before, Dean. If we had the time, I'd introduce you to an Antichrist who said no, and made it stick.” Picking up the stack of books he'd collected, he brought them over to Dean, dropping them with a loud thunk. “But we don't, so you'll have to accept the next best thing.”
Dean looked up at the stack of books warily. “And what's that?” he asked.
Aziraphale pulled a small mass publication paperback book off the top of his stack. He handed it to Dean with a grin. “Read this.”
Dean looked at the book. The names Becky mentioned before were written across the top, advertised as “New York Times Bestselling Authors”. Maybe she was right about being supposed to know their names. Then again, Dean thought to himself, there are a lot of definitions of bestselling. Beneath their names was a sketched drawing of a middle-aged guy - an angel, if the halo and wings were supposed to be any clue. He had a book with a red crosshatched cover on his lap. Suspicious, Dean looked up at Aziraphale's stack of books.
“I'm afraid the cover artist wasn't quite that exact,” Aziraphale said, amused. Caught, Dean turned back at the book, this time at the actual title.
“Good Omens?” he asked. “Sounds like an oxymoron to me.”
“That's basically the point,” Aziraphale said, a small grin on his face. “Just read it, please. It shouldn't take you very long, and it will help with things.” He took the top book off his own stack and started reading it, at an inhumanly fast rate. Dean watched in something like awe for a minute. “Get to it!” Aziraphale said without looking up, and Dean opened to the first page.
In the Beginning, the book said. Well. Good as place to start as any. Dean turned the page and started reading.
----
Dean still hadn't answered his phone. Castiel thought he might have lost count of how many times he tried calling, listening to that dial tone chime and chime, until the woman's voice said that the phone number was unavailable. He looked over at Sam, hunched over the computer, trying yet another site. Because the one before it hadn't seen the GPS, and neither had the one before that.
It didn't make sense. Castiel knew for a fact that vessels could only be taken on the Earthly plane, and Sam assured him that the GPS in Dean's phone should work whether it was turned on or off. Unless the phone had been destroyed -
No. No, he wouldn't think like that. Now wasn't the time for it. He dialed Dean's number again, his eyes on Sam and his ear against the phone. The dial tone chimed, and chimed, and chimed. He sighed and hung up, not even bothering to wait it out this time. He would just have to have faith in Sam, he decided. Sam would find Dean with this GPS, and Castiel would go to Dean, and he would save him, and Dean would be safe, and things would be… not alright, but definitely improved.
Sam froze where he sat, slowly saying, “Hey, Cas, I think I've got something.” He waved Castiel over, pointing at a dot on a map. “It's a weak signal, and it's only accurate within a hundred feet, but it looks like Dean is there. Or, at least, his phone is.” Castiel concentrated on the image, on the name of the town marked on the map, and found where it was on the globe. A good distance away, for a person on foot, but no trouble for an angel.
“I'll be back as soon as I can,” Castiel said, just as his phone rang.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket, looked between it and Sam. Sam looked right back at him, as confused an expression on his face as Castiel felt.
“Cas?” Sam asked cautiously. “Who else besides us has your phone number?”
“Bobby might,” he said uncertainly, but trailed off when he opened the phone. “The caller ID says Dean,” he said.
“Answer it,” Sam said immediately.
“It might be a trap,” Castiel said, but Sam shook his head.
“Dean and I have codes. I'll know if it's a trap.”
Still uncertain, Castiel answered the call. He lifted the phone to his ear and, cautious, said, “Dean?”
The voice on the other end was dark and amused. And familiar. “Afraid not, angel,” the British accented voice said laughingly.
The blood pounding through Castiel's vessel seemed to slow, and grow cold, and louder with each heartbeat.
“Crowley.”
Sam jumped to his feet, hissing, “What?”
“Got it in one!” the demon cheered. “Not bad. You're a step above those morons you're working with, aren't you?”
“Where is Dean Winchester?” Castiel asked.
“Not here,” Crowley said. “Though I think you have a guess as to where he might be.”
Castiel frowned. “If I did, I would already be there.”
“Oh, come on!” Crowley sounded disappointed. “Think a little, Castiel. You were just there, I know you were.”
“How?” Castiel asked, silently wondering if it really could be that simple.
“Felt you make a move on the wards.”
“What is it?” Sam whispered. “Did Crowley say where Dean is?”
Castiel's jaw was hanging open, he realized. He shut it, saying, “But that presence I felt, that wasn't just demonic energy. That was-”
“Angelic, yeah.” The pleasure in Crowley's tone felt like something unpleasant crawling up Castiel's spine. He shivered. “Where did you think I learned those Enochian markings, back then?”
“I assumed…” Castiel swallowed heavily. “Fallen angels would still retain the memory of the sigils. Azazel, maybe, or-”
Crowley hissed. The sound was long and drawn out, less a human imitation of a snake's sound than the authentic sound itself. “Ooh, nice guess, but no. The stuff they remember is so old and archaic, it's hardly effective anymore. Angels still in Heaven's good books, on the other hand? They know a lot more.”
“Who have you been using?” Castiel asked, his voice low and rough.
“Why don't you go visit Mr. Fell's used bookshop and ask?” Crowley said, still amused. Then he hung up.
Castiel lowered his phone slowly. Sam looked him over, worried but clearly uncertain as to what he should do. Castiel sat down on the desk chair heavily, eyes staring at nothing. “Crowley is a more ruthless demon than even I had imagined,” he said, feeling a strange separation from the words. “He has tricked an angel - who, I don't know - into sharing angelic secrets with him. And it appears that Dean is with that angel.”
Sam's brow furrowed. “So, is the angel on Crowley's side, or Heaven's?”
Castiel shook his head slowly. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't know if this might be a trap for me, but I have to check. The angel is in London,” he added. “If I don't make it back, then it's likely neither will Dean.”
“No,” Sam said, knowing where this was going.
“You won’t be on your own. You can still go to Bobby, and there are other hunters are working to stop the Apocalypse.”
“No, I can't do that,” Sam insisted. “I’ve tried it before, and I can’t do this without Dean.”
“I'm sorry, Sam,” Castiel said, standing again, “But you'll have to be ready to do exactly that. If it comes to that.” He pocketed his phone carefully, and looked Sam in the eye. “Hopefully, I'll be in contact.”
Sam's expression was dark, worry and fear mixing to create something potent and dangerous. “Yeah.”
Between one blink of the eye and the next, Castiel was gone.
Sam kicked one of the beds. “Damn it!”
----
----
Dean knew he should be feeling more uncomfortable reading this book. It was a prophetic book, just like Chuck's, which meant that there were a bunch of people out there somewhere whose privacy had been invaded, lives turned into fiction, just like his and Sam's lives were turned into fiction.
The thing was, Chuck couldn't write. These guys wrote kind of weird - Dean put it off as British humor, which he had never understood - but he couldn't deny that it was good writing. They kind of deserved that “Bestseller” title after all.
In the middle of one of the trivia game scenes with the horsemen (like he hadn't figured that out all of sixty pages in, the first time they were referenced?), he was interrupted by an odd sound. It wasn't something he could entirely here, like a buzzing just this side of supersonic, but it wasn't quite as shrill as that. It was, however, persistent, and distracting enough to make him set down the book and look around.
Aziraphale looked up from his current read (the fifth one down in the stack, each finished book leaving him more and more frustrated), frowning. “Oh, what now?” he asked impatiently. Another sound started up, this one the clang of an old-fashioned telephone. With a sigh, Aziraphale marked his page and shut his book, walking over to the phone with an anxious twitchy movement to his pace.
The buzz continued. If Dean concentrated hard enough, he could hear it more clearly. Focusing on that, he turned his head one way and another, until he could guess the direction it was coming from. Standing up (and pleased that he could move so quickly without dizzying repercussions now), he made his way towards the source of the sound - the front door of the bookstore. A peek through the glass of the door showed a surprisingly familiar face, and he opened the door without a second thought.
“Hey, Cas,” he said with a grin. “Come to join the party?”
“Dean.” Castiel's face crumbled, and Dean's grin faltered.
“You okay?”
He sighed shakily, and recovered his composure. “I'm just glad that you are.”
Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I'm fine. Aziraphale - the angel that brought me here - he's got a pretty nice place going on. You know, for a bookstore.”
“Aziraphale? I don’t know that name.” Castiel grabbed Dean's shoulder. “Dean, I know the name of every angel. You're not safe here.”
Dean shrugged his hand off. “Cas, I’m pretty sure this guy's on our side. Look,” he held out the book. “Book of prophecy, all about him. Him and Crowley, actually.”
“Crowley?” Castiel's expression was dark again, and Dean frowned, wondering what the hell Castiel had expected to find here. “Dean, if this Aziraphale is involved with Crowley, you know he can't be trusted.”
“I know.”
“Demons and angels don't work well together.”
“I know,” Dean repeated. “Cas, trust me here.” Castiel's face stayed blank. “Cas.”
Castiel sighed. “You know I do, Dean.”
“Good,” Dean said. “Good. Now,” he continued, “I don't trust Crowley as far as I can throw him. Wanting Earth safe doesn't mean wanting us safe, you know? But Aziraphale wants us safe too. He's, I don't know, kind of like you. And he's been sneaking around behind Heaven's back, helping us. That thing that was hunting me down, that golem, is probably a good hundred, maybe even two hundred feet under the Atlantic right now, trying to get at me. It's not gone for good, but it's been delayed a lot. Maybe long enough to find a way to stop it.”
Castiel shifted under Dean's gaze. “Dean,” he started, but was quickly cut off by a loud, “Oh no.”
It was Aziraphale, staring at the two of them, a look of dismay on his face. Castiel stared at him, recognition sweeping across his face. “Izrafel?” he asked.
“Oh hell,” Aziraphale said, running back to his books. “You shouldn't have come here,” he said, pushing half the books into Castiel's arms and half into Dean's. “You really shouldn't have come here.” His eyes kept flickering up to the ceiling worriedly. Castiel followed his line of sight and visibly recoiled when he saw… whatever it was Aziraphale had seen. All Dean saw when he looked up was a dirty water stain that looked kind of like an octopus.
“You have to hurry,” Aziraphale continued. “Take those and get out of here, go back where his brother is. You should be able to find something in there, if you look hard enough.”
Castiel nodded, shifting the books in his hands to get a hand free to press against Dean's forehead. Aziraphale groaned, staring up, and hissed, “Quickly,” before slamming a hand on each Castiel and Dean's shoulders, and squeezing. Everything disappeared much faster this time - Dean would almost call it instantaneous, except he had a second before he vanished to hear Aziraphale mutter a frustrated, “Damn it, Crowley.”
The angel returned to his phone call, still muttering curses under his breath.
Crowley was laughing. “Did you enjoy my little surprise, then?”
“That,” Aziraphale started, “was dangerous, Crowley. Heaven has been keeping an eye on me since this Apocalypse started - I may have not been in trouble after last time, but my superiors have a long memory.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, “Why do you think I’m in the States? It’s Hell’s way of keeping an eye on me, this bloody job. I’m lucky they haven’t caught on to what I’m doing.”
“As am I,” Aziraphale insisted. “And if we keep it up, we’ll both be caught, and then we’ll be no good to anyone.”
“Nah,” the demon said smoothly, “I’ll just go on the run. Get the job finished myself, if you know what I mean.”
“That - Crowley, that’s suicide!”
“No, it’s pragmatic,” Crowley corrected. Aziraphale sputtered a protest, but was quickly interrupted by, “Now, don’t you go doing it too - it’s far easier for demons to abandon their Lord than angels, just look at the wreck Castiel’s become.”
“Well, of course I won’t do it, but Crowley -”
“Uh uh, can’t talk me out of it now. I’ve decided, for better or worse.”
“Crowley-”
His voice serious for once, the demon said, “It’s been good knowing you, Aziraphale.”
“Do you call just to make me worry about you?” Aziraphale asked wearily.
“Maybe,” Crowley teased, before hanging up.
Aziraphale sighed, hanging up on his end, and turned to his books. He caught sight of a small one with a red, crosshatched cover, sitting where he’d had his books on Jewish mysticism. Feeling a terrible sense of foreboding, he picked it up and flipped through the pages for a moment. Coming to a stop in the middle, he skimmed the section quickly.
Well. That meant - this was - hm. Words were failing Aziraphale. That was unusual.
After a moment’s consideration, he decided was the best way to describe the situation was an emphatic “Fuck,” and picked up the phone again.
----
Dean became aware at about the same time he became aware that he was falling. A hand grabbed his arm and he sagged into the grip, thinking that it was odd how often this was happening to him lately. It was almost becoming a normal part of Air Angel.
The grip on his arm wasn't as strong as Aziraphale's, though, and he fell out of the grasp and onto the floor. The painful, painful floor. Dean groaned, rolling off of the sharp edges, onto more sharp edges, rolling again and again until he was clear of the edges. The books he'd dropped, he realized. Well, if that wasn't karma for you. Sitting up slowly, he leaned against the nearest flat surface - a wall, by the feel of it - and tried to figure out where he was.
The hand was on his shoulder, though, shaking it, and that was making it a little hard for him to concentrate.
“Dean!” a voice was shouting. “Dean, are you alright? Can you hear me?” He groaned, moving away from the sound.
Another voice said, “I think you might be encroaching on his personal space,” and Dean couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him at that. He leaned his head against the wall, tilting until he could see the tan blur that was slowly sharpening into Castiel's trench coat. It only made him a little dizzy, so it was okay.
“Like you have room to talk,” Dean said, laughing to himself. Castiel made a sound that a generous person might call a chuckle, but which Dean knew was as close as the angel would ever get to laughing.
The hand on his shoulder was still there. When it wasn't shaking him, it was kind of nice. Almost comforting, just resting there.
Oh. It was Sam's hand. That made sense.
The voice that went with Sam's hand had gotten quieter, was asking, “This doesn't happen after you fly us places - what's wrong with him?”
“Nothing is wrong with him,” Castiel said. “Izrafel just flies differently. His method is faster, but is less concerned with… passenger safety, you might call it. Even less so when he doesn't come along for the ride.”
“His name's Aziraphale, Cas,” Dean corrected, slurring only slightly over the angel's name. “You're not saying it right.”
“I'm calling him by the name he was given, not the alteration he chose for himself.”
“Hold on,” Sam said, “Aziraphale? Not like the Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman character Aziraphale?”
“You know Good Omens,” Dean said faintly. “Becky would be proud.”
“What?” A second of Sam’s hands made its way to Dean's face, kind of holding him up. He blinked, slowly, and tried to focus in on his brother's face. “Dean, what are you talking about?”
He blinked again. “I’m not sure. I think maybe I wasn't supposed to fly Air Angel twice in a day.” He squinted up at Sam. “I'm tired, Sammy.”
“Dean.”
He blinked again again, except for the part where your eyes open at the end. He didn't do that bit. Though that was probably just called closing your eyes.
“Dean!”
----
Part 3